aghast.
“Are you
kidding
me? You wouldn’t stand a fucking chance. You’d all die!”
He sits back and ugh, he’s looking at her like she’s gone and been an arsehole again.
“So you do it then. Either way it’s happening. He needs this and we’re going to get it for him.”
Amiga turns around and punches the wall, which is a dumb idea. Turns out 3D-printed walls really fucking hurt.
“Fuck’s sake. Amiga!”
Deuce leaps up and grabs her hand and holy smoke coming out of her ears that’s too much up close and personal for her to handle right now. She yanks her hand away and backs up into the kitchen, but that dumb as a stump ex of hers just keeps on following. Starts rifling over her head for any kind of first-aid kit, which he finds in seconds despite her looking for two whole hours the other week and finding sweet FA.
Slamming the kit down on the counter, his mouth set in a grim line, he sets to cleaning up the gash across her knuckles and gluing it shut. She’s pretty sure she doesn’t breathe the whole time.
“Could you, just for once, not be you?” he asks when he’s done.
She folds her arms, closing off.
“No. And you’re not doing the job.”
He folds his arms, mirroring. Bastard.
“I am.”
“No. I am.” And she only says it because he
can’t
, they can’t. “You,” she pokes the air viciously, “are going to make sure I come out of it alive.”
He says nothing at first, just holds her in that black gaze, suspended. Space would probably be kinder to her lungs.
“If you’re sure,” he says finally, quietly.
“I’m sure.” She’s only sure that
they’re
not doing it, but that’s sure enough.
Deuce nods. “Thank you.”
He heads for the table, no doubt eager to go and get the Hornets et al up to speed on her involvement. She better get free meals after this shit.
Lots
of them. Never mind that she already does. They all make sure she’s looked after when she lets them. Especially Deuce, who has a new fucking girlfriend and probably shouldn’t be so considerate. And there she is, all pissy again.
“Don’t thank me,” she snaps as he leaps for the hatch and starts to climb out. “I’m only doing it because I think you’d fuck it up.”
He looks down at her, his face half in shadow, but there’s that disappointment again, blazing away. The bridge smoldering behind her.
“I know.”
Down the Rabbit Hole
Stuck on a sidewalk swarming with meat suits, Shock stalks the edge for a safe place to cross a freeway locked into insanity mode. He’s about ready to commit genocide. Mothball pockets require austerity measures, cheap-ass Slip shops whose only option to jack the Slip is manual and likely to fry half his workable neurones. Unlucky for him, the cheapest Slip shops are in Hanju, his home district, a place he expends considerable energy avoiding. To top it all off, he has to run this one unmedicated. Too risky otherwise. Dandy, just freaking dandy.
He sneers into the traffic, earning a particularly rigid middle finger from some ugly-freak-looking taxi driver. Shock flips the finger back, because the bastard likely deserves it, then throws himself across the freeway, frantically dodging bumpers and praying he can dodge anyone he shares DNA with.
In Hanju proper, he’s surrounded by familiar narrow streets and dwarfed beneath calamitously high warrens of apartments. Built too close for comfort, the Hanju apartment blocks have been knocked together over the years, street by street, transforming their innards to some sort of over-populated rabbit warren. Even where they span the road, makeshift—and often residential—bridges have been constructed, joining the blocks together into one gigantic habitation maze; home leading into home with almost no privacy whatsoever.
Shock grew up cheek to jowl with neighbours as far as his eye could see. He still recalls the postmaster walking through his bedroom at six A.M. on the dot, yelling “
annyeong-haseyo
” to
“Are you
kidding
me? You wouldn’t stand a fucking chance. You’d all die!”
He sits back and ugh, he’s looking at her like she’s gone and been an arsehole again.
“So you do it then. Either way it’s happening. He needs this and we’re going to get it for him.”
Amiga turns around and punches the wall, which is a dumb idea. Turns out 3D-printed walls really fucking hurt.
“Fuck’s sake. Amiga!”
Deuce leaps up and grabs her hand and holy smoke coming out of her ears that’s too much up close and personal for her to handle right now. She yanks her hand away and backs up into the kitchen, but that dumb as a stump ex of hers just keeps on following. Starts rifling over her head for any kind of first-aid kit, which he finds in seconds despite her looking for two whole hours the other week and finding sweet FA.
Slamming the kit down on the counter, his mouth set in a grim line, he sets to cleaning up the gash across her knuckles and gluing it shut. She’s pretty sure she doesn’t breathe the whole time.
“Could you, just for once, not be you?” he asks when he’s done.
She folds her arms, closing off.
“No. And you’re not doing the job.”
He folds his arms, mirroring. Bastard.
“I am.”
“No. I am.” And she only says it because he
can’t
, they can’t. “You,” she pokes the air viciously, “are going to make sure I come out of it alive.”
He says nothing at first, just holds her in that black gaze, suspended. Space would probably be kinder to her lungs.
“If you’re sure,” he says finally, quietly.
“I’m sure.” She’s only sure that
they’re
not doing it, but that’s sure enough.
Deuce nods. “Thank you.”
He heads for the table, no doubt eager to go and get the Hornets et al up to speed on her involvement. She better get free meals after this shit.
Lots
of them. Never mind that she already does. They all make sure she’s looked after when she lets them. Especially Deuce, who has a new fucking girlfriend and probably shouldn’t be so considerate. And there she is, all pissy again.
“Don’t thank me,” she snaps as he leaps for the hatch and starts to climb out. “I’m only doing it because I think you’d fuck it up.”
He looks down at her, his face half in shadow, but there’s that disappointment again, blazing away. The bridge smoldering behind her.
“I know.”
Down the Rabbit Hole
Stuck on a sidewalk swarming with meat suits, Shock stalks the edge for a safe place to cross a freeway locked into insanity mode. He’s about ready to commit genocide. Mothball pockets require austerity measures, cheap-ass Slip shops whose only option to jack the Slip is manual and likely to fry half his workable neurones. Unlucky for him, the cheapest Slip shops are in Hanju, his home district, a place he expends considerable energy avoiding. To top it all off, he has to run this one unmedicated. Too risky otherwise. Dandy, just freaking dandy.
He sneers into the traffic, earning a particularly rigid middle finger from some ugly-freak-looking taxi driver. Shock flips the finger back, because the bastard likely deserves it, then throws himself across the freeway, frantically dodging bumpers and praying he can dodge anyone he shares DNA with.
In Hanju proper, he’s surrounded by familiar narrow streets and dwarfed beneath calamitously high warrens of apartments. Built too close for comfort, the Hanju apartment blocks have been knocked together over the years, street by street, transforming their innards to some sort of over-populated rabbit warren. Even where they span the road, makeshift—and often residential—bridges have been constructed, joining the blocks together into one gigantic habitation maze; home leading into home with almost no privacy whatsoever.
Shock grew up cheek to jowl with neighbours as far as his eye could see. He still recalls the postmaster walking through his bedroom at six A.M. on the dot, yelling “
annyeong-haseyo
” to
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