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Quinn

Quinn draws a path, leans down and bump bump click the eight-ball’s pocketed. He straightens to notice a stubbled man slashing for his face.

Quinn thinks: this knife is a vector. It becomes a directed line, in his vision; he becomes a set of points.

Thinks: this man is a vector.

Thinks: the force motivating him is a vector.

Outward, upward, his mind’s eye macros to take in the city. He’s a point, and–there–Ciarlante’s a web of tangled light, reaching out…

Micro again, Quinn becomes a vector, turning lazily to direct the stubbled man forward, straight through the table.

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