"Whoa, it's absolutely slammed tonight," Timoth said, grinning as he leaned over the mezzanine railing.
The bass was thumping so violently that the floorboards shuddered under his boots. It felt as though the DJ cranked the volume to a lethal level just to see whose eardrums would burst first.
Hexoset below was a high-voltage fever dream.
Glossy metallic walls caught the light, and neon strips chased each other around the room, pulsing in sync with the kick drum. Scattered throughout the club were velvet booths, each one a tiny island housing a different clique.
It was a messy Venn diagram of humanity: Normies from Balun, draped in the latest cyber-fashion, sitting inches away from Peculiars, draped in a more dystopian streetwear.
Their glances at one another, like an explosion of colours, were saturated with various emotions - some anxious, others uneasy. There was disgust. Even hate. Timoth saw it all from his bird's-eye view.
Only a few people on the floor seemed to be genuinely vibing, and even their joy felt like a performance - a deliberate, desperate attempt to ignore the tension threatening to short-circuit the entire room.
The second floor was a sanctuary for the socially exhausted.
Introverts dangled from hammocks strung between heavy industrial beams, nursing smoking red cocktails. Strobe lights fractured the darkness in vibrant colours across the main floor where people danced, totally lost in the rhythm.
Meanwhile, the DJ, a cephalopod Peculiar, presided over the chaos on a raised dais. His spotted, yellow tentacles whipped across the holographic decks, swapping vinyl as his head bobbed.
Behind him, a massive LED wall pulsed with a digital nebula, birthing new stars and collapsing into black holes with every heavy kick of the bass.
As Timoth took it all in, Ratelsi sidled up next to him, almost surprised by the calmness he radiated. It was kind of like the trouble that brought them to the club didn't faze him at all.
Maybe it was because he was momentarily caught up in Hexoset's atmosphere, but somehow, she envied him for his ease.
So far, the night had been suspiciously clean. No guns drawn, no sudden stops, just the natural noise of the crowd. But as she was driven by a need to stay informed, Broco's secrecy about the delivery and who the clients were left her feeling uneasy.
She didn't do well with blind spots. This issue needed immediate resolution, and now! There was no time to dawdle. Ratelsi bit back her thoughts, pinching her lower lip between her thumb and forefinger.
The sting helped.
And yet...in a strange way, this turn of events was weirdly exciting. It left her curious, despite her better judgment.
Right then, the atmosphere on the dance floor slowly turned carnal. Two women were locked in an open-mouthed mess of a kiss, tongues tangling and tracing the outline of moist, swollen lips.
Their hands wandered, hunting for pleasurable spots. Fingers disappeared under the short, tight hems of skirts with a raw, carnal intent that didn't give a damn who was watching.
Unused to seeing desire laid so bare, Timoth jerked his head away. So quick, as if he'd been burned.
But he wasn't fast enough to unsee one of the women's curves straining against latex as she sank her teeth into her partner's throat, then licked the reddened bite mark.
Ratelsi watched Timoth like a hawk.
She didn't miss the way his breath hitched, or the hot, fascinated crimson that flooded his face, turning his freckles into dark spots against a sea of red.
On the other hand, she thrived here.
The steady untz-untz-untz burrowed its way into her skull. It violated her ribcage, rattled her teeth and climbed through her heels, settling in her gut as a heavy, thrumming heat.
Her skin felt too tight for her body.
It demanded movement, making Ratelsi feel the itch to strip off the mission. To throw herself into the sweat and the friction of the crowd and just dance until she forgot her own name.
But the reality of their mission begged her focus.
So, she turned to Timoth and shouted, "We need a plan!"
The heavy bass swallowed her smoky alto whole, rendering her words dead on arrival. Timoth, obviously clueless about what she said, just blinked, utterly lost, and gave a helpless nod.
With a frustrated snort, Ratelsi didn't wait for him to catch up.
She hooked her fingers into the crook of his elbow and yanked, dragging him toward a shadowed alcove where the acoustics were slightly less deafening.
Timoth didn't resist, only smiling amusedly. He let her haul him through the crowd, his boots scuffing lazily against the floorboards.
"Feeling a bit aggressive tonight, aren't we?" he teased.
As she pulled him into the corner, he let his hand slide down her arm until his fingers rested against the inside of her wrist. His thumb pressed firmly over her radial artery, feeling the frantic, machine-gun rhythm of her heart.
"Jesus, Rat. You're wound up tight enough to snap."
She ripped her arm back, resisting the heat of his touch, and hissed, "Shut up and listen."
Closing the distance between them until their chests were a hair's breadth apart, the scent of the club—sweat, expensive gin, and ozone—faded, replaced by the clean scent of his skin.
Sensing her intent to communicate, Timoth instinctively leaned down toward her.
Ratelsi brushed her cheek against Timoth's so her lips would reach his ear, "We can't just stand here looking like gawkers at a freak show," she murmured.
"We need to map this place before we even think of getting near Vesir. We gotta know who's in the pocket of Broco's crew and which exits aren't death traps."
Timoth tried to hold onto a smirk, a reflex to mask the way her proximity made his pulse skip. But the expression withered under the intensity of her gaze.
Looking at her this closely, every word she spoke seemed to deepen the malachite hue of her eyes, mimicking the turbulent depth of her thoughts.
Confusion flickered in his sky-blue eyes.
Was that what was making her so antsy?
He'd been coasting on the high of their progress, lulled into a false sense of security by how effortlessly they'd slipped through the entry point. But as the conversation turned toward the grim truth, realisation hit him like a bucket of ice water.
She was right to be cautious!
The bigger question was… why wasn't he?
The playful fog in his brain cleared instantly. He straightened his posture, hardening his expression as he said, "Fair point," and dropped the boyish charm for something more serious.
"But how do we scope a room this packed without lookin' like feds? You wanna work the perimeter, or should we split the floor?"
"Before that," Ratelsi leaned back against the velvet-wrapped pillar, her eyes tracking the mezzanine while she jerked a thumb toward the entrance.
Snigel, the massive slab of muscle guarding the door, was still letting guests in and out of the club.
"Grizzly bear over there mentioned Broco's 'special guests,' " she said. "He made it sound like they were new royalty. Or at least, people who could get him executed if he so much as messed up their drink orders. What's your read on that?"
Tapping his smooth chin, Timoth thought for a moment. "I don't know. High rollers? Whales with enough Aures to burn this whole place down for fun?"
Ratelsi didn't answer immediately. Instead, she leveled her hand at him, thumb cocked and index finger pointed straight at the center of his chest.
Dangerous mischief sparkled in her eyes as she mouthed the word Bang
Timoth continued rubbing his imaginary stubble. "Huh. When Broco called me for this gig, he was totally hyped about some 'shipment of gifts' arrivin' tonight. But the second I pushed for a manifest or even a name, he shut down. I figured, hey, he's payin' the bills, so why poke the bear?"
"Because the bear is hiding something that's gonna bite us in the fucking ass," Ratelsi hissed.
"The bastard is keeping us in the dark on purpose, and I'm losing my goddamn mind playing the guessing game. Someone in this sweaty shithole saw those clients walk in, and I want to know who and why Broco's keeping 'em a secret from us."
Running his fingers through his tousled curls, Timoth looked down at the lively crowd. Some strands fell over his forehead, adding to his boyish charm.
"Ya serious?" he asked. "You really think these folks are just gonna spill whatever info we want just 'cause we asked nicely?"
Ratelsi offered a nonchalant shrug, her palms upturned as if saying stranger things have happened, why not?
His chuckle was velvety soft. "Yeah, I wouldn't put money on that play. We're more likely to get a drink thrown in our faces than a lead."
Ratelsi squinted, quirking her lips into a half-smile. She had anticipated his skepticism; in fact, she counted on it.
A languid, electric thrill rippled down her arms, raising a braille of goosebumps across her deep brown skin. The club's heat was oppressive, but the adrenaline felt like ice water in her veins.
"Relax, Timoth. We're not gonna corner 'em and start an interrogation," she said, tracking the flow of the club, ignoring the sweat-slicked dancers and the shadows in the corners, until her focus locked onto a specific beacon of light.
Then, she smirked, "We're gonna give 'em a reason to chat."
At the far end of the hall, a long bar counter glowed with neon radiance, bleeding hues of electric violet and acid green into the surrounding gloom. Behind it, a lanky Peculiar moved with the jerky grace of a marionette.
He was meticulously lining up and drowning a row of tall, spindly glasses in a liquid so deep and viscous it looked like fresh arterial blood.
Ratelsi pointed a taloned finger directly at the moody bartender with messy dark-and-crimson hair, heavy eyeliner, and an irritated expression that perfectly captured the "disgruntled employee" aesthetic.
"There," she rasped excitedly. "See the stringy dude in the oversized tee? That's Macaque Qim."
"Who?"
"Macaque Qim!"
Timoth's nose scrunched a bit as he tilted his head.
The way he did so gave him the look of a man listening for an explanation he hoped would come anytime soon.
I should probably know him, but I definitely don't; that's what his entire expression seemed to say without words.
An exasperated sigh.
Ratelsi's eyes rolled upward with weary impatience, "Obviously, he's an Intel Monger," and swept an arm across the main floor below. "In a place like this, built on secrets here and there, the man pouring the poison is the only one with a master key."
Timoth crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes as he said, "Okay? And how come you know him and I don't?"
"Wow, shocking that I know someone you don't." She tilted her head like he did, lips curling into a smirk, and continued sarcastically.
"Can't handle it?"
Timoth rolled his shoulders, forcing a laugh. "Cute. You think this gets under my skin?"
Hehe. Ratelsi leaned in so he could see the amused glint in her eyes. "You're doing it again," she said.
Before he could ask what she meant, she pointed a taloned finger directly at the bridge of his nose.
"That little twitch. Right there," she noted. "You know your nose gives you away every time, right?"
Ratelsi remained silent after pointing it out, letting the realization sink in that he's been 'caught' by his own biology.
Poor Timoth instinctively brought his hand to rub his face, trying to mask the movement as an itch.
"My nose? That's... that's just allergies, Rat. The dust in here is-" He stopped when he saw her eyebrow arch. Even he knows the allergy card has long gone stale by now.
Realizing he couldn't outrun his own anatomy, Timoth opted for an indignant redirection. He let out a nervous, high-pitched laugh that he immediately regretted.
"Okay, first of all, that is a physiological fluke. It's a muscle spasm. It has nothin' to do with the validity of my statement," he stammered, backing away slightly. "And second... it's incredibly rude of you to stare at my pores while I'm tryna have a serious conversation."
Ratelsi didn't give Timoth the satisfaction of an argument. Instead, she stood still, looking utterly unimpressed as he rambled on about "physiological flukes."
Then, reaching out, not to comfort him, she gave the tip of his nose a playful flick.
"Hey!"
The gesture was patronizing, yet strangely intimate. Still, he blinked in surprise, then swatted her hand away, muttering, "Wow, real mature."
Chuckling, she strode down the mezzanine, saying, "As long as you have that nose attached to your head, you don't have a single secret that belongs to only you, Timoth."
Then, she waved him over. "C'mon, let's get this over with. We're kinda short on time."
Her long hair swayed around her shoulders, the silver earrings on her pointed ears imitating her gait. Watching her go, Timoth let out a small sigh.
This woman always came up with plans based on nothing but a gut feeling and the urge to take action.
It drove him crazy, but he couldn't help but admit she usually ended up being spot on.
And he wanted to help, not tag along!
So, shifting his attention to the main floor, Timoth glanced around, looking for anyone who seemed to have been hanging out here for a while.
In the atrium, a game of darts was happening. People got in line, firing darts one after another, trying to hit the bullseye. The winners smoothly grabbed their tallys from the table.
Sky-blue eyes then landed on two Peculiars sitting in a booth nearby. Their barcodes were visible on their forearms as they laughed loudly over some light red shots. Timoth thought they might be a good place to scout for intel.
The stocky one with thick eyebrows and scales around his cheekbones sat across a woman sporting glowing spikes for hair. It was clear in their bleariness that they'd been drinking a while, and that the liquor had loosened their tongues, which Timoth hoped to use to his advantage.
So, adjusting the bags on his shoulders, he closed the distance, muttering, "Grana Aresona Surgunt."
With increasing intensity, a bioluminescent glow sparked in his irises until the light swallowed his pupils.
On the floorboards, a coil of grainy sand stirred to life, snaking up his arm and settling in a cuff around his wrist. It was a small precaution ready to coalesce into a weapon if needed.
Timoth leaned one elbow against the cracked leather of the booth, flashing a disarming grin. "Mind if I crash the fun?" he asked, his voice dripping with melodic charm. "Or is this a private giggle fest?"
The scaled Peculiar across from him squinted through bleary, bloodshot eyes. He leaned forward, the stench of stale sweat and fruity alcohol rolling off him, and nearly face-planted into a puddle of spilled booze.
"Illu…" he managed, the word breaking under a violent hiccup. "Yur… hic… yur seein' this glowing-eyed... hic... freak too, or ama... hic... finally losin' ma shyt?"
Freak? We're literally the same, stupid...
Timoth tilted his head just enough to emphasize his disapproving glare.
The scrawny-looking woman in a grease-stained vest, called Illu, didn't look much better. She sniffed hard with a lopsided grin on her face, darting her unfocused eyes around Timoth's face without ever landing on a single feature.
"Fuuuuuck," she hissed in a raspy growl. "Khil… ask me again in like… in like two seconds, yeah? I think ma soul just left ma body."
Khil barked a laugh that stunk of Blyss. Given how strong the smell was, he must've taken a lot of it.
Tsk. Reckless.
He swayed in place, slapping the table with a scaled hand. "Oi, mate, yur got sum... hic... massive balls," he slurred, punctuating the sentence with another wet hiccup. "Just standin' over there... hic... and glaring like we stole yur gal or suttin."
Barking another laugh, he hammered his palm against the seat, beckoning Timoth into the filth. "Fuck it, have a seat. I'm Khil!"
Timoth didn't hesitate. He dropped his bags into the shadows beneath the table—keeping a close eye on them—and slid into the booth.
Khil shoved a glass of cocktail toward him, the reddish liquid sloshing inside.
Timoth caught it and brought the rim to his lips. The heady, oily musk of Blyss immediately hit his nostrils.
Having read somewhere on Noogle that ingesting much of the hallucinogenic drug led to vivid sensory distortions that worsened over time, he restricted himself to a sip as he introduced himself.
"Timoth," he said with a dimpled grin, hoisting his glass in a mock salute. "To another night in this circus, eh?"
Meanwhile, Ratelsi made her way to the almost empty bar. Unaware that Timoth wasn't following her, she navigated through the booths, listening attentively to the sounds around her that faded in and out.
An animorph carelessly flicked his reptilian tail as he stood, swiping off half the contents on his table. Glassware tumbled, but before the first bottle could shatter, a staffer snapped their fingers, murmuring a spell.
The liquor froze mid-air, suspended in a shimmering stasis field before floating back to the table.
"Frigus!" commanded a girl with cracked opals for eyes, sitting alone nearby. Frost bloomed instantly across her glass, turning the liquid inside into a slush of red ice.
Barcodes flashed on arms, faces and any exposed skin around the club, while among the many Normies, some thought it fun to stick to the corners. They glanced around before talking, avoiding eye contact with the things that defied their understanding of biology, or streamed the nightclub's activities to show off to their followers on Gramify.
Ratelsi felt a smirk tug at her mouth.
This performative nonchalance.... It was genuinely pathetic—this desperate, sweaty effort to look like they belonged in a place that clearly wanted to eat them alive.
It sure as hell was comical to watch how hard they tried to hide their discomfort. They were tourists in a fever dream, terrified that if they blinked, the "freaks" would notice them.
Against the far walls, a row of VR rigs was lined up, bathing the scene in a sickly, radioactive green light. The glow caught the sweat on the Normies' foreheads, making them look even more like cornered lab rats.
Numerous voices merged into an incoherent susurrus, deafening the atmosphere to the point where it was almost hard to catch conversations just a few feet away. Ratelsi closed her eyes for a split second, filtering through the auditory trash.
Her pointed ears—blessed with heightened hearing—twitched as she tuned into the room's frequency. Soon, she was able to pick out bits and pieces.
"...genuinely psycho. Like, he's not even on ZapChat. Total ghost, zero digital footprint, defs a red flag."
"...walks in wearing his oversized hoodie, acting all coy, like we weren't literally at the same party where they hooked up..."
"...look man, it's strictly Aures. No Tallys, no Slates, no funny business. Piece of cake."
"...god, I just kept giggling. I laughed at every single thing he said, even the stupid 'dad jokes.' The things I do for a free drink."
Ratelsi let out an unimpressed sigh. Garbage. All I'm hearing is garbage!
Being in the dark was eating her up, and all that did was push her to figure out more before her inevitable meeting.
Was she scared? Hardly. Fear was not her dominant emotion.
And honestly, she was too annoyed to be intimidated. That cursed oaf of a boss had a gift for dragging them into these high-stakes messes, leaving her and Timoth to play cleanup while he operated behind a veil of intentions he never bothered to explain.
Before, she never really cared about it. The less she knew about Broco's dealings, the better the outcome for her and Timoth if things went south.
But this wasn't the case anymore. They were in the thick of it, and the least they could do was stay alert if they wished to come out of this alive.
If anyone was going to notice when the clients walked in, it was Macaque, who always had an eye on the tips and ears open for the tea. Forget the guest list; only he knew who really belonged here.
But to speak to Macaque, she had to put in an order for a drink. He had just finished a shot off with a spell, garnished it with a lemon peel, and handed the drink across the bar to a woman.
When he noticed Ratelsi, Macaque's eyes widened as he leaned forward in amazement. His lips curved into a dumbfounded half-smile, as if he didn't fully believe who was approaching him.
Ratelsi felt his heavy, appraising gaze on her, not even trying to hide her satisfaction with that attention. She was well aware of how palpable her presence was. Of how she emphasized everything nature had blessed her with.
Undisguised amusement illuminated her features as she flopped onto the barstool like she owned the place. Ratelsi lazily shook out her gorgeous hair, flipping the dark strands back while casually tucking the white ones behind her ears, which were multiple-pierced.
"Take this over to table 24 and ask Marleen for another round of Blyss from the back, will ya?" Macaque said to a nude, collared waitress, then turned to Ratelsi after the waitress left.
She smirked, waiting to hear what he would say next.
"Well, well," he drawled, leaning his elbows on the bar. "Look what the wind blew in. And here I thought you'd finally scrubbed the memory of me outta that pretty head. I figured I was a ghost to you by now."
The barcode tattoo on his throat stood out against his fair skin. It throbbed with every word he spoke. Up close, the shadows under his eyes were deep, violet bruises of exhaustion.
Had he not been sleeping well lately?
Ratelsi opened her mouth to speak, but Macaque held up a finger.
"Wait, lemme guess the occasion," he purred. His voice was like spiked honey—sweet on the surface, but with a lingering burn. "Are you here to gimme some tearful, breathless apology for slipping out before sunrise? Leaving me with nothing but cold sheets and the scent of you on my clothes?"
Ratelsi tried so much to resist the urge to roll her eyes. She was on the verge of regretting her decision to come to him.
Patience, Rat. Patience. She said to herself.
Macaque squinted, his eyes searching hers with a clinical, agonizing intensity, as if he could find the secret to her sudden appearance hidden in the unnaturally bright malachite depths of her irises.
"Or maybe," he whispered, leaning so close she could feel the heat radiating off his skin, "you're here because you realized the truth. You missed me. Be honest, Ratelsi—one night wasn't nearly enough to get me out of your system."
And there it was... That insufferable, obnoxious gloating. It was the reason she'd ghosted him, convinced that he didn't just want her; he wanted her to admit that he owned a piece of her.
Ugh. She couldn't believe she had to deal with this. And all because of Broco. That fucking oaf...
"So, which is it? Remorse or relapse? I'm all ears," pressed Macaque.
Ratelsi said nothing. Several patrons were seated around the bar, but they were either too drunk or too engrossed in their own conversations to eavesdrop.
She kept her expression unreadable until she finally let out a short huff of a laugh past the snarl trapped in her throat.
"Relapse? You've got a high opinion of yourself, Macaque," she said, meeting his amber gaze with a narrowing intensity.
"I'm not here to apologize for leaving. If you wanted a goodbye kiss, you should've stayed awake. And as for missing you..." she paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to see his smirk falter by a fraction of a millimeter. "You. Fucking. Wish. This bar is the only place in Altown serving something strong enough to wash the taste of your arrogance out of my mouth."
Her vertical pupils gleamed, catching the neon lights from the multi-tiered bar where holographic labels floated above the glass bottles.
"But since I'm already here, I might as well stay."
Macaque's eye twitched in delight. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. His smirk returned, this time, with a genuine intrigue. "You think me a douche."
Ratelsi clutched her chest dramatically, as if his words had caught her off guard. "Me? Yes. Yes, I do."
"Ouch. Careful, Ratelsi, you're wounding me," he said, though his tone suggested he was enjoying the verbal sparring more than any compliment she could have thrown his way.
He picked up a rag and began mindlessly polishing a spot on the counter that was already spotless. "A 'douche,' huh? Fair enough. What is it you're here for then, if not me?"
Finally, he was asking the right question. But racking her brain, she still hadn't found the right words to use to approach the question she had in mind. Until then, she'd have to stall.
"I'll have a Vacci. Add a twist of lemon, light on the Blyss. Stirred, of course." Ratelsi ordered warmly, hoping to come off as friendly.
"Yeah, sure," Macaque replied as he reached for a bottle of Vacci Tartlet and popped it open. He poured a stream of thick crimson liquid into her glass and squeezed in some lemon, then added a couple drops of Blyss from a vial.
The yellow drops instantly disappeared into the dark red.
"Scintillare", he muttered a spell, snapping his fingers over the glass. Sparks shot out, showering for a moment before fading into patterns of smoke that circulated the rim like a crown. Macaque set the drink on the coaster and nudged it toward Ratelsi, who could hardly hide her excitement.
It looked totally like an Elixir!
"That'll be fifty Creds," he said, making her freeze and frown just as she was about to grab it.
"Huh? Is that for the drink or the show?"
"For the drink, the show, and a little assurance that you can actually pay for it." He grinned, pointing at the smoky swirl. "That's not just garnish, y'know. It's part of Hexoset's entertainment."
Unwilling to accept this, Ratelsi rolled her eyes, scoffing. "Pssh. Please. Seriously?"
Fifty Creds felt a bit much for a drink that wasn't even that fancy. But she was running low on wealth, so Ratelsi shrugged off her annoyance and said, "Just put it on Aqqa's tab."
Macaque raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by her spunk. He really looked at her now, as though seeing her for the first time. "Uh, I didn't know you rolled with Broco's crew."
His voice suddenly betrayed a nervousness that wasn't there before. Sensing an opportunity, Ratelsi traced her finger along the glass rim, encouraging him to say more.
She took a sip, maintaining eye contact with Macaque as he straightened up into a somewhat respectful stance. He now saw her as someone with influence, or at least someone tied to a figure he couldn't afford to cross.
That's how it always was; if you had connections with the infamous, suspicions were far easier to avoid. So, of course, he had questions... like how she knew Broco and what kind of connection a Peculiar like her had with him that allowed her to access his resources so casually.
For the sake of rapport, she decided to feed his curiosity.
"Well, you could say he's my…boss," Ratelsi said, shrugging lazily but spitting the last word with such venom that her eyes, resentful, glowed with fury. Macaque caught it but quickly brushed it aside, assuming she was just a frustrated Merc dealing with a boss who clearly got on her nerves.
He typed in a few commands on the holographic screen to erase the price of her drink. Just like that, the vibe between them shifted from suspicious to oddly…trusting?
Anyway, the more she spoke with him, the better. With fewer distractions, maybe she'd have time to carry out her discreet inquiries.
Ratelsi thought about how to get Macaque to open up without making him feel like he was being grilled for intel. Mostly because she had no way of paying or compensating him.
Also, if she came off too nosy, he might clam up, so she needed to be smooth about it.
"Have you-"
"Why are you-"
They both stopped short, taken aback by their overlapping interruptions. Then Qimmeq slapped his head, laughing. "You go ahead," he said.
"Ah, it's all good," Ratelsi waved it off.
Tilting his head, Qimmeq's lips curled in a half-grin, and he said, "Well, not tryna pry or shit, but you're hanging out here while your boss is up there with some clients. Why? Isn't that kind of against protocols or something?"
Ratelsi blinked. Huh, would you look at that?
And they say fortune doesn't favour the bold.
She bared her canines, extremely pleased with this turn of events. Spinning a paper straw between her fingers, she then pointed it like a sword, speaking slowly to gauge his reaction. "Actually, I'm a runner, not his security. My partner and I are just here to drop something off."
Ratelsi plunged the straw into the drink, the ice clinking softly. "But go ahead, I'm all ears for whatever you've got to say."
She brought it to her lips, eyes narrowing in anticipation, and took a long, exaggerated slurp. A satisfied "ahh" followed as she smacked her lips and grinned.
"Right," Qimmeq said calmly. Though he spoke with an impish expression, she knew she'd aroused his interest.
Clearly, he was no rookie at this. Being an informant was second nature for him, and he was aware she needed something only he had. Luckily for her, he genuinely enjoyed chatting about the latest gossip. Whether he was paid or not didn't really matter.
Knowing he probably had info she could use was more than enough to keep him invested in the conversation.
Qimmeq began wiping the counter with a clean cloth.
"So, I was just clocking in, yeah?" he spoke, wiping slowly. "I noticed these two people with Broco heading to the elevator, with his crew tagging along. They seemed pretty close, like a couple. But they're definitely not the usual posse Broco hangs with."
At the mention of that little detail, a slightly evil smile appeared at the corner of Ratelsi's lips. Her casual facade almost slipped away as she flashed a victorious smirk, showing off her canines. "What's up with that?" she asked, trying to keep her tone neutral.
Clearly enjoying the moment, Qimmeq took a dramatic pause and leaned in.
"I mean, y'know Broco's type - loud, big egos, all bling and shit. But these guys were younger, more posh, totally different vibe. But the one dude had these unusual tattoos on his neck with bright purple eyes. Not the kinda stuff you'd typically overlook."
Ratelsi furrowed her forehead. She unconsciously turned to glance towards Timoth, who was still chatting away with the Peculiars by the atrium. Khil had his arm around Timoth's shoulder like they were old pals. She was about to frown when her partner caught her eye, grinned and gave her a thumbs-up.
Then he returned to his conversation.
Ratelsi shifted her focus back to Qimmeq, who was now inspecting a glass like he was searching for fingerprints. Her patience was wearing thin, obvious by her talons drumming impatiently on the counter. Time was ticking. Broco was expecting them, Vesir could show up at any minute, and this guy….
"But his girl?" Qimmeq continued talking. "Man, she was turning heads all around…" He trailed off, probably struggling to find the right words to describe how stunning this lady was. "You could just tell she was someone special…"
Putting everything together, Ratelsi mumbled, "Tattooed guy and a knockout chick," concluding that these clients could be some affluent Peculiars. "Got any names? Maybe one goes by EXON?"
Finally, Qimmeq put the glass down, looking thoughtful. "Definitely a unique name. But nah, I've got zilch. I just spotted them from afar, that's all."
With feigned disappointment, Ratelsi said, "Aw, Qimmeq. You're gonna bail on me right when things are getting interesting?"
Naturally, he was quick to pick up on it. She could tell because the poor guy began to rub his temples, trying to squeeze more details out of his skull. A mischievous glint danced on her face.
Wasn't it wild how the need for validation could make a person drop their pride just so they can prove their worth?
Qimmeq basked in the role of a storyteller, feeding Ratelsi's curiosity while satisfying his own need to feel important. All he needed to do was trade his pride for performance, hoping she would value them.
Maybe she did...
Half-lidded amber eyes narrowed in amusement at this predictable behaviour. Ratelsi found his eagerness to impress kind of entertaining, which only boosted her sense of superiority in the conversation.
"Ugh, I got zilch fr!" he sighed with mild frustration, but it quickly disappeared as a knowing smirk returned. "Be real with me… They're not just here to party, are they?"
Heh..If only you knew what kind of shenanigans these douches were really here for..You'd probably shit your pants if you knew what I had with me right now.
While she'd love to see that, Ratelsi skillfully avoided a direct answer, saying, "Can't help you there, dude. That kind of info's waay beyond my paycheck. You know how this shit goes - I'm not looped on the classified stuff."
Qimmeq let out a sarcastic chuckle, making it clear he wasn't buying her fib but wasn't interested in digging deeper. "Yeah, sure. Whatever. I get it."
Feeling pleased, Ratelsi pushed her empty glass aside as she stood up. "You're super easy to talk to; I didn't even notice how long we've been at it." She grabbed a cherry off a fruit bowl, tossing it into her mouth.
"This was fun. But, uh, I've got to take off now…" She waved quickly without waiting for a reply and left, leaving a somewhat flattered Qimmeq blinking in surprise.
Perfect! Absolutely Perfect!
That whole double Creds thing was legit. She had every reason to believe she'd done the right thing, and the excitement almost drowned out her worries about the incriminating stuff she had tucked away in her. To reassure herself, Ratelsi ran her fingers over the bulging bottom of her pocket.
Everything was going smoothly, that is, until she felt a looming presence by the VR machines.
She paused, alert, as her senses sharpened. It reeked of…bloodlust - desire she knew all too well and could recognize even in her sleep. Ratelsi grinned like a predator, her pupils stretching into thinner ovals as if she'd caught the scent of prey.
She turned around.
By the elevator where they should've been standing was Vesir. Wiry with a shaved head and dark-skinned, her milky eyes were obscured by sunglasses, but Ratelsi recognized the dusty, worn leather coat over a black vest and combat pants. Vesir looked every bit the Merc, with her dual-bladed tonfas sitting comfortably beneath the folds of her coat.
A repulsive look crept onto Vesir's face as Ratelsi reached for her HoloSmart. Ignoring the obvious threat behind that look, she quickly texted Timoth: Got the info we need. Make for the VRMs. Vesir's watching, so play it cool.
Just then, Timoth's HoloSmart buzzed on his wrist, interrupting his chat with Khil and Illu. "Hang on a sec," he said with a laugh as he turned away from the group. Once he read Ratelsi's message, he instinctively glanced in her direction.
She nodded at their waiting escort, signalling him that it was time to move.
Suddenly feeling anxious, Timoth hesitated with his thumb over the reply button but gathered himself and typed: Stay put. I'm on my way. He then fist-bumped the intoxicated Peculiars, who were a bit reluctant to see him leave, before smoothly slipping away.
Holding the bags, Timoth strolled across the main floor toward the VR machines where Ratelsi was waiting. He stopped next to her, saying, "Seems like Broco's brought in a couple of newcomers today, and I think I made a few friends too."
His words about his new "friends" seemed a bit too eager for Ratelsi, so she shot him a fierce look that made him shiver. Her darkened expression said more than his words ever could. Still, a crooked grin broke out on his face as he teased, "What? Jealous?"
"Oh, please, you thinking I'm jealous is adorable."
"You were totally glarin' at me."
"Was not."
"Mm-hmm, sure…"
Ratelsi rolled her eyes but mirrored his smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Anyway, looks like Qim was right."
"Qim?"
"Yeah, buzz cut and khakis over there by the bar."
"Oh, got it."
"So, turns out we're really getting double the pay. And based on the gist, we're working with some high-profile Peculiars, possibly from Balun," she said, glancing at Qimmeq, who was too busy making drinks to notice her.
An intrigued "oh" escaped Timoth's lips as his eyes widened with interest. "So even the elite among rags make appearances, huh? Haven't seen one in ages," he remarked.
"Right?" Ratelsi chuckled, nudging his side. "Alright, c'mon, let's bounce."
They quickly did their special handshake before heading toward the elevator.