Chapter 26 Chapter 26: Sobering up with an Unsober Dress
The weight in my pocket was intoxicating, a thick wad of Georgy’s Chids that felt like a new future, and the solid, precious box of .38 rounds that felt like survival. But the clock in my head was a frantic, ticking metronome. Forty minutes. The pressure compressed time itself, making every second a grain of sand slipping through my fingers. I moved fast, my boots pounding an urgent rhythm on the cobblestones as I cut through back alleys, my next stop non-negotiable: The Thrill.
As always, the brothel’s red light glowed like a diseased jewel, a beacon signalling it was open for all manner of business. I didn’t bother with preamble. Striding straight up to the main counter, I slapped the stack of hundred-Chid bills onto the polished wood. The sound was a sharp, satisfying crack in the hushed, perfumed air.
Jenny Jones glanced up from her ledger, her kohl-rimmed eyes widening slightly before her lips curled into a predatory smile. “My, my. You’re turning into one of my better customers, darling,” she purred, her fingers, adorned with cheap, glittering rings, twitching toward the cash. I pressed my own hand down firmly on the stack, pinning the money to the counter.
“The money’s yours, Jenny. But I need something first. I need my hair done. A decent black dress, elegant, not whorish, and enough makeup to bury these bruises six feet under.” I leaned in, my voice dropping to a low, urgent whisper. “And I need it faster than fast.”
Her business sense overrode her avarice. She threw her head back and barked over her shoulder, “Julie! Becky! Get your lazy arses out here, now!”
Two girls, barely more than teenagers, scrambled into the room from behind a beaded curtain, their eyes wide. “Take Tilly to room three. Fix her hair, fix her face, make her look like a damn goddess fresh for the opera, or there’ll be hell to pay. And hurry!” Her critical gaze raked over my battered, travel-stained form. “Size 38 should do it. I’ll be by shortly.”
I followed the girls into a cramped, garishly pink back room that smelled of talcum powder, hair chemicals, and desperation. They worked with a frantic, practiced efficiency, scrubbing the grime of the sectors from my face and arms with rough cloths. Then they attacked the tangled, knotted mess of my hair, combing it out with all the gentleness of a bricklayer folding a bedsheet. I gritted my teeth against the pain, my scalp stinging.
Layer after layer of foundation and concealer went on, their giggles and mindless small talk about boys and clients filling the air, a bizarre counterpoint to the tension coiling in my gut. One of them, Becky or Julie, I couldn’t tell, doused me in a cloud of cloying vanilla perfume until I smelled like a cheap bakery, fitting, I thought grimly, considering the sheer amount of cakey makeup they were slathering on my face.
True to her word, about ten minutes later, Jenny waddled in, a sleek black dress draped over her arm like a shadow. “Try this on her.” The girls descended upon me again, stripping me down to my practical, worn underwear with a clinical lack of modesty. They yanked the dress over my head, the fabric whispering against my skin, then began a fierce battle with the side zip and the corset laces at the back, tugging and pulling like they were wrestling a wild animal into submission.
The final result was… shocking. The top was a figure-hugging corset of midnight-black silk, boned and structured, pushing me up and in, while the bottom flared into a short, subtly puffed skirt that felt both decadent and dangerously impractical. The silk was so light it felt like air against my skin, a foreign sensation after years of coarse wool and tough canvas.
“Well, don’t just stand there gawking, girls,” Jenny snapped. “Grab the mirror. Let Tilly see what I’m worth.”
They hauled over a tall, tarnished full-length mirror. The woman staring back was a stranger. The bruises had vanished beneath a flawless complexion. My hair, usually a wild mane, was tamed into sleek, dark waves. The dress transformed my fighter’s body into something elegant, feminine, and powerfully alluring. I looked like a queen of the night, a creature of polished danger.
“You clean up damn good, girl,” Jenny said, a note of genuine admiration in her voice. She delivered a sharp, familiar slap to my backside. “I could get you married to a Sector Three magnate… if you had a finger to put the ring on,” she laughed, her own joke echoing in the small room.
“Thank you,” I managed, my voice slightly hoarse as I continued to stare at the reflection. The disconnect between how I felt, aching, frantic, deadly, and how I looked was staggering. “Thank you so much.”
With no time to spare, I grabbed my rucksack and bolted out of The Thrill, leaving the scent of vanilla and hypocrisy behind.
I must have been quite the sight, a woman sprinting down the grimy, refuse-strewn streets of Sector 1 in a fine silk dress, the delicate fabric contrasting violently with my scuffed military boots and the battered, utilitarian rucksack slung over my shoulder. I earned more than a few startled whistles and confused shouts.
It was just past five when I skidded to a halt outside The Spill, my breath coming in sharp gasps. And there he was. Rebel lurked in the deep shadows of a doorway beside the pub, his massive, horned form doing a profoundly poor job of staying hidden.
“Na-e said give -illy,” he muttered, his voice a low rumble as he shoved a neatly folded permission slip into my hand. Almost before my fingers had closed around it, he melted back into the alleyway, disappearing as if he were a figment of the gloom.
I unfolded the slip, my eyes quickly skimming the official-looking text and Nate’s forged signature. City Exit Pass. Approved. A golden ticket. “Thank you!” I called after the vanished mutant, though I wasn’t sure he heard. Tucking the precious slip securely into my bra, I then secured my favourite knife against my thigh, the cold steel a comforting contrast to the smooth silk of the dress. The rest of my weapons I stuffed into the rucksack. Taking a final, steadying breath, I adjusted the strap on my shoulder and stepped inside the noisy, familiar warmth of the bar.