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.