Chapter Text
Life was full of mysteries. What came first? The chicken or the egg? Why did that chicken want to cross the road? Did it get run over? Did it cross the road? Chickens live on farms, why was it even able to cross the road to begin with!? Yes, life was full of mysteries, and life rarely gave an answer. I already knew that, though. I glanced towards the left and then to the right, making sure that there weren’t any cars coming to try and end my life. Upon seeing no cars coming, I quickly crossed the street and committed that most heinous of all crimes.
Jaywalking.
Sometimes life forces us to take drastic measures, some are so poor and desperate they try to rob a bank or try to mug someone. But jaywalkers? They didn’t want to wait at the crosswalk because they were in a hurry, but for what? That chicken that crossed the road was probably a jaywalker, and look where it wound up.
Stuffing my hands in my coat pockets, I looked around to make sure nobody was following me. Sophia and Emma had eyes and ears everywhere. Was that postal worker secretly Sophia’s uncle? Or how about that woman with a fedora? She reminded me of Zoe, back when I used to go over to the Barnes house. I didn’t need them finding me, not when I was still on my mission!
I pulled my coat tighter around me as the wind picked up, the cold biting through the gaps in my sleeves. The streets of Brockton Bay were quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that meant something was wrong, or about to be. Brocktonites had a long developed survival instinct, after all, and even the newcomers picked up on it fast. Discarded trash clung to the gutters, half-frozen puddles reflected dim yellow light from broken lamps, and every shadow looked just a little too long to be natural. I heard thunder in the distance, and turned up my coat collar, as fat drops of water began to fall from the sky. Around me, others cursed and pulled up their hoods or pulled out umbrellas. One enterprising individual tried to use their newspaper as a makeshift shield, straight out of a movie.
The city was rotting from the inside out, but at least it served decent burgers, if you knew where to look.
That was what I told myself as I trudged through the slush and grime toward Fugly Bob’s. The rain hadn’t stopped all day, which enhanced Brockton Bay’s signature perfume, wet pavement, diesel exhaust, and the faint hint of dead fish from the Docks. Eau de Brockton, Dockyard Aroma, you can smell the urban decay from miles out in the country. The streetlights were dim halos through the drizzle, painting everything in sickly orange.
I passed a payphone that hadn’t worked in years, the receiver having been removed years ago, and the coin area showed repeated tool marks around the edges. Someone had scrawled ‘Coil Lives’ on the side in black marker. Below that, another, shakier hand had written, ‘Not for long.’ I almost smiled at the byplay. Almost.
Fugly Bob’s neon sign buzzed faintly ahead like it was coughing up its last bit of life. The flickering F made it read “Ugly Bob’s,” which, honestly, might have been more accurate. I could already smell the grease from half a block away. A good sign, meant it was open, and more importantly, warm inside.
A man loitered by the entrance as I drew closer, half-hidden under a hood, pretending to smoke. His lighter never sparked, nor was there the distinct cherry of a cigarette under his hood. I gave him a glance, long enough to memorize the face and posture, then crossed the street. Never let someone tail you without a story to tell later.
Inside, Fugly Bob’s was its usual brand of depressing, peeling pleather booths, a flickering TV in the corner, and the low murmur of people trying to forget their lives for an hour. Behind the counter, I could see teenagers and desperate people frying up pink slime for those hungry enough to come here.
I waited at the end of the growing line, behind a pair of burly dockworkers, likely on their lunchbreak. They didn’t pay me any attention, thankfully. Dad had made a ton of enemies when he was still alive, even if he claimed to try his best at finding jobs for those who needed them. People didn’t remember that, only that he’d failed to deliver, time and time again.
I kept my head down, letting the smell of fryer grease and burnt oil fill the surrounding air. It helped me think, to simply drown my mind in all the sensory input. Contradictory, I know, but there’s far worse ways to cope. The chatter from the counter faded into background noise, white static that let me sort my thoughts.
The line moved up, slow as molasses, as they staggered forward. The guy in front of me was arguing with the cashier over a missing side of coleslaw, which meant he’d be here awhile. I glanced at the window, the rain was still coming down in sheets, blurring the reflection of the man with the hood outside. He hadn’t moved an inch from his spot.
Great.
My eyes flicked to the warped mirror hanging behind the counter. I could see most of the restaurant from here, three tables filled with dockhands, a couple of teens sharing a basket of fries and a large milkshake, an old man in the corner booth scribbling in a notebook. None of them looked like they cared about me. That was good, it meant they might stay alive.
The dockworkers finally shuffled off with their trays weighed down with fries and double hamburgers soaking through the paper wrappings. My turn.
“I’ll take a double, with extra pickles.” I said, moving to grab my wallet from the inside of my coat. “And a neopolitan shake.”
“We don’t serve Neapolitan shakes.” The Cashier said, avoiding my eyes as she spoke.
“You had them last week.” I pressed as I narrowed my gaze. That was suspicious, I remember ordering the Neapolitan whenever I came here with Mom and Dad.
“We’ve never served Neapolitan shakes.” The Cashier’s voice was firmer now, more confident. We stared at each other for a few seconds as the people behind me started to grumble about me taking my time. I gave her nametag a brief glance.
“Fine.” I snarked. “I’ll take a large coffee, black.” Like your soul, Brenda. Who even named their kid Brenda today, anyway?
Brenda didn’t even blink as she punched in the order. I paid with exact change, carefully counting out the coins as I did so. It was easier that way, especially since I cleaned and disinfected the money to keep it from being traced back to me.
When the food came out, I took it to the booth at the far end, the one under the broken ceiling fan. The rain continued to drum against the glass, it wasn’t the worst sound in the world, but I’d prefer the silence.
I unwrapped the burger from the grease soaked paper, took a bite, and chewed slowly. The taste of cheap beef, old tomato, and soggy lettuce was comfort food in its own way, predictable. It was also safe from anyone seeking to harm me. All pre-prepared, anonymous, and fried in enough oil and grease to kill off any poison. Unlike everything else in this city, it was what it advertised, plain and simple.
Fugly Bobs was a Brockton Bay institution. My parents had gone on their first date here, and from what I heard, it still tasted the same. Honestly, from the taste of the burger, it didn’t seem they’d cleaned the griddle since then either.
But, what had happened to the Neapolitan shakes? I still remembered their taste as clear as day, the thick ice cream, the savory chocolate and the chunks of strawberry, with the smooth vanilla taste being the bridge between all three flavors. I gave Brenda another glare as I scarfed down the rest of my double and started on my coffee.
It was bitter and looked like diarrhea, but at least it tasted strong as I nearly burned my tongue. I let the taste linger a little too long, letting the bitterness burn my throat as I swallowed the overpriced brew. Pain helped me think, and kept me grounded. The warmth seeped into my fingers as I held the cup, the cheap to-go cup radiating a kind of comfort that didn’t exist anywhere else in the city. At least, not for me.
Steam rose from the liquid in faint curls, twisting in the air like smoke signals from a dying fire. I finished the last of my coffee, and took my tray to the trash can, throwing away my wrappers and cup, while I placed the tray on top. I needed to know where the milkshake had gone, or I wouldn’t be able to get any sleep.
I made my way to the double doors where I had entered. The man with the hood still hadn’t moved from his spot. Stuffing my hands in my coat’s pockets again as I used my shoulder to push the door open, I stood just outside the door, not bothering to spare him another glance. Who was he working for? Was it the PRT? Or maybe he worked for Fenrir’s Chosen? Or some other, third player?
“Do you know why the chicken crossed the road?” I asked softly, keeping my gaze forward as I watched him from the corner of my eyes.
“Huh?” The Hood Man asked, looking up from his phone. His face wrinkled in confusion as he looked me up and down.
“Because no one ever bothered to ask the right questions.” I said, keeping my voice low despite the noise of the rain.
The hooded man blinked, clearly unsure what to do with that pearl of wisdom. I ignored him as I kept walking towards the street, ready to commit another crime.
The rain hadn’t stopped, it never did in Brockton Bay.
By the time I reached the Docks, it had shifted from rain into more of a steady, miserable curtain of cold needles stabbing through my coat. Thankfully, I had changed into my work clothes after a quick stop at home. A light blue coat, one of Mom’s old thrifted pieces, was my outermost layer of armor, replete with pockets and a patch or two. Underneath it, I wore a gray suit jacket Dad had worn to do his presentations at City Hall about the Ferry. The final layers were a yellow blouse mom had worn to her job, with a matching blue polka-dotted tie I’d gotten Dad one year as a Christmas gift. Rounding out my outfit was a pair of charcoal gray slacks and some nice flats, because heels were designed to kill anyone who had to move faster than a snail. The mask that covered my face, which I made in my lair to look like real skin, completed my outfit. It was far from perfect, the entire outfit was a tad too large, but it did well enough to confuse everyone.
With my long curly hair tied back into a ponytail and tucked under one of Dad’s old blue fedoras, I scanned the Docks for any sign of unusual activity. The warehouses loomed like tombstones, row after row of steel and concrete mausoleums that once held the city’s pride, and now they just held rust, rats, and secrets.
Fugly Bob’s distribution building sat at the end of Pier 12. It looked harmless enough with a faded sign advertising its owner, chain-link fence, and a single security light flickering above the loading bay like a dying candle. The front office still had posters of happy cartoon burgers on the windows. ‘Smile, You’re Eating Bob’s!’ they said. I didn’t smile at their display. Then again, I doubt anyone ever had.
I’d been watching the place since midnight, crouched behind a pile of shipping pallets that smelled faintly of fish and motor oil. I didn’t see any guards or any delivery trucks. Just a black van parked by the side door. The kind that screamed unmarked, unlicensed, and definitely up to something.
Everyone in this city played dumb when you asked questions about the Docks. The Merchants said they ran drugs, at least, if you got any of them when they weren’t too high. The ABB said they ran guns. The PRT said they ran ‘logistics.’ So who did Fugly Bob’s run for? Who were they working for? And why did they act like Neapolitan milkshakes had never been served at their locations?
I made my way to the entrance that was the farthest away from the street and van. It was one of the employee entrances, no doubt where the loading crews would enter, and the double doors had a visible padlock and chain on them. Evidentially, somebody didn’t care about the fire code.
The padlock wasn’t new, and was cheap to boot. Rust crusted along the hinge, and someone had painted over it twice to hide the corrosion. Good enough for the city’s inspectors, bad enough for someone like me. Plus, it was a Masterlock, which basically meant it was this side of useless for keeping anybody from entering. Even Winslow didn’t use Masterlocks, and wasn’t that a damning indictment?
I knelt in the rain and pulled my tools from the inner pocket of my coat, slim picks, worn handles, the kind you could buy from a hardware store if you knew the right aisle and asked the wrong clerk. The rain kept washing over my gloves, making the metal slick, but I worked fast. The click came after four seconds. The sound was almost satisfying to hear, as the shackle popped loose.
“Open sesame,” I muttered and slid the door open just enough to slip inside. I closed the door behind me, making sure to keep the lock on hand. No sense being locked inside the warehouse by whoever was outside.
The interior was worse than I’d expected, as I palmed a light switch. Half of the overhead lights were dead, and the rest buzzed like dying insects as they gave off a dim illumination of the warehouse. Rows of crates and cardboard boxes stretched down the length of the warehouse floor, stacked like uneven teeth. Water dripped from the ceiling, every drop echoing off some metal bar elsewhere.
I moved carefully, keeping every step deliberate. My shoes squeaked once against the floor, and I froze, listening for any guards or anyone, really. I heard nothing but the distant hum of a generator in the distance, a requirement given BB’s irregular power supply out here.
The back wall was lined with industrial-sized freezers, massive white doors bolted shut, each one labeled with worn, flaking stickers on the doors.
PATTIES. FRIES. SHAKES.
Bingo.
I crossed over quickly, my breath misting in the air. The lock on the SHAKES freezer was new, chrome, and polished, not like the rusting padlock outside. Someone cared about what was inside. I fished out my picks again, feeling the faint vibration of the compressor through the door. A minute later, the lock gave way with a quiet snap.
The door groaned open as I pulled on the handle, releasing a plume of fog that coiled around my legs like smoke. Inside, the world was white and steel and humming machinery. Rows of metal racks stretched back into the dark, each one stacked with tubs of ice cream. Chocolate and vanilla were the most common ones, but as I stepped deeper into the freezer, I only grew more certain.
And then, there it was, on the rearmost shelf.
Neapolitan.
Bright, cheerful pink-and-brown-and-white labels stacked high, each tub stamped with the smiling Fugly Bob’s mascot. The same mascot from the posters out front, the same one Brenda swore never existed.
I knew they were lying, and it seemed like no one cared that they were. Where were the riots? Where was the media coverage?
Unless, what if the media and government were all in on this? Were the gangs and government teaming up to hide that Fugly Bob’s did, indeed, have Neapolitan milkshakes and just refused to sell them. I shook my head in disgust as I grabbed a tub of the icy goodness and left the freezer. The world needed to know this, the people had the right to know.
I had to put this on my blog, it was my duty. Only I, Taylor Hebert, was willing to do the dog work and uncover the hidden truths that the so-called higher powers wanted to keep from us.
Nobody else was asking the right questions.
A/N
It's been a while since I’ve done a first person POV story. Much thanks to Night_Stalker for helping out with the writing/plot ideas we’ve been bouncing back and forth.