After hours of driving in a mostly straight line, the rhythmic churning of Cleo’s monowheel bike started to slow. In the distance, the dwarf courier saw the gridwork of Portland’s overhead lights pierce the darkness, and the snowy plains blanketing the planet finally began to slope downward into the urban crater kept—if not warm, at least cleared of atmospheric snow—by the ever-shining lamps held high above the city center. When the monowheel slid off the last inches of snow and onto the ancient asphalt of the pre-exit streets, its wheel inverted itself so its snow-supportive padding would be kept safe facing the interior of the bike while the other side’s rivetted rubber met the road in its place. Cleo stopped for a moment while the bike completed its transformation, only continuing once his eyes had adjusted to the presence of outside light. The controls responded more tightly to his inputs while on the asphalt, so he increased his speed to a frivolous charge and took turns around the dead streets so tight that his beard might’ve been able to scratch the ground, were it not stuck behind the surface suit’s faceplate. After a few minutes of the immature joyriding he never managed to outgrow, he pulled up to the guard checkpoint at the base of the only parking garage in the dead city.

          “Got identification?” the maroon-suited guard asked him via short-distance universal radio as he walked over to the monowheel.

          “Scan this.” The dwarf twisted in his seat to show the panel on his right wrist to the guard, who was on his left. The guard used his own wrist attachment to highlight the abstract image of bars and dots Cleo had displayed, and after a moment of scrolling through irrelevant information, the guard gave him a thumbs up.

          “Been a while since we’ve had any dwarves in ‘ere,” the man told Cleo. “Cool bike though. Where’d ya get it?”

          “Columbia Deeps has a contract with Rust City’s monowheel factory. Mostly make ‘em for dwarves, but they’ve got a line for non-engineered folk too. You want a name?”

          “Oh, I think I’ve heard of those guys. Clarkson, is it?”

          “Yeah, those are the ones. Head up to Alberta sometime if ya want one.” 

          The guard looked puzzled for a moment as he stared at the dwarf in his fancy bike. “You’re from Alberta?” he asked.

          “Yup. Parents came up from Texas, though, if you’re asking about the accent.”

          “Ah, that would do it.” The guard turned and pressed a button on his station’s console. The metal blast doors protecting the entrance to the garage slowly opened in front of the monowheel. “Lot of scavengers from an expedition out of Boise came in yesterday, so parking’s gonna be tough on the first floor. Should be plenty of spots on the second floor though.”

          “Cheers, lad.” Cleo carefully pulled his bike into the garage. After a few seconds the blast doors closed again, though a lime-green light turned on behind him to let him know of the small one-way exit door built to pop out next to the guard’s station outside. The inside of the building was a columnated mess of hastily parked vehicles of every type. A cohort of heavily modified surface buggies lined the center row, a pack of motor sleds emblazoned with various crude drawings of gray nooses sat adjacent to the far wall on the right, and a group of various armored trucks rested on his left. In between those clusters slept a messy mix of rocket sleds, pre-exit cars modified for surface transportation, and more vehicles that looked so futuristic and plasticky Cleo couldn’t help but chuckle at their pretentiousness. 

          He pulled the monowheel into an unoccupied corner by the back wall and dismounted it. A set of three metal steps unfolded from beneath the driver’s carriage, which he used to slide off his seat and dismount the vehicle. After pressing a few buttons on his wrist, the steps folded back up and the vehicle’s electric engine turned itself off. He began to walk away, then slapped his faceplate with his left hand and walked back to it, motioning for the steps to descend again. He ascended the steps once more and opened the rounded compartment built into the roof of the monowheel, hoisting the package inside it above his head before tucking it under his left arm. Almost forgot the reason he was here, he thought to himself. That would’ve been stupid.

          When he pushed open the door to leave the garage he walked over to the same guard that had let him in. He was bobbing his head back and forth steadily, probably listening to music of some kind. When the guard saw Cleo standing next to him, he almost jumped in surprise but quickly got a hold of himself. “Sorry, didn’t see you there. This Grayhound’s Revenge is really distracting,” he told the dwarf apologetically.

          Cleo chuckled. “’Salright. I’ve got a package I’m here to deliver. Some lass named Lucy. Seen her around?” He held up his wrist for the guard to see. On it sat a picture of a beautiful emerald-eyed blonde smiling into the camera.

          The guard’s eyes seemed to soften the moment he saw the picture. “Yeah, Lucy? She’s been around here for... I dunno, at least a week? Took the karaoke stage by storm last Tuesday and has been making a fortune in tips ever since. Nobody knows a thing about her, but when they hear her voice they tend to stop caring where she’s from.” He paused for a moment. “I’m not kidding; she sounds like an angel.”

          “Right. And where would that be?” Cleo was getting impatient, but he smiled amusedly at the guard’s infatuation.

          “Oh, sorry. Yeah, she’s been over at Gretchen’s Bar. See the big building with the lights on by the river?” The guard pointed at a small tower rising above the rest of the smaller modern structures of the Portland Scavenger’s Enclave to their west.

          “I’ve been to Gretchen’s once before; I just needed to know where this Lucy character is. Thanks for your help,” the dwarf told the guard. The guard nodded and went back to listening to his music as Cleo made his way to the tower.

 

--------------------------------

 

          After figuring out the airlock mechanism and entering the structure, Cleo lowered his faceplate and let his orange hair and beard flow freely in the circulatory breeze that kept Gretchen’s air fresh. The first floor opened up to a host of various tables and chairs in front of the airlock—densely occupied and rowdy as any other surface-town restaurant in the US. At the back wall a long, antiquated wooden bar extended across the length of the structure, proudly displaying rows of bottles and kegs of every brand and color known to man. To the right of the entrance were the men’s and women’s restrooms, along with an elevator leading to the upper floors and a door opening to an emergency staircase. On the left was what Cleo was looking for: the dance floor and six-inch high karaoke stage. He made his way to an empty plastic table in between the bar wall and the stage and pulled up a chair to sit. He gingerly placed the package on the table as a freckle-faced waitress wandered over.

          “Hi there!” she greeted him with a familiarly thick southern accent. “What can I getcha?”

          “Nothin’ for now,” he told her. Then he scratched his beard for a few seconds and changed his mind as the waitress was turning to walk off. “Actually, I suppose a pint would be nice.”

          “I’m guessing beer, but if what I’ve heard is right you could just as well be ordering whisky!” The redhead laughed at herself nervously, and Cleo offered a few chuckles to make her feel better about the joke. “I’ll get that for you right away, little sir,” she told him, then strutted off towards the bar. Cleo looked around the room, scanning for his target. The ambient music that was playing passively in the background died out, and as he finally laid eyes on the package’s intended recipient the lights dimmed themselves to a theater’s level. Spotlights lit the stage with a brilliant yellow glow, and a crystal star above the stage’s center shone pure white as the music started to play. A tall woman in a traditional red dress took the stage, strutting in just the right way to emphasize her blood-red slippers.

          “This last song’s one of my favorites I used to sing with a dear friend of mine,” her tweeting voice fluttered out behind sparkling red lips. “I hope you like it!” She leaned back and let her puffy golden hair fall a little before whipping her face back to the microphone, passively sweeping a few loose locks back over her shoulder as she moved. Then she licked her lips and started to sing. The song itself was a cheesy love story about a guy and girl falling in love on an asteroid mining expedition in space, using every star in the night sky as a metaphor for how head-over-heels in love with each other they were. But despite the childish lyrics and steady beat, the way Lucy sang enchanted Cleo momentarily. She swung back and forth to the beat, moving with her entire body to match every kick and jab the song’s steady tune made use of. With the lights dimmed to a whisper, Cleo only barely noticed out of the corner of his eye when a pickpocket tried to snag a wad of cash from an unsuspecting couple a few tables away from him.

          “Thief!” he shouted, pointing at the surface-suited figure as he did so. The music didn’t stop for the interruption, and Lucy was completely unfazed in the glory of the stage, but enough people looked at him and then at where he was pointing that it got the couple’s attention. The thief decided the cause was lost and fled out the airlock with a few buff-looking guards close behind. The thief’s faceplate was darkened, so Cleo never got to look the criminal in the eyes, but the lovely tug of Lucy’s singing quickly led him back to his seat and locked him there, unable to pull his eyes from the red and yellow rose of the stage. Eventually the song came to an end, and all the lights in the building—except for the crystal star above her golden head—died completely with the last beat. Then the overhead lights undimmed themselves and restored the glow of the building to normal to the sound of mass applause from everyone in the bar, including both Cleo and the young waitress beside him.

          “Here’s your beer, sir.” The waitress leaned down to the table and set a frothy mug in front of Cleo. “Sorry about the delay. I couldn’t help but watch Lucy when she’s up there. She’s marvelous.”

          “That she is,” agreed Cleo, whose eyes were still pleasantly held hostage. He took a sip of the beer, unsure what to expect. It tasted poor—especially given Cleo’s previous experience with some of the better beers in the US—but at least it was cold. He held a ten-dollar bill up to the waitress, and she thanked him and wandered off again.

          “Thank you all again,” Lucy spoke to the crowd with a playful smile after catching her breath. “It’s been great having you all as an audience. Hopefully I’ll see you again someday.” 

          Lucy did a curtsy and left the stage, which struck Cleo as an uncommon gesture he hadn’t seen a woman perform in years. Then again, he thought, he hadn’t seen a woman sing in years either, so maybe that was just him. At last he shook himself loose of the enchantment and remembered the package, which he stuffed under his left arm. With his free right hand he finished his beer, gulping it down over a span of 15 uninterrupted seconds of chugging that earned a “woah” from another guy and his friends at the table immediately to the right of his. Never one to let a drink go to waste—even if that drink tasted rancid—he downed the last drops and slammed it on the table as he stood up from his chair. His performance earned another smaller round of applause from those who saw it, and he grinned and wished them a good rest of their drinks as well. Then he walked over to the small cohort of men surrounding Lucy that had ambushed her for small talk as soon as she stepped off the stage. There were a few tables with women seated at them nearby who were clearly looking sourly at the attention Lucy had garnered for herself.

          Cleo pushed his way past a couple men in traditional business suits, who more than likely let him through because they were curious what the dwarf could possibly have to say to the marvel that was Lucy. “If your name’s Lucy,” he announced loudly without looking at anyone in particular, “I’ve got a package for ya. This you?” He held up his wrist with the picture of Lucy’s face and waited.

          “Yeah, that’s me,” she said gleefully. “Sorry guys, I’ve been waiting all week for this and I really have to take it.” The other men surrounding her tried to act nonchalant about it, but Cleo could tell they were probably angry about his sudden interruption. He noticed there were a few older men among the small crowd, but there were also some guys that couldn’t have been older than 17; all had been swayed by Lucy’s voice. Lucy put her hand on Cleo’s back and slowly guided him towards the other side of the building. He could feel himself start to blush, though he wasn’t sure if that was just the beer speaking.           “So you’re the courier they sent?” she asked, not taking her eyes off the elevator doors in the distance.

          “Yup, when you send out a courier request for a surface delivery, it simply goes to whoever’s closest to the package when the order’s made,” he told her. “I’ve got it right here, if you want to take it and be off.” He held up the box for her to see. It was an insulated metal crate with internal heating, about one and a half feet long and half that wide. A yellow “CAREFUL: GLASS” sticker had been slapped on its top, which Cleo had only slightly remembered when his monowheel reached the sturdy roads of Portland not 30 minutes prior.

          “Oh no no no no no, there’s a show I’m putting on,” she told him as they reached the elevator. “It’s a bit more of a private show, but I’d like you to see it.” She looked curiously at the dwarf with her gentle ruby smile. “What’s a show without an audience?”

          “Well...” Cleo was about to ask what was in it for him, but her performance of Spacerock Ballad on the stage convinced him another show might just be worth sitting through on its own. “Alright, but it better not take too long. I got work to do.”

          “Of course!” she chirped back at him. “It’ll only take a few minutes, if it goes right.” She pressed a button on the wall panel and the elevator door slid open. They stepped inside together and Lucy tapped a button indicating a desire to head to the fifth floor. “Have you ever met Gretchen?” she asked him. “She owns the bar, you know. And all the rest of the rooms in this building.” Cleo scoffed, but Lucy lowered her voice to a mouse’s squeak. “And apparently almost every other business in Portland too.” Cleo raised his eyebrows, but he said nothing. He’d only been to Portland once before, and his previous trip was strictly professional as well. A little “ding” noise played from a built-in speaker as the elevator came to a halt and the door started to open. “Showtime!” Lucy told her new friend in a whisper.

          A woman in the same orange surface suit as the parking garage guard noticed the pair as they stepped into the hall. “What’s your business?”

          “Here to see Gretchen!” Lucy cheerily responded. “My little friend here just brought in those papers I was talking with your boss about.” Cleo’s face soured a little when Lucy called him her “little friend,” but it was hard to stay angry at a beauty like her for long.

          “Down the hall thataway and in the last room to the left,” the guard told Lucy without changing her expression. “This goes without saying, but if you have any weapons on you I’ll need you to leave them with me.” Lucy shrugged innocently, but Cleo strutted towards the guard chuckling. From somewhere underneath his layered orange beard he presented a four-shot snubnose revolver. He carefully set it down on a small table next to the guard and walked back to Lucy’s side. The guard looked down at him baffled, and Lucy was clearly suppressing a burst of laughter at the hidden weapon. “Where did you even...?”

          “I don’t question where you keep things I could never have—” he made a circling motion with his pointer finger at his chest, “—so I’d appreciate not asking how I store things I know you’ll never have either.” He grinned and the guard’s poker face finally broke into a giggle.

          “Alright, alright. Go have your meeting,” she told the duo.

 

--------------------------------

 

          “Well in all my 56 years of life I’ve never seen a pair like you two,” Gretchen Lourie remarked as Cleo and Lucy entered the room. Cleo suddenly became self-conscious of his navy-blue surface suit standing in sharp contrast to Lucy’s apple-red getup. “Take a seat.”

          “Thank you kindly,” Lucy tweeted back. The room itself was a large, white-walled rectangle without many features. The right-hand wall had a long bulletproof glass window spanning its length, offering a silent view of the brightly illuminated frozen river and the rest of the dead city of Portland beyond that. The far wall was symmetrical with the one Cleo and Lucy had just walked through; a single wooden door was all that broke the painted patterns. On the left-hand wall a number of paintings and decorative plaques rested, though none of them seemed to have any obvious relation to their surroundings. Lastly, in the center of the room rested two white couches and a white coffee table facing left to right. Cleo noticed a few buttons and notches on and in the walls at various points, but he couldn’t make them out to be anything obvious. Lucy walked over to the couch facing the window wall and sat down, beckoning Cleo to join her. Hesitantly, he did so.

          “So, you’ve spent the last week in my rooms eating my food on my dime,” Gretchen told Lucy. “I imagine you’re here because you have something to show for it?” The older woman straightened the shoulder ruffles on her dark green dress and sat at attention.

          “Sure! I told you I could secure a deal, and here it is!” Lucy smiled and motioned for Cleo to hand her the package he had so carefully watched over for the last few days. Only at that moment did he finally let it go; he had been keeping it tightly tucked under his left arm since Lucy’s song ended.

          “Here.” Cleo handed over the package and then let a sigh of relief escape from beneath his forested chin. He pressed a few buttons on his wrist and then stood at attention. “Are you satisfied with the nature of your delivery?” he asked her with a clear voice. 

          “Yes, I am, thank you,” Lucy responded. Cleo hit the “send” button and confirmed the promised paycheck had entered his account. 

          “Well, looks like my duty’s done here.” He looked up at the two women on the opposite couches. “Dya want me to leave, or...?”

          “No, please stay! We’re making history here,” Lucy pleaded with her shining eyes and red smile.

          “Yes, please do,” Gretchen added through cracked lips and wrinkled skin.

          “Alright, I’ll just sit back and enjoy the show.” Cleo took a seat back on Lucy’s couch and put his feet up on the coffee table, using it as a footrest. A sudden harrowing glare from Gretchen prompted him to reverse his mistake, and he planted his feet firmly on the ground with a quiet “Sorry ‘bout that.”

          Gretchen glared at him for a few seconds longer and then turned her gaze to Lucy. “If you have the deal you proposed, please present it now.”

          “Of course!” She started working away at the tape keeping the package sealed shut. “Jeez, you could learn to smile a bit,” she muttered under her breath. Cleo noticed Gretchen’s mouth crease a little when Lucy said that, and Cleo allowed himself to smile as well. “Here you are!” Lucy tore the lid off the package and pulled out a dozen or so papers from inside, keeping the rest of the package’s contents hidden from Cleo and Gretchen’s sight for the moment. “One exclusive deal for shipping rights from old Winner’s Wine Co themselves! In exchange for a one-time retail investment, of course.” She smiled expectantly at Gretchen, who pulled a small pair of glasses out of some unknown fold in her dress. After a momentary inspection, she flipped to the last page and smiled.

          “So, it’s come signed already, has it?” Gretchen looked up at Lucy.

          “Yup!” she replied. “Got old Rublier to sign it himself before he handed it off to... our little friend here.” She continued to smile, but Cleo’s grimace only deepened. Calling him a little friend again, he thought. Woman had no respect for dwarves; probably thought of him as a freakish child still. And Rublier? He had picked up the delivery from a “Lewis” over in Rust City, not the “Rublier” known for his underground vineyards in Minnesota.

          “Then I believe our business here is concluded,” the old woman stated and offered a bony hand for Lucy to shake. She smiled an almost believable smile for Cleo’s sake.

          “Uh uh uh!” Lucy objected with a pouty expression. “Not yet. Where’s the payment?”

          “Ah, of course. I can have it sent to your account at a moment’s notice.” Gretchen left her hand extended and continued smiling. Cleo could’ve sworn he saw her mouth the phrase “last chance” at Lucy, not that she noticed.

          “I thought we agreed on cash,” Lucy pressed on. “I got exactly what I promised I could get you, now I expect the same. Aren’t you an experienced businesswoman?”

          “Of course, silly me.” Gretchen reached down below the table and picked up a metal briefcase that had been suspended in its underbelly. She dropped it on the table’s surface and clicked open its locks, opening it with a flair of showmanship. Inside rested a stack of bundles of cash; all $20 bills. “$10,000 in cash, as we agreed.” She looked up at Lucy, whose expression had shifted slightly to one of satisfaction over playfulness. “Though I should warn you one more time it would be far easier and safer for me to transfer the money directly to your account. Are you sure you want it all this way?”

          “It is what we agreed on, and business is business, after all!” Lucy put her right hand on the stack of bills and dragged the fingers along their edges, feeling the scratch of every bill in the stack with her crimson fingernails.

          “Then be on your way, businesswoman.” Gretchen waited for Lucy to pull her hand away before slamming the briefcase shut, then she gave it a push. It slid towards Lucy and gently bumped against her exposed knees. “I assume you know where the elevator is. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, and I do hope to hear your singing voice again someday.”

          Lucy stood and strutted to the door, briefcase at her side. “And you, boss lady! Good luck with your bar!” She opened the door, went through it, and almost closed it, but she did a double take and popped her head back inside the room at the last second. “Oh, and there’s some Winner’s Wine in the package as well! Sorry for hiding it from you, I just don’t like the taste myself. Enjoy!” Lucy shut the door, and Cleo’s spectator dream finally cracked. He realized he was alone with Gretchen without any ideas about what to do next.

          “So, she left you here, did she?” Gretchen reached for the package and inspected its contents with a frown. “Well, let’s have your story, if only to pass the time.”

          “My story?” Cleo was taken off guard. He leaned back and laid himself out on the couch, staring at the ceiling while he recollected. “Well, uh, ‘spose it started with the geneticists in Houston back in 2130,” he started. “Some of the eggheads down there took on a curious job—a dwarf couple wanted to pay handsomely to get their children to have certain features, I guess. Long facial hair, strong core, night-vision eyes, tougher liver; you know, everything people liked to see in dwarves anyways.” 

          Gretchen picked two bottles of wine out of the package and inspected them. “Carry on,” she said without looking up.

          “Well, that first couple’s kids were so strong and proud that among dwarf communities the treatment they got became fashionable. Soon everyone was doing it.” Cleo subconsciously stroked his beard as he spoke. “Before you knew it there wasn’t a single unmodified dwarf in America. Some of the old book lovers came out of hiding when they saw what was goin’ on and they wanted their own treatments—longer ears, smoother skin, anything meant to slow aging—the works.”

          Gretchen put down the bottles and pressed a subtle white button built into the table. It made a clicking sound and a drawer opened. “Continue,” she said.

          “By the end of the century there were people claiming to be elves, halflings, orcs... Orc-roleplayers are the scary ones; most of ‘em aren’t even citizens and spend their time scaring off random scavengers on the surface for the fun of it. Savages. Only us dwarves were actually supposed to exist, and my parents decided enough was enough. They moved up to Columbia Deeps, a mountain city up in Alberta, and they joined a movement to try and get other dwarves to come up there with them. It worked, and now there’s plenty of dwarves there and that’s where I was born and raised. Anywho, my story really begins with the Rust City monowheel construction agreement of...” Cleo trailed off as he looked back down at Gretchen to see a large handgun pointed at him.

          “Well, that was all interesting, though I doubt half of it’s true.” She pressed another button on the table’s leg while Cleo sat in growing anger at the woman’s betrayal. “You can come in now,” she spoke into a thin, plastic microphone that extended from the table’s surface. A pair of suited guards—one of them being the woman by the elevator—entered the room with rail rifles pointed at Cleo’s chest.

          “Of all the— I go out of my way to tell you a bit of my life story to try and make small talk and this is how you repay me?” Cleo stood up in anger, staring Gretchen down, but the two guards approached from behind the couch and shoved him back into a sitting position.

          “That was a funny little trick with the beard,” the elevator guard told him. “But I wonder what else you have under there?” If Cleo’s beard was capable of bristling with anger, it would probably be doing so by now, he thought to himself.

          “See, I happen to know who your friend Lucy really is,” Gretchen explained with a deadpan expression. “Lucy Tish, 28 years old, is a con artist.” Cleo’s mouth opened a little and his eyebrows ended their downward crusade. “She hasn’t been all that active recently—mostly sticking to small fry shopkeeps and bartenders up in the Yukon—but she earned a massive bounty on her head half a decade ago with a stunt she pulled in Ontario.” Her eyes narrowed and the finger holding the pistol’s trigger twitched a little. “You see, she’s the pretty lady who seduced the city’s mayor in 2274 and made it onto his will before he was murdered by a raider group that somehow entered the city without anyone noticing. The raiders were all killed in a shootout after the fact, but the mayor’s wife never let that go. Since then, she’s travelled the north scamming every able-bodied man and every soft-eared woman she’s met out of their savings—using seduction for the former and... ‘business’ for the latter.” She grabbed the papers on the table with her left hand. “This deal? Forgeries.” She held up the papers in between the pistol and Cleo’s chest. Then she pulled the trigger. Cleo tightened his muscles and closed his eyes, but then he heard the click and he slumped back onto the couch. Gretchen smiled a little. “So when Lucy came in here with that magnificent voice and perfect frame and started talking of securing a business deal, I got curious. But she always thought I wouldn’t figure her out. I figured her out the moment she said you were on your way.” She leaned into the microphone again and spoke. “You got all that, Rublier?”

          “Of course, of course,” whistled a French accent from a speaker apparently hidden on the left side of the coffee table opposite the microphone. “Every second of it has been saved. What a shame, that girl.”

          “Indeed,” Gretchen croaked back. “Thank you for tuning in. Hopefully that was... amusing, at least.”

          “Yes, yes, it was worth my time. Just make sure to figure out if that wine is counterfeit or actually mine. Then I expect to hear praise of its taste! Good day, Madam Lourie.” The voice cut off and the microphone retracted into its alcove in the table.

          “So that all leaves one loose end: what shall I do with her accomplice?”

          Cleo’s curiosity gave way to indignation. “Well first of all I ain’t never heard of this ‘Lucy’ before I took this job; I just happened to be in Rust City when an order came in and I took it.” He suddenly no longer cared that two guards with rail rifles stood behind him waiting for the order to execute, and he stood up again. “Secondly I never picked up a package from any ‘Rublier,’ this stupid box came from a guy named ‘Lewis’ in a random apartment by Rust City’s buggy factory.” The guards tried to push him down onto the couch again, but he shoved their hands away. “And third of all if I’m her accomplice, which I’m not—” he pointed at Gretchen’s suddenly amused face as he paced back and forth next to the coffee table— “how come she’s gone and hung me out to dry? I never should’ve come up that stupid elevator or listened to your stupid story and even delivered her stupid package or—”

          “Alright, calm down, mister dwarf,” Gretchen commanded suddenly. While Cleo had been monologuing, another guard in an orange surface suit had entered the room via the far door and was showing Gretchen something on his wristpad. “My people just ran a check on you and your story checks out,” she told him coolly. “Please, have a seat.” She nodded at the guards, and they moved to exit the room.

          “Really sorry about all that,” the elevator guard whispered on the way out.

          “Don’t mention it,” the dwarf gruffly replied.

          “On this couch, if you don’t mind.” Gretchen patted a spot right next to her. Though hesitant, Cleo conceded and sat himself next to the self-declared Queen of Portland. “Wise choice,” she told him with a grin. She pressed yet another button hidden on the underside of the table and continued talking as the entire room changed its very nature before Cleo’s eyes. The interior wall with the tacky paintings circled around to reveal rows upon rows of various firearms, modern and antique alike. The floor opened up behind and around the couches, raising a handful of comfortable-looking beds and workstations with screens built into them. A set of steel shudders closed over the exterior window, blocking anyone from seeing the transformation from the outside. Lastly, the ever-surprising coffee table folded outwards and was replaced with a small desk with six monitors displaying various security camera feeds. Cleo looked around in amazement as the suspiciously empty coffee room became a military-grade command center watching over the entirety of the dead city in comfort. “You may have noticed during our lovely conversation with the ever-pragmatic Lucy that I made many attempts to stall her from taking the cash she was so greedily focused on. Had she stopped at any point and caught on to my clues I would have offered her a job as a permanent singer for this establishment under my protection. Tragically, she appears to have missed every queue and will now pay dearly for it. Shall we watch it happen together?” Gretchen turned to look at Cleo again.

          “I suppose I could think of worse ways to spend an afternoon.” He checked the time on his wrist. “Er, night.” Nobody needed to know it was currently 11pm, US time.

          “Excellent.” Gretchen motioned to the upper left monitor of the six. “It appears our dear Miss Lucy has just left the building.” The first camera was focused on the entrance to Gretchen’s Bar, and through the monochrome breach Cleo watched as Lucy’s surface suit swiftly left the building and walked towards the garage.

          “I’m assuming she’s not gonna make it away with the cash,” Cleo noted with a hint of sadness in his voice. “What’s gonna happen to her?”

          “Oh, you’ll see,” Gretchen said. “Don’t worry—nothing ever goes to waste around here. This is the scavenger’s capital of Cascadia, after all.” She narrowed her eyes and glued them to the third monitor. Cleo stared at the second monitor as Lucy approached the garage, and some sounds came through a long, white speaker that had been elevated by thin rods to sit in between the upper and lower rows of monitors.

          “Lucy, is it?” the guard greeted her from a distance. “Some short guy—I think he was a dwarf—uh, some guy was asking for you earlier. Did he—”

          Lucy cut him off. “Yeah, he found me.” Her light and birdlike voice was still there, but it was a bit more rushed and slightly deeper than normal. It could just be the radio quality, Cleo thought. “I need to get something out of my truck. Can you let me in?”

          “Yeah, sure. Gimme a second...” The guard reached for the console by his side and pressed a button. “Presto!” The doors slowly opened.

          “Thanks,” Lucy said and strode into the garage, now clutching the metal briefcase against her chest with both hands.

          “When will you be singing again?” the guard shouted after her.

          “In your dreams, buddy!” she hollered back. Cleo thought it was always curious how despite using radios on the airless surface some people would continue to shout at each other when going from short to long range. Never did make sense. He watched her pass by the garage’s first floor camera on the fourth screen, making her way up an old concrete ramp to the second floor. On the third screen, Cleo finally saw her approaching her truck. It was an old-fashioned pickup that had been modified for snow travel, as was evidenced by the makeshift sleds and rockets jerry-rigged into its rear. As she tried the door, however, she found the doors were locked. Lucy fiddled with the various controls on her wrist and tried the door again, but the door remained locked. From the second monitor, Cleo saw a rowdy gang of men and women in trench coats entering the garage. They were making all sorts of exaggerated expressions and hand motions to each other, but no sound was coming through.

          “And now things fall apart,” Gretchen whispered before cackling to herself for a few seconds.

          “If you’re tryin’ to look the part of an evil mastermind, you’re doin’ it well, lady,” Cleo told her. She let out a genuine laugh and continued watching the third camera. By that point the gang members had made it to the second floor, and their radios were patched into Gretchen’s speaker system.

          “Well ‘owdy there miss!” The one in the crimson trench coat got to Lucy first. “Right proper nasty fix you’re in, lass. Need some ‘elp?”

          “I’ll be fine,” Lucy told them through gritted teeth. “Don’t worry about me.”

          “Oh, but see, we do worry aboutcha!” Cleo watched as Lucy stopped struggling with the door and stood dead still. “Little missy out ‘ere without anythin’ but a briefcase and in a rush to get out? Sounds mighty suspicious to me lads.” The rest of the crew gave words of agreement. “‘Ow’s about we take that case off yer ‘ands an leave ya to it?”

          “No!” Lucy protested. “This—”

          “Is clearly out of yer depth, lass.” The crimson-coated gang member grabbed the briefcase and tugged. Lucy lost her balance and fell into the ganger’s chest, but he caught her fall while tossing the briefcase to a white-coated ganger behind them. “Don’t go hurtin’ yourself, lass. Pretty face and prettier voice. It’d be a shame to lose both over a little briefcase.” The gang member lifted her into a standing position again and patted her shoulders. “Maybe I’ll see you again sometime and you’ll get the chance to pay me back a favor, yeah?” Lucy stood completely still. “Gonna be like that then,” the ganger muttered before turning on his heel in a dramatic swirling motion. “Right. See ya, then!” Cleo stared at the array of monitors as the gang members passed camera by camera, eventually leaving the garage and re-entering Gretchen’s Bar via the main airlock. Lucy, from the looks of it, broke down on the spot by her truck and started to cry.

          “And now,” Gretchen casually leaned back and spoke while swiping her hand at the air in front of the sixth screen, “is the final act.” On the sixth screen Cleo watched as a plasticky blue and white rocket sled pulled up to the garage’s rear, entering the building unseen by a secret second retractable concrete wall. Using the extendable treads built into its underside, the vehicle crawled through the first floor and up into the second. Cleo already knew what the vehicle was, and when the pair of blue-clad women stepped out of its wing doors it only confirmed his suspicions.

          “Hi there,” one of the women said as she approached Lucy, who was still sitting on the ground against her vehicle in despair. “We got called in for a disturbance up here, are you alright?” Lucy was unresponsive.

          “Wait a second, who is this exactly?” The second guard pulled up a document she had relating to the vehicle in front of them. “Is this...?”

          The first policewoman compared a few pictures with their real-life counterparts. “So it would seem.” She pulled a pair of handcuffs from a belt of various police instruments at her side and gently clicked them into place over Lucy’s catatonic hands. “Lucy Tish, I am arresting you on suspicion of forging documents, spreading counterfeit currency, committing petty theft, and committing murder.”

          At that last one Lucy looked up. “Murder?” she asked with through what were clearly sobs. “I’ve never hurt anyone! I wouldn’t!”

          “Tell that to the judge,” the second policewoman patronized as the first stuffed her into the barred rear compartment of the rocket sled. Lucy tried to protest more, but she broke down crying again and was taken away as the monitors faded to black. When the last of them turned off, they all neatly returned themselves to their original alcoves, leaving a completely normal white coffee table in their place.

          “Well that was somethin’,” Cleo remarked after taking a moment to process what just happened. “What’ll happen to ‘er?”

          “Oh, the murder charge will never stick,” Gretchen stated. “Most of them can’t be proven in any case. She’ll get a couple years for trying to rob me of ten thousand, but she’ll be free again before her beauty has completely faded.” Gretchen stood up and patted herself down. “In any case, grab the wine and follow me. It’s time to conclude this deal.” Cleo obeyed without thinking at this point and followed Gretchen into the hall. The two descended the elevator to the first floor together, and Cleo watched as Gretchen went behind the bar to serve herself a glass of champagne. “What’s your name again?” she asked as the dwarf clambered to the top of one of the bar stools.

          “Cleo, though I suppose nobody ever asked.”

          “Probably for the best.” Gretchen grabbed the necks of the Winner’s Wine bottles and held them aloft. “Theodore, is that you?” she shouted. One of the trenchcoated gang members at a nearby table stood up and walked over.

          “That’s my name,” he said. He still held the briefcase in his right hand. “What can I do you for?”

          “How about a trade,” Gretchen suggested. “Two bottles of probably-not-poisoned wine for that briefcase?”

          “Sounds like a fair deal to me,” the Aussie replied. The two exchanged cash for liquor, and Theodore wandered back to his table. Cleo watched as one of the women in a green trench coat tested the wine with an analysis rod, only afterwards pouring for the table. A cheer went up and they all drank together.

          “Well, I’m sure you’ve had an interesting day,” Gretchen’s Bar’s bartender told the dwarf while dusting a few glasses. “But I’ve got a proposition for you.”

          “Well, I’m listening,” Cleo responded.

          “It would be so much easier just to kill you for witnessing that whole interaction, but apparently you’ve got a solid record, a moderate sense of humor, and are blunt enough to stand up to me despite having a pair of guns aimed at your liver.” She stopped dusting and looked over at him. “If you decide to have a sudden change of profession from courier to a mix of whatever odd jobs I need done, I could make it worth your while,” the old woman suggested. “Dirty work is a rare occurrence, and we already have guards for all the ground-level troublemakers around here. How’d you like to live in a bar?”

          Cleo considered the offer. “Well...”

          “How about this,” she added: “I just made $250,000 in profit from delivering a wanted individual into the hands of law enforcement. I’ll do what I need to do to survive, obviously, but I’m not the evil hag you make me out to be. Someone needs to keep the peace around here.” She pushed the long-coveted briefcase across the bar and into his hands. “In retrospect, ten thousand isn’t all that much compared to the bounty I just collected. If you agree to work for the Queen of Portland—” she said that with a flourish and shook her head to get her gray hair to wave a bit— “You can consider the dead city to be a second home, and I’ll see if I can’t get some more of your kind down here as well. What do you say?” She held her hand out with the same smile she had offered to Lucy a mere few minutes ago.

          Cleo hesitated for a moment, but he made his mind up. “There’s worse ways to go native, and I suppose I’m about due for a promotion anyways.” He stretched his arm out and grasped Gretchen’s hand, shaking it once.

          “Good choice,” she said with a grin.