“What a scam,” whispered Blank underneath his voice, his right eye glaring at the keychain of the Strasbourg Cathedral as it dangled tauntingly in front of his face.

He had been one of the first off of the train when it had settled in the station at Strasbourg, stopping only to let one of his new “friends” know that he was going to run a quick errand to grab, of all things, a souvenir. “It’s a tradition,” he had said without the other person egging him on to explain himself. “Truth be told, I collect keychains. Lame, I know, but it’s something I’ve done since I was a kid. You’re in charge while I’m gone. Don’t let them leave without me, okay?” he had said. It was supposed to be a harmless little lie. Truth be told, the only thing he collected was memories. Blank had stopped trusting his memory ever since [i]she[/i] had nearly scrubbed herself clean from his mind.

He was waiting for the day he would wake up one morning, rollover in his bed, look at the wall of stickers, t-shirts, and keychains, and say to himself, “I never visited Bangladesh.” Then he would know he had met her again. That, or he would know that the PP chip in his cranium had finally cooked his brain and it was time to fly off the handle on a month-long drinking binge before dementia fully consumed him. Still, a breadcrumb trail of souvenirs was the best countermeasure he had against whatever the hell she had done to him or the rest of VitSol’s employees—even if it meant he had to spend his hard-earned cash on a goddamn gilded keychain. Seriously, what kind of souvenir shop carries only one kind of keychain?

The answer, it seemed, was the kind of souvenir shop that liked to rip off idiotic tourists like him. The price they charged for the bauble was ridiculous, doubly so because it wasn’t covered with real gold but pyrite—fool’s gold. A fitting name, all things considered; only a dumbass would buy a souvenir from a shop not even outside of the station. He could’ve easily stolen it from the store, but the idea of stealing something that wasn’t part of a gig just didn’t sit well with him. That, and the autonomous clerk had been watching him like a hawk since he had entered the store for whatever reason. Maybe it was the lowered baseball cap; maybe it was because a gaggle of cybered toughs had gotten off of the train with him. 

Blank set the keychain down on the bathroom counter and pulled a small tool pouch out of his jacket so he could carve the date into the keychain’s back. It was strange to him that Kybuashi Enterprises had hired such a motley crew of Divers for a job that seemed like a cakewalk. Two people would have been enough to transport and watch their precious mystery box, but Blank wasn’t the kind of person to walk away from an easy paycheck—even if he had been a last minute substitution. These days, Corps rarely came calling for Blank. Apparently expertise and seniority were outweighed by cutting edge augments and brown nosing. Not to say that Blank was above schmoozing. If anything, gabbing was the one thing he felt he had above other Divers these days. He just wasn’t going to sign any contracts that tenured him as a Corps’s personal lapdog until they needed a scapegoat to take a fall for them. 

Still, he could go for a milk run after his last gig. A nice, relaxing transcontinental train ride drinking wine and sampling cheeses (generously comped by Mr. Kybuashi himself, or so Blank had told the bartender) with a colorful cast of future C-Freaks; what could be better? He tossed the keychain into his pocket to accompany its much cheaper cousin from Oxford that he had picked up the day prior. [i]Well, for starters, not wasting my money on a shitty souvenir,[/i] thought Blank, fixing his hat in the mirror and adjusting his eye to make it appear more natural. [i]And maybe some excitement before we get to Japan, even if it’s just watching Crash bash the goddamn brains out of one of those baby D.Vs because they thought this week would be the right one to kick their Neurotop habit .[/i]

However, he knew Corps. They wouldn’t have brought along so many Divers if they didn’t have some good intel to justify the cost. Trouble was brewing just like that storm overhead, and knowing his luck it would wait until they were trapped on that metal deathtrap chugging along at a few hundred miles an hour before revealing itself. Here’s how he would do it: he’d wait until the doors were sealed and there was no hope of quickly exfiltrating the package. Then he’d sneak from railcar to railcar, slipping past any security that came between him and the engine. He’d shut the engine down with a scrambler once he reached the designated point located in the middle of some no man’s land where a small strike force would be waiting in ambush. They’d secure the package, neutralize all threats, and be home by dinner. If it was ten years ago, Blank could’ve done it solo. 

[i]Of course, you didn’t sign up for the wild west train heist job, did you Blanky Boy? Nooooo, sitting on you ass and waiting is soooo much more your speed these days.[/i]

Grabbing the bag of treats he had purchased for the crew of Divers that he had already declared out loud to be his new best friends (despite any potential protests), Blank stepped out of the bathroom and into the grand maglev station. Strasbourg seemed like a nice city; there was something about the way the old blended with the new that he couldn’t help but appreciate. A small, lonely voice in the back of his head told him that she would probably love it here. The thought was based on nothing. The voice had told him last night that she’d love it in Oxford, and had even insisted to him that she’d love it in that godawful backwater Ark had had been stuck on for almost a month during his last gig. 

Still, this thought did actually make some sense. He paused at the top of the station stairs, looking out towards the city that proudly stood between the retro/neo line. After spending much of his youth stuck on Arks, Blank thought he’d be sick of cities built intricately around water. Yet he was a sucker for old architecture and antiquated junk. It was kind of a pity that the Corps had gone ahead and ruined the beauty of the city with dark towers of glass and steel, mountain sized billboards for some new yet soon-to-be-outdated augment, and a blinding amount of neon lights. Then again, they would’ve probably marketed Strasbourg as a “city lost in time” and charge admission just to stop by and visit. People could spend a day’s wages to ride in the back of a cab driven by an actual person. Oh, how [i]novel![/i] Blank rolled his eyes at the thought. It sounded like something he’d hear Janis pitch back to his mother back in his VitSol days. 

Blank felt raindrops on the back of his neck and pulled the gray hood sticking out of his jacket over his ballcap. If not for the small, shadowy window that revealed a nose that had been offset from one too many boyish scuffles, a thin, smug smile, and a peppering of facial hair the man was almost completely shielded by clothing. He certainly looked shady, but who didn’t these days? A dark, leather satchel was slung across his chest, and a plastic bag twisted around the fingers of his gloves. The contents of the bag clanked together as he quickly made his way back to his flock, still pecking around in front of the train. 

“Ten minutes,” said Crash over their local comm channel.

“Ten minutes?” echoed Blank over the comms with a playfully exaggerated sigh. “You mean we aren’t going to see the Cathedral after coming all the way out here? That’s kind of a bummer. But on the brightside…”

“...I found treats,” he said, finishing his sentence off-comms as he came within earshot of the group. The posh British accent his voice had adopted the other day when they were in Oxford had completely disappeared, replaced by a slight French one that he had lifted from one of the station attendants that wasn’t mechanized. These days he hardly realized he was even using his VoxMo to change his voice; he probably wouldn’t even recognize his natural voice anymore. He held the bag outstretched in front of him, pulling it open to reveal the cans of beer it had been cradling. 

“I don’t know if they have any open beverage policies here, but I doubt anybody would be willing to give you fellas a ticket anyway. Come on, come on, don’t be shy. We should’ve done this the other day. It’s bad luck not to share a drink with the crew before a job, not that I actually believe in that crap. Here you go, here you go.”

As he spoke he handed out the drinks, paying no mind if the other person actually wanted to take it from him. As far as Blank really cared, if they wanted foam spraying all over their boots then it was on them. He paused in front of the little pale redhead who looked like she was barely out of high school, little miss...whatshername? Girly? Dolly? Baby Spice? Whatever. These neophyte Divers were a dime a dozen. Blank [i]liked[/i] people and even he knew it was hardly worth the effort in ever learning the name of some young baby-faced idiot who thought it would be such a thrill to wire themselves up and play Diver for a day. Still, drinking her first beer with a bunch of psychos-for-hire was probably the least of the problems that awaited this punk.

“Oh, screw it. Be cool, buddy,” he said, sliding her a beer and giving her an exaggerated mechanical wink with his augmented eye. “Now don’t go spewing out your guts like some kinda freshman, and if anyone asks the weird blue-haired girl with the creepy arm gave it to you, okay? Hey, heads up, big guy!” he shouted, pushing past the girl and softly lobbing a can at Crash. It’d be an easy catch.

“I propose a toast,” he said, lazily lifting his beer up and nodding to the others expectantly as thunder rumbled overhead. “To new friends and easy gigs. When we get to Japan the first round of sake bombs are on me. Salut!”