Work Text:
Visage muses, is a much bigger city than one would think. Not spatially, of course, it is built atop the reverse side of a network of long-abandoned hexagonal solar panels. It's huge in density. So many people, so many wholly unique lives. So many desperate people fettered by a grueling job, a bad loan, personal remorse, poverty, isolation; every flavor of hardship one can imagine. Yet every single one of them has a story to tell. Every story a grand adventure spanning thousands of cycles, from birth up to now, facing the endless challenges with enough miraculous resolve to make it one more cycle. Each person is the librarian for an unending trove of knowledge and stories, available only to those who are permitted by their owners to learn them.
Oren is no exception to this, but still she despises him. Everything about him. His condescension, his demeanor, his greed, his clothing choice, even the way he sucked on his drink pouch and casually let it stay floating besides him as they talked revolted her. And yet she was, strapping herself to a chair at the same table as him, talking politics.
"You've been causing trouble for me, Fridge." One by one, he cracks his knuckles. His fingers and arms are covered in tattoos, his large frame clothed in a blue jacket and khaki pants. A decidedly blue-collar appearance, starkly opposed to Laine's disturbing mix of cold professionalism and eerie menace.
"It wouldn't be hard for me to have a friend visit you, shut you down like any other broken appliance. Maybe then the real you will be defrosted. Is that how it works?" Oren's stern eyes follow Visage, judging her reaction to his goading.
Visage hated the nickname he had given her: Fridge. The word a carefully forged spear designed to hurt her. She hated the way he lingered on his own half-joke. Was he expecting her to react? She stayed quiet, studying his actions in return, maintaining her poise.
His nearly permanent scowl slowly evolves into a smug grin, as he verbally attacks from a different angle. "Why am I even talking to a machine? It's not like I give a damn what the output is."
Visage takes a moment to make sure her composure hasn't been rattled. She stays loose, looking impassively around the windowless and coldly industrial room around her, before speaking herself. "Oren. I understand you have interests to protect. I'm not here to fight you on that."
"If you're not here to fight, then get the fuck off Darkside." He snaps, revealing his irritatation. "I'll pay for shipping you off to anywhere in the Belt. I'll even put you in the cargo hold myself, with a fond farewell and a fragile sticker." He leans back in his chair, feet snug in the footholds that keep them in place despite the lack of gravity throughout the station.
"Fragile? I'm insulted," Visage jokes, pretending to be unbothered by his threat.
"That was the intention. Listen close. Keep interrupting my business, our business, and you'll find out what happens. I already know of a bounty hunter or two who would be happy to deal in 'lost property' like yourself."
Visages leans forward a bit, harsh yellow eyes looking at the former Utsubo warden. "I'm not asking for much. You can do whatever you want, outside three simple guidelines that make up the large majority of problems people come to me with. Don't scalp food or medicine, don't deal hard drugs outside your clubs, and don't kill anyone who isn't antagonizing you. Simple."
A pulsating vein on Oren's forehead betrays his smug façade. "Go fuck yourself, not that you're equipped to. You're not in command, you're not working for Ankhita, you don't even carry a damn gun. This station obeys a different order now, one that's only set deeper in place more by the day. You'll see that soon enough. Leave Darkside by this time next cycle, or you will be dismantled like a faulty machine is supposed to be."
Visage gives a insultingly formal curtsy as she unstraps herself from the chair, before pulling herself out of the room.
She curses to herself as soon as she's out of earshot, walking past a half dozen of Oren's gang members, each one following her with their eyes. Pushing open the glass front door, she floats out Oren's Not-Quite-Utsubo Hideout, and melds into the crowded alleys, tunnels, and streets of Darkside.
Visage's Detective Service doesn't have a sign above its door. None of the hundreds of luminescent billboards on Flicker Row advertise it. No arrows point to it, and no maps can lead one there. The only office is a small yet comfortable basement, where Visage also sleeps at the end of the cycle. It can only be accessed through a busy club halfway between the Wash Gate, a major dockyard, and the Rise, the largest apartment complex on the station. Despite being hidden deep within the winding corridors that make up Darkside, clients desperate to find solutions are not scarce.
Visage is a sleeper. An extractor class, built to work in manual labor only a synthetic body can tolerate. She's scarred and patched across her nearly six foot frame, partly from her own sense of aesthetics, mostly from misadventure. She takes pride in her frame, though it is outweighed by her hatred for its manufacturer, Essen-Arp.
Her methodology in "detective" work is marked by an ambivalent approach to subtlety and an unyielding stubbornness, her dark purple jacket over dark grey jumpsuit a familiar sight in the particularly seedy areas of Darkside. Those who come to her invariably find their problems concluded, though the outcome may not be what they expect.
According to her critics, Visage is simply a mercenary by a more genial title.
The sole other member of the detective service is Rostam. His part of the job is largely accounting and managing clients, and aiding in solving the few actual mysteries that enter through the sturdy hinged door to the office. In leaner times he works freelance as a network hacker to support the agency, skilled enough that Visage's own ability to detect and pull from network nodes is overshadowed. He is on the shorter side, dark brown hair to his shoulders, tied behind him and pinned down to the back of his shirt at all times. A wholly unremarkable appearance on Darkside. The kind of person who blends in even when alone.
After her return from Oren's hideout, Visage floats with practiced ease in to the cluttered office, the blaring song playing at the club marking her entrance as the fully-soundproof door opens. She closes it behind her, and deeply inhales.
"MOTHERFUCKING SHITHEEL!"
Rostam looks up from a ledger. "Good evening to you too. Sounds like your meeting with Oren was productive."
"WHY IS IT SO HARD FOR THIS PIECE OF SHIT TO JUST FOLLOW THE SIMPLE RULE OF NOT FUCKING WITH RANDOM PEOPLE?" She shouts, mostly to herself.
"Because he's a sociopathic, sadistic, power-hungry bastard who you probably should have learned to ignore already." Rostam returns to his ledger, tapping quietly at the data slate.
"FUCK!" She kicks a trash can positioned by her desk, adding yet another dent to the collection it has amassed. "Sorry. God damn it."
"It's a high-stress duty, though I don't understand why you keep provoking Oren. He's indirectly responsible for half our income." Rostam, remains unbothered by Visage's now familiar anger.
"Oh, right. Forgot you're also a sociopathic bastard."
"Yeah, you keep forgetting that." Rostam looks up at Visage, still tapping away at the slate. "I'm just saying that this isn't a battle you can or should take on. I get it, blah blah heroic vigilante saving fair maidens or whatever, but don't you think you'd do more good if you stayed alive?"
"That's not the point. Fuck." Visage half-heartedly kicks the trash can again. It brings no relief.
"Just stay off their radar for a bit. You're popular with people, and Oren's not the type to start fights." He stows the data slate into a drawer, giving his full attention to Visage. "Power-hungry sociopaths don't go around murdering community figures. I know I don't."
"He should stay off my radar. I swear, one more of his fake smug smiles or pathetic attempts at a joke, and he's gonna wind up without a trachea." She pulls herself into a worn office chair that protests being used, even in zero-g. She aimlessly spins around in it, staring at the ceiling. "Please tell me Sayad didn't have trouble this time."
"On the contrary. Apparently some folks at the docks were asked to look out for him."
"By whom?" Her faintly glowing yellow eyes still remain fixed on the ceiling.
"Not a gang, suprisingly. It was Serafin's outfit, you know, the ones who leaked Laine's SenetStat involvements."
Her taught artificial muscles start to relax, tense grip on armrests releasing. "That's very good news, for once. Nice of them to throw their weight around."
"Not sure if it's altruism. There's two sleepers on that crew, if I remember correctly. Sayad will be dropping by later with your dose. Price has even dropped a bit. New synthesizing method coming out from close to the core of the system or something."
"Good, good." She closes her eyes. Sleepers always starts to feel run down as their stabilizer regimen approaches the next dose, and she is no exception.
A burst of loud club music announces the door opening. Visage yanks herself upright from the chair, ready to fend off whatever unlucky bastard Orem sent to intimidate her. A stunned woman, a deer in Visage's headlights, is the only one there.
Visage grimaces at her own mistake. "I'm sorry for startling you. I'm expecting someone else." She pulls herself back down, chair protesting yet again.
The brown-haired woman looks at Visage, then at Rostam, and finally back to Visage. "I... I didn't expect a sleeper."
"And I didn't expect a client at this hour, but we can both be pleasantly surprised. Come, sit. I can have Rostam make tea." Rostam almost protests being volunteered, but the memory of Visage's last and only attempt at tea stays his complaints. He still has a small burn scar on his hand from that endeavor.
"N-no tea. Umm, Rostam, right? Could... could you ask them stop staring at me?" Her darting, hazel eyes look to Rostam for guidance, only occasionally glancing back at Visage.
Rostam sighs. His idea of a 'how to not be weird around a sleeper' sign hanging above his desk is slowly becoming less of a joke with each client. "V, you wanna go through the FAQ for her?"
Visages buries her face in her hands, vinyl-like skin squeaking slightly as it rubs against itself. "I did it last time, but fine." She turns to the nervous woman who is still standing by the door, ready to bolt out of the room.
Visage meets her furtive glances, trying and failing not to sound slightly irritated. "Hi, I'm Visage. I'm a sleeper, a human mind emulated on a synthetic body. No, I don't know whose mind, and no, I don't really care. No, I'm not an AI. Please talk to me directly, you don't need Rostam to talk to me. Please use 'she' instead of 'they'. No, I can't fix your broken devices. No, I'm not trying to stare, I just don't have a blinking reflex. Yes, I am tougher and more durable than of most humans. And finally, and I cannot stress this enough, I do not want to hear your philosophical opinions on if I'm actually a person. I am, and if you disagree, the door is right there." Visage points behind the woman, her other hand flat on the desk.
The nervous woman seems to relax a bit, trepidation replaced by embarrassment and a bitter solace in the knowledge she is not the only uninformed person. She carefully sits down into the chair across from Visage. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend. I was just caught off guard. A friend told me you can solve problems..." Her voice trails off.
"It's fine, I'm not offended. Yet." Visage winks, trying to put her at ease. "What's your name?"
"Galla." Her eyes only linger on Visage's for a moment, before drifting back to the unadorned sheet metal floor.
"Good to meet you. Now, what can Visage Detective Service do for you?" Visage reminds herself to blink occasionally. Even with the earlier explanation, she's found that her glowing, synthetic eyes put people off.
The edges of Galla's frown fall deeper. "It's... complicated. I work delivery in and around the Rise. I used to pay off Utsubo weekly to leave me alone."
"Right. That's pretty typical. Even in the Belt, there's still taxes, just a different collector."
"I know that, but it's gotten so much worse since Utsubo collapsed. I'm paying off two or three offshoots now. One of those splinter groups just showed up, and doesn't seem to care if I do or don't pay them. They still harass me, and keep asking for more and more. I even refused to "donate" 60 cryo after they already got 20 from me two cycles before that. You can guess how that went..." Galla keeps looking over her shoulder at the door.
Visage blinks twice in a row, trying to connect with the new client. "Let me solve that mystery for free. They're dumb upstarts, twitching muscle without a brain to guide them."
"I can't find a way out of this. I'm trying to take care of my son. He's barely seven. I've been living off whatever's left of the expired rations he doesn't finish for a week now. I'm at the end of my rope. I just- I can't..." She trails off, looking at Visage with hollow eyes.
"Okay. Miss, I appreciate your situation, but this is, at least in theory, a detective service. It's just me and Rostam here, and he's about as intimidating as a bag of sand. We're not bodyguards." Rostam gives a mock salute as Visage tries to gently let Galla down. "I have connections with some of Utsubo's old blood, but none of them are stupid enough to upset their main source of income like this."
Galla's face drops further, the face of your last chance fading away. "Please, Visage... their boss was waiting for me today. H-he held a knife to me, saying things about how Utsubo was holding him back, and he's glad to be off the leash."
Rostam raises up a hand, stopping her. "Their boss. Knife guy. Scars on his arms? Awful facial hair? Inexplicably wearing sandals in zero-g?" Galla flinches from the description, confirming his theory.
Visage tightly closes her eyes, trying to figure out how she can get headaches without a typical brain, or even the ability to feel pain. "As if I didn't have enough to deal with..."
Galla immediately perks up with forgotten energy. "Does this mean-"
Visage groans. "Yeah. I'll figure something out. So as for payment..."
"I could... Do you need anything delivered or picked up regularly? I could pay you in a few months, too, I would just need some time..."
Rostam gives a pointed look at Visage, subtly gesturing at his desk drawer that holds the slate he was working on previously. The last client paid with a few cycles of home-cooked meals. The one before that with a crate of used clothes that were eventually donated.
Visage gets up from her seat, already regretting the words she says next.
"Do you know where they're holed up, Galla?"
Rostam excuses himself, and looks for the contact information of the last client. Maybe he can talk his way into a few more cycles of that dried seaweed she made.
"Well now, it's back. Looking for that ticket out? Maybe a memory leak?"
"Daichi's camped out near the Rise. Figured you'd want to know." It's Visage's turn to be smug.
Oren curses under his breath before getting up. "...I'll get some guys."
Daichi is a diseased heart on a sleeveless shirt, Oren thinks. Sadism over substance, but an attractive option for the gangster with a chip on their shoulder. His priority is the violence itself, more thirsty for blood than hungry for power. No compromises can be made with him. There is only submission. He's everything Oren hates. Daichi's survival was as much his problem as Visage's.
"Hey, Fridge, remember the last time we worked together?" Oren says, still trying to get under her synthetic skin.
"It's incredible that you weren't the worst option more than once." Visage twirls a retracting aluminum baton in her hand, trying to stay focused on a potential ambush. Broad sections of her frame were modified with thin subdermal ceramic plates, designed to be resistant to small arms and blunt force, but hardly enough to stop someone determined. Especially up close, when a blade could slide down the plates and into a weak point with ease, or a well-aimed blunt object that could mangle her unprotected joints.
Oren pulls himself along, far less concerned about a sneak attack than Visage. It's not Daichi's style. "Good times. I sold you to that salvage team so you could sneak aboard their craft. A shame about that team though, they used to fence for me. Now they refuse to dock here at all."
A pair of Oren's goons follow behind him, each one armed with a cobbled-together handgun, internals secured with tape and welded metal scraps.
"Enough. We're here." Visage floats upward towards a broken window a few stories past the ground floor. According to a source of her's, this apartment building has a pair of long-abandoned floors that observant locals had seen lights in recently.
Oren follows, one of his men now in front of him, the other behind. Visage carefully rips off the cracked window frame, entering in to the building with Oren's team close behind. She peers around every rusty corner before moving, searching for Daichi's exact location. Oren takes his men to a different direction down the hall, as planned.
A shutter door comes across Visage's path. Recently disturbed pieces of rust float around the the bottom of the door. She waits in silence, as Oren's team eventually finds her. They exchange a quick conversation in sign.
[Open.] Visage's fingers clumsily say.
[You open it. I can not pick up new organs at a salvage store.] Oren's thick hands and burly body hide surprising dexterity.
Visage uses the more colloquial sign of a raised middle finger before going to the shutter door and yanking it upward, spinning upside-down with its opening to use the door as cover on its ascent.
Daichi is there, in the open, sitting in a haphazardly welded together facsimile of a throne. He's lazily throwing his knife against a padded wall, and catching it as it floats back. The half dozen of his men inside draw weapons, including two with guns, and face the intruders at the door. He catches his knife a final time before standing up in the footholds and opening his arms. "Visitors, including an old friend! Please, come inside."
Oren speaks from behind the corner, his men taking defensive stances along the sides of the doorframe. Six was twice as many as they expected.
"Daichi. I thought you were dead." Oren says.
"Like you'd be so lucky. Who's that you're working with? They're not the one who had the balls to do what you couldn't with Laine. Odd company you keep, but who am I to judge your tastes?" Daichi shrugs dismissively, spinning his knife in his hand.
"Save it. With the last dregs of respect for you as a member of Utsubo, I'm giving you the courtesy of a choice. First, stop fucking around as a wannabe gang boss and merge into Ji-Won's outfit. She has a need for bastards like you and your people, and I already cleared it with her. Second, you can ship off. I don't care where, just off Darkside." Oren's tone is commanding.
Brief but genuine laughter echoes around the room from Daichi. "My god, Oren, is age getting to you? Why would I ever do that? People will fall in line for me once they realize the alternative." His eyes quickly focus on Visage. "Well, most people. But I can deal with them the same way as I can deal with you." He points the knife forward, aligned in Oren's direction.
"Daichi. Use your brain for once in your degenerate life. You're not the only twisted piece of shit on this station." Oren keeps his hand steady on his gun, still concealing it being the corner.
"You're right, I'm not the only one. With a bit of time, I'll be the last one. Go ahead, guys, do your thing." With a wave of his hand, he sends off his entourage while kicking off his seat and finding cover behind a support beam.
Oren pulls back his men as Daichi's own members fire a handful of wild shots. Oren and his bodyguards split up along the maze of empty corridors. Visage does the same, having memorized the layout of the building from a map loaned to her by a friend of a client.
As minutes pass, gunshots continue to intermittently pierce the near-silence of the halls. One of Daichi's overeager thugs turns a corner too quickly and catches a swift kick to the ribs, sending him out the window and into the metal wall opposite them. Visage takes the metal pipe he was carrying, and whips it down the hallway behind her, the pipe clattering loudly as it bounces from steel wall to steel wall.
Another of Daichi's gang members goes to investigate, who raises a gun as Visage throws her baton like a javelin. A shot ring out and catches Visage on the thigh, ceramic plate shattering inside her and lighting her system up with pain signals. The baton she threw crashes into the gangster's shoulder with a revolting crunch. Visage is not far behind it, propelling herself with a strong push and slamming him into the wall with the momentum. She retrieves her baton with a single smooth motion along with the surprisingly well made gun that rests in a now unmoving hand, making a mental note to figure out the origin of the sudden influx in firearms on Darkside. The subdermal plates are getting expensive to replace, after all.
The popping of gunshots becomes sparse as Visage continues to scour every room. One dust-filled common room holds three bodies: two from Daishi's side, and one from Oren's. Her attention is diverted to shots exchanged elsewhere, this time closer. She tracks the sound down the halls, and sees Oren's remaining bodyguard on the far side of a large kitchen area, exchanging fire from behind a counter. Visage loops around the room and enters silently through opposite side, catching the bodyguard's target from behind with a punch to the back of the head. She glares at Oren's bodyguard, half-expecting him to turn on her. He stays quiet, before slinking off to find his boss.
A brief search a few rooms over reveals trail of bloody hand and footprints along the walls. Visage follows as quickly as she can. The stamps of blood lead her to Oren, who is slumped near the ground at the end of the a large, empty storage room. He's bleeding badly from being shot in the side, his arms and hands covered in thin slashes of varying depth.
Daichi floats above him, but turns as he hears Visage's approach.
"There you are. Good news for you, sleeper! I'm going to kill Oren. If you'd like, you can watch before I kill you too. I've known Oren long enough to know his loathing for your kind." Daichi's injured too, but the bruised arm and swollen shut eye don't change his attitude.
Oren switches his look of hatred from Daichi to Visage, then back to Daichi. Oren coughs, before he spits out, "At least one of you two die today as well."
Daichi turns his back to Visage, holding the knife to Oren's throat. "You always were a-"
A sudden clap of thunder, and hole appears in Daichi's head, the force of the bullet pushing him head-first into the wall just above Oren. Visage wastes no time in floating over, pushing Daichi's corpse off to the side as she anchors herself on the ground next to Oren.
She retrieves a small medical kit from inside her jacket's pocket. "I hope you know how to treat gunshot wounds. I sure as hell don't."
Oren swipes the kit from her with a pained grimace, and starts to stem the worst of the bleeding from his hands first. "Put pressure on it," he grunts, gesturing at his side.
Visage obliges, pushing her hand firmly against the gunshot wound. Oren's face tightens as he tries not to show weakness, masking it with dripping sarcasm. "Damn it, Fridge, think you can push any harder?"
"Beep boop, command received, asshole." Visage pushes just a bit harder, causing Oren to curse her out as he finishes with the worst lacerations on his hands and arms before pushing her away to treat the gunshot.
Oren's remaining guard finally finds them, immediately misinterpreting the situation and pointing her gun at Visage. "Boss?!"
"Put it away, Forest. Just make sure no one else gets in."
The gunman does as he's told, moving a detached table to the door and taking cover behind it.
Oren finishes patching the wound, returning what's left of the medical supplies to Visage. He coughs, thin blood particles scattering in air around him. "I just need a minute. Forest, do a perimeter."
"Boss, isn't-"
"Now." Oren's authority echoes louder than his voice.
Forest nods, giving one last glance at Visage before he moves over the table and starts sweeping the area.
Visage sits against the wall beside Oren, taking a breather and watching Daichi's lifeless body bump against an air vent, his vest getting caught on the grille.
"Fuck you, Fridge."
"Fuck you too, Oren." Visage starts to pick out the small shards of broken ceramic from her thigh.
"I mean it. Fuck you. Why didn't you let him kill me? What's your angle?" He weakly chucks a loose piece of debris at Visage. It bounces off her shoulder harmlessly.
"If you're so broken up about it, I can finish the job." She flicks a shard of ceramic at the door.
"Cut the bullshit. Answer me." His glare is intimidating, a far cry from his usual cocky attitude.
Visage tilts her head back, watching a shell casing tumble around the room. "You're not Daichi. You're a petty, arrogant, ruthless bastard, but you're not Daichi. Lesser of two evils."
"Plenty of my crew could take my place, none of them are Daichi. Some of them might even listen to your fairy tale suggestion." Visage's attention returns to Oren. Intense distrust covers his grimy, blood-spattered face, scrutinizing her every move for a hint to her motives. "I'm not going to change, Fridge. This city needs to be kept in check, and I'm going to do it. This the home of my people, and I'm the one with the keys."
Visage just shakes her head. "I know you're not going to change."
"Then why the hell did you even come? What's there to gain for you? You have to know by now that no matter what you do, how selfless you try to look, you're never gonna get people to rally behind a god damn sleeper."
Visage takes a few deep breaths. It's not something she does often, but when stressed, its soothing for her.
"I don't want cryo. I don't want power. Hell, I can live without respect. That's not the point."
"Then why?" Oren's tone has a note of pleading.
"Someone needed me to, and I was in a position to do it. She and her kid were getting threatened by Daichi's gang for more than she could pay. Which doubly sucks for me, since this is the third time in a row I'm not getting paid."
Oren looks back to the door, the two of them silent. A few more minutes of silence pass between them, before he pushes himself upright with a struggle. "I'll run some numbers. See what works."
"I still hate you, Oren."
"Go fuck yourself, Visage." He floats over to Daichi's body, and takes his knife before leaving.
Visage takes another few minutes to recover, far more exhausted than she appears. "Crap, what time is it?"
"You missed a meeting." Rostam gets up to look at Visage as she floats through the door.
"I know." She tosses her jacket against the back wall.
"It was important. Remember, we owe the club two months rent?"
"I know, Rostam."
"Had to pay them a month's rent just to get them off our back. Well, twenty-seven cycles rent. All we had left.
"So, Sayad..."
Rostam clenches his jaw before speaking again. "I'm sorry. I'm working on getting something temporary for us both. Anything against working docks?"
"No choice."
"Nope. There isn't." He floats over to Visage, resting his hand on her shoulder. "We'll figure it out. I know you're at the end of your stabilizer cycle. If you're not feeling up to it, I can probably get the money for a half-dose in three or four cycles solo. I have security testing the militia's network lined up, if you can live with me falling asleep in the office when I'm here."
"I can go another couple cycles. I'll make it." Her voice doesn't convince either of them.
"I'll see you first thing after I wake up. Sleep well, okay? You'll need it. Oh, and you need to clean up. You're covered in blood and... what looks like brain matter. Hope it's Daichi's." He pushes himself out of the room, leaving Visage alone in the office. She feels fortunate that sleepers weren't given the ability to cry.
A burst of music wakes up the sleeping Visage, who never moved from the office chair she was sitting in to her bed, despite it being a mere fifteen feet away. Sleep only seemed to drain her more. She stays reclined, facing the ceiling, savoring the precious last seconds of rest. "Hey, Rostam."
"Not quite. I'm Gil. Oren was right, you look terrible." He speaks with concern, despite the poor phrasing.
Visage looks down, vision slightly hazy. "Oh." He looks nervous, she thinks. She floats over to him, careful not to show how vulnerable she is.
"You infuriated him yesterday, whatever happened. He spent an hour after he got back just shouting, drinking, making calls and throwing things. Never seen him like that. He has a message, and a... a gift, he called it. I don't know what's inside."
"Okay."
"Right, the message... I wanted to thank you for keeping him safe last cycle, and this isn't coming-"
"Just say it." Visage's tone doesn't come from annoyance, but from urgency. She doesn't want to pass out in front of Oren's messenger.
Gil softly clears his throat, trying to convey that these aren't his words. "I'm gonna make good on what I said I would do. You won't have to wait long."
Visage stares through him, barely listening. Threats from Oren are fairly regular, and hardly worth the time. "Okay."
Gil offers her a hinged metal box, engraved with an O. "I trust Oren with my life, but I think he's wrong about you, Fridge."
"Visage. My name is Visage. He just calls me that." The exhaustion in her voice is impossible to hide.
Gil shifts uncomfortably. "Oh. I'm sorry, Visage. Just... be careful, okay? There's something rattling around in the box."
Visage takes the box from him, opening it immediately. Gil makes a quick retreat, worried about the contents.
Inside is a note, written on actual paper, a universal sign of both wealth and respect this far from any trees.
'Fridge,
Gil's soft. Didn't want him to think this is a precedent. Checked our margins + what bonus from Daichi's stashes. You wanted three things. Can promise two. Won't scalp food and medicine, will only take Laine's old cut at dock now. Haven't been killing people, not sure where you heard that. I'm not Daichi, you said so.
Most drugs go through street vendors. Can't get rid of those. Can move them, keep them away from housing & poorest areas. Not selling to kids, not a big clientele anyway. All I can promise.
Know you don't take bribes. Don't care if you use it or not. Already had it, can't resell it now because rule 1 & because you probably think it counts as medicine even though it is for robots and not people. Know its expensive, know you are broke from being soft + a dumb bitch. Only other one of you I know is off station + I don't like them either.
Go fuck yourself, we aren't friends, lucky I'm drunk
Oren'
Three thin glass vials float inside the metal box. Visage is amazed how they didn't shatter on their way here. They're such fragile things, she thinks. She wonders what's inside the vials as she starts to drift back off to sleep. Suddenly, she snaps upright, realization hitting in an instant. She takes a vial, inspecting it closely before getting a syringe, taking the liquid from the vial in and injecting it into her arm. It's a familiar, warming and wretched feeling.
"Fuck you too, Oren." She says aloud, as the stabilizer slowly incorporates itself throughout her frame. Rostam is gonna need an explanation for where she got this, she thinks, as she closes her eyes for just a bit more sleep before the work cycle starts again.