Having the form of a rhinoceros, of course, Left would have always lived under pressure to maintain a weight and toughness that may not come natural to him. As it was, he was nearly as large and musclebound as his partner, and drew power from a stocky and well-exercised core. Still, he never wore any expression but one of intense frustration when he worked out.
Beyond him, the alligator still slept, on his side with his back to Geir.
One of Grouch’s armed men banged on the frosted door and let himself in. His assault rifle hung from its shoulder strap, on standby in case the boss’s muscle made trouble.
“He wants to see you,” the young human informed Geir.
Grouch was in the dining hall, standing next to one chair pulled out from the table. He looked as disgruntled and suspicious as ever. Geir understood. He took the seat, and faced his boss.
“It looks like it might work out to keep you around,” Grouch said, as he dismissed the guard. “So I’ve been digging.”
Geir nodded. It had only been a matter of time before he was found out; he had to hope he didn’t seem like a threat.
“—and why can’t I find anything?”
Geir hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath until he let it out, blinking. All he could do was shrug.
“A human can be born off the grid,” Grouch lowered his head another fraction. “Every single zoan has a catalog number and a public database entry. Why does yours have nothing in it?”
“I’ve never looked myself up,” Geir admitted. It was basically true: when he had been at Samuel’s side in the news, his history had all been one click away—and when he’d been working the rail, looking back on his record was the last thing he’d wanted to do.
And so: Grouch didn’t know about his history with the ZF, after all.
“Well, I’m here,” Geir raised his hands powerlessly. “I was born.”
Grouch came around so he could show Geir the record that came up on his wristband display. The database entry showed a walkaround capture of his face—a little inaccurate, because those were based on projected adult appearances, calculated based on factory genes before zoans were even embryos—and little else. It gave his factory-assigned name and familiar twelve-digit serial code, the number and corporate owner of the factory at which he had been grown. Nothing about the Brightlove House and its revolution, nor his several arrests before and after leaving it, not even his employment with Lans-Cartier Industrial.
“If you’ve done muscle work before, then you’ve been arrested,” Grouch said. He straightened, still behind the chair and out of view. “And there isn’t even that. Do I need to tell you how it looks?”
“Cops would’ve built me a profile. Something’s obviously just wrong with it.”
“You could be anybody. The last thing I need is trouble, I should put you down and spare myself.”
“I can tell you what should be there.”
Geir didn’t sense any movement behind him. He hadn’t noticed a gun on Grouch’s person, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have one. Nor that there weren’t armed men on the other side of each door waiting for a signal.
“Try,” Grouch said.
The vulture thought back to what he had told Left, and Cranberry, and to scraps of names and information he had encountered in the past.
“I was a Housie,” he stated it as though it were part of a long list of personal factoids he had to sift through. “But it wasn’t a real receiving house, it was a family that adopted us all and called itself that. They were the Morrows, in Chicago. I ran away when I was two…I mean, seven. I got arrested a lot. I was in juvie all the time. There should be at least ten B&E’s, a lot of thefts, a lot of squatting. I started working for bookies and dealers when I was ten, because I was big for my age.”
Grouch was quiet. All of this could be disproven if he spoke directly to anyone involved.
“How’d you get from Chicago to Terrace?” the human shoved the chair with a boot, which he braced on its crossbar.
Geir searched for a story, and found none.
“I joined the workforce,” he said. “I worked a rail line for fourteen years.”
“The one that was bombed?”
“Yeah…I quit before that happened.”
“Why?”
“I was tired of it.”
Silence.
“I’m not a cop,” Geir repeated. He was sharply aware of what might have been a gun just brushing the feathers of his neck.
“This is the part where you explain why you’re here.”
“Joining the workforce is suicide for a zoan,” Geir blurted. “You do it when you’re done being alive. You get some credit but they don’t actually pay you, you’re just doing a mindless task until you die. I walked up and down a railroad track for fourteen years. It was like I was dead, and I thought I wanted it that way. There was everything before, and it was over; now I was dead and in limbo, just walking back and forth forever.”
“But you weren’t dead,” Grouch said. His voice was unreadable.
“So I came back to life.”
There was silence for what felt like a long time. Then Grouch withdrew his boot from the chair, and came back around to face the bird. His eyes were cold: there wasn’t anger in them.
“I’m going to have the three of you collect some of your last target’s debts,” the human said, as if there had been no threats spoken. “Be out by noon.”
He took his tablet with him and returned to his office, leaving Geir in the dining hall alone. The zoan sat quietly, head spinning, for some time before he scooted the chair under the table and went to inform his new partners of the day’s assignment.
***
Geir was quiet on the drive, as the van took the three of them to the homes and workplaces of Jared 13R-C88’s debtors. He sat across from the other two, and while Right’s gaze burned on him, Geir didn’t have the energy to meet it. He made a show of polishing his glasses to avoid it.
Left had a wristband that showed their targets and what they owed. It was sour work: mostly poor families who had to give up meager valuables to pay for necessities Jared had gotten them. Only a few better-off businessmen owing on Uptown amenities.
As Left said, people paid, or they paid.
“Leave him alone,” the rhinoceros finally chided the alligator, after a few stops.
Right huffed once, and then dropped his angry glare. He sat back on the bench, arms folded, and breathed. The glare had been heavy; Geir felt better.
“You did hurt him,” Left muttered.
“Does he do this with everyone he gets into the ring with?” Geir asked.
“Most don’t hurt him.”
That certainly followed what Geir had seen.
“The fighting is Grouch’s idea, right?”
“Eh. It keeps us sharp. He’ll put you in the ring eventually.”
“I’m guessing we don’t get a cut of his winnings.”
Left glared.
“Housie shit,” Geir backed off. Raw as he felt after his questioning earlier, there was one benefit: apparently he wasn’t one step away from being identified as he had thought. “Have you ever worked for the Zoan Front?”
Left rolled his eyes.
“Guarded a parley one time. Held cops off a protest. Might be other times when we didn’t know the client.”
Right had turned to put his feet up on the bench, back to his opposite. He had a small notebook, and was drawing in it. Geir didn’t pry.
“Are they one of the major players in Terrace?” the vulture asked.
“They don’t do shit. Everyone’s volunteers, no one’s hard. Maybe they blew up the train station, but that had to be a fluke." Right’s shoulders shuddered in a single soundless laugh, and Left added: “Like you beating Right.”
“Sure,” Geir smiled.
“They might be wising up,” Left continued. “They’ve been getting in on real rackets the last couple weeks. Last job we did before you came around was work a guy over that they stole a drop box from, with a quarter million in it.”
“They could be planning something big,” Geir mused.
“They’ve got new management.”
“New management?”
“It used to be the guy on the news who’d hire us. Now it’s some zo lady. We haven’t worked with her yet though.”
"What happened to the other guy?"
"I don't know. Probably in hiding. Everyone's after him. Why are you so interested?"
"I worked on that train line. That's the job I lost."
"Shit."
That had both other zoans' attention. Right didn't put his feet back on the floor, but cocked his head to listen, brows raised.
"Were you there?" Left leaned in.
"I was out walking the rail, but one day later and I would've been. The company laid me off but comms were down and supplies had quit coming, so I'd walked away anyway. Still don't know who died, not sure I want to."
"Over a thousand," the rhinoceros reported. "It took out buildings all around, too."
"Grouch let you read about it?"
"It was everywhere, he couldn't stop us hearing. People thought the ZF was hot shit for a few days, like maybe they had other targets they were gonna blow soon. It's been two weeks though, everyone's moved on."
Geir shook his head. He couldn't believe Samuel would give the word to kill thousands, but it had been so long since Geir had even heard from him. He had to hear it from Samuel's own mouth.
"If the ZF hires us, you know you can't say no," Left said seriously.
"Cross that bridge," Geir smiled.
At the next stop, he stopped Right after Left had disembarked. The alligator paused and turned to him slowly, his enormous snout a pendulous obstacle in the confines of the van. Geir offered a hand, relaxed as he could make it.
"Sorry," he said.
Right tossed his head slightly, and grunted. It was the least hostile thing he'd said to Geir so far.
Geir lifted his shirt and parted the feathers to show the bruise on his side, half again the size of the thorny fist that had made it, still black and purple and not fading any time soon.
"You gave me what I had coming," he said.
The alligator nodded. He said nothing, but the quick jab he gave at the bruise with the side of his hand as he climbed out of the van was more playful than malicious. It still hurt, though.
***
Within the week, Grouch had Geir in the fighting ring. The gangster never spoke to him, but let Left explain what was expected of him. It was understood that his victory over Right was a fluke, and no one thought he would win like the other two, though punishment would be severe if he lost. The vulture worked his disused muscles on the weights afforded the three zoans–no bed yet, but at least some blankets showed up one night–and even sparred with the other two and some of Grouch's humans. On Friday night, he stood behind Left in the carpet factory basement, waiting for his match. He was on the board as Grouch's Third.
Unknown despite the splash he'd made fighting Right, Geir was clearly in a lighter category than his colleagues. His opponent was a ropy zoan of a vague mustelid model, tall and battered but green. Any zoan could count on having the same years of experience, but how much of it was direct or indirect was an unknown. Geir took a few hits, but the mustelid didn't have any defense against his practiced blows. He won with a knee to his opponent's chin, which knocked the other zoan to the floor long enough for the lizard to count him out.
When he left the ring to shake the bookies' hands and receive his winnings, he caught a familiar face in the crowd. Cranberry, arms folded, lifted a hand to wave from across the basement. Once he was sure he wasn't going to be called back to Grouch's side right away, Geir went to meet the wolf.
"I heard the barb who knocked Grouch's Right out was coming back to the ring," Cranberry said wryly.
"I haven't gotten myself killed yet," Geir said.
"Not yet. I'm keeping my distance still, you know."
"I know. But you can still buy me a drink."
"It seems like you should be the one buying, hon, with that cool thousand you just came into."
“That’s all spoken for already, unfortunately.”
“I told you this was a bad angle. I’ve got some news for you. Is it safe to tell it?”
Geir considered, and led the wolf to the storage room in which he had been locked the last time he was here. Not secret, but out of direct sight.
They kissed as soon as they were alone. It took Geir by surprise—doubly, because it was as much his move as Cranberry’s. He’d had a few brief trysts after Samuel but before the Mover, nothing since. Maybe it was adrenaline after the fight, maybe it was a cover in case they were followed, or maybe Cranberry wanted something Geir couldn’t give. For the moment, he questioned and interpreted nothing, as the wolf wrapped his legs around the bird to hold himself closer, hands clutching at Geir’s cheeks.
Afterward, they parted and rested against the shelves, breathing hard.
"Yeah," Cranberry said. There was no reason to discuss what had just happened.
Geir tipped his glasses back down to his eyes and shifted his weight.
"What do I need to know?" he asked.
"I had some ZF guys come through the other day," the wolf said, seriously, though he was still straightening out his skewed piercings. "At the Ironclad. I kept them talking."
"You don't have to tell me if it puts you in danger."
Cranberry thought about that, said nothing about what he decided.
"Someone split off after the bomb," he said, in a hush. "Her name is Sike, and she took half the ZF with her."
"More radical?"
"Dunno. But they're operating under the name ZF. Just the letters, not Zoan Front."
"They're the ones who have been digging their heels into organized crime."
"The guys said they have to get funded for bigger actions. They had plenty of cash, though."
"Did they say anything about Sike?"
"Nope. Just that they liked her."
"What do you think?"
"It sounds like the ZF is a hot mess right now. If that's still where you're hoping to get, then you're hopping into an oven."
"And you can't point me to the guys who came to the Ironclad?"
Cranberry smiled ruefully.
"Hon," he said, but didn't finish the thought. "I like a man with a purpose, but I'm backing off, okay? That's how I survive rubbing elbows with the boys I do."
"I'll let you know when things are sorted," Geir said.
The wolf rolled his eyes, but nodded.
"I owe you a drink," he said, as he left. "If you do ever sort things."
And Geir would sort things. But it sounded like those things were more complicated than he'd thought.
Unknown despite the splash he'd made fighting Right, Geir was clearly in a lighter category than his colleagues. His opponent was a ropy zoan of a vague mustelid model, tall and battered but green. Any zoan could count on having the same years of experience, but how much of it was direct or indirect was an unknown. Geir took a few hits, but the mustelid didn't have any defense against his practiced blows. He won with a knee to his opponent's chin, which knocked the other zoan to the floor long enough for the lizard to count him out.
When he left the ring to shake the bookies' hands and receive his winnings, he caught a familiar face in the crowd. Cranberry, arms folded, lifted a hand to wave from across the basement. Once he was sure he wasn't going to be called back to Grouch's side right away, Geir went to meet the wolf.
"I heard the barb who knocked Grouch's Right out was coming back to the ring," Cranberry said wryly.
"I haven't gotten myself killed yet," Geir said.
"Not yet. I'm keeping my distance still, you know."
"I know. But you can still buy me a drink."
"It seems like you should be the one buying, hon, with that cool thousand you just came into."
“That’s all spoken for already, unfortunately.”
“I told you this was a bad angle. I’ve got some news for you. Is it safe to tell it?”
Geir considered, and led the wolf to the storage room in which he had been locked the last time he was here. Not secret, but out of direct sight.
They kissed as soon as they were alone. It took Geir by surprise—doubly, because it was as much his move as Cranberry’s. He’d had a few brief trysts after Samuel but before the Mover, nothing since. Maybe it was adrenaline after the fight, maybe it was a cover in case they were followed, or maybe Cranberry wanted something Geir couldn’t give. For the moment, he questioned and interpreted nothing, as the wolf wrapped his legs around the bird to hold himself closer, hands clutching at Geir’s cheeks.
Afterward, they parted and rested against the shelves, breathing hard.
"Yeah," Cranberry said. There was no reason to discuss what had just happened.
Geir tipped his glasses back down to his eyes and shifted his weight.
"What do I need to know?" he asked.
"I had some ZF guys come through the other day," the wolf said, seriously, though he was still straightening out his skewed piercings. "At the Ironclad. I kept them talking."
"You don't have to tell me if it puts you in danger."
Cranberry thought about that, said nothing about what he decided.
"Someone split off after the bomb," he said, in a hush. "Her name is Sike, and she took half the ZF with her."
"More radical?"
"Dunno. But they're operating under the name ZF. Just the letters, not Zoan Front."
"They're the ones who have been digging their heels into organized crime."
"The guys said they have to get funded for bigger actions. They had plenty of cash, though."
"Did they say anything about Sike?"
"Nope. Just that they liked her."
"What do you think?"
"It sounds like the ZF is a hot mess right now. If that's still where you're hoping to get, then you're hopping into an oven."
"And you can't point me to the guys who came to the Ironclad?"
Cranberry smiled ruefully.
"Hon," he said, but didn't finish the thought. "I like a man with a purpose, but I'm backing off, okay? That's how I survive rubbing elbows with the boys I do."
"I'll let you know when things are sorted," Geir said.
The wolf rolled his eyes, but nodded.
"I owe you a drink," he said, as he left. "If you do ever sort things."
And Geir would sort things. But it sounded like those things were more complicated than he'd thought.
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