Toss the bag on over head rack. Hand combing hair still jet black.
Last commute, sighed with dismay. Tension is high, unsafe to stay.
He staggers in holding his side. Message, password; must confide.
Plot, summit — shouts next door. Falters out, blood on the floor.
Paper dropped, an old dialect. Whiff of pickles is what you detect.
INVESTIGATE the noise next door or peek into the CORRIDOR.
Might that provoke an incident, blood drops not seen as innocent?
Guards are working each compartment, now's the time to make an exit.
DINING CAR, mingle and lost, or LAVATORY straight across.
Soldiers have the pathway blocked. You’ll be noticed, likely stopped.
LEAVE A HELP NOTE somewhere in here or wet a wad of TISSUE PAPER.
Anyone can find the note, and likely not the ones you hope.
Wiping away the tell-tale drop, you spy a bottle of BLEACH and MOP.
The mop affords a passing grimace, as mopping would be too suspicious.
Peroxide makes spots disappear. Photograph the doc and wipe it clear.
Stash the photo chip somewhere, IN YOUR BAG or IN YOUR HAIR.
To soldiers doing random checks a photo chip would be suspect.
Black on black, dark of night, hide the chip out in plain sight.
At the terminal, a girl and beggar, both with Old Speak words to utter.
MEHE CUCRUNCH, proclaims he. DA NEBE SALTUBE, whispers she.
Cucumber crunch, pickle cup. Ploink the chip, the beggar's up. Monitor news about the summit. No news — good news, no incident.
Salt tube is wrong, on second thought, but she runs swiftly, can't be caught. Later a bulletin about the summit. It seems there’s been an incident.
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