The rest of the night was incredibly productive, so long as you counted productivity as getting blind drunk and doing things in alleyways that would make any well-adjusted person retch. Brindle found her in the morning, tucked away into one of the hidey-holes he knew about, snoring and generally smelling like she'd raided a brewery, only with fouler additives tossed into the mix.
He got a few kicks in before she roused, still inebriated and with more to spare. She had a bottle to her lips (she'd fallen asleep with it clasped to her chest; it accounted for the smell since half of what had been left had dribbled out) before Brindle had the chance to start speaking. Disgust wrinkled up his nose as he watched her, distracted from his original intent. "Already?"
Her eyes were bloodshot as she stared him down. Unfortunately for her, she was far too lame a sight for her usual tactics to have much effect.
He shrugged and presented a scrap of paper. She squinted at it, and took another gulp. "Whazzat?"
"Jacks put coin on yer head."
The bottle slipped in her fingers. She almost dropped it; reflexes honed by years of drinking saved it. "Jacks what?"
Brindle turned the paper around to look at it. Since he could read only marginally better than she, Zhi cold only assume he was highly enjoying himself. Scrag.
"Th'name 'Melodia' ringin' yer bells, boss?"
"Sonuva ship's whore, that--"
The ranting carried on for awhile.
_______________
Zhi didn't make it to Her Highness. The day passed, and she skulked. The day was for daytrippers. The night was for keepers.
Streetrunners didn't get pinned with bounties. Not generally. They kept to the underside of things. They were facilitators. They kept their noses to the ground, their ears open, and slid around just outside of everyone's immediate attention. They weren't worth the effort, even as they curried favors and cultivated connections. They were sly, sneaky bastards. Streetrunners didn't get caught.
Scrags got caught.
Flit would either figure it out or he wouldn't. He'd either sulk and get over it, or he'd keep up his murderous little shitstorm and piss on her memory. Her Highness might be neutral territory, but it was also one of her frequent haunts, and there was one real entrance and exit. Any number of idiots could be waiting for her, the sort looking to curry favor with jacks. The sort that three thousand gil meant food and shelter for a moon. It wasn't exactly the sort of attention she wanted to bring to herself so soon off the dock; she'd be a laughingstock to get caught up in hunters. More than she already was. Shit.
It wasn't until sunset that Zhi walked the streets, climbed spires, trotted over rooftops and ran over and around the city. She'd said Her Highness, she made her way to Scuttlebutt, after a few careful questions of those she knew wouldn't bother with such a bounty. The snickering got under her skin, but she only showed her own self-deprecation. Okay, and maybe a little irritation. Only a little.
She wound up at the edge of the open-air gambling den, no drinks or smokes to keep her company. She was on edge. A hat had been donned, covering her ears; her tail had been wrapped up under a wide sash. She'd dressed the part of a skinny boy. Listening was made more difficult by the hat, but it was necessary; she gleaned what she could, playing a few rounds here and there -- she kept herself even, neither winning too much or losing too often.
Flit either would find her, or she'd find him again, in his shitty, smelly apartment with his blade between them.
Fun times.
He got a few kicks in before she roused, still inebriated and with more to spare. She had a bottle to her lips (she'd fallen asleep with it clasped to her chest; it accounted for the smell since half of what had been left had dribbled out) before Brindle had the chance to start speaking. Disgust wrinkled up his nose as he watched her, distracted from his original intent. "Already?"
Her eyes were bloodshot as she stared him down. Unfortunately for her, she was far too lame a sight for her usual tactics to have much effect.
He shrugged and presented a scrap of paper. She squinted at it, and took another gulp. "Whazzat?"
"Jacks put coin on yer head."
The bottle slipped in her fingers. She almost dropped it; reflexes honed by years of drinking saved it. "Jacks what?"
Brindle turned the paper around to look at it. Since he could read only marginally better than she, Zhi cold only assume he was highly enjoying himself. Scrag.
"Th'name 'Melodia' ringin' yer bells, boss?"
"Sonuva ship's whore, that--"
The ranting carried on for awhile.
_______________
Zhi didn't make it to Her Highness. The day passed, and she skulked. The day was for daytrippers. The night was for keepers.
Streetrunners didn't get pinned with bounties. Not generally. They kept to the underside of things. They were facilitators. They kept their noses to the ground, their ears open, and slid around just outside of everyone's immediate attention. They weren't worth the effort, even as they curried favors and cultivated connections. They were sly, sneaky bastards. Streetrunners didn't get caught.
Scrags got caught.
Flit would either figure it out or he wouldn't. He'd either sulk and get over it, or he'd keep up his murderous little shitstorm and piss on her memory. Her Highness might be neutral territory, but it was also one of her frequent haunts, and there was one real entrance and exit. Any number of idiots could be waiting for her, the sort looking to curry favor with jacks. The sort that three thousand gil meant food and shelter for a moon. It wasn't exactly the sort of attention she wanted to bring to herself so soon off the dock; she'd be a laughingstock to get caught up in hunters. More than she already was. Shit.
It wasn't until sunset that Zhi walked the streets, climbed spires, trotted over rooftops and ran over and around the city. She'd said Her Highness, she made her way to Scuttlebutt, after a few careful questions of those she knew wouldn't bother with such a bounty. The snickering got under her skin, but she only showed her own self-deprecation. Okay, and maybe a little irritation. Only a little.
She wound up at the edge of the open-air gambling den, no drinks or smokes to keep her company. She was on edge. A hat had been donned, covering her ears; her tail had been wrapped up under a wide sash. She'd dressed the part of a skinny boy. Listening was made more difficult by the hat, but it was necessary; she gleaned what she could, playing a few rounds here and there -- she kept herself even, neither winning too much or losing too often.
Flit either would find her, or she'd find him again, in his shitty, smelly apartment with his blade between them.
Fun times.
