Terminal (Terminal trilogy #1)

8: Fourth horse

The jail was nothing more than a corner in the smallest police station in the city, a tiny booth that didn't even have its own bathroom. A proper uniformed officer took note of our names and crime, but didn't press much for details, as was the Hell way of doing things.

Blake had been shaking from the moment we entered, and I was beginning to suspect he had some kind of fear of authority figures- or maybe it was just general anxiety. The officers here- just two of them- were completely chatty with the both of us and each other, seemingly sympathetic to our soon misfortune, though still stern in reminding us of the law.

"I usually don't get caught." I had remarked to one of them, and Blake looked ready to faint.

She laughed with a lot more charm than most people had in their laughs. "Good luck with Glenn tomorrow, kid."

"I think we both know the likely outcome of that," I said, probably at the highest level of cheeriness Blake had ever seen me at. This all, to me, was sort of like a joke. I knew what cards to play tomorrow with Glenn- most people did.

She was one of The Few, the Pisces, as anyone important in Hell had to be- she'd gotten there through some level of bloodlust, but you'd never have guessed her capable of such a thing. I remember when she first got to Hell, conservative blonde bun paired with the least interesting outfit choices. A week into running the courts- without any law experience, naturally- she had cut all her hair off and adopted a habit of only wearing pink.

You'd have figured that if she was going to snap, it would have been during combat. Her hair was longer now, and she maybe ruled the legal system a little less vivaciously, but she was still living evidence of how fucked the internal infrastructure of Hell was.

The trick to winning against her was to make her like you, and I knew exactly how to do that. I figured pulling this skill out of nowhere tomorrow would really impress Blake, which... I guess... was something I suddenly wanted to do now?

After all out papers were filed, we were given our tracker bracelets, devices so understandably simple that they needed no other description but that.

"We expect you back by six," the officer who set them up said with a smile. It was exactly four twenty-one.

"I'll just stay here then," I said, sitting on the little stool provided for criminals like myself. "Blake, go ahead and explore the city on your own."

"Um, is that... safe?" He whispered. He had been very dodgy about giving too much information to the officers, perhaps worried they might stress him for being a human.

"Yeah. Look at these fine officers of law here, and tell me you don't feel at ease." When he still looked unsure, I sighed. "It's midday and you have nothing mug worthy on you. Stick to the center and there's even less than a zero percent chance that something will go wrong."

He really, really, reluctantly went out the door, still rubbing his upper wrist where the tracker was applied.

"Am I allowed to watch TV here?" I asked, after sitting on the stool for around ten minutes, just clearing my mind.

"Go ahead." The officer that was still here said, and she tossed me the remote to the station's tiny government-issued television. I immediately skipped to channel five. The gossip channel. Fuck yes.

The first piece was uninteresting to me, something about rumors concerning one of the military generals, the Jamie Pollina, and how no one knew a thing about them. The news was always throwing in this roundtable discussions of their identity on slow news days- all that mattered to most people was that they were a good killer.