>>6105578>>6105694>>6105559>>6105594>>6105930You put your hand on the watch face, to make sure she doesn't go back on the offer. The corpo narrows her eyes, but doesn't pull away, instead listening carefully.
The bus schedule runs by once every six hours, starting at 0000 and cycling: 0600, 1200, 1800. They wait thirty minutes for a stop and then leave, so they may be gone already, or she may be able to make it. It doesn't get much traffic, but even then, well, there are a lot of people. The pickup location is actually underground: One of the metros is abandoned and the tracks were paved over in secret. You need to jump the rusted turnstiles for the old Gold Line.
There's no fee to get on. Leaving, though... Well, that's different. They like keeping track of people who ride, and making sure they know who to thank for a better life. If they think you won't make it, they might not let you on, and they're heavily armed. Besides that, all you know are rumors.
<span class="mu-g">"Thanks."</span> She gives you the watch, sprinting off.
You tell yourself the rest of the story. You've seen the bus yourself, an indulgence back when you thought you might leave one day. There was a man with a shotgun strapped to his log-like leg who gave you a dirty look as you stepped on board. You moved to the back, pressing the backpack to your chest and pretending to belong. The driver, who came back on board after getting a smoke of his own, took one look at you and marched toward the back. Trying desperately to come up with an excuse did nothing as he grabbed your bag and pulled.
You thought he was robbing you and let him take it, only for him to use his other arm to pull you forward too. Dragged to the front and then literally kicked off, you tumbled onto the pavement, your face luckily caught by the backpack. The doors were closed behind you, the bus revving up and beginning to roll away. You begged and pleaded for a ride, pressing your hands to the exterior until it rolled past. Your feet were nearly crushed by the wheels, but at the time you didn't care. You were just hoping for a way out.
You don't have hopes like that any more.
Closing your fist around the timekeeper with a satisfied smile, you hail Wade. The woman matches his description, although she didn't give ID or buy anything you can track. She's wearing practical shoes for running and labor, and suit flexibility for practical motion as well. If she wanted to hurry, she would be in a taxi right now, but she didn't get in one. That means she's definitely a spy, not a desk jockey.
She's also too late. Even if she were augmented, it's nearly two miles. More importantly... She used the watch as an aesthetic display, and it shows.
Taking a bit to get a grip on the sensitivity of the device, you spin the adjustment wheel to set the time to the right time: <span class="mu-s">12:39.</span>
The footsteps fade into traffic noise: You wait to pocket the device until you can hear it tick in your hand. Her loss.