Two days had passed since their little incident, and the atmosphere in their shared living space had become considerably frosty. Kusma had been acting differently — more reticent, more aloof. He barely exchanged words with V, and his usual routine had been disrupted by sporadic departures during the night.

Actually come to think of it, that wasn't out of the ordinary.

V found herself stepping out more often, taking long walks to scout the area, and checking for any signs of Arasaka operatives. Despite her vigilance, nothing seemed amiss. Each time she returned, a trail of snow would be freshly tracked into the house — a silent, passive-aggressive reminder that Kusma was always watching from the sidelines. When he was home, Kusma would often be found lounging on the couch, engrossed in a book, or fiddling with his gear. Sometimes, he would simply lean against a wall, fixated on the world beyond and his unknowable musings. V found herself silently criticizing him for wasting his days, for allowing himself to wither away while doing nothing.

In her curiosity and concern, V had looked up 'fatal insomnia' on the net. The results confirmed the severity of Kusma's condition— it was a rare, neglected illness. The only consistent action he seemed to take against it was the consumption of pills, and lots of them, on a daily basis.

Kusma seemed indifferent to V's attempts at conversation. His responses, when he bothered to give them, were curt and dismissive. It was as if a one-sided cold war had erupted between them— one that V had no intention of participating in. She had enough on her plate as it was.

It was obvious for now where she stood. Fair enough.

Holed up in her room, V found herself fixated on the piece that Anatoly had handed off to her. She hadn't had a reason to use it yet, but she was no stranger for the need. Bracken was due to ring her up about some gig soon, and she wasn't about to get caught slippin'. Stretched out on her bed, she gazed blankly at the ceiling, her mind tangling itself in thoughts of what was to come. Being left to her own devices, her thoughts always seemed to stir up a riot inside her, sparking off a whole mess of doubts and worries.

In a bout of idle curiosity, she'd dug through Kusma's drawers. Among the mishmash, she found his choice of light reading— a weathered, leather-bound book, 'Russia in the Shadows' by H. G. Wells. V recalled the name, she knew of his famous work in passing, War of the Worlds. Inside, a handwritten note from Anatoly was scrawled out. It said:

'A little bedtime reading. Knowing you, it might just be the cure for your condition.' - Anatoly

Curiosity got the better of her. Books weren't exactly her go-to form of entertainment. The new ones were all churned out by AIs...

Flipping through the yellowed pages, her eyes caught on a few more notes scribbled in the margins. The script was elegant, curvy, Anatoly even bothered to write little poems - most were crossed out. She couldn't help but wonder about their age, the ink almost as faded as the book itself. Some notes were quotes he'd thought worthy of highlighting, others pointed directly at Kusma. A few dove headfirst into the realm of conspiracy theories - fitting, given the book's subject matter. But others, they hinted at something more. A mirror image of their current predicament, only with ideologies playing musical chairs. The older the note the more was it cryptic, painted with a broader stroke.

'Hegelian Dialectics. Capital, commune, all tried before and again. The jest that don't age.'

There were terms she'd heard before, but their exact meanings were lost on her. Yet, they seemed to stir a pot of both distaste and strange respect within Anatoly towards the author.

The book was heavy—loaded with the past and brimming with politics—about a country she could've lived a whole life knowing nothing about. It felt outdated, well it was. V didn't feel compelled to pay much heed to the book. But Anatoly did. Who would have thought him such a nerd?

'Silly englishmen, swarthy Anglos, fucking island-dwelling, tea-sipping, ginger-haired inbreds.'

A chuckle escaped her at the note. She couldn't help but admire Anatoly's near schizophrenic commitment to hurling insults, especially at the Brits page after page. Though they were hardly his only target. It was like peering through a keyhole into the mind of a man she thought she knew. A simple fisherman... It got her wondering—how much of Anatoly's persona was an act, a mask he donned? He was clearly more scholarly than he let on. By her standarts.

Turning her attention back to the book, she focused on the quotes Anatoly had taken the time to annotate.

"...the Marxist theory the social revolution should have happened first in the country with the oldest and most highly developed industrialism... ...this Bolshevik Government is at once the most temerarious and the least experienced governing body in the world. In some directions its incompetence is amazing... 'When is the social revolution going to happen in England?' Lenin asked me that... Behind the minds of many of these Bolsheviks with whom I talked I saw clearly that there dawns now a chill suspicion of the reality of the case, a realisation that what they have got in Russia is not truly the promised Marxist social revolution at all..."

'Wells was a babble, a farce, reveling in tragicomedy.'

The book kept on in this vein for a good stretch, Anatoly veering off on tangents, generally the whole thing generally read like a recollection or journal. It was a reality check, alright. She'd gotten herself tangled up in a revolutionary movement, unwillingly. And a man with mad hatred buried deep. It was a situation more complex than she first realised. It was also a world she didn't give two eddies about, least of all the political climate. It was an alien concept to her present self. Maybe, back in her counter-intel days, she would've seen it differently.

She toyed with the idea of Kusma being in a similar boat, only not as deep. Did he give a damn about all this because of his insomnia, or in spite of it? Suppose it didn't matter.

With a sigh, V tucked the book back into its drawer. She'd wasted enough time on it. Bracken's call was due any minute now.

Running low on both clues and cash, V was due to rendezvous with Bracken at a faded barbershop lurking on the city's outskirts. The place was grimy, humble, wedged between an old-world bank, and a shabby med clinic. A weather-beaten neon sign on the door hinted that the business was still kicking, even though no employees were visible. The sign stuttered, dangling in the window, managing to gasp out the name of the place with its last breaths of life - 'Cut Throat'. A real charmer of a joint, quaint even.

Wholly unoriginal.

Stepping inside, V was hit with a dense cloud of mustiness, a scent that screamed 'shithole.' No newsflash there. But it felt nostalgic, sadly. The joint was mostly deserted, with tables and chairs hugging the walls, hadn't seen much action lately.

Surveying her surroundings with a careful eye, she slipped past a moth-eaten curtain that split the main part of the shop from a slim backroom. On the walls, a collection of vintage cinema posters were plastered, each a glimpse into a past era. They'd been hanging there for what looked like ages. An age that felt distant yet oddly familiar.

"He sure knows how to pick 'em," came a voice, as ragged and gravelly as the back alley.

V whipped around, her piece halfway drawn, to find her gaze settling on an old man - dark-skinned, hairless, brandishing a pair of barber's scissors. He was sporting an apron over a cozy anorak, with the scissors casually resting on his lap, half lost in the corner's shadow.

"Whoa, easy there, chrome-cat. I'm just here to clean up," he reassured, gesturing towards the broom nestled between his legs.

Relaxing her stance, V holstered her weapon and shook off the sudden adrenaline spike. ""Who're you supposed to be?"

"By the looks of it, just some fool caught in the mix," he replied, casually adjusting the collar of his anorak. "Bracken's still running on his own time, like always." He stripped off his apron and hung it on a nearby coat rack.

"So, you're one of his contacts, then?"

"Used to be. But right now, I'm just paying out one last debt." He flashed a grin, revealing a line of shiny metal chompers. "This old dog's got more bark than bite these days."

Casually, V perched herself on an old footlocker, "Care to spill more?"

"Not really my style. You know, you know. Was never one to get all dewy-eyed about the 'good ol' days', especially since these days ain't too shabby." He flicked her a lopsided grin, "What's got you wandering into this neck of the woods, sunshine?"

V let out a resigned sigh, "Bit off more than I could chew."

The barber hummed in understanding, "Well, recognizing the mistake is the first step. Everything tends to run smoother after that."

Playing along with his cryptic chatter, she volleyed back, "That why you're here?"

"Me? I'm here 'cause I'm too old to care. The day I feel more like a corpse than a living soul, that's the day I'm off the hook." He extended a hand, "Name's Royston."

She took his hand in a firm grip, "V."

He gave a dismissive snort. "Classy."

"Beats being called sunshine."

Royston chuckled, "Fair point, V." He glanced towards the door, "Here comes our benefactor. Did you know the guy's a philanthropist?"

With an abrupt force, the door swung open, a gust of outside air swept through the barbershop, kicking up layers of neglected dust into Bracken's face. Royston wheezed, a sound straddling the line between a dust-induced cough and a chuckle of schadenfreude. Stumbling in, Bracken's voice filled the musty space, "Goddamnit, Royston!" He spluttered, "Ever heard of a dustbuster?"

Royston merely shrugged, "Those optional extras come with a price tag, Mr. B."

Bracken spat out the dust, "Such a pity to find you still among the living. I was hoping for a stiff." The click-clack of his pricey footwear echoed through the shop as he made his way towards them. Parting the curtain, his gaze fell on Royston.

"Wow, nice shoes," he mockingly stated, "And look what the cat dragged in."

V offered a nonchalant wave, "You're late."

"That's my MO, doll. You'll adjust," Bracken clasped his hands, "Our client's not the patient type. And my edgerunner crew's been giving me a migraine. So can we cut the crap and get this show on the road?"

"Please, V, be my guest," Royston invited, gesturing towards Bracken.

Rising from her perch, V brushed past him, "Can't wait."

Without skipping a beat, the trio exited the dusty barbershop and stepped into the chill of the wind-swept day. Storm clouds loomed ominously overhead as piles of snow blanketed the streets and sidewalks. Awaiting them was Bracken's stylish ride, a deep brown sedan limo coated with angled armor that exuded an iridescent sheen. And behind the wheel? Bracken himself funnily enough.

As V held the door for the aging barber, Royston grunted appreciatively and shuffled his way in. Behind the wheel, Bracken promptly set them off, navigating the streets that led out of town towards the suburban outskirts. Catching her reflection in the rearview mirror, he shot V a stern glance, "You're armed, right?" V felt the reassuring presence of the gun Anatoly had provided, concealed beneath her attire. Bracken nodded, "Good. That'll be our Plan B."

Royston craned his neck to get a look at road ahead, "You're the solo. Ah, should've figured..."

Bracken cut him short, "Her gig is straightforward: secure the chip, and stay ghost."

It seemed every mission boiled down to the same core objective: some damn chip. V rolled her eyes internally, "What chip?"

Royston piped up, his eyes glinting with mischief, "Speaking of chips, wouldn't mind some right about now..."

Bracken sighed, "Too easy, Roy." From his suit, he produced a microchip cradled between his index and middle finger. Roughly the size of a thumb drive, encased in a container, he clarified, "This here is a Hislop microchip, or at least a fake-out version of it." With a deft flick of his fingers, he twirled it back and forth, "We're nabbing it back from the crew which crossed me." His eyes landed on V, "They're holed up somewhere on the outskirts of Anchorage. Our rendezvous point is an abandoned resort. We're a man down since my netrunner flaked, so we're short-staffed. V, you do heavy lifting. If you can't swipe it, improvise. Roy will handle the chatter. And if all hell breaks loose, I'm driving us the hell outta there."

Royston chuckled, "What a motley crew we are. The B-team, indeed."

Bracken grumbled in response, "Laugh it up, old fart. Do your job and I might just throw you a retirement party."

"One that's been long overdue. All you youngins do is whine and fuss," Roy added. Bracken busied himself with the car radio, pressing a button that filled the cabin with the throb of music, effectively drowning out any further banter from Royston. The drive was marked by the steady pulse of the bass, punctuated by the rhythmic click of Bracken's ring against the steering wheel. Aside from the occasional corporate semi-truck thundering its way towards town, the road was deserted.

As they neared their destination, V's thoughts strayed to the previous night. There had been that suspicious cargo parked near the lab. "Is the chip stored cryogenically?"

Bracken shot her a quick glance, "No idea. Why do you ask?"

"Never mind," she shrugged off her curiosity.

Bracken broke the silence. "The company that created the microprocessor also manufactures command and control units for military-grade satellites. Recently, they were commissioned to build a prototype under wraps for a private buyer. My client is this buyer's competitor. You can connect the dots," he explained, the tap-tap-tap of his fingers against the steering wheel providing a rhythmic counterpoint. "Any other questions?"

"You're not exactly a fan of corporates, are you?" V probed.

"As long as they're too busy screwing each other over to pay attention to me, I can deal. Corpo wars have spoiled too many good things. My city included," Bracken responded.

And with that, the floodgates were open. Royston was only too happy to jump into the fray. "He's just sore he didn't get invited to the changing of the guard," he whispered to V, nodding towards Bracken.

"I heard that," Bracken shot back.

Undeterred, Royston simply doubled down. "Yeah? How about you stop feeling sorry for yourself? It's been a full year of griping since Rosenblad took over Snowdrift. Why do you even give a damn about that club? The music was always crap. Depressing, filtered, wannabe contemporary garbage. Now, it's just a place for posers and corporate tourists. At least the old crew knew how to throw down."

V muttered under her breath, "Talk about pot calling the kettle black..."

Bracken shot back a dry laugh, "Just be grateful there's still something left for you to be bitter about. If Militech had their way, you'd be six feet under."

Roy quipped, "Oh, It's a great, natural habitat for me."

V, not interested in their bickering, pressed for more information. "What does this Rosenblad have to do with our job?"

Bracken adjusted his tie, his grip on the wheel tightening. "Rosenblad, is a cunt, she runs a fixer's nightclub - mercs, solos, you name it. The previous owner stood up to Militech, a battle he inevitably lost. When Rosenblad took over, everything went to hell. Corporations come in, do whatever they please, and she's right there in bed with them, sabotaging my operations for the right price."

Royston shook his head in disdain. "Militech, they were the first to scuttle into town like vermin, claiming our streets, and then some. Can't exterminate 'em. People fled to Alaska when word got out that corporations were booted out. That lasted just long enough for it to become profitable to regain control." He looked at V, "Every road leads to a corporation. No way around it."

Bracken interjected, a hint of defiance in his voice, "Well, don't write the obituary just yet, Roy. Things are heating up and I'm looking to cash in. Just wait and see."

Royston just yawned, "Sure. No hurry here."

The car rolled to a stop at the base of a cliff, the entrance of a rundown ski lodge nestled at the edge of a ravine, with an icy stream flowing down its side. The lodge itself was in a state of disrepair, faded red brickwork, and shattered windows. A collection of decrepit, rusted-out vehicles were strewn about the entrance, expensive forgotten toys.

"Alright," Bracken began, not leaving the warmth of his vehicle, "The rendezvous is up there in that skeleton of a lodge. Everyone remember?"

V nodded as he passed her the chip. Roy grunted.

"Your contacts a fun pair, Gul and Mal," Bracken continued, producing an image of the pair on his car's dashholo. An older man, grizzled and sturdy, filled the frame. Beside him, a young girl, Mal, with short-cropped hair, alabaster skin, stood beside him. She couldn't have been more than a teen. "Gul's the streetwise type, old hand in the game, but level-headed. Mal's his... adopted daughter or some other, a prodigy netrunner, so keep on your toes."

"Got it," V confirmed, the image of Gul and Mal burned into her memory.

With a nod, Roy clambered out of the car, adjusting his anorak and heading toward the lodge, "I'll do my bit, make sure you're quick on your feet, V." Roy sauntered toward the dilapidated lodge, his anorak flapping in the chilly wind. Despite his age, there was a confident, almost cocky, swagger to his gait.

Her gaze swept over the structure, taking in the derelict vehicles that littered the forecourt, the crumbling façade. From the outside, it seemed quiet, lifeless even.

Off to the side, V noticed a rusted 1st floor fire escape clinging to the building's side, its metal frame moaning in the breeze against the relentless assault of the elements. A way in. The weather played in her favour, the falling snow muffling sounds and obscuring vision. But she knew her advantage was double-edged. The same conditions could also hide an unexpected threat. V waited for Royston to vanish inside before making her move, heart pounding in her chest as she scaled the rusting metal ladder and onto the second floor of the lodge. Reaching the top, she took a moment to scan the interior, to assess the situation. She entered a kitchen, gun now at the ready, rooms were illuminated by dim glow from old, malfunctioning light fixtures that flickered on and off as V's eyes adjusted to the gloom. The floor creaked, sending an unwelcome tremor through her as she scanned the room for hostiles. Empty, but she began hearing echoing voices.

"Bracken's got a full plate and can't afford any slip-ups. Just has to tie up some loose ends, ya know how it goes," Roy's voice carried through the open doorway, the feigned casualness not quite masking the tension underneath. A muffled voice responded, too low for V to catch the words.

V moved closer to the source of the voices, ducking into an adjacent room, an empty dining hall, she noticed cracked tiles, avoided them.

"I owe him a solid, so I came in his stead. He's too busy running his game to come play fetch," Roy's tone shifted, a hint of menace seeping through the cracks, "And I don't give a damn about your sob story. You made a deal, fulfill it."

"Being Bracken's errand boy, huh?" Gus retorted, his gravelly voice echoing in the expansive space.

"Price ain't flexible pal. Pay in full, or take a hike." Mal's fervour made herself known.

V cautiously advanced towards the balustrade, allowing a peek down onto the sprawling room below. Dominated by a grand, imposing fireplace, Gus, Mal, and Roy stood middle of the room. Their voices bouncing off the vaulted ceilings.

"Now, isn't this a delightful predicament..." His words, cool and composed, belied the tension etched onto his weathered face. This was a man past his prime, unarmed, yet exuding an aura of quiet authority that was unnerving in its confidence. "It's Mal and Gus, correct?" He sauntered forward, closing the distance between them. "I wonder, how long do you intend to cling onto those chips?"

Gus cut an imposing figure, his broad-shouldered silhouette stretching to around 6'4". His barrel chest and determined stride spoke of a man who knew his way around a brawl. Mal, by contrast, was considerably smaller, her lean physique accentuating her youth.

A flicker of surprise crossed Mal's face, "Long enough. We're not an easy target."

Roy's lips curved into a smirk, "But what happens when you're found out? Second chances are hard to come by."

"We have enough intel to disappear," Mal shot back.

Royston let out a dry, mirthless chuckle, "Wish you luck with that, kiddo. Corporate bloodhounds don't lose the scent easily."

Gus cast a sidelong glance at Mal, "I warned you this gig was trouble."

"Point taken," she admitted.

Roy's gaze sharpened on Mal, "You didn't even bring the chip, did you?"

Gus was quick to interject, "You're not exactly flashing wads of cash either. Makes it tough to seal the deal, don't you think?"

V felt a pang of frustration. It was clear that Bracken's plan was hardly fool proof as he'd made it out to be. The man had a knack for overselling, it seemed. Or maybe she was being too lazy to notice obvious bullshit. She was accustomed to dealing with fixers who were more reliable and professional, but Bracken... V allowed the thought to trail off. Meanwhile, Royston was doing his best to navigate through this sticky situation. He seemed to be managing, up to a point, keeping Mal and Gus engaged and distracted. But the conclusion was growing increasingly inevitable, as Gus made it painfully clear. There was only so much bluffing could achieve in a stalemate like this. Which was jack shit.

According to Gus, they were the aggrieved party. Until they received at least a half upfront, they were open to entertaining new buyers. And the chip stays safely tucked away.

After their return, the trio found themselves back at square one. The chip they were after was absent, and Bracken's response to the failure was to bombard them with a flurry of new plans that barely made sense. Disinterested, Roy started to cut him off, subtly at first and then more bluntly. V, meanwhile, remained quiet, content to observe the chaos. She was keenly aware that Bracken was treading water, and that this job was unlikely to yield any real earnings.

Bracken took the first chance he got to make his exit once they arrived back in Anchorage. And so, V found herself aimlessly wandering through a park with Roy.

"Well, that was a bust," Roy declared, disappointment looming in his voice. Thrill seemed to be what had lured him in, but it was quickly fading away.

V chose to remain silent, feeling relief more than anything else. It seemed she had just narrowly dodged a bullet.

Not missing a beat, Roy continued, "Got any other prospects lined up?"

"Not yet," V shook her head.

"Hmm, no rest for the wicked, I guess." He halted, scrutinizing her, "What's got you so hooked on this gig?"

V started to speak, then hesitated, unsure of how much she wanted to divulge. "I...I don't know. It's personal. I thought I'd feel normal again."

Normal. The word hung in the air between them. Roy chuckled, "No such thing as normal, look at me, great example. Besides, what are you going to do, go into early retirement?"

V's gaze wandered to the flurry of snowflakes dancing in the frigid Alaskan air. "I guess not."

"You don't know anything else, do you?"

"I used to," she admitted quietly, "but now, it fee- I'm back at square one."

Royston sighed heavily. "That's life for ya, V. Nothing's forever. I used to be a regular at the Snowdrift, had a crew of my own. We had a blast until some punks took over, then came the corpos," he said, his gaze unfocused, as if looking into the past. "Now, I'm one foot in the grave. Time's a bitch."

"Sounds familiar," V responded, her eyes fixed on the distant, snow-capped mountains.

Yes, all too familiar. And far too close for comfort.

I Monster - Daydream In the Blue