{Gait}
Another Rayne promotion played on the projected screens. Matt touched the chains hidden under his shirt—his and Sagan’s. The packed Martyr Complex Bar & Lounge displayed an ad every hour. He kept his watch by it, as he shadowed Razor across the dance floor. The Pain Curator greeted the regulars of the more casual establishment. No tuxedos or cufflinks here. Carbon fiber pants and black tees for the employees. Black slacks and an open button-down for the boss. The bright orange of it contrasted starkly against his navy skin and paler hair.
No nacre port. And no… navel. Not something Matt thought he’d notice, but there it wasn’t.
Men and women alike from all over the Vast Collective tried to explore the oddity for themselves. They reached for him. Matt snatched many hands away and left them with a menacing glare. They always cowed.
After the most recent attempt, Razor chuckled and threw back his green drink. “I’m delighted you take your role so seriously, Matt.”
“That’s right, boss.”
With another chuckle, he led them to the bar and chatted with the bartender about inventory and trending drinks. “And how is the Seamswalker doing?”
Matt made to answer what little he knew of her when the other employee cut in with, “Sold out. Not enough purple Vittle punch.”
“But you saved enough for me.” Razor wasn’t asking a question. He was stating a fact. And the sudden darkening in his eyes suggested only one answer would suffice.
With a curt nod, the mixologist set to making one for the boss.
To Matt, Razor elaborated, “I invented the drink after that dramatic display with the Icarus and Peh Peh. The clients asked for Seamswalker-themed goods. I asked her permission first, of course.”
“Of course.” Yea, right. It’s not that Matt thought Sagan would care, it’s that Razor wouldn’t want her sharing in the profits. When they rendezvoused in two days, Matt definitely planned to mention the Pain Curator’s obsession with her eyes.
The alien held the colorful drink to the pendant lights. It shone like stained glass, twinkling in that trademark shade of mauve. Enraptured, Razor announced, “Two days.”
The redhead hid his surprise as he wondered not for the first time if telepathy was in the mix with his boss. “Sir?”
He gave Matt the full weight of his gaze. Gray as steel, but less tempered. “You’re working a special, annual auction in two days. A demonstration of fortitude for those who survived the terrorist attack.”
Rich reprobates flaunting their excellent death-evasion skills. They would brag about how close they came to the blast when they hadn’t even arrived yet. Matt nodded once. “Sure, boss. Likely one of them will make an attempt on your life and keep me from getting bored.”
“That’s the spirit.”
They both shared that odd smile between them. Respect. Acknowledgment of similar humors. But also the hint of a threat. Like Razor waited for Matt to try it. Not only because he’d enjoy putting the younger man down, but because he’d finally see how Matt would go about it. After Matt’s talk with the Executive Warden, the play was in motion. Hopefully, it took the Pain Curator by surprise. If not, both he and the Lyrik would see the inside of a cell in the basement. And that’s if they were lucky.
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Matt’s shift with 324 started soon. That person wasn’t Lucy. But he believed they were someone she’d want him to keep watch over. The way they begged contrasted too sharply against the other Numbered. Pitiful. They didn’t belong there. And Razor’s intentional method of abuse coincided with an ongoing theory.
Allies. The key to each of Lucy’s insurrections was her ability to create an army within the Cult’s own following. Maybe Matt should befriend Puk—
All the projections glitched at once—flickered—and settled on a white screen.
Razor stood and took a few steps toward the nearest one until he stood under it. He gazed up expectantly with his eyes narrowed in suspicion. The crowd watched him, not the screens. The room held a collective breath.
A black shapeless shadow consumed the screen. An effect distorted the voice into a demonic depth. “Night Rayne dies in two weeks.”
The Pain Curator disturbed Matt with a grin. Mania flickered in his eyes.
Concert footage of impressive pyrotechnics and a stage soaked in blood played across the screen. “We invite you to kill us during the premiere of our newest—and final—song. You know you’re on the guest list. One song. One battle. No encores. See you in two weeks.”
The Rayne promos returned to the screen. But it focused on a specific moment when she ripped someone apart at Iona-29 and smiled for the camera. With no one at the DJ booth, Night Rayne played over the club’s speakers. Matt damned near jumped when Razor gave a slow clap of his hands. Everything about his demeanor denoted respect and a sense of impress.
His voice went to that eternal depth, vibrating in the bodyguard’s chest as he called into the crowd, “I’ll be there.”
The club cheered and returned to dancing. It surprised Matt that the boss left the music playing. Charged. That’s the word. Razor looked electrified like someone called “clear” and hit him with the paddles.
“We’ll go to that show. It’s been so long since I’ve killed someone myself. I can’t wait to wring that impostor’s neck.”
They headed out into the street as Matt followed him.
Conversationally, he looked at the redhead as he vented, “Fourteen. That’s how many of my prime clients Night Rayne have killed. But now I feel like you. A killer in his prime. All I can think about is technique. What’s the best method? What would give me the most satisfaction? Any suggestions?”
“Is this a bad time to warn you it’s probably some kind of setup, and, as your bodyguard, I strongly discourage you from attending?”
Razor stopped in the middle of the street and faced Matt. “Not at all. Never apologize for doing your job.” He patted the younger man proudly on the shoulder. “Consider the concert a proper challenge to your abilities.”
The boss took off again with a spring in his step. The bodyguard answered his question, frozen to the pavement, “I like crushing skulls with my bare hands.”
The older man stopped.
Matt elaborated without waiting for him to turn around. “I like that the nacre strength lets me face them while I steal their life away one thrilling crack at a time. The blood from their eyes. The futile twitching… This gives me the most satisfaction.”
The Pain Curator kept his back to him. “No wonder the basement can’t touch your appetite. Nothing on this plane will ease your troubles. And one day, you’ll revisit the eyes of those whose lives you stole, and you’ll know Eternity.”
“I suppose you look forward to that day for yourself.”
Not his usual chuckle. After a forlorn “heh,” Razor assured, “Eternity won’t have the likes of me.” He brought his hand up, fingers curled, and stared at the missing nails. “Skull crushing suits me just fine. If you don’t mind me stealing your signature?” Turning, he faced Matt with infinity swirling in his gaze.
The redhead grinned congenially and joined him the few steps closer to the Emporium. “Pay me five hundred extra credits next week, and we’ll call it even.”
“Deal. Now head downstairs early. I want you to spend extra time with 324, tonight.”
“You got it, boss.”