The weirdest person he’d ever met, too. And he knew a lot of freaky people. Holy shit. Gremlin did it. Mack was so giddy this moment he could dance a jig around her bare ass. He kept his face dialed to not-giving-a-shit, though. The main channel of the Elite and badasses like him.
“See you around...” She leaned over and whispered his nickname in his ear. Goosebumps danced over his skin. That was a trade secret. What the hell? Fillion never shared this info.
Clothes bundled in her arms, she sauntered to the elevator. Who did that? Who willingly left someone’s apartment naked? Nobody. She probably dressed in the elevator after the doors shut. But damn. What an exit. Gremlin was one freaky shit.
Rattled, Mack turned toward the hallway and raked shaky fingers through his hair. “You can come out now,” he yelled. Pulling a pack of Marlboro’s from his pocket, he lit up as Lynden tentatively stepped into the living room.
“Who ... who was that?”
“Hands down the creepiest almost hook-up ever.” Mack hid the EMP switch in his pants pocket. “Shit. Glad you were here. Sorry about face-palming you and stuff.”
She stared out the wall of windows and nibbled on her lip ring. “She looked like Pinkie.”
“She wha—” He closed his mouth. Images flashed through his mind on replay. After a few seconds, he half-whispered, “It wasn’t her, Lyn.”
Lynden looked over her shoulder at him. City lights illuminated half of her face. The other half dissolved into the dark shadows of the room. Fear pooled in her eyes and the hair on the back of his neck rose once again.
“Sounded like her, too.”
“Just coincidence.” He hoped.
She shrugged a single shoulder and returned her attention back to the twinkling cityscape. “Why is the tattoo on your thigh upside down?” She glanced over her shoulder again. Mack was trying to keep it cool, face straight. Wait for it. Wait ... and there it was. She figured it out. Good job. The look of disgust on her face was priceless. “Really? That’s a thing?” Gagging sounds followed. “Make the images stop!”
He laughed. “Fluffy kittens dancing on rainbows in a field of sparkling flowers.”
“Ugh. Not helping. Let’s change the topic. Stat.” Lynden leaned her forehead on the window. “So, what happened tonight? Are you OK?”
Mack dragged on his cigarette and exhaled slowly. How to explain? An idea struck him. “One sec,” he said to the dark. In the kitchen, he pulled out a spiral notebook and pen, then positioned himself next to Lynden by the window.
Scribbling in the notebook, he wrote:
Gremlin slipped note to F. Reply sent back via girl.
“Seriously?” Lynden nibbled on her lip ring again. “That’s messed up.” Her shoulders slumped as her head tucked toward her chest, her shoe toeing the floor. “You speak with him?”
“Hey, come here.” Mack sank into the nearest leather divan and patted his lap. Lynden followed and curled up against him, resting her head on his chest. Cigarette dangling from his mouth, he used his free hand to explain his genius plan in the notebook.
Her head popped off his chest as her jaw dropped. “I need this.” She plucked the cigarette from his mouth and put it into hers. Smoke escaped her lips in a thin ribbon. “So this was what lurked behind that scheming look of yours at the wedding reception.”
It was a statement, not a question. Still, Mack felt compelled to answer. “Partners for life.”
She laughed, a light tinkling sound as she balanced the cigarette between her fingers while covering her mouth. “I always wanted another bossy older brother.” Lynden rested her head on him again and passed off the cigarette. “I guess you’ll do.”
Mack warmed with the underlying sentiment. One she tried to mask with humor. For a short while, he’d be the only accessible, legal relative who cared. Their loss. Wrapping his arms around her shoulder, he held her close and whispered in her ear, “‘Doubt thou the stars are fire. Doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar. But never doubt I love.’”
He was her family, regardless of what a silly piece of paper said. She sniffed and nuzzled closer to him, pressing her face into his neck. Her favorite spot since childhood.
His too.
Tuesday, May 4, 2055
The waiting room was packed. Three hours, thirty-nine minutes, and sixteen seconds earlier, he and Jett—the woman who ran the safe house in the underground—had cleared security and checked in their personal electronics. Then waited. And waited. Paced. Stared at the wall. Tried to ignore the people crowding their space. But he couldn’t get past the smell.
The public visitation hall was filled with grungy, threadbare humanity seated before wall-mounted video ports. They paid what little money they had for a twenty- to sixty-minute visitation. It was ridiculous. But jails and prisons were busting at the seams. Tax dollars only went so far. He understood both angles.
A thin woman his age, huddled in a corner, made a haunting image with pale skin, stringy hair, and pronounced dark circles under her eyes. The kind brought on by hardship. People were screaming at her to keep her child quiet. Nobody had patience for children. They were burdens. Always. The poor mite looked hungry, sounded hungry, too. Dirt stains covered the child’s cheeks, his hair in matted knots.
She had most likely spent all the money she had so that her child could see his daddy. In less than two decades, the same woman would probably be here again—visiting her son. The circle of jobless, hungry, lower-class life complete.
Mack tried not to feel guilt. It wasn’t his fault.
He looked at the walls again. The building was only ten years old. But the color scheme held a moldy hue. Was that butter yellow or a fading shade of white? He couldn’t tell. It was gross, that’s what it was.
“Mackenzie Ferguson and Jett Styles?”
Finally. Mack stood and breezed over to a petite woman with the tightest bun he’d ever seen in his life. Her eyes narrowed as she compared the real life image to the digital version on her screen.
“Follow me.”
The correctional officer led Mack and Jett down the questionably colored, cement brick hallway toward the newer detention center. The one built for white-collar crimes committed by juvenile Elite who awaited trial. The holier-than-thou’s received amenities the government-dependent civilians could only dream about. Unconstitutional? Maybe. Probably. Nobody fought the system. Not anymore.
Pausing at a corridor, Mack, Jett and the officer waited for a cluster of people in uniform to pass. The dirty blond hair, pulled tight into a knot, harshened the officer’s features. She looked perpetually pissed. Catching her eye, he winked. Oh god. Wrong move. Now she looked pissed. Damn. He didn’t think her features could harden any more. Mack held in a laugh. She’d be all kinds of fun. They started moving again, away from the entrance and the despair.
The correctional officer stopped before a door and placed a thumb onto a biometric scanner. Security cleared, the door clicked and she grabbed the knob. Mack maintained his cooler-than-shit swagger. His face remained bland, but an entire ant colony had been provoked inside of him.
“Give this to the officer at the podium to check you in.”
She handed him a slip of paper. The detention and prison systems still operated in the Dark Ages compared to the rest of society. Most business and government operations would have wirelessly transmitted this data and spared a tree. To save face with the taxpaying Green Morons, if nothing else.
Mack entered an open room dotted with metal tables and chairs bolted to the floor. The light gray fixtures looked disgusting against the purulent drainage color coating the cement brick walls. It was official. This building was diseased. Rotting away from the decay of humanity who inhabited its dorms and passed through its doors daily.
The officer at the podium—an old man with silvered hair—took the slip of paper from Mack without any form of greeting. His pen scratched over Mack’s paperwork.
“Show me the back of your hand,” he said in a monotone voice.
Both Mack and Jett stretched out their hands, which were then stamped with invisible ink. The kind that showed up under black light. Mack almost made a joke about whether this meant they were free to roam around the amusement park. But the old man, sensing the rising sarcasm, lifted his eyes. Daring Mack to say something. Anything. Fear slithered down his spine in response. Hot damn, that man was cold. Not a drop of warmth pulsed through his veins. Alrighty, then. Silence it is.
“You’re assigned to table four. Sit anywhere but the marked chair. No touching or inappropriate gesturing. Hands must remain visible at all times. No whispering or talking in a language other than English. Your visit is limited to thirty minutes because of high traffic today. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Jett said. She elbowed Mack, who nodded his head in agreement.
“An officer will check for stamps before you can leave this room and before you can claim any checked-in belongings.”
“We understand.”
“You’re the minister?” the officer asked her.
“Yes, sir,” Jett answered.
“Ever performed a ceremony in a detention center?”
“No, sir.”
“It’ll happen in this room at an assigned table. Hand holding is allowed for the ceremony only. But not today.”
“We understand, sir.”
The officer eyed Mack with dispassion. “He’ll be in shortly.”
“Thank you, sir.” Jett turned to Mack with humorously large eyes and gestured with her head. “Come on, Romeo. Move your ass.”
Red tape identified the marked chair. Mack eased into the seat next to it, and clasped his hands together onto the table top. Looking around, he spotted several surveillance cameras. Officers roamed around the fifteen or so tables, all of which were occupied. A tense hum of conversation vibrated through the air. Two family groups sat inside a playroom, moms and dads visiting their pre-trialer sons. The younger siblings played with old, broken toys. One child snatched a toy out of another’s hand. The outraged child retaliated by pushing the thief to the floor. Both families sprang into action, earning the attention of an officer.
Patience was not a virtue Mack possessed. Especially when an entire ant colony skittered through his insides. Seconds. Minutes. Hell had relocated operations to his head. Maybe he was the one imprisoned? Too deep a thought to explore right now. Then a muted buzz echoed from somewhere. A flash of dark hair reflected in the bulletproof glass of the playroom.
“Is that him?” Jett asked by his side.
Mack swung his focus to the other end of the room.
He held his breath and kept his face devoid of any reaction. A correctional officer escorted Fillion to their assigned table. Head down, his friend refused to make eye contact. Even when he sat. Even when the officer voiced his departure. It was like Mack didn’t exist. Nobody did. Was he sedated with anti-anxiety meds? Or something else?
Fillion’s hair had grown out since the last time Mack had seen him. Near-black hair with reddish highlights reached mid-cheek and fell over his eyes. It was weird seeing Fillion’s natural hair tones. A long-sleeved blue, button-up shirt—same color and material as his pants—hung on him loosely. Too loosely. Had he lost weight?
Five months. What in the hell should he say?
“Hey.”
Silence.
“Dad says life is boring without our larks.” He paused. “Yeah, he actually used the word ‘larks.’ Old-timey word badassary, right?”
No movement or any indication that Fillion had even heard him.
Mack softened his voice. “Lynden sends her love.”
Fillion turned his head away. Mack’s pulse kicked up.
“So does my mom. She married again. Lana is my new hot-step-mommy.” He smiled. “I think this one will last. You should’ve seen Kris. She was glowing.”
Nothing.
“I filled up your commissary account. The max allowable.”
A nod. Progress. Mack released a breath.
“Hey,” Jett said, easing from her chair. “I need to ask the officer a question about next week. Be right back.”
Mack watched her leave then said to Fillion, “I also added minutes to your calling card. I guess now that you’re eighteen, you get a calling plan.”
“Don’t call me.”
Mack’s eyes widened. His voice. God how he missed it. He needed to keep him talking. “Are you breaking up with me?”
A flicker of a smile touched Fillion’s lips.
Mack laughed. His friend was such a smart-ass. Nope, not on anti-anxiety meds. Fillion must be issuing Miranda rights on this conversation. And perhaps trying to appear incoherent should this ever come into question. How much of Hanley’s influence penetrated these walls? Mack’s eyes darted around the facility, noting each camera again. And every correctional officer.
“Well, tough shit,” he said to maintain normalcy. “A queerplatonic love like ours doesn’t dissolve this quickly.”
Fillion lifted a single shoulder in a slight shrug, humor still on his lips, though nearly indiscernible. Like a memory of old times ghosted the corners of his mouth. To onlookers, it probably looked like he was repositioning himself in his seat.
Mack watched for gray eyes through the strands of Fillion’s hair. Still nothing. He’d never seen him this cautious. Or serious. And he was the very definition of serious. Mack needed to create a code. Something Fillion could crack. Mental stimulation was his love language.
With nonchalance, Mack began tapping the table with one hand, and continued. “No,” he drawled, and tapped the table in one pronounced movement. Then little taps. “Not getting rid of me. Ever. I heart my sapiosexual BFF.” Mack faced Jett as she resumed her seat as before and asked, “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
When she answered, Mack gave two pronounced taps on the table. More little taps. Hopefully, it appeared as though Mack was feeling the beat to a silent tune.
“Great,” he said. “Any words of wisdom you have for us before next week?”
“No, not really.”
Mack issued one emphatic tap as his finger drummed away. Gray eyes finally met his. Fillion hacked the code. Good. His friend was hardwired to spot patterns. It was in his DNA. The curse of an over-thinker. Unlike Mack, who preferred to fly by the seat of his pants.
Oblivious to their silent communication, Jett asked, “Fillion, do you have a witness for next week?”
Fillion acted like he was casually taking in the scene. He ran his hand through his hair and ... there it was. He tapped his head twice before his hand returned to the table.
“Of course he does,” Mack said. “My zucchini knows what he’s doing.” He bit down on his tongue ring and winked at Fillion. No reaction to the queerplatonic term for a partner. Damn. Tough crowd. Jett eyed Fillion, her dark purple hair falling over her face as she leaned onto the table. “Just think,” Mack continued, his tone dreamy. “Next week we’ll get two whole hours together. Alone.” Fillion touched his shirt, like he was adjusting it. Two taps on the top button. “He’s happy about that, too,” Mack said to Jett.
“Uh, yeah. He looks totally ecstatic about marrying you. The overwhelming joy is catching.”
Mack ignored Jett’s sarcasm. “Do you want to kiss me, bishounen?” he asked Fillion, perfectly serious. Two taps. “Wait. Really?” One tap. “I hate you.” The lower part of Fillion’s cheek twitched, like he had bit the inside of his mouth to keep from smiling.
“Hate is a strong word.” Jett lifted her eyebrows with worry. She peered at Fillion with further concern when he appeared non-responsive, softly saying, “Let’s stay positive around him.”
“Pshaw. We’re just frobnicating.”
She inclined her head to better see Mack. “You’re what?!”
“Lawyer taking care of you?” he asked Fillion, ignoring Jett again. Two subtle taps.
Hmmm ... maybe he would contact Fillion’s lawyer, then. No, he’d wait until he had a chance to speak
with Fillion first. Mack was paranoid about walking into a trap. Lawyers didn’t request private audiences with people who already had lawyers. Especially with Elites, who were assigned lawyers at birth in many cases. It was too phishy and Mack refused to take the bait.
He lowered his voice to just above a whisper and asked, “You doing OK, mate?” Fillion’s throat constricted. His friend’s face remained expressionless, though. Fingers shaking, Fillion gently tapped once on his thigh while pretending to fidget with the hem of his shirt. The air leadened inside of Mack’s chest.
“He’s not going to talk to you,” Jett said, sympathetic. She placed a hand on Mack’s arm in comfort. “Looks like they sedated him. Not surprising. Maybe next week will be different.”
“What do you mean, ‘not surprising’?” he asked Jett, but continued to regard Fillion.
“Later.”
“Fillion,” Mack began softly, “Is it time to take a dump?”
Jett leaned onto the table, eyes wide and mouth slackened. “Are you high?”
“On cloud nine, woman. Never better.”
Mack was happy he had selected a “Normal” to officiate the wedding, what hackers called a non-hacker in the underground. Because nobody pulled a Gabriel better than Fillion. His ability to stall and appear unaffected by chaos or details was legendary. As if reading Mack’s thoughts, Fillion acted like he heard a sound and inspected the imaginary source over his shoulder. His thumb tapped the table once. No dumping info about Hanley onto the Net. Well, shit. That would have made Mack’s day.
Jett studied Fillion, then examined Mack. “Nah, you’re definitely off today. A braincation.”
“It’s the pants, isn’t it?” He looked to Fillion. “Apparently, wearing my business skirt here is a matter of security. My legs are that powerful. Nobody can resist them.” He faced Jett and winked. “That’s definitely it.”
“You’re crazy, you know that?” She chuckled.
“Crazy in love,” Mack said, wiggling his eyebrows. “He loves me, too. So much, he’s speechless.”
“Or he’s sedated.”
“Gubbish!” Mack sighed with feigned exasperation. “For a minister, your tolerance of differences is disappointing.”
Transitions: Novella Collection (The Biodome Chronicles series Book 2.5) Page 20
