Waking up on Pinkys couch the second time around, was less than comforting. Mostly because of a splitting hangover, but also because Pinky had moved after I had fallen back asleep.

There was a series of loose and faded memories, blurred not by time but by the distortion of alcohol of Pinky, smaller than normal but clearly Pinky huddled next to me that I found missing as my mind surfaced from the short death of sleep.

I pawed around for her but found no sign of clothes nor the supple heat of her body.

The discomfort with the added lack of comfy compatriot brought me up to consciousness, my eyes opening. Only for them to close with a groan.

Then, as one does after waking up, my memory came back to me properly… Or in my case, bits of memory.

There was a large stretch of empty memory that started after I went for an extra drink. It's good to know that the shard didn’t stop me from blacking out, though a lack of memory, especially where they were usually so clear, was strange.

My memories ever since gaining the soul gem had been far and above the clarity of my old ones, but I guess if they copied the ones my brain was making, it only made sense that if I never made a memory, it couldn’t copy anything.

“Lilly, what's the point of having a shard dedicated to memory if I can still get blackout drunk and forget everything?” I asked her with a groan.

“The first thing you do, before you even open your eyes, is whip out questions?” She asked me.

“Yep,” I told her, barely opening my eyelids to check for light. The room blissfully dimmed let me squint my eyes open and orient myself for a second.

“Every time you remember something with your brain, you relive it, kind of at least. Every remembrance modifies the original. The shard lets you remember it as it happened; it keeps it fresh and clear,” Lilly told me, leaving the, ‘it's not the shards fault you blacked out’ unspoken.

“Cool, what did I miss… Did I…” I asked her, the slow spinning in my head picking up on the fact that I had slept with Pinky.

“You talked for a bit before crying about something that neither of us could quite piece together, and then you passed out. There was no funny business,” She told me.

“I what?” I asked her in a hiss.

“You cried, blubbering random nonsense,” Lilly confirmed.

“Oh god,” I said.

“Like a little bitch even. It was very unlike you,” she further confirmed, “Though, to be fair, Pinky also had a lot to drink, so it's probably not all that cohesive for either of you.”

How was I supposed to keep up my stock reserved demeanour when I had cried into pinky about god only knew what?

“Ugggg… Kill me,” I moaned.

“Oh, how did she put it… Cry some more of your little bitch tears? Sooomething to that effect anyway; it was a bit too slurred to be understood,” Lilly continued.

I died, in ego if not in the flesh, for all that my heart still beat, I ossified.

At least for five minutes, then my desert dry mouth brought me vertical in search of the fluid I so craved. I avoided the field of glass, nimbly stepping around the vast ring they made, and got into the kitchen, where I found a glass of water on top of a note from Pinky.

I pocketed it, for my eyes could not bear to open wide yet. I did not dare defy the light, what little there was.

I checked, but found no bean water to be had, only tea, which I pinched a little of, adding it to a boiling pot and pouring the water off into a pot for serving.

I gave a quick look at Pinky, but she was not there.

So, I drank some lukewarm water, served myself a cup of piss-poor tea, and forced myself out onto the balcony for a morning smoke.

I experienced the searing doom of the morning light, a burning fire cauterizing my weary mind, but the things I wouldn’t do for a smoke were quite short.

More importantly, as the smoke break went on, my poor head slowly got better; the kick of the tea and the swirl of smoke in my lungs helped my poor little brain cogitate as I intermittently sipped water.

“I wonder if Pinky could make a hangover cure,” I ask myself.

“It's called saline. Most of a hangover is literally just your body being severely dehydrated and the rest would have been in the tube Pinky gave you, you know the one you turned down?” she poked.

“I was talking to myself, Lilly. I’m aware that I need water… It’s too bad that its green goo,” I told her.

“Alge green is less than appetizing, especially when you know it's full of people goo inside it,” She agreed.

“That is a phrase I would ask you never repeat,” I told her, “You are making it sound like she recycled people instead of just filling it with necessary people forming nutrients.”

“That…” Lilly started, “Is exactly what that sounds like. My Bad.”

“Yep. Now, I just need to figure out what I’m going to do today. Gah, this would be so much easier without this- Ugh.” I muttered to myself, pawing at my temple with my free hand.

“Well, you still need to get dirt on the collector. You probably need some pocket change; I can’t imagine you're well off there. Need to get the Junker repaired if we can’t get in contact with Luna for your ship… assuming she even has any left. Then you need to get your money back by contesting the bounty…. And then retrieve your weapon,” she listed.

“I would try and fix the Junker anyway,” I moaned.

The Junker was mine, it was my home, more than a room on any other ship or planet. It had all my junk on it and I wasn’t going to ditch it.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

“I should also look into getting a weapon, something for up close, to replace my plate because it is full of holes, restock my general stuff… A few odds and ends. I need money, but more importantly, I have one favour, and that’s it. Normally, I could just take a few jobs, but I can’t do that on this haunted rock,” I told her.

Money, money, money, it always came down to money.

“You could ask her for money or to help you along with stuff, but I think there's something you could do with that one favour that could get you all of those things,” Lilly told my, her voice contemplative.

“Oh? Illuminate me,” I told her.

“Well-” Lilly started.

***

“You want what?” The Bouncer asked me in disbelief.

“I thought you wouldn’t be hard of hearing,” I told her.

“I’m not, but whipping that out of a girl first thing in the morning isn’t cool. I get your tweaking out or something, but did you really need to let yourself in this early? Let a lady finish her breakfast,” she coughed out.

“I’m not tweaking; I’m just telling you what I want for my favour,” I told her.

“Yeah? So what? You're still tweaking about it. Now, if you're not going to let a girl finish her food, you could at least pass her a smoke, yeah? It’s too early for this shit,” she bemoaned.

“You’re going to bum a cigarette off me?” I asked her.

“Damn straight. After what you pushed me into last night, I figure I deserve it,” she told me crossly, glowering, hair standing on end ever so slightly.

I passed her a cigarette.

It was not out of generosity, nor out of the kindness of my heart, but out of a sense of how I could push the conversation. I had headed out soon after finishing the tea and stacking up the bottles and generally cleaning up after myself, switched to my far less wanted form, and started plotting like the little rat bastard I was.

I had my list and I was checking it twice and the best outcome I thought I could hope for, was to establish rapport while she was harried.

The first kin was far too much cat, and a wriggling little mouse to distract them and let their guard down was a tool that could help me find a way through.

And so, I had harried her, stumbling my way in far too early, being kind to the little Bartender, and trying to bring out the worst in the poor Bouncer who looked like she had her soul sucked out.

Then, olive branch.

“Damn, these are shit,” she told me, “how much of this is leaf?”

“Probably none of it,” I told her truthfully, “These are all from Gabriel. They can’t grow fucking anything over there but cancer. The entire planet is a half-terraformed toxic dessert.”

“Shit. It’s all vat,” she murmured, not dissuaded by the fact the cancer-causing agent of choice was artificial.

“I suppose you have so many better options on a barren void-bound rock?” I asked her, knowing full well they had whole-ass agricultural domes.

“Huh, yeah. There aren’t as many choices as somewhere like Raphael, but we have quite a bit. You can pick up some good shit if you go to the edge. The farmers might be pressed into growing specific products, but they have some wiggle room, and most of them aim to line their pockets. Coco, Tobacco, real Tobacco, all sorts of good shit. They sell it. They use a filler that’s better than all of whatever the hell this is,” She told me before taking a big draw and simply appreciating the buzz.

“Not bad. Sounds like nice stuff, though I have to say I’m a bit strapped on cash for that kind of thing.” I told her with a shrug.

“We can’t get everything we want when we want it,” she shrugged, “Though if you're looking to upgrade from garbage to tolerable, I know a guy. It's still 90% filler, but it's quality filler. Shit, I can barely get a rush from this.” She told me, clearly enjoying it enough not to put it out in the ashtray.

“I was trying to talk to you a minute ago about that stuff, and you called me a tweaker,” I told her.

“I said you were tweaking,” she corrected, “totally different.”

“Sure. Whatever you say. Say, little lady, was she this mouthy last night?” I asked the Bartender, sitting up slightly to look over the counter.

“Whuh?” asked the Bouncer.

“Yesh.” She said thickly, though with a growing smirk, “vewy mouwthy.”

“Nice,” I told her, giving the larger lady next to me a light jab, “Looks like your mouth is good for something eh?”

“Watch your elbow glowy, or I’m going to have words with you,” she said, though in a way that was to distract herself from her own embarrassment.

“All right, all right. I’ll keep my paws off of you,” I told her in mock surrender.

I paused for her, let the moment break, and let any tension dissolve. Like a forger placing a plate in the kiln to soften the metal, I let the moment pass so I could approach the topic anew.

I let the minute pass as she puffed, smoke whisking away like flotsam, clouds drawn into the silent whirling blades above us.

“So,” I started ponderously toward the end of my cigarette, “Can your Dam set me up with paperwork?”

“Narrow that down,” she griped, scouring the butt char ground out on smooth ceramic.

“I was aiming for a fake identity. Something that would pass a background check by anyone shy of the state. More than a fake card to get beer, but less than a whole-ass identity. I’m not asking for two decades of fake tax returns, just enough history to be ‘real.’” I told her.

“And whatever would you want that for Amber?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

“What are you, a fed? I could use one, so I’m asking for one,” I told her, borrowing the air of those on the grey side of the law might use.

I suppose they called them Kuros here, but there was the cultural context I needed to know before I started throwing it around, it held a space in my mind between a truly rancid cuss and a full-on slur, and I did my research before using words of power like that.

Various forms of clanker, tin can, and a litany of others were used as I pleased, but always with the knowledge of where to not use them; such was their power.

She gave me a look of, ‘who the fuck are you that you need a fake identity,’ a look that spoke loud enough for the two of us. It also broke some of the simplicity of the lie I was living, but one questionable ask did not a breach of the mask make.

“I can’t say that’s what I was expecting… But I think we can swing a fake ID with a background. I can ask the Dam for the details, but that could be a bit bigger than she was expecting,” she told me.

“I’m more than willing to ply my trade with a friendly discount, so long as you're not breaking the old law in the process,” I told her.

“And if we do from time to time?” she asked casually, though it was anything but casual.

“Then don’t bring me in on it,” I told her, “I don’t break the old law, but I can turn a blind eye to it so long as it's not too bad; part of being a merc. So long as you‘re not a reprehensible scum-sucking waste of flesh, we will be fine. I doubt Pinky would be working with you if you were.”

There was a slight break in tension there, spotted in her eyes, and tension in the muscle.

“Not a zealot then; perhaps we can work together,” she said, slightly relieved.

“Rule the first by applied in reverse,” I told her, “besides, rule four covers for less than stellar action as it is.”

“That’s for the swake of owthers,” the Bartender pointed out from behind the counter.

“For one's neighbour, and I do technically get my mail sent here.” I pointed out.

“I thought the fourth rule was no incest?” the larger woman said, confused, staring off into a wall.

“Nah, that’s five. Though it is worded like four, so I can understand the confusion,” I corrected.

“This is why I never understood mercenaries,” The Bouncer told me, “You make no sense.”

I couldn’t deny her that. The old law made little sense at all, but then again, what could you expect from the Archangels? Golems were tough to understand sometimes, and they were our size.

I shrugged, “I only ever went to church because there was a hot priestess there. I can’t say they make much sense to me, either. So, is that okay with you? Does that work for a favour?”

“I’m not sure,” she told me, running fingers through her long hair.

“It shouwd be fine. Goowd pick. Not Picking Mowney is almost always a goowd choice. Buwbbles just picks mowney because she doesn’t want anythwing,” The Bartender told me.

“Ehh? She was asking me hag,” The Bouncer told me.

The little Bartender did not reply; her face, however, spoke volumes, and those volumes were smug. But hey, even if it did start to devolve, I had the basics lined up to start my little ploy.

After all, I needed money; I needed a way to get things done, and I now had the opportunity to do it. With a separate piece of ID, I could get someone to repair the Junker, I could get the Junker moved to a dock, and I could even get it registered on Luna without worrying about my bounty. I could also get back into contract work to pay my way until I got my shot at the collector.