The Rat Catcher

---

She’d rather the sky had been gray, then the smudgy, brown look it took more often than not these days. The colour reminded her of the horribly weak brew they tried to pass off as coffee at the café down the road, a location she’d marked off her list as unsafe, after finding glass in her food for the second time in a week. Did they honestly expect her to believe it was a mistake twice?

She hit the button at the crossing, stepping back a pace or two as a large, hulking tank chugged down the street before the pedestrian light turned green. The local pub was on the street corner opposite and, as well as catering to those who needed to drink at every possible hour of the day, the food was actually edible.
And not full of glass. Always a plus.

Now it wasn’t as if she didn’t work a normal job on top of this. Everyone did, had to by law, once they completed school. University wasn’t an option unless you sold your soul to the Empire, and she hadn’t liked the idea of another five years of inescapable education anyway. One thing Imperials always wondered was why the locals so often resorted to crime, a fact that amused her to no end. When higher education, and higher paying jobs, were restricted to lap-dogs to the empire or Imperials themselves, crime didn’t just pay; it was your meal ticket.
Speaking of meals, the smells wafting from the inside of the pub were divine, even with the underlying bite of the alcohol varnishing the bar. Despite it being only midday, the room was relatively busy, with those only fortunate enough to have found part-time work bemoaning their plight to the open ears of beer glasses. It was disgusting, really. These were honest men and women, you could tell just by looking at them, and they were reduced to sniveling drunkards. There were a few like herself scattered around, but they were mostly at tables, or on the upper balcony floor, eating meals and talking jovially amongst themselves. The contrast was depressing. She took one of the tables on the balcony, by a window looking out onto a brick wall, and placed her order with the tired looking girl who was unfortunate enough to be serving that day. Lamb chops. Even if her contact didn’t show up, she’d at least eat well.

She wanted him to show up. Surprising, really, as he was an Imperial and she avoided associating with Imperials as much as she could. It wasn’t worth the crap your neighbors might put you through, unless you sucked up to the right people. And she hated sucking up. This guy though, Zone, she’d run a job or two for him before through a third party. Said third party had screwed up though and gotten themselves raided, so it was quite a surprise when he’d taken the time to track her down himself. There was no way she was the best at this, so the only reason she could think of was that he couldn’t find anyone else due to secrecy, or whatever he wanted done was risky and no-one else would take the job.

That thought alone was enough to pique her interest.

“I take it your Cameo?” Actually, her name was Alana, but like hell she was telling him that. She’d never met Zone face to face before today, and she never told her employers her name anyway, let alone Imperials. She wrenched her eyes away from the ever-so interesting wall outside the window, sparing him a bored glance.

“I take it you’re Zone.” It wasn’t a question. No-one she knew here would have named her as Cameo. Besides, the man’s appearance gave him away; he’d obviously been through some sort of physical training, and the good quality material and cut of his clothing, a simple tank-top and jeans, marked him out as wealthy. No local here with a build like that could be wealthy. Zone didn’t seem particularly put off by her aloof act, taking a seat without being invited and resting a foot on the window sill.

Confident to the point of arrogance, that would have marked him out if nothing else had.

That would be me, yes.” He replied, after taking a moment to make himself comfortable. “I’ll assume you know why I called and get straight to the point. I have reason to believe Wrayburn might be up to something, and need you to intercept his order delivery tonight.”Oh, now this was interesting. Wrayburn, the fat bastard of a General that he was, had been in charge of this city for the last two years, and Alana couldn’t think of a single person who liked him. For Zone to be dealing with her sort, he had to be around the rank of…Major, she guessed. She’d never been that good at remembering army ranks. Either this was betrayal, or someone higher then Wrayburn wanted him gone.

“My usual price, plus one-hundred. I expect to be let out discreetly if caught too, you know.” She’d expected him to argue with her, and was almost disappointed when he nodded. “Well then, I’ll get that done tonight, unless you have anything more to tell me? Meet up at the pub two blocks down, same position, tomorrow, same time?”

Zone nodded, looking slightly doubtful whilst giving her outfit a critical, if interested, once over. Alana had to sigh, rolling brown eyes in mild annoyance; so she wore skirts when she wasn’t working, what was wrong with that?

“No, I don’t go like this.”

“I was about to ask.” He had the decency to look somewhat abashed, as a short silence stretched between them. “Hey, I don’t suppose you offer-“

“No.”

Alana was glad Zone hadn’t insisted on coming with her, or some other vain attempt at ensuring her safety. The three missions, and the only three mind, she had ever botched were ones where either her employer, or one of their goons, or a mixture of the two had insisted on accompanying her. You’d think that, since they were hiring someone especially to crack these shells, they would have wanted to keep well away from getting their own hands dirty. Not everyone appeared to share her common sense though, unfortunately.

Being nervous never even occurred to her, nothing to be nervous about, not yet, but a feeling of mild impatience swum around in her gut. Anxiety, perhaps. The payoff for this job would be huge; Zone always offered more than the average payment. And who knew who else might pay for this sort of information…

”Cameo?” About time.

”Mm?” Sounding disinterested was an art-form she’d learnt to master. It made the employers less suspicious. Theoretically. This man seemed almost affronted at her lack of respect as he held out a locked shell. He also seemed surprised to see her; a female Runner, blonde at that (oh the jokes she’d heard), in grey slacks and a black, zip-up top. Well excuse her for not having livery. Eyeing the man a moment, Alana made no move to take the parcel.

“No details?”

“Do you need them?” Bah. She hated it when they answered questions with questions.

“A name and address is usually helpful when, you know, you’re trying to deliver something." The man shot her a dirty look, apparently irked that she couldn’t read his thoughts or, by some divine intervention, simply know where this message was going. That she did know was something she wasn’t about to tell him. He tossed the shell at her, seeming almost disappointed when she caught it without difficulty.

“General Wrayburn, you should know the place. Have it there by dawn tomorrow, latest.”

“No problem.” Asswipe. Resisting the urge to make faces at his retreating back, Alana slipped the shell into her pouch, which in turn slipped to rest comfortably against her belly. My dawn. It was - she glanced at her watch - two in the morning now. The bastard messenger had kept her waiting two hours (no doubt, had she been a moment late, would have been right on time), leaving her just under four to get to Walker’s manor.

Leaving her three hours to get this thing open.

She certainly wasn’t taking this one home; no time, for a start, and secondly because damned if she was leading anyone back there. Whoever Zone was he could, and probably did, have someone, somewhere, tailing her, if the General themselves didn’t have someone following the message.

The doors to this club were always open when the sun was down and, despite her intense loathing of the crowd of unnaturally scented bodies, and the constant, artificial beat accompanied by dribbled wails and grunts (this, she was told, was music), no-one noticed you in the masses and, because of the crush, losing people was all too easy. The owners were familiar with ‘her sort’ too, meaning she was able to slip without question into both the club, and one of the back storerooms.

The music-that-wasn’t, thankfully, was reduced to a dull thudding out back and, taking a moment to recover in the dark, Alana felt the wall behind her pulsate with it. Reluctantly turning on the light, she slumped onto one of the many dusty boxes populating the small area, tugging the shell out of its pouch. Shells were nasty things, invented to annoy people like her. They resembled a small thermos in size and shape, with only a thin, almost invisible line around one end where the top popped off, if swiped with the appropriate, and papers were stored. Why they used papers rather than portable hard-drives, Alana didn’t know, didn’t care.

The shell was placed on a box and, ignoring the dust on the floor, Alana knelt, tugging what looked like a credit card out of one of her boots. Sliding it ever so slowly into the shell’s slit, just enough to pry the two sections apart, she pulled a second tool out, sliding the thinnest section of that into the slit before pulling out the credit card. The second tool was quiet unusual to the eye; a sliver of metal with what appeared to be a box on top, humming quietly after she hit the on switch. Aside from the soft whirr of machinery at work, nothing appeared to be happening. This was good; it meant that Wrayburn and his colleagues weren’t using any protective alarms or traps, and meant Alana wasn’t going to have her hand blown off tonight.

The whirring stopped with a click as the machine found the correct code, the top of the shell popping off silently. Alana had been lounging against the opposite wall, headphones on to drown out the drone, and she slowly unwound her legs and stood, dusting all traces of dirt and dust from her person. The decoder had taken a little longer than usually but hadn’t let her down. She kissed the cool metal in a token of gratitude, before busying herself with the papers. There was only one thing in this entire room that wasn’t coated in dust. Due to frequent use by herself and others, the photocopier that sat proudly against the back wall positively shone, though was obviously an old model. The papers were fed in, copies were thrust out, and the originals forced back into that horrible shell. It clicked shut. Folded papers in pocket, shell in pouch, tools hidden in case of capture. Everything was ready for the delivery…save for the heavy knocks that had just begun on the storeroom door.

Well that hadn’t been part of the plan.

She wasn’t stupid enough to answer. The owners of the club had the key and would have walked straight in had they needed her. As much as she hated the music in this place, it was a double edged sword. It was horrible, for a start, and had prevented her from hearing anyone approaching the door. On the flip side, it also muffled the sound of the photocopier. They had no idea that she was actually in here, but she wasn’t about to place her faith in them not checking. She heard the club-owner grumbling loudly about something, and keys jangling. There were no easily accessible windows in this room! Stupid design, stupid choice, but the club-owner wasn’t stupid. It never took him this long to open a door.

Alana took the hint. She chose a crate near the door, tugging the lid off and, gratefully seeing that it was empty save for a few, rotten lemons in the corners, slid inside. The lid snapped back into place the moment the door swung open and, as heavy footsteps disturbed the dust right outside her crate, she decided holding her breath to be the best option. Perhaps the rotten lemon lying beside her head had something to do with it. She tried to ignore the fact that it was moving. By itself.

“It seems odd that you have a photocopier in a storeroom.” A cool, hard voice announced, and Alana could almost visualise the man crossing his arms.

“I don’t like the staff using mine.” The club-owner didn’t sound in the least fussed, as if this was an everyday occurrence for him.

“I’m sure.” A few more footsteps, moving away from her and into the room, were heard, before the first voice chuckled. “Men, skewer some of these crates, would you?”

Oh gods.

“Oi!” The club-owner sounded affronted, as the slick sound of blades meeting fruit could be heard father back in the room. Alana shut her eyes, cringing. “Mate, that’s my supply of lemon and lime for the week. Can’t replace those easy these days.”
There was a short pause, and the horrible squelching sounds stopped. Footsteps could be heard, but she couldn’t place where they were going.

“Fine then. “ They were going? “Men, out. I don’t want to write a report on how we butchered citrus fruit all evening.” The door closed, and she let out a sigh of relief. Only waiting a few moments after the lock turned, she all but threw the lid off the crate, sitting up and taking a deep breath, ignoring the fact that the rotten lemon had…moved a few inches closer to her over the time she was in that crate. She didn’t want to know. The club-owner could deal with any mutated lemons, as far as she cared.

“To a successful mission!” Zone proclaimed cheerfully, his unnamed alcoholic concoction sloshing from his raised glass to trickle down his arm. Alana eyed the mess her employer was making in distaste; they had been here less then an hour, and already the man was severely tipsy. She herself was still on her first drink, something exotic from what she recalled, and was playing with the little worm that had been at the bottom of the glass when Zone proposed the toast. Resigned, she raised her glass a fraction.

“To success indeed.” She’d given Zone the papers as soon as she’d seen the numbers of her bank account. He’d been more then generous, not that she was complaining, but the man had insisted on buying drinks for them after the transactions were done. Ah well, he was easy on the eyes, so it wasn’t a total waste of time.

“So…” Zone’s eyes had darkened a little under the influence, and he shot her a lopsided smirk. It would have been charming, were the circumstances different. “Cameo. How bouts you and me, mm? We’re both adults, an…and…”

“How about no.” Ah, so the worms didn’t survive the alcohol, Alana mused, the little strip of pink flesh now resting on her finger. She glanced over at Zone, who was pouting, of all things, and had to smile. The worm was flicked onto the floor. “How about you stay sober after the next job, and I’ll think about it.”

Oh, there was another plus. He had a great smile, too.

---

Blah, don't really like the ending. If there was any confusion about this (if anyone actually reads it), The Rat Catcher is set before Killing the Memory, so Alana and Zone are younger. nods