Eight McShane's Story

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#2012-12-17 02:19:04, as written by Saviarre

Eight hated the rain. She hated the night. And she hated Wing City. One would think that driving a cab in a town like Wing City would mean endless excitement, but no. Nothing but unappreciative bastards, muttering their intended destination and either ignoring her completely or trying to rob her. The best tip she’d gotten in her two years of driving a cab in this God-Forsaken town? Fifty dollars. She’d thought it was her lucky day! She’d been overjoyed about the fifty dollar tip… until the cops came sniffing around and confiscated her fifty as ‘evidence.’ Turned out the fucker that was generous enough to tip her fifty had actually just robbed a bank. She was unwittingly his getaway driver. And all she got was a lousy fifty bucks… that had been taken away from her and never returned. Such was Eight’s luck.

But a job was a job, and there was no way to support one’s self in this day and age without an income… and at least driving a cab was honest work. She liked to imagine stories for the people who rode in her cab. Barney the banker. Louis the construction worker. Squeak the pimp. It was her way of staying sane.

Driving through the streets, the radio turned to a local rock station, Eight noticed the man raising his arm to call her attention. Pulling over, she squealed to a stop beside him, waiting for him to get in. Already, she was thinking about a new story for this stranger. Something intriguing. Like he just left his gay lover’s apartment and he wanted to go…. Where? Eight smiled to herself and waited, watching the back seat through the rearview mirror.

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#2012-12-17 02:35:28, as written by Saviarre

82nd and Barkeley. Eight nodded as the address was given, glancing once to the man in the back seat. He was drenched, and it didn’t seem to matter to him that much. He had other things on his mind. A fight with the lover, she thought, building up this man’s fictional story. Her imagination started rolling with it. She imagined the man in her back seat had gone over earlier with the purpose of getting a little loving, and there had been a fight. Over what? Her eyes slid back to the rearview mirror as she pulled back into traffic. Art, she decided. They’d fought about art. Because this man was an art dealer. Yes. That’s it.

Eight was smiling to herself when she heard his other words. Her eyes moved to the rearview mirror once more, the smile fading from her face, and she studied the man for a moment as she stopped at a red light. “If you’re thinking about robbing me,” she started, her tone of voice low but audible over the rock music that played quietly through the speakers. “I would not recommend it. I have exactly $39 dollars on me… which is just to make change – a twenty, a ten, a five, and four ones. I make a deposit to the station after every fare I pick up. It’s really not worth it, so if that’s what you’re thinking, I’d just like to point out that any Joe Blow on the street is probably worth more.”

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#2012-12-17 02:49:19, as written by Saviarre

The light turned green, but it took a moment for it to register with Eight. She was still studying the stranger through the rearview mirror, resisting the urge to turn her entire body to look at him squarely. As the car behind them honked, Eight realized herself and pressed down on the accelerator, splashing through the intersection, her windshield wipers thumping rhythmically.

He must be some black market art dealer, she thought to herself. Speaking of executions as nonchalantly as he did.

She very nearly spoke up about this being a non-smoking cab, but instead kept her mouth shut. She was silent for two blocks, driving through the rain until she came to another red light. At that point, she met his eyes in the rearview mirror once more. “You hired me. Meter’s running. We can go wherever you want. The tip at the end of the ride is up to you.” She pointed a thumb in the general direction of one of the signs hanging on the plastic divider between the front and back seats. Beside a copy of her credentials and license, listing her as Eight McShane, certified taxi driver, was an unassuming note that said quite simply:

Our drivers appreciate your generosity. Tips are welcome and appreciated if you feel that your driver did a good job. Thank you for choosing Wing City Cabs

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#2012-12-17 03:11:08, as written by Saviarre

Silence met the stranger’s request. Eight’s eyes remained on the road in front of herself, shifting only twice – once to glance at the clock on the dashboard and once to the rearview mirror to determine whether this was a joke or not. Nobody offered a cabbie five grand to run them around town… nobody legitimate.

Her eyes focused on the road in front of herself, watching the cars around her, waiting for them to dart into her lane, to force her to apply the brakes. She liked to think of herself as a good driver. It was the others that you needed to watch out for. Her mind was working, though, as she drove on in silence, taking them closer to his original destination.

Three stops. Under an hour. Five thousand dollars on top of the running meter. Bonus for a pleasant ride? Another bonus for not mentioning he was even here?

Five thousand dollars would buy her that vacation she’d been saving up for.

Slowly a hand snaked up to the rearview mirror. Her fingers snaked behind the mirror and blindly sought out the hidden camera she’d installed. Pressing the button on the side of the camera, she shut it off. After returning her hand to the wheel, she lifted her eyes to the mirror once more, her lips curling into a slow grin. “82nd and Barkeley,” she repeated, her foot pressing down a bit more on the accelerator. “And the other addresses?”

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#2012-12-17 03:34:28, as written by Saviarre

Eight’s foot was heavy on the accelerator as she plotted the maps in her mind, figuring the shortest routes. Short cuts. That was her specialty. Well, at least when time was of the essence. Most of the time, however, she kept to the main roads. After all, most of her customers paid what the fare was and very little more. The long well-traveled ways paid more on the fares… and nobody really seemed to appreciate her shortcuts. This man, however, might. At the next opportunity, Eight flipped a quick right, pulling onto a less traveled street. It would get them there quicker.

“Dying?” she asked, leaning back comfortably, reaching for her own pack of cigarettes. Why not? She’d already allowed him to smoke. Surely he wouldn’t care if he joined her. “Isn’t it human nature to think about death?” A quick left at the next light would put them only a few blocks from the first address. “I don’t picture myself as the type that is going to die of old age, if that’s what you mean? What about you, Walter?”

She’d assigned the gay black-market art dealer a name… and she hadn’t even realized it until it slipped from her lips.

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#2012-12-17 04:08:15, as written by Saviarre

Eight’s eyes met his once more as she glanced to the rearview mirror. “Yeah. Walter. If anyone asks, I’m giving a ride to Walter, a gay black-market art dealer.” She shrugged. “It’s just a stupid game I play with myself.”

She turned right once more, splashing a pedestrian with copious amounts of dirty street water as she turned. “Sorry!” she muttered, knowing the pedestrian wouldn’t hear. It didn’t matter. Barret’s question surprised her. “Don’t we all have regrets?” she asked, taking a hand from the wheel to light the cigarette she dangled from her lips. “If a truck plowed into us and left us as nothing but squish to wash down the drains of this God-forsaken city, there would be none of me left to feel any regret. Do I want to die? No. Would I go back and change things in my past if I could? Of course. Who wouldn’t? I’d like to think I’ve led a pretty full life, but I’d be fooling myself. At the same time, it doesn’t do any good to regret the past. It doesn’t do any good to plan for a future that might not happen. The time is now. This is the moment. This is life.” She rolled her window down a couple inches, flinching as the rain slipped in and splatted against her face. “I don’t think many people will show up to my funeral, if you know what I’m saying.”

She chuckled and slipped the tip of the cigarette out the window, tapping the ashes out into the rain. “Why all the questions about death, Walter? Are you sure you’re not planning on killing me?”

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#2012-12-17 04:45:30, as written by Saviarre

Eight raised an eyebrow, stopping at yet another red light. Her eyes shifted once more to the reflection in the rearview. So this man did kill people. It wasn’t just talk. The light turned green and she continued on, wondering at the fact that his admission didn’t strike her as odd in any way. In fact, she reacted to it much the same way as she would have if he had told her he was an accountant. Nothing. It was just a tidbit of information about a person.

She was silent for a moment, taking a contemplative drag from her cigarette before nodding in agreement to his comments. “You know, you’ve said more to me than most people who ride in my cab.” She flipped on her signal to take a right turn, pulling into an alley behind his original destination. “You used my name… which means you noticed the crap back there.” She snorted softly, her lips turning up. “Most people don’t. Cabs may as well be automated anymore with as much human interaction as I’m used to getting. I hate it too, but leaving isn’t in my cards.”

Her hand snaked out to turn the headlights off a good half block before she stopped the cab, shifting it into park. “I’ll wait for you.”

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#2012-12-17 05:08:12, as written by Saviarre

The entire time the man was out of the cab, Eight’s hands remained on the wheel with the exception of one brief moment when the right hand moved to the volume control knob on the radio and turned it up a bit to drown out the sounds from outside. She could still hear, though, and as the glass rained down over her cab, she flinched, her knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel. She tried to distract herself by singing along to the music, but she didn’t like the song.

It’s not what you think, she tried to tell herself, to keep up her stupid little game with herself. Walter the gay art dealer just went up to someone’s apartment… to talk calmly about art while sipping tea. Yes. That was what just happened. Art. Tea. The light was from the television, and the glass? That was… from a different apartment… Five thousand dollars, five thousand dollars, five thousand dollars, five thous—

As he jerked open the back door, Eight jumped, shifting the car into drive and pulling forward at a normal pace. Not too fast. No squealing of tires. It would call attention to her cab… And in this town, people rarely noticed cabs as long as they didn’t draw attention to themselves. She kept the lights off until she pulled out of the alley onto another busy road.

“So, tell me, Walter,” she started, keeping her tone regular and normal. “What makes you smile?”

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#2012-12-17 05:24:34, as written by Saviarre

Eight tried to keep her eyes on the road, but they kept trying to steal up to the rearview mirror to glimpse her passenger. While Barret tried to relax, so did Eight, but her posture gave her away. She was nervous. She was uncomfortable. But damnit, she was trying to pretend she was fine. After all, five thousand dollars was a lot of money and she could really use it. It wasn’t like she was killing anyone right? And she wasn’t an accessory to murder if she kept herself oblivious to it, right?

Oh, how she wished the world worked that way.

She cleared her throat, glancing into the rearview mirror despite all of her attempts to avoid doing so. “I didn’t mean anything negative by it,” she assured him. “Just that, in this town, attractive guys are usually gay, aren’t they?” She chuckled awkwardly, reaching a shaking hand toward her pack of cigarettes and withdrawing one, slipping it between her lips. “I make up stories for my passengers… like the bankers who are secretly wearing women’s panties and the transvestite with daddy issues.” She shrugged one shoulder. “I figure everyone’s got secrets and I was trying to give you an interesting one… Of course, homosexuality is rather boring compared to being a ki—“ She hesitated, lighting the cigarette. “Compared to doing what you actually do.”

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#2012-12-17 05:41:46, as written by Saviarre

She drove in silence for a few moments, glancing to the clock on the dash. Two more addresses. Two more ~~murders?~~ art deals. She took a long drag from the cigarette before clearing her throat. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she muttered, trying to pretend that she didn’t catch his glance back to the building. “But no regrets, right?” she asked, her eyes slipping once more to the mirror, trying for a smile.

Her left hand gripped the wheel tightly. “It’s not that I’m bitter,” she shook her head. “It’s just easier for me to think…” she trailed off before shaking her head once more. “Nevermind, it doesn’t matter.” She chewed on her lower lip for a moment before taking another drag. “As I said, I’m not going to have many people attend my funeral.” She tried for a laugh, but it fell flat.

Trying to shift the topic of conversation, she repeated their next address as she drove through the pouring rain. “Crescent and Adelaide. One eighteen.” And then lifted her eyes to him once more. “What is your favorite memory as a child, Walter?”

The setting changes from wing-city to Lady Une Drive

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#2012-12-19 03:35:09, as written by Saviarre

The call had come in right as Eight was about to be done for the night. Still, another fare might be good. She had bills to pay, after all, and the tips left to her weren’t the best tonight. She was tired. She was crabby. And she had a serious craving for macaroni and cheese. One more fare and she’d call it a night, swing by the store on her way home, pick up a microwave meal (macaroni and cheese, of course), and then eat it while watching an old episode of Futurama. Probably the dog episode. She loved that episode. It made her cry every time, and sometimes a girl needed a good cry. Not because anything was wrong, but because nothing was wrong at all.

Women made little sense, and Eight was no exception.

Maybe she’d even take a bath. That sounded nice.

One more fare, first. With a sigh, she pulled up to the address she’d been given over the phone and parked, waiting for the anonymous caller. She was never certain about protocol in these situations. Should she honk? Should she go to the door? In her indecision, Eight merely waited, turning the radio up a little bit more as she quietly sang along to the song that was playing.

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#2012-12-19 04:07:55, as written by Saviarre

One would think that driving a cab in a town like Wing City would mean endless excitement, but no. Nothing but unappreciative bastards, muttering their intended destination and either ignoring her completely or trying to rob her. The best tip she’d gotten in her two years of driving a cab in this God-Forsaken town? Fifty dollars. She’d thought it was her lucky day! She’d been overjoyed about the fifty dollar tip… until the cops came sniffing around and confiscated her fifty as ‘evidence.’ Turned out the fucker that was generous enough to tip her fifty had actually just robbed a bank. She was unwittingly his getaway driver. And all she got was a lousy fifty bucks… that had been taken away from her and never returned. Such was Eight’s luck.

But a job was a job, and there was no way to support one’s self in this day and age without an income… and at least driving a cab was honest work. She liked to imagine stories for the people who rode in her cab. Barney the banker. Louis the construction worker. Squeak the pimp. It was her way of staying sane.

From her peripheral vision, Eight watched the man she assumed she was picking up as he locked his door. “Ending the night on a high note, eh girl?” she muttered quietly to herself before chuckling quietly just once and pretending to not notice him. Let her inner game commence.

She nodded as he mentioned the casino, popped the car into drive and turned out into traffic. Her eyes shifted to the rearview mirror and she studied the passenger for a moment. “Going to win big tonight?” she asked, trying for friendly conversation. Besides, she had a fictional story to make up for him, didn’t she?

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#2012-12-19 04:41:25, as written by Saviarre

For a few minutes, Eight felt as if the man in her back seat didn’t want to converse with her. That was alright. Many people didn’t. To them, she was as invisible as a maid that might clean their hotel room. People didn’t care how their television or their phone worked, just as long as it worked. Much could be the same for cabs. People didn’t give a rat’s ass about the driver behind the wheel for the most part as long as the destination was reached and people were on time.

She furtively stole glances at him in the mirror as she drove, trying to figure him out. Not a banker. Not a pimp. Not a salesman… Oh, maybe he’s mafia. Yes, that’s it. He’s mafia… a mobster… going to the casino to launder some money. She grinned a bit to herself as she slowed for a red light.

And then he spoke again and she looked up at him, almost surprised. She hadn’t expected him to speak any more. “Yeah, I guess,” she agreed. “I’ve been robbed a few times, though I warn you, if you hadn’t read the notice…” She gestured with a thumb in the general direction of a notice taped to the plastic divider between the driver’s seat and the back seat.

Driver carries less than $40 in cash.

This notice was taped next to a copy of her credentials, listing her as Eight McShane, authorized to drive a cab in Wing City.

“I’m not worth robbing,” she warned him, trying to catch his eye in the mirror. “Besides, I move pretty quick. I might not be deadly or anything, but I have a wicked bite when I feel threatened.” She laughed, trying to indicate that she was joking. As the light turned green, she sped up. “But yeah, I guess I’ve seen my share of interesting things. What about you? What do you do?”

She secretly hoped he was in the mafia…

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#2012-12-19 05:01:52, as written by Saviarre

Her brow arched in surprise once more as he introduced himself. She could count the number of times a passenger had introduced themselves on one hand… maybe two. Usually, if they introduced themselves, it was because they were hitting on her or because they were trying to impress her with their name, throwing it around the way Donald Trump might… or a Hilton or Vanderbilt. His introduction was simple… and didn’t seem like either he was trying to impress her or hit on her. It was almost friendly.

“I’m Eight,” she responded, almost automatically, and then gave the same explanation for the strange sounding name as she always did. “Yeah, I know it’s a number… but it’s a long story.” She met his eyes once more. Strange… it seemed like there was something missing… something under the surface that just wasn’t quite right… but if he was really in the mafia, that made sense. She noticed that he didn’t let her know what he did… just that he stole money. Well good… maybe he’d leave her a decent tip. That would make the night truly worth it.

“Evans,” she repeated his name. “It is nice to meet you. Do you go to the casino often?”

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#2012-12-19 05:26:25, as written by Saviarre

Another red light. Eight slowed, her fingers drumming on the steering wheel in impatience. “It’s not my real name… but it doesn’t matter.” She waved a dismissive hand and glanced into the rearview mirror once more. Having missed the mugging that they’d passed, focusing her attention on the road, she took advantage of the momentary stop long enough to study him a bit more thoroughly.

“I understand addiction,” she nodded, opening up a little to him before realizing herself. Shaking her head, she sped up as the light turned green once more. “Well, Evans… I have nothing planned for my night. I can wait for you. I might nip into the bar for a drink…” She hesitated, realizing herself once more, and hastily corrected herself. “Soda, I mean. Root beer.” A nervous chuckle. “But yeah, I can wait for you. You’re my last fare of the night. And…” She lifted her eyes to the mirror once more, an almost flirtatious grin reaching her lips. “I wouldn’t want you to get stuck in a cab with a psychopath. Frightening.”

The setting changes from lady-une-drive to Gambit's Bar

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#2012-12-21 02:47:47, as written by Saviarre

What cab driver didn’t have her share of fake calls? A call would come into the switchboard and she’d get the message to drive out to some place in BFE, typically as far across town as could possibly be from her current location… oh, and throw in the “be here by such and such a time”… the very act of which was damn near impossible without drawing police attention… only to show up, and nobody at the location had ordered the cab.

Eight was pretty sure that was exactly the situation as she finally got out of her cab after waiting out front of Gambits for a half an hour. Either this was a prank or someone had forgotten they wanted her. Either way, it would be worth going in, right? If it was a false call, she could take the time to relax a little and maybe have a beer. Just one. After all, she was working.

Maybe two… nobody needed to know…

Stepping inside the bar, she looked around the room and her hopes dwindled. Pretty empty. Great. Still, protocol. “Anyone here order a cab?”

That beer was sounding really really good right about now…. Nobody had to know….

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#2012-12-21 02:51:36, as written by Saviarre

Damn. So much for a beer.

Eight turned to look at the man, studying him for a moment before shrugging one shoulder and gesturing toward the door with her head, her keys jingling in her hand. “Well, I’m here. Shall we?”

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#2012-12-21 03:07:43, as written by Saviarre

Eight turned to look at the man, studying him for a moment before shrugging one shoulder and gesturing toward the door with her head, her keys jingling in her hand. “Well, I’m here. Shall we?”

Eight looked uncomprehendingly at the Russian for a moment. Was this a joke? Her eyes narrowed. “Very funny,” she muttered tersely before sighing and looking around the room. Great. So it was a prank. The plus side to that was she could have a beer… but then again, really, should she? She was on duty… driving a car… for a job… the last thing she needed was to get in trouble for being inebriated behind the wheel….

But really… what was one beer?

It wasn’t like she hadn’t driven with more than that in her system before… Eight was an alcoholic, but she would never admit it.

With a heavy sigh, Eight moved over toward the bar counter. “Whatever you’ve got on tap. Largest you got.” It was, after all, just one… may as well make it a big one.

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#2012-12-21 03:48:22, as written by Saviarre

Eight’s first thought as she saw the group enter was ‘Police.’ She straightened, examining the newcomers from the corner of a guilty eye. If they were law enforcement and they connected her to the cab out front, she was in a world of shit.

Eight didn’t want to be in a world of shit.

Feigning calmness she didn’t feel, Eight took a sip of her beer, still studying the newcomers. Not law enforcement. Soldiers. Still…. Soldiers could fuck up her day. Trying to be polite and not draw too much attention to herself, Eight was torn on what to do. Her eyes moved over to the woman that seemed to be in charge. Nodding, she smiled uneasily before taking another sip of her beer. “Nice night, innit?”

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#2012-12-21 03:55:12, as written by Saviarre

At least one of us can say that, Eight thought. She nodded before turning back to her beer. Not cops. She had figured out that they weren’t cops. That was good. Still, if anyone connected her to the cab out front, she could get into deep shit. But… she really wanted the beer. Serious bad.

Pursing her lips in thought, Eight looked at the clock over the bar. Besides, it wasn’t like she had much further to go in her shift. Another hour… not bad. She’d finish this beer, get back out there, take a few fares to wherever they wanted to go, and then bam. Home. A frozen pizza. An old episode of Futurama on Netflix… Good times. Good times.

“What made it better than expected?”

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#2012-12-21 04:09:10, as written by Saviarre

Eight nodded. “Yeah, paperwork has never been my forte.” She tilted her head back and finished her beer, looking longingly at the empty glass as she set it back on the counter. She wanted another one… but… she had a cab to drive…

Maybe she’d stop and get a six pack on her way home…. Yeah… that would work…

“What’s with the bodyguards? Are you… royalty or something?”

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#2012-12-21 04:15:51, as written by Saviarre

Great. Weapons were coming out. Eight was pretty sure that if weapons were coming out, she either shouldn’t be here or she should have another drink.

And then she heard that the woman led the Invictus. She’d heard of the Invictus. She respected the Invictus. Slowly, she grinned. “Nice to meet you!” she nodded, sitting back, not wanting to get in the way of her conversation with the other woman. “Invictus…. Wow…” she muttered to herself, reaching forward to order another beer before she even realized what she was doing.

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#2012-12-21 04:32:12, as written by Saviarre

Eight nodded, her hand automatically wrapping around the new glass of beer as it was set before her. She liked that. ’Sometimes you just have to show people you’re the opposite of what they think.’ She liked that a lot.

Here she was, sitting at Gambits, having a beer with the leader of the Invictus. This was pretty awesome. “Fatin,” she repeated. “I’m… I’m Eight.” It was times like this that she hated the name she’d chosen, but she never used her given name. “Well… Octavia, actually… but… nobody but my mother calls me that.”

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