{Gait}

Matt fidgeted with the chain Sagan entrusted to him before her nacre port implantation. It tangled with his matching one throughout his day of shining the Martyr Complex Bar & Lounge’s bar tops and polishing the Emporium’s parquet flooring. When he saw his face reflected in the hardwood of the main area proper, he took a break before starting the floors in the addition. The kitchens boasted exotic eats from all twelve planets within the Vast Collective. Fancy shit for the upscale crowd that frequented the eccentric auctions and the Divine Booths. The major attraction allowed for guests to experience the lives of others, specifically their pain.

The ginger human set aside all the fancy fixings and hit up the ham and cheese. The human fare appeared in the fridge after his second day employed under Razor. Strange to admit it, but this job made for the cushiest gig so far. And Matt only worked undercover jobs. And only ones that fed him. Not sandwiches, either.

Nope. He agreed to help Sagan with this mission to explore the pain market. He stayed because of Lucy’s letter. The one she left him six months ago when she disappeared.

Find men like Justice Lee in the worlds, and you’ll find me.

Once you do, I’ll explain everything.

Always together,

Morning Star

Matt considered Razor. Not exactly Justice Lee. More like the man Lee aspired to be. But the Pain Curator served men like Lee with vices like the ones hidden in the basement. Every day, Matt went down there and performed for the circus. Every day, hopeful that Lucy would appear undercover as one of Razor’s hapless victims. And every day, Matt surfaced disappointed—

“Hey don’t let the boss catch you listening to that.”

“What?” Matt lowered his massive sandwich to find one of the aggressively ripped drones from Monarch 3 standing across the counter from him. Only then, he noticed the music in the background. Oh. Night Rayne. “Someone else left it on. I didn’t realize it was them.”

With shimmering, multi-faceted eyes, the guy looked left and then right before leaning forward all conspiratorially. Quietly, he shared, “Between you and me, it’s worth pissing him off to see a show.”

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Yea?” Not that Matt gave a shit. Only two things satisfied him, and he’d gone six months without his favorite.

The drone—Puke? Puk?—nodded. “I worked security at a show two months ago. They set people on fire with the pyrotechnics. And Rayne? Hot. So hot.” The facets in his eyes glimmered with excitement. “Hey, I heard you know her. The real one.”

Matt shrugged nonchalantly. “Sorta.” Who the hell discussed his business with the coworkers?

“What’s she like in person?” He fully leaned forward on the counter, eager to know more.

How to describe Rayne in one word? “Dangerous.”

The guy’s head bobbed approvingly. “Hot.”

They bumped fists.

Matt watched over his sandwich as Puk headed to the basement entrance. The redheaded human’s shift started soon. Dusting the crumbs from his hands, he headed for the addition. Voices carried around the corner to the shop.

“I know it’s hard, dear.” Razor’s voice at his most convincing.

Someone sniffled. “No more,” a girl pleaded. Young. Her voice sounded small.

Gently, the alien pushed, “A little more then we can stop for the day. Does that sound good?” After a pause, he called, “Matt?”

Shit. Caught eavesdropping. He turned the corner to find a blond girl facing Razor with her back to Matt. “Boss?” He always reacted well to the title. Indeed, the Pain Curator smiled before whispering something to Puk’s identical drone beside him. The Mon3 alien took the girl gently by the arm and escorted her out of the shop. Matt never saw her face, but he’d never forget her voice.

“Night Rayne offed another prime client at the most recent show,” Razor announced.

Apparently, the band ate away at the Emporium’s more prestigious visitors. Too bad, really. Matt asked, “Have you ever been to one?”

“No, but I am curious. I might even consider it. To scout out the competition, of course. I have no intention of participating.” Razor’s gray eyes shifted as he passed a dark blue hand through his pale blue hair. Time for a change of subject. “How long before the Seamswalker returns, do you suppose?”

Matt tilted his head to the side as he considered. Not Sagan. No, he considered the man before him. What the hell did Razor want from Sagan? Or Pehton? Or him, for that matter? The Pain Curator had more angles than a myriagon. After some thought, Matt ticked the list off on his fingers. “With The Brethren down, possible Shadow casualties, and Progeny facilities damaged?” He knew for a fact that Imminent hit three massive ones. But they were hidden installations best kept secret from current company. “Give her a week. Maybe two.”

“Three days at most.” Razor held out his hand to shake. “A week of your menial tasks on it.”

A wager. Should Matt feel some type of way about betting on his friend? No part of him minded, personally. But the precarious position he balanced between working with the good guys while living like a bad one always tipped to the danger zone.

Matt gripped the offered hand and ignored the fingernails missing from Razor’s nail beds. At the man’s telling smirk, the younger one observed, “You either know something I don’t, or you underestimate her sense of duty to the Progeny.”

“I know something you don’t. I know her.”