# Those Grey Steel Nights S1E5: Payment Plans

Author: BlackSmoke
Tags: Amputation, Coyote, Crime, Cybernoir, Cyberpunk, Cyborg, Drama, Drugs, F/M, Fox, Gore, Gynoid, Handjob, Mutilation, Poodle, Ritual, Robot, Yubitsume

Former Detective Fran Van Grantze has a very bad evening.

I was on Miss Songdog's couch for days before I could finally sit up without feeling dizzy.&nbsp; Eventually, I was hobbling around her flat and making a mess.&nbsp; It helped that I was out of my mind on one potent course of painkillers.&nbsp; It was a hell of a way to stave off boredom.

In my shaking, feverish dreams I saw that the past was a great, toothy, yawning maw, a gaping hole, and I was standing on the edge of it.&nbsp; I saw faces of people I've loved before, from my mother to Jeff.&nbsp; I even saw the face of that prostitute who'd hit me up the other night.&nbsp; There was something off about her and the extent of her overhaul that didn't sit quite right with me.

I saw the face of the woman I loved before I left for Chicago.&nbsp; What was her name?&nbsp; She was smiling.&nbsp; I asked her about her husband. &nbsp;He was gone.&nbsp; It was good.&nbsp; He was a real shithead, but he had the money to land the dame, and I had the personality and irresponsibility to cuckold him.

In the dream she ran her hands along my face and they felt like plastic.&nbsp; She clicked when she moved.&nbsp; Her eyes were glassy.&nbsp; We floated in and out, just staring into each-other's eyes while I babbled incoherently and she laughed and smiled.&nbsp; When she opened her mouth, the past was a bottomless hole in the back of her throat that crackled with revenge.&nbsp; As she walked, spent brass casings fell from her sleeves and hit the floor.

She told me something important, but I didn't remember it when I was suddenly soaked in cold sweat.&nbsp; The blankets and cushions were wet.&nbsp; I sat up and pulled my hand through my fur.&nbsp; I looked around the dark living room while I sat there, waiting to stop shivering.

Light streamed in through the blinds.&nbsp; Bars of neon changed colors and glinted off the figurines on the shelves, the jewelry boxes, and the wine glasses in the cabinet.&nbsp; I listened, and didn't hear anyone home.

I managed to stumble into the bathroom to hike my leg.&nbsp; I splashed cold water on my face, as if that'd help.&nbsp; I was spinning, but I noticed something.&nbsp; The door to one of the rooms was slightly agape.

I should've let it be, but I was still as curious as a cat.&nbsp; I pushed it open.&nbsp; It didn't creak.&nbsp; The silvery computer-screen blue glow of&nbsp; the billboard outside was just enough for me to see the slightly opened drawer of the nightstand.&nbsp; I crept over to it on bare feet and pulled it further open.&nbsp; The stark khaki color of a folder glared up at me.&nbsp; I picked it up.&nbsp; It had my name written on the tab.&nbsp; It took me a minute to sort it out, but it was definitely Jeff's handwriting.

The front of a folder never felt so heavy.&nbsp; My hand trembled as I turned it over.&nbsp; Inside were photographs.&nbsp; It was me, at the bar.&nbsp; It was me on the balcony in Chicago.&nbsp; It was my police ID, scanned.&nbsp; It was me in Navy cracker jacks.&nbsp; There were clippings of cases I worked on, copies of my police dossier, handwritten notes that had such a level of detail they even openly noted me as bisexual, talked about how I was habitually late, a compulsive hero, and liked salty snacks.

There were photos of me with that coyote.&nbsp; She and I, smoking on the balcony, late at night when her man was out doing lines off hookers or who knew what.&nbsp; She and I getting into the car.&nbsp; Me, holding her from behind in her kitchen.&nbsp; There was a large, circled dollar sign on each photo, and her husband's name.&nbsp; Bartell.

I heard footsteps out by the door.&nbsp; I all but slammed the drawer shut and limped back out into the hallway in front of the restroom as quick as I could.

Miss Songdog let the door slowly swing open in front of her.&nbsp; She was covered in dirt.&nbsp; There were at least a dozen bullet holes in her.&nbsp; She was twitching her head and her hand in an odd way as she walked inside.

"Fran."&nbsp; Her voice was off.&nbsp; I couldn't quite discern what was happening.&nbsp; I worried she was about to die.

"Songdog."

She stepped inside.&nbsp;&nbsp; She slammed the door closed behind her.&nbsp; She locked it without looking.&nbsp; Her big, dead eyes were focused on me and flicked up and around.

"Fran.&nbsp; Vincent Getavo is no longer under my employment."

"He's dead?"

"Not yet."

She slid her coat off and threw it on the ground.&nbsp; Her dress was torn.&nbsp; There was a large smear of mud across the front and back of it.&nbsp; She took off her hat, and the powder burns on her wig were apparent.

She dragged herself over to her chair in the living room before she collapsed.&nbsp; She leaned over and held her head in her good hand.&nbsp; I walked up and stood in front of her.&nbsp; I thought about asking her about what happened.&nbsp; I thought about telling her about what I found.&nbsp; I thought about sitting down on the couch and getting off my throbbing leg.&nbsp; I thought about a lot of things.

She looked up at me.&nbsp; From the angle, her eyes looked different.&nbsp; The way her face was shaped made her look emotional.&nbsp; Her mechanical body's shuddering looked like sobbing.&nbsp; She smelled like gunpowder and rain and a musty place.&nbsp; I got weak in my good knee.

"Fran..."&nbsp; She kept saying my name.&nbsp; Just my first name.&nbsp; Not 'Mister Fran', not 'Mister Van Grantze', but Fran.&nbsp; It was odd to hear.&nbsp; For an instant, her autotuned voice sounded natural.

"What, Miss Songdog?"

She grabbed me.&nbsp; She rested her head on my stomach.&nbsp; She held her arms around my hips and I was nearly pulled off my feet.&nbsp; I waited for something to happen.&nbsp; I waited for her to do something, but she didn't for a long time.&nbsp; My fur was all on end.&nbsp; My snout was wrinkled, a little from pain, a little from worry.&nbsp; I couldn't see her face.&nbsp; Her hair was a mess.&nbsp; Why was this familiar?

"I have something to tell you."&nbsp; She looked me in the eyes again.&nbsp; "You know who I really am."

"You're Miss Songdog."

"We loved each other once.&nbsp; Do you remember it?"

I froze.&nbsp; My heart was pounding.&nbsp; I was swimming.&nbsp; The room was spinning.&nbsp; The lights were getting vivid.&nbsp; I was freezing.&nbsp; All at once, she was the entire focus.&nbsp; I looked over her.&nbsp; I was confused.

"My name was Margaret Bartell."

It hit me like the L-track.&nbsp; My eyes widened and my mouth was dry and suddenly her perfume was familiar, her eyes were familiar, her touches were the same.&nbsp; I forgot she was plastic and software.&nbsp; I fell to my knees.&nbsp; Her hand caressed my shoulder and I felt like liquid.&nbsp; The walls were melting and going wavy around her.

"Do you remember, Fran?"

I did.&nbsp; Those nights when her husband was away on business, and her soft body, and her intelligent smile, and her cunning tricks, and that one time I had to jump off the balcony in just my britches and she threw my clothes down after me.&nbsp; It was all running together in my head.&nbsp; I remembered seeing her afraid for the first time, when something happened, when she confessed to me that someone might be trying to kill her, and I thought it was just paranoia.&nbsp; I remembered the tears she left on my shirt collar when he was killed.&nbsp; I remember when she died in the car fire.

"Oh my god."

I swore she was smiling.&nbsp; She leaned down.&nbsp; We were both on the floor of her apartment now.&nbsp; I could feel the blood soaking my fur around the wound.&nbsp; She was on top of me.&nbsp; I could see the bullet holes in her plastic body and hear the machinery straining within.

"I wish I could've told you sooner."

"Fifteen years...&nbsp; The car bomb?"

"It hurt.&nbsp; A lot."

"Maggie..."

"No," she turned away for a second, "Don't call me that.&nbsp; I just need to know...&nbsp; Fran.&nbsp; After all these years, do you still love me?"

Was it the drugs?&nbsp; Was it the pain?&nbsp; Was it the killing?&nbsp; Was I desperate because Jeff was dead?&nbsp; Was I desperate because of the file I found, that made me think, for the first time, that Jeff wasn't all he seemed to be?&nbsp; Was it because I'd loved Maggie Bartell?&nbsp; Was it the memory of sitting in my Chicago apartment after she died, staring out the window, imagining myself having a picnic on the tracks just as the train came by?

"I do."

"Say it."&nbsp; Her weight pressed in on me.&nbsp; I winced.

"I always loved you, Maggie-"

"No."&nbsp; She cut me off.&nbsp; She squeezed my arm.&nbsp; I stared up at her twitching eyes and noticed the deep shadows around them.

"I love you, Miss Songdog."

She was inscrutable.&nbsp; She rested her head on my neck. &nbsp;Her body mechanically shuddered.&nbsp; I was crying and she could feel it.&nbsp; My mind was swimming.&nbsp; I was all sorts of numb all over from the painkillers.&nbsp; I was floating and hot, and still felt like I was over a deep chasm, and she was laying on top of me.&nbsp; Her plastic hand ran over my chest.&nbsp; Her plastic face leaned in.&nbsp; My eyes closed.&nbsp; I leaned up and pushed my lips to hers.&nbsp; There was no breath to feel leave her mouth or nose.

She pulled herself up.&nbsp; She was straddling me.&nbsp; She reached behind her head and behind her back, and unzipped the back of her dress, before pulling it clean off.&nbsp; I could see the chipped edges of the damage and the fractures across her stomach.&nbsp; I could feel the smooth doll-like anatomy of her groin against my bare stomach through her lingerie.&nbsp; As she leaned back down onto me I saw glimmers of light from the exit wounds.

Her hand slipped lower over my belly.&nbsp; I hardly noticed when she pulled my waistband aside.&nbsp; I was still holding her shoulder.&nbsp; She was leaning to the side.&nbsp; Her breasts pressed against my chest through her bra.&nbsp; They gave a little.&nbsp; They must've been some sort of silicone.&nbsp; They weren't warm.&nbsp; None of her really was.&nbsp; She had the chill of the night air on her still.&nbsp; It wasn't exactly pleasant.&nbsp; I wasn't exactly in my right mind or in any state to protest.&nbsp; I almost said her name again, her old name, but I bit my lip.&nbsp; I was starting to fade out again.&nbsp; Things were coming and going in waves.

What was I supposed to say?&nbsp; Sorry honey, I have a headache, I'm not in the mood?&nbsp; She took what she want and I guess I had a little pride that she wanted me, even though I'd been a sad mess of fluff on her couch for over a week and smelled a lot like piss and not very much like sunshine.&nbsp; She couldn't smell, could she?&nbsp; And my rocket was taking its time to launch.&nbsp; I was nauseous in that dumb way when you haven't eaten but your appetite's not there and hasn't been in a while.&nbsp; I didn't want this right now.&nbsp; It was happening.

Couldn't lie.&nbsp; It felt okay, as far as I could feel it.&nbsp; Her grip was tight.&nbsp; The silicone pads on her fingers were soft.&nbsp; She was skillful.&nbsp; She took up my whole vision with her polymer mask and her camera eyes behind those glassy lenses.&nbsp; They flickered back and forth looking over me.&nbsp; I felt the air cool the wet fur on my cheeks.

I'd like to say I made a mess, but I was too much of one, myself.&nbsp; It just kind of dripped out and I kind of held on while my numb legs pedaled a bit of air and I made a sound that wasn't very masculine.&nbsp; I couldn't tell if she was satisfied or pleased or disgusted as she wiped a drop on my nose and told me to go clean myself up.

&nbsp;

The next evening I after I woke up from a long lucid string of nightmares, Miss Songdog was made up in a different blonde wig and a different dress.&nbsp; She had a fresh suit sitting on the coffee table in my size and measurements, and my revolver was scrubbed clean and oiled.

"You can't stay here, Mister Van Grantze.&nbsp; It's too dangerous."

I looked up, still trying to wipe sleep out of my eyes.&nbsp; "For me, or for you?"

She tilted her head as if to smirk.&nbsp; "Vincy knows you're here.&nbsp; You ought to go home and get some more rest.&nbsp; ...That is, unless you think you could stand a fight in this condition."

I looked down.&nbsp; Nah.&nbsp; I couldn't.&nbsp; My arms were too shaky.&nbsp; My legs and knees were still weak.&nbsp; "Can I at least get a shower first?"&nbsp; Her face didn't change.&nbsp; "I'll get dressed and go."

The pants were difficult to pull on since I couldn't quite lift my leg all the way.&nbsp; I didn't even bother with the dress shirt.&nbsp; I pulled the suit jacket on and stuffed my street prescription in the pockets.&nbsp; I got my trenchcoat and took a moment to examine the ragged hole in the skirting of it before throwing it over my shoulders.&nbsp; My revolver sat snugly in the front right pocket that it normally called home.

Getting down the stairs was tough, and I had to hold on to the structurally dubious bannister the whole way down.&nbsp; The bear from earlier was at the door again.&nbsp; He simply nodded to me as I gritted my teeth and left the building for the cold outside.

My car was where I left it.&nbsp; Driving was no small feat.&nbsp; I wasn't all there, and probably came off like the most vindictive asshole in the city to whoever was unfortunate enough to tail me.&nbsp; Darkness was settling in before I pulled into my apartment's parking lot.&nbsp; The familiarity lulled me into complacency.&nbsp; I eyeballed two black SUVs I'd never seen before, but they weren't parked together, and people were always coming and going from this dump.&nbsp; The familiar sounds of the neighbor's loud televisions and kids shouting far down the hall were, for once, nice to hear.

My mailbox was empty.&nbsp; Normally I'd have at least four papers by now.&nbsp; I was too tired to think more deeply on it and headed right up the stairs.&nbsp; I struggled with the door until I could open it.&nbsp; I was inside. I closed it behind me and turned around.

The pitch darkness of the room suddenly blinked away and the slide of a pistol slammed against the side of my head.&nbsp; So much for a relaxing evening on the couch.&nbsp; I was grabbed by two strong men and was being shouted at by a third.&nbsp; They searched my pockets and pulled out my revolver and my pack of needles and threw them on the couch.&nbsp; I tried to make a quip but my mouth was full of blood and my tongue was starting to swell up.&nbsp; I'd bitten it in surprise.&nbsp; They ended up pulling me into the kitchen and shoving me into a chair at the table.

Across from me was the elderly feline Synth had dealings with earlier, flanked on either side by suited cats with silenced guns.&nbsp; She was dressed eloquently in a traditional dress and had her hair done-up in a grey bun.&nbsp; There was a small wooden-handled straight-edged knife on the table.

"Ah, Mister Van Grantze.&nbsp; You're late."

"Mrs. Pak.&nbsp; I've been on a small vacation."

She chuckled.&nbsp; "Well, I hope you enjoyed.&nbsp; I just want you to know, you've opened a tab with my business, and I'm very particular about tabs being paid off in a tidy, say, efficient way."

My stomach sank and the room throbbed.&nbsp; "You're going to kill me?"

"My associates would enjoy that, yes.&nbsp; They'd greatly love to add your funeral to the list you've already given us.&nbsp; Do you know how many settlements I've had to pay out?&nbsp; How many caskets I had to buy?&nbsp; How many grieving mothers I had to console, who thought that with me, their sons would be safer than on the streets?&nbsp; But no.&nbsp; Your death couldn't possibly cover that tab, and would preclude any kinds of further payment."

She held up the knife.&nbsp; The fellow to my left grabbed my arm and balled my hand into a fist and pulled my pinky out.&nbsp; I struggled to pull away, but his grip was too tight.&nbsp; The man on my right grabbed that arm and held it on the table as well.&nbsp; No matter how much I thrashed, they held.

"Don't struggle, Van Grantze."&nbsp; She set a cloth down and my left hand was placed onto it.&nbsp; The knife was placed nearby, and my right hand was pushed onto it.&nbsp; "Grab the knife, Van Grantze.&nbsp; We'll help you."

I couldn't fight my way out of this one.&nbsp; Even if I managed to stab one of the suits, I'd get shot dead right here, right now.&nbsp; I grabbed the knife.&nbsp; They let go of my right arm.&nbsp; I knew how this went.&nbsp; I stopped struggling.&nbsp; I was lucky I was on something, and lucky my stomach was empty, or I'd have upchucked.

"You know how this goes, Van Grantze."

I trembled.&nbsp; These guys were waiting for any excuse to be able to kill me right there.&nbsp; I'd killed a lot of their friends.&nbsp; I held the knife over my pinky, at the first knuckle from the tip.

"One more."

The second knuckle.&nbsp; How many of those guys had I killed?&nbsp; Six, maybe?&nbsp; The blade was sharp and cold.&nbsp; I had to just get it over with.&nbsp; I slammed the knife down like a guillotine.&nbsp; I sawed a little, before I saw the digit come lose.&nbsp; It hurt, but it was still far away from me for now.

The knife was twisted out of my grip.&nbsp; Mrs. Pak demanded I wrap the finger in the bloody cloth.&nbsp; I held my hand to my chest.&nbsp; Blood ruined my new shirt.&nbsp; I shakily wrapped my finger in the cloth, and held it up to her with a shaking hand.&nbsp; She took it from me, and held the package in her lap.

"Thank you, Mister Van Grantze.&nbsp; I accept your gracious first payment on your tab.&nbsp; I'll have my men contact you for further payment.&nbsp; You owe my company a few favors now, and I'm sure you'll be happy to repay them."

And then they were gone.&nbsp; I was lying on the kitchen floor, cradling my left hand in a dish rag for who knows how long.&nbsp; Eventually, I made it to the couch, and fell asleep in my bloody clothes.

Source: https://sofurry.com/s/AnKM7D0e