Hollick: So as I take off the tire, I notice the gal, some rich lady from the market's got a crazy look of worry on her face.
Hollick: So I tell her, "Break my jaw if I'm telling a lie. We're good folks here. Don't believe me? Just ask around about 'J and his friends' on Haight Street"!
At the bar, the drunken mechanic sways unsteadily, bellowing out his story.
The diligent satellite, now serving as a bartender, hovers close, wiping up spilled drinks from the table.
Sputnik: P-please take care, Mr. Hollick. You have been drinking way too much.
Becket: Hahaha, come on, Hollick, you don't get the balls.
Becket: I saw this guy get a nose bleed yesterday, and he cried like a little baby. Back me up, J!
He jabs J with his elbow, but J fails to react.
Becket: Hey, J?
J: W-what?
Becket: Did they bust your head or something? You're off daydreaming while we're talking about some rich bimbo.
Pioneer: Sorry, Mr. Becket. I believe J's present concerns may be revolving around, you know, "Legers the Dead."
J: Nah, way off, Stuffed Shirt!
J: Take a look.
Pioneer: "'Bombshell' News: Uncovered Video Shows FAE Used as New Execution Method?" Hmm, what will the minds of those Hollywood producers think of next?
Mercuria: Oh, I think I've seen images from this video, from spam mail and newspapers.
ONiON: We're still trying to identify this woman to confirm the authenticity of the video. If you have any information, please call us at 429-7234 ext. 7 ...
ONiON: Up Next: Homebound or Hoodwinked? The Mystery of the So-Called Long-Lost Son!
ONiON: We turn to the story of Sgt. Howard Eden, a retired army veteran, and the stranger claiming to be his long-lost son.
ONiON: But, is this a heartwarming reunion or a sinister story of senior exploitation? Let's ... static noise
The old television emits dying sputters of static before cutting out entirely.
All: Awww!
Pioneer: Oh, too bad. You know, it's good fun watching all her nonsense and sensationalism.
Becket: Hey, show some respect! Sure, that whole "How Woodchucks Could Control the World" piece she did was a little iffy, but—who knows what those woodchucks could chuck at us?
J: ...
J: Alright.
J: That Legers thing is really bothering me, okay? What's his story?
The drunk mechanic jolts awake and upright with renewed excitement.
Hollick: I've heard it. Not gonna lie. Kinda sick. Cops hate him, but the street punks love him!
Hollick: They say back in Hunters Point, a bunch of guys was torturing him, had him tied up like a pig.
Hollick: And when they got tired, they put a gun in his mouth and made him eat it. The bullet went straight through his throat out the back of his head!
Hollick: But, when the cops came, they found nothing but a few bloody teeth. He was gone!
Hollick: Scary, right? But here's the thing, yeah, Legers is a pure human! So, what happened? Where did he go?
He waves his arms dramatically, animated and almost cartoonish in his performance.
But his audience is less than captivated.
Pioneer: Mr. Hollick, I think you've been watching too many of those horrible Romero movies. People returning from the dead, that's hokey cinema, not reality.
Hollick goes red, unable to form any defense.
Pioneer: I can only assume this "Legers the Dead" made up this rumor himself, perhaps so he might attract more powerful arcanists to his side.
Pioneer: Potion addicts, smugglers, card sharks ... Getting them all under his thumb until he can gobble up the whole of San Francisco.
Hollick: And yeah, it's been working. But not anymore, 'cause we ain't gonna sit and watch!
Pioneer: Afraid you're overestimating our strength, Mr. Hollick. Their enterprise is much more dangerous than all our previous rivals. No less so if they're aiming on partnering up with the lunatics in the New Age Market.
Mercuria: Gotta agree with that assessment, Pioneer. It's been days since my last session with a paying customer. Seems like everyone is joining up with them, and their energy is disturbing, to say the least.
Mercuria: They've been poking around my shop, looking for some rare sort of books and materials, kinds I never even heard of before.
Pioneer: I would advise avoiding direct confrontation, J.
J: I hear you.
It is a rare moment of calm consideration for their hotheaded leader.
J: Avoid confrontation, that's the right move for sure. But it's not gonna be possible. They aren't giving us a choice.
J: The cops abandoned Haight Street a long time ago. Ain't nobody that cares about these streets but us now.
J: Remember? That was when all those artists' trailers were burnt down. After that, the rest of the diviners and such were run off quick. It's only those loonies that have stuck around, misguiding arcanists, making everything worse.
He looks to his friends.
J: If we were smart, we would have left then and there! Closed up shop, took the first bus out of this city, and ran for our miserable, pathetic lives.
J: But then, we ain't that kind of smart, are we?
J: But, this is our home, so we've gotta make our stand here or we'll never stop running.
The mannequin next to him speaks, broaching his words carefully.
Pioneer: Please, don't misunderstand me, J. I'm only saying: this fight is beyond our capabilities alone. Should we not consider ask- ...
J: Uh-uh-uh, don't you finish that thought. In fact, don't even think it!
The sharpness of his tone is clear. The idea is beyond consideration, not to be touched on—not even to be breathed.
J: Look, I know what you're saying, but, I don't know, man. That kind of talk is for cowards. We don't have to get them involved in this.
Pioneer: You have to admit that they care about arcanists, despite all their bureaucracy.
Pioneer: Turning to the Foundation would not be a bad choice for us, J.
A perfectly timed silence.
From beneath the bar, the round bartender floats up as if peeking.
Sputnik: Yes, Mr. J. I think Mr. Pioneer might be right. I don't want to lose my job because of these bandits.
Sputnik: I'll be glad to bring you to the Foundation!
Pioneer: Your assistance would be more than welcome, Ms. Disco Ball.
Pioneer: It couldn't possibly hurt to reach out to Paulina. Maybe she could help us with the red tape. She's your sister, after all.
J looks away and huffs audibly. It's a childish, almost silly, display.
J: No, no, no. I'm only gonna say this once, and it's for real: This is our OWN business. Nobody else's, especially not hers.
J: Paulina made her choice. She could've talked with me, she could have approached us, if that's what she wanted. She had the chance. She's had years, not a word.
J: She "has her own life," and she made it out of these streets. She ain't coming back. She ain't even looking back.
J: She's not that little girl tagging around us anymore. She's got fancy marble floors now, got all that "decency" and "good taste" that she never had here.
J: She doesn't need us.
J: You think I'm gonna scrape down on my knees for her? Ha, I'd rather stick my foot in hot slag. Least that way I'd have one leg to stand on.
Pioneer: J, please, just give it some thought. This may be the only way for all of us to survive this.
J: Er, I need a drink!
He mumbles and steps away from the bar.
"Crash."—But as he does, a darting figure collides into him at an unfortunate angle for the both of them.
J: AH! Something just hit me in ... my ...
He crumples over, wincing with pain.
As he collapses, a handful of coins tumbles to the floor.
???: Shoot. Run!
The small boy makes a panicked sprint from behind the bar.
The round bartender stammers out a revelation.
Sputnik: Mr. J, all the money in the bar is, ah, how is it you're saying, "gone"!
J: Ca- ... urgh ... Catch that kid!
COMBAT
Becket moves to block the little thief, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck.
He takes a look at the thief's face.
Becket: Ha, knew it, Cateye Wisen, owner of the most infamous sticky fingers from here to the Market and back.
Becket: Little dude, I know your dad ran off with those guys from the "Order of Enlightenment." But why didn't you go to the shelter? You trying to get yourself hurt out here?
Cateye Wisen: Let me go, you big jerk!
The would-be thief spits on his face.
Becket: Humph, sooner or later, someone is gonna teach you a lesson or two.
Becket: Don't think that arcanist mom of yours wants you using your "cat eye" to steal things.
Becket grabs the boy's hand, taking his remaining coins.
As he does, he reveals a gruesome cigarette burn on the boy's hand.
Becket: I know things seem tough right now, kid. But acting like the world owes you something ... it's gonna bring you nothing but trouble.
Becket: When I got my finger chewed up by that machine, I lost everything. I coulda went around sticking up places. I didn't. Think you got it worse than me?
Mercuria: ...
Mercuria picks up the coins strewn about the floor and walks over to them.
She signals Becket to let the boy go.
Becket: Hey, we gonna let him go just like that?
As he releases his grip, the boy falls to the ground.
Mercuria lowers herself to the boy's level, gently slipping the coins back into his dirty hand.
Mercuria: Go on. Your friends are waiting out there.
They look toward the door. A group of ragged, filthy children are watching them back, retreating timidly as they meet their gaze.
Sputnik: But, Mr. J ...
J: It's fine, Sputnik. Let 'em go.
Mercuria: These kids lost their homes to the New Age Market. Their parents deserted them. They've got nowhere to go.
J: ...
Becket: ...
Mercuria: Becket, look at them.
Mercuria: You can't compare. It doesn't work like that. Each suffering has its own energy.
The boy picks himself up, muttering a "thank you" as he walks uneasily toward the door.
Before he reaches it, a hand rests on his shoulder.
J: Hey, kid.
J: You and your friends looking for some almost-honest cash?
Cateye Wisen: You mean ...!
Cateye Wisen: T-Thanks, J.
Cateye Wisen: I got sharp eyes! I can do lots of stuff! Counting coins, cars, finding water drops ... I'm great at spotting cheats and shady dealers!
J pats him in a brotherly gesture.
J: Easy, kid. Fill your belly first.
J: Ms. Sputnik, please get these kids some burritos. Dang kid, those arms are like chopsticks. Hey, Ms. Sputnik? Let's make those extra meat.
J: Alright, man. Consider my second thought, thought over.
He slumps over the bar, giving a long sigh at an old photograph in his hand.
In the photo, he stares at the girl caringly, while she looks cold, longing for independence and freedom.
Regardless—
J: sigh
J: But get this straight: if I see her fold her arms and give me any of that snooty attitude, we're gone, out the door, no discussion!