You barely manage to walk a block before you notice someone following you, their features hidden underneath a bulky dark-green winter coat. A tail? No, they're closing ground too fast. If this keeps happening, you think you're going to start getting paranoid. You watch them closely. Whoever it is wants to be seen. You scan both sides of the road—no proper alleys in this part of the city, only an endless plane of beige office buildings renting out their ground floors to restaurants and small markets. Visible use of your powers in such a public space could get very messy for you.
You take your last step and whirl around in place so quickly that your pursuer almost bumps into you. Ashy skin, facial features sunken and sickly—you've seen this man before.
"I thought you were moving to Algonquin," you say. "I'm starting to think you like it around here too much." You're certain of it now—this is the man who gave you the note from Bouchard two nights ago.
"Too late to move," he says, scratching his cheek with long, cracked fingernails. "Assholes chipped me. They can track me anywhere I go, just like they know where to send me to find you."
"So you have a message for me?"
"No paper this time. Can't be tracked. But I have to ask, how are you protected?"
"What?"
His nose crinkles in frustration. "Not the piece you're strappin' under your coat, I don't mean that. A gun ain't gonna do shit to those alien pricks." He growls. "I mean from the messages they beam into my head. If they have to send me to talk to you, that means you're protected from them somehow." He clenches his hands. "How do you do it?" You pull the man back to the outside wall of a shop to avoid a large gaggle of pedestrians coming down the sidewalk.