FORTY-TWO

Razor loved illusion. Razor loved the irony of a truth in illusion and of an illusion in truth.

In the hallway outside the hotel room, he decided he had less than three minutes to complete his next illusion. The street girl he’d left in the corner on a chair in Leo’s room was at least in her midtwenties. Easy conclusion: she was a survivor. Illegals didn’t live too far into their teens if they were not. Survivors were calculators and highly motivated by self-interest. Much as she might have pretended boredom, she had spent every moment in that chair thinking about the reward Melvin would pay for Razor’s capture.

Right now, as Razor moved down the hallway, she was reaching for the phone. How much more ideal could it have been for her?

Razor had left Leo blubbering in his blubber, tied to the bedposts. With Razor gone, Street Girl was in complete control. She’d cash in on the knowledge of Razor’s location while Leo shivered in his diapers. A quick call and Melvin would have Illegals on the street, waiting for Razor to step outside the hotel, ready to shepherd him into an alley, totally confident that no Influential would bother interfering.

Razor had less than three minutes, but he only needed forty-five seconds. The time it took to ride the elevator a couple levels higher. He had a hotel card in his back pocket, one for another permanent suite under a different name. All told, Razor had a half dozen residences in the city, each stocked with chemicals of choice. He had plenty of chemicals to aid his illusion. To put together flashballs. To put people to sleep. And more.

His first priority was the single biggest illusion of his life, granted to him by unmarked vials in a drawer in the bathroom alongside unused hypodermic needles and rubber tubing.

Razor locked the door. With expert movements acquired through practice, he one-handedly wrapped the tubing around a bicep and made a knot that would hold. As his veins began to swell, he dipped the hypo into the vial, and sucked up a small portion of the drug. He kept his face blank as he injected it, then drew deep breaths of air into his lungs. He hated blood, even the sight of the tiny drops that would appear on his punctured skin. Or maybe he hated the sight of blood because of those punctures.

He stared at the mirror for a full minute, almost in self-hatred.

Then another deep breath to get ready for his next illusion.

Beneath the sink was a toiletry kit that didn’t contain any toiletries. Instead, there was a latex mask with only a straw hole for the mouth. He took a small can of specialty paint from under the sink and set it on the counter. Then a straw. He checked his watch, and set an alarm for ten minutes later.

When he pulled the tight-fitting latex over his head, his nostrils, eyes and mouth would be sealed.

This was a familiar routine, but it still unnerved him, the five minutes of helplessness he would feel with only a straw for air.

Slowly he pulled the tight, dark rubber over his head and onto his face.

His first necessity was the straw. Eyes shut beneath the latex, he groped the counter for it and felt on his face for the hole that led to his mouth. He inserted the straw and sucked in air. The sound of it barely reached him because the latex mask also sealed his ears.

Now that he could breathe, he patted and pulled at the latex to make sure it fit every contour of his face. It was a delicate task because of the pattern of open, curved lines in the mask that left slits on his chin, cheeks, and forehead exposed.

Once he was satisfied that the mask was in place and held no wrinkles, he reached for the paint can and felt the nozzle with his fingertips to make sure it was facing him.

He forced his tongue down on the straw to force it upward at an angle. If he accidentally sprayed paint into the open end, it would clog the straw and risk spraying paint into his mouth.

The paint felt cool against his skin.

With his tongue, he manipulated the straw to point downward and sprayed again, ensuring that there would be no pattern left from the straw at its upward angle.

Razor waited, motionless.

The paint would dry quickly. When the alarm sounded, he knew the paint would be like indelible ink, soaked and sealed into the pores of his skin. Granting him the power of yet another illusion—facial tattoos, with a registered bar code pattern that would make him indistinguishable from any of the Industrials who lived in the shantytown and migrated into the city on a daily basis.

When he had no more need of this illusion, a special chemical solution would dissolve the tattoos and let him return to the illusion he cherished and hated the most.

The person he called Razor.

Fast, sharp, and dangerous.