It is never fully light in the Underground.

Flickering lamps decades old sputter off stolen power, bathing cracked concrete with a washed out glow. Here and there flashing neon signs mark different entryways, branching off into a vast warren never truly mapped even by its most loyal denizens. Gangs marked territory like feral wolves, ripping into each other at the slightest provocation, and it took a brave person to traverse them.

There were many names for the Underground. Bunkertown, some called it. Slumcity, Rat Town, the Warrens…each describing an aspect of the burgeoning undercity that lay deep within the bowels of glittering technological advancement rising above. We shall call it the Underground, because that is the only constant for the vast congregation of people living out their lives as they were: nasty, brutish and short.

Even in the slums of the Underground, there was still neutral ground. People had to trade, live, eat. The gangers might have their disputes, but neutral spaces were still respected. It was on neutral ground where merchants hawked their smuggled wares, chop-shops practiced their gruesome trade, even as information was gathered and redistributed, providing opportunity and employment to the enterprising. Business was business, and everyone was just looking to live another day.

The concrete bunkers and the tunnels that linked them used to be narrower, once. Decades of human habitation, as a permanent underclass all but colonized the last bastions left to them after the chaos, had terraformed cold concrete and tile into a compressed version of the soaring city above. Ramshackle dwellings dug sideways, torn downwards to expand what little space there was available to them. Claustrophobia forced expansion, knocked down walls, though this led to the collapse of certain sectors when critical load bearing pillars were destroyed. No matter, the Underground was vast. They rebuilt, and a couple of generations later the descendants of those who had first settled could no longer imagine their world being anything else other than shadow among flickering lights.

Amidst the organized madness of the Underground, we draw close to one establishment in particular. Graffiti was scrawled crudely across the cracked grey seams, the entrance barely visible in shadow. It led in and down, a narrow throat swallowing all those willing to brave the depths.

An eerie glow activates with motion, flickering to life like so many angry red eyes welcoming you into the pits of Hell. Wild not unlike calligraphy adorned the chill walls of the passage, and if one were to pay attention, the individual letters spelled out welcome and warnings both.

At the very base, pallid green letters flickered over the yawning maw of the dive bar like infected tonsils, deep within the depths of the Underground.

WELCOME TO SOURCE

The soft murmur of voices overlaid the electronic wheezing of Old World music, as clusters of humanoids indulged in either work or pleasure, sometimes both, but never neither. Weapons were carried openly here, even if they were not intended to be used in neutral territory. Fights did break out sometimes, but simple fisticuffs were merely ignored. As long as it was quick and quiet, someone would eventually take care of the aftermath.

More than one set of eyes were drawn to the bar, where a pair of women lounged easily in athletic grace. One was chromed up, the telltale silver of 2^nd generation cybernetic implants barely concealed under a black glove. It made the circumference of her wrist and biceps bulkier, but not so much that it ruined the smooth lines of the figure. More plating crept up from the crook of her neck,  melding seamlessly into the dark grey of her longcoat. An eyepatch covered her left eye, and tendrils of her long blonde hair drifted to cover part of her face, forcing her to tuck it back behind one ear, revealing the near-ethereal features of her side profile. She was not visibly armed, but she didn’t have to be; anyone carrying that much chrome could only be a runner, and one who had the credits to install and maintain it would be far from helpless.

Her companion was less striking in comparison, but that was no insult to her looks. Long brown hair wisped down to frame doll-like features, though if you were to ask two different people how she looked, neither would be able to give you the same account. Only the confident curve of her smile, the sultry pout of her lips, and her twinkling eyes of which colour was somehow indeterminate.

Unlike her heavily cybered up warrior friend, the brunette was in fact packing twin heavy pistols, but that disturbed no one at this particular establishment. In fact, it would be odd if anyone went about unarmed here. This was a hub for information brokers, and the mercenaries, or “runners” as they were often referred to, who worked off the the information that pulsed through this club. Even if the truce was respected here, it would be unreasonable to separate a runner from the tools of their trade.

“You’re scaring off everyone, Sowon-unnie.” The brunette, one Jung Yerin, drawled as she shifted one leg over another, exposing more thigh very deliberately through the high slit of her dress. Despite looking flimsy, the blue dress was in fact made out of a special type of memory fabric, able to change colours on command, and was at least partially slash-proof against ordinary blades, though little defense against the vibro-edges favored by the elite paramilitary Spartans. Yerin felt more than a pair of eyes follow her action, both male and female, and she smirked.

“Stop playing, Yerin. We’re here on business.” Sowon scowled as she downed her soju in a gulp. The mercenary sat ramrod straight on the bar stool, appearing somehow military despite her decidedly un-military outfit. The fingers of her gloved left hand tapped the counter impatiently, the dull thuds revealing if nothing else that the tips were still flesh. You never knew how far chromed warriors went sometimes.

“Our business also needs information, unnie.” Yerin checked her nails absently, blowing off an imaginary fleck of dust. “Always got to keep a ear on the ground.”

“Go do your thing then. I have to meet our contact.” Sowon waved Yerin off, and the younger woman slid off the stool as sinuous as a snake, making for the bathroom with a slow, deliberate swagger. Sowon pretended not to notice at least two different women unsubtly also getting up to follow.

And she wonders why Yuju doesn’t take her seriously. Sowon shook her head with a sigh, draining the rest of her cup with a quick swig. She didn’t interfere in the private lives of her team, and they were free to leave at any time should they choose. It would be a loss if any of them did though. Not many runner teams had a full complement of mages and a hacker on top of the usual firepower.

At least Umji would never leave. Sowon allowed herself a small smile as she gestured to the morose bartender, receiving a curt nod in return. She had practically raised her baby hacker all these years, and if she could not trust Umji to be loyal, she would be better off running jobs solo instead. Ducking her head to avoid the low mantel, Sowon slipped into the backroom that the bartender left open for her. She had business to conduct.

It was all just a game, in the end.

Saying the right words, pushing the right buttons. The universal language of flesh, playing coy and drawing them ever closer into a honeyed trap. Teasing out precious detail from promises whispered in passion, on impulse.

Jung Yerin was good at the game. A master, in fact. It was what she was trained for. Everything she knew. A faceless Face, to charm the opposition into divulging their secrets. Most of the time, the mark never even knew it, and she would already be moving on with everything she needed.

Breath hot against her cheek. Close, perhaps too close, a mockery of a lover’s embrace, but Yerin never lost sight of the goal. She was always aware, always in control. And she always got exactly what she wanted.

Everyone always saw what they wanted to see, she mused. Lost in her eyes, they played out their deepest fantasies as she idly tugged at the strings to learn what she needed. The human mind was so fragile. It was almost pitiable.

You will not remember this. Her final command, as always. They would remember a beautiful memory, their fantasy of her, yet not her. Never her.

Yerin patted the cheek of her fantasy lover, the glazed eyes slowly starting to come back into focus. She was already gone before they woke, the only tangible evidence of her passing perhaps the already fading scent of sweat and arousal.

Her smirk was firmly in place as she sauntered out with the lazy grace of a satisfied panther. Fewer eyes on her this time, and those that registered her presence however briefly found their gaze slipping away like oil on water, automatically dismissing her from their locus of awareness.

It was a skill, one she practiced regularly. She liked it better than the other one.

“Sowon-unnie.” She had to slide right next to the older woman to get her attention. The hardened mercenary had just exited the backroom, and all but jumped when Yerin startled her.

“...Yerin?” Sowon frowned as she eyed the calm operative. Her iris contracted visibly, as if analyzing the figure next to her. Yerin seemed oddly cheered by this.

“Do we have a job again or do we get a break?”

Sowon turned her gaze away from Yerin as they made their way out of the club.

“Got a milk run next, easy retrieval from a private estate, some kind of art piece. Pays pretty good.”

Yerin shrugged noncommittally. Work or not, she never lacked for funds. SinB and Umji, on the other hand, were always buying new toys. Eunha often kept herself stocked on alchemics and other magical gear to supplement her fire-slinging (though SinB did get her a pistol for backup in case of emergencies). And as for Yuju… Yerin smiled. Maybe she could finally afford that grimoire the young dog shaman had been eyeing for ages.

“Sounds good to me.”

The perpetual twilight of the Underground drew their shadows long as they navigated the maze, out of habit more than anything else to shake off anyone who could be following them. It wouldn’t do to lead anyone back to their den, even if they had backup safehouses elsewhere in the Warrens thanks to Sowon’s paranoia.

Then again, a little paranoia hurt no one when you lived in the shadows. The hobos and street scum were practically part of the landscape, but neither Sowon nor Yerin ignored their presence entirely. It was what made them professionals that stayed alive. They made a good team, all six of them.

Maybe we do need a vacation after this. Sowon considered. Umji hadn’t been out of the Matrix in forever, and SinB was always restless. As team leader, she was responsible for their wellbeing. And she always took her responsibilities seriously.

Problematic or not, they were her kids. She would do anything for them. And heaven help anyone who tried to hurt them.