Days pass, and we're not in want for money. Not after the big score we pulled. The air's gotten far more tense around here. I don't think it's because of the job. More so the rumors of supposed special weapon teams cropping up around the Slag and causing problems. I don't know if it's Black Wolf sending out teams to try and bag me, or if it's some other corporation looking to cause troubles. I'm betting on the prior being more likely.
And it's not just in our neighborhood either. Even as far out as Blackwell. Though, I doubt it's a huge problem out there. The people out there really don't fuck around, from what I've heard. It's more of a problem here in our neighborhood, where the closest thing to an organized group that could chase them off would be the crew and me. I'm not exactly keen on sticking my head out to help with handling it and having the hammer drop down on me, though. Or on the rest of the group, for that matter. It's more than likely that we'd wipe out a group or two of them, and they'll just end up sending more. Especially if they get an idea of where we're at. Here's hoping they lose interest.
Fat chance on that.
Still, that lingering tension is making it hard to celebrate. It starts to hit me. Like a brick now. I've been doing what I've been trying to stop while I was on the force. Even though we were hitting those bigwig corporate bastards in their ivory towers, we were still acting outside the boundaries of the law. I figured that what we were doing would've knocked them down a peg or two, but I don't think they even noticed. Maybe I'm not any better than those common criminals I was trying to put away. Fuck.
The mounting tension turns into a headache. I gotta get up and go for a walk. Being stuck indoors is never good for my listlessness. Out from my room, into the garage proper.
“'Ey, Luc. What's up, man? You've got a look.”
Spot. He pops up from behind the Beast, like a godsdamned jack-in-the-box. Fuck. I should've waited until later to make sure nobody was here.
“Spot,” I mumble. Apparently the agitation carries through in my voice. “I don't want to talk.”
“—Yeesh. What's up your ass, dude?”
He gives me a look, before getting back to work. I wasn't lying. I really don't want to talk. I just need time to think about shit.
I grab my jacket and make for the door. I know I should be keeping a low profile, but that lingering excitement from that job is still coursing through me. It's creating a contrasting feeling. On one hand, I feel like I could sprint all the way to the metroplex and back. Twice. On the other hand, I feel like I have a stone gargoyle weighing down on my shoulders. Everything seems just a little less brighter than it did a few days ago.
Hands in my pockets, strolling down the street. Maybe I should've stuck around to talk to Spot. He could've maybe cleared my head by saying something stupid enough to make me laugh. Or he could've made it worse. I figure that the latter option was the more likely thing. Especially when I'm like this. I know I'm hard to talk down. Shit, being alone with my thoughts isn't exactly the best of things, either.
I guess I could head down to one of the clubs or bars or something. Maybe complain about the stuff on my mind to the bartender. They're paid enough to not give a shit, right? I start off in a direction. I'm not really paying attention to where. Eventually I'll hit a club or bar. I guess I could've asked Spot to drive me somewhere, like Leung's. But I've probably pissed him off with the tone. Leung's would be nice, but that's definitely not within walking distance. Unless I plan on getting back when the sun's back up. Which will no doubt piss the crew off, somehow. Probably not, but I'm in a mood.
I keep my pace up, breaking from the crowd of the marketplace as I hit the end of the road. The droning of the crowd fades into a distant whisper as I start heading down the far less congested side routes. I don't exactly want to go somewhere close to the garage. Especially if there's corporate stooges about. I shouldn't even be going to the bars in the first place. Gods know I'm going to end up with a bottle busted over my head and a back filled with lead.
Especially with those stooges about. Great job tweaking my own paranoia. I guess I should actually be keeping an eye out for people who stick out around me. Potential tails. The works. Maybe I should keep my hand closer to my holster.
Paranoia, excitement, and ennui. What a wonderful shitty combination. I can't help but laugh at myself. If they knew where I was, they would've put a bullet in me already. And walking around with my hand on my shoulder holster is going to get people staring at me anyways.
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The Chipper Goat's Beard. I look up to the drab painted sign. A goat drinking from a beer stein. What a name. It's one of the few signs around here that isn't perpetually polluting the surrounding area with some kind of neon glare or overly bright light.
Never been here before, but I'm willing to try it. I'm just here to get drunk on shitty beer. Overly priced, shitty beer. I step inside, and it's closer to a traditionalist dwarven bar than anything else. Everything's made out of wood. I can't tell if it's synthwood, or the real deal, but it's all over the place. Stools? Not a lick of visible metal. Booths? Straight up wooden benches. There's even giant kegs past the counter.
Despite the fact that the clientele seems awfully sparse at the moment, there's a thick smog that burns my lungs that wafts about the place. The source of which seems to be the bartender. Bald, big orange beard. Definitely a traditionalist, given that his bare arms are covered in tattoos from shoulder to knuckle. Smoking a pipe and thumbing through some holograms projected from his commlink. I'd say he's slacking off, if it wasn't for the fact that there were only two other people in here. Though, I'm feeling a little out of place, given that most of the furniture in here is definitely designed for someone a tad bit shorter and robust than me.
Still doesn't stop me from trying to take a seat. Not the best idea, because I end up presumably looking like an adult trying to sit down in a booster seat. What with my knees angling up towards my chest. I'm fully expecting to get laughed at, but I just get an incredulous look from the tender like I walked into the wrong tavern.
“What can I do for ya?” he asks in a low rumbling voice that sounds like he's been eating broken glass and washing it down with sand.
“What's the cheapest thing you've got on tap?” I'm still trying to make myself comfortable in this conundrum I've put myself in. I'd sound sour if I didn't feel awkward as hell.
“Water.”
“Alcoholic?”
“The rust off the pipes might give ya a little bit of a buzz.” He cracks a laugh and gives me a toothy grin that I can barely see through that thick beard of his. “Leatherstone's reserve. I'll warn ya. It tastes like piss.”
“Cheap and good don't mix, do they?” I find myself cracking a dumb smile in return. Maybe the absurdity of all of this is washing away all of the previous gunk that was putting me down. Literally walked off into the middle of nowhere to a hole in the wall to drink piss water.
“That they don't, boyo,” he remarks, lifting a wooden stein out from under the counter and ambling his way to the taps. “Ya new or lost?”
“Little bit of both. I'm having a rough day, so I figured I could do with one or the other for a while.”
“Aye. I know how that is.”
He skips the stein down the counter towards me. He must be a pro, because it skids to a halt just short of my hand. I figure I'll get a few drinks in and get back home before I'm too drunk to walk straight. Last thing I want to do is walk outside and pass out in the gutter.
“Ya a bounty hunter or somethin', cowboy?” he upnods to my holstered revolver. I laugh, shaking my head at that.
“Nope. That's just a relic from another time and another place.”
“Ya don't look that old.” The bartender chuckles, leaning back over to the counter. “It ain't regularly that we get humans in here, yeah? Always figured the furniture scared them off.”
He gestures up and down at me. I'm still doing my best to try and be comfortable in this near toddler sized seat. My knees bump up against the counter.
“I don't think it's the furniture that intimidates them.”
The bartender lifts his arm up onto the counter, and I get a better view of his tattoos. Most dwarves in the city tend to forgo it, but the traditionalists live and die by this stuff. They get the history of their clan inscribed in ink on their body, alongside tales of ancestors that they wish to honor. I wouldn't have known otherwise if I didn't serve with a guy in the military who was literally covered from head to toe in the things. Little bit of an awkward shower talk when I asked about the tattoos while we were still in boot camp.
I finally take a sip from the stein. He wasn't wrong. It tastes like piss. Not the worst, but it's definitely down there.
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Shit. What time is it? I might've just spent a little too long drinking. Guess that's what happens when you're in a mood. At least I break from my stupor when the bartender moves further down the counter to deal with some new patrons that made their way in. Fuck me, I already know this is going to be the hangover of a century. Thump. Forehead to the counter.
I guess I should at least tip the guy before I make my way out. Up to my unsteady feet. I slap a chit into the tip jar. And then I look to my left. Son of a bitch. I recognize the asshole. McDavid.
And he must've recognized me, because he's reaching for his gun around the same time I am.