Name: auguris
'verse: Universe Lost
Story: Sanct
Colors: Dirt Brown 16. Patience
Supplies and Styles: Seed Beads, Pastels: a stranger
Word Count: 928
Rating: R
Warnings: Strong language, threat of violence
Summary: Monroe intercepts a package; Monroe runs a vigilante group the mains run into/work with.

The black-haired woman leaned over the counter, red-brown shoulders bared, lacquered fingernails ghosting over her face. The barista giggled into her hands, a young dark woman who hadn't smiled quite so brightly when Monroe had ordered her own latte. Arabica boasted an 'organic' experience -- their coffee was brewed by a person, usually human, and as far as Monroe could tell their employees weren't allowed to have any visible synthetic alterations. That was the appeal that drew an endless crowd of workers and socialites and whatelse.

Young humans were also easier to distract than a synthetic or a holo-screen.

When said barista ducked her head, the agent pressed her index finger against the counter with a certain practiced precision. Monroe sat up, knocking back the last dregs of her now-cold latte. She couldn't see the data packet; neither could the barista, or the low-fi security cameras hidden above the barista's head. Left alone it would piggy-back on Arabica's network and send out an untraceable stream of intel; once finished it would disintegrate and be wiped away as so much dust.

Monroe adjusted her gloves as she stood, returning her mug -- ceramic, how charming -- when the agent left the shop. One of Cormier's; Stratham's people didn't stray to this side of the galaxy. They had their own damn planet, they didn't play these games. But Cormier's did, so Monroe's did.

She swept her gloved hand over the counter, smiling at the slight tingle that indicated a successful extraction. Outside the shop she slipped her gloves into their case, specifically designed to block all signals. She subvocalized, Package retrieved. Heading home.

"Copy," came Harper's voice in her ear. "Sight you when."

Sanct suffered the sins of early terraforming -- weeks of perfect weather punctuated by harsh and unpredictable storms, raining untreated, undrinkable water that wreaked havoc on the non-native flora and seeped into the cracks of the city. The local granite-equivalent that made up most of the buildings and roadways tended to split, noisily. The sun shone too bright, too close. She teetered, equilibrium off, drunk on chaos. The planet, named Minos by humanity and PNDJK-89 by the jheena, fought back against the two-legged brown-red-pink invasion. Humans were winning, of course, because that was what humans did, but the earth beneath them meant to give them hell for it.

Monroe didn't like the place, but she had a certain grudging respect for it. This was humanity's first non-Sol colony that hadn't burned out or languished or given up. Every Earthborn came through here before they saw the rest of the verse; every human politician moved through the city, physically, at least once. Minos sat at the heart of the Alliance's empire, not the best or the brightest but the first, damn it all, both proof and warning to the rest of the verse: humans can but more importantly humans will.

"Caught something," Harper warned her.

Yes, thank you mother. The young man following her was not subtle.

"Also your shoes are unlatched. And you should wear a sweater, s'goin chill."

Monroe entered one of the city's many gardens via a steep set of stone stairs. She inserted herself into the shadows and waited; he followed her, eyes darting about now that he'd lost visual. His brown bare arms portrayed a series of blue-green lightats in a decorative but ultimately senseless pattern. She supposed they were pretty but they were also the reason she'd noticed him.

She grabbed his arm and pulled him into a corner, her gun digging into his abdomen. "You're with who?"

His eyes went wide; if he was over twenty she was a jheena. The same pattern on his arms swirled in his retinas. "Please don't--"

"Son. Tell me who you're with." Couldn't be Cormier's, she didn't use kids. The one thing Monroe respected about the woman.

"Tothos," he breathed, of course it was, that goddamned void-straddling father-fucking meatpipe--

"I can hear you," Harper said.

Fucking subvocs, fucking Deker, fucking SANCT.

"Is Deker listening?" The kid jerked his head. "Man needs to learn some damned patience before I kill his operatives. Stop -- stop, breath, kid, I'm not going to shoot you. Air, son, humans needs air to live." She showed him her empty hands before guiding him to a table. "When have we not shared intel with you? Not you, kid -- what's your name?"

"Viva."

"Viva. I'm not talking to you. When have we not shared intel with you, Deker? Why are you sending children to spy on me?"

Viva cocked his head, listening to whatever Deker had to say. Dangerous habit. "There are rumors you're working with the Strathams now."

Harper barked laughter in her ear. Agreed. The Strathams? "False ones. Who from? Stop that." Viva blinked at her. "Hold your head straight. Everyone can tell you're listening to your comm. It'll get you killed some day." Viva stared at her, eyes wide, but held himself upright and still.

"Lovelace," Viva said finally. "Their sources are strong." He started to tilt his head again, but stopped when she raised her eyebrow. "They don't believe it either? But you know how Mal is."

"Keep the signal going," Monroe muttered. "Grats for the head. You, kid, your tats are a dead giveaway. Lose em."

"Deker says it's fine."

"Who just got a gun in their gut, you or Deker?" Viva swallowed. "At least turn em off."

The face he made was not polite, but when she glanced back, he was no longer glowing. Harper.

"Already sending out seeds. Let you know anything grows. Someone wants our attention."

Someone has it.