She holds the door open to the garage, ushering me in ahead.

Once again, I'm surprised by—pretty much everything. It's still against my expectations to see anything nice in the Slag, and this is no exception. The place looks like one of the garages you'd see on broadcasts. Black and white checkered tile on the floor, laid brick walls, bright lighting. The plain exterior didn't even remotely betray the contents of the place. Though, it makes sense. It'd be an immediate target if someone realized what was in here. Hydraulic lifts, a few work-in-progress cars, roving toolboxes—hell, I can see some drones sitting on charging stations on a workbench. I'm stunned.

So stunned that it takes a few seconds for the new car smell to register. It makes me wonder how many places there are like this around the Slag. Unassuming facades, only for someone's works of art to be sitting inside, shielded by the world's best security system: drab concrete exteriors.

I almost accidentally tuned out Springbok in the process of being lost in my surroundings.

“—You've already met Spot, obviously.” She gestures to the muscle shirt clad fellow laying down across a bench. I notice that he actually got his arm stitched up. I guess the wound wasn't that bad if he doesn't even have it gauzed up. Or he's too stoned to care. “Well on the mend, as you can see. Slacking asshole.”

Springbok gestures to the other side of the room as she steps around a husked out MT vehicle. It's hard to tell what model it was, considering it was nothing more than a frame. I step around it to get a better look at who she's pointing at. It's still hard to get a good look, with them bent over into a large crate, rummaging around like a raccoon going through a goodie-filled dumpster.

“Flash. He's the procurement guy. Like I said, if you want it, he can probably get it for you.” She clears her throat a few times to get his attention, but apparently he's really into digging out whatever is in that box. “—You can talk to him later.”

She leads me across the way to a staircase that spirals upwards into what appears—at first glance—to be a mezzanine over the floor of the garage. Bright red carpet, couches lining the walls, authentic wood tables. It's just as nice as the rest of the place, if not nicer. I catch a glimpse of someone sitting on one of the pleather couches playing around with a practice lock. Shoulder-length black hair. Sharp features. Pale, like cheeks brushed by the chill of winter.

“Luc. Magpie. Magpie. Luc.” Springbok gestures between us.

The pale-skinned woman looks between Springbok and me, seeming to hesitate saying something. She returns to fiddle with the practice lock for a few seconds and pops the hinge off the top before speaking up.

“A pleasure.” She bows her head. Unsurprisingly, soft spoken. But I shouldn't judge a book by its cover.

“Likewise.”

Springbok cuts in, apparently realizing that an introvert and a potential introvert aren't going to make for great conversational partners.

“You can probably guess by the name. She's our resident pickpocket and distraction.”

“—That's maybe the worst introduction you could've given me,” Magpie cuts in. “Give it some flair, maybe like sleight-of-hand artiste and diversion extraordinaire.”

“Well, it's not like you were going to fuckin' introduce yourself. I know how you get around the new faces,” Springbok retorts. “You put on the quiet girl act every time we bring in someone new.”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“That is not true.” Magpie's tone is surprisingly flat for what Springbok is making sound like a real matter.

I try my best to zone out during their entire argument. It sounds like it's going to drag on for a long while, all things considered. I'd ask if they were related, but I figure that would turn the ire towards me if I open my big dumb mouth. It's actually a nice change of pace, I guess. These kinds of arguments would usually end in fistfights in the lunchroom back at the precinct.

I notice that there's a hallway leading off in the other direction. Six doors, one labeled as an office, and the other four with the names of everyone tagged beside them. The fifth looks like it used to have a tag, but it's been scratched out.

They're still arguing somehow, but it's just become a deluge of words that practically runs off of my back every time they open their mouths. One sounds like she could be angry, and the other sounds absolutely too emotionless to be angry. I decided I should open my mouth.

“—You two okay?”

I make the mistake of speaking over Springbok and end up getting another one of her dreaded looks in return. At least I interrupted the fight? The silence hangs in the air like an awaiting guillotine, before Springbok opens her mouth. She actually sounds amused. Maybe because I sounded a little bit more worried than I should've.

“We're okay, it's just how we talk. We've known each other for longer than I've had the garage. Shit, she's the second longest running member of the team besides me. We're pretty much siblings.” She cackles and drops down onto the couch alongside Magpie.

If I had trouble reading Springbok, I feel like that's going to be amplified a thousand-fold with Magpie. A persistent flat tone, and an expression that was equally as flat. Never changing. She wasn't frowning, smiling, or expressing anything. It was just flat, like she was just existing and that also happened to be her emotional state.

“So! What do you think of the place?”

I take a deep breath. I don't think I could express all of my thoughts on it in one fell swoop. It's not quite as nice as some of the higher-end places I've been to in Aurora Hills, but that would be a completely unfair comparison to make. Garages owned by billionaires versus people living out here. That being said, it's surprising how close it comes to—

I have to interrupt my train of thought.

“It's actually pretty nice.”

Once again, smooth. I should just start vocalizing what I'm thinking. Of course, Springbok must've caught wind of this, because she cackles again like an absolute madwoman. Either that, or she's amused by my understatement of the century. Magpie's facade cracks for all of a second, as if even she was incredulous over this.

“Alright. Go and get all the junk you've left at The Hole. You actually have a place to stay. I'm sure you've figured out where.”

“I don't have much in the way of things at the clinic. Just what I'm wearing, actually.”

“Well, go and tell Doc that you've got a room and you won't be eating up one of his beds. In person. He'll be sad to see you go.”

We're literally only a few blocks away and I could just swing in whenever I want. I figure she's probably just trying to usher me out so she can prep the room. Makes sense, because I could've just as easily said no to her job offer.

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

I guess things are actually looking up for once. Like she said, a place to stay that isn't the clinic. The perpetual smell of rubbing alcohol and medicine is burned into my nose. The new car smell might get tiring after some time, but at least it's not as horrible and sterile. Maybe I won't have to sweep up the floors either? Mopping up blood is definitely out of the picture. Or at least, I would hope. That's more than definitely a knock on wood thing if I were to even remotely say that out loud.

Even more so, it'll be nice to have a stable group around me. I might've hated working in a group back on the force, but having a lack of familiar faces around was starting to bother me. This group seems nice enough, though I shouldn't speak too soon, I guess. The most I saw of Flash was his bottom half. That's yet to be seen, but I don't think he can be all that bad if he's with Springbok and Spot.

Though, I still wonder about some things. I should ask Springbok who the hell Onigiri is and why doesn't she like them. I feel like there's a story there.