"Yeah. Maybe."
A wide smile stretched across LeBlanc's face. "Yeah? That's great, man. Well, I gotta roll. These cases don't get solved by themselves."
Jett felt a jolt of curiosity, despite himself. "Cases?"
"Yep. I'm what they call a Troubleshooter. I handle cases that slip through the cracks, stuff the RCE turns a blind eye to. Looking out for the little man. For a small fee, of course."
"So, you're like a private eye or something?"
Confusion flickered across LeBlanc's face. "Nothing private about my eyes, Chief."
"That's what they were called back where I'm from. Private detectives."
"Oh." LeBlanc grinned. "Yeah, that sounds about right."
"Sounds a lot better than what I do."
"Keep your head up, man. Everyone starts at the bottom. Gotta kick and scratch your way up around here."
Jett gave a listless nod. "Yeah. Thanks."
"See you next time." LeBlanc slipped a threadbare trench coat on, swiped his holoband across the counter scanner, and strode out into the night.
Kermit chuckled, wiping a beer mug with a greasy rag. He was a hairless giant whose girth suggested he once had been a bruiser before letting flab conquer the muscle. "Piece of advice: don't go buying into the junk that comes outta LeBlanc's mouth. His one and only talent might be his gift for gab. The only reason he ain't been smoked is 'cause he can talk his way outta anything."
"So he's not really a Troubleshooter?"
"He calls himself one. Won't tell you he's gotta be the worst Troubleshooter anyone's ever seen. You meet a real Troubleshooter and you'll know what I mean. Those guys have an edge, killer instinct and all that. LeBlanc… he's just a worthless prick with delusions of grandeur. Professional snoop is about all he can claim to be."
Jett nodded and lifted his shot glass. "One more for the road."
Kermit snorted. "Whaddya take me for, a schmuck? You're tapped out, compadre. I know how much you pull, sewer rat. I'm not letting you dig a hole you can't get out of. Call it professional courtesy."
"I know what to call it." Jett swiped his holoband. The scanner flashed green and added a discreet reminder display of his remaining v-notes. The amount was embarrassing.
"Hey, listen." Kermit dropped his voice and leaned forward. "You looking to make some real scratch, let me know. Only thing sewer diving is good for is working scabs to death. There's a lot of better opportunities to get over if you know what I mean."
Jett felt an uneasy feeling settle in his stomach. "Yeah, like what?"
"You're a big dude. Lots of cats hiring on muscle all the time. I know people. Can put a good word in for you if you're interested."
Jett reached for his coat. "Let me think on it."
"You do that. When you get tired of sloshing around in other people's shit, that is." Kermit's face and tone were nonchalant, but Jett still felt the sting of contempt as he exited the bar into the frigid air outside.
Flakes drifted down, a dirty mixture of ash and snow the locals dubbed snash. It was impossible to see where it originated from since brief flashes of the sky were only visible in between the massive, sprawling, interconnected tenements and shacks that made up the heart of the maze-like Warrens. Even then, the glimpses only revealed a thick haze that prevented any true view of sky or stars. The night lights were windows on high-rise stacks that stretched to infinity and winking flashes from surveillance drones that listlessly scanned the city in periodic sweeps. A few floaters dotted the city's heights as well — flying vehicles reserved for the RCE and other city-regulated personnel, or residents rich enough to afford them. The less wealthy drove in hovering skimmers or regular wheeled cars they called rollers. Most everyone else took public transport or walked.
Jett thrust his hands in his pockets, once again regretting spending v-notes on booze instead of a good pair of gloves. Fur-lined, leather — like the ones he saw at the shop in the Garment District. He'd have to stop drinking for at least two months to afford them, and so far he just couldn't find the self-discipline. He couldn't imagine going sober for that long and still being able to face the city.
Steam billowed from gutters and manholes, creating a fog that crawled like tentacles through the narrow streets and alleys. It was late, but streams of residents trundled along. Nearly every person had glowing goggles or holovisors that altered visual data, transforming the person's surroundings into a more palatable option of choice. Some people viewed the city as it was in its bustling, pre-Cataclysm heyday. Others walked through fantasy cities of sweeping towers and cathedrals. There were anime settings, outer space settings, anything to take the resident's minds from focusing on the filth and decay of their actual surroundings.
Neon flickered on ugly buildings, fluorescent heartbeats pulsing in the murk. Hooded and masked bruisers leaned against the walls of tattoo shops, bars, and Haze parlors, scowling and offering lewd suggestions to passersby. Prostitutes with striking wigs and painted faces stood under bright lights to disguise the sags and wrinkles of their well-worn bodies, sidling up to anyone who met their gaze. Occasionally screams and cries for help echoed out of the dark alleyways.
Jett kept his head down and his eyes straight, having learned better than to stare or even greet anyone he passed. Too many near-violent encounters from twitchy gang members, tough acts, or plain old robbers. Too many sultry whispers from night ladies who immediately sensed his loneliness, the dull ache for intimacy he tried so hard to bury.
He continued his sludgy trek home, a shadow in a city of shadows; a whisper in a city of shouts.
He was nearly there when someone brushed past him, running at top speed before cutting into an alley. The runner was small, lithe, fast, and dressed in loose, baggy black clothes with a heavy hood like nearly everyone in the city. The universal dress code seemed a collective, unconscious response to the spy drones. When everyone was hooded or masked, it was harder to ID any one individual.
Jett immediately checked to see if he'd been pick-pocketed before remembering he had nothing to steal. Shouts rang out behind him, and he sprang back against a wall as a gang of men ran past, faces obscured by hoods and masks. Had to be toughs, as they were called. In his day there known as thugs, gangsters, or as he used to call them: target practice. He counted at least fifteen, all who followed the runner down the alley. One of them spoke in a guttural voice.
"Dead end. Got her now."
Her.
Jett pulled his hood over his head, trying to steady his beating heart. Go home. Nothing you can do. Nothing you haven't seen before.
He slowly walked past the alley. Head down, eyes straight. The drones would pick it up. The RCE would take care of the situation. Even if they didn't, there was no reason for him to get involved. Not without putting his own life at risk.
Raise hell, die well.
The phantom phrase stopped Jett in his tracks. He hadn't thought of the words since he awakened from stasis. They were part of the past. Part of his old life. They were dead, just like him.
He raised his head. Looked down the alley.
The toughs surrounded the girl, who defiantly stared them down. Her hands balled into fists.
"Get away from me. I'm warning you…"
They gathered around, leering and giggling while they shoved her around. She took a swing at one of them, surprising him with a stiff right hook. He dropped to the ground, holding his jaw. The rest of the gang just laughed.
"Look her stupid face. Jade got stugs."
"You got stugs, jade? Lemme see 'em."
"Ha. We cut 'em off, make jade again."
"Jade look too pretty. We fix that."
"Yeah, we fix her up good. Who first?"