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07: Little Hatreds

"Look at what she's fuckin' wearing," Bryce says, around a mouthful of roast beef and feta toasted sandwich. The toast crunches in his teeth, a dollop of hollandaise sauce spilling down from the side of his maw.

Nico follows his half-awed, half-disgusted look to a skunk dressed in fur-tight red leather. Her form is unnaturally similar to an hourglass, like something out of a cartoon. The leathers are little more than a vest and booty shorts, the black and white fur of her legs stylised to form a waving pattern that ripples down toward her bare feet. Nico doesn't really see much wrong with the outfit; except for thinking that the skunk must be cold.

"I mean don't gemme wrong," Bryce continues, sniffing as he wipes up the hollandaise with the back of one paw, "I'd still fuck her, just say the word, but like, you wouldn't wanna be seen with her, huh?" They've been at the café for less than fifteen minutes now, and the whole time Bryce has just been pointing at random folks on the street and snickering, like he's at the circus. Nico's paying, though he can't really afford it.

It wasn't even Nico's idea to come out, but it seems to be working. He only asked if Bryce had any thoughts about him taking on more responsibility, moving up with his duties. The ferret had laughed so hard Nico thought he was about to be fired, but then Bryce only slapped him on the back and said, "yeah, join the club sport. Fine, you wanna play with the big kids? C'mon, you can buy me breakfast." Less than ten minutes later they were camped out in a wicker booth seat by the south-side canal, the surface of which was thick with trash and shiny with runoff. The boring weekday crowds streamed back and forth around them, going about their day in suit and tie and uniform, each thinking their own thoughts.

Nico caught himself wondering how many were part of Leviathan. It seemed impossible, in the light of day, that any of those normal people would want to burn the Big Five down, but he supposed that he looked as normal to them as they did to him. That's what Alaska told him, that night - we're all ordinary.

So why not?

"He seems like kind of a prick," Bryce says, his mouth mercifully empty of toasted sandwich this time. His eyes are directed over Nico's shoulder, and the panda turns around to see a huge Neo-Orthodox Church banner, the chromatic scales rippling in a pantomime of living movement. The lion that runs the church has one thick paw raised and waving, the other clutching a heavy tome that Nico guesses in the Neodox equivalent of a bible. Do they have bibles? He's not sure, but it's a big book.

"Reverend Luther?" Nico asks, turning back to Bryce. He gently sips his coffee, scowling as he realises that he forgot to order sugar. "I dunno, he's pretty popular these days." He immediately regrets contradicting Bryce, but the ferret doesn't seem to care, and only shakes his head.

"Call me old fashioned, hell, call me whatever you damn want, but I just think it's weird. Religion is just another corpo, at least Northpoint is honest about ripping you off. That scummy lion hides behind his words and his twen-century ideals and rakes it in, all the while acting like he's the next candidate for the Geneva peace prize! His salary is probably fifteen times what we make!" Bryce pauses, chuckles to himself. "Well, least what I make."

Nico blushes, and is thankful his thick black and red fur is there to hide it. "Yeah. It does seem to be weirdly popular. I keep seeing him everywhere."

"You hear Harrison got into it now too?" Bryce shakes his head, whispering like it's a conspiracy. Nico nods, he remembers the rules - they aren't gossiping, this is just office politics. "Fucking moron, guy is completely useless already, now he's gonna claim that shit? I keep wondering if Yuri's gonna fire him any of these days, but I guess he's waiting for the guy to do himself in. Keep piling up the work and eventually the grunts'll off themselves, no severance package then, ha!"

Nico tries to cover his surprise - or lack thereof - by taking a bite of his muffin. It doesn't taste like anything, it's all texture, crumby and sort of moist, but without any of the usual sparks of flavour. It looks good though, and he almost wishes he had a social feed to post a picture of it to.

What would Alaska say to that? Bet he's not a fan of feeds, who are you here to impress?

"So, why you sucking up to me now?" Bryce asks point-blank, cocking his head. Nico nearly chokes on his bit of cardboard blueberry, sputtering as he forces it down, banging his chest.

"Huh? I... uh, I'm not?"

Bryce laughs. "You got zero subtlety kid, zilch. I mean, coming up and all but asking outright to work more with Yuri, ten odd days out of our trip east? Like, lube me up first, huh? Speaking of, how'd you even hear about that? Yuri's got everything hush-hush."

"Well, uh, you see, I mean," Nico shakes his head, focusing. He quickly studies Bryce's features - the ferret doesn't seem mad, more just... bemused. Like he's caught a toddler making a mess dressing in his clothes. Stupid, but well-meaning, Nico could be that guy. People like Bryce love to keep dim-witted underlings around, makes them feel better to have someone to postulate too all damn day. Nico clears his throat. "I overheard Olaf talking about it, he's pissed he isn't going." Now he had to only hope that Olaf wasn't scheduled out.

Bryce guffaws this time, not just a laugh, but a full belly chuckle that takes over his entire body. He slaps the table so hard the cups rattle. "That sounds about fuckin' right, I gotta tell Yuri that, maybe we can finally get that fat piece of shit to the curb. Guy's been here for so long thinks he's untouchable, even though he does even less than that mop Harrison. I mean, sure, I'd be pissed too, if I found out the new kid on the block was the one tapped to help out on a job like Halifax. Still, use it or lose it, Olaf's been coasting for six years now, the least he could do is to go out with a little fucking dignity, you know?" Bryce mimes cocking a gun with one paw, sticks it in his mouth.

"Yeah," Nico says, nodding. "Even the guys on the floor have been talking about it, saying how he's washed up, that it's only a matter of time until someone up-top notices."

"And that's why you're buyin' me breakfast, right?" Nico only shrugs, wondering if he should bother finishing the tasteless muffin. "It's a good move, I'll admit, blunt as a sledgehammer but hey, I ain't complaining. Trying to get close before there's even a new position open, playing the long game, reminds me of me. I'll be honest with ya champ, didn't think you had that kind of wiring."

"When I was in that meeting, the one about the Thessler case?" Nico waits to continue until Bryce has nodded. He's making this up as he goes along, heart racing a mile a minute. "It felt... like that's where the real work is getting done. I don't want to waste my time denying claims any more than I really have to, y'know?"

"I hear that, holy shiiiiit," Bryce again looks to the skunk in red leather, who is now busy stretching out in front of her drone for some kind of feed post. "Think if I was gonna stay on the floor any longer I would've saved them the trouble and jumped off a god damned cliff myself. Not like you can enact anything useful doing that grunt work. And, I mean, the clients, they're all so... sad, it's pathetic. They think just because they were stupid and got injured at work, we should give 'em a free ride. And the crying, the begging, nah, I can't take it. Fuck that noise."

Nico sucks on his teeth, nodding uncomfortably. "Totally." It's exhilarating, feeling his gamble pay off. For a split-second, he has a brief glimpse of what these Big Five chasing yuppies get out of the game. The adrenaline, the rush of setting someone up and having them fall for it.

"Fine! Fine! Sue me, I like ya too much, champ." Bryce throws both his paws up, earning looks from the next table over. "I'll talk to Yuri, remind him how you softballed the answer in for the Thessler case, try and convince him t'bring you along for the Halifax job."

"Really?" Nico' blinking rapidly, he hadn't expected it to be that easy. Hell, Bryce did most of the talking himself. "Shit, thank you, you won't regret it."

"Yup, really." Bryce leans in and his eyes go hard now, yuppie grin wiping clean from his face. "But you're gonna owe me, got it? And if you fuck up in front of Yuri, I will fucking end you."

Nico's skin is burning beneath his fur, and his heart is going a million miles an hour. "Sure thing. I won't. I won't."

Bryce flashes his sixty-thousand-dollar smile, leans back in his seat. "No. I know you won't, kid."

Vick's watching her son read, and lets out a slight breath. It feels good to sit down, enjoy a simple pleasure like this. It took a ridiculous amount of kowtowing and schedule shuffling to keep both her bosses, and Kal, happy enough to give them the weekend. But it was worth it.

Vick's parents, her mother particularly, always told her that having children was a responsibility; that it was a burden, a unique kind of struggle that only the strongest of people could do, or at least, do well. Having children, pups, kits, it was the ultimate calling and most people couldn't hack it. Vick always figured they were just trying to justify it to themselves, trying to ease the guilt at the resentment they felt - it would have been far easier to flee Russia, and then later Italy, had they not had a litter of yapping pups to tow behind.

Watching Ricky flip through the book, occasionally pausing to pick up his scone for a tiny bite, Vick thinks that offspring are more of a promise. Having a pup, or at least, deciding to actually parent one, was a promise to do it better. Her parents had fucked it up right out of the gate, and wounds given early in life cut deep and don't heal. Her oldest brother hanged himself at nineteen, named their mum in the note. Vick's only sister was a hexadryne addict couch-surfing her way through Atlanta and sucking off men three times her age for fix-money, last Vick heard. The youngest brother turned out half decent, sure, but he was never going to amount to anything more than the dockworker he was. Even Vick, the strongest and most successful of them, had her own share of little hatreds, irrational quirks she carried through life. She instantly despised anyone that reminded her in even the slightest way of her mother, while her father had been so weak-willed and pathetic she could scarcely remember his name. Vick also felt a strong reluctance toward refugees, or really anyone stuck in poverty that claimed it 'wasn't their fault', she climbed out, so they could too - they just didn't want to get their paws dirty. Vick had spent the first few of her teen years in the Italian red light district, which was basically a row of tents with flywire thrown overtop. After that she befriended a fixer, then stabbed him in the back first chance she got and jumped ship to Anchor City, fell right into Kal's arms. She did what had to be done, and she did it well.

She could identify her scars and compulsions, try to hide them or ignore them, but she couldn't be rid of them, not ever. She'd fallen in love with Kal (the very thought made her gag now) because he was the opposite of her, the opposite of something her parents, her mother, would make. He was soft, and warm, sensitive - at least she thought at the time. It seemed most parents went at their kids like a sculptor with warm clay, gently moulding hopes and nurturing dreams. Vick's had come for her like a mason with a chisel. What was left was workable, and Vick was proud of who she was - but it was all sharp edges and there was no changing it now.

She'd always prided herself on being self-aware enough to recognise this about herself, and she knew the wounds enhanced her accomplishments, because she was thriving despite the damage.

With Ricky though, she had always been determined to be better. That was the promise. She would succeed where her parents failed, and he'd end up a half-decent person who didn't recoil at the slightest reminder of his mother.

Though, who knows what Kal says when she's not around, nothing good, certainly.

She figures the place Ricky chose to visit today is a good indicator things are going well. A bookstore-café mix, a rare niche-interest joint that caters to hipsters and retro-fiends alike, situated on the far side of the Long Mile district. It has deep couches and spaced out tables, and is place where customers could have a snack and coffee, and Ricky could read his heart away at some esoteric science-fiction novel. Vick herself didn't understand why anyone would want to read an actual, physical book, not when they could play with an entoptic one, or have it read to them by their helper AI, but it made Ricky happy, and that had to be enough.

She just wishes she had something to say to him.

It's always like this. You pine to spend time together for weeks and weeks, curse out Kal, move heaven and Earth... and then you just watch him do something fun. Say something. Anything, you stupid bitch.

"Is it good?" Vick says suddenly, hating the whiny tone creeping through her voice. Instantly Ricky's crystal eyes flick up over the lip of the book, and he brushes away a silver-furred fringe. He'd always been a lanky child, but at fifteen he finally grew into his form a bit better, shoulders filling out so that now he looks more like a young dog, and less like a skeleton wearing a fur coat. Vick clears her throat, lifting her chin. "The book, I mean? We can buy it, if you like."

He has Kal's eyes though, sharp and clear, blue like the sky. Just another thing her ex-husband probably loves that he took from her.

"It's great," Ricky says, deftly slipping in a bookmark. Vick resists the urge to smile too broadly, fighting a tail wag. He's realised that his mother needs a bit of attention too, such a good boy. She tells herself she doesn't need it, and then tells herself she believes that. Ricky shrugs. "It's got pretty weird physics, the planet the main characters are on gets the tidal forces from an internal core source, instead of an external one like... a moon or something. Oh, and orbital mechanics just don't work in it, but like by design, not because the author is dumb, maybe they're in a simulation or something. It's written half out of order too, since the people on the world can move back and forth through time the same way we move through space, so sometimes characters will die in one scene, but then the others will be talking to them in the next, and you can't work out what is actually happening in order."

"Oh," Vick says. There aren't many people in her life that can make her feel out of her depth, or even stupid. She forces herself to be pleased that Ricky is one of the ones who can. "That sounds... well, confusing, at least."

It's a good sign, because you never had time for things like that, did you? She thinks, remembering how her mother made their older brother taught the youngest to steal, so the family could eat. The punishments for being caught weren't as strict on children. It's a sign he doesn't have to fight to stay alive.

"It is! Very!" Ricky exclaims, but he seems excited by the idea, so Vick grins back. "They're making it into a series apparently, but I have no idea how that'll even work. Like are the episodes out of order too? It's the same guy who did that Lune short film, and that was good, hopefully this is too." Ricky continues to prattle on about the upcoming series and the increasingly bizarre things happening in his book, while Vick just nods along.

Her world is a fragile thing, she isn't so self-deluded as to think otherwise. It's all been organised and categorised to fit together exactly as she needs it. One wrong thing could topple it, but there's no point obsessing over what-ifs. A lot of it is illusory, placeholder gift tape slapped over a problem until she has time to solve it.

Sometimes though, she can see the cracks. Sometimes she gets a brief glimpse through the world, seeing it for what it really is. She sees herself, a monster. Ricky is sweet, and kind, and smart too. What would he think if he knew the kinds of things Vick does for a living? Kal can probably guess, and he loves to laud it over her how he takes the moral high ground by not telling Ricky, but that could change any day now.

Just last night, Vick told a young leopard that if she didn't give over everything she knew about the Leviathan movement, Vick would expose her two abortions to her parents. Vick does her research, she knew that if that information was leaked, there was, somewhat ironically, a decent chance the Neodox-fanatic father would beat his daughter to death in a fit of blind rage. He'd cry afterward, like Vick's mother cried over Alexei, but just like her he'd still have a dead child. At the very least, the girl would be out in the cold, with no home and no support; she'd be selling whatever the street was buying within the month. Of course she talked, they always did, and Vick rarely had to actually go through with any of her threats. It was a small mercy, but not one she could pretend was altruistic. She would go through with it, if she had to, if they didn't talk.

And if Ricky knew that about her... what would he think?

"Uh, mum?" Ricky's question brings her back to reality, something in his tone. His eyes are aiming over her shoulder, and she turns around to see Hugo, the giant alligator looming somewhat awkwardly.

"Ma'am, my apologies, but you've a call." And he holds out a phone, comically small against his enormous grafted muscles. Normally Vick conducts her calls via her internal AI, but since she's out with Ricky she had that set to screen everything. Her bosses know she's busy today, damn it, what was so fucking important they had to chase her assistant to reach her?

"Alright," she says, accepting the phone and putting it to her ear. "This is Vick."

"Jesus fucking Christ, did you die? I've been trying to reach you all day." She resists the urge to sigh. It's Hector, one of the handlers at Rextrom. Usually he contacts her via a proxy, so something must be seriously wrong. "We need to talk, now. I'm at a Parlour called Dixie Tricks, out in Old Anchorage."

"Sir, I hate to ask, but is--"

"No, Vick, there isn't fucking anyone else. Think I'm just calling for a chat? Pack your shit and get over here."

"Alright," and she closes the phone without another word.

Looking at Ricky breaks her heart. She can see by his expression that he already knows she has to leave.

"I'm sorry," she says. He just nods.

"It's cool, stuff happens, I know that." Somehow his tepid acceptance of the news is more heartbreaking than if he'd been angry. "There's a rail station, I can take that back to Dad's."

"No!" she says it quickly, surprising both herself and Ricky.

Are you really going to take your fifteen year old to a Parlour? Kal would crucify you. She shakes her head. It's only a quick meeting, in and out. You'll figure it out.

"No?"

"No," Vick confirms. "I have to go meet someone real quick outside the seawall, but you can come along, if you want. We'll see a movie after, at that place that shows classics, get dinner." Ricky hesitates, as if wondering if he's intruding. "I'm taking a private aircar."

As soon as she says that Ricky's eyes light up. It's a luxury expense, but Hector did say now and her expense card is uncapped. Vick glances back at Hugo, who nods, already ordering one.

"You don't mind?" Ricky asks. "I know you're busy."

"Nonsense, it's a slight interruption but that doesn't mean our day is ruined."

Fourteen minutes later Vick, Ricky, and Hugo are several stories up, stepping out of the high-rise walkway and onto a landing platform. The aircar is just landing, all six of the pivoting motors blowing hard as it comes in, gently touching down. There's a soft whine as the engines die, and the rear cabin doors fold out. Hugo's a perfect assistant, he'll have told the pilot in advance not to speak to them unless it's an emergency.

Climbing inside, Vick presses her thumb to the console to authorise payment, before falling into the plush leather seat and gesturing for Ricky to take the one opposite her. He does so with a huge grin on his face, while Hugo slides into the cockpit spare seat.

The doors hiss shut and outside the engines start up, though the noise-cancelling AI has already filtered them out of the interior sounds, leaving only the rumble. There's a slight lurch as they take off, and then they're rushing through the air.

"Here, thirsty?" Vick asks, using the small drink dispenser to get a glass of lemonade for Ricky. He accepts the drink eagerly, eyes still glued to the window. Small HUD elements have appeared on the glass, red lines and highlights appearing as they focus on different parts of the city below, pointing them out and labelling them.

The pilot is good, and he swiftly takes them around the Northpoint and Strandtech towers, deftly slipping between two crossed walkways. Hugo probably told him there's an easily impressed fifteen-year old on board.

"Do you work in buildings like that?" Ricky asks, pointing to the Strandtech one. It's a huge black spire, the upper crust fashioned into three trident-like points, chrome webbing clinging around the whole thing like a giant spider-web. A neon teal entoptic that reads STRANDTECH hovers over the middlemost spire, rotating to follow the line of sight to whoever is currently watching it.

"Sometimes," Vick replies absently, and it is half-true. She's had plenty of meetings inside towers like that, delivered dozens of ultimatums to the petty floor leaders hustling their teams. "They're a lot nicer on the outside though."

"Everything in the city is like that," Ricky says, shrugging. "It all looks pretty, or cool, or whatever, but inside nearly everything is just the same. My class went to visit two different schools outside the seawall last month, they looked basically the same as mine, only with more graffiti."

Vick only chews on her lip as the aircar dips low, soaring over the wall as it crosses into Old Anchorage airspace. In the distance she can see the buildings sticking up from that old quarry in Quarterside. Vick grew up in squalor far worse than that, but now she can't imagine living in such a hovel, an area so pathetic and filthy the buildings don't even bother pretending they're anything but identical concrete blocks.

When did you become one of the elite? Or at least, when did you start pretending to be one of them?

The aircar touches down a street over from the Dixie Tricks Parlour, and the group climbs out without fuss.

"Good, right?" Hugo asks Ricky, and the kid nods furiously.

"It was awesome! I've never seen the city from that angle before, and it was so smooth!"

"The pilots are very good," Vick adds. They better be, for the fucking prices they charge. They walk down a set of stairs onto the street, and Vick points out the club. "I'm heading in, Ricky, you can wait out here with Mister Hugo, I'll only be a few minutes, okay?"

"Sure thing." Ricky's already looking somewhere else. Like most inner-city teens, he hasn't spent much time outside the seawall, save a few heavily sanitised school trips designed to teach him the dangers of poverty and laziness.

Without another thought Vick heads inside the Parlour, paying the forty-point entry fee (rip-off) and immediately making for the bar. It looks a lot like a strip club inside, with thick purple carpet and mirrors over every wall. It's pretty deserted this time of day, but still half-naked men are thrusting up against chrome poles, most with their surgically enhanced pricks obviously hard, the only thing making it half 'decent' being the pithy amount of silk underwear covering them. Most of the clientele are men, but some are women, sipping white wine and flashing their thumbs, squeezing the dancer's thighs as they tip and giggle and demand the staff kiss and grind on one another.

"Hey baby," says a bartender as Vick approaches, flashing a mouthful of UV-tinted teeth glowing in the darkness. He's a well-muscled German Shepherd in a leather cap, his torso naked save for a tight studded harness. His shorts only run halfway down his thighs, and Vick doesn't fail to notice the thick bulge at his crotch. She wonders briefly if it's real, and then dismisses the thought immediately - nothing in a Parlour is real. "What'll it be?"

"Here to see Hector," Vick replies, barely sparing the guy a glance. "Back room."

The bartender nods, then points to a bead-door in the corner. "Through there, room six, look into the camera so he knows it's you, the door is locked."

Vick steps away without acknowledgement, and the barman knows better than to ask. After looking into the camera, the door to room six slides open and she steps inside, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

Hector has his shirt off and is leaning back in his fluffy faux-fur loveseat. He's a portly otter, and in his loose slacks Vick can easily make out his erection. One paw is clutching a glass filled with dark liquor and ice, and his eyes are locked on the table before him. Two fit men are placed there. One is a dalmatian on all fours, dressed in nothing but a rope-harness, while a lynx is crouching behind him. The lynx has both paws squeezing the dalmatian's ass cheeks, his muzzle buried deep into the dog's tailhole, the soft wet sounds of licking emanating out. The dog is moaning, his pink unsheathed penis twitching softly as the cat eats him out.

Vick isn't surprised. Corpo highrollers always have meetings like this; they can't resist the extravagance, the show of how little they care about anyone else's delicate sensibilities. She takes a seat to Hector's side, he gives her a nod without looking away.

"Next," he orders. The two men immediately break apart, and the dalmatian scoots around and lies on his back, legs raised up. The lynx then crawls over him and quickly pushes his dick into the dog's asshole, both of them grunting softly. Hector scoffs, adjusts his erection. "Good to see you Vick."

"Is this something that should be discussed in private?" She asks, giving a disdainful glance towards the two fucking men.

"Haven't you ever been to a Parlour backroom before?" Hectors asks, sounding bored. He pushes up from the seat, leaning in near the thrusting lynx's face. Moving slowly, he reaches his fingers up and pushes them into the cat's mouth. The lynx obliges, sucking gently. "They're all neural locked, the second they leave this room their memories of anything that happened after they entered will be wiped."

"I know, but still." Vick had never quite trusted Parlours. It always seemed like a perfect way to gather blackmail material.

"You can join in, if you like, I won't judge, and they won't remember." Hector pulls his fingers out, slaps the lynx playfully, then tugs at the dalmatian's cock, moving it around like a joystick.

"What did you need to see me about, Hector?"

"This, Vick." And the otter turns away from his living toys, handing her a dossier from a nearby bench. Vick opens it, finding a few write-ups but mostly strange pictures. In all of them, the subject is dead, the veins on their neck blown out, the fur surrounding the wound matted and cyst-covered. One of the young men has his mouth hanging open, and Vick can see his tongue is bloated and yellow, his lips swollen and bruised. Hector gives her a look. "I just received this, what do you think?"

"What am I even looking at? The short version."

"Next," Hector orders at the two men. The lynx immediately pulls out, kneeling on the low table upright. The dalmatian crawls forward and begins sucking at the cat's barbed cock, grunting as he does. Hector steps around, slaps the dalmatian's ass hard enough the dog sucks in a sharp breath. "Contact says the project is called cottonmouth. Some kind of freak show virus that's come out of a Russian lab that Northpoint dug up."

"Northpoint are doing shit in Russia?" Vick asks.

Hector shrugs, still pulling and prying at the dalmatian. Vick guesses that he's getting more out of her watching him do it, than he is actually touching them. "Apparently, yes. According to the contact, cottonmouth is a smart-virus that can be genetically coded to target seek."

"Say again?"

"So long as you have the control strain, you can pre-program who suffers from what you're seeing there. Its highly contagious too, if I had your DNA, I could program you as the target and drop it on some random patient zero in Harbin Parade. Every man, woman, and child in Anchor City could be infected without realising, and when it hits you... bang. Undetectable, because what doctors are screening people for a novel virus without symptoms?"

"That is... significant," Vick says.

Hector nods, pulling at the dalmatian's dick. "Not only that, it could theoretically be set to wider triggers. Northpoint could sell this to France, they punch in genetic triggers popular with the middle east and set it lose on their own people. The pureblood French are left untouched, but all the poor resource-sucking refugees they took in during the African floodings slowly go mad and die, tear each other apart in the process. Maybe a few mix-breeds die but that only gives the frogs more credibility. France plays dumb, gains world sympathy for this inexplicable crisis, and cleans up its immigration problem. Who knows, with several more permutations, maybe cottonmouth could do even more."

"Countries have been trying to develop weapons like that since the cold war, what has Northpoint figured out now?" Vick asks, leaning back, suddenly finding that she's disgusted by Hector and his little show.

Thankfully, he abandons the two men and falls back into his seat, sipping his drink.

"No idea, but the Russians had all kinds of crazy shit going on before the collapse. Check the dossier, the contact has only given us the brief and these images. We don't know how far along the project is, what kind of state it's in, or even if it'll ever become this superpower Northpoint obviously think it will be. All we know is, their board has faith in it, and they've got fixers and psychonauts scrambling to cover up anyone who's talking. Contact gave me this? Found dead this morning, throat slit, they aren't even pretending." Hector shrugs, upending his glass into his muzzle, ice and all. "Regardless, if Northpoint are going to sell something that vile and game-changing, then we need to sell the people their clients will use it on a cure."

"You think there's good money to be made selling cures to African refugees?"

The otter only shrugs once again. "Who knows. Either way, I want you chasing this down now. I wanna know how far along Northpoint are, where they're testing it, and anything else you can get on it. Don't wanna waste our time if it's got a one-percent chance of going anywhere."

Vick pauses, passing the dossier back - Hector would never let her keep evidence like that around. "With all respect, sir, this seems like a wild goose chase. Northpoint are a pharmaceutical company first and foremost, every quarter weird rumours come out of their labs, and nine times out of ten they amount to nothing. You remember in '31, when all our contacts suddenly said they were working on mind control implants? Where the fuck did that go?

"I think we should be chasing down Leviathan. I spoke to a girl last night, a member. She says they have guns, thousands of supporters, and that the leader is the most powerful tether on the planet." Vick sends him several files via link, ire growing as the receipts tell her Hector doesn't even open them.

"And how are those rumours any different?" The otter asks. He sighs, clambering to his feet again, walking around to the back of the dalmatian, who is still busy sucking the lynx's dick. "No doubt they have thousands of members, so-called sleepers that'll rise up come the great revolution, right? Bullshit. What that is, is a bunch of kids thinking they'll be warriors, but when the time comes, a few dozen zealots will hold a bank lobby hostage, get shot by a team of corpo ninjas and then be immediately forgotten. I'm not even going to begin entertaining the ludicrous claim they have a tether who could make the slightest difference to anything. You ever meet one who can do anything more than yank a ball into their paw?"

"Well, no." Vick shakes her head. "It just seems... different this time. I don't know. The name keeps cropping up, usually these fads come and go, but Leviathan has stuck around."

"So it's a bit more popular." Hector waves a fat paw dismissively at her. "Who cares Vick? There's no money to be made with those sort of people, they're all hex addicts, poor, or worse. Chase down cottonmouth, give me something to work with there."

Now standing directly behind the dalmatian, Hector began undoing his belt, the nails of one paw digging sharply into the flab of the dog's thigh. "You're welcome to stay with us in here, if you participate, but I'm about to start pissing on these two, and they're about to like it." Vick glances away as he lifts out his own prick.

"I'm good, but thanks for the offer." And she takes that as a cue she's allowed to leave, slipping outside.

She's almost to the door in the main room, when something catches her eye, and her vision turns red.

Ricky, standing near the bar with a slack expression on his face, paws hanging limp by his side as he watches two barely-clothed men in the corner kissing and grinding on one another.

"Fuck." Vick had almost forgotten he was waiting for her. She rushes over and grabs him by the arm, not slowing as she drags him out. "What the hell do you think you're doing in here? Doesn't this place card?"

"Hey lady, leave the--" the bartender begins, but Vick cuts him off.

"He's fifteen fucking years old!" The shepherd opens his mouth to continue, when Hugo steps through the door, silencing any argument.

"Mum, hey, quit it!" Ricky protests as they stumble into the overcast light of the street. Vick keeps dragging him down the block, until they've rounded a corner and can no longer see Dixie Tricks. "I'm not a baby!"

"But you are still a child! And I told you to stay outside!" She hears Hugo come up behind and whirls. The alligator raises both of his claws apologetically.

"He gave me the slip ma'am, asked me to buy a drink then when I turned back, he was off. I'm sorry." He pauses, narrowing his slit eyes at the kid. "If you want me to take some time off, just say the word."

Vick deflates, somewhat. "No, Hugo, that's fine." She turns back to Ricky, who's looking at her sceptically.

"What do you do, exactly? Dad said it was bad, but he wouldn't tell me. Do you work in there?"

Vick instinctively smacks him across the face, not hard enough to do damage, but hard enough to sting. Ricky blinks, takes a step back. Vick holds the paw up near her own face, watching it shake. "No. I don't. I'm sorry I hit you, but some things in my work are... very serious. The people I work for..." If Rextrom thought she was dragging her kid around to meetings, risking him seeing someone like Hector, meeting with a fixer like her... "That was stupid."

"I... I'm sorry, mum."

Vick suddenly regrets every moment of the interaction. She should have sent Ricky home, or at least, not hit him across the face.

"Please don't tell your dad." Ricky nods, eyes averted.

She glances at her paw, still stinging from the slap, still shaking from anger and fear. You're not like her, one slap doesn't make you her.

"We can... we can still go to the movies, if you want," she offers lamely. "I'm sorry."

Ricky shuffles, refusing to look at her. "It's okay. I... I guess I should probably be getting home. I have to study for an exam next week."

"Yeah, of course, I'll call a car." Vick turns away, blinking back tears.

So much for keeping promises.