The bar stank like Satan's ass-crack and looked twice as ugly. A light pall of cigarette smoke clung to the ceiling, leaving behind yellow plaque. The lights were dim and the music was loud, a pulse pounding beat that made Dan's ears bleed. He huddled in a small corner table, defensively cupping his beer as people bustled past him, trying hard not to stare at the dizzying array of upgrades and body mods on display, even as he did his best to take them all in.
The Sinner's Saloon wasn't exactly his scene. Like most things in Dinsion A, the bar was thed in the most obnoxiously over-the-top manner possible. In this case, Dan suspected that they'd borrowed heavily from the seedy portrayals of criminal gatherings that most movies in this parallel tended to favor. A dark, dank building filled with booze and n of ill-repute, smoke in the air and enough noise to drown out a quiet conversation. The perfect place for villains to gather, or for the protagonist to hunt down a tip from a sultry but penitent waitress, who just wanted to leave her past behind.
No doubt people ca here to imagine themselves in that scenario, either playing a dashing police detective who steals the girl away from the dastardly villain, or indulging in that most taboo of fantasies: a criminal planning out so masterfully evil deed. At least half the people in attendance were wearing dark jackets and fedoras; Dan counted no less than ten pairs of sunglasses affixed to faces, despite the dim light and indoor bar. Dozens of hushed, conspiratorial flirtations were being murmured at any given point in ti, neither party really understanding what the other was saying, but both leaning enthusiastically into the fantasy. Nobody in the bar was over the age of thirty, and it showed.
Well, except for one man. Cornelius Graham cruised through groups of pretty coeds, flashing charming smiles and eliciting vivid blushes. The man fisted a rack of mugs as he twirled between each gathering, sloshing beer over his thin white shirt without a care. His police badge—an oval APD sigil with a sharp triangle emblazoned at its peak, to denotate a SPEAR team mber— hung around his neck, tucked beneath his increasingly translucent shirt, and he received more than a few hungry looks from both sides of the isle. The man was practically a celebrity, not to ntion an outrageous flirt, and perfectly happy to revel in both of these things.
Despite being over twice Daniel's age, Cornelius barely looked out of his twenties. His face blended in perfectly with the majority of the bar. Dan found the whole thing intensely creepy, but forced himself to push it aside. Cornelius, by his own admission, was unwilling to go any further than flirting in places like this. "To keep one's skill sharp, one must practice," Cornelius often said with a wink and a smile. It didn't make Dan any less uncomfortable, but at least the old letch wasn't taking advantage of any of these doe-eyed college girls.
Cornelius eventually made his way over to Dan's table, soaked in alcohol both physically and taphorically. The dopey smile on the man's face said that he'd drank at least half again as much booze as he was wearing. He clapped down a handful of empty mugs onto the table, and managed to slide himself into the booth without vomiting.
"Whaa's the coun'?" he slurred, blinking owlishly at Dan.
Dan sighed. "Up seventeen since you left."
"Tha's it?" Cornelius... well it looked like he attempted to raise an eyebrow, but it ca out as more of a beleaguered wink. Dan idly wondered if the man was having a stroke.
He quickly ran a tally in his head once more. People moving in and out of the bar, faces and shapes, shadowed figures. His count was right, he was sure of it. Dan nodded. "Up seventeen."
"Good!" Cornelius flailed across the table in an attempt to clap Dan's shoulder. He missed and slapped against the hard wood surface, leaving behind a vivid crack. "Now... show 'em to !"
Shit. Dan tried not to furrow his brow as his eyes drifted across the bar. He trudged through his mory, searching for familiar faces. A few pinged in his mind: a maroon shawl and purple lipstick, a cat's tail poking out from beneath her skirt. A dark trench coat and dark aviators, over a dark shirt and dark boots. A lit cigarette dangling from his lips, even as he coughed between every other word, and another tucked behind his ear. A man with silvery skin and broad shoulders. Dan pointed out each of them to Cornelius, ntally tracking where he'd seen them co and go.
Dan managed to find twelve of his seventeen. Not bad, given the shit lighting and oppressive huddle of bodies. Hard to make out much of anything in the bar without being nose to nose with the person.
"Three of 'em are humpin' in the faculty— no. Fass— facilties. Fa-cil-i-ties," Cornelius slurred, jabbing a thumb over his back, towards a distant RESTROOM sign. "One's flirtin' with a girl in the corner o'er thar, and one's in tha' booth behin' you."
Dan blinked incredulously, as he followed Cornelius' directions and saw...
"Son of a bitch!" Dan exclaid. "You can barely keep your eyes open and it's almost pitch black in here! How is it you can keep track of all these people?"
"Darkness sets the mood," Cornelius replied unhelpfully, sweeping his arm around in what was probably ant as a aningful gesture, but practically speaking only knocked down his mugs and spilled more beer all over himself. The drunkard watched the liquid pool at the edge of the table then drip down over his pants with a look of absolute confusion.
This was a man who could honestly claim to be more observant than Dan.
"There's got to be so trick you're using," Dan insisted. "So sort of super secret police technique to keep track of everything in a room."
"Juss instinct I guess," Cornelius replied with a shrug. "An' practice. Lotta practice." He blinked, slowly. "Now, what're they wearin'?"
Dan swore, because he was an adult now, and adults didn't scream if they could help it.
Then he swore again, just for good asure, and tried his best to answer the damned question.
Dan left the Sinner's Saloon at only six o'clock in the afternoon, stuffing a thoroughly blitzed Cornelius Graham into a cab and vanishing into the Gap. He knew from experience that the man would simply pop a sobriety pill upon reaching his ho, and be right as rain in ti for his graveyard shift at the precinct.
Dan had no access to police-restricted pharmaceuticals, and therefore nursed nothing more than a light buzz. Even that was all but washed away by the familiar numbness of t-space. He floated listlessly, almost napping, letting his body drift in nonexistence. He watched the not-stars twinkle at him in the distance, and felt not-air brushing past his face. He turned his eyes upwards and saw his navigator, what was once an eldritch horror composed of eyes and teeth, now seed no more threatening than a passing cloud. A human could only look upon sothing so many tis before growing numb to it.
"Let's go ho," he said to it, he said to himself.
He reappeared in his ho gym, quickly stripping out of the jeans and t-shirt he'd worn to the bar, and changing into exercise-appropriate clothing. Dan owned an elliptical trainer that Abby had recomnded. It wasn't any kind of fancy super-tech, but it got the job done. One of the few disadvantages of having nigh-limitless teleportation was the fact that Dan was heavily disinclined to walk places. Or get much physical exercise at all, really. Only Dan's sincere desire to not end up like so sort of milquetoast, ultra-pale Violet Beauregarde ensured that he got his daily dose of cardio.
An hour later, and Dan was showered and changed. He sat down at his desk and popped open his laptop, as rrill crawled up his leg to greet him. The tiny mouse settled on his shoulder, and gazed down at the screen while Dan scrolled through his emails. There wasn't much to see. A few things from Connor and Gregoir, spam from Cornelius and one or two inquiries from Officer Ito about Dan's professional goals. Bank statents as well. Once a month, on the dot, a large transfer of funds to the account that Marcus had set up for Dan. Another had arrived just this morning.
It had been over three months since Dan had last heard from Marcus. He was too scared to visit the station now; its systems had appeared to be failing the last ti he'd left, and Dan had no desire to experience the vacuum of space. The station might still be there, or it might have imploded and showered Neptune with bits of slate-grey shrapnel. He just didn't know, and Marcus wasn't telling. It was... a disappointing end to their acquaintance. He'd have liked to have believed that he and the old man were on better terms, but apparently that hadn't been the case.
Ah, well. Ti marches on. No point in dwelling on the past.
Dan was happy with his life here. He had finally gone about expanding his business, renaming it to Dan's Deliveries—deliveries in a blink!— and picking up a few clients here and there. Business was slow, given how specialized his services were, but Dan wasn't exactly hurting for money. Worst case scenario, he could always be a sugar baby. Abby was a rich heiress, even if she didn't act like it.
She'd taken a job in Austin and they'd officially moved in together. That... wasn't really news to anyone who had t them before. Abby had basically been living with him already, they'd just made it official. She was in Georgia, now, finalizing the sale on her old house. Not that she needed the money, but Abby had always been resolved to make it on her own, without her family's help. The cheerful girl had even found herself a job in Austin, working at a rehab clinic for poor souls whose mods or upgrades had gone wrong.
It was strange being a hoowner. In so ways, the hassle was more trouble than it was worth. Dan's house was old and more than a little decrepit. The wallpaper was peeling in places, the floors needed refurbishing, and the A/C's only setting was arctic. He had to mow the lawn now, sothing he couldn't really use his power to skip. Not that he hadn't tried. Sowhere floating in t-space were thousands of blades of grass that he'd snipped with his veil. He'd given that up within minutes. The effort and focus required simply wasn't worth it.
Despite its many problems, Dan wouldn't give up his ho for anything. That wasn't just because it had a secret basent, though that obviously played a huge part in his resolve. The inside might be crumbling, but the outside was sturdy and strong. The previous owner had been a vigilante, and had reinforced both the walls and windows. Bulletproof glass, and so sort of ultra-dense brick ant that nothing short of a eighteen-wheeler slamming into the house at full speed would leave a dent. That level of security hadn't been necessary in Dan's old life, but in this dinsion it felt invaluable. Dan knew that he was being irrational, the odds of anything happening to his house weren't exactly high, but damn if it didn't make him feel safer.
Just one more thing to alienate him from his neighbors, but that was fine. Not like he had many neighbors to begin with. The houses on either side of his had been abandoned for years, a trend that continued down nearly the entire stretch of street, all barely maintained and only supplied with fresh 'for sale' signs every now and then. The house across the street was so kind of winter ho for a rich old couple that Dan had seen exactly once. The rest of the neighborhood consisted of middle-aged busy-bodies that gawked at him whenever they thought he wasn't looking, but fled his gaze like roaches did daylight. He found it funny, if not particularly flattering.
Dan's phone chid, and he instinctively tensed in anticipation. He was now a certified disaster-relief volunteer, and was technically on call at all tis. Anastasia, in a rare act of non-malice, had even properly updated the details of his mutation. Should anyone check his demonstrated abilities against the official record, Dan was covered.
Given the particulars of his registered mutation, he was a responder for the entire state of Texas. His ho state was absolutely humongous, so that ant he spent an average of twice a week responding to so sort of ergency, minor or otherwise. It was incredibly fulfilling work, odd as that was to think. But not fulfilling in a weird or needy way. Dan liked the idea of making a difference, but looking forward to such things seed a little creepy. Barely a step down from rubbing his hands together and cackling maniacally.
He glanced at his phone, and the anticipation in his body was replaced by irritation. It was a text ssage. A power play, of all things. The person on the other end seed to think making a phone call, like a normal goddamn human, put one at so sort of disadvantage. Dan clicked his tongue, and made it anyway.
"Newman," a woman's voice picked up after a mont.
"What do you want?" Dan replied tersely.
He could clearly picture Anastasia Sumrs' cold smile. "I've got another cache for you to crack."
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