his jacket. Sabrina inhaled sharply, tensing before the revolver’s barrel. Rook brushed her behind him with a protective sweep of his arm.
“Put down that gun, Big” Rook ordered, his voice cool and level.
Aligning the nozzle’s sights with the intruder’s forehead, Big Phil balanced his smoke on a nearby ashtray, cupping the pistol’s grip with a second hand,
“Why don’t you go ahead and make us?!”
“That is a fantastic idea actually,” Rook nodded, clicking his fingers to the young woman hidden behind him. The room swam for a moment, rippled in a chemical haze. Almost instantaneously, his body burned through the concussion of pheromones.
Markedly l ess resilient, the criminal in the cheap suit threw his weapon into a drawer, gesturing to the vacant seats before him. They sat. Sabrina rested her hands on her knees, relieved as the metallic slunk of a locking drawer secured the gun away. As ever, Rook lounged, legs crossed, infinitely more concerned by his returning cephalalgia than having a pistol levelled at his noggin.
“What can I do for you two?” Big Phil asked, his face betraying a profound confusion as to why he was entertaining these intruders rather than mopping them from his floor. And walls.
Rook replied before he could give it further thought,
“Yo u can give me that same address a particularly prestigious client of yours is heading toward as we speak.”
Big Phil ’s eyes widened, a suspicious glare darkening his features between heartbeats. He scratched his jowls, asking, “You’re talking about...”
“Well unless you ’ve begun servicing the entirety of the European Meta-human Task Force’s Most Wanted list, I’d imagine we’re on the same page, yes.”
The laund erette proprietor scratched behind his ear. The pheromones were taking their usual toll, but the man’s latent fear was proving tough to shake.
“Remind me again, why I should just offer up such protected details to yourselves...” He asked, tone more imploring than defiant. Inexperienced and overwhelmed, Big Phil sensed his predicament deteriorate with each passing moment. Assailed by airborne agents, he wanted a way out, to wash his hands of the affair. Rook was happy to oblige.
“Sabrina. Illuminate the nice man.”
She placed her mobile on the desk and thumbed the capacitive screen. A projection triggered, an inverted cone of glittering light consuming the roof above them. Big Phil inclined his neck, drawing the blinds closed, shuttering off the creeping afternoon sunlight.
The projection rendered a reel of CCTV footage:
A prisoner, clad in pink, is inexplicably freed of his shackles. A half dozen prison guards argue with his liberators. Momentarily forgotten, the prisoner works the hook of his cuffs into the nearest artery. The first guard drops, clutching his spurting throat. A second buckles, neck yanked and contorted, protruding in a fatal bulge. A third and fourth stagger a moment before toppling, temples caved in by an acquired truncheon.
The remaining four hesitate , shaken. They make the mistake of reaching for their holstered weapons instead of raising the alarm. Lancet waltzes through them. Two fingers pop a windpipe. A driving elbow cracks open a sternum. An arcing club pulps the base of a skull.
Big Phil flinched, physically recoiling at the sight of jagged shackles whipping out. Serrated teeth eat through the final guard’s face. The footage ends doused in red, a geyser in the arid dirt of Tartarus’ main gate.
Sabrina’s hands shook as she killed the program . Rook is going to die. The image of a well groomed inmate strolling into the wilderness blinked, fading to black.
“But... we agreed...” Big Phil trailed before dropping his chin to his chest, the depths of his naivety striking suddenly.
“It gets better,” Rook coughed, his eyes suddenly fixed on the man opposite. He straightened in his seat. Leaning forward, he clasped his hands before him.
“ My guess: You sent
“Put down that gun, Big” Rook ordered, his voice cool and level.
Aligning the nozzle’s sights with the intruder’s forehead, Big Phil balanced his smoke on a nearby ashtray, cupping the pistol’s grip with a second hand,
“Why don’t you go ahead and make us?!”
“That is a fantastic idea actually,” Rook nodded, clicking his fingers to the young woman hidden behind him. The room swam for a moment, rippled in a chemical haze. Almost instantaneously, his body burned through the concussion of pheromones.
Markedly l ess resilient, the criminal in the cheap suit threw his weapon into a drawer, gesturing to the vacant seats before him. They sat. Sabrina rested her hands on her knees, relieved as the metallic slunk of a locking drawer secured the gun away. As ever, Rook lounged, legs crossed, infinitely more concerned by his returning cephalalgia than having a pistol levelled at his noggin.
“What can I do for you two?” Big Phil asked, his face betraying a profound confusion as to why he was entertaining these intruders rather than mopping them from his floor. And walls.
Rook replied before he could give it further thought,
“Yo u can give me that same address a particularly prestigious client of yours is heading toward as we speak.”
Big Phil ’s eyes widened, a suspicious glare darkening his features between heartbeats. He scratched his jowls, asking, “You’re talking about...”
“Well unless you ’ve begun servicing the entirety of the European Meta-human Task Force’s Most Wanted list, I’d imagine we’re on the same page, yes.”
The laund erette proprietor scratched behind his ear. The pheromones were taking their usual toll, but the man’s latent fear was proving tough to shake.
“Remind me again, why I should just offer up such protected details to yourselves...” He asked, tone more imploring than defiant. Inexperienced and overwhelmed, Big Phil sensed his predicament deteriorate with each passing moment. Assailed by airborne agents, he wanted a way out, to wash his hands of the affair. Rook was happy to oblige.
“Sabrina. Illuminate the nice man.”
She placed her mobile on the desk and thumbed the capacitive screen. A projection triggered, an inverted cone of glittering light consuming the roof above them. Big Phil inclined his neck, drawing the blinds closed, shuttering off the creeping afternoon sunlight.
The projection rendered a reel of CCTV footage:
A prisoner, clad in pink, is inexplicably freed of his shackles. A half dozen prison guards argue with his liberators. Momentarily forgotten, the prisoner works the hook of his cuffs into the nearest artery. The first guard drops, clutching his spurting throat. A second buckles, neck yanked and contorted, protruding in a fatal bulge. A third and fourth stagger a moment before toppling, temples caved in by an acquired truncheon.
The remaining four hesitate , shaken. They make the mistake of reaching for their holstered weapons instead of raising the alarm. Lancet waltzes through them. Two fingers pop a windpipe. A driving elbow cracks open a sternum. An arcing club pulps the base of a skull.
Big Phil flinched, physically recoiling at the sight of jagged shackles whipping out. Serrated teeth eat through the final guard’s face. The footage ends doused in red, a geyser in the arid dirt of Tartarus’ main gate.
Sabrina’s hands shook as she killed the program . Rook is going to die. The image of a well groomed inmate strolling into the wilderness blinked, fading to black.
“But... we agreed...” Big Phil trailed before dropping his chin to his chest, the depths of his naivety striking suddenly.
“It gets better,” Rook coughed, his eyes suddenly fixed on the man opposite. He straightened in his seat. Leaning forward, he clasped his hands before him.
“ My guess: You sent
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