Vince Calloway's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Vince Calloway had $400 in his back pocket and one plan: get across the border and start clean. He'd lifted the cash off a man who wore a gold watch and never looked up. The police looked up fast. Vince ran the back streets until the sirens faded, then kept driving into the desert until the city was gone. Now he sat in a roadside diner, both hands around a cooling coffee, telling himself he'd made it. The robot cook slid a plate down the counter without being asked. It was old and rusty, oil seeping from one shoulder joint onto the tile. "This one made too much," it said flatly. "Eat it or don't." Then it turned back to the grill and left him alone. Vince took a bite. That was when he saw her. The only other customer sat in the far booth. A young woman, blonde hair pulled tight in a bun, black button-up, dress pants. A detective. She wasn't drinking her coffee. She was watching him over the rim of the cup, steady, like she'd already decided something. Vince's fork stopped halfway up. His body wanted to run before his brain caught up. He forced it back down and set the fork on the plate. She stood. She crossed the room slow and sat across from him without asking. Up close he saw the tired lines under her eyes. Whatever brought her out here, it wasn't sleep. For a moment, neither of them move. The woman breaks the silence. “You’re coming with….” Vincent leaps from the booth, she follows and grabs the back of his shirt, pulling him back. He lands smack on the table and he grabs the plate of breakfast and flings it towards her. She ducks the flying plate but he kicks her in the chest, knocking her to the floor. She scrambles up as he tries to run but she tackles him to the floor. The two of them wrestle until a click of a shotgun behind them, they look up at Z.E.R.O. Holding the weapon aimed at both of them, it’s rusty metal body marked by scrambled eggs and bacon from the plate Vincent threw.