Handing off Empress Cupcake to Sister Leung was pretty much a blur. I remember that we skipped the whole theatrics, on account of Flash needing to stay in the van and put pressure on his thigh. Magpie deigned to join us and hand the pet carrier over to Sister Leung. Springbok accepted the rest of our payment, and Sister Leung asked for my commcode after making some more comments about me looking like I should be in an action movie. She either needs to update the firmware of her cybereyes, or that's some strong tea in her cup. I had the presence of mind to give her my burner. I remember sensing a shift in the attitudes of Springbok and Magpie after doing that. I also remember that we beat feet out of the tea house as fast as we could.
Everyone was quiet on the drive back to Willowville, with only the sound of C-Cuttas blasting through the sound system. Well, everyone except for Spot, who is acting way more animated now that the job is done. We're all three thousand credits richer, after all. Still can't believe we got paid that much.
Back in the present, in the reception area of The Hole. If we keep this up, it'll be customary to get ourselves checked out here after every job. Spot and Flash are in with the Doc, which leaves me stuck in the awkward position of sitting in between Magpie and Springbok.
Magpie's fiddling with her practice lock, repeatedly popping it open and locking it just to go through the whole process again. Springbok is staring into nothing, but from the occasional swiping gestures she's making, she's probably just browsing the matrix via private AROs. Or whatever a hacker like her does in her spare time.
Flash waltzes out of the treatment room, walking like someone who didn't just get shot in the leg. Spot follows close behind him, with no trace left of his own wound from our first job together. The Doc sure has magic hands.
And speaking of the Doc, there he is too, still clad in his usual goggles and surgical mask. I stand up to shake his hand after he takes his surgical gloves off. “Doc.”
“My dear boy, it is good to see you settling in.”
“Trying my best. Helps that I'm running with a dependable crew.” It's true, these guys have shown that they can keep a cool head under fire. I figured it wouldn't hurt to let them know what I think of them.
“Excellent, excellent! Would the five of you care to have dinner with an old man?”
“Su—”
“Mind if we take a rain check on that, Doc?” Springbok cuts me off. “I was thinking of celebrating and taking Luc to The Bassin Lounge.”
“Ah! Good choice. Yes, I do not mind. We can always have dinner together some other time.”
“The Bassin Lounge?”
The Doc is probably smiling under his surgical mask as usual. “You will see, my dear boy. You will see.”
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We went back to the garage for a quick stop before heading to The Bassin Lounge. Everyone wants to freshen up first, and Spot wants to switch rides. Something about it being unacceptable to go out for fun in the work car. I don't get how his mind works.
I take off the black t-shirt and stare at the open closet in my room, having no idea what to wear. I still wonder what kind of a place it could be with a name like that.
My door cracks open, prompting me to turn. I see Springbok peeking in, almost like a déjà vu of this morning. “Damn, Cowboy. Is shirtless the look? Not that I'm complaining.”
“Maybe you aren't, but everyone else will. No, I'm still weighing my options.”
“Everyone? Leung would disagree with that. Didn't you feel her eyes all over you?”
“I didn't.” That's a lie.
“Oh, come off it. ‘You sure you don't want to be a movie star? You have the face for it.’” Springbok puts on a Liao accent for that impression. It's almost too accurate, making me feel like I'm standing in front of Sister Leung again.
“She was just being nice.”
“She's one of the last people who ever thinks about being nice. Ugh. Anyways—” Feels like she's trying to change the subject a bit too fast. “Just wear whatever you think is stylish. Place we're going to is casual. Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Maybe. If you need a frame of reference, Spot is going with his usual Spot style.”
“Right. Okay, I got it.”
“Personally, I like how you look now, but that's just me.”
I throw the black t-shirt I'm holding towards the door, smacking her square in the face and falling to the floor. “Shush.”
“Oh, ew!” She says that but laughs before closing the door, the click-clacking of her footsteps receding as she moves through the hallway.
I sigh as I look at my open closet again. I'm not sure why I'm stressing over what to wear when I really only have two choices. I pick up the T-shirt that says BAND NAME on it and put it on, throw the armored jacket on top of it, slip my revolver in my waistband, and walk out of my room.
Everyone looks like they're ready to party, but seeing Spot in his unbuttoned floral print shirt gives me assurance that I'm not underdressed.
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The five of us squeeze into The Beast. Well, maybe not squeeze; sharing it with Springbok and Magpie doesn't exactly make for an uncomfortable fit in the backseat. I have kept my eyes on the open map app since we left Willowville. The neighborhood we're currently in is called Sedburg, positioned even deeper inside the Slag proper.
In the near distance, I see it. Giant neon sign that says The Bassin Lounge. The building is huge, probably taking up a whole block by itself while being at least three stories tall. I'd say it's a bit much for your run-of-the-mill watering hole. So it probably isn't one of those. Great deduction, Luc.
Spot can't resist pulling a stunt maneuver and turns the corner by drifting, skidding right into a vacant parking spot. I get why he wanted to take out The Beast now; almost every car in our near vicinity is a custom job. I recognize a few of these gang logos and insidious insignias, thanks to my stint in the vice squad. Red Gorgons, Sons of Iron, Marauders, Doom Hounds… It's starting to look like a fucked up who's who out here, and I'm glad I'm not entering this place as an active duty cop.
“Here we are. Best place to wet your whistle without getting shot at.” Springbok takes up the role of tour guide after we all exit The Beast.
“Really? With all these gangs mixing in together?”
“Neutral ground. Inside, that is. We better go in and not loiter in the parking lot.”
The pair of bouncers guarding the main entrance aren't wearing any specific gang's colors, but their fashion sense still gives them away. The girl blocking the stairway has her green hair done up in a mohawk. Loose fishnet top over a black bra with skull prints, and form-fitting leather pants with combat boots. The spiked baseball bat in her hand completes the tough grrl aesthetic. Her partner, leaning lazily against the doorframe, wears an armored leather jacket covered in spikes, large black shades with spray-painted white X's covering the lenses, and not much else. Both of them are loaded up with overt cyberware; an effective deterrent for anyone looking to start shit.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Sup, Flash.” Green Mohawk gives him the upnod.
“Yo, Kassi. The usual.” Flash slips her a white credchit and juts a thumb in my direction. “That's Luc over there. Part of the crew.”
Kassi gives me the up-and-down and grins, showing off titanium-capped fangs. “Hubba hubba.”
Oh boy. Her partner makes things worse by wolf-whistling. Springbok suddenly comes into my field of view, as if she's being a wall between me and Kassi. She slips an arm through mine. I let her. “Can we go in now?”
Kassi scrunches her face up and clicks her tongue when she notices Springbok. “Yeah, yeah. Don't forget to check your weapons in. And don't start shit you can't finish.”
“Aces.” Flash acts like nothing just happened and goes up the stairs, pushing the heavy-looking double doors open. A muffled, thumping bass line starts leaking from the crack. We follow behind him, and I'm taking extra care not to move too fast or too slow.
“Nice t-shirt, would look better on my bedroom floor!” Kassi yells, followed by cackling laughter from both bouncers before the doors shut.
“…Bitch.” Springbok lets go of my arm and walks ahead of me, heading straight for the weapons check-in counter. We all check our firearms in, which I'm not too crazy about. I get that it's for mutual assurance; I just feel naked without my revolver.
We pass another set of double doors, this one leading straight into the dance floor. The bottom-thumping beat hits my eardrums at full blast now, and my eyes take a moment to adjust to the erratic light show accompanying it. The interior of the place is much fancier than what I thought. I'd say it's almost if not on par with the hot clubs in Downtown and Aurora Hills.
“Luc!” Flash shouts over the music right next to my ear. “I see some friends over by the side bar, I'm going to catch up with 'em for a bit. Stay close to Springbok and Magpie, all right?”
I flash him a thumbs up, craning my neck to see what sort of friends he's talking about. It's either the group of Rastkos and Rastkas that are wearing dark blue tracksuits or the small contingent of Red Gorgons, easily visible through all the visual noise thanks to their glowing red fiber optic hair. Oh, turns out he's referring to both groups. He leaves with two people, one from each, and heads towards the stairs leading to the second floor. I assume that's where the private booths are.
“Sometimes he can't separate between business and pleasure.” Springbok doesn't shout like Flash, opting to lean in real close to me.
“As long as he doesn't get us into trouble.”
“Oh, Cowboy.” She tugs on my sleeve, pulling me towards the dance floor. “We are the trouble.”
“I, uh, I'm not much of a dancer.” Why the hell am I tripping over my own words?
“That's alright. You can leave the moves to me and Magpie.”
“Magpie?” I almost forgot about her. She reminds me of her existence by tugging on my other sleeve. There's no escaping this, we're already on the dance floor.
The DJ's probably psychic and picks up on my distress, because they switch tracks to a slower tempo one, inviting the girls to incorporate grinding into their dance moves. I swear I'll backhand that DJ when this is over.
It's a bit embarrassing to say, but I'm scanning around frantically, trying to spot out Spot. I see him standing by another bar, already nursing a drink and smoking another mystery joint. He's talking to some girl dressed in a one-piece racing leathers. I raise my hand to flag him. He sees me and waves back. Help me out, you idiot.
I'm even more convinced that the DJ is psychic now. Why? Because they're throwing me a bone and swapping tracks to something that's a bit more high energy. Magpie tears herself away from our awkward sandwich and starts busting out some power moves. Fellow dancers clear away to give her some space. Springbok joins the fray not long after, giving Magpie a run for her money.
I seize the opportunity to get off the dance floor and walk up to the nearest bar to get myself a drink. Opposite from where Spot is, which is just as good. Don't want to throw him off his game.
The bartender acknowledges my approach as he's cleaning a glass. “Good evening. What are we having?”
“I'll take whatever dark beer you got.”
“Sure thing, boss.” He pulls out a stein from behind the counter and does his thing. Nice pour, good head.
I plant myself in the seat, drop a credchit loaded with fifty creds, and take a sip. “Oh, that's good stuff. Don't think I've ever had this brand before.”
“Oh, first time? That's Black Pit, local craft.” He pops my credchit into his terminal. “Whew, you're overpaying by a lot, boss. This amount can get you two steins, with change.”
I wave my hand. “Don't worry about it. Change is yours.”
He cracks a genuine smile. I guess it doesn't hurt to act like a high roller once in a while. “Thanks, boss. My name's Clint. You need anything, I'm your man.”
“Actually, got a few questions if you don't mind.”
“I might have answers. Shoot.”
“This count as a busy night?”
“Ah, definitely your first time here. It's one of the quieter nights. I probably wouldn't be able to hold this conversation with you on a regular night.”
“That so?” I take another sip from my beer. “See a lot of trouble on those regular nights?”
“Eh, shouting matches and fistfights at most. Our security's usually pretty good at being on the ball. It also helps that the guests aren't allowed weapons.”
“Got it.”
“Why, looking for trouble tonight?” He's still smiling, but I can feel him tense up just a bit.
“Nah, not tonight.”
“If you don't mind me asking a question in return, what colors do you fly?”
“No colors for me. Freelancer, I guess you could call it.”
He nods and I see him visibly relax. He picks up his cloth and a random glass, and starts going through the motion of cleaning it. “Ah, I see. Looking to link up, huh?”
I respond with a nod of my own. He doesn't need to know that we're here to celebrate a successful job. “Something like that.”
He gestures with his chin to somewhere behind me. “Looks like your ladies are done shredding up the dance floor. Need a hook-up?”
I turn my head to glance over my shoulder. Springbok and Magpie are approaching the bar I'm at.
“So this is where you ran off to.” Springbok sounds short of breath as she throws an arm around me. The club lights give her sweat-glistened skin a soft, ethereal glow.
“Call it a tactical retreat to get myself a drink. You two want anything?”
“Yeah, a Wet Kiss would do.”
“Oh, I want one of those too,” Magpie pipes up from my left side. Her usually pale cheeks are flushed. Guess we're back in the awkward sandwich configuration again.
“—you two want a what now?” I see Clint grab two cocktail glasses and he starts to do his mixologist thing. “Right, of course. It's the name of a drink.”
Springbok puts on one of those smirks before she leans in to whisper in my ear. “Are you disappointed?”
“I—” Clint comes in with the big save and serves the drinks with a flourish. “Shut up and drink your cocktail.”
We sit in silence for a little while and nurse our drinks. This, despite the high-octane club music thumping all around us, isn't uncomfortable. Almost relaxing, even. Clint excuses himself to serve another customer.
“Hey, Luc.” Magpie was the first to break the conversational stalemate.
“Yeah, what's up?”
“Do the synthmuscles in your legs not work or what?”
“Weird question, but I'll bite. Why do you ask?”
“Because you dance like a malfunctioning wood chipper.”
I take a big gulp from my stein. “Magpie?”
“Yes, Luc?”
“Shut up and drink your cocktail.”