It was six in the evening and she still hadn’t decided on an answer. In the handful of times they’d spoken over the past week, Perry hadn’t said a word about her going MIA, but there had been a note of wistfulness in his last message. And saying he needed help on a Tuesday, one of the quietest nights of the week, was his roundabout way of saying, What the hell is going on?
Really, she should go. Gwen made it abundantly clear she wouldn’t be welcome back on level eleven anytime soon. And Blake was back to ignoring her. Kira had left her three messages. In hindsight, she probably shouldn’t have left the last one while she was on the toilet. Niagra Falls in the background probably wasn’t pleasant.
Kira waved her flesh hand towards the TV sensor, and it responded by bringing up the holographic control in front of her. She flicked through a dozen stations. If she were interested in the world’s worst jobs or how to doomsday prep, she would be fine. Another flick and she caught a glimpse of a very familiar face. Her own. Leaving a nightclub in France somewhere. Messily. A rerun of some overpunctuated entertainment program.
‘Yay me,’ she declared to the sad, weeping fern that was the only other living thing in the apartment. ‘Cannes was awesome, I’m told.’
She took another bubbly sip and tried Blake’s number again, not entirely certain what it was she wanted to say to her sister. She decided she would start with hello. Or maybe not – straight to voicemail. Righto. Looked as though Blake’s desire to actually talk to her sister had well and truly evaporated. Again. Kira should go. Book a one-way ticket somewhere. It had been Bali last time. Scotland was next on the list. Find out what’s under the kilts.
‘Leave the crazy bitch with her tin soldiers and ETs, and go get me a life.’ Forget the android on the floor. And the silver-haired alien with the sweetest orgasm face she’d ever seen. ‘Shit, where did that come from? Right, definitely time to get the hell out of here. I think I’ve got cabin fever.’ She tugged at one of the fern fronds, and it came free of its stem.
‘No wonder you’re not saying much.’ Kira flicked the dying green tendril onto the floor.
Her apartment door opened, and three people filed into the room. The first wore a grey jacket with the hood drawn up and face hidden, but behind them was the unmistakable bulk of Rossiter.
Then, shock of all fucking shocks, Blake followed in close behind him. Heading straight to the grey-hoodie person, guiding them to sit on the couch. Which they did, the way a hundred-year-old grandad might do it. Slow and not very steady.
‘Okay.’ Kira stood up, crossing her arms over her chest. She wore her favourite T-shirt, She-Ra Princess of Power faded across its front, and so threadbare her nipples threatened to poke heads to freedom. Safe bet her sister didn’t want to see that. ‘Blake, I gotta draw the line at an orgy with my own sister.’
Blake pushed the hood free from the mystery man’s head and Kira’s mouth dropped. Azrael. With a shirt on. And his hair bunched into a ponytail, one loose strand cupping the curve of his cheek. Looking like Kira often did. Half-baked.
‘Hey, cupcake,’ Kira said. ‘Long time no see.’
Azrael’s stare-fest moved to her lips as it often did, as if he couldn’t work out why they were moving. But he wasn’t alone in the staring competition today. Blake locked on to her like a hawk targeting a mouse.
‘Your robot is in my lounge room.’ Kira gestured to Azrael. ‘Something you want to tell me, Blake?’
Hawkeye Beckworth shook her head. ‘There’s something I want you to do.’
Blake - 9
Blake crouched beside Azrael, and Rossiter loomed over them both. The overprotective bodyguard had failed to heed her repeated requests to leave. She’d said it politely enough to begin with, but her patience was running thin. She was acutely aware that there was only so long before someone realised she was looping the surveillance footage of Azrael’s cell.
‘Rossiter, I want you to leave –’
‘I don’t think this is a good idea, leaving you two alone with –’ Rossiter’s hand fluttered uselessly as he sought the word.
Blake considered standing, but just the thought of the energy that would take kept her on her knees.
‘You are not required to think about my requests,’ she said.
Harsh, without doubt, but since the death of their father – and Rossiter’s former military colleague – the massively structured man had taken his job to a new level of commitment, acting as though Blake required not only security but guidance as well. An incorrect, and mildly irritating, assumption. She neither needed nor desired an alternate father figure. She’d make her own mistakes and clean them up without assistance.
‘You can go now,’ Blake said.
Muscles in Rossiter’s thick neck danced with the indecision tightening his body. ‘I’ll wait on your call to return Azrael to level eleven.’
His gaze darted to Kira. The look on her face was discernible enough. Confusion. And Kira did not like to be confused. Blake had best get to the point, or her sister’s irritation would make conversation laborious; sarcasm, innuendo, and crass language were always Kira’s go-to when she became uncomfortable.
The door closed behind Rossiter with a gentle click. Kira stood behind the black leather couch, tapping her fingernails against her prosthetic, creating a dull sound. Despite the work Blake had put in to creating a perfect faux skin for the arm—in hope of drawing less attention to the advanced properties of the design and material—Kira refused to wear it, and Blake’s inability to view the bare prosthetic without feeling ill had not reduced over the years. She focused back on Azrael. The apartment smelled of pizza. A deep, rich scent that turned Blake’s empty stomach. Two empty beer bottles,
