Page 76 of Painted Scars
“My grandmother took that drug,” I say quietly, cutting in. “Nine months later, she was gone.”
Barry meets my eye. “The drug’s harmed a lot of people.”
Heavy silence stretches between us.
My grandmother was the only softness left in this world. She used to make peach cobbler in a dish chipped from years of love and use. Called me her good boy, even when I snuck an extra piece. Hummed old Motown songs while she baked and made me dance with her in the kitchen. Stole hugs whenever she could, even when I outgrew them by age sixteen.
I came out of hiding for her funeral. Suited up in borrowed clothes. Standing at the back of the church, not greeting or speaking to a soul, including my infant nephew.
After the Romans caught wind that I wouldn’t play ball, things got ugly real fast when they dragged my family into the mess. Late-night calls and veiled threats to keep their mouths shut. Surveillance on my parents and sister.
I knew staying would bury more than just me, and I left the force, tearing apart a legacy of three generations of cops, stretching back to my grandfather. Pop retired under his own dark cloud of disgrace.
To save them, I cut ties, going underground like a fucking coward. No more Sunday dinners, pies, the arms that made me feel like a kid again. Goodbye to the last person who saw me as good, even when the world turned on me. The real price of this war, and I’ll never forgive the Romans or myself for losing that time with my grandmother and family.
Kate’s thumb hovers over her phone like she doesn’t trust herself to speak yet. She nods once more, sharper this time. This is the woman I brought here. Fierce and focused. Determined to report the truth and make enemies piss themselves with a headline. The woman who dragged her pain into the light and dared to look back at it.
Barry reaches down to pet his mutt’s scruffy neck. “They won’t stop until they discredit you. Bankrupt you in court to silence you. Kill you or run you into hiding. You ready for that?”
The leather of my gloves cracks as I crush my fingers into fists. This is one story of many of what happens when the truth costs more than most people can afford to pay in a judicial system rigged against them.
Kate flinches, recovers, and straightens. “Been there. They don’t scare me anymore.”
Goddamn woman puts on the brave face she crafted to survive. Underneath that, she’s not fearless, she’s tired of being afraid, and that’s plenty of motivation to expose the Romans.
My hand curls around the back of her neck, centering her.
Barry takes a long sip from his cup, eyes narrowing like he measures the weight of her words. “You remind me of my daughter. She’s gone now. OD’d last winter after I was fired, and we lost everything.”
Kate swallows hard. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He gestures to the camp. “This is fallout.”
Wind stirs the tarp overhead, breaking the beat of silence.
“Mace here has the reports and data from my studies.” Barry gestures to me, his voice quiet, resigned to his fate, whatever happens. “You’re welcome to use them in your article, Kate.”
Kate finishes typing and lowers her phone. “I’ll take a look. Thank you.”
Most people hear something like that, and they shut down. Not her. She leans into it. Takes the pain, fear, and weight of someone’s story and makes it sacred. That kind of grit and heart? It’s fucking lethal. And she doesn’t need a weapon to do it.
I don’t do well in places like these. Too many ghosts, graves, and citizens terrified to speak out. Reminders of the people Spartacus didn’t save. I want to shield Kate from it, but if wedon’t fight back, breathing life into stories like this, it’s the endgame.
I squeeze her shoulders, indicating the interview’s over. “We’ll take it from here. Thanks again, Barry. I’ll bring more food next week.”
Spartacus doesn’t just fight to tear down the Romans, we bleed them dry. Steal from their networks and redistribute to the people they harmed. Food, blankets, accommodations, medicine, and necessities. Cash is too easy to steal and it twists people. Grayson calls us Robin Hood with better encryption and bigger grudges.
Barry nods once. “See you then, Mace.”
“Take care, Barry.” Kate rises slowly and brushes her skirt, glancing around the encampment with fresh eyes that see this place for what it is. A warning of where she may end up for telling the truth.
We walk back the way we came, past folded plastic chairs, an old man filling in a crossword puzzle smeared with rain. Life is quiet here, barely hanging on.
“It’s not just my story anymore, is it?” Kate’s words back at my bike are like a mortar round to the chest in their accuracy and devastation.
I didn’t just bring her here for the sake of the story. It’s a test of resolve and mettle. Will she run back into self-preservation mode, or face this head-on? The way she met Barry’s gaze, like she’s been fighting this war longer than I have, shows me she’s no damsel in distress. She’s stronger than I give her credit for. I won’t push. The choice has to be hers after what she survived. Blackthorn stripped her autonomy, and the only thing I can give her is the chance to reclaim her power by choosing to stay in the fight.
“This is what we’re fighting for.” I play with the throttle lever on the handle. “And what happens when the Romans win.We don’t look away. We fight back and weed out the rot in the system.”
