Remy plodded through the rain with a hangover and a breakfast burrito falling out over his hands. Thank God that he could still find a breakfast burrito at this time of day. It was nearly 3 p.m. and Remy finally felt well enough to make his appointment with Frank.

  Luis’s piss-gin pounded in his head. The egg and cheese helped. He knew it wouldn’t fool Frank but the old man would think his hangover great fun. Self-inflicted wounds were ripe for jokes, he reflected. The burrito ended too soon and he tossed its remnants into a rubbish bin.

  He shook off the rain in the lobby of her apartment tower as a doorman looked down his nose at Remy’s sodden appearance.

  “Morning.” Remy said, feeling like a wet and beaten dog.

  “It’s the middle of the afternoon, sir.” The doorman replied, voice oozing with practiced condescension.

  “Floor 187.”

  “187, sir? That’s a restricted floor.”

  "I know, that’s why I asked you to key me up there.”

  He sniffed.

  “I’m afraid I’ll need more information as per your visit, sir. I’m sure you understand the security and vigilance that our residents expect.” The man’s eyes lingered on the pooled water beneath Remy’s feet.

  Remy rubbed his temples with both hands. Would Frank mind if he strangled the building’s footman? He shook his head. Remy doubted he had the strength to strangle a cat in his condition.

  “Look, man, your friend yesterday let me up without a fuss. Call Mr. Fontaine if you’d like. He’s expecting me.” There was little that doormen or assistants loved more than name-dropping who they worked with or for and Remy found that was a quick way to get them moving. You want a name, fine, have a name. The doorman pulled a communications unit from his pocket.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Fontaine. This is Stewart at the front desk. I have a Mr., uh…” he looked at Remy and gestured for his name. Should’ve asked me first, dumb ass. 

  “Remy St. Claire.”

  “I have a Mr. St. Claire, here for you. Shall I send him up? Oh. Of course. Well, yes, sir, at once.” He clicked the device off and placed it back into his pocket. Stewart opened the elevator and motioned him inside.

  “Thanks, Stew. Appreciate it.”

  People like Stewart always came out of the woodwork whenever he was hungover. It was like they could sense it.

  The door closed and the elevator rose. Mindless music played over tinny speakers and Remy picked at his teeth making sure no flecks of pepper or egg stuck in between them in the faint reflection of the outer glass.

  He exited on the 187th floor and knocked on Frank’s door. He opened it and motioned him inside. The empty combatmech in the corner appeared extra menacing today.

  “You look like shit,” Frank laughed.

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  “Well, I feel like shit,” Remy coughed. The scuff marks he’d left on the carpet yesterday were gone. “New guy up front?”

  “I don’t know where they find them.” Frank’s mechanical arms rose in the air exasperated. “Seems to be a new one every time I bother to learn their names. Proper topic for the next condo association meeting, I suppose.”

  Remy followed to the sitting room where they had drank margaritas the day before. He dearly hoped he didn’t have another pitcher waiting. Tequila would go over like a lead balloon in his stomach right now. He set his hat on the nearby table and leaned back, looking out on the opaque gray clouds. “Didn’t figure you to be much for condo meetings.”

  He cuffed Remy on the back of the head as he moved past to set a mojito in front of him. His stomach churned but he hid a grimace. There was nothing he could do for the pallor. Well, at least it’s not tequila.

  “I do more than just your projects, boy. A man’s got to stay informed of what’s going on around him. Besides, Georgia has a bit of a feud with the woman two doors down who lets her cats roam about the place. When she’s away, I must take up her mantle. The obligations of love, as it were.” He eased down into a squatting approximation of a chair, bringing his eyes to Remy’s level.

  “Got something for you. Nothing too special but I knew it was your birthday.” Remy reached into his pocket and pulled out a small Vasc card that was battered and worn. He handed it to him. “It’s just a Flame card, but look at that serial number. One of the oldest I’ve ever seen and thought you’d appreciate it more than my usual buyers for spare Vascs.”

  He pulled the card close to read the numbers. “Well, look at this. Serial is under 100! I worked on this first generation of Flame cards, you know. Georgia was the lead programmer on these ones. Never kept any of the originals, though, awfully finicky things. Thank you, Remy. This is a wonderful birthday gift.” He admired it again, turning it over and over in his hands.

  Remy smiled. It was an expensive card, wanted by both users and collectors. But, being Frank’s favorite was priceless in its own way. He also didn’t have to worry about some Redcap investigation tracing the card back to him. Providing an unregistered Vasc to a criminal was a great way to end up chatting with Tyreese again from the wrong side of the cell.

  “Speaking of projects, have you had a chance to think about my latest?” He took the smallest sip he could and it was nearly too much. The first was always the hardest, and a second sip went down easier.

  “Of course, I said I’d have it today, didn’t I? Here.” He handed a sheet of paper over to Remy. It was covered in detailed instructions with a list of required components and assumptions.

  “You may need to acquire a few of these before you can move forward, but this plan assumes your Vasculatory system can still maintain the capacity you’ve previously had. Any changes there?”

  “If so, it’ll be news to me.” You could only use so many different Vascs within a day or so. A man’s body just didn’t have enough juice to throw around fireballs all-day like a story-book wizard or something. Some had more, some had less, but most folk could use some type of Vasc, at least.

  “Then my calculations should be right. You’ll be able to get in, and out, without burning yourself out if you follow the instructions.” He pulled a small sheet of paper from a cavity that may have been a printer within his suit and handed it to him.

  He read the instructions and noted the places he’d have to swap Vascs. Seemed straightforward enough. It would be a big draw, but he hadn’t been stressing his system recently so it should be fine.

  “What if I don’t do it in order? Say there’s some…resistance. Any room to fight back?” It would be pretty awkward if he ran into a squad of JD’s boys and had nothing but a Pheromone Vasc to defend himself.

  “Not really. The biggest draw on your system is getting your body acclimated to a new Vasc. You might be able to swap out one out of order, but no more than that. Frankly, your system just can’t accommodate enough variance for a truly elegant solution. This one will have to do.”

  “This’ll be fine, Frank. I'll make it work. Thank you. What do I owe you?” The instruction were clear and the supplies reasonable to find. He already had most of them. You didn’t pay for the plan, you paid to know that the plan wouldn’t kill you if you tried it. Frank was worth every credit on that front.

  He waved him away. “This ones on the house. Stop by after and let me know how it worked. Always get a kick hearing the different ways folks use these things.”

  Remy stood up and retrieved his hat.

  “That’s a deal. I’ll owe you one, Frank.”