“Don’t stay up too late,” they say. Their fingers ghost over the shaved side of my head once, lingering, before they retreat.
The door clicks shut behind them.
“Don’t leave me,” I reply to the empty rooftop. It’s just about as likely.
I drop my head into my hands, raining glowing stars from my hair down into the night.
Eight
THE CONVERSATION ON THE ROOFTOP feels like a hazy, half-remembered dream the next morning. Remi stands next to me on the train, deliberately not looking at me, but otherwise chattering away. They’re not acknowledging anything at all out of the ordinary. Probably for the best. This job will require us all to be our best, least-distracted selves.
The four of us ride to the Montague Street Station together like Jaesin and I did yesterday morning. We laugh and mess around like normal, but the pull of adrenaline and anticipation gives every word and gesture a sharp edge. We’ve done this a hundred times, but something already feels off. Maybe it’s just me, though. This’ll be the closest we’ve ever gone to the station where my dad died. Not excited for that. It’ll also be our actual, seriously, not-even-lying-this-time final job ever. I’d like to think I got all the bitterness out of my system last time, but let’s be real. I am never out of bitterness.
When we arrive, we split up and make our own individual ways to the park, stopping to browse as necessary to look natural. I arrive at the park last to find the others lying on the shady side of a hill facing away from the street, chatting quietly and passing a frothy purple tea between them. Remi’s face lights up with quiet laughter at something Jaesin says, and they collapse into Ania’s lap with their hands pressed over their face. Jaesin and Ania lock eyes for a moment and share a smile. The sight stops me dead for a long moment, the three of them there all together. Most people would see three friends hanging out, relaxing, enjoying the last few days before adulthood.
I see the end of everything. I see the three people who matter most to me in the world together, without me, the way it’s always going to be. It’s a bitter taste.
I command my lenses to take a picture: Remi reaching over to grab the cup from Jaesin, Ania’s expression long-suffering but fond, Jaesin outraged at the theft of the drink before he was done with it. I’ll probably be embarrassed later and delete the picture. For now, I save it and focus back on the task at hand.
I pause next to one of the border trees and pull out the small concealment spell Remi made last night. The crystalline dust of it makes my hands itch as I crush it over my head, then pull out another spell for the access hatch. A minute for the spell to take full effect, then I walk straight up to the MMC access hatch, careful to move with calm, even strides. Any sudden movements or attention-grabbing sounds and people will see right through the obscuraz, no matter how good Remi’s weaving is.
When I reach the maintenance hatch, I smear the second spell across the door, feeling the tiny snaps as its lattice structure crumbles. The door glimmers faintly for a few seconds as the maz takes effect. Any passing observer’s eyes should skip right over it. For now.
Once the glimmer of the spell fades, I get to work on the lock. It’s both password and fingerprint locked, like most things are, and I spot a tiny camera in the top corner that’s likely for facial recognition. No problem. I run my custom intrusion program to sync my deck and the door’s system, and I’m in less than two minutes later. One hurdle down. If they’d changed up their security protocol, I’d have been here a lot longer, trying to develop a new workaround on the fly. But they haven’t—this is no different than any other job we’ve ever pulled.
For a brief moment, I wonder if I’m breaking through code Davon has written himself. Guilt is useless, though. I’ve done this plenty of times before, and this is the last. When I accept the job at MMC—if I accept the job—maybe I’ll write some new security protocols for these tunnels, and get paid for it too.
Ah, the irony.
I’ve had a password cracker for MMC’s systems for years. Once I’m in, it’s routine to erase the last few minutes of my face on the camera, pull up one of the saved fingerprint-and-face combos in the MMC database, and feed them back into the system. Too easy. They really do need my help. I guess it’s a rare person who actually wants to enter a sewer voluntarily, though. Just me . . . and every other siphoner in the city. Come on, MMC. The door whirs, hums, then clicks open an inch.
Victory.
I turn as slowly and casually as I can and wait to catch Jaesin’s eye. He watches the area around me intently, squinting as if he’s trying to focus on something . . . then his face relaxes, and he gives the faintest of nods when he spots me, able to see through the spell since he knows exactly what he’s looking for. The others apply their own concealment spells, get up slowly and stretch, drink the last of their tea, and amble my way, tossing the cup into a trash processor along the way. I pull the hatch open for them, slow and calm, and hold it until all three of them have passed through.
Once I slip in after them and pull the door quietly shut behind me, I climb down to the catwalk that runs above the river of underground sewage. The others wait with mischievous grins. We’re in it now. No point pretending they don’t love it as much as I do. Jaesin holds his hand up for a fist bump, which I happily oblige, part hell-yes-we-got-this and part thanks-for-not-ratting-me-out-yesterday. He hasn’t mentioned my earlier slipup about the job-offer issue, so I guess he took me at my word for once.
“Any security?” I ask, and Jaesin shakes his head.
“No sign on the usual patrol paths. We’re good to go. Remi,” he says, gesturing ahead of us. “Lead the way.”
“You just want me to step in the poop first,” they whine, but take the lead anyway, practically skipping. In just a few minutes, we’ll know for sure if maz-15 is real, and their excitement is palpable. Sewers aren’t the best place for someone immunocompromised, but Remi always take precautions—a mask, rain boots, disposable gloves, a truly alarming amount of sanitizer once we leave, and a hot shower with decon chems when we get home. They run one gloved hand along the pipes above as they walk, sensing for the maz inside.
“I think this is the one we want. Something’s weird,” they murmur, muffled by the mask, and follow the pipe deeper into the tunnels. Even after knowing them for almost ten years, Remi still amazes me. The fact that they can feel out which strains are running through the pipe when it’s all mixed together is amazing. And this is the last time I’ll get to see them at work, doing what they do best.
I never knew it was possible to feel nostalgic for something that isn’t even over yet, but when Ania meets my gaze with a little twist of a smile, I know she feels the same.
The smell intensifies as we draw farther and farther away from the fresher air near the entrance, until the air actually feels thick and heavy with the indescribable stench of rotting waste. Scentaz is fairly rare and of limited use, so we never bother stealing any. We breathe through our mouths and creep along the narrow catwalks until we find what we need—a junction point with a small pressure release valve on one side, the same one we just tapped two days ago. That’s our cue, and we move like the practiced, efficient team we are.