#payday shade

[pyonicpyro]

Do you like the new characters in payday 3

Eh, to a degree. Shade in particular has REALLY grown on me. Especially after Cook Off.

[theancientdarkbeauty]

WIP doodle of Jaws

Shade sprays Jaws with a water bottle when they are trying to bite people.

[pigeonrocks]

I don't have a joke. I'm very excited for payday 3 :shrug:

(click/tap for better quality!)

[bainofjustice]

Okay got to watch the dev dairy for lore, and I gotta say this more than anything has gotten me the most excited for pd3.

Firstly I am very interested in what the tl looks like as they mention gaining the pardons but it is also pretty clear from the pd2 dlc tapes the new bad guy is avenging Murkywater so my own theory is that the two versions of the white house heist are canonly combined, getting the pardons and confronting The Dentist/Healer.

Okay next is that I am extremely intrigued by Shade, an old comtact of Bain according to the devs, who swopped in just in the nick of time. I am admittedly not sure I trust her, so far all of Bain's old contacts have been allies to the gang, it could be time for a twist, though admittedly I'm not sure I want that. Either way I hope that like Duke, Bain's other well known old contact she knows about Katru stuff, it'd be hard to have the voice in the ear not in the know. Either way I am excited to learn more about her motives and goals.

Now as for Pearl I am really curious as to who brought her in and why she has mutual enemies with the rest of the gang after all why get involved with fighting a group who was able to take the assets of some of the best criminals in the world and has a shit ton of assianions on their side?

Also oof that Dallas is more somber now, I mean yeah life has been shit for him, lost Bain, lost his retirement and his brother is missing at best and at worst is dead.

Speaking of that I am curious about them implying the assassinaions might have killed members of the gang, my best guess is that crossover characters are the most likely to have met this fate or die during the story of the game since they can't show up much in the flesh anyways so at least they could add to the stakes. I am very willing to believe that the youtubers were taken out before the start of the game by the enemy group.

Also I found it both really funny and sad that apparently the worst time in Wolf's life was retirement but it does add up, he hasn't gotten any treatment for his extreme traumas and mental issues so like it's not like he could go to a civi life, besides as far as we know his family is m.i.a and the Payday gang was the only thing remotely close to a support system he had so like, no wonder he is happy that someone is now after he and the gangs lives and took everyone's money, it means he has his friends back alongside the only form of life he is currently adjusted to.

There is one thing that is on my mind tho... There are rn three main characters that are woman, both extra heisters and the voice in the ear, I believe this is to catch up with the core four being male, but... We need one more so either

A weapons dealer or something along these lines will be a woman

One of the first villains will be a woman

Or... hear me out, this is how Jordan Griffin could still be a main character in the payday franchise-

[lesbian-ferret]

im sorry if i want to headcanon shade with a middle age woman's body then i should be allowed to do so

[rattlesnakess-den]

Oi Mr. Rattlesnake Sir, what're your thoughts on this "Jacket" feller if ya've met em'.

Ah, Jacket. I remember him. Wasn't in the gang long back in the day so I don't think I got ta talk with him much. no pun intended. Interestin' fella. He was a hell of a fighter last I saw him. I 'member he could be real funny when tauntin Sokol, seems he and Jacket were always at eachothas throats. Maybe we'll see him round some time, Shade might find 'em or he might meander back on his own, who knows?

[what-yadoking-likes]

Hoxton sinking back into his paranoia after he meets up with Shade. He'd been betrayed, ratted out before - it cost him 2 years of his life and freedom, and damnit history just has a way of repeating itself with him, doesn't it?

[akemithedemon]

Yes I am still doing this. More catboy Hoxton.

[nonbinary-ghost]

All the supplies for this year's temperature blanket has been gathered!

[nando161mando]

Predatory loans victimizing the youth

[theancientdarkbeauty]

GUYS I HAVE THE FIRST CHAPTER!

The Golden Tempest (925 words) by TheAncientDB Chapters: 1/? Fandom: PAYDAY (Video Games) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: We got - Relationship, Jacket (Hotline Miami)/Sokol (Payday), Hoxton | James "Jim" Hoxworth/Wolf, Duke/Jimmy (Payday), Joy/Pearl (Payday), We got quite a few but I will add more if I come up with more

Characters: Bain (Payday), Joy (Payday), Pearl (Payday), Dallas (Payday), houston (payday), Houston | Hoxton, Hoxton | James "Jim" Hoxworth, Wolf (Payday), Sokol (Payday), Shade (Payday), Jimmy (Payday), Duke (Payday), Sangres (Payday), Jiro (Payday), Sydney | Kelli King (Payday), Chains (Payday), Hoxton (Payday), I think there are more but I can't think of any off the top of my head I'm sorry

Additional Tags: We really got a lot ships here, BUT NO RAUNCHY STUFF, Drunk Kissing, cause' their pirates you know, but like, NO SEX! ABSOLUTELY NOT!, Pirates, THEY ARE PIRATES EVERYONE

Summary: Ever wondered "Hey, what if the infamous Payday gang were period appropriate pirates?" WELL HERE YOU GO! This work will be pretty long, but I will update tags, the summary, and other things as I develop the story more and more! Also Bain is alive, I'm mixing Payday 2 and Payday 3 together, so Shade is there too!

YOU ASKED FOR IT! YOU GOT IT! PAYDAY PIRATES ARE HERE!! Halfway done with the 2nd chapter too! The first one is from the perspective of The World's United Navy, made specifically to hold the crew of The Bain of the Seas from getting the most precious treasures of all. Please enjoy!

[pd3thoughts]

Chains is so funny actually

[everythingne]

double dealing /ˌdəbəlˈdēliNG/

( noun. ) the practice of working to people's disadvantage behind their backs.

formula racing is luxurious and lucrative, everyone knows that.

but what most people don't know about is the secret races that are bet on with hand signals and whispers over radios in the dark. the double dealing. somehow, you have fallen right in.

(formula one x reader, street racers au. masterlist.)

masterlist !

general warnings for this series: kinda basing this off of the fast and furious series, there is mentions of drugs/weapons trafficking, sabotage, car accidents and more. each fic in the au will be individually tagged with its warnings.

notes from nicole: pls send in a dm or comment asking to be put on the taglist, and really don't hesitate to throw in an ask for a fic of certain driver in this series! i've been slowly building this up behind the scenes for a bit and would love to have y'all help build the world with me.

also i spent so long figuring out everyones cars. help.

-

max verstappen - 1 known as the lion, drives a 1999 Subaru WRX. sergio perez - 11 known as checkers, drives a 2013 Toyota 86. george russell - 63 known as shades, drives 2000 Porsche Boxster. lewis hamilton - 44 known as sir, drives a 1996 Subaru Impreza. charles leclerc - 16 known as predestined, drives a 2018 Porsche 911 GT3. carlos sainz - 55 known as operator, drives a 1998 Ferrari F355. oscar piastri - 81 known as goss(ip), drives a 2000 Toyota Supra MK IV. lando norris - 4 known as hotshot, drives a 2001 Honda S2000. lance stroll - 18 known as payday, drives a 2016 Porsche Cayman GT4. fernando alonso - 14 known as the godfather, currently not driving. oversees operations. esteban ocon - 31 known as bestie, drives a 1997 Chevrolet Corvette. pierre gasly - 10 known as jj, drives a 1968 Plymouth Road Runner. alexander albon - 23 known as smokey, drives a 1970 Pontiac LeMans. logan sargeant - 2 known as bandit, drives a 2002 Pontiac Firebird. daniel ricciardo - 3 known as badger, drives a Nissan Skyline GT-R R33. yuki tsunoda - 22 known as insid(ious), drives a 1998 Mazda RX-7 valtteri bottas - 77 known as mullet, not currently driving. handles crowd control. zhou guanyu - 24 known as assassin, drives a 2015 Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution. kevin magnussen - 20 known as papa bear, currently not driving. handles bet pools. nico hulkenberg - 27 known as the hulk, currently not driving. scouts locations for races.

[missredherring]

A Flower in February

Joel Miller x F!Reader

Rating: T

Word Count: 2k

Summary: When he’s finished cleaning the scrapes on your face his thumb swipes tenderly over the curve of your chin once.

“I'll take care of it.”

Contents: Boston QZ!Joel. mugging. hand-to-hand violence. whump. wound cleaning.

A/N: This is a my Secret Valentine gift for @hoeruiner.

I hope you like this, Sarah! I tried to keep it in line with the info you gave.

Thank you @covetyou for reading over this. <3

You only notice the date because you glance at the calendar to check when your next shift is on your way out of work. The calendar is old and yellowed, from before when holidays were still celebrated as special occasions and not memories. The red of the “14” is faded too, but the color still draws your eye and sparks recognition in your brain. 

February 14th. Valentine’s Day. Huh. It’s depressing that your plans haven’t changed after 20 years and an apocalypse: going home after work with a good chance of spending the night alone. 

The ration cards stuffed in your jacket pocket cheer you up a little. Payday hasn’t changed either, and the ability to trade for questionably fresh groceries at the market tomorrow is something to look forward to. You head out into the dark streets of the QZ towards your apartment.

It’s fucking cold this time of year. The temperature barely rises even with a full day of sun, and it’s windy tonight too. There are piles of snow caught in the nooks and crannies of buildings and alleyways, radiating even more cold air. At least it isn’t tinged the same dirty gray-brown shade from before, with car exhaust and dirt kicked up by tires discoloring everything it touches. You’ll still find some of that on the main road, but not here in the backways that twist around the city. 

A gust of wind blows through and goes right through the heaviest jacket you own, chilling you to the bone. You grit your teeth and hunker down, trying to cover as much exposed skin as you can. That’s the only way you see it: the flash of vibrant color so out of place in a city that only has faded colors available. 

There, sticking through a chain link fence bordering what must have been a parking lot at some point but has grown over into a meadow, is a purple bloom of a flower. You take a few steps closer to get a better look. You’d crouch down, but with this cold seeping into your joints you might not be able to get back up, so you bend over awkwardly and try not to lock your knees. 

It’s dark, but there’s just enough light from a streetlamp in the distance that you can make out the shape of the petals. They’re too sharp and close together to be a pansy, and facing up instead of down like a snowdrop, not to say anything of it being purple and not white. So… most likely a crocus, you think. Being able to identify the small bloom brings a happy feeling, with the bittersweet memory of when you had time to indulge in a frivolous activity like flower gardening. You could pick it and bring the spot of color into your apartment. It’s a happy thought that dies and quickly as the flower would.

“Idiot.”

It’s the only warning you get with the wind howling in your ears masking the shuffled steps behind you. They’re right: you’re an idiot for standing in an alley looking at a flower alone at night.

You aren’t the only one happy about payday.

At least they’re quick about it. You don’t know how many there are, but one grabs you from behind and another delivers a fast, brutal punch to your middle. While you heave and gasp they rifle through your pockets and take your ration cards. They give you a few more hits for good measure, and it’s not the blows to your face that does it; it’s the momentum with which they send your head smacking back into the brick wall that makes your vision swim and dim. 

At first all you can make out is ratty shoes and pants with more holes than them, but then you force your eyes up up up when all they want to do is close and you catch glimpses of their faces in the same weak light that had bounced off the crocus and caught your attention. The QZ is a contained area with a small population, and they aren’t even wearing anything to cover their faces, just worn beanies tugged down low. You don’t know their names, but you recognize the faces of the group of thugs who like to crowd people at the market and intimidate them into giving up whatever they have to leave them alone. You still can’t hear them when they run away, the ringing in your ears is loud until you finally give in to it and pass out. 

You don’t know how long it takes for your body to shake itself back to consciousness. Taking stock of your body as you get up is easy: everything hurts, but nothing hurts more than everything else. You don’t give the flower another look as you start to drag yourself home.

The wind is quiet now and you hear the heavy footsteps coming this time. Fear zips through you, freezing you in place; had they come back to take even more from you? But then your name is called out in a voice that makes your body start moving again. That voice means safety and warmth and you’re stumbling towards it on shaking legs until you crash into Joel Miller’s solid body. 

He grunts as he absorbs your impact and his hands come up on your shoulders to keep you standing.

“What’re you still doing out here?”

You open your mouth to answer him, but your teeth are chattering too much to get anything out. Great clouds of hot breath steam out of him as he jerks his head back towards your building.

“C’mon.”

Joel’s dark form is easy for your aching eyes to focus on. It’s a mindless act: following where he leads. Your feet could follow his lead in your sleep, so being cold, beaten up, and maybe concussed is no problem. 

The lights are on in your apartment when you get in. You’re pretty sure everything had been off when you left, and wonder how long Joel had been here, waiting for you. You sit down at the kitchen table and close your eyes, safe in this room with him.

The sounds of Joel moving around the kitchen are nice. You play a little game, trying to ignore the throbbing, painful points on your body by guessing what he’s doing based on the sounds he’s making. 

Water from the faucet filling the dented kettle and the clank of setting it on the burner. The click of the stove knobs as he turns it on. The creak of his weight on the floorboards as he waits for the water to boil. His hum at the creaking cabinet door when he reaches in for the bottle of alcohol he keeps there. The slosh of the bottle as he takes notice of how much has been emptied since he last poured himself a drink. If he asks, you can account for every swig you’ve taken on the nights when you want to dull your senses, on the nights when he’s not with you. 

The noises are domestic and soothing, but the kettle’s whistle is like another blow to your temple and you can’t smother the noise of discomfort you make. 

Joel’s footsteps pause, but then the noises of him pouring you a mug of the hot water continues and those footsteps continue until you can feel him in front of you.

You let yourself have the few extra seconds it takes for him to set the mug on the table before you force your eyes open and look at him. 

He’s already frowning, suspicious about the entire situation, but he gets his confirmation when you have to tip your head back to make eye contact and your face is illuminated in the harsh overhead light.

His big hand is on your jaw before you can blink, but his grip gentles when you wince and he gently turns your face this way and that to see the extent of the damage. His eyes trail down your neck and across the stretched out neckline of your shirt, all the bare skin he can see, and his jaw rocks hard enough to capsize a boat on a turbulent ocean.

“What happened?” 

There’s no getting out of this. The demand in his voice and the anger sparking in his eyes makes you feel warm for the first time that night. It stokes dark emotions, the ones you don’t like to dwell on too much, and the first thread of satisfaction unfurls in your belly. You know giving him names will mean bad things for those men, but you can’t find it in you to care. Maybe they knocked it out of you with their fists. 

So you tell him, giving him the identifying features you remember. He’s quiet as he lets you talk uninterrupted, but the emotions that cross his face are enough to give you an idea of his thoughts. He snatches a clean washcloth from somewhere and wets it with the alcohol, the fumes curling into your nose when he presses it to your cheekbone.

His brows furrow when you mention the flower, and you’re thankful that you can use the firm press of the washcloth on scraped skin to camouflage the wince at the reminder of how unsuited you are for a world like this. 

When he’s finished cleaning the scrapes on your face his thumb swipes tenderly over the curve of your chin once.

“I'll take care of it.”

You don't even have the urge to protest, to tell him he doesn't have to. You want him to take care of it, to take care of you. You want someone to care. And while it’s not bouquets of flowers and candies that melt in your mouth, the warmth from the mug is seeping into your hands and his touch wipes away the violence that clings to your skin. He’ll take that violence and return it tenfold, you know it. 

His movements are filled with purpose and he only pauses with his hand on the door to give you a stern look.

“Lock up behind me.”

The next day is just like the one before it. Unable to do anything else without a fresh supply of ration cards, you go to work and try to ignore the pain that has settled in your body. You don’t even mind it that much, it’s nice to feel something else. 

You’re not stupid though, so when your shift is over you make sure to leave from the front entrance when a few others are heading out as well. It’s a small group, but they scatter and go their separate ways, their steps quickening after they notice the figure leaning on the corner of the building. From that spot he’d be able to see both exits, and when he sees you he pushes off to stand tall, waiting. Your feet move on their own before you completely register the surprise of his presence, falling into place beside him and matching his uneven stride. 

A nudge at your hand snaps you out of your whirling thoughts and makes you look down. His hands are always ruddy from the cold, but now dark purple joins the red and there’s a couple of places where the skin broke over the hard bone of his knuckles. The stack of ration cards trembles just once in his grip, maybe from the wind or a movement of his muscles, but you take it from him and stare down at it. There, tucked into the string securing the cards together, is the crocus blossom. A droplet of moisture that had clung to the snapped stem transfers to your fingertip when you touch it. He must’ve done it while he was waiting.

“Thank you, Joel.” 

Joel is watching you when you look up from the cards. His dark eyes are calm, his jaw moving as he takes in your expression. He chews on the sentiment he sees there as if working it over will make it more palatable, something easier to swallow, and you hope he doesn’t spit it out.

[lesbian-ferret]

Gf

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Make it Mitra - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

This looks like a job for me/So everybody just follow me/'Cause we need a little controversy/'Cause it feels so empty without me~

Or: Silco is a menace in public.

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

cw: profanity, insensitive language re: disability and scarring

Snippet:

At the desk, a stoop-shouldered clerk checked the timecards. He stamped the ones for the outgoing shifts, and handed back the cards of the ones for the incoming. There were a few, like Silco, who'd come empty-handed, and had to be issued cards. These, the clerk handed out grudgingly, with the air of a man tossing a beggar a crust of bread.

The next beggar's gotta do better, his manner said. And the next. But you—you can go choke.

"Name," the clerk grunted, when it was Silco's turn.

"Sil." The old moniker rolled off his tongue, a second skin. "S'alright if that's all I go by?"

"Last name's the policy. " When Silco said nothing, the clerk spat into his cuspidor. "Last name, or I'll mark you a John Doe."

"Make it Mitra."

"What?" The clerk's frown was a fissured ravine. "Say again?"

"Mitra. It's Vekauran."

"You don't look Vekauran."

He shrugged. "Not all of us do."

"Hmph. You know the drill, grandpops? Six hours down, six up. Two shifts a day, no more. You show up late, you're marked AWOL. You shirk a shift, you're marked AWOL. You're marked AWOL three times, you're out on your ass. Savvy?"

"Very."

"Gear and ventilators are loaners. Lose 'em, you pay. Break 'em, you pay. Steal 'em, we string you up." He levelled a finger. "Helmets are mandatory. If your head gets crushed by a cave-in, we ain't paying the medick's bills."

"Understood."

"Payday's every fortnight. Your card's coded to the dig, so don't try no funny business. Don't try no funny business, period. No fights, no stealing, no shoving the ore cart ahead of the line. We don't play favorites." The clerk's eyes raked Silco's ruined face. "Especially not for cripples."

"Cripple's a handicap," Silco said, mildly. "Mine's just an ugly mug."

"You'll get a worse one, if you start trouble. Got me?"

"Loud and clear."  He perused the noticeboard, pinned with a handbill. "Is that the contract?"

"Yep. Want it read out?"

"I can read." His lip curled. "Barely."

He skimmed the terms. A step up from the days when Topside ran the show. Back then, the contracts were a joke: paid a pittance, with a fraction of the hours logged. The miners had been little more than mules. A few had signed their lives away. Others, their children's.

All, their souls.

Now, the contract was a matter of public record. Everything was spelled out: the safety precautions, the shift schedules, the pay rate. No one had to sign away their firstborn. And if the Mining Guilds had anything to do with it, they'd never have to. They'd win this small victory, and, in the bargain, a thousand worse wars.

Except—

"Where's the Guild's seal?" Silco said.

The clerk's sneer spoke volumes. "We don't need no stinking seal. This township's self-governed."

"Self-governed? The Ditch falls under Zaun's jurisdiction. Like the rest of the Deadlands. Meaning you adhere to the same bylaws as the city." Silco tapped a fingertip on the page. "This contract needs the Mining Guild's seal. Else it's not legally binding."

"It's bound," the clerk said, with a belligerent jut of his jaw. "By us."

"Us, who?" Silco made a show of looking around. "Every lost soul passing through?"

"Us, as in the foremen. Us, as in Slim Johnston's boys. Us, as in the law." The jaw was jutting even further. "So what's it to you?"

"Nothing. Just didn't know the Ditch was a freehold."

"You don’t like it, old man, you can walk."

"Maybe I will. I hear the northside quadrants have a proper union. Proper rules too, on paper. Not these cobbled-up terms, drawn in the dirt by the foreman's boot." Silco tipped a shoulder. "If I'm going to be a slave, I'd want a master with more clout."

The clerk's face was a shade of soiled brown. "You and your slave-talk can go suck an egg."

"I prefer mine sunny-side up. Preferably with a side of bacon. How about yourself, Mister...?" He tipped his chin, mock-politely. "What was your name again?"

"It's—" The clerk swallowed his spit. "Garr."

"Pleasure. So, Garr.” He idled, easygoing, against the desk. “I’m curious. What makes a fellow like you, in charge of a town's worth of workers, choose a shoddy contract over the real deal? When the real deal's a cog or two higher in price, and a whole world more in respect."

The clerk's face grew muddier. "Respect's a four-letter word, and you won't need it to shovel shit."

“No?”

"You're a roustabout! Which means you do what we say, same as the rest. Now, you can keep jawing, or you can shove off. Your call."

"My call's the same as the rest. A contract on our terms."

The other miners, filing past the desk, were turning to watch the spectacle. A few scratched their heads. Others, the grizzled ones, shook them with grudging admiration. They knew Silco's type. Wily as a sump-snake, and twice as slippery. They'd talk back to death itself, if the Kindred showed up without an appointment.

And not because they had any love for life. Only because they loved to live in spite of it.

"Watch yourself, geezer," the clerk warned. "Else the Guild'll be the least of your worries."

"The Guild's a good worry. Scurvy, ticks, and no hazard pay? Those are bad worries." Silco tapped the page again. "This? This is a dead end. You'd do better to get the right papers, instead of slinging the same old shit in a new bag."

"You don't know shit about shit. This is Slim Johnston's town. And the Eye's got his back."

"The Eye? Who's that?"

"He's the Eye." At Silco's blank look, the clerk's face mottled with maroon specks. "The Eye of Zaun."

"Never heard of him."

"Every miner and ditch-digger knows his name. He owns the rigs. Owns this town. Owns the Guilds. The Eye's watching, and he's not forgiving. One bad move, and he'll come for you." An ugly smile twisted the clerk's lips. "Mark my words, old man. One more word, and no contract will save your ass."

Silco smiled back.

There was a crowd gathered now. Men and women pressing close, craning their necks to get a better glimpse of the show. They were no strangers to a standoff. But this was a novelty. The roustabouts were a tough lot, but they kept their heads down. The foremen, a cut above, saw no need to. And the overseers were a law unto themselves. A law that ran on a knife's edge, and cut whoever crossed it.

Now, a one-eyed geezer, empty-pockets and all alone, was toeing the scratch. Not with fists or guns. Just words.

And those words held the queue at gunpoint.

"What's a big man, like you, afraid of an Eye?" Silco drawled, and the miners began chuckling.

The clerk's own eye was twitching. "You wanna see him? Is that what you're saying?”

"Sure, if it'll keep you from soiling your britches."

The miners' laughter was as good as applause. The clerk's scowl was as good as a noose. But a noose could swing either way: hang a man, or give him the rope. Silco, for whom rabble-rousing was second-nature, knew the real win was a matter of leverage.

Leverage, and a taste for the long-game.

He had the crowd's attention, which meant he had their favor. But favor only counted for so much, when the paymaster was a hardass. And the hardasses had a tendency to stick together. The real trick—the one that had turned his rants and rallies into a revolution—was keeping the rabble's favor while keeping the hardasses in the dark.

That took patience. That took strategy. That took a cool head, and a steady hand, and a live grenade cooking in the back pocket.

Not to mention: an unerring instinct for when to pull the pin.

 "Look," he said, taking his smile down a notch, "I'm not asking for the moon. Just a proper contract. That's what we fought for, when we took down Topside. That's what every man and woman here deserves." He eyed the crowd, and saw the nods and grunts. The hard-won dignity of a folk who'd scraped life's crumbs from the jaws of penury. "No man—not even the Eye—has the right to take it away."

"No," Garr shot back, "but we got the right to take you out."

Silco raised both hands, conciliatory. "Not trying to start a war, Garr. Just looking for a fair shake."

"If you don't watch it, old man, you'll get that fair shake. Fair and square, in the fucking throat. Savvy?"

"Savvy. I'll shut up. You've got a job to do. And the sooner you get to it, the sooner the day's done, please Janna." He tipped a thumb over his shoulder. "How's this? I'll sign the contract. Because if it's good for these fine folks, it's good enough for me. But I would like to request a meeting, for myself and my fellow miners, with the foreman. Zaun was born out of blood and sweat. If we're going to die by it, I'd like to hear from the man at the helm."

"I'll pass it along." Garr's face was a blotchy mess. "And if I were you, I'd keep your hole shut, until I says otherwise."

"I'll keep a lid on. See?"

He pantomimed a wastebin slamming shut. The miners broke into hearty guffaws. A few slapped Silco's shoulders. Others, in the back, whispered among themselves. It was a start. Not much, but dissent, planted, takes time to blossom. Especially in a field sowed with salt and dust.

But revolution's like love: a tenacious thing. And when the time comes to harvest, there's no crop sweeter.

"All right, geezer." Garr shoved the contract across the table. "Sign the fuckin' page. You're on the daybreak shift. Don't be late, or the last thing you'll be seeing's a shovel."

"Yes, sir."

No mockery. Only a deferential nod, and a shuffling step.  The clerk was a simple man. A simple, stupid man. And stupid men are like stray dogs: easy to bait, but there's no sense getting them riled. All they'd earn for their bite is a bullet.

Nobody wastes a bullet on a mutt.

Silco took the contract. The miner's crowded close. They'd gotten a good show. Better than they'd expected, from a one-eyed roustabout. Now they wanted to know his name. And maybe, just maybe, his story. Taking the pen, Silco signed off with his usual flourish.

Except it wasn't the one that'd sealed dirty deals, sanctioned executions, or penned the laws that'd rewritten Zaun's skyline.

Sil Mitra.

The two surnames burned starkly on the dotted line. An alias he'd invented on the spot. Yet its invention didn't make the arrangement of letters a lie. It was two bloodlines—one mongrel, bastardized, and true; the other ancient, proud and broken—that would've merged, if circumstances had been different.

But the world's a strange place. Stranger yet, for the things that don't come to pass.