Hello and welcome to the revised version of Chasing Yesterday, henceforth and forevermore known as, wait for it, Chasing Yesterday! (Because I'm so very original and didn't really want to rename the story.) This is not a sequel, continuation, drabble collection, or anything new; this is just a rewritten version of the pre-existing CY that's been hanging around for four years. Long story short, it was time for a much-needed fixing, so I did us all the liberty of writing a new piece. No one needs to go read the original in order to understand this version; the plot is the same, but the presentation, action, dialogue, and a few scenes are entirely fresh. However, this IS a more mature version of CY [ergo, the mature rating] and this is more of an OC-based fanfic than canon. To those of you anti-OCists out there, RETREAT NOW while you still have your innocence!
And before you ask, I have not miraculously gained the rights to Death Note. If I do, you all will be the first to know.
Don't Quit Your Day Job
July 9, 2038; 1:56 P.M.
Copperhead, Texas; United States
You're out of ammo and the President of the United States is about to get her head blown off by a rogue mafia boss.
Ah, yes. Because in times of great peril, the little voice in the back of my head never ceases to amaze—and harass. On the bright side, I'm not going crazy; that aforementioned little voice just so happened to be the artificial intelligence specifically designed to save my life. To him, this meant giving me a hard time.
Grenades? Charges? Samurai sword? C'mon, Trey, there's gotta be something left stashed up our sleeves, I countered. When does the satellite get into position?
Order take-out. It'll get here faster.
Once upon a time, cowboys ran through the small town of Copperhead and kept the money flowing, but as soon as the oasis dried up, the entire population up and left. Two hundred years of wear and tear left it worse off than the original occupants probably intended. A single glance at the decimated structures left much to the imagination.
Copperhead was a good fifty kilometers from civilization and sixty-three kilometers from a decent Chinese restaurant.
The only sounds were the howling of wind as it whisked through the ruins and the crunching of debris under my combat boots. A bandana protected the lower half of my face from the whirlwinds of dust, but earlier, a stray bullet had caught one lens of my goggles and left a mar deep enough to allow specks of who-knows-what to stab me in the eye at extremely inconvenient times. Sunlight ran its merciless talons over the exposed ghost town, scorching every surface with direct contact. I sweltered in my skin-tight clothing. The textiles were dark and bulletproof, only the holster of my custom (but useless) ten-millimeter revolver protruding from the sleek designs.
I just had to lose my .45 at Rio.
"There's nowhere left to run."
Falling into a crouch, I mentally cussed a streak worthy of a drunken sailor. On the back of my lower neck, a spider-like mechanism shifted one of its barbed legs and a slight prickle of pain notified me of the puncture.
I didn't know they were that close, I thought, inhaling slowly.
Join the club, replied Trey. His dry tone floated up out of the back of my mind, like an old memory resurfacing.
The voice had been female, strong, and undaunted. I would recognize that commanding tone anywhere and, apparently, so would the third member of the desert-strolling party.
"It's not nice to steal lines." Masculine, confident, but wavering with an adrenaline high. "Or does the Presidency make you untouchable when violating copyright?"
The voices echoed from just around the corner of the clock tower, or rather the remains of what might have vaguely resembled a clock tower in a past life. Slinking closer, I dipped one shoulder and ran my fingers loosely through a patch of broken glass, scooping up a particularly large piece without slicing open my fingers. Just before I rounded the corner of the rubble, I slid the fragment around the edge so as to look without actually sticking my head out.
Two prominent figures stood amidst the ruins: a man and a woman. The woman wore a scarlet blouse and a darker blazer partially buttoned. Her golden skirts glowed the same shade as her long hair, which was drawn into a loose bun. The only part of her appearance that seemed disheveled were her bare feet and the shoes she clutched tightly in one hand, one heel broken off. Finely-trimmed hair dotted the man's balding head, and though he stood with his back to me, I didn't need to see his face to put a name to it. His plaid shirt and jeans were soiled, torn in certain places, but that didn't disguise the semiautomatic pistol he pointed at the woman's head.
President Susan Robinson hesitated, eyes glued to the extended limb. Even from here, I could see the tenseness in her body. "Noel, if I were anyone else on the planet, I might be worried, but I'm going to give you one last chance to drop your weapon and put your hands in the air."
Here, Mathew Noel chuckled and wiped the sweat from his neck. "I guess you're doing this out of the kindness of your heart, ¿si? Face it, gringa, you're out of options."
Speaking of options, or a current lack thereof, you're still out of ammo, the .45 and daggers are chilling back at Rio, and now tu jefais about to bite the dust, Trey said.Please tell me you have some sort of a plan.
Shit. My knives are gone too?
Noel took a few paces forward, but Susan didn't flinch. Instead, her eyes desperately roamed the landscape, as though expecting someone or something to pop out and save the day.
Unarmed. No ammo. Useless custom gun. Annoying AI conscience/mechanism. President/damsel in distress.
The light bulb came on.
Popping my head out from cover, I waved to Susan until our gazes locked. Swiftly, I pulled the ten-millimeter from my holster, mouthed "BAM," and pointed to the ground, then to Noel's gun. Susan's sights moved on as quickly as they landed.
You can't be serious. Trey said in complete deadpan as I retreated back behind the clock tower's remains.
Can you do it? I asked.
If he shoots her, I'm blaming you.
One hand still aiming the pistol at Susan's head, Noel used his free hand to stroke aside a strand of hair when his next stride brought him within arm's length. Susan jerked back and bit her lip when Noel gripped the gun tighter.
"Now, now, gringa, there's no need to be feisty. Nobody around to see us, and it's not like this place can get any dirtier…" Noel's whisper barely reached me; the disgust on Susan's face was most definitely real. "C'mon, baby. I might even forgive you."
Susan's mouth dropped in outrage and I could see a sharp retort ready on the tip of her tongue, but that was the moment the mechanical device on the back of my neck decided to let out a bang loud enough to be heard two states over.
From Noel's perspective, he must have thought that he had won. One minute, his underground army awaited the order to finish off the combined forces of the American troops and the President of the United States of America was seconds away from becoming his sex slave. Matthew Noel was on top of the world. And then the gunshot rang out across Texas and Susan's eyes dropped to her blouse, disbelief clear on her countenance, and she crumpled at his feet without another word.
Blowing imaginary smoke from the end of my revolver, I stepped around the corner and made a mental note to chastise Trey about trying to blow my eardrums. Noel whirled around, brandishing his gun like a madman. Instantly, I threw my ten-millimeter in the dirt and raised my hands above my head.
"Relax, jumpy, I'm not after you," I said in exasperation, eyebrows raised pointedly.
His hands trembled as he contemplated my words and juggled his options. To shoot or not to shoot. I prayed to every higher deity that he chose the latter. In the end, Lady Luck decided to cut me a break.
"Who the hell are you?" Noel barked.
"Just your friendly, neighborhood mercenary," I said, and added, with a broad grin, "who just took out the President. Frankly, you should be thanking me."
Noel inched backwards. While his intention was to put some distance between himself and this crazy chick, he was getting closer and closer to Susan's limp form.
Just one more step…
"By the way, I have something for you." Pulling Trey from his resting place, I lofted the AI loctopus(1) in Noel's general direction. The man skittered backwards, probably suspecting a grenade, but that was all it took to scramble his aim and get him to take that final step.
Susan sprang to life and launched herself at Noel. The man himself was completely unprepared for the assault and screamed profanities as he madly elbowed the air behind him. I threw myself back around the rubble of the clock tower when the gun began to fire rapidly. No, I didn't want to leave Susan to the wolves—er, wolf—but I couldn't exactly help her when dead. Dirt spiked up near my boots as stray bullets caught the surroundings. One battle-cry and two thumps later, I deemed it safe enough to look.
Susan stood over a slumped Noel, holding his gun in both of her hands. A patch of fresh blood had splattered across her skirt and bare legs, but other than a long scratch along one arm, she seemed otherwise unharmed.
Regrettably, Noel couldn't say the same. In fact, he probably wouldn't be saying much at all from now on.
KC, the satellite's in position, Trey said smugly.
I will make a habit out of throwing you at deranged psychopaths, I informed him coolly.
Our story began four years ago with our dead man walking, Mathew Noel, a mobster from Central America. Upon marrying into a family of the more illegal assortment, Noel weaseled his way into every underhanded deal he could muss with his own hands and laid waste to those he couldn't. In two years time, he had overrun every family in Mexico—which is when he made his first mistake.
Angel, the head of a family operating within the capital of the United States, saw him as a rising threat and sent men to negotiate or take out Noel. The man himself saw this as a personal attack and, underestimating the anonymous leader's power, had the men killed without second thought.
Suddenly, the name Mathew Noel swept the globe; overnight, the man had become the leader of the Mexican resistance, an activist group more violent than persuading. Mexican forces hunted him relentlessly, and Noel fled to the United States to gather together his mafia.
Over the next two years, Noel waged war on troops from both Mexico and the United States, the latter having joined in solely to rid itself of the criminal. In retaliation, Noel coaxed the underworld to his side. Mexico's families became his reluctant allies, but the United States' families swore to avoid Noel at all costs; Angel's numbers were small, but her bite was far worse than her bark. Regardless, Noel pressed on, seemingly untroubled by the swelling of forces rising against him. Angel inadvertently gave him power—and he now had the actual Mexican resistance on his side—but she knew she had messed up, so she sent people after Noel; assassins, mercenaries, the likes, but to no avail.
Thirty-seven hours before now, Mathew Noel had the President of the United States kidnapped during her speech at the mouth of the Rio Grande. It was supposed to be a union speech, informing the world of Mexico and the United States' temporary alliance against the American mafias; it ended with a shootout and a death toll higher than any battle fought along the Rio prior. But it was a trap.
And on July ninth of the year 2038, Angel and her under-boss, KC, took down the notorious Mathew Noel with his own handgun.
My name is Katheryn Carpenter—KC for short—and I'll be your narrator for this pile of crazy called my life.
July 11, 2038; 9:20 A.M.
District of Columbia; United States
Between Hollywood and the press, our society is under the impression that the White House is impenetrable without extenuating circumstances like terrorism, a flowing cape, and/or a hall pass. Sure, the security system was updated when Susan Robinson "stole" the Presidency, but I've told people from day one that as fancy and impressive as technology can be, there's nothing that screams protection quite like a pack of guard dogs. Technology can be hacked, shut down, or infected; dogs can only be fed or screamed at in German.
Or you could just do what I do and get an official badge.
And so, within seventy-two hours of the Noel's demise, I found myself scrubbing my fingers with a disinfectant wipe as I lofted the newspaper out from under my arm and onto Susan's desk. "Look who made the front page again," I said, perching on one of the arms of "my chair" to the left of the desk.
The President didn't look half as stressed as she had recently. The long sleeves of her royal blue dress hid the evidence of yesterday's escapade and her hair had been drawn up into a braided bun, exposing a confident expression and a sparkle in her eyes. One leg lazily draped over the other, both bare feet propped up on the other arm of "my chair;" her shoes lay discarded on the floor, peeking out from under the desk.
Upon pulling the newspaper into her lap, a frown tugged on the corners of her lips. "The mafia is getting to be a real problem, aren't they?"
"How was your flight?"
"Cramped."
As Susan scanned the paper, I fiddled with my ID badge. Jessica Rae McGee. Age thirty-one, five-foot-six, black hair (wears a brown wig), green eyes. Lives alone in the house located in the great District of Columbia that she inherited from a deceased aunt. No pets, no spouse, no boyfriend. Has a high school diploma from some no-name school; enrolled in a military academy for four years before earning her master's degree in chemistry from Johns Hopkins University at the age of twenty-three. Sole association: her best friend and boss, the President of the United States, Susan Robinson.
My alias two decades in the making: a federal investigator who works directly for the President. After a certain incident in 2024 involving a missing Secret Service agent, a quarter of a million bottle rockets, a "misplaced" police car, and a half-shaved poodle, the good citizens of the U.S. decided that it might be okay to let the President have his or her own P.I.
In other words, I had free reign all over the White House grounds, special permissions to see Madam President, and a very good excuse to sneak greasy dog biscuits to the resident overgrown puppies.
"World peace," Susan murmured. She slid the newspaper back on the desk and allowed a small smile to grace her features. "With Noel's people surrendering, there isn't a single power in the world still aiming missiles."
Oh, yeah. That might have been another reason why two nations sent their militaries after Noel: he may or may not have stolen some very important information regarding missile launch codes.
"Or fingers," I said.
Yet, Trey felt obliged to add.
Party pooper.
Aloud, I said, "Cameras are shot, by the way. Trey decided to bless us with the liberty of privacy."
"That's a risky move," said Susan. "The Secret Service will be on full alert until the treaty is signed, and even then, there's no guarantee they'll back off."
"Then I suppose it's a good thing it's time for another security check." I couldn't help the deviousness that curled my mouth into a crooked grin.
Susan shot me a pointed look. "It's a wonder they all don't hate you by now."
I shrugged. "I may or may not have slipped some chow to your Belgium Malinois. Besides, it's Davidson's shift as secretary."
Jonathan Davidson—though I know him as Alpha. At a glance, he's probably the least qualified person to work in the White House: lacking people skills, can barely work a computer without breaking the keyboard, is covered in bold scars all over his face and neck that frighten small children during tours. His gruff voice and bald head don't help the picture, and neither does his seven feet of pure muscle. Point being, despite his… uniqueness, he doubles as a bodyguard when the President is in the building. I think the Secret Service wanted to recruit him for a while until they actually started adding up all of the misdemeanors from his teenage years; now they're just happy that the bulk of it happened over twenty years ago when he was trying to impress his college girlfriend.
Susan dropped her feet from the arm of the chair and slid them back into her shoes. She made a face, muttered something about 'infernal footwear,' and sank back into the plush office chair. Smoothing out her dress with her hands, she turned her face towards me and asked in a low tone, "How are they taking it?"
"How do you think? They're getting credit for the boss's kill." Word from the world down under had reported a significant increase in moral. Rumors from the "real world" said that Angel herself never appeared in the Rio Grande Massacre, but that Noel's death had been at the hands of a criminal nobody. I was happy either way.
"With the boss out of the way, the Noel family and their associates will be unstable for another day or so at least," mused Susan aloud. "We could swoop in and wipe them off the face of the earth without too much trouble during the signing of the treaty."
I nodded slowly. "Alpha's out for blood, but I think he's better suited protecting you at the conference. Is Japan still hosting the signing?"
"Know any other country willing to set foot within two thousand miles of us?"
"Poor Canada," I said with a smirk.
Unlike my semi-useful degree in chem, Susan actually had a PhD in political theory and certain concentrations there upon. To her, this treaty-despite-a-lack-of-actual-warfare came naturally with all of her experience, but that didn't mean I followed to a tee. There was a reason why she ran the land of the free and I governed the land where bullets spoke louder than words.
As Susan snorted, I heaved myself to my feet and the door exploded inwards with a bustle of commotion. I had just enough time to jump backwards out of the way before three of the six rampaging Secret Service agents stubbornly planted themselves at Susan's side. Davidson hovered at the door, adjusting his dark tie and refusing to make eyes contact. Of the two agents who addressed the President directly, only one bothered to give me a nod of acknowledgment.
"McGee," she said simply.
Newbie. I think her name was Agent Yule.
Yelchin. Like Anton Yelchin, the actor? Agent Madeline Yelchin, Trey said in a tone of cocky indifference.
Not all of us have our memory backed up on a hard drive, show off.
You do. All you have to do is ask!
Jerk.
"President Robinson, we're leaving now," one of the agents said.
My eyes roamed the posse, more out of habit than curiosity. Agents Ballard, Scott, and Truman surrounded Susan—I recognized them easily from their many rounds near my points of entry—and while Agent Yelchin shadowed the reassigned man (some guy put back in the White House after he got off of paternity leave), it was the final agent who hovered by the door with Alpha who worried me the most.
Running a shaking hand through his short, curly locks, Agent Brown sent his gaze to every visible sight in a matter of seconds. If he weren't a seasoned agent, one might have mistaken his paranoia for nervousness, but Brown's lack of faith in others made him an invaluable asset and a perfect candidate for an emergency bodyguard; he was only called in during times of need.
Basically—if Agents Brown and Davidson had been called on the same shift, shit was about to hit the fan. (If it hadn't already.)
"Is something wrong?" Susan asked without hesitation, gathering herself and straightening her dress.
"The times have been moved up four hours," said Mr. Reassigned Agent Man, whom Trey identified as Agent Kip Wallace. "Air Force One leaves in twenty minutes."
During the next few seconds of the six agents whisking Susan from the room, I mulled over details of the proceedings for the next few days. Since the United States President would be overseas for a while, that left me as Angel and KC until the boss could resurface. Given the impressive force of hand back in Texas, I might live two lives for a lot longer than "a few days."
Speaking of my double life turned triple, I turned to Alpha and offered the burly man a question; "So, do you want to explain why this won't show up on camera, or should I just fire myself?"
July 11, 2038; 11:59 A.M.
District of Columbia; United States
To say that being the perfect triple agent required a lot of hard word would be a lie. To say that being the perfect triple agent required minimal work would be a load of crap. To say that being the perfect triple agent would swallow your life and any hopes one might have of experiencing normalcy would be generally accurate.
And then there's me.
I don't care what Hollywood & Associates have told you over the years—it's probably wrong. You don't just put on a wig, flip your name tag around and shablamo! you're a different person. You don't get cool gadgets or nicknames or your name on a plaque in the most secret vault of your nation. No Batcave, no butler, no millions of pocket change to blow. In the real world, you're on your own. If you screw up, your own are more likely to take you out than your opposition—and by that point, it's just you and your gun. Because that gun is all you get, and you have to work your way up from there.
Welcome to the mafia.
Years back, Susan set up shop in a quaint apartment complex in the city that never sleeps, but when challenged by five local families with twice the firepower, the tactic was changed to one of more firm locations. The District of Columbia was never once of my favorite places—too crowded, too popular, too much like every other city in the world—but of the two native gangs, one put up a good fight and the other plain up and fled. Between the two, our territory encompassed just enough to satisfy, and with enough stockpiled back for dire situations.
"HQ" was a mere bungalow, its lower floor partially swallowed by earth from an excavation-gone-wrong a good decade or so ago. Shingles drooped from the roof, ivy licked the corners of the building, questionable marks marred the window ledges and the shutters on the upper floor, and anything set on the porch tended to migrate to one side after a week of resting upon the incline. It screamed 'haunted' at a glance, a factor that still draws a proud smile on my face, but the rustic cast-iron and elegant carvings along the porch railings gave it a taste of foreign flavor. Weeds spiked up about the grass, refusing to be beaten down by the repeated assaults of the temperamental weather; I made a mental note to have someone see to our jungle in the next week.
The wooden planks complained in an undertone as I led the way up to the front door. To my right, a mousy-haired woman stretched her hands above her head and popped her shoulders. I caught a brief glimpse of a green and blue tiger prowling along her stomach. "It's clean," Shar said, leaning from side to side. A sharp series of cracks exploded like muffled gunshots. "Checked the whole place top to bottom ten minutes ago—no wire taps, cameras, or bugs of any sort." She sent a pointed look in the direction of my neck.
Three years of dedicated service and I still had to keep myself from patting her on the head. Being exactly five feet tall and looking sixteen had its pros, but it took me over a month to stop referring to her as 'kid.'
I busied myself unlocking the door, taking the chance to discreetly check the neighborhood (barren, which was certainly a plus), and asked, "Is the rest of the family out?" In my world, quiet was rarely a good thing. It meant that someone had me at gunpoint, someone was stalking me at gunpoint, or that everyone knew something that I didn't—none of which are good things.
"Drinking, gambling, sneaking birds(2) from the Mexicans," Shar trailed off with a shrug. "Their celebration, but I'm not in the mood for a hangover."
This time, the cricket-filled silence was more of the something I didn't know. Charlotte Bennington is not a concise woman. "Who's the lucky visitor?" I trailed my fingers along the outline of my .45 semi-automatic. Bless Shar for returning my baby to me alongside my knives. Frankly, a part of me wondered why she even bothered.
"One of Blacksmith's. The hot one," she added with a risqué grin.
And on that charming note, I pushed open the door.
Darkness shrouded the foyer in more mystery than its job description. The busted chandelier had rained glass onto the mottled gray carpet; the fringed edges framed the cement floor covered in a thin layer of dirt. Paint faded, displaying the floral wallpaper in its curling glory. The hallway stretched out before us, a flight of steps blocking the majority of the view. Of the four visible doorways splitting apart from the hall, only one door sat ajar with faint light trickling through the crack. Certain heaviness hung in the air and not from the impending meeting—coffee tinted the dust-coated atmosphere.
Had Shar been any other member of the underworld community, I might have dismissed her with a wave of my gun. However, the woman in question worked for me and me alone and could pretty much come and go as she pleased. To say that I trusted her not to stab me in the back is completely ridiculous, but she knew well and good that I didn't take nicely to malign surprises. Also owing me her life twice over tended to help.
The hopeful look in her eye was enough to make me add, "Fetch the schematics and join us in five minutes."
She practically teleported to the first door and kicked it in her haste.
Shrugging off the jacket of my suit, I draped it over the railing of the stairs as I passed, my wig tucked into the folds. My tie found itself stuffed in my pocket, my watch soon following. Every footfall echoed dully as I approached the doorway.
Trey, take a hike.
Yes, master. I live to serve. I could practically feel the loctopus's smirk through the collar. Pain pricked the base of my neck as the individual legs poked into my skin, and the mechanism slid out from under my blouse to crawl across my shoulder. Sleek and discreet, Trey looked no more suspicious than any spider—eight-legged, dark gray, with body and legs slightly larger than the palm of an average man. Only if one were to examine him closely would they notice that his entire body was made of metal, his underbelly riddled with slits for his legs to fold into, the gleam of reflections from his head actually being hundreds of microscopic cameras instead of eyes. Artificial intelligence crammed into the body of a tiny mechanical structure.
The collar is showing, he said, though my ears heard no sound. The double l's were rolled were rolled in the typical Hispanic accent of the Spanish word 'collar,' meaning necklace in English; the pronunciation resembled 'coe-YAR.'
Withdrawing a silk scarf from my other pocket, I looped it on, concealing the strip of copper, steel, and concentrated carbon that encircled the base of my neck. What one couldn't see, even without being disguised by a swaddle of purple and golden fabric, were the millimeter-widths sinking into my neck, attached directly to the nerves in my spine.
The loctopus, the collar—two components to the entire contraption known as "Trey." The third, an ancient iPad, safely hidden away in my own personal hideout. An iPad, a metal choker, and a lock-picking device: put them together and you get the little voice in the back of my head.
All because classy needed a new definition.
You see, the collar doesn't just connect me to Trey, it also connects me to the graphire, my fancy term for the suped-up iPad, capable of accessing any server in the world through my own programming, its original programming as well as my constant mental altering. So long as I remained alive and kicking, the graphire acted accordingly. To put in in simpler terms: I was directly wired into anything and everything electrical. Better yet, I was connected through my own means—via special inventions created by yours truly.
However, the collar doesn't just link me to Trey, and vice versa—it connects me to anything and everything touched by technology, including [especially] the Internet. Think of it this way: the brain sends bioelectric signals through the nerves the same way technology uses electricity and wires; if someone—say, me—found a way to tune those two frequencies and voltages to identical statistics, you could theoretically fuse the living and the inanimate. The collar attaches its needles to my nerves, hitchhikes the signals of my nervous system all the way up to my brain where mind and artificial intelligence can have a nice little chat.
The bright side? I have the entire world at my disposal. I can access the web in the back of my mind and never have to worry about it lagging; I can hack the most secure networks in the world in under ten seconds using a combination of hacking skills and interpretive human creativity; I can save my memories and store them on an external hard drive, so I never have to worry about amnesia, or even simple forgetting (and times when I have to pick a person's name from a single memory or from a memory I haven't revisited in a while, Trey usually tells me before I have to go hunting); I can run license plates, facial recognition, criminal records, or even email and credit—all in the blink of an eye. By melding two vastly different methods into one fluid, working system, I can outwit, outmaneuver, outclass, and outlast anyone and everyone in the world.
Now you know how I manage to juggle mine and the President's secret lives.
The downside? This entire wonderful, glorious, magnificent system runs off of me and me alone, and this baby starves for information. My head fills up pretty quickly, which drains me, and the system itself can only absorb so much stray energy from its surroundings; most all of the system—practically all of it—runs off of me and my own energy. In other terms, my body has to support itself and this parasite I call technology. I eat five times more than any other person on the planet, and even when I do, I feel tired all the time. Or least, I would be if there weren't these amazing things called energy drinks and Pixie Sticks.
When I raised my hand to my shoulder, Trey scuttled onto my fingers, the tips of his legs piercing my fingertips for purchase, and I set him on the wall. Like most web-crawlers, walls seemed about as difficult to transverse as a human would view a rock wall—challenging, but not impossible. Granted, it took him a moment to settle himself properly on the decaying wall, but I received a push of confirmation within seconds.
Winking to the loctopus, I turned the corner and strode into the dining hall.
The gentle whirring of the ceiling fan was occasionally drowned out by the whistles emitted when the bullet holes in the blades caught the air just right; it spun at a lopsided angle—a result of the drooping ceiling and too many shoot outs. A long, mahogany table encompassed the majority of the room with its degrading wood and decimated stains, sucking the life from the cheery yellow of the wall. Daisies patterned the bright paint job, though very few could be witnesses under the slashes and holes scarring the walls. The cemented floor was concealed under another mismatched carpet, this one more suspiciously red that the one in the foyer. Popcorn texture dotted the caramel ceiling, its height varying from a full story to a mere seven feet in drastic undulation. On the end of the table furthest from moi sat a man, coffee mug in one hand, the other rapping a beat on the chair arm where he propped his feet. It was such a comical angle, him bent over his outstretched legs without struggle, that I felt the urge to actually smile.
"As often as you see fit to invade my home like this, I must consider the option of adoption," I said, tugging the holster of my .45 from its new hiding place under my shirt. The entire ensemble was deposited in one of the chairs without ceremony.
"Already vouched for." The man clicked his tongue with a sharp twist of his head. A rogue smile curled the corners of his mouth as he ran a hand through his pale hair. The yellowed lighting of the ceiling fan caught the shaggy locks, adding blonde streaks to his natural chestnut.
"Pity." I slid the diamond daggers from the sleeves of my blouse and deposited them on the table. They were quickly accompanied by my stilettos, the steel heels clinking as they bumped one another.
"So," Oliver Taylor settled himself on the tabletop and adjusted the collar of his button-up, "how do you plan to pay this time?"
Thirty million in U.S. currency is a hefty bill for anyone, but it took the loan to stop Noel, so you won't catch me complaining.
"Debit, credit, and cash." Out came my diamond hair clip, the tip sharpened into a lethal point. My black hair fell around my head in its wild, chin-length spikes.
Oliver's feet slid from the chair. "Information," he confirmed. Years of association were all that alluded to his surprise. "Do you really think anything you know will be worth thirty?"
"Especially if it comes straight from the horse's mouth." Here, I offered a Cheshire grin and added my fake tapers (even plastic ones make great impromptu replacements for spiked knuckles) to the ever-growing pile.
Trey hunkered in the corner of the room above us, sights trained on Oliver. Combined with my own eyes and his access to the hidden cameras, we now had a three-sixty view of the entire dining hall. The collar sent another bolt of pain down my spine, something I was well familiar with, and I could see through every camera in the bungalow.
"Not information—intelligence." The spark in the man's eyes proved impossible to miss. "Well, well, well, Miss KC. I sense a big asking in return on our part. What inspired such confidence?"
Right on cue, Shar flounced into the room, binder in hand. Without acknowledging Oliver, she handed me black notebook and nodded. It took a glance at the cover—golden embroidery threading the words 'In Strictest Confidence' into worn, black leather—to determine the nature of the contents before shoving it down to the end of the table. Oliver stopped it with a hand, glancing sparingly at Shar, and ran his hand over the cover.
"That should cover twenty." Off came my spiked bracelets and poison-infused "class ring."
Oliver Taylor, recently accused of arson against a small church in Belmont, Virginia and released when no evidence could incriminate him. Sorry about the delay. Blacksmith already sent in one if his guys to wipe his rap sheet from the police, so I had to go into local records. Trey sounded sheepish.
So far he's been in for assault, breaking and entering, rape, jaywalking, unintentional manslaughter, loitering, treason, premeditated murder, and now arson. If the charges for murder weren't actually real, I might be temped to hire him, I mused. We could use a cover agent like him around.
Hell, no. I'm not helping you steal one of Blacksmith's men. Trey implied a firm shake of his head.
Still, his job is to take the blame for crap other people pull and manage to weasel himself out of harm's way. Think of the revenue we could pull in covering up political scandals. If he belonged to anyone else, I'd take him in a heartbeat. Because, unfortunately, Trey was right. Going up against the anonymous Blacksmith was suicide, even for a family whose boss was the President of the United States. Not to mentioned that pissing him off would mean finding another dealer, and the efficiency and credibility of our current supplier was a rare commodity in the world of criminals. Common sense wasn't quite so common as television made it out to be.
"And the other ten?" Oliver leafed through the pages with a lazy eye, making sure to keep Shar and me in his peripheral.
I pulled a slip of paper from my bra, handed it to Shar, and removed my gloves, tossing them on top of the pile. "Twelve is being deposited in this account as we speak. The transfer is untraceable; I saw to it myself."
Switching my vision to Trey's, I watched the duo's facial expressions as Shar strode across the room, when she extended the ripped corner of the page, as their fingers brushed. The corners of her mouth twitched (masked happiness) and her crow's feet wrinkling briefly (proof of authenticity); his eyebrows raised a millimeter for a nanosecond—a brief inquiry; her microscopic nod—'I'm doing fine.' Oliver switched his gaze to the paper and the address written there, but his eyes flickered upwards for a heartbeat.
You sly dog.
What? I feigned innocence. If he decides that his loyalties lie elsewhere, that's none of my business.
Shar shot me a sharp look over her shoulder, but the grin remained plastered to my face. Under the scrutiny of both stares, I grappled with the back of my bra for a moment before ripping free the twist ties and lofting them onto the table. There was a pause as Oliver checked his phone for confirmation where the silence rang louder than any sound.
Then his mouth quirked to one side in contempt. "I feel awfully under dressed for this round of strip poker," Oliver gestured to the pile before tucking the note into the pocket of his khakis, "so I'll take my leave. You have the gratitude of my employer, KC."
"Likewise, Mr. Taylor. Anytime." My smile turned genuine.
The man slid himself from the table—nodding to Shar—before tipping his nonexistent hat to me. "I trust that the extra ten would be a tip and not a down-payment."
"Indebting your employer eight million already?" I asked innocently.
He winked. "Never miss a thing, do you? Two it is, then."
"A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Taylor," I said with a smile.
"I told you, Miss KC," said the con artist with a charming grin as he backed through the doorway, "to you, it's Oliver. Have a wonderful afternoon, ladies, but I would like my guns back."
Trey snorted in the back of my mind as I said wryly, "Shar, return Mr. Taylor his firearms and escort him to his vehicle."
The woman's mouth almost dropped, but she caught herself just in time. "Of course, ma'am."
Because Shar calls me ma'am every time.
The two left the bungalow not long after, Trey tailing them. I watched through his eyes as the two hesitated before the cab. Stray glances lining up, accompanied by the briefest of smiles. One of Shar's awkward half-curtsies later, the yellow vehicle was bouncing along the crooked pavement, tires squalling as the cab driver floored it around the corner—and then Oliver Taylor was gone.
Taking a deep breath, I released it in the form of a sigh a moment later. Trey, do we need to keep this bungalow for any dire reason?
Not that I can think of. Why?
I pulled the final piece of my White House entourage—a diamond lighter—from the inside pocket of my blouse. Flicking it open, I watched the flame dance along the body of the translucent material, igniting the crystalline surface in shades of yellow and orange. It might not be Mr. Taylor who changes his mind.
July 11, 2038; 4:12 P.M.
Fairfax, Virginia; United States
One highly amusing phone call later found me in a hotel just outside of D.C. The Renegade held an interesting reputation after busted for consent to prostitution back in the late twenties, and its "reform" era seemed more retrogressive to me.
Sliding the black iPad from my satchel and lofting the latter onto the queen-sized bed, I cast a wary eye about the room. Chocolate walls, matted black carpet, skimpy furniture-
The only thing missing is your client, Trey mused with a touch of glee.
Ass.
In my hand, the graphire purred as it came on, the traditional Apple glowing white against the ebony backdrop. And then the main screen flickered to life, which is where the similarities ended.
You see, being connected to the graphire made yours truly the only person in existence capable of seeing the screen. Most would see a black back-light; I saw a screen-full of raw programming: Trey's hardware. No boxy apps or cutesy background cluttering the screen—just good old-fashioned binary and conversion charts against a dark backdrop.
Balancing the graphire and room key in one hand, I rummaged in my satchel until my fingertips graced the cool surface I sought. The Nitrous Oxide Systems can, ever a gracious relief, was promptly withdrawn, opened, and chugged until every drop had been consumed. I crushed the empty NOS, popped the tab from the can, and slipped the remains back into my bag.
Ah, caffeine...
Speaking of recording memories—I needed to check up on mine. There was still something about Noel's take down that rubbed me the wrong way. Or I was just being paranoid. Again.
One impulse was all it took to bring up Open Office, and the document running in the background. He Who Knows Me Best dwindled on down the screen for a few good pages, but I didn't necessarily need to read them to know what had happened. The document: a simple retelling of my life... in the form of a novel. And since I couldn't write a book if J. K. Rowling herself was sitting next to me, Trey does the honors and edits my senseless babbling, mental narrations, and whatever the heck might show up and start screwing with my mind. Ergo, thank the loctopus for this wonderful pile of shenanigans.
Eyes trailing across the first page, I allowed the words to wash over me as I mumbled them under my breath; "Chapter One: Don't Quit Your Day Job. You're out of ammo and..."
So my life story started all of four hours ago. Sue me.
(...Actually, I figured that since my previous recording ended up reaching two thousand pages in length, it was probably time to open a new document.)
KC, you should probably take a look at this.
The pop-up maximized immediately after Trey's words. My eyes scanned the email, and my exact thoughts were as follows: well, crap.
"Hey, Jessie! :D Sorry if this is a bad time, but I've got someone DYING to meet you! We're still on for lunch tomorrow, right? I've got a meeting until ten, so I might be late. Not ditching you, promise! Cya there, girlfriend~! 3"
It's atypical for something to be able to email me, no matter how good their hacking skills—since it's all in my head; literally—no one, except for those I accept messages from. Take, for instance, my boss.
I reread the email, frowning at the fake email used and pondering how a new email could get through, before thinking, Trey, pull up all political and criminal deaths in the past week. Cross-reference them with the Tunnels, see if any of them overlap near Arizona.
Gimmie another shot of caffeine and you've got yourself a deal, the loctopus began to untangle himself from my scarf.
"Jessie," the universal fake for 'I'm trying to appear casual by using a nickname' but in actuality referring to shit going down. "Dying to meet you" equals someone literally dying or an extreme rush. Given the current circumstances, this could go either way. "Lunch tomorrow"? Our typical meeting spot when out of incognito. But the "meeting until ten" could mean anything.
So much for laying low.
July 12, 2038; 11:56 A.M.
Middle of Freaking Nowhere, Arizona; United States
Normally, I loathe driving myself. I've never been a fan of sitting. It leaves you venerable, your center of gravity in your butt, and you can't properly flex to dodge incoming attacks. Hell, I'd much rather be laying flat on my stomach than sitting any day. Unfortunately, with Shar temporarily out of the picture and Alpha attending to Susan, there were no other underlings I "trusted" with my safety. Too many in the mafia would sooner shoot their boss than take a bullet for them.
The horizon wavered in the distance, heat waves distorting the beyond in shimmers resembling the reflections of a haunted house mirror. Though little more than a minor dip in the earth, Nyala had been built on top of one of the few desert oases in Arizona, much like Copperhead; the main difference being that Copperhead was a town and Nyala was an itty bitty restaurant. The diner's outside consisted of bricks, the red color eroded from years of sandstorms, and washed white panels lining the broad windows that encompassed the front. A metal roof slanted away from the windows towards the back at a minor angle. Rusty signs dangled from bent pegs stabbed into the wooden door, one of them proclaiming "open" in all caps. From the outside, it wasn't much to look at.
Dust settled around the Hyundai Genesis as I steered the coupe into the mostly vacant lot. The air conditioning chirped angrily as I cut the engine, which earned a solid smack from yours truly. Truthfully, if it hadn't been a birthday present from Susan, I would have ditched the hunk of metal years ago; the horsepower from its last "tune up" at an associate's auto shop was pretty much all it had going for it these days.
Still grumbling about the faulty antique, I hustled through the blistering one hundred and thirty degrees and through the door in a single, fluid movement. Said movement might have included me kicking in the door in my haste, but you can't prove it.
It's hard to get a grip if you're all sweaty… grumbled Trey. My external conscious shifted again, aka: stabbed his legs into me.
In the process of readying a badass one-liner, I suddenly found myself unable to breathe when a small girl launched herself out of my blind spot and wrapped me in a smothering embrace.
"Ack-!"
"Auntie Jess!" The unadulterated joy in her voice caught me off guard, and was the only thing that prevented me from flipping her over my shoulder. Hesitant, I waited to be released.
Slender arms uncoiled from around my waist and an auburn-haired child manifested at my side. Large hazel eyes peered up at me with utmost adoration and she folded her hands together behind her back. The neon orange T-shirt she wore looked about three sizes too big and the white basketballs shorts clinging to her tiny frame surpassed her knees by a few good inches.
"Hey there, kiddo." Recovering my wits, I offered a gentle smile, but mentally said, What the heck? Is this Susan's idea of a joke?
I don't think-
"C'mon!" A warm hand took mine and the girl began to tug on my sleeve with her free hand using surprising force. "Uncle Al's over here!"
Instantly, my gaze shot upwards. The kid had managed to take me by surprise, distract me from my objective, and interrupt my assessment of today's fellow diners. Luckily for me, a couple sat at the bar facing out of the front windows and the cashier fiddled with the register—three people on the floor, with three more working the kitchen.
Modeled after a classy eighties diner, Nyala's floors had been turned into a giant checkerboard of black and white tiles, the walls painted red and covered in local art, the tables and bar all made from stained oak, its workers all dressed in button-ups, slacks, and visors. A vibrant jukebox huddled in one corner—it hadn't worked in years, but it still added taste to the décor. Five tables in the middle of the room; booths lined the left and right walls; arcade games framed the entrance to the kitchen. Four high-top tables lined the back wall, with one on each side of the bar.
And it was the table in the far corner, tucked just out of sight from the rest of the diner, did one lone figure sit: a blonde man.
I followed the girl (translation compliments of Trey: she allowed the girl to drag her) across Nyala, skirting the bar, until we stood directly in front of the man.
A glance at him confirmed my suspicions. "You've got to be kidding me."
Alpha sat facing the door. At once point, he had been a Secret Service Agent, but now burdened himself with heavy disguise that rivaled my own for Jessica McGee. Alpha's maquillage ensemble patterned over his scars in a distracting tattoo—what little of his face that remained untouched by the dark ink was brightened to accentuate the blue rings in his smoky green eyes; the strands of his lengthy blonde wig had been woven into dreadlocks. I didn't miss the smirk that flashed across the man's face as he shoved a wireless earpiece across the tabletop towards me.
Reminding myself that it was rude to wring the necks of young children in public, I ignored the girl—who was busying herself with attempting to crawl over Alpha's lap to get a seat next to the window— scooped up the earpiece, and put it in.
So sooner than I'd set one foot in the seat and crouched to imitate sitting, did the earpiece crackle to life; "I know what you're about to say, but let me tell you my piece first." Susan's voice, but I knew better than to call her by name.
My resolve hardened by default. "Maggie, we've talked about this. I don't take on apprentices."
"What's an apprentices?" the girl piped up.
Alpha shot me a look that plainly told me that if his lap wasn't full of flailing limbs, he would flip the table and shoot me on the spot. I couldn't blame him.
"Shh, the grown-ups are talking," I said, and then addressed Susan, "She's what—ten? Eleven? You know the kind of life I live. Do you want me to suck out any chance she might have of a normal life?"
"She's a direct descendent of Virginia Hall."
"Oh." Four score and a few centuries ago, Virginia Hall had been one of the first (and best) women spies in American history. Even after her demise, the family still passed on the secrets of their trade, even to those who eventually shunned their ways. But roughly a decade ago, the Halls started working for the mafia. The kid must have been the newest generation.
"Furthermore, she's had some sort of training. I don't know any other six-year-old who can lift as much as me."
I almost slipped out of the booth. "She's six? Six? Maggie, are you crazy?"
"Don't cop that kind of voice with me, young lady; I didn't train her." Susan's words were firm, but her tone teasing.
"What about her parents?" I asked, watching as the girl backed over Alpha's lap and slithered into the floor with an exaggerated groan. The man in question heaved a sigh loudly enough that the couple at the bar turned to look. I waved, and they quickly glanced away.
"They were doing a job in Cuba and both of them dropped dead of simultaneous heart attacks. The coroner reported no signs of foul play, and our own guys agreed. It was sudden, and no cause of death could be determined."
"You shouldn't bite your fingernails. It's bad for your teeth."
My gaze flitted to the side to see the girl staring at me intently. I raised an eyebrow, only then realizing that my thumb had weaseled its way in between my lips—a habit that formed more out of contemplation than anxiety. I pulled it out without further comment and the girl smiled. Then she immediately skipped over to the bar and flung herself on top of a stool with a victorious cheer. (Something about milkshakes...)
"Jessie, please," said Susan, probably mistaking my silence for disagreement. "I know you don't picture yourself as the kind of woman to save the world with a baby on your hip-"
"If I wanted to be a mother, I would have gotten married," I muttered.
"-but Jessica McGee can't keep her country afloat forever. Right now, you're young. You're fit. You could probably climb Mount Everest right now if I asked you to. But what about ten years down the road? Twenty? I know that fifty is the prime age for politics, but I don't think your other half with last that long." My other half being my actual self as KC. "I need assurance that your knowledge and experience won't go to waste."
Two birds, one stone. To Susan, the math must have been perfect. On one hand, I get to learn how to tolerate children; on the other, I get to train a future KC without actually having to give birth. And to add the final straw that broke the camel's back, this is almost Susan's way of getting someone to watch my back without the fear that they won't stab me in the back. Good for me, good for the camel, and good for the President of the United States.
"I'll do it," I said, kicking myself the whole time.
There was a pause. "Really? ...Don't answer that. Just don't shoot her full of holes, okay?"
I cast a glance over my shoulder in time to see the girl dump the entire shaker of salt into the sodapop of the man sitting on her right. She giggled when he didn't notice.
Taking a deep breath, I said, "I make no promises."
It wasn't until after the earpiece fell silence that Trey decided to remind me that I forgot to ask for the girl's name.
July 11, 2038; 4:12 P.M.
St. George, Utah; United States
Autumn Virginia Hall was perfectly aware that her parents were dead. She burst into tears within five minutes of being in the car with me. She fell asleep right before we stopped for gas. She woke up and resumed crying when I hit a pothole large enough to hide an overturned motorcycle. By the time we reached the hole-in-the-wall motel, I couldn't tell who was more exhausted: her from crying, me from putting up with her crying, or Trey from having to put up with us both.
I think it's safe to say that I really suck at dealing with kids.
However, as soon as I finished checking the room for bugs, Autumn flung herself face-down onto one of the mattresses and let out a long sigh. I ambled in her wake, pausing as I drew the graphire from its bag, and watched the rising and falling of her back—far too swift to be natural.
She lost her parents. Both of them, Trey reminded. Be gentle.
Gentle? I work with people who shoot each other in between missions because they get bored. My clients fear me, respect me, and shit their pants when I smile. The closest times I've come to having a "normal" conversation in the past ten years have all been faked. I frequently hook myself to technology that feeds off of me like a parasite and sends bolts of pain through my nerves—and I keep doing it. My life is a whole cockle of crazy, but you want me to be gentle?
Trey seemed quite smug as he replied, Yes.
Clearly, my conscience loves me.
I unlocked the graphire and bent down next to the bed. "Hey, kid. This place doesn't have room service, but I can grab you a bite from somewhere else if you're hungry," I offered lamely.
Silence stretched on for a while. After a good ten minutes of hunching over, my back had been reduced to a screaming, burning mess; standing and stretching only temporarily halted the complaints. Just as I made to drop into a crouch, the girl let out a small sigh.
"He told me the job would last a year."
My eyes fell on Autumn's tiny form and watched as the girl rolled over onto her side, one arm bent under her head. Tears pricked the corners of her downcast eyes.
"They were suppose to be back before my birthday," she whispered.
Frozen, I racked my mind and graphire for clues to whom she mentioned. When she didn't add anything, I asked, "Who told you?"
"My caretaker, Mr. Wutt."
'My caretaker,' not my old caretaker. She still wants to believe it isn't true, I realized. She's still in shock.
"Mr. Wutt told you about your parents' mission?" I asked for clarity's sake.
Possible threat to national security. On it, boss. Trey sent me the image of a salute before diving into the Internet.
Autumn nodded. "They had to go to Cuba, Singapore, and some other place. We were gonna throw them a party when they got back, but… but…" Her jaw trembled. "Now they'll never get to see the present I made for them."
And then, Cassandra Hall's daughter rolled back onto her stomach and began to sob.
I bit my lip. Even though I had seen her cry before, I no longer had the road to draw my eyes, no radio to drown her out, no helping hand to offer. Normal people would have put their arms around a crying child. Normal people would have told her not to cry and that everything would be okay. Normal people might have called this Mr. Wutt and asked him to take her home for the night.
But I wasn't normal.
What right did I have to take this young girl from a life she once knew? She had lost her parents—and apparently her caretaker—but she had been shoved into the arms of a woman with more blood on her hands than all of Congress combined. I couldn't hug her. I couldn't touch her. I was tainted, a thing of filth. Any comfort I provided would be placing myself between her and an incoming bullet, because that's the kind of life I live. It's the kind of life to which I had sold her soul. The daughter of a spy, the apprentice of a triple agent, and she had a say in none of it.
So I crouched on the floor, eyes flickering over the graphire's screen, and waited.
Four a.m. rolled around before Autumn fell asleep, and I didn't follow suit until another two hours later. Finally, around nine in the morning, I awoke to the sounds of the girl shuffling about the room. Stubbing her toe on the bathroom door ended up being my wake up call, the sharp hiss quickly followed with a hasty apology and sheepish smile. On any other day, I might have been horrified at the thought of falling into so deep a sleep that I didn't hear a six-year-old bumbling about my hotel room, but this morning, all my brain could keep up with was the cheery smile on Autumn's face.
The cheery smile that wasn't faked.
"Morning," she chirped, throwing a thin, sleeve-less top on over her camisole.
After scanning the room with sleep-laden eyes, I returned the favor. "Morning yourself. You sleep okay?"
"More or less," she shrugged. "You left these pointy knife-thingies in the pillow and I couldn't figure out what was poking me in the head until one of 'em got me through the pillow case."
She lifted her bangs out of the way to reveal an inch-long incision on her scalp. It looked shallow, but that didn't stop me from bolting to my feet. My hand found the diamond daggers before my mind could fully process what had happened, and the reintroduction left me with a mark much like Autumn's. I drew back my hand, grumbling at the minor slash, as my other hand drew the blades from the bed sheets.
Whoops. I knew I left those somewhere around here...
"Can I hook up my WiiTii?"
I glanced across the room in time to see the girl pull a honking collection of wires from her backpack. "Your what?"
"WiiTii." A childish gleam lit up Autumn's eyes as the girl flounced over to my side and flopped down on the foot of the bed, crossing her legs. The collection of wires exploded on top of the covers. "It's this really cool version of the Wii that just came out last week. It's got motion sensors and everything!"
In the back of my mind, Trey let loose a splurge of colorful language involving his "arch nemesis;" aka: motion sensors. I caught a growl of, Fucking hypocrites… before the loctopus retracted his talons and slid down my back, out from under my shirt, and bounced against the carpet. He was still running a search for the surname Wutt with a variety of spellings, but nothing of relevance seemed to be coming up. I noticed Autumn's eyes flicker to the loctopus but the apathy of her expression told me that she thought of him as nothing more than a spider.
My sights returned to the splayed wires, a sudden curiosity spiking my interest. "Do you know how to get everything ready?"
Pride. The girl practically oozed it.
"You bet I can!" Autumn launched herself straight from the foot of the bed into a standing position as she hefted the television around. Let me tell you now: it was definitely not a flat screen, but she didn't seem to notice. I meandered over to her side, eyeing the dexterity of her fingers as they unwove the wires, her other hand readying the TV. A certain look glazed over her countenance as she began to feed the wires into the ports at a dizzying speed.
Incredibly strong and now crossing wires like a pro. Susan mentioned training, but some part of me didn't quite picture this aspect.
I've got nothing on anyone named Wutt. Not in America, not in the entire world, not ever. Trey sounded apologetic. If that is his real name, the guy's completely hidden. Probably the unfortunate descendant of a family bound to serve the Halls.
Thanks anyways, I thought, momentarily distracted by the blurring of Autumn's hands. She really knows her way around an electrical system, doesn't she? What's next: minefield-disabling, lock-picking, gun-handling?
She's six, said Trey, almost sadly.
She's good.
Suddenly, the girl jerked backwards, horror twisting her face. A quiet, "Oops…" was the last thing I heard before a loud crackle shattered the audible silence and a brilliant blue light ruptured across the expanse of my vision.
Then my head violently slammed against the carpeted floor.
Stormy's Encyclopedia of Jargon
(1) short for 'lock-picking octopus'; KC designed Trey's original form based off of a loctopus from a video game, then realized that she wanted him to do a little more than pick locks-and that she preferred spiders to octopi
(2) the slang term for one kilo of cocaine