The atmosphere was dark and debaucherous—so not a word—at best, and disgustingly wrought with all manner of grime at worst. The tiny hole in the wall had lighting that flickered, bar stools that didn’t match, and a floor that hadn’t been moped with clean water in at least a week. But no one ever came to a shithole like this for the ambiance; not even the undergrowth of the Underground. Like any dingy corner in an alley, or sometimes a wall for that matter, you came for the privacy.
Or, if you were like Rage, you came to take easy money. Not because you needed the money, no, but because there was just something really satisfying about taking hard earned credits from people who hated losing.
It wasn’t anything special, the billiards table. Nothing glowing or electronic, oddly enough; just you run of the mill wooden and felt covered piece of old school gaming equipment. It wasn’t in the best condition, but it did the job as much as the cue she was leaning on while she waited for her competition to take a shot.
Chrome-ivory depths eyed him as he leaned over the table and narrowed his eyes on the cue ball. A few breaths left him—in and out—before he snapped the rod and… scratched.
Lips only a shade darker than her ghostly skin curled into a smirk; long ebony lashes lined in kohl lowered halfway into something sultry. “Too bad, luv,” she said as she cocked her hip, making the red leather ensemble dully reflect in the bad lighting further.
He scowled, but didn’t reply. Only waved his hand for her to go and stepped aside.
Tossing silver-white translucent strands over her shoulder she stepped forward and eyed the table. She could have had the game in the first shot, honestly. But doing that got people wondering—questioning. And as much as she loved to piss the living shit off of just about anyone, it wasn’t always safe to do it that way. There were, after all, better routes to get her jollies off.
She just needed to get two balls in; her solid green and the eight. Trouble was—would be for most people—that the six was on one end of the table and the eight on the other. Another smirk curled as she set the calculations too work. Mechanisms clicked and shifted behind her eyes; screens popped quickly—complex math that couldn't seen by anyone by her. All of this happened in one breath, only what she could see; in the next—crack. Before she righted herself fully and shook unbound hair back over her shoulders both ball were hitting pockets, the cue ball rolling to stop near a side rail.
“An’ that’s game, luv,” she told him from across the table, legs spread under her just enough while the billiards cue sat in front of her—butt on the floor. She wondered, briefly, if he’d accuse her of cheating. It wouldn’t be the first time, but most people did because they were sore losers. Not, you know, because she actually—kind of—cheated. Ohhhh… but he was right pissed; pissed some five foot six shorty in combat boots and leather had worked him over in a game he was allegedly great at. Well, or so the prat had been boasting about an hour ago.
“Bitch,” he spat.
“Dirty mouth,” she scolded with a tsk and a shake of her finger. “But it won’t get out out o’ givin’ me my due, pet. Credits?” She came around the table then and held out her hand, curling her fingers for him to do so in the universal sign for ‘pay up’.
The minute she saw a vein pop above his head was the exact moment she knew it was all going to go south—not that she minded. Joy cackled in her chest like a tiny troll on speed as his arm shot out to hit her or grab at her. More calculations wound in front of her eyes as she lifted the billiards cue and took a step back at the same time. Her stature was short enough that she just had dip down slightly before jabbing the stick upward and forward—into his stomach. He crumbled briefly, coughing. And then….
…shit. Apparently Beefy and Pissed had friends. And they weren’t exactly great odds, she found as she eyed the number crawling off their bar stools and from corners--as more calculations wove. Well... they weren’t awful odds for her, but she didn’t fancy licking a few wounds by the time she got home. It’d all heal, but it wouldn’t feel good in the meantime.
Rage chucked the stick, smiled, and gave a salute. “Well, it’s been fun, ducks—but I really ‘ave to run.” Even as she spoke her wired mind was making connections, following networks—back lines and darknet—before hooking right into the power for the joint and frying the shit out of their systems. Before the first once tried to pounce the lights went out, sparks alit from machines, and taps for drinks sprayed. In the chaos she jerked to the window she’d spied earlier and slipped out onto a fire escape. And then it was one ten to twenty foot jump or another off various structures—pipes, oversized wires, and even a cruising hover car whose driver cursed loudly from within. And it wasn’t until she reached a ‘street’ that she took pause before running off.
Ah… no pay out. Didn’t matter though, she thought with a smile. The look on his face had been worth it. As she slowed down another concrete encased pathway she went about cleaning up her jaunt through cyber space with relative ease. The pigs might show up and she sure as shit didn’t need anyone tracing her signal ever; especially not over something as silly as a bar fight that didn't happen.
Now that it was all over she was stuck thinking of what to do next. Wasn’t hungry and didn’t feel like grabbing a drink somewhere else. Maybe a club? Dancing could be interesting. She hadn’t danced in at least a week. Something popped up in her peripheral vision from one of the little screens—a reminder that something had finished.
Oh! Yes! She’d forgotten about that before the game. The notifications had been set to sleep until she was done. She ran through the code quickly, looking for errors as she leaned back against a brick wall. When she was finished she smiled—grinned something of a Cheshire grin.
“Your turn, luv,” she whispered as she sent the virus to his system and lit up a smoke. It was really anything awful; nothing he couldn’t manage. But it would probably be annoying as all fuck trying to shut it down—the looping a loud song that hijacked the volume he had on any speakers. The laughing image of a pixelated Robin Goodfellow in renaissance-wear would appear on his screens until he disabled it. How long would it take? Five minutes? Maybe?
She laughed softly before continuing on her way, gloved hands tucking into her red duster. And just for a finishing touch, when he did finally manage to disable it, she’d shoot some text to his screen reading: Miss me, Fate? Tell me my fortune? Good bait; she'd enjoy his retort. All the while, just to make sure she was clouded in her veil of secrecy, she made sure to disable cameras for all time it took her to pass them by and look like they'd blipped--glitched for a pass of second—among other things. No need to give him a visual while he could trace her; while she was letting him.
Or, if you were like Rage, you came to take easy money. Not because you needed the money, no, but because there was just something really satisfying about taking hard earned credits from people who hated losing.
It wasn’t anything special, the billiards table. Nothing glowing or electronic, oddly enough; just you run of the mill wooden and felt covered piece of old school gaming equipment. It wasn’t in the best condition, but it did the job as much as the cue she was leaning on while she waited for her competition to take a shot.
Chrome-ivory depths eyed him as he leaned over the table and narrowed his eyes on the cue ball. A few breaths left him—in and out—before he snapped the rod and… scratched.
Lips only a shade darker than her ghostly skin curled into a smirk; long ebony lashes lined in kohl lowered halfway into something sultry. “Too bad, luv,” she said as she cocked her hip, making the red leather ensemble dully reflect in the bad lighting further.
He scowled, but didn’t reply. Only waved his hand for her to go and stepped aside.
Tossing silver-white translucent strands over her shoulder she stepped forward and eyed the table. She could have had the game in the first shot, honestly. But doing that got people wondering—questioning. And as much as she loved to piss the living shit off of just about anyone, it wasn’t always safe to do it that way. There were, after all, better routes to get her jollies off.
She just needed to get two balls in; her solid green and the eight. Trouble was—would be for most people—that the six was on one end of the table and the eight on the other. Another smirk curled as she set the calculations too work. Mechanisms clicked and shifted behind her eyes; screens popped quickly—complex math that couldn't seen by anyone by her. All of this happened in one breath, only what she could see; in the next—crack. Before she righted herself fully and shook unbound hair back over her shoulders both ball were hitting pockets, the cue ball rolling to stop near a side rail.
“An’ that’s game, luv,” she told him from across the table, legs spread under her just enough while the billiards cue sat in front of her—butt on the floor. She wondered, briefly, if he’d accuse her of cheating. It wouldn’t be the first time, but most people did because they were sore losers. Not, you know, because she actually—kind of—cheated. Ohhhh… but he was right pissed; pissed some five foot six shorty in combat boots and leather had worked him over in a game he was allegedly great at. Well, or so the prat had been boasting about an hour ago.
“Bitch,” he spat.
“Dirty mouth,” she scolded with a tsk and a shake of her finger. “But it won’t get out out o’ givin’ me my due, pet. Credits?” She came around the table then and held out her hand, curling her fingers for him to do so in the universal sign for ‘pay up’.
The minute she saw a vein pop above his head was the exact moment she knew it was all going to go south—not that she minded. Joy cackled in her chest like a tiny troll on speed as his arm shot out to hit her or grab at her. More calculations wound in front of her eyes as she lifted the billiards cue and took a step back at the same time. Her stature was short enough that she just had dip down slightly before jabbing the stick upward and forward—into his stomach. He crumbled briefly, coughing. And then….
…shit. Apparently Beefy and Pissed had friends. And they weren’t exactly great odds, she found as she eyed the number crawling off their bar stools and from corners--as more calculations wove. Well... they weren’t awful odds for her, but she didn’t fancy licking a few wounds by the time she got home. It’d all heal, but it wouldn’t feel good in the meantime.
Rage chucked the stick, smiled, and gave a salute. “Well, it’s been fun, ducks—but I really ‘ave to run.” Even as she spoke her wired mind was making connections, following networks—back lines and darknet—before hooking right into the power for the joint and frying the shit out of their systems. Before the first once tried to pounce the lights went out, sparks alit from machines, and taps for drinks sprayed. In the chaos she jerked to the window she’d spied earlier and slipped out onto a fire escape. And then it was one ten to twenty foot jump or another off various structures—pipes, oversized wires, and even a cruising hover car whose driver cursed loudly from within. And it wasn’t until she reached a ‘street’ that she took pause before running off.
Ah… no pay out. Didn’t matter though, she thought with a smile. The look on his face had been worth it. As she slowed down another concrete encased pathway she went about cleaning up her jaunt through cyber space with relative ease. The pigs might show up and she sure as shit didn’t need anyone tracing her signal ever; especially not over something as silly as a bar fight that didn't happen.
Now that it was all over she was stuck thinking of what to do next. Wasn’t hungry and didn’t feel like grabbing a drink somewhere else. Maybe a club? Dancing could be interesting. She hadn’t danced in at least a week. Something popped up in her peripheral vision from one of the little screens—a reminder that something had finished.
Oh! Yes! She’d forgotten about that before the game. The notifications had been set to sleep until she was done. She ran through the code quickly, looking for errors as she leaned back against a brick wall. When she was finished she smiled—grinned something of a Cheshire grin.
“Your turn, luv,” she whispered as she sent the virus to his system and lit up a smoke. It was really anything awful; nothing he couldn’t manage. But it would probably be annoying as all fuck trying to shut it down—the looping a loud song that hijacked the volume he had on any speakers. The laughing image of a pixelated Robin Goodfellow in renaissance-wear would appear on his screens until he disabled it. How long would it take? Five minutes? Maybe?
She laughed softly before continuing on her way, gloved hands tucking into her red duster. And just for a finishing touch, when he did finally manage to disable it, she’d shoot some text to his screen reading: Miss me, Fate? Tell me my fortune? Good bait; she'd enjoy his retort. All the while, just to make sure she was clouded in her veil of secrecy, she made sure to disable cameras for all time it took her to pass them by and look like they'd blipped--glitched for a pass of second—among other things. No need to give him a visual while he could trace her; while she was letting him.
Sometimes I feel like a girl~... sometimes I don't~
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