Page 5 of The Fall

Greasegun lowered one eyebrow, wiping a glass. Piston put a hand on Kerr’s shoulder. He would handle it.

Kerr stared at the empty space where the shot had been, comically short legs dangling off the stool.

“Another,” Piston grunted before taking a deep breath. “You don’t have to put up with her shite, you know.” He said it to the bar, not to Kerr.

She gave the giant man a side eye. “And then? You only took me in because we’re together.”

“No, I took you in because we look out for each other.” Piston tilted his nearly empty glass. Greasegun refilled it before he had to ask.

It was true. Piston had accomplished a feat no-one else had managed – take the refuse Tyton had cast off and give them hope. At one time, Chargers were synonymous with rubbish. But now? While the other gangs spoke of them with derision, they also left them largely alone. They would even negotiate for services occasionally.

“We control another building. Smaller.” Piston took a drink without looking at Kerr. Eye contact felt too personal, too involved, even though he undeniably was.

“It’s not The Glacier.” Greasegun leaned over as if anyone had invited them. “One of my boyfriends lives there. Say hi to Frankie if you see him.”

“Frankie?”

“Actually, kick him in the nuts if you see him.” Greasegun seemed more amused than bitter, a jovial prank rather than assault.

“You still believe you’re going to save enough to get into The Glacier?” Piston scoffed. “You’re delusional.”

“One day,” Greasegun looked wistfully at the cracked Hexaline wall with a mouldering water stain. “I’ll have enough scrip and I’ll disappear. You poor wretches will never see me again.” They tossed their rag on the bar top and walked off to talk with another customer.

“Sure, Grease.” Piston finished his drink and leaned over to reach into his pocket. He pulled out a keycard and set it on the bar. “If you change your mind.”

Kerr looked at it and then back at Piston. “You don’t think it odd that you’re not defending your own kin?” Kerr worried that this was less about Chalice and more, that he wanted to be rid of her.

“You want me to make this about you?” Piston slid the keycard closer. “Fine. She’s not in a good place and she needs a kick in the pants. But Lydia went down in the same incident as Saoirse. She needs space. From everyone associated with that whole thing.”

“I’m the one who should be upset. Lydia was the one who…” Kerr didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to speak ill of his late partner. “I lost a mum too.” She dropped her gaze to the bar, channelling the unfairness of it all into her shot glass.

“Doesn’t matter.” Piston lowered his voice. “Death happens in this business. You coped. I coped. Chalice will cope, but she’s not there yet.”

“Feels like she just wants to take it out on me forever,” Kerr mumbled.

“Uh huh,” Piston agreed. “And if I’m gone tomorrow, are you gonna stick around, let her take that out on you too? For how long?” Piston poked a meaty finger into the side of her head. “Don’t waste your life on someone who’s gone.”

“I know.” Kerr remembered his words from Saoirse’s wake. Grieve and get back up. Otherwise, that’s two lives gone. Hard, but practical in this city. Inspirational to the Chargers he pulled out of their addictions.

“Listen to an old man who’s seen this play out a hundred times before,” Piston said. “She’ll come around faster without you as her punching bag.”

“I’d listen to the old man,” Greasegun called over the din of the crowd.

“This doesn’t change anything between us.” Piston picked up the keycard and put it in her hand. “You don’t have to decide today. Hold onto it.”

Kerr let his words stew for a moment. Then she nodded before sliding off of the stool. She would tell Chalice she got one more chance and then, that would be it. Picking her way through the growing crowd, she opened the door to the filthy stairwell.

MB12 – Tyton’s shittiest tower. The monument to poor planning hadn’t even found corporate naming rights. Phase One construction had barely finished before it overflowed with Chem, Chem-laced human excrement, and people selling body parts for Chem. At one point, not a single legitimate business existed in this building. Doing so meant, you would be robbed and murdered. Your implants would then be sold for Chem. MB12 was the last stop before you ran out of juice for your cyberware and had to move underground.

So naturally, it was the first bit of turf acquired by the Chargers after Piston managed to organise them. They might not have much, but after years of living off of broken shite, they got pretty good at fixing shite that was broken – including MB12.

Functional – not pretty. Filth still accumulated in the corners, along with piles of rubbish. A lifetime of hoarding other people’s refuse on the off-chance that it might be useable one day made for a near-pathological aversion to throwing anything away for good. Olfactory implants had dampener settings for a reason, after all.

Kerr ran a hand through her strawberry blonde hair. Sure, Piston had advised her to leave, but she couldn’t help feeling like it was a betrayal. Like she didn’t appreciate taking her in after the incident with the Styx. Yeah, Chalice treated her like trash, but Chargers didn’t let trash go far. It could always be fixed with a little luck and the right parts.

Kerr gave herself a moment to appreciate that mental witticism before opening the door to their flat. Immediately, she could tell something was off. A muffled sound. Scraping? Tuning her audio processors, Kerr crouched, not that it would help. Most people overlooked her standing at full height.

Reaching across her body to Mercutio, her heavily modded IntelArms pistol, Kerr angled toward the sound. Mercutio whirred to life, registering two biosigs – faint through the walls, not enough to identify, but definitely two. Chalice wasn’t alone.