{Gait}
Matt stared at his reflection in the bar he polished to a pristine shine. His dark brown eyes looked haunted. Seven months. Soft blond hair. Dark blue eyes. Tan skin.
Not for seven months.
A heavy crate filled with bottles of bizarre fluids dropped on the counter beside him. Razor rested an elbow on it as he indicated a projector along the south wall. “That’s the competition.”
A band played a festival scene with lots of pyrotechnics and mosh pits. The stage reminded him of something offhandedly familiar, but Matt failed to see the connection.
“What, boss?”
Every time he used that word, the Pain Curator smiled extra at him. They established a kind of rapport with their exchange of prodding questions and boundary testing. It kept Matt’s mind stimulated enough that he drifted off less over Lucy. It also allowed an avenue to help Sagan out on her mission.
For instance, learning about Razor’s business and competitors.
The strange man with dark blue skin elaborated, “Night Rayne. They offer a truly unique experience that even my clientele patronizes. In secret, of course.”
At Matt’s raised brow, Razor punched his free palm. “Violence.”
The redhead perked up then. Sounded all right to the twenty-year-old human.
With a crooked smirk, the Pain Curator continued, “That’s right. Everyone appreciates good violence. And while I offer a measure of it here, Night Rayne isn’t simulated. That—” He pointed with a nail-less finger. “—Is authentic. Every night ends in death.”
“How’s that? Aren’t there regulations?”
The boss shook his head solemnly. “None. The lead singer there is Rayne. Perfect likeness of her, anyway.”
Matt gauged the woman on stage and fought the urge to argue. Rayne was taller, more muscular. Her hair was darker. The girl on the stage made for a close counterfeit. And it was an interesting concept. “So, a rock musical with a singing Rayne?”
“One song.” Razor held up a finger. Again, no nail. “They perform only one song a show. In that time, she chooses a lucky member of the audience as her Nox.”
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Matt widened his eyes for effect.
“That’s right. She takes his nacre and kills him. Swallows it and everything. There’s nothing like her and nothing can simulate that anticipation and gore. The spectacle of it…” Razor stared off as if seeing something other than the Martyr Complex Bar & Lounge.
Gore. Violence. Romanticized a rape-based tragedy for the credits. Matt clenched his jaw and took the crate. It drew his boss back to reality.
The Pain Curator swept his gaze across the place and nodded appreciatively. “You’re doing good here. But I suspect you’ll need your fix soon. I don’t think the booths will satisfy you.”
The redhead kept his eyes on his task and his mouth clamped shut. “I’ll manage. Hey, where did you get the idea for them, anyway?”
“It was a collaborative effort. My idea. A contributor’s technology.” Razor waved goodbye as he headed for the door.
“You mean Celindria?”
At that, the man came to a screeching halt. After a long pause, he turned and met Matt’s gaze. Those gray eyes expanded. Still pupil and iris, but no more cornea. “What makes you say her name?”
“She stole memory tech from the First Wave Progeny.” Throwing around this level of intel really tested the advantage, but nothing ventured, nothing gained and all that. “Then she weaponized it in capsules like the pain one you carry around. I figured the booths evolved from that.”
He nodded so slowly it hurt Matt to watch it. “Although the Divine Booths predate her, I can see how one might reach that conclusion. What has you so curious?”
“Well, I wondered how your business will do now that she swore off the vice trade to join the ranks of Eminent?” Matt glanced over at a projector with a Rayne advertisement before returning his gaze to Razor.
“How loyal are you to the Progeny?” He sounded genuinely uncertain.
The projector behind Razor played its millionth repeat of Nox violating Rayne. Her bright blue eyes steeled for the assault to begin. Matt considered the definition of loyalty before he gave an answer, “Not at all really. They keep me working, and that’s all I need.”
A smirk spread across the Pain Curator’s deep blue lips. “Then you are no more loyal to me.”
“As long as you give me work, I’ll be as loyal as you need.”
“Follow me.” Razor walked out the door.
Matt mentally congratulated himself for this breakthrough as he followed the other man to the Emporium. Passed the mezzanine’s spiral stairs, around the concrete accent wall, and into the kitchens. The man with periwinkle hair glanced around, checking the pristine conditions as he continued to the back storeroom.
This was it. Matt hoped the Pain Curator would reveal what he secured away in the back half of the addition. He kept it locked with only one employee—the Mon3 drone—allowed entry.
Razor paused and turned to Matt with acuity in his expression. “The Seamswalker wouldn’t like what’s behind this door. Do you understand me? It’s perfectly legal, but not everyone can appreciate the finer intricacies of an enterprise such as mine.”
Matt licked his lips and confirmed with a nod. “I won’t breathe a word to her. She has enough on her plate, anyway. No need worrying over ‘perfectly legal’ activities.”
Again, the approving smirk. Without another word, Razor opened the door.
To Hell.