Fic: LowLives part 3
LowLives
Word Count: 6556
unreasonably long chapter for the win! what. anyway, thrilling stuff happens. Mickey is my favourite right now. edited to be slightly shorter than CRAZY. violence.
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1843 Blakley Road is one of many old and decrepit warehouses out in East Quarter, close to the waterfront. It's painfully cliché, and I feel like I just wandered into a 40's gangster movie.
A man with a square jaw, a short fuzzy crop of blond hair, and a wickedly crooked nose, pulls open the giant sliding door for me as I approach. He nods like he knows me, and waves me in with a bored look on his face, keeping his eyes on the empty street behind.
I nod back, slipping past. I have no idea who he is. Mickey, maybe. He seems like he could be a Mickey.
There are plastic folding tables all over the floor of the warehouse, which looks smaller on the inside than I had assumed it would be. I had been expecting some big cavernous place, where every step echoes like a gunshot and dark shadows lurk in every corner, where someone suspicious can watch your every move.
I know who Vincent is the moment I see him.
He's not as classically villainous as I had thought he would be, having filled my mind with big black moustaches and capes, but he's very distinctive regardless, with slicked back sandy hair and piercing blue eyes beneath a furrowed brow. He looks more like a business man than a mob boss, and more like a mob boss than a drug dealer. Though I suppose when it comes down to it, they're all the same, on some level.
He's arguing quietly into his phone, waving his free hand in small, emphatic gestures and circling around one of the tables in quick, jerky steps.
Sitting in a metal folding chair is a kid, Arthur's age I'd guess, sifting through piles of bricks, wrapped in plastic and sealed with thick black swabs of electrical tape. He's got a medium-sized scale at his elbow, and every so often, he'll take a bag and weigh it, watching the dial carefully and jotting down notes on a legal pad.
There's a black woman there too, with cornrows down her back, who I've never even heard Arthur mention. She's tall and gorgeous in a pencil skirt and blouse and killer high-heels, watching over the kid with a clipboard, though I can't tell if she's watching the bags more or his performance.
Guys all around in leather jackets and scruffy facial hair are on look out, some ducking out to do patrols at random times. They're like a well-oiled machine, constantly moving and never leaving a post unmanned.
My breath catches in my throat when one of the men approaches me, with a critical look in his eye. He's just barely taller than me, with deeply tan skin and creases already forming around his eyes, though he can't be more than thirty.
"Well, you clean up nice," he says, stopping next to me and running his eyes over my shirt and clean jeans. "I was beginning to wonder, boy."
I try not to show it as I take a deep breath. It's what I was going for, but fuck. That they haven't figured me out and run me through already is nothing less than a miracle. I pitch my voice lower.
"I'm trying a new look."
He barks out a laugh, and smacks his hand on my shoulder hard enough to make me stumble.
"I can see that! I gotta say, though," he confesses, and leans in close, looking around like he's conveying some big secret that no one else should ever know. I find myself unconsciously mimicking him until he's speaking directly into my ear. "I'm gonna miss the mop," and he pushes his knuckles into my scalp briefly, running his palm over the short hairs on my head before I can slap his hand away and take a few stumbling steps back.
I freeze. If Arthur's friends with this guy, if he just jokes back, if he knows his name, if I just blew the whole thing, fucked it all up before it could even start -
But he's laughing again, "Still prickly old Arthur, though, ha?" He turns on his heel and throws a wave over his shoulder, dismissing me from his attention entirely.
My eyes slip shut without my permission and I just stand for a moment, breathing in the darkness behind my lids. I have to get control over myself, can't let this opportunity slip away. Thank God Arthur's as grumpy with these people as he is with the rest of the world. That makes it easier to imitate.
I hear someone call Arthur's name. My first instinct is to look around for him, ingrained as it is into my very makeup, but I catch myself.
I look up to see square-jaw gesturing to me. His voice is milder than I had expected, and as I approach the table, I see Vincent is off the phone and watching me. I slouch a bit more, digging my toes into the empty space of my shoes and shove my hands deep into the pockets of Arthur's jacket.
I can feel the cold plastic of my phone in the right pocket and wonder how many times Arthur's rung me since he woke up. Considering how much he'd slept the past few days, he's bound to be up by now, and probably frantic at finding his jacket and shoes gone. Not to mention the po.
The kid looks up with a squint and a vague smile. "Hey, dude," he says, a slow drawl seeping in at the vowels. "We missed you the other day, man, where'd you go?"
I grunt, and try to shadow my face as much as possible, look hungover maybe. "Took the weekend off. Needed a few days to myself. No big deal."
Vincent's gaze is a cold burn on the top of my head, and I glance up to watch him through my eyelashes. He doesn't look suspicious, not really, but he looks angry, with bloodshot eyes and a pinched mouth. Which I think is pretty much his natural state, but it can't hurt to be cautious around him.
Mickey's the one I need to look out for. He's the one that Arthur said was watching him, looking for the signs.
Vincent steps up to the table, and places his hands on the sticky white plastic, fingers splayed like he's about to propose a business merger of epic proportions. His eyes dance between us all, watching every facial tic and shift for nervousness or some sign of betrayal. The black woman stands silent at his side.
"We got a new order," he says. The kid shifts, like he knows what that means, and like I should. I just keep watching, looking attentive. "A client looking for a very specific kind, we're going to be supplying him. Rigger," he turns to square-jaw, and I feel butterflies in my stomach - if he's not Mickey, then I don't know who is. I'll feel better when I know his face. "You're taking Arthur downstairs to get any potentials. Test them all. Jameson." The kid perks up and trembles under the onslaught of Vincent's intense stare. "Don't be fucking late."
Jameson shakes his head emphatically, and I can tell that there's some story to that. A story that might have something to do with the little nubs on his left hand where his ring and pinky fingers should be.
I swallow dry, my throat a desert, and nod in time with Rigger. There's a chilling smile on his face. No teeth, it's not the bared grimace of an animal, but just the slightest curl to the corners that seems just...evil.
Vincent talks a bit more, but I tune it out. There's a door at one end of the warehouse, opposite the bathroom, with rust peeling off its metal surface and a shining padlock.
That's the basement door, I'll swear to it.
When Rigger finally leads me over, I have to break off and go hide in the restroom long enough to catch my breath and smack my cheeks to get the blood back in them. Arthur's pale sure, but no one will mistake that for natural.
I can't let them see I'm scared.
The bathroom is lit be an eerie green light from an old fluorescent. I look at myself in the water stained mirror and see the mould in the corners and the grime on the floor and think about my little brother in here.
I'm leaning over the sink dry heaving before I can stop myself.
Tears are running down my face before I manage to right myself, and I scrub furiously at my face with my shirt cuff until I just look like a junkie.
Rigger's waiting for me by the basement door, with a crowbar in his right hand and a set of keys with a novelty keychain from the Crown Jewels in England in his left. He's looking expectant, so I nod, and shove past him as soon as the door is opened.
The steps are stone. The air is cold and damp, and seeps in under my jacket, until I've got goosebumps up my arms and down my ribs and I'm trembling just the slightest bit. The basement is dark, until Rigger turns an old light switch ninety degrees, and the room is flooded with white light, illuminating the bare crossbeams of the floor above us and the supports in the corners, as well as about fifteen threadbare cots.
On each of the cots is a person.
Well. They look like people at least.
They're laid out like corpses, though I can see them breathing, deep and even. They're all hooked up to IV's hung over their beds attached to the crossbeams with little hooks - the tubing looks clean, at least from this distance, but the pale blue sheen to the liquid inside makes me queasy. They're all dressed in street clothes, a few of the older men in what look like they could have been nice button-down shirts. Tissue-thin sheets are draped over their bodies, doing nothing to ward off the chill in the air.
Rigger walks between the beds, inspecting each person with intense scrutiny, and I follow, not knowing what else to do. He's checking their pulses, peeling up heavy, bruised eyelids to peer at their eyes. One girl has a great bloody spot from a ruptured blood vessel that curls around her iris and covers most of the white. Rigger takes a small clipboard from the foot of her cot and and pen and jots down a note, before moving on with a huff of breath.
I stop beside her bed when Rigger's distracted, and study her closer.
She looks so young, skinny arms and legs, limp black hair fanning out long beneath her shoulders. She's Asian, so I'm not sure, but she can't be more than twenty years old. There are bruises in the crooks of her elbows, where the needle of the IV goes in, and little red marks showing the constant application of it.
Rigger's not looking. I reach out gingerly, feeling the warm puff of her breath on my hand, and lift her upper lip.
It's what I had expected. Her gums are raw, worn away from too much powder, bleeding and cracked in places where they didn't just disintegrate. Her teeth look too big in her mouth, stained slightly blue from the drug.
These are the users, the ones that Vincent collects.
This is where Arthur would be if they ever found out.
Rigger barks my brother's name, and I follow, keeping my eyes down and on the ground instead of looking at the rest of them.
He's standing in front of a cot holding an older man, mid-forties probably. Rigger pulls the thin sheet from over the man, letting it drop to the floor with a soft whiff of fabric. He looks tired and normal, average face and mousy brown hair of medium length, and unremarkable in almost every way except for the bulge of muscles under his shirt. They look like steel, unnatural and rope-like, with pale blue veins running along their lengths.
"Client is looking for a body guard, someone strong," Rigger says, prodding and poking at the man. He gestures for me to turn with a jerk of his head. I look around the room - there are two other people with the same kind of exaggerated muscle mass, one's a younger man, and the other's a woman in her thirties. "Unhook them. We need to do some tests."
I hesitate a moment, looking back for confirmation, and pick my way through the cots to the young man. His skin is warm and solid under my fingertips as I draw out the needle, keeping pressure on the thin stretch of skin in his elbow, but the blood wells up surprisingly fast, surging out of the dense muscle. There's swabs and cotton balls and tape on a little tray by the head of the cot. He's already stirring by the time I finish cleaning the wound, doing my best to be gentle while working quickly, eyelashes fluttering against his gaunt, pale cheeks.
I leave him for a moment, and repeat the process with the woman. She's got short blonde hair cut around her ears, and looks like she could be very pretty if it wasn't for the discolouration of old bruises around her eye and the greyish tint to her skin from uncountable blackheads - too much time spent on the street without real soap.
They're still out of it, moving but barely conscious of what's going on around them, as Rigger and I manoeuvre them up the steps, guiding them like sheep.
Natural daylight is a shock, even after such a short time in the unnatural darkness of the basement, and I have to squint against it when we exit. I only think of what it does to the junkies when the young guy lets out a wail, and cringes back, writhing against my hold, fighting and trying to get back into the dark. He lands a solid punch to my ear, sending my head whipping around, and I react, twisting and pulling his arm tight, turning my body to slot my hip under his side and hurl him over, slamming him down on the floor.
I follow him down into a pin, holding him in place. As soon as I know he's not going anywhere, I've got one hand up at my neck, feeling the muscles twinge from the blow. "Ow, fuck."
Someone's applauding.
I look up, shifting to keep the guy still.
"Well done," calls the man from earlier, the one whose name I didn't know. His face is impassive, but I can see a spark of amusement in his eyes. "Well that one's out, we know. Now how about the others?"
I don't know what he means, until Rigger whistles to get my attention, and releases his hold on the older man, turning him in my direction and shoving, pulling the woman away.
I jerk to my feet, letting go of the younger man in surprise.
The man comes at me with a viciousness that alarms me and then he's on me, throwing punches and slashes, fighting wild and with unnatural strength.
He is sloppy, and too slow. I'm a better fighter than Arthur, I know that, so I can see surprise and appraisal in the eyes of those watching us fight when I catch a glimpse. I'm faster too, and the man's wide swings are easy to dodge.
When he hits me though - he can take out a brick wall with a single one of his punches. He slams his fist down on my shoulder, coming very close to snapping my collarbone with one blow, and sending me flying back, breath knocked out of my chest. I stumble to my feet, knowing that I have to keep fighting to finish the test and survive, because if this man is given a chance, he will probably kill me.
He's like a fucking berserker, more than a fighter. Holding my arm close to my body, I throw myself at him, and force my fist into his face with a straight punch. His teeth cut into my knuckles, leaving bloody smears across his cheek and my palm, and he falls backwards.
I leap, landing on his chest with my knees spread, and beat him across the face, alternating blows, trying to do as little damage while also knocking him unconscious. It's not his fault, as far as I know, and I only wish I knew a better way to get him out of commission.
He stops moving after far too long, and my fists hurt from clamping so tight. There are marks of fingernails on my palms, deep and red and painful. My right arms hangs a little limp, the joint of my shoulder already swelling under my t-shirt.
I turn around -
And Rigger throws the woman at me.
My fists come up immediately, like a silly boy pretending to be a boxer, and we circle each other.
She's better than the men, calculating and watching. she's had training, i can tell, the way she moves and the way she carries herself - she walks on the balls of her feet, ready to react to anything coming in from any direction. when she attacks, she's good enough to throw me off guard.
She moves fast, dashing in and landing a punch, and then dancing back out my my range. her punches are quick and economical, straight wrist and immediately pulled back into her centre. it's disorienting after being faced with two other non-fighters who threw themselves into the fight with no forethought.
She darts back in, blonde hair haloing her face, which has light up with more humanity since she began to understand her surroundings better, and flings her leg out in a kick that slams into my stomach with uncomfortable accuracy.
But she made a mistake, leg too low to hit me square in the solar plexus. She doesn't draw her leg back fast enough, and I snag it, latching on with both hands to her ankle and knee, and use it as leverage to pull her off balance. I pivot, swinging around, dragging her with me.
Her face registers surprise, and I grin through bloody teeth, and then use whatever strength I have - which is less than hers, but enough to get by - to fling her across the floor, sending her flying into the wall with a sickening crunch. She staggers, holding her head, and wobbles around to face me, unsteady after having collided head-on with a more unforgiving surface than my soft tissue.
The disorientation wears off alarmingly fast, and then she's on me again, hands clamping down on my shoulders to slam me back against the opposite wall, bringing a knee up and into my gut with the vigour that her previous hit hadn't got.
Something cracks in my chest, and a blinding pain radiates up my sternum leaving me gasping for breath. I throw my arms out, trying to force her off me, but she shifts her grip from my shoulders to my head, and wrenches my head down, into the solid mass of her forehead.
Then she slams my head back again, into the concrete. I slump in her hold, and Rigger's on her in an instant, holding her back, almost cradling her so he won't do any more damage.
There's a ringing in my ears. she might have busted one of my ear drums with her unbelievable right-hook. I reach up, swaying a little, my sense of balance shot completely, and feel a little trickle of blood running down the side of my face.
But then I can hear someone talking, saying Arthur's name, and I turn around slowly. My whole body hurts.
Vincent looks pleased, back on his phone, and gesturing again. He apparently liked what he'd seen.
The black woman I'd seen earlier is smiling softly to herself, eyes on her clipboard, and she just looks fucking scary to have such a sweet expression after I just had my ass pretty much handed to me.
The kid's staring with awe in his eyes, mouth open and brick of po forgotten in his hand. He looks like he just laid eyes on his long-lost hero, and I can almost just barely restrain myself from flipping him off. He doesn't really deserve that. Also, Arthur probably wouldn't.
But the guy, the one from before, the one who was clapping, he comes up to me and throws an arms around my shoulders, almost sending me to the floor in a heap at the extra weight.
"Nice job! Exactly what we needed to see, the client will be very pleased indeed."
"Thanks for the warning," I mutter, drawing my shirt sleeve under my nose, coming away bloody. "Appreciate it."
It's muffled, but not enough for him to do anything but cackle with laughter. He pulls back for a moment, then grabs my face in his bigger hands, tilting my face up and back into the light. His eyes search my face, and his thick fingers prod and poke, testing the severity of the bruises on my cheeks. There's a great big sore spot front and centre on my face, with another right in the back. He touches it gingerly, and his fingers come away wet with blood.
"It's a bad knock, but I think you'll live, boy," he says, with a grin. He's remarkably handsome with a genuine smile on his face, greenish-grey eyes and a strong jawline. His hair is short and spiky, but not like he'd gelled it - more like he couldn't be bothered to brush it after getting up.
I shift uncomfortably, because his hands are still on my face, and he's really, really close to me. I can feel his body heat across the distance between us.
"You are all full of surprises today, aren't you, Arthur?"
I manage to give a weak smile, already feeling my eye swelling up. "I just like to keep you on your toes." If I knew his name, I would have added it to the end, just to be cheeky. But I don't want to call him Mickey, which is my instinct, when there's even the slightest chance that I might be wrong.
Rigger's gotten the three junkies under control by the time the man pulls away from me, though he lingers, hovering at my side. The two guys he sits down with a little dose of po smeared over their gums to keep them happy. The woman, he ushers over to Vincent, who slides the mouthpiece of his cellphone away, leaning forwards.
"How old is she?" He sounds northern, with short, crisp vowels.
Rigger shrugs, looking her up and down. "Thirty? Young enough - she's good for the client, I know that much."
"Good enough." He wanders off, still talking into his phone, and I'm left wondering how on earth he managed to become lord of a drug ring. For all that he's a terrifying mother-fucker, he seems a bit scatter-brained to tell the truth.
Stiffly, I make my way over to the bathroom and use the harsh paper towels to scrub the blood off my face. My ear seems fine with closer inspection, but I'm still dizzy from the various head-blows. My nose looks puffy, and my eye isn't going to swell all the way shut I can already tell, but it's pretty hideous regardless. I don't do a very good job of cleaning myself up, but it's the best I can do.
As soon as I'm out again, I feel a tug at my elbow, and turn to see the kid, Jameson, has wandered up. He's taller than I had thought he'd be, but extra lanky to make up for it, looking all of eighteen years old.
"Where the hell'd ya learn to fight like that, huh?"
He's got fucking stars in his eyes.
"My big brother taught me," I mumble. It's close enough to the truth - I had tried to teach Arthur, but he didn't really take to it much. He was much more interested in barrelling in head first rather than strategy and good footwork. That's why I'm better.
Jameson is almost wiggling in boyish glee at the thought of a fight. "Can you teach me?"
I shake my head, and then regret it. Not a good move with a concussion. "No, no, I'm not that good. I'll never be able to teach you - I'm only a beginner anyway."
The look in his eyes says he doesn't believe me even remotely, but he's willing to take my word for it.
Vincent closes his phone with a snap, and calls out to us all, "We're leaving! Get her in the car."
There are three cars to carry all of us, and I end up with Rigger and the nameless man in the middle one with the junkie, as we're supposed to be the ones to control her until we can get to the drop point.
The random men on guard pile into the other cars with frighteningly large guns, and I swallow heavily at the sight of them, unnerved.
I don't like guns.
The caravan takes off north, travelling along the warehouse district until we exit the East Quarter and are gaining on the higher-scale sections of the North Quarter. There's apparently a drop site we're supposed to make it to, rather than dropping it off at the client's house - too influential for that, Vincent says with an amused smirk on his face. He's not impressed, but then again, he wouldn't be - he has all the power.
The ride is silent, until Rigger and the other man start chatting quietly together. Rigger is driving, hands at two and ten, and keeps his eyes on the road like a surprisingly diligent driver. I'm left in the back next to the junkie, who sits with her hands folded, eyes cast down, short blonde hair just long enough to cover her eyes at that angle.
I can't remember what colour they were - I was a little distracted at the time.
My stomach is rolling and turning the longer we drive, feeling more and more unnerved by the concept of selling a human being. I try not to look at her, keeping my eyes on the passing buildings and blurred trees out the window, watching the reflections of the cars in the mirrored glass of the storefronts, but my eyes keep drifting back.
I lean close to her ear, watching Rigger and the other man. They're not paying attention.
"What's your name?"
She doesn't so much as stir, but I know her attention has shifted entirely to me with incredible focus.
"Why do you care?"
"Because I want to know. I'm not like them."
I don't even know what they're like, but I know I'm not like them. I don't even know if that's the right thing to say, it sounds stupid and inadequate, not nearly enough to justify my going along with them in their horrible plans.
"If you tell me your name, I'll be able to find you. I can get you out later, once I deal with them," I whisper, trying to move as little air as possible. If they hear me, everything I'd done all day was for nothing.
She says nothing for so long, I lean back, disappointed. I really would - I'd come back for her if she would let me, after I got Arthur out of their clutches.
I turn my eyes away, back out the window, and try to swallow the lump in my throat, but all it does is settle heavy and sickening in my stomach. I am no better than them. I can't believe my brother did this for amusement - how can anyone do this? How can they justify it to themselves?
"Alyssa," she breathes, and when I swing my head around as subtly as I can, she's finally looking me in the eyes. She doesn't turn her head, just tips it up until she can peer out from under her bangs.
Her eyes are crystal blue, so pale that they look clear. They stand out in sharp contrast to her dirty skin, and burn with live fire.
"I'll come back for you, Alyssa," I mouth.
The car pulls to a stop, and Rigger gets out, leaving the engine running. We're in a parking garage, where the sunlight streams in weak and pathetic. the halogen lights are on full blast, giving off contradictory light sources that make everyone look flat.
The world echoes as I get out, slamming the door behind me. I have to leave Alyssa locked in the car, but Rigger is standing guard with his door open, so she can't get away with the car.
The other two cars pull up on either side of us, boxing us in, and across from us, on the other end of the parking level, are two other cars, sleek black BMWs that wouldn't otherwise be caught dead in this kind of place.
The man approaching us is older, with white hair at his temples and greying on top and deep crags of worry lines etched into his skin. He's wearing a long, thick black wool coat, double breasted and expensive over a grey pinstriped suit. His shoes click on the asphalt, the sound repeated by two men in black suits with "ex-military" written all over them.
Vincent greets him with an insincere smile and open arm, spread out in supplication, stepping forwards to meet him.
"Good to see you again, Mr Brannon," he calls, his voice lifting. It sounds like it could be a code name, but from the way the man stiffens, face contorted in a grimace and eyes flitting about like he's checking for watchers, it's probably not. He must be as important as he tries to come off.
Either that or he's just a paranoid bastard.
"Do you have what I need?" Brannon barks, looking impatient. His bodyguards stand solid and stoic, creepy in their single-mindedness.
Vincent nods, and Rigger takes the cue to haul Alyssa out of the back of the car, keeping one hand with a solid grip on her upper arm
He drags her forwards, never once looking at her face, and I follow, holding her other arm in a looser grip, keeping up the image of handler.
She pushes her weight heavier onto me, and I can feel the fast patter of her pulse where my fingers rest on the soft inside of her arm.
Brannon looks are her with a critical eye, stepping closer for a better look. "She'll do nicely," he says. "And you've confirmed her abilities?"
Vincent laughs heartily, and gestures to my face. "Our man Arthur tested her personally - as you can see, she's quite the accomplished fighter. She's yours."
Brannon nods like he's considering something, and then again, more decisively, and flicks his fingers at his men. one steps up immediately pulling out a large black briefcase from somewhere - I hadn't seen it earlier.
The nameless man steps up to grab it, and Rigger and I walk Alyssa forwards, until she's within grasp of the suits. Vincent reaches into a breast pocket of his jacket, and pulls out a sizeable plastic bag of powder, handing it directly to Brannon with a wry grin.
"This will keep you in her favour. I'd hate to see you fall from grace," he says, and it sounds like a threat. Brannon can hear it, from the unsettled look on his face, but he keeps quiet, accepting it with quiet dignity that looks out of place in the grungy parking garage.
We all turn then, each party walking back to out respective cars, and I just sold a human being.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
The man is watching me, but I don't know how I'm supposed to react, so I keep my face blank and maintain eye contact. He's not smiling, and I don't know what it means.
Rigger's whistling as we pull out, a jaunty little ditty, and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time. The other one's quiet, slumped down in the passenger seat, gazing out the window.
I'm watching them.
I want to kill them.
I want to get them off this planet, get them the fuck away from human beings who are actually human regardless of super strength, or weird ESP. They can't be human, doing this for the money.
Then we get back to the warehouse, and Vincent has Jameson divide up the money - I'm a little disoriented by the literal briefcase full of money, who even does that these days - and it's a lot of money.
A lot of money.
It's enough money for me to buy Arthur passage to the country of his choice, and also name a planet after myself. Only problem is that it won't get them off his back - no matter where he goes, I'm beginning to realise, they'll be able to find him. Logically, I knew that before, but now, seeing what they do - I can't just work for them and hope that the debt he owes to Vincent goes away.
Vincent and the nameless man are sitting close together, heads bowed for private conversation. Vincent looks up once, sees me watching, and drops his gaze again, using those wild hands of his in sharp, tight movements.
Rigger sends me down into the basement again to put the two other guys back. Like they're fucking toys he can just bring out and play with until he gets bored of them. They're docile, not really interested in fighting now that they've been awake long enough to settle down, and follow me easily down the stairs without Rigger's excessive help.
I lay the older man down - he's got a massive lump on the back of his head from where I slammed it into the floor, but his eyes follow my finger easy enough, just watching without any prompting from me. I hook him back up to the IV solution of po, inserting at the wrist rather than the elbow. It'll add one more mark to the collection, I know, but at least it won't hurt as much going in.
He groans as the fluid hits his system, muscles seizing for a moment, before his whole body goes slack, and he slips unconscious.
The younger guy was just watching, sitting on the stairs where I had left him. I hold out my hand and he stares at it for a moment, like he doesn't understand.
I wait. I don't move - just leave my hand there for him to see, palm up.
He gets up, bracing himself on the stone steps, and comes forward like a wounded animal - alternating between watching my hand and my face to see if I'm going to attack.
When he reaches out, putting his hand in mine, I'm almost surprised by the soft feeling of his fingers against my palm - so gentle compared to the strength I know he has, the strength that almost broke me in half.
I fold my fingers over his, and take a step back, pulling him with my gently. His eyes don't leave mine, and I walk backwards through the rows of cots until we reach his. He's standing straight by this time, not hunched over to protect his vital organs, and his eyes are less wary and more calculating.
He, like the others, doesn't know what to do with this kind of change in me - from Arthur.
I sit him down slowly, just resting my hands on his shoulders, not pushing, until he sinks down to the stiff surface of the cot by himself, face turned up.
I do the same thing I did with the other one, placing the IV into the veins of his wrist instead of his elbow. I don't ask his name and I don't talk, because I don't think he's got enough left in his mind to answer me. He looks too hollow, too broken.
When he's out, I stand for a moment longer, watching over him, and then I turn back to the stairs.
The man's watching me from halfway down the staircase, with that same expressionless look on his face.
"You've gotten better with them," he says, and when he's speaking so quietly I can finally detect a hint of an accent, though I'm not sure what it is.
I shrug. "It's nothing."
"No, no," he says, hopping lightly down the last few steps, and sauntering close. "You get them more. Vincent doesn't really get them, he just uses them." He doesn't look even remotely scared of his boss overhearing him. "But you're gonna be the one to get the most out of them - that fight earlier? With the girl? That was good, that brought out the best of her. Rigger wouldn't have been able to do that, he'd have got his arms ripped off."
He circles around me, looking at each of the cots with a detached eye.
"I'm just doing my job," I say, and leave as quickly as I can, almost sprinting up the steps.
He is still just standing there when I look back at the door to the basement. I turn, intending to collect my money, and come face to face with Vincent, who must've been waiting for me.
"You did good today, kid," he says, with unholy glee in his eyes. "How are you doing with your stash?"
I manage to smile, and babble off, "Oh, no, no I'm good - I've still got plenty left," but he wraps an arm around my shoulder and guides me over to where Jameson was sorting po. The black woman sits there now, legs elegantly crossed and long fingers clacking away on a laptop.
"Mickey," Vincent calls, and she looks up, liquid black eyes questioning. I use the weight of Vincent's arm to mask the may my body wants to freeze - this is Mickey? Fucking last person I had expected, considering the way Arthur talked about him - or her, I guess.
Vincent was talking the whole time I wasn't paying attention. When Mickey reaches over to a small selection of bags - fun-sized for individual servings, or whatever - I get what's going on. Vincent slaps me on the shoulder in something like friendly joviality, and I'm really getting sick of people hitting me on the back, especially considering it's currently my bad shoulder. He's got an intense look in his eyes when he hands me the bag.
It would be unwise of me to decline it.
"Go on," he says, "it's a gift. I like this new work ethic you've got going on," he says, like my getting my ass beaten was a logistical ploy for Employee of the Month.
But I take the bag, and tuck it in the pocket with Arthur's old stash, feeling the weight of it heavy against my chest.
I don't even know if it's worse to take it or not.
-
previous / next
Word Count: 6556
unreasonably long chapter for the win! what. anyway, thrilling stuff happens. Mickey is my favourite right now. edited to be slightly shorter than CRAZY. violence.
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1843 Blakley Road is one of many old and decrepit warehouses out in East Quarter, close to the waterfront. It's painfully cliché, and I feel like I just wandered into a 40's gangster movie.
A man with a square jaw, a short fuzzy crop of blond hair, and a wickedly crooked nose, pulls open the giant sliding door for me as I approach. He nods like he knows me, and waves me in with a bored look on his face, keeping his eyes on the empty street behind.
I nod back, slipping past. I have no idea who he is. Mickey, maybe. He seems like he could be a Mickey.
There are plastic folding tables all over the floor of the warehouse, which looks smaller on the inside than I had assumed it would be. I had been expecting some big cavernous place, where every step echoes like a gunshot and dark shadows lurk in every corner, where someone suspicious can watch your every move.
I know who Vincent is the moment I see him.
He's not as classically villainous as I had thought he would be, having filled my mind with big black moustaches and capes, but he's very distinctive regardless, with slicked back sandy hair and piercing blue eyes beneath a furrowed brow. He looks more like a business man than a mob boss, and more like a mob boss than a drug dealer. Though I suppose when it comes down to it, they're all the same, on some level.
He's arguing quietly into his phone, waving his free hand in small, emphatic gestures and circling around one of the tables in quick, jerky steps.
Sitting in a metal folding chair is a kid, Arthur's age I'd guess, sifting through piles of bricks, wrapped in plastic and sealed with thick black swabs of electrical tape. He's got a medium-sized scale at his elbow, and every so often, he'll take a bag and weigh it, watching the dial carefully and jotting down notes on a legal pad.
There's a black woman there too, with cornrows down her back, who I've never even heard Arthur mention. She's tall and gorgeous in a pencil skirt and blouse and killer high-heels, watching over the kid with a clipboard, though I can't tell if she's watching the bags more or his performance.
Guys all around in leather jackets and scruffy facial hair are on look out, some ducking out to do patrols at random times. They're like a well-oiled machine, constantly moving and never leaving a post unmanned.
My breath catches in my throat when one of the men approaches me, with a critical look in his eye. He's just barely taller than me, with deeply tan skin and creases already forming around his eyes, though he can't be more than thirty.
"Well, you clean up nice," he says, stopping next to me and running his eyes over my shirt and clean jeans. "I was beginning to wonder, boy."
I try not to show it as I take a deep breath. It's what I was going for, but fuck. That they haven't figured me out and run me through already is nothing less than a miracle. I pitch my voice lower.
"I'm trying a new look."
He barks out a laugh, and smacks his hand on my shoulder hard enough to make me stumble.
"I can see that! I gotta say, though," he confesses, and leans in close, looking around like he's conveying some big secret that no one else should ever know. I find myself unconsciously mimicking him until he's speaking directly into my ear. "I'm gonna miss the mop," and he pushes his knuckles into my scalp briefly, running his palm over the short hairs on my head before I can slap his hand away and take a few stumbling steps back.
I freeze. If Arthur's friends with this guy, if he just jokes back, if he knows his name, if I just blew the whole thing, fucked it all up before it could even start -
But he's laughing again, "Still prickly old Arthur, though, ha?" He turns on his heel and throws a wave over his shoulder, dismissing me from his attention entirely.
My eyes slip shut without my permission and I just stand for a moment, breathing in the darkness behind my lids. I have to get control over myself, can't let this opportunity slip away. Thank God Arthur's as grumpy with these people as he is with the rest of the world. That makes it easier to imitate.
I hear someone call Arthur's name. My first instinct is to look around for him, ingrained as it is into my very makeup, but I catch myself.
I look up to see square-jaw gesturing to me. His voice is milder than I had expected, and as I approach the table, I see Vincent is off the phone and watching me. I slouch a bit more, digging my toes into the empty space of my shoes and shove my hands deep into the pockets of Arthur's jacket.
I can feel the cold plastic of my phone in the right pocket and wonder how many times Arthur's rung me since he woke up. Considering how much he'd slept the past few days, he's bound to be up by now, and probably frantic at finding his jacket and shoes gone. Not to mention the po.
The kid looks up with a squint and a vague smile. "Hey, dude," he says, a slow drawl seeping in at the vowels. "We missed you the other day, man, where'd you go?"
I grunt, and try to shadow my face as much as possible, look hungover maybe. "Took the weekend off. Needed a few days to myself. No big deal."
Vincent's gaze is a cold burn on the top of my head, and I glance up to watch him through my eyelashes. He doesn't look suspicious, not really, but he looks angry, with bloodshot eyes and a pinched mouth. Which I think is pretty much his natural state, but it can't hurt to be cautious around him.
Mickey's the one I need to look out for. He's the one that Arthur said was watching him, looking for the signs.
Vincent steps up to the table, and places his hands on the sticky white plastic, fingers splayed like he's about to propose a business merger of epic proportions. His eyes dance between us all, watching every facial tic and shift for nervousness or some sign of betrayal. The black woman stands silent at his side.
"We got a new order," he says. The kid shifts, like he knows what that means, and like I should. I just keep watching, looking attentive. "A client looking for a very specific kind, we're going to be supplying him. Rigger," he turns to square-jaw, and I feel butterflies in my stomach - if he's not Mickey, then I don't know who is. I'll feel better when I know his face. "You're taking Arthur downstairs to get any potentials. Test them all. Jameson." The kid perks up and trembles under the onslaught of Vincent's intense stare. "Don't be fucking late."
Jameson shakes his head emphatically, and I can tell that there's some story to that. A story that might have something to do with the little nubs on his left hand where his ring and pinky fingers should be.
I swallow dry, my throat a desert, and nod in time with Rigger. There's a chilling smile on his face. No teeth, it's not the bared grimace of an animal, but just the slightest curl to the corners that seems just...evil.
Vincent talks a bit more, but I tune it out. There's a door at one end of the warehouse, opposite the bathroom, with rust peeling off its metal surface and a shining padlock.
That's the basement door, I'll swear to it.
When Rigger finally leads me over, I have to break off and go hide in the restroom long enough to catch my breath and smack my cheeks to get the blood back in them. Arthur's pale sure, but no one will mistake that for natural.
I can't let them see I'm scared.
The bathroom is lit be an eerie green light from an old fluorescent. I look at myself in the water stained mirror and see the mould in the corners and the grime on the floor and think about my little brother in here.
I'm leaning over the sink dry heaving before I can stop myself.
Tears are running down my face before I manage to right myself, and I scrub furiously at my face with my shirt cuff until I just look like a junkie.
Rigger's waiting for me by the basement door, with a crowbar in his right hand and a set of keys with a novelty keychain from the Crown Jewels in England in his left. He's looking expectant, so I nod, and shove past him as soon as the door is opened.
The steps are stone. The air is cold and damp, and seeps in under my jacket, until I've got goosebumps up my arms and down my ribs and I'm trembling just the slightest bit. The basement is dark, until Rigger turns an old light switch ninety degrees, and the room is flooded with white light, illuminating the bare crossbeams of the floor above us and the supports in the corners, as well as about fifteen threadbare cots.
On each of the cots is a person.
Well. They look like people at least.
They're laid out like corpses, though I can see them breathing, deep and even. They're all hooked up to IV's hung over their beds attached to the crossbeams with little hooks - the tubing looks clean, at least from this distance, but the pale blue sheen to the liquid inside makes me queasy. They're all dressed in street clothes, a few of the older men in what look like they could have been nice button-down shirts. Tissue-thin sheets are draped over their bodies, doing nothing to ward off the chill in the air.
Rigger walks between the beds, inspecting each person with intense scrutiny, and I follow, not knowing what else to do. He's checking their pulses, peeling up heavy, bruised eyelids to peer at their eyes. One girl has a great bloody spot from a ruptured blood vessel that curls around her iris and covers most of the white. Rigger takes a small clipboard from the foot of her cot and and pen and jots down a note, before moving on with a huff of breath.
I stop beside her bed when Rigger's distracted, and study her closer.
She looks so young, skinny arms and legs, limp black hair fanning out long beneath her shoulders. She's Asian, so I'm not sure, but she can't be more than twenty years old. There are bruises in the crooks of her elbows, where the needle of the IV goes in, and little red marks showing the constant application of it.
Rigger's not looking. I reach out gingerly, feeling the warm puff of her breath on my hand, and lift her upper lip.
It's what I had expected. Her gums are raw, worn away from too much powder, bleeding and cracked in places where they didn't just disintegrate. Her teeth look too big in her mouth, stained slightly blue from the drug.
These are the users, the ones that Vincent collects.
This is where Arthur would be if they ever found out.
Rigger barks my brother's name, and I follow, keeping my eyes down and on the ground instead of looking at the rest of them.
He's standing in front of a cot holding an older man, mid-forties probably. Rigger pulls the thin sheet from over the man, letting it drop to the floor with a soft whiff of fabric. He looks tired and normal, average face and mousy brown hair of medium length, and unremarkable in almost every way except for the bulge of muscles under his shirt. They look like steel, unnatural and rope-like, with pale blue veins running along their lengths.
"Client is looking for a body guard, someone strong," Rigger says, prodding and poking at the man. He gestures for me to turn with a jerk of his head. I look around the room - there are two other people with the same kind of exaggerated muscle mass, one's a younger man, and the other's a woman in her thirties. "Unhook them. We need to do some tests."
I hesitate a moment, looking back for confirmation, and pick my way through the cots to the young man. His skin is warm and solid under my fingertips as I draw out the needle, keeping pressure on the thin stretch of skin in his elbow, but the blood wells up surprisingly fast, surging out of the dense muscle. There's swabs and cotton balls and tape on a little tray by the head of the cot. He's already stirring by the time I finish cleaning the wound, doing my best to be gentle while working quickly, eyelashes fluttering against his gaunt, pale cheeks.
I leave him for a moment, and repeat the process with the woman. She's got short blonde hair cut around her ears, and looks like she could be very pretty if it wasn't for the discolouration of old bruises around her eye and the greyish tint to her skin from uncountable blackheads - too much time spent on the street without real soap.
They're still out of it, moving but barely conscious of what's going on around them, as Rigger and I manoeuvre them up the steps, guiding them like sheep.
Natural daylight is a shock, even after such a short time in the unnatural darkness of the basement, and I have to squint against it when we exit. I only think of what it does to the junkies when the young guy lets out a wail, and cringes back, writhing against my hold, fighting and trying to get back into the dark. He lands a solid punch to my ear, sending my head whipping around, and I react, twisting and pulling his arm tight, turning my body to slot my hip under his side and hurl him over, slamming him down on the floor.
I follow him down into a pin, holding him in place. As soon as I know he's not going anywhere, I've got one hand up at my neck, feeling the muscles twinge from the blow. "Ow, fuck."
Someone's applauding.
I look up, shifting to keep the guy still.
"Well done," calls the man from earlier, the one whose name I didn't know. His face is impassive, but I can see a spark of amusement in his eyes. "Well that one's out, we know. Now how about the others?"
I don't know what he means, until Rigger whistles to get my attention, and releases his hold on the older man, turning him in my direction and shoving, pulling the woman away.
I jerk to my feet, letting go of the younger man in surprise.
The man comes at me with a viciousness that alarms me and then he's on me, throwing punches and slashes, fighting wild and with unnatural strength.
He is sloppy, and too slow. I'm a better fighter than Arthur, I know that, so I can see surprise and appraisal in the eyes of those watching us fight when I catch a glimpse. I'm faster too, and the man's wide swings are easy to dodge.
When he hits me though - he can take out a brick wall with a single one of his punches. He slams his fist down on my shoulder, coming very close to snapping my collarbone with one blow, and sending me flying back, breath knocked out of my chest. I stumble to my feet, knowing that I have to keep fighting to finish the test and survive, because if this man is given a chance, he will probably kill me.
He's like a fucking berserker, more than a fighter. Holding my arm close to my body, I throw myself at him, and force my fist into his face with a straight punch. His teeth cut into my knuckles, leaving bloody smears across his cheek and my palm, and he falls backwards.
I leap, landing on his chest with my knees spread, and beat him across the face, alternating blows, trying to do as little damage while also knocking him unconscious. It's not his fault, as far as I know, and I only wish I knew a better way to get him out of commission.
He stops moving after far too long, and my fists hurt from clamping so tight. There are marks of fingernails on my palms, deep and red and painful. My right arms hangs a little limp, the joint of my shoulder already swelling under my t-shirt.
I turn around -
And Rigger throws the woman at me.
My fists come up immediately, like a silly boy pretending to be a boxer, and we circle each other.
She's better than the men, calculating and watching. she's had training, i can tell, the way she moves and the way she carries herself - she walks on the balls of her feet, ready to react to anything coming in from any direction. when she attacks, she's good enough to throw me off guard.
She moves fast, dashing in and landing a punch, and then dancing back out my my range. her punches are quick and economical, straight wrist and immediately pulled back into her centre. it's disorienting after being faced with two other non-fighters who threw themselves into the fight with no forethought.
She darts back in, blonde hair haloing her face, which has light up with more humanity since she began to understand her surroundings better, and flings her leg out in a kick that slams into my stomach with uncomfortable accuracy.
But she made a mistake, leg too low to hit me square in the solar plexus. She doesn't draw her leg back fast enough, and I snag it, latching on with both hands to her ankle and knee, and use it as leverage to pull her off balance. I pivot, swinging around, dragging her with me.
Her face registers surprise, and I grin through bloody teeth, and then use whatever strength I have - which is less than hers, but enough to get by - to fling her across the floor, sending her flying into the wall with a sickening crunch. She staggers, holding her head, and wobbles around to face me, unsteady after having collided head-on with a more unforgiving surface than my soft tissue.
The disorientation wears off alarmingly fast, and then she's on me again, hands clamping down on my shoulders to slam me back against the opposite wall, bringing a knee up and into my gut with the vigour that her previous hit hadn't got.
Something cracks in my chest, and a blinding pain radiates up my sternum leaving me gasping for breath. I throw my arms out, trying to force her off me, but she shifts her grip from my shoulders to my head, and wrenches my head down, into the solid mass of her forehead.
Then she slams my head back again, into the concrete. I slump in her hold, and Rigger's on her in an instant, holding her back, almost cradling her so he won't do any more damage.
There's a ringing in my ears. she might have busted one of my ear drums with her unbelievable right-hook. I reach up, swaying a little, my sense of balance shot completely, and feel a little trickle of blood running down the side of my face.
But then I can hear someone talking, saying Arthur's name, and I turn around slowly. My whole body hurts.
Vincent looks pleased, back on his phone, and gesturing again. He apparently liked what he'd seen.
The black woman I'd seen earlier is smiling softly to herself, eyes on her clipboard, and she just looks fucking scary to have such a sweet expression after I just had my ass pretty much handed to me.
The kid's staring with awe in his eyes, mouth open and brick of po forgotten in his hand. He looks like he just laid eyes on his long-lost hero, and I can almost just barely restrain myself from flipping him off. He doesn't really deserve that. Also, Arthur probably wouldn't.
But the guy, the one from before, the one who was clapping, he comes up to me and throws an arms around my shoulders, almost sending me to the floor in a heap at the extra weight.
"Nice job! Exactly what we needed to see, the client will be very pleased indeed."
"Thanks for the warning," I mutter, drawing my shirt sleeve under my nose, coming away bloody. "Appreciate it."
It's muffled, but not enough for him to do anything but cackle with laughter. He pulls back for a moment, then grabs my face in his bigger hands, tilting my face up and back into the light. His eyes search my face, and his thick fingers prod and poke, testing the severity of the bruises on my cheeks. There's a great big sore spot front and centre on my face, with another right in the back. He touches it gingerly, and his fingers come away wet with blood.
"It's a bad knock, but I think you'll live, boy," he says, with a grin. He's remarkably handsome with a genuine smile on his face, greenish-grey eyes and a strong jawline. His hair is short and spiky, but not like he'd gelled it - more like he couldn't be bothered to brush it after getting up.
I shift uncomfortably, because his hands are still on my face, and he's really, really close to me. I can feel his body heat across the distance between us.
"You are all full of surprises today, aren't you, Arthur?"
I manage to give a weak smile, already feeling my eye swelling up. "I just like to keep you on your toes." If I knew his name, I would have added it to the end, just to be cheeky. But I don't want to call him Mickey, which is my instinct, when there's even the slightest chance that I might be wrong.
Rigger's gotten the three junkies under control by the time the man pulls away from me, though he lingers, hovering at my side. The two guys he sits down with a little dose of po smeared over their gums to keep them happy. The woman, he ushers over to Vincent, who slides the mouthpiece of his cellphone away, leaning forwards.
"How old is she?" He sounds northern, with short, crisp vowels.
Rigger shrugs, looking her up and down. "Thirty? Young enough - she's good for the client, I know that much."
"Good enough." He wanders off, still talking into his phone, and I'm left wondering how on earth he managed to become lord of a drug ring. For all that he's a terrifying mother-fucker, he seems a bit scatter-brained to tell the truth.
Stiffly, I make my way over to the bathroom and use the harsh paper towels to scrub the blood off my face. My ear seems fine with closer inspection, but I'm still dizzy from the various head-blows. My nose looks puffy, and my eye isn't going to swell all the way shut I can already tell, but it's pretty hideous regardless. I don't do a very good job of cleaning myself up, but it's the best I can do.
As soon as I'm out again, I feel a tug at my elbow, and turn to see the kid, Jameson, has wandered up. He's taller than I had thought he'd be, but extra lanky to make up for it, looking all of eighteen years old.
"Where the hell'd ya learn to fight like that, huh?"
He's got fucking stars in his eyes.
"My big brother taught me," I mumble. It's close enough to the truth - I had tried to teach Arthur, but he didn't really take to it much. He was much more interested in barrelling in head first rather than strategy and good footwork. That's why I'm better.
Jameson is almost wiggling in boyish glee at the thought of a fight. "Can you teach me?"
I shake my head, and then regret it. Not a good move with a concussion. "No, no, I'm not that good. I'll never be able to teach you - I'm only a beginner anyway."
The look in his eyes says he doesn't believe me even remotely, but he's willing to take my word for it.
Vincent closes his phone with a snap, and calls out to us all, "We're leaving! Get her in the car."
There are three cars to carry all of us, and I end up with Rigger and the nameless man in the middle one with the junkie, as we're supposed to be the ones to control her until we can get to the drop point.
The random men on guard pile into the other cars with frighteningly large guns, and I swallow heavily at the sight of them, unnerved.
I don't like guns.
The caravan takes off north, travelling along the warehouse district until we exit the East Quarter and are gaining on the higher-scale sections of the North Quarter. There's apparently a drop site we're supposed to make it to, rather than dropping it off at the client's house - too influential for that, Vincent says with an amused smirk on his face. He's not impressed, but then again, he wouldn't be - he has all the power.
The ride is silent, until Rigger and the other man start chatting quietly together. Rigger is driving, hands at two and ten, and keeps his eyes on the road like a surprisingly diligent driver. I'm left in the back next to the junkie, who sits with her hands folded, eyes cast down, short blonde hair just long enough to cover her eyes at that angle.
I can't remember what colour they were - I was a little distracted at the time.
My stomach is rolling and turning the longer we drive, feeling more and more unnerved by the concept of selling a human being. I try not to look at her, keeping my eyes on the passing buildings and blurred trees out the window, watching the reflections of the cars in the mirrored glass of the storefronts, but my eyes keep drifting back.
I lean close to her ear, watching Rigger and the other man. They're not paying attention.
"What's your name?"
She doesn't so much as stir, but I know her attention has shifted entirely to me with incredible focus.
"Why do you care?"
"Because I want to know. I'm not like them."
I don't even know what they're like, but I know I'm not like them. I don't even know if that's the right thing to say, it sounds stupid and inadequate, not nearly enough to justify my going along with them in their horrible plans.
"If you tell me your name, I'll be able to find you. I can get you out later, once I deal with them," I whisper, trying to move as little air as possible. If they hear me, everything I'd done all day was for nothing.
She says nothing for so long, I lean back, disappointed. I really would - I'd come back for her if she would let me, after I got Arthur out of their clutches.
I turn my eyes away, back out the window, and try to swallow the lump in my throat, but all it does is settle heavy and sickening in my stomach. I am no better than them. I can't believe my brother did this for amusement - how can anyone do this? How can they justify it to themselves?
"Alyssa," she breathes, and when I swing my head around as subtly as I can, she's finally looking me in the eyes. She doesn't turn her head, just tips it up until she can peer out from under her bangs.
Her eyes are crystal blue, so pale that they look clear. They stand out in sharp contrast to her dirty skin, and burn with live fire.
"I'll come back for you, Alyssa," I mouth.
The car pulls to a stop, and Rigger gets out, leaving the engine running. We're in a parking garage, where the sunlight streams in weak and pathetic. the halogen lights are on full blast, giving off contradictory light sources that make everyone look flat.
The world echoes as I get out, slamming the door behind me. I have to leave Alyssa locked in the car, but Rigger is standing guard with his door open, so she can't get away with the car.
The other two cars pull up on either side of us, boxing us in, and across from us, on the other end of the parking level, are two other cars, sleek black BMWs that wouldn't otherwise be caught dead in this kind of place.
The man approaching us is older, with white hair at his temples and greying on top and deep crags of worry lines etched into his skin. He's wearing a long, thick black wool coat, double breasted and expensive over a grey pinstriped suit. His shoes click on the asphalt, the sound repeated by two men in black suits with "ex-military" written all over them.
Vincent greets him with an insincere smile and open arm, spread out in supplication, stepping forwards to meet him.
"Good to see you again, Mr Brannon," he calls, his voice lifting. It sounds like it could be a code name, but from the way the man stiffens, face contorted in a grimace and eyes flitting about like he's checking for watchers, it's probably not. He must be as important as he tries to come off.
Either that or he's just a paranoid bastard.
"Do you have what I need?" Brannon barks, looking impatient. His bodyguards stand solid and stoic, creepy in their single-mindedness.
Vincent nods, and Rigger takes the cue to haul Alyssa out of the back of the car, keeping one hand with a solid grip on her upper arm
He drags her forwards, never once looking at her face, and I follow, holding her other arm in a looser grip, keeping up the image of handler.
She pushes her weight heavier onto me, and I can feel the fast patter of her pulse where my fingers rest on the soft inside of her arm.
Brannon looks are her with a critical eye, stepping closer for a better look. "She'll do nicely," he says. "And you've confirmed her abilities?"
Vincent laughs heartily, and gestures to my face. "Our man Arthur tested her personally - as you can see, she's quite the accomplished fighter. She's yours."
Brannon nods like he's considering something, and then again, more decisively, and flicks his fingers at his men. one steps up immediately pulling out a large black briefcase from somewhere - I hadn't seen it earlier.
The nameless man steps up to grab it, and Rigger and I walk Alyssa forwards, until she's within grasp of the suits. Vincent reaches into a breast pocket of his jacket, and pulls out a sizeable plastic bag of powder, handing it directly to Brannon with a wry grin.
"This will keep you in her favour. I'd hate to see you fall from grace," he says, and it sounds like a threat. Brannon can hear it, from the unsettled look on his face, but he keeps quiet, accepting it with quiet dignity that looks out of place in the grungy parking garage.
We all turn then, each party walking back to out respective cars, and I just sold a human being.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
The man is watching me, but I don't know how I'm supposed to react, so I keep my face blank and maintain eye contact. He's not smiling, and I don't know what it means.
Rigger's whistling as we pull out, a jaunty little ditty, and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time. The other one's quiet, slumped down in the passenger seat, gazing out the window.
I'm watching them.
I want to kill them.
I want to get them off this planet, get them the fuck away from human beings who are actually human regardless of super strength, or weird ESP. They can't be human, doing this for the money.
Then we get back to the warehouse, and Vincent has Jameson divide up the money - I'm a little disoriented by the literal briefcase full of money, who even does that these days - and it's a lot of money.
A lot of money.
It's enough money for me to buy Arthur passage to the country of his choice, and also name a planet after myself. Only problem is that it won't get them off his back - no matter where he goes, I'm beginning to realise, they'll be able to find him. Logically, I knew that before, but now, seeing what they do - I can't just work for them and hope that the debt he owes to Vincent goes away.
Vincent and the nameless man are sitting close together, heads bowed for private conversation. Vincent looks up once, sees me watching, and drops his gaze again, using those wild hands of his in sharp, tight movements.
Rigger sends me down into the basement again to put the two other guys back. Like they're fucking toys he can just bring out and play with until he gets bored of them. They're docile, not really interested in fighting now that they've been awake long enough to settle down, and follow me easily down the stairs without Rigger's excessive help.
I lay the older man down - he's got a massive lump on the back of his head from where I slammed it into the floor, but his eyes follow my finger easy enough, just watching without any prompting from me. I hook him back up to the IV solution of po, inserting at the wrist rather than the elbow. It'll add one more mark to the collection, I know, but at least it won't hurt as much going in.
He groans as the fluid hits his system, muscles seizing for a moment, before his whole body goes slack, and he slips unconscious.
The younger guy was just watching, sitting on the stairs where I had left him. I hold out my hand and he stares at it for a moment, like he doesn't understand.
I wait. I don't move - just leave my hand there for him to see, palm up.
He gets up, bracing himself on the stone steps, and comes forward like a wounded animal - alternating between watching my hand and my face to see if I'm going to attack.
When he reaches out, putting his hand in mine, I'm almost surprised by the soft feeling of his fingers against my palm - so gentle compared to the strength I know he has, the strength that almost broke me in half.
I fold my fingers over his, and take a step back, pulling him with my gently. His eyes don't leave mine, and I walk backwards through the rows of cots until we reach his. He's standing straight by this time, not hunched over to protect his vital organs, and his eyes are less wary and more calculating.
He, like the others, doesn't know what to do with this kind of change in me - from Arthur.
I sit him down slowly, just resting my hands on his shoulders, not pushing, until he sinks down to the stiff surface of the cot by himself, face turned up.
I do the same thing I did with the other one, placing the IV into the veins of his wrist instead of his elbow. I don't ask his name and I don't talk, because I don't think he's got enough left in his mind to answer me. He looks too hollow, too broken.
When he's out, I stand for a moment longer, watching over him, and then I turn back to the stairs.
The man's watching me from halfway down the staircase, with that same expressionless look on his face.
"You've gotten better with them," he says, and when he's speaking so quietly I can finally detect a hint of an accent, though I'm not sure what it is.
I shrug. "It's nothing."
"No, no," he says, hopping lightly down the last few steps, and sauntering close. "You get them more. Vincent doesn't really get them, he just uses them." He doesn't look even remotely scared of his boss overhearing him. "But you're gonna be the one to get the most out of them - that fight earlier? With the girl? That was good, that brought out the best of her. Rigger wouldn't have been able to do that, he'd have got his arms ripped off."
He circles around me, looking at each of the cots with a detached eye.
"I'm just doing my job," I say, and leave as quickly as I can, almost sprinting up the steps.
He is still just standing there when I look back at the door to the basement. I turn, intending to collect my money, and come face to face with Vincent, who must've been waiting for me.
"You did good today, kid," he says, with unholy glee in his eyes. "How are you doing with your stash?"
I manage to smile, and babble off, "Oh, no, no I'm good - I've still got plenty left," but he wraps an arm around my shoulder and guides me over to where Jameson was sorting po. The black woman sits there now, legs elegantly crossed and long fingers clacking away on a laptop.
"Mickey," Vincent calls, and she looks up, liquid black eyes questioning. I use the weight of Vincent's arm to mask the may my body wants to freeze - this is Mickey? Fucking last person I had expected, considering the way Arthur talked about him - or her, I guess.
Vincent was talking the whole time I wasn't paying attention. When Mickey reaches over to a small selection of bags - fun-sized for individual servings, or whatever - I get what's going on. Vincent slaps me on the shoulder in something like friendly joviality, and I'm really getting sick of people hitting me on the back, especially considering it's currently my bad shoulder. He's got an intense look in his eyes when he hands me the bag.
It would be unwise of me to decline it.
"Go on," he says, "it's a gift. I like this new work ethic you've got going on," he says, like my getting my ass beaten was a logistical ploy for Employee of the Month.
But I take the bag, and tuck it in the pocket with Arthur's old stash, feeling the weight of it heavy against my chest.
I don't even know if it's worse to take it or not.
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