Work Text:
Cab rides after work are usually awkward.
Defense attorney and homicide detective.
My life was poor. Dusty flat and a roommate I never saw. A car would be too much.
Morgan probably had enough for an EV made of dents. But she’d always threw off the idea. Showed she wasn’t a total idiot, just an asshole defense lawyer. Anything newer than the sixties was built to break in a year or two. Anything older was expensive.
So. We carpooled. With a cab. Got off at the same stop. Only difference was that I went down four floors and she went up seven.
“Hey.” I said. Short, sweet, catches the attention. She never spoke unless I did. Always staring out the window or glaring at her phone. “What kind?”
She glanced at me, finally not looking out the window like she was going through a breakup, waxing poetic crap in her head of love or how beautiful the city is. How ugly it is, more like.
Well. Even I could excuse that. Have to be heartless not to think there might be a smidgen of pain in there, seeing as how her friend had died some six days ago. I still wasn’t sure I believed it. Hadn’t, at the start. Seeing her standing there talking about money when she’d only just heard of how he’d-
It pissed me off.
But no way Morgan really thought Ashur hadn’t committed suicide, not until she proved otherwise in front of the whole court. Anyone could tell she was just as surprised as the rest of us. Anyways. Point is, you don’t go into an unwinnable, nigh pointless court battle for a stranger. Especially when they’re already dead.
I expected her to ignore me, but instead, she just sighed, perfectly unbothered, and unemotional. “What?”
“The gun.” The bulge is well hidden by her overly formal coat, but when she leans forward in her seat, it drags over the frame enough that she might as well just wave it in my face.
There’s a pause. Can’t she ever just answer a question? Gotta be so much deliberation, so much waiting. That’s a defense attorney for you. “Mag-rail.”
Huh. Solid. Nice range, good punch. Better than I expected from little miss legal. “Bells and whistles?”
“Every last one.”
“Really..?” And you were doing so well. Everyone knew that ‘bells and whistles’ these days meant any decent hacker came along and you might as well be holding a brick. Still, I wasn’t about to complain. One tap on my phone and her gun was good as gone. As long as I was on the clock. Best I could ask for. No way I could trust her not to shoot me. Anybody who bought a gun just to laugh about it with their pals definitely wasn’t Evangeline Morgan.
After that, there was a lull. Maybe conversation stalled, maybe it was a comfortable silence, maybe maybe maybe. I wasn’t interested in putting a name to it. My cell plan covers this part of the city, so I scrolled idly through the Kagu_Ya sub-forums. Luxury is alright, but Kagu_Ya’s got drive. I wasn’t a fan, really. Obviously. Just not much these days to be a fan of. So I stuck around.
“You like these things? The cabs?”
Hm? I glanced over at her, a little surprised. She wasn’t much of a talker. It suited me fine, usually, but Morgan had a way of intensifying every silence, til you just couldn’t stand it anymore. Playing on my phone helped. But the skin crawling feeling of being picked apart- categorized into simple, rote definitions - it was too much. Even London felt it got… unbearable.
Emma, atleast, was too gay to notice. Blissful ignorance.
Notice how Morgan never smiled for anything more controversial than a rock. How she was never proud of anything, not really, just doing things. One, to two, to three. Or maybe she did notice. Saw past the, admittedly, attractive breasts, and into her heart. Maybe it was what she liked. A DA who’s type was a real freak. Ha.
As for her question… “No. Not really.” All ceramo-plastics and dusty corners and the smell of cheap liquor. Propelled on rails. I hate rails. One entrance. One exit. All predestined, without detours, or road-stops. Just too poor to ever have a shot at leaving them behind. “Why?”
“Just that car. The model kit. I noticed you seemed to enjoy them.” She paused, and I could see how she fiddled with something small and blocky in her pocket. Always had one hand shoved down there. “With… with David dead, I could probably just ask for it.”
…
I hate this. Morgan never really made full sense. A profoundly disturbing creature, to the point only true air heads, like Starling, or starry eyed romanced lovers, like Emma, could ever miss it. But yet. Morgan seemed to spend all her time helping others. She was a god damn defense attorney. Why? For what? Money? Soft power? Love of the game?
It didn’t matter. “Shove it, alright? I’ll just buy when they auction off his shit.”
“You’re a homicide detective, Reyes. You don’t have the money to contend.” She said. And she was right. I’d show up, put down a fifty, and leave, knowing someone with more than loose change to play with took it all for some inane ‘private’ collection, politely shoved just behind all the Nazi memorabilia they kept for ‘historical purposes.’
I did want the car. Model or not. Bring it home. Take it apart. Put it back together again. Rinse and repeat until bored, then resell, lest it collect dust in my apartment. All the while, I’d play that dream through my head, this time with the car in my hands.
Driving through the Sahara. On roads I make. With whoever I want to come with. No carpooling required. Just me and a friend. Or maybe someone more. It’s not like I never thought about, ugh, ‘love’. Hot winds, cold nights. A thousand pounds of steel and an engine so loud the vibrations would froth our beer for us.
Dreams are just for kids, London would say.
“Maybe I don’t wanna contend. Ever thought about that?”
She doesn’t even grace my words with the barest respect. Staring at me, one brow raised. Bitch. Maybe I don’t wanna owe you a favor. I’ve met actual street rats I trusted more not to bite me.
“Unlikely.” She says, just as the cab stops.
We both rise at the same time, and I get a faceful of too perfect tits on a too awful woman. Luckily, I’ve never been gay. Ever. Possibly the least gay woman alive. I’m talented like that.
—oO0Oo—
It’s not even a full ten hours before it happens. Sitting there in my apartment, unable to muster the usual excitement over my Terra Vassiati model. 2051. Golden decade of automotives, if you ask me. Not a lot of gas left, so they got really into engine efficiency. Could run a straight line from Los Angeles to New York in one of these. Downside was that they were pretty light weight. Not a lot of oomph. Big emphasis on having low drag, too, they looked like an arrow. But that was obviously cool.
The doorbell rang. I left it alone. Most everyone who came by came for… uh. Alex? I think? I only bothered to remember people I actually cared about, not frat boy 2000. Whatever. Point is, it’s not like I’m drowning in friends.
I heard the door open, a brief chat. Friendly. Normal. Except for one tiny thing.
That voice.
Morgan’s android. Serra, I think.
“Yo! Tiny! Someone’s android brought you a package!”
Tiny. What an asshole.
I get up, carefully putting away the unfinished model, and stepping out into the hall.
My room is parallel to the door, so we’re face to face immediately. Whatever settings her add has, I don’t like them. Too smiley. She’s smiling right now, actually.
In her hands is a brown package. Indistinct. Did Morgan send her add to give me a bomb? No. The bitch would want to do it herself.
“What do you want.”
The add, too lifelike, too normal, pushes the package toward me. “We are currently going through fa-Dr David Ashur’s possessions.
I let it hang there, in between us. Rude smude. She was just an add. “And?”
“He would not want them to go to waste. Morgan has mentioned you might appreciate this one.”
…
The car. Obviously. Maybe it was a bomb. If it was, at least I could internally justify breaking it in front of David Ashur’s stupid Daddy kink robot. But no. Dad hated wasting things too. I grab it, gently, and she lets it go, “Why?”
“Why?”
“Why’s she giving this to me? You got a profile on her right? For service parameters?”
“I do n-“
“I’m asking as an officer of the law.”
“What? Under what pretense?”
“Uh, stalking? Duh. I don’t remember giving Morgan my address.” Obviously she just used the building address book. But so what. She’s a petty asshole. This is just payback.
“In that case, I would surmise that it is because she does not have room for a model car.”
I look at the package in my hands. “Is she a hoarder?” I hope she is. Evangeline Morgan. A hoarder. Maybe the constant angelic choir finally got to her. It was enough to justify a wellness check atleast.
“No. Just very organized.”
Oh. The opposite. Lame.
I hadn’t paid attention to her gestures much, but now she’s waving goodbye. “I have to get home. Movie night.” She says, like it explains everything. Well. It kinda does. Just not in a way I like. Not in a way that makes sense for Morgan. David Ashur treated it like a daughter. Now Morgan did too. Respect for a friend’s intentions? Or…?
Pity. It slithered into my heart like a flat worm. Gross and pathetic, something Morgan seemed to deserve.
I brought the package back to my room and tore into it. Taking it apart in an hour and putting it back together in five. Idiot. Another two hours and I was back to work.
I sidled into bed, setting my alarm for an hour, and closing my eyes.
When I woke up, it was to five calls from London.
Late. Late. For the first time, I was late. But I couldn’t think about it at all. My mind was elsewhere.
Driving down the Sahara, on roads we made. Toasting beers with a smoker and her stupid, perfect tits.
….
Fat chance. It didn’t mean anything. I’m not even gay.
I hopped one sock on, phone held between my shoulder and ear, loudly telling London I’d be there soon.
But in the background, it just wouldn’t leave my head. That stupid dream. More like a nightmare.
A nightmare. It had to be. My heart had never done… this. Before. For any of those… handsome guys. Not that I’d dated any. Just appreciated from afar. It felt like I was teasing a heart attack.