Sally's Story: Fly Robin Fly

	“Alright Sal,” Vincent began, radio lowered to a whisper, “lemme catch you up. In that tunnel we found a lot of material, and the Weathermen are organizing again.” The vitriol in his voice spoke of past dealings with them, times spent with his grizzled partner in much the same underbelly as Sally’d emerged from, shot.
	“What of it Vincent?”
	“Alright, there’s a lot to go over, so excuse my ramblings. After you were, er, shot, me and some of the patrol officers cleared that tunnel- place was filled with papers, maps, ledgers and more. They’re organizing on a level I’ve not seen before. Arming, too- they had a supply of milsurp that’d make a fed blush,” he half-chuckled. Adjusting the mirror at a red light, he continued. “I spent the day assessing the damage and everything they had- Ringo, or one Corporal Daniel Larson, is one of four ‘lieutenants’, serving the will of a leader we haven’t been able to track.”
	“A veteran, sir?”
	“Correct, Army. Half of the others in the tunnel were veterans, too,” he spat. There wasn’t just disgust in his voice, but disappointment, anger.
	“Any idea as to who could be this ‘leader’?” He sighed- it was a question that’d been bothering him since the night before.
	“Someone rich, and with heavy sympathy for the underground, for sure. Anti-war, anti-government kind of person. Someone with enough money to stay hidden and *keep* it that way.”
	“Would you care to speculate, sir?”
	“You remember those brownies?” She paused for a moment, memory fogged in post-charge miasma. Finally nodding, he continued. “I think it’s something there. There’s no way a grunt worker could slip heroin in like that and not get found, so that suggests someone in upper management.”
	“It certainly matches the description of ‘rich’, then.”
	“True, true.”
	“I never would have figured *bakers* as communists.”
	“Well, it is peace, land and *bread*, Sal,” he laughed. The little joke served to warm the atmosphere in the car just a bit. “But that’s not all. Back to Ringo.”
	“Larson?”
	“Right, right- Ringo’s a codename, and he’s one of four…” He gestured, hoping she’d connect the dots. Her eyes blank he went ahead. “It’s the Beatles, Sal.”
	“Oh! Oh…”
	“Yeah, real cheesy. Ringo was a fixer, a bookkeeper really. He kept those ledgers together, and our next one’s ‘George’.”
	“What’s his job?”
	“A *promoter*, of all things. What we recovered has him jumping from club to club following, or preceding, shipments. We figure he’s their salesman, and he’ll stick around for quality assurance, too.”
	“Ah, and we’re here to arrest him?”
	“Not exactly- we’re here to dig around, odds are he’s at this club.”
	“Which clu- oh.” Vincent swung his car to the curb, inviting the robot out and down an alleyway. Towering brick walls flanked them as they strolled through the wet streets, Vincent ruffling his suit coat.
	“I’ve had run-ins here before, and I know a guy.”
	“Sir?”
	“No, Vince or Vinny- no sir.”
	“O-Oh, sorry.”
	“We gotta play it cool, okay?”
	“Sure, Vinny,” she chuckled, cracking a smile.
	“Last thing- can you dance?”
	“Si- Vince?”
	“We gotta blend in well enough, right?”
	"Right..."
	“Right, so you gotta dance *some*- we’re here to make an impression, catch attention,” he started, eyeing the ribbon on her chest. “But not like that.” Removing the little pin he slipped it inside her jacket pocket, eyes locked to say ‘It’s safe’.
	“So how do I, you know…,” she shrugged.
	“You- you just *do*, Sal. Let’s just go in and figure it out from there, ‘kay.”
	“Yes si-oop!”
	Stepping past a burly bouncer who eyed the little robot, they stepped inside a kaleidoscope of smell and sound, the burning stench of tobacco and liquor mixing with other, less savory narcotics. The tight discotheque was thrumming, throbbing with energy, music (among other things) coursing hot through the veins of the people gathered on the lit floor. All around the floor little booths teemed with half-lidded stares and drunken mouths spitting profanity or locking together. The dim disco was only intermittently illuminated by the flash of lights, Sally’s eyes widening in the dark, breath shallowing. Shadowy figures twisted and contorted in the dark, briefly illuminated mid-dive, writhing together in a mass on the floor. Slumped figures were half-lit with each flash, eyes hollow in the half-death of intoxication. Everywhere she looked she heard and saw the rattle of death, smelled the coppery stink that followed it. The disco became a singular heart, thumping four-on-the-floor as valves squeezed the gathered masses together.
	“Sal? Sal! You good,” Vincent shouted, snapping a finger ahead of her. “Shoot, c’mon let’s go sit down, alright.” Pulling the robot by the arm he guided her towards the bar, a hulking figure standing back-turned. Letting her down she gathered her senses again, vision not haunted by the blackened figures on the floor.
	“How can I help yo-,” the tender started, turning around. “Oh! Hey Vinny, how are things on-” Vincent shushed the tall robot, finger blocking his lips as he eyed the floor for their guy.
	“Rico, just get me something to drink,” he started, patting the nandroid’s shoulder as she calmed down. “We need some info.”
	“Sure man, sure. Whatcha need?”
	“How’s the business coming? Any recent *packages*?”
	“I’m not supposed to talk about that shit man,” he whispered. “Especially now, it’s tight.”
	“You owe me Rico, shit’s serious right now.”
	“Fine, fine- what do you need to know?”
	“What was in the package, and who came to deliver?”
	“We got a delivery of biscuits for Lucy, the chef. She’s a real *hero* around here,” the robot winked. “And we got a *meteorologist* visiting, comes in every night to have some of her biscuits.”
	“He here now?”
	“Yeah, yeah- but he doesn’t talk to anyone. You’d have to get his attention. Look Vinny, I’m an ohm,” he muttered. “They don’t tell me shit, all I can say is what I see. It’s dangerous enough for them to employ me here, why double down and tell me about what other crimes they commit!”
	“Easy man, that’s enough.” Vincent slammed his drink back, a cheer erupting from the dance floor. Turning his head he watched a shaggy haired man, no older than thirty, ripping across the vacated floor. The congregation surrounded the man, clapping and cheering as he set the glowing ground on fire where he stepped. Each bounce, roll, and egg beat threw a cry up from the crowd. His hair was dishevelled, forehead running wet as he kept moving. Vincent raised an eyebrow at the bartender; he nodded. Vincent eyed his still partner, trying to slow her breathing as he watched her, and then the bartender. “Keep an eye on her, alright?”
Shedding his suit jacket for the loose shirt beneath Vincent strode over to the side of the ring forming, wincing as the man on the floor slipped a little white pill into his mouth, smirking as he returned to his revelry. Shirt stained wet he was slowing down, vulnerable even. Now was the time. Pushing past the gathered people, sequins glinting Vincent strode out onto the floor, arms open to the man opposite him. The man heaved, smiling wide as his slack body rocked to and fro, steadying itself. He stroked his moustache, sizing up Vincent across the floor.
	“You! You, man,” he laughed, panting. “Get over here…” He marched over to Vincent, pupils wide as saucers, hugging the man. “All I’ve ever wanted was a dance partner, man!”
	“O-Oh, sure! Yeah, sure,” Vincent joined in, head bobbing to the music. The jockey was turning the vinyl over, calling out to the mass on the floor to get ready for a B-side boogie. The two stepped in time, the next song ramping up as the drumline meted out their moves, the two moving in a unison unfathomable, hip-rock matching hip-rock. As Vincent shot his arm out, pointing, he scanned the faces in the crowd, a smattering of robots appearing amid the faces. A pale little disc smiled back at him, short dark hair gently rocking in time with the beat, her jacket slung over her arm and lights dancing on a sunny yellow shirt. Sally felt the urge to join in, but her cheeks flared for fear of embarrassing Vincent. She opted to copy his moves from the sidelines, the detective smiling at her as she cocked her hips nervously, arms miming their movements.
	The roar of horns and strings followed the dancers as they dropped to the floor, jumping up and kicking in a mock of old folk styles, mixing with the twirling arms and thrusts of the day. Bumping hips in a display that could make Bacchus blush, the music quieted in his mind, the only thing mattering was owning the floor, and getting this man off of it. Rocking his body, grooving as no man had ever grooved before, he felt at one with the thrum of the music around him, the splash of liquor giving the right touch of alcoholic lubrication to his motions. Glints of light popped out at him from the robots, and some of the humans, too- necklaces, earrings, rings on hands thrown in the air or clapping. Each little bit was dazzled with an omega, the letter hanging like a crucifix on the chest of several robots and people.
	And then the song ended. Gasping for breath Vincent turned to his partner on the floor, doubled over trying to catch his breath, smiling. Picking him up over his shoulder he escorted the man, devilishly hot to the touch, to a booth to cool off. The floor was repopulated in his absence, the music still pumping and grinding behind them. Sally sat opposite the man, his acrid sweat dripping onto the wooden table between them, the nandroid not sure whether to wince in disgust or clean it up; she opted to gently fan him with her hand.
	“Alright I’m back,” Vincent shot, sliding in besides Sally. Plonking down an ice cold glass of water in front of the man the two watched him slackly raise his head up, giggling as he stared up. He downed the water in a flash, rocking back again. His fingers ran up and across his face, caressing his skin gently as he panted in ecstasy. Sally shifted uncomfortably in her spot.
	“Vince?”
	“Yeah, uh- give him a moment. It’s hitting,” he whispered. Hands now down to his shoulders the man slinked out of his jacket, the pastel blue slipping onto the leather beneath. Eyes widening, he fumbled in his pocket, for a minute giggling as he pulled out a cigar, no-
	“Vince, that’s possession, we could nab him here,” she whispered back. He shook his head, letting their patient strike up. He fumbled again in the pocket for a tiny steel zippo lighter, Vince watching his hands carefully. The silvery box slipped in his fingers as he struck it, the flame catching on the metal. A flash of an eagle’s head roared out at Vincent. At once he looked at the man across him, a flash of remorse, understanding and a hint of comradery in his mind as the man opposite reclined, puffing away.
	“So… What do you folks want with me,” he giggled.
	“We just wanna talk, get to know you.”
	“Know me!” He laughed, murmuring in pleasure between gasps. He twisted and writhed in his seat. “Know me! I’m a disco dancer, groove-embodied! That’s all you neeeed…”
	“Your moves were impressive, sir,” Sally started, the man snorting.
	“Cut the ‘sir’ shit, sister. I’m not a GOD, per say, just a… a *demi*god… yeah, on the dance floor, yeahahaha.” Sally turned to Vince, wisps of pot smoke curling between them. He grumbled incoherently about his parents, instructors and comrades. “You ohms are so uptiiiight, man.”
	“Well, then,” Sally harrumphed. “Let’s at least introduce ourselves, yes?”
	“Sally cool it,” Vince murmured, nudging her. “What my lady-friend is getting at is an introduction. We’ve heard a lot about you and wanna get in, right?”
	“In on what? In on this,” he started, pulling a pill bottle from his jacket and rattling it in front of them. “Shit man all you had to do was ask!”
	“No, thanks- we’re here for business.”
	“Business? Fuck business, they only keep me around to connect shit together. Keep people loose, watch ‘em when they dance and keep ‘em dancing.”
	“Who’s they,” Vincent jutted in. The man sneered, brows furrowing in anger now. He swished his mouth, secrets ready to vomit forth that the last shred of his sobriety was fighting to choke back.
	“This is,” he said, dropping his collar to show that same rainbow. “Joined up after dee-see three, yeah. Promise of change, progress.”
	“And there was none,” Sally pressed.
	“Fuck no! And it’s too late now for me,” he mourned, all-pupil eyes watering just a bit. “It’s not about change, it’s about control now, power. Rich fuckers pouring their money in, buying guns and shit. It’s not like I can leave!” He cackled, mad for a moment before the sadness returned. He wasn’t planning on a candyflipping therapy session, but as his lip trembled the two detectives could tell he needed it.
	“Why can’t you leave?”
	“Cause bitches like John keep us together, ‘plug the leaks’ he says, ‘imagine all the people’ he sings. Motherfucker,” he grumbled.
	“I take it you don’t like ‘John’?” Vincent reclined, letting the robot do her work, pure-blue eyes clear again. She was in her element. “Are there others you like, or don’t?” He sniffed, bleary eyed again.
	“Paul’s the only one nice around there, only one I know at least. But we joined up together,” he coughed. “Ringo’s a bitch, too.” Saying it out loud put a smile on his face.
	“Sounds like there’s three of them, then? There more?”
	“Yeah, yeah- four.”
	“Can I assume you’re number four?”
	“Took you long enough!” His guffaws spat smoke as his joint was whittled to the nub, the man frowning as he smashed it out, knowing it was his last.
	“So you’re all in a crew together? Who do you get your orders from?”
	“John, like I said. He’s the big guy around, always feels the need to swing his dick about, get me?” Sally nodded. “*He’s* the only one in contact with our king, or god, or whoever the fuck. Not like they’re interested in doing anything.”
	“I’m gonna go out on a limb here,” Vincent started. “But you don’t like this stuff anymore, do you?”
	“That’s not going out on a limb, I’m fucking miserable,” he cheered aloud. He doubled over and started to sob, clutching his head. Sally rose up and propped a hand on his back, gently pulling the man in as he bawled out loud.
	“What if we could help take this down, huh?” The man pulled his head up, eyes reddening, staring into the face of the robot. “Would you like that?”
He wanted to cry again, but a lump of resolve forced it away. He grabbed the shoulders of the robot, the concoction inside him forcing him to dissolve in her arms as he pulled her into a hug.
	“Thank you,” he whispered. “I’ve been waiting for a push.”
	“W-Wait, just like that?”
	“Just like that.” Vincent stepped over, patting him on the shoulder too. The little display went unnoticed by the broader audience, people too concerned with gyrating on the dancefloor or slipping off to the bathroom to get laid. The man ruffled his hair, sticking a hand out.
	“Harris- no, no, fuck that. My name’s Mitchell Atkinson.” He was sober (or at least completely lucid) again, the clinging stench of marijuana betraying the determination in his eyes, as he thrust a hand out. A handshake later he fell into the detectives’ arms, words slurring again. “I’ll need somewhere to come down,” he laughed, the duo walking him back out into the alleyway.