Warp & WeftBy Medea
warp (n). - The threads that run lengthwise in a woven fabric, crossed at right angles to the weft.
weft (n). - The horizontal threads interlaced through the warp in a woven fabric.
"And is not time even as love is, undivided and paceless? But if in your thought you must measure time into seasons, let each season encircle all the other seasons. And let today embrace the past with remembrance and the future with longing."
---Kahlil Gibran, 'The Prophet'
Chapter OneFLASHBACK ALERT: Present date is 2034. There will be numerous flashbacks throughout the story, indicated by earlier dates and set off by // marks.
Los Angeles, 2034
Dusk brushed its shadows across rooftops and streets in the sprawling metropolis. Despite recurrent predictions about the "Big One" that would sink the California coast into the sea, the city still churned with life...and death.
The living had their rulers, although those who ruled in name were now mere performers, their election only a pale simulacrum of the democratic process. As ancient Rome had given way to successor kingdoms that arose as its wealthier citizens retired from public life to their estates, so had multinational conglomerates seized the reins of power from nations, states, and municipalities. It was they who determined the pulse of activity around the globe, from remote mountain villages to urban citadels like L.A.
But the dead, too, had their rulers.
Away from the glass and steel fortresses in the heart of the city's business district, beneath the notice of corporate barons and executive boards, in a stately, historic hotel, they stirred. Even as the rulers of the living ceased their affairs to adjourn in limousines to exclusive restaurants or members-only clubs, with the fall of night the rulers of the dead arose to tend to their affairs.
Deep in the heart of the elegant, Spanish colonial building, cloistered in a private suite, cocooned in smooth cotton sheets and a feather-light coverlet, a slender, feminine hand stroked down a length of masculine thigh.
A sturdy, masculine hand stroked up the same thigh.
The hands met, teased each other, then continued their lazy exploration of the expanse of skin over sculpted flesh. A pleased growl rumbled deep within the object of their tactile ministrations. Soon, the growl was answered by playful, gutteral purrs as sinewy limbs entangled with each other, the bed's occupants fully roused from their slumber.
Spike chuckled and stretched lazily as his Mates continued their assault.
Willow nibbled at the nape of his neck and murmured, "Like your wake-up call?"
"Mmm...nice...more where that came from?" Spike asked.
"Much more," Angel promised as he drew Spike flush against him and leaned in for a kiss. Spike arched into his elder Mate as their cocks slid against each other, the friction sending waves of pleasure humming throughout his body. Angel's lips brushed softly against his, almost shyly. Spike brought his hand up and cradled Angel's cheek in his palm. Their kisses grew deeper and more urgent as they ground their hips together.
Spike felt the light brush of Willow's hardened nipples against his back. She gripped his arm, draped one leg over his thigh and began to rock. Her tongue traced a soft, wet trail from his neck out to his shoulder. He groaned into Angel's mouth.
Angel reached across Spike and let his hand roam along Willow's side, over the gentle swell of her hips, down her flank, then trailed slowly back up. His fingers danced along her spine, summoning forth a shiver of delight, before he eased over to caress the soft curve of her breast. Willow's lips parted with an unneeded gasp and she eased away from Spike's back just enough to allow her dark Mate to toy with her nipple.
Willow trembled as pure need swelled within her. Spike's thigh grew wet with her desire as she quickened her pace and squeezed him tightly between her legs, thrusting in counterpoint to his thrusts against Angel. She felt Angel's skilled fingers ghost down her back and over her soft, smooth cheeks until one finger probed between her slick nether lips. Willow hissed her approval as he worried her sensitized nub, alternating between gentle strokes and teasing scrapes with his fingernail.
Unable to control herself, Willow groaned and bit into Spike's shoulder. He growled with pleasure and sank his fangs into Angel's tongue, seasoning their already hungry kisses with the heady tang of blood.
So good. The three Mates felt the call of each other's blood, the seductive pull of the bond that united them, and gave themselves over to the ancient, sacred frenzy.
They writhed like a nest of vipers, bodies sliding and entwining in sensual abandon. The bed, with its solid, sturdy oak frame and heavy mattress, thumped against the wall like a rickety, unhinged shutter in a windstorm.
With a final thrust, Spike tensed and felt the cool stream of his release coat Angel's groin. Moments later, Willow shuddered against him with a deep moan. She was soon followed by Angel, who bit hard into Spike's lip as he came. A satisfied purr rumbled from the younger vampire's chest as Angel nursed the wound, savoring his blood.
Angel, Willow, and Spike snuggled contentedly, enjoying the aftermath of their nightly awakening routine.
After several moments, Spike felt the dampened sheets, wet with spent passion, and muttered, "We really need to get a minion to handle our laundry and other chores."
"We've been over this before," Willow chided, rubbing her cheek affectionately against his back. "Ruling the clans will be stressful enough without giving up our privacy. Besides, how can we train the clans away from their hierarchies, vendettas, and massacres for sport if we set up a traditional hierarchy within our own lair?"
"Fine, but it's not my turn to wash the sheets," Spike sulked. "Did 'em last night."
"It's my turn," Angel acknowledged, pushing himself off the bed and onto his feet. Turning toward his Mates, he shook the mattress and said, "Everybody up. We have people coming over and business to tend to in less than forty-five minutes."
Spike rolled over and pinned Willow beneath him. "Sod off. I've got Red right where I want her."
Willow yelped with laughter as Spike growled playfully and nibbled at her neck. Hands on his hips, Angel rolled his eyes impatiently at his Mates, then seized the mattress and gave it a mighty heave. With startled shouts, Willow and Spike tumbled onto the floor.
Before they had the chance to protest, Angel started toward the shower and taunted over his shoulder, "First one to the shower gets a massage with the jasmine oil."
In a flash, Willow and Spike scrambled to their feet and raced after him.
*****
Subject: For the archives or my personal gratification?
Date: 5 June 2034
From: Rupert Giles <gilesr@preservation.society.co.uk>
To: Willow Rosenberg <redwillow@aurora.net>Dear Willow,
As always, it is good to hear from you. I'm glad to know you, Angel, and Spike are well.
I must admit that the news of your new status in Los Angeles was rather unexpected. However, your motives are admirable. I hope it will not prove too trying for you. Do rely on your ties to your coven if you need to, as this old Watcher is presently unavailable to return the gracious gift of emotional blackmail you bestowed on me years ago. There are indeed yet things worth caring about, and worth protecting, in this world.
On a professional note: how much may I record of your situation in the Council's archives on North American Vampires? You three have already filled an entire volume.
Give my best to everyone there. Wesley sends his greetings.
Fondly,
Giles
*****
Five silent figures walked along a cracked sidewalk on a darkened street in the South Gate neighborhood of Los Angeles. Broken glass crunched beneath their feet as they sidestepped the varieties of human litter strewn across their path: fast-food containers, aluminum cans, empty cigarette packs, and a vast array of paper scraps.
They were sullen with hunger. Alert, restless eyes scanned the barren streets for scarce resources which could mean the difference between survival or starvation...
...Scanned for any signs of life at all.
As they passed beneath a freeway overpass, one of them noticed a set of legs stretched along the ground behind a massive, concrete support column. He growled, directing the gazes of his companions toward the find. A sleeping transient, if they were lucky.
But all too soon, the grim truth was revealed.
Transient or no, it no longer mattered what the man had been. His skin had a familiar, grayish-blue tint that signaled a ruthlessly efficient removal of blood. Crouching down, a member of the group tugged the corpse's shirt up, exposing the telltale Y-incision on his abdominal cavity.
Agitated growls rumbled throughout the group and faces shifted to their demonic aspects. From his crouched position, the vampire examining the body looked up and snarled in frustration, "Another one."
"That makes seven this week," observed one of the others.
"Think we should bring this to the Trinity?" asked a third.
A bulky vampire, clad in leather and sporting an array of tattoos on his shaven head snorted, "And starve in the meantime? We'll let them know, all right, but we need blood tonight. Claims in the Inglewood territory are still fuzzy; we'll hunt there."
"What about Branson and his clan?"
The tattooed vamp curled his lip in a cruel sneer. "We can take them."
*****
The lobby of the Hyperion churned with the steady cadence of eight heartbeats. To Willow, the rhythmic wash of blood through human veins was at once distracting and soothing. It had only been a year since her return to Los Angeles. Her travels had made her a solitary creature. Moreover, keeping the company of demons had afforded few opportunities for contact with humans other than for feeding purposes.
Now she sat with the coterie of humans that she and her Mates held most dear: Cyrene, Hannah, Loïc, and their daughter Willow, who had just turned eighteen a few weeks ago; Tara and her partner, Zoe; Jesse Harris; and Cordelia and her husband. Willow was serenaded by the vital thrum of their hearts. It was a little dizzying.
Not to mention seductive. Willow drew upon her memories of the close bond she'd shared with her coven to keep herself from eyeing her friends' necks too obviously. She wasn't really worried about her ability to resist temptation, but she did think it would be bad manners to be caught salivating.
Or staring blankly while Cyrene was talking to her.
Oops.
Willow blinked. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
Cyrene smirked and exchanged a conspiratorial glance with Hannah, who sat next to her. Though time and experience had traced their faces with lines and dusted their hair with a few, soft streaks of gray, lively warmth still danced in their eyes.
"I *said*," Cyrene intoned with mock severity, "that a short attention span is the first sign of sexual deprivation."
"Don't you mean depravity?" Hannah countered with a sly grin.
Willow narrowed her eyes and muttered peevishly, "I'm so glad you didn't lose your sense of humor while I was gone. No, really, what were you saying?"
"We were just hoping this surprise you called us over for is an excellent vintage and has robust, cherry overtones," Tara offered, squeezing Zoe's hand.
"Oh, maaaaaayyyyybe," Willow answered, with an innocent lift of her eyebrows.
"Cryptic vampire business," Cordelia sighed impatiently. "Gee, *that's* a new one." Ignoring Willow's frown, she continued, "Can we get on with it already? If you and Angel have a good reason for dragging us down here and ruining a perfectly good, vision-free weekend, I would love to hear it. I mean, it would be nice to enjoy one night away from the office, like normal people."
Jesse, whose resemblance to his father, Xander, still brought a lump to Willow's throat, snorted dismissively. "Yeah, right, Mrs. *Pearson*... all of us enjoying a nice, quiet, normal evening. First sign of the Apocalypse."
Willow caught Jesse's emphasis on Cordelia's married name, and merely rolled her eyes at his attempt to use the fact that she happened to be married to a re-materialized ghost to taunt her about normal life. It was a story Willow wanted to hear from Cordelia, though. Angel and Spike had given her their accounts of how Dennis had regained his corporeal -- if not living -- status. But Willow was curious to learn Cordy's side of the story.
"What of it?" Cordy fired back, wholly unimpressed by Jesse's barb. "Big whoop, an Apocalypse. Do you know how many of those I've been through in my lifetime?"
"Fourteen," two voices replied simultaneously.
The response came automatically to Jesse, who had heard Cordelia's war stories numerous times in the few years since he had started working for Angel. He grinned at the approach of his employer, who had chimed in out of familiarity with Cordelia's litany.
Angel carried an elegant, wooden jewelry box, which elicited a mercenary smile from Cordelia.
"If that surprise is what I think it is, this might be worth it after all," she said.
Spike, who trailed behind Angel with a box of gauze pads and a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, mused coyly, "Oh, it'll be worth it. Can't wait to poke *you*."
Zoe, who was still adjusting to the return of Tara's former lover, fidgeted awkwardly and prompted, "Uh...poke?"
Willow regarded the slender, curly-haired woman with interest. She'd hardly expected to return to find Tara still unattached after twenty years, but Zoe wasn't quite who Willow would have imagined with Tara. Certainly, she was attractive, with the smooth, tanned complexion and dark hair characteristic of her Greek ancestry. But she wasn't Wicca -- indeed, Willow had heard her express skepticism about magic and the supernatural in general. Yet there was a subtle passion to her, especially when she was negotiating the complex, underground activist networks that had evolved since Willow had last been involved in human society.
Knitting her brow slightly, Willow realized that Zoe wasn't like her...and that she had no right to assume that Tara would have moved on to somebody who was.
"Poking is on the agenda this evening," Willow confirmed, offering Zoe a reassuring smile. "Hopefully, it won't hurt too much, but it's in your best interest."
Angel dispelled any further speculation by setting the jewelry box on his desk, raising the lid, and lifting out a velvet-lined tray that held a myriad of elegant, ruby studs.
Jesse peered closely at the studs, glanced at the first-aid kit that Spike had set down, and groaned, "Oh, great. What is it with vamps, anyway? Does everything have to be about blood?"
Spike arched an eyebrow at him, looking profoundly unimpressed, and drawled, "Yeah, what of it?"
Jesse was poised to retort when he sniffed, tilted his head curiously and asked, "Is that jasmine I smell?"
Spike pursed his lips but said nothing.
"In this case, Jess, there does have to be blood, but only a little," Angel acknowledged. "There have been some...changes...in the vampire community. They'll affect all of you."
"Why do I not like the sound of this?" Cordelia asked warily.
"Because it's not very likely that these changes involve them going into the wholesale jewelry business," Dennis murmured, draping his arm across her shoulder and pulling her closer.
Willow rose from her seat and moved to stand beside her Mates. "We've made a choice. Two nights ago, we survived a ritual known as the Cup of Death, which made us the reigning clan among L.A.'s vampires. We know it won't be easy, being drawn into vampire politics, but we thought it was the best way to protect the city's innocents from a full-scale clan war."
An uneasy silence fell over the group, save for the heartbeats of the living. Willow noted the slight increase in her friends' heart rates -- with the exception of Cyrene.
With her characteristic serenity, Cyrene prompted, "Go on."
"Effectively, this means our word is law for as long as the clans remain under our dominion," Willow continued. "We're hoping it will last for at least fifty years, but we can't be sure."
"What do you mean?" Hannah asked, cocking her head to the side. "You'd just give it up after a few decades? Or are there term limits or something?"
Shaking his head with resignation, Spike gave her a conspiratorial wink and lamented, "Just wait, luv. Here comes the really nauseating part."
"We've issued some decrees that aren't likely to sit well with most of the city's vamps -- restrictions on how they can hunt. We're going to do what we can to protect the human population," Angel explained. Plucking one of the ruby studs from its resting place, he held it before curious mortal eyes and added, "Starting with you."
Amid the perplexed frowns and tilted heads, Jesse proved he was indeed his father's son. "Okay, wild shot in the dark -- tiny wooden stakes hidden in the studs? Goin' for the secret spy stuff in those hokey old Bond films?"
Spike rolled his eyes disdainfully and drawled, "Different kind of protection, junior git."
"It's within vampire tradition to lay claim to certain mortals," Angel continued. "Usually, these were servants, concubines, agents for daylight business. Absolute obedience was demanded in exchange for full protection--"
Before Angel could finish, Zoe stood abruptly and murmured coolly, "Tara, I told you this would be a bad idea. Count me out." Glaring at the three vampires, Zoe noted grimly, "You're as bad as the suits."
As the others sat in stunned silence, Zoe stalked out of the office. Tara flashed an apologetic look at Willow before following Zoe, calling after her, "Sweetie..."
After an awkward silence, Cyrene said, "They'll be back. Why don't you continue?"
Angel nodded. "We don't intend to make pets of you -- maybe I should have made that clear before going into the old ways. But if you'll let us mark you, it will mean absolute protection for you from all vampires in the greater Los Angeles area."
"I don't get it," Hannah piped up, furrowing her brow. "Why now? We've known you for...jeez, *thirty* years, Willow!" Hannah's eyes flared slightly at the realization, which provoked grins from Cyrene and Willow alike. Hannah shook her head. "Thirty years...Why do we suddenly need protection? And besides," she pulled her shirt collar aside and fingered the faint scar of Spike's occasional bites, "doesn't something like this mean you've already marked us?"
"Sure, luv," Spike leered at her, "Tho' you've not been too keen on givin' me a go with the old Master and Pet fun."
Hannah leaned forward and smiled coyly. "Any time you'd like to be my Pet, just let me know..."
Spike's leer broadened into a mischievous grin. Then he sobered and added, "'S better for everyone if the other vamps know to steer clear without gettin' close enough to see a bite."
"Not to mention an earring is more discreet and raises fewer questions from humans than would a pair of prominent puncture wounds," Willow pointed out.
"And I, for one, did *not* sign a consent form for bitey action from my boss when I filled out all that social security and tax withholding paperwork," Jesse huffed, feigning indignation.
Keeping a straight face, Angel blinked at him and countered, "I'm sure it was in there. Want me to get your file?" Frowning in mock concentration, he added, "I think we even have a parental consent form...somewhere..."
Willow snickered into her fist, knowing just how much Xander would NOT approve of his son sporting Angel's fang marks. Jesse lost the battle of wills with his employer and laughed.
"Children," Spike broke in impatiently, "can we get on with it? We've got witnesses coming over in twenty minutes."
"Witnesses?" Loïc asked, his smooth voice gilded with a light French accent. "You mean other vampires."
"Our liaisons with the clans," Angel confirmed. "Don't worry, you'll be completely safe. There will only be two of them."
"Now...who goes first?" Spike asked with a wicked grin. He plucked a stud from the jewelry box and waggled it between his thumb and forefinger.
"Hey, don't we even get to get drunk first?" Jesse protested. "I thought that's how it happened...you know, drunken frat parties, waking up the next morning with a pierced ear, not remembering any of it...."
"That's tattoos," Hannah's daughter, Willow, countered with a wink.
Cordelia rolled her eyes and stood up, releasing Dennis's hand. "Jeez, what's the big deal, people?" She strode toward Spike, fiddling with the earring already in her left ear. Once she'd removed it, she swiped the ruby stud out of Spike's grasp and inserted the new stud in place of the old. Turning to Angel, she chirped, "There. How's that?"
"Spoil sport," Spike muttered.
"It's fine, Cordy," Angel assured her. To the entire group, he explained, "A single ruby stud in the left ear will be the sign that a mortal is under our protection. The clans have already been informed. Our liaisons will just be here tonight to witness." Grimacing apologetically, he confessed, "There's a lot of ritual to vampire political hierarchies."
"Well, that's easy enough," Hannah shrugged, removing the small gold hoop from her left ear. Her daughter, Loïc, and Cyrene likewise took out their current earrings. Spike scowled, denied this tiny spot of bloodshed, and handed them each a ruby stud.
"This sucks. This is so totally unfair," Jesse grumbled, nervously fingering his very UN-pierced earlobe.
Spike arched an eyebrow and grinned. "Chin up, mate. It won't hurt...much."
"Yeah, bi-iii-te...screw you," Jesse retorted sullenly. "You're not coming anywhere near me with that." Turning to his employer, he grunted in resignation, "Angel, you do it. I've gotta think this is some weird, karmic payback for every slam my dad ever made at you."
Angel struggled unsuccessfully to keep from smirking, but ever since Jesse had started working at Angel Investigations, he'd managed to make Angel laugh as much as Xander, as a teenager, had managed to irritate him. The dark vampire rubbed some alcohol on Jesse's ear and deftly plunged the stud through his earlobe. Wincing, the youth let out a sharp hiss and pressed a gauze pad over his ear to stop the bleeding.
"Guess that leaves me," said Dennis. Spike approached him with stud in hand.
"You're at least lucky enough that you don't really feel pain," Jesse sulked.
Dennis grinned apologetically and shrugged. "What can I say? Dead guy."
While Spike did the honors, Angel leaned toward Willow and murmured, "There are still Tara and her girlfriend to consider. Murdoch and Nadia will be here soon."
Willow plucked two ruby studs from the jewelry box and said, "I'll check up on them."
She found Tara and Zoe seated on a stone bench in the courtyard. They held hands and murmured softly, their heads inclined toward each other. Willow hated to disturb them, but it was almost time.
As she approached, her sensitive hearing picked up Zoe's fervently whispered words, "--not about compromise! I've worked hard to model resistance, and it's helped people in my network preserve their independence."
"Hey," Willow tentatively broke in. Tara smiled awkwardly at her while Zoe's expression remained carefully guarded and stern. Gesturing toward the lobby, Willow explained, "Everyone's finished inside. We'll be breaking out the wine in just a bit, but there's some company coming over first. Um...other vampires, actually. And we were kinda hopin' you'd...be willing to put these on."
Willow held out her hand, revealing two ruby studs.
Zoe turned away. "No can do."
Willow heard the woman's increased heartbeat and felt the jump in her body temperature, clear signs of anger. She hesitated and looked questioningly at Tara.
Her honey-blond, erstwhile lover shook her head with a sad smile, but reached out and took one of the studs for herself.
"Left ear," Willow explained. "It'll let the city's vamps know you're off-limits."
Tara nodded and inserted the stud into one of several piercings on her earlobe. She then leaned toward Zoe and asked, "Are you sure you won't change your mind?"
"Angel didn't express himself well," Willow added. "We won't expect anything from you. We're not demanding service or obedience. This is strictly about protection."
Zoe released a curt laugh and shot Willow a defiant look. "That's how it starts. It's the same with the suits." Feigning solicitous concern, her voice dropped into sing-song, mocking the manipulative rhetoric of corporate PR. " 'It's all about what we can do to serve *you*, to make *your* life more convenient, more fulfilling. Why work so hard when we can do so much *for* you?'." Shifting back to her own voice, Zoe spat, "That's how they get people, get them to sell their freedom. Sorry, I've worked too hard to stay clean. People count on me. I won't let them down, not even for this."
Willow gazed at her appreciatively, admiring Zoe's depth of commitment to her cause even if she thought the mortal woman was stubbornly taking it to an extreme. However, Willow had no desire to force her into anything, even if it could save her life. Willow's own journeys had taught her that staying safe and sheltered from harm wasn't always what someone valued most. And since Tara, likewise, seemed unwilling to pressure Zoe on the matter, Willow bowed her head in acquiescence and stepped back.
"Things will get started soon," Willow said, waving Tara and Zoe after her. "C'mon, why don't we open a bottle of Merlot?"
"Thanks. And thanks for respecting my wishes," Zoe replied, leaning against Tara, who placed an affectionate kiss below her ear.
Willow smiled. Zoe was definitely different, and very passionate about what she did. All that mattered, though, was that Tara seemed happy.
Although Zoe's vigorous opposition to anything even remotely associated with hierarchy or authority made Willow curious. It had been a year, now, since she walked back into the Hyperion lobby to find a restless, disheveled Angel who had been dreaming of her just as she had been dreaming of him. In that year, while she'd eagerly renewed her ties to all the human friends she'd left behind, she hadn't really paid much attention to changes in society at large. She began to wonder what had been going on in the human world during her travels...
*****
A half-empty bottle of Absolut vodka sat on the kitchen table in a cramped, Los Angeles apartment.
The apartment's occupant, Edgar Lytle, downed another shot, then returned his stupefied gaze to the company memo he'd received at work that day:
May 17, 2034
FROM: Genomix Corp. Legal Division
TO: All Genomix Employees With Genetic Designation N-4210
CC: Genomix Benefits DivisionThis is to inform you of the re-classification of Genetic Designation N-4210 from 'Inactive' to 'Marketable Materials'. Genomix expects to patent the DNA sequence from base pairs 11 to 19 within six weeks.
Pursuant to the terms of your employment, should you elect to continue with Genomix, your DNA will become company property upon approval of the patent.
The Benefits Division will calculate the increase in your employee deductions for medical insurance (between 35% and 50%, estimated). Any and all organ donor cards must be surrendered to the Genomix Legal Division. Each N-4210 employee shall also make provisions for genetic resequencing upon termination of employment, in accordance with the property rights of the Genomix Corporation.
All further inquiries on this matter may be directed to the Legal Division.
_________
In despair, Edgar dropped his forehead against his fist and fought against the hot tears that stung his eyes. He was just a lab technician! He'd barely made rent last month as it was.
He couldn't afford higher insurance rates. But all the legislation on genetics and intellectual property rights that had piled up in recent years was against him. If the company's patent went through, Genomix *would* own the rights to a segment of his DNA sequence. Protecting those rights meant the company was entitled to restrict him to confidential health care facilities, where special care would be taken not to compromise the company's "interest" in his genetic material -- which, of course, cost a fucking fortune. Hence, the jacked-up insurance rates.
He felt like the goddamned secret formula for a bottle of cola or 'special' sauce.
For Pete's sake, he'd been *born* with this DNA!
But the thought of quitting and undergoing genetic resequencing...
Edgar shuddered.
He'd met someone once who'd been through the procedure. The woman had been a walking pharmacy, her purse stuffed with a cocktail of at least twelve different drugs to treat the infections her body seemed unable to fend off.
Rising from the table, he grabbed his bottle of vodka and shakily managed the five steps from the kitchen table to the makeshift, milk-crate desk where his outdated laptop sat. He slumped onto a scratched, metal folding chair, logged on, and started surfing the web.
Maybe a second job. If there were any of Genomix's allied partners in the area, he might be able to pull a night-shift job. That is, if his manager authorized it.
He scanned through a few job listings, then paused, his expression grim. After a deep, mind-numbing draught from a now nearly empty Absolut bottle, he stood and crossed three steps to the one, dingy window in his studio apartment. Through the glass, he looked down on the deserted street.
It was chillingly still.
There had been strange happenings lately, Edgar knew.
Bodies harvested for parts and bled dry.
Clenching his fist, he stretched his arm up along the window, leaned against it, and mulled over his bleak future. There didn't seem to be any good choices. He didn't like the idea of taking a night job and having to be out on those streets after dark. But because of the sheer bad luck that his DNA group had something useful about it -- useful enough for Genomix to be interested in research and marketing -- he would need the money.
Jesus.
His whole, fucking life gone to hell because of one memo.