Chapter 8
Bash
Current time
The scrape of the scalpel has left an itchy, irritated line on my hip, but I’m used to ignoring it by now. My breath fogs the microscope, so I pull away and wipe it clean before leaning back in and adjusting the dials until the sample comes into focus.
Same studies, different world.
Cells that appear immobile to the naked eye are full of life.
Under the lens, they wiggle and shift in a secret dance of light I’ve been trying to decipher for years.
No longer the twinkling glow of a fresh mark, these have the unique ivory-veined connections that are just as beautiful, and stronger by multitudes.
Everything looks the same as last time… and the time before that. But something is different, even if there’s no evidence of a change.
A low whistle from the door breaks my concentration, and I reluctantly pull my face from the microscope to find Ego leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and that trademark smirk already in place.
“Damn,” she calls over, “all those workout sessions are finally paying off. You scared the sleeves right off your shirt.”
“Oh, shut up,” I say with a rueful laugh, running a palm over my hair.
The light catches on her short, bright blue strands as she saunters closer and grabs my upper arm, giving my biceps an exaggerated squeeze.
“These shirts are normally peak douchebag territory… like, have you ever seen a guy actually pull off a cutoff? Bunch of turkeys strutting around like they invented protein and bragging about their bench press. But you? You’re making it work. It’s unfair, honestly.”
“Are you done yet?” I ask, fighting a grin as heat creeps up my neck.
She taps my cheek with mock sympathy. “All these muscles and that pretty face too? Criminal. It’s an absolute waste that you only like dudes.”
“One of life’s great tragedies,” I deadpan, already leaning back toward my microscope.
She snorts. “Look at you, dying to get back to your nerd toys. I’ve never met anyone who gets that goofy, love-struck grin from staring at bacteria.”
“If you didn’t want me geeking out over science stuff,” I shoot back without looking up, adjusting the focus with deliberate slowness, “you shouldn’t have bought me a microscope for my birthday last year. Rookie mistake.”
“Oh, I didn’t,” she says with a casual shrug. “I stole it.”
“Of course you did,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.
“Working on anything fun?”
I glance over at the heap of actual work waiting on the side table.
Reports are half-finished, samples have been labeled and bagged, and invoices neatly stacked with deadlines circled in red.
There’s plenty of work from clients who pay well and don’t ask questions as long as the results come on time.
I’m what I like to call an ethical black-market scientist, as oxymoronic as that sounds.
Need to cause a small, controlled explosion for…
reasons? I’m your guy. Want a detailed list of readily available household chemicals that, when combined just right, make a decent makeshift tear gas?
Give me a few hours and a coffee, and I’ll have it ready.
Something bigger, though, with real potential for large-scale damage? The kind that leaves scars on cities instead of just pride?
My conscience draws a hard line there, and I won’t touch it.
There’s a difference between bending rules for the ones who fight back and handing over the keys to the arsenal.
Plenty of rebels would do just as much damage as the ones currently in charge.
I’ve seen enough of what unchecked power does, and I sleep better knowing I’m not the one who helped light the fuse on anything that could burn the world down.
“None of my work is nearly as fun as yours,” I say as I gesture towards her lurking figure. “Honestly, you make, what? Two fake IDs a week?”
A self-satisfied smile spreads wide over her face. “Sometimes three.”
I scoff. “You make more money than the rest of us combined for an hour of work… half of which is spent coming up with innuendos for the names.”
“Listen, Haywood Jablome is a classic. It’s not my fault you chose the wrong hustle, honey,” she purrs, then full-on hip-checks me out of the way.
I step aside with a snort, crossing my arms as she bends over the microscope like she knows what she’s doing.
She squints dramatically for a second, then straightens up with a theatrical grimace. “Based on my research, I can tell you one thing for sure.”
Amusement tugs at my lips again. “What’s that?”
“This is boring as fuck, my man.” She pops her gum with a loud snap, grinning wide. “We need to find new ways to weaponize that huge brain of yours for evil.”
“Uh, no, we don’t?”
She waves me off before I can argue further, her hand flicking dismissively like I’m a fly she’s swatting away.
“Not even like, big evil,” she explains like it's supposed to be obvious. “There’s enough of that to go around. Little evil is fine. World domination starts with baby steps, you know?”
She pauses, deep in thought before a smile lights up her face. “Like that time you convinced Cato that the dry skin on his beard was crabs that carried a flesh-eating bacteria.”
I choke, wheezing through a cough while pounding my fist on my chest to clear the shock. “When did I do that?!”
“Oh, wait, that was me,” she says with a wicked laugh. “Didn’t I tell you about that?”
She collapses into a howling fit of laughter, brushing tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. “He believed me, too. Never even bothered to come ask you if it was true!”
Realization slams into me, and my eyes go wide in horror. “Is that when he shaved his beard last month?”
“His chin is so slimy without it,” she howls, doubling over as another wave of cackles escapes her, and I lose it completely as the memory of Cato’s suddenly bare face flashes in my mind.
“Oh… my… gods…” My hand flies over my mouth in mortified disbelief. “I asked him why he shaved. No wonder he looked at me like I was an asshole. He thought I was making fun of him for having face crabs.”
“Flesh-eating face crabs,” she corrects through fresh peals of laughter, practically wheezing now.
We laugh until my sides ache and tears stream down my face, and I've decided we're both going straight to hell.
When we’ve both calmed down, she gestures at the microscope. “What are you looking at in here?”
Some of my levity vanishes as I pull the slides out and hold them up to the light. Out here without the magnification, they’re lifeless and still.
“Not much,” I say with a shrug. “Just doing some research.”
She reaches her hand out and wiggles her fingers, so I pass the slides to her to inspect.
“These better not be anything gross,” she warns.
“Grosser than face crabs?” I ask with a snort.
She chuckles, extremely pleased with herself as she squints at them.
“Don’t worry,” I say, watching her tilt them back and forth. “They’re only boring skin cells.”
She nods towards my hand on my hip, where I’m rubbing at the phantom sensations under my skin.
“Is it bothering you?” she asks.
I pull my hand away and cross my arms over my chest, wanting to deny it, but the damage is done. Ego doesn’t miss a thing, and lying to her feels wrong.
“It’s been bothering me lately,” I admit. “The past couple of days have gotten worse.”
She hums, taking a step forward as she hands the slides back to me. “Does it hurt?”
“No, it just…” I bite my lip as I hold them up, staring at the pale white skin cells trapped between the thin glass.
“When I first got here, it did this a lot. Back then, yeah, it hurt, but it got better over time and happened less frequently. The sensation changed, too. Sometimes it was a tingle, sometimes more like a tug or a twinge. It hasn’t happened in months, but now it’s going haywire again. ”
She grabs the hem of my t-shirt but pauses, glancing up with a silent question in her eyes. I nod with a resigned sigh, and she lifts the fabric just enough to reveal the ivory mark on my hip.
“You know,” she starts, voice softer than usual, “I used to think you had really shitty game.”
My brows flick up in surprise.
“You have a pattern,” she says with a quiet huff of a laugh. “Get some drinks at the bar, find some hot number to hang onto your every word. Flirt, tease, charm the hell out of them. You could’ve had any of them, but you always went home alone.”
My pulse kicks up as her fingers drift lightly over the mark, tracing its edges with a gentleness that feels almost reverent.
When she glances up at me again, the teasing has melted into something tender. “I assumed you scared them off with the nerdy talk,” she says.
“Some people are into my nerdy talk,” I mutter, the words coming out more defensive than I’d like.
She chuffs at my tone. “Does it get worse when you think about him?” she asks, and sympathy burns in her eyes as she waits.
I blow out a long, shaky exhale, and admit the hard truth. “That would imply there’s a time I’m not thinking about him.”
Xeni consumes my thoughts far too often. Sometimes they’re angry, sometimes sad, but most of the time?
They make me realize how empty I am without him.
“What was he like?” Ego asks.
A faint smile flutters on my lips as I glance out the window. “Stubborn. Gods, he’s so damn stubborn, and gorgeous… so fucking pretty. Charismatic as hell. He could convince anyone to do anything for him just by smiling.” Quieter, I add, “It was exhausting.”
“For you?”
“Yeah,” I agree as I shake my head, “but more for him. Constantly wearing that face that wasn’t his. Sometimes I wonder if I knew him at all.”
“Why?” She lets my clothes settle back into place, waiting with rare patience.
I lift a shoulder in a shrug as I remember how rigid Xeni was in public, compared with the soft, loose way he was when it was just the two of us.
“He was bound and determined to show the world the person he wanted them to see. I always thought he was genuine when he was with me. He used to say I was the only one he’d ever turned it off for…. the only person who knew the real him. It felt like such an honor.”
“You don’t believe it?” she asks.
My mark tingles under my skin as I absently reach down to rub it. “I used to. Now?” I shrug again.
She wraps her fingers around my arm in a touch that’s less playful and more comforting and lays her head on my shoulder, staring up through that mop of blue hair.
“I didn’t mean to make you sad,” she says with an apologetic smile.
I lean my head against hers. “You never make me sad, Ego, and he shouldn’t either. Not after all this time.”
“Why don’t we go cheer you up?”
I lift my head off hers and raise a brow in her direction. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well, I was going to suggest going out to the bar and getting sloppy drunk, but that’s more my scene than yours.”
“Oh?” I ask, letting her hear my sarcasm. “What’s my scene, then?”
She scoffs and gestures at my equipment, then weaves her arm though mine.
“Come on,” she says, tugging me along. “Let’s get you one of those fancy coffees you like so much, and if you’re a good boy, we can swing by the comic book shop and let you pick something out.”
A reluctant smile spreads over my mouth. “I’m always a good boy.”
She laughs again as we walk towards the door with our arms linked. “You’re sure you don’t like women?”
“Positive, doll.”
“Damn. Was worth another shot.”
“It was a good effort,” I admit, grudgingly letting her lift my spirits as we wander into the sunny streets.