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Blue Evening Sugar
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"By 'scrapping,' you mean scavenging in the ruins, right?" You ask.
Quincy nods. "Yep. You thinkin' of goin' that route?"
"Well, I need to know a bit more about the risks first."
"Risks? Well, I guess you could say scrappin's a legal grey area," she supposes. "It ain't illegal outright, but the powers that be don't exactly want people doin' it."
"What about the ruins themselves? How safe are they?"
"Depends on how deep you go in. Stick to the outer ring 'n you're only gonna run into freemen." She pauses to think for a moment. "Oh, and there's the itch, if you got really shitty luck."
These terms are new to you. "Freemen?"
"A buncha hobos who pretend they ain't hobos by sayin' they live 'off of the grid.' Most of the time they're pretty cool, so long as you keep 'em boozed up a bit."
"And the 'itch'?"
"The itch is..." She trails off, scratching her head. "Y'know, I dunno how to describe it, especially 'cause I've never been in it. It's a... rhythm thing, I think. They say you can feel it comin' on when yer bones start to tingle, 'n then it just gets worse from there. I've heard freemen say gettin' real drunk helps 'em get through it." She shrugs. "Personally I just carry a detector with me when I go on scraps, so I can get the hell outta dodge before it shows up."
"Other than the detector, are there any other precautions you take before going on a scrap?"
"Mostly the usual stuff you'd expect. Gun, knife, welding kit, medkit, work clothes..." She pauses to look you over for a moment. "You're gonna need some boots."
"Wait, so you don't have an extra body or something, just in case?"
She lets out a loud guffaw. "You kiddin' me? If I could afford that I wouldn't've gotten into scrappin' in the first place."
"Say," you start, changing the subject, "What if we did both -- what if we sold the bender and went on a scrap together?"
She shrugs. "Sure, if you wanna do that I'm sure we could work a deal out. We can talk about that later, though. They're prolly gonna call me up any minut--"
The monotone voice blares over the intercom again, interrupting her. "Number 40, number 40."
"Welp, speak of the devil," Quincy says as she hops up, "that's my number. They ain't gonna wait real long, so you gotta decide now whether I'm takin' this thing through for you."
You nod. "Yeah, let's do it."
"Wow, that's pretty forward of you," she teases, chuckling. "Just kiddin'. Alright, I can't wait around for you to get outta customs, got some business to take care of. How 'bout we meet up in a few hours?"
"Okay," you say, not feeling like you have much choice in the matter. "Where at?"
"Got a place I usually hit up for lunch over on Gansett, near my place. Little hole in the wall called Barth's -- the address is 217U." She reaches down and grabs the equipment case. "If somethin' comes up, hit me up -- my holo's 'oh_no_its_q@bliypylon.ward'"
You aren't sure how, but you know exactly how she writes her address -- it's like you can visualize it perfectly in your mind, even though she omitted the underscores in her speech. Furthermore, you somehow feel certain that she knows you know this.
Feeling a little mystified, you just nod your head. "Alright," you say, "I'll try to meet you at Barth's in a few hours." You decide against asking her how to get to Gansett Shelf, figuring that it'd make your amnesia a little too obvious.
"It's a date then," she says before turning towards the door. She takes a few paces in its direction, then looks back at you. "See ya in a bit, Pancakes."
With that, she disappears through the door to customs, and the door locks behind her with a click.
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