#anyway im off to post chapter three of ichor

[occasionally-good-authoring]

Lockpicks- Chapter 1, Rex

@indigothemuse

If there’s one thing Rex had learned, it was never trust anyone willing to pay you millions to destroy a man. But here she was anyway, a million dollars in his pocket and another job on her roster. 

“I need someone of your skills, Björnen. Three million dollars, half a million on acceptance,” he had said. 

The man had practically been shaking when Rex stepped closer.

He placed her left hand on his shoulder. Milton Drake tried not to cower. It didn’t work. She could feel his heart pounding.

Good. They listen when they’re afraid. 

“One.” 

She got one million dollars. 

The job was cut and dry, at least to her. All she had to do was steal Timothy Doherty’s life. With help she didn’t need. All he knew about the others were their names, Veers, Chessboard, and The Backdoor. She’d heard of Veers before, even almost running into them working for Andy Foer. 

Anyone else was news. 

Milton had given him an address in the middle of the worst part of town. All abandoned warehouses and people in alleys waiting for you to step closer so they could slip their spiderleg fingers into your pockets. 

Perfect for breaking. Snapped just like twigs in the fall, and felt just as good when they did. Perhaps even better. 

The skeletal frames slipped into the shadows when she passed by. Fading into the corners from which they came, scared of the bear on the streets. Scared of Björnen. She feels the smile on lips, a snarl that keeps the skeletons away. His are the only footsteps heard on the sidewalk, heavy and loud. Boot treads inches thick, making her even taller. 

The bear on the streets will not be forgotten. Björnen will be remembered. He will be the face in their dreams, the forever aching in their spiderleg limbs if they slip those fingers into his pockets.

She dares a skeleton to scurry forward from the shadows. Dares the spiders to leave their webs. But they’re scared of the bear on the streets. 

Too scared to be any fun. It almost makes him miss the Las Vegas streets from her first job in America. The skelett’s were fearless there, fearless until Björnen wrapped his thick fingers around their thieving little wrists.

But then one skeleton stares too long, fingers dancing on their leg. A spindel has made their choice.

Come little spindel. Leave your web, liten spindel. Think me a fly. 

Rex slows his pace, letting the spider creep closer, its footsteps joining hers in time. They are quite, nearly silent. Not quiet enough. Björnen hears them coming. The spindel is one of the better ones, she can barely feel her wallet leave their left jacket pocket. 

The spindel’s wrist is bony when his fingers wrap around it. Rex drinks in the look of terror, sweeter than any godis she’s ever eaten. 

“Please,” the spindel whispers. Björnen smiles, a grisly snarl perfectly tailored for liten spindel’s. “I’m sorry.”

The joint snaps nicely in Björnen’s hand. His hand flies quickly to cover the spindel’s scream. Rex is the only one who gets to hear this lovely scream. It is hers to hers to drink. His to cherish. 

“Do not scream. Quiet.” She takes her hand away. The skeleton whimpers, but does not scream. He lets go of the spindel’s wrist. Wide eyes stare up at him, knees buckled to the ground.

Someone laughs from above, someone has drank in the pain of this skelett. Rex looks around, but no one is there. 

The spindel is still staring when she looks back. 

“Hej då, skelett,” he growls. 

The skeleton scrambles away, feet and hands scraping on the ground. Back to its web the liten spindel goes to wait for another fly.

Rex keeps walking, fast and heavy on the broken concrete. She wonders how far until the address Milton gave her.

The walk is no fun if the skeletons are too scared to lurk. 

There’s only towers of dust-covered boxes inside the warehouse. Wooden crates threaten to fall with a constant slight creaking. Cardboard wilted with age and mold are littered around the floor, leaving the room a haze of mildew and dust older than Rex is. 

In the center, there’s a card table. Four chairs, shining and new. He’s not the first one here. Milton Drake would never set foot in a place like this. Italian leather doesn’t agree with mothballs and stained floors. 

Neither do cups of hot coffee. It’s not on the table.

The coffee is strong, drifting down from somewhere. It smells just like the coffee Mamma used to make. He breathes past it, letting the smell of old rot fill his lungs again. She looks up, then around. There’s a cup of coffee, still steaming, on the very top of a tower of crates. 

He stiffens, hands in fists, ready for whoever she has to work with. But the room is empty for everything but that cup of coffee and the card table. 

She pulls a chair, and sits. He pulls a sketchbook from her right jacket pocket, and pencil with it. 

The only sound in the warehouse is the scratching of his pencil. And the creaking of the crates. 

“Hello.” She did not hear footsteps, only words spoken with skratt sewn into the simple greeting.

Rex flinches, a thick line ruining the sketch of her old anka. 

She turns quickly, out of his chair. The scraping fills her ears, and the figure behind him steps out of Rex’s reach. 

“Björnen, nice to meet you,” a smirk grows. They take a step closer, looking up with damm green eyes. 

“I say the same, Veers.” 

Rex holds out his hand, Veer takes it and shakes.

“En kopp kaffe?” Veer’s Swedish is that of a nine year olds. But the offer is genuine and Veer’s smirk has turned to a godis sweet smile.

“Ja.”

Veer’s coffee is black, sugar and cream lacking from this mildew warehouse. Veer sits above Rex, perched on the creaking boxes, en liten fågel. Xer laughter floats down from above. Light as a fågel’s call.