4.6
It’s pushing two in the morning when we finally reach Flux, early enough for the city’s nightcrawlers to still be pouring in through those flashy chrome doors, but late enough that the glare makes my tired eyes sag, the bass-heavy music rattling in my skull like loose circuitry. Tatum and his dual-chipped clone stand outside, arms folded behind both backs, their red spider eyes flickering as they scan the line, waiting, watching, itching for some poor drunk to make a mistake, to pick a fight, just so they can toss them across the pavement like yesterday’s trash.
There’s no room to stop out front, not with the line blocking the entrance. A pack of low-level slicers loiter near the curb, their dermal implants pulsing faint blue, trading scratch for another hit of synth-smoke. No one looks up. In the south, no one ever does.
Fingers swings the wheel hard and takes the alley around the back; it’s off-limits, I’m sure, not meant to be driven in, but it’s wide enough to keep the jeep tucked away, with nothing but homeless folk gathered around burning trash barrels beneath a cracked skybridge joining the nightclub to, I presume, a strip club of some sort. The only lights back here come from old security cams, their lenses swiveling in slow, lazy arcs, tracking every face, every plate number. If Flux has eyes, this, I guess, is where they blink the slowest.
Fingers kills the engine, the hum of the battery core fading into the distant thump of the music, and we step out into the rain. Lighter than it was by the seaside, a thin, misty drizzle now, but I don’t care. This is it. The first step in uncovering my past, in finding out who I am, who I was.
Cold, hard eddies.
We round the corner and slip into the line out front, a slow-moving current of city-bred nightcrawlers, corpos, and cybered-up club rats, all waiting for their turn under Tatum’s watchful glare. It doesn’t take long. Looks like he’s just quick-scanning tonight, tagging the ones too drunk to stand and the ones dumb enough to show steel. Most are behaving, or at least smart enough to fake it. When we reach the front, Tatum and his equally ugly clone barely give us a second glance. Just a curt nod, a quick holo-check on Rico, and the low buzz of the doors sliding open. Inside, it’s packed. No surprise there. The artificial sky stretched across the ceiling is dark now, smattered with stars, aerodynes blinking softly as they glide through a projection of endless night. It’s a nice touch, almost cosy. We push upstairs, where the real players are: the corpo suits draped around the central bar, laughing, drinking, smoking like they own the place, which, in a way, they do. No matter how much they spend, no matter how blackout drunk they get, they’ll always have enough wealth and status to make it home safe, even in a district that would love nothing more than to eat them alive.
On the far-right end, where the VIP booths sink into plush, C-shaped alcoves lined with dark leather, the real deals are going down, with whispers traded over crystal glasses, digits flashed behind polished nails, quiet nods sealing contracts worth more than most people’s lives. The glow from embedded holo-panels bathes the area in shifting hues of blue and violet, pulsing in time with the bass.
And there, near the back, lounging behind that mountain of a bodyguard, Jog, in a booth draped in that same red velvet, is Rico. Same silver jacket, still catching the light like mercury, his puffed-up Afro towering above him like a crown. One arm draped over the seat, the other flicking absently at a holo-display, he looks relaxed, too relaxed, the kind of ease that only comes when you know the game is already yours. His eyes track us as we approach, sharp behind tinted lenses, a slow smirk creeping onto his face.
He orders Jog aside, and we step into the booth, taking a seat. Fingers places the Ourovane case on the table, and he pours a glass of that cyan liquid, offering me one.
Like before, I wave it off politely. “Don’t drink.”
Fingers takes the glass, sips it.
“Knew there was somethin’ special about you, Mono.” Rico sets the whiskey bottle aside, grabs the silver case, and slides it forward. “You two are bloodied up. Take it things didn’t go so smooth?”
Fingers takes another sip of the drink. “That obvious, eh? Didn’t tell us the boss was a netrunner. Almost got ripped apart by a claw the size of a traffic drone.”
Rico smiles, slow and easy, like he’s enjoying some private joke. “Netrunners are netrunners for a reason. They ain’t like your average street tough, ain’t out here makin’ noise, flashin’ chrome, beggin’ to get noticed. They stay in the dark, buried in the code, pullin’ strings where no one’s lookin’. You don’t see ’em till they wants you to—by then, you’re already tangled up in their web. After all, hard to snag intel on a person that attacks from the shadows, right?”
“Still,” says Fingers. “It was pretty significant. Dangerous.”
“It don’t matter now.” He starts flicking numbers on the code-lock. Once he lands on the right combination, the locks click open, and he lifts it just low enough to hide it from our view but just high enough for him to peek inside. After a moment, he takes a sip of his drink and says, “Preem. My client and, by extension, investor will be very happy with this.”
Fingers lifts her hand, palm up, and gives a small, lazy flick of the wrist—the universal well, there ya go. “Awesome. Now, on to more important matters: creds. We held up our end of the deal. Brought the material back in perfect condition, as agreed. And we also agreed full payment if the NACP didn’t come houndin’ on your ass and, well, your ass is lookin’ mighty comfortable in that seat.”
Rico chuckles, shutting the case and undoing the combination. “A woman of biz: straight to the point, sharp tongue, no beatin’ around the bush. I like that about you.”
“You can buy me dinner later.” Fingers leans forward. “You have the scratch?”
Another chuckle, this time accompanied by a grin. He takes off his shades and tucks them into the right chest pocket of his silver jacket. Then, he taps the table and says, “Jog, the shard.”
The bodyguard walks away and, after a minute, returns with a small black-and-yellow shard case, only the size of his palm. Rico takes it from Jog and then hands it to Fingers. “Two hundred thousand eurodollars,” he says. “Hundred grand each. Rico don’t cheat. Rico pays in full, baby.”
Fingers pops the shard out of the case and slots it into her neural port. Her eyes glow blue for a couple seconds, then return to their original pink. She smirks. “Wiring your share to your account now, Mono,” she says.
As she does, I look at Rico, who’s still grinning at me, relaxed back on the leather sofa.
“Can I ask you something?” I say. “You know, before we leave?”
He raises an eyebrow and leans forward, locking his fingers together. “Please. The least I can do for you.”
“I have a picture,” I say. “I’m wondering if you know something about it.”
He hums curiously. “Well, send it my way. I’ll take a look. My number’s 617-555-3726.”
I pull out my phone, ask him to repeat the number, and input the digits into my contacts list. I unlink my temple cord and plug it into the phone port, navigating to ‘Y1p3r-TX101_G12-8eK5.mz7’ in my neural storage. I upload it into the text chat, and he has a look at it.
Immediately after, a pop-up appears on my phone, showing a transfer of a hundred thousand eddies from top to bottom.
“That’s your share sent,” says Fingers.
“Thank you,” I say, relieved.
“Hm,” says Rico. “Interesting.”
My eyes light up. “What is it?”
“This picture,” Rico says, squinting at it like he’s trying to read through the smudges of time. “This ain’t just a random shot from The Scrubs. This goes way back, half a century at least. Those faces? You’d think they’re long gone, dead, or buried somewhere nobody cares to look. But there’s more to this than a nostalgia trip.”
“I think the middle one is me,” I say. “With the green mullet.”
He leans in a little closer, his fingers tapping the side of his drink as he studies the grainy image on his screen. “This group here, they was big. Real big. Back in the day, they ran The Scrubs like a damn kingdom. Not the flashy, chrome-capped gang you see now, but more... underground. They controlled the black markets, the illegal mods, and most of the tech trade that got funneled into the outskirts. People thought they was all gone, wiped out in the old war. But this shot? This tells me they didn’t just vanish. Some of these faces—hell, one of these faces—I’ve seen in old data banks. Ghosts. If I’m right, most wasn’t just killed; most was erased.”
I swap seats, moving closer, staring at the picture with him. “It’s hard to explain,” I say. “But I was.... I woke up in the circuitery. I’ve been dead nearly fifty years.”
“Hm.” Rico concentrates on the image. “Whoever took this photo, they was close to something big. Maybe bigger than you realise. If you’re digging into The Scrubs’ old ties, be careful. These people, even dead, have a way of pulling you into things you can’t get out of. And if they was hiding something, you can bet it’s worth a lot more than the usual scrap.”
“Like what?”
“Experiments,” he says.
I look at him, perplexed, and kind of shocked. “Experiments? What sort of experiments?”
He sighs. “It’s a very long story, and I’s a very busy man.”
“Fuck it,” I say. “I’ll pay you if I have to. Please. I need to find my family. I need to find out who I am. Just give me something, anything. Please.”
He takes a moment, looking at me with concern. “You lose your memory?”
I nod. “Yes.”
He nods back. “Yeah, I think I know what’s going on here.”
My voice becomes low, almost a whisper. “Tell me.”
“Your memory,” he says. “So, to explain things as easy as I can, The Scrubs, back before the droughts, had a lot of scientists, chemists. Still do. You ever heard of Shine?”
“Yeah,” I say, remembering the yellow liquid Dance had packed away into the boot of his rusty car. “Shine. The stuff that messes with your head, makes you feel like you’re invincible or... or whatever. People say it’s got the power to heal, but also to mess you up just as fast.”
Rico leans in, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial tone, the flicker of old knowledge sparking behind his eyes. “That’s the public story. What they don’t tell you is that Shine wasn’t always what it seems. It was originally called Ghostfire—before The Scrubs branded it as Shine. Back in the old days, before the real war hit, Ghostfire was a liquid designed to fight something a lot worse than cyberpsychosis. It was supposed to heal the mind, restore balance to those who’d cracked under the pressure of too much chrome, too much augmentation. The first of its kind, a cure for the mental side effects of overclocked tech.”
I blink, trying to process the new information. “Wait, so it was meant to help people?”
“’Xactly.” Rico taps the side of his glass with one finger. “But somewhere along the line, things got twisted. Ghostfire wasn’t just a solution. ’Came a weapon. Too powerful for its own good, and The Scrubs realised that, but it was good money, so I heard. And the gang designing it had a name....” He points to the silver case with the snake symbol. “Ourovane.”
The fact hits me hard. I knew, knew, that the name sounded familiar. “So, what’s this about memory loss? Why can’t I remember who I am?”
“Ourovane are a crafty group,” Rico says, his voice taking on a knowing edge.
“Are?” I repeat, still trying to wrap my head around the weight of what he’s saying. “You mean, they’re still around?”
He nods. “Oh yeahs, they still exist. Very much so. The name might be buried deep in the underworld, but trust me, they’re still pulling strings behind the scenes. And the funny thing is, they didn’t just stop with Ghostfire. No, they dipped their toes into some other... interesting tech along the way. Memory storage. The kind of stuff that doesn’t just hold data. Stores memories. Actual, living memories.”
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I’m almost speechless, the implications washing over me in waves. “Memory storage?” I echo. “Like... how?”
Rico leans forward, locking his fingers together once again, his voice lowering as he explains. “They figured out how to capture and store memories, emotions, and even full experiences, just like they was recording a braindance. Only, they wasn’t just playing memories like a show. They was storing them like files on a device. What they did was create this tech, a form of neural storage that could take the memories of anyone who used it and upload them into a device. It wasn’t perfect at first, but they kept tweaking it. Before long, they had something that could lock away any experience, hold it like a chip, and even bring it back whenever they wanted. But they didn’t stop there. They found a way to extract memories, too.”
I stare at him, my mind racing. “So, they could take memories? Like, steal them?”
“’Xactly.” Rico’s smile is dark, almost grim. “They was in the business of manipulating memories. Not just taking them: altering them. Imagine this: you’ve gots your whole life stored on a device, yeah? Every memory, every moment, in a file. But what if someone decided to swap out just one? Or erase one completely, leaving nothing but a blank space where something important used to be?”
An uncomfortable lump forms in my throat. “So... this is why I can’t remember who I am?”
Rico tilts his head, tapping his finger on the glass again. “Could be. If they was involved in your past, or if you got too close to their tech, it’s possible they erased you, wiped you clean. Maybe they didn’t want you to remember something, or maybe you knew too much. People disappear in The Scrubs all the time, but you—you’re different. Whoever they was working with, they might’ve decided you was a liability.”
“But... why? Why do this? Why take memories?”
A deep breath. “It wasn’t supposed to be a memory storage device per se, as far as I know. It was, eh, a memory replacement. So, like, they could replace old memories with artificial ones, cut out particular memories. And don’t think they was grabbing people from the streets and hookin’ ’em up to wires.” He shakes his head. “People willingly did this. Sometimes you had people who wanted a fresh start, wanted to forget something traumatic. Some took part in the experiment for money.... You see where I’m goin’ with this?”
“How do you know all of this, Rico?” asks Fingers. “Maelstrom didn’t spit a fuckin’ word, and it’s the first I’ve heard of it.”
“Family’s from The Scrubs,” he says. “So, connections. A lot.”
I point at the image on the phone, grabbing Rico’s attention again. “Where can I find them? This Ourovane?”
He shrugs, a response I’d been dreading. “No shot in the dark, no lead. Somethin’ happened, blues, and they’re hidin’. How do you think it was so hard to grab ahold of this case? The material they create and the location.... Well, could be anywhere in N.A.”
I lean back, looking defeated.
“But...” Rico says.
Oh, how the universe has a funny way of wedging the word ‘but’ into its chaos.
“... the woman with the red hair.” He points to the picture again, zooming in with a swipe of his thumb and forefinger. It’s the woman with the cotton jumpsuit and leather overtop, the crimson quiff. “She’s a pretty under-the-radar fixer in Paxson.”
“Paxson?” I say. “That a place, a gang, or...?”
“It’s a district,” Fingers juts in. I look at her and she’s finishing off the last drops of the whiskey glass. “Farther south again, along the borderlands. Dry, rustic. Lot of tech surgeons.”
“What’s her name?” I ask.
He takes a moment, and then says, “Cieris Marlow.”
“Cieris...” I say.
The name should mean something, especially if that really is me sitting next to her in the photo, but it doesn’t. It feels foreign, unfamiliar. Still, Rico’s rundown on Ourovane and what happened in The Scrubs gives me more than I had before, even if it’s not exactly detailed. A memory-storage device. That means somewhere, buried deep in this mess of a city, my life is locked away on a chip or a data shard, maybe sitting on some asshole’s shelf or buried in a supercomputer. That is, if it hasn’t been wiped out, erased after all these years of being forgotten.
It’s terrifying, but I can’t just wait. My life’s out there, somewhere, fragmented and lost. I need to find it, no matter what.
Rico grabs the silver case by the handle, slips it over his knees, and snaps his head up so fast his Afro gives a quick, jittery bounce, like a startled puffball trying to take flight.
When I look down at his phone, I see a pop-up from an anonymous number that says: ‘Meet you in 15’.
He stands, brushes his jacket off, even though it’s fairly clean already, and stuffs the phone in his pocket. “Nice chat, but I’ve got to meet the client. You two be safe out there.” He snaps his fingers and Jog moves aside, giving us space to walk out.
Fingers moves first, and I follow her, but not before giving a final turn and, with heart-warming eyes, telling Rico, “Thank you.”
He flips his shades over his eyes. “Anytime, baby.” He clicks his tongue and flashes a cheeky grin.
Just like that, we’re slipping out of Flux and back into the cold, wet pulse of the city, where the storm over the south unzips itself, peeling back in ragged strips to expose the raw, electric underbelly of the sky: dark, early-morning blue, throbbing with distant flashes, like the city’s own nervous system laid bare. Fingers doesn’t say much, just pulls up the hood on that rain jacket of hers, tucks her hands into the pockets, and walks like she’s got somewhere to be, which, thankfully, she does. We both do. I match her pace, falling in step beside her, the two of us moving like ghosts through the streets, just another pair of nobodies disappearing into the static hum of night, a hundred grand richer.
The jeep’s parked where we left it, tucked in a tight alley around the back of the club, squeezed between a dumpster spilling over with wet trash and some dented delivery drones that look like they’ve been cannibalised for parts. The rain’s still coming down, slow and lazy, steaming where it hits the heat vents lining the sidewalk. The whole street buzzes with a sickly, industrial glow, like a machine pushed past its limits, running hot, ready to burn out. The heat shimmers off the vents, the distant flicker of signs glitching, restless: like something waiting to break.
Fingers beeps the jeep open and slips into the driver’s seat. I hesitate to join her, standing there in the half-dark, breathing it all in. The weight of Rico’s words still sits heavy in my gut, twisting, pulling. Whoever they was working with, they might’ve decided you was a liability.
I step into the passenger side of the Fragment Roamer and shut the door. Inside, Fingers is on the holo with someone, Dance, by the voice, speaking through the jeep’s dashboard speaker. I don’t catch all the details, just fragments of his voice breaking through the static, but the gist of it is clear: he’s got a lead, another job, something that could pull all of us in. But I’m too tired, drained to care, my skin sticky with sweat and my head spinning. I don’t want to hear any of it. All I want is to get back and lose myself in sleep, if only for a few hours.
Fingers drives us through the streets once again, back to HQ. When we arrive and head down to Dash Two, the same three faces are there—Vander, Cormac, Dance—though this time that asshole Raze is there with them. Must have gotten a call or showed up late. He’s got that same dark jacket on, the one that’s seen better days, paired with a pair of faded blue jeans, the cigar clenched between his teeth like it’s part of his damn DNA. He scratches his fuzzy crewcut, eyeing me with that usual hard, judgmental stare, but to my surprise, it softens, and a slow grin spreads across his face.
He leans back on the wall, takes a long drag from his cigar, then flicks the ash onto the floor before saying, “Well, look at you. Didn’t think you had it in you, but damn, guess I underestimated New Girl.” He studies me for a moment longer, the smile lingering, almost approving. “Not bad at all.”
A total head-turner. I’d been expecting something rude, but I’ll take the compliment, I guess.
“Vander ordered pizza,” Dance says, lifting the lid of a box and revealing the greasy stacks on the coffee table, where the spider bot used to sit.
Before I can even reach for a slice, a long steel limb whips over Dance’s shoulder, taps him lightly, then flips over his head like it’s been rehearsed. The metallic talon snatches a slice from the box with precision. Cormac, of course. He retracts the limb, then bites into the pizza with those sharp, shark-like teeth of his, barely chewing before he swallows.
“You’re one scary cunt, know that mate?” Dance says, watching him with wide, perplexed eyes. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, portable holo-projector. He clears his throat, snorts up a wad of phlegm, and spits it into a trashcan with a satisfied grunt. Tossing the projector onto the coffee table beside the pizza, he pulls a remote from his other pocket and presses the power button. The device hums to life, and a flickering holographic display bursts upward, shimmering into focus like a mirage. Maps, data streams, and blinking icons start to swirl and settle into a 3D projection above the table, casting pale, flickering light across the cluttered space.
“Pretty,” says Vander. “You got all sorts of crap under your belt, don’t yer?”
“Yer,” says Dance, mimicking his drawl. He leans back, twisting a piece of pizza in his fingers before setting it down. “M-Gates, yeah. Been trackin’ ’em for a while now. You know those devices, the ones that control androids manually, yeah? The high-end models, not the busted-up dooooooozies you see on the streets.” He picks up his remote and flicks through the holo projection, bringing up an image of a convoy. “We’ve been keepin’ an eye on a convoy movin’ through the lower sectors. Word is, they’re transportin’ a batch of M-Gates: top-tier stuff. And exactly what we need. They ain’t just for bots. Some of ’em can sync up with flesh, too. Real dangerous tech. People pay big for ’em.” He taps the holo image, zooming in on the convoy route, the digital map flickering with each movement. “Problem is, they’re not bound to leave the station until a month from now. Been trackin’ the signal for a while, but it keeps gettin’ scrambled. From what I’ve gathered, Techstrum roll out new batches of M-gates for their corporate meetings every six months. Once middle of the year and once end of the year.”
“What are they for?” I ask.
“You listenin’?” Dance says, his tone sharp and a little snarky. “Corporate meetings. Global network. Lets foreign investors sit in on meetings in real-time, no matter where they are.”
I still don’t quite get it, and he sees the confusion in my eyes.
“Alright, lemme break it down for ya, mate,” he says, leaning in. “Picture this: an android sittin’ in on a meeting. You slap a visor on it, and bam, the user can control it from anywhere on the globe. Bigshot in some high-rise, taps into the M-Gate, and suddenly they’re seein’ and controllin’ everything through the android’s eyes. They’re sittin’ at the table, speakin’ low, makin’ deals in secret. It’s way more secure than chattin’ over the net. No one can tap into that.”
Cormac’s sharp eyes flicker to the holo as he leans back, steepling his fingers together in that unsettling way of his. “Imagine, if you will,” he says in his cold, clipped British accent, “an actor on stage, but they’re not the one actually performing, yes. They’re just a puppet, and someone else is pulling the strings from behind the scenes. The android, in this case, is the stage, and the M-Gate? It’s the puppeteer, madame, making sure every movement, every glance is in perfect sync with the user’s will.” He smirks, a dark glint in his eye. “The investor sits back, takes control, and becomes the invisible presence in the room, pulling all the strings from afar. It’s not just a meeting. It’s a show, and they’re the star, oh yes.”
“I understand.” It makes sense why such a device would exist. I grab a slice of pizza from the table and take a bite. “So,” I say through chews, “you said it’s a month away? The convoy?”
“Now you’re listenin’, mate.” Dance presses another button, and the hologram flickers before shifting, zooming in to show the convoy’s exact route.
The digital map traces a path along the outskirts of the borderlands, cutting through the grimy veins of the city, and heads on to a tech facility marked ‘District 9’. As it zooms in, the map shifts to reveal a highly stylised, heavily decorated version of Neo Arcadia: bright lights, floating banners, and dancers weaving through the crowds. Carnival stands line the streets, their holographic displays flashing with technicolor brilliance.
“It’ll happen during the Luminara festival,” Dance continues, pointing to the screen. “Whole place’s gonna be packed: celebrations, distractions. People won’t even notice the convoy moving through. But that’s where the problem is.” He pauses, fingers hovering over the controls. “They’ll pass through the north sector first. Tight security around the tech zones. But after that, the convoy heads to District 9 itself. That’s where the M-Gates are being dropped off: underground, of course. All secured in some dark, backroom vault.”
He zooms in further, highlighting a narrow alleyway just behind the carnival, where the convoy will take a detour. “They think they’re safe, slipping in unnoticed. But that’s where we come in.”
“Christ,” says Raze. “Lot of fuckin’ nuance to this one. Why do they keep the M-Gates so damn secure?”
“Made specially for the Techstrum bots,” says Dance. “And, fuck’s sake mate, you know how tight they are with security. Want any chance of breaking in and securing info for Quinton whatever-his-name-is then we need to insert the spoofers into those M-Gates, tap in, control the bots when a meeting’s happening. That simple.”
Fingers steps forward and presses the hologram, switching it off. She takes a seat on the edge of the table, legs spread wide, her brow furrowed as she processes the plan. “So, if I’m understanding you correctly, Dance,” she says, her voice steady, “we insert the spoofers into these M-Gates, wait for a corporate meeting to go down, then download all the info from that meeting. That’ll get us the access we need?”
Dance straightens up with a grin, making a little flourish with his hand. “Fuckin’ genius, I am.”
“Things rarely go smoothly, though,” I interject. “What happens if we, you know, get caught? These are very sophisticated people from what I hear.”
“Every mountain has its crack,” Dance says. “Doesn't matter how slick or sophisticated they are, there's always a chink in the armour. You just have to know where to look.”
Fingers fiddles with the holo-projector. “A month from now, leaving December 31st?”
“Doesn’t sound too bad,” says Vander, wiping pizza grease from his face with a napkin. “Really, all we need to do is slide the sperfers in before delivery. Could even set up a er blockage along the path, sneak in the back, while they’re workin’. Cormac’s good at that. Fingers, too. And hey, if you need someone to er blow something up....”
Fingers chuckles. “I like it. But it’s far from perfect. I’ll iron some of the details out with you, Dance. And guys: I’d like to say something.” She stands, settling the holo-projector on the table. “I know we’ve got a month and everything and I might be sounding a little dramatic, but I really appreciate you all. The work you put in. I’m giving you a bonus of ten grand each, ’cept you, Mono. You got paid enough.” She chuckles.
“Luminara bonus, is it?” Raze chuckles, arms folded. “’Preciate it, Fingers.”
“How’s your sister, Raze?”
Raze’s expression tightens for a moment, and he shifts his weight, looking down at his feet. “Hangin’ on. Docs say she’s not outta the woods yet, but she’s stronger than they thought. It’s a battle, but she’s fightin’ it." He looks up with a forced grin, trying to shake off the weight of it. “Thanks for askin’, though. Means a lot.”
Cormac steps forward, his movements slow and deliberate, placing a hand on Raze’s shoulder. His accent thickens as he speaks, a rare seriousness in his tone. “May God weave her a path back from the dark. No fight like the one for life, but if anyone’s got the strength, it’s her.”
“Christ,” says Raze. “Don’t get all poetic on me, Corn.”
They laugh.
“What about you, Monner?” a voice says, and it takes me a moment to realise it’s Vander. Though, in hindsight, I should have known by the mispronunciation. “You got a place to stay for the month?”
“Gonna look for one,” I say.
“I know a place in the city,” says Cormac, his voice smooth, almost too smooth, like he’s offering a secret. “Oh yes, a subtle, squared-away sanctuary, if you will. Cheap, though full of... character. Not many bother to ask questions once you’re inside, which can be convenient. Fitting, even. You see, it’s got a bit of history to it, old bones creaking in the walls. No one ever stays too long, but I can promise you, it’s got a certain... charm. Just don’t ask why the last tenant left in such a hurry.” The air around him feels thicker, like a shadow clinging just out of sight.
“I’ll, uh, I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Cormac.”
“You are ever-so-welcome.”
Fingers steps up from the table, leaving her half-eaten slice of pizza on a napkin. “Alright,” she says. “I’m gonna go grab a shower. You comin’, Mono?”
“Sure thing,” I say. God knows I need one.
She heads into the red room to grab a pair of towels. She tosses me one. “Like I said, leave this to me and Dance and we’ll fine-tune it. I’ll keep you posted.”
With that, we make our way back to elevator, ready to catch it up for a wash.
I’ll be shopping for an apartment soon. Better smell nice for the landlord.