Page 204 of Fatality

Charlie and Jules keep pace behind me. We're all dressed the same—black leggings, black boots, zip-up hoodies, and gloves.

Each of us has our hair tucked away beneath a balaclava, our faces concealed so that only our eyes are visible.

I put in colored contact lenses.

With my heterochromia, I'd be recognized immediately. I choose a warm, soft brown—the same shade Kyle's eyes used to be.

“Fuck, Riven,” Charlie whispers, looking around. “The Lower Layers are kind of cool... in an illegal, dangerous sort of way.”

“Focus, Charlie,” I murmur. “This isn't a vacation.”

I glance down at Jules's comm, the holographic map of the Lower Layers floating above it.

“We have to take...”

“My next right,” Jules says, checking the route. “We're ten minutes away.”

We walk at a brisk pace, doing our best to blend in with everyone else.

Strangely, our outfits don't seem to draw a single glance. Probably because they are used to that here.

Good.

The docks stretch out right in front of us. We break into a run, then crouch behind the numbered shipping container where the delivery is supposed to arrive.

Charlie reaches into her backpack and pulls out a crowbar. It slips from her gloved fingers.

Clang.

Jules and I both jump.

The metal smacks against the asphalt, the sound echoing through the docks.

Charlie squeezes one eye shut in a wince.

“Goddamn it, Charlie,” I rasp, clutching at my chest. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Jules simply smacks the back of Charlie's head in gentle reproach.

“Sorry, girls.” Charlie mutters before falling silent.

Right on time, the shipment arrives, it's delivered in a large wooden crate.

We move toward it cautiously but once we're standing in front of it, the three of us exchange confused glances.

I thought it'd be much bigger.

Instead, it's about half my height and roughly as wide as the three of us standing shoulder to shoulder—it's basically an oversized shoebox.

Charlie steps forward and wedges the crowbar between the lid and the side of the crate.

Jules moves in to help, bracing one boot against the wood before they both pull down.

The lid gives way immediately, I grab it and yank it completely off.

I kick the crate, trying to tip it over. It doesn't even budge, frustration flares instantly.

Who the fuck does this oversized shoebox think it is?