Man on the Inside

14

Brontë's heart is racing, and that's probably mainly because they're standing outside of Parliament House, and only a tiny bit to do with Art.

Art walks with purpose, and Brontë tries to copy him, but also do it differently, because he's meant to work for some vague faceless Senator, and Art is playing a completely different role. Art's wearing a dark grey jumpsuit with some cleaning company's logo on the breast, and he's hiding behind a dark grey cap with the same logo. He went into the bathroom before they left and came back out with cheeks twice as gaunt, eyebrows thicker, bags under his eyes, which seemed to have changed shape, alongside with at least ten year's worth of age being added to every part of his face. "It's just attention to detail," he'd said when Brontë had asked how the fuck he'd done it. "And years of practice with makeup. It's as much an art as anything else."

Still, Brontë's unsettled looking at his face, and so he's glad to be following him. Art didn't attempt to change the way Brontë's face looks. "You look perfect," he'd said as they were leaving. "And also, you look exactly like you need to for this."

Art seemed to get some enjoyment from Brontë's reaction to that.

Brontë's now looking up at Parliament House, an image he's seen a million times, but not a building that ever felt like a real place someone could be, and trying not to let the weight of this break him.

"You've done this before?" Brontë asks again, because it's hard to just believe it. They left before their conversation this morning felt completely over; there was still Art's second thing, the one he said he needed time to talk about, and Brontë felt like he had more to say, although he couldn't conjure it all into words. It hit him only as they were leaving that he was meant to arrest Art at some point, making whatever Art was hiding from him less serious than what Brontë was keeping from Art.

"It was a lot harder to do without prior knowledge," Art explains, "but I've got the prior knowledge now. What's your line?"

Brontë is simultaneously offended that Art feels the need to ask again, while knowing that he's probably going to fuck the whole business up anyway. "If anyone asks, just say the Senator left his keys behind. And then turn my back on them unless they offer to help."

"Like you would if it was real." Art nods. He tics again, always the left shoulder. "That's all lying really is. People get tripped up because they lose sight of how they'd act if the lie was real."

Brontë has been lying most of his life, and that's something he only began the process of accepting when Art essentially forced him to say it out loud. "Doesn't that make you lose sight of the truth?"

"Hmm." Art mutters. "Maybe that is what makes it so easy for me. I can see the truth and the lie at exactly the same time and I don't lose sight of either. I didn't realise other people did."

"Maybe you're just a genius," Brontë offers, and Art scoffs at that.

"Nah. Things that are easy for others are hard for me." He puts his hands in his pockets as if he's just casually strolling. "Like figuring out when to let a lie go. Take out your phone and pretend to call someone."

"What?" Brontë wonders if the sudden pivot was on purpose. "Why?"

"Because that's what you'd probably be doing if the lie was true. The Senator, whoever it is, probably is anxiously waiting for his keys, and thinks his time is best spent talking to his right-hand man that's getting them back for him. Plus, we're less likely to be bothered."

Brontë follows the instruction as it's given to him. He sees a pair of women leaving the building, and behind them a man in a checkered shirt power-walking with a laptop in one hand. They look like they belong.