A/N: Written for Rebels and Fools, Issue 2 (google it, read it). With thanks to Bruinhilda for the beta.

The thing is—

The thing about Avon, right, the thing is he's not any good in a fight. Oh, far be it from me to judge. I mean, look at me! D'you think I'd be down here if I had a choice, with all the fun that lot are having?

Well, of course I'm scared. Anybody with half a brain would be scared, no offence.

Besides, someone has to look after the drinks.

You see, there's three kinds of people. There's people who can't fight; that's me. It's a condition, I'm allergic to violence, have been ever since I was a boy. 'Know when to run from a fight, Vila,' my old dad used to say, 'and you'll win every one,' and I always listened to my old dad. Now there was a man who knew how to run from his problems… but it's all about knowing. People who know how to fight, the second kind, not my kind at all, they don't need to be scared – don't need half a brain, either, unless it's for deciding who to shoot first.

Then there's the people who don't know how to do one or the other. Can't fight, don't have the sense to run. Take my word for it, they're the bad ones. Back one of them into a corner and they're liable to break their own fingers by accident, or to bite your ear off. Avon's a biter. Not literally, I hope, though I wouldn't put it past him and besides there's a first time for everything. You know, I met a man once who bit someone's ear off. Didn't mean to do it, he said, it just seemed the best solution at the time. I ask you, can you trust someone like that?

Hey, I think I see your friend down there. No, under the table. Good strategy—ooh, that can't be legal. Sorry about that.

Have another? I've got a spare glass here somewhere.

Suit yourself.

You know the best kind of security system? Ah, I see the look on your face. You're thinking, it'll be one of those state-of-the art biometric affairs, with the latest quantum key distribution and a ribbon on top, isn't that right? Well, I can crack those open in my sleep. I have! Oh, I could tell you stories… but no. No, the best security I ever saw was designed by a man who was drunk. At least, I hope he was drunk. I don't like to think a human brain could work that way when it's sober.

Me? This isn't drunk. There's enough water in this soma to drown a fish. I'm only drinking to keep company. Cheers.

Now, your basic electronic security always has certain common elements – lock, key, reader, and a controller to make decisions – and the good designs have at least two layers of subcircuits in case some malcontent tries to mimic the access pattern. They don't start from scratch. That'd be silly; more importantly, it's expensive. Every new model's full of old parts, shuffled around a little, maybe a dab of paint on top to keep the patents fresh… which is what lets people like me get in. I am, of course, very, very good, but if a system works, then it works to a pattern, and if it works to a pattern then I can get through it and that, right there, is the catch. Can't pick a lock that doesn't work in the first place, can I? Oh, half the time it'd put the entire complex on lockdown because a guard used their keycard upside down, but our friend, who didn't have the first idea of what he was doing, came up with a lock that's practically thiefproof. It's a paradox.

You expect people to be nice and sane, that's the trouble. You meet someone in a dark alley, you expect them to be a respectable citizen, not someone about to stab you somewhere painful and steal your ten-credit watch. You punch someone who knows how to fight, they punch you back, but Avon – ah – Avon does that.

Oh, that turns my stomach, it really does.

He asked Cally to give him lessons, you know. I only found out because I asked Zen, so I expect he wants to pretend he picked up hand-to-hand combat all by himself. Hard to imagine, Avon lowering himself like that. You can't picture anyone less likely to admit to ever being taught; I think he'd like us to believe he was born already speaking in full sentences. Maybe he was. Maybe he was force-grown, like one of those genetic experiments: "Just Add Water and Shake and in two hours you too can have your own morally suspect egomaniac".

Wish I knew where they go to practise, though. I could do with a laugh.

Come on, Avon, what're you playing at?

You know, between you and me and the door handle, I think Avon has a bit of a thing for our Cally. At any rate he's less unpleasant to her than he is the rest of us, which is practically a love song by Avon standards. If you ask me, deep down he's just a big softy—

He shot her! You shot her! She wasn't even armed!

That's not a – oh, it is. Think she was Central Security? Well, if they didn't notice before they'll certainly have noticed that. You call this a distraction?

As it happens we've been having a drink, my friend here and I, and I really feel we've built a connection. Nothing like quiet, intellectual conversation, not that you'd know anything about that what with all the shooting people and hitting them with – oh, fine. Walk away, then! You wouldn't know the pleasures of intellectual conversation if it punched you in the nose!

Listen, you'd better come with us. Federation Security'll be through that door any moment, and trust me when I say they don't pick targets.

It's for your own good. I really do insist.

Well, Avon insists a lot harder than I do. Would you like me to call him back?

(It may be helpful at this point to provide some visual context. Picture, then, two men climbing a flight of stairs, shepherding a third before them and snapping at each other as dogs will, out of habit rather than malice. None of the three has of course ever seen a sheep, much less a shepherd, so the metaphor is lost on them; and in any case the third man, unlike any metaphorical sheep, is a little the worse for drink. As he walks unsteadily upwards, the metal stairway rattles against the side of the building.

The noise is lost in the screaming and gunshots from the other end of the alleyway, so that's all right.)

This is not my fault. It isn't. There was a whole scrum by the door – how was I supposed to make it through that lot? All right, all right, three, but they had muscles, Avon, and I know their type, the muscles do their thinking and what they're mostly thinking of is new and interesting ways to disembowel you. I'd never have got past 'excuse me'.

If it wasn't for you, we wouldn't even be in this mess. We can use him, you said. Necessary risk, you said. You're sounding more like Blake by the day, you know that?

Yeah, well, I'm sticking with it, Avon. Even scum like me's allowed some professional pride. Remember when you had that obsession over the new data chips? We went halfway across the galaxy for those data chips. I broke my back getting you those data chips, damn near literally – well, now the boot's on the other foot. I'm going to break that safe. And we're neither of us leaving the planet until I get Blake the files he wants, so you might as well start unpacking.

All right, all right, no need to get stroppy! Look, I didn't mention it because I didn't want to get your hopes up – I didn't! – but Gan turned up some funny business in the company accounts. Someone making a little extra on the side, if you know what I mean. Now, you're the expert, tell me if I'm wrong, but if I was shaving a bit off the top – and the sides, and the bottom – and my residence had been audited last week in a show of public accountability…

Exactly. Still want to give up on that safe? Look, keep your mouth shut and I think I can talk him round. If there's one thing I can do—

Well ha ha. You should start your own comedy circuit. Tell you what, why don't you sit in a corner and work on your material while my friend and I have a little chat; because as I was saying, if there's one thing I can do, it's talk.

Oh, you heard some of that.

Look, I know I wasn't exactly honest with you, but you'd hardly have spoken to me if I told you what I was really after, would you? Truth be told, I've been wanting to meet you in person ever since I got hold of that blueprint. The craftsmanship! The nerve! You know, most people wouldn't have included a self-destruct relay so close to the readers, but then most people would have been too afraid of the critics to even try. I wonder, can I have your autograph?

Don't think too badly of Avon. He's been an admirer of your work for some time, you know. Never been much good with computers but he knows genius when he sees it. Vila, he said to me, if I could only speak to the man who built those access controls I might learn in one hour what I never learnt in a lifetime.

You're right, he's gone all quiet. Not like him. Starstruck, I expect.

So what's your secret?

No need to act shocked, you're among friends – great minds think alike. Come on, I know you left yourself a backdoor into the system. Nobody's that incompetent without it being on purpose.

Shut up, Avon.

…It'll never work, you know. Had a friend back on Earth, locksmith, thought he'd dip his toes into my field for a change, start dropping in on his customers when they weren't strictly in need of servicing, that sort of thing. Well, after the second house, the troopers came round and walked him off for re-education. He's dead now, let that be a lesson to him.

They all think they're the exception, that's the real trouble. I keep telling people, but do they listen? Think you're an exception, you soon get turned into an example. A messy one. Were you planning to get past the patrols by yourself? The live-feed security cameras? That's the trouble with hobbyists, you never think things through. Me and Avon, now, we've done this before, and we might just cut you in. A tidy twenty-five—

—all right, twenty—

—fifteen percent of the profits, and you'd never have to raise a finger. Can't have a man of your stature with his photo all over the newsvids, can we? It's a fair trade. All you have to do is give us the key – that way it doesn't need to be, well, messy, and nobody else needs to know what you were planning.

What's so funny?

D'you think he's cracked? Maybe he's cracked. Avon, I don't like this. Why's he laughing? Maybe he sold us out to the Federation. You shouldn't have shot that woman, Avon, I told you you shouldn't.

Listen, friend—

Listen—

Avon, listen, don't be—

Avon—

(Now, in a dingy little room which might, with time and dedicated study, one day aspire to cupboardhood, three men stand still. The first is tense; the second twitchy; the third, as bonelessly happy as only the truly soused can be. With slow concentration, he reaches into his pocket. The hand is withdrawn with equal care, which may perhaps have saved his life, or not. He is smiling.

Picture stillness, and the dust in the air before an exhale. The third man opens his hand, and the second stares astonished at the little glass cube with its stolen files; and the other lowers his gun and laughs, and laughs, and laughs.)