Sighing, we all turned back to the man lying on the ground. Okon and I turned to look at each other.
The wok fell to the ground with a clatter as she helped me lift and carry Vincent into the house. We carried him down the stairs to the basement, set him up in the medical bed, and searched him for weapons.
Aside from the revolver, he had only one other firearm on him. A .22 double action handgun with black and silver plating. On the slide, someone had engraved the name Quicksilver.
It was a beautiful gun. Even I have to give it that. And I hate guns.
Two guns. It didn't seem to add up. Vincent was a Turk. Turks were ruthless and highly skilled when it came to combat. For them, anything was a weapon. But they preferred guns.
Blue suits. White shirts. Blue ties. Handguns.
Those defined the Turks. Recently, the Turks had come to carrying Shinra-make cell phones, but that was new. People still recognized Turks by the blue.
Anyway, if Vincent was a Turk, and Turks preferred guns, then why was he only armed with two?
I shoved that question into the back of my mind and headed to the kitchen. There, I had myself a bowl of Chekhov's rice pudding (delicious, delicious, delicious stuff, gawd, I want it so bad I'm drooling). It was good enough that I licked my bowl when I had finished.
I didn't take seconds, though. That would have been rude.
Instead, I took one of her future-cookies. Most Easterners call them fortune cookies, but we don't actually use prophecies in them. Instead, they're sort of like a birthday tradition. Your mother or grandmother writes a quote she thinks will be important to you in the coming year (read: "she wishes you'd think about more often"), and you crack the cookie, read the note, and then get on with your life. After eating and praying, of course.
Chekhov hadn't left any notes. She'd made these cookies for the hell of it; I could tell.