prologue

"Sit your shit down , Carthier!"

Uncontrolled spit dotted the officer's beard in small beads off the imperative, looking more like a smattering of pocket lint than human saliva—if you even could call the man's patch of facial hair a beard. Sparse in more places than full, wounds that looked on cliffhanger of weeping festered along his jaw like anatomical connect-the-dots. Evidence of a struggle with personal hygiene but never physical fitness; anyone who knew him would know he shed perspiration in the dank humidity of Pigeye summer. Sweat sores were common in this hemisphere, among other flesh impurities.

Roughly shoved into the seat of the engineered-for-hard-time chair, Ruthaynne Carthier dropped like a hard sack—with little grace and even more minute care. The chair scraped back a centimeter or two, protesting the extra weight just as loudly, and with as much vigor, as she'd done not two minutes ago. Forced through the North Pigeye Fourth Precinct front lobby, she'd all but snarled like a creature at Cal's ironclad grip on her forearm. Sure to bruise, throbbing heat simmered beneath her muscle.

Toes curling in streetwet socks and skin flaming with inferno blisters, it took willpower not to kick off the damp square-toe boots right there in front of Cal's shiny—what looked like, new—desk. The now-cold coffee carafe taking up precious real estate rippled as she shifted in her chair, nudging the leg of his desk with her toe. Smirk curling the corner of her lip, she made a show of settling into the seat. Jerking her head lightly in an attempt to move the sopped curls hanging limp in her vision. Dripping all over Cal's nice—it looked waxed, today—floor.

Falling back against the chair with a hard thud, his chuckle rumbling low in her chest could be perceived as devilish. "'Lil frustrated today, are we, Smuckers?"

"Don't start with me, Carthier," botched pronunciation of her surname, a usual from Officer Callery Smuckers, drew her eyes to the ceiling in an aggravated eye roll. "It's been a bad week—last thing I needed was your underground vigilante shit to tie me up in paperwork for the next forty seven years ."

Grumbling was Cal's usual level of tone, but this was a new low. Even for Muscles, dressed all nice in his state-funded tactical midnights and holstered WASP. Hair slicked back by sweat, rainwater and gel, circles under his eyes did nothing to compliment his pallor. Sun deprived, chiseled, and freckled, he looked the tail end of his 48 hours on.

An exaggeration if there ever was one from the officer, sure, but her face pulled into mock lines of sympathy. "It's Car-thee-ay, Cal. How many times do we have to go over this?" Too many, obviously, but that was nothing new. People had been butchering Carthier since the dawn of time, probably. It was a curse of a surname, but, it was hers. One of the only things the Elites hadn't taken, as it were.

"So. What's got you so pissed, then? On the outs with Yvette?" Mention of current SOs would either earn compassion points, or a pop in the mouth, depending on who you flew with. Ruthie had endured both from the street beats of the North Pigseye Fourth.

A beat. His brow popped. "Look at you, using big-girl words. Welcome to the 22nd century." The barb was sharp and intentional, that was just Cal's way. Always under her skin, like a parasite she couldn't quite afford to shake.

Anticipated. "Pissed is hardly a swear word, Smuckers, " lifting her chin to gesture to him, sat back smoothly in his chair, scratching through his sad excuse of infected facial hair, "maybe you wanna trade places," she chuckled at the idea—Cal's all-muscle and toned thighs wedged between the arms of Satan's first choice of sitting furniture. Amusing enough to make her smile, genuinely.

"I could tell her you were jaywalking," the snap up of his eyes showpony teasing hazels of impatience. Sapped the mood like a wet, suffocating blanket. "Oh come on, Callery."

Sitting forward with a groan, twenty-something Smuckers sighed a bone-deep breath that flared his chest enough to notice, even beneath full tactical gear. Unbuckling his raid helmet, he set it aside with a hard thunk, lifted from the chair enough to scooch it back and closer, until his knees brushed hers. Her spine straightened at the absolutely milkwhite look of pale staining his face, eyes nearly glassy with exhaustion and— concern.

"I'm not kidding, kid," hoarsely, and his hands folded between his knees. Head hung low, he peered up at her carefully, her bottom lip curling beneath her top teeth. "You keep up this BS, your ass is gonna bounce into RRM." Lifting a leg to cross over her knee, bound hands plunked to rest on the other. Snorting, "And trust me, pretty thing like you? Wouldn't last ten minutes." Cal kneaded the back of his neck like it was Sunday's sourdough, "That's if they don't commit you, Carthier."

"Streetpreaching doesn't make me a lunatic, Smuckers," it was a probing challenge.

"'Mebbe not," his clapback was pointed, sharp. Hand scrubbing his face hit the desk with a fisted thunk , before opening to count off fingers, " but domestic terrorism, religious fanaticism, dogma, hate speech—"

Leg dropping off her knee, Ruthie mirrored his position. Considering the grout wedged between the tiles, probably all from the last 20 years of hard fab and federal redesign. After a few heartbeats her eyes lifted to consider Smuckers. Still dressed proudly in midnights and dripping with a mixture of sweat and rainwater, he couldn't have looked worse. Drowned rats were a step up from this, maybe even a full level. Her eyes cut to his bloody knuckles, which dripped to the toe of his boot. Taunting her, maybe.

"Just watchin' out for you, kid," he moved to put a hand on her knee, squeezing it once. His eyes darted above her head, hung there for a minute—security drones. Of course. "I know you ain't dangerous or hurting anyone. My report will reflect that, like always." But there would be a report, like all the other times she'd bounced her backside into Cal's chair at sometime o'clock in the dark, tired and hitting the pavement like some hungry, feral little street rat.

The shift of his jaw took a new edge. "But, for the love of Chri—" her sharp eyes cut him short, hands lifting in the air in mock surrender, "—yeah, yeah . Could you maybe keep your shop talk off the beat until Gonzalez hits shift?" It would've been more serious, the click of his tongue off his teeth, if his smile didn't match the glint in the corner of his eye.

He was already reaching for his keycard in short, smooth and low motions. Eye trained to the security drone hawk-eyeing the room, his eyes moved to her slowly. Brow popping a hair, she swallowed and offered a nearly-stone nod—this was the game. Again—cat and mouse, beat the system.

Big Brother only ever forgive so much; the rich, the famous. The Elites and promised-of-tomorrows. Cops were still on the outs, they played by tight rules or couldn't tow the line. The law's reputation hadn't recovered in nearly—well, ever. They overlooked nothing and forgot little where the everyday was concerned.

Grabbing her bound wrist with white-knuckled, benching 250 strength, he shook her to her feet with a sharp tug.

"I'll consider it," head tipping back, she stared down her nose at him with little thrill, until he dropped the card smoothly and planted a combat boot. Staring down at her, he shuffled her a little closer, eyes scanning the details of her face before he announced, loudly and with bad acting, his intent to take her down to lockup. Loud enough and convincing for the record, but not Juilliard.

And that was it, the only card left to play—ducking low, her shoulder dropped to locomotive her entire mass into the center of his gut. A weak point in the tactical vest no less than a handful of interactions had guaranteed. With a grunt, he stumbled backward over his chair, releasing her arm. Cal was a titan, he hit hard.

Making a show of collecting himself off the floor, her fingers brushed over the card when she ducked low to swipe it; brought it between her teeth as her feet dashed away, flying over federally-mandated and decrepit tile. Lifting her hands to the card balancing delicately between her front teeth, a flash of clearance-green and they released with a soft, mechanical blip .

"Carthier!" Voice booming, spittle no doubt flying. Nice touch. Her heart racehorsed against her ribs, feet all but simmering with those, painful blisters. They only seemed to swell more, ripping open as her heel caught the stiff counter of the shoe.

Sharp pain wracked through her hands from the release of the cuff's pressure as Smuckers found his feet, staggering to stand. Shouting at her again, he put on one hell of a show for the security playback—pointing sharply, the vein popping in his temple even from here the way he cussed her out across the precinct floor. Feigned limp a nice touch, she flashed his card in front of the doorlock, stretching fingers in her other hand to relieve some sting. Open, shut, keep moving—

Corner coming up quickly, there was a rickety fire escape on the south wall. Windows and offices racing by in a steely, industrial-styled blur, Ruthie came off her run hard, foot over foot. Turn, front-kick the glass to one of the windows. Shattering into uncountable diamond-esque shards, they exploded to the floor in a tittering chorus rain.

An old precinct, Four didn't have near the tech any of the cosmo departments did—no part of this ZIP did. Federal cutbacks, Capital deals under the table to thank, most certainly. Guys like Cal wore outdated armor any street punk with extra cash could punch through, because some rich vintage-Chevy driving schmuck in Uptown made a raw deal.

Hustling over the window sill, her boots rattled the rusting iron of the escape. It swayed, hanging by corroded hinges, mostly detached from the side of the structure it had been engineered to serve. Oversights, lack of use—fingers curling around the rain-slicked rail, klaxon shrieks erupted through the broken window and down the corridor. Nearly rattling the bricks behind her, frigid thrill shot down her spine like a ballistic missile. Security drones had triggered her escape, there would be cops here from South Canada in a matter of heartbeats.

Two minutes, three maybe— if Cal could buy her some time holding up the beat uniforms.

Breathing hard, trying to shake the chill rattling in the poor-index air, Ruthie worried the inside of her cheek. Tightening her grip on the rail, she stood on her toes. Rocked back to her heels. Flipped saturated hair from across her vision, a pang of guilt knifing between her ribs like a hot blade through butter. This was close— too close. She hadn't been so careless in years.

Swallowing a stutter of breath, she pushed off the railing, making for the groundfloor and taking the steps two at a time. At the last handful, she launched off the platform to hit the slick street, roughly. Her ankles buckled at the impact, barking.

"Sorry, Cal," glancing her shoulder, the apology was genuine in the burning of her lungs.

Thanks, Cal. She'd never get to say it.

Probably.