Crowe and Coyote

Crowe and Coyote VI

Author's Note--

And this is where, as literary figures from across the world like to say, shit's about to get real.

EFR

*****

11:13, said the TruthHertz clock. YOU'RE HOPELESS.

But Moll was, for the first time in a long while, not feeling hopeless. She couldn't say exactly why. The dull people on the street below rushed to and fro with more purpose than usual, something almost like brightness in the serenity of their faces. Moll felt on the verge of remembering something. Something big. Something important.

She ignored her waiting percomm calls, checked the price on soy stock (down two points since last time she'd checked), sorted, with minute flicks of her eyes, through the top twenty news stories, reading only PAINT STRIKES AGAIN--TWO PERCOMM CLINICS BOMBED, THIRTEEN DEAD and WOMAN GIVES BIRTH TO BABY WITH ASS FOR HEAD.

There were no pictures of the baby with an ass for a head. Moll only skimmed the article.

There were too many pictures in the PAINT article. Moll shook her head, sending the article into the depths of her deleted files.

Percomm blinked its urgent red exclamation mark in the center of her field of vision. She tried to shake it away, but it wouldn't go.

She groaned. She knew what that meant.

She acknowledged the signal grimly.

OFFICER HARDSHIP AT THE DOOR, percomm told her. ACKNOWLEDGE Y/N?

"Sure," Moll said wearily, knowing that any other answer would have percomm calling police HQ immediately. "Send him up."

COMMENCING DOORLOCK SEQUENCE.

She knew from long experience that refusing an audience with Hardship just meant more Hardship later on. She thought through it this way, with some wry humor, because her parole officer's unlikely name had been about the only thing in the past that kept her from punching him straight in his square-jawed clean-shaven face. Well. That, and erasure. Whatever kept her from saying just how she felt about the program apparently also kept her from punching the people she considered responsible.

Sgt. Gerold F. Hardship, Sunshine PD, was visible suddenly as a holographic ghost in her center field of vision. "Moll," he said. "You decent?"

"Sort of," Moll muttered. She scrambled into pants and whatever shirt was closest to hand. "I'll be out in just a minute. There's coffee by the fridge if you want some."

Hardship nodded, once, and had the courtesy to flick visuals off. She knew the bastard well enough, however, to guess he was still firmly linked into her audio. Probably hoping to catch a muffled curse, a soft tirade against the establishment.

"Fuck you," Moll said. Give the bastards what they wanted.

She had to take a moment to ready herself. She had never considered Hardship much of a threat before--he was just an occasional presence in her life, much like Bobbitt or one of the guys down at the bar. He asked her how she was doing, looked at her sign-in sheet (which Bobbitt, much to Moll's grateful chagrin, kept signing for her at her curfew of nine o'clock, even though Moll hadn't been home before two in ages and sometimes didn't come home at all). He warned her of the consequences of further transgression, which Moll couldn't imagine would be worse than the consequences she had already faced.

This could just be his weekly visit. It was about time for it. Or it could--far more likely--be a result of her little encounter with Crowe.

Thelonius Crowe, some distant part of her memory supplied. The God Gestalt. Messenger.