[ the good news is this: eulogy's in a better mood than usual. the papers were a windfall, of a kind that criminals hardly ever catch, and business lures business. the throat of the tunnel's abuzz with faraway dealings; broad-shouldered women, spikes riding high on each shoulder, crowd through the old mine's doors with a clap on the back and a filthy joke about the bouncers' mothers, to raucous laughter.
and now, the bad news -- first, that scott "i was genetically modified for superstrength but not supersmoothness" mccall can't actually pass for a broad-shouldered woman. even the guards don't seem to put much stock in him. what's slinging over his head at the mine's broad doors rings a bit less like threats and a bit more like ribbing -- at least the kind used by people who've never learned to be gentle. ("young to be out here, kid, aren't you? run home, ratbrat. if you're that-real desperate for a buck, why don't you tell your mama i'll be by tonight, huh?")
but the more important piece of bad news: when you hold up the line for those whose identities need to be verified for admission, you hold it up for everyone.
keith's five steps behind him -- he's been five steps behind for, it feels, the last hour, through the brusque rebuffs to the bawdier insults, to the idle flick of hands to holsters. this is exactly the problem with going undercover: having to tag along in the background of other people's dealings and pretend that they're reasonable instead of doing what anybody with half a brain would do and buying a smoke-bomb to clear the way.
it's temper, only temper, that drags him out of the watching crowd. ]
He's with me.
[ silence. silence -- along with the dead-eyed stare of three bouncers deeply unimpressed with this localised miracle of multiplication. and? who're you?
but keith's already sweeping a look over scott, sizing him up. narrow shoulders, big ears -- ]
a - eulogyyyy
and now, the bad news -- first, that scott "i was genetically modified for superstrength but not supersmoothness" mccall can't actually pass for a broad-shouldered woman. even the guards don't seem to put much stock in him. what's slinging over his head at the mine's broad doors rings a bit less like threats and a bit more like ribbing -- at least the kind used by people who've never learned to be gentle. ("young to be out here, kid, aren't you? run home, ratbrat. if you're that-real desperate for a buck, why don't you tell your mama i'll be by tonight, huh?")
but the more important piece of bad news: when you hold up the line for those whose identities need to be verified for admission, you hold it up for everyone.
keith's five steps behind him -- he's been five steps behind for, it feels, the last hour, through the brusque rebuffs to the bawdier insults, to the idle flick of hands to holsters. this is exactly the problem with going undercover: having to tag along in the background of other people's dealings and pretend that they're reasonable instead of doing what anybody with half a brain would do and buying a smoke-bomb to clear the way.
it's temper, only temper, that drags him out of the watching crowd. ]
He's with me.
[ silence. silence -- along with the dead-eyed stare of three bouncers deeply unimpressed with this localised miracle of multiplication. and? who're you?
but keith's already sweeping a look over scott, sizing him up. narrow shoulders, big ears -- ]
Hey. Can you fight?