making my own city lights...
There were more bars than he remembered in New Tokyo.
More people, too. Tom Hobbes slid onto a stool under the bar’s grubby neon lights and flagged the bartender down with a wave of his hand. He was wearing an old, grease smudged tee-shirt and well-worn military-green slacks. Between Oublíe and Nanashi’s anonymous dark rooms and alleys, in addition to the long, solitary weeks between ports, he’d grown used to being distant from the press of humanity. The sudden influx made him jumpy, constantly going for the gun that they’d made him check at the door.
It only figured that the main thrusters on The Sarajevo died in Miranda’s busiest damn. The chop shop that he’d had it towed to was probably ripping him off, but what the hell else was he supposed to do? Any ligit mechanic would see the Peace Keeper hallmarks all over it and that meant a lot more questions that he wanted to answer.
Now, he needed work. Bodyguarding, security. At this point, he’d dig ditches if it was what it took. He was down to his hundred credits, and that wasn’t going to be near enough to cover the repairs.
He leaned his elbows on the bar, keeping his head down and scanning for the bartender. He was trying to be as invisible as he could. Damn Miranda, damn New Tokyo, god damned Siam contact who’d screwed him over.
“Double whiskey,” he told the bartender, digging out enough credits, tossing one on top for a tip. “No ice. Please.”
More people, too. Tom Hobbes slid onto a stool under the bar’s grubby neon lights and flagged the bartender down with a wave of his hand. He was wearing an old, grease smudged tee-shirt and well-worn military-green slacks. Between Oublíe and Nanashi’s anonymous dark rooms and alleys, in addition to the long, solitary weeks between ports, he’d grown used to being distant from the press of humanity. The sudden influx made him jumpy, constantly going for the gun that they’d made him check at the door.
It only figured that the main thrusters on The Sarajevo died in Miranda’s busiest damn. The chop shop that he’d had it towed to was probably ripping him off, but what the hell else was he supposed to do? Any ligit mechanic would see the Peace Keeper hallmarks all over it and that meant a lot more questions that he wanted to answer.
Now, he needed work. Bodyguarding, security. At this point, he’d dig ditches if it was what it took. He was down to his hundred credits, and that wasn’t going to be near enough to cover the repairs.
He leaned his elbows on the bar, keeping his head down and scanning for the bartender. He was trying to be as invisible as he could. Damn Miranda, damn New Tokyo, god damned Siam contact who’d screwed him over.
“Double whiskey,” he told the bartender, digging out enough credits, tossing one on top for a tip. “No ice. Please.”