Just enough cred to eat once a day. Just enough cred to get in here and hide from the lights that keep finding the girl. Just enough cred to knw she needs more. Captain's been gone. Job's dried up. Regulars...the girl had them, but she forgot.
Her jack gleams whenthe lights hit it. Man looking for what she's got. She looks up, looks through him.
"Best in the system," Rave tells him, her voice matched to the middle notes of the noise coming through the speakers. "You can pay?"
"What're you asking?" He slides onto the cracked leather next to her; to his right and a little ways away there's a boy about her age, slumped down and twitching faintly, his eyes locked into a glazed stare that sees nothing at all. Blasted out of his mind. Not Snake. He knows what Snake looks like. This is something else.
Might be pure information.
He shoves the kid out of his mind and turns his attention fully on her. She doesn't look like much, but she's the key to this. Or she better fuckin' be.
"Too close," she mutters, inching away. "Asking fair wages, depends on the job. Little job, little cred. Make me work and pay that price," the girl says, rattling it off like she's memorized it. Had to memorize it. "Best in the system. You PK?"
"Not anymore." When he smiles he shows his teeth. It's not a pleasant smile. He knows why she's asking. It's still not something he likes being asked. Especially given what he's here to find out.
"I'll pay whatever you want," he says, the smile vanishing like it was never there. "If you're fair. If you're really the best. We'll see, won't we?"
"She's always fair. She does the job," Rave nods, twitching a little as the beat of the music changes and the lights throb differently. "Can't do it here. Can't jack in with the crowd if its secret. She keeps secrets."
The girl looks up then, catches the remnant of the smile that disappears like lightning. "You got no jack to go with your eye? High tech. Dirty job. Let's go."
His face turns stony as she mentions the eye. Of course she can see it; if nothing else it's more visible when the lighting's low. "No jack," he says, getting up. He'd been unable to afford it, even if he'd wanted it in the first place.
"Going?" She slides a pair of dark glasses on, and grabs her ratty bag. It's all she's got and she's not leving it in the sqaut, ever. She can remember that much.
"You come with the girl. She's got mad skills," she assures him, darting through the crowd, moving fast to keep from being touched. Net storm isn't good when picking up a job. They think you're fried when you shake that bad. "Just need a port."
At any other time he might be wary of ambush, but this tiny, wasted little thing doesn't feel like a threat to him, and even though it wouldn't be her he'd be worried about, he's come this far. No going back now. He follows her, weaving through people, heading toward the doors.
His hand's on the butt of his gun. No chances. Not now.
On the street, she looks around. The harsh, bright mercury vapor lights don't play havoc so bad when she's got the glasses on. Good idea. Good memory.
She looks back at him and waits. Something she has to ask. Something important. "You're not PK," she says again, but it's unclear if she asking, or reminding herself. "What you want done, mister?" she asks right after, almost cute in that street rat sort of way.
"Got a name." He doesn't love that she has the glasses on. He likes seeing people's eyes. Harder to read them when he can't. "Need whatever you can find to go with it. He is PK. Or he was."
The streets are just crowded enough to keep him from feeling exposed, just empty enough that there aren't too many eyes. He walks up next to her and switches to ultraviolet, watching her teeth gleam white as she talks, her skin almost as pale.
The mark is PK, and that makes her smile. "No problemo, mister. No trace, no memory. You're with the best," she nods, then points to the alley between this dive and the next. "Junction box down there. 'Less you want a...uh...whatsit. Thing you sit on."
"I'll stand." However long it takes. He hasn't slept in two days, and if he sits he think he might sleep, and sleep here is a bad idea. Once he gets back to Florence he can collapse onto his bed (his bed that still smells like him sometimes when sleep is very near) and pass out for a few hours.
As if she'd let him go first. He's not the one hungry to jack in. At the bok she digs in her bag and pulls out the multi-tool, busting the lock and opening the box. A quick look each way, then the tool is replaced with a cord.
Easy, this. She does it all the time. All the rats and runners do. Dead bodies around these boxes all the time of stupid junkies who jack in and starve to death. Siam doesn't make the locks any tougher to break.
Rave plugs into the box, then turns to him with her hand out. "You got a dead cred chip? Store your data. Keep it outta her wetworks."
He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls one out without a word, handing it to her. He's seen this before, when he's handed off fresh bags of lethal dust into shaking hands, when he had the bitch in the alley and felt her cold. He can't see the girl's eyes, but he can feel it coming off her in waves and if he switched to infrared he'd probably see it in a bright yellow aura.
The girl shrugs and slips the chip in behind her ear, then the cord is in her jack and she's swaying slowly, letting the Construct materialize. First order of business is to turn the light above them off. Only when it's dark, does she slip off the glasses and look at him.
"Input data. Who do you want?" she asks, more lucid than she's been, more steady. No twitching. She's got the whole Net instead of her own fucked up neurons. She's whole.
There's something about the smile that he doesn't like. It's the way the light goes on in her eyes, once they're uncovered. It's too sudden, too sharp, and it throws him a little off balance.
But business is fucking business.
"Hobbes, Thomas F." He doesn't need to check the name. It's burned into his fucking brain. "That's all I have. Whatever you can get." He pauses, chewing at the inside of his cheeks. "Anything that'll help me find his sorry ass."
Her jack gleams whenthe lights hit it. Man looking for what she's got. She looks up, looks through him.
"Best in the system," Rave tells him, her voice matched to the middle notes of the noise coming through the speakers. "You can pay?"
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Might be pure information.
He shoves the kid out of his mind and turns his attention fully on her. She doesn't look like much, but she's the key to this. Or she better fuckin' be.
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"I'll pay whatever you want," he says, the smile vanishing like it was never there. "If you're fair. If you're really the best. We'll see, won't we?"
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The girl looks up then, catches the remnant of the smile that disappears like lightning. "You got no jack to go with your eye? High tech. Dirty job. Let's go."
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"Where're we going?"
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"You come with the girl. She's got mad skills," she assures him, darting through the crowd, moving fast to keep from being touched. Net storm isn't good when picking up a job. They think you're fried when you shake that bad. "Just need a port."
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His hand's on the butt of his gun. No chances. Not now.
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She looks back at him and waits. Something she has to ask. Something important. "You're not PK," she says again, but it's unclear if she asking, or reminding herself. "What you want done, mister?" she asks right after, almost cute in that street rat sort of way.
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The streets are just crowded enough to keep him from feeling exposed, just empty enough that there aren't too many eyes. He walks up next to her and switches to ultraviolet, watching her teeth gleam white as she talks, her skin almost as pale.
"Can't be any trace. No problem, right?"
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And then go hunting.
He inclines his head. "You first."
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Easy, this. She does it all the time. All the rats and runners do. Dead bodies around these boxes all the time of stupid junkies who jack in and starve to death. Siam doesn't make the locks any tougher to break.
Rave plugs into the box, then turns to him with her hand out. "You got a dead cred chip? Store your data. Keep it outta her wetworks."
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We all have our own, don't we? Sure.
"How long's this gonna take?"
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"Input data. Who do you want?" she asks, more lucid than she's been, more steady. No twitching. She's got the whole Net instead of her own fucked up neurons. She's whole.
And she smiles.
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But business is fucking business.
"Hobbes, Thomas F." He doesn't need to check the name. It's burned into his fucking brain. "That's all I have. Whatever you can get." He pauses, chewing at the inside of his cheeks. "Anything that'll help me find his sorry ass."
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