Forceful Unionization

The recruit hit the deck hard. He wheezed as all remaining air was smashed out of his lungs, and he writhed on the ground, holding his stomach. 

Jeanne Leroux paid him no further attention and turned to the rest of the class. "If all of you are this slow, you're gonna get eaten alive five minutes into your first rescue op. Is that something you strive for?" Sarcasm dripped off her words, but the Australian Recon Division's other new recruits knew better than to laugh at the woman who, apart from being a living legend, had just planted their comrade on the gym floor in two seconds flat.

"No, ma'am!" they replied in unison. Their backs were a little too straight and their voices trembling a little too much, but they had the spirit.

"Didn't think so. Next." The meta next in line was a bulky woman with four eyes and dark red skin. She stepped forward with the twitchy body language of someone with something to prove. 

"What's your name, grunt?" The recruit returned her stare. "Magda, ma'am. Most people call me Maggie." She's not afraid. Jeanne immediately liked her. "Right, but I couldn't call you Maggie, or otherwise face disciplinary measures." Jeanne side eyed the Conclave representative assigned to evaluate the recruits today. He was a skinny man in a suit who only ever stopped hammering away at his data pad in favor of handing out derogative looks to the recruits, most of which were under the age of twenty. 

"So, Maggie. Fists up." Maggie raised her arms. She looked like she'd done this before. A fighter.

"If any of you worms should ever find yourselves in hand to hand combat with a Kaijibi, you're pretty much fucked. These bitches don't have regular muscle fibres, which mean they don't tire. Your best bet is to take them out from a distance with your rail guns, but I'm here to prepare you for the worst case." Keeping Maggie waiting, Jeanne turned toward a training dummy and dropped into a low stance where her hands could reach down to her knees. Her feet were far apart. 

"So in that worst case!", she monologued, "You need to take them out as fast as possible. Unless your metability is some alien level shit, close quarter battles with Kaijibi have a mortality rate of over seventy percent after the first ten seconds. Got that?" The recruits, intimidated but eager, all nodded.

"So you do something like this." In a flash, Jeanne catapulted herself at the dummy. She connected three hits: A strong right, a left hook and a headbutt. Then she got carried away. Maybe it's time to show off a little. Instead of drawing back her head, she summoned her metability and exhaled. A thick stream of lava shot forth from her mouth and vaporised the dummy's torso. 

Jeanne wiped the last drops of lava off her lips while she turned back to Maggie, who still had her fists raised. The droplets hissed as they met the floor. In the background, the evaluator's eyes almost jumped out of their sockets. They can send me the bill later. 

"Got that, Maggie?" Maggie squinted. "Overwhelming aggression is the only way, ma'am." Jeanne nodded. This kid is going places. "Then give me your best shot." 

Maggie charged at her without hesitation. Her eyes were laser focused on her instructor's hands, her arms raised high to block her punches. Next lesson. Jeanne's core tensed. Then she took off the ground and hit Maggie's chin with two clean kicks. Her legs sprayed the gym floor with a thin mist of sweat. The bulky recruit's momentum carried her for another meter before she collapsed on the sweaty gym floor.

Jeanne landed in a squat, then sat down facing away from her students so she could look the evaluator in the eyes. She didn't need to look at the others to be sure of their attention. 

"When facing Kaijibi in the field, stay flexible. Their attacks might hit you from angles you're not used to with limbs or organic weapons you're not used to. Actual field experience is invaluable to get a feel for this sort of thing. You'll learn that eventually. For now just keep your little maggot eyes peeled on all my attack vectors." 

She rose again, not breaking eye contact with the evaluator. His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. On his forehead, Jeanne saw little beads of swear forming. Message received, you little shit?

Maggie was still conscious. She shot Jeanne a grim nod as she helped her up again, but her eyes were trailing off. Sorry, kid. I'll pick on someone else next time. "Go see a medic, soldier. You did good. Lessons resume tomorrow for you." 

"No, ma'am. I want to stay." At Jeanne's frown, she added: "I don't want to miss the rest. I'll need it out there." You're so young. Jeanne smiled.

"Look at her, soldiers. This girl just got clocked so hard she can't see straight, but rather than see a medic she doesn't wanna miss the rest." While Magda tried her wobbly best to get back in line, Jeanne smashed her fists together. 

"Next." 

It wasn't exactly cold in Cape Town this time of the year, but Fangs Jovic was still waiting for her outside the gym with the collar of his coat folded up. It was an expensive piece of fabric and looked ridiculously mismatched with the cheap base cap that hung on for dear life to contain his mane. The odd combination passed for 'prepared for bad weather' if one squinted and had been dropped on the head as a baby one too many times. Only there wasn't a cloud to be seen anywhere. The south African sky looked beautifully flawless this golden hour.

"That's what you call an inconspicuous outfit? You're a joke, man." Fangs' expression was a perfect balance of embarassment and amusement. He eyed her up. "And a grey zip hoodie and sweatpants are supposed to be better? Cut me some slack, grandma." Jeanne punched his shoulder.

"Everyone knows me either in a tank top from training, in my sunday best from talk shows or my neurosuit from after assignment press conferences. This is as good a cover as any, but I like the cap. It's inspiring. I'll think about one of my own next time you're free." She pretended to take a look at a nonexistent wrist watch. "Which would be.. after High Command pulls the gigantic stick out of their asses, you workaholic bastard. Let's stop wasting the precious time we have, huh?" 

That earned her a smile. "Whatever you say, grandma. You pick out a place already?" He pushed off the concrete pillar he'd been leaning on and grabbed her wrist. Anyone else would have eaten her knuckles for that, but Fangs was the only one allowed to touch her like that, and only in specific scenarios. Only one of them involved a metability. 

"A dump called the 'Cat's Chagrin' or something, down south above the docks. I've heard, well, nobody talk about it, but that's kinda the point, no?" Jeanne's grin was vicious and she knew it. "Wouldn't want to read any headlines about metakind's best getting absolutely hammered and fucking on the toilet of some third-rate dive bar, would we?" 

For a second, Fangs was twenty again. "That's on the menu for tonight?" Jeanne leaned in, her hoodie sagging in her front. When the feeling of having her guts juggled with announced the activation of Fangs' metability by virtue of which he would take them to the docks, she whispered: "You think I'm wearing anything under this? Please."

The Cat's Chagrin' was surprisingly easy to find. Its neon sign had, literally, seen brighter days, but the melancholic tune of a western guitar filling the narrow alley attracted tired sailors like the light did moths. Just when Jeanne shoved open the door, a female voice added itself to the guitar. When the pilots' eyes had adjusted to the dim light, they could see it belonged to a young meta on a low stage at the far end of the bar. She had iridescent skin, was wearing a red sari and looked entirely too young for this kind of establishment. Even if she was of legal drinking age, which Jeanne doubted, she wasn't old enough for the pure authenticity with which she brought this ballad to the stage. Her Guitarist and Bassist on the other hand, both looking twice her age, might have been up to the task. But judging by how they handled their instruments, they had been washed up for a long time. The young singer was the real star here. Jeanne swapped an approving side glance with Fangs. He was as impressed as her.

The place was stuffed to the brim, and Jeanne came to the satisfying conclusion that she'd chosen well. They wouldn't stick out from the crowd, of that she was fairly sure. She searched for the bar, and as soon as she set her eyes upon it, traded another look with her date, this time a lot less appreciative. The interior design could really use some work. Pushing aside the curtain of bras hanging off the ceiling, Jeanne established eye contact with the bar keep. She held up two fingers, an ancient communication technique. "Whiskeys on the rocks, and some fries." The bar keep, a middle aged man in his seventies, looked indifferent about the request. "Got no food here." 

"Jeez, then give us a shot of tequila each as well." She winked at Fangs. "A bunch of those and we'll have eaten enough lemon to make up for dinner too." Fangs barked a laugh. "You actually eat your tequila lemons? Psychopath." She shoved him again, but only playfully. "So, what's rotten in the continent of Europe?" Four glasses were slapped on the counter, a clanking cacophony.

About to take a sip of his whiskey, the other pilot scoffed at her from under his base cap. "Shakespeare? Really? What did they do to you in Australia?" Jeanne snorted, finished her first Whiskey in a single chug, then tapped the edge of her glass on the bar to let the drinkslinger know it was to be topped off at his earliest convenience. "Nothing worse than they did to you in Austria. At least I can do whatever the fuck I want down there, knowing that the only higher ranking pilots are about half the globe away from me and nobody can properly reprimand me if I take a shit on their desks. Did I tell you about the disciplinary they're subjecting me to?"

"They are?"

"Well, not yet, but I'm sure that little rat from today's training will snitch on me. Don't ever trust a guy in a suit. They're always bad news."

Fangs, who had worn a suit in Jeanne's company more times than he could count, just laughed again. This time it came from his stomach, a proper laugh. Yeah, that's more like it. As it turned out, the singer knew some more upbeat songs too. She kept the two pilots entertained while they downed drink after drink and traded quip after quip like it was sparring. It felt good, amazing, even. The band left the stage around midnight. By then she had already gone for about eight glasses of various drinks. Fangs had less, but Jeanne's metability not only made her puke lava, but also heated her insides up and accelerated her metabolism. By one in the morning they had also been in the restroom together twice and rearranged each others' guts. Unfortunately, the second time they had apparently caused such a stirrup that the security guy, a greasy, wide meta in a dirty white tank top, asked them to leave with all the politeness he could muster. 

So they stumbled onto the narrow alley again. It was less inviting this time with much of the light and crowd noise missing at the late hour and the music gone altogether, but they were giggling like little children in each other's arms. Until Jeanne had to frown. Fangs, still half laughing, hands busy putting his belt back in place, asked her what the matter was, but she'd already twisted out from under his arm and taken a few steps towards the nearest corner. Where the young singer was sitting. Apparently she'd cried, her tears still shiny on her reflective skin. Her Guitarist sat next to her with a swollen eye that would soon enougu turn black and blue. His head was leaning against the dusty stone wall behind him, his gaze focused at nothing in particular. 

"Yo, can I help you?" Clearly, even being addressed by someone who wasn't trying to catcall her came as a surprise to the girl. She had the aura of someone who was astonishingly pretty, but suffered from it. Jeanne would bet a considerable amount of her fortune on the fact she was sexually harassed on a daily basis. 

"Lady, no offense, but piss off." There wasn't any anger in her voice, just hurt. "You're, like, a hundred years old. This is not really your space or something." Ouch? Somewhere in the back of her mind Jeanne realised she might not have made this her problem with four whiskeys less in her system. 

She pointed at the vague direction of the Guitarrist. "Who did that, your bass guy?" Fangs chuckled behind her, and so did the singer. Not the bass guy. "Nah, I wish! If it had been Nono, I'd just tell my mum. She let's him live in her basement and.." Jeanne sighed. "Okay, not your bass guy. Then who?" With a carefully practiced carelessness, she rolled up her sleeves. She had studied this move for dates, ones of the kind where she was feeling like blowing off some real steam. The fruits of seventy years of methodical training made the girl's eyes grow wide. She audibly gulped. 

"Yeah, kid. You better tell her! That one time, she.." Jeanne raised a hand. Fangs shut up.

"Let's start over, yeah? I'm J. What's your name?" 

The singer extended a careful hand. Jeanne made extra sure not to squeeze it too hard. "Chrisjen. This is Ben." 

"Pleasure to fucking meet you, Chrisjen. Now that we're friends, just the two of us and the guy behind me that you really shouldn't pay any attention to, why don't you tell me who's the asshole that made you cry?" 

So she told her the whole story. The whole time Fangs shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back, and half way through the story Jeanne started doing the same thing, but for a different reason. He was still full of hormone induced energy and raging ADHD. She was getting eager to fuck some guy's shit up. 

Apparently, it had gone down somewhat like this: Chrisjen, Ben and Nono had landed this gig at the Chagrin because Ben knew the bar guy. That was good, because they all needed money, Ben especially. The bar's owner, another guy named Dreistein, had briefly negotiated the pay with Chrisjen. They had settled on a solid 600 credits for the evening, 200 for each of them. Chrisjen had known she was probably being ripped off, but it was better than nothing. Then, after they had packed up, Ben had gone up to the office on the first floor to collect. But when he'd gotten there, sat down in the well worn chair in front of Dreistein's desk, the security monkey (She called him Kyle or something) had placed two firm hands on his shoulders from behind and leaned on him a little while Dreistein pulled out a small metal hammer and given him a choice: He could either leave with no money and all his limbs intact, or take their six hundred and get his fingers broken one by one. Just for good measure, they'd tossed his guitar out the back window. Nono had already left and taken it to an instrument guy he knew, but it didn't look good. Chrisjen and Ben had spent the last hour here in the ditch, trying to figure out what they could do and arriving at the same conclusion every time; Even if they did anything, Dreistein would ruin their rep. No rep meant no gigs, no gigs meant no exposure. They were thoroughly fucked.

"And you're just letting them do that shit to you?" 

The girl recoiled. "Did you listen? That's not even the first time, that son of a bitch Dreistein is.." 

"Not the first time?" Jeanne interrupted her, then snorted. "Shit, seems to me like you've already got quite a rep. Did y'all ever actually get paid? Seems to me like you're already known as the naive girl and her two loser side kicks!" 

Fangs' gentle elbow to her ribs caught her off guard. "Don't make fun of them." He sounded surprisingly sober. "Look, you've made fun of these two good fellows for long enough. Go do something."  The reasonable part of Jeanne's brain chimed in for a brief second, and she could hear herself asking: "Why haven't you called the police?" Now it was on Chrisjen to snort. "Yeah, sure. Go to court, pay an expensive as shit lawyer. Right." 

"You're in luck, girl." The lizard brain had taken command again. "I'm your lawyer now. And unlike your average suit, I prefer a more.. hands on approach." 

"Really?" The hope on Chrisjen's face reminded Jeanne why she did what she did. Both from Tectonic Ember's pilot seat and in this piss soaked alley. If it involved a good brawl, that was just a bonus in her eyes. "How many staff in the house?" Ben gave her a sceptical look, but replied to the best of his knowledge. "The bar man, Dreistein, and Cassius, the security. Sometimes a waitress, but she caught the flu last week." 

Jeanne turned to Fangs. "What do you think?" Fangs, pulling his cap down to hide more of his face as if he'd just remembered this would be bad press if it came out, chuckled. "Ten minutes if you try the diplomatic approach. Five if you don't."

"I'll take five. That'll give us five more for round three." She winked at him.

When she turned, she heard the girl ask Fangs: "Have I seen you somewhere before?"  Fangs' camera face came on in a reflexive amount of time before he could snuff it again. "I don't think so. I'm not really from around here." Clever half-truth, big man.

The veteran pilot started walking, building momentum like a steam engine. In her drunken state, she couldn't have forced the devilish grin off her face even if she had wanted to. And she really didn't want to. A slight turn made it so her shoulder pushed the front door out of the way. Up the stairs, past the storage closet, down a little hallway. 

Dreistein's office door lock was no match for her momentum either. The flimsy door slammed against the wall. Dreistein's 'office' was a tiny ractangular room, cut in the middle by a wooden desk that had seen better days. It barely left space to squeeze past it, which was good. Because Jeanne had hit the jackpot. Behind the desk on which Dreistein was currently counting his money sorted into neatly stacked notes, Kyle leaned against the wall. His jaw had dropped painfully low, as had Dreistein's. She waited, hands in her pockets. This was the best part.

"You can't be here." Dreistein finally opened. 

"Wrong." Jeanne's grin started getting so intense it hurt her cheeks. 

"No, you can't. This is my bar." He stammered, desperately trying to gain control of the situation. 

"Oh, but I am here. I'm the insurance." She could see the question marks grow in his eyes and decided to relieve him of the mystery that was clearly overloading his brain. 

"Not yours, you shitty excuse for a floor rag. Chrisjen's." 

"Who the fuck is Chrisjen?" To the pilot's surprise, it was Kyle who answered. "Today's gig. Red dress, hot piece of ass." 

Slowly, Dreistein started making the right connections. He leaned forward, trying the wrong approach. "This isn't your problem, lady. Whatever she told you, she's a delusional brat too young to know what she's talking about. How about I give you a hundred credits and we forget about the property damage you caused?" 

"Nah, I don't think so. The fee you agreed on was six hundred, yes?" 

"That's none of your concern." 

"Oh, but it is, because I've come to inform you the rates for bands have just changed. Small artists struggle these days, you understand. They'll take twice the agreed on fee, so that's one point two thousand if math serves. Is my adding up right?" 

Of course, she left him no breathing room to actually fact check her. So he chose the other option. So many wrong options. He must have given Kyle a sign under the table, because he suddenly started moving towards her. 

Jeanne's lizard brain registered visible grime residue where his head had been, but was mostly busy calculating in a decidedly nonmathematical way. The desk blocked Kyle's path, but he was a big man. He was probably quite strong, and the desk looked light enough he could throw it if he wanted. She would have to block it with her hands up high, leaving her abdomen wide open. He could charge. They would probably go down, and Kyle was a heavy guy. If he played his tempo right, he would end up on top of her. From then on it was just a game of how much weight he could put on her neck. Game, set, match. 

Fortunately, Kyle was stupid as a turd. He tried squeezing past the desk which left him immobilised for a second, and, much worse, set his approach vector in stone. Jeanne's strong right was so telegraphed it never would have connected in a normal fight, but it hit Kyle like a bag of rocks. Jeanne felt bones break under her fist and followed her punch up with a simple forward kick to his crotch. 

A muffled groan was the only sound he made as the worst security manager south of the equator doubled over and crashed into the table, then slid to the floor. 

In the rain of credit notes, Jeanne focused on Dreistein again. She rubbed the knuckles of her right hand. "Dude, you're a shit business man. You do know you listen to the proposal first before making your move, yes?" Dreistein gulped.

"So one point two for the gig. Then there's the matter of the guitar. That's worth a solid and sturdy thousand as well I'm sure." The bar owner looked down to the stacks of cash on his desk. Jeanne could see him calculating, weighing up if he would get to keep the rest of his money if he complied. Then he nodded. "Okay, so two point two."

"And I'll take back the hundred my friend and me spent here today. I've just decided our drinks were on the house." Jeanne randomly grabbed a stack off his table. "That'll do." 

"That's way more than-" Desk edge met belly. 

"And one last thing." Jeanne smiled. "If I hear that my clients downstairs have trouble finding places to play at, I'll hang your panties on the chandelier. With you still in them. We good?" The last bit of air in Dreistein's lungs was just enough to mutter something like agreement. 

"Terrific! Pleasure doing business with you, you donkey."

With all the money in her pockets, Jeanne had to hold on to her waistband to avoid flashing what remained of the Chagrin's patrons at this late hour. Shit, I'm walking like a god damn cowboy. 

"Big man!" She shouted, half way through the front door. "Next time, drinks on me." 

Fangs had planted his ass on the curb, studying something on his datapad. He looked up, a quip already on his lips. "Is that a ton of money in your pockets or-" 

"No, I'm just happy to see you." 

"Sure." He cackled. 

Jeanne stepped over him, pinching his nose on the drive-by. "Yo, kid!" Without further preamble, she dropped the money in Chrisjen's lap. A couple notes got lost on the way from her fist to the ground, but the girl was too stunned to bother. 

"The old fart won't bother you any more. In fact, I think you will find it easy to get gigs here or any other place in town from now on. And if you don't just remind him of me. I'll come check on the.. uh.. treatment quality.. of the bands here in irregular intervals." Whenever I'm not in Australia. 

Without waiting for a reply, Jeanne grabbed Fang's shoulder and pulled him up to his feet. "Take us home, stud. I'm really happy to see you if you catch my drift, and the trains at night take too long for my liking." Fangs was too drunk, or horny, to object. The familiar sensation of her stomach barrel rolling took her, and they were away.