The Miner found her own way back down from Feeney’s office. It wasn’t hard – the upper level was small and connected to the rest of the hotel by the top of the grand staircase. The hotel was wide and squat rather than tall, with curved hallways stretching out either way from the lobby. The staircase continued down to the big space behind the storefronts. The galley had already been pointed out to her, and she was lured by the sound of voices from the hotel bar.
She knew the tone of gossip when she heard it, and figured – rightly – that she knew the topic too. Walking softly, she took up a spot outside the door where she could hear but not be seen.
“Still, that was something else!” someone was saying. “I’ve never seen anybody fight like that, not even Nuke!”
“Nuke didn’t have to fight.”
“Whatever. You don’t have to lick his ass anymore, he’s long gone. This chick is amazing. That was some serious special forces shit she pulled out there!”
“Who’s licking whose ass now?”
Someone else grumbled loud enough to be heard over their ensuing argument, “You ask me, she should have killed them.”
A drunk kid stumbled out of the door. She wobbled, straightened up, and then stared at the Miner, first in incomprehension and then with wide panicked eyes. The Miner lifted a finger to her lips and said, “Shhh!” The drunk giggled and crouched behind the wall on the other side of the door. They both leaned in to listen.
“And those scars,” said a female voice dripping scorn. “What’s up with those? It’s gross.”
“She looks like she was fucking tortured or something,” said a male voice.
“She looks like she went down on a porcupine.”
The drunk went wide-eyed again, and gave the Miner a panicked look. Then she mashed her finger to her own lips and lurched away down the hall toward the galley. The Miner herself chose that moment to make her entrance, enjoying the abrupt halt in laughter and the flustered looks and hurried attempts to seem to be talking and laughing about anything but her. The eight or so hired toughs filling the tiny bar looked rangy and stringy instead of lean and hungry. Most of the faces were adorned with tattoos, spikes, rings, or genemods, all mostly the work of lesser artists, though the mod behind the spiral horns on the guy in the back must have had some talent. Dozens of weapons littered tables, bar, and belts, outnumbering the toughs: knives, mostly, some tasers, and stun batons. A couple rods and pipes, some with printed heads to make maces. A few more interesting weapons, like the cutlass-looking thing on the bar, or the pair of metal nunchucks nestled in cloth loops on that guy’s belt. The Miner had yet to see anyone successfully use nunchucks to hurt anyone but themselves, and she didn’t expect that weedy-looking bruised punk to break her streak.
She talked to nobody in particular, and they stared into glasses of pale liquor, but the hush that descended on the room made it clear they were listening. “This one’s a bullet wound,” she said, pointing to the faint groove dug into the side of her right cheek where the cheekbone wasn’t as prominent as on the other side. “Incendiary round, hurt like a sonofabitch. This one’s where my lower jaw was broken in six places and replaced pretty much whole.” She brushed her fingers against the left side, still not looking at anyone, just out into space like she was reminiscing out loud. Her hand went up to her left temple. “These are from buckshot, which got the eye, too.” She made the iris dilate and contract.
“These were a flamethrower accident,” she said, flexing her left hand so that it was obvious that the pinky and ring fingers didn’t move much. She moved her right hand back up to her face and pointed with the middle finger at a spot on her left cheekbone, aimed at a trio of beet-red faces.
“And that was the porcupine.”
Dead silence loomed as the faces reddened further, their owners looking like they wanted to shrivel up and die. The Miner twitched the corner of her mouth up, and the room erupted in raucous, relieved laughter.