I’ve got no plan. Nothing.
So I walk. It’s what I do when I can’t solve something. I wander through the Rot, check the temperature of the place, and let my brain work on the problem in the background while my feet handle the foreground. There’s not much going on this time of night. A few people are hanging in the neutral zone, finishing meals or playing cards. I nod at a few and they nod back. Everything looks normal.
Then I see Mara.
She’s sitting at one of the communal tables near the west entrance, talking to a guy. Nothing unusual about that. Mara’s been socializing more since she settled in. She’s warm, she’s open, she talks to people. It’s what she does. She didn’t enter the Rot via a Hunt, like most women do, so she doesn’t have the same level of intimidation. Or fear.
She’s talking to Tommy.
I know Tommy the way I know a lot of Rotters—by face and general usefulness. This guy’s mid-forties and been here awhile, as far back as I can remember. He helps out with trade logistics, sorting, counting, that kind of thing. He’s good at it, reliable, and never causes problems or makes waves. I’ve probably spoken to him a total of ten times, and nine of those were about inventory.
He’s leaning toward Mara with his elbows on the table, nodding at something she’s saying, friendly and relaxed. He’s laughing at whatever she just told him, just enough to make her feel heard. She’s smiling in return and looks comfortable, like a woman who found a friend in a strange place and is happy about it.
I should keep walking. There’s nothing here. Tommy is nobody but a middle-aged guy who counts boxes and makes pleasant conversation. Mara is an adult who can talk to whoever she wants.
But something snags my attention.
I don’t know what it is. Not alarm. Not suspicion. Just a catch. The kind I get sometimes when a detail doesn’t sit right. It’s the same instinct that made me note the inconsistencies in Alice’s documents from weeks ago, where Renner’s audit request was denied before he even formally placed it.
Maybe it’s the way Tommy is listening to Mara that’s rubbing me the wrong way. Most people in the Rot listen the way Rotters listen—half-attention, one eye on the room, the permanent low-grade alertness of people living in a place that could turn on them. But Tommy is giving Mara his full attention. He’s focused. He’s engaged, like what she’s saying actually matters to him.
That’s either genuine warmth or acting, I can’t tell which. That’s what bothers me.
I watch for another ten seconds. Tommy says something and Mara laughs again. He pats the table once, a friendly gesture, agood talking to youkind of thing, and stands up. He nods at her and she waves. He turns and walks toward the west corridor.
He passes me on the way. Nods. “Evening, Sting.”
“Tommy.”
That’s it. He keeps walking. I keep standing. There’s nothing wrong with this man. He’s a Rotter who had a conversation with another Rotter and said good night and left. That’s all that happened.
I file it anyway.
Hell, I file everything. That’s how I’m built. Information goes in, gets sorted, gets stored. Most of it never matters. Ninety-nine percent of what I file is noise. But every now and then, the one percent turns into something, and the only reason I catch it is because I filed it to begin with.
Tommy talking to Mara. Filed.
I keep walking, thinking about Armen and Vi and evidence and open doors, and I’m not thinking about Tommy at all.
Not yet.
43
VI
I askedRogue three days ago.
We were alone outside the work hub. He was leaning against the wall doing his Rogue thing, which is standing around looking like he’s got nowhere to be while keeping track of everyone in his line of sight. I stopped, looked at him, and said, “I want you to come find me. Mask on. Don’t tell me when.”
His grin was slow. “You sure?”
“Don’t I look sure?”
“You look like trouble.”
“Is that a yes?”
“That’s a hell yes.”
