Work Text:
"Gooood morning, V!" Rostam opens the door with a dramatic flare, backed by the explosion of music behind him.
"That's not your usual grunt. Since when are you a morning person?" Visage leans back, crossing her arms. Rostam in a good mood this early is concerning, since something seems to be bothering him lately.
"Since that lady who called out a hit on the notorious gang leader you assassinated actually paid up. After fifty cycles I assumed we were shit out of luck, but I'll be damned if there weren't actually two hundred chits in hand." He holds out his open hand, pantomiming holding something heavy.
"Okay, first of all, that's not what happened with Daichi. Yes, she wanted a solution, and yes, I did kill him, but... forget it. Second, Galla probably can't afford two hundred, send back half." Visage wonder why Rostam insists on calling it an assassination. Daichi was the first person she had ever killed, and hopefully the last.
"She actually offered three, and I didn't want to make two trips on account of your bleeding heart. So naturally, I decided that the last thing a business needs is too much money. Thank me later." He crashes into his usual seat, a bit more forcefully than intended, pushing his hand against the wall to avoid tumbling over his seat. "More importantly, we had two hundred. Now we have twenty and fully paid rent."
"Maybe we should just move. 6 chits a cycle is a pretty big expense, and there's plenty of open space around here to set up shop."
"And lose out on all the private security the club has? I'll pass. Besides, I like the ambiance."
"You like the drinks." Visage says with amusement.
"An Ambiance is my favorite cocktail. Club's specialty." Rostam snaps his fingers at Visage, making her roll her eyes before she goes back to checking messages.
Visage had started the agency alone from inside an abandoned apartment, around five hundred cycles ago now. It was nearly impossible work, keeping her head down from Utsubo and still finding ways to help out. It wasn't until she met Rostam and recruited him to the agency about four hundred cycles ago that they really made any headway, working under the cover of a former leader in Utsubo named Ankhita. When Laine was exposed some two hundred and fifty cycles back, they truly started to find their own footing on Darkside.
It's been fairly smooth sailing in the fifty or so cycles since Daichi, she thinks. Oren kept his word on all accounts, though he's been pushing at the edges of the deal. "Not technically scalping" wasn't what she had in mind, but essentials are still affordable. For now, at least. Firearms have been cropping up more and more. They used to be a bit of a rarity, now it seems every third wannabe gangster has one. She tried to get Oren to give the name of their supplier, and was instead met with an example of the problem pointed at her head. She's confident it's not him peddling them, however, or else he would have outfitted everyone in his gang with them. Maybe Ji-Won? Oren did mention she would have taken in Daichi. Not much reason for that except for violence...
"Is it turned on?" A man says, standing by the door.
Visage looks at Rostam for guidance, who looks at her with equal confusion before he speaks. "Sorry, she's just distracted by another job. Can't get into detail, but every option is ruled out.. except... actually, give me a minute." Rostam starts furiously searching through data.
It briefly concerns Visage how good Rostam is at blatantly lying.
The man at the door looks convinced, and seems to wait patiently for Rostam. Visage speaks up instead. "So, what can we do for you?"
He looks a little surprised. "Oh, is it voice activated or something?"
She jumps into her well rehearsed speech after a long sigh. "Right... so, I'm Visage. I'm a sleeper, a human mind emulated on a synthetic body. No, I don't know whose mind was emulated, and no, I don't care, since I'm my own person. No, I'm not an AI. Please talk to me directly, you don't need my partner to talk to me for you. Please use 'she' instead of 'they'. No, I'm not trying to stare, I just don't have a blinking reflex. Yes, I can beat the living shit out of most humans, if that's why your here and you have a good enough reason. And finally, I do not want to hear your philosophical opinions on if I'm actually a person. I am, and if you disagree, keep it to yourself."
Rostam pipes up with, "You forgot the part about not fixing broken tech."
"I figured I could start skipping that part. No one would ask that after the rest of the monologue, right? More importantly, who are you, sir?" Visage looks the man up and down. Day laborer of some kind, based on the practical clothing and heavy, magnetized boots. He's taller, light brown hair, and a scruffy beard. Carries himself well. Muscles developed from hard work, even in zero-g. All things considered, fairly attractive.
"Yeah... Name's Teodor. Look, no offense, but this is kind of weird for me." He looks more confused by Visage than put off. Typical ignorance of sleepers, she thinks. Oh well, she'll take ignorance over prejudice any day.
"I understand, Teodore. Most people come in here and do a double take, or stare a bit too long. But yes, Rostam does just look like that." She turns her head to Rostam, hoping to get a rise from him. Their odd office dynamic in front of potential clients has a hidden purpose: humanizing Visage to the client.
"I'm this close to cracking the case, V, don't distract me." He waves his hand dismissively, like shooing an insect.
Teodor can't help but crack a smile at the playful banter. "Sorry, sorry. Just lemme know if I say something rude."
"Don't worry. I'm pretty thick-skinned." She taps on an exposed metal plate on her shoulder. She's found that humor usually dissolves the awkwardness, even if it makes her feel a bit uncomfortable to draw attention to her most obviously non-human parts.
Teodor nods, loosening up a shoulder. "So... few of the guys I work with have been having trouble."
"What kind of trouble?" Visage asks.
"It's like... okay, so do you eat food?"
"I find myself skipping lunch more often than not lately, if that's your question."
Patience is a virtue, she reminds herself. Not everyone knows what sleepers are. He's just uninformed, not unintelligent. She rattles through a few more platitudes in her head to keep from getting too irritated.
"...yeah. So there's been something off with the taste of the rations, and I just got sick a few cycles back. Never been sick in my life. Three of my buddies have too."
Visage closes her eyes to focus. Infectious disease is rare on Darkside, due to strict quarantine and decontamination procedures at the docks, so maybe it is the food. It could also be the cargo, but Oren is usually pretty strict about decontamination...
She opens her eyes. "How many people are eating these rations?"
"No idea." Teodor says. "Foreman gets them for our crew, but they're the same pretty much everywhere at the Wash Gate."
"I see. Do they look the same? Same packaging, same label?" Visage leans down a bit, trying to look less intimidating. Even when people come to Visage for help, they can be put off by her.
"Now that you mention it, they used to be in thick clear packets. They've in this crappy thin clingy stuff the last few dozen cycles though. You think its the packaging?"
"Maybe. Can't rule it out, even if the time frame doesn't fit. Long shot, but do you have any of the older ones from before the taste changed?"
"Nah, I get hungry, so I eat them. Hungry is when... yeah, you get it." He nods to himself.
"Mhmm. So possible food quality issues. Yeah, we can figure this out for you. A bit outside our regular wheelhouse, but nothing we can't handle. So, as for payment, what can you afford?"
"Is there, like, a price list?" He glances between the two detectives.
"Nope. Just pay what you can. You seem like an honest guy, Teodor." Visage realizes she hasn't blinked once. Damn it, too late to start now without it being weird.
"Really? Well, the guys all chipped in forty, but I brought a couple hundred of my savings in case it was more than we thought."
"Just forty from you as well is plenty."
"Thanks for that. So for the twenty guys-"
"Twenty?" Visage cocks her head slightly. Did she mishear? Are they actually getting paid?
"Uhh, yeah." He holds out an old toolbox, brimming with chits held down by netting. "Were you expecting more?"
Visage goes quiet for a moment, running the math in her head a few times in stunned silence. "No, not at all, this is more than enough. You've got a deal." Visage offers a handshake a bit too eagerly. Teodor cautiously accepts it, still somewhat intimidated by the large synthetic person with unblinking yellow eyes, marred by scratches, patchwork sections of teal and green vinyl-like skin, and suspiciously bullet-shaped depressions and scars.
Teodor scratches his neck. "So... I'll give you my contact info, then I'll let you two get back to that other thing you were working on."
Rostam looks up at him, blank faced. "There is no other thing. That was a lie to cover up for V spacing out in front of a potential client."
Teodor looks at the detectives one more time, about to say something, before changing his mind. He leaves, a blast of music as always coming through the door.
"Rostam..." She look wearily at Rostam, who is as casual as ever.
"I know! Usually it's just 'go sort out a dumb argument' or 'punch a guy'. But for 800, hell yeah, you can play customs inspector and go bring back a sample for me to give to a friend to analyze." He gives a thumbs up with both hands.
"I meant telling him you were lying. Why do you insist on making us look stupid?"
"He already paid. I'm not going to lie to an active client. Only a potential one." He smiles condescendingly at Visage like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
Visage gets up, and starts preparing for the trip out. "You're a weird guy, you know that? And that's coming from me."
"Aww, that's sweet of you. Have fun out there!"
Visage tightly holds on to a guardrail. The dock she was sent too looks normal from a distance, shabby but stable, active but not busy. Probably not a trap. She had considered that the absurdly high payout was to throw her off guard, and to rush in without thinking. Then again, 800 isn't much to the people who would want her gone.
She turns on a well-used pair of magnetized boots, lightly pulling her to the ground. All of the workers here wear them, a safety measure from the threat of a misplaced step sending you off into abyss. She takes a bit to adjust to walking again after so long in zero-g. She imprecisely stomps over to the dock.
All eyes turn to her as she slowly approaches. Being stared at isn't an usual occurrence, but they seem uniquely fixated on her. Worse, they don't turn away when she faces them. A short, irritated man tromps over. She assumes him to be the foreman, based on the deck he's holding and the irritated shouting.
"What the hell are ya doing here? This is a work zone! Sleeper or not, you can't just walk in here when there's cargo moving!" He gestures wildly while pointing out the crew moving huge metal crates and the heavy equipment surrounding them both.
"Of course. Let me introduce myself. My name is Visage. I apologize for intruding, but I have business to attend to here." She tries to yield to the foreman while also asserting a small level authority. A difficult balancing act.
The foreman's eyes narrow slightly upon hearing her name. He recognizes it. "The mercenary?"
"I prefer detective. Mercenary gives people the wrong impression. You understand." A comforting smile tries to reinforce the point.
His expression does't change. "Right... makes sense, I guess. My name's Ghasem, by the by. So wha'd'ya want?"
"Honestly, it's easier to talk over lunch. I'm a bit unsteady on my feet here."
"Mhmm. Hope you're not expecting gourmet, its just ration packs." He eyes her up and down before walking and waving her to follow.
"Can't really taste it anyway. It's all the same to me." Visage says. Judging by Teodor's description, a limited sense of taste might be welcome in this narrow circumstance...
"Lucky you. Stuff's gotten worse lately." He leads her over to a series of benches and tables, with a ration pack dispenser in the center of each one. He scans his work ID, and the dispenser opens. He takes two, offering Visage one. She takes it, and sits down.
Ghasem's eyes nervously scan the door to the large docking bay. "What did we do wrong that brings you here, sleeper? I doubt this is a house call. If you're on Oren's payroll, we've been-"
Visage can't resist interrupting him. "No, no, I'm not. In fact, last time I talked to him, he had a gun in my face."
"Damn. Not saying I don't believe ya, but he's always struck me as a pretty hands-off guy." Ghasem takes a bite of the ration.
"He usually is. We go back a bit, though, and I seem to have a habit of getting in his way." Visage looks closely at the ration pack, studying it for any identifying marks.
"Don't doubt it. Have always heard that you're a good one, and doing right ain't always what Oren's after. You treat people right, and you're right by me. Still, I do have t' know why you're here if you want me t' help." He takes another bite, chewing quickly.
"Of course. I've heard workers have been getting sick lately, and I've been asked to look into if there's anything wrong with the cargo, ration packs, even a repair job unknowingly using radioactive metal can do it." She looks over the dock for any recent additions.
"Ahh, you're the one Teo picked. You're welcome t' look around. I'm sick of my crew having t' stay home. I still pay 'em for the day when they're sick, but I also have t' hire temp workers who can't put their boots on the right feet."
"Thank you. Usually I have to do work around shitty people taking advantage of their workers. Glad you're keeping them fed." Ghasem nods with pride, a strong smile on his face growing.
"Speaking of food, Ghasem, would you happen to have any of the older ration packs, before the packaging changed? Right now it's one of my only leads." She tilts her head at her unopened ration packs.
Ghsame glances at his own half-eaten ration, before giving Visage his attention again. "Wish you told me sooner about the food. Either way, I don't just keep around old food. I know it's made in Darkside, somewhere by Flicker Row. It's... hang on, HEY, HOPCYN!" Ghasem shouts out mid-sentence.
One of the workers walks down the side of a ship, magnetic boots clicking against the hull with ease, and onto the docking bay floor. He takes his time getting to Ghasem and Visage, before cautiously sitting down. "Yeah..?"
"Do me a favor and check your little hoard of old rations for one of the older ones, with the good packaging. Visage here would like one."
"I... I don't..." His eyes refuse to focus on Ghasem, instead dancing between Visage and the ship he was unloading.
"Oh cut the crap. I'll keep pretending I don't see you taking extra if you don't pretend that you don't." A hard stare makes Hopcyn shrink back a bit.
Hopcyn quickly gets up, and hustles over to an empty container rigged with an airlock that was set up as a break room.
Ghasem sighs a bit. "Don't mind him. He's a hard worker, just got a big family 'n grew up poor as dirt. Ya know how it is, you grow up without always having food, it's hard t' shake the urge to stockpile. Ain't like it hurts the bottom line, so no harm."
Hopcyn returns, holding a pair of older ration packs. They're indeed in different packaging.
"Thanks, Hopcyn. You can keep the other. They just need the one."
"She, actually," Visage interjects. All sleepers look more or less the same: androgynous. Maybe she should get one of those pins...
"Thought 'they' could be anyone." Ghasem looks curiously at the sleeper.
Visage shrugs. "I prefer she. I'm a woman."
"Live your life, then. Hopcyn, she would like a ration pack." He looks at Visage for confirmation, who lightly nods.
Hopcyn gives one to her, hesitantly waiting for Ghasem to chew him out. Ghasem shakes his head "Don't worry, I ain't gonna ride your ass about having some extra food squirreled away. No harm done, you can take as much as you want, things cost like two chits each." Hopcyn appreciatively smiles before hustling back to unloading the ship's cargo.
"Need anything else, Sleeper? Happy t' help." He tosses his half-eaten ration into a waste vacuum.
"I should be good for now. Wait, actually..." She leans in close. "Unrelated, but has there been any usual shipping you've heard of? Lots of guns have been getting on station, and I'm trying to find out how."
Ghasem thinks for a moment. "Harv's crew has been working more lately. He's a good guy though, maybe just ask about the extra packages. You can mention my name if he's cagey."
Visage stands up, holding both ration packs and shaking Ghasem's hand. "You've been a huge help. Really, this has saved me cycles of snooping."
"Anytime, miss." Ghasem maintains his expression, taking a bit of pride in getting it right.
Visage ignores her mild hunger and exhaustion. Eight hours have gone by of exploring dozens of places in Flicker Row. This is outside her usual stomping grounds, and is held by one of Oren's rivals. Without friendly contacts, it's a long process to get anything done. It's only made worse by Flicker Row's design.
Flicker Row is Darkside distilled, a long series of large halls, corridors, and alleys illuminated on all sides by flickering billboards and cloudy windows. Shops and stalls litter the Row, haphazardly crammed into whatever empty spaces their owners could find. Despite the numerous mapping attempts made by both Ankhita's militia and the gangs themselves, the only reliable navigation method is experience. Something Visage does not have.
Her eventual solution was to just grab on to a shipping vehicle that she was told delivered the ration packs to the docks, and hoping not to get noticed. It paid off, miraculously, as the vehicle stopped in a small garage Visage remembered passing three separate times earlier. She kicks off the truck, and floats to the glass front door of the business, one "GINKGO & CO" raised slightly off the ground and built a few degrees slanted when compared to the street.
Visage pushes open the glass door, as a man at the front desk fails to notice her. The room is white, a notable rarity on the omnipresent gray of Darkside. Smooth tile floor and fake houseplants complete the look of an office space, though the lack of furniture in the lobby is liminal enough to keep from feeling comfortable.
"Excuse me." Visage says, floating forward.
"FUCK!" The man jumps back nearly slamming his head into the back wall. "What the hell... oh. A sleeper. Damn it, don't scare me like that." He rests a hand on his heart, trying to slow its racing.
"Sorry, didn't mean to. Just need to talk to you." Visage blinks in a recently rehearsed pattern, confirmed with Rostam to seem mostly natural. Three seconds, two seconds, three seconds, one second.
"We do have a position open, but it's more of a desk job. No offense." He glances behind him at a large window, revealing workers in gray and brown chemical suits working with heavy equipment.
"None taken, since I'm not here for a job. I'd like to take a tour of your manufacturing process, if I could."
He eyes her skeptically. "And why is that?"
"Quality assurance?" Visage offers weakly, trying to keep the conversation's tone light.
"I don't report to you, and I'm doing my job fine. Don't know who you are either." The secretary is not amused.
"I'm serious. I'm here for quality assurance, on behalf of someone at the Wash Gate. Apparently your ration packs have new packaging and a diminished taste." She looks through the window behind the man, who pushes himself in front of her to hide what's happening.
"Pull the other one. A sleeper doing taste tests. I'm not unlocking the doors. Who put you up to this? Was it Randi? I'm gonna have a word with him. Go space yourself." The secretary taps a weapon holstered on his hip. Another gun, she thinks, same mass-produced model.
"I'm just going to take a look, get a sample, and leave." He's hiding something, she thinks. No doubt.
The secretary's exasperation is bleeding through every word. "I'm not going to let you do that. I'm the one in charge of this place, and I'm not going to let anyone through. I'm not gonna get fired over you wanting a free sample."
"Why does this place even have an armed manager? Why are you guarding ration pack manufacturing of all things? At this point, I'm pretty sure this is the problem." Visage crosses her arms, sternly staring the man down.
"Fine, FINE! Fuck!" He throws his arms in the air. "Look, this isn't about ration packs. This is one of Ji-Won's businesses. You know, Ji-Won. I'd rather not get into the specifics, because I enjoy not being dead. Whatever your problem is, you're done looking now. Find another supplier or something." He scowls, hand now resting firmly at his hip.
Visage holds on to a railing, losing herself to thought. Why the product changes? Was making people ill intentional?
"Shit. Not good." The man looks at a terminal on his desk.
Visage looks back at the manager, who seems to be waiting for something.
"Huh?" She tries to determine why his expression changed from serious to scared so quickly.
"Bad news, she's here. I'm sorry.
The door opens behind Visage, held open by an armed woman in work dress. Through it floats another short-haired woman in a tailored black suit, her sharp eyes hungrily taking in every detail of the situation, before locking on Visage. Behind her, a trio of guards, carrying mass-produced automatic military-grade firearms. At least it narrows down the biggest customer...
"Visage. I don't believe we've met." She floats to Visage at eye level, roughly ten feet away. Her assistant in the dress stays close behind her.
Visage maintains the eye contact, continuing the practiced blinking. "I don't think we have. Ji-Won, I assume?"
She moves her eyes across Visage. There's no mistaking it at this range. Ji-Won reeks of being an ex-corpo. A suit that's far too well tailored, a posture that seems to always be looking down at who she speaks to, and the subtle feeling of being trapped next to a starving lion. "Are you here running another errand for Oren? Perhaps trying to off another rival of his?" Her guards keep their weapons in front of them, the manager hiding behind the desk.
"Wait, what?" Visage tries to process the accusation.
"Don't play dumb, 'detective.' I know why you're here. I know quite a bit about you, in fact." Her voice is even, her presence authoritative and cold. Much more like Laine's quiet menace than Oren's everyman approach.
Visage eyes dart to each of the rifles held in gloved hands. Their wielders are clearly well trained, not like Daichi's motley assortment of street urchins.
Visage's attention moves from the guns and back to Ji-Won. "I know what it looks like, madame, but I'm just here to find out what's making some dockworkers sick lately. Signs point to the manufacturing of these ration packs..." Visage takes one from her pocket, the guards raising their weapons with fingers moving to their triggers as she does so.
Ji-Won looks at the ration pack, and back to Visage. Her cutting glare loses some of its edge, a carefully plucked eyebrow raising slightly. "This was your backup plan in case your flimsy cover was blown? Food inspector?"
"I know it's a bit farfetched, but that's all there is to it. Look." Visage takes out the other, older ration pack. "See the discoloration on the newer one? The cheaper material? I'm not sure if its the plastic leaching into the ration, or if its-"
"Enough. I have to make a call. Stay here." She drifts to a corner of the room, maintaining a remarkably elegant stance despite the lack of gravity.
Her enforcers keep their weapons trained. They're too disciplined, too practiced. Visage can't find a means of escape if they start firing, she realizes. She starts to breathe deeply, uncommon fear creeping in.
Agonizing minutes precede her return. When she does so, her authoritative, untouchable aura has a crack of rage burning through. Visage starts breathing a bit heavier, trying to keep calm.
"I had to apologize. To Oren." Her tone betrays the rising anger. "When he said you were stupid, I thought he was simply underestimated the competency of a sleeper. But no, how foolish of me, believing you had an ounce of self-preservation. All the care that went into your escape from whichever corporation held you, and you're willing to risk it on this." She gestures at the rations in Visage's hands. Visage tries to meet Ji-Won's burning eyes, but can't resist looking away, as though she was staring at a boiling sun. "Now, sleeper, you have me invested in this meaningless waste of time. How exactly did you come across this grand ration conspiracy? You have my undivided attention." There's a subtle pity that tinges the barely subdued anger in her voice, as if she's ready to put down an injured dog.
Visage starts talking, rambling out every detail. "Well, I run a detective service in between the Rise and the docks. I can give you the location. I try and solve people's problems, ideally for cryo, usually for a heartfelt thank you. That's actually how I found out about Daichi's reemergence. Woman came to me about a guy with a knife-"
Ji-Won's impatient glare is enough to get Visage back on topic.
Visage rattles off her investigation, trying to include everything she can, besides the specifics of which dock and names of workers. As she gets to the part about tracking the truck, Ji-Won cuts her off.
"Ahh. I see the issue here. I'm going to have a word with the factory head cowering behind the desk soon. I imagine this was meant to skim from the overhead funding he receives, as I was not told about this change." Her poise largely returns, anger being bottled for another. "Visage."
"Yes, madame?" Visage waits for her instruction on how to not be killed.
"If you have future issues in my territory, I expect you to come to me directly and inform me of the situation. I have a policy against outsourcing any issue resolution. However, if a problem has spiraled so far beyond my reach that you hear about it before I do, that is a failure on my end. I apologize. Rest assured, I will solve this particular issue personally."
"Of course, madame. I apologize for interfering."
Ji-won's look of approval before turning to the desk calms Visage down significantly. As Visage slips out of the building, she looks down at her shaking hands, surprised she's still alive.
Visage never felt fear, not like that, at least. She lays in the small padded bunk in her room at the back of the detective agency. Why now? She's faced worse situations before. Escaping Essen-Arp's labor camp, letting a shady mechanic put a ripperworm into her tracker... none of that scared her. What changed since then?
When she started doing detective work, helping people was not her main objective. It was to stay busy. Sleepers, she's found, have a tendency to overthink. To dwell. To get lost in a million thoughts about humanity, about their place in the world, about their mortality, about their bodies decaying. She is not the contemplative type, and never was. Dwelling on things she cannot change only serves to erode the sense of purpose she's worked to create her on Darkside. And now, she realizes, she's started doing it again.
She rolls over, looking through the one-way window on the door to her tiny room. Rostam is chatting with Galla, who had brought over freshly made pastries. Teodor had sent a message about a recall notice on the ration packs, and Ghasem had messaged that he'd spread word around the docks about firearms getting in.
That is the change, she realizes. There was something for her to lose now beyond her fragile and carefully cultivated identity. Something precious she didn't want to let go of. Something she would work and fight and rage to hold on to. Something she took solace in, keeping her mind drifting from the spiral of self-destructive brooding as she closed her eyes to sleep.