Dirt

The building was dirty and cramped, like most of downtown Atlantis. The hallway was alive with more tenants than cockroaches, and that was saying something. Loud, noisy, and filled with scum. As a mass of people filed toward the stairs for the evening meal, one man pushed opposite. He was a good height and build, nothing abnormal at first glance. His hair was a crazy neon-blue typical of bikers and druggies. His ragged shirt and ripped jeans told the same story. Nobody bothered to look at him for long, though, because that either meant trouble or an invite to it. Nobody in the hallway wanted that.
As the man reached room 198, he pulled to the side of the hall and banged on it. His gloved fist shook the door. No response came from the other side. The man hit the door harder, wanting to be heard above the commotion around him. This time there was a faint jingle from beyond the marred door. The tumblers fell into place and the door swung inward.
Just then, a bedraggled old woman, thinking this was a shortcut, bumped into a figure beyond the entry. Looking up, she saw a fierce-looking woman about thirty years younger than her, complete with a red-painted Lugar. Turning around, the old woman saw an equally shocking figure. The woman quickly found her way back into the dwindling flow of people going to supper.
The young, armed woman looked after the intrusion for a second, then turned back to her guest. A quick once-over look got the guest a grunt of approval.
“Sol knows not to send his type of scum here any more.” the woman said nonchalantly in a smoker’s rasp. She waved in the man with her free hand, never lowering the Lugar. “Name’s Trout. Come on in, stranger.”
The man walked into a place even more crowded than the hallway. Packed with scraps of old bikes and stocked like a full-scale armory, Trout’s home looked like a perfect last resort. She waved the guest toward an empty spot on the couch, the only visible piece of furniture in the room.
“Have a seat,” she said. “and tell me a bit about yourself.”
The man looked at her for a minute. She was slender with quite the muscular undertone. Her hair was a salmon pink in the dim, yellow light of her barely-seen lamp. Several piercings dotted her ears and lower lip, all in dark-steel. Then he spoke.
“My name’s Jericho.” His voice was smooth and soft, like a breeze, with an edge of anger. “I’ve lived in the Stacks almost all my life. I found out about you through Davis, not Sol.” He looked into her face. “I need your help.”
Trout looked at her guest closer this time. An ivory scar ran under his chin, right across his throat. His eyes matched the blue of his hair. And, suddenly, she didn’t feel good about this guy. She stood up abruptly and turned to the shelves behind her. Her eyes scanned the chaos for the “Specialist”. Trout’s eyes fell on the stocky, brutish-looking, thug of a submachine gun. Then Jericho spoke again.
“Davis sends his regards. He still doesn’t know why you did it, shooting him and all,” Jericho’s voice got really soft. “but he knows how it has to be and he lets it go.”
Trout slowly turned around. Her eyes searched her guest again for weapons; none. She looked Jericho in the eye now. Her hand still rested on the “Specialist”.
“So…” Hesitance marred her voice like scratches on glass. “you’re not here to kill me?”
“Like I said, I need your help. I wouldn’t kill someone I need.”
A second passed in silence. “But you were sent here to kill me.”
Another second. “…yes.”
Trout looked at her would-be assassin. She wracked her brain for a hint of why he wouldn’t obey Davis. Then she saw it. “You’re an Exile.”
Jericho’s eyes narrowed aggressively. If looks could kill, he would’ve done his job.
Trout raised her hands defensively. “Hey! No need to be angry. You and I are in the same boat there.” She looked at his scar again, tracing its path beneath her own face. “Disobedience? Fighting with the wrong f**k?”
As she stood there, trying to get his goat, Jericho wondered if this was more trouble than just killing her. Finally, he responded. “A lucky strike. They tried to end it then, but... Now it shows that I’ve betrayed before.” He laughed a little. “I wasn’t always a part of Davis’ crew. Guess I can’t be trusted.”
Trout looked at her split-second enemy for a minute. “So, not an Exile from Davis, but from another…” She smiled. “And now another.”
Jericho looked away. His anger was fueled by shame now.
“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t look away. There’s a difference between betrayal and being out for yourself. You just gotta be out for every one else.”
Jericho looked up into Trout’s face. She was actually smiling. He smiled, too.
“I’ll be there for you, sister.”