T W E L V E D A Y S E A R L I E R...
The dense haze that always seemed to wrap itself around Callisto in the evening provided the perfect backdrop for this miraculous rendezvous. Keema Collum felt as if she were in a dream - a dream she’d had a thousand times. Returning to her home planet, walking the familiar streets, being reminded of… The woman couldn’t put a word to the emotion. She dug up the sensation it produced, taking care to examine it and all its facets. It was something she hadn’t felt in what seemed like eons, and as she leaned her elbows against the worn metal surface of the bar, she smiled a small crooked smile to herself.
Part of her didn’t believe he would actually show up. After the way she abandoned things, the way she left Garran to clean up the body and tidy up the story that needed to be pushed - she assumed he hated her on some level. His resentment would be unbearable, but Keema didn’t have a choice in the matter. When she woke to find her centerpoint of gravity devoid of life, she felt herself recoil and shut down with no control. All those years ago, she had fled from Callisto without a word to the one other human that had meant anything to her. KC had always imagined that the old man would never want to see her again, and the fact that he had agreed to meet her at the Hacker’s Den seemed too good to be true.
The Den was just barely packed that evening, and the undercurrent of Overclock she’d snorted thirty minutes prior allowed Keema to feel comfort in the number of bodies milling about. After weathering the crowds of Europa, this was child’s play. She didn’t recognize the bartender, nor had she run into any past acquaintances since she'd landed. It was probably for the best - the returning mercenary didn't want to have to deal with all of that right now.
The bartender slid two fingers of brown liquor across the counter toward her. KC caught the round glass easily between three fingers and lifted it in cheers toward him. “To Callisto,” Keema sang a little too loudly, eyes darting left and right in search of anyone willing to join her toast. Finding no one interested, she clicked her tongue in her cheek and knocked back a few ounces of liquid. It had been years since she had sat at this counter, but as the liquor burned its way down her throat, it certainly felt like home again. “Ah…”
The Hacker’s Den smelled the same as it always had: smoke, cheap liquor and oil off of overworked shoddy implants. Garran Voith blended into it like a stone into a riverbed, just another worn coat and scarred face in the haze. His musk didn’t stand out here - it belonged.
Letting the door swing shut, the man scanned the room with a squint. Every face catalogued. Every corner checked. Exits, vents, shadows. His nerves twitched in rhythm with the dull servos in his left arm, the clunky old prosthetic catching on his coat pocket as he shifted. Gravel hated the thing. But he hated the idea of a corpo-licensed upgrade even more, the kind the other old dogs bought to fool themselves into feeling sharp again. Better to sweat through his coat than let that poison in his veins. And sweat he did; collar damp, hands moving with the slightest of tremors. He hadn’t taken any stims to even him out, just a mild buzz from a drink or two. Enough to steady, not enough to soften.
“To Callisto.”
Gravel let out a chuckle, the kind that rasped through scar tissue and blended into the noise around him. Familiar words, familiar tone, though it had been years since he’d heard it. For a moment, he stayed where he was, watching her raise the glass like it was still the old days. Then he moved. The crowd parted enough for him to slide through, the weight of his coat brushing knees and stools, the faint whine of servos betraying each step.
Settling onto the stool beside her, his augmented fingers twitched on the countertop as if to announce themselves. The bartender slid him a pour without a word, Callisto still remembered its ghosts. Garran sniffed once, catching the mix of smoke and machine oil in the air, then leaned back on the stool, throat rasping before he spoke.
“Drinkin’ loud as ever, kid. Thought the years might’ve taught you to whisper.” His mismatched squint lingered on her, unreadable, before dropping to the glass. “Callisto’s been painted over, corporatised to the bone. But sit in a place like this and it almost feels the same... sweat, liquor and bad ideas. Guess that’s why we keep crawling back.”
A beat. The faintest smile, sharp and tired all at once.
“And you. Thought you’d be smarter than to call me, after the mess you left me with.” Another swallow, voice dropping lower. “Guess I’m lucky you’re not as smart as I thought.”
Muscle memory sent a ripple of tension through Keema’s body as the unannounced figure came to rest at her right side. The anticipation, accompanied by an imperceptible catching of her breath, was fleeting, and as she registered who it was that had finally arrived, Keema could feel the prick of a tear welling up behind her widened green-grey eyes. The powder wouldn’t allow her to burst into tears here, even though the wave of emotions currently crashing into her demanded nothing short of melodrama. For the first time in a long time, Keema did not want to move too fast, did not want to freak anyone out - even though she was fighting the urge to fling herself into his arms. Easy, gal, easy. Mr. Voith was reuniting with a phantom, after all.
Her body betrayed her, however, as it drifted toward him. Keema, allowing herself to be pulled by a magnet from her past, was subtly scooting closer while remaining seated. At least, she thought she was being subtle. Onlookers from behind might be worried she may spill from the stool the way she was contorting herself, torso and shoulders leaning a hard right. With her glass cupped between both hands, KC hunched her shoulders and leaned her neck down so that she was looking up at his face with her wide pupils.
Keema couldn’t help the way she was staring at him now. It had been so long, and in the medley of emotions she found she felt immense relief that he was actually still alive and in front of her. His face was the same but different, and she was surprised to find it sporting new scars. She also noted the cybernetic arm, which looked worn and outdated, but which KC mused weirdly made sense on him. When he finally spoke, a shiver of recognition shot down her spine. She had been hearing the man speak to her in her head for so long that this payoff was almost cathartic. KC was quick to return his smile, especially after expecting a bitter greeting. There were so many things to say! So many words that wanted to gallop out of her mouth! How could she choose?
“You look like shit,” was what ended up winning. A beat on her part, before the woman laughed a sincere laugh at herself and shook her head once, resetting.“Hiya, Gravel,” she sighed tenderly, and when she couldn’t find the words to spring into an apology just yet, she made a circular pointing gesture to her own face with her finger and continued, “We kinda match now.”
Gravel’s laugh rasped out low, rough enough to draw a glance from the bartender, though the sound died just as quickly as it came. “Careful, kid, if we’re startin’ to match, you’re in worse shape than I thought.”
Glancing away from his drink, he just looked at her, squint narrowing as if he were weighing her against the years. She was older, rougher around the edges, but that spark, the one that made her charge headlong into fights twice her size, it was still there. In a small, selfish way, it stung, seeing that spark still burn in her when his own had taken such a hit. Still, the sight of her alive and smirking at him loosened something tight in his chest he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.
But the old dog saw it, too: the dilation in her pupils, the way her shoulders leaned too far forward, jittered just a touch too quick. Stims. Same as always. Same as when she first showed up unseasoned and hungry, and he’d thought he could teach her to keep her head above water. Some habits didn’t just die hard; they never died at all.
He shifted the weight of his cybernetic arm against the bar, metal plates rasping faintly. For half a second, words almost rose, something softer, almost kind, but he smothered them before they found air.
Maybe sentiment had its place somewhere out there in the ‘verse, but not here, not now.
Gravel rolled his shoulders beneath the old coat, letting the weight settle back where it belonged. Truth be told, he wasn’t here to trade old smiles and stories, not when she’d left him with a body to bury and a mess to mop up. His voice dipped, losing the humour.
“Alright. Enough pretty words. You didn’t drag me down here just to tell me I’m still ugly.” His gaze held hers, unreadable as ever. “So why now, Keema? After all this time, why call me?”
The sudden shift in energy caused her smile to falter. It was like a record scratch in time, snapping Keema back to reality, if only for a little while. The sounds of the bar, the warmth of the bodies around them… It all seemed to fade to black for a moment. The camera in her mind pushed in on the two of them, cinematically bathed in the imaginary spotlight shining down from above, as they watched each other unwaveringly. KC did not back down from the challenge.
She lifted her drink to her mouth and, keeping her eyes fixed on his, finished it in one long gulp. The glass returned to the countertop and Keema used the back of her hand to wipe her lips. This wasn’t the main reason she had called him here, but she had to know.
“Where’d ya put him?”
Her voice was uncharacteristically diminished, almost unsure in its delivery. Keema had practiced this in her mind countless times; but nothing could have prepared her for this level of vulnerability. Especially after the years spent pushing it all down and avoiding it. Her jaw clenched slightly as she waited for his response, knowing this could open the floodgates. She prepared herself for the possibility of his temper, fully aware she deserved whatever might come her way.
Gravel didn’t answer right away. Her words hit like a wrench to the gut, and for a moment all he could do was stare at the counter, jaw tightening, thumb dragging slow circles across the rim of his glass. The bar noise bled in and out, the chatter, glasses clinking, a door creaking on tired hinges, but for him, it all narrowed to that one question. Where’d you put him?
He hadn’t left Aydin to rot in some corpo incinerator or mass grave, that wasn’t his style and it sure as hell wasn’t the kid’s. He’d pulled strings, got the body through one of the factory furnaces, the kind that burned hotter than anything a funeral pyre could match. No rites, no officials. Just him, a bottle and the roar of industrial flame.
When the ashes were cooled and collected, Gravel scattered them at one of the worker courtyards tucked between the factories. Sure, it wasn’t pretty, steel and concrete never are, but it was the kind of place Aydin liked. Always claimed it was where Callisto felt most alive: the break-bells clanging, men and women passing drinks, stims and smokes, people’s amusement carrying over the din of machinery. It wasn’t paradise, but it was real, and it was theirs.
Gravel’s gaze stayed on the glass in front of him as he finally spoke. “Did right by him. Burned him myself, no one else’s hands on it. Spread the ashes across the courtyards. The break-bells, smoke and laughter in the air. Place he belonged. Place he’d have chosen.”
He let the words hang there, flat and final.
There it was again - that pricking behind her eyes.
Keema scrunched up her nose and slammed her eyes shut. She was gripping the glass between her hands as if it was the only thing keeping her from floating away. An image flashed in her mind - a mess of brown curls, a small tattoo of the skeleton of a tree - and instead of hurling the thought away from her, she finally allowed it to swallow her. The miserable scene in her bedroom only lingered for a moment before it transformed into what she remembered of the courtyards. She tried to imagine his ashes drifting amongst the factory walls, sprinkling the lucky concrete with his magic. “Aydin sprinkles,” she muttered out loud to herself, thinking that the guy would have smiled at that.
The liquor was starting to do its job, was starting to get friendly with her high, and KC leaned into the warm, fuzzy embrace. She adjusted herself, straightening up in her seat as the volume knob was turned back up on reality, and the sounds of the establishment returned to focus. When she opened her eyes, slowly, she too had dropped her stare. “Thank you. Really,” she said, once again fighting the urge to reach out to him. “And I’m sorry. Really. For everything.”
Keema didn’t know what she expected him to say. But she knew that if Aydin could have dictated how he wanted to be handled, he would have said ‘Aydin sprinkles’. She chuckled at the idea and chewed on her lower lip for a moment, before adding, “You know, I think you’re probably the best man I’ve ever known.” KC nodded to herself in affirmation, casting him a sideways glance to see his reaction. “Sorry to say the bar isn’t very high, but - congratulations.”
Gravel’s squint stayed on her, unblinking, while her words hung between them. Best man… sorry for everything… It rolled off her tongue easy, but he knew who she was really talking to. Not him. Never him. That kind of praise belonged to the dead, to Aydin, not the old bastard left behind to sweep up after.
His fingers drummed, sharp and hollow, on the metal bartop before flattening out. The silence between them stretched on for a moment more. Then, without looking away from her, he raised two fingers toward the bartender.
“Cut her off before she starts handin’ out sainthoods.”
Gravel gave a low chuckle, empty as a spent shell, rattling in his chest before he shook his head. On the surface, it looked like mock amusement; inside, it gnawed at him. She had the same wide eyes, the same crooked grin, same jittery edge. Years gone by, but KC still looked like she was one nip or line away from vanishing down a darker hole.
The old man let the last of the liquor burn its way down, then turned the empty glass in his hand once before sliding it aside. A tired neon sign buzzed overhead, painting his coat in flickers of red as he spoke.
“Listen,” he muttered, voice dropping out of ear shot of those around. “If you’re done driftin’… I know a ship that’s takin’ on crew. Captain’s green as spring grass, but the papers are clean. MARQ license, real work. Not corp clean, never that, but cleaner than what you’ve been scraping.”
His eyes narrowed, measuring her again, as if weighing whether to push further.
“Could use someone who still remembers which end of a rifle does the talkin’. Better than waitin’ for the powder to bury you next.”
KC’s lower lip jutted out in protest as Gravel instructed the man to stop pouring for her. As far as she was concerned, these weren’t just any drinks she was having anymore. With the closure of knowing what had happened to her beloved, her grief seemed to be transforming in real-time, and it felt like she would finally be able to celebrate Aydin’s life - as well as the old man’s, for that matter. But Keema knew Garran would never just accept a compliment. Whatever - the woman felt satisfied that she even got to deliver one at all.
She was just about to shift her weight to lean over the counter to get the bartender’s attention when he spoke again. A-ha! Keema couldn’t remember if she had mentioned something to him when she invited him here, or if he was confirming that he was, indeed, the best man she knew. The mercenary needed a job and figured correctly that if anyone on any planet would have a lead, it would be the old man. He always had something going on.
“Better than waitin’ for the powder to bury you next.” A bark of laughter escaped her in response. KC rolled her eyes back over to rest on his face, somehow simultaneously full of mischief and melancholy. She wore that crooked smile again as she said in a melodic croon, “Not for a lack of tryin’, I’ll tell ya that.” If Gravel had known what she’d been up to in Europa, he’d likely toss her into isolation until sobriety reclaimed her. It was probably best he didn’t know it was a miracle she still had a pulse.
Then, tilting back toward him and matching his lowered voice: “A ship, huh?” It had been ages since she’d been part of a whole. Keema liked to think she would work well with others on a crew. How the ‘others’ would feel about her and her wayward methods was a mystery to her. Still, she trusted Garran’s compass. “You know this guy well?”
Gravel gave a grunt, half amusement, half dismissal. “It’s a kid corpo,” he said, shifting in his seat. “Barely knows which way’s up outside a boardroom. Put him in a room with smugglers and sharks, he still talks like he’s runnin’ quarterly reports.”
“But…” he paused, his squint sharpening. “Kid’s got grit. Took a few hits already and didn’t fold. There’s a spine there. More importantly, there’s room to shape him into somethin’ better.”
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “That can be worth more than experience, long as he survives the mouldin’.”
Keema nodded her head thoughtfully, though in truth, there wasn't much to think about. A gig was a gig, and a heliodollar was a heliodollar. Plus, she would get to work alongside her mentor once again! KC would be a fool to pass up the opportunity. “Well, hell - if you’re in, I’m in!” Her face broke out into that crooked smile of hers as she abruptly slammed her fist down onto the counter while the other held her empty glass into the air.
“Excuse me! Excuse m- Yeh, hiya! Two more over here, please!”
The screen of a holophone in the corner of a dark room flickered to life, interrupting an otherwise still and quiet atmosphere with the high-pitched persistent beeping of an alarm.
Eyelids fluttered open slowly to reveal one green and one grey iris, the former still partly steeped in slumber. In the dim lighting offered by neon signs outside of the singular window, she swept her eyes across the unfamiliar ceiling above her. Reality trickled back to her. Ah… A mess of fiery red hair was erratically draped across the woman’s face, the left side of which was currently pressed against the dark flesh of a man’s bare chest. A little string of drool had fallen from her parted lips and onto his skin. From the view of the broken ceiling fan above, the bed below was a jumble of bare limbs heaped upon a mattress, intertwined with the fabric of maroon bed sheets and lightly coated in the sheen of sweat.
For a moment, Keema Collum couldn’t figure out where one of the other bodies ended and where she began. With the haze of the past few hours of well-deserved debauchery still logged in the brain, she exhaled a small groan as she felt the other two begin to stir around her. She attempted to slurp back the string of drool as she sluggishly began to untangle herself from the mess of arms and legs, dragging herself toward the edge of the bed. Not quite ready to stand upright, KC chose to crawl off the mattress toward the wailing device until finally she was able to reach out a finger and tap the alarm off.
Silence returned to the room. KC glanced at the time on the screen and was momentarily confused by it. How was it already this late? Today had so far been a blissful blur of cheap flesh and chemicals, which had made up for the ten mind-blowingly boring days spent on The Dullahan. But Keema knew she shouldn’t complain - a job was a job was a job. And she would be returning to that job shortly. If anything, she should be grateful for this quick trip to Adrastea, which provided her the opportunity to refresh her vices. She was grateful! This pit-stop might have truthfully saved her in more ways than one. It was just very, very unfortunate how quickly the satisfaction faded, and how soon she would be left with her imagination and her right hand once again.
It had definitely been a close one; ten days into this new escapade and Keema had been dangerously approaching an empty tin. She knew the burden of real consciousness would not hesitate to drag her down in the most familiar, most unpleasant of ways, and she did not want to subject her new friends to the darker side of her personality just yet. Luckily her hunger had guided her accordingly, and before anyone else had fully woken up, she was already pounding pavement to find a connect.
Much to her delight, she found two.
After stumbling around to collect her clothing, KC reached a long-fingered hand out and lightly wrapped it around the closer figure’s bicep. “Hey,” she whispered groggily, her cybernetic eye absently scanning the female for basic vitals. “Hey, can I grab the O? I actually need to head out now. Duty calls, and whatnot…” She trailed off as she hopped on one leg, and then the other, sliding them into place within her pants.
It was the man who reached underneath the bed and produced a small, worn metal box. Classic. He pulled it onto his lap and pressed a thumb against the scanner before lifting the lid while the other woman shifted, still asleep. “Tested ‘em m’self”, the man said, almost proudly, as he plucked a little bag from its depths and held it up for Keema’s inspection.
The mercenary nearly barked out a laugh as she shrugged her white tank top back on. The amount of substances that had entered her body without being tested could have set a planetary record. Safety had never been the biggest priority for someone like her, and at this point, anything she could get her hands on would do. But as quickly as the urge bubbled its way up her throat, it disappeared; a flash of another bedroom jarred her vision - another life and another body, unmoving. Her smug expression fell like ice cream dripping from the cone, and she cleared her throat softly, fixing the male with a warm, yet far-away, gaze.
“That’s… Very sweet of you. I appreciate it, hon’,” she murmured, and without warning, reached over to wrap her arms around his head and pull it into her stomach in an embrace. Unfazed, the man replied against her shirt, “Gotta be safe, yanno?” KC lingered there, seemingly lost in memory for a brief moment, before she released him and swiped the pills from his hand. “Yes, yes, gotta be safe, indeed.” KC fished her trusty red tin from the pouch hanging at her hip and emptied the mini pills into it. She popped one into her mouth, dry swallowing her blessed medication as she closed the tin, crumpled up the plastic bag, shoved it into her pant pocket, and collected her duster from the floor.
“Well... This was fun! I’ll uh, I’ll probably never see you again, so… You know." Keema slid her feet into her boots, giving them each a rough tug to ensure security. She straightened up with a snap, slipping the tin back into her utility pouch as she paused to take in the image of the two Adrastean strangers on the other side of the room. This variation of departure had become normal for her after her little holiday in Europa, but their general concern for her safety had touched her. "Take care of each other, you two,” she finished sincerely. Keema felt as if she were looking into some sort of mirror, but before her mind could explore the thought any further, she shifted gears. That crooked smile reappeared on her lips. With a flourish of her hand, she disappeared from the doorway ("Buh-Bye!") and waltzed down the hall, humming a little tune to herself as it began.
The rush started at her fingertips and toes, as it always did. They tingled, ready to touch and explore and be excited by everything this moon had to offer her now that she was restocked. The feeling slid up her arms, her legs, warming her chest with a buzzing electricity before it finally reached up with its tendrils and invaded her brain space. With the comfort of stimulation revving up inside of her, KC extracted a cigarette from the rectangular metal case in her pocket, placed it between her lips, and ignited its end with her lighter. Keema took a long, elated drag as her pupils dilated, her shoulders relaxed, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention. Much better. The red-head swung her body around in the street and proceeded to make her way toward Gravel and The Black Lung.
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