"Doo-BOOO-nas! Fresh doo-BOOOOOO-nas!"
Louie Pachonga's voice sails over the din of Wendy's Warehouse and Trading Post like a toy boat bobbing in a bathtub. He waves his bushel of oval green fruits with one hand, cupping his smiling mouth with the other like a megaphone.
He's a small, slender man, with dark hair and light amber skin that betray the Choopa side of his heritage. He wears a yellow toga-like shirt and old Lee jeans that are fraying at the bottom. His sandals are of hand-woven reeds - a souvenir from home, perhaps.
He smiles, does Louie, for he has his exotic fruit stand, the Market is full, and all is right with the world.
Now all he lacks is his first customer of the day...
"Doo-BOOO-nas! Fresh doo-BOOOOOO-nas!...."
From the far side of the street looms the familiar form of Officer K'chuhura. Stepping off the curb and into the gradually growing throng of early-morning shoppers, the police creature eyes Louie momentarily. Within a second the familiar vendor is dismissed as familiar, peaceful, and below interest. Except for the fruit he holds.
Passing by the bountiful stand, the eight foot tall being picks up one of the ripe, rounded fruit and devours it with one toothy bite. A quick glare from beneath brindled eyebrows dares the smaller being to protest. It is an unspoken, unwritten right of the Peace Keepers to sample wares, just in case the shopkeepers try to pass something unhealthy to the consumers.
Louie's smile never falters as the officer completes its "inspection" and moves on.
"Officer K'chuhura is having a stomach ache, it is eating uncooked dooboonas," he comments to the merchant in the adjoining stall to his left, his dark eyes twinkling with merriment.
She grins back in between heaving bundles of succulent, palm-sized leaves from ceiling hooks to her front rack, similarly laden with other such greenery. The bundles are an armful apiece, but she wrestles them into place with the ease of long familiarity. Her flat white teeth (oversized and neatly filed canines excluded, of course) make a startling contrast to blue-black, faintly iridescent skin.
"Officer K'chuhura will one day learn better, or one day sample may bite back!" she chuckles, glancing toward the market booths across the way, where more lively wares are tanked, caged, strung or hung.
Ashuraia -- for so she is called, although in her own homelands her name is much longer and betokening of her life's journey -- drops the last load of sticky apura leaves onto the display and pats them down, then wipes her hands on one of the bright rags salvaged from the tag ends of bolts. Not that a few greenish stains would be noticed on her skirts, sewn from cloth just as bright and covered in every available inch in cheerful embroidery. As if the comment to Louie had spurred her memory, she eyes the wares of one particular vendor, assessing the freshness and health of the seafood he hawks from his canvas-topped booth. She must remember to pick up a half-weight of shellfish before she departs tonight. The family would be visiting, and only the best and freshest would do to serve to Honoured Father.
But that will have to wait. For now she has her own wares to sell, and every one of these passers-by could be a potential customer.
Flicking tiny, juicy morsels from around it's spiny teeth with it's nimble tongue, K'chuhura moves on down the market promenade and turns onto an oil covered side street flanked on both sides by towering residential buildings. Narrow alleys between the buildings are transformed into jungles of laundry lines as home-keepers lean from tiny windows to spread gossip over drying diapers. As always, K'chuhura pauses to catch the juiciest news as it trickles down from floor to floor.
"And wouldn't you know," Mrs Jones calls across to her gossip-partner, Mrs Smith, "She was absolutely right? That worthless mate of hers had a second den and a dozen hatchlings! She was thoroughly in the right to kill them all. The judge even said she'd shown mercy by leaving him two of his appendages. He'll think twice before tangling with another female!"
Mrs Smith, a bit more conservative, blushes deep purple at such scandal. Disguising her lack of reply with nervous action she extends her long, orange-furred arm to adjust the laundry. She hmms a moment or two, deciding if such a story merits a trade. A noise behind her pre-empts the possibility. Frustrated, she announces, "Ah, the baby is swinging from the lamp again. Gotta go Shirley!" Her window closes and the news for the day ends.
Shirley Jones shakes her wedge-shaped head. Pulling in a dozen dry body skins she smiles upward towards the sun. "A good day to lay out on the roof rock," she says to herself. Scanning her narrow world, she spies K'chuhura below and forks a tongue out in polite greeting.
K'chuhura nods in response and continues her beat.
**
The early morning sun filtered through threadbare pale green curtains. Through the open window Myria could hear the exited chatter of women bouncing between the buildings.
"There they go again, The old gossips" She fondly thought as she streched, trying to shake the last clining hands of sleep from her body.
Myria had no reason to complain of the chatter. Her upstairs neighbor had made her a part of the family after her father had died three years ago. Looking about the room, she could see the changes since those past times. The furnishings were a bit more timeworn and threadbare, but taken care of with love and pride.
'After all, it isn't every student who has such a comfortable place to live in.' She reflected as pulling a simple green tunic with one bright band of embroidery on the hemline over a pair of billowy black pants. Standing up, she quietly padded across the room to the small cooking niche.
"Now just how is one supposed to eat these?" This was aimed at a particularily large daboona. Which had been bought at the marketplace the past morning. A smile crept across her face, pulling her whiskers into her line of sight. "I suppose one must cook it, but how is the question of the day"
Shrugging slightly, Myria tossed the fruit onto the table, and prepared to walk to the marketplace and ask the vendor just how one was to cook his wares.
**
It is hard, being a little creature in a land of monstrosities. Even in the great Nexus, there were very few civilized places where a size of a creature such as Earl would be welcome, and most of those places weren't anything but hole-in-the-wall bars. Literally.
The little salamander scans the busy shopping area, occasionally reaching over from his comfortable position to sip at water from a discarded acorn cap. From his position within the fishmonger, he was able to see most of what happened in the market. A woman who looks like a potential customer scans his wares, but then passes by, losing him another sale.
"Maybe I should have made the body bigger, more noticeable," Earl wonders aloud, moving the fishmonger controls slightly, so from outside, the seemingly-ordinary man waves to any who pass by.
Business had, of course, improved since he had purchased the mechanical fishmonger. It had been quite the investment, but it had almost already paid for itself. After all, who would buy anything from a tiny fire-red salamander? No...the rather oversized puppet had definitely helped his cash box grow to a comfortable size.
Earl sighs, shakes his red head as if to clear it, and pulls the loudspeaker closer once more. He leans close to the mouthpiece and shouts, "Fish here! Fresh fish! Shellfish, lobster, crab, shrimp! You won't find better rates on or under the pier, folks! Get cha' fish right here!"
The steady stream of traffic through the nearby double doors reveals that the daylight has dimmed considerably, taking on a distinctly purplish cast.
A man strolls down the aisle toward the fishmonger's stall. His skin is the same stormy shade of purple as the weak light seeping through the doorway, while his hair, thick beard, and robes all seem comprised of a black cloudy substance that roils and billows in response to some unfelt wind. His eyes are a solid electric white, and they crackle as he glances about.
"Greetings, friend merchant!" he calls merrily. "I am [**SOUND OF CRACKLING LIGHTNING FOLLOWED BY A THUNDERCLAP**]."
The sound rattles displays, merchants, and customers.
"But," the man continues, oblivious to the disturbance, "you may call me Rexalc Stormcrest. At your service!"
Rexalc offers the fishmonger a sweeping bow. Bits of the cloudstuff fray from his hair and robes at the sudden movement, quickly dispersing. When he rises, his crackling eyes eagerly scan the merchant's tanks and cases.
"Might you have any skytrout?" he asks hopefully.
Earl leans forward, reaching up to rub at the little window from which he watches the world go by--to all outsiders, it would seem as if the fishmonger merely is blinking to clear something from his eye. "A right stormdragon. I'll bet my last copper on it..." Earl mumbles to himself, awestruck.
He pulls the mouthpiece close again and leans back, twitching the controls so that the fishmonger smiles gaily at his new customer. "Skytrout, y'say? That's a rare bird, now...it'd cost a pretty penny to get somma that..." the fishmonger drawls, leaning back to search for something beneath his stand.
"Yes...this might just be what you're lookin' for, now, Lord Rexalc," Earl says into the loudspeaker. The fishmonger pulls up a rather large glass tank, in which resides two or three odd-looking fish, who swim about happily in their glass-enclosed home.
What makes them odd-looking, however, is the fact that there is no water in the aquarium.
"These are all I've got, now, Rexalc sir," the fishmonger assures him, leaning protectively over the tank. "These here are hard to come by in these parts, y'know. Had to feed a pelican for a month, free, before he agreed to fly up and catch these lovely ones for me. You want a good meal, though, and these ones are the best on the market, so long as they don't get away from you!"
Rexalc sniffs the cage and smiles appreciatively. "Oh, these will do _nicely_! They will be little more than a snack, of course, but never fear: I'd not truly expected to find any at all! Perhaps I will breed them.
"But enough of that! I'm told that you'll want some currency in exchange for your wares? How much, and of what kind, might be suitable?"
Earl pulls down his goggles to get a better view of the fish in question. "Stan sure did outdo himself healing these ones..." he mumbles to himself, numbers running through his little amphibian mind as he determines the value of the skytrout. "Lovely specimens, too...
Rexalc eyes the cage, smiling and nodding energetically.
"Fifty gold pieces, I think, milord," he says into the mouthpiece. The fishmonger nods stoutly. "Fifty gold, yes. It'll give me enough to get my fisherman Stan some sort of flyin' machine so he can go after some more o' these." The salamander uses his best wheedling tone, and is hardly able to manage the controls as the fishmonger gathers up the skytrout into a netted bundle. "I could supply you indefinitely, if you like, milord, once I get Stan that flyer...."
"Oh, that would be _wonderful_, friend Fishmonger!" Rexalc enthuses. "And fifty gold is indeed a pittance for such a bounty -- my travels have kept me from my beloved Valley of Storms far too often of late, and I should love having a supply closer at claw! If you will be so kind as to wait but a moment, I shall fetch your payment from my cloud in a flash!"
Without another word, he fairly skips out the double doors at the end of the row. As he steps into the violet gloom outside, his form grows even more cloudy, swelling and distending in a swirling mass of black, white, and purple. When it coalesces once more, his true form stands revealed: a 45' purple Storm Dragon with black stripes, a black crest, and great white wings with featherlike scales. Only the eyes remain the same: a pure, crackling white.
With a great leap and a single beat of his massive wings, he sails upward to the cyclopean purple thunderhead that rumbles patiently overhead. The wind of his passing sends the wares of the newsstand crouching on the corner flying like frantic ghosts, much to the chagrin of its aging proprietor.
Muttering angrily about dragons and wind, the balding and bespectacled man steps out of his tiny storefront to corral his wayward papery charges. He painstakingly reassembles each and every paper right down to the pizza coupons, carries them back to the stand, and rebuilds the stacks with geometric precision. Hooking his thumbs through his suspenders as he critiques his display from the front of the stand, he nods and steps back inside.
He takes pride in his work, does Verne Grundy.
Oh, sure, newspapers are a bit of an anachronism where digital news and holovids are easily to come by, and this is just such a neighborhood. Still, Wendy's Market attracts to a wide range of clientele, including a few odd birds who just enjoy the feel of newsprint between their fingers as they catch up on current events. And besides, Verne is quite sure he's too old to be pulling up stakes and moving his business to a less technological reality.
Returning to his station, Verne raises a paper above his head like a conqueror's sword, headline out to the world. Then his checks swell to a ruddy hue matching that of the flaking paint of his stand as he inhales in preparation for his well-practiced pitch.
"EEEEEX-TRA!! EEEEEX-TRA!! Read all about it!! Unstable Portals Rock Nexus! Legionnaires Battle Monster in Market! EEEEEX-TRA!! EEEEX-TRA!!"
"Hey, friend!" he says, focusing his salesmanship on a single passerby now, "Wanna buy a paper?"
James MacDonald smiled. Of course he wanted to buy a paper!
James could use every high-tech gadget in Nexus, if he put his mind to it. Between his job and his kids, he got plenty of chances to try new things and learn new techniques. But there was something about the feel of newsprint between his fingers that helped mark this time of day apart from his work-a-day life.
He'd go home, find his wife and kiss her, say hello to his son and daughter, if they were home, and then retreat to his study and read the paper for half-an-hour or so, alone, in quiet.
He'd nearly lost everything a year before. His wife, his 13-year-old son, his 10-year-old daughter. His house, his best chance at happiness. And all for want of an evening paper.
His wife used to greet him at the door in a state of frustration and dishevelment, confronting him with tales of woe from her day. Complaints about the children, stories about servicemen who didn't show, or who had left the kitchen in an unusable state of disaster. Retellings of petty arguments she'd had with her sister, or how her mother was trying to control her life--again.
He'd try to fix things by giving her solutions to the problems she handed him, but they never seemed to work out. In fact, it just seemed to make her angrier that he thought he could succeed where she could not. She seemed to be insulted by the suggestion that she was just making a mountain out of a molehill, and everything would work out if she would just calm down, and...
And every evening ended in a fight.
Usually, Sharon ended up in cold silence that extended all the way into their marital bed. So that when he, in search of some loving comfort and escape from the problems he'd had at the office, reached for her warm body, she'd pull away and mutter something about being too tired.
And the kids were no better. He hardly knew his kids. They were sprouting up before his eyes, and he had not a clue what their world contained. They were as alien to him as though they'd come from Chimera City. They spoke some sort of strange code language, held values he could not begin to espouse nor understand how they came by such beliefs, avoided his company and laughed at him to his face.
No, he didn't want to be around his children much. No one needs that kind of humiliation.
And about a year ago, he decided--or, rather, he and Sharon mutually agreed--that it just wasn't working out. He was a stranger in his own house. His kids hated him, and he suspected Sharon was finding a sympathetic ear somewhere that was not attached to one of her girl-friends.
So while working in the garden that evening--Sharon had no interest in gardening, so he could safely hide away there--he'd asked his best friend and neighbor, Walter, if he knew any good divorce lawyers. Walter's response had been to invite James and Sharon to dinner the next evening. Their daughter Emily could watch the kids. Reluctantly, James and Sharon agreed to go.
And so it was that Walter explained to Sharon--in front of James--that James needed a bit of "transition time" between the office and home. Time to change gears between the worries of the job and the worries of home life. That he wasn't trying to be unsympathetic...he was just thinking in "problem-solving mode".
And June explained to James--in front of Sharon--that women get frustrated dealing with children all day and need to unload to an adult at the end of it all. That she wasn't looking for solutions, but for sympathy. She wanted reassurance that she wasn't in this alone, and that James still loved her enough just to listen to her and hold her. And she wanted to grow into something more than homemaker and mother. Although a little respect for her abilities in those areas would go a long way.
They were told a lot of other things, too. But the upshot was that James starting buying an evening paper. He'd take that time to rid himself of the taint of the office. Sharon knew not to bother him. But then, he'd take over the kids while she took a long soak in the tub. He'd have the kids long enough to supervise their homework.
Then, after 9, he and Sharon would "meet" to discuss the day. And, once a month, they dropped the kids off with one or other of the grandparents or hired a sitter and went away for the weekend. Because, as Walter and June pointed out, they got married because they wanted to spend more time with each other, not with the kids and the job!
A year later, he knew his kids--could even speak their code--and his wife. And she was happy to see him. They cuddled in the kitchen and whispered and giggled like kids. The kids had stopped acting out. They ate at least one meal a day around the table--together. He had begun to draw his sense of self from family instead of the office. His garden was a show-place. Sharon had started taking night-classes to complete her degree. The kids' grades had improved. And they never called the lawyer.
"Yeah...I'll take the 'Daily Nexus'." He handed over the coins. Then he took the paper lovingly into his hand, as though cradling all that was precious to him, all that truly mattered to him.
Because, after all, he was.
*****
Morning breaks on 14th Street much like it does in many parts of the City. That is to say, something approximating the Sun rises in a general easterly direction and moves across the sky at a rate that takes somewhere near an acceptable ten to twelve hours, depending on the season. This morning, it rises as usual, casting shadows out across the buildings. Some residents meet the day with anticipation, like the cheerful brownie grocer that sweeps off the sidewalk in front of his store while the morning batch of scones cools on the window sill, wafting the odor of cinnamon and currants out on the breeze. Others, like the transient residents of the Living Room or the tattooist, Rudy Capp, shun it, squinting as they pull their blankets over their heads and grumble, or pull the shades down and close the parlor for the day. Still others, like the chiefly nocturnal folk of the Subterranean Market, look at it as the end, rather than the beginning, of the day, a time to relax and rest. However the folk of 14th Street view it, it is morning, and morning on 14th moves much like it does on any street, in any city.
The sunlight streams down onto the street, shortening shadows and illuminating dark corners as it rises into the sky. It drifts down the side of a two-story, red brick building, before darting into a window that looks out over the street. Once inside the building, it does not dally, but leaps across the room, vaulting over the clutter and straight into the eyes of one of the slumbering inhabitants.
The sleeping man reacts instinctively, his eyes tensing in an attempt to shut the already-shut eyelids tighter. When that fails, he rolls over onto his side, in an attempt avert his face from the light. This jostles the other sleepers, and earns him an elbow in the side as the one in the middle pushes him back. He flops back over, his face back into the sunlight that is slowly drifting down his face and across the bed. His eyes open, and then immediately squint shut again. He groans, and his tone would let anyone who heard him know that this event was not uncommon.
"Eden," he says, throwing a bare arm across his face. The figure next to him stirs and mumbles something in reply. "Tell me again why we have a window facing east in the bedroom?"
The sleeper next to him rolls over and extricates itself from the knot of bedclothes. She - for it is a woman - pushes her ash-blonde hair out of her eyes and looks over at her bedmate. "Because we wanted to welcome the Daystar every morning, Jamie. You remember."
"And because he wanted to bitch about being woken up every morning," comes a muffled reply from the third person in the bed, a large man with auburn hair and a full beard.
Jamie chuckles. "A touch, a touch, I do confess," he says, pulling himself up into a sitting position and running his fingers through his shaggy black hair. He looks around momentarily, and then asks, "Did Watcher leave?"
The other man grunts in assent. "He said he had things to take care of before moonset. He and Luke left while Eden was using you as a doormat."
Eden pokes him in the side. "I didn't hear you complaining last night when I walked on your back, Stephen."
Stephen recoils in mock-pain and then pokes back. "Ouch! Have at you!"
She, in turn, recoils, also in play, and then pokes back. "Cur."
He retaliates. "Bitch."
The two dissolve into a poke fight, which soon becomes a tickling match. Jamie sighs and swings his legs out of the bed. "Children, we do have things to do."
With that, Eden sits upright. "Oops. Quite right. I have a nine o'clock class." She looks back at Stephen. "We'll have to finish this later."
Stephen hmphs. "Tease."
She grins and kisses him. "I know. And you love it." She crawls over him and out of the bed, walks around to the window, clad only in her hair, and faces the rising sun. In a strange language full of growling syllables, she says, "«Greetings, Daystar. We give thanks for your light and warmth.»" She then bows and walks into the bathroom.
Both men watch her unclothed form, wearing the expression that men wear when their libidos temporarily seize total control of their forebrains. They see each other and share a mutual grin. Stephen stands up and wanders over to an artist's table on the other side of the bedroom. Yawning, he asks, "Where's Isis?"
Jamie scratches his jaw where his long sideburn blends into the night's whiskers, and answers, "Dunno. She was here when I zonked. Maybe's she's with Ripper." He stands as well and walks to the window. Stephen joins him. Both are unclothed, but neither seems bothered by the nudity. They both bow and, in the same tongue that Eden spoke in, they repeat her ritual greeting, "«Greetings, Daystar. We give thanks for your light and warmth.»"
As they straighten up, Stephen motions to a pile of clothing that has been dropped under the artist's table. "She's still here," he says, picking up the conversation again. "Her stuff'd be gone otherwise."
Nodding, Jamie wanders over to the table. His attention is drawn by something other than the clothing. He looks at a piece of paper that has been mounted on the top of the table, one that has been used for a work in progress. "This is coming out very well," he says.
"Thanks," says Stephen, looking at his own work. "I hope to have it done by the end of the week."
"Think that they'll buy it?"
"I hope so. Getting my work published'll open a lot of doors." He chuckles, and adds, "We both know that."
"Amen, brother-mine," says Jamie, smiling. "Amen."
The noise of water running comes from beyond the closed bathroom door. Jamie makes a motion with his chin, and asks, "You wanna go scrub her back, and I'll get breakfast. She was pretty much paying attention to just me last night."
Stephen thinks for a moment, then nods. "Sure. Making grits?"
Jamie shakes his head. "We're out. Oatmeal okay?"
Stephen frowns. "Not really. Just make me an extra egg."
"Can do." As Stephen steps into the bathroom, Jamie wanders over to a large dresser and pulls out a pair of drawstring pants which he pulls on. Staring at the dark-haired, pale-skinned man that looks back at him out of a mirror, he finger-combs his thick hair into something relatively neat, and then walks out of the bedroom into the rest of the house.
He walks down the hall and into the large den that takes up most of the second story of the building. Curled up in front of the dying embers of the fire is a large wolf. Curled around it is the nude form of a dusky-skinned woman, clearly still asleep. The wolf opens its eyes as Jamie approaches.
Jamie kneels and gives the wolf an affection rub. "Morning Ripper," he says. He leans over and kisses the woman on the shoulder. "Isis. It's morning, love. Time to get up."
The woman stirs and uncurls, disentangling herself from the wolf and rolling onto her back. "Mmm, morning," she responds, smiling. "Hope nobody minded, but Ripper and I came out here to sleep. It was a little crowded."
Jamie smiles and helps her up. "Not a problem. I speak from experience when I say that Ripper makes an excellent blanket. Don't you, Rip?"
The wolf sits up, and growls back at him, "«Ripper kept Isis warm. Isis kept Ripper warm. Ripper likes Isis.»"
The woman smiled again and leaned over to kiss Ripper on the top of his head. "And Isis likes Ripper. Thank you for the company." She straightens up again, and then asks, "What's for breakfast?"
"«Ripper wants eggs.»"
"And eggs you shall have, brother-mine," responds Jamie, "with plenty of bacon. Isis, why don't you go take a shower, and I'll put things together. Eden and Stephen should be finished soon. Do you want coffee or tea?"
"Coffee, please." She kisses him on the cheek and then walks towards the bedroom.
Jamie wanders into the kitchen and starts pulling out the fixings of breakfast for four. Ripper goes with him and watches him cook for a while, but wanders off to make his morning patrol of the house and visit the backyard. By the time that he returns and the others are done with their showers, breakfast is prepared. The three bipeds sit down at a table laden with eggs, bacon, oatmeal, coffee, tea, bagels with cream cheese, and juice. A plate filled with what he wants is placed on the floor for Ripper.
Breakfast proceeds in a fashion of domestic ease, with all parties participating in a conversation that indicates that they are old friends. Even Ripper makes commentary. After a little while, the food is gone, and they sit, sipping their tea or coffee, ready to greet the day.
A clock on the mantle chimes the eight o'clock hour. Eden, now dressed in a peasant blouse and cotton skirt looks over at it, and says, "Time for me to open shop, dears. I'll see you at lunch, if not sooner." She stands, finishing her tea, and bestows kisses on all present, before leaving the room.
Isis nods in agreement, and gulps down the rest of her coffee. "I've got deliveries this morning. I'll see you later, brethren. Thank you for a lovely stay."
"Travel well, Isis," says Jamie, as she scoops up a bike helmet and courier's bag. "Watch for blind gates."
"Always do, love," she says as she buckles on her helmet. She kisses the three males (Ripper included) and heads out. Her footsteps echo down the back stairs.
Jamie pushes back from the table, and says, "You do dishes, Stephen. I'm going to shower. Back in a few."
After the rest of the morning ritual is finished, the three head downstairs to the shop. The stairs lead down the back, opening into a cloakroom. Through a door into the store leads the trio through a dark library, filled with the smell of ancient books. Jamie pauses to click on the lights and take a look around. Ripper investigates the corners of the room briefly, nosing a few spots for new scents. "«Rats not back yet,»" he announces after few minutes.
Stephen opens the door separating the back room from the actual store. "They'll be gone for a while, Ripper. Something important elsewhere in the city."
"«Ripper wants to know why rats left.»"
"They didn't say, brother-mine," says Jamie as he flips on the lights to the front store, revealing shelves of books, magazines and other literature. "I gathered that it was family business."
"«Ripper will ask when they return.»"
Stephen smiles and rubs Ripper's ears. "You do that, buddy."
As Jamie sets up the till and Ripper patrols the room in search of something out of place, Stephen unlocks the front door and opens the shades. With a flip of the wrist, he turns the handmade, wooden sign over, and it proclaims that the Knight of the Sad Countenance bookstore is open for the day. As he steps out to sweep off the front sidewalk, he sees Eden, chatting with Hiram, the brownie grocer, as she buys her ingredients for today's lunch at Eden's Dream, the New Age store that she runs next door, separated from the Knight by a breezeway that he and Jamie had built when they had come here.
A good neighborhood, he thinks. A good life, he adds. "«Thank you, Mother,»" he growls quietly, "«for our many blessings.»"
As he finishes sweeping, a motorcycle pulling a rikshaw pulls up. The 'shaw is loaded with boxes. The driver is a middle-aged man, wearing well-made but worn clothing. A baseball cap covers his head, but Stephen knows that he is bald and, in fact, totally totally hairless. "Mornin', Steve," he says as he pulls up. He swings off of the motorcycle and kills the engine. "Shipment's in."
"Morning, Luke," Stephen replies, leaning the broom against the wall. "I can see that."
Luke turns and lifts the first box out of the 'shaw. He turns and looks at Stephen, and says, as he steps past him towards the door, "Well, are you gonna help me, or is this poor cripple gonna have to move everything?" He thumps the side of the box with his right hand, missing most of the first two fingers, for emphasis.
Stephen snorts and holds the door open. "Of course, Half-paw, of course. Jamie," he calls into the store as Luke steps past him, "shipment's in." He then turns to get the next box, knowing that they'll have to hurry. New comics day is always popular at the Knight of the Sad Countenance. Always popular, and always busy.
*****
Fhaolan stands in the shadows, the dragonette Nathair Sith wrapped around the wolfen's shoulders, "It all depends on how ye define 'day', really.'
For shadows is all there are. It's dark down here. It's always dark down here. "There is a section o' tha Nexus, for which day an' nigh' is an irrelevan' distinction."
Something... undescribable floats past, in the water that wishes it was stagnant. "Aye, even tha Infinite City ha' sewers."
***
Drone Hkl1 pauses as it sorts out it's sensor input. Maintenance robots really hate it when they pull sewer shift. At least after airshaft duty, all it takes to clean up is a bit of a dusting.
By the analytical engine, Hkl1 hopes that thing in the water is inanimate.
Good, it was.
No wait. That means Hkl1 gets to clean it up.
Oh, lubricant.
Well, only two more sub-complexes to go, and then it can get attacked by a scrub-brush. Luckily, most robots decline being equipped with odour analyzers.
Oh great, another floater.
Err.. wait... this one's not floating.
It's swimming...
It's got teeth...
It seems hungry...
It doesn't care that Hkl1 isn't organic..
This will be the sixth time this year Hkl1 will need re-assembly. It's really going to catch it from it's servicing partner, once the U-series combat drones collect all the pieces.
Assuming the U-series ever show up.
What's taking them so long? It's boring in here. It's not like an organic's stomach is a jumping party place.
Oops. The organic didn't like the strobe light or the music. Hope U-series find that arm, the built-in socket wrench set cost enough to power Hkl1 and it's service partner for four months.
Hkl1 wishes it had more useful tools that a ready-vac attachment. A blow-torch would be nice. No, wait, in the sewers, that's just asking for trouble.
Yeah, that's it. Hkl1 is a drone just asking for trouble. It'll take care of this organic itself. Afterwards, it'll have tooled organic-hide holsters, and it'll get gilded, with chrome accents. That'll impress them down at the wash-n-wax. Then they'll all say, "Oh, dude. You better look out for Hkl1. That's one mean drone." Yeah. "It's the fastest vacuum in the Nexus. Careful, or it'll do your carpet."
Stupid ready-vac attachment.
Hey. How does the organic nutrient-processing work again? Acids break down the nutrient-bearing material, and the material lining the stomach is both acid-resistant, and nutrient-porous. However... the tubes leading into, and out of, the stomach don't have the same lining. So, if Hkl1 wiggles this way... vacs up some stomach acid... wiggles this other way... unloads said acid...
***
Cecil decides, next time, open tin can before eating. Unopened tin cans cause indigestion.
Cecil won't make that mistake twice.
Stupid tin can.
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