Enlightened Fire

By V. K. Walker

Forsaken

When Vaxon was infected by an insidious mental virus, he hid it from the world believing that he was strong enough to beat it. Years later, the virus has won. Vaxon is Forsaken; a death sentence for a Hunter who has spent a lifetime protecting others from what he has now become. There is no cure. There is no hope. His only choices are to give up - allow himself to be hunted - or give in - surrender to the evil that has taken over his mind.

Forgotten

Okay, so maybe Chalia has given up on life, but really, can you blame a girl? Plagued by demons her whole life, she had tried to use her 'gift' - read 'curse' - for good with disastrous results. Now the Taha'an is asking her to try again. Considering the fact that she's spent the last seven years residing in a nut-farm - voluntarily - hopped up on some serious pharmaceuticals, what are the chances she can actually pull it off? Slim to none, but heck, as the fallen Hunter's only hope, she has to give it a try...right?

He has lost hope. She has given up on hope. Can they somehow save each other?

• Language: English
• Publisher: V. K. Walker
• Release date: Mar 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781310094798

V. K. Walker

Once upon a time – [No, no, no! Far too trite and, let's be honest, it's been done. Hit “pause”, “rewind”...] Many, many, many years ago – [Ack! That's even worse! What's with all the freakin' “many's”? It wasn't that long ago. Jeesh. Hit “stop”, “erase” (and don't ever do that again!)...] Not so very long ago (a piddling amount, in my opinion), a storyteller was born. One might even say, a fantasy weaver (oooh, I like that – kinda rolls off the tongue, dontcha think?). Hand in hand with her most trusted friend, an imaginary boy named Charlie (awww, I miss Charlie), she wove many a tale of aliens and evil clones who impersonated her elder brothers (for certainly she wasn't actually related to those wretched boys who teased and taunted her mercilessly) while growing up in Ontario, Canada. Even when Charlie faded away, she continued to live in her own fantasy world, telling her stories to her stuffed animals, and finally writing them down when she was old enough to know how. Later in life, she graduated from McMaster University, armed with degree in Psychology, with a minor in Anthropology. An avid fan of Paranormal Romances (werewolves and vampires and ghosts, oh my!), it was hardly surprising, then, that she decided to invent an entirely new species - Homo Illuminatus – to weave her fantasies around. Today, she continues to live (on the surface, at any rate – in her mind she's in another world entirely!) in Ontario, with her son (teenaged – need I say more?), an adorable (borderline evil, and most definitely psychotic) Ragdoll cat, and a sloppy (fragile and sensitive, big arsed) Dogue de Bordeau dog (who, sadly, is terrorized by the demonic cat).

Book preview

Chapter 1

Blood. So much blood.

Ecstasy.

Pain.

Bliss.

Terror.

More.

He wanted more, needed it.

Punching further into the Forsaken’s mind, Vaxon tunnelled through the memories, the sicker and more twisted the better, glorying in the orgasmic rush that flooded through him with each new unveiling of horror. He felt the darkness envelope him in its sweet embrace as the visions became one with him. Laughing, he soaked them up, loving the rush.

The knife plunges, hot blood soaking his hand, the screams of pain and terror flooding him.

Euphoria.

He smiled, welcoming the memory, revelling in the emotions that were entwined in the Forsaken’s visions. Nothing felt better than this. It was a high no drug could ever match. The thrill of the hunt, the kill, the sweet ecstasy of everything in between. All his for the taking.

Allow her to escape. Stumbling, crawling, desperate for freedom. So much pain. So much hope. Caught. Tears. Desolation. Despair. Next would be acceptance, then numbness. Always the same. Can’t allow. Pain is bliss. Must kill. Plunge the knife. Twist. Pain. Rapture.

This was one of his favourite memories. Not his first victim, but the first time he’d gotten it right. The ones before he’d either killed too soon, before learning that giving them hope made the final death blow that much sweeter, or he’d killed them too late, after the acceptance of their fate had settled into them. After they’d become numb, or worse, welcoming of their last breath. But this one, this one had been just right. Right on the cusp of losing hope, her mind still grasping for the possibility that she might not die. That final moment as he plunged the knife… Perfect.

NO!

Vaxon shook his head, snapping it from side to side, trying to forcibly dispel the darkness.

Not me. That…was…not…me!

Those were not his memories. That was not his kill. Not his pleasure. He didn't get off on capturing women, torturing them, killing them. It hadn't taken him years to perfect his method until he'd gotten it just right. He was not the monster.

Clawing his way out of the visions, out of the evil within his mind, Vaxon dragged himself from the darkness that threatened to swallow him whole. Slowly, his vision cleared from the inky black, that spread like parting cobwebs, then faded to red. Through the crimson haze, he began to make out his surroundings.

Shit.

He’d done it again.

As his own consciousness began to emerge, he saw the Forsaken, its neck clutched in one of his hands while the other held a stiletto, plunged deep into the bastard’s throat. Blood poured down its neck, along the blade, coating both of Vaxon’s hands, and gurgled from its mouth. There were gouges on his forearms from where the Forsaken had clawed at him, trying to free itself. It barely struggled now, too close to death to do much more than pitifully attempt to draw breath through a throat filled with blood. Oh, and steel.

The memories continue to seep through the connection that he’d established between their minds during the hunt. The darkness encroached, trying to drag him back in.

No! Must stop! Must break the connection.

Tightening his grasp on the hilt of the stiletto, he prepared to thrust the blade the last few millimetres, into the brainstem. Killing the Forsaken. Severing the connection.

Feels so good…

The darkness wrapped its tendrils around his mind. The crimson haze darkened. The black wispy spider webs infringing on his vision again. He wanted the euphoria the stolen memories brought. Wanted the rush. Nothing felt better than this.

No! I…am…

Vaxon drew upon the last vestiges of his conscience, the nearly dead part of him that was still clinging to humanity.

…not…a…

He clutched the hilt even tighter, knuckles white, the steel cutting into his palm.

…monster!

Just as the cobwebs knitted together, the darkness almost complete, he thrust the stiletto home. Killing the Forsaken. Severing the connection. Ending the influx of evil.

Staggering back at the sudden cessation of memory transference, he dropped both the Forsaken and the stiletto, barely registering the sounds of the thump of a body hitting the ground, the clang of steel against concrete, as his hands came up to cover his ears. But, he couldn’t drown out the sounds that were already in his head. The moans. The screams. The sick, twisted laughter.

Shit, he gasped, dragging air into his lungs, trying to stave off the panic. Then he glanced at the thing on the ground, blood still oozing from its neck, before quickly looking away again. Shit, shit, shit!

It had happened again. Hardly surprising, at least, it shouldn’t be. The darkness had been growing for years, decades actually, and yet every time Vaxon began a new hunt, he still managed to convince himself that this time he would defeat it. This time he wouldn’t let it take over. This time…

Fuck.

Who was he kidding? He’d long ago lost any semblance of control over the evil that had infected his mind. The darkness wasn’t just winning anymore, it had won. He really was a monster.

No!

He refused to believe that. Refused to just give up. Refused to allow the evil to win. He was not Forsaken. He had not fallen. Dammit, he would fight this. To his dying breath, he would fucking fight.

Dropping to the ground, he drew his knees up and dropped his head between them, gasping for breath, desperately trying to shove the darkness back. With every exhalation, he pushed the evil back, corralled it, tried to lock it away. With every inhalation, he strove to find that piece of himself that was still sane. Still human. Still the man that had once been Vaxon. A man he didn’t even remember anymore.

Vaxon? Kayala.

Shit! Panic flooded him again at the sound of that new voice in his head, ruining what progress he’d made in the last few minutes.

Decades ago, when he’d realized what was happening to him, he’d learned how to block out the Taha’an bond, how to emit false neural energy whenever he was on a hunt, so that Kayala would never suspect what was happening, in case – he really had to stop kidding himself – when he lost control. But it had never been this bad before. The darkness had never taken him over so completely before. Had it gotten past his blocks? Had some of the evil seeped through? Did Kayala know the truth?

Vaxon popped to his feet and began pacing in jerky, agitated steps. His panic was now a full-blown freak-the-fuck-out. The darkness still had him in its sick grasp, its tentacles firmly entrenched in his mind, refusing to let go. And now, Kayala was there too. He could feel her there, in the Taha’an bond. Inside his head. Right alongside the evil.

No, no, no, no, no, no…

He was fucked. He was so fucking fucked!

Vaxon? Stronger. More insistent.

He shoved everything he had at the bond, trying to block her out, trying to hide what he was from her. Like that could ever work. She was Taha’an, for fuck sakes. And, sure enough, no matter what he threw at it, she was still there, in the bond. In his head. Like it even mattered. Shutting the barn door, and all that. Even if he did manage to block her out now, what was the use? She had already gotten in. While the evil was still front and centre in his mind. While he was the monster. He couldn’t hide it from her now, she already knew.

Fuck!

Vaxon. You need to come home.

He laughed. A twisted, fucked-up sound, just like the ones in his head. Hell, he even sounded like them. Like the things he'd hunted his whole life.

No, he shoved into the bond. Like hell he was coming home.

We can help you.

Yeah, right, with a stiletto to the brainstem. Thanks, but no thanks.

Vaxon?

Shut up!

His hands went back up to his head, palms squeezing his temples as he continued to pace. He needed to think. Needed to shut the screams the fuck up so that he could fucking think.

You need to come home.

Shut up, shut up, shut up!

Having her voice inside his head, alongside the screams, the moans, the laughter, really wasn’t helping. They all just needed to shut the fuck up. He continued to try to shove it all back. Shove her back. But they were too strong, too powerful, her most of all. Dammit, why couldn't they all just shut the fuck up and let him think?

He couldn’t go back to the Taha’an, not like this. And he didn’t believe for a second that she had any intention of trying to help him. Unless by ‘trying to help’, she really meant, ‘put an end to his suffering’. ‘Cause that’s what he knew she had every intention of doing. He was too far gone. There was no helping him now.

He stopped pacing, looked at the thing on the ground, lying in a puddle of its own blood. Proof that he hadn’t just crossed the line, he’d hurdled head first over it. As a Hunter, it was – had been – his job to bring the Forsaken to justice, quickly and efficiently. It wasn’t like they carried stilettos because they were pretty. The weapon was tailor made to penetrate the space between the base of the skull and the cervical vertebrae, in order to penetrate the brainstem with ease and precision. To end their target instantly, before it had a chance to use its powers against them. Against others. Swift, justified execution.

What he’d just done…? Not so much. He’d drawn the kill out, gotten off on it, used his mental connection to the Forsaken to derive pleasure from its sickness before finally murdering it. And that’s what it had been…murder, not an execution. And he’d fucking loved it. So, yeah, he was way too far gone.

For the briefest of moments, a calming clarity settled over him. He knew what he had to do. The thought should have at least given him pause. Hell, only minutes ago, it would have terrified him. Hadn't he just sworn that he'd rather die than even contemplate it? Lofty words when you thought you still had a choice. But now...

Vaxon reached deep down within himself, grabbed the Taha’an bond, and ripped it from his soul. Instantly, agonizing pain tore through him, shredding his insides like a scythe of fire. He must have blacked out, because he came to to find himself lying on the ground, face-first in a puddle of his own vomit, his cell phone vibrating against his thigh. Probably Ock. Like he was going to answer that.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled the thing out, then smashed it into the ground, while mentally accessing the data on the SIM card and erasing it. He’d done it. Severed all contact with the Commune he’d been bonded to for nearly 100 years. It was now official...he was Forsaken.

What have I done?

Confusion swirled in his mind, blending with the darkness he still hadn’t managed to beat back. Not once, not even in the last few weeks when his control over his infected mind had all but been gone, had he imagined that it would come to this. That he wouldn’t be able to find a way back. That he’d lose everything he’d ever known, including himself. That the evil would actually win.

I am Forsaken.

The thought nearly brought him to his knees. For so long he’d been a Hunter, sworn to protect, to hunt the Forsaken, to bring justice upon them. And now, now he was one. How the hell did he even process that? With a shake of his head, he shoved those thoughts from his mind. He didn’t have time to even try to process anything. They knew where he was. Kayala, through the Taha’an bond. Ock – or rather Jaynos, who worked for Ock – through GPS tracking of his phone. Which meant he had to get the hell out of Dodge, like, five minutes ago.

Chapter Two

The Twit was arguing with the staff again. Well, technically, they referred to themselves as ‘hosts’ and ‘hostesses’, but as far as Chalia was concerned, that was just plain stupid. Call a spade a spade. They were nurses and orderlies – or simply put, ‘staff’ – and trying to pretend otherwise wasn’t going to change that fact. Just because they labelled this place a ‘spa’ didn’t make it true. It was a nuthouse, plain and simple. A nuthouse that Chalia had called home for the last seven years. Gladly.

Yeppers, unlike most of the ‘guests’ at the Breezy Seaside Spa and Relaxation Center, Chalia was here voluntarily. She wanted to be here. Couldn’t even imagine living anywhere else. Actually, that wasn’t precisely true. She could imagine it, shuddered as the notion of returning to the outside world briefly passed through her mind. A thought that was quickly shut down. Hell no. Not if she had any say in the matter. Since nobody else had any say in the matter, Chalia reconciled herself to the fact that she would live here until the day she died.

She winced as a particularly ear-splitting shriek intruded upon her musings. The Twit. Chalia resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

Eat a damn cheeseburger, for fuck sakes, she thought, probably uncharitably, – not that she gave a damn – and shut the fuck up.

The Twit was one of the ‘involuntary guests’. Dropped off three months ago by her oh-so-concerned parents – who, had they actually been 'oh-so-concerned', might have actually visited her in those three months – so that she could receive treatment for anorexia. The Twit insisted she was merely vegan, using that as an excuse to refuse to eat anything the staff served her. Even though they served her vegan meals. Which she refused to eat. Hence Chalia’s dubbing her ‘The Twit’.

Not that Chalia bothered to learn her name. She’d stopped doing that years ago. Once, when she’d first arrived, she had actually tried to befriend the local denizen. Sitting in the sunshine room – they called it the atrium, but really, it was just a room with a lot of windows – the only place where smoking was allowed, taking a drag of her cigarette, asking the person sitting beside her, whaddaya in for? Like they were inmates of a prison, or something. Not far off the mark, really. After a while she’d stopped, ‘cause really, what was the point? They came, they went, they were, for the most part, not worth – in Chalia’s opinion – getting to know. Being that they were, almost to a man, nitwits. Which was why they were here.

Not that Chalia thought people with mental illnesses were necessarily daft, the two in no way being synonymous. But this wasn’t a facility for the mentally ill, per se, this was a ‘spa’ for…well…nitwits. A place for the wealthy and well-to-do to send the embarrassments in their families. To hide them away. To make them go away.

Sometimes, there were actual psychological problems associated with the embarrassment – such as The Twit, who did suffer from a recognized medical condition – but usually…not so much. A quick scan of the room confirmed this unfortunate fact. ‘Whiner’, the son of a congressman who had been caught, literally and quite publicly, with his pants down in a gay bar, who was here for (air-quotes) ‘drug-rehab’ (they’d found a joint on him). ‘Nympho’ – a popular moniker in this place, sometimes with a numeral addendum when there were multiple guests ascribed that name – the bored and lonely wife of a business tycoon who couldn’t seem to manage to keep her panties on for more than five minutes. She, supposedly, had borderline personality disorder. At least, that was the excuse the doctors used to keep her here at her husband’s request, for an exorbitant sum, that is. The list went on and on… Year after year…

Then there was Chalia herself. Nobody had dropped her off. Nobody was trying to hide her, or get rid of her, using this place as a ‘compassionate’ reason to make her go away. In fact, the opposite was true. People were actually trying to convince her to leave this place. Constantly. Hell, they even begged. Some had even threatened. Like that would make her change her mind!

Nope, seven years ago she’d chosen to live here, and nothing and nobody was going to convince her otherwise. She liked it here. Liked the peace. Liked the silence. Oh, the blessed silence. The day she’d walked through those doors had been the happiest of her life. Okay, that was a lie. She'd actually arrived on the spa's doorstep during the worse time of her life, practically the walking dead. But what she'd found here, the gift she had been given that day? Priceless. And she wasn’t about to give that up. Even though, she knew, it was going to kill her some day. Soon.

Miss Smith?

Chalia suppressed a giggle at the nurse’s use of the surname she’d chosen. There were quite a few ‘Smiths’ and ‘Jones’ residing here. It was funny how many nutters there were in the Smith and Jones families.

Putting down the book she’d been reading before The Twit’s screeching had thoroughly distracted her, she turned to the woman. Yes?

You have a phone call, the 'hostess' informed her.

Shit.

That could only mean one thing. Someone wanted her to suck it up, get over her shit, and go back to doing her job. Not gonna happen.

Despite the decidedly unpleasant thoughts rolling through her mind, she pasted on a forced pleasant smile, thanked the woman, and proceeded to the front hallway. Muttering very unpleasant invectives, she glared at the phone before snatching up the handset and punching the lit extension button.

Yeah, she ground out, not bothering with pleasantries for the person on the other end. They didn’t deserve it. They knew, full well, that she had no intention of taking whatever job they were going to ask her to do. They all knew.

Chalia, the emotionless voice droned through the earpiece, either ignoring, or – and Chalia strongly suspected it was the ‘or’ – not caring that Chalia’s tone had been less than friendly. The Taha’an has need of your services.

Shit. No, make that ‘double shit’.

This wasn’t just any Heart, this was Kayala. The only Heart – up until this moment – who had respected Chalia’s wishes to be left the hell alone, and hadn’t harassed her, bullied her, or just plain made a nuisance of themselves to get her to do their bidding. This was the one person in the world that Chalia truly respected. Not enough to make her change her mind, though.

No. Chalia wondered if she was the first person, ever, to have said that word to Kayala. Probably.

We are prepared to triple your usual fee, Kayala continued, seemingly unconcerned with Chalia’s pointed rudeness.

Chalia rolled her eyes. Yeah, like I haven’t heard that before. Her decision had nothing to do with money. Kayala could multiply her fee by a hundred, and she still wouldn’t do it.

Are you aware of where I am? she asked, even though it was a seriously stupid question. Of course she knew where Chalia was, she’d called her here.

Yes, Kayala responded, obviously understanding the reason behind the question. I am aware of your circumstances.

More eye rolling ensued. That was a polite way of putting it. As opposed to ‘yes, we all know you’re bat-shit-cray-cray'.

Normally, I would not presume to intrude on your respite… Chalia had to bite her tongue to prevent the bark of laughter at that. Only Kayala would call seven years in a nuthouse a ‘respite’. …but I fear that the circumstances are quite dire, and I must implore you to consider this assignment.

Don’t care. No, Chalia repeated. Actually… Make that fuck no.

Profanity is not necessary, Kayala droned, maintaining her emotionless tone.

Oh, Kayala, Chalia practically chirped. If you don’t like the way nutjobs talk, you really shouldn’t talk to nutjobs.

A brief moment of silence ensued. Then Kayala pulled out the big guns. Unlike the others, she didn’t bother arguing, cajoling, or threatening. And knowing Kayala, Chalia knew that the next words out of her mouth were not some bullshit attempt at manipulation. Kayala didn’t play games.

Thank you for your time, Kayala said, as usual with no inflection whatsoever. I will order the execution.

What? Chalia couldn’t help the barked exclamation. Seriously? That was it? She said 'no', and the Hunter in question was put to death? They weren’t even going to bother trying to find someone else? Seriously, what the fuck?

Again, with no inflection, like she didn’t give a damn about terminating a man’s life, Kayala continued. The Hunter in question is too far gone. You are the only Empath capable of reaching him. As you are unable – read unwilling – to accept this job, there is no other option but to terminate him.

Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!

Damn it all to hell, Kayala was serious. As she’d noted earlier, the Heart of the Taha’an didn’t play games. She didn’t bullshit. She wouldn’t say all that just to manipulate Chalia into doing what she wanted.

So, you’re saying, either I do the job, or he’s dead? Not that she needed the clarification, but the words needed to be said.

Yes. No prevaricating for Kayala.

Gee, no pressure, or anything. Not that Chalia hadn’t had a person’s life in her hands before. She had. Many times. But this was different. Those times, she’d at least tried to save them. She’d done everything in her power to keep those people alive. This time…

Surely there’s somebody else? It wasn’t like Chalia was the only Empath out there that did this work. Yeah, she was the best – not vanity if it’s true – but there were others nearly as good. Well, maybe not ‘nearly’, Chalia’s particular brand of Empathic ability was rare, so rare in fact that she was the only one in recorded history known to have it. So, yeah, she was far and away better than the rest, but still.

Dammit, they were asking too much!

No, Kayala replied. And then she said the one thing that no other Heart had said to her. Ever. Because really, why would they? He has crossed.

Chalia damn near dropped the phone. ‘What the fuck’ didn’t even come close to what was going on in her mind. But seriously, what the fuck?

Are you high? Probably not the right thing to say to the most powerful person on the planet, but Chalia had pretty much established her penchant for not giving a fuck a long time ago.

In true Kayala fashion, she responded with, I do not partake of recreational narcotics.

Kayala… she began, trying to keep the ‘then you must have lost your damn mind’ out of her tone. ‘Cause seriously…?

He is a good man, Kayala intoned. The circumstances are… Kayala paused, which gave Chalia pause. Since when did Kayala need to take a moment to gather her thoughts? And was that a hint of emotion she’d heard at the end there. The circumstances are unusual, Kayala finally said. I believe there is hope, but…

Again, she let the sentence hang. Something was seriously not right about this situation.

Once a Hunter crosses… This time Chalia let it hang. Everyone knew the end to that sentence. Everyone.

Please.

Ah, hell. With just that one word, Kayala had managed to do what nobody else could have.

Shit.

Chalia closed her eyes, her jaw clenching against the war that was going on inside of her. She couldn’t… She just couldn’t. Opening her eyes, she looked around at this place that she had called home for so long. She loved it here. It wasn’t so much the place, and it certainly wasn't the people. It was the peace. The freedom from the never ending nightmare that had been her life before coming here. She couldn’t go back to that. Not to mention…

I don’t know if I even can… she admitted, letting the sentence fade away, from a whisper into nothingness.

We will, of course, provide you with any assistance you require, Kayala droned in her usual monotone, the hint of emotion from before gone.

Chalia choked on the bubble of sardonic laughter that she wasn’t able to squelch. Yeah, like that would be of any help, not unless they had a magic wand that could erase all the damage that Chalia had been inflicting on herself for the last seven years. Wouldn’t that be handy?

Not to mention... A flash of memory had her shuddering, bile rising in her throat. Forcibly, she shoved that shit down, tried to bury it in the hole she'd dug specifically for that reason seven years ago.

Please, Kayala pleaded again, the emotion in her tone back in full force, nearly choking her voice.

Shit!

How could she say no? How could she say yes? Did she really have a choice though? Could she, in good conscience, really just let this man die without even trying?

The memory flashed again. Tears pooled in her eyes, damn near blinding her. She was trembling so hard now, she had to clench her fist around the handset to keep from dropping it. She couldn't do this. She couldn't not.

Somehow, Chalia managed to force some sort of agreement through the boulder clogging her throat – what she said, exactly, she had no idea, only that she’d capitulated – then hung up the phone with nerveless fingers.

Taking a deep breath, she turned to the ‘hostess’ sitting behind the hospitality – read ‘nurse’s station’ – desk.

Can I help you, Miss Smith?

Chalia clenched her teeth to prevent herself from snarling at the woman. It was ‘Perky’. Reason for name obvious, and annoying.

Yes, Per… Er, ah… she glanced at the nametag, …Nancy. I’m leaving.

Perky’s brow raised in a rather supercilious manner. Has Dr. Smelding approved an outing for today, she practically chirruped in her condescendingly perky way.

I’m not going on an outing, she ground out between her now gnashing teeth. I’m leaving. Permanently.

Perky opened her mouth to say something, but Chalia just tuned her out, reaching inside herself to access long neglected abilities. Taking another deep breath, she focused all of her concentration onto punching into the Sapien woman’s mind. Then damn near drew right back out again at what she found in there.

My, my, my, Perky’s quite the bitch!

Apparently, the sugary sweet, almost sing-songy voice this woman always used was merely a mask to cover the fact that she hated her job, hated the nutters, and judging by the foul language currently bombarding her, hated Chalia most especially. Not that Chalia gave a shit.

Dr. Smelding has approved the discharge, she forced into Perky’s – or should she start calling her ‘Bitchy’? – mind.

Dr. Smelding has approved the discharge, Bitchy repeated in a monotone.

These are not the drones you’re looking for, Chalia thought with an inward giggle.

These are not the drones I'm looking for, Bitchy repeated, a frown furrowing her forehead.

Oops. Really should withdraw from the Sapien’s mind before making Star Wars jokes. My bad.

Never mind that, she refocused and directed at the woman, just call me a cab and get someone to pack my shit.

I’ll just call you a taxi, and have Carlos pack your belongings, Bitchy droned, back to giving Chalia a vacant stare.

Excellent. I’ll just go wait outside.

Please feel free to go wait outside.