Yesler Way came into view, and he released a pent-up breath with the roaring sound of drunks and early morning parties. It was a welcome sound to his ears after the unnatural silence of sleeping streets.
Motion gained his attention, and he watched a woman hang partially out of a window in one of the historic brick buildings. Her black bra was stark against her white skin and spiked orange hair. A crowd gathered as she threw clothes at a disheveled man below her window and screamed accusations about cheating, every other word censurable. The crowd jeered and yelled obscenities, filling the night sky with their raucous laughter.
Fillion puffed on what little remained of his cigarette and skittered down the steps to the entrance of The Crypt. The bouncer acknowledged him with a hard stare, coming to a stand and cracking his knuckles as Fillion approached. Slowing his steps, Fillion casually attempted to walk by with a bored expression and an aloof posture.
“I need to see your ID.” The large man placed an arm in front of Fillion, preventing his entrance.
The thumping sound of glitch electronica pulsed through the door, and reverberated in his chest. The energy hypnotized him before he returned his attention to the bouncer. He threw the butt into an ashtray, and then reached into his pocket. One of his chains clanked and dangled against his leg as he pulled out his wallet. Fillion continued to appear detached, a natural pose of cool irritation as the man verified the ID, scanning it with a security app on a Cranium device.
“All right, you can go in, Mr. Jayne.”
“Baka mon da.” He took the ID back, and then spit on the ground, giving the bouncer an annoyed look before stepping inside. He was a stupid man, doing a stupid job. Worthless and pointless. Half of the bar was filled with minors. He prevented nothing. The bouncer raised an eyebrow at him in response. Fillion smirked, knowing he probably thought he thanked him.
Fillion paused inside the entry and scanned the scene, then casually waltzed along the perimeter of the rave floor as he headed toward the bar. He kept his head low to blend in but a few recognized him and stared curiously, whispering into each other’s ears. A drunk slammed into him, and Fillion nearly lost his balance, colliding into someone else. He flipped off the asshole and then continued angling his body around people who were in various acts of drowning out their lives.
This world existed because of his dad’s generation. Young adults worldwide now paid the price for a futuristic lifestyle built on a foundation of glass—a foundation that was shattering, its shards cutting deep.
His generation—known as the anime gen—had become empty zombies. They flocked to The Crypt and bars like it worldwide, their bodies resenting the curse of death and rising up in search of something to devour, hungry for something more than their meaningless existence.
Computers did nearly everything these days. At the same time, the older generation hounded them to live out Green values in a way that pretended all the rapidly evolving technology (that the older generation itself was creating) didn’t exist. Fillion was tired of hearing how eating food would kill him. Breathing the air would kill him. Spending too much time in front of a screen would poison his ambition and dull his creativity. Everything must be organic and the way nature made it, but it was still OK to manufacture, package, and ship on machines. Not to mention the very fact that this Green life was supported, marketed, and funded thanks to machines. Stupid hypocrites. The hell with them. Each person would die one day. Their obsessive worries couldn’t stop nature’s sacrificial demands. Or their deceptions.
Feeling like they had no other point or purpose, he and the rest of his generation reached out to indulge idleness. The Crypt was a speed bar. Most people there were hyping out on Brain, a pure form of amphetamine. It had become the fuel to stimulate their continuation as they raged against their culture and their life. They wanted to feel alive.
Fillion found crystal meth and speed disgusting. But this was where his particular circle of influence chose to consume their drinks and entertainment most nights. It was their social anti-depressant, watching people in worse conditions than their own. They were a cerebral group, all graduating high school early, skipping grades, some even with college degrees, and all under the age of twenty. Humanity had no place for them, too young to be of use in the real world and too intelligent to be wasted. Tech and science jobs were a dime a dozen. Regardless of their achievements, they were treated no better than average, hence his job in the dungeon.
Three girls paused in front of him deep in conversation, distracting his introspective rants. He slowly slid through their group with a playful grin and a wink, and then continued toward the bar in search of his friend. Fillion easily found Mack, his blue, white, and green hair made more vibrant with the black lighting. He eased up next to his friend at the bar with a mischievous smirk, and gave Mack a shove, sloshing his beer.
“Watch it, dumb ass!” Mack turned his head, and gave a rascally grin when recognition hit him. “Flew the coop?”
“Fire broke out in the core processor.” Fillion waved over the bartender. “Double whiskey, neat.”
“Yeah? There are other ways to get a fifteen-minute break, Fillion.” Mack took a sip of his stout, nodding to the music.
Fillion gave a small smile. He turned and leaned against the bar to view the scene, brooding over his discovery at work and the judgment to come later in court. Mack knew him well; no other words were necessary.
His eyes roamed the pulsating crowd, entranced by the rhythm. He wanted to join the gyrating bodies, to lose himself to the rave and forget the ache he felt deep inside. The holographic confetti fell over the crowd and intensified the rush for the drugged-out dancers. Some were tweaking, their twitchy paranoid reactions laughable as the confetti burst over their heads. The computerized DJ smiled at the crowd, and then showed an old-school iPod, changing to a new song. Dirty bass thumped through the floors, and Fillion felt it resonate throughout his body.
His eyes wandered back to his friend. “Anyone we know?”
“Nadine came in earlier, but she left an hour ago after finding her target. Poor man,” Mack derided, making Fillion laugh. His friend turned and faced the dance floor. “Kev hooked up and is off, too. It’s been me, all by my lonesome, for the last hour or so.”
A young woman sauntered over with bright purple hair past her shoulders, curled slightly at the ends, and gave Fillion an invitation as she slowed her pace. Her hips swayed in purposeful tempo with the music as she enticed him with another look that aroused him. His eyes traveled over every curve she presented for his enjoyment as a flirtatious grin formed on his face. He sipped on the whiskey, and the burn brought him back to his senses as she approached.
“Are you Fillion Nichols?” the young woman asked, leaning against him.
“Never heard of him.” He gave a bored expression, taking a sip of his whiskey and turned his head away.
“Seriously?”
Mack darted a quick look his direction and then said, “He really doesn’t know who that is. I don’t think he ever spends time on the Net. The guy lives in the Dark Ages.” His friend finished with a gesture that suggested that Fillion was crazy. She raised her eyebrows and gave a little laugh.
“Did I ruin your fantasy?” Fillion asked the young woman and slowly met her gaze while maintaining an air of detachment.
“Not really.”
He felt her hands travel down his waist, and her thumbs hooked in his pockets as she gave him a playful smile. Fillion shifted his weight against the bar and narrowed his eyes at her.
“Too bad. Not interested.” He shoved her off his hip and she swore at him. Purple hair whipped in the air as she abruptly turned and then continued down the row of other potential inebriated victims while raising her middle finger in the air.
“Go home, bishounen,” Mack said with a flat voice. “I might actually have a chance that way.”
Fillion snickered. “Quit your gritching. You don’t want her. She’ll rip you off.”
“Ticket girl?”
“Something like that.”
“Who cares?”
Fillion gave him a surprised look. “You’re crazy. Wipe your face, save your nosebleed for a girl who honestly wants to hook up, or you’ll lose stamina.” Mack pretended to wipe his nose, and then rubbed his hand on Fillion’s arm. He humorously shook his head in response to his friend’s antics. “You’re pathetic, you know that?”
“Please, oh wise one, save my pathetic soul,” Mack said, begging with his hands melodramatically. When his plea ended, Mack imitated a hair flip, poking fun at Fillion’s bishounen status. A smug, satisfied smile stretched on his friend’s face as he picked up his stout off the bar counter, surveying the crowd.
A girl walked by in a short, tight, low-cut black dress. Fillion watched as Mack checked her out while casually sipping on his beer. A plan instantly formed in Fillion’s mind and he flashed his eyes in challenge at his friend.
With smooth and playful movements, Fillion grabbed the girl’s hand and pulled her toward him. A coy look formed on her face in response, and she softly bit her lower lip as her eyes lazily traveled to his mouth. He gave Mack a sly smile as his hands slowly slid down her body until they cupped her hips. Mack responded with an irritated chuckle and then looked away to reign in his annoyance, but he continued to watch from the corner of his eye. So Fillion lowered his head, hovering over her mouth for a few seconds as he felt her breathe deeply in anticipation. God, he loved this kind of power over a female.
Satisfied with her reaction, he winked at Mack and then whispered in her ear. She giggled with his whispers, glancing at Mack. Fillion let go of her hips as she angled toward his friend. He leaned back against the bar and bit the inside of cheek. Mack raised his eyebrows in question at first, but quickly turned his attention to the girl when her fingers flirtatiously played with a button on his shirt.
“Your friend tells me you’re a virgin,” she said in a syrupy and amused voice.
Mack whipped his head Fillion’s direction and glared. Fillion nearly choked on the whiskey, unable to stop laughing.
“How old are you?” she asked Mack.
“He’s eighteen,” Fillion volunteered, trying to keep a straight face. He leaned in and said in a loud voice, “Be gentle with him. He might cry. And he definitely likes to cuddle.”
Mack flipped him off. But the subtle smile on his face let Fillion know his friend was far from angry. Checkmate. Fillion shrugged his eyebrows in a suggestive gesture, and then grabbed his tumbler of whiskey off the bar as Mack continued the charade of being a noob to hooking up. Fillion was going to pay for this joke, but it was so worth it.
The whiskey swirled in his glass as he moved his hand to the beat of the music. He needed to down his drink quickly and join the rave. Mack was now busy, and Fillion would need to find his own entertainment before stumbling back home.
He kept his eyes on the crowd and nearly spewed the amber contents in his mouth when he recognized the rainbow strands that belonged to only one person. She leaned in and kissed someone in the corner while her friend, Pinkie, stood nearby picking the pockets of the unsuspecting young man. Fillion slammed the glass on the bar, gaining Mack’s attention.
“I’ll be back.”
“Ah, shit,” Mack said, following his gaze. The girl turned Mack’s face back toward her with a seductive grin, and then resumed making out with him.
Fillion pushed drunks, dancers, drugged-out zombies, and lovers out of the way, his wrath increasing with each step as he marched through the rave. He reached out and grabbed Pinkie’s arm as she pulled the man’s money out. The victim continued to be blissfully unaware of her motives or his intervention. With a deep breath, he turned to the girl locking lips.
“That’s enough, Lynden.” Fillion watched as his sister pulled back with big eyes and a mortified expression. “Give the money back, Pinkie.” His sister’s friend with the pink hair and lips turned, offering a pretty pout. “Not going to work on me. Give it back.”
“What money?” she asked, wrapping her arms around his waist while presenting him with a suggestive look, her body slowly moving to the music.
He could feel her breath on his neck, her vampire motives hoping to drain him of his intentions and elicit another. Fillion closed his eyes, momentarily affected, and then pushed her off, wresting the money from her fist.
He turned around and slammed the gold and silver coins against the young man’s chest. It was painfully obvious that it was the guy’s maiden voyage inside The Crypt. “Leave. And if you come back here, you need to know two things. First, any female who walks up and just starts kissing you is a ticket girl. They are wolves attacking in packs. One is a decoy while the other steals your money, her ticket to a better evening and quick income. They are whores that make a promise and never fulfill, but get paid anyways.” He looked at Lynden with the last statement, each word sharp and pointed. She looked away, crossing her arms. “Second, get a wallet and chain it to yourself if you’re going to carry cash.”
He grabbed Lynden’s and Pinkie’s arms and began to walk away, then stopped, looking over his shoulder. He shouted to the young man over the music. “And if you ever touch my sister again, I will personally kill you.”
Fillion marched the girls out of the bar and onto the street. With a flip he turned on his Cranium to signal a cab, then closed the app with a wave of his hand. Pinkie turned to run away, and he grabbed her arm again, holding her in place while shaking his head in a silent command. The universe was seriously conspiring to kill him tonight.
“Stop being so self-righteous, Fillion,” Lynden scoffed.
“What the hell were you thinking, coming here?” he asked. “Where did you get your fake ID’s?”
“Probably the same place you got the ones you hustled.”
“Not even close. Give it to me.”
“You think I’ll hand it over just like that? Idiot.”
Lynden stomped on his foot, but Fillion didn’t flinch. His combat boots barely flexed under her weight.
“I could call the police and report you. And on you, too, Pinkie,” he said.
She gave him a sultry look in reply, still trying to manipulate him.
“We’ll just turn you in as well,” Lynden said, a little wobbly on her feet.
Fillion leaned in and smelled her breath, letting out a sigh that formed every swear word, including a few in Japanese. When he recovered, he met her gaze, humored as she attempted to mock him.
With another annoyed sigh, he said, “Go for it. My ID is legit. Yours is not passable under real legal scanners, I guarantee it. You want to be caught for carding fake ID’s and drinking?”
She buckled, handing over the card, and Fillion felt relief that he didn’t have to follow through with his threat.
“How is that possible?” she whined.
“One day when you’re a genius like me, you’ll figure it out. But because you are as stupid as you acted, you won’t be back until you’re actually legal.” Fillion watched the cab pull up and stop right before them. “Go home, Lynden, and grow up a bit more.”
“I’m not a dog, asshole! God, Fillion, you think you’re so cool.”
“I am cool.” He smirked. “Glad you finally caught on.”
She groaned while raising her hands to the sky in an angry plea and then looked away. Pinkie laughed at his sister, and then bit her bottom lip seductively as she bent over to adjust her shoe strap. Her bright pink corset top fell forward and Fillion’s muscles tensed in agitation.
“Oh, come on Fillion,” Pinkie said, giving him a sensual look as she adjusted her other shoe strap. “She’s having fun, just like you. Lighten up.”
He looked away with a disinterested posture of irritation, tucking strands of hair behind his ear. God, he wanted a cigarette. As if reading his mind, Pinkie pulled a pack out from her purse while bent over and offered him one with a coy expression. Fillion grabbed the laces on the back of her corset, and then turned to his si
ster, ignoring the cigarettes. Pinkie gave a flirtatious giggle, and he rolled his eyes.
With a soft tone, he said to his sister, “I know how to handle myself. You were asking for trouble, and a lot of it. What if that guy wasn’t done with you after you were done with him? What if he figured out he was robbed, and took his anger out on you? God, Lyn, they’re drinking and on meth in there! Ever think of that, Einstein? I’ve seen girls punished for ticketing, and hell if I’ll let that happen to you.” Fillion watched his sister absorb his words before he turned to Pinkie. “If I find out you brought my sister on another ticket night, I’ll have you locked away.”
Pinkie’s countenance darkened and her eyes turned to slits, and then she morphed into a seductress again. Fillion released his hold on the laces and took a step back, moving the hair out of his eyes with a quick head jerk. She slowly stood up and sauntered over to him.
“I could think of better ways to spend time with you,” she purred. “I had no idea you could be so hot, Fillion. You like submissive girls?”
Pinkie softened her features and tangled herself around him again. Her fingers slid down his chest and slipped under his shirt, caressing his skin with light, provocative touches. Leaning in, she kissed his neck, slowly moving to his jaw-line, and his skin shivered with disgust. He gently pushed her away, turned his head to the side and clenched his teeth, afraid he might snap if she touched him again.
“Yeah, I’m hot, but only because I’m respecting you and won’t give in to you.” Fillion glared at her with impatience. “Pathetically, something you aren’t used to. I guess there’s a first for everything.”
He had his stupid moments. But not stupid enough to become turned on by Pinkie, despite her classic punk pin-up girl looks, a vintage femininity he usually found irresistible. As the lines between men and women blurred to near nothingness, he became increasingly attracted to girls that clearly defined the opposite gender.
Legacy (The Biodome Chronicles) Page 8
