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The metal of the ship dock clangs under her heels as Lydia stumbles out of the ‘ship. She huffs as she realizes where she is and twirls around to face the man who pushed her. “Beacon? Are you kidding me?”
Jackson smirks down at her. “Look, Lydia, you’re dead weight. It’s not worth it to me to get between whatever it is you and the Argents have going on.”
Lydia snarls at him and stomps one foot. The resulting sound is sharp and Lydia is pleased when Jackson winces.
Jackson recovers and raises an eyebrow. He steps down onto the dock and gives her a slow once-over and continues, “And since I’m getting nothing out of letting you hitch on my ‘ship, I’ve decided to let you go. You should be glad that I brought you all the way to Beacon and didn’t just drop you off on some backwoods planet.”
“I should be glad?” Lydia asks incredulously. She crosses her arms and steps up toe to toe with him. “You should be glad that I only punched you in the face. I could have killed you in your sleep and taken your ‘ship from you.”
“Punched me?” Jackson scoffs and throws his head back to laugh. It’s just enough of a distraction on his part to totally miss how Lydia clamps down on his shoulders with both hands. She wrenches her knee straight up against his groin.
Jackson keels over and Lydia flips her hair over her shoulder.
Danny slips off the ‘ship and hands Lydia her bags. He leans over Jackson and says, “You deserved that.”
“Thank you,” Lydia tells Danny. She shoulders one of the bags over her shoulder and holds the straps of the second bag in her left hand.
Jackson groans from his spot on the ground.
“Listen,” Danny says. “Look for Stiles.”
“What the hell is a Stiles?” Lydia asks, lip curling.
“Stiles Stilinski . He’s a little hard to find, but he should be able to hook you up with a ‘ship headed toward wherever you’re going.”
“Stilinski?” Jackson spits. “Fucker’s craz-”
Danny jostles Jackson’s hip with his heavy boot and ignores Jackson as he curses Danny’s parents.
“Stiles is -” Danny pauses, clearly looking for the right word to describe him, and then kindly says, “He doesn’t really leave his apartment.”
“So what you’re saying is that a shut-in is going to help me find a ‘ship?”
Danny shrugs. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Lydia narrows her eyes at Danny but nods anyway. “Okay. Sure you don’t want to come with me?”
Danny hooks his thumb back at Jackson. “I gotta make sure this asshole doesn’t get arrested. When you find Stiles, tell him we’re even.”
Lydia nods and waves to Danny as he pulls his lump of a pilot back on board and then turns around to survey the dock town.
Truth is, Lydia’s glad to be off Jackson’s obnoxious heap passing as a ‘ship. Sure, the thing’s flashy on the outside, but much like Jackson Whittemore, the inside leaves much to be desired. The ‘ship doesn’t even have an escape pod - and any good pilot knows that their ‘ship should have at least one. Two would be preferable, Lydia thinks, because these are trying times.
Lydia hopes she doesn’t run into her mother. That’s absolutely the last thing she needs.
Beacon is just as unassuming as she remembers. Lydia hates it. She’d much rather be among the stars - well, she’d much rather be in the belly of space, but that doesn’t sound nearly as nice.
She looks one way down the mess of docks that line the coast and then in the other direction. She decides to forget about them and head to the center of Beacon proper. There’s a market there and if Lydia knows anything about Beacon, it’s that the market is where she’s going to get whatever information there is to be had.
And if anyone is in the business of information, it’s Lydia Martin
Lydia smirks as Jackson’s ‘ship starts up with a rumble and the tap of her heels are the only indicator she was there as she melts into the crowd.
It’s going to be a good day, or whatever it is that passes as a good day these days.
*
The market bustles around her. Stalls and carts line the road in every direction and they’re pushed together tightly. People fill up what little space there is left over.
Lydia scans the entire mess until she locates the flashing ‘service’ sign. She heads that direction. People crowd around her, going in every other possible direction. This is the exact reason Lydia never stays planetside. There are too many people down here - not enough, ha, space .
Lydia almost makes it to the service tent when she feels someone press up against her, jostling her bags. She spins around and snakes a hand out to grab the wrist of the person who has his hand in her bag.
The young boy immediately apologizes and tries to wriggle away, but Lydia just holds on tighter.
Lydia reaches out and pulls the bottle he manages to pilfer from her back from him. She says, “You don’t want that.”
The boy tries to pull away, struggling against her hold, but she just smirks at him and in a clipped voice, says, “I’ve got something better that you can have.”
She pulls him through the crowd and to a shaded corner out of the way. “What’s your name, kid?”
He can’t be too old - ten, maybe eleven. His curls bounce around him as he stubbornly shakes his head and doesn’t answer.
With her free hand, she digs around in her bag and pulls out a glass jar. The boy’s eyes widen - glass isn’t exactly easy to come by and Lydia’s willing to bet the kid’s only seen it once or twice in his life - as she holds it out to him.
“It’ll help,” she says as she rolls his wrist over and puts his bruises on display. “Just use a tiny bit of the cream every night until the color fades. You can sell the glass when it’s empty. I know it will fetch a pretty price in Beacon.”
The boy stops struggling and reaches to take the jar from her, but Lydia holds fast. “What’s your name?” she asks again.
Begrudgingly, he answers, “Isaac.”
“Isaac,” Lydia says. “I’m looking for someone named Stiles. Do you know him?”
Isaac narrows her eyes at her. “Never heard of him,” he says quickly.
Lydia can feel his pulse jump under her fingers. She’s fairly certain he’s lying, but this could still work in her favor.
“That’s okay,” Lydia says. She lets go of Isaac’s wrist. “Let him know I’m looking for him, would you?”
“Who are you?” Isaac asks, curiosity winning out.
Lydia flashes a dimpled smile. “I’m Lydia Martin. I’ll be around.”
Isaac starts to disappear back into the crowd, jar clutched tightly in his fist, but he turns his head to look at her one last time. She lets him take a good look, winks - she needs people to know that she’s here and she’s sure Isaac is going to spill to someone as soon as he’s able. He looks like a street kid on the surface but he’s not as waifish as some she’s seen loitering around the market. She’s willing to bet that if he’s not connected to Stiles, he’s at least connected to people who are keeping him fed.
People who can afford to keep some random kid fed can afford to buy her wares and can probably impart information to her, even if they aren’t aware they’re doing it. Lydia has a specialty, after all.
Lydia finally makes it up to the service tent. A woman sits on a chair under the shade of the tent. She looks up as Lydia enters the tent and says, “Laura Hale.”
“Lydia Martin,” Lydia offers back. Lydia’s pretty sure Laura isn’t human - but who is Lydia to judge? “How much to rent a stall?”
Laura pushes a long lock of hair behind her ear and picks up a scanner from the table next to her. She eyes Lydia and then says, “A stall is 500 credits. Or you can rent a cart for 200.”
Lydia reaches for the chain around her neck and pulls out the pendant she keeps under her shirt. She leans forward and says, “Do I look like the type of person who would push a cart?”
“Guess not,” Laura says dryly. She runs the scanner over Lydia’s pendant and the credits transfer over. “I heard you talking to the Lahey kid.”
“Isaac?” Lydia asks.
Laura hums an affirmative under her breath. “Why are you looking for Stiles?”
Lydia feels the chain of her necklace drag across her skin and she presses her hand against her chest to smooth it out. She weighs her options quickly. Laura obviously knows who Stiles is and could probably point her in the right direction, but she could also send Lydia on a wild goose chase. She doesn’t know Laura’s intentions, just as Laura doesn’t know hers.
“I’m looking for someone,” Lydia finally says, carefully omitting any important details. “I need to find a ‘ship that can take me where I need to go. Someone I trust told me that Stiles could help me.”
Laura’s dark eyes watch her carefully. Her mouth flattens into a line. “Your stall number is fifty-three,” she says. “It’s down on the south side.”
Lydia figures she’s not going to get anything else out of Laura, so she turns in the correct direction and picks up the bag she placed on the ground. “Thanks,” she says.
“Hey,” Laura says. Lydia turns back, pleasantly surprised. “I’m not saying that I can get him to see you because there’s only a couple of people who can get him to do anything and I’m not one of them. But you should get a room at the Rose and be down at the bar around ten tonight. If Stiles is there, he’s there, and if he’s not, you’re out of luck.”
Lydia nods. “Thank you,” she says again, and this time it’s sincere.
“This person you’re looking for, are they important?”
Lydia looks down at the ground. “She’s important to me.”
“Okay,” Laura says softly. “Okay.”
Lydia lines metal tins of ointments and jars of liquids up along the shelves of the stall. The glass containers line the back of the stall because they’re more valuable. There’s a small table inside the scant space and a stool. Lydia perches herself on the edge of stool when she finishes putting out her products.
There’s already a short line forming. Lydia smiles
She’s not a doctor by any means but a medicinal scent curls around her anyway. She curls her hair around into a loose bun and secures it with a ribbon. Lydia leans forward over the table and smiles at the older woman first in her line. “What ails you?”
The woman coughs into a handkerchief curled around her fist. “There’s a rattle in my chest,” she rasps. “Doctor says there’s nothing there, but I wheeze at night. Feels like I can’t breathe.”
Lydia listens to her voice more than the woman’s words. The woman’s doctor is right; there’s nothing there except for an old woman’s paranoia. Perfect.
“Oh yes,” Lydia breathes. She gestures vaguely to her own chest. “I can hear it from here.”
Lydia stands up and rounds the table. “Will your breathe for me so I can listen and determine the best cure?”
The woman nods and takes a deep breath in and then out - another breath in and out.
Lydia frowns. “Oh, dear. Yes, I do think I’ve got something for you. Give me a moment.”
Lydia searches through the assortment of bottles and jars and comes out with a canister of something that smells like mint.
“Here’s a balm,” Lydia says soothingly to the woman. “Take a little bit each night and rub it across your chest,” she draws a line in the air right below the woman’s collarbones, “here. Whatever ails you should disappear in two weeks time.”
The woman peers down at the container and then looks up at Lydia. “There’s no way I can afford something like this,” she says, placing the tin back into Lydia’s hands.
Lydia pauses a moment, frowns delicately, and then lowers her voice, “I can’t just let you go without it,” she says. “For you, I’m only asking 20 credits.”
The woman looks longingly at the tin. She starts to shake her head, but Lydia cuts her off, even softer, “What about 15, and you tell all your friends I’m here, today only?”
The woman smiles and nods her head quickly. Lydia leans back and smiles. The woman pulls offers her wrist and Lydia swipes it for the credits quickly. She tucks the ointment tin into the woman’s hands and says, “I hope you feel better. Remember, two weeks.”
In two weeks, if she has it her way, Beacon won’t even remember the name Lydia Martin.