Alive
By: Aviantei
3 mph
The biggest key to making a clean escape: Don't run.
I'm not doing anything wrong. I have an ID. I belong here. You won't even take a second glance at me.
I keep this mentality and stride away from the Velshtein hangar. Cunningham, whatever he thinks of my escape, doesn't follow. I don't run into any security guards, either, so that seems positive. I planned out my escape route beforehand, back into a different section of the stands than I entered from, and I make my way towards the stairwell.
On the way, I pass the rest of the assembled Team Velshtein, Sir Hamgra leading the pack in a sharp pressed suit. The other two racers, Jan and Dew, follow in step, their mech suits making as much of a racket as Cunningham's. The rest of the procession is their technical team, all discussing terms I don't recognize. I play the part of a star struck newbie, gape a bit, then wish the racers a hasty good luck before continuing on my way.
Yeah, that was gross. What I did with Cunningham was at least entertaining.
And stupid. Don't forget stupid.
I can reflect on my past performances later. With the race gearing up to go, a bit more people are out and about in the hallways. I keep my back straight and walk with a purpose, and I blend right in. Within fifteen minutes of my retreat from Velshtein's hangar, I'm at the employee entrance to the track. The posted security guard tips me a nod, and I squeeze myself between a man munching on nachos and a group of kids struggling to see the track over the crowd.
It's the second semi-final match, but it feels like the end of the season with how much energy the crowd is putting into it. I pull off my hat and shake my hair loose, dropping the headgear behind me. This is a rematch from when Team Satomi toppled Velshtein's winning streak in last year's championships. There's a lot of pride and hard work leaning on this.
And that bastard didn't even look excited about it. I don't know why I'm so bothered. He puts me on edge, and not in an exciting way. I check my watch. Not that I need to, as the announcer informs everyone within ten miles of the city that there's only a few minutes left until the race starts. There's no point in sticking around, other than security might be on the lookout for someone bailing out early. It's best to stick with the crowd on this one, even though the rain clouds from earlier are starting to roll in, smearing the sky dark gray.
I wish I had brought my phone, but I didn't want to get caught with it, either. Besides, I'm not supposed to contact the person I need to on my personal line, anyways. I lean back on the railing, watching the jumbo screens on the official IGPX announcement blimp countdown the last few seconds until the race begins.
When the numbers hit zero, the crowd erupts in cheers. I raise my voice to join them, even if I don't mean it.
Team Satomi won after a close race. Their lead pilot, Takeshi, sounds ecstatic in the post-race comments, as do his teammates. I don't bother to stay for Velshtein's remarks, as I can slip out with the fans trying to beat the post-race traffic. I leave my hat on the ground, and no one bothers me as I exit. It's almost too perfect of a getaway for how much a screwed up, but I'm not going to argue.
Oh no. There's someone else who deserves much more of my displeasure than good fate.
I make it home after half an hour of dodging in and out of traffic. The rain died off after the race, so no getting soaked for me. Not the highest adrenaline rush I've achieved, but it's something to keep my blood pumping. I bounce my leg the whole ride up the elevator and barge in through my own front door. My stomach whines from my lack of lunch—genius I am didn't want to bring my wallet, either, even though I have dummy cards—but I push into my study and sort through my cell phones, trying to remember which number Mariya said I could call her from.
Right, phone number five. Crazy hacker, screening her calls with technology isn't enough? I detach the matching smartphone from its power cord and start it up, heading back to the kitchen. I'm too fidgety to cook something fresh; I pop a TV dinner into the microwave without paying it much attention. My phone chimes to let me know it's awake, and I dial Mariya's number from memory.
It's almost evening. Will she even be awake? I'm lucky enough that I got her to work for me during the day. The phone rings two and a half times, same as every time, before Mariya picks up.
"Greetings, greetings, Kirsten," she says, Russian accent thick as wool. I'm convinced she does it on purpose. "Are you done with your escapades for the evening? I'd have thought you'd still be out and about, it's hardly midnight. Don't tell me you're playing Cinderella."
The microwave goes off before I can even grit my teeth. I distract myself with the hot plastic tray as I talk. "Oh, no, I just found a gap in the intel I received today," I say, making sure not to grit out my words. Passive aggression somehow gets through to Mariya's head much better than the real deal. "Nothing too major, but it did point out to me that you decided to put my real name on that ID badge I ordered. Seems like a rip off for the money I put into it."
"Oh? Unexpected gaps, huh?" The sound of a keyboard pounding follows her words. She's a smart woman; I know she didn't miss my accusations. Mariya giggles as I sit down at my table and realize I forgot a fork. I trek back over to the silverware drawer. "Goodness, what a jump. Did you have trouble getting do—ah, ah, I see. You've got as silver as a tongue as ever if you talked your way out of that one, dear."
I sigh, spinning my acquired utensil between my fingers. "If you're going to hack into the security cameras anyway, replace that sequence with something less suspicious."
"If that's a job request, do I have permission to take the funds from your account?" I can count the number of times I've met this woman face to face on one hand, but I can still see her shitty grin in my head. I stab my microwaved parmesan chicken with more force than necessary and grind my fork into the plastic tray beneath. "What's the time limit? I'll need a rush job multiplier if necessary."
I growl, "I'd say your little professional flub-up means you owe me a few favors on the house, don't you?" and lift my whole slab of chicken at once, tearing a bite off the end. Marinara sauce and cheese fleck onto the table.
Mariya hums some nonsense tune, out of rhythm with her keystrokes. "I'll grant you that one, dear, but only because I like you." I'll take it. I may not use Mariya's services as much as I used to, but we still hold a decent relationship and like to keep it that way. "Okay, we'll add dismantling security footage onto today's schedule and…what's this other job, then?"
"Say it's for free or I'm hanging up."
"Hm, nope. Fifty-percent discount or bust, Kirsten."
She skirts around a binding audio recording of herself with ease. I didn't expect any less. "Deal," I agree, returning my chicken to its tray and cutting off a normal bite like a regular person. There's no point if I don't get the sauce, too. "Cunningham Hume. I'd like information on him in the next week, please."
Mariya hacks in a different manner than usual: a massive coughing fit that makes me suspect she was in the middle of drinking something. Chewing over my most recent bite, I go to retrieve a soda from the fridge while she sets her lungs back to functioning order.
"Honey, no," she says once she can, "you're better than that."
I roll my eyes, even though she can't see it. Sarcasm will have to suffice. "Oh, yes, because I'm so bored that I feel like becoming a stalker. Sorry for not being able to follow you around, but it's not much of a challenge to spy on someone who sits in her house all the time." That's being generous. If I didn't know any better, I'd say this woman straight up lived in her room.
Mariya sniggers. "You know I'd let you stalk me any day," she amends.
"Delighted to hear it." I pop the top on my soda can and chug half the thing in one go, carbonation burning my esophagus on the way down. "Anyway, I talked to the guy and he rubbed me the wrong way. So I figure a little prank or something might do him good, plus blow off some steam."
"You always did make a cute vigilante. Why ever did you quit?" Now there's a few years that were pretty entertaining. Too bad they got dull, just like everything else. Man, if I had at least went bankrupt while gambling I'd still have an excuse to go out and earn money. Being loaded takes away so much urgency from human life. Mariya's brain has already moved on, and she's back to chattering away. "Well, past is past. And it's not my job to pry into clients, no matter how special you are to me. So, alright, info on Cunningham Hume in a week. Easy enough. Give me three days will you?"
I stop halfway through my next bite of lunch. "That's a bit generous," I say, and the faint waver of hesitation slips into my voice. "Half-price jobs in half-time sounds like a good advertisement, but it's not your style. What's the catch?"
"Meh, work's slow." Is she…pouting? I can't quite tell. "I'll be done with it by then. Don't miss the call, 'cause I don't give refunds. You know that."
"Alright," I agree and pick up a stray strand of cheese from the corner of the tray. "Consent to take payment and all that. Which phone should I be waiting for?"
Mariya clicks her tongue. "We did five this time, right? Hm, let's see… Oh, we'll go for seven! Just kidding, I know you don't have a phone seven. We'll go for three. One phone per day of work."
Whatever logic works for her. Considering she works for me, I can't protest. "Okay, third phone on the third day, Mariya time." Which means between day three and four for the diurnal world. Mariya hums her affirmation. "You better not call early because you're bored. I won't accept that as a proper missed call, you hear me?"
"Fiiiine," Mariya huffs out. "Wait, what about calls on your personal phone. Those okay, honey?"
"The sunlight's addled your brain. Go back to bed, wacko."
"But you're the one who called me and woke me up!"
"Good night, Mariya," I finalize and hang up before the blabbering goes on any further. I slump down into my seat, poking at my half-eaten chicken and the untouched pasta side. Dealing with Mariya after an infiltration? I'm beat. What kind of idiot does so many exhausting things in a row with no real profit?
That would be moi. And let's not forget that I'm digging myself into a deeper grave here.
Prank on Cunningham Hume is a flimsy excuse. It's also very dumb, and not even going to be my final plan of action. I'm indecisive. I run a hand across the shaved half of my head, letting the smooth texture calm me down. Getting further involved with Cunningham is a disaster waiting to happen, and it's a dangerous game to play.
But, hey, I love dangerous games. And there's no harm in trying. Not when there's a reason I didn't tell Mariya.
Because amongst the rest of the grays and sepias, Cunningham was still red.
[Author's Notes]
This chapter we meet Mariya, Kirsten's main informant. I'm rather attached to her, and I won't deny that Persona 5's Sakura Futaba inspired chunks of her character. Mariya also has a lot of her own adventures in her, but we're not quite there yet.
Thanks to kimokokimono for the review! Hopefully you continue to enjoy the story as it moves on!
I don't have too many concentrated thoughts, but shameless self promotion is always in. (P)atreon is a thing, and you can support me there as PlotBunnyProductions, so that's something to consider! And regardless, the next chapter will be up next week, so please look forward to it!
-Avi
[03.19.2018]
