Notes: And now we get a peek into what Samus' life is like at present...

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Phaaze 02: Hum-Drum Slum

It's always dark when I get back to my crummy little apartment on the outskirts of the East District. The only thing telling me time has stretched into the ungodly early hours is the multi-language digital clock by my bed when I reach my room.

The apartment is in shambles and is barely kept together. Not much more I can expect from this place. The rent is pitiably affordable and I sometimes have enough extra money to spruce up the walls a little bit. There's only enough room for me in here—the messy living room also doubles as the kitchen, and a fold-out dining table slides into view from one of the kitchen counters with the simple press of a button. A cramped little laundry room shoots off into a long-forgotten corner next to a tiny, dusty closet where I keep all of my clothes. My room isn't much bigger, hardly able to accommodate my Queen-size bed and the undersized nightstand on its left side, which just holds my clock, a neat purple luminescent lamp and a book I've read about twenty times by now. I particularly like the lamp. I got it cheap at a thrift store on one of the Base Levels; the constant glow is soothing to me.

My Fusion Suit sits in a containment chamber in one corner of the bedroom, where there's just enough room for it. I'm lucky to be able to keep up maintenance on the chamber so that my suit stays in good working order. The walls are peeling like old snake skin and the roof leaks with hyper-condensation every summer without fail; but damn it, if this shithole falls apart on me, my suit will be able to fit like a dream and move like silk.

I do, however, miss my beloved Power Suit. (How many times have I had to get that thing back now?) I wasn't able to save it the last time. The Fusion Suit has similar colors now, like the Varia, but it's just a mock-up. Whenever I look at it, I long for the familiar fit of the Power Suit. I'm not quite sure where to get a new one now, though. The Chozo have long since vanished from any galactic map. It would be phenomenal if I could find them again, though I don't know how I'll ever be able to repay them for everything they did for me. There has to be something I can do to help, but they're not here to guide me. Not here to tell me where I should go. I get lonely, sometimes, when I think about them.

There's a small bathroom adjacent to the bedroom; and I mean, small. Like, miniscule. Like everything else in this backwater cave. Here's how it looks when I walk in: there's about four feet of moving space, not including the necessary obstructions. Which are, as follows: a shelf for towels on the left wall and a small sink with a mirror jammed into the right next to the toilet. Pipes visibly run along the wall between them, and right in front of me, four or five feet in, there's the shower. The tiling has chipped off near the base of the showerhead and there's some unsightly yellow grime on the bottom of the curtains. The mirror is alright, except it's always foggy, even with the hot water turned off. Bad glass, I keep telling myself; cheap glass.

Everything I need to keep myself neat and clean is scattered, either sitting in a jumble on the sink or shoved into a corner on the floor of the shower. You'd think it a miracle I can find anything in the mess, but there's a method to the madness, I promise. For example, when I take off my clothes and start to shower, everything hair-related is in front. Body stuff and an overused washcloth are just behind it, and lodged into the deepest nook of the corner are the womanly things. Shaving, you know. I could last on one set of this stuff for months, but I prefer not to. Still, when I'm low on money, things like eating and having water in the pipes come way before smooth legs and smelling like lilacs.

Helps make every shower a great shower, in my opinion.

Washing yourself with one free hand sounds difficult, especially when it's not your dominant hand; but I've learned to be ambidextrous. I refuse to touch myself with this gelatin arm. I've had nightmares of sinking those claws into my belly and sucking my own life energy dry until someone comes along and brushes against me; then I watch myself disintegrate. Even though I know it's irrational—I've tested the nightmare's theory, and there's no way I can possibly drain energy from myself—the phobia still haunts me, so I play it safe. I only use my right hand when I'm wearing the gloves.

But I've noticed, to my great dismay, the claws are starting to get more…well…claw-like. Not sure if opera gloves are going to be a sufficient disguise as of soon. Note to self: find a more hardy set of hand-socks.

I always turn the water as hot as I can stand and the bathroom is always a fogged-up sauna when I'm done. I love it that way, though. I still have a staunch aversion to anything cold. My Fusion Suit has the Ice Beam capability again, but I'm only able to use it because of a special guarding it has against my Metroid DNA. Haven't used the Ice Beam in a while though, actually; I've not laid eyes on a real Metroid for years.

After brushing my teeth and combing a brush through my hair, I wipe some of the condensation off the mirror with my left hand. It's still pretty damn cloudy, but I can see myself. I take a good long look at my reflection.

I haven't seen real sunlight in at least a couple of years. I look pallid and tired. I look older, even with the Chozo blood that slows my aging process. There are faint dark bags under my eyes because I don't sleep very well. I cut my hair four years ago when I couldn't afford to take care of it long. It doesn't look so bad, though, and my head feels much lighter without all that weight pulling on my skull. When it's dry I still have those front bangs and tendrils, the latter a bit past my ears. I like to spike up the back tuft and brush it away from the front. I've found just one reason why I like my jelly arm: collecting the thin layer of secretion in my hair makes for a great styling gel. Fantastic hold, gives a bit of texture, and—my favorite part—it never runs out.

And I'm still in great shape. Most women would kill for a body like this.

See, I try to look at the bright side of things once in a while. It's hard, but not impossible. The little things are the ones that count.

Ten short minutes later I'm dressed in my gloves and an itchy bathrobe that I've had since my apartment on the Swifter Colony in a lesser-known cluster of the Tetra Galaxy. I don't know why they called it the Swifter Colony. It wasn't moving very fast, nor did anything in their services process in a very timely manner. And the inhabitants were always crowding my space. I lived there for about two months before I packed up and left.

The jarring ring of a telephone screams for my attention while I'm in the middle of fixing myself a shot glass of Sleeper Gel. It's not so bad when it goes down, but the aftertaste is a bitch. I always make toast and jam to help wash that down.

It's two-forty A.M. and I wanna know who in their right mind would have the brass balls to call me at this hour of the night. Whoever it is, they're lucky I wasn't asleep. Crossing what little space I have to for the video-phone in the living room, I don't even glance at the caller I.D. as I firmly punch the button that picks up the call. The small, static-ridden flat screen flickers to life and a sickly-colored, disembodied teardrop head stares at me, single red Cyclops eye peering out from the pasty pink pigmentation of the creature's skin.

"Shield," I grumble.

Shield is one of my Fetcher customers. He's a disgrace to his kind; an utter failure at the proud Kriken tradition of conquering distant planets. The only good thing he could ever do was to pick up useless scrap and con it off in a deal to anyone who was stupid enough to believe his word—which is most everyone, since his customers tend to wet their pants when they realize Shield is a Kriken. He doesn't even fill the criteria for being a good tech expert. He buys junk, collects junk, and sells junk. But despite his waning complexion, the label of his origin scares everyone he meets into paying him outrageous amounts of cash for pieces of outdated material that are about as useful as a wet piece of paper. He usually blows this cash on cases of expensive Upper Level alcohol within a couple of weeks; therefore he is always scraping the galaxy for new junk to sell. I think the booze may have been his downfall in the first place.

The ill-looking Kriken on the screen quirks his head to one side, hissing in bad English with a voice thick as molasses. "Sssamusssss."

"Why am I not surprised?" I sigh, "What do you want?"

"Have new job for you," rasps Shield, his body twitching uncontrollably. He's hit rock bottom again. "Quick run. Good pay. You do?"

As usual, he's being vague, and I have to wrench the information out of him. I lean forward on the small couch where I'm sitting and leer at him. "What am I getting?"

"Box," clips Shield. His frail arms quiver into sight and make useless gestures. "Friend of mine in scrap yard say it have good stuff. You go get box from him."

He always speaks like this: thick voice, slow words, usually slurred together. The only other Kriken I met was loads more intelligent than this pathetic husk; I'm not sure if it's the booze or if he just has the deluded notion that I'm stupid. Shield likes to assume he's still the greatest thing since sliced bread, despite the fact that his empire has just about forgotten he even exists.

"What friend?" I demand. "What scrap yard, where?"

The pasty Kriken shudders and his head twitches to his left. I growl at him. "Shield—what scrap yard?"

Shield's head makes a series of unnatural twitching movements before shaking rapidly from side to side. "…Ssssilthen Region," he sneers, Cyclops eye dimming.

I draw back, getting ready to leave. The Silthen Region is an area of space neighboring Dasha, but it's much deeper in the clutches of the Federation; too much chance they'll pick me up on their radar. "No. Find someone else."

"Wait!" he cries, arms trembling as he wails like a spoiled child, "You not hear my offer!"

"I don't need to. It's late. Good night, Shield." I reach for the End Call button.

Shield practically shrieks at me through the transmission. "Is good pay! You only one who do it! Good at hiding from Federation! Others not go; too dangerousss for them!"

"Not my problem," I shrug, "You should make some better friends."

A pathetic whining noise filters through. "Samusss! You hurt me! Why be nasty lady?" Shield's shoulders shiver and he makes an odd arch forward with his body. "Help friend Shield! Shield nice Kriken! When Shield ever cheat you on job?"

My right pointer finger hovers over the button. "No such thing as a nice Kriken," I spit. The gloved claw moves down to press. "Good night, Shield."

Shield makes a desperate noise and his whole body jumps. "Ssssixty-thousand!"

It gets my attention.

I stare blatantly at the screen while the alcoholic Kriken continues to jerk and sway in his ever-constant hangover, like a junkie thirsting for a fix.

"I give you sixty-thousand!" he repeats.

But that number could mean anything from dirt money to riches. "Sixty-thousand what?" I snap.

"Dasssha Silver," says Shield hastily. "That good for you? Ssssixty-thousand Dasha Sssilver Pieces." Now that he knows he has my attention, his voice goes back to a molasses purr from the shrill screams of seconds past. "I have. I pay half on spot. Pay other half when you bring box. Good? You do?"

60,000 Dasha Silver Pieces.

I roll the number around in my head, my eyes glazing over. Shield is right about one thing: it's a good, heavy sum. Just half of that would be enough to last me for another month, maybe two if I stretch it. Dasha Silver is universal in the region of its name and trades in Kaon like bars of gold—even better than Federation Chips.

The only problem is that Shield, more often than not, is broke off his ass. There's never a good way of telling whether or not he's giving the whole truth.

"Bring me thirty-thousand by the end of tomorrow, and I'll believe you," I say slowly. "And Shield?"

Hope is glistening in his face like nervous sweat. His one red eye flickers and he cocks his head at me.

I lean forward and give him my sternest glare. "If I find out you can't pay me the rest, I'll sniff out your hiding spot and kill you in your sleep."

He's a fallen member of the Kriken species, and the size of his ego is rivaled only by Mother Brain, and when I speak those words he shivers in terror and gives a frantic nod.

"Good," I say. "Remember: by the end of tomorrow."

I press the End Call button and the screen goes blank. Sinking back on the couch, I swirl the paste-white liquid in my shot glass and hear the toast is ready. I take the Sleeper Gel with me and fix two pieces of toast and raspberry jam, stacking them on top of one another.

Taking a deep breath, I swig the Sleeper Gel in one go. It creeps over my tongue and I hurry it down my throat, the sweet coconut taste quickly being replaced by a bitter sting as I slam the shot glass down. I take a huge bite of toast and chew as quickly as I can. I swallow.

By the time I finish my toast and reach my bed, my eyes are drooping shut and the lumpy pillow under my head feels like heaven. I close my eyes and sleep dreamlessly. My right hand twitches as my consciousness slips.