“Get yer downloads on the down low! Eight chip jacks for the price of a six! Twelve upload chips for the price of eight! Get ‘em while they last!”
Bishop strolled down the aisle, casually checking out the wares displayed at each table. There was no cause for him to bring Midnight Blue into the show, but otherwise he was armed to the teeth. He stopped at one booth, checking out a selection of handguns. The clerk was busy with another customer, but he could be patient. After all, this wasn’t why he came.
“So, Wease: what did you say we needed some new blood for?”
Weasel shifted about, looking nervously at the crowd. At least, his expression appeared continually nervous.
“Well, Boss: after we lost Proud Mary when she retired in Tahiti, I figured we could use a contact with similar skills. This Cleo girl: we seen her in action, seems like we might wanna talk to her about some future jobs. After all, you never know what might come up.”
Bishop eyeballed the young man who was his near constant companion. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with her being a cutiepie about your age, would it?”
Weasel blushed. “Boss! Perish the thought that I should ever be so unprofessional! When did I ever--”
Bishop held up a finger. “Do we have a job lined up where we could use her?”
Weasel spread his hands innocently before him. “We always have feelers, Boss. Just saying, one or two of them turn into anything, she could help us out.”
Bishop sighed. “Okay: we’ll do it your way.”
He left the stand he had been loitering at and continued to an open area in the bustling convention hall. His eye caught one of the more exotic booths, and the petite figure with the cat ears who was checking out artificial limbs with weapon mounts. He approached from an angle so as to catch her eye and not sneak up on her.
“Well, that would be one way to go. But don’t you already have some weapons for self defense?”
Blond hair curled, spiked choker, black leotard, unzipped jacket, skirt, fishnet leggings, heeled boots, and leopard spots; she looked like she had stepped out of the 1980s.
Life was hard enough, but now Cleo found herself in a transition. Instead of dancing in a club, she was standing in front of a booth with weapons built into cybernetics. With a honeyed tone and playful smirk, she was putting on all the charm as she asked about the different weapons, but she was having a hard time finding something she felt like was her style. She felt like she needed something other than her claws for self defense, but she wasn't feeling the idea of swapping out her cybernetics. The ones she had now were just too pur-fect for her, but they were built mostly for pleasure. If she couldn't find something, maybe she'd just have to settle for a pistol or maybe an electric whip.
One of her cat ears swiveled toward the sound of footsteps and it wasn't long before her green feline-like eyes found the older man walking toward her. Her smirked widened at his remark. She rose a cybernetic hand and looked like she was inspecting her nails. "A cat always has her claws, tiger." She didn't want security to flip out, so she kept her claws in like a good kitty.
She glanced over at Weasel and let out a flirty "hmmm", then looked back at Bishop. "So...how do you want to do this?" she asked.
“And very nice claws they may be, but have you considered the possibilities? There are slashers, good for painful wounds on skin but nothing show-stopping. Then there are injectors. Imagine with one swipe you knock your man out cold with a powerful sedative. I wouldn’t suggest a lethal poison: death is pretty final, and you can’t question the dead.”
Bishop was usually a bit more taciturn, but for some reason the girl got him talking. She seemed almost a caricature of a catgirl, so overtly sexual, whereas Angela had been more of a schoolgirl kitty in her costume. They weren’t the same person, not by a long shot, but still she brought something out in him.
Weasel blushed at her glance, and promptly began babbling. “Hi, Cleo! Good to see you, Cleo! So nice you could come!” He only stopped after a firm pat on the back from Bishop.
“So: it’s a tad crowded in here. Why don’t we find some tasty spot in the food court where we can sit and chat? Weasel: you know this area well. Any suggestions for where to go in the food court, some place that doesn’t taste like Kibble?”
Weasel licked his lips and nodded, eyes flitting back and forth between the two. “Ah, yes, certainly! Let me suggest the Calico Corner. You choose any meat on the menu, they cook you strips of it to lay in a bun and top with whatever veggies you like. And it is in the corner, sort of away from everybody else. Just what we need, right?”
Bishop flashed the paycode on the back of his hand at the scanner and nodded. “I’ll pick up all three,” he told the server.
The menu ran the gamut from rat to roast beef, prices progressively higher for each. It didn’t surprise him that both the girl and Weasel opted for beef. It was a luxury you could rarely get anywhere except at exorbitant prices, but the taste couldn’t be beat. Bishop opted for the chicken at about one third the price, and tried a couple of veggies and spiced sauces to jazz it up. He also opted for iced tea, and made sure the others had drinks as well.
Weasel was beaming as he ate his fajitas. Bishop cleared his throat, and brought the young man back to attention.
“I guess you may have heard: my old gang, the ‘pig punchers,’ made it big on our last score, and most of my crew decided to retire. I thought about it myself: I got as much out of the score as anybody. But I don’t see me hanging up my boots just yet. I’ve got the rep, Weasel’s got the connections, and if I have access to friends/coworkers with the right skill sets, we can make a go of it again.
“Weasel won’t quote me any particular job offer until it’s firm, so I don’t know what we’ve got coming down the pipe. I can’t tell you what to expect, but I’d like to know what we could expect from you if we called you in. We know you’re a vamp, but we don’t know much else. Are you a good jumper or climber? Could you be our second story man, or cat burglar: get in a high window, make it down to the front door and unlock it for us? Are you good at surveillance? How do you feel you would handle a firefight or a knock-down, drag-out brawl? If we get captured, do you have special skills that would help you and us escape?
“I know I’m throwing a lot at you, but I’m looking for people I can trust in the field and I need to know what to expect from them. And I suppose they need to know what to expect from me. So let me share what I can bring, and lay down a few ground rules I live by.
“My speciality is as a sniper. I take a high vantage point, and I shoot whoever needs dead. Targets, guards, other mercs, anyone trying to get the drop on you or the team. As part of taking my position, I am an expert at camouflage, rappelling, small arms and knife fighting.
“I go by the following rules: 1) We do not kill, maim, or otherwise injure children and significant others who do not interfere. We kill targets and their assets. 2) We do not pillage, plunder or rape, ever. 3) We don’t leave a man behind. 4) When possible, we choose non-lethal options. Everybody in the group has one or two available.
“I know: there will be jobs offered where the contractor will expect more from us. They may recruit us without telling us about circumstances that would push us to violate our rules. We will monitor, do recons whenever possible, and we will do whatever we can to fulfill our contract within these rules, and we will seek to avoid such contracts whenever possible.
“So: are you interested, and do you have any questions for me?”
“Hmmm.” Cleo smirked playfully. “I’m more than just a pretty face, tiger. These eyes have night vision, I have cat-like agility, and I’m flexible in more ways than one. The cat burglar role would be pur-fect for me. If that’s where you want me, tiger.” She giggled flirtatiously.
“I’ve been lucky enough to avoid being.in many fire fights, but I know how to shoot for my own protection at least. Now a brawl...that’s another story. Had to deal with some of the creeps at the club; the ones that kept bothering the other girls because they couldn’t take no for an answer. And if we ever got captured, if I couldn’t help you cut your way out, then let’s hope the guard is into women.”
She gave a nod, acknowledging the rules. Their morality seemed to line up, so it was an easy answer.
Catch sat criss-cross in a chair tables away from object of her fascinations. Spoon in hand she slurped away at a bowl of cold Borscht and rice, eyes zoomed in on Cleo's metallic tail-entranced. Picking apart just how she was put together.
Next she studied the man with her. He was older more weathered. He'd seen much in his life Catch could tell. She noted they seemed an odd pair. Maybe Cleo was working again? But in a place like this, seemed unlikely. She over heard an agreement and watched as money changed hands between the two. But it was when a halo of light flashed around the two a moment Catch was compelled to get invovled in whatever deal, a message from beyond.
It was when the older man stood to leave Catch finally shot up from her seat. "Wait!" She called out.
Booted feet shuffled over, leaving the paper container of food behind. She was infront of the three "You. Cleo. You know of me. Yes? Catch Root." She offered up a crooked smile.
"And you," Catch's attention was directed at the man now. "I do not know, but I know you need me. Whatever you paid her-I'll take half that. The one has sent me to aide you and so I shall."
"Thanks, tiger," Cleo replied. She smoothy grabbed the credit chip between two of her fingers and tucked it into her shoulder bag (which was also yellow and purple, with leopard print.) With the same motion, she pulled out one of her leftover Cat's Meow cards. The information wasn't accurate anymore, so she started to scribble the old information away.
She looked up from the card after hearing Catch's voice and rested the knuckles of her free hand under her chin. "Oh, hey there cutie. It's been a while," There was a honeyed tone in her voice. She has had many clients over the years, but it was hard to forget those eyes. "You want to be a merc too? Small world."
She flipped over her old business card and scribbled in her contact number. She put the card between two fingers and saucily held it up to Weasel. "I look forward to your call." She leaned in. "And if you ever want to... unwind... I might just give you a discount, since we'll be working together." She leaned back in her chair. "Offer stands for you too, big guy," she purred, flashing Bishop a smirk.
<< It was when the older man stood to leave Catch finally shot up from her seat. "Wait!" She called out.
Booted feet shuffled over, leaving the paper container of food behind. She was infront of the three "You. Cleo. You know of me. Yes? Catch Root." >>
Bishop heard the call from across the food court. It was unusual, but hardly someone to fear. Someone to fear wouldn’t have announced themselves. He watched as the lady approached, and waited as she apparently introduced herself.
“Sorry: what was that? ‘Catch’ what?”
<< "And you," Catch's attention was directed at the man now. "I do not know, but I know you need me. Whatever you paid her-I'll take half that. The one has sent me to aide you and so I shall." >>
Bishop shifted his stance, glancing about for a moment but then fixing his attention on her.
“And why, pray tell, would I need you? What service do you have to offer? Why would I pay you anything? Who did you say sent you?”
<< "I look forward to your call." She leaned in. "And if you ever want to... unwind... I might just give you a discount, since we'll be working together." She leaned back in her chair. "Offer stands for you too, big guy," she purred, flashing Bishop a smirk. >>
Weasel gulped, and smiled a big smile. “I, uh, will be in touch!”
Bishop sighed and rubbed his aching temples. “That’s real thoughtful of you, Miss, but not what I’m looking for. We’ll let you know when a mission comes up.”
Catch's 'pupils' dialted when Cleo lifted her chin with a claw. Taking the moment in she found herself tuning out the others. The skinny weasely one hadn't even blipped on her radar until he responded to the cat-woman's invitation to 'unwind.' He quickly fell off it again though when Catch finally snapped out of her Cleo induced trance and was able to respond to the older man's questions.
"I follow The One. Perhaps you call them God. I suppose any name is as good. They speak to me. You see?" She nodded, feeling confident in her explanation. "I am a fixer sir. I can repair your cybernetics-or rather her's." Catch gestured toward Cleo. "A full body mod like this needs to be meticulously maintenance. You know this. Especially when using for combat. Dancer body not fighter yes? I will do. I can also tinker with many machines-hacking doors and such. Simple." She beamed, a sense of pride swelling in her chest.
"I'm okay with gun and knife-But I can learn. Your eye is cyber too yes? I can fine tune her. I have lots of practice." The lights of her irises flashed to emphasize her point. "Trust sir, The One would not bring me here if you would not need me. I ask very little money for big help, talent."
Bishop’s face was unreadable as Catch avowed her service to the Almighty. But he seemed more interested when she started pointing out details about Cleo and his own eye.
“Okay: we’re here at a cyber meet. How about you show me, from materials available at any one booth, what you would put together as an enhancement for Cleo, for my eye, or for another team member. Say, maybe an arm that packs a pneumatic punch, something cyber of your own invention, or something else: a flying drone, for instance, or handy gadget. Show me what the Almighty believes would be a service to me. I’m not asking you to build it on the spot, just select components from the booth and show me how you would fit them all together. Do that, and maybe I will give you a stipend chip and have you give your contact info to Weasel here, and we’ll let you know when we have a job. Sound fair?”
Cleo's playful smirk didn't leave her face, even after Bishop brushed off her offer.
She sipped down the rest of her tea as she watched the interchange between Catch and the mercenary man. Anticipating an acceptance of the deal, she situated the pen she had pulled out back in her bag and stood up, adjusting the strap on her shoulder.
She sashayed over to Catch and put an hand on her shoulder. Although her hands were mechanical, she’d feel a soft touch from the “skin” on her palm.
“Pur-sonally, I could go for some light body reinforcing, or a new pair of slasher claws for my hands and feet. Think they come in purple?” She asked in a sultry voice.
"Hmmm...Yes I can do this." The response was an empty one, no real attention behind it, Catch's mind was already running. Gears ground away in her head and even Cleo's attempt at communication was futile. Catch shrugged the woman's hand off her shoulder. "Purple..."
She was walking away mind one track-build. Catch entertained the thought of a claw enhancement for the woman but working that small took time she didn't have and money. So Catch did what she did best, collect junk. The plan would come later.
When she'd finished gathering her materials Catch returned to the group and dropped the pile on the table effectively taking over the space. She whipped out a sonic screwdriver and got to work emerging from the quagmire with a small metal cylinder. "Looks like nothing, yes?" She fingered over a small button on the side pressing it in, a three inch plasma blade spit out the end, radiating a purple glow. "Maybe not practical but not bad hmm?"
Catch carefully passed the blade over to Bishop, though she had yet to learn his name. "I give your Weasel my information now?" She smirked at him feeling smug in her abilities. "I even made purple for you Miss Cleo...I think you should have-gift."
Bishop examined the blade with interest. “You underestimate the value of a small cutter. Very practical for getting through small locks, handcuffs, live wires, plenty more. You fulfilled the test and then some.”
He pulled out another credit chip and swiped it across the back of his hand, “There you go: same stipend as Cleo, plus reimbursement for the materials you bought for the test. Welcome to the group, Miss Catch. I’m Bishop, and by all means pass Weasel your info.”
From a few meters away, a young woman conversed with a dealer, haggling with the price of a piece of automotive equipment until eventually, with a sigh, she plunked down a cred chip and took the item away wordlessly. A mop of messy brown hair was held back from her face by the strap of a set of goggle set atop her head, framing burgundy eyes underscored with the white lines of a neural enhancement system. The rest of her was a mishmash of motorcycle gear and armor, protecting her where they could without sacrificing mobility and flexibility, while a weathered but venerable pistol hung from a holster on her thigh, clearly used but well-maintained. As her boots clicked across the duracrete floor, she shifted the mechanical contraption under one arm and pulled out her comm unit, flicking through to quickly glance at her remaining funds. Not good... that last part cost triple what I'd expected. Damn FlameOuts! It's not enough they want me dead, now they want me broke AND dead!
She was mulling over her options when what sounded like a thousand metal parts crashing to the ground drew her attention. The Drek was that? From what she saw as she looked towards the source of all the commotion, some chick had just dumped what looked like the contents of a scrap bin onto a food court table and was now hurriedly picking through it, fitting bits and bobs together until a small metal cylinder took form in her hands. As the begoggled girl watched, the strangely robed girl fiddled with the device, a violet plasma blade suddenly popping out where once there had been none. The silent observer raised her eyebrows in recognition of the feat she'd just witnessed. Well I'll be damned. Casting asting her gaze over the small group that was gathered around this show of tinkering, she made a mental quick appraisal of each. Big guy, small guy, cat girl and... whatever she is. Not the weirdest bunch I've seen around here but-
The motion of the most-professional looking of the bunch pulling out a cred chip and handing it to the robed girl with an invitation to the group stopped her mid-thought, her hard-up nature immediately prompting her to yell out, "Hey Big Guy! If I join do I get one too?"
"Thanks, cutie," Cleo replied, following her gratitude up with a flirty giggle. She daintily grabbed the plasma cutter and placed it in her bag. After it was tucked away, she head a women yelling at them. The sudden noise made her and her cat ears twitch for a second.
"Aren't you popular today," Cleo coyly remarked, playfully glancing over at Bishop. She posed regally with the back of her hand under her chin as she smiled toward the newcomer.
Before Catch could say anymore to the cat-woman a boisterous brunette burst her way onto the scene. Her new Boss asked if the woman was a decker and she realized this was true when she caught a faint whiff of motor oil off the stranger.
A minute later the whole crew was headed to a van. While you'd never know it from her face the woman was happy to be surrounded by so many fresh faces. When they reached the vehicle She slapped Bishop once on the back "This, I could be used to." The woman didn't pause for a response before slipping into the vehicle.
Catch settled in to a seat and then looked toward the brunette again. "I saw you put your bike on the back-it is nice. Have you named her? People like you usually name their projects like that no?" Catch peeked at Cleo looking for social instruction. "Is this rude to ask? I guess we should ask name first before bike, yes?"
An eyebrow shot up at the large man's terminology, and the synthweave-clad girl let off a clearly audible scoff. "Decker? Jeez, how fried are your cortex chips? The term is Rigger, chummer; do I look like some kinda net jockey? Tch... " She stepped up to the table and set down her mechanical part atop the table with a thud, crossing her arms. "Least you got rest right though. If you drive it, fly it, or ride it, I'm your gal. Not just that, but if you bunch are what I think you are, I've got a little something to get yer credchips buzzin'."
She stopped as the two men who seemed to know each other well went back and forth about their plans. "Getting inside a strangers van for money, huh?" Casting her gaze among the group, her eyes locked onto the cat-eared girl's Cheshire grin, she continued, "Seems like this ain't the first time for some of us. All right, whatever, ain't like standin' around here's gonna get me any thing; hope that van of yours can hold a bike if you want me to talk on the ride because I ain't leavin' the fraggin' thing here." She turned to depart towards her motorcycle. "I'll meet you out front; you might not wanna take too long as I seem to be attractin' lead these days."
Inside the van, the girl learned back in her seat, arms folded behind her as whoever piloted them swiftly through the city streets. Out of sheer boredom she tried to track where they were going, but the route contained far too many turns and whatnot to allow her any real sense of where they were headed. It wouldn't have mattered anyway; either this was her new boss or she was going to end up dead in a few minutes, so trying to externally locate herself for after the fact wouldn't matter. As it was, her attention was swifly yanked away regardless as the strange girl from before began to speak to her.
"I saw you put your bike on the back-it is nice. Have you named her? People like you usually name their projects like that no?" The girl seemed to look for acceptance from her cat-eared accomplice. "Is this rude to ask? I guess we should ask name first before bike, yes?"
She shrugged. "Eh, most people don't care, so I'm happy to tell you. She's named свобода," she said, the word coming out like "svoboda". "Means 'freedom' from where I'm from. As for me, I'm running under the name Apex Fl-" She stopped mid-word. "...eh, just stick with Apex. Long story short I'm not exactly fond of that second half these days thanks to some real fragheads I crossed paths with. Might need to come up with something new in the future; guess it'll depend on how all this goes," Apex grumbled, motioning to the group within the vehicle. "How 'bout you bunch?"
<< the synthweave-clad girl let off a clearly audible scoff. "Decker? Jeez, how fried are your cortex chips? The term is Rigger, chummer; do I look like some kinda net jockey? Tch... " She stepped up to the table and set down her mechanical part atop the table with a thud, crossing her arms. "Least you got rest right though. If you drive it, fly it, or ride it, I'm your gal.” >>
Bishop shook his head, then smiled. “Sorry: slip of the tongue, there. Yes: we used to have a Rigger we called ‘Tinker.’ I’m afraid he didn’t make it through our last mission. You might be very interested in the contents of his workbench.”
He nodded towards the nearest exit, catching Weasel’s eye. “Just bring her up right out there. We’ll be there in a minute.”
<< ...hope that van of yours can hold a bike if you want me to talk on the ride because I ain't leavin' the fraggin' thing here." >>
“Don’t worry,” Bishop replied: “She’s got front and rear bumper guards, and the rear guards fold down to accommodate a bike. Either Tinker or Scary would mount theirs on the back, then drive the van. Weasel’s our driver for now, since he knows the way: we’ll see how that changes over time.”
<< [Catch] slapped Bishop once on the back "This, I could be used to." >>
Bishop straightened up for a moment as he got slapped, but then shrugged it off.
“Next stop, the Nest,” he said. “Hope you won’t mind: it kind of borders on the seedy side of town.”
Bishop remained silent as the chatter continued on the van on the way to the Nest. It was about a 30 minute drive from the Convention Center. Weasel took them around the backside to the garage, and drove right in. There was room in the garage for roughly half a dozen vehicles, but most of the bays were empty. There was a bus with a mounted gun on the top on one side, and a motorbike off in the corner.
“Home, sweet home,” muttered Bishop as the engine died down and he stepped out.
“We have some rooms that my crew used to use when we were together. They’re empty now: if anyone needs a place to stay, they’re open.”
He led the way upstairs to the work area. Workbenches were lined up against the walls, with name plates at each one. The names read: Proud Mary, Jackhammer, Tinker, Bishop, Scary and Tuscany. The workbenches for Tinker and Bishop were thoroughly equipped, but the others were bare.
“Apex: feel free to set up at Tinker’s spot if you like. There’s plenty of tools, gadgets and gizmos there you’ll like, including his rig minus the headset. The headset got kind of ruined by a sniper’s bullet.
“Cleo: Proud Mary retired and took all her stuff with her, but her bench is open and worked well for a second-story lady. If you want it, it’s yours.
“Catch: Tuscany was our cyber specialist. I think he left some useful mounts and such at his spot. It might work well for you if you want.
“Meantime, if anyone’s hungry we’ve got a working kitchen in the next room. Maybe we should grab something and chat for a bit, you think?”
After Cleo introduced herself Catch did the same. "Catch Root, you can call me." But unlike the feminine feline there was no offering of her hand. The rest of the drive was relatively uneventful filled entirely of unimportant idle chit-chat when they parked and Bishop began the Tour de Nest she tuned in again.
She ran her hand over what was Tuscany's desk. Pawing through a box of bits and bobs he'd left behind. "I can work here Bishop, yes it is good." Her creative gears were curning now but at the mention of food Catch dropped all thoughts of potential mechanical and technological endeavors.
Catch was first to the kitchen. Rifiling through cabinets like a kid in a candy store. Settling on some rice and a mystery meat drenching it in soy sauce and salt for flavor.
"We need money, We need job." Catch said aloud between bites, to no one in particular. "So who can get us those things? Hmm?"
Apex rumbled back a noncommittal reply to everyone's introduction, saying little much more of note for the rest of the ride. As the van pulled into the garage, she shot a quick glance out the window and gave an appreciative nod. "All right, champ, I like the digs." She tossed open the sliding door to the outside and hopped out, taking in the gritty ambiance of her surroundings with a meandering path to the back of the van, where she lifted her bike off to move into storage before heading upstairs with the rest.
“Apex: feel free to set up at Tinker’s spot if you like. There’s plenty of tools, gadgets and gizmos there you’ll like, including his rig minus the headset. The headset got kind of ruined by a sniper’s bullet."
She nodded at Bishop's permission of her takeover of Tinker's old bench. "Sniper bullet?" the rigger repeated, "Drek, that's a tough fraggin' way to go. Remind me to pour out a can of methylhexane for him." She tossed the mechanical part she'd been carrying this whole time on top of the workbench and began peering through the existing setup. "Yeah, I should be able to make do with this; I've got some tools still left in my old hole but it's gonna be a blue moon before I'm able to get back there without you havin' to look for a third rigger."
“Meantime, if anyone’s hungry we’ve got a working kitchen in the next room. Maybe we should grab something and chat for a bit, you think?”
The rigger nodded. "Yeah, I could use some grub, I ain't got a chance to eat all day because of trackin' down that damn rotary charger you saw me with." Heavy boot falls emanated from the hallways to the kitchen where she found the closest thing to grab and go that existed (in this case some kind of densely packed reconstituted soy protein bar) and had scarcely ripped it open before she began to tear into it. She fell silent chewing as Catch spoke about needing a job, hastily swallowing so she could speak to that. "Right, so yeah, that was what I was talkin' about earlier in the caf; If you bunch are willin' to go up against some ganger fragheads, I got a thing that I think could make us some decent cred." Apex just about fell into a nearby chair and propped her legs up on a nearby box, continuing to devour the protein bar. "So yeah, Arcos, or probably some seventh degree subsidiary of them, is running this race takin' place out in The Mesh. Callin' it like 'Total Anahiliation Death Race' or some drek like that; I 'unno they've probably changed the name of it six times since I last heard. No rules, no reservations, just be the first to get through this insane course they've set up with flamethrowers 'n zap towers 'n you name it. Easy peasy, right? Avoid death for seventy klicks and then cash in your credstick, right? WRONG."
She tossed the now empty wrapper onto the kitchen table as some form of punctuation as she continued. "See, problem is I was a smoothbrain 'n fraggin' got into a tiff with a biker group right before all this, and now they want my ass in a hole in the ground. If you don't think they'd use this race, which they've got their own guys enterin' too by the way, to turn me into a pile of charred meat and metal, then you might wanna check your brainfolds yourself. I already been shot at twice just tryin' to practice, and that's not even countin' the usual amount of lead they seem to love slinging my way on a daily basis."
Lifting her boots off the box she was using as a footrest, she drew in close to the group. "So here's the deal; if you three... four?" Apex looked to Bishop with a raised brow. "Is Weasley there actually a Runner too, or just some kinda Fence for you? Anyway if you can keep me from meetin' my maker a couple weeks early, then I'm willin' to split the pot. So whaddya think?" She asked, leaning back in her chair and folding her hands behind her. "Seem like a decent first run?"