It's not quite panic. It's not quite terror. It's some squirming, ghastly marriage of the two; some rubbery, tentacled, thing thrashing and coiling and slowly snaking its way through your throat. You can feel the skin-scarring suckers clinging to the very base of your tongue. You can feel your guts churning, briny and laced with bile. You press your PDA to the flat of your leg, and force words through the block.
"Y-yeah everything's fine! Just fucked up a freeware game heh. I um...uh" your voice is high pitched, strained, you're a lousy liar apparently; somehow you always manage to forget, no time to think, no time to mull it over what do you want what do you want what do you want right now?
Your eyes flick fearfully to the screens and you see yourself. See it. Your skull dyed in twilight shades. Shadows of overlapping teeth, outlined in indigo. The rivers of qi that flow through it edged in rich, royal, purple. See the shifting, saurian, bone beneath. A reptilian deathshead, fossilized in flesh. Your mouth opens; you swallow and see the meat of your esophagus bob in grey and blue. See ghostly jaws shift and spread beneath the skin; one set sliding across the other.
"S-so tell me about the runners." The words come out in a croak. You smile weakly. You ignore the skeletal grin on the screen. You don't even let yourself glance at it, don't even let yourself think about it. Sweat trickles down your temple. Your tongue is dry. Everything tastes like synthetic leather.
"Mm?" The Surgeon rounds the corner. Leaning over to hook the chair, the small stool, a little closer. He braces himself on the base of your table and slowly, gingerly lowers himself down. "Just in general? Geodaehan has a fair few. Some, uh, patchwork teams? And loose freelancers to spare. Not as many as some places but my till's-"
"No!" You say, your voice rising. Awkwardly loud for the small space. You cough, you'd scrub your face if you could move your arm without drawing attention to the screen. But at least he's looking at you now; that slitted visor is fixed on your face. He hasn't started screaming, he seems more bemused than anything; you take that as a good sign.
"I mean," my runners? Is that what you were going to say? It was wasn't it? There's a white-hot coil of outrage behind your eyes; paired with a deep, rumbling, purr in the back of your head. "Jiaolong's crew."
"Oh! Oh, I can't tell you much about them I'm sorry. This isn't exactly an accredited clinic and I'm pretty sure my license's lapsed but old habits die hard, heh." He folds his hands, rests them in his lap. "Besides, The Captain would throw me off the bridge if I started leaking private details of preferred clients. And that's a long drop to some cold water."
"Well yeah but," the ember subsides, enjoyment ebbs; anger and pleasure flowing into a predatory sort of curiosity. Two parts lazy frustration to one part how fucking dare he? The trickle of sweat on your temple long since forgotten. "I just met them last night and I don't know anything about them. I'm new to this. To all this. So just...whatever could help me get my feet under me. Please."
Not quite begging but close.
There's a pause. The moment dragging out between the two of you. His mask tilts down as he studies his feet. Out of the corner of your eye you see the screens jump. The harsh purple, the interlocking shadows, all vanishing; replaced by a more normal anatomy. You relax. Just a bit. Not by much because some part of you, some alarmingly large part has at some point become pretty fucking invested in this.
"Alright."
You feel a small surge of triumph. You fight down the urge to hum, the best you can do with the inside of your throat coated in faux-flesh.
"They're new."
"Huh?"
"They're new. Showed up...second week of December? Around then. Rooms in the Maw bought and paid for courtesy of the King. Their, uh," he taps the back of his hand against his palm "backer! Handler? Histrionic guy, does the all-gold type thing." Your PDA wordlessly seethes in your palm. Digital silence laced with haughty affront. You ignore it. "Been here since. Honestly I don't know much about them. Their street sam has her own cyberdoc who comes by once a week to do maintenance and I'm grateful for it; her work is a bit outside my wheelhouse. Jiaolong is self sufficient. Mostly I've just talked to Glowworm and their combat rigger."
"Fenrir?" You look at him curiously. You hadn't pegged the mountain of muscle for the drone-y type.
"Yeah. He's okay. Doesn't say much; but he also doesn't bitch about sterile precautions. Compare to most of my regulars he's a sweetheart. Ultimately most of your team is decent enough really, considering this line of work. Glowworm though-" His voice falters. There's a moment of contemplation.
"Mr. Esser watch out for Glowworm."
"What? Why?" You ask, suddenly wary.
"Because you're so fresh at this that you've still got the plastic wrap on and Glowworm's the type that's been at this a long, long time. He's a hacktivist. Or I guess 'information terrorist' is the formal name now, not my business. But most of their breed gets burned out sooner rather than later, or buried in a deep dark hole under a mountain of drek."
"...But I don't think he's that much older than me."
The Ship's Surgeon just looks at you. He patiently waits for you to do the math. Your weary, battered, brain sluggishly turns the problem over.
What's that saying? There are old soldiers and bold soldiers but no old, bold soldiers? And Glowworm's not that old but he's a veteran, a cut above veteran really if he's working for the King. So he has the skill, the experience. Years living and thriving in a job that mandates absolute secrecy, absolute silence. And all the while, at the same time, he builds uplittle hoards of data to let loose into the world at the time of his choosing. Sure, most of your knowledge of runners comes from security seminars and the trideo but you know enough to know that people like that don't last long in the profession. No honor among thieves but brand recognition is God right? Or face or reputation or...whatever. So that was the real question: what kind of man would Glowworm have to be to make it this far.
Your thoughts heave themselves across the finish line. You think you know the answer.
"Oh." You say. "Oh."
The Ship's Surgeon pats your leg and turns to study your screens. The next couple of minutes pass without conversation, the Surgeon murmuring to himself as he jots down notes on his slate. Scanning from display to display. Tracing the flows with his stylus. Boxing and zooming in on patches of color or bits of black. Finally he sets his stylus down. With a click the lights cut out. The arms creak and squeak as they vanish back into their box. You sit back up, tugging your shirt back on.
"So...how am I doing?"
"Unofficially? Softer than a soy-tray. I expect to see you again soon." It's a joke, you think it's a joke, you can sort of see the shape of his smile beneath the cloth mask (you pray to God it's a joke) "Practically you're good to go. Nothing permanent, just some bruising. Clean bill of health. Not quite right off the corp assembly line but you're still close."
You swing your feet off the table and stand unsteadily. "How did-" he just looks at you as if to say "please". You roll your shoulders, hunching in just a little. "...Thanks. Jiaolong said to send the bill to him?"
The Ship's Surgeon taps the side of his visor, brace whirring. Definitely grinning now. "Already taken care of."
He turns away, tacitly dismissing you. You obediently file out back to the still empty waiting room. Your PDA still clutched in your hand. You turn it over, the black distortion pulses. Waiting.
"Am I ever supposed to tell them?" You ask softly.
[NO.]
Seconds tick past. The cursor eventually drops down a row, grudgingly hammering out a new line.
[NOT YET.]
"When then?"
A few more moments for consideration. The cursor pulsing a luminous, lustrous gold. Rich against the black backdrop. It shoots across the page, leaving glowing letters in its wake.
[ANSWER CONTINGENT UPON TONIGHT'S EVENTS.
NOW.
I HAVE EXPENDED TOO MUCH ATTENTION ON YOUR SMALL AFFAIRS.
THERE IS MORE THAT I MUST SEE TO.]
"Wait!" The cursor holds in place. You run your fingers through your hair, hastily fumbling the words out. "You, um, covered up the scans. Am I really going to be okay?"
[YE-]
There's a pause. You wait. Foot bouncing. You get the distinct impression that the King is reviewing the data for the first time.
[YES.]
The distortion cuts out. You glance back at the chairs. Emil is lazing across the cushion. Bored and tired; you know the feeling. You beckon, he gets up, stretches, and trots to your side. Gathering his black booted legs beneath him and leaping up into your arms. You carry him out the door; the silver-armored dwarf with the dog swears under his breath as the hound starts growling again. Tugging the leash, bringing him to heel in Korean. Fenrir waits, stolid and impassive.
The sun's getting low. Jiaolong will be back soon.
[ ] You still haven't seen The Captain. Jiaolong said you should. But you've already put it off so late...ugh best to get it over with you suppose.
[ ] Enh. You probably still have time right? Talk to Fenrir. He's right there after all, and you're curious now about the whole rigger thing.
[ ] Enh. You probably still have time right? Talk to Glowworm. If only to get his side of things. And to curb all the speculation you're doing.
