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Harridan tore her damaged commlink off and crushed it in her palm with a gusto that didn't match her current loping pace. What remained of the smashed device was probably still in better shape than her, given that she was currently enjoying a three foot long length of bent rebar pierced clean through her torso; her apparel appropriately fucked up to match. The usually impeccable and crisp suit was now bloodied and shredded, with her trademark shades strangely absent. She fussed over these sorts of things on a normal day, but the primary discomfort of the day was a complete toss-up between the aforementioned rebar, and her attempts at evading whoever was pursuing her at this moment.
Attempts being the keyword.
You could consider it a little bit of a disadvantage that she was stuck hobbling to safety through the district that locals refer to as the Big Slag while the hunters that chased her were astride their steel stallions. She might consider it leveling the playing field if she was in a cocky mood, but right now? She was desperately trying her damnedest to fight against the screaming sensation that wracked her whole body with each and every single step because she had a goal in mind. An unfortunate goal with people who may or may not help her. She was headed straight for Banshees' territory. Shaileen’s old warehouse. Thankfully, she managed to swipe the keys off the kid when she tossed her at Gunther a few days back.
Even if they wouldn't help her, she could at least hope that there would be some kind of conflict between the party on her tail and the go-gangers. If not? Well… She already came to terms with the fact that she's probably going to meet her maker today around thirty minutes ago.
Whoever is in charge upstairs was either cruel or kind, given how many close calls Harridan found herself in. A near hour was spent ducking into burnt out husks of former hab blocks, throwing herself prone into piles of debris and dead shrubbery, or hiding underneath rotted frames of vehicles long past their expiration date. Every so often, the motors of those two-wheeled chariots rumbled close enough to jostle her, keeping her adrenaline pumping and her heart-rate high.
It was a near lifetime of hobbling and crawling before she found herself slumped down against a cargo container—filled with boxes of Fruity-O cereal—in Shaileen’s warehouse. She didn't really think about the part where she might need to get into contact with someone, now that she's lacking a functional commlink.
“Fuck,” she said aloud as that revelation strode across her mind. Oh well. At least she can be alone with her thoughts for the next few hours without anyone to bother her.
Hopefully.
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Somewhere in a different part of the Slag, in the neighborhood of Blackwell, to be exact. The crushing weight of poverty was especially heavy here. Dilapidated buildings lined the streets, complete with layers and layers of graffiti—in both spray paint and AR. A pair of hobos were huddled together in one of the more hospitable alleys, keeping themselves warm via a burn barrel, the blaze fueled by cheap booze and stray pamphlets advertising the seedy local establishments. Bursts of neon washed over the streets, courtesy of the lumbering advertisement drones passing through the airspace, selling things that most people here could not afford.
A Black Wolf Security heli flew overhead, its searchlight probing the nearby streets, occasionally sweeping over one building in particular. This building was a service station in its previous life, its old bay doors still intact, only the husks of canopies indicating that gas pumps were once there. A large stylized head of a woman in white face paint was sprayed onto the bricks of the front wall, covering whatever name once laid ownership claim of the structure. Any ganger or CorpSec worth their salt would recognize the logo as belonging to the Screaming Banshees, a go-gang relatively small in size with a reputation for being extremely territorial. Matte black sportbikes of various makes and models littered the front parking area.
A near full clubhouse.
Inside, on the second floor, girls in black-and-purple racing leathers crowded in what usually served as the meeting room. Loud music blared from the massive speakers of the Orsa SRS-TR500 sound system, somehow managing to not completely drown out the ongoing conversations. A pair of Banshees were sat across from each other at the polished metal table positioned in the center of the room, playing cards in hand, a small crowd watching the game.
“Three aces.” Hotrod revealed her cards with an insufferable smirk.
“Ah, fuck. I'm out.” Pizzazz, the resident mage, tossed her cards onto the table. She took a swig from her bottle of Devil's Milk and stood up to vacate the table.
“Better luck next time, Zazz. Maybe you'd like me to ease up the rules a bit, allow you to do your magic bullshit?”
Pizzazz turned around and stuck out her tongue, her tall white mohawk swaying from the motion. “I don't need a handicap. I'll beat you square next time.”
Hotrod let out a crisp laugh and collected the cards. “Promises, promises.”
“Not to segue from how you just beat my ass again, but I am goin' to steer this conversation in a different direction. You ever wonder what happened to Shaileen?”
Disdain flashed across Hotrod's visage, her grey cybereyes briefly glowing before she shrugged her shoulders. “Who knows? Dead in a ditch somewhere in Downtown, probably. Can't say I ever thought about it.”
“Oh. Didn't mean to bring the mood down. I'll grab you another beer.” Pizzazz hastily exited the conversation that she herself started. Classic.
Hotrod clicked her tongue and adjusted the top part of her racing leathers that was bunched up by her waist, showing off parts of her heavily tattooed skin. “Alright, who's got next? I'm not playing for less than two hundred—”
“Hey, uh, Rods?” Blackjack looked up from her commlink, her dark eyebrows knitted together. “It's funny Zazz asked about her, because… remember our unused warehouse where she shacked up? The silent alarm I set up just got tripped.”
The music came to an abrupt halt, turned off by Hotrod via neural command. “Sorry, what? Run that by me one more time?”
Blackjack's pale beige took on a deeper flush. She struggled to repeat herself under the scrutiny of more than just Hotrod's cybereyes. “Um, the alarm? That I set up at Shy's old warehouse? It got tripped.”
Hotrod sighed and ran a hand down her delicate face. “Switch isn't here, so I guess I get to call the shots, huh? Alright, all present muscle, pack your choice of heat. We're riding out.”
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Harridan, still slumped against the crate, jolted up at sudden sounds coming from outside. In the distance, a chorus of high-pitched bike engines wailed, which is not unusual this side of the Big Slag. What is unusual is that the sound grows nearer and nearer to the warehouse. And nearer. And nearer, until it's replaced by the low thrum of multiple engines idling just outside the warehouse.
Heavy boots scraped against the gravel as the sound of indistinct conversation cut through the din of the Meadows at night, occasionally intermingling with muffled shouts and shrieks of laughter.
Her greatest asset may be her eyesight, but she's far from deaf and she can recognize the sound of a bike engine from a mile away. Unfortunately, she couldn't differentiate friend or foe from hearing alone, so she made the slightly wiser decision to skitter out of sight away from the door, finding her way into the cargo container with mild effort; resting an idle hand on her shoulder holster.
Just in case.
Not that four bullets are going to help her in any situation that's plausibly about to occur.
The clamor of conversation approached the warehouse's heavy metal door, the steady beat of heavy boots now thudding against plasticrete. The jangling of keys, a click, and—sudden silence.
Seconds pass.
The looming stillness was cut by a horrible screech, metal door scraping against the warehouse floor as it is pushed open. Thud went the—five? six?—pairs of heavy boots, stopping not far from the door. Harridan wasn't able to make out the exact number of boots, but she's sure as shit that there's more than four of them. She barely hesitated as she unclasped her shoulder holster.
“—something's off,” one voice said, muffled by their helmet. Plastic rustled against leather, clicks of firearm safeties being disengaged.
Trouble.
Rational thought has mostly stepped aside to make room for panicked cornered animal; the cornered part being one hundred percent her own doing. She didn't even stop to consider that the cargo container she found refuge in wasn't going to act as any form of cover, should anyone decide to shoot through the thin corrugated steel walls.
She could speak up, but when you're armed with a hammer? Every problem is a nail. The shifter drew her Holzer Ultrakompakt with utter care and made sure to make as minimal noise as possible to avoid betraying her position even further; aiming the pistol with a single hand towards the entry of her current nest.
Silence fell once more inside the warehouse, save for the occasional shuffling of boots and creaking of leather.
A loud clang reverberated from the side of the container after one of the riders kicked a metal box towards it, followed by a rush of boots going in different directions of the room.
Harridan jolted with a hiss and darted her eyes to the side that the box made contact with for all of a split second. Her attention refocused back on the only practical entrance that she had to cover. Part of her hoped that the loud rumbling of corrugated metal covered up her misstep, but the other half knew that there was a non-zero chance there was someone with augmented hearing stomping around outside. Either that, or they already knew where she was.
Seconds felt like minutes. Harridan kept her pistol trained on the entryway. Her vision blurred. Lost too much blood, need to hang on for just a bit longer.
Polymer thudded against wood just past the container's opening.
“You can come out now and make it easy for all of us, or…” The first voice trailed off, sounding clearer now without a helmet in the way.
The bird's typical flat expression didn't shift, even if she was internally damning herself for letting her instincts override her normal thought process.
“Or?” she managed to rasp out through clenched teeth, deciding to test the waters in the most dangerous way possible. Muffled snickers, followed by more shuffling of boots.
“Or... I dunno, we can turn this warehouse upside down and charge you the reno bill plus a hundred and fifty percent of the damaged goods cost. Something like that. Unless…” The voice trailed off again.
“It is incredibly difficult to talk right now,” she wheezed back out, sounding more winded than pained as she somehow kept up her monotone voice. “Unless?”
She took a few cautious steps towards the entry of the shipping box, ever careful to not rasp the jutting rebar against anything.
“—unless you give us a satisfactory explanation on what you're doing in our warehouse. We're not in the biz of sheltering squatters, you see.” Heavy boots tap-tap-tapped rhythmically against plasticrete. “And don't try anything funny. Show yourself, slowly."
Harridan paused as the part of her brain that barely made her a functional human being started to turn over. And then she spoke up, still monotone as ever.
“This is Shy’s warehouse,” she said. Either the blood loss was finally taking its toll beyond what her regeneration could handle, or it was just classic Harridan.
"You can tell me how you know that name later, but it stopped being hers when she stopped being one of us.” Tap-tap-tap went the steady rhythm of the boot. “...You're stalling.”
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
“No. I'm Harridan.” She paused to stare vacantly forwards. Yeah. Definitely blood loss. But at least she got the confirmation of what she was looking for.
The tapping stopped. “Harri—ah, fuck. Guns down, girls.”
“You sure, Hotrod?” A second voice, slightly huskier, popped up.
“Yeah, I'm sure. Guns down.”
The click-clack of engaged safeties and the rustle of lowered guns echoed in the room momentarily, prompting Harry to relent and limp her way out of her hidey-hole with all the urgency of a tired kitten; revealing her rebar-impaled self—and her completely shredded and bloodstained apparel—to whoever may be looking on.
Go-gangers clad in black-and-purple leathers stood around the room, their still stiff postures betraying a level of caution. One of them moved towards Harridan with urgency, lustrous black mane of hair billowing behind her. She came to a stop a few meters away and set herself down on one knee, looking over the bloodstained woman. “—the fuck happened to you?”
Harry brushed back her disheveled hair, tapping at the end of the length of metal jutting out of her body for a second before she decided it's a good time to sit down on that cold warehouse floor. Her gaze didn't quite settle for the moment, unnaturally dark eyes jumping from Banshee to Banshee as she continued to threat-assess.
She didn't have her chromatic lenses in.
“I got into a fight. Do you have an angle grinder?”
Hotrod straightened herself up, concern marring her delicate facial features. Her light grey cybereyes scanned the room, brows furrowed. “Pizzazz, grab the doc, double fast."
Pizzazz moved towards the door and threw one last glance at the piece of rebar impaling Harridan. “Cherry, double back to the shop and grab the angle grinder. Everyone else, post up outside, guns hot.” One by one the riders filed out, leaving the two women to some privacy. Harridan’s eyes remained off of Hotrod and followed the motion of each and every Banshee as they filtered their way out, keeping her mouth shut the entire time. Although at the moment she felt like it happened to be safe enough to pipe up, her cold dead stare lingered back onto Hotrod and showed almost no emotion beyond what a fashion store mannequin was capable of.
Hotrod pulled out a pack of her trusty Lucky Thirteens from her jacket pocket. A stick was retrieved and clamped between her teeth before she offered the pack to Harridan. “Smoke?”
“I do not smoke. And it would be preferable if you were to remove this by yourself prior to your associates returning.” The pained tone in her voice betrayed the flat porcelain look she was holding.
Hotrod closed her lighter with a clink. She stared at Harridan with an even face and took a drag from her now-lit cigarette. She sighed audibly, a thick plume of smoke escaping from her lips. “You want me... to pull that out? The doc would probably do a better job, you know."
“I would prefer it. Unless you feel that you lack the physical strength to remove it yourself. I am incapable of gaining the leverage needed to do it myself,” she responded in her usual mechanical manner, her eyes still following every small movement. “I will assure you that I am completely capable of handling whatever comes afterwards.”
How reassuring.
“Fuck. Okay, fine.” Hotrod took another quick drag and discarded the cigarette, crushing it under her boot. “Let's get you taken care of.”
She knelt down next to Harridan and offered her a handkerchief produced from her jacket pocket; the scent of narcissus, jasmine, and leather clinging onto it. “Bite down on this. Might help.”
“I am incredibly likely to black out either way. Do not tell the others of anything,” Harry noted aloud, still accepting the handkerchief with a shaky hand despite her extremely minor protests. Of course, the smell of leather was what made her gag the moment she wadded and jammed it between her teeth.
With one hand placed on Harridan's shoulder and the other gripping the rebar by the base, Hotrod rested her gaze on the Harridan's dark eyes. “Count of three, okay?”
She nodded that she's ready, regardless of the fact that her face is now scrunched up in pure displeasure. And then she gave a thumbs-up, just in case Hotrod didn't notice the nod.
And then she also mumbled something into the wadded fabric, just in case Hotrod didn't notice the thumbs-up.
Hotrod did catch all of the signals, already counting after the nod. “One, two…”
And she yanked before getting to ‘three.’ The rebar budged ever so slightly before fully exiting with the second firm yank, accompanied by the sickening squelch of reinforcing steel scraping against soft tissue.
Harridan's eyes bugged out, the handkerchief managing to muffle what would otherwise be an unholy shriek. She clearly underestimated how much the entire thing would actually hurt. She slammed her fist repeatedly onto the hard floor with not an insignificant amount of force.
Her second action? Blacking out for a good thirty seconds.
Hotrod unceremoniously dumped the rebar onto the floor. She opted to pull up a chair and propped her long legs atop a wooden crate, lighting up another cigarette and staring at the ceiling to keep herself busy while she waited. Somewhere between Harridan reacting in an unnecessarily violent manner and zonking out like a pussy, the ragged wound left by the length of metal quickly knitted itself closed. The process only took a few seconds at best, leaving unmarred skin with only the trail of splotched blood indicating that anything actually happened in the first place.
It didn't take long for Harridan to regain consciousness, with a jolt to her feet and a palm already resting on her shoulder holster. She managed to avoid the urge to either fight or flight, beating down her animal instincts with her usual cold logic to realize that she was—probably—in a safe place. For now.
“Thank you,” she said in her usual tone; flatter than the plains of Iroria. She sounded no worse for wear, despite her bloodstained and shredded clothes making it look like she was on the losing end of a fight with a pack of mutant rats.
Hotrod swiveled her neck in Harridan's direction, habitually blowing O-rings of cigarette smoke upwards. "Welcome back to the land of the conscious. Head to the back room, you need a change of clothes. And after that, we can figure out how to explain what just happened when the doc gets here."
She gestured with her chin to the far end of the warehouse where the office-turned-Shy’s-bed- room is situated, seeming unfazed otherwise.
Harridan offered up a stiff shrug and tallied off towards Shy's room. “Biofoam and bioware. I'll be resistant to inspection. They'll likely get frustrated and leave,” she called out, still managing to sound utterly monotone despite her raised voice. “—I am unsure if any of the clothing in here will fit me. In either sense.”
“Your size should be similar and I'm sure Shy has stuff that covers up skin,” Hotrod called back. “...maybe, I'm not sure.” She pulled out her collapsible baton from behind her waist and flicked her wrist to extend it, absentmindedly twirling the thing in one hand, wondering what sort of trouble was brewing in their backyard.
“I am unsure of that. There is a reason that Gun—” she cut herself short, deciding to not dig into that further; instead deciding to dig through Shy’s clothing instead. She eventually found something that vaguely fit her, considering the annoyed grunting and otherwise coming from the backroom as she tried to work her way into something that might be a size too small. “—I will get out of your hair shortly. Once I have my bearings."
“‘There is a reason that’ what? And nah, you're not even in my hair now.” A pause. “We probably could've skipped the tension earlier if you called or shot me a message. You got my commcode.”
“I no longer have a commlink. It was damaged and possibly compromised. And I am referring to Gunther's dislike of the situation with Shaileen.”
“There was a situation? I wasn't aware of that.”
“You do not recall the entire conversation that he had where he was hypocritically stating that he did not like Shaileen using drugs and otherwise? I personally do not approve of drugs, either.” She leaned out the door to regard Hotrod, still covered in speckles of her own blood but now partially wedged into leathers that didn't exactly fit her.
“I must've forgotten about it, yeah. Also, that works as a good disguise,” she offered up after seeing Harridan in Shaileen’s leathers. “So, what sort of problem did you get into anyway?”
“Backstabbing,” was the most she said in return for the time being, kicking her legs up in an awkward goose step to try and get comfortable. “You did not hear about the contracts going around regarding certain less-than-prominent members of the operator community?"
“Might've heard something about that. How's that play into rebar through your chest?” Hotrod lazily ashed her cigarette onto the wooden crate that propped up her legs.
“I am unsure.” Harry's eyes turned to the ceiling of the warehouse for a moment. “I do not talk of my work, typically. But I could guess that it would be that I had a contract on my head as well. Or someone was tying up loose ends.” The shifter skipped a beat for a second as she thinks. “There may be people within your territory looking for me, by the way. Operators and possibly go-gangers.”
“Not good either way.” Hotrod discarded her nearly burnt out cigarette, stomping on the remains. A hand ran through her hair, the other still twirling her baton. “Anything you can tell me about the go-gangers? Colors, numbers, whatever. They should be the easy part of the equation. Operators, depending on who, I guess.”
“As far as I could tell, around ten. No more than twelve. All orks.” She exhaled and shook her head slowly, returning to her incessant fidgeting to try and get the leathers to stop clinging to her in uncomfortable ways. “I am not knowledgeable on gang matters, so I couldn't tell you anything beyond that they were wearing red and black. I did not recognize any of the operators that were after me, either. There was a strong possibility they could've also been CorpSec."
“Mm, plenty of gangs fit that bill, could be any of 'em. Not that it matters.” She flashed her pearly whites at Harry with an easy grin. “Any idea on who's pulling the strings?"
Harry shook her head again, before flipping a pair of aviators on. She didn't return the smile, instead remaining stone faced.
“My fixer would have known. I am assuming that he kept hard copies of his dealings somewhere,” she spoke up, being awfully forthcoming for once. “Why do you ask? They are not after you.”
“The perks of being a low-tier operator, I guess. And I'm asking just to get an estimation of how serious they'll be in tying up the loose end that is currently sitting in my warehouse. No personal investment otherwise.”
“I haven't seen any of the operators since they blew up my safehouse. The… I am unsure of the proper nomenclature that you would use for gang members in this situation, but they may have just been looking for someone to harass. I am unsure,” she said, glancing off just to the side of Hotrod as she legitimately tried to think on it.
“Lowlifes. Shitheads. Targets. I think all of those apply.” Hotrod looks behind her shoulder briefly. “Just don't use those terms to describe my sisters. They won't take it too well.”
“I am sure that they have reported me as dead, though. The operators, that is.”
“If you're already reported as dead, what's your game plan then? Lay low until the heat dies off?”
“For the time being. There's no point looking for blood unless I know that they are still after me—” Harridan stopped mid-sentence as she realized that she probably should stop staring at the wall, before continuing face-first into a faux pas. “You?”
“Like you said, they aren't after me so it'll be business as usual for us.” Hotrod paused. “By which I mean, regular gang shit. Feel free to use this place as your hiding hole, by the way. As you can see, it's not like we use it for anything yet.”
“—I will assume that you won't go through the effort of pursuing my bounty if it still happens to be open, then? I only ask as it would just be easier to shoot me right now.”
“Far as I'm concerned, I know jack about any contracts or bounties. Not my job, not my mess.”
“Very well. How much would you ask for in payment if I were to ask for assistance on this matter if it continues to be persistent? Or payment for lodging, at the very least?” She glanced around for her choice in seating, only to plop her ass down onto a nearby crate.
“I dunno, depends on the type of assistance you need. As for lodging, just call it fifty creds per week, I dunno. It's just an unused warehouse, nothing fancy."
“My credsticks went up along with my safehouse. I would hope that you do not mind my payments being late for the time being. Unless I can offer assistance in return regarding any matters of yours that need solving.” She drummed her fingers against her crate-perch. “—I can assure you that I will be able to pay, though.”
Yeah, don't stress about payments or anything, it's just a symbolic formality and all that. And hey, if you're offering help, who knows, something might crop up that you can help with. Speaking of, I should probably call the girls back and tell 'em we won't need the doc or the angle grinder, huh?”
Harry stared for longer than she normally stares. “That would be for the best, most likely. I do not wish to trouble anyone unnecessarily. Just do not tell the others of what happened.”
“You got it.” Hotrod leaned back and shot a couple of quick NeuroLine messages to Pizzazz and Cherry while retrieving yet another stick from her pack of Lucky Thirteens. The wonders of technology. “Oh. Right. You'll need one of these.” She fished an Orsa Squire from her leather jacket's inner pocket and placed it on the wooden crate. “Slightly better than a regular ol' burner, but probably don't do any fancy matrix shit with it.”
“For what purpose?” Harry asked with a quirked brow, eyes now locked onto the burner. “I can acquire my own if need be. I do not wish to inconvenience you further, considering that I’ve likely already caused undue alarm.”
“Exactly for convenience. Or would you rather walk to the nearest Primo Purchase to get one while wearing leathers that are too small for you? Makes no difference to me.”
“I’ll pay you back." She exhaled loudly, taking issue with the supposed charity before zeroing in on the offhand remark she just processed. “—They are not too small for me.”
That’s a lie.
“Yeah, sounds good. One last thing—” The commlink that is now Harridan's dinged. “My comm- code. The girls and I will clear out so you can recuperate some more and get your bearings.”
“Thank you,” Harry said rather simply, now focused on how to use the commlink and not eat it. She wasn’t used to anything Orsa. “I’ll update you if anything comes out of this. Or if I require someone to check out my safe house and see what’s left."
“Null sheen.” Hotrod kicked herself up from the chair, standing to her full height once more. “I'll ping you if anything comes up that could use your help.”
She sauntered off to grab her helmet and donned it, obscuring her face behind the matte black shell and polished visor. “Take it easy, yeah?”
Harridan stared blankly, slang and turns of phrases sailing completely over her head. She did manage a small nod.
“Do remain safe.” She returned to fiddling around with the commlink, aviators still equipped despite it being well into the evening hours at this point. And also in a building.
Hotrod was already halfway through the door, responding with a wave and a glance over her shoulder before she disappeared past the threshold.
Moments later, the departure of Hotrod and the other Banshees was heralded the same as their arrival: the wailing of bike engines that sliced through the din of the Slag at night.