Something was awry. Sascha knew this, but for the life of her she couldn't rouse herself enough to study the aspects of the situation as she would a mission. Every angle, every path, every outcome. A whole glowing bottle of Venusian firerum, though, was enough to make clarity like so much mush. Little glints of sobriety peeked through, but the appearance of Fate's robotic minion was only enough to spark her curiosity--not any measure of well-being concern.
All she wanted to do was stop running. To finally take a load off and rest for a while. Curl up somewhere safe where no bounty hunters would track her for a few hours, where she could catch a non-drug-assisted sleep. Stop dying her hair and coloring her eyes and wearing clothes that weren't *hers*. Just for a little while. It was probably problematic that this spot, perched on Grilka, was so comfortable.
Probably.
But Sascha snuggled in anyway, easing under the tentacles as if Grilka were petting her to submission rather than patting her on the head like a proud parent. One brown eyebrow raised at the metal gent. "He always means well."
"Clusterfuck, indeed, good sirs and madams!" the robot rattled out with an oddly jaunty set to its chin.
She leaned back with a smile. "Cards, but that's hilarious. It's even got an accent!"
A moment ticked by and she registered more of eir probing questions. And the fact that she'd just done something wrong, and it had to do with Fate. Had she said his name? Told someone where to find him? Sascha scrubbed her forehead with the back of one wrist. Unfortunately, the need to set Grilka straight brushed away those concerns like a ripple in a pool of still water. "He's very good at being helpful, actually. The best."
Just...sometimes forgot he didn't always have to make her smile with his so-called "plans".
She beamed at the robot, unaware that behind its cracked-and-hacked circuits sat a man with orange dreads, a wire in his neck, and a headache the size of the entire fucking station.
---
>>There's always a plan.
>>Most times they're brilliant.
>>I am willing to concede
>>this is not one of those times.
"I never should have sent the fucking Fireball." He picked his head off the desk with some effort. Cursing his liquor choices, cursing her ability to take down so much booze on an empty stomach, cursing how much he'd had to add to his firewalls, cursing the fact that despite his having assessed its defenses the safe haven Kreska had proclaimed hadn't been so safe after all. Mostly though, he cursed his own lacking: digging into Kreska's past and present instead of the ownership of the unit, general decision-making skills. Because while he always had plans and many of them were...quirky, he never allowed himself to become so flustered as he did when Sascha was in a bind.
Fear made him sloppy. Fear was not a companion for good code or even passable code, for controlling metal men in dire need of top hats. As if top hats would fix everything. Sometimes it was even hard on breathing, this feeling he got on those rare occasions when he had to force himself outside...to find another, better, fortress of solitude. Fear sucked balls, and not in the yes-baby-yes-like-that-I'm-gonna-blow kind of way.
He set his ocular implant to calculating odds. It was not good. Even with his offer to Grilka--essentially everything, save his Sascha.
"You cannot keep her," the robot said, and bowed ridiculously in a way Fate didn't bother to try to stop. He was having enough trouble monitoring the hallways for returning bounty hunters and drones to bother with overriding the default behavior patterns of the damn thing. "Would you like a scotch? Neat?"
>>He doesn't have any scotch at all
>>In case you're curious
>>Or thirsty
"Leave her head alone," it squawked. "Fish and chips? Fish and chips?"
Fate's fingers twitched over the keys and he stared in dismay at the growing mess before him. So much payment. Favors. Would Grilka accept those, require those, along with the information he was amassing? Would xe send Kreska to him? Or would Fate himself be required to come in person? His jaw set in a grim smile. It would be painful, but compared to having Sascha's brain open on an operating table and thoroughly plundered...he shook his head and the robot read his resulting eyetwitch as "Special today...today's specials are..."
One thing was for sure: if they both survived this, he was cutting off Sascha's fancy booze supply.
All she wanted to do was stop running. To finally take a load off and rest for a while. Curl up somewhere safe where no bounty hunters would track her for a few hours, where she could catch a non-drug-assisted sleep. Stop dying her hair and coloring her eyes and wearing clothes that weren't *hers*. Just for a little while. It was probably problematic that this spot, perched on Grilka, was so comfortable.
Probably.
But Sascha snuggled in anyway, easing under the tentacles as if Grilka were petting her to submission rather than patting her on the head like a proud parent. One brown eyebrow raised at the metal gent. "He always means well."
"Clusterfuck, indeed, good sirs and madams!" the robot rattled out with an oddly jaunty set to its chin.
She leaned back with a smile. "Cards, but that's hilarious. It's even got an accent!"
A moment ticked by and she registered more of eir probing questions. And the fact that she'd just done something wrong, and it had to do with Fate. Had she said his name? Told someone where to find him? Sascha scrubbed her forehead with the back of one wrist. Unfortunately, the need to set Grilka straight brushed away those concerns like a ripple in a pool of still water. "He's very good at being helpful, actually. The best."
Just...sometimes forgot he didn't always have to make her smile with his so-called "plans".
She beamed at the robot, unaware that behind its cracked-and-hacked circuits sat a man with orange dreads, a wire in his neck, and a headache the size of the entire fucking station.
---
>>There's always a plan.
>>Most times they're brilliant.
>>I am willing to concede
>>this is not one of those times.
"I never should have sent the fucking Fireball." He picked his head off the desk with some effort. Cursing his liquor choices, cursing her ability to take down so much booze on an empty stomach, cursing how much he'd had to add to his firewalls, cursing the fact that despite his having assessed its defenses the safe haven Kreska had proclaimed hadn't been so safe after all. Mostly though, he cursed his own lacking: digging into Kreska's past and present instead of the ownership of the unit, general decision-making skills. Because while he always had plans and many of them were...quirky, he never allowed himself to become so flustered as he did when Sascha was in a bind.
Fear made him sloppy. Fear was not a companion for good code or even passable code, for controlling metal men in dire need of top hats. As if top hats would fix everything. Sometimes it was even hard on breathing, this feeling he got on those rare occasions when he had to force himself outside...to find another, better, fortress of solitude. Fear sucked balls, and not in the yes-baby-yes-like-that-I'm-gonna-blow kind of way.
He set his ocular implant to calculating odds. It was not good. Even with his offer to Grilka--essentially everything, save his Sascha.
"You cannot keep her," the robot said, and bowed ridiculously in a way Fate didn't bother to try to stop. He was having enough trouble monitoring the hallways for returning bounty hunters and drones to bother with overriding the default behavior patterns of the damn thing. "Would you like a scotch? Neat?"
>>He doesn't have any scotch at all
>>In case you're curious
>>Or thirsty
"Leave her head alone," it squawked. "Fish and chips? Fish and chips?"
Fate's fingers twitched over the keys and he stared in dismay at the growing mess before him. So much payment. Favors. Would Grilka accept those, require those, along with the information he was amassing? Would xe send Kreska to him? Or would Fate himself be required to come in person? His jaw set in a grim smile. It would be painful, but compared to having Sascha's brain open on an operating table and thoroughly plundered...he shook his head and the robot read his resulting eyetwitch as "Special today...today's specials are..."
One thing was for sure: if they both survived this, he was cutting off Sascha's fancy booze supply.
Dreams come in a size too big so we can grow into them.
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