Final word count ended up being 1053, so that disqualifies me, but I hope you enjoy the read.
Shane scanned
Lupara’s from the bar, sipping a Luna Sapphire, the pain fading as the alcohol counteracted
the tumor emissions. Aside from the near-absence of patrons, the pub seemed the
same, save for the smudged glassware—that would have mortified the girls—and a gutted bank of taps, formerly hidden
behind a sliding wood panel. “Now What?“
he thought.
“You look like you
know fine beer, good sir!”
Shane turned. A
man in a suit sat to his left, about Shane’s age, early thirties His head was
shaved.
Shane gave him a
puzzled, but friendly smile. “I’m no expert. Just consuming my evening ration.”
“Sir, you lie.”
The man’s voice had a subtle, but hard southern accent. “No one comes to a
place like this out of obligation and drinks the most expensive Guild beer unless
they value brewing. You’re a Crafter.” He grinned. “Isn’t that right Shane?”
Shane clenched his
pint glass. “What do you want?”
“Same as you. I’m
looking for Brewmaster Shaw.”
“I looked. I
couldn’t find anything.”
The bartender
watched them from the corner of her eye as she washed a pint glass, her mouth
tight. The suit arched his eyebrows.
“You’d give up
that easily on—? Okay, I understand. Let’s try this.” He snapped his fingers at
the bartender. “Sazerac; no bitters and extra bourbon.”
The bartender
frowned. “Sir, we’re under new ownership. Our selection is Guild approved.”
The man put $200
on the bar. “And I’m sure you complied and turned in all prohibited spirits.”
He placed another seventy-five in her palm. “Especially the fancy brews that
would appeal to my friend here.”
Shane ordered. The
waitress went to the back, brought their drinks, and disappeared. The man
sipped his cocktail while Shane took a long pull on his new pint, focusing on
the bitter floral and pine taste and the smooth thickness of the beer.
The man sighed
contentedly, then appraised Shane’s beer.
“Double IPA. Your
taste is superb.”
“ABC or not, the
same goes to you. Talk.”
The suit turned
back to his Sazerac. “It’s a sad world when a man can’t just enjoy his drink.”
“I didn’t realize
you wanted a drinking buddy.”
“You
misunderstand. I’m talking about before The Guild took power, before the Tremens
Gas was released, before people didn’t literally need a drink every morning and night. I miss drinking things that
weren’t state-mandated piss. That’s why I want to find your friend.”
“Why don’t you do
it? And why Jessica? She was small-volume.”
The suit swirled
the ice in his glass. “Ms. Shaw was
small-volume, but she was working on something far more ambitious than quality
beer, something that scared The Brewers Guild. My associates and I have great
interest in anything that scares them. As for you, I need someone unknown that
has solid brewing knowledge and won’t give up easy. Plus, you have a personal
stake in this. Two, if I’m not mistaken.”
Shane almost choked
on his beer. “Katherine’s okay?”
“I wouldn’t say
‘okay’, but she is alive. The Guild thinks
she has information. But if you help us find Brewmaster Shaw, we’ll have enough
leverage to sway The Guild to almost anything.”
Shane took a long
swallow of beer. “What do you need me to do?”
The suit passed
Shane a thumb drive. “The two people on here can help find where your friend is
hiding and bring her plans to completion: The Agronomist, and The Populist.
Find them, talk to them, and you’ll find her.”
Shane pocketed the
drive. “Then what?”
Before the suit
replied a man shouted; “FREEZE!”
They turned to
find seven ABC agents blocking the door. Each of them stood with a glass of
carbonated gold liquid in one hand, a shot glass of wine-colored liquor poised
to drop into the larger glass in the other.
“I don’t know how
you jammed our bugs, but we’re going to need you to come with us for a chat.”
The suit narrowed
his eyes. “I hate Jaegerbombers.” He turned to Shane. “You need some liquid
courage?”
“Got some of my
own,” Shane said.
Like gunslingers,
Shane and The Suit drew flasks from their pockets, opened and gulped in one
fluid motion. Shane tasted citrus, and more pine than there were trees in the North.
He assumed a fighting stance just as the Jaegerbombers tossed their glassware
to the floor. They roared as their muscles inflated like life rafts and they
charged the duo; three to Shane and four to The Suit.
Shane felt slow
and ponderous as he moved, but he also felt strong. The first agent to close
the gap was reckless, running straight into the punch that Shane threw,
destroying most of his face. The others were less cavalier, but still
aggressive. They struck fast and furious across Shane’s body, but he simply
walked backwards, absorbing each blow. During his retreat, he saw The Suit
fighting two agents over two of their collapsed partners. His cocktail wasn’t
as quick, but it matched theirs for raw strength, and his simple yet refined
technique surpassed their haphazard strikes.
Shane bumped into
a wall. Exactly where he wanted them. He tensed his body, guarding his face,
and let the Jaegerbombers pound away at his arms and upper body. One of them
unleashed a flurry of punches on his torso, only realizing his broken fingers
twenty punches in. He stopped, screaming in pain, and went down like a sack of
flour when Shane backhanded his temple.
The final
Jaegerbomber ran. Shane lumbered after him, but the high-gravity’s effects were
making him sluggish. As they re-entered the main room, he ran past his fallen
comrades and The Suit, collapsing halfway out the door. The Suit studied him.
“That’s why I
don’t drink energy cocktails. I’d like to die from heart failure after thirty-five.”
Shane vomited a
little, then stood back up. “So what now?”
“Now, we go our
separate ways. Everything you need
is on the drive. You don’t call me, I’ll call you.”
“What do I call you?”
The Suit smiled
and straightened his lapels. “You can call me Arthur. And once you’ve got the
whole gang together, we’re going to change the world.”
He turned and
walked out into the night. Shane purged the rest of the adrenaline and excess
beer, then followed suit.
