Casablanca 2045 (Nikki)

Eleanor stayed in Casablanca long after her parents departed, as Jacques was twice delayed, promising to show a week later, and then again after five days.

Meanwhile, Eleanor spent her time waiting with fantasies of making a life with Jacques. They spoke often during the delay, with Eleanor sharing her life with Jacques. Eleanor spent so much time talking, however, that she completely missed the fact of very little information coming from Jacques. By the time he arrives in Casablanca, Eleanor is secretly planning a wedding.

Eleanor and Jacques spent most of the next four months together, separated only when Jacques was “consulting”. Eleanor admits fear one day, when she observes that he gets mugged nearly every time he consults. At least his explanation for various bumps and bruises is getting mugged. He would never tell her details about his consulting work; she believes he lives off a trust fund, manages his own wealth, and just provides advice to others.

Eleanor’s obsession with Jacques blooms, much to Jacques delight. She so much wants out from under her parent’s thumb that she becomes pregnant in order to force the marriage she very much wants. So, in the fall, she tells him she is pregnant and he does propose marriage.

Eleanor’s parents are pleased with the upcoming marriage, hoping motherhood will continue to tame her. They are comfortable with Jacques, and have taken them into their confidence more than once; Jacques gives them valuable financial advice at one point that leads them to not get involved in a project that was later determined to be fraudulent. They never wondered how he knew though…

Settling in Casablanca permanently, Eleanor and Jacques married January 1, 2046. The ceremony was large, and attended by many local and international politicians, corporation executives, media darlings, and others. Eleanor was very happy with her new life, and Jacques found many new consulting opportunities through his new family’s connections. Jacques built a home to Eleanor’s specifications, and he travelled often, leaving her home to happily shop and decorate.

Lynn Meadows Temblow was born June 4, 2046. She was a big baby, 9lbs 8oz and 22.5 inches long. The delivery was normal, following a normal pregnancy for Eleanor. Unfortunately, the doctor made a mistake, and Eleanor bled to death, dying June 5, 2046. Lynn was held by her mother for a few hours, not realizing she was dying until it was too late for the medicals to fix the problem. Jacques held his daughter while Eleanor died. He promised Eleanor to love and protect Lynn with his life; she will be safe always.

June 2052 (Nikki)

“Happy Birthday Pumpkin”

“Daddy, it’s not my birthday yet. You’ll be home soon anyway right? You can wish me a Happy Birthday then.”

“I’m sorry Honey. My trip has been extended. I've bought you something very special though and it will arrive soon for you to open. I’ll call you again soon. I love and miss you, Angel.”

“No, Daddy, why aren't you coming home NOW!? I hate it when you are gone so long. Miss Manners, I mean, Ms. Smith isn't as much fun as you are. You promised to teach me to hunt with you now that I’m six. You aren't going to break another promise are you? Daddy, please come home…”

July 2052 (Nikki)

Ms. Smith is making breakfast for Lynn as usual, except this is not a usual breakfast. All of Lynn’s favorite are being made – chocolate chip pancakes, ham steaks, scrambled eggs with hollandaise sauce, and even a Shirley Temple cocktail (because she thinks she’s a big girl when she gets to drink a Shirley Temple). Ms. Smith has to give Lynn some bad news. Her father is in the hospital and the doctors don’t know when he’ll come home.

Jacques Temblow was consulting in Atlanta when he was assaulted and hospitalized. He was not carrying any ID where he was found. He has been in a coma for three weeks with no signs for improvement. The hospital received a tip that their John Doe, may be from somewhere on the old European Continent, so they started posting his photo through those media sites, hoping someone will recognize him.

As Ms. Smith is not just a frumpy middle-age woman, but a bodyguard-nanny for Lynn, she actually reviews the media sites regularly for news or signs of Mr. Temblow’s activity. His scheduled call to Lynn had been missed, and his other check-in methods to Ms. Smith have not happened in far too long. Both the London and Paris media sites began posting a John Doe notice with Jacques’ photo. While he looked badly damaged, Ms. Smith clearly recognizes her employer. Ms. Smith knows that Lynn has family based in Boston and wonders why if they had noticed the John Doe reports. Well, Atlanta is not in the same country as Boston, but you would think the hospital flooded all the major media outlets on the North American Continent.

Ms. Smith has booked a flight to Boston and will contact Lynn’s grandparents once they have reached the local airport. Hopefully Lynn can stay with them while she figures out what happened to Mr. Temblow.

Nica Lu

October 2073, Hong Kong

"Nica, you are now 18 and must begin to contemplate the next steps in your training. You must not sit and toil as an average young woman. You must create a direction and move forward so that you are prepared to take my place someday." Mama Lu reminds Nica

"Mama Lu, you are going to live forever," laughs Nica, "why should I have to think of that now. I want to enjoy my youth. Let me be a normal person for awhile, please."

"Child, you must always remember the place you hold in our community. You will be our next Leader, and therefore must take steps now to prepare."

Seeing her friend Ralina outside, Nica continues to laugh and ignore Mama Lu's "lecture".

"Ralina and I are going shopping like regular people. I will think about all this stuff later. I love you Mama Lu. You can lecture me again when I return."


October 2074, Japan

"Mama Lu, tell me why we have come here again, and why now. I told you I was interested in a boy, and you bundle me up like a kid and bring me here. Why? What's wrong with having a relationship? You realize you can't keep me here forever and he'll still be there when I get back."

"Child, I can no longer wait for you to choose the correct path. We are here to further your education in magic theory. You will study for two weeks. Then, when we get home, we will discuss what you have learned and where your training will take you next. You should get that boy out of your head now. He is of no importance and will not be waiting for you. Boys are fickle creatures and are not to be trusted. Believe me dear, I would never lie to you about something which is important to you. When the time is right, you will meet the man you should marry. But first, your education."


November 2074, Hong Kong

"I believe your studies went well in Japan. Perhaps going to a location for your studies is better than keeping you at home. You seemed more focused. What do you say child? Are you now ready to focus on the learning you must have so you can take your proper place in our community?"

"I did enjoy my time in Japan, after I got past your sneaky way of making me do it. And I have been thinking. You know I don't want to replace you. I could never be as great as you are. However, I do agree that there is much for me to learn. So, I want to make a deal with you. Give me the first half of next year to enjoy some freedom, while I work with you to make a plan for my education. I want some time to spend with friends, doing activities I enjoy before I leave. I do agree that I need to leave in order to maximize what I can learn. I have some ideas that I will share with you in January. I know you haven't specifically mentioned my initiation, and I think we can use my initiation as the guide for my education. Will you agree to this plan? Please, Mama Lu - You'll get what you want, I just want a little more time. Please?"

Considering what Nica said and her continued pleas, Mama Lu agrees. "January, no later, we must begin planning. Despite your expectations, I will not live forever, and you must be prepared."

"Agreed, and thank you. I love you so much."

"And I you. Now, go off with Ralina and have fun. We won't discuss this again until January."

Nica Lu

January 3, 2075, Hong Kong

"Mama Lu? Are you busy?, Nica asks after she knocks on the open door.

"What is it dear? I am busy? Is this important to discuss now?", barely looking up from her work to acknowledge Nica.

"I want to talk with you about my training. If this is not the best time for you, we can do it later."

Looking up from her desk, Mama Lu's expression is puzzled, surprised, interested, and frustrated.

"I am of course very much concerned about that discussion. Unfortunately, I must complete this task immediately. Will you still be willing to discuss this later tonight? Perhaps during dinner?

Relieved to delay the conversation, Nica willingly agrees to talk over dinner.

Later that afternoon, Mama Lu receives another unexpected visitor at her door.

"I'm sorry to bother you Mama Lu, but you wanted to be informed if Nica ever was alone with that boy. Thom just sent me a message advising that Ralina is no longer with Nica, and Nica has left the cafe with him. Thom is following them now. They appear to be wandering the streets, talking, with no apparent destination. He will keep me informed. Do you have any instructions to relay back to Thom?"

Exasperated with both the interruption and relationship Nica is establishing with this new beau, "No Matthew, I have no additional instructions. Thom is to follow and report only, unless they enter a location which would provide them with privacy from even bystanders."

Looking at the clock and realizing dinner was only one hour away, she wonders if Nica will remember their plans to talk over dinner.

...

Nica Lu

Morning, January 4, 2075, Hong Kong

Mama Lu was disappointed Nica did not arrive home in time for dinner as expected. Were is not for the fact her long-time friend, and trusted security officer, Thom was providing surveillance on Nica throughout the night, she would be worried. Mama Lu knew exactly where her granddaughter was, and where she had spent her time since their brief conversation yesterday. As Nica had yet to return home, Mama Lu spent her early morning hours contemplating how to handle the situation. Nica was a wonderful young lady who could be trusted; she certainly wasn't engaging in behaviors that would be frowned upon by their community members. She was acting perfectly normal for someone of her age who had a lifetime to create a path for herself. Unfortunately, Mama Lu knows that Nica is not a perfectly normal person. She is to be the next leader and must begin to accept her position in their society.

Deciding to implement her long-developed plan for Nica’s education, Mama Lu requests Matthew to join her later that morning to go over information that must be prepared for Nica, as well as, what arrangements need to made. Nica will be given the responsibility to order her studies, but not the content. Hopefully, Nica will see her syllabus as a reference guide and will want to pursue much that has been planned. She had mentioned her initiation. Presenting her studies in the form of a Quest would certainly satisfy the society’s requirements for advancement. I only hope she remembers and recognizes this opportunity.

Nearing the noon repast, Nica comes rushing into the home search for Mama Lu.

“Mama Lu, Mama Lu, I’m so very sorry about missing our dinner last night. Please do not think I had forgotten,” Nica says rapidly. Nica certainly had not forgotten her agreement to dinner, she just was having such a good time and didn't want to disturb her enjoyable evening. Nica had spent a few moments considering if she should contact Mama Lu about her change of plans, but would quickly get distracted by her friends.

“Child, I am disappointed we could not have our conversation. I was very much looking forward to hearing what you had to tell me,” using a soft voice of disapproval.

“Oh, I’m really sorry. I should have at least contacted you. Did you wait long before eating without me?” also using a soft voice, that of a child recognizing a bad choice.

“Never mind dear. You are here now, and I am available to have the discussion you came to me about yesterday.”

“Uhm, oh, okay, Great!, Right, uhmm, well I figured that you were right about not staying home to study. I know you have associates and contacts in the many other magical societies of our world. I would like you to send me to them and allow them to teach me what they will about their theories and applications of Mana. Didn't I read or hear somewhere that people can go on knowledge quests that enable them to initiate instead of being involved in feats or rituals. You said you want me to learn more of the magical world to be prepared to assume your role. Do you think your educational goals for me would qualify for a knowledge quest?” Nica awkwardly rushes through her thoughts. She very much wanted to avoid any rituals or feats for initiation. They are hard according to every source, and she just didn't want to do it.

Inwardly pleased, outwardly calm, Mama Lu listens to Nica. She indeed had a positive experience in Japan.

“Well, yes. It is possible to identify a knowledge quest to satisfy Initiation requirements. You understand though that the study is lengthy, and once begun, cannot be stopped without beginning anew. Are you willing to undertake such a journey child? This will take years to complete as Initiation is not intended to be easy. Feats and rituals can be more quickly completed in many situations. Would you not rather have your Initiation over as quickly as possible?” knowing full well that Nica has always shied away from the rigors of ritual study.

“Oh, well yes, I understand I will have to spend more time on a knowledge quest instead of the other more traditional options, but I think this is better for me. I get to satisfy your desire for me to learn more, and the necessary Initiation that will be eventually required of me. Will the society approve this plan?” Nica asks with trepidation. She knows that while it does sound possible, it may not be approved by the committee.

Having already prepared the committee for this likely outcome for Nica’s training, Mama Lu confidently assures Nica this can be done.

“Let us begin to plan where you will go and who you need to meet. I have thoughts on how you may want to proceed, but you certainly can change the order in which the knowledge is learned. Do you have any particular theories or traditions you would like to explore first?”

-----
And thus begins Nica's departure from her insular world, into the larger society of “man” for the purposes of learning about all the Magic of the world. (What a crazy expectation!)

Monday 19th August, 2075; Bellevue

Yeah, he could drive.

Headed straight for the heavier traffic on 104th, then managed to put a hundred meters or so between them and the cruiser purely on superior shifting as they wove through GridGuided electrics like they were flies stuck in molasses. Knowing they had seconds or less before more rollers joined the chase, the kid wasted no time before making a slick little bootlegger’s turn that left the cop wedged between two cargo haulers, Al half-flung from the truck bed, and the Gaz flying back southward. Then he cut the lights, going dark before swerving into Killarney Glen Park and behind a copse of Douglas firs.

Would have worked, but the boy didn’t know about the drone. The moment they stopped, Al was pounding on the cab roof, jabbing a thumb meaningfully skyward and then indicating the shotgun behind the seat. Boy handed it out and they were off again like a turpentined tom.

Al lined up the shot, cursing the fact that here he was in a badass car chase with the law and he wasn’t even at the wheel of his own damned ride. But at least he was going to kill something with a Knight-Errant logo on it, and kill it he did - clipped a stabilizer and it careened full power into the earth so hard it left a crater in the turf amid an eruption of dirt and grass. Overdrive was still racing through the park, weaving between strangely active restrooms, shuttered snack stands, and whatever foliage he could find. But out on the edge of the green space they could see flashing lights converging from five directions, and Al spotted a Wasp’s running lights on the horizon.

“Shit, old man, what do I do now?” yelled the kid, and Al’s answer was to drag himself over the side of the speeding truck, place a Doc Marten on the running board, haul the driver door open and shout, “You git the blazin’ hell over, son.”

Monday 19th August, 2075; Bellevue

As usual in a crisis, Al’s mind raced back over all that he’d learned about reality from watching the trid. He therefore knew that his first task was to shake the immediate pursuit, but that even if he did that he’d have to duck an impenetrable net of thousands of cameras all the way back to the Barrens. And for that second point, he reckoned the caked-on ash mud that he’d accumulated over the past two weeks of scrapping in Hell’s Kitchen - the same coating of mud that had gotten them pulled over in the first place - was the key.

But first he had to shake his pursuers before the damned Wasp came on station. Cruisers were converging on them from all sides now. No easy way out, he picked the thinnest link in the cordon, flicked on his high-beams, and gunned it straight for the patrol car. In his favor was the fact that he’d never lost at chicken in his life (though there had been a couple of rather painful draws). But just to ensure he didn’t wuss out, at about 50 meters he shut off his cybereyes. A long second or so later he heard Overdrive’s scream in his right ear and a Dopplering siren in his left - son of a bitch had veered off, bless him, and they were out! Reactivating his eyes he headed into the subdivision to the south of the park. He reckoned he had maybe a seven second lead, but that should be enough - he hadn’t picked this spot at random.

On the south side of the subdivision there was a gas station in a crappy little strip mall on the left. Seeing flashing red and blue a couple hundred yards back in his rear-view, Al made an unnecessarily flashy turn to the right, leaving a mist of scorched rubber in his wake. Once off their sight lines, he pulled a quick u-turn into oncoming traffic, cut his lights again and traversed back across the street he’d come out of, staying behind a passing truck for cover. This took him handily to the gas station and straight into its automated car wash, while three cop cars turned right and sped after his phantom self in the opposite direction.

He slotted certified cred and they rolled up the windows. In a few moments, they’d emerge mud-free, eliminating the one distinctive feature that was foremost in the minds of all the pawns. He toggled his vehicle’s AR signal to his new ID, and flicked the switch on the morphing plates. Now they’d be able to just drive right out, a whole different truck, and waltz to the nearest bar for a beer.

Except for the cameras. Like everywhere else in Bellevue, there was no shortage of cameras on the strip mall, and it was only a matter of time before some fat slob in a control room somewhere took a look at all the footage in the vicinity of his little disappearing act and came up with before and after shots of his now-clean Gaz. Not to mention he knew they had his face from when they were stopped, and that spelled well and truly burned. So he fed more cred into the car wash to buy more time, and reached for his commlink.

Monday 19th August, 2075; Bellevue

The cab of the truck was pitch black. The dim street lights illuminating the overcast night had no hope of penetrating the dirty windows of the car wash unit, and even if it did there would be no getting through the accumulating suds on the windows. The sound of the brushes spinning across the vehicle’s surfaces added a white-sound hiss to the darkness.

And then there was light, as Al lit up a Lucky Strike. From the seat next to him his new eye mods let him see the kid clear as day in the flame of the Zippo, and the boy said, “Seriously, man?”

Busy with his commlink, Al didn’t look up. “Son, ya jist hauled off an’ decked a duly certified officer of the law, an’ yer whinin’ at ol’ Al ‘bout second-hand smoke? Ya wanna live ferever, then next time ya clock someone have a little sit-down with yerself first an’ ask yerself how many cameras they got on ya an’ how many double-oh licensed-ta-kill-bad-guys friends they got.”

Ignoring the young rigger’s vigorous rebuttal, Al cursed as he realized he didn’t even have the commcode for the people he wanted to talk to. So he called Clack instead, and as soon as the youthful troll answered the first words Al said were, “Don’t speak.” A verbal flood headed off at the pass, he continued, “You jist tell them folk ya hooked me up with about the ID ta send me another one o’ them Mission: Impossible self-destructin’ contact icons, an' lickety-split, mind ya. Tell ‘em their cred balances’ll be the better for it.” And he hung up without awaiting a response. These people had to have access to cop databases if they could build the sort of fake bona fides he’d bought from them a couple of weeks ago.

“You calling the cavalry?” Overdrive asked.

“Manner o’ speakin’, reckon I am. The time-travellin’ sort. Folk ‘at kin make the past like it never did happen at all.”

Monday 19th August, 2075; Bellevue

Forty-three seconds passed and they didn’t bother with the fancy icon, just blank-texted him. He didn’t bother trying to find a ‘code, just hit ‘reply.’

<<Got me some legal issues. From about four minutes back. Clear for the nonce, but they got our faces, my truck. Ten K to make it go away.>> And he forwarded the fake SIN the truck had been using when they’d been stopped, then linked briefly to the truck’s nav so they could see the route they’d been over.

<<Keep your cred. You can owe us one.>>

<<Twenty K.>>

<<We like the favor.>>

Al checked his cred balance. “Twenty three five. And I’ll keep your rides running for a year.>>

<<Agents already in position, targeted viruses coded. Price is a favor. Window is closing.>>

No time even to curse. <<Get her done.>> And a burn-scarred finger hit SEND.

The kid started to ask a question, but before he could spit it out the text was already back. <<You are clear digitally. Only possible blind spot would be cybereyes with offline memory in the pawns at the stop, but their personnel records show no such implants. The street is clear at the moment, cameras down.>>

Al didn’t bother to text a thank you. He reckoned he’d be expressing plenty of gratitude soon enough. He pulled out of the garage slow and easy, a shiny wax job on one of thousands of 2072 Gaz P-179s in the ‘plex, under a new name matching new plates.

“Did they do it?”

“Say they did.” His rasp of a voice always sounded painful. “Cost me a solid though, an’ when they say jump one day ta ol’ Al, you kin bet yer skinny ass there gon’ be some trickle-down headed in yore d’rection, an’ I ‘spect you’ll be Johnny-onna-spot when that time comes.”

He hit the 520 on-ramp and wondered who would catch up to him first, the wise guys or the rent-a-cops. Both had long memories - memories in real people’s heads, not just a bunch of code - and both had been plenty good at finding people long before Big Brother had put cameras on every street corner and electronic device known to man.

Oh well, whichever it was, he’d try to go easy on ‘em.

Monday 19th August, 2075; 9:17 pm, The Goat Hill Tavern, Auburn

Al stepped across the threshold and close enough to home.

He’d dropped Overdrive off ten minutes ago, and been hiding out from the man in a car wash ten before that. From fugitive to free-and-clear in twenty minutes, Al congratulated himself on the full and rich life he led as he contemplated how best to get drunk.

With a couple of hours to go before his nightly late-date with the Tattoo Witch, he’d had to come all the way down to Auburn just to find a drinking establishment that wasn’t putting on airs. This place would do - real smoke, real pool tables, and real signs advertising real beer. The only decorations on the walls all had bikinis on their bodies, round ears on their heads, and brews in their hands. Still, the fact that someone had splashed a mop across the floor this morning put it a cut above Al’s usual haunts, but he was thirsty now and this would have to do.

The girl that came to his table wore a tank-top and jeans and was still pretty, though she wouldn’t be for much longer. Had three red tears running down her right cheek.

“What’cha cryin’ ‘bout, darlin’?”

“One for every year he’s away.”

“Three down and...”

“Two to go, he keeps his nose clean.”

“An’ the chances o’ that are?”

Pool balls clacked and she turned to look, then watched the player line up his next shot. When she turned back to Al there were more tears on her cheeks, clear and wet. “Slim to less than none, boss, but I’ll be here waiting for him just the same.”

“Nothin’s ferever, hon, so you just hang onto yore faith an’ the Good Lord’ll see to the rest, inshallah. Now bring ol’ Al a cold one, an keep ‘em comin’.”

Monday 19th August, 2075; 10:32 pm, The Goat Hill Tavern, Auburn

“...so I opened her up an’ rammed the sumbitch. Brought both heads crashin’ down onto the foredeck, purty as ya please. Fellers still standin’ got some hooks inna necks, an’...”

“And nothin’, ya mangy drunk. That is just so much crap. Ain’t no such thing as two-headed sea monsters.”

The place had filled right up after ten, and Al had attracted a small crowd of five or six men, some sitting at his table with beers, others leaning on their pool cues. But there was always some skeptic determined to stop the hard-earned flow of free beers. This one was youngish, though his wing man was a bit older.

“Well, Perfesser, reckon yore entitled ta yore opinion....long as ya offer it with a smile on yer face.”

“I ain’t smilin’, asshole. What are you gonna do about it?”

“Nothin’ to do but gracefully acknowledgize my mistake. Reckon that’s all a body can do when confronted by the superior knowledge an’ learnin’ of a true man o’ letters an’ science. Which university was it ya said ya taught parazoology at?”

The younger man jostled the table as he stood, sending beer sloshing onto the plaswood tabletop. “You makin’ fun o’ me, old man?”

Al did not stand, but leaned back on his chair. He spread his burn-scarred hands wide in welcome, and raised his eyebrows in invitation.

But before the younger man could move, his older companion laid a calloused hand on his shoulder. Quietly, he said to his angry friend, “You want to fight, learn to size up your opposition better.”

“You know this tired hobo?”

“Don’t need to, I know the type.”

The warning tone in his voice was compelling, and both men left the table, the younger one cursing as he went.

And that was when two small hands with long, black-lacquered nails reached over Al’s shoulders and came to rest on his chest.

Monday 19th August, 2075; 10:33 pm, The Goat Hill Tavern, Auburn

Al congratulated himself on the effortless way he attracted the fairer sex. Idly, he wondered if his powers could be taught to others - a legacy of sorts - or whether they were simply an immutable gift - a testament, perhaps, to superior breeding and a life well lived.

Whoever she was, he was wondering if she looked as good as she smelled, and was just about to turn around when another woman pushed her way through the encircling men and put her hands on the back of a chair. She was five-ten, but he’d heard the heels, so maybe five-six. Blonde, she leaned over the table to put her face at his level, and the resultant view confirmed for him that she was built just fine. “May we to sit down?” she purred in a heavy Russian accent. Without waiting for an answer, the one behind him came around and took a seat immediately to his right. This one had ginger hair, and the cut of her dress let him see that she had freckles all over. They didn’t go well with her black nails, but neither one had really shown much sense in their choices of cosmetics.

Trashy.

Perfect.

To his surprise, the men that had surrounded the table had made themselves scarce. So much the better, since he had no intention of sharing the wealth.

“I am Palomino, and this one Jade. She has no English,” said the blond as she sat. “You buy drinks, yes.”

“Back in a jiff.”

Al went to the bar. Red-teardrops was there. “Bottle o’ bourbon, three glasses.” The girl took her time, wiping each glass carefully before setting it on a tray. She killed the passing seconds by talking. “That was real nice, what you said before. Thank you.”

“Think nothin’ of it. Strayed off’n the path a little, but there’s ministerin’ in muh blood.”

“Well, they say count your blessings.”

“That they do sister, that they do.”

“Yeah, count your blessings...but question your luck.” And she turned to another patron.

No idea what she might be getting at, Al returned to the table, mildly surprised that no one had sat down with the girls in his absence. He congratulated himself on his intimidating alpha-male nature.

He started opening the bottle, but Jade leaned up against him and placed her hand across his. Palomino said, “Keep it for road, yes?”

“Say again.”

“I will not beat around shrub. You are strong, like bull. We are two girls so lonely. So lonely. We need you. Maybe also you like us, no? Our car right outside.”

Al knew any other man would consider himself lucky, but for him it was just another day in the life of a king.

“Lead on, senoritas, ol' Al's own patented brand o' paradise awaits you.”

Monday 19th August, 2075

As usual, the space was very tight. The room was very small.

The dog was a good dog. Overfed, indeterminate breed. But a real good dog. Al could tell.

Couldn’t make out a word it was saying though. All Chinese.

It was very cold here.

Then it spoke some English.

“Well, friend...”

Al waited a moment, but that seemed to be all, so he prompted, “Yeah?”

“Well, friend...”

“Go ‘head. Shoot.”

“Well, friend...”

“Hey, I’m all ears here. What’s on yer mind?”

The dog stretched out a paw to shake.

Al took the paw and it came off in his hand.

Tuesday 20th August, 2075; 0011, Viceroy Hotel, Auburn

Al was pretty sure he was awake now, but he was still cold. Really cold. He probably should do something about that.

Not yet inclined to lift his heavy eyelids, he tried to recall the pleasures of the previous evening, but found he could not. He remembered Jade riding with him as he’d followed Palomino’s car in his truck, then going into their hotel. Palomino had wasted no time undressing - at least he remembered that - and as he watched, Jade had put a drink in his hand. It had been good stuff.

And now here he was, cold as an everlovin’ witch’s tit. He probably should do something about that.

He tried opening his eyes, just a slit. It was surprisingly difficult. He realized he didn’t feel very well. The desire to sleep was putting up a pretty good fight against the need to get warm.

He was in the bathroom. It was pretty big, but cluttered with junk. Lot of stainless steel. Tubes, trays, tanks. Some containers with biohazard symbols on them.

He was in the bath. Him and what looked like about twenty buckets worth of ice cubes. Gingerly sitting up a bit, his head exploded as he moved and he laid back down. But now he realized he was jaybird naked. He saw his clothes lying in a pile over in the corner.

Still way too cold, he tried brushing away the ice in which he was submerged. Exposing his torso, he saw that someone had gone to town on him with red Magic Marker. He looked like an anatomy text book. There was his heart, lungs, stomach, all clearly stenciled on his skin. And they had shaved his damned chest! Now he was mad, and that woke him up somewhat.

It was going to itch like a bitch growing back in.

Tuesday 20th August, 2075; 0012, Viceroy Hotel, Auburn

Al pulled himself upright into a world of headache. Ignoring the icepicks stabbing into his brainpan, he hauled his skinny legs over the side of the tub and stood. Then the world turned upside-down and he flopped backward onto the tile floor, his head hitting with an audible crack. Sorely tempted to just go to sleep right there, the tickle of warm blood flowing down the nape of his neck reminded him that wouldn’t be a good idea right now.

He worked himself into a sitting position, back against the tub, and reached with his foot for his skivvies. Toes gripping the shorts, he pulled them closer and put them on. Then repeated the process with his tattered jeans. Shivering violently now, he got his father’s brown bomber jacket and pulled it on, closing it tightly over his emaciated frame.

Then he sat there for a few minutes, waiting for the shivering to stop and the room to stop spinning. Neither did. He could faintly hear voices from the other room, and he could smell blood. There was another pile of old clothes in another corner of the room.

First things first. He needed a cigarette. He patted his pockets, and everything was where it should be - except his smokes. There they were on the floor over where his jacket had lain.

He couldn’t reach them with his foot, and he’d be damned if he was going to crawl, so he stood again. Halfway through the three steps it would take to reach his goal, he toppled again. Flailing for something to hang onto, one hand swept a half dozen glass vials onto the hard tile floor, the other hit the valve on one of the many tanks, which started to hiss. His leg, sliding out from under him, upended a cart of surgical instruments, and they clattered to the floor with a terrific racket.

Back on the floor, he found himself exhausted. Somewhere in his brain he knew he should be concerned about the terrific din he’d just raised, but more important was the fact that now he could reach his pack of Lucky Strikes. He’d just put one in his mouth when the bathroom door opened, revealing three blood-soaked men in the filthiest scrubs he’d ever seen. He was frankly appalled at their lack of hygiene.

Looking down at him, they started arguing loudly with one another in what sounded like Russian. Three of them shouldn’t be too hard, but not being able to stand up reliably was a wrinkle, and Al decided he’d need a plan. They were done arguing and moving toward him now, but he was so tired. Just one cigarette, then he’d make the plan for kicking all their asses.

He raised his Zippo, previously palmed out of habit, and the ‘legger in front stopped in his tracks, the other two bumping into him. The leader wasn’t exactly looking at Al, he was looking past his shoulder. The hissing sound was coming from there. Out of the corner of his eye, Al spied the nozzle of the tank he’d bumped.

He sniffed. Then he smiled.

The flame was greenish blue and shot towards them like a comet. They were already nearly out of the room, but the one in back went up like dry newsprint, then started running around the room beyond setting other stuff on fire. Some women screamed. Al kicked the door shut and tipped another couple of tanks over in front of it. Grabbed his Docs in one hand, broke the nearest window with them, and rolled himself over the sill, idly hoping this was still the second floor room he’d started out in with the girls.

Tuesday 20th August, 2075; 0138, Rocco's, Puyallup

Al pushed through the red curtains on bare and slightly unsteady feet. He hadn’t had time to find his socks, and the Docs hurt his feet without them.

The witch was in a battered easy chair, sketching with charcoals on a big pad in the dim light. Her long blond kinks were tied back tonight, and she was barefoot too.

“Late.”

“Busy.”

He’d also failed to find his wife beater, so after dropping his battered bomber jacket to the floor there was nothing to do but head straight for the plastic-covered table.

“I thought we had an agreement.”

“Been verrrry busy.” He was sober now, but whatever they’d given him was still in his blood. It was a wonder he’d made it back here - as it was he’d leaned far more than he’d liked on the anti-collision systems.

“There’s one back through there.”

Over the past two weeks, Al had become quite at home in her work area, which was a stark contrast in its tattered utilitarianism to the garish decor of the anteroom. But the toilet he sometimes used did not have a shower, and he hadn’t known she had one here. Making his way through some sort of storage room, he found a no-frills set-up - just a nozzle over a spot of cement with a drain in the middle - and shed his jeans. There was only cold water, but it did him good. He needed all his wits dealing with this one, and he was glad to wash the blood out of his hair.

There was no towel, so he pulled his jeans back on wet, and stuffed his dry shorts into a pocket to put on later. Then he came out and crossed to the toilet, went in and came out with a roll of paper - he knew his nose would start bleeding again once he laid down on his stomach. Got onto the table.

A flip was switched, and a photo of Rufus was projected on the wall, big and very high-res. Her software had done wonders with the old shot.

“Who’s been writing on you?”

“Some very very good friends.”

“Some very very good friends who were extremely interested in the location of your kidneys, spleen, and liver.”

“True love ain’t jist skin deep.”

“I suppose there’s something clever for me to say here,” she remarked, picking up her iron.

Thursday 11th July, 2069; 2324, somewhere between Rabaul and Los Angeles

Al congratulated himself on saying something so clever, but he was a bit frustrated with his audience. Speaking hardly ten words of English between them, they simply couldn’t appreciate the American machinist’s rapier wit.

They appreciated his card skills, though, or lack thereof. He’d been playing square, in light of being among friends (if not good Christians). And tonight hadn’t been his night. Now, though, the pot was fat on the fourth street and he was holding a tantalizing outside straight - nine to queen - with no dead outs in a game of five-card.

The bet was to him, and he squinted across the table through the smoky gloom at the chubby one he called Chairman Mao, sitting there all smug with three ladies showing. The fourth was Al’s hole card, so he’d bet heavy going in, figuring the odds were against Mao getting another one. Well, he’d gotten not one but two more. A straight would still do the trick for Al, though. Problem was, if he bet any more and lost, he’d be out of Luckies until they made land, nothing to smoke but those lousy Double Happiness vapes these Chinamen somehow got by on. He’d pour battery acid in his eyes first.

And Mao didn’t even smoke, bless his heart.

But he’d been losing to the feller all night, so he stayed in, knowing he had no better than a one-in-five shot at getting his card. There were probably eight of them out there, and he silently willed his voodoo guardians to send one his way.

The first card of the fifth went to Chop Suey. Damned king of clubs. Good news: it was useless to the pock-faced old cook, who’d been nursing a diamond flush. Bad news: down to at most seven outs left in the deck. The aging galley rat emptied his beer, mucked his cards, and went off to check on dinner.

Mao got the next card, and of course it was an eight. Six outs left. He bet five more cigs. Al cursed as he looked at his dwindling stake and thought of his dwindling odds.

Bruce Lee was next. Shirtless as always. Always practicing his moves. Al had tried a dozen times to show him some real American style killer karate, but the kid was sold on his kung phooey like a religion. Another damned king, and Al could see the writing on the rusting rec room wall.

Except he was lucky. Born lucky. Lived lucky. Hell, he’d probably die lucky. And sure enough, he was dealt a king. Pushing the last of his cigarettes into the pot, he called, congratulating himself on having had faith in his own inevitable good fortune.

And then Mao flipped his hole card - a second eight.

The hefty Asian’s gut kept him from getting too close to the table, so he had to haul himself out of his chair to drag in his winnings - at least three cartons worth. “Xiexie, xiexie, Al,” he said repeatedly, not a hint of irony in his voice. Devil of it was, the fella actually meant it. Al reflected on how much he hated losing to nice people as he took a long, slow drag on his Lucky, his last Lucky for the foreseeable future.

Thursday 11th July, 2069; 2357, somewhere between Rabaul and Los Angeles

His stake gone, Al pushed back from the table and rose easily from his chair. The deck rolled gently under his feet, but he’d spent enough years at sea that he compensated without a thought. He headed out into the cool evening air and stared across the Pacific. Lost track of time, until the filterless Lucky burned down to his lips, and he cast the butt out into the depths. He needed a shower.

He made his way below decks to the crew cabins, moving easily through the cramped spaces and generally jumping down through hatchways - it was just quicker and easier than wasting time with the steps. Entering his quarters, he went into the head, shed his jacket and yellowing T-shirt, and started brushing Chop Suey’s greasy dinner out of his teeth. In the mirror were rough-hewn, unattractively craggy features, with an oft-broken nose at center stage. He was quite short, but at forty-two he had a physique twenty-five-year-olds would die for, hard, ropey muscles flowing easily beneath bronzed skin. All garnished by copious body hair, scars, and ink.

The shower was long and hot, and when he dripped his way out of the cubicle, he saw something on his cot. It was a plastic bag, and in it were all his Luckies. There was a note, Roman letters scrawled as if by a child: For well frienb Al.

Tuesday 20th August, 2075; 0138, Rocco's, Puyallup

"Nah, no need ta say nothin' clever - sometimes the simplest sentiments say it all."

She worked on him silently, then, until nearly dawn. Their nightly sessions had been getting longer as the work progressed.

Wiping his back with an alcohol swab, she said, "Composing the image on the built up scar tissue takes a lot more time." No hint of apology.

He got up and snatched his jacket off the floor.

"Do you want to borrow a T-shirt?"

"I'm not far from home. Got another one there."

"At least you didn't lose your baubles," she said, referring to the collection of randomly carved shapes and found objects knitted into two leather thongs, one loose around his neck, the other tight around his left arm above the bicep.

"Fetishes."

"Baubles."

"Thought we might get through one night without all this."

"I have a job to do."

"So you keep sayin'. Yer job is ta put him," and he pointed to the projection of the dog on the wall, "onta muh back."

"It's going to be my masterpiece, do not doubt it. But it's not my job."

She was getting more sassy the longer he knew her. "So work gon' be free, then."

"We'll talk money when it's done. As for the price, that will be a different matter altogether."

Tuesday, 20th August, 2075; 0815, Mechanicals compound, Puyallup

Al drove back to the Mechanicals’ compound in the dawn light. As usual, Honesty’s words were playing back and forth and sideways in his head, which always annoyed him because he knew they were just so much nonsense.

In his apartment he put on his other T-shirt and pair of socks, annoyed at the thought that he might now have to go and buy more. He didn’t figure Saver’s Central delivered in the Barrens - drones too expensive.

He thought about sleeping, but knew it would be impossible, so he went to the dining hall for a feast of powdered eggs, biscuits and soysage gravy. The java wasn’t bad, but what he really needed was a beer. He didn’t waste much time there, since he couldn’t smoke, but did take the time to slip a few nuyen to the troll-child and thank him for his quick help the night before.

The witch’s babblings were still swirling in his head when he lit his first cigarette of the day in the safety of his truck (though he still kept half a wary eye open for Mrs. Teapot, or whatever her damned name was). He finally decided to have an open mind and really consider whether anything Honesty said made a lick of sense, and four seconds later concluded it did not. But it was tickling something, hitting a part of him he couldn’t quite put a finger on. He pulled out of the compound and, instead of heading south into the ash wastes as he had every morning for the past couple of weeks, he headed back north, for the International District.

Tuesday, 20th August, 2075; 0857, International District, Downtown Seattle

Morning was the best time of the district. Lots of sunlight. Summer afternoons, the damned ACHE cast a dark shadow over the whole neighborhood. But this time of day, the place was really waking up. With the yaks all asleep, everyone was more relaxed. Too early for the trendy Japanophiles and cosplayers swarming Uwajimaya Village, most of the traffic was commercial as trucks and rusty vans delivered produce and fish to the host of Chinese and Japanese restaurants that were the lifeblood of the locals. At Hing Hay Park, the tai chi crowd was giving way to clusters of men surrounding the chess, i-go, and shogi tables. Al rolled by on South King Street with the windows down, soaking it in. And kept driving up the hill into the Southeast Asian blocks, the underclass of the International District.

Smart, no. But the tedium of hiding was fast overcoming the urgency of survival for Al, and he had things that needed doing. Toward the top of the list was Spike, a project he’d been working on for weeks before the whole mob thing had gone down, and one he was disinclined to give up. So although in his mind he’d washed his hands of Hun and his suicidally stubborn pride, he now found himself back at the man’s tenement.

He was just looking for the dog. And the big black beast was there, claiming first pick of a pile of garbage across the street on the Bangladeshi side. But Al hardly noticed. His gaze was filled with the burned out hulk of his former home.

The place was a total loss. Even the exterior walls and load-bearing interior structures were half gone. A whole block just wiped out. Surrounding buildings had survived, anything separated from the blaze by two lanes of asphalt, but all the facing properties bore scars of the conflagration.

Al was shocked.

But why should he be? Hadn’t he told Hun they’d burn him to the ground over this? He hadn’t meant it literally, had he? But here it was. He’d never imagined it could go this far. The Gianelli higher-ups would never have backed this on Arty’s say-so, and he would have had to pay a hefty sum to the Japs and who knew who else to come in here and do this. It didn’t have to make sense, though. If the world made sense, there’d be no Arturo Gianellis. Hell, if the world made sense, there’d be enough people like Hun Sen in the world to stand up to leeches like that, put them out of business. But that wasn’t the world they were living in. Al had reckoned he’d done his part, pulling Hun and Buntha’s fat out of the fire that night, and what might happen next hadn’t concerned him past his own skin.

He thought of all this as he entered the ruin, circling his way carefully inward on the ground floor, and then into the basement, now mostly exposed to the sky. Sure enough, there was the ignition point - the basement had gone first, burning hotter and hotter until it had found ways to erupt past and then through the concrete flooring at ground level. That would have left time...though there would have been none for Al if he’d been home that night. Surely the idiots had known he was long gone by then...but none of this made sense rationally...no, hell had no fury like an insecure, low-level mob boss scorned, and that was the sum total of what this was about. Business was long gone out of it.

And whose fault was that? Who had taken it over the line from ruthless to personal?

Al sat in the cab of his truck, smoking and gazing at the pile of cinders, now weeks old. Facts were easy to remember, but reaching back and second-guessing one’s own actions, picking apart past motivations, that was a task as uncomfortable as it was uncertain. And it was all her doing. Somehow, some way, all that para-psycho drivel she fed him night after night had brought him here, though he was pretty sure she didn’t even know about any of this.

Outside the truck, he saw Spike staring at him, now looking him in the eye.

And then in his side mirror he spotted the dark sedan that had crept up silently behind him.

Tuesday, 20th August, 2075; 0929, International District, Downtown Seattle

Al didn’t figure the Mercury Comet four-door could hold enough people to take him down, the way he was feeling. He wanted to do this with his bare hands - but he left his Defiance in easy reach on the seat, just in case.

The driver and passenger doors opened, but the occupants emerged in no hurry. The driver was a skinny kid, medium height, with polyweave black slacks and a crisp, short-sleeved, indescribably white shirt emblazoned with an ebony pocket-protector. He had Africa-black skin, and his tight curls were cropped cleanly above round ears and a starched collar. Barely out of the car, he ducked his head back into it and rummaged around, emerging with a pad of paper to go with the array of pens in his breast pocket. When he swung the door shut, Al saw a matte-black Ruger Thunderbolt on his hip, two clips, and a single pair of cuffs.

The woman that climbed out of the passenger side onto the sidewalk was huge. Taller than the man, and at least treble his weight. She carried it well, but all the bits moved this way and that under the maroon sweater-vest, ash-gray slacks and matching blazer. No illusion of muscle. Her ears were pointed, features neither blunt nor sharp, and with no sign of tusks Al honestly couldn’t decide if she was an ork or an elf. She had dusky brown skin and a jet-black Eton crop, signature curl slicked onto her forehead like some sort of gargantuan Josephine Baker.

Neither had bothered looking at him yet. The woman said, “You forgot the parking brake,” and the young man answered, “It’s in park, we’re not on a slope,” to which she replied, “You forgot the parking brake.” He sighed, opened the car back up, and half-sat in order to apply the parking brake. When he was back out, they both came forward and sat on the hood of their car, studying Al thoughtfully.

Al studied them back. They didn’t seem too dangerous. But cops were cops.

Finally, she spoke. “Well if it isn’t Al Guthrie. The star of the show.”

Tuesday, 20th August, 2075; 0933, International District, Downtown Seattle

“Actually, name’s Salesco. Don’t know no Al.” His cigarette was spent. Tossing it to the ground, he really wanted to light a new one, but this didn’t seem like the right moment to be reaching into his jacket.

“Right, Joseph Salesco, just like the vehicle reg says.” For someone with a paper notepad and pen in his hand, the way the kid’s eyes moved showed he was pretty good with the AR. “Recently up from the Bay Area, lost family in a fire there.”

“What? Oh, yeah...very painful memory. Very painful.”

“Currently residing without address in the Seattle Metroplex.” He walked right up into Al’s space like he wasn’t there, took a look into the cab. The woman sat and smiled. “Truck doesn’t look too lived in for a homeless person. But what the hay, I do see a license for the shotgun you have there within easy reach.” The young black man slipped past Al, tossed the Defiance into the passenger seat, and sat down in the truck. He acted so casual, but Al noticed that even up close he was always protecting his weapon side. As he opened the glove box, Al asked, “Don’t you need a warrant or somethin’?”

The man turned and looked at the woman. They were both grinning. Then he resumed his search, saying, “Oh my days, they said you were old school, but...wow.”

Al decided that now was the time to use his Thespian powers. He’d practiced this bit at least twice while watching the trid. “Listen, I am just an out of work mechanic, down on my luck...” The woman’s raised eyebrows told him to just save his breath. Emerging from the truck, the young guy ran a finger around the inside lip of the rear wheel well. It came away covered in an indeterminate grayish substance. He smelled it.

“Well, it looks and feels like volcanic ash, but smells just like soap.”

He figured they’d catch up to him, but not this fast.

Then he noticed the woman was holding an old tire iron lightly between her fingertips. His tire iron. The one he’d thrown at the cruiser the night before.

He started wondering if there was a way to get away without killing them. He wasn’t going back to jail.

The woman must have seen something change in his face, because she spoke for the second time.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Guthrie. No one knows any of this but the three of us. Truth is, we’ve been meaning to approach you for some time - all of this simply colors our relationship in a certain way.”

“The way bein’, ol’ Al bends over, puckers up, an’ says thank you ma’am may I have another?”

“Think of us as a sentencing board. You are condemned to one act of community service. We want you to help us get Arturo Gianelli.”

Tuesday, 20th August, 2075; 1037, International District, Downtown Seattle

They took him for a drive, Al up front, with the woman behind the wheel. She said her name was Esposito. The kid behind him introduced himself as Sergeant Pratt. That made the woman at least a lieutenant.

They said they were part of Knight-Errant’s mafia task force in Seattle, though he soon surmised they were the task force. Or at least the only ones not on the take. He reckoned Damien’s boys must be too busy chasing down bug hives to bother much with a little extortion, ruined lives, crushed livelihoods. But he held his tongue.

They talked and drove, drove and talked. Told him all sorts of things about Arty, some of which he knew, much of which he couldn’t have cared less about. Taken altogether, seemed Arturo was an even more unsavory sort than he’d been aware. On top of that, these two cops thought that of all the capi in the Gianelli organization, he’d be softest, easiest to turn.

Eventually they found their way back at the old Khmer tenement, on the opposite side from Al’s truck. “They did it about three a.m. People sleeping deepest, most of the men out on the docks. Had to have known neither you nor Hun was in there. Then they set up all around the place, armed to the teeth.” Esposito spat out the window. “If there was a real man among them, we would have thought they expected a fight, but they were just here to shoot down the women and children as they got out. That’s when we got here, with a few uniforms. Pussies faded.”

Al thought of all the little urchins that used to follow him around pestering him for handouts. They’d been a pain in the ass.

“Everyone got out,” continued Pratt. “They’re set up down in Tacoma now, trying to start something new up, but Arturo keeps cutting them off at the knees before they can get off the ground.”

“So pertect ‘em.” Al’s first words since getting into their car.

“Doing our best, but there’s only two of us, and we can’t win always playing defense.”

Now Al knew half the reason these two hadn’t taken him in. Sure, they wanted something from him, but they also couldn’t care less if a bunch of rollers wanted his head for making them look bad last night. Idiot flatfoots didn’t want to piss off the Families by backing these two true believers up, naturally these two would jump at a chance to not do them a favor.

“So whaddaya want from ol’ Al?”

Then Esposito surprised him. “We want you to drive away from here and give some serious thought to how much you’d like to see Arturo Gianelli go down.”

“That’s it? Y’all jist want me to go an’ have a think about it?”

“Looking at what theyve done here, do you need to?”

“Nothin’ ta think about, cuz it’s nothin’ ta do with me.”

“Then think about it some more. Hopefully it won’t have to be too late before you’ve thought about it enough.”

Tuesday, 20th August, 2075; 1540, Mechanicals compound, Puyallup Barrens

Driving back home, Al thought about what a couple of suckers those two cops were. He’d played a tough exterior to meet their expectations, but let just the right bits of angst into his facial expressions to fool them into thinking that deep down he gave a crap about Hun and his halfway house for Delta refugees. Hell, if he felt bad for anyone it was the two detectives - it was clear they actually cared about helping people, taking down the bad guys, and here if he hadn’t convinced their gullible selves that there was some hidden seed of tenderness buried deep in his poor hillbilly heart, they could have traded him to the rollers for some of the back-up they needed.

But now they had squat. He’d have to string them along for a while, long enough to decide if he needed to switch out his primary ID again, now that they’d tagged him with it. But that was expensive, and if he played these jokers right, he might be able to hang onto it a while longer.

By the time he was back to his room in Hippyland, he figured he ought to be able to sleep. He’d been up for what? At least forty-eight hours. But five beers and two hilarity-filled episodes of Uncle Shagrat’s House later, his eyes were wide open.

Spreading his cards out on the beer table, he went back to the Invisible Flight. He’d been at it for weeks now, but the palm change never went down smoothly enough. Three hours later, he was tempted just to do a duplicate card force, but knew old Erdnase would frown on it. Besides, where was he going to find an identical deck of cards with Thai porn stars on them? Which made him think about Thai girls. And then Moroccan girls. Then London girls. Eventually he began to wonder which land in all his journeys had the best women, applying a standard value set of breast-to-BMI-ratio, cooking skills, and general naughtiness. That was indeed a pretty good question, and closing his eyes he leaned back on the sofa to ponder it.

Tuesday, 20th August, 2075; 2200, Puyallup Barrens

Best blamed dog in the world, Rufus was. Al was holding him tight as the hound licked his face. They rolled around on the floor for a few minutes, then Al looked at the animal and knew he had a friend forever. Then he rammed his rigid fingers deep into the dog’s eyes, blinding it. In agony, the dog was too confused to react - it sat there in shock, ears twitching as it tried to make sense of what had happened - and Al broke down in a wave of perplexed regret and desperate apology. “I’m sorry, boy. So sorry. I’m so so sorry.” Tears streamed down the man’s face as he pled for forgiveness. “Didn’t want to boy. You made me do it. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry forever, boy.”

And then he woke up on his bed with a huge rattlesnake coiled on his chest, rearing back to strike. It lunged, but the old snakehandler was faster, grabbing it behind the head. A couple drops of warm venom dripped from its fangs onto his unshaven chin.

He rapped the snake’s head hard against the wall to teach it a lesson, then got off the bed and walked over to put it back in its terrarium. Squinting out the window at the position of the sun, he saw he’d slept for barely an hour. Damn he was tired. Putting the snake back, he noticed the lids were off all three of the glass boxes. Nothing forced, latches undone pretty as you please. And sure enough, the other two were AWOL.

He checked the maglock on the door, but it had not been disturbed. So he set about locating the scaly fugitives. Found the first under his jacket, and carrying it back to the cage, he heard an angry rattle from under the fridge, and then a sharp impact on his left calf. “Son of a bitch!” He reached under the appliance and fished the third one out, then placed the furious animals back in their homes. “What in blazes done got inta yer?”

He stepped out of his jeans and sat down to inspect himself. Two neat holes, and already swelling something fierce. What the hell? He thought back to the last time he’d been bit. Going on three decades now, at a prayer meeting as a teen. Copperhead he’d handled a dozen times before had tagged him on the cheek, and in that moment he’d recalled having taken the Lord’s name in vain that morning after smashing his thumb with a ball peen hammer. He hadn’t even gotten sick though, and remembering that merciful chastisement, he’d never blasphemed again. So now he tried to think of how he had offended, but nothing came to mind. Hell, despite his best efforts, he hadn’t even fornicated for well nigh a month of Sundays. Sure, he’d been drinking some, but he and the Man Upstairs had an understanding about that. But here the swelling was spreading to knee and ankle. He looked over at the shelf where the bag with his medkit lay. But he hadn’t tempted the Lord thirty years ago, and he’d not lack faith now.

Best thing to do would be sleep it off, but it hurt too much, so he set about drinking, and then drinking and puking. When he ran out of beer he found a bottle of whiskey, and drank and puked on into the evening. Filled the time looking at images of snakebite victims. Damn, that was some nasty stuff, and he was happy to see he was getting nowhere near that bad. Sometime during the ordeal, Bolo the man with the HVAC plan called to update him on their entry sequence for the upcoming job, and he pretended to listen but didn’t hear a word. Break into a crazy farm, break out some head cases, how complicated could it be? At this moment, he had more important things to think about - but what would be the point? He took another drink.

By the time the moon was out and it was time to go see the Witch, he still felt like puking, but the swelling was gone, and he could walk.

No point trying to sleep, he got in his truck and stopped at a liquor store on the way.

Tuesday, 20th August, 2075; 2310, Rocco's, Puyallup

Al accidentally put his truck up on the curb trying to park, but managed not to fall over as he got out. Nor did he drop the half-empty bottle of Jack clutched in his burn-scarred hand.

Limping in through the front door, the huge white Akita was lounging on the red settee. It came over and greeted him warmly. Well at least somebody loved him tonight. He realized it hadn’t been there the night before. And somewhere in the recesses of his alcohol-clouded mind he wondered where it was when it wasn’t here.

Going in the back the nova-bossanova was on as always. Honesty said, “You look like crap.”

“Well, hey, this is me. I ain’t hardly no blamed metrosexual.”

“No, you always look like crap, but that’s usually just your meat. Tonight it’s in your eyes.”

“The eyes is ware, honey.” He lay down on the table, arms dangling over the side, bottle still held firmly. He thanked all that was holy and a few things that were not that she overlooked the shower rule and let him just lie there.

“Yeah, I know, but it's still in there, if you know how to look. And it isn’t pretty.” She put the projection on the wall, and spent a moment studying the progress of her work so far. “You’ve been dreaming again, haven’t you.”

“Never shoulda toldja ‘bout that.” And he took another swig of whiskey.

Wednesday, 21st August, 2075; 0932, some girl's "safehouse", Tacoma

Around mid-morning the sun’s rays cleared the surrounding buildings and found their way through Al’s windshield like nature’s own daggers. He was still parked on the curb in front of Rocco’s. Dredging through a pea soup hangover fog for a useful memory or two, he vaguely recalled hobbling out to the truck at the end of the previous night’s session, but that was it.

Another day waking up on the wrong side of the road. At least he’d gotten some real sleep.

He got on the freeway and drove north to nowhere in particular. Wondered if there were a way to kill Arturo Gianelli without just making things worse for everyone. Decided there wasn’t. Hell, about the only thing with worse percentages than killing a cop was offing OC bosses, especially direct relations of the top guys.

So there was nothing to do. Which was just as well, because it wasn’t his problem anymore.

By the time he felt like eating he was driving through green fields in Snohomish. Parked at a truck stop, went in, had chili-cheese fries, extra onions. The waitress had hair the color of root beer.

In the afternoon there was a meeting with his new coworkers. Pointless. He wouldn’t have bothered showing up if half of them weren’t buxom twenty-somethings. On his way in, some child with a gun had asked him if he'd been tailed. Hell, if she had to ask, could she even trust his answer? They went round and round for hours about picayune crap like on-site security protocols, transceiver frequencies, exfil back-ups. Then pizza arrived, and after his initial excitement, he groaned inwardly at the realization that this would mean more planning. He reckoned things would go smoothly, in which case all this was unnecessary, or things would go to hell, in which case all this was futile. He tried to look interested, though.

Wouldn’t do to have them know he was really only there to keep Peaches safe.

Wednesday, 21st August, 2075; 2209, Humpty's Dump, Seattle

Al drove down the length of the old jetty and parked his Gaz among the handful of light trucks and old beaters lined up outside Humpty’s Dump. The interminable planning session over, he’d been in desperate need of some light refreshment, and since instead of hiding he was now half hoping to run into Arturo Gianelli or his henchmen, he could think of no better place than his old favorite watering hole.

First he walked past the place to the very tip of the jetty. Working hard to scratch an itch through the coarse denim of the crotch of his jeans, he sucked idly on a Lucky Strike and took in the Sound. Just like the night that had got him into this mess, he took in the haunted comfort of the pine-crested skyline of a moonlit Bainbridge Island, with the nearer lights of Alki Point in the left foreground. His scar-mangled paws thrust into the pockets of his brown leather RAF jacket, he was on the cusp of a profound thought when he remembered how thirsty he was and headed inside.

It had been a month and a day, but of course nothing had changed. Darla the waitress still hadn’t shaved her legs, the tunes were still the fake-pathos of factory-farmed country music, and Mordecai Sparks was still so tall his Maria Mercurial T-shirt failed to conceal his hairy navel when he reached up for a bottle of the hard stuff.

A lot of heads turned when the little man walked in, but Sparks acted like their last conversation had been yesterday. He popped the cap off a brown bottle and put it in front of Al, saying, “Watch yer ass, cuz. Eye-ties is still lookin’ for ya. An’ despite the legendary loyalty of alcoholic day-laborers, odds are at least three of these low-lifes in here done already texted ‘em.”

“Fuck it. Let ‘em come.” Al’s voice sounded like a bullfrog with throat cancer.

“Yeah, if I thought for half a second you’d go easy, I’d call ‘em myself and be rid of your Arkie ass. But as you kin see I’m runnin’ a quality establishment here, I’d rather you be gone before they show up and the place gets tore up.”

“Tryin’ ta drink, here. Anyway, seems like they’re after Hun now.”

“Hun?”

“He’s the one spittin’ workers-of-the-world-unite into their collective Sicilian zeitgeist.”

“You shore ‘bout that? Seems to me it’s you they want.”

“Nah, that little refugee must have found some new way of pissing them off, cuz they hittin' that boy hard.”

“Yeah, almost like they’re trying to git someone’s attention.”

Al decided he didn’t know what the old roadie was talking about.

Thursday, 22nd August, 2075; 0213, Rocco's, Puyallup

“Done!”

On the one hand, he figured it was about damned time. She’d been at it every single night for two and half weeks - even The Elephant hadn’t taken this long. But on the other hand, she’d initially said her little masterpiece would take a few months. He reached for a mirror on a nearby table to try and take a look, but she slapped his hand away.

“It’s the 21st century, Al. Just have a seat here.” He made himself comfortable on a folding chair she’d set out. He sat facing the back of the chair, so her camera would have a clear view of the work. Up on the wall was the digital image of Rufus that she’d enhanced. And as she stood behind him he watched the picture make a seamless metamorphosis - ten seconds later, instead of looking at the photo of the dog he was looking at a video feed of his back, but he hadn’t even been able to spot the switch. The inking had masterfully manipulated the scarring that covered his back, leaving more of an engraving than a tattoo. The realism of the detail went way beyond the work on display in her lobby that had so entranced him. And like the time he’d first seen those pieces, for a moment he was literally swept into the vision, and his hand was half raised to reach out and stroke the projection before he caught himself.

But he could also see why it had been quicker than promised. “Ya din’t finish it.”

“Just like we agreed.”

“That you’d leave the top of his head off?”

“You said I could only do a dog if we left room to personalize it to whatever voodoo god you finally chose. Make it a voodoo dog god.”

“Watch yerself.”

“I just expected you’d want to add a big top hat or, I don’t know, some pins sticking out or something.”

Now that she reminded him, Al did remember the conversation. Here she’d found one more way to make his voodoo protectors come off as cheap. But this round would have to go to her, because looking at the image, there was only one thing to do.

“So,” she pressed, “what sort of accoutrements would you like.”

“Well...maybe jist a halo.”

Thursday, 22nd August, 2075; 0214, Rocco's, Puyallup

“Not very voodoo.” She almost kept the gloat out of her voice.

“That dog is a damned saint. He goes beyond voodoo.”

“Yes, he does.”

“Then finish it.”

“I will.”

“No, I don’t jist mean finish him, I mean finish the Trinity.” He got up and fished his commlink out of his bomber jacket. Flipped through some files, then handed it to her. “Ya put these two on there with ‘im. An’ give them halos too.”

“Well, the image is already pretty large....”

“No, they don’t hafta be ta scale or nothin’. Lookee there, ya done left spaces for ‘em already.”

“What?” She looked up at the wall and tried to conceal her own surprise. There were indeed a pair of recesses in the lower borders of the work, one down around each kidney. She tried to recover. “Oh, yeah, I just left space in case you wanted some sort of Anansi spider legs or something.” She managed to make it sound convincing to Al, but when she thought he wasn’t looking he saw her give a look of admiration mixed with gratitude to the big white Akita sitting in the corner.

He was sure it hadn’t been here when he’d arrived this evening.

“Well, I don’t want no blamed spider legs, I want these here two angel dogs.”

“We’ll pick up tomorrow, then.”

“I’ll be here.”

Thursday, 22nd August, 2075; 2000, Sound Mental Health Facility, Kilarney Way, Bellevue, Seattle

Al stopped at Zero’s on the way home, had a few drinks, shot some pool.

Once he got back, he actually managed to sleep for a few hours, which was probably a good thing, since he had a hospital to shoot up that night.

After breakfast he figured the smart play would be to clean his weapons, at which point he realized he had none of the things he would need to do that. No oil, no rods, no mops, no nothing. Easy enough to go out and get, but it seemed like a lot to do first thing in the day. He sat down with a beer and called up some Carl Ryder tutorials on the trid, and when that got boring after a few minutes he found a Tales of the Red Samurai all-day marathon.

Around the time Captain Takahashi and his crew were working their way through a circle of shadowrunner pedophiles (what was it with these so-called shadowrunners and their degenerate sexual proclivities?), Al realized it was past seven pm. He had under an hour to do the eighty-minute drive up to Bellevue to be on station per plan. So much for cleaning his weapons, but with a pump-action shotgun and a bolt-action rifle, not much could really go wrong anyway. He laced up his Docs, threw on his jacket, and headed down to his truck.

On the trid, they were always careful to drive slow on their way to jobs so as not to attract attention, but no choice tonight as he wove his way in and out of GridGuide-d electrics on his way north. Realized he’d forgotten to eat lunch and made time to hit the McHugh's drive-thru for some soy chicken. He ate while he drove, wiping the grease from his hand on his khaki cargo pants as he careened along the freeway.

With the mob looking for his old ID, he’d have to use his good new one for the Gaz, especially in the neighborhood they’d be operating in. But as long as Esposito and Pratt kept their mouths shut like he figured they would, he was golden. Slowing as he entered the posh subdivision that bordered the crazy house grounds on the north, he slid his truck into the shadows of some trees in the low-traffic spot he’d scouted the other night. Slipped out and made his way through the brush. He found Overdrive’s Bulldog right where it should be, well in among the trees - kid was slick behind the wheel - and made his way past it to the tree outside the fenceline he’d assigned himself.

And from a comfy perch there, pretty as you please, he tracked the inside crew through his rifle scope as they came up the drive at twenty-hundred hours, right on schedule.

Al silently congratulated himself on his keen sense of professionalism and punctuality.

Puyallup Barrens, a day like any other, 2075

Faye wake up panting, the sound of explosions and cries still ringing in her ears. She could almost feel the acrid smell of cordite, sweat, blood, and mud.

"Nightmares again, Deputy?"

The elf turned to look at the source of the voice, tossing a mess of brown hair aside. A young, dark skinned human girl was busy tidying up what passed for a front counter in the workshop they were in. Daylight shone into the building through some dirty windows, needing the help of a neon lamp to keep the lighting to an acceptable standard.

"Ugh. I feel like drek. What happened, Sam?"

"Hell if I know. I found you leaning against a wall in the streets tonight. You know, snoring like that isn't very ladylike."

"I'm hardly a lady," Faye replied, dragging herself to sit. "And yes, it was the nightmares again."

Sam sighed. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

"Some day."

"... but not today," Sam completed, with a head shake.

Faye noticed she was sitting on the floor, on the room's only bunk. She shot a look at Sam again.

"Don't say anything, 'kay? I still owe you for sparing me one hell of a beating. Speaking of which," the girl added, while she examined more closely a particularly useless piece of salvage, "you must have got into a fight again yesterday. You can't keep on like this, Deputy; drinking yourself to oblivion then getting kicked like a stray dog. One of these nights, you're going to end up on the Grinder's table."

Faye started laughing, and searched her pockets for a cigarette.

"I see you're still trying to lecture me. I could be your mother, you know, kid?" She lit up a half-finished cig and took a drag. "Tell you what, I'll quit drinking when you give up on those sims of yours."

Sam looked genuinely hurt. "That's low. You know why I do it. Besides, BTLs don't leave you wasted. Just... a bit sad." She paused a moment, staring at the floor, "But I guess you're right. And you're luckly you're not my mom; you'd be dead."

Faye nodded. Sam had it rough even for someone born in the Barrens. She'd lost her mother when she was a child; some thugs started a firefight right in the middle of the street and a stray bullet hit Sam's mom in the head. Then, a couple of years ago, the plague that hit the Barrens claimed her father too.
And on top of it, Sam had a boy's body. She was transgender, and while she was good at hiding it, she couldn't really fool anyone here. That's why she got into BTLs in the first place, to experience life as a girl... at least in a virtual recording.

She was lucky she had her dad's old junk shop to run, and she was one of the few with the skills and brains to keep drones running in the Mechanicals fortress-village; someone else in her position would have already ended up working the streets... or worse.
Also, fortifying the place like a pillbox and a couple of Bulldog security drones patrolling the outside probably helped. Sam was a bit paranoid, but better safe than sorry, after all.

Faye stood up and finished what was left of her cig in a long drag, then tossed the butt in a litter box. Another wave of dizziness, along with a throbbing pain in her head, left her staggered for a moment.

"I see they didn't take my stuff, at least." she said, examining the pile of her weapons leaning against the wall. In stark contrast with their owner, they looked like they were actually good stuff. They were a relic from another life.

"And who would want to rob you, in the first place?" came Sam's snarky remark, "you hardly have a nuyen, and your guns are far too noticeable. Anybody stole them, you'd find them and kick their ass in a minute as soon as you're sober. Now make yourself decent and help me tidying up. It's the least you can do."

----------------

Faye stepped out in the morning air, the wind carrying dust and the stench of grease. She lit herself another cigarette, dragging deeply of the harsh sinthethic tobacco.

God, what was she doing in this place? Why was she still in this hellhole?
The answer came immediately. Because she had no other place to be. Sometimes, she wondered if it was worth hanging on another day, then she took a look around and decided that, if her life wasn't worth anything to her, maybe it was worth something to the people around here.

Since arriving in town, she'd become sort of a peacekeeper. Former spec-ops types with a big gun, battle scars and cyberware tend to be taken seriously. Until the whole town sees them retching their guts out in a corner, that is. But when she was sober, people knew not to get on her bad side. She still knew how to geek a ganger, and shotguns with flechette rounds tended to make a display.

And, a part of her did it for Sam. The poor girl had suffered enough already; she couldn't bring herself to hurt her more.
Sam had big dreams. She hoped to hit the jackpot with some legendary job, like the shadowrunners of her sims; moving to somewhere big and luxurious. Get all the surgeries and gene-mods she wanted, and live the high life.
Chances were, she was going to spend the rest of her life in this drekhole; find a decent man if she was lucky, an asshole if she wasn't, and she'd slowly kill herself, sim after sim, living in a lie. When she'd be gone people would forget all about her in a few months. Just another barren dweller gone.

But still, she had hope - and that was something Faye had lost that day, years before. The day the Calis bombed the hell out of her squad, leaving her, a Ghost, bleeding and broken, crying like a baby girl in the dirt, surrounded by the dismembered corpses of her teammates.

Post Traumatic Stress Disease, the docs called it. Said like this, it sounded aseptic and academic.

Faye called it hell.

She tossed the half finished cig aside and rested her shotgun on her shoulder. Another day in the Barrens had begun.

[August 22, 2075, 9:04 PM, southbound on 405, Bellevue, Seattle]

Ali rode in silence alongside Al for the first tense minutes as they drove away from the facility. Her hand rubbed absentmindedly at the spot where the girl had gotten the jump on her with the stun baton as she shifted her weight in the passenger seat and her feet kicked a now-empty soda cup. It didn't hurt, it was more out of annoyance at herself.

She glanced over at Al, assuring herself he wasn't hurt before she turned her attention to the rear of the Gaz, specifically the road behind them. Only when she was convinced no one or no thing were following them did she twist back around and settle into the front seat for the drive.

Ali wasn't one who showed her emotions outside of being around her family's dining table or in the privacy of her own home. But Al was practically family these days and she was simmering underneath her calm exterior at just how sideways this run had gone. She managed to spit out a few words.

"Well that was fucking...something. I could use a drink."

[Thursday, 22 August, 2075; 2133, Maplewood Park, Renton, Seattle]

"Well now yer speakin' ol' Al's language, li'l sister," the scrawny man rasped. He glanced over at her, the cab of the truck well lit as he drove under the halogen glare of an endless series of street lamps overhanging the flawlessly maintained Bellevue section of the 405. "'Ceptin' seein' as how you an' me's both 'bout covered in technowhatsis blood, we gon' hafta git take-out. But first we at least clear outta Bellevue."

It was only a few minutes south to Renton, where half the street lamps still worked, enough to reveal the suddenly ubiquitous gang signs spray-painted onto the cement road dividers. Taking the 169 exit, there was no shortage of commerce there just north of the Renton Library complex, and they used the drive-thru at a local Liquor Barn to pick up two six packs - one of some sort of crafty crap Peaches liked, and another of real beer for a third of the price. Then they headed southeast on Maple Valley Highway to Maplewood Park and found a deserted spot of grass overlooking the Cedar River.

Blowing things up and ducking mind-controlled mental patients was thirsty work, but once they'd wet their whistles Al spoke again.

"Yup, reckon something is jist about the right word for it. I mean, we got paid an' we's breathin', so I ain't complainin', but fer all o' that, did we actually do anything?"

[Thursday, 22 August, 2075; 2135, Maplewood Park, Renton, Seattle]

Ali kicked her feet up on the dashboard of Al's truck and downed about a third of her Lucky Number 9 Apricot Wheat in one long pull on the bottle as she stared out over what passed as a "scenic overlook" around these parts.

"Your guess is as good as mine. Sure as hell feels like we did jack squat outside of waste ammo and get a bunch of kids hurt or killed."

She sighed heavily and drank more of her beer before she continued.

"But yes, we got paid, we got out mostly unharmed so there's that. Here's hoping it doesn't hurt future employment opportunities however. What's you're take on Silk anyway after all of this. Was she holding back on details or was she sold a totally bogus bill of goods to pass along to us?"

[Thursday, 22 August, 2075; 2137, Maplewood Park, Renton, Seattle]

"Well, now that there is a thought-provoker. Yes indeedy. A riddle made all the tougher by mostly hearin' nothin' but a voice in yer ear. Hell, only met 'er but once, an' briefly at that. Since then, been only commcalls, which makes it a mite harder ta bring the full weight o' my famous character-judgin' skills ta bear on the matter."

A cigarette appeared in his mouth, but he rolled down his window before lighting up. Because it was Peaches.

"Way I see it, though," he said, blowing smoke out into the night air, "way she had us doin' about-faces on the job, ain't no percentage in that fer her if she was plannin' it from the start. Maybe if she'd suddenly changed it up to boilin' babies, but we went from insertin' an' extractin' to defendin'. If'n that was her play all along, she'd o' got a whole lot more bang fer her buck startin' us out on that road than switchin' us up midstream. Nah, reckon events done unfolded theyselves on past her, and she ended up makin' it up as she went along. Or else gettin' superseded by whoever she was workin' for."

He looked over at her and wished she'd just be a starving artist or join the French Foreign Legion or something and get herself out of this line of work. Everything that had happened in the past two hours had only confirmed to him that it was a world of crazy and worse, with only one sure exit.

"Plus it's clear as crystal someone or other decided to shut that place down in a real dead-men-tell-no-tales kinda way. Onna trid she'd o' left us in there, tied us off like the loose ends we were. Like the loose ends we still are. But she got us out. That's a solid in ol' Al's book. So I ain't worried so much 'bout her.

"But here's what I am frettin' 'bout, an' maybe you saw somethin' in there afore I got onna scene…what the blazin' hell were all those folk doin' down there? An' why'd a bunch o' sheet-wearin' youths an' old codgers go all kamikaze on us all right outta the blue like that?"

[Thursday, 22 August, 2075; 21:39, Maplewood Park, Renton, Seattle]

“Well I reckon…” Ali did her best impersonation of Al from behind the lip of her bottle as she tried to keep a straight face for a moment as the slight smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She watched Al’s face crinkle in what one might assume was a frown, but those who knew him better knew it was his general countenance. Ali shook her head as she became more serious and circled back around to his original questions.

“I think you’re right about Silk, I didn’t get the impression she was setting us up, testing us maybe, but you’re right she did more than most would have to get us out alive and see us clear. As for the place itself? I didn’t get to see or hear much beyond generic pleasantries and conversation in the Director’s office before the crazy girl tagged all of us with the spark stick.”

Without conscious thought, her hand went to the back of her neck and shoulder where she had been struck and massaged a pain that no longer existed.

“I don’t know what their situation was, I mean perhaps talking to LeFey about it more in depth since she’s got a more intimate knowledge of their kind and all might shed some light.”

She took another pull from the bottle and drained it, slipping it back into the 6-pack at her feet and retrieving another bottle in the process, opening it up and tossing the cap out the window in one fluid motion.

“I get the feeling there was something more than just keeping some of them underground and away from civilization, like maybe there was something different about them in some way. Maybe they were special within their kind of special?”

[Thursday, 22 August, 2075; 21:39, Maplewood Park, Renton, Seattle]

Sardonic smirk.

“By which ya mean crazy within they kind o’ crazy. Cuz that warn’t no normal crazy - them folks I shot, they warn’t the same ones we dropped in on outta the heating ducts. ‘Ceptin’ they was.”

He scratched absently at a spot on his neck. The blood all over him was going from gooey to caked, and it itched.

“Done recognized some of ‘em from that first meetin’. But they was...not...the...same. An’ shore, crazy’s a thing. But the same crazy hittin’ ‘em all at once? An’ not random, neither. No, they had a purpose, so much o’ one they quit carin’ ‘bout livin’.” He took a puff of his cigarette and blew the smoke out the window. “Ya ask ol’ Al, they strings was bein’ pulled. Thought hit me there in the moment, an’ the more I reflect, more I know it’s true.”

[Thursday, 22 August, 2075; 21:41, Maplewood Park, Renton, Seattle]

"You don't suppose that's the reason all of them were hidden away down there do you? Maybe they showed some glimmer of that weird behavior before that warranted them locked away below ground?"

A shiver ran through her at the thought, at the thought of there being something out there that really could pull the strings of someone like a dark puppeteer like Al was hinting at. She took another long pull from her bottle, wishing the alcohol would numb the dark and dangerous theories that were flooding her mind.

"You don't think that person pulling the strings would have been Silk's boss?"

[Thursday, 22 August, 2075; 21:42, Maplewood Park, Renton, Seattle]

"Yore pa's a sharp one, an' the apple din't fall far from the tree. But if they was sufferin' the group crazy, an' they was all of 'em these digital psychics, then the underground makes sense, the place was all wi-fi dark. But…hell, we gotta talk ta that LeFey chica…wasn't it that we thought the place was wifi dark an' then we got down there an' they all had 'links? Or one of 'em? An' if they was technowhatsises, do they even need such things?"

On the verge of a thought that might tie it all together, he realized he was hungry. Rummaging around in the disposable containers at Peaches' feet, he found half a bag of cold McHugh's fries. Taking a handful, he offered the rest to her.

[Thursday, 22 August, 2075; 21:41, Maplewood Park, Renton, Seattle]

"I'll pass along your compliment, I'm sure he'll say you're going soft."

Ali tried not to wrinkle her nose at the less than fresh french fries, shaking her head in a polite, silent decline before she grew a little more serious.

"I agree however that talking to LeFey should be a priority for as soon as the heat of tonight dies down a little. I think she should be able to shed some light on the things that we can't quite wrap our heads around."

[Thursday, 22 August, 2075; 21:41, Maplewood Park, Renton, Seattle]

"Or," Al said, lifting his beer in a cynical toast, "we could jist fergit this whole passle o' nonsense right now. Reckon I would like to pick that girl's brain, figuratively speakin', of course. But if I ever had her number, I ain't got it now. In any case, that'd all mean givin' this whole hog-wild hootenanny another minute's thought. Hell, it ain't like we's ever gon' cross paths with any o' the players in this sad farce ever again anyhow, nor hear a word of it from now till Rapture."

He remembered he had an appointment to get to. "Hell, I ain't hardly certain why we's troubled ourselves with it this long. Job is done. Now me, I'm getting some ink done." He was about to say something about Honesty, but something stopped him. "Where kin ol' Al drop ya, darlin'?"

[Thursday, 22 August, 2075; 21:41, Maplewood Park, Renton, Seattle]

Al barely had the truck in reverse when he shut the engine off again.

"Dammit, yer right, of course. Don't know who I thought I was kiddin'. If'n we kin find out what that girl thinks, we'd best do it, or I'll not sleep a wink fer the next fortnight." As if he would anyway.

He scrolled through his 'link's directory, which only confirmed that he'd never bothered entering her commcode, or anyone else's, during their planning sessions.

Well, he'd heard these new sorts of folk could connect just by telepathy, and if they could do it…he concentrated as hard as he could…and then…damn if he didn't hear a ringtone!

Congratulating himself heartily on the apparently unlimited frontiers of his mental capacities, he opened his eyes to see that Peaches had her own comm out and had made the call herself.

She handed the device to Al with a long-suffering sigh.

"Hello, this the computer girl? Listen, that there was the mother of all snafus, an' now that we's clear, we thought puttin' our heads together might shed some light onna whole thing…"

[Thursday, 22 August, 2075; 21:41, Apartment Building, Downtown, Seattle]

"What time is it?" There was a brief visual of a bleary eyed girl resembling the hacker in question, followed by a blur, a yelp of surprise, and a hardwood floor. "Easy, there." A man said. Presumably the same person who then returned the commlink to LeFey. She had changed in the past few hours, or so it seemed. To be more specific, her disguise was gone. "H-hello?" She looked weary. "...Oh. Yes. I'd like to hear your thoughts on the matter."

[Thursday, 22 August, 2075; 21:42, Maplewood Park, Renton, Seattle]

Al checked the chonometer on the border of his 'link's screen. He was eager to get to Rocco's - the Witch would start on Hannibal tonight. He was feeling really right about the project for the first time. But they needed to talk to this girl. He'd barely spoken to her during the lead-up to the job, and then less during the hour of mayhem that had ensued. But she struck him as an earnest sort. And she'd proven she knew her stuff. If anyone that had been there could shed more light on what they'd seen, it would be her.

"We's happy ta share, hon, but not onna airwaves. Where's halfway between you an' Renton? Anywhere not too public an' outta eye-tie turf be jist dandy."

The truck was reversing off the grass and onto the asphalt as he spoke.

[Thursday, 22 August, 2075; 21:41, Apartment Building, Downtown, Seattle]

"Okay." For the most part, she had decided Al could be trusted. Whether they could be friends was another matter entirely. The man was odd (as if she could talk). Which wasn't a bad thing, though his mannerisms brought to mind someone born into the wrong time period. LeFey frowned. No. You could tell that wasn't true with a glance at the man. It would be more accurate to say the world had changed, but he had only followed suit in terms of appearance. Either way, it made him rather disturbingly unpredictable in her eyes.

She pulled her blanket off and stretched. "Let's see..." What was open at this time of night? An idea brought a thin smile to her face, though she hoped he wouldn't find it insulting. "Ever heard of Murphy's Law?" On any other night, LeFey wouldn't have considered it. The bar was badly lit and dingy, and the owners would have normally shown her the door as soon as she entered. But they owed her a favor, and it stayed open very late.

[Thursday, 22 August, 2075; 22:20, Murphy's Law, Cedar Street and Western Avenue, Downtown, Seattle]

Al liked the spot the girl had chosen - only four blocks from the waterfront, the smell of salt air made him feel right at home. He'd never been here, but had heard the pizza was good. And as he and Peaches walked in, there wasn't a fern in sight.

He spotted LeFey quick enough - she'd ditched the black wig she'd worn on the job, but it was the same young thing they'd shared a ventilation duct with just a few hours earlier. He picked up beers on the way past the bar, set one down in front of the girl, then spun a synthwood chair around to sit with his elbows on its back.

"Appreciate yer comin' down. Hope we ain't crossed no line inna sand o' urban merc perfessionalism by callin' ya out of hours, so ta speak. But they's some things, a body sees 'em, they can run amok inna mind, don't git some answers."

[Thursday, 22 August, 2075; 22:20, Murphy's Law, Cedar Street and Western Avenue, Downtown, Seattle]

"Rules and standards are only worth following when they're helpful. Besides," her lips parted in a fleeting smile, "I'm a high school dropout, not a mercenary. Not in the traditional sense." She'd already had her post-run crash on a friend's couch. It was time to get back to work. "My hours are considerably different." LeFey hadn't ordered anything before he and Ali had arrived (perhaps she should have?), and she only glanced at the beer as if she didn't know what to do with it before continuing. "You...had some questions?" LeFey was sure she knew what they involved. The thought left her feeling faintly sick. As if she needed another reason not to drink.