Strong Enough 2.2 (Patreon)

Gig worker 2.2

Her fingers drag against the concrete smoothed by countless hands. The holo epitaph parts around her skin like water.

Annette Hebert

She taught something to each of us

Those are the words she has to pay for each month, lest the city turn off her mother’s last light. When Taylor parts her lips, she can find no words to join them. She stands silent as the pillars around her, unmoving monoliths beat down by the heat of the sun.

It should be easy. ‘Hey, Mom, I’m doing well.’ The words sit upon her tongue, locked in place by invisible shackles.

‘Hey Mom, I’m—‘

Taylor sucks in a breath, slumping against the concrete. It nearly burns her skin, where the chrome in her wrists lies close to the surface. But the words do not come.

Her eyes stay dry.

Taylor’s chrono beeps once. With a grunt, she pushes herself upright. She pauses one last time at the end of the edge of the pillar, glancing back over her shoulder. Annette’s epitaph flickers in her eye like a comet, like a star.

She ducks down the next row of graves.

Her mother’s pillar stands seven ranks from the stairs that lead back to the street. She’s memorized it. During the nights even sleep mocks her, Taylor recites the numbers and letters that denote her mother’s grave so she won’t forget. But no words come now.

She is out of time.

A battered purple hauler idles at the columbarium’s entrance, out of place between two compact Mai-Mais. A graveyard is never empty, least of all in Night City. Taylor raises an eyebrow when Sasha pokes her head out of the passenger door and waves.

Even the netrunner’s upbeat attitude can’t defuse Maine’s glower as he hunches behind the wheel. “Did ya need to come all the way out here, choom?”

Taylor pulls the door shut behind her, settling into the back seat. “You told me to settle my biz.”

Maine’s eyes flick up to the rear view, shades flashing once. “Yeah, s’pose I did.” He pulls the car out of the parking lot, Night City rising to Taylor’s left. “Being this far outta town gives me the jitters.”

“Don’t be such a gonk.” Sasha punches him in the arm. “Take a breath of that fresh air!” She rolls down the window, just in time for a gust of wind to blow a dust devil into the car.

“Jesus H Christ, woman!”

Sasha closes the window, giggling sheepishly. “Not my brightest idea.”

Taylor shakes the sand from her hair. “Not even outside of city limits…”

Sasha shrugs. “I don’t get out of town much. It’s a runner thing.”

Taylor sighs. “Please give me the deets.” She feels exhausted, and the job hasn’t even started yet.

Sasha hands over a datashard as Main pulls onto the freeway back into NC. Of course, the traffic into Japantown is always horrible, leaving plenty of time to go over the job. She kicks her feet up on the dash as Taylor slots the shard.

“So, fixer wants us to klepp some data from some corpo lead.”

“Espionage?” Taylor asks. Her optics flash as she pulls up the layout of the apartment. It’s not as large as the Barnes’s, but still richly appointed. Directionless envy twists in her gut.

“Weeell, yes and no.”

Taylor rolls her eyes and flicks over to the objectives. “We’re getting proof that he had an affair?”

“Actually, his ex-wife already knows he had an affair. It’s on record or whatever.” Sasha folds a stick of gum into her mouth. “We need proof he spent more eddies on his Mistress’s birthday present than on our client’s.”

The envy shifts into a sharp, cloying disdain. “He can die in a fire, then.” Her eyes flick up to Sasha’s, red meeting pink. “And my request?”

Sasha pops a bubble that matches the same pink of her inner iris. “Maine?”

“Still looking.” Maine grunts, cutting off a smaller car as he bullies his way to an offramp, usurpingly as brutal on the road as he is off it. “Kicked over a real hornet’s nest with your last stunt, choom.” He meets Taylor’s gaze in the mirror. “Much as I ‘preciate you pullin’ Becca’s ass from the fire.”

Sasha hums in agreement. “I looked up a few spots from the data, but Maelstrom’s delta’d out of their old hideouts.” She flashes Taylor a quick smile. “Hopefully, our target will help us out a bit; that’s the espionage part. Gonk deals chrome to some scavs and maybe strommers too, so we’re hoping he still has some contacts we can dig up.”

“Before Maelstrom lights ‘em up, anyway.” Maine slows, car coming to a stop less than a block away from their target’s house. “Brick was somebody, and zeroing him nearly kicked off a full gang war.”

Taylor swallows down on her anger and impatience, letting ice cold focus flood her veins once again. Unbidden, her hand clenches tight around the handle of her revolver. Click, click, goes the cylinder.

“What,” she says. “Too hard for you?”

“I’ll keep working my contacts,” he replies. “You work this job. Read me, choom?”

Taylor looks out the window. “Ten by ten.”

Maine grunts again. “Head in the game, girls. I’ll be ready to jet soon as you’re out the front doors.”

Sasha laughs, patting her boss on his massive shoulder. “Don’t worry, big guy! I’m sure this’ll be an easy job for once.”

Taylor slips from the backseat, snapping the datashard in her fist as she and Sasha make their way around the corner.

“So,” the netrunner says. “You like the plan?”

Taylor shrugs. “Seems easy enough. He won’t be home, so we just go in and grab the data.”

“Right.” Sasha keys the front door of their target’s high-rise open, waving a hand. “After you!”

The world flashes once in frozen fire, and all the colors disappear.

Taylor skates through the lobby, twirling past frozen figures and trailing afterimages in her wake. She slips behind the desk, yanking the concierge’s keyshard with a flick of her wrist.

When time resumes, she’s standing next to the elevator. The doors open just in time for Sasha to come jogging up. “Jeez, wait for a second so I can get the cameras first next time.”

Taylor raises an eyebrow. “Do you need another second?”

“No, no.” Sasha waves a hand. “Now, what floor…” She taps 13 on the touch screen, and Taylor has the pilfered keycard back in its slot before the man behind the desk even knows it’s missing.

She returns to the elevator just in time for the doors to shut.

“Easy enough.” Sasha smiles, pressing a hand to the side of her head. Taylor watches silently as the woman’s eyes strobe in a blue-red staccato. “Got the cameras for his level too. Let’s do this.”

Sasha glides into the upper level the moment the doors hiss open, moving with coiled grace. She slides to a knee right next to the penthouse doors, claws extending from the tips of her fingers.

For the first time since chipping the Sandy, Taylor lags behind. Near stunned by Sasha’s sudden transformation, the younger woman almost trips over her feet out of the elevator. By the time she has her back pressed to the wall and unity in hand, Sasha’s already peeled a thin strip of metal from the wall and inserted her jack into the hidden terminal.

A long smirk drifts over the woman’s face. That does match her usual demeanor, but she doesn’t say a word as her eyes light up again. In moments, the penthouse door hisses open and the interior lights flicker on, casting reflections on the synthwood flooring.

Taylor follows the next step of the plan, sinking to a knee next to the open terminal. Sasha slaps a compact welder into Taylor’s free hand, pink like the rest of the netrunner’s kit. Pistol on the ground, strip of metal in hand, Taylor carefully seals the gap shut with tense shoulders. Arasaka Academy didn’t let its scions get their precious hands dirty with menial work like this, but their BD-library held dozens of practice simulations—hands-on experience for ‘optimizing efficient throughput’.

Taylor hisses as a stray spark hits her other hand.

The brain dances usually turn down the heat.

Job finished, she flips the soldering iron over and polishes the surface smooth. Within a few minutes, it’s nearly impossible to tell that Sasha cut a hole in the first place.

“Gotta love a good Militech multitool.” With a grunt, Taylor sweeps up her gun and slips into the unit.

She pings Sasha. “I’m in.”

“Got it.” The door slides shut behind Taylor. “Sit tight, his computer has thicker ICE than expected.”

Taylor raises an eyebrow. “Usually, that means he’s dirty.”

Taylor can hear the pause on the other end. “Thicker ICE?”

She shakes her head, dark hair splaying. “Midlevel type having top of the line software. If he’s springing for something better than ‘Saka standard…”

“He’s on the take.” Sasha giggles. “Good eye, choom. Maybe doing a little bit of espionage on the side will pay off!”

Taylor nods, swallowing her followup remark. She can’t tamp down on the little ember of pride glowing in her chest so easily, but it helps her tamp down on the completely different set of jitters that come with being part of a team.

With nothing to do, Taylor wanders over to the kitchenette. Gloved hands trace over metal handles set in real wooden cabinets. She flicks on open to reveal flatware that would no doubt have dust if not for the factory new CleanKoat gleaming on the surface of each plate.

The next cabinet reveals a complete set of cups that see much more use, especially the tumblers.

Taylor remembers a similar set of drinking glasses that used to sit in her own home, before her mother threw them away.

“Never drink alone, Taylor,” she said. “Not even for your drinking partner.”

Taylor runs a finger along the rim of a crystal flute, swallowing through the lump in her throat.

Sasha’s voice almost sends her jumping through the ceiling. “Shit, Scar, you there?”

Taylor jerks back so fast the glass spins once, settling back on the shelf with a rattle that mirrors the vibration of her ribs as her heart thunders against them. “S-Sasha?”

“We have company, target just walked into the lobby.”

Taylor bites back a curse. “Meeting canceled?”

“Or he got kicked out. Our boy looks a little upsetti! Maine?”

Maine’s voice comes on with a crackle. “He slipped past me. It’s on you girls.”

Taylor frowns. “Gig said no trace.”

“Gig said no trace if possible.” He doesn’t sound happy either, but while Taylor is still stuck on the surprise, he’s already responding. “Ghost ‘im if you can, but the data comes first.”

“Taylor. He’s in the elevator,” Sasha says.

“Can you stall it?”

“If I’m doing that, I’m not cracking the ICE. And if building maintenance gets called, we’re definitely not sneaking out of here. No stairs.”

Taylor casts her gaze around the room, eyes catching on her own reflection caught in the curve of a champagne flute. Her red eyes stare back, pupil glowing an eerie green. It’s off-putting, which is the exact reason Taylor chose it, but now it’s only creeping herself out.

“Scarlet. He’s almost here. You—”

She squeezes her eyes shut, letting fire race down her spine and the color bleed away.

Red remains. The very red of her eyes, staring back at her from the glass. Emma’s hair. Taylor reaches up, digging her palms into her own thick black mane as the ideas race through her head.

They need time, which is the one thing Taylor has in spades, but she can’t share her stolen time with Sasha any more than she can take it from their mark riding up the elevator. The last option is to paint his brains across the corridor, but—no, that won’t work either. He works for Arasaka, he’ll have Trauma Team insurance, they’ll know the moment he flatlines.

Back to square one.

Time.

What matters is buying Sasha enough time to get the data and getting out without anyone the wiser. And she can’t kill the target, she can’t even hurt him so much his med-implant triggers. She can’t let him make a call.

Her eyes stare back at her, shifting slightly in the surface of the glass. They’re glaring at her, pinning her in place. Just like the man with the red visor.

Taylor’s eyes widen.

Taylor can’t kill the target, she can’t hurt the target.

But Arasaka CounterIntel can.

Araska CounterIntel can do whatever it wants. They don’t wear uniforms, they don’t carry badges, they’re only known by their sudden appearance…

And the unsettling red of their eyes.

Taylor moves.

Sasha’s voice picks up again. “—need to buy me some—”

“Sasha.”

The woman swears, spinning in the highbacked desk chair with an audible squeak. Her eyes meet Taylor’s through the flickering display of her visor.

“Do you have a hair tie? I have an idea.” Taylor expects questions, arguments even. She should know better; the other woman is an edgerunner. And it’s now, as she slips the slim back band off her wrist before turning back to the monitor, that Taylor remembers that this woman had her claws around Taylor’s neck, ready to draw blood without hesitation.

Taylor needs less hesitation in her life, and so she ignites the Sandevistan once again.

The tie drifts across her fingers, light as a feather in this stolen moment. Taylor runs her hands through her hair, weaving it through an elaborate braid, one that she never has the time for normally. Funny how that works out.

The front door is open when she comes out of the office. Their target is glancing over his shoulder towards the elevator.

Taylor starts the second braid, dancing past him and into the man’s blind spot in the landing. She’s finished with the third braid by the time her back touches the wall. She wraps up her hair and piles it atop her head, fixing a daring styling of glistening black strands with a single black tie. It is the kind of hair only someone with enough money to buy a personal stylist can afford.

Sometimes, you need to look the part.

Time resumes. The door slides shut. The man does not see Taylor.

“Sasha, ring the bell.”

She hears the chime echo from inside the apartment. She straightens her lab coat, brushing any hint of dust from the business casual underneath.

“He’s looking at the door,” Sasha says.

“Open it. Jam his calls if you can. Going dark.”

“On it.”

Taylor ends the call a second before the door opens, eyes returning to the color she picked out. It would look too suspicious if she was still on the phone.

She can see her target jump as his door opens without input. Behind him, Sasha’s shut the door to the man’s office as she continues cracking his computer. Taylor just needs to keep him busy until the netrunner is finished.

“Hello, Mr. Anderson.”

He jerks again, surprise compounding on itself. Taylor focuses on her own episode with CounterIntel and tries frantically to come up with a script in her head.

Control the room. Unbalance the target. Explain nothing.

Right, sounds easy enough.

She walks into the apartment, keeping her gaze locked on her target. Calais Anderson, midlevel lead. He has neat brown hair, with a single streak dyed white. Putting on weight despite his job, but clearly not eating much in his apartment. A stress drinker, then?

Emma always says—said­—that everyone in management loses weight unless they drink lots of calories.

“It’s good that you’re back on time,” Taylor says.

“On time, what—” Anderson’s eyes widen. “You told Zetterborne to kick me from the meeting?”

Taylor walks past him, back into the kitchenette. With a gloved hand, she pulls what is clearly his favorite chair, the one closest to the liquor cabinet, out from the table, spinning it so it faces away from his door and office. “Take a seat, Mr. Anderson.”

Next, he tries bluster. “Listen, I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, but—”

“But we know exactly who you are.” Taylor turns her gaze back to the man. “And that should concern you far more.”

He swallows, opening his mouth.

“How is Olivia?” Taylor asks. It’s a name she saw on his file, not his wife or mistress.

Anderson pales. “W-what do you want with my daughter?”

Ah, now Taylor almost feels bad. But he’s a cheating dick, so there’s that. She’s probably doing little Olivia a favor by scaring her deadbeat dad straight. God knows Taylor could have used something like that.

“I could be having this conversation with her, of course. But it was deemed more expedient to go straight to the source.” She pats the chair. “And you do know who we are, Mr. Anderson.”

She sees the moment he makes the connection, his own gaze catching the glowing red of Taylor’s own. His mouth flaps once, wordlessly. “Oh…”

“Tick-tock.” Taylor drums her fingers on the back of the chair, then calls Sasha. “Or shall I put a call in to Oliva’s school?”

He jumps when her eyes flash orange. “N-no, no! That’s not necessary.”

“Hmm.” Taylor turns around, subvocalizing. “Sash are you through?”

“Downloading the files now.”

“Give me something to squeeze him with.”

Sasha sucks in a breath. “He’s done work on the Sandy project.”

Taylor stills. She ends the call and turns back just in time to see Calais Anderson settle gingerly into the chair.

Keep him off balance.

Taylor brushes past him, opening the same cabinet as earlier and pulling out a single highball glass. In the reflection, she can see his gaze on her, sweat visible on his face. Without speaking, she flips open the liquor cabinet, selecting something she remembers Mr. Barnes pouring into this type of glass.

She fixes it neat, before turning back to her target, swirling the dark liquid with small motions of her wrist.

She does not drink.

“You worked on the Sandevistan project,” she says.

Anderson jumps.

Internally, Taylor lets out a sigh of relief. Sometimes, the shot in the dark hits. “Arasaka’s prototype Sandevistan has gone missing.”

“I had nothing to do with that!” He leans forward. “I would never hand over a piece of Arasaka’s future to—”

“Mr. Anderson.” Taylor takes a sip of her drink. It burns just as bad as the last time she stole a mouthful from her father. “We are not concerned with what you would or would not do. Only with what you did do.”

He swallows. “I—I wasn’t even in a position to affect the transfer of the device.”

“But you were in a position to pass on information to interested parties.”

He shakes his head. “What do you mean?”

“Maelstrom hit a Militech transport the same day.” She affects to miss how his shoulders stiffen as she finishes the rest of the truly foul drink. “Hmm.” She inverts it, one last drop falling from the rim. “Looks like it’s all run out.”

Her eyes snap back to Anderson’s. His courage has deserted him, leaving only silence.

“I’m sure you did not think your relationship with Maelstrom would go unnoticed. Or did you think dealing primarily with scavengers would avert our eyes?” She leans forward, towering over the man. “Human refuse always stinks, and now you’ve tracked it in on the carpet. Mr. Anderson.”

He swallows, still silent.

Taylor nods. “Tell me what you did with the Sandevistan.”

He slumps back in the chair, head hanging. “I… took a copy of the schematics. A fixer was interested in them, they… may have had connections to Militech; I didn’t check.”

“Was that so hard?” From the corner of her eye, she sees the door to Anderson’s office slide open silently and Sasha creep out. Time to finish this up. “And did you double deal on your little Militech deal with Maelstrom?”

“No.”

A knot that Taylor didn’t realize was there unwinds in her stomach.

There’s no connection, anyway. He sold schematics, Maelstrom hit a Militech transport. Taylor doesn’t have the time to pull on that thread any longer. She doubts it even exists.

“And you did not share details of the transfer with any party, not even this ‘Militech’ fixer of yours?”

“No,” he says again. “Only the schematics.”

Taylor hums. Raising her voice slightly as Sasha tiptoes down the front hall. “I’m disappointed, Mr. Anderson. Really, all of that bluster, and for what, corporate espionage?” Sasha keys the door open and Taylor takes a step back, shaking her head. “What a waste of time.”

Anderson’s head snaps up. “What?”

She fixes him with her best glare. “A highly experimental prototype goes missing, and you think our concern is a wayward copy of the schematics? No, do not speak.” She raises her hand. “If and when Counter Intelligence sees fit to wrap up your part in this debacle, I recommend you simply nod your head and do as you’re told. Speaking is not your strong suit. Am I clear?”

Anderson nods his head mutely.

“Good. Don’t try to run. I hate wasting my time.”

“Y-you’re not going to take the data?” he asks.

Taylor just gives him the most pitying look she has ever given another soul. She stretches the truth just the smallest amount. “Mr. Anderson, we had the data before you sat down in that chair.” Then she ignites the stolen Sandevistan that sits right inside her own back. She lets go of the glass, sliding away as it hangs, silent and still, in the air.

Outside the unit, Sasha stands next to the lift. The elevator light goes on as Taylor watches. Time resumes, and she slaps her hand against the door control just as the sound of shattering glass echoes out of the apartment.

Anderson’s door slides shut right as the elevator’s slide open. “Go, go!” Taylor and Sasha hustle inside, hitting the ground floor.

“That was Nova!” Sasha grins. “I was watching on the cameras.”

Taylor blinks. “Fuck, the cameras!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sasha replies. The lift starts to descend. “Already wiped us from the footage. As far as the system is concerned, we were never in the building.”

Taylor bites her lip, all the anxiety she’d pushed back during her act hitting in successive hammer blows. “Anderson still has a recording, though.”

“A recording that he’ll wipe himself if he knows what’s good for him.” She giggles, black hair bouncing around her cheeks. “You convinced him you were ContIntel. The only way he could make things worse for himself is if he blabs about it to literally anyone.” Her laugh grows into a full-blown cackle. “How’d you even think of that?”

Taylor manages a shrug. “It just… came to me?”

Sasha’s eyes sparkle. “Well, that’s not the only thing coming to you, Scarlet.”

Taylor blushes and Sasha giggles again. “I’m talking about a fat stack of eddies, girl. We killed it in there. Now c’mon, let’s delta before he wises up and checks the lobby.”

The elevator dings open in the lobby, and both women exit the building. Maine’s car idles right on the street, and Taylor almost can’t believe how easy it is to get into the backseat and drive away like they didn’t just rob a man’s apartment.

Like how she didn’t just reenact her own interrogation but with the roles reversed.

Taylor sits almost in a daze as Sasha hands over a shard with the data they were hired to steal to Maine.

“There was a lot more on the Sandy, too,” the netrunner says.

Taylor lifts her head from the seat. “…Do I want to know?”

“I think you do.” Sasha’s eyes flicker. “I’m still sorting through it, a lot of jargon and references to design docs I don’t have, but once I piece something coherent together, I’ll forward it to you.”

Taylor lets her head thunk back. “Sure. Sounds preem.”

What sounds really preem right now is a drink of water; her head is killing her, and not from using her implant. “Are we partying again tonight?”

“You know it!” Maine flashes her a thumbs up. “Looks like you have what it takes.”

“Did you ever doubt me?” Taylor manages.

The next morning, Taylor wishes she kept some of that bravado in reserve when Emma wakes her up because Alan made her promise to drive them both to school.

At least the hangover means she can’t understand the red head’s snippy insults until halfway through second period.