GOLDEN AGE | ON HIATUS

XIX | PAX

[ 19 ]

IN THE BELLY OF THE BEAST, you were never alone. No, you could be surrounded by darkness, but you were never alone -- in that darkness, there could be god-knows-what -- a circle of gunmen, a bottle of the finest wine on a checkered-cloth table, or maybe even a hoarde of pretty girls on a particularly good day. But now, there was nothing could that Pax Killdow could find even half-good; this greasy, insane kid sat opposite him was not cutting it, and Pax knew that if he tried to send him away, take him out or whatever else, once twitch of deep-fried Harry Potter's fingers and he'd be dead on the floor.

That was the problem with dealing with people like Rex Corvus -- there was too much time and effort wasted. It was usually a pointless task, anyway, given that they snapped halfway through and supplied Pax with nothing but a sour taste in his mouth. But today, it was different. Not because it was a great deal or there was a lot of money to be made, which tended to be his motive for most things, but rather, because there was a level of fun and drama missing from his life -- and that was exactly what helping Rex Corvus promised him. 

Also, a heavy dose of Crux's weaponry, but that was only a sideshow compared to the complete chaos unfolding in Semper City, of which Pax was happy to watch with a glass of pinot grigio in one hand and a loaded gun in the other, piano music playing in the background. At the moment, he was doing exactly that, the smell of alcohol sweeping up into his nose as he took a gulp from his glass. On the other side of the table, the loony tunes kid was stabbing repeatedly at his steak with a butter knife, having not been trusted with anything sharper. 

If Pax Killdow was to go down, it would be magnificent. He would be a bomb, taking everything down with him. 

"You done with that?" he broke the silence with a half-hazard nod at the boy's plate, where his steak lay in a pool of beige sauce, completely untouched spare the occasional jab of his butter knife.

"That's not what we're here to discuss today, are we, Mr Killdow?" Rex spoke slowly, drawing out each syllable as if it were a hiss. Pax couldn't help thinking that he sounded like he hadn't spoken in a very long time, only amplified by his cracked lips and dead eyes.

To put it simply, Rex Corvus looked like he'd been dug straight out of a grave -- and Pax wouldn't have been surprised if he, in fact, had been. Tucking a napkin into the collar of his tailored burgundy shirt, Killdow sat back in the upholstery of his seat, focusing the dull throb of his gun pressing against his ribs rather than the kid's gaze, burning into his skin as if it were a trail of hot coals. 

"We're here to talk business, aren't we?" Pax thumbed the edge of the tablecloth, the classical music blasting from the speakers on the stage drowning out his hasty breathing as Corvus struggled against his handcuffs. The spotlight above them plunged them into near-blinding light as the rest of the club was swathed in darkness, Killdow's men standing in a circle around the two of them with machine guns in their arms. Metal gleamed dully against the smooth black of their suits, tattoos snaking up their collars and grazing their jawbones.

"Semper City is more than business. I'm not a businessman, Killdow. I'm a kill monger, me. Warlord, if you like." A snakeish smirk made its way to Rex's lips as he went limp, arms and legs spread out on the chair with only his head down to look at Pax.

"And this is war?" 

Rex pursed his lips, greasy black hair covering his eyes. He sat there for a long moment, until he suddenly sat up, stiff as a doll. A manic grin engulfed his features. "Of course."

The music faded away till it was just piano, but the keys weren't right. It sounded as if someone were just banging on the notes, leaving descant chords that echoed all around the room. A shiver went down Pax's spine, and he slammed his fist on the table with an angry shout.