@Zara
Saint Cero City was not a place anyone came to willingly. A product born entirely of SEC-B and Corporate, built when they came into power after The Fall, the city either owned you, or destroyed you. Surrounded on most sides by the anarchic Canals, the locals made sure nobody left in one piece, and very few entered. Those who made it in seldom ventured past Downtown, a last bastion of order for lost souls. Corporate stood tall just beyond, glowing pillars of tyranny and oppression.
A man called Grave was not there willingly. A long black cloak hid all else he might bear, its end flapping behind him as he stalked Downtown's cold, dim streets. Almond-shaped, deep brown eyes were beginning to set in hard creases, from weariness or distress or any number of other things. His black hair he kept short, but that was the only sort of maintenance it received. His mouth contorted as he sucked on a Nix pellet. He wagered it was the only thing keeping him awake at that time.
Even at this time of the afternoon, the pub called the Dying Fire was illuminated. Corporate's smog was so dense in recent decades that a glimpse of sunlight was rare. Grave removed a hand from his coat pockets to open the door and stepped inside.
It was a familiar scene. A tame song was being played on the radio above the bar. Several men were entertained by a pair of women slinking around poles, and not a single pair of eyes flickered to Grave as he stalked past. He eyed the ladies escorting some of those men upstairs, their hips swaying in an enticing spell. Those men had good money, and they squandered it on embarrassing themselves. Grave never had the heart for that. Never had the heart to touch those poor, tortured girls.
But his destination was not the upper floor, but the basement. A quick knock at a steel door in the back and it opened before him. He sidled past the hired gun watching the door and moved swiftly down the stairs. Several men and women received him, mostly smugglers and fences he had known for some time, but a hand fell on his shoulder, and he turned to see the man he was looking for.
"Good," Bones said, looking up at him. "I was thinking you had finally bit the dust and I could stop doing you favours."
Bones was a small man, and somewhat plump. Well-fed. Few could afford the clothes he wore, or suffer his patronizing smirks, but Bones was Grave's fixer, and even though he took a larger cut than he should, Bones was the only one giving out work in that shithole.
"Cut to it," Grave said. "What's the job?"
"Not yet, sir," Bones said, wiggling an outstretched finger. "You're not botching this one. You're getting a partner. Maybe knock some responsibility into your head."
Grave bit down, breaking the last of the Nix pellet to dust. He had no patience for this.
"Oh, calm down, Grave. She'll be here any minute." With that, he looked past Grave's shoulder, at the door upstairs.
Saint Cero City was not a place anyone came to willingly. A product born entirely of SEC-B and Corporate, built when they came into power after The Fall, the city either owned you, or destroyed you. Surrounded on most sides by the anarchic Canals, the locals made sure nobody left in one piece, and very few entered. Those who made it in seldom ventured past Downtown, a last bastion of order for lost souls. Corporate stood tall just beyond, glowing pillars of tyranny and oppression.
A man called Grave was not there willingly. A long black cloak hid all else he might bear, its end flapping behind him as he stalked Downtown's cold, dim streets. Almond-shaped, deep brown eyes were beginning to set in hard creases, from weariness or distress or any number of other things. His black hair he kept short, but that was the only sort of maintenance it received. His mouth contorted as he sucked on a Nix pellet. He wagered it was the only thing keeping him awake at that time.
Even at this time of the afternoon, the pub called the Dying Fire was illuminated. Corporate's smog was so dense in recent decades that a glimpse of sunlight was rare. Grave removed a hand from his coat pockets to open the door and stepped inside.
It was a familiar scene. A tame song was being played on the radio above the bar. Several men were entertained by a pair of women slinking around poles, and not a single pair of eyes flickered to Grave as he stalked past. He eyed the ladies escorting some of those men upstairs, their hips swaying in an enticing spell. Those men had good money, and they squandered it on embarrassing themselves. Grave never had the heart for that. Never had the heart to touch those poor, tortured girls.
But his destination was not the upper floor, but the basement. A quick knock at a steel door in the back and it opened before him. He sidled past the hired gun watching the door and moved swiftly down the stairs. Several men and women received him, mostly smugglers and fences he had known for some time, but a hand fell on his shoulder, and he turned to see the man he was looking for.
"Good," Bones said, looking up at him. "I was thinking you had finally bit the dust and I could stop doing you favours."
Bones was a small man, and somewhat plump. Well-fed. Few could afford the clothes he wore, or suffer his patronizing smirks, but Bones was Grave's fixer, and even though he took a larger cut than he should, Bones was the only one giving out work in that shithole.
"Cut to it," Grave said. "What's the job?"
"Not yet, sir," Bones said, wiggling an outstretched finger. "You're not botching this one. You're getting a partner. Maybe knock some responsibility into your head."
Grave bit down, breaking the last of the Nix pellet to dust. He had no patience for this.
"Oh, calm down, Grave. She'll be here any minute." With that, he looked past Grave's shoulder, at the door upstairs.