Stop Light Philosophy

 "There are three common factors about a job, and you get to pick two of them."

Roll let out a sigh. The silence had lasted a lot longer than he thought it would. To the point where he'd been allowed to space off staring at a light pole for the last half hour. Giving his cigarette a tap with his middle finger, he watched the ash shake off to the ground, letting the sentence settle for a bit longer. Perhaps if he waited long enough, traffic would magically let up, and they wouldn't have to dive into whatever point it was that Zen wanted to make.

A glance down the road said the odds of that happening were zero. They were still a block and a half back from the blockage, and there was no way things were going to get moving any faster. Some borg had gotten zeroed, and it had delayed their trip, all five blocks of it, by a few hours. At first he'd debated just getting out and walking, but then he'd never have heard the end of it by the time Zen had caught up.

Taking another toke, he finally turned back into the car, offering Zen a sincerely bored look, "Alright. I'll bite."

Zen brought up three mechanical fingers, "Fast. Easy. Pays good." He let those concepts linger for a moment, before continuing, "You get two. Fast and easy? Won't pay good. Fast and pays good? Ain't easy. Easy and pays good? Sure as hell ain't gonna be fast."

"Yeah, that sounds about right," Roll said, turning to blow a cloud of smoke out onto the street, "But easy shouldn't be included." He lifted his left hand, motioning for Zen to shut up for a moment, "There's no such a thing as an easy job. If it's easy, it wasn't worth doing, and if it seems easy, shit just hasn't hit the fan yet."

"And I don't think that disagrees with anything I just said," Zen countered, shifting around. Roll could feel the whole car rock in the process.

How Zen managed to keep driving the old beater had was beyond Roll. Even before he'd chromed out his arms Zen was a brick wall of a human being. Where before he had some trouble fitting into his own ride, now it was a process climbing inside. The entire thing sagged to whichever side Zen was sitting on, and Roll was surprised it hadn't scraped against the ground on some longer hauls.

A few more cars slipped past the clean-up, inching them closer to the promise land. They'd already watched MaxTac come and go, and now Roll could see somebody taking a hose to the side walk to clean off the gore. A street sweeper was lined up in the alley, waiting for its turn in the queue. Settling back into silence, Roll took one last breath from the cigarette and tossed it out the window.

"Those things are gonna kill you," Zen mused.

Roll gave him a look of disbelief, "Zen."

"Yep," Zen said, not taking his eyes off the road.

"I got shot during the Palendo job last week," Roll said, dry as possible, tapping his shoulder.

"You did," Zen said, matter of fact. Which was how he said just about everything.

"We get shot on the regular, right?"

"We do," Zen said, "Though you definitely get shot more than I do."

"Okay, so with that firmly established. It's the cigs that are gonna kill me?"

"It's always the little things," Zen mused. As usual, he ignored that Roll was questioning him, treating it more as Roll slowly coming to see things his way, "The things we least expect."

"Well shit," Roll said, laying on the sarcasm as thick as he could, "I'll take that. Be the first runner to die of fuckin' cancer." A few more cars slipped through, they continued up in the line. "What's gonna kill you then, smart guy?"

"A beautiful woman," Zen said plainly, "I haven't met her yet, but I just know it."

All Roll could muster to that was a dismissive "Uh huh."

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, before a digital voice crackled through both of their skulls, "You two talk about the weirdest shit." Roll rolled his eyes, marking yet another time a netrunner picked the weirdest time to state the obvious.

Before Roll could muster a witty comeback, he saw that it was finally their turn to shoot the gap. Finally. Just as they rolled past the cordoned area, Zen turned off, into a gas station parking lot. He leaned left a bit to glance at the dash. Tank was almost full. A look was shot at Zen, before looking back at the little station.

"Is this..."

"Yep," Zen muttered, iris blinking as he double checked the information.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me."

Bribery

"Perney!"

Perne's pointed ears twitched at the shout. She released the trigger on her blowtorch for a moment, and waited.

"Peeeeeeerneeeeey!"

Content with the confirmation of who it was trying to get her attention, she resumed her work. The sound of the torch tearing through metal made it easy to ignore the following cries, and even once she was sure that the crier knew she could hear him and stopped, she made sure to secure the bolt she was trying to access. Just to make him wait a bit longer.

Rolling out from under the great machine she was currently working on, she flipped her goggles up. The rogue who stood above her looked as he always did. Just filthy enough to pass for a man of the streets, but with his beard trimmed so as to look dapper. She had never known a man to pay so much attention to his appearance, but had refused for ages to ever acknowledge it. He would have enjoyed it too much.

In his hands was a small parcel, wrapped carefully in brown paper. As she sat up and accepted it, she noted how much it resembled its owner. The paper had been shuffled around a bit, and cut at odd angles, which gave it the appearance of a rush job. The note attached to it had today's date on it, and only an hour or so prior. But the string was too carefully cut, and she assumed the entire thing had been prepared the night before. She gave it a small shake, and was satisfied with the metallic jostling noise it emitted.

Just as she was prepared to inquire as to the nature of his visit, he interrupted her, "Is this what I think it is?"

He was staring up at the machine, trying his best to look slackjawed, "If you think it's Garlean magitek armor, then yes," she said.

"You buy it offa one'r steal it?" He was circling the machine, poking and prodding at one of the legs.

"Built it off a shite I've scrapped," she said, knowing full well he knew that.

He gave her an incredulous look, "This legal?"

She rolled her eyes. They were right on his script, but she couldn't be bothered to diverge, "Since when did you give a goblin's arse about legal?" The parcel was sat on a work bench, and she leaned against it, ready for the rest of the performance.

"Well," he said, adjusting the collar of his shirt, "Ever since you put down yer stabbers, I've been thinkin' about goin' legit too. No more skulkin' about, gettin' some legit work."

"But," she said on queue.

"But," he said, stumbling a bit when he realized she'd beat him to it, "We just got offered a job, an' it'd be stupid to turn it down. And I figured I'd see if you want in on it."

"Uh huh," she said, motioning for him to speed it up.

"Well you're doin' the whole bodyguard thing with that gunsword you hacked together right?"

"Gunblade."

"Right that, and well we got this client. She's wantin' some cargo moved, but she wants it moved discretely away from her, so I figured," he made some motions with his hands towards her, "We move the goods, you guard the lady."

"Fine," she said, picking up a rag from her workbench and wiping some of the grime off her hands.

"And I know, it sounds like there's probably a catch," he started, before catching himself, "Beg pardon?"

"I said fine," she tossed the rag over her shoulder.

"Well, good. I'll let you know when and where."

"Yep."

Envoy

It was not often that she got letters from home. That was not to say that she had a strained or distant relationship with her family. More that she was constantly on the move, which made mail difficult to deliver, and her family and tired of paying for the increasing fees of sending a post moogle from city to city to track her down. She did not blame them, and consistently sent letters as a means to ease their minds.

So when she did receive a letter requesting her aid, she knew it was important. Rerouting her current wandering course to Gridania had been as painless as rebooking airships could be, and she had made it back to the city ready to help in any way she could. The entire way there had been spent wracking her brain over what could have gone wrong.

Her family were a rather simple clan of people. They were shoemakers and cobblers. They had been for generations. It was not a glorious line of work, but one that was forever consistent. Everyone wore shoes, and unless something insane happened that was unlikely to change. They kept themselves busy, especially around Starlight festivities. And it had drove her insane, while leaving her with the unfortunate burden of knowing what an aglet was.

The shoemaking business was also one without many sources for trouble. Sometimes a shipment was delayed, often due to troublesome beasts on the path of the convoys. Or a customer could be stubborn about paying their due. Both were generally resolved by bringing the matter to the proper authorities and waiting. A handful of times her parents had employed a group of adventurers to resolve an issue, but the matters were always solved within a day. So little work was involved that it wouldn't have even produced a stanza of song.

"Miss Morrow, the owner will see you know."

Frieda dragged herself out of her thoughts, offering the receptionist a gracious nod. She stood up, towering over the chairs in the waiting room she had been stuck in for the past hour. Their regular partners must have been universally lalafel. As she strode back into the hallway she was directed to, she attempted to pat more of the dust out of her shirt, surrendering when she realized that no matter how much she patted, no less was being produced.

A guard at the end of the hallway opened a door, motioning for her to step into a small office. Its centerpiece was a beautiful desk made of fine Gridania oak, the owner of which was slowly skimming through a pile of notes, looking down through spectacles that were perhaps as large as her thumb. He glanced up at her, and motioned for her to take one of the two seat in front of the desk. Which she did, awkwardly sitting down in a chair far too small for her for the second time now.

"Miss Morrow, it's wonderful to see you," he muttered, looking back down into his stack of documents. "If you don't mind me asking, why were you sent over your mother or father?"

"They were otherwise occupied," she said, trying to sound confident and ready for negotiations.

In truth, they didn't want to bother. And her brother didn't want to bother either. All of them hated having to deal with any business regarding their supplies. If it wasn't directly involved with making a shoe, it became a terrible game of trying to pass the task to someone else. One she had unfortunately lost.

"Understandable, everyone I know is so busy," he said, finally leaning back in his chair and looking up at her.

"As you likely understand, my father is not pleased with the new arrangement that you sent him," she said, not waiting for him to prompt her into explaining her visit.

"I am aware," he said, "But as I made clear to him in my messages, this is a dire time for such vital supplies. I have started new enterprise elsewhere, and they are taking up our resources, which means prices are bound to go up."

"And we believe we should be allowed some priority and better prices due to our consistency," she said coolly, "Our grandfathers worked together, and theirs before them. Whatever this enterprise is, I'm sure it is not worth destroying other reliable business for."

"It may surprise you," he said, leaning against his desk. "I've found an amazing new market in the last few years. It took some time to get production set up, but I have been shipping new styles of shoes into Doma, they are sweeping the markets by storm."

Frieda took a moment to process that, nodding in understanding, "But you know these trends come and go, no? In years, perhaps even months, they will either be tired of them, or start making them locally. And then your demand their will drop, but your partners here will have moved on."

The lalafel produced a quill, making a quick note, "Is that something you've noticed before?"

"My father adapted to making Ishgardian garments when the relations with them cooled, and Doman sandals when the travel and trade was reopened. They were certainly popular, but the people's interest is so fickle."

He tapped his quill, considering what to notate. Eventually he dove into composing a long letter, folded it up, and slid it into an envelope, sliding it across the desk. "I see your point, miss Morrow. I am willing to reconsider, but the price will still need to increase slightly, for inflation. Present this to your father, and I will see about getting a new shipment to him as soon as it is returned signed."

She held in the urge to sigh, grabbing the envelope and sliding it into her satchel. With only the slightest of nods she stood, and departed the office. As she stepped back out onto the scorching streets of Ul'dah, she tried to avoid thinking too hard about how long she was spending on a crate of shoe laces.

Written in Sinstone: From Where We Last Left Off

It was not unusual for a General of the Ebon Blade to receive missives, or had been the case for the last few years, summons. Death knights had a terrible habit of disappearing from rosters and role calls when the need arose. And while many were happy to show up on the frontline of whatever conflict called to them, they generally did so in colors outside of those of the Ebon Blade. The arrival of the Legion had prompted many to take up arms in Acherus together again, but afterwards they had been scattered to the wind like so many conflicts before, and so many conflicts after. Again many had answered the call from Bolvar Fordragon to assist in stopping the forces of the Jailer in the Shadowlands, though the General had neglected to respond to the message in time. He couldn't particularly recall what he had been doing in that specific moment, but it had apparently been of the utmost importance as he could not drop it for a matter of any importance. If he had to guess, he had been looking at a few fields in Pandaria or something to that effect.

Yet the Ebon Blade persisted, which was something that the dead unfortunately excelled at. Without the need for rest, they could spend countless hours each night crafting each summons by hand. Or more accurately, ordering a battalion of ghouls to do it for them. The creativity with which these messages were delivered never ceased to amaze him. Not the fact that they managed to find him, he was a large blue worgen wearing a confusingly small hat, he was not a hard man to find.

Initially the messages were delivered via ghoul. While they certainly drew some ire by shambling through town, they were effective. This was followed up with geists, who were capable of verbally verifying that it was received and was simply being ignored. After the first few of these, the deliveries became more elaborate. Carrion pigeons were sent to deliver them, often flying straight through windows in the process. He would be asked to replace the windows, which he billed directly to Acherus Central. Next were bone gryphons and wyrms, who would screech through the skies to raise a bit of terror, before blandly dropping the message off at his feet and flying off. More recently a gargoyle had thrown large rocks at him, each of which had a copy of the message tied to him.

The message that had done the job of getting his attention turned out to not be addressed to him. It was addressed to his wife. It should not have surprised him, because of course the Ebon Blade was well aware of his wife. Most of his closest confidants over the years had been made aware of her, due in no small part that it was very difficult to hide being haunted by a spirit for too long. In life the worgen had killed her and his family after his first exposure to the worgen's curse. A crime for which he had spent a substantial amount of time feeling a great ton of guilt for. Reconciliation had been quite the load off of his shoulders.

A few years ago things had gotten complicated again. When the Ebon Blade had started resurrecting corpses again to fight the Legion, they had continued to do so to refresh their numbers for those lost in the conflict. The Alliance and the Horde going to war once more only diminished their reserve even further, and provided enough corpses that those relegated the duty made sure that they happened upon them on a regular basis. One such corpse had happened to be his wife's.

The fervent search for a disappeared ghost had been short lived, thanks to the power of paperwork. His recently resurrected relative was a properly documented initiate, who took her sweet time completing her training, savoring the time away after years being bound. And thanks to bureaucracy there was no rush in having her complete it. Those even higher than himself were satisfied letting him torment himself over the distance.

His career having raised plenty of ire of those deep within Central, he presumed. At this point he had lost track of it all. Detailed as his career record was, though containing a gap following the Battle of Wrathgate and the start of the Cataclysm that he was not partial to filling in, the most distasteful part of it as far as anyone too far up the chain was concerned was a constant claiming of competence. The poor worgen had retained at least something of a brain between his ears, which had saddled him with a certain amount of responsibility that he had refused to acknowledge in recent years. So whatever could be used to poke and prod was gleefully accepted.

When they finally reunited, that pain point was lost. In the intervening years they had toured Azeroth in pseudo-retirement, making up for lost time, with Redamous hoping that eventually they would leave him alone. Who was to say what prompted the idea in some messengers head to skip past him and try a different route. It was a well established pattern that he was going to decline, but she was a quantifiable unknown. Previously some sort of wraith or revenant, perhaps there was the chance that the urge to inflict malice upon her husband still existed. Or she simply liked to torment him. Whatever the case, this hunch did turn out to be correct.

Because unlike her husband, she accepted.

Dry

 The coroner handed him a pair of gloves as he passed. It was good that they'd taken the time to do so, as it would never have crossed Tony's mind on the way through the yellow tape. He knew better, of course. He'd been to dozens of crime scenes over the years, and not wearing gloves when looking over the evidence was one of the first rookie mistakes that got forcefully corrected.

The sad fact of the matter was that he had other things on his mind right now. Namely an unceasing pressure and pounding, every pulse of which felt like they were going to send his stomach rolling. When he wasn't trying to keep his eyes open against the blinding light, he was too busy keeping his feet moving in the correct order to worry about the damn gloves.

In the rare moment that his mind cleared enough to process a thought or two, he was thrown back to thinking of the bottle of Jack and the cans of Coke he had stacked up the night prior. Various positions were passed back and forth on whether or not it had been worth it to pass out alone on the couch yet again, flicking between reruns on basic cable.

Moving past an ambulance, its flashing lights sending sharp pain behind his eyes with every rotation, he decided that things could be decidedly worse. He could be dead, like the poor soul who was currently slumped against a dumpster. He sobered up somewhat just from the view. The poor girls pale face was contorted into a ghoulish smile. However she'd gone out, she'd been the happiest girl in the world at the time. On instinct he rubbed his neck.

Someone was already crouched near the corpse, occasionally leaning out of the way for the photographer to snap a pic. She looked up at him, what looked like a wallet in her hand. Her short cropped hair was swept to one side. The wallet dropped from her hands as she stood, looking him over with the most unimpressed look he had ever seen.

"'Bout damn time," she said.

He didn't give her the satisfaction of following that train of thought. Instead he just rubbed his eyes, trying to give himself enough willpower to focus. "We get a time of death yet?"

"Jack's estimating somewhere between 1 and 3 this morning," she said, dropping whatever insults she'd had primed. "Checking with the local bars to see if anybody spotted her at closing time last night, no word yet."

Tony bent down, picking up the wallet and poking through it. All it confirmed were a few suspicions. No money taken, all cards present. After a quick gesture to the photographer, who nodded with approval, he began manipulating the corpse. A few turns of the neck, checks of the wrist, a look at her front and back.

"No wounds," he said. It was a lie. A good one, on many levels. Good because to them it was true, and good because it was better that they never knew it was true.

"Yeah, Jack's not sure about that one," she said, making a general gesture at the deceased, "Clear signs of bloodletting, but we're not sure how."

"Christ," he said, happy he was still able to sound surprised and disgusted. The pair of bumps were obvious to him, but he didn't blame anyone for missing them. They were slighter than the bite of a gnat. Which was worrisome. The person who made them knew what they were doing.

His hands found their way into the girls pockets. He produced a handful of items, a tube of chap stick, a few crumpled up receipts, before he found what he was looking for. With a sigh, he offered the tiny slip to his partner.

She took her turn to sound disgusted, "Christ."

"Blood donor," he said grimly.

Her eyes rolled as she bagged the slip, "Some sick fuck thinks he's a vampire."

"Yeah," he muttered, standing.

His pocket buzzed. The familiar sign of a phone call, save for the fact that it didn't continue. For a moment he wondered if it was better or worse that they already knew. On the one hand, he wasn't exactly looking forward to having to break the news. On the other, they weren't going to be happy having to hear about it from third parties.

Turning back towards his car, he offered only a short explanation, "I'll see if anyone at the Red Cross knows anything, start working on the timeline."

He didn't wait for her response. The walk back to his car was brisker than the walk in. His phone was out of his pocket the moment his ass hit the seat. The recent call was from a number he'd never seen before. Local area code, spoofing his own number. Spam call should have been his default assumption but he knew better. The dial tone had barely started before someone picked up.

"Again?" was all he heard from the other end. It impressed him how much a single word could house so much pure contempt.

"Again," he said, glancing up at the rear view mirror. He half expected someone to be in the back seat.

"This will be the last one, mister Ambrose. Should it happen again, we will have to drastically reconsider our working relationship.

He winced as the line cut. It was with clammy hands that he put the keys in the ignition, and pulled away.

Prompt 5: Symptom

 Working with the ill had its benefits. Not many benefits, now that she thought about it, but a few. Even after their emergence in Eorzea, after she could finally feel comfortable removing her glamour, people still had a tendency to stare at Viera from time to time. Some went further, for better or for worse. Mostly worse.

She had had people throw themselves at her feet, usually bards she had found, praising her beauty. When she prompted them to move on, she found them doing to same to others in a crowd. Others had choice words to say about their new long eared citizens, which were unkind. Those who were sympathetic made it clear this wasn't the first time that Eorzeans were distrustful. The Domans feeling their nation had encountered similar distrust, and Ishgardians had gone so far has to shut themselves away for years.

It went against the more open feeling of the nation, she found. In a time when the city states were forming a larger pact with each other, that they could still feel that sense of alien fear. That there was still that other from beyond. Perhaps it would permeate for some until the Viera had helped save Eorzea, she mused. That may be the true deciding factor.

The sick did not have such an issue, she found. Most of the time. Often enough they felt too weak to make any complaint on who was treating them, and those who clearly wished to either couldn't or wouldn't put up a fuss. In general there was just minimal talking when dealing with a patient. They didn't want to be there, and frankly neither did she, which meant both parties wanted any sort of appointment or checkup to be done as soon as possible.

She removed a small vial from the satchel slung around her shoulder, letting the liquid contents collect on into her palm. Making a fist, she allowed her gloved hand to get drenched, before reaching forward to slather the old man before her's forehead. He ground his teeth and grunted, trying to not complain of the stinging sensation that prickled across his skin. She stood, and removed her gloves.

Returning to the front room of the little hut, Kodiana sat next to the man's granddaughter. She removed another vial from her satchel, this one larger than the last, and set it in front of her.

"A drop of this in his drink every mornin' and every evenin'. After a week, if things haven't gotten better send word," she said.

The girl nodded, motioning to a pouch of gil, "Your payment."

It was with some reluctance that Kodiana took the money. Many families she helped couldn't afford what they were even giving, and she tried to be as reasonable as she could. But the unfortunate fact of the matter was that she had her own needs to watch out for as well. She offered the granddaughter a pat on the shoulder, and waited to see if there was anything more that needed to be said, before she opted to take her leave.

There wasn't.

Prompt 4: Baleful

 Agatha held the crystal up, letting it catch the dim light of the tavern's torchs. The seller looked on, seeming rather pleased with himself. He sat across the tab, hands clasped as he rested back in his cheap wooden chair.

"No imperfections," he said, pride seeping into his voice.

"So it would seem," she responded, retrieving a few more from the pouch she had been provided. She checked them much as she did the first crystal. "Very well."

The merchant's hands greedily went towards the sack of gil that was offered to him. He stood, offered Agatha a short bow, and left the tavern as quickly as he arrived. Her eyes rolled at the display. She replaced the crystals into the leather pouch, and set them off to the side of the table. Leaning back in her chair, she returned to nursing her drink, and debating if she felt like making a few scribbles in her journal. The book was becoming rather full, and she would likely need to pick up another one at the rate she was going.

Her eyes scanned the few people remaining in the bar, settling in on a man fidgeting in the corner. She had to lean to her left to get a better look, straining her eyes to see in the dim light. He sat alone, and fiddled with his hands. Rarely he picked up his drink, bringing it up to his lips for such a short time she could assume he barely had to take so much as a sip. His clothes were ragged, save for the hood he had pulled up around his face. And while it was certainly of a higher quality than the rest of his attire, it was clearly recently bought in a rush. It barely fit him, as though he had pulled it out of a pile and had only the time to check that it was not too small.

An ache began to grow from the back of her mind. On instinct her hands ran to her temples and she bent forward. The pain ingulfed her entire head until it disappeared into a bright light, along with the rest of the bar. The images her surroundings were replaced with were crisp and clear. A series of scenes, each shorter than the last. First the man sitting at home, debating financials with his wife. Next he stood in an Ul'dan alley, hesitantly opening a door. A bag of gold being presented. Weeks later men arriving at his home.

Just as soon as the sensation came it had left. She continued to sit there with her eyes closed, taking short breathes. For months she had lived with the visions now. There was no way to control them, no way to predict them. No rhyme or reason on what it was that triggered them. They were vivid enough that when she opened  her eyes she feared she wouldn't be in the same place. Her eyes opened to reveal the tavern still around her, its creaky floor still under her feet, and an unfamiliar hand on her shoulder. Looking over her shoulder, her eyes met with a short miqo'te man's. She couldn't help but feel as though she had seen him before.

"You alright there ma'am?" he asked, looking rather concerned.

She took in yet another breath, and nodded, "Yes, fine. Drink was a bit too strong."

He released his grip on her shoulder, and returned the nod, "Perhaps try something lighter. Have a good evening."

With a sense of purpose in his gait, the miqo'te continued further into the tavern, before welcoming himself into the nervous man's booth. She watched the nervous man lean further back into the booth. If it were possible, she half believed he were trying to become one with the cushion and wood itself. It was impossible to tell with the miqo'te's back to her, but she could only assume he looked pleased with himself.

Intervention was not required of her. Nor was it expected of her. But she couldn't help herself. From some foreign memory, she counted out a stack of gil from her coin pouch, transferring it into another. Stepping from the table, she followed in the miqo'te's footsteps, and tossed the pouch onto the table between the two men. The nervous man's eyes went wide, and miqo'te's eyebrow raised.

"Double check me," Agatha said calmly.

The miqo'te snorted, and opened the pouch, bean counting in his head. His brow furrowed as he looked up at Agatha. "Right on the mark."

The poor man's face went flush, his has clasping together around Agatha's arms as he spewed an endless amount of platitudes. She tore his arm away from him, and strode out of the bar to leave the two dumbfounded. She paused at the top of the tavern's steps, and took in a breath of the dusty night air.

"Considering what you went in there to get, I find it hilarious that ya did that," a lilting voice from nowhere whispered into her ear. She rolled her eyes, and refrained from saying anything as she stepped into the street.