Job

## Revised Meta

Revised for the new order and "Volunteered"

**Timing:** 20 April 2025

**Setting:** Assorted locales in metro Sydney

## Revised Text

You slide onto the park bench next to the person with the sightseeing map, tilt your head back. "You know the Japanese tourist look doesn't suit you, ay?"

Paper rattles and The Narrator says, "You're conflating East Asias again."

Snort.

"You still don't have a mobile."

"The radiation's bad for you."

The Narrator makes a sound which might be a laugh. "I would like you to do a job for me."

"Excuse /**me**." Frown. "/**I'm** a /**respectable** member of the community." Sniff. "They don't /**do** 'jobs'."

"I think you'll take this one."

Quirk an eyebrow.

"You will be doing a great many people much good."

Deadpan[,] "You think retirement's made me some kind of humanitarian?"

The Narrator almost smiles. "Of course not. You will be well compensated."

"I'm happy with my pension, so, no, thanks."

The Narrator sprawls, shuffles the map. "I shouldn't have to remind you, but—" Checks a pocket watch. "—you do owe me."

There's nothing weird about how it's said, but the blood freezes in your veins.

Swallow.

Deep breath, force a cheerful tone. "So, why me?"

"My local connections lack the finesse this job requires—"

"And it's a limited-time offer, so you can't import your usual talent."

"With a deduction like that, should I worry for my empire?"

Snort.

The Narrator hands you the (perfectly) folded map, glides from the bench. "You have everything you'll need. If you would excuse me." Bows.

Bob your head.

The Narrator melts into the crowd.

Stand and stretch, wander over to a quiet cafe.

Order a mug of tea, check the map.

Ah.

This brings back memories.

The Narrator even scored you a keycard.

But, if The Narrator's got the timing wrong—

Gulp some tea.

—this could get dicey; personal security on such a bigwig will /**suck**.

Sigh.

Square up.

Now, if you follow instructions, you have three hours to kill and a whole city to kill them in.

Drop cash on the table, push off, [wander to the waterfront, the plaza behind The Professor's old office.

Plonk on a bench, sprawl a little, watch the water.

An idea keeps nagging.

Scrub your face, shove to your feet, plod to the nearest payphone.

Quarters in the slot, press in a new number from memory.

「「Who are you?」」 snaps Blossom in Cantonese.

Guess you learned /**something** useful in Hong Kong.

"'s Logan."

Her voice softens. ""I thought you didn't have a mobile.""

"I don't. This's a payphone."

A sigh. ""So, what's up, Buttercup?"

Brain locks.

""You're about to do something stupid, ay?""

Get unstuck, smile. "More nostalgic than stupid."

""It'd suck if you survived Kaiju just to bleed out in a back alley.""

"That's not Plan A."

You can hear her roll her eyes. ""You're hopeless.""

"Pretty much." Deep breath, swallow. "You an' Button have time for a visit tomorrow? Or before you leave? Whenev—"

""We'd love it!"" Blossom chuckles. ""I know you like to sleep in, so how about right after normal people's lunch time? Thirteen-hundred?""

Huff. "Fine. Your place cool?"

""Perfect.""

Rub your neck with your free hand. "This's been nice and all, but I've got work to do."

Blossom sighs. ""Take care of yourself, Buttercup.""

"Always do, Orchid—"

""It's 'Tang Lan'.""

Deep breath. "You take care of yourself and your Button."

"Of course. See you tomorrow.""

Croak, "See you." Hang up.

Straighten up, point your feet into] the shopping district.

Blocks of shivering Sydneysiders later, you haul yourself into the first shop selling bean gear you spot.

Scope the place—and the prices.

Christ, these wheelie-things ('prams', provides a scrap of Jack) cost more than two months' rent on your flat.

How do they pay for all this crap?

Charlie must make better money than you thought.

"This model comes in the most colours," offers a cheerful voice.

Turn.

A person with hair like Book's—well, no one has ... never mind—and nearly young enough to ride in one of these things.

"The one on the left /**is** the most expensive, but it's also the most cost-effective." Clerk smiles. "When are you expecting?"

What the h—

"You and your partner? When's your baby due?"

"I'm not—" Shiiiit.

"May I get you a catalogue?"

"Plushies?"

"Right this way!" The baby bounces toward the back of the shop.

Hunch shoulders, plod after.

A calico cat—flooffy, as always—ducks under a shelf of blankets way off to your right.

Roll your eyes.

Four months without Drifting and you're /**still** seeing the damn things.

"Here you go!" The baby gestures to a wall absolutely covered with fluffy things. "They're sorted by age, starting with toys appropriate for newborns on the left." Smiles winningly. "How old is your tyke?"

Huff, "It's for a friend's."

All smarm: "Of course, Mx.

Button's bigger than Jupiter, smaller than Fenna, so, "Ten months?"

"Oooo, they're so /**cute** at that age!" coos the baby. "The ones through here—" Points. "—should be juuuuuust right for your little one."

Grunt.

"I'll leave you to it." Pats your arm—

You don't break their fingers.

—bounces away.

Poke through the plush.

Some orange catches your eye.

A tiger.

That ... that seems right.

Tuck the floppy cat under your arm, amble to the clerk.

It's the same baby at the register.

Wonderful.

"You found one!" Claps. "And what a cutie!" Turns it to and fro. "Your baby's gonna /**love** it."

"/**Friend's** tyke."

"Oh, of course. A /**friend's**." Nestles the plushie in a bag-nest of tissue paper.

Glower, pay for the fluffball.

Saunter for the door, bag under your arm.

""Have a lovely day, Mx!""

Door closes behind you, bells clanking.

Take a deep breath.

It wasn't that annoying the last three times.

Sigh, shake it off.

Still two hours to kill.

Should probably stow the cat before going to work.

Amble to the station, plug a quarter into one of the lockers, take the key, tuck the fluffball inside.

Stomp on the urge to pat its fuzzy [ears.

Turn] on your heel and vanish into the city people.

Stroll halfway to the target, the long way, of course.

Stop at a cafe for a snack.

A sandwich, tall glass of water.

Tummy's full enough, enough time's gone by.

Go time.

Pay your bill, saunter out.

Take the long way to the hotel.

Push right through the front door, bold as brass, own the space, swagger across the lobby to the lifts.

Person in a snappy suit's already pressed the call button.

Step up beside them and wait, hands in pockets, rocking on heels.

Let them on first.

A fat tabby follows you, disappears in a back corner.

"What floor?" asks Snappy.

Drawl, "Penthouse."

Snappy does a double-take.

Look down your nose, incline your head at the panel.

Snappy shrugs, pokes the button, hops off at the second floor.

Oh well. Company would've made this next bit awkward, anyway.

Gloves go on.

Up, up, up you go to the penthouse level.

Step out of the lift, swagger straight to your old favourite room.

Wonder where Ed is these days.

Hopefully far, far away from you.

For his sake.

Slot in the keycard.

Light blinks to green.

Bolt retracts.

Ease the door open.

Peachy keen.

Step through, scan the space.

All clear.

Aim for the table in the dining area.

Laptop's right where The Narrator wrote it would be and the—

""—gon' make you chase—""

Singing.

""—it, you got to be patient, I like—""

Squeaky, /**tone-deaf** singing—

""—my men patient—""

—from the bedroom.

Duck behind the door, out of the singer's line of sight.

"—more patience ...."

A blond strolls in, damp long hair up in a ponytail, dressed in a t-shirt and blue denims.

That's a familiar ponytail, a familiar walk.

Oh, happy Easter to you.

Slink from your hiding spot into step behind her.

Wrap her up neat as a present in a choke-hold.

You've got twenty centimeters and more than a dozen kilos on her and you haven't been playing god from behind a desk for a decade.

Lift her clean off her feet.

She kicks your shins, claws at your sleeves and gloves, but she's got no prayer without leverage.

You grin.

Lean in close to her ear, hiss, "Mess with another mum or baby and I will hunt you down and finish the job, ay?"

She squeaks.

And then Caitlin Lightcap stops struggling, sags against you.

Chuckle.

Ease her to the floor.

Hop on the spot—a little—to celebrate.

Been /**dreaming** of doing that for /**years**.

Feels just as good as you expected.

Shake out the glee.

Back to the job, Jones.

Glance around.

Nab a pillow from the couch, bin from beside the desk.

Tuck the cushion under Lightcap's sleeping head.

Set the bin right in front of her face for when she wakes up and inevitably needs to chuck.

Dust off your gloves.

Step back to the laptop, unplug the portable hard drive, slip it into the anti-static baggie The Narrator gave you, tuck it in your inside pocket.

Step light to the door and out and over to the lifts.

Call the lift, hop inside, press the button for the lobby.

Down, down, down you go.

Swagger out, cross the lobby, salute the camera watching the front door.

Back to the station, retrieve the tiger, catch the train back to the old homestead.

A few tree-lined blocks and you're back at your building.

Up the stairs, down the hall, unlock your door.

Step inside, hang up your coat, your keys, ditch your shoes under the foyer table.

The Narrator waits at your dining table.

Of course.

Snicket stares, ears flat, from the kitchen pass-through.

Take the seat opposite The Narrator, bob your head.

Set the hard drive in the center of the table, announce, "Job's done."

The Narrator picks it up, makes it disappear into a dark grey trench coat. "Did you check the contents?" says The Narrator.

Snicket hops from the counter to the floor—

"Don't care." Cross your arms. "My job was to bring you the thing and I brought you the thing." Lean back. "I believe I'm supposed to be 'well compensated' for bringing you the thing?"

—from the floor into your lap—

The Narrator slides a fat envelope across the table.

—drapes himself across your shoulders.

You scritch Snicket's ears.

The Narrator raises an eyebrow.

"You trust banks?"

"On occasion."

"Know of a good one in your neighbourhood?"

"I might."

"Take that and start a college fund for—" Deep, deep breath. "—Blossom's kid."

Both The Narrator's eyebrows climb a little higher.

Shrug.

The envelope disappears into one of The Narrator's coat pockets. "The hard drive is Drift Science's master copy of dossiers on every adult and child they have or are using as test subjects. All their names, all their genealogies, all their medical histories, all that was done to them."

"You'll tell them all what they need to know?"

"Of course."

Grunt.

"Anything about which you are curious?"

"Already know what I need to."

The Narrator nods, glides from the chair.

Grin.

The door opens.

"There is one thing."

Silence.

"Was Lightcap a bonus or an oversight?"

The door closes.

.

Later, as you tuck yourself into bed, your pillow crunches.

Frown, investigate.

- I don't make oversights. -

## Original Meta

**Timing**: within a couple of days of "Weird", probably 20 April 2025

**Setting**: assorted locales around Sydney

## Original Text

You slide onto the park bench next to the person with the sightseeing map, tilt your head back. "You know the Japanese tourist look doesn't suit you, ay?"

Paper rattles and Wei says, "You're conflating East Asias again."

Snort.

"You still don't have a mobile."

"The radiation's bad for you."

Wei makes a sound which might be a laugh. "I would like you to do a job for me."

"Excuse /**me**." Frown. "/**I'm** a /**respectable** member of the community." Sniff. "They don't /**do** 'jobs'."

"I think you'll take this one."

Quirk an eyebrow.

"You will be doing a great many people much good."

Deadpan. "You think retirement's made me some kind of humanitarian?"

Wei almost smiles. "Of course not. You will be well compensated."

"I'm happy with my pension, so, no, thanks."

Wei sprawls, shuffles the map. "I shouldn't have to remind you, but—" Checks a pocket watch. "—you do owe me."

There's nothing weird about how it's said, but the hair on the back of your neck stands on end.

Swallow.

"You're a right low bastard."

Wei shrugs, 'I've been called worse'.

Roll your eyes. "'course you have." Side-eye Wei. "So, why me?"

"My local connections lack the finesse this job requires—"

"And it's a limited-time offer, so you can't import your usual talent."

"With a deduction like that, should I worry for my empire?"

Snort.

Wei hands you the (perfectly) folded map, glides from the bench. "You have everything you'll need. If you would excuse me." Bows.

Bob your head.

Wei melts into the crowd.

Stand and stretch, wander over to a quiet cafe.

Order a mug of tea, check the map.

Ah.

This brings back memories.

Wei even scored you a keycard.

But, if Wei's got the timing wrong—

Gulp some tea.

—this could get dicey; personal security on such a bigwig will /**suck**.

Sigh.

Square up.

Now, if you follow instructions, you have three hours to kill and a whole city to kill them in.

Drop cash on the table, push off, point your feet deeper into the shopping district.

Blocks of shivering Sydneysiders later, you duck into the first shop selling bean gear you spot.

Scope the place—and the prices.

Christ, these wheelie-things ('prams', provides a scrap of Jack) cost more than two months' rent on your flat.

How do they pay for all this crap?

Charlie must make better money than you thought.

"This model comes in the most colours," offers a cheerful voice.

Turn.

A person with hair like Book's—well, no one has ... never mind—and nearly young enough to ride in one of these things.

"The one on the left /**is** the most expensive, but it's also the most cost-effective." Clerk smiles. "When are you expecting?"

What the h—

"You and your partner? When's your baby due?"

"I'm not—" Shiiiit.

"May I get you a catalogue?"

"Plushies?"

"Right this way!" The baby bounces toward the back of the shop.

Hunch shoulders, plod after.

A calico cat—flooffy, as always—ducks under a shelf of blankets way off to your right.

Roll your eyes.

Four months without Drifting and you're /**still** seeing the damn things.

"Here you go!" The baby gestures to a wall absolutely covered with fluffy things. "They're sorted by age, starting with toys appropriate for newborns on the left." Smiles winningly. "How old is your tyke?"

Huff, "It's for a friend's."

All smarm: "Of course, Mx.

Sigh. "A little more than eight months."

"Oooo, they're so /**cute** at that age!" coos the baby. "The ones through here—" Points. "—should be juuuuuust right for your little one."

Grunt.

"I'll leave you to it." Pats your arm—

You don't break their fingers.

—bounces away.

Poke through the plush.

Some orange catches your eye.

A tiger.

That ... that seems right.

Tuck the floppy cat under your arm, amble to the clerk.

It's the same baby at the register.

Wonderful.

"You found one!" Claps. "And what a cutie!" Turns it to and fro. "Your baby's gonna /**love** it."

"/**Friend's** tyke."

"Oh, of course. A /**friend's**." Nestles the plushie in a bag-nest of tissue paper.

Glower, pay for the fluffball with cash.

Saunter for the door, bag under your arm.

""Have a lovely day, Mx!""

Door closes behind you, bells clanking.

Take a deep breath.

It wasn't that annoying the last three times.

Sigh.

Still two hours to kill.

Scope the scene.

An idea tickles.

If habits hold, they should be ....

Wander to the waterfront, the plaza behind The Professor's old office.

A flash of bubblegum pink in black hair.

Slide onto the bench next to her. "'ey, Orchid."

She jumps.

Button, jostled from nursing, grunts, smacks tiny pink lips.

"Sorry, Button," soothes Blossom, kisses the top of Button's little green hat.

Button flicks big brown eyes over both of you, mouths about, goes back to an early dinner.

"It's 'Wei Lan', Buttercup."

"I told you: I don't speak Chinese." Grin.

Blossom laughs.

"Here." Offer the bag. "This's for the bean."

"Hands are kinda occupied here."

Oh. Right.

Set the bag between you and Blossom.

"'s a plushie. A tiger. For the bean."

Blossom's eyes get shiny.

Rub your neck. "I got one for each of Jack's kids. A plushie. Not a tiger."

Blossom nudges your shoulder. "Relax, Buttercup. It's a toy, not an engagement ring."

Huff.

"Thanks. Button'll love it."

Sprawl a little, watch the water.

Button makes soft eating noises.

"Why'd you hunt us down?"

Shrug.

"You're about to do something stupid, ay?"

"Not so much stupid as old-fashioned."

"It'd suck if you survived Kaiju just to bleed out in some crap back alley."

{Grin. }"I won't die, then."

Blossom rolls her eyes. "You're hopeless."

"Pretty much." Deep breath, swallow. "'m sorry. 'bout what I said that last day in the 'Dome."

"The whole 'not caring what happened to me' thing?"

Cringe. "Yea. That."

"You were trying to show them hurting me wasn't getting what they wanted from you." Smiles up at you. "I know you didn't mean a word of it."

Raise an eyebrow.

"You went right back to your quarters and called the cavalry." Shifts Button. "Wei told me."

Grunt.

Blossom looks down. "You done, Button?"

Button pushes away from her, stares at you.

Make a face.

Button smiles a whole-face smile.

"Here." Blossom eases Button into your arms. "I need both hands to close up."

Tuck Button inside your jacket.

Button giggles against your chest.

Give the bean a little bounce.

More giggles from your coat.

Blossom grins at you, laughs, "/**Totally** a natural."

Huff.

"Never imagined you would be good with kids."

"Drifting, uh, crosses people up, yea?" Look down at Button. "Pretty sure I caught it from Jack."

Blossom laughs.

Button giggles again.

You feel your eyes crinkle.

"I may like this version of Buttercup even better than the old one."

Sigh. "'m not sure what I think of him yet."

"It's a big change for a sociopath to start liking kids." Her eyes twinkle. "It'll take some getting used to, I'm sure."

Snort.

Button wiggles into your armpit.

Nudge the bean more firmly onto your lap with your elbow.

A grumpy noise and Button takes hold of coat lining.

"Okay," says Blossom, cringing a little. "Mum's separation anxiety is kicking in: gimme my baby back."

Extract Button from inside your coat.

Kid reappears clutching the map from Wei.

"What kind of kid are you raising, here?" Grin, pry the map out of Button's chubby hands. "Bean hasn't even had a birthday and's already picking pockets."

Blossom wipes her eyes, snickers, "Probably picking it up from you."

"Definitely not the first time I've been called a bad influence."

"I can only imagine."

Huff, "Go back to mum, ye little criminal." Slide Button onto Blossom's lap.

Blossom wraps a hand around Button's central pudge.

"'ey, Button."

Button turns those huge eyes on you again.

"This's yours." Scruff the tiger out of the bag, nuzzle the bean's tummy with it.

Button squeaks, squishes the tiger with both arms, coos, "Kit."

Blossom leans over, whispers in Button's ear, "You like Kit, Button?"

Button giggles, squeezes the tiger tighter.

Push to your feet. "This's been nice and all, but I've got work."

Blossom sighs. "Take care of yourself, Buttercup."

"Always do, Orchid." Tip an imaginary hat. "You take care of yourself and your Button."

"Always do, Buttercup." Blossom smiles.

You turn on your heel and vanish into the city people.

Stroll halfway to the target, the long way, of course.

Stop at a cafe for a snack.

A sandwich, tall glass of water.

Tummy's full enough, enough time's gone by.

Go time.

Pay your bill, saunter out.

Take the long way to the hotel.

Push right through the front door, bold as brass, own the space, swagger across the lobby to the lifts.

Person in a snappy suit's already pressed the call button.

Step up beside them and wait, hands in pockets, rocking on heels.

Let them on first.

A fat tabby follows you, disappears in a back corner.

"What floor?" asks Snappy.

Drawl, "Penthouse."

Snappy does a double-take.

Look down your nose.

Guess your good wool isn't penthouse grade.

Or your five o'clock shadow.

Incline your head at the panel.

Snappy shrugs, pokes the button, hops off at the second floor.

Suit must get too rumpled taking the stairs.

Gloves go on.

Up, up, up you go to the penthouse level.

Step out of the lift, swagger straight to your old favourite room.

Wonder where Ed is these days.

Hopefully far, far away from you.

For his sake.

Slot in the keycard.

Light blinks to green.

Bolt retracts.

Ease the door open.

Peachy keen.

Step through, scan the space.

All clear.

Aim for the table in the dining area.

Laptop's right where Wei wrote it would be and the—

""—gon' make you chase—""

Singing.

""—it, you got to be patient, I like—""

Squeaky, /**tone-deaf** singing—

""—my men patient—""

—from the bedroom.

Duck behind the door, out of all lines of sight.

"—more patience ...."

A blond strolls in, damp long hair up in a ponytail, dressed in a t-shirt and blue denims.

That's a familiar ponytail, a familiar walk.

Oh, happy Easter to you.

Slink from your hiding spot into step behind her.

Wrap her up neat as a present in a choke-hold.

You've got twenty centimeters and more than a dozen kilos on her and you haven't been playing god from behind a desk for a decade.

Lift her clean off her feet.

She kicks your shins, claws at your sleeves and gloves, but she's got no prayer without leverage.

You grin.

Lean in close to her ear, hiss, "Mess with another mum or baby and I will hunt you down and finish the job, ay?"

She squeaks.

And then Caitlin Lightcap stops struggling, sags against you.

Chuckle.

Ease her to the floor.

Hop on the spot—a little—to celebrate.

Been /**dreaming** of doing that for /**years**.

Feels just as good as you expected.

Shake out the glee.

Back to the job, Jones.

Glance around.

Nab a pillow from the couch, bin from beside the desk.

Tuck the cushion under Lightcap's sleeping head.

Set the bin right in front of her face for when she wakes up and inevitably needs to chuck.

Dust off your gloves.

Step back to the laptop, unplug the portable hard drive, slip it into the anti-static baggie Wei gave you, tuck it in your inside pocket.

Step light to the door and out and over to the lifts.

Call the lift, hop inside, press the button for the lobby.

Down, down, down you go.

Swagger out, cross the lobby, salute the camera watching the front door.

Nearest station, catch the train back to the old homestead.

A few tree-lined blocks and you're back at your building.

Up the stairs, down the hall, unlock your door.

Step inside, hang up your coat, your keys, ditch your shoes under the foyer table.

Wei waits at your dining table.

Of course.

Snicket stares, ears flat, from the kitchen pass-through.

Take the seat opposite Wei, bob your head.

Set the hard drive in the center of the table, announce, "Job's done."

Wei picks up the hard drive, from the table, makes it disappear into a dark grey trench coat. "Did you check the contents?" says Wei.

Snicket hops from the counter to the floor—

"Don't care." Cross your arms. "My job was to bring you the thing and I brought you the thing." Lean back. "I believe I'm supposed to be 'well compensated' for bringing you the thing?"

—from the floor into your lap--

Wei slides a fat envelope across the table.

--drapes himself across your shoulders.

You scritch Snicket's ears.

Wei raises an eyebrow.

"You trust banks?"

"On occasion."

"Know of a good local one?"

"I might."

"Split that up and start college funds for Jack's beans and Blossom's kid."

Both Wei's eyebrows climb a little higher.

"'s'not like I need to buy that many cat toys."

Snicket stops purring, sticks his tail in your ear.

Swat at him.

Wei almost smiles; the envelope disappears into a coat pocket. "The hard drive is Drift Science's master copy of dossiers on every adult and child they have or are using as test subjects. All their names, all their genealogies, all their medical histories, all that was done to them."

"You'll tell them all what they need to know?"

"Of course."

Grunt.

"Anything about which you are curious?"

Shake your head. "Pretty blissful in my current state of ignorance."

Wei nods, glides from the chair.

Grin.

The door opens.

"There is one thing."

Silence.

"Was Lightcap a bonus or an oversight?"

The door closes.

Later, as you tuck yourself into bed, your pillow crunches.

Frown, investigate.

- I don't make oversights. -

.