Queen Violence

Chapter Twenty-Two - Standing Out

"Do you know what truly makes a person stand out above all else?" I asked Sharp. It was the next morning, and the day had started simply enough. We were falling into something of a routine already. Sharp would awaken, rush to the showers, steal some leftovers from the kitchen for the both of us, and then we'd be off to the courier's office to start our morning's work.

Mark had only nodded when Sharp asked if there was any work available near the Back Bay area before giving us three packages due for Central and another near Fenway. At least one of those was right on the border where Back Bay started, so it was close enough.

"Being pretty?" Sharp guessed as she peddled.

I scoffed from my position of honour sitting atop our last few packages in the bike's sidecar. "Don't be ridiculous. Prettiness is far too subjective. I'm certain that in this wide world there are even a few people that would find you pretty."

Sharp laughed, then adjusted her fat-framed glasses. "Rude," she said, but it was not without humour. "So, it's not being pretty that makes you stand out. Is it power, then?"

"What sort of power? There's a hundred kinds. And I'm certain that viewed from the right lens, many of those would certainly help you stand out from the crowd. Though what I'm talking about is more something that lets you attain that power to begin with." I closed my eyes as we reached a hill and started to ride down it. The wind ruffled my fur in a most satisfactory way.

"Okay, so it's not power, it's not being pretty. Uh." Sharp narrowed her eyes and actually gave it some thought. "I don't know what answer you're looking for," she said after a while.

I shook my head. It wasn't so much that I was fishing for a specific answer than... well, yes actually, that's what I was doing, but I was mostly trying to educate her via the old open rhetoric method.

"The answer I was looking for is initiative," I said.

"Initiative? Like moving first in a fight?" Sharp asked.

"That's also initiative, but I meant more the definition that includes having the power and opportunity to act before others. Look at your position now. You reached out to Paris for work, and it helped you find work. You reached out to Mark for more, and here you are, earning a pittance but actively moving across the city."

"I kinda see what you mean, but not really how that applies to making someone stand out. I mean, I guess you stand out by asking people for work?"

"It's more complex than that. Initiative applies to more than just looking for work. People with initiative will push themselves to the limit and then beyond in searching for something better. There are some who have something similar to initiative, where they're chasing the high of seeing numbers increase. But that's a trap. More money in your bank account, more friends on your socials, more followers. It's playing into a complex algorithm and those people only stand out because they exemplify that system. What really makes someone special is the ability to see things that they want changed, and then taking the time to change them."

Sharp was quiet for a while, and she seemed pretty deep in thought. "I think I can see it," she said. "That's what Edgerunners are, right? People that see something they want to change, or who see an offer out there, and instead of just working a normal job doing normal things, they take the initiative and do... uh, Edgerunner stuff?"

"Essentially, yes," I agreed. Sharp was a decent student, all things said.

We arrived in Central and had to push through a throng of people crowding the sidewalks and edges of the roads. This part of the city had its own smell, not that I could pinpoint what that smell was, exactly. Fifteen different ethnic spices, the fumes from some old hydrocarbon cars, the sizzling oil from small food stands; it all mixed together into something that should have been foul but instead it reminded me that breakfast was several hours ago.

Our deliveries in Central were all in backroads and alleys behind larger apartment blocks. The first was handed over to a group of men that didn't speak a lick of English and the second was dropped off in a bin with six obvious cameras pointed right at it, the last was simply brought to the front counter of a small pharmacy in the lower districts where the clerk signed for it and then told Sharp to scamper.

"And that's the last of them," Sharp said before stretching her back out until it popped. "So... since we're right here, we might as well take that initiative and see about those cultists, right?"

"I feel like bringing that up might have been a mistake," I admitted.

Sharp grinned, then picked me up and settled me on her shoulder. We found a bike locking station nearby, one with decent-enough security that charged by the hour, and locked the courier bike up. That would eat up half of our day's profit in one go, but money wasn't that much of an issue anymore.

I still needed to find the time to get Sharp set up with proper banking, but that was the sort of thing we could take care of on a slower day.

Finding the Mutes was easy enough. The gang was supposed to be somewhat hidden, but it was also an open secret that they lived along the edge of the Charles River. As we got closer to the river's edge, the area grew more dilapidated. The homes were older, with less care given to maintaining them, the few businesses around were all cheaper franchises and these seemed to still have human workers behind their counters instead of the more modern stores that were fully automated.

Then there was the graffiti. Plenty of it covered the rest of Boston, of course, but it was particularly bad around here. Neon paints caught the light and made the narrow alleys we passed glow with a mix of tags old and new.

The closer to the river's edge we got, the more tags had the word Mute on them.

Sharp, taking the initiative once more, walked up to a cigarette salesman operating a cart off of an intersection. "Sorry sir, but would you happen to know where I can find the Mutes?"

"If you're not here to buy, then fuck off," he said with traditional Bostonian cordiality.

Sharp pursed her lips, then fumbled in her pockets. She pulled out a pair of ten dollar bills. "Sorry sir, but would you happen to know where I can find the Mutes?"

The salesman eyed the cash. It really wasn't much, but I couldn't imagine that business was booming out here for him either.

He swiped the money out of her hands, then nodded his head back the way we came. "Return that way a block, then take a right onto Dartmouth. Look for that old red building."

"Thanks!" Sharp chirped before we took off jogging in that general direction. His directions weren't all that great, in part because there were no street signs left around here and because half of the buildings were made of red brick.

Still, we found the place. An older building with a pair of open garage doors on its ground level. The inside was filled with movement and the sound of older rock music. Sharp and I walked by, spying on the place from across the street. There was a lot of activity here, but it seemed more or less friendly.

The Mutes, as far as I could recall, didn't have gang colours or any real sort of uniform. They stood out by flashing quick hand-signs at each other and speaking in what was almost a whispery accent that was hard to pick up on, even with sharp cat ears.

"Seems like the place," Sharp muttered.

The people going in and out were probably not all gang members, and it looked like there might be some stalls selling things within. It was probably safe to enter, though Sharp's courier jacket might make her stand out.

"Seems like it," I agreed. "Come on, before the day gets old."

We entered. Sharp might not have noticed all of the eyes staring at her, but I certainly didn't miss them.

It only took a few minutes for someone to come over. A big man, with two cybernetic arms folded over his chest. He had two more arms, these thin and emaciated beneath. His face was pock-marked and rough but his eyes seemed gentle enough. He raised his flesh arms and worked through a few signs, slow enough that someone new to signing might have time to understand them. When it was clear that Sharp didn't understand, he shrugged, then cleared his throat. His voice came out scratchy, as if he rarely spoke. "Hello, child. What are you doing here?"

"Ah, hi!" Sharp said. "I have some questions? I think? Maybe you can help me out?"

***