Incorporated with DeepSeek
The Rhine-Ruhr Sprawl breathed its usual toxic sigh outside Agnes’s lean-to, nestled in the crumbling shell of a pre-Crash parking garage. Rain, thin and acidic, slicked the ferrocrete. Agnes woke to the familiar gnawing – not hunger, not yet, but the deep, insistent *lack* where her meds should be. Her hands trembled as she fumbled for the small, rattling bottle. Two little blue pills chased with cheap synth-vodka, the burn a temporary anchor against the chill seeping through the scavenged plastic sheeting. *Corporate Fonts Charity*, the faded logo on her worn credstick mocked her each month. Just enough to keep her teetering on the edge of oblivion, not enough to climb out.
Shivering, she pulled on layers – a threadbare sweater, a patched thermal jacket the colour of mud, fingerless gloves. Her ritual began. Cigarette lit, the acrid smoke a thin shield against the Sprawl-stink, she shuffled towards her sanctuary: **The Local Inn**.
It squatted in a converted three-story house, sandwiched between a flickering neon-strip club and a boarded-up data-den. Light spilled warmly from its reinforced, synth-cloth insulated windows, a beacon against the perpetual twilight of the zone. Pushing through the heavy, scarred door was like entering another world. Heat washed over her, thick with the smells of real coffee, frying soy-krill patties, and the faint, comforting mustiness of shared humanity.
"Morning, Agnes," rumbled Barry, the massive ork behind the counter. His tusks gleamed in the low light as he wiped a mug. "Bit nippy out there, eh? Grab a seat near the vent."
The Local Inn defied categorization. One corner held shelves of essentials – synth-rice, nutrient paste, recycled toilet paper – cheaper and often better quality than the Stuffer Shack down the block. Another section had mismatched tables where folks nursed synth-caf or cheap beer. Near the back, a small kitchen served surprisingly decent meals during designated hours. But mostly, it was a place to *be*. To escape the biting wind, the predatory stares of gangers, the crushing indifference of the megacorps whose glittering arcologies loomed just a few kilometers away, separated by rivers of grime and razor-wire.
Agnes sank into her usual booth, the vinyl cracked but clean. She ordered synth-caf, black, and nursed it, letting the warmth seep into her bones. Around her, the low hum of conversation: a dwarf mechanic arguing about cred with a human rigger over schematics displayed on a battered tablet; a tired-looking elf mother trying to soothe a fussy child; a couple of ork teens huddled over a pirated trid show on a shared commlink. Shadowrunners, maybe, or just kids dreaming of the edge. Corporate police patrols occasionally drifted past the windows, mirrored helmets impassive, but they never came in. Gangers from the local Razor Cats clique sometimes slouched in for coffee, unusually subdued, their eyes wary, not predatory. Agnes had seen the same look on corp security near the Ares gates. *Respect*, or maybe *fear*.
She always wondered. How did Barry keep the heat cranked? How did the real vegetables – actual carrots, sometimes even a bruised apple – appear on the shelves at prices the Stuffer Shack couldn't match? Why did no one chase out Old Man Henderson who’d been snoring in the corner booth since dawn?
Her answer arrived mid-morning. A low, powerful growl cut through the Sprawl’s background noise, growing rapidly closer. Not the whine of an electric delivery truck, but the throaty roar of a high-performance internal combustion engine. Agnes shuffled to the smoker's alcove tacked onto the side – just a roof and waist-high walls open to the alley. Lighting another cigarette, she watched.
The van was a beast. Low-slung, wide-tracked, armored panels subtly bulging under a coat of grime. It looked more like something prepping for the Dakar Rally than delivering groceries. It screeched to a halt outside the Inn's reinforced garage door, which rolled up instantly. Two figures jumped out, clad in matte-black armored jackets and full-face helmets with mirrored visors. They moved with terrifying efficiency. In less than three minutes, crates – some heavy, some smelling faintly of earth and produce, others sealed and unmarked – were unloaded from the van's secured interior into the garage. No pleasantries, no signatures. The heavier crate made a distinct *clunk* that didn't sound like potatoes. As the van roared away, vanishing into the Sprawl’s arteries before the garage door even fully closed, Barry emerged, wiping his hands on a rag. He gave Agnes a curt nod. "Delivery day. Good stuff comin' in."
Agnes inhaled smoke. "Those drivers... look like they mean business, Barry."
Barry’s smile didn't reach his eyes. "Best in the business, Agnes. Fast, reliable. Don't ask questions, don't like *being* asked questions." He paused, his gaze drifting towards the Razor Cats loitering across the street. "Keeps the riff-raff respectful. Remember old Slick Tony? Thought this place was an easy score back when we opened?"
Agnes did. Slick Tony and his crew had vanished. Rumors swirled – found in a dumpster with their cyberware ripped out, dissolved in vats of industrial cleaner, vanished into the hold of an outbound freighter. The whispers always ended the same: "*The Local Inn drivers. They don't just deliver groceries.*"
Lunch was a small luxury. Agnes used a sliver of her dwindling cred for the daily special: a surprisingly hearty soy-stew with actual chunks of vegetable. Barry slid her a single glass of rough, red wine – only served with meals, during meal times. "Warms the core, Agnes," he said quietly. She sipped it, the warmth spreading, momentarily easing the persistent ache in her joints. She watched the room. The mechanic and rigger were sharing a platter of synth-fries now, laughing. The elf mother got her child to eat some stew. Henderson snored on. The place hummed with a fragile sense of community, a shared defiance against the cold indifference outside. People lingered for hours over a single coffee, reading recycled news-sheets, playing cards, just *existing* in the warmth and relative safety Barry’s strange oasis provided.
Later, nursing a final synth-caf as dusk painted the Sprawl in bruised purples and oranges, Agnes overheard two younger women at the next booth. "...heard they got jobs down south, through the Inn's contacts! Said it was warm, like *real* warm. Sunshine. Place called... Sicily?"
"Corporate Fonts wouldn't even spit on us," the other muttered. "Barry got 'em transport?"
"Yeah. Said the drivers handle 'special relocations' too. Costs a chunk, but... sunshine."
Agnes thought of the van’s roar, the drivers' silent efficiency, the heavy crate’s *clunk*. She thought of Slick Tony. The warmth of the stew and wine warred with a deeper chill. This place, this fragile warmth, this community... it was built on something dark. Something delivered in a rally car disguised as a grocery van by men who looked like corporate wetwork teams.
Finally, the meds wearing thin, the synth-vodka calling from her pocket, Agnes shuffled out into the biting evening. She paused at the entrance, looking back at the warm glow of The Local Inn. Barry gave her a wave. Further down the street, a pair of Razor Cats deliberately looked away.
Her lean-to was freezing. She crawled into her insulated tent-bed, pulling the blankets tight – blankets Barry's staff had shown her how to layer for maximum warmth. She took a long pull from the vodka bottle, the fire in her throat momentarily banishing the cold. Her body heat would build, eventually, if she didn't drink *too* much. Outside, the Sprawl growled and screeched. Somewhere, a siren wailed.
She thought of the warm south, of Sicily. She thought of the silent drivers and their heavy crates. She thought of the Corporate Fonts cred chit, barely enough to keep her poisoned and numb. Then she thought of the stew, the wine, the heat, the shared silence in the booth next to Henderson’s snores, the way the gangers kept their distance.
*Brutal deaths,* the whispers said. *Best in the business,* Barry said.
Agnes pulled the blankets higher, the synth-cloth rough against her cheek. The world outside was a cold, hard place. The Local Inn was warm. Sometimes, in the shadows between the corporate lights and the crushing poverty, warmth had a price, and it wasn't always paid in nuyen. She closed her eyes, listening to the distant, fading roar of an engine that might have been the wind, or might have been a van heading somewhere dark and necessary, keeping the fragile heat alive for one more day.
