Something was happening, and Tricksey couldn't tell what. The monks, the enigmatic men from nowhere, or who-knows-where, were scrambling in their new hive. It had been, and nominally still was, a hospital, before the terrorists had destroyed part of the upper level. The police had cracked down on the lower city after that, though of course nobody below daylight level had been involved. Something that big would have come to Tricksey's attention before it happened. Now the sign of the eye in the pyramid watched over the plaza instead of the sign of the caduceus.
Whatever it was now, it needed a private army. Sometimes they came down to the dark levels, where sunlight only came by reflection, and searched for something that seemed to be eluding them. They didn't need to be kind to the locals, so they weren't. If they'd paid for information, they might have found out what they needed to know. People on the daylight levels had more money than they needed anyhow.
Rumor said the plaza has been cleared of the grass and the plants that used to mark it out as a public area. There are barriers now: heavy stone anti-vehicle pillars, squat against the roadway. All the benches, which had long since been reconfigured to keep the homeless from sleeping on them, were gone.
At one time, the hospital had had a free clinic near the top of the dark levels. That was gone too; now it was a base for the cops who worked with the hospital, or the compound, or whatever it was.
Tricksey's friends reported to her about the changes as they happened. Nothing had affected Tricksey's home, yet ... but it might, soon. It was already starting to cause problems for her friends. The eye in the pyramid wasn't careful with people. It was a change, and not a good one.
Few would notice the figure sitting high above the city streets. Just another gargoyle amongst dozens. Silent, still. A gothic sentinel from some abandoned age. Yet, upon closer inspection, its hunched body was dressed in worn leathers and faded jeans. Prismatic neon and petrochemical flames sporadically washed across its lacquered face. Black. Crow-like. Eternally staring.
And, perhaps, most oddly, its dangling feet. Pale and feminine, painted toes crinkling in time with some unheard rhythm.
The City never sleeps. Always aware. Always seeing.
But Tricksey isn't afraid.
No one looks up. No one looks down. The World of Progress gazes only ahead. Tricksey's not of that world. So, she is invisible here. Even in plain sight.
She pulls the tengu mask back. Hungry now. Long day watching. She opens the bento box Jinx prepared. Soy and wasabi tickle her nose. Refreshing change from exhaust and metal. With chopsticks, she dips the *zaru soba* in the fragrant sauce and eats.
Between slurps, Tricksey watches the building across from her. Just as she has all day. And the day before that. She memorizes faces. Suits and stances. Windows and lights. She learns patterns and movements. Trends and habits. The Crow-Girl is patient. Her eyes are keen. She will know who these intruders are. Those who tread where they should not. Those who took from the forgotten. She will learn.
Then Tricksey decides what to do about them.
It looks to Tricksey like they're preparing for a siege. And it also looks like they're moving some things out. It's hard to tell if it's valuable because it's valuable or just people and things they don't want damaged in whatever is coming. The thing she, and the city, smell in the rain. They've done something to their chimneys. It smells different, downwind of the building. They call it "the arc". Sometimes they mean "arcology", but she suspects they think of it literally as well.
Tricksey finishes her meal. She's troubled by these changes. Trouble brewing. Clouds on horizon. Like spring storms that flood and tear. Must find the shinies. Must know more.
As day surrenders to the night, she packs her things. Time to go. Time to see. While putting on her tactical shoes, she pictures the Path in her mind, playing over the City's form and flow. Just as she has dozens of times now. She stretches out her limbs, shakes off the stillness. Time to run. Time to fly.
Tricksey pulls down her mask and then steps into space. Gravity takes her. Thrilling rush. Then smooth glass under foot. Rolling quick and tight. She slides down the mirrored surface, forty-five degrees, picking up speed. Gloved hand drags behind; a rudder upon the neon sea. Edge approaching fast. Then the Crow-Girl is flying again. Momentum takes her across the yawning void, twenty stories of air beneath her. Landing on the opposite roof. Tuck, roll, and pop up. Running over concrete and metal. Clean and untouched. So much to tag. But not now. Later. Movement now.
She crosses the City. Without pause, without fear. Freerun quick, following the Path. Walls. Pipes. Ducts. Scaffoldings. The City accommodates. In time, she finds herself across from the Arc. From the rooftop, she gazes down onto one of its service entrances. Maybe shinies here. Or someone to sing. Or way inside. But foxes too. Clever foxes can be dangerous. And this is their den. Must be smart. Must be silent. She watches and waits again.
From where she's watching, Tricksey has a good view down into the Plaza. It's clear now, and there'd be no one to buy pork buns from Melchor even if he weren't elsewhere. There was a curfew, of all things, in a city that lived in constant twilight.
Tricksey notices the security man with the binoculars on the far end of this building first. He doesn't see her, but he sees something.
Tricksey looks where he's looking. The building across the way had been abandoned while still under construction, maybe a dozen years ago. When things went disastrously wrong. That it stayed a skeleton frame said that that was what the Monks of The Arc wanted. What they definitely didn't want was it to be tagged.
By Bailey.
Of course.
Tricksey sighs. But not surprised. Passionate Bailey. Angry Bailey. Like moth to flame. Of course, she comes here. She would hear the whispers too. Want to make her mark. Tweak the fox's nose.
But if the guard sees, then the foxes know. And foxes bite.
She should be finding shinies, but Bailey may need Tricksey. Not that Bailey admits such. Never admits, only fights. Always fights. Even when they kiss and touch.
With that, Tricksey is moving again. She leaps from the rooftop. Flying, falling, landing on the opposite fire escape. Then climbing again, making her way to the abandoned building. City lights filter through its skeletal remains, all metallic bones and stolen beauty. Sheets of plastic flutter like dried skin, wires dang like tendons. Of course, she comes here.
She rolls onto an open level on the far side, cognizant of the attentive guards. Sniffs the air, trying to catch the scent of paint-chemical sweet. A call rises in her throat, crow-like and harsh. Foxes would only hear a curious bird. But Bailey would know. She cocks her head, listening for any replies.
"GO AWAY", a voice shouts. It wouldn't be audible over the wind and rain, except to someone with a great deal of very specialized listening gear. Or Tricksey.
The guard is no longer on the platform across the way.
"No!' Tricksey yells back, trying to locate the voice. Instinctively, she strides up the unfinished stairs, heading to the next floor. If she's right, Bailey will be leaving her tag somewhere prominent.
"They are coming," she adds. "I not leave you. Bailey too important."
She lightly brushes her fingertips along the concrete, listening to the building's memories, in case her companion passed this way.
When she get to the next floor, it's clear where her friend/rival/lover is. Bailey is hanging by a harness from the outside of the building, probably attached to a floor further up, and decidedly hard to get to.
"Important? Not really. That's my trick, girl. But if you escalate it, I'll get caught in the crossfire of them wanting you." It's an argument Tricksey has heard before.
She sighs. "I don't know what's going on, but it's the biggest thing since everything got blowed to shite.
"Maybe you could be leading them off of my trail? Or help. I'm not done out here."
Tricksey thinks they may've reached the building. It'll take them a long time to climb up here. So they won't. But those might not be the only ones.
Tricksey's hands flutter before her like annoyed crows, her foot stomps. Then, a defeated sigh draws out behind the mask. Bailey's stubbornness bordered on the infinite. No time to test its limits.
"Finish fast. Meet at my nest. I buy time," she says, turning away. She heads toward the stairwell. Pauses. "Bring spicy noodles. You owe Tricksey."
Casually, she picks up two short pieces of thick rebar. Spinning, twirling, testing their weight. All sound and fury and metal nastiness. They'll suffice.
The things I do for love. Not that she actually understands the concept. Just sounds like cool excuse for ye'old ultraviolence.
She descends cautiously, returning to her home amidst the long shadows.
Tricksey dances down the skeleton of the building-that-never-was, keeping out of sight from below and from the arc.
She's maybe 10 floors up when she spots the patrol, a few floors down. Four of them on that level -- rifles, lights, goggles, armor, the works. They're taking the stairs in pairs and it will be a long while before they get to Bailey. But they're high enough up that she doesn't have much choice but to get past them, somehow.
Tricksey hears the rhythmic 'thump' sound of an air-car above her, probably at the top of the building.
Clever foxes. Trapped between them, down is the best option. Easier to leap to another building from the lower levels. Need to clear Bailey's escape. She might be stubborn. Brave. But still only human.
She descends to the next landing, where the walls are darkened with soot and night. She presses herself against its wet, cold surface, waiting. Going still. Just another piece of ruined architecture. Counting footfalls. Measuring distance. Tensing muscles.
When the team hits the landing, she bolts forward, emerging from the shadows like a masked demon.
Tricksey intends to hit the rear pair, as they pass. She's hoping the impact will knock the 'outside' man off the railing, while she deals with 'inside' one. Her first move will be to disarm him him... one hand on the rifle's muzzle yanking down, one hand going over and pulling the magazine up. (It's a technique that not only keeps you from being shot, even the strongest person will generally lose their weapon because of the leverage - you can even break their finger, if they're dumb enough to have it on the trigger). Then quick leg strike and slam the rifle over their head.
The front pair are unlikely to open fire at that close range, lest they hit their own men, or so Tricksey hopes.
Tricksey has the advantage, as she does over almost anyone she's seen here. Even without using her martial arts, she's smarter, stronger, faster, better trained, and more aware then they are. But she's not bullet-proof.
The outside man goes down, slamming into a pillar and hanging on, without going over. He's bruised and at least temporarily dealt with. Tricksey grabs the rifle and yanks it from the inside man's hands, briefly having hold of it. The leg sweep takes him down, but the rifle is still slung to him, so it pulls out of Tricksey's hands. She's standing over the second one and she hears the first pair shout. They're turning, everyone is on the ground or out of the way except for Tricksey, so they might well have a clean shot at her.
Tricksey delivers a swift stomp on the down attacker's chest, hopefully breaking a rib or two. Using his body like a starting-block, she rushes the other two. Closing the distance as fast as possible. The twin pieces of rebar fall into her hands. Smooth and quick.
Using them as batons, she delivers blows to the outside attacker's joints. Wrists. Elbows. Collar bone. Striking where the armor is thinnest to allow movement. Effectively disarming him and keeping him between her and the other gunman's rifle. She pushes them back toward the ledge, depriving them of movement and options. And, if things turn bad, allowing her more options to escape.
Tricksey hits the outside guard high and low. His knees buckle and he effectively blocks the other guard from firing. She pushes him back and he slips, falling through a gap to land hard on the floor below. Some sudden movement out of the corner of her eye causes Tricksey to turn and the first guard she hit when she engaged them has recovered. He's spraying her in the face with a red gas. It's hard to see and hard to breathe and her lungs and mouth are burning.
They use this for crowd control, and Tricksey has seen a lot of people taken to medics over it. It wasn't going badly before, but now it is.
Clever, clever, Foxes! Pain is nothing new to the Crow Girl. She could stay. Fight. Likely win. But at what cost? What about the second fight? And third? No, time to be Tricksey. Time to fly.
She hurls her makeshift weapons at the man, but doesn't attack further. Instead, she snatches up the downed guard's radio and then is over the railing. Falling. Falling. Down fifteen feet. Crunchy crunchy on the toppled fox below. Rolling away and off into the shadows.
Once hidden, she takes her water bottle from her bag, pouring it into her eyes. Wash away the pain. If not enough, she uses rainwater coming through the ceiling or pooled on the floor. Stop the burning before foxes recover. Clever, clever foxes. Damn them.
The water bottle washes the red dust from her face. Her turn kept it to one side of her face, so she's going to recover on her own.
The liberated radio is alive with chatter, and Tricksey knows they can track it. They seem quite upset that there are injured guards, and they're using their code words. A quick glance outwards shows that more of the air cars are angling this way. Even with makeshift rebar bastons, air cars are not easy prey. They're hell on rooftop travel and pretty nasty if she's on the surface streets as well.
Tricksey cleans off her mask, which seems to have mitigated most of the spray. With it and her eyes cleared, she puts it back - in case, she runs into another guard.
As much as she wants to help Bailey, the clever foxes are closing the noose. She'd rather not hang for someone else's pride.
Quickly descending to street level, she listens to the radio. Both to guide her and learn what they're up to. This much heat isn't natural for a simple tagger, no matter how braven they were.
She gets to the street and away, dodging the view of the air cars. It takes a while to get clear, and to somewhere she can listen to the radio in peace. She avoids the underground tunnels, because they'll cut the radio out.
They haven't noticed the radio yet, she'd probably hear that but the chatter is about something that sounds worse. they're expecting an inspection, which indicates that there's someone somewhere else who is in charge of the foxes. A fox-boss, as it were. It's coming.
Tricksey's ears perk up at this. Fox bosses were ever so clever. And valuable. An opportunity not to be ignored, even by a flighty Crow Girl.
Besides, they hurt her. She wants to hurt them back. LOTS.
She angles her way through the crowd's ebb and flow, heading toward the pyramid. Her eyes are open and keen, looking for Corps. Those tight, clean suits that offend with smugness. Maybe they have pass or data-stick. Something she can use to get past security.
Or. She just takes one of them. Alleyway. Snicker-snack. Crow Girl gets a new fox skin to wear.
Corp types seem scarce on the ground, probably they're on security lockdown. She finally finds a couple eating at Monkey King's Noodle Counter. Monkey King is a strange one. He has a monkey tail, but it's mostly for show Some people think it's fake, but Tricksey isn't certain. It moves like a monkey's tail.
The counter is full, mostly. The only empty stool is next to the suits. The woman of the pair seems to be in charge. She's awfully interested in where he got his tail.
Monkey's are fellow tricksters. This is fortune smiling through rain clouds. Not an opportunity she will forsake. The Crow Girl smiles to herself.
Tricksey takes the seat beside the woman. She nods to the chef, pointing to the stall's menu. Spicy ramen with braised pork. "Monsieur, ee-guh ju-se-yo, arigatou gozaimasu." Every good stall owner knows City-Speak. She collects her chop-sticks, gently parting them.
To get her food,the Monkey King will need to turn and fetch broth from the steaming pot. In turn, it'll give the corpo a perfect view of his tail.
So, while she's distracted, Tricksey bends over for a napkin... and deftly lifts the woman's ID. It's a practiced move that's served her well.
The Monkey King notices her, in the mirror he uses to catch dashers. He doesn't say anything, but Tricksey's a regular and the suit's out of place. The card is folded in the napkin and out of sight before the chef has the ramen ready. It looks and smells delicious, although it's unclear what he's using for meat, or where he gets what look like duck's eggs.
"You want to go?," asks Monkey King. It's either a helpful suggestion so she won't be found out or a warning that he saw her and wants her to keep her trouble away from his Noodle Counter.
Still Crow Girls are not common thieves. Tricksters only. They give lessons, not trouble. She places enough scrip down for herself, the Corpo's meal, and a sizable tip for the Monkey King. "Monsieur, Karasu-Tengu shokuji-dai o harau. Zhàogù nushi. Faqadat albitaqa. Vraticu ga." ("Sir, Crow Girl pays her way. Care for the lady. Card is lost. But it will return.")
"Nie mój cyrk, nie moje malpy," he says back, but probably doesn't mean it.
She collects her soup, cradling the biofoam container reverently, as she slips back into the crowd..
As she passes through the vibrant arcade, Tricksey slurps her soup and listens to the radio. Here and there, she buys crisp clothing -- something more appropriate for a Corpo. She'd normally steal what she needs, but her hands are full. She'll not surrender her noodles, not even for shinies. She only changes after the soup is done. Not an instant before.
In her corp clothes, Tricksey looks like Sophonisba Bagradas, or she will with a wig. The card says she's a director in the accounting department. Tricksey has no idea why she's outside the corporate tower, unless it was for that boy she was with.
Tricksey conjures their torrid romance in her head, picturing the shy, dubious Sophonisba yearning for the impossible affections of... Chad, yes. He looked like a Chad. Chad Staunch-Shoulders McPherson. YES! The ruggedly handsome, yet woefully misunderstood corp-sec with a yearning for the simple life. Together, they would fall madly, hopelessly in love and defy their parents, running away to the Can-Euro Zone to have beautiful babies with paranormal accounting skills.
This image tweaks the Crow Girl's heart slightly. She concludes her shopping at the NuYou Bioware kiosk, grabbing the needed wig. The organic weave settles onto her head like an attentive squid, hiding the shocking colors beneath mundane tresses.
Satisfied, she hurries toward the Pyramid. One of the side entrances. Less foxes to deal with.
Sophonisba's badge lets Tricksey into the lobby, and the lone guard at the counter looks up as she comes in. He looks at his screen and reads off her name from the badge she scanned in. "Good evening, Ms Baradas. There's a routine security drill at the moment. Can you please return to your quarters?"
He looks down at his screen. "Oh, and it says you checked out with Officer McPherson. He hasn't checked in yet." The guard seems more concerned about a "routine security drill" than he should be.
Tricksey casually flips her bioweave hair back, offering a soft, distracted laugh. "Oh, he'll be along shortly. Such a dear. He agreed to wait for my take out order. Speciality dish and all that. Didn't want me to be late. Very accommodating man. Do give his superior my recommendations, yes?"
She smiles, walking past the desk, "I suppose I'll be in my quarters. I do hope this drill won't last terribly long."
Tricksey waggles her fingers and heads for the elevators, as if she's done this a thousand times.
"Thank you, ma'am. I'll pass that along." Tricksey doesn't think he will, but he's just happy to send her on her way.
The elevator takes her key-card and deposits her on a floor midway up the pyramid. Her victim is at least important enough not to have underground housing.
Having gotten this far, Tricksey has no idea how to find Sophinisba's quarters (or anything else for that matter. She's pretty far into the foxes' den, on sheer brazenness and guile.
Tricksey rewards herself with a Pocky Stick, nibbling triumphantly as she wanders through the halls.
She knows foxes are infinitely vain and boisterous creatures. So, she looks around for an institutional info-screen. With any luck, they will announce current events and activities within the Pyramid. It may even have a rough map of the complex. With this VP arriving, the higher ups would probably be performing some sort of butt-kissing celebration.
There is a screen, right by the elevator. It's badge-activated, though. It probably will track her if she uses it. Hopefully they haven't noticed the switch.
The default screen is all about the security drill. All non-security personnel to remain in quarters, fine for being out after curfew, a button to connect to the security office for assistance.
On occasion, she checks the radio for updates. It's risky, but Crow Girls thrive on risk. Besides, she wants to use it as long as possible before dropping it down a trash chute.
The radio is fancy. It switches to some internal bands inside the pyramid. It sounds much clearerl The traffic is spotty. They're clearing the plaza and they've either captured or driven off Bailey. The traffic is mostly professional, but there are moments when it sounds like the security team is looking forward to someone getting what's coming to them.
Tricksey is still by the elevator when she hears someone in the hall. Children,from the sound of it. Definitely children who shouldn't be out, according to the curfew notice.
Well, Tricksey warned Bailey. The rest was on her. Still, she must fight the urge to taunt the guards. But, no sense in tweaking the fox's nose quite yet.
The sound of children confuses her. Tricksey is accustomed to street children hounding her constantly. They begged her for sweets and stories. But corpo-kids? Weren't they grown from dividends and martial resentment?
She seeks them out, heading down the hall in their direction.
Tricksey gets to the corner where the sounds are coming from. The children, no more than four of them, she thinks, are doing something in the hall that involves very loud "sneaking". They seem very out of place in the arcology, but it's not like the brothers are kidnapping people to raise them to be corporate drones. Or if they are, they're doing it young.
Tricksey, still in her full disguise, looks around the corner. The children are perhaps teen-aged, but certainly not fully grown. They have an access panel off of a machine, and are taking snacks and beverages out of it. They have a lookout, but she's hardly paying attention. At least to anyone other than the ringleader.
It's jarringly like what children would be doing outside on a night like tonight.
Tricksey respects these little foxes for their efforts, but their execution offends her deeply. They must be taught lessons. Otherwise, they'll grow up foolish and undisciplined, and that only leads to trouble. And yet another generation of stupid foxes.
When the lookout is distracted, Tricksey walks up in her blind spot. It's not difficult with her speed and comfortable shoes. Then she stands there beside the girl, patiently. Waiting for her to finally notice. When she finally does, she politely extends a Pocky stick.
"You're not very good at this, are you?" she says, nibbling on her own chocolaty treat.
The lookout squeals and the rest of the would-be snack-machine-raiders turn to see what's going on.
The ringleader says "you're supposed to be curfewed!" He sounds accusatory.
His wingman appraises the situation. "You're not gonna turn us in, are you? We weren't doing anything really bad..."
"Loud fox. More eat, less noise," Tricksey says to Squealing Girl, thrusting the Pocky Stick bag into her trembling hands.
She strides up to the others, pulling a silver marker from her sleeve. As she talks, she tags up the raided vending machine with her CROW GIRL logo. "First rule. Leave two items on each rack. People not notice as quickly. Less chance for sec-cam footage. Get greedy, get caught."
Wingman nods. If any of them are learning, it's him. He's probably a few years younger than Ringleader, but he's got more brains.
Tricksey casually tosses the marker to Wingman. "Second rule. Not use smitten lookout. No getting caught while Bella fawning over sparklies."
She waggles her finger, tsk-tsk-tsk. "But you not follow second rule. And now you caught. But Tricksey is Crow Girl and she helps you. Not sing for the wolves. If you help her."
Squealing Girl blushes, but doesn't interrupt. Not because she failed, but because she got caught watching the boy, or at least that's Tricksey's guess. There are a few more girls, and they giggle, but it seems more like nervousness.
Another bag of Pocky Sticks appears in her hand, extended to the little ruffians. All temptation like. "Curfew for the Big Wig, yes? Where is he? How I find him? And why so special?"
Ringleader reaches out and takes it. "We won't talk to Sec if you won't." He passes one stick each to his crew.
Wingman is looking a bit wary. "You won't, though, because you're not supposed to be here either."
Tricksey nods, "Tricksey not sing on Little Foxes. You not sing on her. Fair trade." She bumps his fist with hers, as if signing some unspoken compact.
Ringleader picks up on his Wingman's cues. It's his most leader-like moment so far... "We're Biz, all long established families. Not from the Monastery. Other than school, we don't have anything to do with the Brothers."
"I saw him," says the Squealing Girl, totally missing the cues to shut up. "They called him 'Holy Father' and even the abbot bowed to him."
Tricksey points her thumb at the girl, "Tricksey likes this one." She slips her arm around the girl's shoulder, hugging her tight as they talk.
Her body is as tense as Tricksey expects it to be. The other girls are wide-eyed. Ringleader doesn't like it much that she has one of his, but he's not starting anything. But he's not ruling it out, either. He wouldn't be a problem to take down. None of them would. But they'd more likely scatter.
A moment, tapping the Pocky Stick against her chin. "Holy Father arrives. Abbot bows. Monastery clamped tight. Not normal. Not mix business and church, Tricksey suspects, yes? So, what floor brothers live on? And what they teach you foxes?"
Wingman shrugs. "They keep to the upper floors. They're a teaching brotherhood. They teach us math, and science, and literature and arts. Normal school stuff."
Ringleader nods. "This is a research arcology. But it's gotta pay be paid for, so the business and the hospital keep it going."
Tricksey purses her lips. Curious. Strange. Can't stop now. Must know more about these monks.
She slips Baradas' ID card into Squaling's hand. "You return for Tricksey. Say you found. Make corp-lady very happy. Probably get reward."
Her eyes turn to the Ring Leader, as she waggles the guard's com-unit like a doggie treat. "With this, you always know where guards are. More snacks for you and yours, Shì de?"
She lets that sink in for a second before making it disappear. "Will give. Not for free. Need guide to monastery. Then we even. You go your way. Tricksey goes hers. Deal?"
"We could get in a lot of trouble," says one of the other girls. "Good trouble", says Ringleader. He raises an eyebrow and looks at his wingman.
Wingman nods. "Alright, deal. I'm Jamie. I'm best at fooling the stooges, so it's on me. You're going to have to talk proper if you want to fool anyone. Give us the radio."
Tricksey mock gasps, "Talk proper like? But Citizen Jamie, whatever do you mean by your assertion? My speech is the epitome of proper grammar and vocabulary."
She drops the radio into his hand, "A deal is made. A deal is observed. We are watched by the Fates." The words are solemn and dark.
He hands it to his friend. "Don't turn that on until I get back," warns Jamie. Ringleader nods.
She pushes off the wall, straightening her outfit. "Until we part ways, refer to me only as Sophonisba. The name is still clean, as far as I know."
Tricksey waggles her fingers at the others, "And you, Little Foxes. Misbehave."
Ringleader grins. He finishes putting the snack machine back in some semblance of order and then he and the remaining members of the proto-gang depart.
Jamie looks at her. "OK, I'm all yours. Freight elevators, stairs, or the main lifts? Probably 20-30 stories up, to our school, then the monks are on that level and the ones above it. Once I get you there, it's up to you."
He waits for her decision on the route. "You said you're a crow girl. Is that a gang, outside?"
Tricksey shrugs, "Crow Girl is a crow girl. And people treat Tricksey as such. Gangs and urchins. Proles and patrons. I tag. I teach. I protect. Why I'm here."
He shrugs and doesn't pursue the question.
She decides on the freight elevators. Less traffic. Less explaining. The people who use them are usually invisible to those who don't. "These monks come into our territory. Hurt and displace those I watch over. Want to know why, Jamie-kun."
"Were you here when the terrorists blew up the hospital? That's when everything went to shit. If you want to know why the staff and biz folks don't mix with the city, it's because the city helped the terrorists."
Tricksey smiles, "Like you protect yours. I see you lead without leading. You have a crow in you too."
He shrugs again. It's very likely that his parents and teachers find it annoying. "Some things, you can't get done if you're younger or smaller and not built like a Holy Paladin, unless you work as a team."
Freight elevators are easy to find, along a back corridor and not very far from the snack center that the Little Foxes were raiding. Like most Freight elevators, it's large enough for freight, and it's not in a corridor that's used by people.
Jamie is clearly avoiding the security cameras. He hastn't mentioned them to Tricksey, but he knows where they are and where they're not.
Tricksey follows, keeping a close eye on her surroundings and the path they're taking. She may need to return this way, and do so quickly. She doesn't want to get lost in the sterile corridors.
"Terrorists?" she asks? "When did they attack? And why a hospital?"
"Before the monks, before we totally screwed up the atmosphere, and before I was born," Jamie says, waving his hands around. "They never caught them, and they say they were all blown up with the records room, but there are stories that someone, or their ghosts, still haunt the lower levels." He pauses as a camera swings towards them, then moves when it points away from them again.
"I think that's just stories, made to frighten children. But it's useful for keeping people inside."
Jamie flips open a panel and keys in a code, and the elevator light comes on.
Tricksey watches his motions carefully, memorizing the code. "All stories have glimmers of truth," she says. "Something that holds the threads together. Inspires the words spoken and remembered. Ghosts are just memories hidden or misremembered."
She turns to keep an eye on the corridor, in case anyone is coming up behind them. "Fear is a strong thread, though."
"Aye," he says, and slips into the open elevator. "Quickly, please."
He presses the single button of the lift. "This'll take us up there, back into the service corridors. Good enough?"
Tricksey nods, studying the elevator -- locating the maintenance hatch. She might need it on the way down. "Good, good."
She looks over at him, "Out. Tricksey not get you into trouble. This is her journey. Not Jamie's. So, thank you. Be safe, Little Fox."
"There'll be cameras at the top, as well, so look out for them. Try not to remember who I am if you get caught," he replies. He slides out and away, heading in a different direction than the one they came by.
The lift doors close and the lift starts up. It's remarkably quiet, which costs money in a lift and isn't often done for cargo elevators. It smells of work, though.
The lift arrives at the top and the door opens. The hallway beyond is well lit, but empty. There are sounds of people moving, but not anywhere really close. If she wants to stop here, there's a floor diagram in the elevator lobby.
She hops off the elevator, checking for the aforementioned cameras. Tricksey wrinkles her nose at the sterile smells and architecture. No spices. No rain. No blessed decay. Just... chemical emptiness and sour sweat. She hates this place instinctually.
She examines the diagram for an arboretum or major meeting space. If the Grand Poobah is anywhere, it's likely there, pontificating and preaching. In addition, she looks for any indication of a records room or server farm. The latter rooms might help her find out more about these monks. All the while, her ears are alert to approaching footsteps. At least the echoes here will warn her with plenty of time to vacate.
There are a few warehouse-like spaces here. They could be warehouses, server rooms, gymnasia, or a lot of things. Probably the next floor up will be better. There's an auditorium or something, and also what may be dormitories.
Not on this floor, but there's an arboretum at the absolute top of the building. They've either done something artificial sunlight or they've probably abandoned it. It's not a great place to try to grow things, with the screwed up weather.
The scientists say it'll get better. They don't say if humanity will survive until it does.
Tricksey checks locations of the various stairwells and elevators. Satisfied, she ascends to the next level via the nearest exit.
Up above, she checks for the dormitories - preferably an empty one. If she's going to move around in this place, she'd better look the part. She slides from corner to corridor to doorway, trying to stay out of sight. The thrill is getting the better of her though. So many things to look at. So many shinies to steal.
The monks lead rather austere lives. But in general, it's a better life than most people in the city live. The food is plentiful, the building is dry, and they seem to have electricity and clean water all the time.
Tricksey isn't sure what it means, but there definitely seem to be two groups of quarters in the dorms. Some have more goods, and are pushed closer together in less space, while others have fewer goods, but they are of higher quality in larger rooms. She's not sure what it means, but she thinks there may be more than one group here. She'll have to choose which one she wants to dress as.
Tricksey slips into one of the less austere rooms, glancing around. Seeing the presence of more books and autrements, she assumes this member holds more status. Of course, assumptions by a Crow Girl may have little - if any - value when judging technomonks.
With some relief, she abandons her formal pilfered attire, and slips into one of the loose pilfered robes. She keeps the bioweave, however. She doubts these fashionably-challenged monks would sport proper Crow Girl hair. Even so, she puts up the hood, just in case.
Like some inelegant nun, Tricksey returns to the corridor and heads upward - looking for something valuable and breakable.
The monks most be involved in some sort of activity elsewhere, because they are not in the corridors where Tricksey is walking. She sees several offices, with computer terminals and printers and similar tech. It's worth money, but it's not portable or particularly likely to be strategic. Nor are they particular shiny.
The next floor seems to have what look like a small number of biological labs. They've got typical warning signs against contamination, and Tricksey can see a couple of monks at work. She suspects that the experiments are more important than whatever meeting the rest are at. She's seen them through the window in the lab door, but they haven't noticed her.
Beyond seem to be more of the typical office spaces.
Tricksey tugs on her ear, considering this. As much as the meeting calls to her, this seems like an opportunity. After several moments searching, she locates an office for one of the higher ups. She slips inside, closing the door behind her. Settling in, she opens their computer and goes to work. A life on the streets hasn't dulled her skills - if anything, they've helped hone them. A Crow Girl needs to know how to play the system, to trick the Foxes, and tweak the noses of those she hates from afar. That and hack ATMs and security cams. Spicy noodles didn't buy themselves, after all.
First, she looks for meeting emails - corporate memoes and the like about the Grand Poobah's arrival. Secondly, what are they researching? It can't be all benevolent. Not with attracting terrorists and the like. The entire set-up smells like Long Chin's grease trap in high summer.
The computer is strange, or at least different from the ones used elsewhere in Tyrell City. It's not hard to figure out, but it's unfamiliar.
Tricksey finds the email and attempts to connect, but it requires 2FA and she doesn't have the token. There is a "connections" file on the desktop that has links to other computers, with stored credentials. It's a click of a moment to be browsing their remote server, with files that indicate that they are "projects", "samples", "reports" and "Tyrell --threats". Most files are big and the network is slow.
Reports has a press release in it from about 7 years back, not long after the incident, apparently. It reports on the extensive damage to the facilities and the staff who died, as well as the plans to rebuild, the historic ties of the facility to advances in genetic sciences, and the plans they have to find new ways to complete their mission of serving the community.
It isn't said in so many words, but the attack done on servers and labs sounds a lot more like something that was done by a hostile foreign power or rival company trying to sabotage research rather than terrorism.
Curiouser and curiouser. Still, whoever this outside force might be interests her. The enemy of my enemy and all that rot. They targeted the monk's research. But why? Just what were they up to?
Tricksey tries to find anything further on this outside force, but keeps an eye on the time. She doesn't want to fall down rabbit holes when she still needs to go see the Grand Poobah.
Tricksey digs into files, there's a bunch of new stuff, but it seems corrupted, in a folder labeled "Greenwood". There's a folder labelled "rebel demons", but it's encrypted. Might be decodable with a lot of compute power and a copy of the file. There's biology notes that quickly get over Tricksey's knowledge level (in that she'd need to do a lot of research to understand them). If she has to guess, there's some sort of genetic program to steal genetic material from demons and breed it into people. And there has been some success, apparently.
Tricksey opens an access port to one of her electronic dead-drops. This may be beyond her and require one of her fellow Crows to break open.
There's a lot more to look at, but the click-click sound of a handgun being cocked interrupts here, and is immediately followed by a low voice saying, "No sudden moves, Ma'am. Hands up, please."
"Stupid, stupid Tricksey," she mutters to herself. Too focused on the damned shinies again! Carefully, she pulls the folder over and into dead-drop. No telling how long it'll take to download, but may as well try.
He shoots the terminal and it goes bright, then dark.
"Rude!" Tricksey yelps.
"Up!" he barks. It's unclear if he means for her to stand or raise her hands.
There's no way that's gone unnoticed.
"You have me mistaken," Tricksey says, slowly raising her hands. She pushes back slightly in the chair, trying to see who is behind her and where in the monitor's reflective surface. "Working late, yes?" Appearing compliant, she's actually measuring the distance between the chair and her soon-to-be assailant's crotch.
Considering he has the safety off and the obstacles, she doesn't want to risk him shooting her in the back. The chair is forgotten for the moment.
Tricksey stands up and begins backing toward him. "You have me mistaken," she repeats. Another step closer. Using reflective surfaces, she tries to see if he is alone or not. If he is, there's a solid chance to disarm him. If not, she's only borrowing more trouble. "You're scaring me. Please. I'm just working."
There's at least one, maybe two more with him.
"That's close enough," he says, and she thinks he's backing up. "You can explain everything at the station. If I've made a mistake, I'm sure security commander Slice will apologize to you personally.
"We're going to put you in restraints and I want you to remember I did not hesitate to shoot when you disobeyed me last time. Consider that to have been your warning, if you want."
Tricksey feels the breath of a guard, smelling of sweat and gunpowder, behind her. He's tall, and takes her arm in his hand. If she does nothing she'll be in restraints in moment.
Tricksey sniffles softly. All crocodile tears and litten trembles. "Please. Don't hurt," she whimpers. She hides the smile as the man grows close. Her wrists waver as he tries to put her in restraints. Forcing him to focus his attention. More importantly, it'd force him to put his gun away or at least point it downward.
Bully Bois always underestimate the diminutive girl. And why not? Crow Girls look like they'd be 90 pounds soaking wet. Frail and fragile. But nothing is further from the truth. As this guard soon learns.
Tricksey's hand snaps back, grabbing the guard's wrist, twisting. She's bent pry bar. Bone and sinew are little match. A quick kick to his foot and downward yank likely throw him off balance. She tries to turn him around, one wiry arm wrapping around his throat, the other drawing his gun. If there's someone else, she shoots them - no thought, no hesitation. Just Crow Girl necessity. She can be serious too.
Tricksey finds that the guard knows some sort of martial arts, and he turns into her attack and tucks his chin. He rolls forward, which should throw Tricksey, which may be for the best, really.
She definitely hurt him, she can see that. But he's not out of the fight yet.
Sensing the shift in balance, Tricksey uses the throw's momentum to thrust herself forward. Much like her parkour training, she ducks and rolls, carrying herself toward the other guard and then coming back up, ready to strike the new opponent. Better she dispose of him first, now that her meat shield has slipped away.
A forward roll and she's up in a second, on the balls of her feet, but with the wounded guard behind her. She sees the "rude" guard in the doorway. She's face-to-face with him and only a foot or so away. She can smell the powder from where he shot the laptop.
The gun is pointed right at her abdomen. "Last chance. I'd rather not shoot you."
In the background Trixsey hears an alarm going off.
"I'd rather you didn't either," Tricksey sighs. Her hands are held in front, palms out, as if in supplication.
"Straight talk. Better to let me go now. Save the nastiness later. Would make me sad. And you not paid enough."
She tries to maintain eye contact, so he's looking at her, not her hands.
He does hesitate, almost a full second. He fires but Tricksey has moved off-line from the barrel or moved the gun off-line and the shot misses. It was a close thing, though. He drops the gun, but Tricksey is tackled from behind by the guard behind her, and goes down hard.
"Stop resisting!", says the second guard, who hasn't spoken before. The disarmed guard jumps in to help subdue her and Tricksey sees more feet in the doorway. It's unclear how many of them there are, but it's not a winnable fight in this small space.
Tricksey gives one of them a bloody - if not broken nose - by snapping her head back. But after the satisfying crunch of cartilage, the fight goes out of her.
"Fine!" she says, laying there. "I stop."
And for the moment, she does. Crows know when to wait, especially when surrounded by angry foxes.
Tricksey feels the warm drip of blood onto the back of her neck and knows she accomplished her goal, at least as far as blood is concerned. She's quickly cuffed behind her back and the guard on her back gets up. He gives her a stiff kick in the side, not enough to break ribs, but enough to take out his frustration with her, or at least start to.
Tricksey refuses to give him the satisfaction, hissing back the pain. She just smiles up at them, "Bravery before valor?"
"Steady on," says the one who's probably in charge. "Haul her up." The bleeding one and one of the ones from the hall do so.
The lead fox comes up to her, and looks her over. "Thank you for stopping. Now, stay stopped," he says to her. "Even if you were to run, you're cuffed and the floor's on lockdown. You can explain how we made a mistake and you mistakenly sent Xavier to the hospital once we get to the station and have our little talk, yes?"
He's clearly expecting some response from Tricksey. She notices two more guards in the hall.
Tricksey shrugs, "Don't like loud noises. Or bullets. Maybe not shoot my work next time." She grins between them, "Maybe hurry, though. Nose is itching." She rattles the cuffs for emphasis.
The second one holds a handkerchief to his bloody nose. "So's mine, lady. Best if you don't do anything that will spook young Baldur over there. He doesn't like bloody noses much and he'll gas us all to avoid my fate. We'll wake up in nice hospital beds."
"Come along," says the leader.
The one who kicked her shrugs. "Yeah, you can tell us how your 'work' involved our honey pot at the station." He grins, unkindly. Clearly he expects her to be surprised.
Tricksey stares at him with avian disinterest. "I'm sure I don't know. Nor do I wish to know your proclivities, considering your propensity for hitting harmless women." Then she smiles. A dark, hideous thing shared between only them. She's going to kill this fox. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But he'll die screaming. It is an inevitability.
The look disappears as quickly as it appeared, her body slumping into mock haplessess. "Let's end this, so I can return to work, shall we? Those DNA sequences won't shape themselves."
Last modified: 25 September 2021