Blaze of Glory

by C. J. Strange

  “You too.” He checks his watch and grabs the bag of food. “Ah, sheiße, I have to go. Mr. King was was going to be twenty minutes. If he realizes I’m not at my post, I’m a dead man. Stay in one piece, Kapitän!”

  And with that, he slaps me on the back and peaces out of the kebab shop entirely, leaving me choking on my donair in his wake.

  18 Penny's Second Debut

  Jesus to fuck, I bitch internally, swiftly side-stepping to avoid another horde of avid teenagers, most of whom don’t look old enough to be as wasted as they are.

  The party of the millennium sure ain’t all it was cracked up to be.

  They know it too: the attendees. Those who risked everything to attend this once-in-a-lifetime event, in more ways than one. Elite youth living the high life to the chagrin of their personal credit, kids who sold off everything they own desperate to be part of something bigger than themselves. They’re beginning to sense that something isn’t right, something isn’t okay.

  Something is actually very, very wrong.

  Where to begin, is my grim line of thinking, casting my gaze around the venue as it starts to fill up. If I were a real singer, and this were a real gig, I swear to Alfie’s sexy sun goddess I’d be screaming at my booking agent over the phone right now.

  From the outside, the Palace of Westminster took my breath away. I’d even wondered aloud on the bus that transported influencers and performers—as we circled its famed, gothic spires glowing palomino in the late afternoon sun—what the full venue would look like once we got inside.

  But if the build up to the party was chaotic, one thing I’ve realized since arriving is that the execution is turning out to be pure bloody madness. Pyronamix is a wreck.

  “Open up, gorgeous!”

  A brunette with mountains attached to the front of her sashays up to me in her metallic blue top and black miniskirt, which appears to be a server’s uniform. In her arms is an oversized bottle of flavored vodka. It’s on its way to my lips before I have time to consent.

  “Oh—that’s all right!” I duck to one side, avoiding it completely. She pouts, about to launch into whatever her personal style of coercion is when I add, “I have to sing. Get back to me after my set, though.”

  “Why not have one for luck?”

  I won’t lie. The first time I was offered, I did. Looking back, I’m acutely aware of how irresponsible that was.

  “Oh, fuck me, I gotta go!” I’m slipping into the amassing crowd before she can enhance her technique—which I’ve noted tends to include teasing, touching, and intense amounts of sexual prowess, all of which have a profound effect on me and none of which I want to toy with tonight.

  I have a job to do. And, if I don’t do it correctly, it’s going to get me killed.

  “Another Booze Barbie?”

  Alfie’s voice is the one that crackles in through the chip I’m wearing covertly in my ear. I roll my eyes, and when I reply, it’s transmitted via a tiny microphone wedged around the back of my second premolar. “That’s what, the seventh in half-hour? They really want everyone plastered.”

  “Suits me just fine.”

  “Stay sober,” I grumble back at him.

  “If I was hammered, at least I could pretend this place looked even remotely like the one they advertised.”

  I open my mouth to respond, but I pause. He has a point.

  A pretty solid one, too. The foxy femmes and dainty dollies pouring liquor down our throats may be doing just that. Distracting us from the very real reality we’ve gotten ourselves into.

  I’m not one-hundred per cent sure this party even exists.

  Evidently, the modern, futuristic club that was presented in the promotional ads does not. The aura of grace, class, and unparalleled affluence evaporated the instant we set foot in the venue. It was gone the moment we were led into the small, dark undercroft. It was dead on arrival.

  The ‘venue’, if one can even call it that, was even eerier when I arrived early with the other performers and online influencers. A stone-walled, stone-floored eighty-foot-long underground chamber, which a modest tech crew was doing its best to resuscitate with LED lights displays and an oversized sound system. Immediately, one of the brother-sister duo began freaking out that the stage was missing almost every aspect of their rider.

  We had been expecting a quick sound check, or to be greeted by a stage manager, neither of which happened. Instead, we were treated the same way the attendees were when they first arrived: beset upon by predatory babes with big booze.

  And most seemed eager to comply. The finely-chiseled sapphire we were all promised turned out to be little more than a gilded sack of shite. And alcohol is a grand way of temporarily blinding oneself to that fact.

  “I was expecting some wankery when we got here,” I eventually say, my head tilted down to avoid catching attention mumbling to myself. “But I never fully expected this.”

  The only element they fully delivered on was a vibe of utmost exclusivity. As in to say, never in my life have I felt more abandoned and exposed in such a remote and desolate place. And I have a feeling I’m far from the only one.

  “You don’t fucking say. Seen anyone proper famous yet?”

  “No,” I say, giving another pack of teenagers taking drunk selfies a wide-berth. I don’t want more photos of me than necessary on the Net, even with my facial recognition software-fooling performance make-up applied. I’m trying to be more in the business of keeping a low profile these days. “A couple social media influencers and that Catholic choir from Cambridge. No one legit.”

  Alfie scoffs back at me. “Tell me if you see anyone worth being here for, yeah? I’m fucking sick of taking photos of all these poxy nobody-kids.”

  I chuckle. “Are we a little too in-character tonight? You could always come take photos of me.”

  “I said someone worth it.”

  As usual, his words cut just an inch too deep, and I find myself cussing inwardly. It’s my own fault, for expecting more of him than… well, for him to be Alfie. “Good to know where I stand with you, mate. But I bet if you asked yourself that question any time your dick’s been inside of me, you’d remember how very worth it I am. Or does it make you uncomfortable to feel the feels?”

  Alfie’s quiet for a long while, long enough I’m concerned I may have taken it a step too far. Even for him.

  “… If this is your way of asking to blow me again, love, just say it. Any time you wanna come be my little cock-slut, you’re more than welcome.”

  And, there it is. Only Alfie Savage can take an offer to pass the time with some playful flirting, and turn it into degrading name-calling.

  Maybe that’s a good thing, though. Maybe this isn’t an alleyway I should be venturing down, given what I’ve seen. Whether or not the vision I witnessed was real, it was striking. And there’s only so many times you can replay the visual of someone you love trying to kill you in your head before you get tired of waking up in a cold sweat, still screaming their name in the nightmare you just escaped.

  Good grief, I think. That’s so fucking morbid.

  At least, I’ve got Oliver and Duncan in my life. No mess, no fuss, no drama. No bullshit ego problems, or possible prophetic secrets lurking in the shadows. Between the two of them, there’s hope.

  … pun intended. Perhaps.

  “Can you two please—not?” is Oliver’s awkward albeit completely appropriate request over the comms channel. “I really didn’t want to make it weird, but let’s face it, you two kind of already went there.”

  “Piss off, muppet,” is Alfie’s blunt answer. “Why the bloody hell are you so obsessed with us, anyway?”

  There’s dead silence on the end of the comms line, and I shake my head. Alfie often forgets Oliver’s skin isn’t quite as thick as ours. At least, not yet.

  It’s why I’m grateful to check my watch again and realize I have the perfect excuse to change the subject entirely.

  “All right lads, it’s almost nin
e,” I say, adopting a more formal tone. “The opening act goes on after King talks and we all listen. That’s what I’ve managed to splice together from about six different tech guys.”

  “Tech guys? Taking on a kinda sexist tone for our resident feminist, aren’t ya?” says Alfie. Not reading the tone, which is all honestly to be expected by now.

  “This is a KING production, Diesel,” is my quiet response as I break across the makeshift dance floor and make a beeline for stage right. “Women don’t belong on production crews. They belong on the telly reading the news, with big, fake boobs to distract you from how little what they’re saying makes sense. Or under desks. Either, or. I hear there’s some real career options for the sexier sex over there.”

  The comms line is quiet for a bit before Oliver offers a soft, “That is so sad.”

  I can see dust bouncing on the grout between bricks as the sound system shakes the walls of the undercroft. The warm, dry scent of electronics is a stark contrast to the dank odor of the chamber, to such an extent that it’s trying to play havoc with my brain. I’m beyond grateful I only took one shot of alcohol.

  I’m also grateful, because I’m attempting to mentally recreate Izzey’s written instructions for reaching the secured vault where the Opus Veritas is being stored. I have several hours to reach it before it will be brought out for use, which is plenty of time to get it out of the building and away from the Sovereignty.

  After that, I have no idea. At this point, we are quite literally making shit up as we go.

  Most of the gothic arches flanking the undercroft have been bricked or boarded up. But several, as Izzey marked out for me, have been barricaded by doors. Modern doors, with locks. And codes.

  “I’m heading backstage,” I tell them quietly, throwing a glance over my shoulder to make sure no one currently has their eye on me. For all the attendees know, I’m a performer doing what performers do. I’ve learned if you can confidently pretend you are supposed to be somewhere, you can get away with a ridiculous amount of trespassing.

  “Roger that,” Oliver says, back at the bunker. “Remember, once you get to the green room, as Izzey mentioned you’ll be going deep into steel-lined territory. We don’t typically like steel-lined territory as tech-heads, so when comms go wonky for you—”

  “I’ll handle it,” I reply coolly. It won’t be the first time I’ve been naked out in the field.

  “Cross your fingers Mason King ain’t in there,” I say, as I punch the memorized code into the door and it clicks open, granting me access. “I don’t know if I’d be able to stop myself from decking the bastard for what he’s done for this country.”

  “Aw, hit him hard once for me too!?” is Alfie’s earnest request. I snort a laugh.

  “No violence unless shit goes tits up,” I answer. And it’s not a request—it’s a command.

  His annoying but adorable whine of protest is the last thing I hear before stepping into deep enemy territory.

  The green room was a mistake.

  A fucking big mistake.

  My head is down as I enter, a curtain of blonde hair specifically styled to fall forward hiding my face from view. The lower half of my torso is wrapped in a dazzling skin-tight, metallic red fabric, my skirt cut short specifically to draw attention. It’s a tactic I hate, but if society wants to sexualize me, I’ll use it to my advantage to stay alive. And unrecognized.

  Reckless as it is to walk through a doorway not knowing what’s on the other side, some instances give us few options.

  The plan is simple: enter and, if it’s occupied, exit again whenever it feels natural. I wonder if Rhys may have snuck in behind me, because I’m lucky enough to find it completely vacant.

  Secret tunnel, secret tunnel… I repeat to myself over and over, as if willing my body to move quicker than it’s able to. I let the door fall from my fingers and scamper into the center of the room, my eyes darting about for the bookcase Izzey had mentioned.

  All jokes and jabs about the cliche of employing a hidden passageway behind a bookcase are gone in the blink of an eye. Or at least, in the time it takes for my eyes to fully register what they’re seeing.

  The green room—it’s the set for the promotional ads.

  As in, the entire set.

  Every piece of furniture, every set of drapes—they surround me for all three-hundred and sixty degrees to create a plush, comfortable, luxurious space of maybe the size of my van’s interior. Amidst it all, and after watching the videos on repeat for days, I can see the exact locations green screens could’ve been set up to create illusions of space.

  An illusion, a fake. Just like the rest of this fake festival.

  Perception truly is greater than reality. And when it comes to crafting the perfect illusion, social media is a purpose-built tool. The ultimate weapon of mass deception.

  Secret tunnel.

  I snap out of my daydream. But before I can locate the aforementioned bookcase, the door is clicking open behind me, and I freeze in the middle of the room like a deer caught in headlights.

  … well, fuck.

  19 Oliver's "Naivety"

  “Hope, are you still with us?”

  The line hums with the static of silence for a good, long while before Alfie’s voice shatters it. “Don’t look like it, mate. Going dark myself for a mo’, all right? Don’t be worrying about me. Peace.”

  Spinning my chair, I crane my neck up to address the enormous Scotsman at my left-hand side.

  “Okay,” I say, as calmly as I can. The next part of the plan is the bit I’m least looking forward to. “I guess that’s your cue.”

  Duncan’s initial response is little more than a grunt. He draws himself up, folding his arms across his broad chest, glaring hard at the monitors in front of us.

  “Izzey didn’ae follow up, eh?”

  My head shakes in defeat. I’m not surprised so much as disappointed.

  “No,” I reply mildly. “No last minute message containing valuable intel we could probably find a really good use for. You think he told us that to get rid of us once he realized who we were?”

  Duncan makes a gruff, unimpressed noise. “Pure dead brilliant,” is his sarcastic reaction. “All right,” he then says, stretching both arms toward the ceiling. Every muscle and joint cracks, from his wrists to his lower back, before he drops them to his sides again. “Time ta fook some shite right up.”

  “When you get into position with Rhys,” I remind him timidly, “remember what we all talked about last night.”

  “Aye.” Duncan nods sternly. “The stage is set fer a mad betrayal.”

  “Even if we don’t believe someone we’ve worked this closely with could ever forsake us like this,” I’m mumbling—despite how little sense the words make to me, regardless of the mounting evidence, “remember what Penny said. We have to think with our heads, not our hearts.”

  “Is that fer my benefit, wee’yin,” says Duncan, “or yours?”

  I lower my gaze, avoiding his altogether.

  “Probably more for mine,” I admit sheepishly. His hand falls to my shoulder. It’s big and warm, dwarfing me as it squeezes the muscles with a tenderness he’s had to practice. Apparently, I’m not as rough-and-tumble as other members of our brigade.

  “Whatever occurs,” he says, in a noticeably softer, quieter voice, “we’re a team. We’re gonnae get through this. Whatever ‘this’ turns out ta be.”

  I’d be lying through my teeth if I claimed the words and the hand on my shoulder don’t have an immediate effect on my mood. I feel a smile tugging at my mouth, right in the corners.

  “You know what, Dee,” I say, and when I do, my tone is one of complete and utter honesty. Hands up, cards on the table. “I genuinely don’t think I could survive out here without you.”

  “Eh?”

  “I mean it,” I insist. “Every day, I’m terrified Alfie’s going to blow up on us. Every day, I worry Penny will do something reckless and get herself killed. Rhys—who knows
what his story is.

  “But you,” I aver, “have never once lied to me. Never once let me down. Never once given me nightmares so horrendous I’ve woken up wondering how we’d ever cope if we lost you. You’re a rock, Dee. You always have been.”

  Duncan’s reaction isn’t what I had expected, even for him. He writhes out from under my affectionate, appreciative gaze, shifting his own anywhere but toward me and muttering to himself incoherently before waving a dismissive hand in my direction.

  “Nay,” he denies, shaking his head. His eyes still won’t meet mine. “Dunnae be daft, Porter, yer all wet behind the ears. Ain’t a man alive without a dark side, laddie. Remember that.”

  … Bugger. Part of me wonders how I managed to make something so beautiful so bloody awkward.

  A bigger part of me, as Duncan exits the bunker, hopes it won’t be the last time I see him. Especially after such a grandiose, hero-worshipping speech. Alfie’s correct, I can be a right muppet at times. And I really, really hope those don’t end up being my last words to him.

  In Duncan’s absence the bunker falls quiet. Save for the constant hum of electricity, which has become something of a soothing white noise to me by now. I’m often anchored at headquarters when we pull these jobs off, which is my preference. All gratitude for my secured personal safety aside, every minute of every mission invigorates the anxious gnawing at the back of my brain, and the squirming of angry butterflies in my gut.

  It’s hard to relax when your friends’ lives are hanging in the balance.

  They’ve got this, I reaffirm. Penny’s got this.

  The heavy-booted footsteps and clicking-crunch of the north hatch opening and closing again come about twenty minutes too early. My stomach twists itself into a knot. My vision narrows to a pinprick. Everything around me is suddenly wrenched violently into focus as I realize, without a doubt, it’s happening.

  Our worst fears are possibly about to come true.