Page 58 of Fragile Facade
With that, he leaves us in the morgue with Brady’s body, the slip of paper fluttering to the floor. We both look at it, but I’m too pissed off to move, and Riot is trying not to breathe too hard.
“He doesn’t know shit. He can’t prove we did anything to Brady.”
“He can, actually,” Axel says as he walks in. “Found all sorts of things on his body, and semen was one of them. Guess whose DNA it didn’t match?” His eyelid flutters when he watches us. “And guess whose DNA is already on record for Vile House? Your semen showed up on this boy, and the rest isn’t a hard guess. Some daredevil games, bluff calling, a snapped neck, sex on top of his dead body. It’s all very cliché for the two of you.” He bends down to pick up the slip of paper. “He’s not joking. If you don’t work together for this job, you won’t get out of there alive.”
“Where?” Riot asks. “Where are we going?”
He holds out the paper. A flight schedule. “You’re flying down south to infiltrate Reaper Corp Headquarters to get a very vital bit of information.”
My stomach sinks and actual dread fills me. I’m not someone who fears death and danger, but this…
“All these chips and implants we’ve found require a keycode. Glitch has been able to crack a few of them, but they self-destruct within a few minutes. We need the master key, and you’re going to get it.”
21
KING COBRA
RIOT
When Krypt wentto infiltrate Axel’s lab, he got to say goodbye to me. It was awkward and unfocused because we’re both terrible at anything deep, but at least it happened. It was a moment that ensured neither of us would regret anything if the worst happened.
I didn’t get the same chance. Director put us on a plane immediately after getting us in shit, and I’m pretty sure he did it just to motivate us to come back. I didn’t get to talk to my brother, and Ghost didn’t get to talk to his. It means we have unfinished business, and I don’t like how it feels.
The small plane from Moros was quick as it took us to the city. Waiting around in the city’s airport was bullshit. I haven’t left Moros in years, let alone gone to a goddamn airport with business fuckups and excited travellers. All those people frayed my already tattered nerves, but now? Holy fucking hell. This is the closest I’ve come to the underworld. Sitting in economy class with hundreds of normies going about their filthy lives is the worst kind of punishment.
Babies are babbling, parents are coddling, kids are not complying, and couples are all… romantic and lovey as they set their screens to play the same movie at the exact same time. Fucking gag. It’s all so light and monotonous and I don’t understand how people enjoy this kind of life. I forgot how prevalent cell phones are. Pictures are being snapped every time I look up, and I can’t fathom the reason to document so many boring moments. Why not live it? Why see it through a screen? Why not make it memorable by actions rather than captions? I don’t understand it, and to be honest, I forget I have a phone most of the time.
My captions are written on calling cards, and my memories are documented in history through the tales Moros locals will eternally tell about me. Not social media and ten-second snaps.
I sigh, leaning back in my seat, thinking about why Axel would want us to find a research file while we’re in Reaper City. I’ve got a file name written on a slip of paper in my pocket, and he told me not to mention it to Director. The fuck is that crazy doc up to? My head is too busy to think about it, and Ghost doesn’t want to acknowledge it because he’s nervous, despite how hard he’s trying not to let it show.
Ghost didn’t want to sit with me, so I’m stuck next to some kid in a frilly tutu, wearing a literal tiara. I suck at kids, but she’s probably six or so, and I wanna ask her what kind of happy life she’s living to make her confident enough to dress like a sparkly little shit and be so excited about it. But her mom is across the aisle and keeps side-eyeing me like I’m gonna snatch her daughter or something. Slipping into a mask I’ve perfected well, I offer the mother a charming smile to put her at ease, tell her she has a cute kid, and keep my elbows inside my armrests just in case.
Unfortunately, my charm doesn’t just put her at ease, it offers her a window to chat. I’m just sitting here listening to how she’s travelling alone with her two kids for the first time because her husband is meeting them at their vacation destination in a few days, and I have to pretend like I give a shit. Vacation? The fuck you wanna go to some stuffy hotel on a crowded beach for when you could go to Moros and get a real thrill? Maybe the girl’s sparkly dress would liven up Death Row a bit.
“Where are you going?” the six-year-old asks me. “To see your family? To visit your friend? To the zoo?”
“The zoo,” I agree. Probably going to be a zoo in Reaper City, and I need to be the lion instead of the monkey.
“What’s your favourite animal? Mine’s a king cobra.”
There she is. Little Miss Sparkly Tutu hasn’t been tainted enough by bullshit fears to be afraid of snakes yet, and it earns her a tidbit of my respect. “Why a king cobra?” I ask her, a little peeved at myself for indulging her.
“Because they can kill you with their spit,” she deadpans, kicking her ballet-flippered feet. “And when they get all angry, they look like they’re wearing cool hair.”
Fair enough.
I don’t know how to act around kids who aren’t born and bred in Moros, so I try to come up with a cute answer, like an otter or something, but instead, her purple-painted fingernails drag over my bare forearm, tracing the lines of my tattoos. I stiffen.
“Mom won’t let me get one,” she tells me. “I want a tattoo of a parrot so I can say something and then hold up my arm and my arm can say something.” She laughs super hard, but that sounds dumb to me. Why not just say it twice if that’s her thing? “Do they hurt?”
‘I like pain’ might not be a suitable response to a child, so I shrug. “Yeah.”
Never, not even once in my whole life, have I been touched like this. Like she doesn’t give a shit about who I am or what boundaries are or what touch means. She’s just… petting my arm like it’s precious to her, looking at my art like it’s a pretty picture, not expecting or insinuating anything or trying to taunt or hurt or manipulate me.
“Maybe when you’re older, Leigh,” Mom says, smiling at me. Guess she’s not afraid of me near her kid anymore.
“Girls look stupid with tattoos,” her asshole older brother says from the other side of their mom. “You have to be goth to get tattoos.”
