I’M DEFINITELY SLOSHED by the time I wander back to Ulysses’ office. Letting the door whistle shut behind me on ancient hydraulics, I stumble past the low table, past the raincoats and holotexts, the coat hangers of ornamental weapons left by past students, painted handprints of children. Eyes on the ceiling, looking for that huge air pipe where Krey and I spied on the adults from. It’s still there, ugly hole and all. The uneasy ambiance of the headquarters- hushed conversations, nervous tones, pattering feet, hands on weapons- fades as the door finishes shutting behind me.
Up the two wide steps to the raised back half of the room, where the desk is. That massive triangular window behind, real glass polished clean, the darkened city looming on the other side. My hands rest against the desk as I look out. It’s a night like I’ve never seen. Every light off, every door shut and bolted. No one wants to give the syndicate an invitation or a target. But how long can the lights stay off before eyebrows are raised in the overcity? Will they even care that the Vents is changing hands right beneath their feet? Or will they only intervene if it starts hitting their bottom line?
The answer lies in Shimano Yor’s interview. He decried the Champion for letting Venters wreak havoc on the corporations’ power plants, water filtration, smog cleaners; things we should own and they use to charge us just for existing. In her time, Sarah liberated dozens and put them back in our hands. She believed in independence. Dynasty just wants control. One of those is far worse for the corporations than the other.
Even after that nap I caught at the Ibis, it feels like I’ve been running nonstop for days straight. Limbs leaden, muscles sore and strained, even my teeth hurt from clenching them too much. Sparing one last glance at the view, I turn from the window, face etched with a frown, and fumble my way onto the little cot in the corner. Flop down on top, staring at the ceiling. Vision swimming. Heart and head pulsing together from all the drinks in my gut, no food to slow them down.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Hard to imagine I’ll be up there tomorrow.
The overcity. Those shiny districts. Steel and chrome and glass and sunshine, baby. They even have trees up there. Lots of them, from what I see on the news streams. And the Vents will be suffering beneath me all the while as Dynasty takes over. No Sarah, no me, no anyone left to stop them from having their way with the people who can’t fight back.
I roll away from the window. Eyes falling to the 6-Teba on the pillow beside me.
The world put a gun in your hand. I taught you why to use it.
My stomach turns as I think of her.
Then it keeps turning, a storm drain in my stomach, propelling me up into sitting. I start breathing harder, feeling it in the back of my throat. Groan to myself.
“I gotta piss.”
Leave the gun, get to the little washroom adjoining the office, where all those drinks start coming back out one at a time. It’s not pretty. Way too close a reminder of what happened after I took that second stim of Shatter. Once again, I am sicking up my guts in a bathroom all by myself. Good job, Emmy. Very adult of you. Sarah would be proud.
I puke three times into the toilet before I’m starting to sober up. And by the time I pass out slumped over it in a drunken stupor, I’ve long since lost count.