Chapter Text
ACT ONE - TANGO
I
March 22nd, 735 PCE (Luna Standard)
Today was supposed to be a normal day, godsdammit.
She was supposed to get up and take the tram to work like she always does. Say a quick hello to the boss on her way in before opening the bar; make her regular small talk with the patrons, mop the floors, clean the puke from the toilets, glance out the window at passersby from her place behind the bar top while she spent her day’s precious moments of free time with a book open across her lap.
She wouldn’t have complained. Sure, work sucked. Worked always sucked. But at least it was work. And work also meant money, which meant food and a place to live, and relative peace of mind hence. Now, suddenly, it feels as though a rug has been pulled out from underneath her and she’s falling, face first, onto a freezing concrete floor. No job means no money. No money means no food. No money means no place to live. Rent is only two weeks off now, and she’s got practically nothing in her bank account. Her last pay stub won’t be enough to make it either. Not with the family’s mortuary loan still hanging over her head like a sharpened guillotine.
Clear juice dribbles down Minnow’s chin as she breaks off another mouthful of apple. She’d rather whip it across the room and scream. But the calories count now more than ever. So, instead, she simply swallows it down and scowls grimly at the opposite wall. A flash of lightning bathes the room in white for an instant before a heavy thunderclap rocks the building’s foundation as, outside, the rain streams down ceaselessly from a black and stormy Martian sky. The drops slick the singular, square window that marks the bedside corner of her dilapidated South Axis residence while she sits beneath it, cross-legged on the mattress, dressed down to a black tank top and her underpants in the dank humidity.
This is the beginning of monsoon season. An absolute perfect day to get fired.
What Orbin told her was that they’d gone bankrupt; they could no longer pay the staff to work, nor the cost of the venue, and so would soon be closing permanently. That part was understandable. She herself had seen the way the business was suffering in light of the ceaseless municipal construction that had been plaguing them just outside their front doors for nearly two years straight. Closing was only a natural end to the struggle of trying to keep a sinking ship afloat. But they could have given her a warning at the very damn least. A severance of some kind, even if it would have been meager. At least then she would have had some time to look elsewhere for a job.
This way they completely screwed her.
Four godsdamned years. For four godsdamned years she managed the place. Made the drinks, made the food, dealt with all the customer fuckery. Did practically everything that was needed to keep their dingy pub’s doors open to the public and the PHS kettles off their asses for as long as possible while Orbin wasted his days holed up in his office watching those immersive pleasure holos and forgetting to finish payroll on time. And for all the blood, the sweat, and the late nights spent sobbing herself to sleep in bed, there was no warning, no compensation, no support of any kind whatsoever. Just a quick, five-minute chat in the back alley where the man expressed his ‘utmost appreciation’ of her hard work and contribution to the business’ marginal and short-lived success, along with his well wishes for a bright future.
She’s livid. And devastated.
Confused.
She’s lost without her job.
Yes, it sucked. It was grueling. Six days out of the week she dedicated to the place, from nine o’clock in the morning until eleven o’clock at night. That kind of a schedule barely leaves a person with enough room to think, let alone actually do anything aside from restock on groceries or catch up on lost sleep when blessed with a moment to spare.
And that was exactly the way she wanted it to be. After the accident, she didn’t want to think. She wanted to get over it, to put it simply. Shove all those nasty, messy, painful feelings as far back into the recesses of her conscious mind as was humanly possible. She wanted to forget it ever even happened. She couldn’t have been any stupider about it, since the ghosts still haunted her all the same. But now, without the distraction of work, she feels completely stranded. Alone in a foreign city.
And Minnow is not a city girl. Never has been. It was only back in 730 that they were forced to move to Agea, after some fat-pocketed, profit-hungry Silver’s agricultural development company had cleared out their acreage in the far northwest of the Apollonian Green Belt. Up until that point, it had been blue skies and warm gold pastures as far as the eye could see. It’s where she grew up. Under the hot summer sun and the marshmallow clouds, with the corn and the combines and the sounds of the crickets chirp-chirping the night. To her, that’s home. Agea just feels like a purgatory. A strange and foreign place where everything is far too loud and too bright. So many advertisements, fast-moving vehicles, and jarring noises it makes her head hurt. And so much godsdamn dust. Never mind the candy wrappers and burner butts, the all-manner of random pocket filler that drifts down onto the streets in a steady trickle from the more affluent zones of their cursed metropolis -all the unwanted shit that ends up falling to the bottom. Litter, criminals. LowColor dejects like herself.
She snorts.
Get a grip, she thinks. It’s not all bad, living in the city. She has gotten used to life here to some extent over the years. Before, it was like she’d landed a fish out of water smack in the middle of a dumpster cat colony. Or like she’d been spray-painted with the words “fresh meat” on her back in big, bold, bright red lettering. It’s better now than it used to be. She used to get pick-pocketed at least once per week. Some years of wallowing in the dust like her fellow denizens, and she’s successfully acquired that seasoned look of misery that allows her to blend in with the rest of them. Now, aside from the occasional pervert on the tram, people tend to just leave her alone.
Minnow finishes her apple and tosses the core across the room into the waste bin next to the micro fridge. She comes to her feet with a stretch, reaching for the low ceiling with the tips her fingers, shakes the tingling from her legs, and leans over into the sill to get a better view of the outside. It’s hardcore pouring out there. Hardly anyone out on the street, though she can make out the darkened shapes of others like her, trapped inside and staring out their own apartment windows from across the road to watch the storm as she does. City lights twinkle overhead in the upper districts like multicolored stars, their halos distorted by the water-streaked glass. The sky has grown darker with the passing of this hour.
The showers are at the end of the hall, set in an open concept, gray tile block, and are shared by all the tenants on their building level. They are typically bustling in the mornings; however, they are relatively unoccupied at the moment. The rooms echoes he whooshing sound of the faucet as Minnow bathes with soap under cold water before allowing herself a lengthy, freezing rinse to calm the nerves and soothe the aching of her temples. Ice-cold droplets slip down her face and her back, down her legs to her ankles, before spiraling into the drain and out of sight. Goosebumps prickle along tender skin. She shivers and breathes in through the stream. Tomorrow she will need to wake up early to start her job hunt. If she wants to make the most of her time, she’ll need to be out before the crowds are in full swing. There are a few places in mind. Some domestic agencies on the opposite side of the downtown. She can get to them all if she gives herself a head start. It won’t be an enjoyable excursion by any means, but it needs to be done regardless.
By the time she’s finished in the shower, her mind is feeling more at ease, like maybe it will even let her sleep the night, fingers crossed. She clicks off the water, wrapping herself in a towel, and shakes the droplets from her thick, curly hair. On her way back, Minnow sees another Brown, Rolla from across the hall in 808, helping her two young sons brush their teeth in the mirror by the sink wall. The women share a courteous nod, but nothing more as she passes them on her way out.
-
The sharp sound of the alarm bell drags her back into the present. Minnow rolls over with a groan, still bone tired. Sleep came like a thief in the night, unexpectedly, after hours of tossing and turning on a thoroughly uncomfortable spring-form mattress, her thoughts racing like sunbloods on the holo. She sits up, bleary-eyed and sweaty all over again, and looks around the room as a familiar dread fills her. No bloody rest for the wicked, and certainly none for the poor. Past the window, the South Axis cries its morning cacophony -street vendors shouting, the pop music blaring from storefront displays, holo broadcasts echoing over the crowd, the sound of busy commuter tramlines whirring along their tracks, both above and below the district rafters. Now that the rains have ceased, the city is alive and awake again, and she’s got to find herself a job.
The streets are packed as they always are, though this morning it seems as though more have come out to enjoy the fresh, post-rain glow of the town - so much for any hopes of beating the crowd. It’s straight concrete jungle chaos.
In a thin, cotton fabric jumper, Minnow ungraciously shoves her way through the churning mass outside of her building, orienting herself in the direction of the northbound tramline. Sweat beads along her temples and back. All the bodies jammed up together make it hotter for the season here in the city. She sips from her water pack by the tube on her bag strap, gaining a sense of flow with the crowd as she picks up step with those moving around her. Being small has its advantages if you know how to work it right. She slips through the bodies, moving through them like a needle in fabric past the mercados, pawn shops, and black-market mod job garages, towards the station on Montague and Esso where she joins a smaller crowd in waiting on the platform.
The line takes them to the opposite side of the downtown, the North Axis. The ride itself takes about an hour and is as cramped and sweaty an experience as always. Minnow spends it tightly wedged in between two uniformed Reds, city workers, that reek of burner smoke and seem to be very close friends from the way they jabber on and on over her head about everything from the weather to the best cheap brothels in the neighborhood. She gets off at the level-up, where the verified passengers can board the lift that takes them up to the next district, and sees the sign for the Quick Service Employment Agency directly across from her stop, on the opposite side of the Axis square. Crossing the plaza, she passes by people eating ice cream on the benches. Couples holding hands as they watch the birds squabble over breadcrumbs and trash. A group of Red kids playing tag around a beat-up, graffiti-covered fountain absent running water where the expertly carved likeness of the great Silenius au Lune stands proudly as its centerpiece, in pristine condition. Defaming such a monument would be punishable by execution.
When Minnow walks through the entrance of the QSEA, she meets the back of a lineup that stretches nearly forty meters down the wall to a reception kiosk where a lone Copper sits at her desk behind a sheet of duroGlass and sorts the applicants one by one. The line does not appear to be moving very quickly at all. The QSEA isn’t the only agency in the area, but she already knows that it won’t be any different elsewhere. Lots of people out of work here in the city. Minnow sighs. She takes up her spot at the back of the file and gets as comfortable as she can manage.
The heat of the day is not notably buffered by the building’s interior cooling and the wait is long. She tries to not look at the clock too often, but as the hours roll by it gets harder and harder to resist doing so. Everyone in the place is agitated; it’s stuffy, it’s humid, and it smells equally like menthol as it does of farts and bad breath. No one wants to be here. Two fights break out a little ways down from her: someone nearly gets accosted after they fail to move ahead with the rest of the line multiple times in a row for fault of being distracted by a game on their dataPad. Twenty minutes later, someone else throws a screaming fit after having their toes accidentally stepped on by the person in front of them. She wishes she had earplugs.
The minutes continue to tick by. By the time she makes it to the front of the line it is nearly four o’clock in the afternoon. She’s thirsty, she’s hungry, and she has to pee terribly, but she still manages to force a smile when the attendant finally waves her forward.
“Name please.” The woman barely gives Minnow so much as a glance, her copper eyes glued to the holo screen in front of her as she refreshes the intake window with a quick series of keystrokes. Her fingernails are painted the same bright, bubble-gum shade of pink as her lipstick, and she has the remarkably impassive face of someone who looks like she has been doing her job for a very long time.
“Na Djana, Minnow.”
“BF244793-02?”
“That’s it.”
“Are you in search of something immediate?”
“Yes, if possible.”
The woman nods, typing something into the system. “And are you compatible with contract work?” she asks. Minnow considers briefly, unsure. She’s never really given it much thought before now. People in the city take contracts all the time -it’s a very common way to work amongst her Color. But the sound of legally signing away five plus years of your life to an employer…that puts her off a little. Under less dire circumstances she would likely be much more reluctant to entertain the idea, though unfortunately she does not have the luxury of being so discriminatory with work given her current situation.
“I guess that would depend,” she decides, “Is that all you have available?”
“For you, yes,” the Copper replies, and spins the holoProjection to display the listing. “The Bellona citadel is recruiting domestics again now that some of their older contracts are expiring. Bed and board. Pay is good. And you’ll be up in the mountains. Which means fresh air.”
Minnow leans in to get a closer look at the description. Eagle Rest. Olympia. It’s not as though she’s been living under a rock for the last twenty-three years. The Bellona essentially run all of Cimmera through helium-3 mining and export; they own most of the sites on the continent. Everyone on Mars knows who they are.
She swallows. This job is big. The contract is for five years. That’s a long time. But the remuneration is more than twice what she was earning at Novell’s, and she’ll finally be able to leave this godsforsaken city. She thinks of her shitty little apartment on the corner of Seneca and the South, and of how scorching hot it gets in Agea during the summer -how positively miserable every summer has been since she arrived. The accident was five years ago. Minnow is still in debt from the fallout. And she’s going to be in debt for the rest of her life if she’s going to continue on living while making the kind of money she was at the bar. Maybe it’s time for a fucking change.
“Alright. When does the contract start?” she asks.
The attendant claps her long-nailed hands on the desk in front of her impatiently. “Next week,” she says, “But the shuttle leaves on Friday.”