“Alright, let’s get this show back on the road,” Tony sighs, sinking his ass into the spinning, padded, luxurious office chair as he motions me to sit in the stupid not-spinny ass-busting wooden one across from his desk. I guess all the budget for this room went to the five-monitor setup the Sergeant entombs himself in, certainly for the purposes of doing five times the paperwork at once and totally unrelated to the 50,000 Telecred gaming tower next to his desk with an even more expensive Teleworld VR headset on top. “First things first, we gotta get this little misión encubierta started, then we can worry about the paperwork.” He grins every time he throws Spanish in like it isn’t the first NeurOS language pack everybody fucking buys. Prick. “I’ve gotta know what we’re working with on this case. You said the last place you remember being before you woke up in your office with the new tat was some kind of hookah parlor?”
I frantically rewind the VCR of my brain. That tape is too deteriorated to make any sense out of as a whole, but definitely getting a few frames of the hookah joint. “Uh… yyyep. That’s the one part I’m sure of. Now, about that Pneusuit--”
“Whoah whoah whoah, hold the Telaphone a sec, Blake. There’s about a dozen hookah parlors within a thirty mile radius of here. Do you remember which it was? By law, all alcohol or tobacco serving establishments in the Ocean View district are required to maintain video records of all activ-”
“There’s only one I ever go to, Sarge. I’m still hooked on Hooked on Hookah, baby; still next to that fuckin sick VR arcade on Atlantic. But it won’t do you any good, Tone’. They aren’t gonna keep tapes; they don’t have to!”
“Blake, yes they–”
“Nope. They don’t serve tobacco there, man, just hookah.”
“Blake, hoo—”
“I do hookah, Tony; I don’t fucking smoke,” I continue, pausing to grab the bottle of Vodquila from the edge of his desk and take a tiny sip of it that only lasts ten seconds. “My body’s a temp–”
“Hookah is flavored tobacco, Blake!” he blurts, angrily snatching the bottle from me and setting it behind his chair.
“Well, shit.”
“What did you think it was?!”
“I don’t know, it’s fruity so I figured they just take the smoke out of the juice and–”
“Jesus Christ, Blake. For fuck’s–look, never mind. Thank you, I’ll give them a call tonight and we should have those files sent before the night’s over. Hopefully we can get some clarity, figure out who you were with, where you went, spark your memory, yada yada. In the meantime, we’ll need to get you refitted, since you’ve… grown.”
“With all due respect, which isn’t as much as it used to be, you’re one to–”
He chortles like the jolly bastard he is and leans back in his chair. “Yup. Difference is, I’ve ALWAYS been fat. You’re just now joining the club, so we just need to make sure you can fit into the—”
“Pneumat suit!?”
“…uniform. Look, Blake, you… don’t get a PneuSuit.”
“I’m out.”
“You’re a fucking undercover detective, are–are you just gonna to walk into the middle of a bunch of gangster cultists strapped into a LUPIN-3Z with the OVPD logo crossed out in red sharpie and be like, ‘what up, fellow cultists?’ Don’t feel bad, Chad doesn’t have a suit anymore either, he didn’t need it after he–”
“Stole my job?”
“…filled the vacancy. He used to be a Pneumat. Now he’s a Detective, like you are again--congrats–and Detectives don’t get cool suits. You get cool cars. Including your highly, highly illegal Mustang. That was the deal, Blake. Leave the riots and rogue-ARTs to Natasha and her men. You’re our secret weapon. Not our blatantly obvious, bulky, pneumatic weapon.”
“Why do I even need a uniform, then? Can’t walk into Mormon HQ dressed like a douched up, badge-totin’ donutfucker, either.”
“One,” he groans, his face sinking into his hands, “for the last time, LDS are NOT Mormons; and two, you wouldn’t be wearing the uniform when you’re undercover, Blake.”
“I wouldn’t be wearing the PneuSuit when I’m undercover, either, but you aren’t having me fitted for one of those either, are ya’?”
“Fine, dress however you want, no uniform. You’ve got a point, I hate to admit; but you ain’t about to get a million-Telecred pneumatic mechsuit either. We’re already rubbing out a couple thousand ‘creds in damage to a DrivePod, threatening two officers, stealing their handguns, illegally owning/brandishing/firing handguns as a civilian, illegally eliminating your Telaphone by throwing it into the fucking ocean, public intoxication, violently and purposefully throwing up on Mike’s Pneumat suit through the bars separating you two in the police car, and, oh, I dunno, joining the top criminal gang/cult in all of Telecom occupied territory since you busted the Wild West Syndicate, for reasons that seem to elude even you. And, on top of all that, we’re letting you come back and giving you your illegal franken-Mustang that we were supposed to destroy five years ago. Blake, I like you a lot, for reasons that become less and less obvious with repeat exposure, but a line has to be drawn somewhere.”
“Of course, Sarge. I understand. We’ll draw that line very firmly, just a couple little pixels past the point where I get a mechsui-”
“Not gonna happen. End of story. Welcome aboard.” He sighs even louder and starts clicking around on his computer. “I’ll finish the new hire paperwork and we’ll make you, shall we say, retroactively official. Most of it I still have in your folder from last time; I’ll put the relevant pages in your mail file to sign whenever. Meantime, Chad’s gonna’ give you a briefing on LDS to get you started on the mission. He was assigned to that case already, so he’s got a good head start.”
“Head start? Pfft, bitch please, he’s Telesearching them while they’re giving me totally hackin’ skull tats, I’m the one who infiltrated the motherfuckers.”
“You were too drunk to remember any of it and not on the force at the time, so that’s not called infiltrating, that’s called joining. I’m not fucking around, Blake: everything I’m doing for your ungrateful ass is on the basis that you’re going to clean up your fucking act. Your get out of jail free card is on the table. You can pick it up, or take your chances, but I’m not the one who should be begging here.”
“Are you threatening me, Tone?”
“Nope. You walk out of here right now and I won’t do a damn thing to you, Charles Blake–but I won’t do a damn thing for you, either. Market yourself as the invincible Detective man all you want, kid. You and I both know what happens if we don’t fudge the records and I’m putting my literal neck on the line by risking that much for you as it is. So go ahead–fuck off forever, if you want; I won’t stop you. But good luck facing down Telecom by yourself. You already know how that ends. You’ve already seen how that ends.”
I think he could actually be right, about everything. Which makes me–
wrong?
Fuck.
“…well, f-fine since you offered me Baller back, I’ll let old grudges go and try to make this thing work. Hell, maybe it’ll be good content for another book. I’m in.”
“Good!” Tonio exclaims, loudly clapping his heavy hands together. I’m glad to hear it, man. Chad’s in Meeting Room A.”
“Oh, ho-ho, n-no,” I nervously laugh, “sorry Sarge, I meant I was letting JUST old grudges with YOU go. It’s not even a grudge with Chad, Sarge, I’ve ALWAYS hated Chad. Fuck Chad. Fucking roidhead prettyboy--”
Tony picks up his Telaphone and hits a couple things on screen, his Sports-Pak Cheerleader skin Tela popping up on the desk to quickly mimic patching him into the PA. “Alright, Chad, I’m sending him your way.” He nods at me and puts his phone down. “Blake, you might want to use this as an opportunity for a fresh start. I know I should have led with this, but I know you wouldn’t have—”
“Don’t. Sarge, fucking—”
“Blake, due largely to the way this case has shaken out before you fell back into our laps with the solution… you’re being assigned to the same case, which means you and Chad are partners. Don’t protest. Don’t fight me on this. It’s for the mission, and it makes sense. If either of you fails to treat the other with respect, I’ll intervene. This is part of the job, Blake. Let’s make it work.”
There’s not even a word in any of the languages on my jailbroken NeurOS that can explain how much I fucking hate this. I bite my tongue, nod, and silently slink up and out to go face the proverbial music.