The Turncoat

Corporate Tech                                   Father Turncoat “They took it all from us. So we goin’ t’ take it all from them, just you wait.”

[mediawarboy-deactivated20180725]

Jet winced and nodded. He knew how foolish he must sound, and probably a whole lot more suspicious than he’d hoped to seem. The line between caution and paranoia was becoming increasingly blurred, but the line between caution and trust was even more so. He wanted to believe this man was trustworthy – hell, at this point he could tell that Mason was genuinely concerned for his, his son’s, and the city’s wellbeing – but he couldn’t trust the system to which he was attached. Not now, not yet.

“I appreciate what you’re doing, what you’ve done. You’ve got to believe that,” Jet said. He paused and shook his head. “I’ve done enough damage in my past. I left it behind, and I thought it would forget me as well, let me alone. But it looks like I’m still the same stupid fool,” he finished bitterly.

Jet let Bode sweep the house – little more than a large garage and two rooms, one for Dagen and one for Riley and him, and a narrow bathroom. After the all-clear, he felt some of the tension leave his chest. No bodies meant no deaths. No note meant they hadn’t gotten ahold of Riley or Dagen. Whether it was luck or something else, Jet wasn’t going to count his stars.

He flipped the light-switch, and the lights flickered on with a dull hum. He passed through Dagen’s room, relieved to see it hadn’t been significantly destroyed. Theirs, however, had been thoroughly ransacked, the crooked drawers emptied and their contents scattered, the sheets ripped off and the mattress cut open, white stuffing littering the floor. Jet glanced over his shoulder to make sure Mason was otherwise occupied before shoving the mattress aside and kneeling by the white electrical outlet. He gently pulled it off the wall, the plastic cover giving way after a firm tug, and grabbed the plastic bag nestled under the rubber-coated wires. The small black drive was still present, and he tucked it into his pocket with a sigh of relief, replacing the outlet cover with a click.

He returned to the garage, kicking aside a piece of the distributor Riley and Dagen had been working on. A spark of anger, hot and sharp, briefly filled his belly and he wanted to curse Arasaka, the corps, the universe hell-bent on making his life miserable no matter how he tried to redeem himself. As quickly as it had come the anger deflated and he only felt a kind of defeated numbness.

It was time to move on, again, and do what he did best: run away.

“Do you have a holo I could borrow?” Jet asked. “I need to get ahold of Dagen. Maybe he’ll know where Riley is too.”

“And…” he fumbled for the right words, “thank you. I know you’re trying to do good, officer. That’s a mighty rare thing around here.” He just hoped the cop wouldn’t say anything about the various bits of poached parts being refitted for not-so-legal resale.

He paused, suddenly, when he heard footsteps in the corridor slowly approaching. He quickly shuffled towards the wall with a quick glance at the cop, picking up a discarded metal bat on the ground and palming it.

Riley leaned against the crumbling brick wall of the abandoned parking lot opposite their apartment, eyes glued to the cop car parked across from the garage. He was momentarily shocked to see his father emerge from the car, followed closely by a dark-haired cop with a perpetual scowl. He frowned and ignored the loosening in his chest at seeing his father unharmed. So what, he’d been, maybe, a little worried. But Jet was alright, or so it seemed. He looked shaken, nervous, maybe more than usual which was saying a lot for him.They went into the building, the cop first, and Riley waited a few seconds after they’d disappeared before jogging towards the car. He peered through the window, assessing the contents, the license plate. It all looked fairly legitimate, not some booster-stolen piece or replica used to harass unsuspecting law-abiding citizens. It was a Max-Tac vehicle, so the kind of cops that would stop you for legitimately breaking the law rather than because someone powerful ordered them too. Not that it changed much – the cops were just as guilty in Riley’s eyes, ignoring the deceit and the corruption, failing to make any changes that really mattered, willfully blind to the corporations slowly poisoning the city. They were just a hindrance, a failure. And when the law failed, when the police failed, it was time for someone else to take a stand and ignite the necessary changes.

He knew they wouldn’t find anything in there except maybe a mess. He’d seen the men arrive, less than an hour ago under the cover of heavy darkness. He’d been on his way home, a few hours late after a recon mission had gone slightly south, when he’d noticed an unfamiliar vehicle parked close to the garage. He’d missed the men coming in, but had managed to film them coming out less than a half-hour later. He’d also caught the license plate number, but he knew with near certainty it was likely fake, registered to some poor John Doe in West Hill whose license plate was probably missing.

Riley hesitated, then walked into the building. He heard voices echoing down the hall, his father’s and the cops, both deep and low. He deliberately weighed his footfalls so he wouldn’t accidentally surprise them and get himself shot by a panicked cop.

When he emerged at the doorway, he raised his hands.

“Hope you ain’t gonna shoot an unarmed kid,” Riley said, glancing from his father holding a bat to the cop. “That’d be a stain on your record wouldn’t it.”

“And if you’re looking for the suit and his henchman, you missed ‘em by ‘bout a half-hour.”

[newvegascrow-blog]

he doesn’t say anything else at jets words, though he didn’t miss the slight delving into some of the mess - no doubt searching for whatever that thing was that he’d - liberated - from those people who, from the looks of things, were pretty determined to get it back.  he’s already said his piece - there’s not so much more to add.  if there was no report of stolen item, then bode couldn’t exactly take the guy in for the theft.  and it sounded like the kind of thing that was a little too delicate to show up on any kind of theft report that he’d ever come across… a little above the usual level of petty crime.  it was up to jet what he did.  whether he decided to keep on keein’ on - making the same moves and living in the slim hope that whoever wanted their property returned would either give up or lose his trail.  from the looks of things – that was pretty damn unlikely.  it does bring to mind a certain something he’d once heard before –

“*Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. - Albert Einstein 

and einstein was a pretty smart guy all in all.  he could only hope that jet finally wised up to the reality of that phrase.

and in all honesty, he could give less of a crap about whatever in the apartment might be legal or not.  this was him going out on a limb for someone, and with the appearance of a face at the door, it didn’t seem as though he needed to step out any more.  

brow just cocks at the comment from the kid.  but there’s no inclination to answer, because the gun isn’t actually pointed and he’s really not interested in picking up that as a discussion point.  what he does have, is two suspects with shot out kneecaps and a potential link to a chem ring to deal with.  because yeah, all that paperwork and questioning was still lingering - looming - in bode’s near future somewhere.  fantastic.  

“look, it’s up to you if you wanna call this in as a robbery - a team’ll come down and check it out.”  

max-tac didn’t exactly do breaking and entering.  didn’t do robbery.  didn’t do so much other than attempting to put their lives on the line when it might count - when it might save a life - and limiting any collateral damage.  though he guesses, with that kind of backstory, they’ll just take the hit and go from there.  he can’t see jet calling anything in…

“still need you to come to the station and make a statement about the other - incident.”

meaning - not this one - but the piranha and his pistol armed pal from the alleyway.  he’d done jet a favour by coming here - could have hauled him in right there and then. so maybe, a little actual cooperation in this at least would be a nice return.  but he does turn his attention to the kid -   – 

“riley, right?  i ain’t lookin’ for anyone.”

there’s a shrug.  there’s no one to look - for.  there’s no crime other than the breaking and entering and unless it was called in – then it didn’t happen.  if jet decides he can’t trust cops, then bode isn’t gonna force his hand and report it either.  just another null event, swept under the carpet.  

people made their own choices. sometimes stupid fucking choices. but their choices none the less…

[turncoatjet-blog]

When Riley passed through the doorway, his hands raised with a look of suspicion planted on the cop beside him, Jet choked out a sigh of relief. The bat slipped from between his fingers and clattered to the floor. He rushed over and pulled Riley into a firm hug.

“You’re alright,” he muttered against Riley’s hair. When he pulled away he took a moment to check Riley for injuries, holding his son’s face in his hands and ignoring the impatient glare he was receiving for his pains. “We’re getting you a new phone. Have you seen Dagen? Is he alright?”

Jet finally stepped away, keeping one hand on Riley’s shoulder and nodded at the officer.

“Thank you for all your help, Officer Mason,” he said. “Truly. I… don’t want to seem ungrateful. You saved my life, and you brought me here when I asked. I apologize if I’ve put you in a bad spot,” he thought of the strict hierarchy of his former work under Arasaka where independent or unauthorized projects were usually met with a severe talk-down in the best case. “And… I will issue a statement for you should you need it.” He glanced around the room. If Max-Tac wanted to investigate this, what would they find? At the most, evidence of a break-in. Perhaps it would offer Dagen some measure of closure and compensation to have an investigation, but perhaps not. Dagen’s work wasn’t quite ‘legal,’ and excessive prying might hinder his friend more than help him.

“I don’t think there is much else to report,” he admitted with a sigh. “Whatever you think is best.”

[turncoatjet-blog]

Jet and Open | Lost in Chaos

Jet stumbled out of the bar, almost tripping over the cracked curb and into the street. It was still lively at a quarter past two in the Old Downtown, boosters and hookers marketing their wares along the streets. Bums less (or more) fortunate than he curled up in the gutters and ignored the bustle around them, snoring softly. Neon signs and lights blinked and stuttered in the dark alleys, inviting late-night customers. For the third night in a row, Jet was inebriated beyond what was probably wise, the cheap whiskey keeping him warm despite the cool Night City air. Most importantly, it numbed everything. While the spirit flowed through his veins, he forgot about the sleepless nights, the constant worry after Riley, the persistent tingle that forced him to glance over his shoulder every five minutes or less in fear of hostile eyes. He was abruptly jostled to the side as someone darted past him, a red sequined purse in hand. A woman in black heels pursued him minutes later, yelling and cursing and sobbing. No-one stopped to help, and Jet watched numbly as the thief wove through the thin crowd, quickly gaining distance before disappearing around the block.

‘Is this what the world has been reduced to?’ he thought. ‘Chaos and crime reigning supreme.’ It didn’t matter whether you lived in West Hill and worked for the biggest companies in the corporate sector, or slummed it out in the dingiest part of the Old Downtown – corruption and disorder permeated everything. Whatever God had once created the world had long abandoned Night City to the murderers, the thieves, the corrupt, and the cruel. The only way to survive was to keep your head down, ignore the wrong, and scavenge what you could to live. If it could be called that.

He paused in front of another bar, the whiskey buzz already beginning to wear off in the cold. He’d been building up his tolerance frightfully quickly, and it probably should have suggested that he should stop, or at least slow down. Jet dug into his pockets and counted a few coins of change. He sighed and kept on walking. Lost in thought, he didn’t notice that he’d nearly run into someone until they said something.

“Sorry,” he muttered, glancing up. “M’sorry.” He suddenly noticed that they’d dropped something and cursed, kneeling to help pick it up. “Shit, I’m pretty clumsy tonight. S’one of those days, y’know?” His words and pathetic apologies still slurred together.

[ripperdxc]

  It was frightful really, just how easy it was to be coaxed by a glass at the end of the day. If there was anything he feared more it was the bottom of the bottle. It was a dark place to be. Knew what dependency could do to a man, but not through experience but through observation, he had seen and helped more than a few to recover from their habits over the years. Another startling figure that he tried not to dwell on too much. Especially since a large number of them were close friends. Some more volatile cases than the others. He thought of Marlowe and his damnable magnetism to anything destructive. It was enough to put him off his drink, to slide down from the stool he’d been occupying by the bar and head for the door. Dark wash coat open and flared behind him with each step, it was cotton, real cotton none of the scratchy synthetic that dominated the stores these days. If it wasn’t polyester, then it was at least half a century old. His coat was no exception.

  The signs of age tarnished into the dark fabric, scruffy around the hem, but it reminded him of home. That and his well-loved beaten copy of the Iliad that’d travelled with him from London were all he had left. Tokens of another life that he couldn’t seem to let go. At the very least the coat kept him absurdly warm, unneeded on a warm summer’s evening like tonight, but nonetheless he couldn’t part from it. “Pardon me,” he spoke quietly as someone drifted into his path, the scent of whiskey strong enough that Vince nearly offered out a hand to steady him. It wasn’t until he stood that it sunk in why he was so familiar.

  “Jet?”

  They had met once, briefly, but Vincent had never been the type to forget a name or a face once he’d learnt one. “It’s fine, are you okay?” There’s a thread of concern to his voice that shows in the obvious way his brows knit together, takes the dropped object from Jet, a piece of medical equipment that he never leaves home without. It was reliant on a handheld, a little dated in that sense, but that was partially down to Vincent’s reluctance to be augmented. The notion of having technology crammed into him is a little frightening and he would like to keep well away from it.

  “Think it’d be a good idea if you came and sat down for a while,” he gestured to one of the booths behind them a little further into the bar. “Maybe some water?”

[turncoatjet-blog]

Jet blinked once, twice. He knew he was staring, but in the drink-blurred darkness, it was difficult to make out the man addressing him by name. He briefly tensed – any recognition now met with suspicion – but the man had used his alias, not his real name, and after a drawn-out moment he finally placed the kind face looking down at him.

“Oh,” he coughed. “Doctor… forgive me, I’m awful with names,” he said nervously. “Vin…cent was it?” He remembered now, the worn business card folded at the bottom of his backpack, with thin black letters printed in a simple, straightforward font. So different from the bold, sophisticated, perfectly-aligned cards of his prior co-workers who would spend the equivalent of a shot of top-shelf whiskey for each printed card. Refreshingly simple, he’d thought.

Jet frowned, then realized he probably reeked of the spirit he’d spent the evening drowning himself in. He quickly stood upright, stumbling slightly as a wave of dizziness up-ended his self-orientation. He felt suddenly and frightfully ashamed, and averted his gaze from the doctor’s concerned look.

“It’s alright I’m… I need the air.” He said. “But… I could use the company. Where are you headed?”

[turncoatjet-blog]

Jet and Open | Lost in Chaos

Jet stumbled out of the bar, almost tripping over the cracked curb and into the street. It was still lively at a quarter past two in the Old Downtown, boosters and hookers marketing their wares along the streets. Bums less (or more) fortunate than he curled up in the gutters and ignored the bustle around them, snoring softly. Neon signs and lights blinked and stuttered in the dark alleys, inviting late-night customers. For the third night in a row, Jet was inebriated beyond what was probably wise, the cheap whiskey keeping him warm despite the cool Night City air. Most importantly, it numbed everything. While the spirit flowed through his veins, he forgot about the sleepless nights, the constant worry after Riley, the persistent tingle that forced him to glance over his shoulder every five minutes or less in fear of hostile eyes. He was abruptly jostled to the side as someone darted past him, a red sequined purse in hand. A woman in black heels pursued him minutes later, yelling and cursing and sobbing. No-one stopped to help, and Jet watched numbly as the thief wove through the thin crowd, quickly gaining distance before disappearing around the block.

‘Is this what the world has been reduced to?’ he thought. ‘Chaos and crime reigning supreme.’ It didn’t matter whether you lived in West Hill and worked for the biggest companies in the corporate sector, or slummed it out in the dingiest part of the Old Downtown – corruption and disorder permeated everything. Whatever God had once created the world had long abandoned Night City to the murderers, the thieves, the corrupt, and the cruel. The only way to survive was to keep your head down, ignore the wrong, and scavenge what you could to live. If it could be called that.

He paused in front of another bar, the whiskey buzz already beginning to wear off in the cold. He’d been building up his tolerance frightfully quickly, and it probably should have suggested that he should stop, or at least slow down. Jet dug into his pockets and counted a few coins of change. He sighed and kept on walking. Lost in thought, he didn’t notice that he’d nearly run into someone until they said something.

“Sorry,” he muttered, glancing up. “M’sorry.” He suddenly noticed that they’d dropped something and cursed, kneeling to help pick it up. “Shit, I’m pretty clumsy tonight. S’one of those days, y’know?” His words and pathetic apologies still slurred together.

[turncoatjet-blog]

Jet tilted his head and almost smiled. “I’m not here to debate right-wrong morality. But I can assure you, ain’t nothing good could come of that information with those people.” Jet had come to make such decisions based on the estimated body count, a unit of measurement he had for too long ignored. His calculations of the repercussions of such blueprints ending up with Arasaka again were… bleak at best. A thought he did not wish to linger on.

Mason’s next words made him flinch. How did you tell a cop you wouldn’t turn in evidence because you knew, deep down, that the system was too corrupt, that the likelihood of that information ending up somewhere safe was too small for him to consider with any amount of optimism. Too many times after fleeing had he turned to a sympathetic media or cop and told them his story, and too many times had he narrowly avoided being swindled, turned in for a little cash, or simply ignored. Since then, Jet’s idea of trust was so screwed up that he couldn’t even trust himself to make any kind of decision. All he knew was that, as of yet, he’d kept that information hidden, and no-one had been hurt. Still, some inkling of hope remained in him. He could have destroyed the data, wiped out all plans and with it all evidence of his own –and Arasaka’s – wrongdoing. But something always held him back; some hope that maybe, one day, the world would be ready to accept the truth. Perhaps, too, he wondered if maybe holding on to that information guaranteed Riley and him some semblance of leverage, some small reason to keep them alive.

“I’m just weighing my options, here. Trying my best to… to do right by my son, by the people of this city. This information is my responsibility. I just,” he rubbed his face and opened the car door, “I don’t want anyone to get hurt anymore.”

Perhaps that was too much to ask now. Perhaps he had sinned too much, and this was the Gods, or Karma, or some omnipresent Galactic power punishing him for turning a blind eye to the blood on his hands.

“Holopad is broken,” Jet said morosely. “And… Riley won’t answer unknown numbers. He’s a good kid though… knows how to take care of himself. Dagen is out for the week, shouldn’t be home.” Jet prayed silently that Riley would have known, somehow, if something was off. Would have disappeared as he often did, come back later after the danger had passed. Riley was good at sensing these things, catching the details that Jet so often missed. Jet followed closely behind the cop, hands sweating. He passed by him only to unlock the door, but flinched when it opened with only slight pressure. Though the room was dimly lit, Jet could already see the tell-tale clutter of broken furniture, discarded metallurgy pieces from his workshop, and scattered paperwork. He bit back the urge to yell Riley’s name, and had no idea whether to hope for a reply or not.

[newvegascrow-blog]

he does look at the guy for a moment.  pauses when the words are spoken.  no, he can’t force him to turn state’s evidence, but apparently there’s a lot more to this – and that’s something that could be dangerous.  not just to this man and his son… but possibly to others in proximity too.  not something that settles well on the cops chest.

“y’do realise that it’s my job, right?  protect and serve?  kinda the motto, y’know?  which includes you.  and your son.  so long as your in this city.  hence…”  

the hand without the gun raises, motions into the air, a general, all encompassing gesture.  but he guesses it’s along the age old lines of the whole - rome wasn’t won in a day… yaddah, yaddah.  so right now, he wouldn’t worry about the ‘information’.  what it was… where it had come from… what potential harm it could do… other than the immediate potential harm to this man and his kid.  sometimes, you just had to deal with one job at a time - and right now, this was it.

“well if people have already gotten hurt, then maybe you can’t do that job on your own, huh?”

he shrugs, but maybe it’s something for jet to consider.  if people had been hurt before.  if people were still in danger - there was still that risk of getting hurt… especially his son - then perhaps keeping this - thing - whatever it was… under wraps… wasn’t going to end up with a happy ending - for anyone concerned…

but bode turns sidelong, falls silent as jet moves to open the door.  a headset with thermal might be handy about now - but he’s been in worse situations, less prepared.  though what he can see - from the light leaking in from outside - meant that either the guy lived in a swell of chaos, or the apartment-garage… (?) – residence… had already been turned over.  but the lazer and the low light provides enough visibility to see - to sweep the room - no apparent presence there.

moving swiftly along the hallway, taking note of the instruction jet had given him as to the layout of the building.  room to room – the same evidence of a ransacking in each of them, someone had been here, searching for - something - could be an opportunistic robbery - but from what jet had told him, it sounded far too coincidental to be a matter of timing.  but the place… other than the scattered belongings… appeared to be empty.  

“hit the lights - ain’t no one here.  but looks as though someone was here - pretty damn recently.  and if they didn’t find what they were lookin’ for, looks like you and your boy ain’t out of the red-zone just yet…”

[turncoatjet-blog]

Jet winced and nodded. He knew how foolish he must sound, and probably a whole lot more suspicious than he’d hoped to seem. The line between caution and paranoia was becoming increasingly blurred, but the line between caution and trust was even more so. He wanted to believe this man was trustworthy – hell, at this point he could tell that Mason was genuinely concerned for his, his son’s, and the city’s wellbeing – but he couldn’t trust the system to which he was attached. Not now, not yet.

“I appreciate what you’re doing, what you’ve done. You’ve got to believe that,” Jet said. He paused and shook his head. “I’ve done enough damage in my past. I left it behind, and I thought it would forget me as well, let me alone. But it looks like I’m still the same stupid fool,” he finished bitterly.

Jet let Bode sweep the house – little more than a large garage and two rooms, one for Dagen and one for Riley and him, and a narrow bathroom. After the all-clear, he felt some of the tension leave his chest. No bodies meant no deaths. No note meant they hadn’t gotten ahold of Riley or Dagen. Whether it was luck or something else, Jet wasn’t going to count his stars.

He flipped the light-switch, and the lights flickered on with a dull hum. He passed through Dagen’s room, relieved to see it hadn’t been significantly destroyed. Theirs, however, had been thoroughly ransacked, the crooked drawers emptied and their contents scattered, the sheets ripped off and the mattress cut open, white stuffing littering the floor. Jet glanced over his shoulder to make sure Mason was otherwise occupied before shoving the mattress aside and kneeling by the white electrical outlet. He gently pulled it off the wall, the plastic cover giving way after a firm tug, and grabbed the plastic bag nestled under the rubber-coated wires. The small black drive was still present, and he tucked it into his pocket with a sigh of relief, replacing the outlet cover with a click.

He returned to the garage, kicking aside a piece of the distributor Riley and Dagen had been working on. A spark of anger, hot and sharp, briefly filled his belly and he wanted to curse Arasaka, the corps, the universe hell-bent on making his life miserable no matter how he tried to redeem himself. As quickly as it had come the anger deflated and he only felt a kind of defeated numbness.

It was time to move on, again, and do what he did best: run away.

“Do you have a holo I could borrow?” Jet asked. “I need to get ahold of Dagen. Maybe he’ll know where Riley is too.”

“And…” he fumbled for the right words, “thank you. I know you’re trying to do good, officer. That’s a mighty rare thing around here.” He just hoped the cop wouldn’t say anything about the various bits of poached parts being refitted for not-so-legal resale.

He paused, suddenly, when he heard footsteps in the corridor slowly approaching. He quickly shuffled towards the wall with a quick glance at the cop, picking up a discarded metal bat on the ground and palming it.

[turncoatjet-blog]

[turncoatjet-blog]

Jet grit his teeth. The questions were putting him on edge but he also knew he needed this man on his side in case things went sour.

“Information,” he said. “Information that… can’t get into the wrong hands.” He couldn’t delve deeper, not without revealing exactly what and who he was. A risk he wasn’t willing to take just yet.

As they pulled over, Jet felt a thrill of anxiety swell in his belly. He fumbled at the car door, barely registering Mason’s words until the man used his name. Jet turned back towards him, eyes wide, and licked his lips.

“Yeah, sure.” He squeezed his eyes shut, briefly, to picture the apartment. “We live in the garage. The entrance is on the left, the red door there,” he gestured, “two stairs up and… maybe ten paces down before you turn a hard left. Door is rebar-enforced wood, one deadbolt lock, a chain lock, and two durasteel sliding latches, one up top and the other about hip-level. Only my son and I have keys. And Dagen, the… landlord.” He exhaled slowly. “That’s the only entrance. The windows above the garage maybe, but they’re maybe eight feet up. The garage door’s been rusted shut and bolted to the ground for years.”

He glanced through the car window, at the rearview mirror. Aside from the rusted speeder parked across from the neighboring apartment complex, and the usual smattering of other rundown vehicles, he didn’t see anything amiss. Either Jet’s fears were unfounded, or they were too late. He shuddered and glanced at the officer.

“You want to go first?”

[newvegascrow-blog]

i’ll take point – he catches himself… can’t talk ‘cop’ with civillians.  so there’s just a nod when jet misses the term and asks if he wants to go first.  he forgets, sometimes, that he’s dealing with people who aren’t used to this.  who don’t live and breathe constant facing up to potentially incendiary situations.  people who actually - have a life… though this one seems to be less of a life and more a dance with constant paranoia and checking over his shoulder.

“wrong hands, right hands - it’s a matter of perspective man.  pretty sure whoever thinks they deserve that info would say they were the ‘right’ hands.”

didn’t seem like any way to live to the cop.  and he doesn’t know what the info is, or why the guy took it.  maybe looking to sell it on to a higher bidder.  or through some altruistic bent to stop some perception of wrong-doing by… well, whoever he was working for at the time.

“you know, there’s always the option of turning states evidence.  anonymising the intel and getting you off the radar… witness protection and full anonymity… maybe something to bear in mind.”

he doesn’t think that it’ll happen.  though it’s an option that’s open.  especially if there’s significant risk… which there seems to be in this case.  not just to jet, but to his kid too…

there’s only a beat and bode is slipping out of the vehicle, engine drawing to a silent standstill as the keys are pocketed and he reaches for his gun… it’d be a pretty shitty day if he had to shoot - more - people.  and a hell of a lot of paperwork when he gets back to the office.  quiet observation, checking the street - and taking mental note of the layout of the entrance, the building - as per jet’s description.

“just unlock the door then stay behind me.”

the gun is pointed to the ground, safety on, targeting laser on - leaving only a faint, green dot on the asphalt, moving across the street with brisk, quiet strides.

“don’t call out.  don’t make any other noise.  we’ll sweep the whole place.  do me a favour though - try to call the kid one more time.  i wouldn’t want to shoot your landlord by accident, y’know?”

[turncoatjet-blog]

Jet tilted his head and almost smiled. “I’m not here to debate right-wrong morality. But I can assure you, ain’t nothing good could come of that information with those people.” Jet had come to make such decisions based on the estimated body count, a unit of measurement he had for too long ignored. His calculations of the repercussions of such blueprints ending up with Arasaka again were… bleak at best. A thought he did not wish to linger on.

Mason’s next words made him flinch. How did you tell a cop you wouldn’t turn in evidence because you knew, deep down, that the system was too corrupt, that the likelihood of that information ending up somewhere safe was too small for him to consider with any amount of optimism. Too many times after fleeing had he turned to a sympathetic media or cop and told them his story, and too many times had he narrowly avoided being swindled, turned in for a little cash, or simply ignored. Since then, Jet’s idea of trust was so screwed up that he couldn’t even trust himself to make any kind of decision. All he knew was that, as of yet, he’d kept that information hidden, and no-one had been hurt. Still, some inkling of hope remained in him. He could have destroyed the data, wiped out all plans and with it all evidence of his own –and Arasaka’s – wrongdoing. But something always held him back; some hope that maybe, one day, the world would be ready to accept the truth. Perhaps, too, he wondered if maybe holding on to that information guaranteed Riley and him some semblance of leverage, some small reason to keep them alive.

“I’m just weighing my options, here. Trying my best to… to do right by my son, by the people of this city. This information is my responsibility. I just,” he rubbed his face and opened the car door, “I don’t want anyone to get hurt anymore.”

Perhaps that was too much to ask now. Perhaps he had sinned too much, and this was the Gods, or Karma, or some omnipresent Galactic power punishing him for turning a blind eye to the blood on his hands.

“Holopad is broken,” Jet said morosely. “And… Riley won’t answer unknown numbers. He’s a good kid though… knows how to take care of himself. Dagen is out for the week, shouldn’t be home.” Jet prayed silently that Riley would have known, somehow, if something was off. Would have disappeared as he often did, come back later after the danger had passed. Riley was good at sensing these things, catching the details that Jet so often missed. Jet followed closely behind the cop, hands sweating. He passed by him only to unlock the door, but flinched when it opened with only slight pressure. Though the room was dimly lit, Jet could already see the tell-tale clutter of broken furniture, discarded metallurgy pieces from his workshop, and scattered paperwork. He bit back the urge to yell Riley’s name, and had no idea whether to hope for a reply or not.

[turncoatjet-blog]

Jet allowed a brief smile and softening of hiseyes. “Can’t say I’ve worked on a Charger, but I’ve seen my fair share of Jags,some of the older hybrid models from the early 2000s. Even a ’67 mustang,believe it or not.” New Orleans came with its fair share of collectors andfanatics, and Jet had seen a number of old models come through the auto shop.It made for a refreshing change from the usual speeders and hovercars, and he’dspent a good portion of his youth studying old six-cylinder V8 engines andtaking apart rusty Impalas just to see how the old models functioned withoutthe Lithium-ion batteries and fission-reactors that powered most modernvehicles. “Haven’t seen many come through here though. I’d be interested intaking a look sometime if you bring her by the shop.”

Jet shrugged. “I’m not one to judge, but I won’tpry. S’ your business.” He, of all people, knew a touchy subject when he sawone, and had no qualms about leaving such stones undisturbed.

Jet cocked an eyebrow and took another sip ofhis drink to keep from rolling his eyes. “I’m sure there is,” he said. “Justremember that money’s no good if you’re dead.” Drag racing was a past-time he’dnever quite indulged in – preferring to spend his time putting cars together inthe shop rather than tearing them apart – but he’d had several friends who’dspent a good portion of their time and money racing and betting. Jet had seenone too many come back with broken noses, broken arms, broken spines… he’d madesure to steer clear of that crew. He much preferred his chances in astreet-fight where he could comfortably rely on his broad build and callousedfists to keep him relatively unharmed.

Jet paused momentarily and set his drink down.This kid had a profile? “Is that right? Old news or new?” he said in what hehoped was a nonchalant tone. Jet hoped this was old news, and that Q wasn’ttrailing any media dogs. The last thing he needed was his face plastered on theholos next to a law-breaking punk. Not that Jet was all that different, but itwouldn’t do to drag any kind of additional attention to himself. He glanced furtivelyat the doorway over his nearly-empty drink and forced himself to relax.

…

[onexye-blog]

  “Fuck the ’67 mustang is gorgeous, you didn’t just like it sit on the street right? I bet you just took her out for lil rides around the block what a waste. Shoulda come outta town and raced her.” He offered him a little flash of a smile, the meagre drink hitting hard already, his tolerance woefully low. It was as if the alcohol could sense there wasn’t much meat on him and with nowhere to go it all went straight to his head. 

  “Hell yeah. Shit people drive round here just crap.” The ordinary mundanes drove cars that were usually limited to a certain speed, cruised along to avoid any accidents, hovercars were another story but Q hated them, passionately. Perhaps something to do with an incident he was involved with in one as a kid but he preferred his cars to have all four wheels on the ground.

  “You ain’t so cheery y’know.” He didn’t really want to think about whether or not he could use his money in the afterlife. Q wanted to live in the here and the now, he was still alive, or at least he thought so. “Old my friend,” he’d scarcely been nineteen when they arrested him, celebrated his birthday in the holding cell. “Ain’t got shit on me now. Far too sneaky for those bastards now.” He tapped his nose as if that indicated secrecy and not that his intelligence was a little thin and low on the grounds. Q took another long drink of his potent if a little watery mixer. “You nervous or something?”

  “C’mon I ain’t sure it’s a good idea to be here much longer. Shit usually goes down close to closing time.” He’d been here all of three times. On all of said occasions a fight had broken out with just a few minutes until the doors shut. The last time it had been his fault but he played negligent to that. Cigarette between his lips before he was even out of the door, “should do this again, you ain’t so bad old man.”

[turncoatjet-blog]

Jet chuckled softly. “That she is. And… well I’ll admit I took her for a test drive. Had to, you know. Needed to make sure she would run smoothly with the new distributor. And boy did she drive smooth.” He shook his head at the memory, hazy now but still there on the surface of his mind. It hit him with a wave of nostalgia that left him with a mix of fondness and regret, and his heart throbbed with the thought of how simple things had been back then. He wondered how much he would give to return to that life. Not that it was an option to begin with. He threw back the rest of his drink.

Jet forced a smile. “Not much to be cheery about nowadays, when the world curses you and spits in your face,” he said, then glanced almost fondly at the young man. “I envy your optimism.” He waved a placating hand. “I’m just cautious. There are certain… people I am trying to avoid. As it usually goes.” He didn’t mention that these people were likely to kill him should they find him. And that it wasn’t only his life he was trying to protect. Being cautious for one was tough enough, but being cautious for two – especially when Riley, being Riley, did little enough to keep himself off the proverbial radar – was mentally draining.

Jet nodded and slapped down a few bills on the counter to pay for their drinks. He followed Q out of the bar, hugging his coat to his body. Belatedly, he realized he still needed to buy milk and groceries for tomorrow morning. He wondered if the corner market would still be open this late.

“And you’re alright yourself, kid,” Jet said pointedly, raising an eyebrow at the ‘old man.’ He searched the pockets of his coat and emerged with a pen and half an old receipt, and scribbled down his holopad number.

“Give me a call if that Charger starts acting up.”

He held out the receipt between two fingers. Admittedly, it had been nice to go out and… socialize without feeling like he needed to second-guess intentions. Q was refreshingly honest, perhaps not the sharpest tool in the shed, but there was a glimmer of potential and the hardness of the Night City underground in the man, clearly eating away at him despite the cool exterior he put up.

“Don’t do anything too reckless, though,” Jet added. “I can’t work miracles on any car if it comes in completely smashed, Charger or otherwise.”

[turncoatjet-blog]

They haven’t got anything to lose And they’ve got everything to gain And they’ll let you know in a minute It takes two to tango. When I go, you go

- Brother Ali, Mourning in America

[turncoatjet-blog]

“Alright, alright,” Jet muttered as the waitress pushed over his drink, lingering on the edge just a little too long after he reached out to take it. “Q it is then.” He took a sip of his drink and nearly snorted at Q’s crude comments, glancing over his drink to shoot the young man a critical look.

Originally posted by nagasakys

The kid’s nosiness into his sexuality was getting old real fast. Did youngsters really have nothing else to talk about beside sex? He thought back to his early 20s, fresh out of university and catapulted into a tech intern position at Arasaka. “I like women, thank you. I did my share of experimenting in university,” he admitted, belatedly, “until I got married.” The workload and stress had left little time for building intimate relationships beside the occasional one-off with a co-worker when he needed the release. Even after meeting Mary, after Riley, they’d both been so tired after working 15-hour days that more often than not Jet would finally leave his office to find Mary already fast asleep in bed, and she would be long gone by the time he awoke. Sure it had strained their marriage, but Riley had kept them together, and Jet had made it a point to take her out for a nice dinner at least once a month, make her breakfast in bed on the occasional Sunday, stop by her office with a bouquet of color-changing roses on her birthday. It kept them together through the rough times… and the rougher. Jet realized he’d been silent for a beat too long and tore his eyes away from his glass, taking a sip.

“I told you, I do tech work. Vehicles, bikes, cyberparts. Repairs, reassembling,” he gestured vaguely. He didn’t have to specify that his work was technically illegal when he was in a dingy dive bar with a rather colorful character already. “Posey doc?” Jet shoved down a smile at the crude description. “What about you? You work hereabouts?” He was hard-pressed to guess where Q actually found employment. He certainly he didn’t look the type to have the patience for any kind of detail-oriented work. That left drug-peddling, bartending, and sales. Jet smirked – perhaps it was the alcohol, but he could very clearly see Q strutting up to the marketing team at Arasaka and producing the crudest lecture on intimate customer networking. Wilson from HR would have fainted at the mere sight of the jacket.

[onexye-blog]

  “Chill, chill, I ain’t gonna jump you.” He snorted into his glass, not always the graceful charming gentleman. “You do cars?” His attention had piqued, “you ain’t ever worked on a dodge have you? I ain’t talking nothin’ new, a 70s charger. Beast of a machine. Purrs and all, I’ve done some basic shit on her. Wanna add a supercharger, exposed out of the hood.” Only paused to take a breath, and a drink, Q could talk for days about his charger, about any of his cars in truth—and there were numerous now. He’d gotten down and dirty in the past month or so and gotten beneath his charger himself, usually drove his latest heist reward to Cain to be souped up. But doing something other than drinking, gambling and racing gave him a focus, a purpose that reaped rewards. Q had struggled originally with following even the simplest of instructions (resulting in an engine misfire). Still he was working towards something to be proud of, to show off and  i did he enjoy showing off.

  “I ain’t sure you wanna know what I do,” Q simpered. Jet didn’t strike him as the kind of man that’d be overly tolerating of the fixer and his dubious occupation, hey work for the scariest motherfucking crime boss in the city—not a 9 to 5 job but hey she wants to murder all my friends so ain’t gotta choice.

  “Race though, outta the city. Reckless but I ain’t stupid.” Debatable, he’d done more than a few highly questionable acts that challenged the level of his intelligence over the years. Namely doing the exact opposite of racing out of the city. It had ended in Q wrapping his lykan hypersport around an artificial tree, diamond headlights and all destroyed in a single wild over-take. “Pretty good money when you drive good,” and if there was anything the fixer could do it was drive. Foot to the gas he was fearless behind the wheel, a maverick of his own design without a soul to stop him. Although the cops sure had tried (but hell even they couldn’t catch him). Unstoppable but not quite unbeatable. Not yet.

  “Sides you can look me up, one eye.” The media coverage of his demise lord of little Italy to donning orange wasn’t scripted in his favour but it existed and that was enough for Q. His arrest had hit the news purely due to his involvement in illicit tech, otherwise him and his gang weren’t big enough players for the big bad boys in Network 54. Q sure as hell thought he was good enough to make it there, had a greedy hand in just about every underground stream of informant work in the west side of the city. Foot and the other hand in little extras that supplement the teenager’s ever growing appetite for wealth. Seventeen at the time he’d ran head first into trouble wholeheartedly, not much had changed since. Still materialistic. Hedonist to his very core. But he wasn’t imprudent enough to pour all of his trust into everyone he met.

[turncoatjet-blog]

Jet allowed a brief smile and softening of his eyes. “Can’t say I’ve worked on a Charger, but I’ve seen my fair share of Jags, some of the older hybrid models from the early 2000s. Even a ’67 mustang, believe it or not.” New Orleans came with its fair share of collectors and fanatics, and Jet had seen a number of old models come through the auto shop. It made for a refreshing change from the usual speeders and hovercars, and he’d spent a good portion of his youth studying old six-cylinder V8 engines and taking apart rusty Impalas just to see how the old models functioned without the Lithium-ion batteries and fission-reactors that powered most modern vehicles. “Haven’t seen many come through here though. I’d be interested in taking a look sometime if you bring her by the shop.”

Jet shrugged. “I’m not one to judge, but I won’t pry. S’ your business.” He, of all people, knew a touchy subject when he saw one, and had no qualms about leaving such stones undisturbed.

Jet cocked an eyebrow and took another sip of his drink to keep from rolling his eyes. “I’m sure there is,” he said. “Just remember that money’s no good if you’re dead.” Drag racing was a past-time he’d never quite indulged in – preferring to spend his time putting cars together in the shop rather than tearing them apart – but he’d had several friends who’d spent a good portion of their time and money racing and betting. Jet had seen one too many come back with broken noses, broken arms, broken spines… he’d made sure to steer clear of that crew. He much preferred his chances in a street-fight where he could comfortably rely on his broad build and calloused fists to keep him relatively unharmed.

Jet paused momentarily and set his drink down. This kid had a profile? “Is that right? Old news or new?” he said in what he hoped was a nonchalant tone. Jet hoped this was old news, and that Q wasn’t trailing any media dogs. The last thing he needed was his face plastered on the holos next to a law-breaking punk. Not that Jet was all that different, but it wouldn’t do to drag any kind of additional attention to himself. He glanced furtively at the doorway over his nearly-empty drink and forced himself to relax.

…

[turncoatjet-blog]

The car roared to life and sped down the road. The humming engine was comforting in its loudness, drowning out the panicked thoughts attempting to crowd Jet’s mind, like wolves around an elk carcass, tearing at his composure piece by piece. He rubbed at his knee, the pain reduced to a dull throbbing now that significant pressure had been removed from it. He didn’t want to think of how swollen the flesh around it would be when he finally took off his trousers to take a good look.

Jet flinched at the cop’s words, words far too close to the truth than he cared for. Had he said too much?

“In a way.” There was something to be said that it had taken Arasaka a year to strike, and Jet knew it was wishful thinking to believe that they had simply never found him until now. That they hadn’t killed him yet – sent some useless street-trash as a distraction instead, trash that probably wouldn’t last the night – spoke volumes.

“Riley is twelve,” Jet said, staring out the window. Bright lights played on his face from tail-lights and neon shop signs. Dim streetlamps bathed patches of sidewalk in an eerie yellow glow, where tramps and gutter-rats bled in and out of the darkness. “He… is supposed to be home.” Riley’s erratic schedule meant that Jet couldn’t make a solid conclusion either way. For once, he hoped fervently that Riley had opted to leave the house for the night. His hand tightened around his knee, painfully.

Jet’s lips thinned. “It’s not me they’re after, exactly,” he said. Rather, a very particular thing he’d kept hidden away for a long time. Why they were after it now… Jet shuddered to think. And if they couldn’t find it, Jet knew exactly what their next target would be.

“Turn left here… that’s it over there. Just park across from the garage with the red graffiti.”

[newvegascrow-blog]

“huh, then what - exactly?”

because he doesn’t need to be walking into this situation cold.  gangs, corps, whoever it turned out to be ( right now, he’s only speculating - jet seemingly wanting to remain a little more tight lipped around the finer details - and there’s not really any way he can pry those answers out if the other guy isn’t in a sharing mood… ( or at least not legitimately and not with any amount of that tentatively shown trust ).

there’s a quick sidelong glance, but bode maneuvers the car to where he’s directed.  surely there’s a quick and easy response to the guy’s troubles.  whatever it is they’re after ‘exactly’ hand it over.  then again - he’s blind to the ‘what’ and the ‘why’ and the value ( but he’s figuring that if jet is so torn up over his son, then it’s highly unlikely to be of greater value than the cost of putting a kids life at risk… )

but he can’t say he isn’t equally shaken by the thought.  there was the whole ‘serve and protect’ thing, and then there was the thought that there was a kid in danger.  kinda put a new level on things.  a new and uncomfortable spin.  it was one thing when someone launched themselves into danger by fault or action or some stupid ass thing of their own accord… it was another thing to be a kid caught in the fallout, the crossfire.

“okay - entrances and exits to the building.  places where the kid is most likely to be.  i’ll take point, we’ll do a sweep. but keep your fuckin’ head - don’t need no heroics here - because it don’t always go the way you want it.  you get me, jet?”

[turncoatjet-blog]

Jet grit his teeth. The questions were putting him on edge but he also knew he needed this man on his side in case things went sour.

“Information,” he said. “Information that… can’t get into the wrong hands.” He couldn’t delve deeper, not without revealing exactly what and who he was. A risk he wasn’t willing to take just yet.

As they pulled over, Jet felt a thrill of anxiety swell in his belly. He fumbled at the car door, barely registering Mason’s words until the man used his name. Jet turned back towards him, eyes wide, and licked his lips.

“Yeah, sure.” He squeezed his eyes shut, briefly, to picture the apartment. “We live in the garage. The entrance is on the left, the red door there,” he gestured, “two stairs up and… maybe ten paces down before you turn a hard left. Door is rebar-enforced wood, one deadbolt lock, a chain lock, and two durasteel sliding latches, one up top and the other about hip-level. Only my son and I have keys. And Dagen, the… landlord.” He exhaled slowly. “That’s the only entrance. The windows above the garage maybe, but they’re maybe eight feet up. The garage door’s been rusted shut and bolted to the ground for years.”

He glanced through the car window, at the rearview mirror. Aside from the rusted speeder parked across from the neighboring apartment complex, and the usual smattering of other rundown vehicles, he didn’t see anything amiss. Either Jet’s fears were unfounded, or they were too late. He shuddered and glanced at the officer.

“You want to go first?”

[disneythejunglebook]

[turncoatjet-blog]

“What of the hunting, hunter bold? Brother, the watch was long and cold. What of the quarry ye went to kill? Brother, he crops in the jungle still. Where is the power that made your pride? Brother, it ebbs from my flank and side. Where is the haste that ye hurry by? Brother, I go to my lair to die!” ― Rudyard Kipling, The Jungle Books

[turncoatjet-blog]

“Yeah, sorry. Q right?” Jet muttered, runninga hand over his beard. He rolled his eyes at the teasing jab. “Yes, one drink.”Maybe two. “I’ve got an early shift tomorrow.” Dagen wanted him working on anold jetbike he’d filched from a scrap heap. Jet had no idea what the boosterexpected him to do with such a piece of junk, but he didn’t mind the tinkering.It kept him busy, occupied. Kept his mind off… other things.

Jet followed Q down an alley, trying not tostare at the obscene images on his coat, rippling as he walked. Jet glanced upat the neon sign and followed Q into the dingy building. He settled at the bar,between an imposing man suited in so much plate armor he looked half-machineand an old drunk who’d fallen asleep over the counter. He waved at thebartender, a busy young woman who likely invested more of her paycheck in fashionwarethan food or clothes, judging from the sparse amount of the latter and colorfulplethora of the former. Jet avoided piercing neon-green cat eyes as the womanpurred out a greeting, bending over just enough that he could see the synthskinleopard spots did indeed dip beneath the sparse cloth covering her breasts.

Jet glanced at the rows of alcohol lining theshelves behind the barmaid, the majority in alarming colors and patterns. “Whiskey,”Jet said. He turned towards Q. “What’s your poison of choice?” he said, noddingat the shelves.

[onexye-blog]

  “Q, one eye, whatever floats your boat,” but never kid because if he’s called that again he might just succumb to that irritation that’s ticking over, there aren’t many that’ve seen the fixer caught up in a storm of ire. It wasn’t common with him, all crass remarks, anecdotes and coy smiles, rarely did he get so worked up that the beast was unleashed. Arguably less of a beast and more of a small feline scratching at your legs. “Rum and coke,” spoken without missing a beat, unlike Jet he’s more than comfortable to keep his mismatched gaze focused on the bartender, eyes meeting hers after drifting over the curve of her waist, the leopard spots nothing overtly unusual. He’d spent nights with far more alarming exotic dabblers as of late.

  Finally, he tears his gaze from her, but only once they’ve gotten their drinks and she’s sauntered off to serve another customer—two sweet young girls who looked as if they’d gotten lost and stumbled into hell. Leaning over the half asleep drunkard Q takes his drink and taps the glass against Jet’s, “cheers. So what you ain’t into boys or girls?” He simpers into the diabetes inducing drink, sweeter than syrup itself as he takes a generous sip or two. “You aren’t a eunuch, are you?” With a look of mild faux horror he glances south with an obvious intent before reeling back from the bar with laughter on his lips.

  “Y’know you ain’t all that bad Jet, what ya’ do in the city? Lemme guess a retired cop that works as a bounty hunter? Hell no, you look kinda like that posey doc up in the mall, y’know the one that’s always frowning. Looks like he’s permanently constipated or something.” Another lengthy sip of his drink and it’s nearly half gone already (not that the sizing was particular generous here), in align with the grimy bar Q’s coat ripples from it’s erotica to a pulsing dark static, the occasional streak of neon lights. It looks like grainy footage from a nightclub and it was just not something the fixer had filmed himself, although if you waited enough it would cycle to some of his home recordings. Mostly sweet pieces of ass.

[turncoatjet-blog]

“Alright, alright,” Jet muttered as the waitress pushed over his drink, lingering on the edge just a little too long after he reached out to take it. “Q it is then.” He took a sip of his drink and nearly snorted at Q’s crude comments, glancing over his drink to shoot the young man a critical look.

The kid’s nosiness into his sexuality was getting old real fast. Did youngsters really have nothing else to talk about beside sex? He thought back to his early 20s, fresh out of university and catapulted into a tech intern position at Arasaka. “I like women, thank you. I did my share of experimenting in university,” he admitted, belatedly, “until I got married.” The workload and stress had left little time for building intimate relationships beside the occasional one-off with a co-worker when he needed the release. Even after meeting Mary, after Riley, they’d both been so tired after working 15-hour days that more often than not Jet would finally leave his office to find Mary already fast asleep in bed, and she would be long gone by the time he awoke. Sure it had strained their marriage, but Riley had kept them together, and Jet had made it a point to take her out for a nice dinner at least once a month, make her breakfast in bed on the occasional Sunday, stop by her office with a bouquet of color-changing roses on her birthday. It kept them together through the rough times… and the rougher. Jet realized he’d been silent for a beat too long and tore his eyes away from his glass, taking a sip.

“I told you, I do tech work. Vehicles, bikes, cyberparts. Repairs, reassembling,” he gestured vaguely. He didn’t have to specify that his work was technically illegal when he was in a dingy dive bar with a rather colorful character already. “Posey doc?” Jet shoved down a smile at the crude description. “What about you? You work hereabouts?” He was hard-pressed to guess where Q actually found employment. He certainly he didn’t look the type to have the patience for any kind of detail-oriented work. That left drug-peddling, bartending, and sales. Jet smirked – perhaps it was the alcohol, but he could very clearly see Q strutting up to the marketing team at Arasaka and producing the crudest lecture on intimate customer networking. Wilson from HR would have fainted at the mere sight of the jacket.

[turncoatjet-blog]

Jet followed Mason as they exited the crumbling building. Cops swarmed through the alley, scrambling into and out of the building like ants in an abandoned bread shop. Jet shuffled nervously, keeping close to the officer and forcing himself to keep up with the man’s quick strides, limping and trying not to wince every time a sharp twinge jolted up his leg. One of the — must be pinching a nerve, something that might take a bit of tinkering to fix. But there was no time for that, so he kept off it as best he could and wiped the sweat off his face as he hurried to catch up with the officer. He was thankful to see that Mason did slow, however, waiting for him when he slowed or paused to rest his leg. A block had never felt so long.

Jet listened to the officer’s brusque complaints, nodding absentmindedly. He could understand – he could see it, in fact, the tightness around Mason’s eyes, the clear misgivings of trusting a man he didn’t know. Jet was locked in the same situation, torn between his panic-ridden desire to get home as quickly as possible, and the ever-present paranoia clamping over his tongue and forbidding any semblance of trust. He leaned against the frame of the car, opened his mouth, and forced out what he could.

“I’m… about a year ago, I was inadvertently working for some unsavory people,” he grunted. “When I found them out, I tried to sabotage their work. I got caught, and had to flee with my son. I thought they’d forgotten about me,” he grimaced. “But it looks like they found me.” It wasn’t a lie, just a simplified truth. Night City had no lack of unsavory characters, after all – he just hoped Mason wouldn’t push too hard as to which characters in particular he was referring to. Jet fumbled with the car door, opened it, and dropped into the passenger seat with an audible groan of relief.

“I’m in the Old Downtown area, just off Fifth Avenue and Washington. I’ll guide you after the intersection.” His house wasn’t quite marked, as it was little more than the garage of an abandoned office building Dagen had transformed into a workshop for his booster business.

Jet chewed on his already-dull nails and cursed himself for not getting his cracked holopad checked out sooner. He hadn’t wanted to spend the valuable money on something he rarely used. The sole reason he had it to begin with was to keep in contact with Riley, but the boy rarely answered him, or if he did it was a cryptic one-word answer five hours after the message was sent. He simply prayed to a God he hadn’t acknowledged in thirty years that he wouldn’t be too late. Not again.

[newvegascrow-blog]

lips pursed, then pulled into a thin line, a suck of air between lips but there’s a small nod.  at least he had a little.  not exactly a lifeline, not exactly the thread it had been moments ago.  cracking open his own door and swinging behind the wheel.  

the car is black.  and about as subtle as mason himself.  matte paint and heavy steel black bullbars on the front.  capable of driving through a wall and barely getting a dent. it’s also got an engine that can eat road like candy.  so he fires it up, brow raising and sparing jet the briefest of glances to one side.

“and i’m just gonna go ahead and assume that these - unsavoury people - are the kind to be able to put significant resource behind their… revenge?”

and he says it with a questioning tone because sure - he might be new ( relatively ) to night city, but he didn’t come down with yesterday’s damn rain.  

revenge didn’t sit right. revenge didn’t play with the threats. if it was that - pure and simple - then piranha would have put his knife through jet on the damn dock.  

this wasn’t - just - revenge.

but okay.  he’ll go with that much for now.  at least it’s - something. and if he was a betting man ( and lets be real, he is ) he’s put money on a few big names - the kind of people who can pull on that kind of resource without breaking a sweat and bloodying their own palms…

fucking corps.

but the car is already gunning in the right direction, no flashing lights or siren, but he does hear a crackle over his earpiece - the other two were in custody and both would live…

“how old is the boy? and do you know if he’s at home right now?”

because if this was as serious as jet’s implying, he could easily get out an apb on the kid.  just in case things had gone devastatingly sideways.  he doesn’t have any idea of what jet might have done to have corps on his ass, but sabotage in any shape or form was about as dangerous as stepping in front of a damn train when it came to them - if it was them, but he’s doubting some kind of street gang would waste a breath with the whole - ‘threat’ business either - they’d put him down just as quickly if that opportunity presented itself…

“if they had a bead on where you lived, it’d be easier to take you there.  so there’s no reason to think that they’ve gotten to your place.”

never hurt to err on the side of caution though.

[turncoatjet-blog]

The car roared to life and sped down the road. The humming engine was comforting in its loudness, drowning out the panicked thoughts attempting to crowd Jet’s mind, like wolves around an elk carcass, tearing at his composure piece by piece. He rubbed at his knee, the pain reduced to a dull throbbing now that significant pressure had been removed from it. He didn’t want to think of how swollen the flesh around it would be when he finally took off his trousers to take a good look.

Jet flinched at the cop’s words, words far too close to the truth than he cared for. Had he said too much?

“In a way.” There was something to be said that it had taken Arasaka a year to strike, and Jet knew it was wishful thinking to believe that they had simply never found him until now. That they hadn’t killed him yet – sent some useless street-trash as a distraction instead, trash that probably wouldn’t last the night – spoke volumes.

“Riley is twelve,” Jet said, staring out the window. Bright lights played on his face from tail-lights and neon shop signs. Dim streetlamps bathed patches of sidewalk in an eerie yellow glow, where tramps and gutter-rats bled in and out of the darkness. “He… is supposed to be home.” Riley’s erratic schedule meant that Jet couldn’t make a solid conclusion either way. For once, he hoped fervently that Riley had opted to leave the house for the night. His hand tightened around his knee, painfully.

Jet’s lips thinned. “It’s not me they’re after, exactly,” he said. Rather, a very particular thing he’d kept hidden away for a long time. Why they were after it now… Jet shuddered to think. And if they couldn’t find it, Jet knew exactly what their next target would be.

“Turn left here… that’s it over there. Just park across from the garage with the red graffiti.”

[turncoatjet-blog]

John and Jet - New Beginnings

[turncoatjet-blog]

Jet sipped at his drink and listened with attentiveness, hoping not to overstep the boundaries of general curiosity into insufferable nosiness. He couldn’t help but furrow his brows in poorly-concealed concern once in a while, well-attuned to the slumped shoulders and tired eyes of someone carrying the weight of too much on their own. It was an exhaustion that echoed his, and seeing the weariness occasionally give way to a small – he hoped genuine – smile was enough to set Jet increasingly at ease. His glances towards the exit gradually decreased in frequency, replaced by laugh lines and genuine creases.

Jet’s lips twitched at mention of dogs. Riley had always harped for a dog as a child, but Jet and Mary worked full days and Riley was at school or cram most of the day. Who’s going to take care of the dog? Jet had asked, sighing ruefully at Riley’s tearful tantrum. His question had been met by a toy crashing into the wall beside him and a string of I hate you’s. Still, sometimes Jet wondered if a dog – some kind of responsibility – would have been good for Riley. Given him something to care for, connect to. Given him life. Jet disguised his momentary regret by taking another sip.

He lifted his brows but simply nodded at John’s admission. There was a slight hesitation about the words, and Jet frowned. It was the kind of hesitation he expected around his little town outside Orleans, especially around someone as bigoted as his dad who’d pull out his belt if he so much as heard you were going out with a white girl or hanging around that ‘Sissy faggot Billy Barnes.’

“Hey, that’s alright. Good for you.” Jet hoped whoever that man was, he was the kind to help John carry whatever it was he was carrying. That’s what relationships were for. Mary had said this time and again when she was him hunched over his desk late at night. Even more so after the unsavory rumors about Arasaka had begun to spread through the city; after the riots had turned violent; after Jet’s work began to weigh heavier, blanketed by guilt. Sometimes Jet wondered if he’d let her carry too much, or not enough.

John’s tone… changed slightly upon mentioning Riley. Jet picked up on it but made no mention. He ran a hand over his faced, scratching at the unkempt, rapidly graying stubble over his cheeks, and offered a fleeting smile.

“It’s been alright. Things have been a bit rough since we… moved, but I think we’re getting along well. I’ve got a job as a… mechanic. It doesn’t pay much, but enough to keep us clothed and fed. It’s… kind of nice, you know, that kind of work. Simple, fixing things.” Even if done somewhat under the law. “Clean work,” he said more quietly, sadly. He glanced down at his fingers, the tips almost permanently black now. Better stained black then red – he had enough of both on his hands already.

“Riley’s been taking it a bit harder, as you can imagine. But he’s adapted pretty quickly.” He forced a chuckle. “He was a free spirit to begin with. Never really fit in around Westhill. Still, he was close to Mary, his mother. Never really… never really forgave me for that bit I don’t think. I’ve been giving him his space, hoping maybe time would heal things, you know, but…” Jet sighed and rubbed some condensation off his glass. “It’s hard. God I wouldn’t give it up for the world – being a father. I love Riley. But it’s hard.” What he wouldn’t give for Mary to come back. She always knew what Riley needed, always acted as intermediary when her two boys fought. Fixed them right up. “I just feel so… so damn lost sometimes.”

Jet shook his head and glanced up, quirking a smile. “Sorry, here I go dumping my sob-story all over you again. Are you working hereabouts?”

[renegadefrombrooklyn]

Hey, that’s alright. Good for you.

Just that tiny sliver of acceptance was enough to relax him that much further, shoulders slumping under leather jacket and eyes lighting up a little, small smile touching his lips in a wordless expression. Yeah? An interrogative that gradually warmed, made him just that more comfortable, that tiny shred of information not turned back to skewer him, and so he settled, even showed a small hint of pride, eyes lowering, quirked smile returning for an encore. Yeah.

“Mechanic, huh,” John murmured thoughtfully, settling back in his chair. “Hell, you sound like my dad, he used to take gigs at a garage when the going got tough and it didn’t look much like people were taking him on for tec—“ He stopped himself, a rueful smile touching his lips, a genuine apology radiating from green eyes. Now that he had become more at ease, his essential good-nature was evident – just had been wary from hard experience, not because of any inherent meanness or judgmental tendencies.

“I ain’t suppose to tell you that, I think. My pops—he liked people to think that he came from money. Not a big fan of the rags to riches story – figured if people were that damn good that they didn’t need to start from rags anyway.” A shrug of broad shoulders, his expression easy, save for the hint of complexity that had entered his gaze – not quite grief, not quite humor.

“I ain’t like to agree with him, though, good work for a man’s hands,” he added softly, agreeably. “Nice to work with things, get them running like new. Never had the touch, myself, but it’s something I’d like to learn if I see the other side of this.” Not that he particularly expected to, but that was a hope, lingering, wistful.

He didn’t know what he was looking for – to skip into the sunset with an assassin and plant a damn garden somewhere? Future didn’t look all that bright – all the people he wanted to look out for were in danger out of his reach – one from his embroilment with the cops, one by the nature of what he was doing for a profession, and one by sickness. Even if they all miraculously made it out of this little gambit – he didn’t think much of what’d be left standing regardless. John wasn’t like Dionysus to begin with, didn’t much think of the future, when he couldn’t glimpse what was around the bend. Just put his head down and worked on bettering what he could in the now – working with something concrete, something real, something he could see.

As much as he agreed in principle with the netrunner’s ideals, they were so – intangible. He knew the cops needed a shake-down, a restructuring, the corporations to redistribute authority, but something like – freedom? He couldn’t touch it. Couldn’t reach out and hold it in his hand. It was big, and brilliant, and beautiful, and far beyond him, so he didn’t try to think too hard on the idea of Dionysus’ ‘new world’. If he could just bring attention to the games that Arasaka was playing with human lives, just break one barrier, just make one mark – that was enough for him. Not to change the world, but maybe leave it just a little better – in one small way – than the way it was when he found it.

“I’m sorry about your wife,” John murmured quietly, letting his eyes meet his after a moment, his tone candid and soft. “I don’t remember her much, was just a kid, but from what I do, she seemed…kind. She was a special lady, huh?” He nodded slowly, thinking over Jet’s words. “Hard,” he repeated slowly, “but worth it. Sorry I missed the train on that one, fatherhood. Came close but—“

But life intervened. But his chance at it had ended on pavement, smashed glass around them like cheap diamonds. Like most fathers-to-be, John still kept a picture of his daughter in his wallet, in his case, a grainy ultrasound. Unlike most fathers, that was the only time he had seen his child alive.

I just feel so… so damn lost sometimes.

“Being lost…that ain’t too bad,” he finally replied, after a long moment lost in thought. “Never know what you might find. Might be better than what you left.”

 “For instance, I ain’t at Driftcorp, quit a month back, living off savings until I sort through some trouble with the law.”  His Brooklyn accent, softened by years out of New York still came through, streetwise and sweet.

“Could say I’m lost too – only difference is, I like it that way.”

[turncoatjet-blog]

Jet wordlessly acknowledged the slight relaxing of the shoulders, the softening around the lips and eyes. He grinned and shook his head.

“Yeah, not a lot of people can get behind the underdog until he’s made it to the top.”

Jet rarely discussed his past, his home in Louisiana, not entirely out of spite or shame – though there may, admittedly, have been some – but because there was little left for him there. A mother that had passed away five years into his job, and a father than had kicked the bucket far earlier. Broken sisters that never kept in touch, cousins that were strangers he held no regard for, friends that succumbed to the stagnant lifestyle of colored youth and never managed to dig their way out.

“As a kid, I… I’d been better at breaking things then fixing ‘em.” Breaking bones, breaking hearts, sometimes breaking furniture and his mother’s nice vase. “But when I learned my way around a car, a bike, around machines, fixing things up at the mechanic’s… good ol’ Robert had the patience of a saint to be dealing with me. Taught me good though.” He glanced down at his hands, rough and calloused, then back up at John and flashed a smile. “I’ve got a bike that’s been giving me a bit of trouble lately. If you ever want to come by and check her out, maybe I can teach you a thing or two.” It was a casual offer, one he didn’t expect John to seriously take anytime soon, but that he extended as a kind of hope that maybe, this peaceable relationship would continue into the future. That there really was an other side.

“Thanks,” Jet muttered, voice hoarse. “Yeah, Mary was… Mary was special.” He didn’t need to hear the rest to understand that something had gone wrong. “I’m sorry,” he said. Didn’t mention that Mary had gone through two miscarriages before Riley, how close they had come to giving up because her cervix was too weak. And then the miracle. “But, you’re still young,” Jet said. “When this all... settles… things could change. There’s always adoption.” There was never any lack of orphaned youth in this world, but plenty of love lost.

Could say I’m lost too – only difference is, I like it that way.

Jet leaned back and sipped at his IPA. “Guess I have to envy you then,” he said. “It’s hard to go forward when you can’t stop thinking of what you’ve left behind. What you’ve… lost. Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning in regrets, lost in the way things were, the way things could be if I’d just paid attention to the signs, if I’d listened to the news, to Mary’s… she warned me, you know. Told me things were getting dangerous, that we should take our paid leave a little early. Go to Texas, visit her family.” Jet shook his head. “Can’t linger on those thoughts, the what ifs, they drive you mad.” Jet was still haunted by the past, but he didn’t think much of the future anymore. Something that had obsessed his thoughts before – starting a family, saving up for Riley’s university tuition, the next honeymoon vacation – was rarely touched upon, concealed by layers of thoughts and concerns. “Nowadays, I’m so focused on the now, on the next payment, the next meal,” the next cop whose gaze lingers a little too long on his face, “It’s hard to think of… what comes next. Is this how I’m going to live the rest of my life? Hiding? Looking over my shoulder? Repairing scrapped junk for petty cash and supporting us on dehydrated supermart rations?”

Something better than the now was… inconceivable. Living was the now. Surviving was the now. The future… well, Jet had no illusions of going back to the way things were before. He had changed too much for that. Riley had changed too much. But maybe… maybe things could get better. He only hoped the old adage – things get worse before they get better – didn’t feel the need to apply in this case.

[turncoatjet-blog]

Jet wasn’t surprised to hear that the kid had been augmented with wetware. Karate though, he lifted an eyebrow. Whether it was for actual self-defense or to satisfy peculiar curiosities, Jet wasn’t sure and didn’t really think he wanted to know either way.

Suddenly, Q was a bit too close again, that lazy, flirtatious smile pulling at his lips. He was certainly good-looking, Jet grudgingly reasoned, and carried himself with the demeanor of someone who knew it very well. That smile probably seduced all manners of men and women. Jet, however, thinned his lips and pressed a firm hand against the man’s chest, not pushing him away but not allowing him any closer.

“Sorry kid,” he said, the word slipping from his lips before he could stifle it. Force of habit. “I don’t swing that way.” Not that you’d be my type regardless.

Jet relaxed slightly when Q stepped back and put a little more distance between them. He briefly wished he still smoked, just to have something to do with his hands instead of staring dumbly at this enigma of a man. And there he went, insisting on taking him God’s knew where. Jet rolled his eyes, but thought about it. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do, after all. He would just pick up groceries tomorrow morning.

“Alright fine,” Jet finally acquiesced. “But we’re going for one drink and that’s it. And it better be somewhere…” he looked Q up and down again, pointedly, “normal.” Whatever normal constituted by Old Downtown standards, anyway.

[onexye-blog]

  The hand to his chest hadn’t been all too surprising he had however, expected Jet to push him away, as so many did, but the older man just glowered at him with such a stern expression he could’ve rivalled an animatronic teacher. Those things were utterly lifeless, had always thought them creepy as a child, with those dead eyes and unmoving expressions. No matter how advanced technology got the AI in schools were only ever half a body, supposedly all they needed, the facial movements far form advanced and scarily sluggish. He reeled away from Jet shrugging off the explicit no he’d received.

  “Hey—hey, I ain’t a kid, alright?”

  “And seriously, just one drink? Ain’t you a party pooper.” He laughed to himself as he turned away from him totally, ignorant that Jet’s purposeful glance was to make a point not to check him out, the fixer would much rather believe the latter. “C’mon, can do normal although ain’t sure there’re many places around here you’d approve of.”

  His coat flared behind him as he picked up his pace, disappearing down an alleyway that led to an old neon sign that was fighting for it’s life. “This place meet your approval? Ain’t no strippers but might be a few—”

  Q hummed not quite sure of the appropriate word, “curiosities.”

  If aged solos with greying hair and the renegade fixers of the city could be boiled down to curiosities, at this time of night however, it ought to be a little on the quieter side. Most would’ve moved onto other bars, or more poignantly, onto their jobs for that evening.

[turncoatjet-blog]

“Yeah, sorry. Q right?” Jet muttered, running a hand over his beard. He rolled his eyes at the teasing jab. “Yes, one drink.” Maybe two. “I’ve got an early shift tomorrow.” Dagen wanted him working on an old jetbike he’d filched from a scrap heap. Jet had no idea what the booster expected him to do with such a piece of junk, but he didn’t mind the tinkering. It kept him busy, occupied. Kept his mind off… other things.

Jet followed Q down an alley, trying not to stare at the obscene images on his coat, rippling as he walked. Jet glanced up at the neon sign and followed Q into the dingy building. He settled at the bar, between an imposing man suited in so much plate armor he looked half-machine and an old drunk who’d fallen asleep over the counter. He waved at the bartender, a busy young woman who likely invested more of her paycheck in fashionware than food or clothes, judging from the sparse amount of the latter and colorful plethora of the former. Jet avoided piercing neon-green cat eyes as the woman purred out a greeting, bending over just enough that he could see the synthskin leopard spots did indeed dip beneath the sparse cloth covering her breasts.

Jet glanced at the rows of alcohol lining the shelves behind the barmaid, the majority in alarming colors and patterns. “Whiskey,” Jet said. He turned towards Q. “What’s your poison of choice?” he said, nodding at the shelves.

[turncoatjet-blog]

Jet felt a brief pulse of frustration at the cop’s disregard for his medical opinion, but grudgingly nodded.

“Just make it quick,” he muttered. He didn’t beg, but the words came out more strained then he meant them to. He still felt edgy and strung out, like a violin hanging on a strident high note, the string brittle enough to snap at any moment. Jet forced himself to take a shaky breath. Disoriented, panicked thoughts about Riley’s safety, about the drive, about the man still squirming on the ground who’d nearly killed him and how much he wanted to drive his boot into that weasely face over and over and…

Jet shook his head, wincing as a fresh throb of pain briefly cleared his head of such thoughts. Right now, he needed to focus on the situation. The small but poignant rational part of his brain insisted that the man in front of him was just doing his job and the better Jet complied, the faster he would get home.

Jet tensed briefly at the words interfering with an arrest, fist clenching at his side, but forced himself to relax. An escort to his house wasn’t ideal, but, he reasoned, the cop would probably come in handy should anyone be… waiting for him.

Jet quelled the thread of fearful thoughts accompanying this thoughts – what if it’s too late, what if they’ve already got Riley – and let himself be examined by a medic, his head poked and prodded, his hand checked for fractures. The bleeding was staunched, his scalp quickly re-knitted, and the medic muttered something about bruised knuckles but Jet waved him away. The steadily loudening moans of the weasel and the splatters of blood over the ground were making him queasy. He stayed off his knee enough that it wasn’t noticed – a regular medic wouldn’t be able to do anything for it anyway.

When the medic finally moved away, Jet turned towards the cop. He took a moment to read the name on the tag of the man’s uniform – Bode Mason. He glanced around and hoped that the ‘we’ Mason had insisted on was limited to just the two of them and not the whole cavalry.

“Alright, Officer Mason,” Jet said, “I’ve done what you asked, now take me to my son. Please,” he added as an afterthought.

[newvegascrow-blog]

he leaves the guy to the medic, trusting that with the apparently creaky leg, he’s not going to make a run for it.  not with a squad in the room and more than enough cops light on their feet to stop him in a blink.  and no, he’s not happy about any of this, but turning back to the team for a moment is enough to find out that the woman is securely in custody, and from all appearances, piranha would pull through just fine… both would be left with a nice scar to nurse while they spent a little ‘thinking time’ inside…

“check the cigarettes - they’re laced, and for fucks sake don’t touch them with your bare hands.  I want a full chem analysis on my desk by tomorrow morning - and see if you can’t get our friend here to tell you where the supply came from.”

and it’s not against the book to let a victim stroll, but it’s side swiping it a little to not take them in for questioning - especially when that ‘sixth sense’ - that career long developed ‘hunch’ is telling him there’s a lot more to this - no less from the hiss of a threat he’d heard from the doorway.  but he at least gets a tentative thumbs up from the medic - one that’s vaguely reassuring that the head injury is not as bad as it might seem, bleeding but risk of concussion low.  so… okay… fine.

finally his weapon finds the holster, tucked away with safety in tact, and there’s a jerk of his head toward the doorway.

“i have a vehicle parked a block away - come on.”

back into the alley, lit at the end by the blue flash of mobile units and the medevac.  dealing with the perps and tidying up another night city chaos special.  but he does wait ( not taking the pace too quickly, making sure the guy could work some movement back into his leg ) until they’ve passed the rest of the team, round another corner and are headed toward bode’s car.

“so, –jet–…. you gonna enlighten me? because i’m walking with a guy i don’t know for shit into who the hell knows what. so you’re gonna have to excuse the prying, but when my life… and yours…”

and he leaves mention of the man’s son out of that - doesn’t need him any more highly strung than he already is.

“…is dangling by a thread of trust,  then i don’t mind being thrown a rope –”

the car opens by proximity alone, a dull click of locks and he moves to the drivers side - pulls open the door – pauses – watching the other man for a moment.  waiting for a rope, a thread, a hint as to what they - could be - facing here.

[turncoatjet-blog]

Jet followed Mason as they exited the crumbling building. Cops swarmed through the alley, scrambling into and out of the building like ants in an abandoned bread shop. Jet shuffled nervously, keeping close to the officer and forcing himself to keep up with the man’s quick strides, limping and trying not to wince every time a sharp twinge jolted up his leg. One of the --- must be pinching a nerve, something that might take a bit of tinkering to fix. But there was no time for that, so he kept off it as best he could and wiped the sweat off his face as he hurried to catch up with the officer. He was thankful to see that Mason did slow, however, waiting for him when he slowed or paused to rest his leg. A block had never felt so long.

Jet listened to the officer’s brusque complaints, nodding absentmindedly. He could understand – he could see it, in fact, the tightness around Mason’s eyes, the clear misgivings of trusting a man he didn’t know. Jet was locked in the same situation, torn between his panic-ridden desire to get home as quickly as possible, and the ever-present paranoia clamping over his tongue and forbidding any semblance of trust. He leaned against the frame of the car, opened his mouth, and forced out what he could.

“I’m… about a year ago, I was inadvertently working for some unsavory people,” he grunted. “When I found them out, I tried to sabotage their work. I got caught, and had to flee with my son. I thought they’d forgotten about me,” he grimaced. “But it looks like they found me.” It wasn’t a lie, just a simplified truth. Night City had no lack of unsavory characters, after all – he just hoped Mason wouldn’t push too hard as to which characters in particular he was referring to. Jet fumbled with the car door, opened it, and dropped into the passenger seat with an audible groan of relief.

“I’m in the Old Downtown area, just off Fifth Avenue and Washington. I’ll guide you after the intersection.” His house wasn’t quite marked, as it was little more than the garage of an abandoned office building Dagen had transformed into a workshop for his booster business.

Jet chewed on his already-dull nails and cursed himself for not getting his cracked holopad checked out sooner. He hadn’t wanted to spend the valuable money on something he rarely used. The sole reason he had it to begin with was to keep in contact with Riley, but the boy rarely answered him, or if he did it was a cryptic one-word answer five hours after the message was sent. He simply prayed to a God he hadn’t acknowledged in thirty years that he wouldn’t be too late. Not again.

[turncoatjet-blog]

John and Jet - New Beginnings

[turncoatjet-blog]

Jet regarded the man’s approach with a certain level of surprise and trepidation. The way John moved, like a predator crossing through another male’s territory, was unsettling. John belatedly wondered what could have happened to drive the son of a big-name Corporate into such hardness. Nothing good, he reflected, and felt a brief pang of empathy. Still, John’s expression softened slightly as he approached, and Jet exhaled softly with some relief. The lightness of his words was genuine and reassuring.

“I’m alright for now,” he said, gesturing at the half-filled glass in front of him. “The IPA’s aren’t bad actually. Better than the usual piss anyways.” He braved a fleeting smile and leaned back in his seat, eyes shifting to the front entrance out of habit every once in a while. “So…” Jet dug through hazy memories, trying to find some light topic to ease into, came up empty. Settled for simple, predictable, relatively unobtrusive. “You still living in the West end of town?”

[renegadefrombrooklyn]

The more time he spent with him, even down to each passing moment, a little less residual tension was chipped away, a little more warmth entered his eyes. As the other man spoke further, John no longer looked habitually weary – he looked worn down and exhausted, broad shoulders slumped a little, circles etched carelessly beneath his eyes. Still, at the returned smile, another one found his features, etching at the corner of green eyes, and lingering for a moment, small. It was a lovely, honest smile, one that was having increasing difficulty getting up in the morning. A soft exhale at the question, a glance over once more, and then finally an extended olive branch –

“Yeah,” he told him quietly. “Downtown. Decent place.” Soft, noncommittal, again that hesitant, small smile at the thought of what he had waiting for him. “Got a dog. She’s a dumbass but she’s my dumbass so I’ll forgive her anything.” Fondness softened the edges of faux-rough words, he cared a hell of a lot about Morte, was always a sucker for dogs, even cowardly Akitas with minor coordination problems. It was bittersweet now, having her, reminded him of Quin, reminded him of the callous hurt he had heaped on him, but that wasn’t the dog’s fault. It was nice having her regardless, and he loved her in his own way, uncomplicated and easy.

“Got a…guy I’m seeing.” Seeing. It was just suggestive and vague enough. Those words were more hesitant, almost apologetic, a habit he hadn’t been able to break, but most of him wanted to be easy and honest with Jet, to remove the stigma that clung to simple words. Although society had gotten easier on many things, old prejudices still ran deep. He had scars that laced his skin as testament to that – he had never had that problem when he was seeing Sara. He shrugged slow, eyes cast down for another moment, before raising, easing. “He’s my dumbass too. Decent life.”

“How about you – you got anything good,” John asked quietly, meeting his gaze with tired eyes. “Your kid – that’s something to live for, huh?” A tinge of something entered his voice, weary and almost wistful.

“It feel good, being a dad?”

[turncoatjet-blog]

Jet sipped at his drink and listened with attentiveness, hoping not to overstep the boundaries of general curiosity into insufferable nosiness. He couldn’t help but furrow his brows in poorly-concealed concern once in a while, well-attuned to the slumped shoulders and tired eyes of someone carrying the weight of too much on their own. It was an exhaustion that echoed his, and seeing the weariness occasionally give way to a small – he hoped genuine – smile was enough to set Jet increasingly at ease. His glances towards the exit gradually decreased in frequency, replaced by laugh lines and genuine creases.

Jet’s lips twitched at mention of dogs. Riley had always harped for a dog as a child, but Jet and Mary worked full days and Riley was at school or cram most of the day. Who’s going to take care of the dog? Jet had asked, sighing ruefully at Riley’s tearful tantrum. His question had been met by a toy crashing into the wall beside him and a string of I hate you’s. Still, sometimes Jet wondered if a dog – some kind of responsibility – would have been good for Riley. Given him something to care for, connect to. Given him life. Jet disguised his momentary regret by taking another sip.

He lifted his brows but simply nodded at John’s admission. There was a slight hesitation about the words, and Jet frowned. It was the kind of hesitation he expected around his little town outside Orleans, especially around someone as bigoted as his dad who’d pull out his belt if he so much as heard you were going out with a white girl or hanging around that ‘Sissy faggot Billy Barnes.’

“Hey, that’s alright. Good for you.” Jet hoped whoever that man was, he was the kind to help John carry whatever it was he was carrying. That’s what relationships were for. Mary had said this time and again when she was him hunched over his desk late at night. Even more so after the unsavory rumors about Arasaka had begun to spread through the city; after the riots had turned violent; after Jet’s work began to weigh heavier, blanketed by guilt. Sometimes Jet wondered if he’d let her carry too much, or not enough.

John’s tone… changed slightly upon mentioning Riley. Jet picked up on it but made no mention. He ran a hand over his faced, scratching at the unkempt, rapidly graying stubble over his cheeks, and offered a fleeting smile.

“It’s been alright. Things have been a bit rough since we… moved, but I think we’re getting along well. I’ve got a job as a… mechanic. It doesn’t pay much, but enough to keep us clothed and fed. It’s… kind of nice, you know, that kind of work. Simple, fixing things.” Even if done somewhat under the law. “Clean work,” he said more quietly, sadly. He glanced down at his fingers, the tips almost permanently black now. Better stained black then red – he had enough of both on his hands already.

“Riley’s been taking it a bit harder, as you can imagine. But he’s adapted pretty quickly.” He forced a chuckle. “He was a free spirit to begin with. Never really fit in around Westhill. Still, he was close to Mary, his mother. Never really… never really forgave me for that bit I don’t think. I’ve been giving him his space, hoping maybe time would heal things, you know, but…” Jet sighed and rubbed some condensation off his glass. “It’s hard. God I wouldn’t give it up for the world – being a father. I love Riley. But it’s hard.” What he wouldn’t give for Mary to come back. She always knew what Riley needed, always acted as intermediary when her two boys fought. Fixed them right up. “I just feel so… so damn lost sometimes.”

Jet shook his head and glanced up, quirking a smile. “Sorry, here I go dumping my sob-story all over you again. Are you working hereabouts?”