That was the nice thing about having a friend who could teleport — she got there less than a minute after Anne called. Still, the look on her face wasn’t too comforting.
“Holy motherfuckin’ shit,” Shade said. “You done fucked up.”
“It was in self defense, kinda,” Anne explained. “I thought you dealt with murders all the time.”
“I do,” she said. “I do. I just don’t usually see the body hacked up like this. He really piss you off or something?”
“I thought it’d be easier to transport him if he was broken into pieces.”
“I’m a transporter,” Shade said. “Transportation ain’t a problem we have to deal with, here. Blood — blood’s gonna be the problem. Are there any sensors in this school? X-ray vision, heightened sense of smell, fifth sense?”
“No. Most of the supers who go to FAU are fighters.”
Shade didn’t know what Florida Atlantic University’s population looked like, since she didn’t go to college here. Or anywhere, for that matter. She was in her late twenties: Anne had met her in jail, back when Anne was in high school.
“That’s good. Sensors are bad news for people like us. Pack a bowl while I try and figure this out.”
“Alright,” Anne said, taking a book off her bookshelf. There was a little bag of weed there, which sat next to the pipe. She wasn’t much of a smoker, but Shade was, and she figured Shade would be more likely to hang out here if there was weed around.
To tell you the truth, Shade was pretty nice-looking. She was good to have around when Anne needed advice for being a super criminal, but Anne probably wouldn’t have been so nice to her if she didn’t like the view.
After Anne had packed the pipe, she took out her lighter and handed it to Shade.
Shade took a hit off the pipe, her chest rising as she sucked the smoke in. She blew it out, then looked back at the corpse.
“We need to bag the corpse,” she said. “You got a trash bag?”
“Yeah, I’ve got boobs,” Anne said, the Freudian slip probably indicating how much she was thinking about Shade’s boobs. “Uh, bags. Bags. Yeah, I’ve got trash bags.”