The blue spark spat an inch from Julian’s chin.
The smell of hot ozone hit his nose, sharp as vinegar. Julian didn’t take a step back. When you worked the graveyard shift at Store #04, stepping back only taught the customer at the counter that threats worked.
Besides, Julian thought dryly, eyeing the five-foot braided copper lance humming with six hundred volts, if I flinch now, Mac will bring it up every time we stop at a red light.
Julian raised his left hand with deliberate calm. Between two fingers, he tilted his lapel forward to show the freshly clipped brass plate of his Relief Intake Badge #M-044 beside his Starlight Mart tag. In his right hand, held by its split ring, hung his two-ounce Store #04 Brass Cash-Drawer Key (#1-A).
“Check the resistance before you waste a clean blade, Doctor,” Julian said deadpan.
The whirring Stryker 810 Bone-Saw dropped half an inch.
Behind the taped wire frames of his spectacles, Dr. Victor Corvo’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. The vintage Carl Zeiss jeweler’s loupes clipped to his brow caught the cold fluorescent glare from the corridor ceiling.
His black vulcanized rubber apron was stiff with dried formalin and salt crust.
