Epilogue- Still the Same
Posted: Sun Feb 19, 2023 7:06 pm
The Blue Crow hadn't changed much in her absence- and why would it? Smoky dives weren't exactly hotbeds of innovation.
So she oozed into her regular booth, propped her feet up on the table- because it was cleaner than the floor and she liked her boots- and exhaled slowly.
She'd been in touch of course, all that time in space her agent had never been far from her hands- so none of the day's petitioners caught her offguard.
The Valentinos wanted a meeting with the Voodoo Boys over some turf dispute.
Skinny Mulligan wanted his name shopped around for short-term jobs, preferred wetwork but he'd take a bodyguard job if he had to. And she had just the gig!
Some fucking Weng Fang jagoffs were trying to move in on her little slice of the Glen to set up shop. She'd run down the basics before her trip- brothels staffed by coerced and/or strung-out local youth, with a sideline in braindance recording of some real sick shit. So she got a few heavies lined up. Took her maybe three hours. Six calls, one exchange of texts, and a nod to Lefty Crenshaw at the bar. Easy-peasy. Twelve solos loaded for bear, the funds to pay them funneled directly from what the Valentinos were paying her. She didn't need to keep much of it when it could be better used to buy what she actually wanted.
And what she wanted was to send David Ling Po's dipshit nephew a collection of filled body bags as his only profit from the operation.
Pretty standard stuff.
In some ways, it was like she'd never taken her ride up to the Crystal Palace.
Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.
But.
Vargas had a job he needed filled- someone to go over his security system, make a few tweaks.
And she knew just the guy. She'd tell Rat the truth- Vargas was good for it, and could be trusted to pay, but be ready to have a price list for mission creep as more details dawned on him. It'd be a good earner.
Her nomad friends allowed that running some cargo into LEO could be done. Some goodies for the man who'd sold her the shades, a few premium parts for Crazy Eddie, a bottle of real booze for Miriam's old work crew.
And she looked at Angel's- Alt's- last message and let herself smile.
Hope was a disease, all right. A horribly contagious one.
She raised her glass in silent salute.
Here's to being incurable.
So she oozed into her regular booth, propped her feet up on the table- because it was cleaner than the floor and she liked her boots- and exhaled slowly.
She'd been in touch of course, all that time in space her agent had never been far from her hands- so none of the day's petitioners caught her offguard.
The Valentinos wanted a meeting with the Voodoo Boys over some turf dispute.
Skinny Mulligan wanted his name shopped around for short-term jobs, preferred wetwork but he'd take a bodyguard job if he had to. And she had just the gig!
Some fucking Weng Fang jagoffs were trying to move in on her little slice of the Glen to set up shop. She'd run down the basics before her trip- brothels staffed by coerced and/or strung-out local youth, with a sideline in braindance recording of some real sick shit. So she got a few heavies lined up. Took her maybe three hours. Six calls, one exchange of texts, and a nod to Lefty Crenshaw at the bar. Easy-peasy. Twelve solos loaded for bear, the funds to pay them funneled directly from what the Valentinos were paying her. She didn't need to keep much of it when it could be better used to buy what she actually wanted.
And what she wanted was to send David Ling Po's dipshit nephew a collection of filled body bags as his only profit from the operation.
Pretty standard stuff.
In some ways, it was like she'd never taken her ride up to the Crystal Palace.
Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.
But.
Vargas had a job he needed filled- someone to go over his security system, make a few tweaks.
And she knew just the guy. She'd tell Rat the truth- Vargas was good for it, and could be trusted to pay, but be ready to have a price list for mission creep as more details dawned on him. It'd be a good earner.
Her nomad friends allowed that running some cargo into LEO could be done. Some goodies for the man who'd sold her the shades, a few premium parts for Crazy Eddie, a bottle of real booze for Miriam's old work crew.
And she looked at Angel's- Alt's- last message and let herself smile.
Hope was a disease, all right. A horribly contagious one.
She raised her glass in silent salute.
Here's to being incurable.