Page 9 of Heresy
The sound of transformation. The sound of everything I used to be is becoming irrelevant.
The steel doorhits concrete with a boom that echoes through vast space—sound of absolute finality, the period at the end of sentence I never wanted to write. He cuts the engine, and the violent roar that has been my universe for the last ten minutes dies with mechanical sigh, leaving silence that somehow feels worse than noise.
It's not empty silence. It's pregnant with new possibilities, all of them terrible.
The quiet fills with sounds that speak to infrastructure of organized violence: clink of metal on metal suggesting tools designed for purposes I don't want to contemplate, low thrum of music bleeding through walls that have absorbed too many screams, murmur of men's voices carrying casual menace that suggests brutality as normal business rather than exceptional event.
This is the acoustic signature of a place where terrible things happen with administrative efficiency.
He swings his leg off the bike with fluid grace that speaks to decades of practice, heavy boots hitting concrete without sound despite their obvious weight. He doesn't look back at me. Doesn't acknowledge my existence or my terror or the way my entire worldview has been shattered and reconstructed in the space of twenty minutes. He just starts walking with the measured stride of someone who owns every molecule of air in this space.
The owner of everything, including me.
My legs feel like jelly when I slide off the seat, muscles turned to gelatin by combination of terror and forced intimacy with machinery designed to intimidate. I stumble as my feetfind solid ground, equilibrium destroyed by transition from unwilling passenger to walking evidence of whatever crime I've committed by existing in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Before I can catch my balance, before I can even process the geography of my new prison, a hand closes around my upper arm again.
The angry one—the one whose grip promises bruises that will bloom purple and yellow like poisonous flowers across my skin—hauls me forward with casual efficiency. His fingers find pressure points with the precision of someone who has learned anatomy through application rather than textbook study.
He pulls me along in the President's wake, deeper into this industrial cathedral.
Each machine represents months of devoted labor, polished chrome so flawless it looks like liquid mercury catching the dim light. The custom paint jobs are more than decoration; they're entire mythologies rendered in layers of lacquer so deep you could drown in them. They tell stories in symbols I don't yet understand—skeletal reapers, snarling wolves, flames that seem to writhe with actual heat, all imagery of a brotherhood forged in violence. The level of craftsmanship is staggering, a manic, almost surgical precision in every weld and seam that's far too meticulous for simple street bikes meant to be scratched and dented.
The realization clicks into place with the cold finality of a deadbolt sliding home: This isn't just their garage. It's a factory. A showroom. These beautiful, brutal machines are a product line, built to be sold as masterpieces of menace for wealthy collectors—bankers and lawyers willing to pay a fortune for the authentic stink of outlaw without ever having to bleed for it. This isn't just a gang; it's a high-end, vertically integrated criminal enterprise. The air hangs thick with petroleum incense, the holy scent of their true church.
The air hangs thick with petroleum incense.
Oil and gasoline and metallic tang of tools that have tasted blood along with motor lubricant. Each breath carries the flavor of machinery and something else—sweat and testosterone and the accumulated residue of men who live too close together, who have learned to convert proximity into either loyalty or violence depending on circumstance.
Men are scattered throughout the space, working on bikes with religious devotion.
They all stop as we pass, conversation dying like radio being switched off. They don't shout or whistle or make crude comments that might suggest I'm still human enough to deserve harassment. They just watch, faces hard as carved stone, eyes tracking my every move with the intensity of predators evaluating potential prey.
The silence of their appraisal is more unnerving than any catcall.
It suggests I've moved beyond the category of woman into something else entirely—evidence, perhaps, or problem to be solved. Their collective gaze carries weight that settles on my shoulders like a lead blanket, pressing down until each step becomes a conscious effort against gravity and expectation.
We pass through a heavy door marked with a brass nameplate: "Serpent Cycle Works."
The main clubhouse opens before us like a descent into organized chaos, space that serves as a throne room for a kingdom built from loyalty and violence. The air here tastes different—thick with cigarette smoke that clings to everything like incense from altars dedicated to destruction, aged whiskey that speaks to rituals performed with religious regularity, testosterone and barely contained aggression that makes oxygen feel scarce.
I get fleeting impressions as we move through this social minefield:
Long, scarred wooden bar lined with bottles that catch light like amber prayers offered to gods who drink their worship rather than blessing it.
Worn black leather couches that look big enough to swallow a person whole, surfaces cracked and stained with substances I don't want to identify.
The pool table sitting under a single, low-hanging light that casts sickly yellow glow on green felt marked with burns and blade scores—evidence of games where stakes extended beyond money.
More men gather here, maybe a dozen of them.
The effect is immediate and visceral. Low murmur of conversation falters as if someone has adjusted volume on reality itself. Heads turn with mechanical precision, dozens of eyes focusing on me like targeting systems locking onto designated threats. Each glance is an evaluation—not of my attractiveness, but of my potential usefulness, my probable life expectancy, my value as a commodity in whatever economy governs this underground kingdom.
Hard eyes. Curious eyes. Predatory eyes.
I feel like a prime cut being inspected at market, skin prickling with the weight of their collective assessment. Some faces show mild interest, others calculation, few display what might generously be called sympathy if I squint hard enough to mistake pity for human recognition.
Don't show fear, the voice in my head commands with drill sergeant authority. Head up. Don't look at any of them directly. Keep breathing.
