Leta
The woman with the butterfly tattoo had her lips curled in derision. She was faintly beautiful in the way a piece of graffiti might be- pleasing to look at in an abstract, lawless sort of manner. Her demeanour, however, was decidedly less pleasant than her intricately-embroidered black dress, decorated with cranes and swallows. The birds were bright blue- Leta focused her eyes on the stitching, trying to reorient her senses even as the room spun around her.
"That's impossible," the woman insisted. "He told me verbatim he'd leave the pearls to me! The black pearls with the lightning motif!"
"Miss Bellange," Cyrus said in a smooth voice, "Our Delver does not lie. In the moments before his death, your father wished for your mother's pearls to be left to your sister."
"You're lying to me!" The woman cried, thrusting her sharp red-painted nail in Leta's face. Leta blinked, inching back a little to avoid having her eye poked out. "Did my sister put you up to this? That bitch, she was always jealous Father liked me more than her! How much money did she pay you?"
"Miss," Leta said, groaning and rubbing her forehead, "We've never met your sister outside of your father's memories. He left the pearls to her, as well as most of your mother's treasures, including a hand-painted silk fan."
The woman's face ballooned up cartoonishly, red-purple with rage. "That's even more preposterous! That fan was to be my inheritance! How could he!" She swept herself out of the chair and snatched her phone and purse off the table. "I'm going to give this place a terrible review! Don't even think about getting a tip from me!" With that, she was out the door, leaving a cloud of rose-tinted perfume in her wake.
Leta coughed, waving away the smell. "Why do they never bother to pay first?"
Cyrus sighed, getting to his feet and extending his hand to her, pulling her up and off the padded sofa where she'd been deep within the memories of a newly-dead nobleman. "Rest assured, Miss Talia will get the money out of her. However, I think she was serious about not tipping."
Leta wrinkled her nose, shaking away the numbness in her feet. "Her father left her like, half a million credits. I'll never understand why rich people squabble so much over tiny things."
"Hey, you know how it is," Cyrus said, yawning as he shut off the whirring machines situated around the sofa. "The richer they are, the stingier they are. She probably has nothing to do all day besides fight with her sister over pearls and fans."
The door opened once more, the tiny silver bells Cyrus had installed over the awning tinkling gently. Miss Talia poked her head through, frowning.
"Did you just let that customer go without paying?"
Leta and Cyrus exchanged guilty looks, then both chose not to say anything. Miss Talia, groaning, slammed the door behind her so hard one of the bells fell off. "Why does this keep happening? I told you just last week to stop them if they get angry about the results! It's not like you can't handle yourselves in a fight!"
"You don't pay us enough to start fights." Leta mumbled under her breath. Cyrus snorted and covered the sound up with a cough.
"What was that?" Miss Talia asked, her brow raised. Leta sighed. "Nothing, Miss Talia. We're sorry, Miss Talia."
Talia Tyrena ran a sketchy "fortune telling shop" in the side alleys of Sector Five. To maintain her front of an eccentric and secluded fortune teller in the face of frequent Peacemaker raids, she had taken to wearing a truly ridiculous conical hat to make herself look like a witch in a fairy tale, which only succeeded in making her resemble a demented cosplayer, though Leta always refrained from telling her for fear of death. She was scarcely three months older than Leta herself, but insisted on being called "Miss" when she'd hired her and Cyrus. Sometimes Leta wondered why she even accepted the job offer.
Said ridiculous conical hat was still perched precariously on Miss Talia's head as she rifled through the drawers of the ancient receptionist's desk, which had probably been thrifted from the shores of Hell, for the rude woman's intake form. "I cannot believe I have to do everything around here!" she yelled, elbow-deep in yellowing files. "What are you two even here for, if not to work?"
"Certainly not for the stellar employee benefits," Cyrus deadpanned, slouching back in his creaky office chair. "Miss Talia, I've got an achy tooth- do I have dental insurance under the Workers' Code?"
Leta reached out to smack him on the shoulder, which he dodged neatly. He didn't, however, manage to dodge the filing folder Miss Talia threw at his head.
"That's the last client we have for today," Miss Talia huffed as she finally found the intake form and began furiously typing something on her phone. "Aurelie Bellange, huh? What a piece of work." She turned her glare on the two of them again. "Now go home! I'm not paying you for overtime!"
Leta rolled her eyes. "Got it." She dug around in her purse for a cigarette but didn't find any. "Shit. Cyrus, you got anything?"
"Hell no," Cyrus said, shuddering in mock disgust. "You think I got extra money for smokes? I barely ate last month. Thanks for that, Miss Talia." He got kicked in the shin for that, which he summarily ignored.
"Get out," Miss Talia growled. "Cyrus, you're lucky I don't eat you. You're, what, twenty-six and still live with your mom? Not my fault you're a loser."
"Yeah, yeah," Cyrus said, waving his hand lazily as he sauntered out the door. "Love you too, Miss Talia. Bye, Leta."
"See ya." Leta said. She picked up the bell that Miss Talia had knocked off the door and tucked it into her jacket pocket. It was a cheap, dingy thing, probably bought on a whim at a corner store- Cyrus had a knack for spending money on useless things. Regardless- she was too lazy to hang it back up.
It was drizzling faintly outside. Leta rifled through the back closet in the corner of the shop for a spare umbrella but only got an old mop and several dust bunnies. She groaned and put her hood up, absentmindedly patting Miss Talia goodbye as she stepped out into the rain.
Central City was already depressing enough when there was good weather, she thought to herself as she trudged along the soggy metal pathways of Sector Five. It was approaching one a.m: the neon lights in the alleyways had been lit for hours. Peacemaker patrolmen leaned against the walls of various less-than-legal establishments with the other seedy patrons, whistling at every pretty lady that passed. Leta rolled her eyes at a particularly salacious call from one of the officers smoking a cigarette.
She squeezed her way past the crowds of people gathered between skyscrapers, peering longingly down at the festivities happening below, past the cliffside. This time of year, the rich people down in Sectors One and Two held the mid-summer festivals, hanging lanterns up and down the luxury shopping streets separated from Three, Four and Five by glass fences.
Leta lived close to the fortune shop. Her apartment, if it could even be called that, was a mere five-minute walk away. She ducked into the awning of Peter Prairie's Bookshop and opened the door, peering into the dark and empty store.
Peter Prairie's Bookshop was closed 365 days a year, the shopfront desolate and empty. The books on the shelves were dusty and falling apart and the register was perpetually unmanned. Leta was the only person that ever came in and out of the door with any frequency. She kicked a forgotten box out of the way as she made her way to the back of the shop and tugged open the door in the ceiling which would lead up to the attic.
"I'm back!" She called, pulling the stairs down and crawling up each step one at a time to avoid smacking her head into the ceiling. "You there, Aren?"
"Over here!"
Leta pulled the stairs up and closed the door behind her. The attic was small, barely big enough to fit a bed, sink, and an old fridge. It was dimly lit by a few old battery lamps, and the bathroom was tiny enough that Leta couldn't stretch out her arms. Regardless- it was home, even if it was leaky and drafty.
Aren was sitting hunched over on her side of the bed, squinting at an old book she'd likely pilfered from downstairs. When Leta emerged into the room, she smiled and put the book down.
"Welcome back!"
Leta dropped her bag in the corner, ruffling Aren's hair. "What have I told you about reading by lamplight? You'll ruin your eyes. I don't have money for glasses. If you go blind, you'll deal with it by yourself."
Aren giggled. "I'll be okay. Have you eaten yet?"
Leta flopped down on the bed, throwing her jacket on the floor. "Nope. Got any food?"
Aren hopped off the bed, tugging open the door of the rusty old fridge with significant effort. "Uhh- there's a carrot and an old sandwich." She pulled both items out of the fridge and offered them to Leta sheepishly. "Sorry, I haven't had time to go on a food run today."
"What've you been doing instead?" Leta asked grouchily, tearing the plastic wrapper of the sandwich off. "Wasting time?"
Aren huffed out a laugh, picking the book back up. "Studying! The National Exams are next week, remember?"
Huffing, Leta bit into the sandwich. Old ham and sour cheese- delicious. "Tell you what, if you manage to pass, I'll buy you a whole strawberry cake from the fancy shops in One."
Aren's eyes lit up at the promise of sweets. "Really? With the whipped cream and caramel glaze?"
"Yup," Leta said, popping the p. "I expect you to pay me back when you make it big, though. I want a chocolate fountain. You can book me one of the male escorts, too." She winked. "I like 'em muscly."
Aren laughed. "I'll do you one better- when I get into university and find a job, I'll find you a boyfriend. An intellectual one!"
Leta rolled her eyes. "I don't want an intellectual boyfriend, you brat. The scholars are all full of themselves."
Huffing, Aren rolled back onto the bed, nudging the wilted carrot out of the way. "Well, I want someone smart in the future." She squealed as Leta tugged her hair, swatting at her unforgiving grip.
"Cheeky brat. As if anyone smart would want you!"
"Stop, stop! Only dumb ones, I got it!"
Sighing, Leta stared up at the ceiling, swallowing the last of the sandwich. "Seriously, brat, I'm getting old. You better work hard if you get into university. I can't let you stay here for the rest of your life."
Aren shot her an unimpressed look. "Miss Leta, you're barely twenty-eight. That's not old."
Leta groaned and pinched her on the cheek, making her giggle again. "I swear I can feel the white hairs coming in. Now go to sleep. If you're going to pass the Exams, you can't do it half-dead from exhaustion." She reluctantly dragged herself out of bed and turned off the battery lamps.
As Aren snuggled under the blanket, Leta squeezed into the bathroom and lit the candle, splashing some water on her face. The shower was enormously loud and Aren was likely asleep already, so she held off on washing herself, brushing her teeth quickly and threw on a softer sleeping shirt, slipping out of her tight pants.
When she emerged back into the attic, Aren was indeed asleep, snoring softly. Bending down at her side, Leta eased Aren's glasses off, folding them and putting them carefully back into their battered case. She undid Aren's thick red braid, settling her fingers gently into her hair and letting the tight locks loose.
"You'll get a headache if you sleep like that, you brat," she said quietly, crossing to the other side of the bed and throwing the blanket over herself. "I'm not paying for pain meds."
Outside, the rain fell harder and harder. The skylight on the ceiling spilled moonlight into the attic, illuminating their scant possessions in silver. The book Aren had been reading lay at the foot of the bed, the embossed cover reflecting the light.
Selections of Anatomical Anecdotes: Case Studies of Biological Irregularities, the cover read. By Doctor Niko Loretta.