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Albatross and Absinthe whip their heads around to face the screens again. Their heads frantically swivel and pivot from monitor to monitor. When their eyes finally catch it, the muscles in their backs turn to stone.
Dessin stands in what looks like a sitting room, with a fancy rug, leather couches, and a low-hanging chandelier. He stands in the middle of the rug with his arms crossed over his chest. A brown leather jacket, white T-shirt, and brown pants. He’s staring into the screens, smiling. It’s him. Oh god, it’s really him. It’s his face. His stunning, tan, rugged face.
He came for me!
I’m filled with a blustery excitement that flutters around under my skin like a disturbed hive of bees. The rush of adrenaline has me wired and alert. I look over at the screens where Dessin once stood outside and notice the seven-foot-tall spikes, topped with human heads.
“Shit!” Absinthe slaps her hand across the screen.
“Listen, you little street child, he thinks finding you in here will be a breeze! Our advancements surpass everything! Every security measure is meant to kill any intruder on sight! So if I were you, I’d wipe that smirk off of your face and prepare yourself to watch this man die a sad and painful death!” Albatross’s face is bright red, causing the name scar to protrude and turn a grayish red.
But I can’t wipe the happiness away. I don’t want to get my hopes up—because this could all be a test, a trick of the light, a confusing trial to ensure my loyalty to Albatross. This could all be in my head, the way DaiSzek rescued me from the hungry pack of men. But I haven’t seen his face, his body, those glorious dark eyes in so long. I’ve longed for this feeling to return to my heart, like melting an ice cube over a fireplace.
Hearing Albatross laugh brings my focus back to the screens. In the far-left monitor, Dessin walks down a long hallway with an axe slung over his shoulder. His eyes are glazed with a ruthless certainty. Like a time traveler that’s already witnessed the destruction of his enemies.
Albatross stomps his foot and looks back at me. “Flesh-eating acid,” he says with a nod. “The sprinkler systems are about to shower him with it. In…”
“Three… two… one…” Absinthe counts down.
I press my forehead to the bars at the front of my cage. The shower of acid starts at the opposite end of the hallway, one section at a time, springing to life. I wait for Dessin to turn the other way, to find a place to hide from the storm of chemicals. Like a sheet of fog, it covers every centimeter of the vicinity. TURN AROUND DESSIN! He stops in his tracks like he’s just now noticing the downpour coming from the ceiling ahead. Only a few yards left until it burns him into a puddle of bubbling skin and bones.
Slowly, confidently, he continues his walk into certain death. Doesn’t stop to assess, doesn’t wear a look of caution, doesn’t seem to care at all that this is a security measure to keep him out.
But that isn’t really his style, is it?
I half expect Absinthe to laugh, call him a fool for falling into the trap without a second thought. But the grandmother and mutilated man are gaping at him, silent, still, barely even breathing.
They clearly know him well. Know what he’s capable of. And have the good sense to fear his confidence.
I think about the moment Demechnef came for Dessin with gas masks, throwing a canister into the room to stabilize him, knock him unconscious. But he smiled, breathing it in his nostrils, making a show of how many steps ahead he always is.
Today is no different.
As he walks directly into a veil of streaming acid, the room holds its breath. We wait for the screams, the howls, the melting flesh. But he keeps walking, unfazed, unharmed. A puppeteer holding a performance for this hidden audience.
And each step he takes is that of a hunter, a soul-sucking grim reaper coming to end them. To send them straight to hell.
“How did he—”
“He switched it out with water,” Absinthe spits.
I laugh. It comes out as a loud scoff. “He’s playing with you!”
At this, Absinthe takes a sharp spin on her heels, cranks my cage open, and crawls inside as I shuffle backward. Her knuckles crunch against my jaw, under my eyes, and a final swing to my bottom lip. I scream as her fist fills my eyes and nose with pressure, hot tears. Blood comes trickling down my lips. “Shut up, stupid girl! Shut up! He’s not going to get in here without the fist of God to pound his way through that door!”
“Grandmother!” Albatross calls. Points to the screen. Soldiers flood the hallways, an organized formation of men trained to annihilate their target. But Dessin is already on the move, running up the side of the hallway wall, does a flip, a full rotation of his body through the air over the cluster of armed men, and it happens so easily. A clean move, a swing of his axe slicing through their necks like butter. Seven heads roll. Shreds of skin and spewing arteries soak the walls, the hardwood floors, and Dessin’s clothes.
He takes no time to examine his work, study the massacre he’s left behind. With a spin of his axe, he’s darting down the hallway, turning the corner and—
“He’s not aware of the latest addition to our security,” Albatross mutters nervously.
The hallway he’s in shudders, the floor throwing him off balance. He’s stopped, looking from wall to wall. But he isn’t responding fast enough. Metal walls rise on each end of the hallway, shutting him in. With an abrupt boom, the walls begin to move toward him, dragging against the floors, closing in, aiming to crush him.
No… do something!
The screens go black. The lights turn off. And we’re submerged in total darkness.
I’m so used to this sight. No color. No movements. Just me. Alone. But the gasps and groans from Albatross and Absinthe remind me that this is really happening. I’m not trapped in my mind again.
