JUNE 24TH, THURSDAY. EARLY EVENING. THE FACTORY. FT. @oflightfeet.
The Factory looked different by day. Whereas last weekend it had been the site of Rafael and Ikki’s engagement party, decorated to look like an island paradise, today it seemed like yet another decrepit structure bordering Mile End. From the outside, that is. Inside, it was simply the Factory, perfect for what she and Wren were here for: shooting practice, the interiors tidied up and rearranged into a makeshift shooting range, with paper targets ready in front of them and mannequins on standby in another corner of the room if they were ready for that.
Jessica wasn’t sure if they were, but they would have to be, soon. Just last night, a Famine meeting had been called to announce a new truce—one with the other two gangs, yes, but also with Death. Jess was usually quick to give her uncle the benefit of the doubt, certain that Rafael Femenias Sr. wouldn’t agree to getting the short end of the stick, but she was less than thrilled to be getting into bed with people who had bombed their Tower, tried to destroy them, and killed one of Famine’s most loyal members in cold blood. That they were arranging a masquerade ball of all things—ugh, weren’t masks and disguises so over? They’d have to do more than that if they wanted even a semblance of trust from a Reyes.
As Jessica double checked her pistol, deft fingers moving to reload, she thought of the night she had selected it: Mortem. She had chosen sleekness and effectiveness over beauty, only to realize that it hadn’t mattered at all. Not by the end of the night. But if Wren would soon be the PA of not just FemEn’s interim CEO, but also a Femenias by marriage, they would have to be ready. And they seemed to know people in Death, too: Vincent, Mei—no, Ginny... They needed training more than she did. Even if they all would have to play nice tomorrow night.
Sliding the magazine into place with a click, Jess nodded, before raising her head to look at Wren. “Hey, you good over there?” she asked. “Thomas did teach you how to handle a gun, right?” Thomas Ackermann was all around them today: in the Mercedes Benz they’d driven to the Factory in, Wren at the wheel; in the ear defenders he had once helped Jessica select; even in the old mannequins that awaited them, chosen on Thomas’ watch years ago. A small chuckle escaped her lips as a memory resurfaced. “Did you know he taught me kickboxing when I was an Angel? Scared the hell out of me, but with love. Or so I’d like to think,” she added under her breath, fondness laced throughout her tone. “He notably did not teach me shooting, though, so if I’m horrible at it, you can blame Niamh here,” she added, grinning at the blonde Angel on her security team, who was leaning against a column a few meters away—hopefully far enough away not to hear this joking slander.
