RWD: 3.x (Interlude)(Skitter[a.])

A.N.: Writer's block is killing me! Have this whilst I work on finishing the chapters for Arcane Disorder

3.x (Interlude)(Skitter[a.])

The bell was an ugly, jarring sound, like metal shearing against metal. It sliced through the fog that had settled over my thoughts, and for a moment, I was just a girl in a classroom, surrounded by the familiar scrape of chairs and the rising tide of chatter. Then the memory of the previous evening washed back in, and the world went grey at the edges again.

My own hands moved on autopilot, tucking a notebook I hadn’t written a single word in into my bag. I hadn’t heard a word Mr. Gladly had said. My thoughts were a tangled, sticky mess, constantly circling back to the rain-streaked interior of a truck and a conversation that made me almost wish I hadn’t partaken in.

They knew. The PRT. The school. 

They knew. Yet, they didn’t lift a finger.

Easier to sweep your problems under the rug than deal with one of their own.

The words echoed, a relentless, sickening rhythm. Everything I’d been working towards, the flimsy, desperate hope that I could be a hero, that I could join the Wards and make things right… it had all been built on a lie. The good guys weren't good. The system wasn't just flawed; it was rotten. A knot of something cold and heavy had settled in my stomach last night and hadn't moved since. It felt a lot like despair.

“Taylor.”

I flinched, my head snapping up. Greg stood by my desk, his expression as placid and unreadable as a calm sea. 

“We’re leaving,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

I blinked. “Where are we—?”

“Now.”

Another protest formed in my throat, something about Mrs. Knott, about computer class, about the pointless, mundane routine of a normal school day. It died before it reached my lips. What was the point? The illusion of ‘normal’ had been shattered. All I had now was this. This boy. This… monster who’d told me the truth.

My limbs felt heavy, disconnected, as I zipped up my backpack and rose from my chair. I followed him out into the hallway, a piece of driftwood caught in a current. We stopped at his locker. A few clicks of the combination lock and the metal door swung open. He put his textbooks on the top shelf, then turned to me, his hand out. For a second, I just stared at it, confused. Then I realised he wanted my bag. Hesitantly, I swung it off my shoulder and handed it over. The worn canvas felt strange leaving my hands.

Confused, I watched him cram it in with his own things before slamming the door shut.

“Hey—” I began.

“It’s better you carry nothing identifiable,” he said, already moving again. “We’re in a hurry.”

Still trying to find my footing, I followed him out of the school’s main entrance, not even sure I wanted to ask where we were going this time. The weak sunlight felt harsh on my eyes. We walked to the bus stop in silence.

#

The bus smelled of wet coats and diesel fumes. We sat at the very back, the engine’s vibrations rumbling up through the seat. The window beside me felt cool and slick with condensation. I watched the city slide by, a dreary panorama of grey buildings and rain-slicked streets. It all looked unreal, like a set for a movie I didn’t want to be in.

Greg, in contrast, seemed perfectly at ease beside me. He had taken the aisle seat, shielding my view from most of the bus, which might have bothered me if I wasn’t too busy wondering what I’d just been pulled into. He had pulled out a burner phone sometime ago and started typing, his thumbs dancing across the keypad in short, rhythmic bursts. I’d seen Lisa do the same when coordinating the few Undersider jobs I had been on. But Lisa, for all her cleverness, always looked somewhat stressed when she did it. Greg didn’t. 

“My initial plan for the Undersider’s integration has been scrapped,” he said without looking up. “You lot were supposed to participate in a raid to dismantle the Archer’s Bridge Merchants later this afternoon. A low-risk operation to establish a baseline and allow you to acclimate to my way of doing things.”

I swallowed, the name vaguely familiar. A small-time gang of drug dealers and thugs. That sounded… manageable. Almost like something a hero would do.

“Unfortunately, that plan has been postponed,” he continued, dashing the fleeting thought. “Coil’s trial was moved up. The sentence was handed down this morning, and preparations for his transferred to the Birdcage are being made as well speak. The transport leaves PRT headquarters in under an hour.”

I swallowed. “So… it’s over?”

A pause. Then a faint, humourless smile. “Not quite. I don’t leave things to chance, Taylor,” Greg said, his eyes meeting mine. They were calm, clear, and held an intensity that made my breath catch. “Calvert is resourceful. His network was extensive. I can’t discount the possibility that he had a contingency for this, that some loyalist faction or third party might attempt an extraction. His escape during transit is a low-probability event, but one with unacceptably high consequences. I have decided on a more personal intervention to ensure that doesn’t happen.”

“Wait,” I said slowly. “We’re… helping the PRT?”

“No,” he said, still tapping away at his phone. “I’m simply not in the habit of trusting government institutions to do anything right the first time. Lung’s escape not long ago proves definitively that there’s a limit to their competence. In light of this, we will be shadowing the PRT convoy until Thomas Calvert is safely on a plane to the Birdcage. From that point, Dragon ought to have not issues keeping a lid on things. She has always been the most competent of the lot.”

…What? Secretly escorting a PRT prisoner transport? I stared at him, my mind struggling to process the sheer, insane, arrogant audacity of the words. 

Greg must have seen the disbelief on my face, because he started laying it out with the dispassionate clarity of a teacher explaining a math problem. “The convoy is small, to minimise its profile. A lead and rear SUV, each with four PRT troopers. The primary transport, the ‘Box,’ is a custom-built armoured truck, looks like a standard hauler. Calvert will be inside, sedated and restrained. There will be a decoy, an identical truck, staffed by a full PRT squad. They’ll have high-altitude drone overwatch for the first leg, but it will disengage on the interstate to avoid signalling the convoy’s importance.”

“Their route is mostly highway, for speed. South out of the Bay, then cutting west towards Boston. They’ll switch highways near Saxonville, where they would make a few undisclosed detours to avoid possible ambushes. The overland transfer point is a secure airfield outside Worcester. From there, Coil would be flown to the facility in British Columbia.” Greg paused. “The rest of the team was briefed at 0500 hours. They’re already moving into their initial positions. The accelerated timeline, however, means we are lacking a reliable method for remote tracking of the primary vehicle.”

His gaze rose and settled on me. The implication was immediate, and my stomach twisted.

“Me?” I breathed.

“Your range and perception are both extensive, reliable and hard to detect,” he stated, a simple fact. “You are the most expedient solution. You will be our eyes.”

Greg put his phone away as the bus hissed to a stop. “We’re here.”

#

I followed him off the bus and onto a cracked, weed-choked sidewalk, my mind still reeling. We walk for a bit until we arrived in front of a long, drab building, a series of identical roll-up garage doors stretching down the block. The sign in front read U-STORE-IT. The place felt desolate, forgotten.

Greg didn’t speak even as we turned the corner and ducked through the gate of a self-storage facility. It was the kind of place people rented when they didn’t have a garage—or when they wanted something kept secret. Rows of orange roll-up doors, a narrow access path between them.

He led us to one of the mid-row units and knelt in front of it. The lock was the combination type—no key. He spun the dial twice, paused, and spun it again. Then the lock clicked open with an audible clunk.

Without much fanfare, the door groaned upwards, revealing a square of darkness.

“Inside,” Greg said.

I hesitated for a second, then stepped into the cool, dark space. The door rumbled shut behind me, plunging us both into absolute blackness. My heart hammered against my ribs. For a terrifying instant, there was only the sound of our breathing. Then a sharp flick—Greg found a switch—and a single bare bulb buzzed to life overhead, casting a weak, yellow glow on the concrete floor. The unit was mostly empty, save for two black hardshelled suitcases resting against the far wall.

Greg walked over to the first one, laid it flat, and unzipped it. Inside, nestled in foam, was a folded set of dark, tactical clothing and body armour. He began to strip, pulling his hoodie off over his head, unbuckling his jeans.

“Hey!” I yelped, spinning around, my face burning. “What are you doing?”

“Changing,” he replied, his voice muffled as he pulled his t-shirt off. The rustle of clothing was loud in the small space. “We’re on the clock, Taylor. You’ll have to manage.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, listening to the quiet sounds of him dressing. A moment later, a bundle of fabric landed softly on my head. I flinched, pulling it off. It was another uniform, identical to the one he was putting on.

I risked a glance over my shoulder. Greg was barefoot, facing away from me as he shrugged into the tactical vest, the lean, hard muscles in his back moving smoothly under the slim-fit shirt. He pulled the straps tight with efficient, practised motions. Printed in stark white letters across the back of the vest was a single word.

SWAT.

I looked down at the clothes in my hands. The same word stared back at me.

“Why… why are we dressing like cops?” I stammered.

He didn't answer directly. He was pulling on a black balaclava, the fabric settling over his face, leaving only his eyes visible. They were cold, focused. He picked up his boots from the floor.

“Our ride will be at the rendezvous in seven minutes,” he said, his voice slightly distorted by the mask. “You should hurry up. Gather a small swarm while you are at it; there should be enough critters in the area.”

His final piece said, Greg walked to the door, not even bothering to put his boots on. He lifted the heavy door just enough to slip under it, then let it fall with a deafening clang, leaving me alone in the dim, silent storage unit.

I stood there, the heavy fabric clutched in my hands, my heart pounding a frantic, terrified rhythm against the silence.