Downpour

Chapter 2: Conversations

Ana woke up in a dark room. Sheets of paper were piled on the desk. They had her photo on them. Records of employment, criminal record, internet history, it was all piled on that desk.

"Don't touch those, you don't know where they've been," said Tim from accounting. He was wearing a drainage badge, and the uniform of the crew of the black electoral boats.

"Where am I?" Ana asked, deciding that it was the best question she could have asked at the moment.

"A room."

"A room where?"

"A room in the city."

"Yes, but where in the city?"

"North of south and west of east."

"That's bizarrely cryptic and no help at all."

"Thank you."

Ana tried to get up, took three steps and her arm fell off. It had a knife through it affixing it to a desk, the blade through the metal palm. Tim from accounting frowned. "Ok, I was not expecting that."

"Why was my arm stabbed to a table?"

"It seemed like an easy way to secure you." Ana decided that made sense and tried to reattach the arm. It clicked into place and flashed blue slightly. Its wifi reconnected. Tim from accounting immediately connected. That was understandable. Back-alley doctors don't supply good passwords. Back-alley doctors were cheap, and less corrupt. Then again, it was hard to be more corrupt than a doctor.

A doctor walked in. "See, she's awake. And unexploded. Why does nobody trust me?" Tim from accounting gave the doctor (doctor Sykes, from her nametag) a withering stare. It was a pretty good withering stare. Doctor Sykes failed to wither and instead rolled her eyes and muttered something about not being able to put bombs in people anymore without it being a federal fucking issue. "Have you done the briefing yet?"

Ana groaned. "I know you're a weird group obsessed with the drainage systems of a watertight city and I am not interested." Sykes chuckled a little.

"Say that again, but slower." Ana hesitated. It was a question she thought about sometimes, but not one that directly affected her life. She didn't like to think about non-pressing matters. Sykes continued. "We could use you. Your job was literally just sitting in a room watching what everyone did. I'm sure you found out many interesting things and secretey secrets. Secrets."

"You've obviously never been a security guard."

"I've obviously never been an effective security guard." Sykes had obviously never effectively looked in a mirror, either. Her hair looked like a birds nest that the bird had given up on, her coat was covered in mud and blood, her name tag was in comic sans and half her face had been replaced by someone else's face with visible bright cyan threads. It was very unnerving. A murderous clown would have found Sykes terrible company. However, Sykes didn't know many murderous clowns so this didn't bother her much.

Ana sat there for five more seconds. "Can I go now?"

"If you want," Sykes replied, "but the only way out is back onto the black boat, and the black boat has only one destination."

"What do you even want from me?"

"Just security tapes, easy access into the more restricted areas of the building, some decent quality scoffee and a feather duster."

Ana managed to sigh out a "Fine," handed over the scoffee powder, a key, and then asked how they were going to get the tapes if they blew up her room. Sykes did a general "wooden plank" gesture and left. Tim from accounting just sat.

Eventually, Tim from Accounting got up, put his black boat uniform back on and went out for a sail. There was a man sitting on a floating patch of land, so Tim from Accounting stopped the boat and said absolutely nothing.

"Erm, hallo?" Said Charlie Oakley. "Is dere somtin wong wid where I be sit on da day me dawtew is to be the marriedness yes?" Then he was in the boat, gagged, bound and unconscious. Tim from accounting continued to say absolutely nothing. He then dropped off Charlie Oakley in the city hall lobby, attached a sticky note to his head that said "Candidate" and went to Old Scratch's.

Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name, and that place is Old Scratch's. Scratch's was the only place where you could get a not-quite-fine wine, or three tankards of ale topped by a peanut floating in the center of a peach. You needed a lot of charisma, supplies and strength to run a bar, and Old Scratch had all three. He also had a double-barreled sawn-off shotgun, so that was a plus.

Scratch smiled at Tim from accounting as he walked in, and quickly filled up a glass of something that might once have resembled a good drink. Curiously, Tim loved the taste, and The Accounting Special was now on the drink menu next to the beer and spirits. It was tradition at Scratch's to greet newcomers with a glass of the stuff, and if they threw up you'd give them a mop to clean it up with.

The bar was quiet at this time of night. It was the perfect time to talk. Nobody paid much attention, not many people were around and those who were were drunk and high off their asses (Scratch also sold Chill powder).

"Hey Tim. What've you got for me?"

"Second grade prosthetic surface, an electrified knife, Charley Oakley's wallet and half a pound of beef."

"Half a pound? Where the hell did you get that from?"

"Old stores down underneath."

"Surely it would have been guarded or taken."

"It was."

"I see. Well, I'll pour you a drink and let's talk price."

No. No don't. No, please don't. Not again. How many times must you murder me? How many times?