The Los Angeles Lighthouse | ✔

Chapter 7: The Cool Kids Are On Conference Calls

THREE people sit at the conference table.

     Their conversation sputters to a halt upon our entry. Brooks takes her seat in the center, pausing briefly to greet the surrounding Wardens. While I keep my eyes glued to the floor, trying desperately to attract at least attention as possible. Or at least the attention of the Warden whose face had become far too familiar with my fist. As long as I continue to keep my head down he shouldn't—

"Hey, Mocha!"

Faex.

Reluctantly, I tug my chin up to meet his playful gaze. Blank eyed and gritted teeth, I mutter, "Hello, Warden Chen."

A smirk dangles on the corners of Chen's lips, almost pulling attention away from the thick bruise outlining his jawline. Almost.

"No need to be so formal." He gives me a once over, coming to rest at my eyes. "I'm touched, you remembered my name."

"I feel it's my duty to remember idiots' names in case said idiots forget their own."

"Well now you're just being mean—"

"You must be Mason Marks," a husky voice cuts him off. Chen deflates. He doesn't even look behind him but rather heave a sigh, toss a wink in my direction, and then abruptly pivot on his heel to allow the husky voice to take his place.

     The newcomer, who appears to be in his mid-twenties, offers a hand to shake. "My name is Warden Damas." His fingers are calloused and rough to the touch. The man is a foot or so taller than I; he holds himself with a serious expression, but not unkind, acting as a model of the term dangerously handsome. The Warden has gravel-like complexion, skin ragged and dark, having seen it's fair share of trouble.

Damas loosens his grasp on my hand. It throbs upon release, blood gushing back after being strangled by the firm grip. I wiggle my fingers.

     "The meeting's going to start in a few minutes," he says as I continue to test if my hand is still functioning. "Take a seat next to Warden Nguyen. You know her, correct?"

     He visibly relaxes when I nod. "You seem to get along with Warden Brooks. I take it you've met her partner, Chen?"

     Partner? I wince, glancing over at Chen as he waggles his eyebrows at Brooks, whispering something to her that I don't catch. Upon spotting me, he waves hello. I jerk my head back before he has the chance to engage. Maybe I shouldn't have punched him.

     The ruffling of the hood on Damas's trucker jacket yanks my attention to the present. "Brooks gets Chen, but I have to work with the pink haired stercus over there." He nods at a lithely built man—who seems to be around the same age as Damas—with curly hair that is indeed dyed a pastel pink. His cape is tossed carelessly over the back of his chair while the Warden's legs are sprawled across the table. One hand rubs his stylishly trimmed, yet undyed, stubble thoughtfully, while the other gestures widely to Nguyen, painting a story too far away to hear. Damas shoulders past me, most likely to tell his pink haired partner off.

An abrupt cry of shredding wood cuts through the air as I wrench the cheerily yellow swivel chair out from beneath the table. No one pays me mind as I sit between Nguyen and Chen.

The screen facing the conference table flickers on. A band of words wraps around the base of the television: 27 active. Eventually, the number winds up to 34 where it stays, accompanied by 34 boxes. A name flashes below each on the live video. Some of the more prominent states, such as New York and Florida are missing.