Chapter Thirty-Three - Cleaning Up


    Chapter Thirty-Three - Cleaning Up


    Gangs start when people have a reason to stick together. If the world was all nice and good, if it wasnt split because of class and race and violence, then you wouldnt have anyone deciding that the best way to earn some peace and respect is to stick together and mess up anyone that gets in their way.


    --Laserjack, 2051


    ***


    I rode up the elevator with my arms crossed, glaring through my visor at the elevators door until the entire thing came to a grinding halt and the doors shuttered open.


    I hadnt hurt the Ventrats. They werent to blame, so their leader got a stern warning to keep on minding his business before I left. It wasnt fun, this chasing after thieves in the night.


    The elevator had a small computer in it that tracked which floors it had stopped on previously, with timestamps and all. It was easy once I was at it to hook Myalis into the elevators little control panel and let her do her thing.


    It meant that we were now on the right floor, about three floors away from ground level, deep into the pits of the mega building. That didnt seem ideal.


    The door finished opening and I stepped out invisibly into a dank corridor which... I paused.


    The corridor was clean.


    I had come here with a clear and obvious preconception, expecting more graffitied walls and floors with years of grime stuck to them, but that wasnt the case. The linoleum was worn in the centre where people walked more, but it was otherwise spotless. The walls were clean, free of mould or stains. Even the ceiling was free of spiderwebs or smoke stains.


    For some reason, the sheer cleanliness set me more on edge than if Id walked out to discover an army waiting for me. Who lives on this floor? I asked.


    There is a database of residents, but it doesnt exactly include their gang affiliations, nor would I consider it overly accurate. One thing does stand out, however.


    Yeah? I asked.


    Over four fifths of this buildings cleaning staff live on this floor, and law enforcement reports suggest that one of the gangs inhabiting the building is called the Janitors.


    Janitors? So theyre what, a gang of cleaners? Or is it a euphemism? They take out the trash or something stupid like that?


    There is little information available on them on the net. Even less than Im finding about the other groups that inhabit this building. A cursory search suggests that someone is making an effort to delete and suppress any discussion of the group. Its all archived and retrievable.


    A half dozen men were moving around, laughing, clinking drinks, and bobbing their heads in time with the music. I blinked, then noticed that some of the men were women. Jumpsuits turned everyone into a genderless blob that was more janitor than person, I supposed.


    Ah, there they are, the fucks, I muttered.


    At the back of the room, sitting in a corner booth, were four guys in all-black outfits. Two were wearing familiar masks on their heads, and there were more of them on the tabletop next to half-empty mugs of beer.


    Four of the six assholes that had broken into my clinic, just sitting back and patting themselves on the shoulder for a job well done.


    The fucks.


    I dont know if it was the lack of sleep, the untimely interruption, or just the way the group looked so damned pleased with themselves, but I was getting to be pretty damned pissed off.


    I crossed the room in a straight line, only slowing down to rip one of the chairs out from behind a guy in the middle of the room. I dragged the seat after me, its feet scraping across the floor and drawing a few eyes its way. Chairs didnt usually scrape their way across a room all on their own.


    I spun the chair around in front of the corner table, pulled out my Trench Maker, then sat down and flicked off my invisibility.


    The idiots in the booth reeled back for a moment. Alright, I said. I was liking their expressions a lot more now. Where the fuck are my limbs?


    A couple of guys bolted out of the Broom Closet. I probably should have closed the door. A few others pulled out guns, mostly little handguns, but one guy had an old-school pump-action. No one was pointing anything yet, but the tension in the room had reached a dangerous high.


    If all of them unloaded on me, what were the chances that Id come out alright?


    Put your guns away, I snapped. And someone turn off that noise.


    The music cut off with a snap, pitching the entire bar into a sudden silence that only made everything so much more tense.


    Youre Stray Cat, one of the Janitors said.


    Yeah, I said. It was nice, being recognized when I was trying to scare the shit out of someone. You guys. Where are my limbs? The last was directed at the idiots sitting across from me.


    One of them, who looked particularly stupid wearing his mask on his head, sat up straighter. Dont know what youre on about, he said.


    I blinked. Let me put it this way. Either you chucklefucks-- I assumed that was a term these old guys would understand--Give me back the arms and legs you stole from my clinic. Or I start grabbing replacements, and Im not picky when it comes to whether theyre prosthetics or meat limbs.


    ***