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StarHearts

Part 1: Darkened Horizon

Ch 2: The Calm Before

Even though it had been raining, the weather throughout the day was mild with no wind or torrential downpours flooding the streets—but it was a touch chilly. Nothing bad enough to dissuade customers from coming in to get dry and then get a drink to warm themselves up. If anything, the cold brought more people in for a quick sip of heat. Then they would dance to shake the cold out of their bodies. Then they would drink. And dance. Drink. Dance. Drink again—the rhythm of the club played out as it always did as humans and synths both mingled in and out of view before the bar. Careful hands worked away at drying a highball, inspecting its shine before setting it under the counter and moving to the next.

Last call would be soon, and only then did he expect the sea of bodies to start thinning, the ebb of motion falling to his periphery as the barkeeper turned to his inner catalogue to start inventorying the drinks already sold a bit early. Few things could surprise a bartender on last shift, yet surprised he was when he registered a [NEW PATRON] approaching his station at such a late hour.

She rolled in like a storm cloud, standing tall on the horizon while threatening rain and thunder in her wake.

Chin lifting to attention, the synth took a quick, slightly baffled assessment of his guest, sensory array shifting across his head in a flutter that betrayed his amusement. “Well well welcome to The Calm Before lounge,” he greeted with quiet playfulness.

She smiled, her shawl—soggy and barely retaining any volume at all, not unlike her hair—shifting down her shoulders just a touch as she sat on a stool directly in front of him.

He cracked his own grin, not too wide, before giving the glass in his hands a final wipe so he could spare her his full attention. “Can’t say I’ve seen you in here before?”

“Well, since I’ve never been, I’d be concerned if you had,” she replied, laying her clutch on the polished bartop.

The tone of her voice gave him pause as he made to ask what she wanted to start with. It was playful, yes, but rather than flirtatious and smooth like so many women tried to give him, hers was coarse. Tired, even. The kind of voice better suited to sharing dry wit and rueful sarcasm among friends, not for buttering up a booze dealer right before closing time.

A more genuine crook of his mouth betrayed the curiosity that wrapped through his code. “Long day?”

“Something like that, yeah.” The woman gave a deep sigh that heaved her chest before she clutched her damp shawl closer, attention traveling back toward the door for a moment. “I’m just here for a drink while I wait.”

A few ideas passed through his mind of what she might want, one hand lingering on the neck of a bottle just under the counter expectantly. “Someone comin’ to get you?”

A glitter of her eyes as they turned from the entry back to him kept his hand from grabbing anything, the blue color vibrant as the sky itself and alert despite what he noticed wasn’t some odd makeup trend or the result of rain marring her mascara. Dark circles made deeper by the dim golden lights of the lounge casting their unflattering shadows gave her face an edge of tired danger—or desperation. “Genuinely, I hope not,” she answered plainly, fingers drumming the counter as she shifted in her seat, clearly uncomfortable.

Given she was soaking wet, the bartender mused over how clingy and chaffed her dress was making her. It was already bunching in places that fabric didn’t need to bunch in, and he didn’t doubt if he checked there would be a puddle of water under her feet from the mop of hair that clung to her neck in spirals. Faintly, he thought she was shivering and for a moment, he likened her to a wet cat just brought in from the rain and had to bite back the urge to laugh.

“Anyway.”

His attention snapped back, his array roiling again as he shrugged off the unprofessional urge to tease her if he had any hope of her tipping. Before she could prod him about his silence, the synth let practiced words roll off his tongue, “You look like you need something hot,” while pulling and spinning a pour-stoppered bottle and a glass mug out from below the bar.

A huff of a giggle told him he was right, her red tinted lips thinning with amusement. “Well, the bouncer did say if I got a toddy it was on him.”

Only for a fraction of a second, barely visible to a human’s eye, did his body hiccup and pause before auto-engaging the steps to gather hot water and the other fixings. This at least let him reassess what he’d just experienced with a more critical mind without drawing attention. Voice calm and smooth as he wondered, “Lemon or lime?” toward her, back to his guest, he decided, I’m thinking top shelf, when selecting the whiskey he wanted, barely minding the movement along the bar as another patron came to collect a drink.

“Isn’t it with lemon?” the woman wondered back, his eyes making note of the white button up appearing down the way from him. One of the others had come back from their smoke break finally, giving him a good reason to send a note through the ServerSync network as they punched in on the register at the end of the bar.

“Yeah,” he answered back vocally, barely a second passing as he sent the encrypted equivalent of a sticky note to the staff— the wet one with blue eyes is mine . “I like mine with lime, though. It’s tangier.” Within milliseconds, there were three blips on his note as the servers acknowledged his claim.

“Well, I’m a sucker for tangy so I’ll try it.”

Pleased with himself, the synth turned to grab a kettle only to scowl as he realised the earlier motion of a patron had been someone sidling his way to the blue eyed beauty while his back was turned. This one had been knocking back everything he could tonight, the stink of alcohol thick as he breathed, body swaying on invisible waves far too close to the woman for anyone’s comfort. “I gotta’r drink if’ya make two,” the man warbled, his eyes so heavy lidded and glazed with booze it was a wonder he could see straight enough to make it to the bar, let alone talk to someone.

The synth’s jaw squeezed as he kept his temper down, array raising across his skull warningly, but the woman seemed unbothered by the incursion. Her smile was gone and the light in her eyes dimmed to icy disks, but she was alert nonetheless, her hand coming up to cover her nose; the man’s body swayed which made her lean from him before her hand turned to block his mouth as he rocked back, seemingly pushing him without laying a finger on him. “Juleps aren’t as good without mint in them, maybe have a few before you come talking to someone next time.”

It was harder to fight the laugh back this time, especially as the drunk man’s face reddened with embarrassment, then anger, his expressions too exaggerated to ignore as the emotions slowly picked their way through his alcohol infused brain. “You rude bit—” he started to blurt, getting cut off by the clatter of a glass mug and whiskey bottle landing firmly on the bartop beside him.

Jumping out of his skin nearly, the human man shrank back, the ruddy color of his face draining to white under the flaring halo of the synth barkeeper’s sensory array. Standing at his full height with his shoulders squared, he was larger than the bouncer and even more sturdy, voice a low thrum of thunder on a dark night. “How ‘bout you leave her alone, hm?”

Quaking from his head to his boots, the man only managed a squeak back.

Just then, the other bartender chimed in from an arm’s length away, cutting the fuse threatening to blow the lounge sky high if the idiot didn’t take the warning gracefully. “Sir, I can help you over here.”

Both synth and human were grateful the drunk took the offer to skedaddle away, unharmed.

Danger avoided, the array stopped glowing, settling back into its relaxed position against the synth’s head. He exhaled slowly, attention settling on the woman who still sat, unbothered by anything but her wet minidress and the cold water in her underwear. “Are you alright?” he asked quietly, doing what he could to grab a pot and fill it with hot water from the bar’s coffee maker without having to turn away again.

“Me?” she blurted, confused. “I’m fine.”

Head tilting slightly, the synth’s brow creased. “Wasn’t he bothering you?”

“Well yeah, but it’s fine. He’s drunk and he backed off pretty fast, so there’s no reason to stay mad about it.”

The bartender huffed, Easy for you then , to himself while carefully maneuvering the pot into place without dribbling scalding water everywhere.

Not a beat later, the woman, having been leaning over the counter top somewhat to peer behind the bar, chirped, “So you’re actually that tall? And here I thought there was a riser you were standing on.”

The synth chuckled, feeling the simmer of anger bubble away as he kept his focus on the soggy cat who got her smile back, just slightly. “What can I say?” he mused while running through the steps of crafting the elusive toddy before the water went cold. “I’m built different.”

“Built Old World, you mean?”

Her words made him stop completely, gaze locked on his hands for a moment before slowly creeping upward across the bar to the thin lines of her fingers folded at the edge—one set organic and flesh, the other silicone and fiberglass etched with subtle detail work he wanted to admire for a moment but couldn’t—then onto the rich, dark blue of her dress that still clung to her body in a disheveled and ill fitting way despite her full chest. Against better judgement he lingered on that line of cleavage just a tad longer than intended even as it guided him up her neck to her face, eyes still bright with awareness and just a touch of mischief now. Wary, the synth started moving again, but his focus stayed on her, their gazes locked until he finally managed, “How can you tell?”

Leaning in, that distracting flash of cleavage pressed into her hands at the bar's edge, making it more pronounced—and putting it directly in his line of sight as he mixed her toddy. “You just told me,” her voice cooed, now a perfectly smooth flirtation as he’d expected earlier from her. Was she toying with him?

The notion brought a welcome tension to his back as he considered the time.

But then he remembered the toddy.

Wrapping up the steps, the synth set her drink down and cleaned up his mess in record time, unusually silent though the human wouldn’t know that about him. Sitting back, she took her drink and gave it a gentle puff before sipping.

Her eyes glittered as they widened, making the bartender pause, his gaze stuck watching every small movement now from the way her shawl fell from her shoulder onto the stool to the how she lifted one hand from the mug and covered her mouth in disbelief. “Wait, that’s actually really good!” she blurted, all facade of seduction or confidence melting away under the sour heat of the toddy. For a moment it was as if a completely different person sat on the stool in front of him, still a wet cat of a human but the energy of her presence had shifted abruptly somehow.

It was fascinating to watch someone’s mask fall away, and partly the reason he liked tending the bar in the first place.

Soft cyan eyes drew his attention once more over the rim of the mug as the woman took a longer drink, the tension in her shoulders falling away under the weight of the whiskey. He almost couldn’t keep it up, choosing to wipe his hands down with a rag to avoid staring too much. Somehow, she was captivating even when drowned by the rain.

He found himself wondering if she still would be when she was dry and properly dressed.

Dressed? Sense trickled back abruptly. The toddy. The bouncer. The method. Right, right.

Yet her voice muddled his attempt to follow the steps correctly. “Thank you for the drink…?”

His head tilted. She’d trailed off with a question, which urged him to look her way despite better judgment telling him that was dangerous.

Her gaze flicked down over his chest and back to his face, one brow curled up as if waiting for him to figure out what she wanted. Following her intention, the synth gave himself a once over—then he laughed a bit, pinching the front of his button up between two fingers where there should have been a name tag like the others had. “When I’m on duty, everyone just calls me Z.”

“Okay, Z,” the woman hummed, gaze now roving again but this time he felt a different kind of energy in her appraisal of him—the kind he preferred when being stared at. “Thank you for the lime toddy. My name is Jenyl.”

“And thank you for giving it a try, Jenyl, ” he replied, breaking his unintended silence while returning the hungry gaze that seemed to be deciding if he was worth pouncing on.

She added on, “In all seriousness before,” the hungry look disappearing with her change in topic. “Old World synths are always over six-and-a-half feet tall. I’m not a short person but I know I have to look up at you, so you’re easily past that limit. That’s how I knew.”

All he could do was snort and chuckle. “I forget about that sometimes, I won’t lie. Now drink that while it’s hot.” With a wink, he turned to finish cleaning.

The dark rings under her eyes seemed to lighten just a bit with the camaraderie, a flush crossing her cheeks that made her a little less of a wet cat and a little more of a soggy human for a moment.

It did not change the way her cheeks seemed sunken though.

As he watched her from the corner of his eye, doing some last minute cup arranging and starting the last call, the synth named Z at last found a chance to mull over everything. Though it was not the worst case he’d ever come across, between the ‘drinks on me’ flag, her ill-fitted attire and general look of being unwell, he could only conclude that this human named Jenyl that he’d never seen before was here for a reason.

There was only ever one reason pretty girls like her came into the lounge. He needed to be helping her—not flirting with her.

That was his one rule. His only rule.

They’re brave enough to come in, so you be decent enough to get them out .

The venue crowd began to thin at last, security dipping through the back door to the dance floor to check for stragglers and waitresses clearing tables from the sitting area in front of the bar itself with no sense of urgency. Content with the evening, Z meandered back to the human and her toddy, throwing a dishrag over his shoulder for no other reason than to get her attention. “Got about twenty minutes,” he told her, kneeling down to put the bottles underneath back in alphabetical order even though they wouldn’t stay that way. “The last bus leaves in five.”

Jenyl set the mug down, having been busy swirling the last swig of toddy around the bottom but unwilling to finish it. Unbothered, she said, “I was told the last bus leaves at closing,” which prompted a slow breath as the synth let go of any ideas about booking a last minute room around the corner.

“You’re right,” he agreed, standing up and offering only a gentle, knowing smile. “How about I walk you to the stop myself once I clock out?”

A similarly kind smile returned his way. “I think I’d appreciate that, Z.”

Pretty girls like her only came to the lounge for one reason.

Because they knew that if they were brave enough to rip the chains from their ankles and dare to hope they could beat the storm, they would find a special bus that only ran after closing time at the end of the alley behind The Calm Before lounge, paid by the hand of the owner, Ven Oriz, himself to run them across the city of New Calda as far as they could get.

All they had to do was ask for the last bus before the storm hit.

Of course, not everyone knew how to ask for that, but the bartenders were all smooth talkers and under strict orders to assess any possible flags no matter how small. One such being if the bouncers offered to buy a drink, as they were the first line to see who may or may not be there for fun. Yes, there were false positives on occasion, but it always got easier once the pattern was established and a false positive was always better than a missed one.

Girls that needed help—that wanted help—had ways of letting them know once they felt safe enough to ask about the last bus.

It was his job to get them on it.

As he pondered the time it would take to walk her through the alley, the synth felt a tug of disappointment in his code. Had she actually been flirting earlier or was it a reflex? Was he making it up entirely because he thought she was fuckable and his shift was nearly over? Snorting quietly, he made himself accept the blue eyed beauty wasn’t his to ravish—and he was being a jackass for even considering it, given the circumstances. Well, no one’s perfect, he assured himself, shoulders shrugging absently while he wrung the towel through his fingers, eyes peering at the back of his right hand for a moment.

Nestled deep into the plane of his hand sat a perfectly smooth, round gemstone just a bit bigger than a duck egg the color of butter and starlight. It had been some time since he last pondered this odd feature, having gotten so used to it he’d come to see it as a natural part of his design—even though it was far from.

“That’s quite a fancy thing on your hand there,” Jenyl commented, sending a surge of panic through his circuits.

Moving quickly, Z wrapped the towel around his hand, hiding the stone—why? He wasn’t certain. He only barked, “What thing?” like a criminal caught red handed.

The woman seemed baffled by his reaction, her gaze flicking from his face to his hands and back quickly. “That?” she uttered, gesturing towards him. “Your watch?”

Relief tinged with the taste of ‘dumbass’ swept through on the heels of the panic, clearing out his system and allowing him to speak normally again. “Oh, this?” Holding up his left arm, he stepped closer to let her look at the wristwatch encircling his forearm, the inner gears and coils visible through a small window in the face. “A gift from my boss.”

“Your boss?” Jenyl’s brow raised skeptically.

“Well, the owner actually,” he grinned, winking. “I’m really good at my job.”

“I didn’t think one of The Four would be that generous. Money tends to make people selfish.”

Z’s hand twitched, grin falling as he fumbled for a reply. “What, do you know them personally or something?”

She shrugged. “No, of course not. People like that don’t show up in…” A moment of hesitation caught her, her gaze breaking away from him for a moment. “Either way, it’s not like it’s a secret or anything. The dons of this city aren’t known for being generous, regardless of their placement on the ladder of power.”

Jaw tensing again, Z tried to find something to rebuttal. To defend what he knew to be the truth–but he was blank. So he tried a different angle. “Who do you think pays for that bus you want to take?”

But frigid blue stopped his temper cold. “One generous act does not make up for a lifetime of wasted opportunity.”

What?

“It doesn’t matter anyway.”

Again, it was like a different person now sat in the chair before him, the energy drained from her body like water in a downspout. It was getting hard to keep up with, even for a synth. “What?”

Tired blue once more, Jenyl muttered, “I don’t plan to meet with any of them anyway. I’m very much done with dons, and gangs, and… everything.”

Oh. Somehow, it was too easy to forget this woman was in trouble. That he was supposed to be helping her. At least she still has her spirit, he thought deciding that a bit of snark and bad attitude was worth knowing she wasn’t a husk on her last legs. That strength would make a difference when the time came. Still, he couldn’t help a bit of teasing to try and lighten the mood, leaning on the bartop a bit and crossing his ankles. “Then what would you do if you did happen across one of The Four? Would you still call them lazy and selfish?”

“To their face?” she asked back, already continuing with the answer without a reply. “Oh, I’d say a lot more than that, but it’ll never happen. People like that don’t mingle in circles where I’m from, and I’ll be long gone before that ever changes.”

“Bold words for someone who can’t follow through. You sure you’d stay honest if given a chance?”

Jenyl scowled. “I’m always honest. It’s why I’m telling you now you’re being an ass-kissing jackhole because your boss got you a fancy watch.”

“Hey,” he snapped lightly, trying to err on humor with his tone, “I said I earned this!”

She didn’t seem to believe him but chose not to call him on it, instead scoffing as Z pulled out a small glass from the shelf that wasn’t supposed to be there among the highballs and tankards. Eventually, she settled down but her tone stayed sharp. “Better than what my boss gave me.” Turning the bourbon cup over in his hand, the synth tipped his head, indicating he was listening. Jenyl brought her right arm up, resting her forearm on the bartop to better show off the detailwork of the machinery that served to replace her original limb. Starting at her fingers, Z’s eyes roamed while he listened as the human grumbled, “Have an accident, get told not to worry about it, ‘I’ve got it covered, Jen, get better first’ and guess what?” She squeezes her hand into a fist, the mechanisms within shifting under the semi-translucent fiberglass like sheer satin. “I should have been worrying. Paycheck? What’s that? No, I get an allowance off of my tips because I ‘owe him’. I didn’t ask for this fancy ass–”

Z rocked back, hands coming up as the woman’s voice picked up and her cheeks reddened, the glimmer in her eyes now coming from tears rather than inner energy. If he had a heart, it would ache. “Hey,” his voice soothed, daring to set the glass down to wrap her delicate fingers in his for a moment—she was puny compared to him. Fragile. He only needed one to cover both of hers but there was no trying to be powerful here, so he used both hands, guilt be damned, to try and settle her. “The whiskey’s got you talking,” he chuckled, catching her turn to hide any errant tears, “but you don’t have to yell. I’m right here, I can hear you.”

He could hear her. He understood, more than she realized.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, hands squeezing in his grip. “I’m being such a bitch. I know I don’t sound it, but it’s not like I’m ungrateful for don Oriz’s help… I’m just… I’m mad.”

“I know.” He didn’t like how boney her wrist was in his grip, but medical debt was only one way girls like her were controlled. If she’d said she hadn’t eaten for a few days, he’d believe her instantly.

He knew far too well what she was dealing with.

“Well, joke’s on him,” she went on, voice wavering but firm. Pulling a hand free, Jenyl turned to face her prosthetic shoulder toward him and gestured to a large duck-egg-sized stone that glimmered like opal and crystal embedded in the shell.

Z’s entire body stilled.

“He’s the idiot that decided to put this stupid rock in my arm, so he can have it back when I sell it and use the money to buy a house somewhere far, far away from here.”

Electricity.

It ran through his body in an instant, leaving the taste of ozone and lime behind with repeating thoughts of No, she can’t, thrumming around with no way of finishing themselves. Somehow, the human didn’t notice his unexpected distress as she dabbed at her face, pushing away the tears that kept fighting to be free. There’s no fucking way. Thinking quickly, Z stepped back, forcing a sympathetic look onto his face before he lost all pretense of kindness. “Tell you what.” I need to double check this, now. He thumbed toward the kitchen door, stepping slowly back from the woman. “There’s maybe a dozen people left in here, I’m gonna see if I can dip early and take you to the bus now, alright?”

This seemed to lift her spirits and her head, her eyes regaining some amount of glimmer. “Um, okay? Yeah. I’d… appreciate that.”

“Wait right here.” Pointing to the floor, Z elbowed his way out of sight, his massive frame disappearing easily behind the white swinging door as he pulled up a neural call from his priority contact list.

Unaware of the reason for the odd shift in the synth’s demeanor, Jenyl did the polite thing by waiting in her seat, trying not to pick at her nails. What a hell of a night, she mused to herself. Footsteps passed behind her, a group of five exiting with little fanfare aside from a drunken giggle that was a bit too loud. It hasn’t even been an hour either.

Absently, the human ran her hand across her cheek, finding it still cold from the rain. The toddy had been nice, but she needed dry clothes. And a nap.

Gripping her clutch and the wad of bills smashed inside it, she huffed. It would be a long while before she got anything of her own.

I wish I’d had a chance to change. Jeans would itch but they’re better than this old thing.

More footsteps behind her, milling about. A waiter with a bag of trash whisked by at the edge of her vision.

She waited politely, thinking about the night. About the handsome synth that gave her a lime toddy and lamenting that he bought into the bullshit that Ven Oriz was anything but another criminal exploiting the vulnerable and having more money than any one person should. If he wasn’t a dope, he’d be cuter. But she knew it wasn’t his fault.

That’s just how they worked.

Ven Oriz.

Locke Tyro.

Kilais Nossun.

Ambere Anterre.

Their statuses and reputations hardly mattered when it was an open secret they each had hands in the criminal underbelly of New Calda but being powerful and influential in and out of those circles somehow felt worse, as they could—and did—hide their activities from the regular citizens so well it seemed like those who knew were being gaslit. Then again, she knew she was jaded due to the unfortunate reality that Jenyl was one of the ones who did know—far too much about way too many people and the things they shouldn’t be doing because of a simple lapse in judgement when she was at her lowest point. Or at least the lowest she’d yet to be before he came along and pushed her further and further down with every promise, every request—every warning.

Carlo Valdez thought himself wealthy and influential. The kind that would turn heads and get favors by name alone—he thought himself worthy of the power wielded by those far above his station but in truth he was a fraud. Jenyl knew this. Other crimelords knew this.

He’d inherited his racket from the previous boss—not by nepotism, but pure luck and he’d squandered it horrifically on things that made him look powerful but amounted to very little.

Allegedly, the rock stuck in her arm was one of those grand money sinks he was known for, though this one came in the form of a pending payout that would make up for all of his spending. One day.

Allegedly.

He never fully explained what it was that his goons found among the old boss’s hoarded treasures, but Jenyl knew he not only thought it would bail his ass out of debt, but that he cared for that rock more than he did her.

It would be nice to give it back, with interest.

More footsteps.

Jenyl pulled her clutch to her chest, waiting for them to pass. For Z to come back. If I had time, I wouldn’t mind a ride on something else before the bus, she mused, legs tensing. He might be a dope but he’s handsome so it’s enough for one night. She sighed, knowing it wouldn't happen.

At least the next time she got the chance, it would still be on her terms. The idea was enough to turn her mouth up ever-so-slightly at the corners.

The footsteps came closer, the air shifting around her on either side. Jenyl stilled, eyes locked on the bartop. A distinct cologne wafted across her nose, a burnt wood and old brandy kind of odor that she knew terribly well. “Dammit,” she muttered, feeling both of her elbows being seized by the black-suited men on either side of her.

“D’you really think you’d slip out unnoticed?” the one on her right rumbled, his grip jerking her slightly to force her from her seat. “Every pimp in the lower quarter has eyes on this place. They all know tramps like you come through here tryin’ to run an’ they love ta talk. You ain’t the first of the boss’s girls to make a break for it.”

At her left, the other snapped while yanking her clutch from her grip, “Just come quietly an’ you’ll get out of this mostly unharmed.”

“Mostly?” she coughed, wanting to grab at her clutch but knowing better. “Yeah, I doubt that.”

“The boss is a forgiving man,” the first assured with no sense of genuine care in his voice. “As long as ya apologize properly that is.”

“Like hell—”

The kitchen door swung open with a creak.

Z stopped dead in the entryway.

Jenyl’s heart thrummed into her throat—she wanted to tell him to go back. To stay in the kitchen.

She could feel the men reaching for their weapons, even if she couldn’t see them. They wouldn’t draw them yet unless they intended to fire.

Don’t give them a reason to fire.

“Uh,” Z’s voice warbled, face twisted in a moment of deep confusion as he took in the strangers in black and the empty, resigned mask Jenyl put on the moment she felt them approach. “Gentlemen… is there a problem?”

She watched him step near the bar but the two flanking her warned against that very quickly. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. A friend’a ours wants to meet with the lil lady, that’s all. Don’t go pushin’ any buttons and alertin’ no cops now or we’ll have a problem, alright?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that.” Z kept his hands up and off the bar, that charming grin returning–Jenyl’s brow creased. What the hell was he smiling about? “But see, I had a deal with the lil miss,” he nodded toward Jenyl, making her heart sink as his array fluttered across his head to full attention. The goons shifted, seeming aware he was doing something . “I’m not much fond of breaking deals.”

It didn’t surprise her at all that the idiots Valdez hired couldn’t read a room. “Tell ya what, let us make this quick an’ ya can have what’s left of her to do whatever ya want.”

Z hummed a low, warning tone. “See… I don’t really like that option either.”

The lights of the lounge wavered, dimming out and returning in sporadic waves. The goons in black both flinched as they looked around for the source of the surge, each pulling their guns free in defensive positions—they let Jenyl go, nearly smashing her between them as they went to stand back-to-back. Stumbling out from them, Jenyl managed to look up for a second, planning to beg Z to let it go before someone got hurt—

Fear sealed her throat from making any noise.

Beautiful, pure crimson.

That had been the color of the synth’s eyes when she first looked into them. An unusual color, unfriendly even, but so very eye-catching as she watched his face and the way his expression lines creased when he smiled. They were still that brilliant color as he stared down don Valdez’s lackeys but where they had been set into calm, white scleras just moments before, she now found herself peering into furious darkness which fed the red until they shined with malicious intent.

It was the same synth as before, but Z was nowhere to be found.

Chairs clattered to the floor.

Someone shouted.

Jenyl stumbled, falling against the bar—she ducked, hearing heavy feet land next to her.

“HEY!”

She whirled, barely recognizing the synth beside her as one of the goons flipped around, gun aimed their way—but Z was faster, hurling a barstool at the man before he could think to pull the trigger. In the same motion, the red-eyed bot turned and—still somehow grinning—chirped, “‘Scuse me, milady,” before wrapping his arms around her knees and hauling.

Jenyl, her throat burning with fear and bile, yelped. Everything moved so quickly—security was descending like ants on honey, the goons firing blindly into the lounge bathed in back up light and little else. Somehow, the power had gone out, leaving them blind. They shouted again. At her? She couldn’t tell. She pressed her palms to the synth’s back, trying not to knock herself out from the rough handling he gave her while booking it through a service exit at the back of the main room.

“My purse?!” she shouted as the door buckled under Z’s heavy foot, his hand going to her ass to keep her in place.

“No time!” he snapped back, pushing through into a dark hallway that swallowed the sound of gunfire and fighting.

“But–”

“Later!”

My ID—my money! She knew he was right but what was she going to do after the bus?

Another door, heavier and metallic, blocked their progress. Faintly, she thought she heard footsteps coming down the hall; the toddy in her empty stomach wanted to leave the premises, post-haste.

The lock clicked—apparently Z didn’t want to kick this one down—and it swung wide. Cold, fresh air swept over them both, Jenyl’s stomach settling as she took in the sweet scent of rain—and less sweet after taste of trash and mildew. Spilling into the vacant alleyway, Z’s machine body pivoted and began a rough jog to the right, hand firmly squeezing her against his shoulder so she couldn’t wiggle free.

Eyes peeled for followers, the human squinted through the mist and her own nausea to the far end of the gap between the lounge and the next door building. There at the mouth sat a white and navy transporter, steam and smog wafting from its hot engine as it idled, unbothered. “Th-the bus?” she barked, helplessly pointing in the opposite direction from where Z was going.

He only offered a short, “Nope,” until she balled her fist and whacked him square between the shoulders. “Too risky!”

“The fuck you mean too risky—” As she snapped, Jenyl blinked against the damp and saw figures spill out from the door they had just come from, their black suits disheveled and torn. “Oh—shit.”

“Yep.”

Taking a hard left, Z skirted off the line of the alleyway under the protection of a parking garage that served the entire block’s employee parking needs, the security arm merely a hop for the massive synth whose stride carried him over with little issue. It did offer at least a chance for Jenyl, jostled from place as he shifted his weight over the bar, to sit up which forced Z’s grip to change. Cradling her in the crook of his arm, he didn’t pause to acknowledge her nor their followers, but the pressure against her body said enough for her to know she wasn’t going anywhere.

He marched up to the second floor, eyes locked forward even when she tried to get his attention. It was frustrating enough being manhandled, she at least wanted him to say something! Instead, they approached a sleek, black car—a very expensive looking car—that flashed and clicked with a silent unlock command despite Z having no keys in his hand.

“How the fuck—”

With precision, the synth snapped open the back door and flipped her into the back seat, barely missing the frame with her head. The unfamiliar red eyes and empty smile finally settled on her as Z’s mass filled the doorway, making it impossible for her to worm out. “Buckle up and be quiet,” he told her calmly but coldly. “And keep your head down.”

The door shut and locked before she could sit up, the pull-pin disappearing entirely into the mold of the door.

Trapped.

The driver’s side door opened, Z siding into the seat perfectly, no need to adjust anything except the rearview—which he tweaked to get a full image of Jenyl, his eyes still cold and brilliant red in the reflection. He could only spare a narrowed glance as the car started up, the rumble shaking her entire body—

—she whipped into the opposite door, barely managing to catch herself. Burnt rubber stung her nose, the squeal of the tires setting her teeth on edge as Z flipped a bitch toward the exit.

“I told you to buckle up,” the synth chided, seeming completely unbothered by the situation now.

“Fuck off,” Jenyl snapped back, catching a rueful grin on his face as he let out a breathy chuckle.

“Then get down.”

“What—”

Tires squealed again, Z’s foot pressing the accelerator flat to the floor. They launched forward, the twig of the security arm snapping against the hood of the car and shattering into pieces. Just barely, the human spied a few darkly-clothed bodies diving out of the way past the windows.

As they flew out of the parking garage, she dared to peer through the rear window. Two figures sprinted into the alley—the same men from before—their arms raised.

Jenyl felt a firm hand catch the underside of her dress and yank, pulling her down into the seat.

Something hard cracked against the window, a large crack forming from one corner to another.

“I said GET DOWN!”

Jenyl flinched, covering her ears as Z’s voice boomed like thunder in the enclosed space.

This time, she didn’t catch herself as he turned once more, her body sinking between the seats so her leg folded painfully under herself.

Face burning, she glared directly through the gap in the seats, meeting a level, red gaze devoid of amusement. His voice, however, still held a touch of sarcasm. “I told you to buckle up.”

It took a moment to unfold from the crevasse but once she managed to get up, Jenyl pulled herself through the center console to keep him in focus, her lip stain smeared at the edges from biting her lip. “How about you fucking talk to me, asshole! Where are you taking me?!”

“I’ll explain when we get there—”

“No, you’ll explain NOW—”

Z hit another sharp turn, Jenyl sliding back into the seat. A strap on her shoe snapped, leaving it to dangle off her toes uselessly. The smug look on the synth’s face in the mirror made her skin burn.

“Who the fuck are you?”

The grin lessened, Z’s brow raising. “‘Chu mean?”

“The watch, the car—shut up, I know this is yours, I didn’t see you use keys so it’s tuned into your personal access code. Don’t tell me it's another ‘gift’.”

“Why not?”

“No one is that good at their job, unless you’re someone's sugar baby.”

Z bellowed a laugh, the car coasting to a controlled stop at a red light that let the girl finally settle into the seat properly.

She didn’t see what was so funny. “If it’s that ridiculous then tell me who you are. None of the other cars in the garage were this nice, and the servers didn’t have watches like yours. I know both of those brands, I know they’re worth more than most people make in a year.”

“Yeah,” the synth mused, laughter subsiding. His gaze lingered in the mirror, even as he started driving again. “I suppose you’re not wrong there.”

“So who are you ‘Z’?”

Puffing playfully, he shrugged, grin widening in a way that made the hairs on her arms stand up. “Guess I’m not on shift anymore, am I?”

“Clearly.”

“Well then, you can call me Ven.”

Last:

💬 0 🔁 2 ❤️ 2 · Part 1: Darkened Horizon · StarHearts Chapter 1: The Storm Approaching There was no more fitting scene to set than a wet

Fic:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/55846960/chapters/163846222

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