Hotrod was in her personal garage looking over her matte black Amaya Katana, a Lucky Thirteen clamped between her pearly whites as she commanded one of her drones to perform routine maintenance. Sweat streaked past her collarbone, black tank top damp and clinging to her skin. The twanging guitars of psychobilly filled the space via Orsa speakers installed in the ceiling. The usual afternoon away from Banshees' affairs.
Her personal commlink dinged, notifying her of a new message. She raised an eyebrow and opened it up in a separate ARO. Ah, it's Harridan. She did wonder when the bird woman would contact her.
[https://i.imgur.com/LEo8kkq.png]
Hotrod left the maintenance drone to its own devices and composed her reply.
[https://i.imgur.com/WHMOR1P.png]
Nice. Smooth and straight to business. Not her first rodeo talking to potential clients without the services of a fixer.
[https://i.imgur.com/YUFCZEJ.png]
That reply took awhile. Hotrod straightened herself up and gave the drone a gentle pat. “Alright, I'm leaving you to it. Gonna freshen up before my guest gets here.”
The drone chirped and hovered around the bike to continue its task.
She just stepped out of the shower when the clang of her metal door echoed around the vestibule. A living space with a vestibule in the Slag. Fucking fancy, that.
Clang. Clang. Clang. More rapping of bare knuckles against metal.
“Yeah, hold up, I'm coming,” she called out, throwing on a pair of her trademark hip-hugging black synthleather pants and headed to the door. She pulled the door open with one hand, the other drying her still-wet hair.
Harridan stood there gormlessly in the doorway, staring inside. In stark contrast to Hotrod, it looked like Harridan didn't bother to freshen herself up whatsoever, still looking as disheveled as she did when she arrived with a piece of rebar stuck in her. But she still had those leathers on, thankfully. Or not, because she hadn't changed out of them for days, beyond flipping her torn dress shirt out for a tee that says something in Zhaponese. So she smelled like the usual Slag fodder, on top of looking like she was dressed up in her little sister's clothes.
“Good evening.” That flat tone sure takes getting used to.
“Come in, come in. Leave your shoes here,” Hotrod gestured to a shoe rack off to the side. She draped the towel over her neck and pivoted on a heel, the two skeletal snakes tattooed on her bare back drilling their hollow gaze in Harridan's direction now. “It's not much, but make yourself at home, yeah?”
“This is not my home.”
“Well, yeah. It's mine, but – Just... make yourself comfortable and all that.”
“I know. I am stating that I –” Harridan caught herself for once, probably deciding to not chase the rabbit even further down that hole.
Hotrod led the way past the vestibule into the spacious living room, the metal door closing behind them via NeuroLine command. Truly, the wonders of technology.
Hotrod plonked herself down on one of the leather couches, ambient lighting phasing from a moody purple glow to a bright white, illuminating most of the room. The glass table that usually has all sorts of drugs scattered around it was now spotless, save for a metal ashtray and a pack of Lucky Thirteens. Apple menthol, of course. She reached for the aforementioned pack and retrieved a stick, tapping the filter against her wrist.
“So, before we get down to biz talk, any preference for food?”
Harridan was doing terribly at making herself at home, opting to stand beside one of the leather couches and folding her arms behind her back. After all, the help wasn't supposed to get dirt, mud, or other such unpleasantries on the upholstery. Her gaze settled on the wall past Hotrod. Even with the aviators on, it was extremely obvious she was avoiding eye contact.
“I do not have a preference. Please order for yourself,” she said, her stilted tone even more disjointed. She seemed more disconcerted with the offering of food over everything else that presented itself in this situation.
Hotrod clinked her lighter close with a flick. A thick cloud of cigarette smoke wafted from her direction. She pulled up a shared ARO, containing a listing of establishments that provide drone delivery around the clock, making it visible to Harridan as well. “No NutriPaste-based bullshit here. How's Real Meat™ beef yakiniku over rice sound?”
“If you are offering." Harridan relented, returning to her typical tone. “I would defer the choice to you, however.”
“Yeah, I'm offering.” Hotrod looked in Harri- dan's direction and knitted her brows when she saw her just standing there. “Go on, take a seat.”
Harridan unfolded her arms, gingerly placing her rear onto the couch, albeit not without looking as stiff as a log while sitting there. Just being in the room bred an air of severe discomfort, almost as if she didn't belong. “I would ask why you are offering.”
“I'm offering because you're a guest. Right, let me sort these orders out…” Rapid NeuroLine commands filled up the virtual cart with food items, slightly more than what two people their size should be able to handle. She dismissed the ARO after, turning to face Harridan with legs tucked under herself. “Done. Okay, tell me about this task.”
“I require someone to go back to my safehouse and retrieve some things. Primarily the contents of a floor-safe,” Harridan blurted out, cutting straight to the chase. “I would do it myself, but I would rather not risk alerting anyone who wishes me dead to the fact that I am not currently dead.”
She paused as the cogs in her brainpan turned. “Considering that you blend in with the locals much more effectively than I do, you'll likely be ignored.”
“Sounds simple enough. Location?” Hotrod bent forward to flick her cigarette ash into the ashtray, her damp mane cascading like an obsidian waterfall.
Harridan shot the address over via NeuroLine. Fame Heights, an old disused apartment tower. Only a fifteen to twenty minute drive away.
“Room 369. Third floor. Head right from the stairs.” She paused and furrowed her brows. “The mechanical locks won't be latched shut, but the keypad should still be functioning. 045100. I suggest that you exercise caution if the door is ajar or if the electronic lock is disengaged.” The shifter leaned back in her seat, finally breaking that aura of stiffness by folding her arms over her chest. “It would be preferable if you were able to return with the floor-safe without opening it, but it might be difficult to transport with your… choice of vehicle?”
Hotrod encrypted the information on her commlink, nodding along at the information stream. “Got it. I can bring the van around for this, so transporting without opening shouldn't be a problem.”
She pushed herself off the couch and tossed her towel into a hamper in a far corner of the room, pacing towards the kitchen/dining area after. Still not bothering to put a shirt on. “What would you like to—”
Loud klaxons and even louder music interrupted Hotrod's attempt at being a decent host. A horrible pitchmix rendition of Skramblr's ‘Cred Skank’ seeped into the room, sounding like someone tube-fed helium to the track. Hotrod ran a hand over her face, sighing audibly. “Fucking Noize Fiends again,” she muttered.
“I am afraid I am not familiar,” Harridan responded simply.
A TDE Flügelgeist drone hovered next to Hotrod, its rotors near silent. A plain black t-shirt was grasped in its metallic claw. An aftermarket modi- fication, of course; Hotrod did not care for Teville- Devon's proprietary socket. She tossed the shirt on and grabbed her trusty Mühl AMP machine pistol from the kitchen drawer, disengaging the safety and racking the slide. “One moment. Need to file a noise complaint.”
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She sprinted past the living room, into the vestibule. Pulled the heavy door open, not even bothering to slip into her heavy boots. Scant meters away, just outside her property line—if such things existed in the Big Slag—a group congregated, clad in annoyingly loud neon yellow articles of clothing. Almost as loud as the terrible music that blared through their scratch-built ghetto blaster.
BRRT! A short burst, lead rounds spat skyward. Just enough to grab the attention of the Noize Fiends.
Hotrod inhaled deep. “Hey! How many times do I gotta tell you, blast your fucking trash somewhere else!”
“Fuck you, slitch. We'll hang out where we like.” A skinny lad. Elf, or probably a human with pointy ear cosmods. Likely the group's self-styled leader. Most definitely too big for his britches, evident from the bravado-filled gesture of humping the air in Hotrod's general direction.
Hotrod sighed again and activated the SmartTarget™ System in her machine pistol, the aim-assist HUD popping up to guide her shot. A gentle squeeze. Another short burst. Three rounds, straight to the source of her annoyance. The ghetto blaster never stood a chance, the horrible music warbling and slowing before just fizzling out. She blew the smoking barrel of her pistol. “Last warning. Next shot, I'll be painting that wall behind you with the smeg that's barely filling your brain-pans.”
The Noize Fiends turned to stare at their freshly ventilated and no longer functioning boombox. It took a long second or two for it to register in their collective minds. Angry shouting exploded from the bunch. “Our tunes! Our boombox! You saseko!”
Hotrod walked back inside and slammed the door behind her, not dignifying the low-rent gangers with her continued presence. She shot a business smile in Harridan's direction. Force of habit. “Sorry about that. Where were we?”
Harridan watched all of this with her typical blank expression. It took her a long awkward moment before she spoke up again, apparently unfazed by any of this. “You recall the former soldier turned operator that would frequently get into altercations with the others around him?” She canted her head to one side, as if she was giving herself a refresher by saying this verbally.
“Yeah, I recall someone like that. Don't remember his handle either, though.”
“Speedy? I assume it was such. I shot him a few days prior to arriving here. There was a contract on his head.”
A crisp laugh rang out from the go-ganger. “Oh, fucking Speedbump? Good riddance. How much was he worth?”
Harridan raised a brow at the laugh before shrugging it off. “I do not talk of payment usually. But he was worth thirty thousand. I did not get paid, however.”
“Because whoever put out the contracts pulled a fast one on you. Right.” She tapped her chin with her finger. “Ideal scenario would be them thinking they already tied up that loose end. Makes maneuvering much easier. I assume you already burnt the fake IDs you've been using so far?”
“As I was leaving my safehouse, yes.” She nodded, scratching the side of her head. “The only difficulty being that someone may have seen me walking here. Besides the go-gangers. I can only assume that they were unrelated, and were merely looking to harass me.”
“So there's a possibility that someone out there is still keeping tabs on you.“ Hotrod resumed her lounging position, sighing as her back landed on the sofa. “The go-gangers, can't say for sure unless I had more to go by.”
“I did not recognize them at all, and I do not place myself into gang matters whatsoever. The most I can state is what I've already informed you, unfortunately.” She closed her eyes to ponder. “—They were likely not from the Big Slag, though.”
“Outsiders, huh? That helps narrow it down just a bit. Plus they'll stick out like a sore thumb.”
“I would presume that they would know this as well. I have not seen anyone from the confines of where I have been staying, so it is likely they have left, for now.”
Hotrod nodded. “That'd be most likely, yeah. I'll see what's what when I go grab your floor-safe.”
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Harridan pushed herself off the sofa, puffing air through her nose. The idleness was getting to her. Unfortunately, that idleness would have to wait, considering the gentle tune at the door; announcing the arrival of their slightly tardy meal.
She found her arse plopped onto one of the dining chairs, trying to abide by being a good guest as Hotrod sallied off to retrieve their dinner. Much more awkward silence ensued, with Harridan having run out of conversational points to strike at, and any attempt made by Hotrod to reignite the conversation ended with the intrepid bird woman staring blankly in retort. It took a good several minutes until after they were done eating, the only soundtrack of their dining experience being the ambient sounds of Hotrod's garage and Harridan’s incessantly loud chewing.
“Exercise caution. I should go back to the warehouse. I have tied you up for long enough as is,” Harridan mumbled after she pushed her food away, having decided that she was done eating.
“I don't mind the company. Gimme a moment and I'll give you a ride.”
“I am unsure of bikes. They are loud and dangerous.”
“Mm? I was going to drive you in the van, but I guess I should show you the gospel of my Amaya Katana, huh?”
“Gospel? I do not think a vehicle is capable of being religious.”
“In the same way an eight-pointed star isn't. It's the people that are religious.” Hotrod rose from her chair and stretched when she stood up to her full height, the sneering face of a red oni visible as her asymmetric top hitched upwards from the motion. “Me? I'm the high priestess of crotch rockets.”
“I did not know that you were religious,” Harridan stated in her usual blunt-as-a-mallet tone, taking everything a bit too literally. Her dead eyes lingered on the tat for a bit longer than acceptable, making her next line be directed towards the ink. “I do not know what a crotch rocket is.”
Hotrod let out another crisp laugh at that. “Not religious per se, but yeah. My only sermon is ‘be fast or be dead.’” She walked off towards a closed door situated on one side of the living room, ruffling the back of her head to fluff her hair up. “I'll show you what a crotch rocket is. Unless you'd rather take the van. Last chance to back out.”
And inside she went, door kept ajar to continue conversing with Harridan.
“As long as it is not harmful to me,” Harridan said almost absentmindedly, pushing herself away from the dining table and ambling after the other woman. Her movements were still uncomfortably stiff, contrasting the confident and smooth motions when she's in her usual get-up. Leathers one size too small will do that to you. “I do not believe that haste prevents death unless you need to escape from something. I believe that ‘be patient or be dead’ may be the better statement.”
Harridan followed closely enough to peer inside the room. A queen-size bed was partially visible, covered in black silk sheets and a dark purple duvet. A Zhaponese-style room divider sat in the corner, all rice paper and darkened wood.
“It won't be harmful to you, don't worry,” Hotrod called out from behind the divider.
Harridan stopped just short of the door. She had been reprimanded enough in the past for simply barging into rooms without knocking to know better.
“That would imply that it is harmful to others in some manner.”
“It probably is, yeah.” Hotrod stepped out of her bedroom, closing the door behind her. She was now wrapped under the protection of a bulky armored jacket, the sleeves bunched up to her elbows.
Harridan took note of this almost immediately, opening her dumb mouth by reflex; almost forgetting to take another step back away from the doorway as she speaks. “I am not wearing protective wear. Do I require protective wear?”
“Good call. Hang on.” Hotrod headed back inside her room and walked out after a brief moment, a not-so-bulky jacket in hand. “Might be a size too big, but better safe than sorry.” She offered the jacket to Harridan after closing the door once more.
Harridan gingerly accepted the jacket, keeping eye contact as she took it. She did not even bother to see if it would fit, considering she continues to hold it out in front of herself. “I do not know what this is for. Are you planning on going somewhere that may end up with us injured?”
“Just the usual Big Slag precaution. You're going to ride with a Banshee, after all.”
“I do not think—” Harridan decided not to question it past that and managed to hold up her shoulders in a real shrug. “I will not question it. You are the expert on this.”
She swung the jacket around and pulled it over her still ill-fitting apparel in one smooth motion, showcasing her bullshit magical agility and precision in the process.
Hotrod nodded and led the way to the garage where a sportbike was sitting, a matte black steed of steel and carbon fiber patiently awaiting its rider. The engine screamed to life as she straddled it before dying down to its characteristic low idling thrum. “Hop on.”
The aforementioned engine roar caused Harridan to take an unintentional step back, her animal instincts overriding her for a scant moment as the sound overwhelmed her eardrums. She snapped back to her bog standard stiff posture as she reminded herself to act like a person. She clambered up and rode pillion, instinctively wrapping her arms around Hotrod's waist.
The garage door rolled open slowly, the ambient noise of the Slag at night infiltrating through the widening crack. Hotrod donned her equally matte black helmet on and shot a wink at Harridan before the visor snapped down. “Hold tight.”
Off they went, speeding like a black bullet through a warzone, the Katana’s scream over- powering the clamor of the Slag.