Tricksey is led to an elevator that goes even further up into the arcology. This is surprising, somewhat, since the cells she know about are all in the lowest levels. They must think of her as a special prisoner. They don't speak much, and they don't remove the cuffs until she's in the cell, and reasonably searched for hidden weapons (which are all duly cataloged and removed).
The cell is small but serviceable, with a cot and a sink and a hole in the ground, but no cell-mates. She looks into the next cell and the occupant of the cot in there sits up and rubs her eyes, and starts laughing.
It's Bailey.
As they're undoubtedly being watched, Bailey's interactions have likely just blown any chance of her lying her way out. Even so, she remains outwardly dismissive, in case the cells aren't wired for sound.
Tricksey begins pacing the chamber, looking its inevitable flaws. "Not listen, I see. Almost feel bad trying to help. Hope you tagged something wonderful to make this worth it. Disappointed in you."
Bailey shrugs at her disappointment. "Yes, Mother, I'll never live up to your expectations, not like my sister, married to a nice doctor. I've seen all those vids. Anyway, it's dry and they feed ya, so I've had worse nights. More roomy than some of my crash-landings, as well." She gives a tagger's hand-sign for "camera", which Tricksey of course already noticed.
The cell has flaws, including that it was never meant to hold a crow-girl. The lock is electronic but of a type that could be opened, although not without the risk if there is an alarm. (There will be an alarm. Crow girls know better.)
Tricksey hordes all the information together like shinies. Escaping might prove troublesome. Moreso considering she needs to get Bailey out too. Time will tell who they're dealing with; an added factor she needs to know.
She sits down by the bars to Bailey's cell. "Straight talk," she says softly, weaving subtle hand signs into her talk to confuse anyone watching or listening. "These monks are playing god. Hurting our friends. May not let you go. Rather my Bailey not end up in protein tube. She is precious to this Crow Girl.
"You see anything help us both get out? Hear anything?"
"Big shot giving a talk, or something. Maybe pinning a medal on his own chest. All the bosses are busy right now. Give it an hour and it might be a good time to make a move."
She looks around. "Out of the cell is a long way from out of the pyramid."
Tricksey smirks, "Tricksey will see to that." A roll of the shoulders, "Wanted to see grand poobah, but Tricksey will need to wait. Want out before they clip our wings."
She leans back against the bars, "My Bailey okay? Cruel foxes not hurt her?" There's genuine concern in her voice; a guileless affection and longing.
Bailey shrugs, and nods. "They can twig themselves with a splongette. Searched by professionals, I was. Narders disinfected me." She looks amazingly annoyed. It takes something for her to get that slang-y. Once upon a time, Bailey thought she'd be a teacher, before it became clear that that wasn't going to be possible for them.
"Get me out of here and we can cuddle up over noodles and vids."
Tricksey emits a low purr, "Cannot think of better encouragement." She turns her head, smiling at Bailey softly. For all their arguing and petty rivalries, she loves this human. As much as a Crow Girl can love, anyway.
She hops up, dancing from foot to foot, filled with renewed purpose. She'll kill for cuddles, if need be.
Tricksey circles the cell again and again, preparing their escape.
Tricksey takes inventory of herself and her cell. She tests the bars on the doors and applies a small amount of current to the lock so that it opens without breaking the alarm circuit.
Bailey watches her and when Tricksey nods, she starts convulsing, and screaming for help. Three guards rush in and open the cell while Bailey twitches on the floor.
Bailey's would-be rescuer takes a boot to the face while Trickesy bursts out of her cell and takes out the two unsuspecting remaining guards. Bailey picks up a handgun and puts it in her belt.
"Guards are never the best foxes," she replies. "Let's get out of where they can lock us in." She grins. "Time for your part of the plan," she says, grinning.
After rifling through their belongings for weapons and sec-passes, Tricksey helps Bailey dump the bodies into the cells. If her equipment is around, she grabs that too - with any luck, it hasn't been processed yet. She hurriedly changes into one of the uniforms, and falls in behind Bailey.
"Service elevators," she says, trying to retrace her steps from when the guards brought her here. "Have the code for them. Should be able to get us out through the lower levels. Just look forlorn." She hopes anyone seeing them will just assume their guard and prisoner. But the fewer eyes on them, the better. When possible, she avoids any main thoroughfares.
Tricksey does her best, but it's hard to find a path back that isn't covered by cameras and guards. She starts to wonder if they were allowed to escape so that they could be 'shot while escaping'.
Bailey seems nervous; she's fearless on the side of a building, but doesn't like being inside. "If we keep this up, we'll end up at their ceremony. Are we being herded? Are we doing what they want us to do?" A door slams, and Bailey jumps.
Bailey is a lousy spy.
Tricksey lightly shoves Bailey from behind, acting for any cameras. "Quiet, you." And then in a soft voice, "Quiet. You jumpy as pigeon on Fast-Mo. We be swarmed, if they already know."
She hides her own worry. The relief squad are likely to find the guards soon. She wants to be heading down before then. A shoot out is not something she wants. Ultraviolence wasn't the pathway tonight.
Needing to risk it, she looks for an info-vid. Hopefully, it can give her directions to the service elevator or stairwell. Barring that, they might just have to go out the window and ride the pyramid down. She's not happy about the latter option. She'd probably be fine, but Bailey would likely be a greasespot at the bottom.
Tricksey finds a the info-vid. It probably takes her photo as she approaches, but they had her in their cage, so it's not like they haven't seen her face. She finds a few things easily. One is a commissary, complete with a snack-room like the children were raiding earlier. Another is the laundry, which may have inter-floor drops. And then there's the garbage collection chutes.
So, it's all bad ideas, but she has options other than grease-spots.
"With our luck incinerator on tonight," Tricksey mutters foully.
Not willing to risk the latter, she nudges Bailey. She points to the board, "Commissary, first. If too crowded, we go for the laundry chute. Assume you know your vent climbing, yes?"
"Better with gloves, for things hot and sharp. Things other than my temper which are hot and sharp, I mean."
Tricksey nods, "Extras in my bag, if you not have some."
Ah, the bag is probably locked in a security office safe. She didn't see it when she exited her cell.
One more thing on the foxes' bill, to be paid with interest. But there are gloves to be found and used.
Tricksey hurries her pace. Time is at a premium. And, just in case, she rechecks the weapons she pilfered from the guards. She wants no surprises at the last moment.
The halls are full of shadows, but the trip is short and uneventful. It's a small, self-service commissary, more of a snack room the a dining hall. It has a monk in it. Brown robe, tonsure, the whole costume. He's making popcorn in the microwave and brewing coffee.
There's access to the vents, just over the coffee machine.
Tricksey lightly touches Bailey's shoulder, "Hold back. Will deal with him."
She advances into the room, nodding politely to the monk. She hopes her stolen uniform gives her enough authority to belong here. "Working hard, sir?" she says in casual conversation.
He nods, absently. "About 2 minutes, if you'd like a cup. Gotta warn you, though, it's decaf." He seems kindly, helpful, and utterly in the wrong place at the wrong moment.
As she passes behind him, she uses the guard's stun baton to gently guide the man into unconsciousness.
Unwilling to harm him too much, she aims to catch his form and gently guide it out of the way of any camperas--such as a cupboard or storage closet. SHe takes a quick moment to search him for IDs or sec-passes, which might come in handy later.
Tricksey keeps him from taking any more damage as he slumps to the floor. He fits, with some re-arranging, in the service closet, but only inside the large round bin on wheels. Tricksey guesses he'll be asleep for a few hours and wake up with a headache. It sounds better than some of her awakenings, actually.
She comes back and Bailey has pushed a table over to the coffee machine, and she's up on it, using part of the microwave to pry off the vent.
"I go first," she says, deftly climbing onto the counter. The vent doesn't give her much trouble, especially with Bailey's help.
As she's shimmying inside, "If you fall, I catch. Stronger than I look. Stop us both from dying."
Once inside, she pauses. "I go down little way. You follow. Then stand on my shoulders. Pull that vent back. Take the foxes longer to find."
Tricksey descends a few feet and then braces herself against the sides of the metal shaft. With a heavy breath, she readies herself to take Bailey's weight.
"If I hurt myself on your hard head, it'll leave a bruise..." says Bailey, without hesitating at all.
She climbs in and Trickey catches her as planned. "What's the plan now? Fart until they all leave?"
Tricksey snorts. "Just no fall. Show Tricksey you have what it takes to be real tagger."
Tricksey almost hears the eye-roll. "Give you your first spraycan, you may remember."
With that, she slowly descends, using her back and legs for leverage. The process is stop and go, as she carefully guides them in the darkness. She uses the sporadic sources of light to count the floors, guestimating how far to reach the ground level. Occasionally, she needs to pause, hearing sounds and voices. She doubts they're making enough noise to be noticed, but at this point, she's not risking anything.
It's 50-60 floors, assuming ventilation stops on the ground level. But it doesn't matter, because the ventilation actually stops at what may be the end of the monk levels, a dozen stories down.
The air plant for the top floors is here. Looking through the vent, this is where they finished building the arcology on top of the restored hospital. Tricksey can still see the signs of the damage the terrorists left, and the repairs that were made. What used to be sunlights are now just weird windows to the next floor down.
It's almost like they're isolating the hospital from the rest of the arcology.
Tricksey takes a breather and a think. She hopes the data got through before the fox had his hissy. This place is getting curiouser and curiouser. If not for Bailey, she'd spend some time sniffing around. But the Crow Girl needs to get her ward out. Not look for shinies.
"How you holding?" she asks. Genuine concern.
"All things considered, I'm still speaking in complete sentences. So, on that note, I'm not in a cell, but I'm still in a building full of people who would be happy if I was dead." She shrugs and grins, but it's not really sincere.
"I never did like Twosdays."
Carefully, she emerges from the vent. If there's repairs, some might not have taken. Those windows, for example. They seem the best way through to the arcology.
There are two ways of opening the roof windows. Tricksey could brute force the painted-over hinges and latch, or she could just break the glass.
As much as she desires the dramatics, she's not about to turn herself into a lacerated meat product.
Tricksey tears out one of the vent's metal slats and levers it under the latch. Even with her gloves, the makeshift tool hurts as she begins prying the hinge free from its moorings. The low hiss escapes her, as the latch buckles and bends, finally ripping free. Not subtle, true, but effective.
It's remarkably loud when it snaps.
She glances over at Bailey, holding her shocked gaze for a moment. "What? Crow Girl work out."
Bailey doesn't look like she's got anything to say.
Tricksey leans over the opening, carefully, seeing what's waiting below.
Looks fine. Pipes, wires, plumbing, lots of steam, good for concealment. Should be a cakewalk.
"Go," Tricksey says, directing Bailey through. Once her companion descends into the service space, she half climbs in, using her feet on the plumbing to steady herself. As before, she pulls the covering back, blocking their exit. A cursory look will reveal the damage, but better than being completely obvious.
Once down in the relative darkness, she begins the journey further down. Without guidance, it's hard to judge how many floors they got to go. But with some luck, they'll find a true service shaft to speed things up.
Tricksey follows Bailey down into the service space. Whoever merged the arcology on top of the hospital must not have been concerned about this part of the space. It isn't really connected to the other parts of the building except by the roof access, and that's also a closed door. But the old attic and crawlspaces are perhaps less scrutinized than other spaces.
Bailey points out footprints, tags, and discarded beer cans.
"Central Train Depot for losers up here. It's like being home."
Tricksey starts removing the uniform, returning to her pilfered street clothes. She crawls up on a forsaken crate of Nu-Food, legs folding beneath her. "Tagger heaven," she mutters, doing another equipment check, seeing what she has to work with and where best to conceal them.
"May want to move here. Winter home," she smirks.
Tucking the pistol behind her, she nods, "You need rest or we keep climbing? Am fine either way. Should be easy sailing from here. Think we could camp here, if need be. Let heat cool."
Bailey looks around. "Not very defensible, and someone else's nest. They may come back. Or they may be watching us now, waiting for us to leave or sleep."
Tricksey doesn't think anyone is watching, but unless it's armed security, she's pretty confident she could take a tagger if they attacked.
"I want to move. You owe me noodles."
Tricksey jumps off the crate. "Noodles." This sacred word, above all else, inspires her to action.
She examines the various service tunnels leading off the room. Taggers and staffers tend to leave marks and signs to find their way. One of the trunk-lines points her in the right direction.
"Down and out," she assures them both and heads toward--what she assumes--will be one of the main junctions. She's had enough of this place. Her body aches and she's getting hungry. Woe to those who might stop a Crow Girl on her way to noodles.
The old hospital has some parts still walled off. Sad reminders of the terrorist attack almost a decade ago. Those parts of the building just weren't fixable, or at least not worth fixing. At least according to the people who came in and started making decisions.
It's a long and boring climb down dozens of stories of empty space, all with signs that there have been people-shaped rats-in-the-walls for many years. Like actual rats, it's easier to infer them than to see them.
The lower floors are the first time Tricksey's danger sense tells her to beware. It looks like they expect her to try to get out at ground level.
Bailey points out a tag. "Hah. Mott was here. He says there was a sewer passage and it's blocked."
Mott disappeared six or seven winters ago.
Tricksey slows their pace, becoming increasingly cautious. She's expected they might be waiting for them. Funnel the rats into the trap. A twinge of regret hits her. She's suddenly misses Mott. Seeing the tag feels like the years were invisible. The shock of hair and proud smile playing reflecting behind her eyes.
Then it's gone again. There is only the Now. Time holds little meaning to Crow Girls, memory or no.
"Go quiet now," she says, "Foxes are listening."
"Frig 'em sideways," replies Bailey, but mostly complies.
She descends into another engineering crawlway, bypassing the street level exits. Nor does she care about the parking garage.
Instead, she takes them into the humid, fetid bowels of the building. Where the steam and electrical tunnels mesh with the guts of the City. The sewer might be blocked, but the City's arteries and roots invade even the most secure building.
It's not the wide luxury of traversing the sewers of Tyrell City, but there are places where the technological veins and arteries of the city's data grid exists. Much of it abandoned, including a shared passage with a lot of cable connections. What stands out the most, in the noodle-shop of cables strung haphazardly everywhere, is that there is a door marked with the Foxes' symbols. Everything else down here is just normal writing.
It's locked, but it doesn't look like it's alarmed or monitored. There are cable guides next to it leading into whatever room this is. Whatever this is, it predates the monks' arrival, but it's related to them.
Tricksey cocks her head. As much as she wants to simply fade into the City, the symbols inflame her Crow Girl spirit. She needs to know more about these Monks.
"Pit stop," she says, kneeling before the door. She examines the locking mechanism, hoping it hasn't rusted shut with the steam and water down here. Her tools are makeshift; the real ones left at the roost. But hopefully, they'll do as she goes to work on picking the lock.
"That better say 'Ye Olde Noodle Shoppe' in Monkish," says Bailey. But she sets herself as lookout, as if they'd never not worked as a team.
The lock is ancient, practically medieval. Which is surprising, since Tyrell is far newer than that. It's like someone made a movie down here, or some corp boss type with more money than sense imported an ancient door from a castle or something. Or a church.
The lock is also well-oiled and Tricksey could pick it in about seven seconds. Bailey could pick it. Jamie could probably pick it. It's like it's there to be picked.
And in just as long as it takes to think that, it's open. A passage leads away. The air smells different (though not bad, per se) and it's colder in there, but not air-conditioner cold. From the way she's sniffing, Bailey smells it, too.
Tricksey stands up, dusting her knees. The lock goes into her pocket. Safe and snug. New precious. Somehow familiar, but she doesn't know how.
"Not noodles," she says, stepping across the portal.
She pauses. Glances back. "You don't have to come. This is Crow Girl business. No telling what I find. Could be good. Could be bad. Could be nothing."
Bailey looks annoyed. "Right, I'll stay right here, in the middle of the Monk's temple to the banality of Evil, then? They probably won't notice you raiding their Noodle Shoppe. Let's get going. Sooner we do, the sooner we eat."
"There's that spice that excites," Tricksey says, stepping beyond the portal. "Extra noodles for you."
She draws her pistol and slowly advances. Her eyes are attentive and keen, looking for traps. This not-so-abandoned place feels wrong. Is wrong. No sense dying down here when they're so close to being out.
The tunnel is long, and weird. Smooth flagstones and lights hung at intervals like it might be a mine, except no sign of mining. No catacombs, which also is how it might look, and weirdly, the cables run in one direction.
"I haven't smelled air this fresh in a long while," says Bailey. She's right. There's no metallic or oily smell, and it's hardly even as musty as someplace this low should be. She does see air exchangers, but they shouldn't work that well.
Eventually they reach a door. It's broken and there's blood around it. Tricksey thinks they're further from home than the distance they've walked.
Something nags at the Crow Girl. Something old. Something forgotten. She dimly remembers swirls of cherry blossoms and black feathers. A dream? A memory?
"This is a sacred space," she says. She knows she's leaving home behind. But she must go on.
She pulls the broken door aside and steps through the opening.
Something burned here. Small but fierce. It scarred the walls in a tight explosion. Tricksey can't smell it, so it wasn't in the last day, but it was recent.
She hears the hum of machinery ahead. That's new. The tunnels have been silent for a while.
Bailey puts her hand on the blood and it comes away red. She holds it up to the light. "So it that a sacrifice or a sacrilege?"
Tricksey flinches. "We shall see. These Monks have many strange ways." She gestures behind Bailey, "Make sure nothing come up behind us."
She shakes her head. "Maybe fighting? Someone hurt? We walk where we shouldn't. But cannot let someone die alone."
Even so, she heads toward the mechanized sounds, gun still held close and ready. She only pauses here and there to check the burn pattern's direction. And for more blood.
The violence here looks like it was personal, mostly. Perhaps a few explosive or burning rounds of exotic ammunition at the end, but the door at the end of this hall, the one before the machine room, was ripped from its hinges.
This room looks like a proper secret laboratory, but one that's been destroyed.
Someone burned a lot of books and computers and specimens in the middle of the room, someone pulled computer equipment out and took it with them. And several people died here and were left in place. The air smells more like home, but it all tastes a bit different.
It's underground, and cold, but if they were doing medical research here, that's probably to their advantage. Somehow it feels wintery.
There's a main hallway that leads away from this lab/office, and it looks like there is a ladder at the end of it.
Maybe it is a secret lab.
"Looks like a supervillain's lair after the heroes foiled his evil plans," says Bailey, "or maybe the heroes lair after the villains got 'em." Bailey watches too many vid-toons.
Tricksey turns her head, quirking an eyebrow. "This. This is why we love you."
She picks up an ashen piece of metal - probably an old IV stand. She uses it to push and shift through the pile of burnt debris. Maybe something escaped the heat lower down. "When Tricksey hacked into computers upstairs, she see genetic research. Strange things. Maybe they move their work higher."
Tricksey shakes her head, trying to push out the invading thoughts. "This place feel familiar. But... not right..."
Bailey nods. "You do work in secret basement lairs that you're ashamed to let people find out about." The filing cabinets have been ransacked, as have the desks. She looks in the garbage. "They eat bananas. Remember those? I thought they'd gone extinct in the big eco-collapse. Also, they throw away papers that they forgot to burn."
Tricksey rolls her shoulders, "Crow Girl remember much." She continues her rummaging, "And yes. This is a place of hidden sins. Tread lightly."
Between Bailey's work and Tricksey's own searching, a handful of papers seem useful. They have documents in three scripts, only two of which even look like the letters Tricksey knows. The shorter one uses a script that feels like she should know it, but doesn't.
What she can read of it is mundane. It mentions a few items stored in "the vault" and there is a complaint about people eating in the "lower lab". They are to use the break room to avoid contaminating the specimens.
"Shit all here," says Bailey. "Keep going?"
Tricksey nods, "We're committed now. Fate les us here. We must answer its call."
She searches the walls for any identifiers; signs, symbols, etc. She wants to find this lab and vault. "Curious who destroy this place. Monks must have more enemies than us."
Tricksey looks, but there's noting written on the walls. It's not like they needed to differentiate this from all the other secret basement labs. There's labels on some of the cables routed along the ceilings but they're useless for her purposes. "C-14" and such.
Bailey nods. "Lots of things could've happened. Fire to cover a theft. They could've summoned a demon they couldn't keep in their magic circle." She smiles.
Bailey doesn't really believe in demons, but they exist in the myths and shows and vids of her youth.
"But I like the idea of finding people who want to burn their secret labs. Can point them at the Arcology."
Bailey moves down the short corridor to the ladder going up from the tunnels and squints up into the darkness. "This one is for you."
Tricksey snorts, "Yokai not come from summoning rituals. They simply are. And protection symbols mean little." She taps her nose, "Why Crow Girls avoid them."
She tosses the labeled wire away, "Think they feeding information to computers above. Many databanks. If people try to destroy what is learned, they likely fail."
Pausing over the opening, she stares up into the darkness. "Five more minutes. Then we go. Feathers are ruffling. Bad sign."
Tricksey ascends the ladder, eyes turned upward, in case something is waiting.
Tricksey pushes open the trap door and looks around. Her first take is that the place seems to be entirely deserted and without power, like so many of the buildings in lower Tyrell City. She thinks the fight came through here. There's blood on the floor, but no bodies. Someone had time to remove the casualties.
It's cold here. She thinks she's somehow walked to Winter.
There's a glass window that makes Tricksey think 'security office'. They all have the same feel to them, somehow. Through the window, she sees an absolutely ruined building that was once a marvel of modern efficiency. It looks like it was hit by a hurricane in a blizzard. But through the destroyed facade, Tricksey sees bright sunlight.
Bailey calls out, "anyone up there?"
"There was," Tricksey calls down. "I am not sure what I see. Or how to describe. Best see for yourself."
She climbs out of the trapdoor, and cautiously heads toward the light. The sun is a rare thing in Tyrell City. She can't recall when she last saw it, beyond the smog-smeared glow over the cooling towers.
So many mysteries here. She's witnessed destruction, certainly, But this goes beyond mere combat. This is an erasure.
The devastation is pretty widespread. Furniture tossed everywhere. What looks to have once been a multi-floor glass facade is knee-deep in broken glass. There's a lot of water damage and it looks like something below-ground blew up as well.
There's blood on the floor, but no signs of bodies.
Through the demolished remnants of that giant glass structure is a peaceful river valley, covered in snow and sloping down to a wide, slow river before rising on the far side of things. The devastation here seems particularly targeted. Somehow.
"This is different. But not," says Bailey, after her own moment of taking things in. "They've got a thing for hospitals, I think." The monkish writing is still on the walls here. Bailey gestures to the opening. "It looks like a vid out there. A cold vid."
The building looks to Tricksey as if it was what the people in the past would've considered "futuristic". A couch is still a couch, even if it's got funny pointed angles on it.
There's more blood in here, and doors that should logically lead to more of the labs and wards of the hospital.
"No vid," she says. "Is real. We travel."
She's unsure of what that even means, but dealing with the true quantum ramifications of whatever this was could wait.
With the temperature down, Tricksey glances around for additional clothing or protection. After the claustrophobic humidity of the service tunnels, the cold feels profound. It takes her a moment rummaging to find some undamaged clothing - probably personal effects left over from whatever transpired here.
"Stay close," she says, venturing further into the building. She pauses from time to time, trying to assess what the Monk's language is trying to convey.
The symbols are tantalizingly close to legible, and some are obvious: the pictogram for fire on the flammable material, the human figures on the rest facilities, and such. The rooms have letters on them as well, at least on one side. They also look out onto the vast bucolic snowy scene. On the interior side of the corridor , there are rooms that don't have windows. The outside would be hospital beds rooms, the inside is labs and offices and wardrooms.
There's been a fire in the corridor, recently. And possibly a big explosion. It's not a building in good shape. It looks like it was wrung out and tossed back down. But there aren't any bodies. Not any whole bodies, anyway.
Some of the windows are boarded up. Those wouldn't have survived the attack here.
Bailey picks up an expended shell from some old-fashioned gun. Simple and effective.
Tricksey memorizes the twists and turns as she moves from room to room, for when they need to retrace their steps back to the trapdoor. She's enraptured by the sheer wrongness of this place. Not the violence, even though that inspires curious speculation. But the world outside. A world that makes no sense spatially. Nor chronologically. She wasn't trapped that long in the Pyramid for the morning to arrive. And snow? Not even the worst Weather-Control mishap could result in that wintery landscape.
She turns to Bailey, "We are no longer home. If we go further, there's no telling if we can ever get back. Do you wish to go forward, Bailey?"
Her Crow Girl eyes sparkle with worry and wonder.
Bailey trails her hand along the wall as she walks. "We didn't walk long enough to get to a place like no place in the world. Back when we got stories from Lothrangia and Rajasthan, some of the fantasy talked about walking into Fairyland and never being able to get back.
"I didn't expect Fairyland to have old-fashioned typewriters and abandoned hospitals."
She looks around. "It's a mystery and I want to know more. But I really hope we find some fairy-noodles soon."
Tricksey glides over to her, all crow sleek and smooth. She gently pulls the woman to her, touching their foreheads together. The warmth is soothing, grounding her in familiarity. "Am glad Bailey is with me."
She gazes into her companion's eyes and then quirks a grin. "Let's find noodles, yes?"
And then she skips away, the moment over. New adventures await.
Using her memory from the Monk's pyramid and the various surroundings as a guide, she tries to find something akin to a control hub or security office. Somewhere there might be a full map of the facility or information about this world. Because it was a different world. Of this she has no doubt.
The security office was back where they came out of the floor, but there are layouts on every wall. The one nearest to her was damaged in a fire, but there's another not far down the corridor. It's possible that what she thought was 'an attack' might have been 'an escape', with a vengeance. Or many vengeances. She's pretty sure she's identified numbers, based on the sequence on the map and the plates on the doors.
It's easier to find things like symbols for stairs or fire extinguishers or big red arrows pointing out fire exits than to figure out if that refirigeration unit is for a morgue or a kitchen.
Along the way, she collects what trinkets and useful tools she can, shoving them into a makeshift satchel. No telling when night might arrive and she wants things ready for the cold and dark.
Crow girl does crow things.
It's a good point. Shadows were long before they dodged back inside. The hospital rooms were probably more welcoming, with beds and all, before the attack took out most of their windows. And there's no power or heat, so it's going to get cold in here.
"I don't think it's been long since this place got smashed," says Bailey. "Where did the survivors go?"
"Looks like retreat," Tricksey says, kicking over some burnt wood. "Someone make this place and its people hurt. Personal.
"Maybe take survivors? Or they become Monks in our home. Hard to tell."
She angles toward the building's exterior. Before they make their own retreat, she wants to see the world outside. Maybe get clues from that revelation. Along the way, she makes marks for herself, pointing back toward their 'entrance' to Tyrell. She doesn't want to freeze to death in this place. The warm storm drains are looking better and better.
There were jackets in a closet in the security office. Bailey will fetch them, if they decide to go outside. The building has (or had) a lot of windows, and was probably once both light and warm on the inside. Now it is neither.
The world outside is a fantasy of winters of the distant past, with the sun going down on the far side of a the wide river valley, with equally impressive buildings dotting the far shore. The river is navigable, and there is a boathouse at the end of a road from this place.
Bailey thinks it was a mansion that got converted to a hospital.
"Monks don't fight. Monks pay people to fight. Nice racket."
"Keeps blood off their white robes," Tricksey says, slipping the jacket over her shoulders. She breathes in the crisp air. It tastes too real, too unfettered. It is alarming and liberating. Again, she's struck with nostalgia, even though she was too young to remember those better times.
She looks around for prints in the snow. If the attack was recent, maybe something remains of where they -- and the survivors -- went, if anywhere, in this world.
There's a road, it was plowed, but not since the last snowfall. There are fresh tracks in it. They come from what's probably a garage. Might be an ambulance bay, if this is a normal hospital.
There are also some outbuildings, including what looks like a stable. It doesn't look like it's in use.
There's a boathouse at the end of the road. It's probably not used, but it might have a boat in it.
There are bootprints around the front of the building, as if someone tried to start boarding up windows and gave up for the day or out of recognition of the futility of the task.
"Forward or back?" she says to Bailey. "Not wish to drag you from what you know. Not sure if noodles are out in that...." She casts her hand over the treeline. At least, she suspects those are trees. Strange seeing anything natural.
"I ain't gonna be the woman who went to the moon and sat in the car because it looked windy." She looks at the trees. "Are you seriously asking if noodles grow on trees?"
"Then we do this proper like," Tricksey says, smirking at the retort. "No going back until we've seen the man in the moon."
She heads toward the garage. With any luck, there's another vehicle there or some stored supplies. More likely they'd be going cross country than seeing if the river's free enough for using a boat.
Approaching the garage's exterior, she draws her weapon. Whoever was prepping the place for winter is likely gone, but no telling who might remain behind to watch the place.
The garage has a lock on the door and a security system that probably doesn't work with the lack of electricity since the explosions. It's easy enough to get inside.
There are two vehicles here.
One is an ambulance.
The other is a hearse.
"That's one way to hedge your bets," says Bailey.
Tricksey retrieves a nice piece of metal from the ruins and uses it to make easy work of the lock. Once inside, she searches the vehicles for keys. If they aren't there, she suspects they'll be nearby - maybe on a hook or in a desk. It's doubtful someone would keep the institutional set on them.
There are keys in a cabinet behind a desk in the office.
"Hearse, it is," she announces. "Looks stylish. And someone to lie down in the back."
If the vehicle runs, she begins loading it with supplies. They'll probably need them wherever this trip takes them.
It runs, but it's very primitive. No navigation, no flight, nothing but a throttle and a steering device.
Bailey has found a medical chest in the ambulance, picked a lock, and is picking up vials of pills.
"These may be fun. Can you drive? Can you even read the street signs?"
Tricksey looks up from loading the vehicle and smiles. "Enjoy! Trip on a trip.
"And played enough Vid-Sims," she says, crawling into the driver's seat. After inspecting the controls, she revs the engine to life, allowing it to warm up.
After a moment, she adds, "Drove ghost cab in low-town. This not far off. No VTOL. Pity."
When they're settled in, she guides the vehicle out onto the snow-covered road. Slow and sure, while she gets used to the feel of it.
The roads around the place are not very easy to drive on, and hearse tends to fishtail if she gets too much speed, but it's drivable. There are lots of signs around the grounds, mostly simple arrows with symbols, like a red cross, or one with a car in between lines that looks like a parking lot. There's a building that looks like a garage, or if this place is old enough, a stables. And the boathouse down the way.
Most of the roads are winding circular things, but it's pretty clear where the exit is. And Tricksey can see a guardhouse at the exit. It's not clear if it's staffed.
"Check glove compartment. Maybe has map or other goodies."
"Ahead of you," says Bailey. Out of the corner of her eye, Tricksey sees a glint of shiny gray metal and she hears the distinctive sound of a bullet sliding into the chamber of a handgun. It doesn't seem that old-fashioned at all.
"Good to go. You think they had trouble with their passengers?"
Tricksey slows the vehicle as they approach the squat guardhouse. If they're going to have trouble, it'll be there. Hard to explain someone driving up to an abandoned medical facility. Driving down from said facility would be even harder to yammer through.
"I think these Monks attracted a lot of trouble. Passengers or no," she says. "If people in shack, we talk. Then shoot. No sense killing more today. And don't want holes in my new ride."
She pulls up alongside the guard shack, rolling down the window to check for life. Empty or no, she stops. It's another building she wants to search. Plus, no telling if the exit gate is locked.
There's a big, gilded gate that's swung shut and has a chain across it. There's a sign on the gate that probably says 'closed' from the outside. And the guard shack seems empty. Except for the camera. With the green light on it.
"Eyes on us," Tricksey says. "Careful."
She exits the vehicle, leaving it running. She approaches on the camera's blind side, glancing into the shack. She checks the door next, forcing it, if needed. She suspects the CCT is being fed elsewhere, but there's always the chance it's local, Either way, she wants to deactivate it. And, if she can't do that, she intends to point the camera away from the gate. No sense in people seeing their faces as they break out.
Bailey follows her to the gatehouse. Tricksey can easily deactivate the camera by the expedient of pulling it from the wall mount. There's an electronic control for the gate here, with a big red button.
"I say we press it. 50/50 chance it opens the gate or calls the Nosies."
Beyond the gate is another lawn, and a street. There isn't any traffic. Or other buildings. Just a snow-covered road. Unplowed.
At least it's been some time since anyone visited, Tricksey thinks. "Like those odds," she says. After dealing with the camera, she presses the button.
The gate swings open as expected, or at least as hoped for.
As the door slowly swings back, Tricksey returns to the car. It takes a few revs to get over the collected snow, but soon enough they're on the unplowed street.
She waits for the gate to swing back, and then rewraps the chain around it. At least from an outward glance, the gate will appear untouched.
The vehicle's warm interior is a blessing; Tricksey's gotten too comfortable with the City's muggy heat. "We try to find an Over-night. Set some roots, yes? Still processing. Need food and sleep."
"Find someplace with a shower, if you don't mind. A big shower," Bailey says. "You are ridiculously attractive, for a woman who forgets how to speak in complete sentences. But if we end up sleeping in the working section of a hearse, there will be no snuggles." She runs her hand over the dash of the car. "I like this car. We should keep it. We can call him 'Morty'."
At those words, Tricksey purrs hungrily; a tea-kettle boil that rumbles in her chest. "No better inspiration. Tricksey will find. So need some scrip. Treat my Bailey right." SHe watches her companion's hand slide over the dash and purrs again. "Getting jealous of Morty."
She drives along the road, looking for more populated and well-driven areas. This world reminds her of the Barrens -- the strange border where the City and Agriculture met. Except this is far too chaotic and natural, lacking the industrial edges she's accustomed to. Even so, she recognizes the purpose of buildings and signs. The gas-pump symbol draws her attention and she follows its arrow, eventually arriving at a harshly-lit gas station. As she hopes, a blockish ATM sits there, waiting.
Tricksey parks, "Watch over Morty. I get us scrip."
She trudges through the snow, checking for cameras as she heads over to the ATM. It's a crude thing, a relic of antiquity. She worries it might be too old, in fact, as she draws her mag-card from the hidden folds of her outfit. The hacking software is backward compatible, but this ATM's inner workings may be far too different.
The device can read the card, the card can crash the security routines, but the lack of a proper network connection keeps Tricksey's tricks from working.
Bailey is getting impatient. Clearly for the promised shower. "Feck it. Tie it to Morty and let's pull it out of the wall."
Tricksey stares at the ATM for a moment, confounded. How could a world this antiquated exist? Stupid foxes.
She glances around, checking that she's alone. And then with a yank, she tries pulling it out of the wall - or, at least, weaken its supports.
Tricksey is alone, although she suspects this will trigger some alarms, and wraps her hands around the edges of the machine, and pulls.
It shouldn't normally be possible, but Tricksey isn't normal. The mortar is sound (and relatively new), but they re-used bricks on the wall and the breaks are weaker than they should be. Once they start breaking, the failures cascade and Tricksey has most of a cash machine dangling in the remains of a brick wall by a wire harness.
Oh, and alarms are going off. This wasn't quiet. Bailey is in the driver's seat, and ready to drive the getaway hearse.
Surprised, yet not shocked, Tricksey hoists the cash machine and legs it for the hearse. Built for transporting coffins, the vehicle is more than adequate for something this size and weight. She hastily pushes it into the rear area and hops in beside it.
"Must go faster!" she announces, holding on for the burst of acceleration.
If and once they're away, Tricksey goes to work on gutting the machine's cash reserve; mindful of any dye-packs or similar anti-theft nastiness. Once she has the money, she boots the pilfered machine out the back door... letting it roll and tumble into the encroaching darkness.
Bailey does things to the hearse that would probably void the warranty or at least scandalize the mortician's union and the hearse peels out with Tricksey and a cash machine riding in the place of honor.
The late, lamented cash machine comes open under her determined efforts, and a number of crisp, sequentially serialized bills are her reward. And a dye-pack that she should probably get rid of somewhere before it goes off.
Like the former ATM, the dye pack exits out the back in an unceremonious fashion. It disappears beyond the taillights, probably adding an impromptu Jackson Pollack to the roadway. Tricksey closes the door and climbs toward the front and into the passenger seat.
Bailey turns through several small alleys and manages to only hit a few garbage cans, but manages to leave the sirens behind. "Now we're bank robbers. Did we get enough to hole up somewhere?"
Tricksey counts through the collection of bills; a hefty collection of 5s, 10s, and 20s. More than enough to sustain them for some time to come. "Will suffice. Many noodles to be had," she announced.
Tricksey thinks she's aiming them at a roadside motel. Surely no one will connect this battered up hearse renting a room with the one that robbed a bank.
"Give us distance and time," she says. "Like Morty. Not abandon him yet."
When it feels right, she gestures toward a motel parking lot. Nice, but utterly banal. An innocuous wayfare station where faces are forgotten the moment they leave. "Park in back," she says. "I get room. Meet in front. Food. Then we sate real hunger."
She leans over and lightly kisses Bailey's ear, nipping the lobe. "You fun."
And then she's out the door and into the fluorescent lightning, angling her way to the front desk.
Bailey drives the hearse towards the back of the lot and says she'll wait with Morty for Tricksey to return.
The clerk at the front seems bored, although there's a small screen turned to the news. Something about some daring bank robbers taking a whole ATM.
Tricksey inwardly grins. It's the little crimes in life that make things worth it.
The room costs more than it should, and even more when Tricksey can't produce any ID or a credit card for a deposit. It's robbery, but there's not much in the way of other options. In the end, she gets a key and a handful of takeout menus.
Tricksey doesn't complain. Better that clerk be happy and padded rather than suspicious and ask too many questions.
Bailey meets her in the room, a first floor near the back. They can see Morty from the window, but not the high-road. It's not fancy, but at least it smells of cleaning products and not anything less pleasant.
Tricksey inspects the room, checking out the potential exits and hiding places. Weapons are checked and stowed within reach. A chair goes under the main door; all the locks engaged. No unwanted visitors tonight.
As a motel room, it's short on exits. This isn't the kind of room with a balcony overlooking the pool or a charming view of anything except a parking lot. They will have to improvise if they intend to leave by other means than the only door.
Bailey flops backwards onto the bed. It doesn't look too comfortable. "Better than the cell," says Bailey.
She's probably right.
Tricksey crawls onto the bed, slithering along Bailey's form. "Am tired. But not that tired." She nips at Bailey's neck, growling with feral intent. "Shower? Here? Or both? Crow girl suggest latter."
She pushes Tricksey off, gently. "While committing crimes against the fiduciary powers of the world always makes me horny, I need a shower and food, in that order. Or maybe together. Granola bars will not cut it, either."
She gets up and starts pulling off her clothes. "Gonna wash in the sink and then shower self all over that tiny bathroom. You can join me, if you think we can both fit. After you order food."
Tricksey makes an exaggerated sigh. "Food."
As Bailey departs, she phones up one of the delivery services, ordering something hearty and warm from the menu. Drinks as well, at least she assumes they are from the descriptions.
She lays out some of the pilfered clothes to warm and then heads for the shower. She pokes her head in, "Room?"
"Nope, but get in here."
The shower is closer than cozy, and Tricksey thinks she may need to do any real washing after Bailey gets out, but trying to wash is fun, and the water and the closeness are helping Bailey get relaxed.
Tricksey melts into her. All slippery and soft. Been too long. Even Crows need these moments.
Bailey slips out of the shower. "I heard a knock." She wraps a towel around herself. "Guess I'm tipping the delivery driver."
She steps out of sight, leaving Tricksey alone with the hot water.
"Take shooter," Tricksey calls after her. "Keep door locked."
Alone, she finishes up her shower. She keeps listening to the other room. Crow paranoid. Crow ready. Too vulnerable alone.
She dries off, collecting herself, feeling an unfamiliar longing. Tedious and troublesome.
But not enough for her to forget to listen to the other room before entering. Foxes never rest.
The delivery person takes the money, provides the food, and gets a good eyeful of Bailey in a towel. Bailey says "I looked first," when she hears Tricksey coming out of the bathroom.
After the driver leaves, Bailey opens up the bags of food and lays them out on the combination desk/table in the corner. "Come and get it", she says, opening containers and starting to spear things with the chopsticks and popping them in her mouth.
She starts popping them in Tricksey's mouth when she comes close enough.
Tricksey accepts the food, wolfing it down like a greedy crow. "Thank you," she purrs.
[Bailey]
"Delivery lad was nice, but not fit enough to kidnap and keep. You
thinking enough to think up a plan or should I give up on that until
later?"
"Noodles first," she says. "Plans second. Maybe third." She examines a can of soda, shrugs, and then opens it. The contents are sweet and bubbly. This world is increasingly interesting.
...
"So, what are we doing here? Are we rich enough to retire?"
Tricksey shakes her head, "Order to money ratio says no. Need more scrip." She feeds Bailey in return.
"What we do? Explore? New world. Make nest. Learn rules. Then make ours."
She cocks her head, "What you desire?"
"Oh, who knows? What every girl wants, I guess. Peace, Love, Understanding, a unicorn friend, a million creds, a castle full of servants and new clothes, and a magic wand that will smite my enemies. But how'm I supposed to know what I want? I haven't even slept since we found out these thuggish corporate monks have a pocket door into a different universe, where humanity hasn't totally futzed up the ecosphere. Yet."
Tricksey looks at the styrofoam containers and softly repeats, "Yet."
Bailey looks over at Tricksey. "What about you? If we're out from under the boot on our necks, what do you want? Something for us? Something for you? An army to lead back up that small tunnel to Tyrell?"
Tricksey stares up at the stuccoed ceiling, studying the cracks and bumps. For a moment, she dimly recalls the snowy mountains of - somewhere, sometime. Cherry blossoms and feathers on the wind. Her mother's perfume and laughter. Her father's all-encompassing arms. If this place was real, maybe those dreams were too?
Her voice is low, almost inaudible. "Want trees. Want crows. Want blue sky. Want real food. Want warm nest. Want to be held. And want to give that to those who look up and wonder, 'Why me?'"
She rolls over onto her side. "Want Bailey to be happy. Not afraid all the time."
Bailey considers. "You might not like me when I'm happy. Not sure I ever have been, so I'm not sure I'd like me when I'm happy." She shrugs. "I'm pretty good at causing trouble, but that's not anyone's idea of happiness."
She looks up. "Maybe if I don't have anything to fight, I'll go back to fighting against myself." She smiles, but it's sad. "That was all before your time. I dunno, Tricks, I know you want to make it all good for me, but I'm not convinced anyone can."
Tricksey shrugs, returning the sad smile. She lightly brushes her fingertips over the woman's wrist. "Nature not static. Always change. Can be no Viddie happiness. All scripted fantasy...
"So, if not happy, then Crow Girl make Bailey smile more. Give safe place in chaos. All we can hope for."
Bailey shrugs. "We'll see. Maybe I just don't remember who I am without my life being threatened all the time." It's phrased as a joke, but it doesn't sound like she's very sure of it.
Tricksey grabs a load of fries, "But Tricksey keeps these things!" She wolfs down the fried goodness and squirms gleefully.
"Hey!", says Bailey. "Share!"
[some time later, again ...]
"I hope you put the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door, because I don't think anything will wake me up for the next 18 hours."
Bailey conks out quickly, and softly snores. Tricksey is still awake. The nearby highway is a constant undercurrent of vibration and sound, and the lights from it can be seen from the motel room's windows.
Snake-silk smooth, Tricksey untangles herself from the bed and Bailey's comforting presence.
She checks the locks again, making sure the chair is securely under the front door. Confident her nest is safe, she pulls the other chair into the room's center and climbs into it, perching, all crow-sharp roosting. Her eyes and ears are smart, attentive, studying. Sleep isn't something Crow Girls get or need. And certainly not in new places.
Tricksey naturally falls into that place between moments, dreamy yet alert.
What was this place? What did those Monks want with it? And who gave them so much grief? The latter she wants to know most. It stirs memories somehow. It was something Papa would do. Wasn't it?
Tricksey knows... KNOWS... something bad happened to him. Papa always came back. Except the time he didn't. Did the Monks hurt him?
And so, she dwells there. In questions and half-memories. Watchful. Pensive. Protecting Bailey. Through the darkest night. Like Papa would.
The darkest night passes, and the morning dawns unnaturally bright. Or perhaps naturally bright, but not in a way that Tyrell City has seen in decades. The glare off the snow is nearly blinding and the glass of the window is frosted, and not really good at keeping out the cold.
Bailey is still asleep, or at least in bed. "Breakfast?" she says, without moving, or opening her eyes.
There's really nothing in the room except instant coffee and picked-over chicken bones from last night. Breakfast requires going out in the cold.
"You stay," Tricksey says. "I go. Find something."
She leans in and kisses Bailey's head. "Keep nest warm."
Last modified: 7 January 2022