Drake Oneir Gets a Phone Call

[Kopaka]

A one-armed man leaned heavily on the balcony of his third floor apartment on one of the more heavily neon-lit alley streets of Coruscant's Tier Four. There was a light stubble on his face, his skin was a chocolatey brown, and his hair was buzzed short. He wore a dark grey newsie cap, had chapped lips wrapped around an unlit cigarette, and there was a loose, slightly stained tank shirt draped around his boney shoulders.

His left arm is heavily muscled, as is the rest of his body, but somehow this does not diminish his gaunt and haggard appearance. Thick, working hands currently ensured that his dwindling piss stream fell down to the shadowed sidewalks below as extremely stylish grey denim jeans lay around the ankles of his cybernetic legs.

This, then, was Drake Oneir, and if this is too much for you to handle already, then spare yourself reading further. We needn't elaborate too much on why he was currently pissing off the balcony, save for the fact that his landlord hadn't fixed the water yet and we REALLY needn't discuss the bathroom situation.

It was seven thirty in the morning, not that arbitrary time intervals meant much in the eternal disk of this tier. That was okay, it just made Drake feel more entitled to wend his way back to the fridge and take a pull on a bottle of gin before picking at a three day old tray of sushi with his fingers. A buzz emanated from his left pocket and Drake flipped out his DV phone, holding it with his shoulder while he chewed on a piece of not-quite-still-good octorock. Happy thoughts.

"Myeah?"

"Drosselmeyer?" 

Drake chewed for a moment longer and swallowed slowly. He had a lot of different names for different clients. Only the intel branch of the EPD referred to him as Drosselmeyer. 

"Oh shit, what's good Sugar Plum?" Drake hooted while slamming his fridge shut. The slightly annoyed female voice on the other end did not respond to the flattery. Nobody knew about the damn Nutcracker in this fucking universe.

"We have a job that suits you. How's your schedule?"

"Booked solid. Why?"

It wasn't true but he said this anyway. Helped gauge how desperate they were and how profitable the job would be.

"Clear your schedule. We're going to need you working the streets in Nippur."

"Oh okay. So I'll just drop everything I have going on and walk into a war zone. Got it."

There was a long silence.

"So you're not going to take the job."

"I didn't say that."

"Your tone indicated–"

"My tone! Sugar Plum, I didn't realize we'd gotten so close."

"So you are taking the job?"

"I didn't say that."

"Drosselmeyer. Please cooper–"

"I am cooperating! You're the one getting into tones and jumping to conclusions. I'm starting to take this personally."

"Why are you making this so difficult?"

"I'm not!"

"We'll contract you to a new Sire if you do this job, plus expenses covered."

Oh, well now they had Drake's attention. Truth be told, he didn't have a lot planned for the next few weeks, and he wasn't hurting too bad for cash right now. His comparatively squalid lifestyle was one of choice, rather than out of desperation; it made it much easier to up sticks and get out of dodge if the walls started closing in from all the people he may not have been double crossing at any given time. Granted, he'd been a tad less ornery than usual lately because his previously contracted Prime Sire had spirited up into the great Omknown without so much as text message. Having the EPD contract a new Prime into resummoning him if he died was the most valuable thing he could think of at the moment. It did, of course, beg the question of when the EPD had figured out his true identity, but that didn't matter. It had been bound to happen sooner or later.

"Okeedoke. Leaving immediately?" Drake spoke into the receiver after a solid minute. Sugar Plum was immediately ten shades more pleasant.

"No. You should have a few days to get things pulled together. You'll be working with an EPD Prime Agent in Nippur, so we'll be sure to send pertinents along when we get our own ideas gathered." Sugar Plum said. Drake nodded to himself idly while he washed his hand with some bottled water.

"Sounds posh as hell babe, but uh, can I get any more of an assignment than 'working the streets'?"

"Information gathering on local crime activity and palace affairs. The usual stuff, Drosselmeyer. We don't expect there to be much trouble, but it's the Dunes, so pack whatever means of defense you think are best. This is all deniable, of course, so try not to shoot any viziers."

"Can I get a monkey in a fez and vest too?" Drake asked. Sugar Plum was used to this kind of bullshit.

"Cute, but we'll warn you; your Prime contact won't be as lighthearted as me, so this is one you don't want to piss off." Sugar Plum said in a tone that sounded slightly more serious than her usual Ben Stein deadpan. Drake chuckled.

"Darling, the only things I piss off are balconies."

"What does that even mean– oh god."

"Have a nice day, Sugar Tits." Drake snapped before clapping the DV phone shut and shoving it back into his pocket. Drake cracked his neck with a rolling twitch. Alright. Time to suit up. With grand, purposeful strides, the smuggler and informant strode over to his closet, threw on a light jacket, and that was it. Done. Suited up. Oh wait, he needed his attache bag too, of course. The familiar weight of plastic explosives and a small plasma pistol settled onto his shoulders as he wrenched open the door to the hallway and slammed it shut.

Drake coughed loudly on the elevator ride down to the garage level. The smell of paint fumes were quite strong and growing stronger, and it wasn't until he got closer to his personal Skybike that he realized the source. Zuke, the apartment building's pet delinquent, was throwing up some stupid new tag on the side of the gleaming black vehicle.

"Dammit Zuke! I told you if you're gonna tag my bike at least make it good! Fuck's sake man." Drake said, reaching into his bag and firing a few bolts of white-hot plasma in the teenager's general direction. The bored kid scrambled away with the fear for his life as Drake tossed his bag into the cargo boot of the hovering jet motorcycle and saddled up. The Endless Dunes were gonna make for a lot of long, boring rides. As the engines spun up with a shrill whine, the smuggler cycled through the vehicle's digital memory to make sure his extensive music library was all there. Smiling, he picked that one song by Wild Cherry (Really the only song by Wild Cherry that matters) as the canopy slid shut and the garage was filled with the furious vacuum wind of bajillion horsepower turbines.

Of course, wasn't going to the Endless Dunes just yet...he had some things he needed to prepare first.

[Kopaka]

Drake walked out of Tier One's Whole Foods market with a bag full of leafy greens, small yellow packets of yeast, and other sundry grocery supplies. I mean, of course it would be a Whole Foods Market on Tier One; that is literally the only possible place such a thing could exist. Like, next time you're in Whole Foods, just think to yourself; "I am literally on Tier One of Coruscant right now."

Aanywayyy...

Drake hefted the ethically source, organic food into the boot of this Skybike along with the satchel full of high-grade explosives and military level weapons and surveillance equipment. The gimp smuggler tapped his index finger on his chin and tried to think of what he might be missing. Ah yes, that's right. He needed to pick up a stooge. After all, you never knew exactly who was going to come walking through the Nexus gate up here on Tier One, and it could produce some surprising leads on information to be gathered. Whistling slightly, the one-armed man pulled some magnetic taxi stickers out of the trunk of the sky bike and artfully slapped them on the exterior of the vehicle. As he saddled back into the sleek black interior of the hovering vehicle, he tapped a few buttons on the HUD to begin broadcasting a spoofed Coruscant Taxi Service ID to local traffic checkpoints.

This kind of information breach was fairly common, but also so low on the EPD's priority list that they scarcely could divert the kind of manpower needed to completely eliminate the activity. That was the one good thing about Prime babbies; they always kept the po-po looking in their direction. A few minutes later, Drake spooled down the Skybike's engines as it came to a rest on a docking platform near the Nexus gate checkpoint. The canopy hissed as it slid open, and Drake leaned up from the rider's saddle just in time to see a half-dressed roman cosplay chick with painfully red hair come waltzing through the security queue.

That there's a Prime.

Drake put his fingers in his mouth and blew out a sharp whistle, managing to catch Miss Nikos' eye in the process...

[Yukika Inoue]

The scarlet-haired huntress halted as the one-armed taxi driver cat-called her. She looked behind her, hoping that he was calling for someone else behind her possibly, but saw no one of note behind her. When she found this was the case, she turned back to the man and pointed to herself awkwardly to make sure he was really trying to get her attention. She never expected anyone her to take notice of her. The man gestured to come closer, so they could actually speak. It was difficult to see his face under the hood he war, which made him suspicious, but Pyrrha never judged people by the way they looked and had the skill to pummel most people who got on her bad side anyway. The huntress lightly-jogged to the bike and greeted the driver.

"Afternoon, uh, sir." She fumbles some awkward words out, still trying to figure out his true motives. "Do I know you from somewhere? I've had a bad case of amnesia upon entering this world and I'm really kind of just wandering at this point."

"Hmm, no. Just a cabbie, but wandering seems like a common hobby for Primes. You fresh?”

“By ‘fresh’, I’m going to assume you are asking if I’m a fairly new person to this world. I think it’s been at least two days now since I appeared in front of that...god, or whatever you call him. Omni?” Pyrrha asks as she tries to recall the faceless man’s name before Drake gives her a nod in response. “I was attacked by some weird men in a suspicious moor. It was pretty clear their intention was to eat me, or something similar, so I got out of there as quickly as possible.”

“Sounds like some nasty business, gotta stay alert and ready in the Omniverse to survive. Anyways, you needing a ride?” He asks gesturing to the seat behind him.

“I really don’t have a specific destination, to be honest with you.” She admits, slightly embarrassed over the amnesia.

“Most primes with perfect memory tend to wander aimlessly anyways. So, you aren’t alone in that boat.” Drake revved the humming engine of the bike he sat on. “It’s a tough world we’re living in now and I don’t mind offering you a ride.”

“That’s pretty kind of you. I really have no choice but to accept, then. Maybe you can help me learn a little more about the...Omniverse, as I’ve heard it called?” Pyrrha shrugs, slightly hesitating to just jump right on the bike.

“Sure, you were gonna be my last ride before I met some friends for lunch. We’ll be happy to fill you in, if you wanna meet them.”

“As I said before, I don’t have much of a destination, so it’s hard to refuse. I would feel honored to join you, Mr…?”

“Drake.” He replies simply.

“Pyrrha Nikos.”

[Kopaka]

The ride down to these friends of Drake's took a little over twenty minutes, during which time very few words were exchanged. The fake cabbie had started some light music playing over the Skybike's stereo system, but this did very little to suppress the sense of being in an elevator with a stranger. The saddle of the Skybike was certainly large enough for two, but Pyrrha had to prop herself up somewhat uncomfortably to avoid laying down on Drake's back. This seemed odd for a taxi service, but the huntress reminded herself that she knew precious little about this world's culture or expectations. It didn't completely abolish the sense of unease from her mind, but she had been fighting against mutant, half-dead cannibal bush men not too long ago. Miss Nikos eventually decided it was better to stay relaxed around the openly helpful Drake, but remain on guard.

Though there was no direct reference for understanding their location, Drake and Pyrrha swooped into the skies of Tier Three, just in time to see the artificial sky cycle abruptly to a late afternoon setting. It was a tad disorienting for the Remnant native, but after an abrupt explanation from Drake on the Tiers of Coruscant and their artificial heavens, the concept in and of itself was not so difficult to grasp. What stunned Pyrrha was that a city could be so absolutely massive on the scale that such a thing was even needed. Eventually, Drake drew the Skybike to a stop outside a rather blasé looking brownstone apartment building.

"Here we are." he hummed, popping the canopy of the Skybike and granting the Huntress some much-needed personal breathing room. She turned to offer a hand to the one-armed man, but Drake had already hopped out of the saddle and was rummaging through the vehicle's small trunk for some grocery bags. Likewise, Pyrrha gathered her Xiphos and shield, and followed Drake as he sauntered into the modest housing.

"Third floor, number four." Drake said, rocking patiently back and forth on his heels. He walked straight past the rickety looking elevator for the stairs, and though the woman followed, she was curious.

"Is there something wrong with the elevator?" she asked. As she followed her cabbie, she could hear slight whirring coming from his legs as he scaled the creaking, carpeted steps.

"Nah, we just need to take the stairs so they know we're coming." he laughed. Pyrrha cocked her head slightly, but said nothing. Still, she thumbed her shield and weapon, ensuring that they could be drawn quickly if need be. As they reached the third, dimly lit floor, Drake produced a small keycard from his satchel (while somehow continuing to hold the rustling grocery bags with his single arm), and swiped it into the lock. It blinked green, but when Drake went to open the thick door, he found it had been chained shut.

He also found that, through the cracked door, there was a double-barreled shotgun leveled at his chest. He instinctively fell on his back just as the trigger was pulled and an immense blast shook the entire building. Pyrrha had her own rifle drawn in an instant, but before any fighting could begin, Drake shouted frantically.

"GODDAMIT MADGE I TOLD YOU I WAS GONNA COME BY TODAY YOU CRAZY CUNT."

There was silence for a moment.

"You said you were going to be alone, dearie. We heard two sets of feet. You told us–" said an elderly sounding voice from behind the door.

"I also told you to look before you shoot! God...DAMN." Drake grunted as he go back to his feet. He quickly gathered the various vegetables and herbs that had spilled from the bag before looking up at Pyrrha. Oh yeah. Her.

"What is going on?!" the huntress demanded, flicking her gun between the crouched cabbie and the geriatric woman in the doorway. Drake and the woman named Madge glanced at one another and began to stifle laughter as the old bag undid the safety chain.

"Well, these are my friends, Pyrrha. I should have warned you that they're a little, ehm, feisty." Drake said, gesturing to the interior of the apartment. Various women of all ages and description were lounging around on comfy looking couches, sipping tea, chatting, and doing various bits of fiddly craftwork. Only a few glanced at the doorway, as if they had only vaguely noticed the cacophanous shotgun report.

"Marjorie Hinchey, President of the Tier Three Suburban Women's Club. How do you do?" Madge said, stowing the firearm just around the side of the doorway and extending a hand towards the armed young Pyrrha.

[Kopaka]

The Huntress twitched at first, pointing the barrel of her weapon alternatively at Madge and Drake. When neither of the secondaries stopped smiling at her agitation, Pyrrha finally relented and lowered her rifle...though she did not put it away.

"I am Pyrrha Nikos. Huntress and Prime." she said slowly. The latter of the two descriptors still felt unfamiliar and alien on her tongue, as if it were a title she was not fully willing to accept. Contrary to her expectations, it was not her status as Prime that excited the elderly lady.

"Nikos!? My my, Helen will be so excited to have a fellow Greek visiting. Come! Come inside out of that dank hallway." Madge said, bustling forwards and grabbing Pyrrha by the wrist. She blinked slowly as she was dragged into the brightness of the converted apartment, with Drake following silently behind them.

"Greek?" she murmured softly.

The interior of the the Tier Three Suburban Women's Club was far less dingy than the apartment building that housed it. Bright, curtained bay windows let in a flood of the artificial daylight in Tier Three, casting long shadows on a clean looking white carpet. A variety of potted plants and flowers sat arranged on various shelves and sills, and the air was heavily scented with both exotic cooking and rosy overtones. Approximately ten ladies of various ages mulled around the room, as if a shotgun hadn't just gone off within twenty feet of them. They gossiped softly, showing one another new novelties on their datascreens or sipping gently steaming cups of tea.

"Helen? Helen! We have a Miss Nikos visiting with Drake today!" Madge called out to the kitchen. There was a pause before excited yelps began approaching around the corner. A heavyset, boistrous, long-nosed woman came around the corner straight at Pyrrha with a moist look in her eye. Singular indeed, since there was a bright pink patch over her right socket.

"Theé mou! Ohh kalós mou Theós! Poios eínai aftó to ellinikó moró pou me éferes, Drake?" the lady asked in excited tones. She grabbed Pyrrha squarely by the face and offered a loud kiss on either of the confused Huntress's cheek. Caught in the moment, and slightly panicking, Pyrrha did her best to return the sudden gesture before being enveloped in a crushing bear hug.

"Ohhhhh Paídi mou." Helen cried into Pyrrha's shoulder. The red-haired Prime looked to Drake for advice, but the cab driver was too busy gabbing with another nearby woman.

"I-I'm sorry...I don't understand." Pyrrha said, managing to break away from Helen's suffocating girth. Helen blinked slowly before tapping Pyrrha playfully on the nose.

"You don' speak greek, paídi mou? Notta problem. You learn in time. I'm makin' fassolakia, c'mon, help! Help!" Helen said, shamelessly dragging Pyrrha into the kitchen. Before the polite huntress could even manage to squeak out another attempt to clarify, she found herself helping the one-eyed woman cutting up greenbeans. Drake sauntered into kitchen with yet another girl, carrying a few bags of groceries. The girl put the bags on the counter before walking up to Pyrrha and bowing politely. She also kept her red hair in a long tail, though hers was tied back with a thin, delicate ribbon. She peered into Pyrrha's dark green eyes with own similar viridian hues.

"Hi there! My name is Monika. We're so glad you stopped by today. Drake told me what happened. Don't mind him; he has a soft spot for lost-looking folks with no place to go. Oh! Your hair...certainly looks like you've been in the Moors..." Monika said softly, reaching out and running a finger down through Pyrrha's long ponytail. It hit a snag almost immediately, and the helpful young lady pulled out a robust hairbrush.

"I have some detangler in my bag! I'll be right back!" she said, skipping into the common room. As she trotted past Drake, who was tapping silently at his data device, Pyrrha finally found a moment to speak up.

"Drake...what is...all of this?" Pyrrha asked slowly, continuing to oblige her new best friend Helen by cutting up another bunch of vegetables. Drake looked up from his phone as if he had just realized the Huntress was still there.

"Hm? Oh. Tier Three Suburban Women's Club." he said before abruptly nosing back towards his screen. Pyrhha's mouth drew into a thin line.

"I picked up that part. What is the Tier Three Suburban Women's Club?" the redhead continued.

"Oh! Just a bunch of friends. I also hire them on occassion." Drake said flatly.

"To do what..." Pyrrha said slowly. Before Drake could answer, Monika traipsed back in with a bottle of spray-on conditioner. She bade Pyrrha to turn around and gave the Huntress's hair a few orange-scented spritz. The entire situation was still appallingly confusing to Pyrrha, but she would have been lying to say she wasn't enjoying this warm feeling of care and attention she was receiving from all directions. As Monika began running the brush down through Pyrrha's snarls, she tried to turn her head to follow up on her previous question, but only caught a glimpse of her cab driver turning the corner back into the living room...

[Kopaka]

In the living room, Drake bent down to take out the current batch of organic kombucha from the refrigerator. To be honest, Drake really didn't like the stuff, but if it allowed him to be better friends with these ladies, then he was entirely on board with that. Unbeknownst to Drake, however, this particular batch of fermented tea had been combined with another recent health craze: raw water. Now one might question where 'raw water' might be found within the limits of Coruscant. You see, Madge had gone out of the way to buy a ticket to Costa Del Sol, where she'd grabbed a few gallons of the stuff from one of the island's springs.

Lots of people like raw water. They say it tastes superior, has added nutritive benefits, and is more ecologically sustainable. Maybe. But you know what else likes raw water? Giardia. Now Drake was not a biologist, but if he'd known that this untreated water full of nature's original shit poster had been used to create a batch of fermented drink, he would have thrown the entire philter out the window and donned a rebreather. As it stood, he downed several gulps of the stuff before a sharp, musty tang shot up into his sinuses.

The smuggler gagged slightly at first, before immediately spraying a cloud of the stuff over a nice reprinted painting of a New England shoreline. Coughing violently, Drake then tried to grab the wall for support, but grabbed a nearby ficus instead. Plant and man toppled over to the ground, where the dry foliage fell into a nearby space heater and caught on fire. Still coughing, and trying to sputter an apology, the one-armed man proceed to doff his jacket and try to smack the flames into submission. Instead, the poly-cotton blend of his clothes caught on fire instead.

By this time, the Tier Three Women's Suburban Club was in full panic mode, and Helen was rushing in from the kitchen with a fire extinguisher. Now, Helen weighs all of three hundred plus pounds, and Monika insisted that they purchase a commercial grade extinguisher for the club's apartment. When the immense Greek woman came bustling around the corner, she smacked the now flailing Drake in the face with the forty-pound flame retardant canister, breaking his nose instantly and causing him to reel backwards.

Hereupon, Drake smashed into one of the beautifully crystalline plate-glass windows of the third-floor apartment and fell out into the air. Before he hit the ground, the still flaming Drake Oneir was rammed violently by a flying garbage truck, flipped up over its canopy, and into the waste compactor bay. The truck driver, who had been arguing with his wife about whether or not their child should be allowed to have soda at a friend's birthday party, was completely oblivious to his new passenger. The entirety of the women's club, leaning out the window, tried to flag down the trundling vehicle as it pulled up to the curb and dumped six-hundred pounds of refuse on top of Drake's unconscious form.

Pyrrha, more given to action, had sprung out the door, down the steps and into the street, and arrived just in time to watch the garbage truck abruptly compress the its waste collection hopper into an almost entirely solid block. Now, unbeknownst to any of the people involved so far, the apartment building that shared an adjacent alleyway was home to a family of meth-makers who had particularly volatile brewing methods. Upon compression, the assembled waste chemicals in their trash made contact with Drake's still-smoldering corpse, and the back half of the garbage hauler exploded violently. As the driver of the truck staggered out of his cab and all the assembled onlookers gasped in horror, we can be left with one moral here:

Raw water is jank bullshit.