September had found its way here, and with it came brisk, cool evenings. Not quite the biting cold of Winter, but the welcome final throes of Summer that made it bearable enough outside to wear slightly heavier clothing and not boil alive in your own fabrics. And with changes in seasons, so did changes in the gang political climate approach.
Normally, the rotation in seasons was less of a big deal for go-gangs elsewhere. The biggest difficulty that some would have had to contend with was some snow and ice. But for the inhabitants of the Slag? The go-gangs were pretty much the closest thing to local government that they have.
The go-gangs have to worry about all the mouths they have to feed, and cooler weather meant that it was no longer growing season. Cooler weather meant longer rainstorms, and thus longer incidents of acid rain. There won't be a new crop until this coming spring, be it food or drugs. Of course, you could swing by the local Primo Purchase, but when a large portion of the populace is for a lack of legal identification—legitimate or otherwise—that wasn't an option.
Besides, who really wants to bulk order out of Primo Purchase for their friends?
Thus, we lead into the turbulent Fall season, where inter-go-gang conflicts start to ramp up; everyone looking to secure their stores for the coming winter. Power shifts aplenty, and violence abound.
Welcome to the Big Slag. Again.
A cloaked figure gently rattled her knuckle on what she presumed to be the front door of her contact's garage. She, much like most others that frequent the area in Banshees territory, seemed to be completely strange to the Slag all whilst fitting in at the same time. A large black cloak completely covered her nearly seven foot tall body, the only part of her person escaping its fabric prison being her face and head.
“—I do hope that I am not late,” she pondered aloud in a soft voice. She managed to resist the urge to impatiently tap her knuckle against the door again.
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Hotrod was hunched over her work table where a partially reassembled drone chassis sat atop its polished metal surface. Her face scrunched up as she studied the diagnostic AROs surrounding her immediate vicinity. The knocking on her garage door yanked her out of the zone. She raised an eyebrow and brought the exterior camera feed ARO into focus. She could've sworn she hadn't ordered any parts yet.
The feed didn't give her a clear enough view of the visitor, forcing her to get off her ass and answer the door. With a slight sigh she wiped her oily hands on her plain tank top, long strides taking her across the spacious garage. The door swung open with a metallic creak. “Yeah..?”
“Evening!” The stranger tilted her head down to make eye contact with Hotrod.
Hotrod leant against the door frame. Now, she wasn't exactly short, but she was forced to crane her neck to return the eye contact. Hotrod's cybereyes zoomed into focus, studying the stranger's features. Elven, judging from the tips of pointy ears peeking through her hair. Subtle facial cosmodding, nowhere near the extent of Stiletto's. Her face could be described as almost vulpine-like, her half-lidded eyes framed by a permanent jovial smile stretched wide across her face. Somewhere down the line, earlier in her life, this stranger probably dreamt of being a fox person.
Her face expressed nothing but pure overblown friendliness, in contrast to her current get-up which could only be described as ‘Back Alley Stabber’ chic. “You would be Hotrod, I hope? I'm Mary—I do hope that you are Hotrod, or I'm inconveniencing the wrong person.”
“Yeah, that'd be me. I wasn't expecting anyone, uh... Mary, was it?”
The stranger's jovial smile stretched out into a full-blown grin that revealed a row of jagged teeth just past her lips. She took a half-step forwards, as if she was nearly about to barrel over Hotrod. She stopped herself short and a hooked claw found itself out of her cloak; a clear plastic bag of fresh fruit and produce hooked onto the end and offered out towards Hotrod. Oddly enough, the claw seemed to be originating from closer to her midsection than where an actual limb should be located.
“Mary, yes.” She bobbed her head up and down, that cheerful demeanor so horribly out of place for any Slag inhabitant still radiating off of her. She seemed to weigh her next words for a moment, as if she was trying her best to not get a chestful of buckshot. Or worse. “—I suppose that means it isn't widely known yet that I'm on loan temporarily. Shiftcrank sent me, well, not exactly here, but you know what I mean.”
“Oh, you're one of Shiftcrank's girls, huh? Come in, come in.”
Hotrod wiped her still-oily hands against her tank top again and took the bag off of the hooked claw, nodding appreciatively at what she now understood was a gift. She sidestepped away from the door's threshold, waiting for Mary to get in.
“Thank you.” Mary bowed her head. And then continued to bow her head as she cleared the doorframe, even if the frame was well enough for her to clear. Given her height, it was apparent she was no friend to low clearance.
The garage door closed behind them with a clang.
"My apologies for the unannounced arrival, then! I thought that Shiftcrank would have sent ahead, but maybe she was less diligent than I thought her to be on this.” She burst into a short laugh, a low clicking emanating from under her cloak as she compressed down several inches in height. A feat that she could've done before she ducked through the doorframe, but she didn't for whatever reason or another.
“Oh, that was probably my bad. Was working on drones, so I didn't notice any messages.”
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“Ah, I doubt that you missed a message if it wasn't sent in the first place. I suppose that means I need to get more groceries before I introduce myself to the others, then,” she said as she trotted along, that smile still firmly plastered across her face. Mary continued her strange motions and contorted to take in the sights of Hotrod's garage, regarding every little detail with a childlike wonder that seemed so out of place for what appears to be a grown woman.
Hotrod wiped her hands once more with an oil-stained cloth and led the way into the kitchen/dining area through a side door. “Sorry about the mess you're about to see.”
To their right, the kitchen counter was littered with containers of Zhaponese takeout, most likely from Phoenix House. On the dining table, an overturned bottle of Devil's Milk sat in a puddle of its own contents, the animated AR logo still doing its trademark obscene gesture.
“Please don't apologize. I can tell you that many of our girls are far worse than this.” Mary paused to raise a leather-clad arm out of her cloak to point in a vague direction off towards the back, before speaking up again. “Unless you're keeping the drugs and partners out of sight, but I would praise you for the forethought.”
Hotrod let out a crisp laugh as she led Mary to the lounging area, gesturing for her to take a seat on one of the couches. The glass coffee table was once again clear of drugs and related paraphernalia. “Nah, no partners for me. At least, not at the moment.”
She laughed again, in her almost annoyingly cheerful manner. She's either high on life, or high on something hard. “You have a very nice home, by the way.”
She plopped herself down on her usual spot on the couch, facing the trid player that was displaying a combat bike match with the volume muted. “So! When you said ‘on loan,’ what for, exactly?”
Mary rolled a single shoulder and approached the couch, stopping short of actually taking a seat and just stood beside it. Hotrod couldn't help but be reminded of Harridan's visit and wonder why her recent guests were averse to sitting. Maybe leather wasn't the best upholstery choice.
“I think that Shiftcrank has it in her head that the chapters are drifting apart as of late.” She lifted her arm up to tap at her chin thoughtfully, her smile fading for just a moment. “Political maneuvering, is what I suppose. We have connections that you don't have, and vice versa.”
“Sounds about right. Heard you girls managed to strike some sorta working deal with the Myrms.”
“Mm. Something along those lines.” She said as she stretched, deciding to go against her immediate train of thought and simply flop over the arm of the adjacent couch and lounge across it. “I will be candid and say that I'm actually unsure why she would send me, of all people. Maybe it's for other reasons?”
“Probably, yeah.” Hotrod glanced at Mary, quickly studying her frame. “—our chapter isn't exactly lacking muscle.”
“I specialize in information gathering. Of the physical sort.” She sounded soft spoken, as if not wanting to offend with her correction. “And dabbling street doc. Although, don't tell anyone that I said that. Dabbling isn't something you should put in front of a profession that sticks its hands inside of people.”
“Would you say you're a pro at sticking your hand inside of people then?” Hotrod shifted her sitting position and crossed her legs atop the couch, fully embracing the lounge lizard within her.
“What—oh, no,” Mary snorted awkwardly, her cheerfully confident facade cracking for just a moment. “Not in that sense, no. Unfortunately, spending most of your time climbing through HVAC units isn't very attractive. And getting showers is… rather hard, as you may know. So, limited experience in that field.”
“I was more meaning how many times you had to do field surgery.”
Mary's facial expression went flat for all of a moment, before returning to that big goofy grinning look she always held.
“Ah, apologies. I thought—I assumed the worst, unfortunately.” She paused for a beat and quickly stumbled through a clarification. “Our chapter has a girl from Montalvia. Impossible to talk to without having to traipse through that subject matter.”
“Hey, you're probably right in assuming the worst. Us go-gang girls have a reputation for a reason, y'know.”
Mary paused again before she decided to answer the question. “Well. No. I don't typically—the girls prefer other docs over me. You've—you've never heard of Scary Mary, then?”
Hotrod raised an eyebrow at the mention of Scary Mary. “What, you mean like the recent urban legend to scare Slag kids? ‘Don't play outside after dark or Scary Mary will come and get you,’ that one?”
“The girls kinda take it to heart, even if it is an urban legend,” she responded, her expression definitely less than enthusiastic. “But! I'm perfectly capable of stitching people up. And removing bullets. You know, typical street doc work.”
“What, are you saying you're the urban legend?”
“Technically, I'm a cryptid by popular vote.” She cackled in return, apparently taking some form of delight that she was actually in a room with someone who can manage a laugh with her dumb arse present.
Sylvain, one of Hotrod's trusty Flügelgeist drones, whirred into view and set two frosty bottles of Devil's Milk on the coffee table. Wordlessly, it hovered back to where it came from, presumably the garage.
“I'd have offered you a selection but currently I only have this.”
Mary propped herself up clumsily on a single arm, reaching out from under her cloak with the other arm to take a single bottle. “I don't suppose you wouldn't mind coming out to the market with me? Later, of course, but… I do need to fetch more fruit for Switch and the others, given that I'm about to perform a whole lot of unannounced appearances.”
Hotrod leaned forward to grab and take a swig from her bottle, sighing contentedly as the cold brew rushed down her throat. “The Night Market? Yeah, can do. Was thinking of taking a break from repairs anyhow.”
Mary let out another hearty laugh, her jaw looking as if it was about to unhinge straight off of her face in the process; giving Hotrod another good view of those rows of razor sharp fangs.
Mary bobbed her head cheerfully, moving her free hand to finagle her cloak off. She made a great show of this because she was too busy lounging to properly get it off. Of course, she overestimated her capability to remove her apparel and jumped the gun; soft clicking emanated from under her cloak as what looked like the tail-segment of a shiny jet-black centipede body extended out from under the fabric. The awkward positioning caused it to drape over the arm of the sofa and hit the floor with a dull thump, clawed legs lazily rotating and twisting around to find their footing.
Hotrod just stared at the procession, taking a moment to process that she was staring at writhing centipede legs. “What.”