The Lost & Damned 1

by Keira Michelle Telford

  “My driver, Dylan Reid,” she announces.

  Dylan steps out of the limo, wearing a wonky chauffeur’s hat that half covers his eyes. He’s in his late-twenties but he looks much younger. He’s small and slight and not very strong—everything a Hunter is not. An unparalleled geek, his chauffeur’s clothes look at least one size too big, and his regulation white gloves are stained orange with the dust of a long since devoured packet of potato chips.

  Jax tosses the butt of her cigarette onto the ground, and grinds it into the dirt with the heel of an old Omega boot, eyeing Dylan warily. “What is he? Twelve?”

  All eyes fall upon Dylan, and he wants nothing more than for the earth to open up and suck him in.

  “I said no strangers,” Silver chides.

  Dylan tries to shield himself from Jax’s glare, using the open car door as a sort of weak protection.

  “He’s my driver. What was I gonna do? Teleport myself here?” Red argues. “Besides, he’s an Omega pedigree. He’s loyal, and he won’t be any trouble.”

  “Fine.” Silver sighs, lacking the energy to argue.

  “Are you serious?!” Jax is outraged, and doesn’t mind showing it. “We don’t know anything about the boy!”

  Silver knows there’s nothing to be done about it, and refuses to engage Jax in the matter. Instead, she heads for the door to the theater and punches in some digits on the keypad. Red is the first to follow her—blind, but walking confidently. Dylan tries to stick close by her, but Jax gets in between them and cuts him off, staring daggers at him all the way.

  Alex appears behind him, making him jump, and pats him on the shoulder. “She’ll get over it.”

  Dylan doesn’t believe that for a second; he’s read her personnel file.

  Inside the lobby of the rundown building, Alex tries a light switch.

  Nothing happens.

  “Nice try.” Silver smirks. “I don’t want to waste power where it’s not needed. You know the electric company is having a hard time meeting the city’s demands as it is.”

  “I didn’t realize you were so environmentally conscientious.”

  Silver shrugs. “They’re threatening to completely shut off power to the Fringe. For relatively obvious reasons, we can’t afford for that to happen. We’re hoping to delay the inevitable by reducing our consumption wherever possible. As you can imagine, the market for tallow candles has undergone quite the resurgence.”

  Alex is struck by the candid nature with which she imparts the details of her Fringe life. Silver’s usually so guarded, and he’s genuinely touched by the raw honesty of it, and all the desperation it entails.

  Oz reads the flyers on a notice board, taking in the details of upcoming productions. “If I knew we were taking in a show, I would’ve dressed for the occasion.”

  Jax uses her sleeve to rub dust off a glass presentation case in the corner of the foyer, revealing a small shelf of trophies. “Is that real brass?”

  Red is quick to disapprove. “I don’t think we’re here to rob the place.”

  Dylan sidles up to Red, cautiously taking in their surroundings. Next to them, Oz blows dust off a picture hanging on the wall, the sudden gust sending two centuries of dirt flying into his face.

  Sneeze. “Why are we here again?”

  Silver says nothing and walks on ahead, up the steps into the auditorium. She flicks on the house lights—half of the bulbs having been painstakingly removed—and leads her crew down the main aisle. Hundreds of red velvet seats, in weatherworn condition, are spread about the room, and there’s a balcony looking down from above. A tatty, moth-eaten curtain hangs limply from the proscenium arch over the stage.

  Jax attempts to light up another cigarette, but Silver stops her dead in her tracks. Jax bumps into Alex and drops her lighter on the floor, while Silver points to a sign on the wall.

  No Smoking.

  Jax rolls her eyes and tucks the cigarette behind her ear.

  Behind the stage, disused props are scattered everywhere. Some of the rigging has fallen from the ceiling and lies derelict on the floor. There are pieces of old set decoration, a workbench, and other theater paraphernalia. At the very back of the room, next to a big loading bay door, a large tarpaulin covers something big and boxy.

  A vehicle.

  Oz is the first one to notice it. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Silver follows his gaze. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  Oz struggles to singlehandedly haul the tarpaulin off the vehicle, but Jax is the first one to fully realize what awaits them underneath.

  “Oh, my god …”

  It’s their old Hunter Division armored truck, but now it badly needs a lick of paint. Alex stands so close to Silver that their shoulders are touching.

  “You really are a sentimental old thing.” He nudges her, sharing a smile with her. “How the hell did you manage to smuggle that out of the Division? Never mind the Sentinel District?”

  “She got banged up pretty bad and Maydevine had her written off. Consider her a donation.”

  “You fixed her up?”

  “Over time.” Silver nods. “Maydevine brought parts, piece by piece, and I had a system of reciprocity going with a local mechanic.”

  Alex raises an eyebrow, hoping that no untoward favors were exchanged.

  Silver reads his expression perfectly. “Is that really what you think of me? He liked weapons, and lots of them. He dealt on the side, and I had better Division connections than him. I was his broker, if you will.”

  “Why are you referring to him in past tense?”

  Any hint of a smile disappears, and her eyes momentarily lose some of their luster. “I shot him a year ago.”

  Silence.

  Red runs her fingers fondly over the Omega emblem on the hood of the truck. “Does she still purr?”

  “Like a kitten,” Silver boasts, trying to rise back up into a lighter mood.

  Dylan wanders warily over to the truck and scratches at what appears to be rust over the hood and front bumper. “It’s a little rusty.”

  Keen to dispel that slanderous remark, Silver strolls over to him and inspects the ‘rust’ patches. She rubs a flake or two off with her finger, revealing untarnished paint below. “Yeah, that’s not rust.”

  Gross.

  Dylan grimaces at his dirty fingers and pulls a clean handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe himself off. Meanwhile, Jax’s initial excitement has given way to some apprehension.

  “Please, tell me we’re going to war with more than a dirty old truck and a half tank of butanol?”

  That’s precisely the kind of segue that Silver was waiting for.

  Pulling back a rug on the floor, she confidently exposes a large backstage trapdoor. “The product of the last six years of my criminality.”

  Hauling it open, she skips down into the hatch and flicks on the lights. One by one, the others follow, with Dylan nervously taking up the rear. At the bottom of the steps they get a chance to admire the basement, which is filled wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling with as many different kinds of weapons as you could imagine.

  A small weaponry.

  Silver smiles at her guests, and gladly awaits their approval.

  Jax and Oz take a few tentative steps into the room, in a kind of disbelieving daze. Dylan tucks in behind Red, almost frightened of this place, which is so different from anything he’s ever seen before.

  Alex is full of admiration for the weapons, and for Silver’s tenacity—both in equal measure. “You never cease to amaze me.”

  Oz finds a crossbow. “I’m in heaven.”

  Red drags her fingers over a selection of guns on one of the tables. “You hoarded all of our favorite toys.” She selects a gun and admires it with her fingers.

  Behind her, Dylan stumbles back and hovers in the doorway. Completely dumbfounded, he absently knocks a loaded weapon off a shelf, sending it clattering to the floor.

  He freezes.

  “Please don�
�t touch my shit,” Silver warns him.

  Oz picks up a flame thrower. Attempting to figure out what it is, he inadvertently sends out an enormous flame across the table. Thankfully, Alex sees it coming and pulls Silver out of the way just in time, the flame only missing her by inches.

  At the ferocity of Alex’s glare, Oz puts the flame thrower down in shame.

  “Sorry. Shit like that should come with a warning label.”

  “It does: keep out of reach of imbeciles,” Silver spits, carefully separating herself from Alex.

  On the other side of the table, Jax picks up an M16 assault rifle and aims it at Alex’s head, pretending to fire.

  “Seriously, don’t fuck around with this shit,” Silver raises her voice to make sure she’s heard.

  Jax puts the weapon down and throws up her hands in a begrudging apology. Dylan looks pale with fear, and he has to lean against the banister railing to stop himself from passing out.

  Sensing his weakness, her patience wearing thin, Silver gets right in his face. “If any of this is going to be a problem for you, you’d better leave right now. I really don’t have the time or the inclination to wipe your shit up off the floor.” They lock eyes. “Got that, Primrose?”

  Though he’d never confront her about it, Alex is shocked by her tone. The Hunter Division makes you tough, and Silver’s always been lippy, but never cruel or mean just for the sake of being so.

  “Leave the boy alone,” Red warns her. “He’s my responsibility, not yours.”

  “Good.” Silver speaks to Red, but keeps her eyes pinned on Dylan. “I’ll fetch you the mop.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Trials and Revelations

  At the top of the stairs is the old theater’s function room. It’s a wide, open space that Silver’s filled with reclaimed furniture: a couple of couches, a large table, and several mismatched chairs. On one side of the room is a full bar, with a doorway leading through to the kitchen. The appliances might be old, but they work.

  Silver vaguely draws upon the building’s key aspects, pointing halfheartedly in the direction of the hallway. “Bathrooms and bedrooms are down the hall, but don’t get too excited. When I say ‘bedroom’, I mean a random room that has a mattress thrown in it. It’s not much, but you’ll get used to it. There’s a gym room, if anybody cares, and before anyone asks, yes—the bar’s fully stocked.”

  Jax grins. “Old or New World liquor?”

  “Both. Some of it was here when I took this place. Some of it I reclaimed.”

  “Reclaimed?” Alex raises an eyebrow.

  Silver shrugs. “Reclaimed. Stole. Same thing.”

  “Semantics.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Who really cares anyway?” Jax grabs a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar. “Liquor is liquor.”

  Silver disagrees. “New World liquor doesn’t taste the same.”

  “Bullshit.” Jax cracks open the whiskey.

  “No, it’s not. Old World liquor was fermented from natural sources of sugar, like grapes, barley, molasses and potatoes. Different sugar, different flavor. New World liquor is manufactured in a lab using synthetic sugars—the same ones they use to make butanol—and it makes everything taste like swamp mix.”

  “Whatever.” Jax pokes her head around a doorway to an office filled with a fancy-looking computer system. “What’s this?”

  “The office. I’m hoping that Alex can patch us in to the Omega server.”

  He nods in agreement. “You know it.”

  “My apartment’s upstairs, by the way. So we’ll all be close.”

  Jax, her emotions always worn on her sleeve, is thoroughly underwhelmed by the notion of it all. “You expect us all to live here together? Seriously? Like one big, happy family.”

  “Why? Got somewhere else you’d rather be?”

  Oz darts in between them, heading for the nearest couch. He drops himself down on it, sending a mushroom cloud of dust up into the air. “Beats my dive.”

  After the dust clears, Red sniffs the air. “Smells like toilet cleaner.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s either that or rat shit.” Silver sighs. “Take your pick.” She looks around the room, hoping to find some sense of appreciation for her efforts, but finds none. “Don’t all hurry to thank me.”

  They don’t.

  Silver finds Alex exploring a mini fridge behind the bar. Aware of her approach, he pokes his head up.

  “Wow. No roaches. Far out.”

  Upstairs, the sound of rushing feet thumps across the ceiling and down the stairwell from the apartment. Alice appears in the doorway and darts toward Silver. She collides with her, wrapping her arms tightly around her and breathing her in, so deep.

  Always thinking the same thoughts, Oz and Jax look to each other for confirmation of their suspicions.

  Alex can’t take his eyes off Alice. He remembers her, of course. He was there the night Silver found her. The only one not shocked by Alice’s arrival is Red, and Dylan makes sure to place himself in close proximity to the calmest mind in the room.

  Pointing a grubby finger in Alice’s direction, Jax is the first one to say what they’re all secretly thinking. “What the fuck is that?”

  Alice tries to reach up and plant a kiss on Silver’s lips, but Silver redirects her and moves her skillfully aside.

  It’s subtle and well executed, but Alex sees it for what it is.

  He can’t hold back.

  “My god …” he utters under his breath.

  He strides over to Alice, takes her by the chin and holds her face to the light, her violet eyes gleaming. Alice pulls her face back from his grasp and moves in behind Silver, hoping for comfort and protection.

  Jax wags the same grubby finger toward Alice again, rising up to the brim with contempt. “Does anyone want to explain that?”

  Alex fixes his face into his own expression of contempt, laced with hurt and frustration. “Silver found her during the Second Reclamation.” He turns to Silver. “I assumed she was dead.”

  Silver avoids his angry eyes, and Alice turns to her for reassurance, looking terribly confused. In a whirlwind of thoughts and memories, she links her recollection of the night Silver found her—and of the man who almost shot her—to the name Alexander King.

  Before anyone can make further comment, Jax draws a modest semi-automatic handgun from the back of her pants and aims it directly at Alice’s head. “Why shouldn’t I kill her where she stands?”

  Silver shoves her way in between them. She takes Jax’s wrist in her strong grasp and redirects the gun away from Alice before slamming her free hand into the crook of Jax’s elbow, making it impossible for her to retain a grip on the gun. Silver disarms her, then hits her across the face with the butt of her own weapon.

  “You want a reason? You’re looking at it.” She glares down at Jax. “You lay so much as a finger on her, and I’ll show you pain like you’ve never felt it before. Understand?”

  Jax gets to her feet. “Since when did we start babysitting monsters?”

  “She’s not Chimera,” Silver defends.

  “No, she’s worse. There’s not even a name for what she is,” Jax rebuts. “And why the fuck am I here? I don’t need to watch you play house with your strange little pet.”

  Tears welling in her eyes, Alice bolts upstairs.

  Red shakes her head, disappointed by Jax’s poor behavior. “Nice job, Pryor.”

  “This is bullshit.” Jax nurses her sore face.

  “Perhaps we should call it a night, and look at things refreshed in the morning?” Red pushes Jax down into a nearby chair. “Give some of us a chance to cool down.”

  Silver seconds that notion.

  Lacking the energy to argue, the rest of the group silently disperses, leaving Silver and Alex alone by the bar. Reaching for a bottle, Silver doesn’t need to look behind her to know that Alex is watching her.

  “Should I get two glasses?”

  She pours two glasses of scotch a
nyway.

  Trying to remain calm, Alex takes a seat at the bar. “When were you going to tell me?”

  Silver places a double-measure drink down in front of him, more than prepared to drink it for him if he’s not in the mood. “What did you expect, Alex? You knew where I was taking her.”

  “Honestly? I don’t know what I expected. God forbid you might’ve come to your senses and shot the thing. Or, heck, you’d been gone for weeks, she could’ve been dead before you even got yourself stripped.”

  Silver takes a seat beside him, too weary to react to the deliberate suggestion that her banishment could’ve been preventable. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  His anger melts when he looks at her. In this moment, she looks so defeated.

  “You don’t disappoint me, El. You worry me.” He places a hand over hers.

  “What’s to worry about?” She withdraws her hand from his. “I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.” She takes a sip of her drink. “I always have.”

  “The virus could’ve evolved. She could be a vector.”

  “Well, I’m still here.” Silver brushes away his concern.

  She finishes her drink and gets up from the bar, expecting to walk away. Alex has other ideas, though, and gets up with her.

  He reaches out and takes her by the wrist, forcing her to stand and face him. “Do you think this last six years has been easy for me?”

  “It hasn’t been easy for any of us.”

  “But not all of us have spent the time screwing …” He struggles to define it. “Whatever the fuck that is.” He points upstairs.

  Silver pulls her wrist free, greeting his outburst with a sharp slap to the face. “You weren’t there!”

  His strong, determined grasp finds her wrist again, holding her still—harder this time—and preventing further violence.

  “No, Silver, you were the one who wasn’t there! All you had to do was shut up and keep your head down, and all of this could have been different. There wasn’t enough evidence against you for the terrorism charge to hold. The case would have been dropped completely, if only you’d have acquiesced.”

  Silver struggles to release herself from his grip, but can’t. “Unlike you, I’m not ashamed of our past, and I’m not about to start apologizing for it.”