They hit a series of guys-Whisper-knows, to ditch the car for one less traceably stolen; to ditch every possible stitch of clothing and item of gear they can for replacements that won't match any circulated description; to slap Whisper in a backroom street medic's exam chair, in the basement of a veterinary clinic, for a checkup on her brain implants and an IV bag of .01% medical nanite solution. To slip over a roll of paper money for some murmured questions, with no certainty of answers.
They stop at a Happi-Nite; the motel equivalent of a bank of automated parcel-drop lockers, a grim unmanned row of vandal-proof, app-activated doors, the amenities (lights and running water) turned on only by a billable card continuously seated in the payment slot, both on unaccountable and unexplained pay-by-usage meters.
As a basic security measure, these places aren't supposed to take prepaid debit cards, but Whisper doesn't have to touch a thing to make it.
"Can you help me with my filter?" Kandi says, mechanical parts of her face splayed open and already scrubbed free of fire suppressant residue, the new filter's sealed plastic packet in hand, hunched in the cubicle bathroom's doorway. "I can do it in the mirror, but it's fiddly getting it seated."
She sits on the edge of the bed, quiet and compliant — the endless post-implant checkups and calibration appointments are real good for training you to be a good patient — and waits for Whisper to tear the new filter out of its bag, rotate it between delicate fingertips until she works out the insert-this-way plastic keying tabs, and presses it into place with the firm jiggle that dismisses the semitransparent popup in Kandi's field of view, nagging that running without a filter waives manufacturer liability for any consequences.
In real lean living-on-ramen times, Kandi sometimes wedges the filter detect switch shut with adhesive putty and goes without. But that's not smart on the job, and besides, who doesn't want a high-quality particulate filter protecting them from novel respiratory viruses?
"You don't have the full head mod," Whisper says conversationally, fingers still inside Kandi's face. It's one time to get to know each other more than superficially, Kandi supposes.
"Got it done when the Intel-Sendai Gen2 chemosensorium was new," Kandi says. "I knew someone who got the mouth done too — Special Forces, lost a chunk of face to a grenade. She said the tech was impressive, but she cooked a lot, you know? Said she knew it wasn't the same from the way she seasoned things to taste. Noticeably more salt, less sugar. Said she'd been looking forward to going down on her wife again, and they kinda fucked it up for her." She shrugs a little. "Maybe it's better now — what are they up to, Gen5? And the tech Daas has is supposed to be slightly better. But I figured then, I could always have more work done if I changed my mind — not less."
"Everyone smiles the same with their mouth done," Whisper says, thumbing Kandi's face closed.
"Unless you've got full custom face money." You hear it endlessly: so-and-so from Hollywood got their face borged to the exact specs of their own thirty- or twenty-five- or even twenty-year-old meatface, tech you can't get at street level, more expressive. More individual. Maybe it's even true.
Speaking of money, though. "Your guy know who's trying to blackwipe us? Or why?"
"Nothing yet."
Of course. Nothing so convenient as Hmm, guess that weird feeling we had about that last job— or anything. Just jobs. Could be any of 'em, stretching back years. Could be none of 'em.
Whisper's still standing between Kandi's knees, hands dropped to her sides, which is a little up and personal for just a filter change, so Kandi experimentally puts her own hands on the outsides of Whisper's skinny knees and drags them, slow and easy, up to her hips, thumbs at the bony points.
"We should get some sleep," Whisper says neutrally. She doesn't do anything to move, or to move Kandi's hands.
"Yeah," Kandi says, not really meaning anything anyway, just — reconnoitering, and Whisper gives her shoulder a little shove.
"You're the little spoon," she says.
"I'm six-two of combat cyborg," Kandi starts.
"Little spoon. Or get your own room."
She huffs, grinning, and lets Whisper's short, skinny ass tuck up against her back. "If you get lost back there, just climb up on my shoulder," she says, settling into the pillow.
"Jerk," Whisper mutters into the nape of her neck.
