Package Transit Ch. 03

After he leaves, you stay in the darkness of the server room for a moment; it smells of sex and sweat in here, but the ventilation involved in sucking the hot air from the mainframes from the room means it will soon dissipate.

Devil: So. That happened, didn't it - and it was absolutely. Fucking...

You: Delightful. I honestly didn't know that I was like this, but I like it. A lot. Still I'm a bit worried -

Devil: About Aram. I know. What are you going to say to him? Are you going to tell him anything when you meet him tonight, or are you just going to have your way with him, the same way you did with Tiberius?

Your eyes glaze over as you picture that curved, cut cock sliding into your tight, silken grip with ease; you picture him pulling forth, another man's cum white and thick upon his glans and the imagery is absolutely appealing to your sex-hungry mind.

You: Let's...see what he has planned first, what he wants. I don't want to hurt him, he's sweet.

Devil: He is.

You: What if I have to choose?

Devil: ...what if you don't?

...what if?

You return to where Jun and his coterie are just finishing lunch and realize that you, yourself, haven't eaten anything -

Devil: - good thing you just got a nice big shot of protein.

You: Jesus come on!

Jun spares little time roping you back in with questions, either caring little for where you'd gone or not even noticing; there's a little vein throbbing in the center of his broad, wrinkly forehead and as you grow near you realize you can smell the familiar cloying tang of alcohol rising from him, sourced from a porcelain teapot his whipping girl is pouring delicately into a white-and-blue flower print cup.

Even he can't ruin the cloud of sexual fulfillment you float upon, and you're smiling broadly and obviously enough that he comments on your perky demeanor, berating his cronies and functionaries for lacking your pep and enthusiasm (you sense, of course, that he'd likely tear into them for daring to smile, all the same). The rail-thin girl who had failed to open his state-transfer account seems to finally crack the code with a feeble whoop of triumph (that Minister Jun promptly condemns). Fortunately for you, the hours that remain pass by quickly enough. It is reminiscent of watching a tragedy unfold that ends with your triumph.

This is banking of course - it's a big-dog-eats-little-dog world in here, and you were lucky enough that Jun's particular taste lay in the vulnerabilities of his ilk. Your manager had moved on from you about two years ago to prey upon the confidence of other young men and women who came through the glittering glass doors of your institution to take home a pittance of the billions you moved around on a daily basis.

By the end of the day you stomach is grumblingly reminding you that your lightning-fast metabolism requires fuel to keep powering through this dystopian existence, and despite Jun's protests - he simply had ever-more questions to throw your way - your boss took mercy upon you and informed the Minister himself that the doors would be locking in a half hour, that there was nothing he could do about that because of a 'state policy' (that didn't exist).

Once more you are crammed into the elevator with an ever-increasing load of humanity; there was something analogous there to your colleagues' work volume, steadily rising until the cables and steel that kept them afloat snapped...would today be the day they broke and sent you plummeting down to the bottom of the shaft? At least death would come quickly, efficiently, just as was desired here in the upper echelons of capitalism; you imagined, squeezed between blazer-clad shoulders and awash in the stink of too many people, the devil nodding with approval in his red-and-gold pinstripe Brioni suit, when you all came tumbling through the gates of Hell at once.

Not today though; you survive yet another elevator descent that would curdle the blood of any inspector (who wasn't sufficiently bribed to look the other way) and spill out into the lobby with Minister Jun and his court. You still wear your plastic, gleaming smile, laughing a plastic laugh at Jun's poorly translated, vaguely avuncular humor; you're desperate to get out of here and meet Aram.

The frosted-glass, steel-lined doors loom before you, a shimmering gateway to freedom, and more excitingly to an encounter with the other man who has been driving you wild and living rent-free in your head. In just a few steps, you'll be free of Minister Jun and because he's going back to Hubei tomorrow you'll never have to deal with him again.

It is, of course, the pattern of your life that right on the cusp of getting what you want...you're met with further Sisyphean challenge. You should know better by now, Anastasia. You shouldn't be surprised when you push the doors open to confront exactly the sort of chaos that could tip over your carefully constructed house of cards.

Your pin-straight, shiny black hair is pushed back from framing your delicate jawline when the threshold opens and a warm wind of urban-reek hits you; like a deer in the headlights your wide, acrylic-paint smile remains stretched across your face even as your eyes become round at the sight and din before you.

There are easily a few thousand people mustered out in front of the bank, mostly clad in red and black shirts; their faces are mostly obscured, either by bandanas or Guy Fawkes masks. A multitude of placards and signs you recognize from the subway are held high, and in the few seconds your brain takes to resolve the words of your second language into something comprehensible, your heart sinks into your belly.

FREE TIBET AND HONG KONG FROM THE CCP DOGS

DEATH TO THOSE WHO ENSLAVE THE UIGHURS

TAIWAN #1

And worst of them all:

END TRADE WITH COMMUNIST CHINA

You crane your head to take in Minister Jun whose face has grown ruddier than the flag of his own country; you don't recall ever seeing an expression such as his. His beady eyes and tightly puckered mouth appear to be imploding inward toward his nose in the midst of his rage, as if it had condensed into a singularity in the middle of his tomato-shaped head. The vein throbbing in the middle of his forehead spiderwebs down to his bulldog-nose and you can hear him shouting at you, at his aides.

Nothing more than a thin line of riot cops stands between you and the massive crowd, and you have to wonder how that can possibly be? There have been protests at your bank in the past but those were minuscule and broken up easily by the police. This seems to have caught The City's Finest with their pants around their ankles, and although you know that the political demands of the protestors will go absolutely nowhere rationally speaking, you are familiar enough with despotic government officials from your own country to know that the Finance Minister of Hubei is going to take this very personally, and likely blame you.

Why? Easy: you're a woman, you're in his orbit, and he's a connected, wealthy man.

"Okay we should probably go back inside - " you begin, grabbing the handle but find it locked; a swipe of the keycard around your neck does nothing. Shit. Those fucking cowards locked you out.

"Nǐ tā mā de gànshénme ya?! Xiànzài kāimén la!" Jun is screaming at you.

"The Minister says for to please open the - "

"I KNOW WHAT HE'S SAYING," you find yourself shouting at his translator, who shakes like a reed in a whirlwind and immediately, despite the fear, you feel so guilty. "Sorry, sorry sorry I didn't mean to yell - "

You're interrupted in the midst of your apology by a voice shouting something from a megaphone, and of course your attention is drawn to it.

"Gòngchǎndǎng zàng zhū bù shǔyú zài wénmíng de shìjiè, fēnkāi zhōng-měi jīngjì!"

...it's him. You feel a spike of betrayal in your heart at the sight of Aram standing on top of a Channel 17 news van but it fades before three simple truths: the first, you cannot blame him or any of these people for expressing their rage. Secondly, there wasn't any way he could know you worked at this bank or that you were literally the liaison for the CCP's provincial finance officer.

Finally and most importantly, he's extremely fucking hot right now.

Of all his facial expressions, this...angry protestor look is by far the sexiest, with the sharp set of his eyebrows and his saber-like eyes; the white flash of his teeth and the way the sinews on either side of his neck stand out; the burnished gold of his skin under the late afternoon sun, how his muscles shift beneath. He hasn't taken notice of you yet, even as he spots Jun and points a finger at him.

"The head pig of Hubei himself has exited the sty! Dúcái zhě qù sǐ!" he roars; in a split-second, the entirety of the protest is focused upon you, Jun and his coterie.

The next few moments seem dilated by the adrenaline that rushes through your veins.

All at once, thousands of people are scream-chanting epithets at you; pointing in accusation, and you even dodge a rock hurled your way that shatters the glass door behind you. Jun's unlucky translator is pelted with a cup of Starbucks, splattering her with steaming Macchiato - she howls, long and sorrowful, as if a Molotov Cocktail had broken over her. The cops do what cops do best - escalate a situation unnecessarily - and fire tear gas into the crowd but they are a piddling few before this menacing horde.

In the moment before the tide breaks to rush forward at you, you make eye-contact with Aram; his expression becomes one of shock at seeing you there; then joy at seeing you there; then horror at seeing you there, right in the path of the onrushing protestors.

They crash against you like a red and black tidal wave, and you sink thrashing beneath them.