Pier 33

Hannah hated to admit how good she felt in the dress. The fabric, the cut, the draping, it all exuded richness. And the way people looked at her, with some mix of envy or longing. There was an allure to it.

However, someone with a keen eye could see the fit was ever so slightly off. It was the littlest bit loose at the shoulder and just a tad long at the hem. A perfectly tailored couture gown, just not for her. For her roommate, Claire.

The pochette was even more enviable to some. It was beaded and glistening with garish hardware meant to be recognizable from long distances. A purse with a waiting list, and it, too, belonged to Claire.

Hannah could never see the point of such overpriced items, regardless of how much craftsmanship went into them or how high-quality the material was. At the end of the day, the dress was just a dress, and the bag was just a bag, complete with tissues, chapstick, and a faded debit card.

She once had an art teacher who criticized her for thinking this way. He'd said she lacked imagination and an appreciation for the romance of high art. But to her, the least imaginative thing you could do was let the price of something determine how good or bad it was. 

Regardless, the extravagance was needed tonight. It was her camouflage and armor as she stormed the keep that was the art world.

She nervously turned the invitation over in her hand, the gold letters V.I.P. catching the light. It was heavy, made of metal, and, like the dress and bag, belonged to Claire. A courier had delivered the card in a black, hexagonal lacquered box, and Hannah knew that this was her chance. Claire would be out of the country. The timing was perfect. 

She felt momentarily bad about all this but remembered Claire saying, "You just need to do what it takes and be willing to work hard. No one works hard anymore." 

It always seemed to be people who were fully funded by their parents and had never really worked for anything that tried to equate wealth, or lack thereof, with work ethic. The thought assuaged any lingering guilt she had.

She arrived at Pier 33 and walked down to what looked like a small toll booth at the end. Two men stood on either side. She produced her invitation, and they scanned it. 

"Your phone, please." One said, opening a metal case with a lock. "A requirement from the artist." 

She handed it over, and the men stepped aside. A set of elevator doors opened.

Gallery thirty-three was built by a Norwegian civil engineer known for his work designing bridges and piers. It was constructed in Norway, floated over on a barge, and installed at the bottom of the East River. Its creation was described as a marvel. 

The elevator moved quickly down a glass shaft with a view of the gallery below, illuminated in the cloudy water. It was a concrete block punctuated by strips of glass that echoed the surrounding pilings. 

She stepped into a short hallway and through a door into the darkened gallery. She was the last to join the group of about twenty. Some attendees she recognized from art magazines and society pages. Others, she assumed, preferred the perks of anonymity. 

Margo, a severe-looking woman and the gallery owner was addressing the group when her eyes landed momentarily on the late arrival and stayed there. Hannah flashed her invitation before putting it back in her bag, which seemed to assuage Margo, at least for the time being. 

"Thank you all for coming tonight. As you have probably guessed by the secrecy and flare, we have been graced with an installation by the esteemed artist Hex." The crowd clapped appropriately. 

"He naturally wishes to keep his identity secret, so he will not be in attendance, but you can direct any inquiries to me, and I will convey them to him personally."

A man from the crowd asked then, with a hint of incredulity, "You've met him then? Hex?"

"Of course," Margo said, flourishing her hands. "I know everyone."

The crowd chuckled and clapped again, restrained but politely.

"Well, enjoy yourselves. Champagne is at the back."

The gallery was dark. Only the pieces were lit, and Hannah was grateful for the cover the darkness afforded her. She was not quite ready to be confronted by Margo, the one person who surely knew she was not meant to be there. 

The art was a series of statues, organic shapes in gleaming black on pedestals with slowly revolving spotlights. At first, they appeared to be abstracts, but as the light moved across their high-gloss surface, familiar subjects came into focus. A pair of closed hands, a seed, a flower bud, a chrysalis, among others. All vessels of some kind and the moving lights made them seem alive and pulsing.

Hannah drifted through the space, catching snippets of conversation and realizing almost none was about the art. Some folks spoke what she assumed was Russian, while others spoke Mandarin, but they all seemed to be talking about money.

It hardly surprised her. Money and the art world were inextricably linked. The galleries were owned by the magazines, and the magazines were owned by the patrons. When a new artist was found, often by a patron, they were featured in the magazine while highlighting an exciting upcoming show. Meanwhile, the gallery would market the show by highlighting the magazine's appearance.

It was a pipeline to wealth and fame, and it was nearly impossible to get in without already having one or the other. 

Hannah had made her way to the end of the gallery, scanning the room for Margo when she overheard a man clearly struggling to keep his anger in check. She saw him leaning in close to a piece, examining it. 

"...Well, how did they get it then, Theresa?! If I found out you gave them this, I'll destroy you. Let's go the fuck home."

Before the woman could speak, the man spotted Hannah watching. He charged at her, hissing, "What are you looking at? Who even are you? I've been to several of these things and never seen you before?"

"I - I'm Hannah, I -"

"This is Claire's friend, Nick. She's our guest, so please don't shout at her." Margo said, appearing before them.

Nick's wife, Theresa, stepped in, looked Hannah up and down, and said, with an acid tone, "Nice dress." As she led her husband away.

Hannah turned to Margo, "Thank you. I don't think we've officially met -"

"I know exactly who you are," the gallerist said in a sharp but quiet whisper. "Claire told me about her roommate, the struggling artist."

Hannah was stunned, not at Margo's accusatory tone but at Claire's mention of her work to this woman. 

"She said you're frankly not very good. I looked you up, and I have to agree. It will never happen, dear. And if you think sneaking into my event is a way to find a patron or a buyer, I will personally make sure that never happens."

Her eyes bore into Hannah, who stammered for something to say. 

Just then, the quiet was broken. "What the fuck is this?! Is this some kind of fucking joke?" Nick shouted.

They all moved forward to see what he was referring to. 

Nick and Theresa were back at the artwork, a dark beehive on a glass branch. The piece had begun to go clear, and words were starting to show beneath the black interior. It was a transfer of a newspaper article, presumably about him.

Long Island Restaurateur Wipes Out Nature Preserve to Expand Beach Frontage. A subheading read, The damage to the local ecology may be catastrophic.

Nick fumed, "I'll sue you, Margo. This story never ran."

Before Margo could speak, an elegant, older woman gasped in front of the flower bud. That piece had also begun to go clear, and text appeared. 

Sylvia Mellon, Patron of the Arts, Selling Historical City Rose Garden to Overseas Investors with Ties to Drug Cartels.

The room became hectic as the attendees rushed to see if they, too, were being targeted. One by one, they located their corresponding pieces: articles about money laundering, insider trading, secret court settlements, dismissed lawsuits, and hostile takeovers. Stories that had all been burned, buried, or bought off, all litigated out of existence—so they thought.

Hannah found herself at the sculpture of hands. It was now emblazoned with a story about the daughter of a top financier who had knowingly worked with sweatshops in L.A. and China to make products marketed as sustainable and eco-friendly. A photo of Claire accompanied the headline. 

The room erupted into a chorus of fury as the patrons charged to the door to leave, threatening vengeful litigation. But the group was stopped there.

"Unlock it, Margo," shrieked Nick. 

"I - I didn't lock it," she responded, rushing over to check.

Screens around the room suddenly turned on, and text appeared in multiple languages. A robotic voice began to speak. 

"You have been brought here to atone. You have been accused of atrocities against humanity and nature. Your efforts to bury the truth have only served to reveal your guilt. You must now answer for your crimes."

They were all silent for a moment. 

"Is - is this part of the experience?" Sylvia asked.

Before anyone could answer, the text continued. "The air circulation system has been disabled. And carbon monoxide is on hand to fill the space. It will kill you silently and peacefully in one hour from now." 

A timer appeared in the corner of each screen.

"What the fuck is this, Margo?!" Nick shouted at her and charged forward as if to shake the truth out of her. "Who is this Hex guy? Give me his name?"

"I don't know," Margo stammered. "I lied. I never met the artist. We only communicated through email. He sent groups of subcontractors to install everything."

"You idiot, you did this," he yelled at the gallerist before addressing the screens, "So that's it, you're just going to kill us all? No, you want something, don't you?"

The voice returned. "Nicholas Lombardi, you have been accused of bribery, coercion, and racketeering in connection with the expansion of your Long Island home and the destruction of lawfully protected land."

Nick was silent but clearly fuming. That was more than the article had known. 

"Confess your crimes, and you can go."

"Fine, sure, whatever, I did it. Can I fucking go?"

"Your phones were collected and have been given to our team. We need them unlocked. Please put your thumb on the pad to proceed." A round metal disc lit up on a center pedestal. 

"Absolutely not," bellowed Nick. 

"All participants must agree to the release of their personal information for trial by the public, or no one may leave."

The group began arguing amongst themselves but stopped as the voice returned. 

"Alternatively, using the provided weaponry, your debt will be considered paid if you collectively decide to sacrifice one of the other guests here and rid the world of that blight."

The group went silent. It was by far the most tempting offer they'd received so far. Meanwhile, the artworks had begun to move. They each opened, revealing a gleaming golden weapon inside. A few guns and knives, a spray of some kind, and other less conventional means glimmered under the moving lights. 

The room was frozen as they looked at the weapons. 

"We should just confess," Sylvia said. "We have enough money to hire P.R. firms to spin it."

"Easy for you to say," Nick barked in response. "You're old as dirt. Plus, I have other shit on my phone that would get me killed. They’ll have access to everything.”

They thought of their phones then, and all they unlocked. There was much more to lose.

"It wouldn't work anyway," Margo interjected. "It was supposed to be Claire here tonight." 

Hannah had been trying to move as far away from the commotion as possible, foreseeing a dark potential outcome. They all turned to her then.

"So it's her fault!" Nick screamed, his eyes burning. 

"I - I just wanted to see the art," Hannah stuttered. 

"Oh, please," barked Theresa, getting up in Hannah's face. "And is that why you took Claire's dress? Yeah, I recognize it, looks like shit on you anyway." She seemed proud of herself for telling another woman she looked bad. 

"It's her fault we can't just leave," Nick screeched, "It should be her."

Another man, who had barely spoken, added, "I'm a lawyer, and I could probably make a case for unusual or mitigating circumstances. Maybe even self-defense, given we don't know why she is here. Perhaps she means us harm."

"What?! Wait, no, all I did was crash an art opening. I don't mean any of you any harm."

"I could see it," said Nick coldly. "She is the reason we can't leave safely. Her ‘theft’ has put us all in danger. Isn't that something like…Felony Murder? Like being an accomplice in a way?"

"I could make the case." The lawyer agreed. 

"Then you shoot her, lawyer man," Theresa interjected, pulling her husband back. 

"Oh, um, no. I should remain a bystander so I can provide counsel."

It didn't matter, though. Nick had made up his mind. He stared at Hannah like a hunter with a deer in his sight. And he already had the small golden pistol in his hand. 

He pointed it at Hannah and hesitated momentarily to see if anyone would intervene. They didn't. 

POP.

The screaming was almost immediate, but not from Hannah. It was Nick. He'd dropped the gun and fallen to the floor, his hand a bleeding, mangled mess.

"What happened? Did it malfunction?" the lawyer yelped.

"Holy shit, his hand! I think he lost a finger!" Theresa screamed. "He's gonna bleed to death. We need to get out of here!"

She spun and snarled at Hannah. Then rushed over and picked up a small golden crossbow. To the screens she shouted, "I'll do it."

And she pulled the trigger.

Hannah flinched at the snap and woosh of the arrow slicing through the air, but the sound ended nearly the moment it began. Theresa stumbled backward a step before collapsing on the ground, dead. A metal rod protruded from her forehead just between her eyes.

Someone screamed at the sight. The few other attendees who had picked up weapons all returned them quickly to their spots and backed away cautiously, realizing they were rigged to turn on their bearer. 

"Thank you for revealing the worst of you," The voice and text appeared again. "And for implicating yourselves as accessories to murder." 

The countdown clock stopped and cleared. And then reset with thirty days and began counting down.

"You have been emailed a list of demands," the voice continued as the screens showed footage of what had just happened on a loop. "You have thirty days to meet the demands and make reparations for your crimes. All properties must be listed, shares relinquished, and company stakes divested by the end of the countdown. If you do so to our personalized specifications, you will be left in peace to attempt to rebuild what's left of your life. If not, this footage and your dossier will be made public. This is our final transmission."

The screen switched back to an image of the group and simply stated, "Recording in progress." As the seconds and minutes were already slipping away. 

___________

"I don't know. The message came from his verified account. He has a huge social media following, I assumed it was real, but they're like a cult." Margo had already returned to her previous facade of being exasperated by everyone and everything, and she was currently admonishing a detective. “It must’ve been a sick prank.”

But then she saw Hannah leaving the police station. 

"Hannah! I'll call you tomorrow, my dear," she called out, her eyes piercing but pleading. "I can't wait to see your work in person. It's really going to shape the art world."

Hannah sighed and looked at her wearily but nodded. She was the one loose end, and since killing her hadn't worked, they pivoted to bribery. She knew if she didn't accept that, they'd probably try the first option again, so she went along with the story.

They would all get their due, in the end. 

Her phone rang as she stepped out onto the sidewalk. It was Claire. News travels fast on social media.

"Is that my fucking dress? And my bag?"

"Hi, Claire. Suppose so."

"Oh, funny. I'm pressing charges, asshole, how’s that for funny?"

"I saw the article, Claire, about the sweatshops."

Silence.

"I think you probably have an email you need to deal with, too," she added. "Why don't you look all that over and decide if you really want me testifying under oath."

She could hear Claire typing, then silence as she was reading. 

"Oh, and I'm moving out," she added before hanging up.

Hannah's phone rang again. The call took a moment to connect, as encrypted calls always do.

"In your email, boss."

"Thanks," she said as her phone dinged the sound of a new message. 

"So, how'd it go?"

"Perfectly." She hung up.

Hannah opened the file, and there was the gallery. Each guest was tagged in the footage, their name hovering above them. She sped up the video and watched as the names swirled around the room in all the commotion. Each face, in turn, looked up and at the cameras in horror, fury, and ultimately defeat.

Now that is art, she thought.