Gabriella would never admit it, but patience was something she had never mastered. It was different during a stakeout; the tension that grew from knowing that at any second her target could enter into her sights or she could be spotted by a drone and thrown into a run-and-gun shitstorm was thrilling. Waiting in a line, waiting on a train, waiting for the man? Those things were absolutely maddening, and they were topped only by waiting on the job. Her current job had sent her across the country from her little homebase in NYC to Night City, all expenses paid out of her pocket, and for the past week she had been watching the numbers in her account drop as the penthouse BnB she had rented ate through her bankroll.
To be fair, it had a nice view and the out of town owners had left her a (now empty) bottle of champagne. Still, she couldn’t help but have the sneaking suspicion that this Biotechnica job might have been nothing more than a prank thought up by some punk ass trying to get back at her for, well, for whatever asinine reason someone could possibly have to be mad at her. Regardless, Gabby had been making the most out of her week, turning into some kind of impromptu vacation with daytime tourism snapping shots of herself outside of the enormous skyscrapers that were serving as some sort of pissing contest between several corporations and nighttime tourism of working her way into the swankiest of clubs in search of drinks, drugs, or any other kind of distraction. Yet with every shot, every snort, and every dance partner that refused to become more than that, an annoying voice piped up in the back of her head, reminding her that within this week she could’ve just quit the Biotechnica job and done a little networking in Night City. She had seen enough during her nights out to know that there were people that needed to be exterminated from the gene pool.
Case and point, this fucking bartender right here, who had made eye contact with her at least three times and still hadn’t taken her order. Come on, it isn’t even busy in here, how long does it take somebody to pour six shots for a blabbering pack of bachelorette party basic bitches? Shit!
Gabby tapped her credstick on the counter, flipping it in her fingers between each tap, as she stared down the bartender in the same way she watched a target down range. She had picked this jazz lounge as the start of her night despite the clubs having just opened, largely because she knew that the first lone girl who walked through the doors was instantly coated with an air of desperation so thick that even the loneliest of souls would instantly be turned off by the odor. Now she was standing at the corner of a bar full of artificial smoke and red velvet circular booths where a handful of people were chatting. There was a disco ball spinning in solitude over an empty dance floor in front of a stage with the projected hologram of a three-piece jazz group, the illusion ruined every time the beams of light reflected from the disco ball sliced the sax player in half.
The placed smelled like a mixture of ammonia and bleach, although that could’ve been only because Gabby was posted up near the bathrooms, desperately trying not to appear desperate, as if a little black dress that rode a bit too high and a department store makeup counter makeover didn’t paint a neon sign above her head that read, 'Will Debase Self For Free Drinks'. Of course, she barely went home with anybody who bought her a shot, but they didn’t know that and for a small moment both parties would have a boost in confidence and she could get drunk pro bono. A victory for everyone. The death stare in Gabby’s eyes shifted into those of a doe as the bartender finally turned around and made her way over. To her surprise, she put down a neon pink drink in a stemmed cocktail glass on top of it.
“From the gentleman,” said the bartender, jerking her head down the bar.
Gabby followed the gesture down towards the other end and, as the flock of women retreated back to a booth, she caught the eyes of a man in a tailored suit. She smiled softly, lifted her drink in a cheers, took a sip, and took the moment to quickly analyze him. Fresh haircut and slight stubble, healthy and tanned skin, zero apparent chrome, expensive watch, nice smile, fit, somewhat handsome, likely corporate and probably pulling down at least six figures, which turned that somewhat handsome into undeniably attractive. She beckoned him over with two fingers and, with a boyish smile, he pushed up off of his stool and sauntered his way over. Gabby turned her head to hide her smirk; poor bastard, he was trapped. Already her eyes were studying the top shelf.
“Hi,” he said as he leaned up against the bar. Tall. Deep voice. Another plus.
“Hi. Thanks for the drink. You wouldn’t believe how long I’ve been trying to get her attention,” she said, her cup already drained.
“She’s like that with anyone who isn’t a regular. It’s a local bar; they don’t really try with out-of-towners. But I hate to see someone go thirsty,” said the suit. “Angela! Another one of these, please, and for my friend…”
“I’ll take the same.”“Good pick. Two more, please.”
“So, what gave it away that I’m an out-of-towner?” asked Gabby as the bartender fetched there drinks.
“That did, right now,” he said. “I was just taking a guess. So, what brings a nice girl like you to a hellhole like Night City?”
“Work.”“What kind of work? Sales?”
“Mercenary. I get paid to put pretty little holes in people’s heads from a mile away.” There was a pause, and then the two laughed.
“Yes, sales. It’s absolutely mind numbing, but there isn’t always a nice guy around who’ll buy my drinks.”“Now I find that hard to believe. Nice tattoos. What’s that one say?” He pointed to the Hebrew on her arm.
“I don’t know, actually,” she said with a laugh, lying.
“I was told it meant love and peace, but for all I know it could mean anything.”“Do you have any others?”
“Hm. Buy me another drink and I might show you,” she said, leaning forward.
“Say, what’s your name?”“Shit, sorry,” said the man as his phone buzzed. He reached into his pocket, looked at the screen, and hastily got up. As he was about to step away he turned to Gabby and said, “Flip your coaster over.”
Confused by the bizarre demand, Gabby lifted her drink and flipped over her stained coaster. On the back was some scrawled directions to the docks, and underlined twice was the phrase ‘GO TO THE BIG RED WAREHOUSE’. A frown began to form on her face as she looked back up at the man, but in the moments in had taken her to read the note he had simply vanished. She glared at her drink, feeling more embarrassed than anything, and slammed the cocktail like a shot before chasing it with the messenger’s own drink. The drinks helped restore her confidence, as did the promise that the Biotechnica job was finally starting. Hopefully she’d be able to shoot something real quick; her fingers were getting itchy.
Gabby had taken a moment to swing by her place to change and grab her gear before heading off to the docks. She was wearing her armor but kept the helmet retracted, her hair pulled back in a ponytail that bounced as she walked. She could feel the folded micro uzi smacking against her side as she moved briskly, the firearm covered by a hot pink windbreaker that fell below her hips and made a swishing noise whenever the fabric rubbed against itself. Her footsteps fell quietly as she walked between shipping crates, the takedown case containing her rifle in one hand while she held a cigarette in the other, occasionally bringing it up to her still made-up face to take a drag, the orange cherry serving as a perfect target to make her the victim of sniper fire.
Funny. She didn’t even consider the possibility that she might’ve just been walking into a trap.
Gripping the cigarette between her lips, she pulled out her NetBuddy. She had set the route into her device, and just by looking through the camera it would reroute and point her in the right direction. Assuming, of course, the damn thing would update. She wrinkled her face and tucked the device back into her jacket pocket. Fuck, who needs technology? She craned her neck, looking up to see if she could find some sort of vantage point to get a lay of the land, her eyes settling on a crane used from moving containers to and from cargo ships. She worked her way through the maze that she had gotten herself lost in, eventually coming to the base of the large crane. Slinging her case over her back with a strap, she scurried up the ladder until she came to a landing and pulled out her binoculars.
She scanned the docks. Yeah, let’s meet in a specific color building when it’s too dark to easily distinguish colors, brilliant! Gabby flipped between settings until she found one that enhanced the low light. She stopped instead when she hit the thermal vision, spotting several humanoid heat signatures in the warehouse across the way. Shit, she should’ve just followed the directions written on the coaster. Frowning, she slid down the ladder and hastily made her way across the docks at a light jog, slowing to a normal walking speed as she made it within one hundred yards of the warehouse. She sighed. Corporations just loved to make people jump through hoops; why couldn’t they just send a ride?
She checked out the other people as she walked up. Salt and Pepper standing there in their suits and shades were corporate as hell, the kind of dudes who exchanged fist bumps on the reg and liked to brag about their 401k. Now that she thought about it, they looked similar to the guy at the bar. The woman, tall and slender, looked like a runway model that had been convinced by some idiot stylist that chrome was the new Chanel. There was something about how the woman toed the edge that dropped off into the uncanny valley that made Gabby feel uncomfortable. Perhaps that was why she settled closer to the old man, with his wrinkles and the lingering smell of dead fish that had as much of a chance as radiating from him as it did from the docks. She gave him a sad little smile. Maybe some people would regard someone that still ran in this kind of business as that age a certain level of respect, but not Gabby. If she was ever that old and had to keep doing this kind of grunt work she’d kill herself.
“Well, this definitely can’t be all of us. Great,” she said, looking around at the crew. She unceremoniously set her case down and sat down upon it like a dejected child grounded from playing with her friends would sit on a stoop, throwing her head back with a groan as she lit another cigarette. More waiting, huh. She pulled out her phone and poked away at the screen, the sound of cheerful chiptunes and popping bubbles filling the warehouse. “
Any of you guys play Bubble Battle? Something’s up with this things WiFi, but I think we can link it if we’re close enough together with that thingy, right? You know, the, um, the thing that makes it so...” For a second the popping stopped as she looked up from her phone, pulled the note out of pocket as if to show it off, and raised an eyebrow, asking,
“Did you guys get coasters, too? I got a coaster.” And then she went back to battling those bastard bubbles.
Neziul
Antlers
CassidyTheButch
ML
Simply Not Real
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Blizz
Passable Writer
Evil Ghost Note
