D'khara's breath was heaving. A trickle of blood tickled his neck, leaking from his ear, which had been clipped by a near miss. He heard his pursuer come out of the cane behind him and raise his rifle.

They stared impassively at him, their black sunglasses hiding all expression as their rifles were trained steadily on his chest.

D'khara closed his eyes and braced himself. They weren't here to take prisoners.

He opened his eyes. The gunmen were still there, still pointing their rifles at him.

They all stood, locked in silence for a few seconds. The gunmen appeared to be listening to something.

A gentle crunching sounded as another corper emerged from the sugarcane, carrying the unconscious body of D'khara's opponent. The quintet of corpers looked at each other briefly, nodded to one another, slung their rifles and started walking away.

D'khara started.

"Where are you going?" he asked, before he had the presence of mind to shut up.

The trailing gunman turned to him.

"We've just been informed that our contract has been terminated. Our client has run into sudden financial difficulties. We've taken enough losses on this job already."

So saying, he turned and walked away.

The gunmen quietly loaded up their injured partner, got back into their cars, and drove away.

D'khara stood there, with his arms still in the air, mouth open in shock.

Old man Daugereaux ambled out of the cane and regarded D'khara with an air of amusement.

"'Financial difficulties'!?" D'khara exploded. "What 'financial difficulties'?"

"Mmmm, I suspec' ol' Cryocorp is suddenly havin' demselfs some investor troubles," Daugereaux opined, idly spinning his datapad in his hand. "I suspec' word got out about dere shenaninaginnin' here in de swamp, and all over a sudden a bunch of people wit' lawyers has demselves a bunch of questions."

"You?" D'khara asked.

"You goin' to keep your hands up dere all day?" Daugereaux asked.

D'khara snatched his hands down.

"What did you do?" D'khara asked. "Fleer was going to trickle the data out through his contacts."

"Shah, I like your Mr. Fleer, but he thinks like a corper. He don' understand we got other ways of fixin' things."

"But how else would you get the word out? You have to build credibility! Best-case scenario, it was going to take days! Evidence, videos, plans! Get it on the newsfeeds, on the net, hype people up about the story, go viral!"

"Mmhmm. Dat is actually a pretty good idear if you don't got a T-Ray."

D'khara, still stunned by the pace of events, stared dumbly.

"What's a T-Ray?"

"T-Ray is a old friend of mine from up the other side of de Tiamagua. What I do is I call him up dis mornin' once de jammin' is clear, and tell him all what's going on. Den I say, (now dis is de important part), I say to him, 'Now T-Ray, you cain't tell nobody 'bout dis, it is a secret jus' between you an' me.'"

"You... told him not to say anything?" D'khara asked, defeated and confused.

"Well everybody knows T-Ray cain't keep a secret, so sho 'nuff, here we is a couple hours later and everybody knows."

"But, but, but people just believe that? Just from a conversation?"

"Shah, you would be amazed what all people will believe when you tell it wit' gossip."

The other Riotfish started trickling back toward the truck.

"Fleer!" D'khara cried, his brain finally catching up with events. He rushed to the truck to check on him. Fleer's face was waxy and pale, but still breathing. "We've got to get him to the hospital!"

"Robby!" Daugereaux yelled. "Come drive your truck!"

Robby poked hesitantly out of the sugarcane.

"They's any more choppers?" he asked.

"Start driving, you big wussy!" Daugereaux yelled, getting back in the cab. "Saint's Mercy is only 10 minutes from here!"

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

They all piled in and took off again.

----------------------------------------

"Out."

The head nurse was a large lady with the shape, thickness, and charm of a brick wall. Fleer had been wheeled away for emergency surgery, but this imposing woman refused to let the rest of the Riotfish follow after him.

What she lacked in patience, she made up for with crisp practicality, and what she saw was a motley collection of troublemakers covered in cane leaves, burns, swamp mud, and unnamed sticky substances, some with empty shell casings falling out of their clothes, some with poorly concealed weapons and all with a sharp air of disrepute, and she Was Not Having It on her ward.

"But ma'am," Oliver cooed, "I can assure you we will be very quiet and quite well-behaved if you would only allow us--"

"Out!" One slab-like arm rocketed out, pointing unwaveringly at the door they'd just come in. Clearly, there was no room for negotiating.

Slowly, the Riotfish turned and shuffled outside.

Robby stood in the parking lot outside the hospital next to the remains of his truck, talking quietly to Daugereaux.

"Well?" Robby asked as they shuffled out.

"We don't know yet," Oliver said. "They took him to surgery, and the doctor seemed to think his prognosis was quite positive."

"Well that's good," said Robby.

"Like I was saying, Robby," Daugereaux continued, "I feel bad about what happened to your truck. Me and Ma want to cover a new truck for you."

Robby rolled the ball cap off his head and scratched thoughtfully.

"That's right nice of you, Mr. Daugereaux. The old girl did take a bit of roughin' up out there."

They looked at the truck. If one were very observant, they might be able to tell that it had once been red. No windows were left unbroken, no chrome left unscratched, and numerous bullet holes pocked the body. The whole bed of the truck was bent, and the right rear tire was cocked up at a funny angle.

"I'll be honest though, Mr. Daugereaux, she's got some character now. And some stories. It usually takes years to get a truck looking right, and we got 'er done in a morning. If you'll cover enough to get her running back street-legal, well, I think that's a fair trade."

"Dat sounds like a deal to me."

Daugereaux shook Robby's hand and turned to the Riotfish.

"You boys done a good work. I don't say dat to too many folks, but y'all done earned your pay. Tell dat Fleer when he wakes up, I am gonna put you boys a bonus into de contrac'."

"You're leaving?" D'khara asked.

"Well, I figure we got to go on home, start cleanin' de place up. Dem fellas left a big doggone mess."

Everyone looked around guiltily.

"Well, we should come help, then," D'khara said. "We made a lot of that mess."

"Haha, oh shah no. You boys already cleaned up de place, out of all dem nasty black ops fellas. Trus' me, I got some friends comin' in to help, we gon' be jus' fine."

"Oh, okay," D'khara said. "Well... thank you."

"No problem, shah!" Daugereaux said, swinging back up into the passenger seat of Robby's truck, next to Ma Daugereaux. "And thank you!" He waved out the window as the truck rattled to life and started to roll away.

"Wow," Oliver said. "What an amazing old man."

"You said it," D'khara replied.

"Yeah, he wasn't bad out there," Little Timmy added.

"I got worms!" Roger appended.

They all stood in silence for a moment, reflecting on the events of the previous few days.

"Oliver?" D'khara said.

"Hmm?"

"Daugereaux just took our ride. How are we going to get back to Mrs. Meade?"

----------------------------------------

Clarence was working the desk again when a familiar nose poked over the edge of the counter, topped by those gimlet eyes.

"Aaaah!" Clarence quavered in surprise. He deeply wished it had not sounded so unmanly.

"Where's Mrs. Meade?"

The eyes glared.

"Ahh, ah, yes," he said. "Mrs. Meade, our finest cabin. I'll go fetch her directly. She been having a wonderful time, we took her out to the--"

"Don't care. Bring her."

Unnerved, Clarence wobbled off to let Mrs. Meade know that her charges had returned.

D'khara waited in the lobby, glaring at the decor. In-person business transactions made him uncomfortable, so he made sure it was uncomfortable for everyone else.

It was a while before Mrs. Meade tottered in, towing Clarence like a half-deflated balloon. She paused at the entrance to the lobby.

"Clarence, I want to thank you. Young men today are always rushing around, only thinking about themselves, but you've been very attentive. I want to thank you for spending your time with a boring old lady."

"Oh, Mrs. Meade, you're not at all bor--"

"You hush. Now, I expect you to keep your fingernails clean like we talked about, young ladies will notice your hands early, so you want to make a good impression."

"Yes, ma'am, I'll--"

"And you need to eat better. If you're too skinny they won't take a liking to you. Although, I suppose my Edgar was skinny when we met." She sighed. "I know you must think I'm an interfering old baggage."

"Oh, Mrs. Meade I would never--"

"I just want to see you properly set up. Promise me you'll eat well and take care of yourself?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Very well. Goodbye, Clarence. I hope you'll hold out for a girl that deserves a hardworking young man like yourself."

"Yes, ma'am."

Mrs. Meade primly made her way back over to the desk and spotted D'khara.

"D'khara! You're back!" she cried, and shuffled forward to give him a big hug.

He hugged her back, for once.

"Why, whatever happened to your poor ear?" she asked, pointing at his bandaged earlobe.

"Oh, nothing, nothing," he said. "Just a little nick is all. How was your stay?"

"Oh, it was lovely, and Mr. Clarence was so kind!"

"Good. Excuse me for a moment, I need to go settle up."

She nodded and wandered off to look at the decor.

D'khara glared at Clarence over the edge of the counter. Clarence grinned uneasily. Slowly, D'khara slid another dark purple chit across the counter.

"Thank you," D'khara said.

Clarence nodded solemnly and said with real sincerity, "It was my pleasure."

D'khara turned back to Mrs. Meade.

"I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to drive, Mrs. Meade. I had to take a taxi out here."

"Oh? Where is everybody else?"

"They're at the hospital with Mr. Fleer."

"The hospital?"

"Yeah, Mr. Fleer got shot just a little. But he's fine!" D'khara assured her. "They've got him patched up, and they're going to keep an eye on him for a few days, but the doctors say..."

The voices faded as D'khara and Mrs. Meade walked out the doors of the lobby. Clarence picked up the chit, turning it over in his fingers. He could cash it, sure enough. It would be plenty for a bleeding-edge holo rig. Or... or he could hold on to it. Use it to get a little something to remember Mrs. Meade by.

He slipped the little chit into his pocket, and walked off slowly to clean their most recently vacated cabin.