Daria: Hunter - Suited for Crime

"When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro."

-Hunter S. Thompson

Saturday, August 15

2172 AD

Daria woke up, opened her eyes, and stared bleakly at the padded ceiling of her bedroom as she reflected on how waking up was a horribly cliche way to start one's day.  With her cynicism levels thus properly tuned, she took a moment to stretch the sleep out of her muscles and swung her legs out from under the covers.

With bleary eyes and staggering gait, she made her way out of her asylum-decorated room and out into the rest of her apartment to find that most precious of liquids, black coffee.  She naturally considered the kitchenette first on her list of places to look for that bitter nectar, but her memory slowly chugged out the image of a drink machine filter that hadn't been cleaned out for a few weeks.  Her desire for any kind of beverage - caffeinated or otherwise - plummeted quickly, so she turned her reeling form towards the bathroom instead.

A few moments under the shower got her faculties kick-started.  Not as much as a cup of joe would have, but sometimes pick-me-ups had to be taken where they were found.  Once the sonics had the majority of the larger grit and grime and dead layers of skin from the previous day broken up, she switched on the water to sluice it all off of her and down the drain.  Clean and somewhat refreshed, she stepped out, dried off, and set about the matter of clothing herself.

Underwear, shirt, jeans, glasses, socks, boots, shoulder holster, pack belt, jacket, gloves, Stetson.  And, of course, her undersleeve specials.  She performed a quick pat-down of her jacket and pants pockets to make sure she had her wallet and various bits of equipment on her, then stepped out the apartment's front door and into the only-just bearable heat of yet another summer morning.

Door locked, keys out, gravcar primed.  Daria confidently backed the vehicle out into the skylane and set off to pick up Jane.

Though "confidently" was a bit of a stretch.  So many years of driving and Daria has still never quite gotten used to it.  She was good, of course.  After having spent so much on defensive driving classes, she better have been.  It simply wasn't a past time she particularly enjoyed.  Sometimes she wondered if she could just sell the scrapheap better known as her car and just rely on public transportation to get everywhere.

Probably not in her line of work.  And she couldn't rely on Jane to give her rides everywhere, not on that crotch rocket of hers.  Barely more than a seat and two grav pads, it was hardly a fit machine for the driver, let alone an extra passenger.  Which was more or less why she was picking Jane up this day.

Speak of the devilwoman, Daria mused, spotting her friend and co-worker waiting on the landing pad outside Jane's own apartment.

"What's up, white meat?" Jane asked brightly - for her - as she slid into the passenger seat.

"Says the woman who only knows of sunshine through tales passed down by her fore-bearers," Daria replied.  "Honestly, you look paler every day.  I'd start to think you weren't feeling well if I didn't know for a fact that you're part fungus and prefer dark, damp areas deep underground."

Jane smirked.  "Never practice my street talk around you," she said.  "Message received.  So, to work?"

"To work," Daria agreed in tones usually reserved for funeral services.  She pulled back out into traffic and the two of them lapsed into their usual routine of comfortable silence.  A silence that Jane decided to break once they hit the commercial section of the city.

"I got a new bodysuit," she said, pulling back her red longcoat to show off the black, form-fitting suit that apparently covered her from neck to boots.