She sat next to him as he flipped to the first book in the New Testament and began scouring the pages until he found the 22nd chapter. She didn't miss the slight fingershake as he located the 14th verse.
"Matthew 22:14," he read aloud, "For many are...
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It was no secret that Tasha Khan hated the warehouse district. She pulled up next to an ugly brown Oldsmobile and threw the car into park, shooting a look of disdain out the window. The sky was as promising as this neighborhood; gray and gross.
She locked the car and headed towards the small tax office. Like the empty shops that surrounded it, the service was beneath a leaning high-rise and stained a wonderful mixture of brown and yellow. Especially the nicotine-caked windows. She sighed and pushed on the door.
"Heyyy, Tasha," Frank greeted from the back. The rest of the place was empty. He was a heavyset man in his late fifties, nearly balding, and flashed a couple of gold teeth around a cigar.
"Heyyy, Frank," she echoed.
"Can I get you anything?" He offered, gesturing his hand to the sad little coffee bar. "Tea? Water?"
"No thanks, just popped in to say hi before I head next door."
"Ahhh, it's about time they started treatin' you like a big girl."
She resisted the urge to kick him. Barely. "Just unlock the door, Frank."
"Anything for you, sweetheart."
She didn't roll her eyes until he walked away, hopefully to his office to activate the doors. When he was finished, he came back in and winked at her. "Alright, you've got twenty before they shut back down."
"Thanks."
Tasha left and crossed the street to the old COA building. Though "abandoned" years ago, it was easily the nicest building on the block. The outside locks had been busted a long time ago, but anything worthwhile was secured behind two incredibly heavy metal doors in the basement, which Frank had so kindly activated for her.
She slipped inside and gagged immediately, nearly tripping over the rotting carcass of some poor scavenging animal in the process. Her eyes began to water from the sheer strength of the foul odor.
"Why is it sour," she grumbled, yanking the neck gaiter up over her nose and mouth. Frank's storefront smelled almost heavenly by comparison. She hurried forward, grateful when she made it to the stairs without being assaulted by rats or tripping over anything else.
Outside light didn't reach the stairwell, making it cold but not dark. Frank had remembered to flip the lights on this time. Fluorescent bulbs illuminated the crud on the stairs, but at least she knew where to step. It took several minutes just to make it to the bottom where a pileup of garbage was shoved into the corner making questionable squeaking noises.
Tasha breathed a short sigh of relief when she approached the first set of doors. They came open after a few full-bodied tugs. The air was stale, but not nearly as nasty as the upper floor had been. She crossed the small space and quickly typed in a code to get the second set of doors open, checking her watch to keep the timing accurate. There were 10 minutes left before they would power down and shut her in for good.
The dimly lit corridor was lined with doors, some labeled, some not. She passed them by quickly and didn't stop until she came to the one with the word 'Archives' stamped in the center. This door gave way without a fight, and Tasha stepped inside.
It was nothing fancy to look at, really. Just rows and rows of old metal filing cabinets lacking any normal labeling system. She pulled a crumpled Post-it from her pocket and squinted at it in the abysmal lighting; 001-A0-3. The filing cabinet numbers. She found it tucked in the back of the room. She pulled it open and frowned, double-checking that this was the right one. Apparently, it was, but something was off. Most of the files themselves weren't labeled by code like the Post-it. Most of them were directly marked "Augmentation Trials 20xx," which put a strange feeling in her gut. This project hadn't been active in 5 years, but some of the files went as far back as 12...
Her watch beeped, snapping her out of it. She grabbed all of the files, knowing that time was running out and she'd just have to sort it out later.
"Shoulda brought a bag," the black-haired girl grumbled.
Hefting the files through the halls, past the doors, and back up the stairs without dropping any along the way was a miracle. By the time she exited the building, she could hardly breathe right, but at least all of the folders were accounted for. She crossed the street and tossed them into the passenger seat of her car before throwing a wave to Frank, who was still lurking in those yellow-tinted windows of the tax shop.
What did Algernon want with the old files anyway?
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