My heart is tap-dancing against my ribs, maybe it's trying to keep up with the Halloween spirit. Jordan, looking every bit the part of the ringleader in this circus of shadows, is as unflappable as ever. There's a gravitas to them that never really fades, not even now, when we're about to do something that feels like it's straight out of a spy movie.
We slide inside, and it's like stepping into the belly of a beast. It's all concrete and steel, the kind of place where echoes go to die. No catwalks smile down at us, no second floors wink from above, just boxes. Boxes upon boxes, towering like a forest made… of boxes. It's almost disappointing, how mundane it all looks--until you remember why they're here.
Safeguard's already a shadow among shadows, phone in hand glowing like a firefly. The screen's so dim it's like they're trying to keep secrets from the photons themselves. "Take the boxes and make a fort. Simple fort. No talking," the words flicker on their screen, and I can't help but think that if we were in a comic book, this would be the panel where you'd see their dialogue bubble filled with something gritty and heroic.
Gale looks skeptical, her eyes narrow like she's trying to read the fine print. But me? I trust Safeguard. They're like a compass pointing north; you don't ask why, you just follow. We shuffle boxes with the kind of care you'd use if they were made of glass, carving out a den. It's nothing at first, just an opening -- a promise of space. Well, I shuffle boxes, because I'm the strongest person here.
I know what Safeguard is planning. They just need a floor, two walls, and a ceiling. I make the smallest possible crevice that they could fit into, and step back. I don't need to make a ruckus, I don't need to move like… more than two boxes. Scoot one over on the floor as quietly as possible, then make a roof. There. Done.
Safeguard slips inside and vanishes. I grab Gale's hand and follow, with Spindle close behind.
It's not exactly luxury, but with some clever diagonal space-shifting, Safeguard has created an adequate hideout with enough room to fit everyone in all three dimensions, albeit crampedly. Crampedly… I don't know if that's a word. But we've got four full sized humans in a space designed for like 0.75 of a human so it's better than nothing.
From the outside, it's still just a couple of boxes huddled together, but inside, it's our own little room. It's filled with nothing but discarded packaging and the faint smell of dust and old metal, but it feels like a castle. It's a secret swollen space, Safeguard's creation, and we nestle into it, ready to watch and wait. Our very own invisible tower in the middle of the warehouse. It's almost exciting.
No, it is exciting. Part of my brain hopes we get caught. I squish that part very very very hard very fast.
I can't shake the surreal feeling as we settle in.
I'm sandwiched between Jordan and Jamila, with Connor - Spindle - wedged behind me. I settle back against the wooden boxes, trying to get comfortable. It's not easy; the floor's hard and unyielding, and every time I move, there's a rustle that sounds like a shout in the silence. But it's not about being comfy, is it? It's about being vigilant, about being ready. About catching the bad guys and getting out without a scratch.
The warehouse floor begins to slowly fill up with people.
The warehouse is exactly the kind of place you'd think about when someone says 'suspicious dealings go down here'. It's vast, cavernous, and echoes with every shuffling foot and muttered conversation. We're tucked away, sort of folded into space like we're part of a page that's been dog-eared. It's a tight fit, cramped with the four of us pressed together, and I can't help but think this is like one of those clown cars but for superheroes. Or, well, teens with superpowers playing hero.
Time's funny when you're waiting, all coiled up and tense. It's been thirty minutes, not that I'm counting each second, but it sort of feels like that part of a song that just goes on and on before the breakdown starts. The minutes are stuffed with the small sounds of us trying to stay still and silent, and the increasingly not-so-muffled voices of people gathering on the warehouse floor. These are the henchmen types, I guess -- just folks in hoodies and jeans looking more ready for a lazy Sunday than criminal activity. But what do I know about criminal fashion?
There's this weird sense of excitement that buzzes under my skin, a cocktail of adrenaline and that fizzy, impatient energy that's got nowhere to go because I have to stay put. I catch myself fiddling with the hem of my sleeve, rolling the fabric between my fingers, then force myself to stop. I try not to turn my phone on, so I can check it. That's right! I remembered my phone this time.
About fifteen minutes in, the high-up warehouse lights flicker on with a sound that's like a giant flipping a massive light switch somewhere. It throws harsh white light over everything, casting long, dramatic shadows and turning dust particles into a galaxy of floating stars. But the light's like stage lighting that doesn't reach the back of the room where the audience sits -- in this case, us. We're in the dark, unseen.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. It's getting kinda cramped in here with all of us packed in close, and I'm really hoping this Jordan-made space won't suddenly snap back to normal size like some twisted jack-in-the-box. I know it won't, but that doesn't prevent the nightmare visions from happening anyway.
The eastern door, a heavy slab of metal that seems like it could withstand a battering ram, creaks open with the kind of authority that turns heads, even among a crowd of roughnecks who are probably used to keeping their eyes front. Then, like a scene from one of those old gangster movies where the big boss steps into the speakeasy and the piano player hits a wrong note, in walk the duo--Mr. Polygraph and Mrs. Heartstopper.
Mr. Polygraph is just as I remember from our first unfortunate run-in. He's got that salt-and-pepper hair that looks like he's tried to brush it into submission, but there are a few rebellious strands that give him a sort of disheveled dignity. His mustache is a dense brush of grey and white that sits over his lip like it's guarding the secrets that pass beneath it. His suit is dark, charcoal or black, I can't tell in this light, but it's sharp, the kind that you know wasn't off-the-rack. It's all angles and clean lines - a stark contrast to the disarray around him.
And Mrs. Heartstopper is something else entirely. It's like she's walked off a high-fashion runway and into this dingy warehouse. She's all in red, in various shades and styles, from the sharp stiletto heels that click with a rhythm of impending doom, to the dress that's somehow both classy and ready-for-action. The hoop earrings catch the light as she moves, sending little flashes like warning signals, and her long hair is a curtain of authority. Her fingerless gloves expose her touch for lethal precision as necessary. I know what she's capable of.
They don't do anything as mundane as shout for attention. They don't need to. Their presence is a gravitational pull, and everyone in the room orbits around them, faces turning as they walk by, conversations dwindling into silence. They make an entrance without any fanfare because their reputations proceed them like a herald. It's clear, painfully clear, that they're the most important people here. Everyone can feel it.
As the weighty door groans shut behind them, the collective breath of the gathered seems to hang in the still, dust-moted air. We're a rag-tag audience, lined up against the rough walls like students before the principal--only the stakes are way higher, and detention is probably a luxury compared to what Mr. Polygraph would hand out for misdemeanors.
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Mr. Polygraph stands at the front like he's been doing this all his life, which he probably has. You'd think a guy like him would have an air of the bureau about him, something crisp and polished, but no. There's a world-weariness hanging off his shoulders, making the fabric of his jacket strain just a touch. I bet if he could, he'd trade his badge for a good night's sleep and a day without headaches. That's what his eyes tell me. They're red-rimmed, the left one twitching like it's got a mind of its own, a product of too many sleepless nights and coffee that tastes more like battery acid.
He doesn't march to the center of the room so much as commandeer it, pacing with deliberate, weary steps, a predator too tired to stalk but too hungry to rest.
Mrs. Heartstopper doesn't follow him. Instead, she positions herself near the entrance, a sentinel in scarlet, her posture both alert and relaxed--a paradox only the truly dangerous can embody. There's an ease to her vigilance, like she knows that not a soul would dare cross her, and it's not just her reputation that assures this, but every poised, lethal inch of her. She's not saying a word. She doesn't have to. She's a living, breathing stop sign -- blood red and impossible to ignore. She's got her arms folded, a stance that says 'try me' more effectively than any snarl could.
"So," Mr. Polygraph begins, his voice resonating with the kind of deep, grinding fatigue that comes from too many miles and too little sleep. "I've just come back from a meeting with Mrs. B in the Capitol. A lot of air and not enough road." His words are edged with a frustration so tangible it's like another entity in the room. "Let's get this over with. I want to go home, check on my kids, and raid their Halloween stash. If that's not a cause you sympathize with, consider your presence here a waste."
There's a ripple of nervous laughter, the sound almost as strained as Mr. Polygraph's patience. It's clear his temper is a frayed wire, sparking dangerously close to a barrel of gunpowder. His hand lingers near his belt.
Mr. Polygraph runs a hand over his face, smoothing out the wrinkles of his grimace before he continues. "We've been tailing Chernobyl," he says, and I swear the temperature in the room drops a few degrees at the mention of the name. "Our surveillance isn't always… fruitful," he adds, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might be a smirk in any other situation, but is something I can easily recognize in him as anger. "But we've got a haul today, and you're going to help us move it."
Safeguard's phone is out, recording the whole thing from the narrow crevice, the crack between two boxes. I made sure to angle them so that it's the tiniest, narrowest sliver out front, the walkable entrance slash exit out back. Like a triangle. The space is all tangled up and folded and duplicated and thinking about the geometry makes my head hurt, so I don't do that. I just watch and absorb.
"You take a box. What's inside, you turn to cash. Copper, paper, tech -- it's your job to liquidate the assets. I don't give a shit how. Anyone can break knees. Not any weed dealer on the street can convert a crate full of printer paper into cold hard American dollars." His eyes pin everyone around him one by one, like a fly being stabbed with a needle, getting ready to display them.
"The goal," he continues, "is to bring back twenty thousand in cash in a month and a half's time. That's the middle of December, when nothing important is happening. Each. Do that, and you're in. You'll have proven you're more than just another face in the crowd. You're a broker, a financier, a…" A shadow of a smirk crosses his face, "A philanthropist of the underground, if you will."
A murmur courses through the room. It's a challenge, a test of entrepreneurial spirit in a world where profit is measured in secrets and survival. It's oddly mundane. I would've expected something much worse, but being here, still, the air is thick. Gale's face, the parts that I can see, looks blanched of color. I squeeze her hand. She squeezes mine back.
"You can also just take it and run. I don't give a shit. We're not going to shoot you. If you don't come back, your position is forfeit. You lose any chance of getting made in the future. But, like, go ahead, run off with a bunch of fucking printers. There's only one thing worth punishing," he says, pulling a gun out from a holster on his belt. He spins it around a couple of times in his hand. "I mean, obviously, snitching will get a bullet between your eyes. That's not the one thing, but we're all adults here, I figure that goes without saying. No, the one thing worth punishing is lack of discretion. Make sure nothing can be traced. Split your transactions. Get it through your underlings. You're all the cream of the toddler crop, I trust you know how to shake a trail."
He coughs twice into his fist, and then thumps his chest. "You get any heat and Mr. M is going to put you six feet under personally. They won't even be able to dig you up with sniffin' dogs."
The air is quiet. Silent. Gravity weighs on my shoulders.
"Wow…" Spindle whispers. I slap my hand over his mouth and squeeze, and he looks at me with the most apologetic, wet, pathetic dog eyes in the world. I squeeze again and then let go. No more talking. I hope that's clear enough.
He folds his arms, the stance of a man who's laid his terms out and expects them to be met. "We've got forklifts and dollies and hand trucks and shit at the back. You can open the boxes but don't dawdle - I want everyone out here in half an hour, tops. Before you are allowed to leave with any boxes, you are to pass by me, and I am going to quiz you as to any undercover police bullshit you may be pulling. I can tell if you are lying, and I will shoot you. If you'd like to get shot now instead of in twenty minutes, simply start running. It will be less embarrassing for you. If you pass the sniff test, you get a truck. Load as you like. It's yours now. Are we clear?"
A murmur of assent ripples through the collected crowd of criminals, about thirty people strong. It's a veritable parade of the neighborhood's worst - I recognize one of the Coyotes, even, the one with the greasy skin, but no Aaron in sight. It's nothing more than an interesting bit of trivia.
Wait.
They're unloading the boxes.
Safeguard's hand, a silent conductor of our orchestrated escape, stops the recording. It's done with the secrecy of a magician's sleight, the phone vanishing into the void they command. My muscles tense, each fiber strung as tight as piano wire, ready to unravel in a moment's notice. The phone's disappearance is a signal, the starting gun of our quiet race against discovery.
We start retracting from the belly of Safeguard's box fort, a womb of darkness we've clung to in this haven of ill intent. It's an inching, painstaking process. We fold into ourselves, minimizing the space our bodies claim as the warehouse's occupants begin their laborious task. The groan of tape peeling and cardboard scraping against concrete sets my teeth on edge, a soundtrack to our tension.
With every box moved, our cover dwindles, piece by cardboard piece. It's a mental game of chess, and we're the kings seeking safe squares on a board where the rules are being shredded with every passing second. Our exit is to the west, a door that's both our savior and the maw of potential disaster. We need to reach it cloaked in the ignorance of our enemies.
The forklifts and the clatter of dollies create a mechanical symphony, a rhythmic guide for our synchronized movements. We move like phantoms, each of us aware that the walls of our sanctuary are thinning. Spindle, bless him, is the mouse among cats, his frame contorting, folding into shapes that defy the solidness of his skeleton. It's mesmerizing, the way he twists through the shrinking gaps, a testament to the peculiarities of our kind.
As the criminals work, the shuffling of feet and the clink of ill-gotten metals are interspersed with grunts and muttered curses. They're pirates dividing their spoils, unaware that interlopers hide in plain sight. Safeguard leads, their presence an anchor in this sea of chaos, a guiding star as we navigate the obstacles.
With every step, my heartbeat is a drum loud enough to betray us, each thump a chime of adrenaline that I fear will call attention to our presence. But it doesn't; our luck, it seems, is holding, a fragile bubble we tread within.
There are moments, heart-stopping instances, where the nearness of our discovery is a razor's edge. A box shifts and for a second, our cover is almost blown, a sliver of exposure that could unravel everything. But the moment passes, the shadow swallows us again, and we press on, firm against the walls of the warehouse.
The western door, our exit from this den of wolves, grows steadily closer. It's a beacon, the promise of safety, of mission accomplished. Our breaths, though shallow and measured, are prayers to the deities of the hidden and the unseen, beseeching them to drape us in their veils until we're beyond these walls.
It's a dance with danger, where every movement is choreographed by necessity and silence is our partner. We are ghosts, whispers of maybe and might-have-been to the unsuspecting thieves around us. As the last box is pulled away, revealing the path to our salvation, we slip through, a final act of invisible defiance.
The door is just there, an arm's length, a heart's beat away.
BANG!