Page 96 of All Saints Day
All of us cry out in elation as the bond is flung open wide.
While some of us may have an early flight, I highly doubt any of us will be doing very much sleeping tonight.
Chapter 36
Sébastien
Istand on the sidewalk in the heat of the afternoon, a pair of dark sunglasses perched on my nose—a cigarette pinched between my lips as I struggle to loop the maroon satin tie around itself in a tidy knot.
“Stop it! Stop! Here, let me help,” Azura tuts like a doting grandmother, shuffling toward me—in her dusty-rose Valentino skirt suit, a pair of oversized tortoise shell Prada sunglasses shielding her from the harsh rays—as she ties the Windsor knot for me.
“I still don't understand why I have to be here,” I grumble, pulling the cigarette from between my lips and tapping the ash off at arms length—careful not to get any on the Dottore; coiffed, primped, and ready for camera.
“Sébastien!” she snaps impatiently. “You've never been much for planning for the future—I know—and I understand that until recently, it wasn't exactly a worthwhile value proposition.” She purses her lips, giving love and judgement in equal measure.
I turn away, the truth in her words stinging my pride.
“Now you have things to think about: a pack, a future—the need for a career that won't land you in jail.” She clucks her tongue for effect.
“But I'm not cut out for a white coat in a lab. You know that.” I bat my long eyelashes at her, doing my best sad puppy face—the old girl does have a weakness for a pretty face, after all.
“Nobody is saying that you need a white coat or a lab, or to go back to school,” she snips, exasperatedly pulling her clutch purse from its place tucked beneath her arm. “You do this little bit of press and you'll have your pick of the litter from cock-of-the-walk Biotech start up types, begging to have you on their board just for recognition in the market.”
Not once had I stopped to consider this angle.
Corporate life had simply never been something within my purview, but the Dottore wasn't wrong. I couldn't continue down the path of a professional criminal. Especially now that Louise and Dennis were sitting in the Office of the Attorney General at the DOJ, along with the new head of the Department of Reproduction preparing to make a recorded statement about the emergent omicron designation.
“Come on,” Perla pinches the cigarette from between my lips and drops it to the sidewalk, stamping it out with one of her Gucci mules. “We don't have long until everything gets started, and you still have to powder your nose.”
The hotel ballroom is smaller than I had imagined.
Doctor Perla and I sit next to one another at a table the hotel provided, covered in a royal blue tablecloth.
Each of us was given a glass of ice water and a tall pitcher. Along with a small microphone.
The room was cramped even before it filled up with reporters, camera people, and local law enforcement for crowd control.
With all the bodies packed into the small space, and everybody looking at Doctor Perla and I; I feel somewhat like an animal at the zoo.
All the faces start smearing, blending—turning into a murmuring mass—as I drop my eyes down to my hands and the several hastily scribbled note cards clutched there. Reminders of what I can and cannot say.
It is far too hot to keep my suit jacket on, but I’m breaking a sweat and already self-conscious about having to be introduced without the prefix of doctor ahead of my name while still sounding credible for this press conference.
While I'd likely be more comfortable rolling my shirt sleeves, I decide to keep my tattoos out of sight for the time being.
I lift a hand instinctively to run it through my hair, then stop—remembering that Louise helped comb back and braid my soft dark curls into a short cord down the nape of my neck this morning, before we all left to go our separate ways for the day.
I feel her down the bond now, reaching out to caress my frayed nerves.
When I close my eyes and breathe deeply, it's almost as if the golden pollen of a rich iris dusts my nose.
I feel my shoulders let go of some of their tension; the warm reassurance of my other mates vibrating along the bond.
“Are we feeling ready?” A chipper young woman in a dark blue suit with a helmet-like blonde bob checks in with Doctor Perla and I—her news station microphone clutched in her hands.
I swallow hard and give her a nod.
“Let's get this over with.” Doctor Perla smiles, the chubby gold hoops at her ears sparkling in the bright lights.
