Sipp Morning (H 1.4)

The suddenness of his laugh makes my eyes shut quickly, as if expecting a blow, but then he only stands, towering over me and ensuring I feel just as small as I know I am in the world. I don't stand until he's finished speaking, then I get to my feet, resisting the urge to touch my harness to comfort myself with the fact that it is still mine.

"Does watching my back include letting me go back to work at the Belly? It's a good place for me to collect gossip and rumors. Getting people drunk enough helps too."

I may not be getting ahead for the next month, but I will be surviving and sometimes that's all you can expect in this sea-soaked world. I don't relish the idea of handing over everything to the Sippians at the end of the night, but I'd relish relinquishing my job entirely even less.

When he mentions Salem, I'm quiet for a long moment, tempted to tell him that I learned to keep myself warm at night younger than she is now. Instead, I say, "Well. I assume you want me to come back here when my shifts are over." It's an offer, to continue staying with Salem even if I'm arriving long after she's gone to sleep. If it keeps me in the penthouse instead of down below, I'll take it. "I'll need a ride back. Or I can buy one with some of Karo's wages."

I don't follow Lucky Strike this time. I'm not sure if he expects me to, but he'll have to ask - with more than just walking away - if he does. Instead, I turn away and sweep my hands back through my hair, exhaling a long breath that carries a quiet curse quickly captured by the breeze.

Finding Hard Strike's killer is one thing, but gathering enough evidence to convince the doubters is something else altogether, and I have to do it broke, displaced, and secretly. "I'm going to be a slave here forever," I murmur to myself.

I almost don't want to stir up the Whispers, but I can't help but reach out. 'What will it take for me to get a name out of you?'

"Kiwi," one of them whispers. "Bring Kiwi to us and we will provide the name."

There is a whispering laughter from another voice, "Prove that the living is more important than the dead."

Twenty-four hours ago, I would have scoffed at the Whisper's request. I would have told them there's nothing after life, no spark of Kiwi left to hand over, but after last night, their laughter makes my stomach turn. Am I supposed to be the arbiter of the afterlife now?

I close my eyes and press my fingertips to the bridge of my nose. 'Absolutely not. Forget I asked. I'll do it myself. I don't need you.'

With that, I head toward the ladder to go back into the nightmare. I can't hide upstairs forever. I need to see what I can learn from the rest of the Sippians. Maybe one of them knows more than they're admitting. Maybe one of them did it.

You take the short ladder to the stairs and head down from the nice top floor to the smoky floors where most of the Sipps live and work. The Sipps may play hard, but they work hard, too. There are Sipps scraping and cleaning weapons and equipment, some of them are tending hanging plants, others are scaling and curing fish caught from below, a few minding the gennies, and there's even a guy showing the dozen or so kids how to tie knots. The Sipps don't pay attention to you, but they know you're not one of them if they don't recognize you.

Bristol spots you and comes over to take your arm and pull you away from the others.

It's almost impressive, watching everyone working away at their tasks with such practiced focus. But I've scarcely started to study them before Bristol pulls me away. I don't resist her, but I'm surprised by her intensity.

"I was looking for you, actually," I tell her. My eyes scan the room again, as if I might find a clue about Hard Strike's killer written on one of their faces, as if anyone would be so stupid. I look back at her and instead of stating my reason for being here, I ask, "What's going on down here? Everyone seems so busy."

The Ivies are the closest thing I've experienced to something like this, but we weren't friends, not a community. We weren't working TOGETHER so much as competing. Who could climb highest, fastest? Who could reach the best loot first? Who could ingratiate themselves to the Gardeners to get the best food, best blanket, best sleeping place? Who could you throw under the tide to get ahead?

I don't have a place in my book for what this is.

I bring my gaze back to Bristol as she searches for secrets about last night. I think of Lucky Strike shedding more and more of his clothing, stripping off his shirt. If I hadn't asked him to step away while I changed, would he have invited me to his bed instead of sending me to Salem's room? And if I had gone with him instead, would I still have pulled Kiwi back from his happy beyond?

I blink the thought away and focus on the woman in front of me. I remember the way Bristol looked at Lucky Strike as he headed upstairs, the Whispers divulging her desires to me. I don't want her jealousy, but if the Sippians think Lucky wants me for more than doing dishes, that might prevent them from hurting me, or killing me outright. I lick my lips and instead of answering her directly, instead say, "He said I could keep working my shifts at the Belly, and that you could give me rides there and back."

Bristol's commendations fall flat on my heart. A congratulations for getting to work there while I'm not working here isn't precisely the praise I pine for.

She asks what Lucky tastes like, and I'm tempted to tell her he tastes exactly like I imagine every Sippian does - like old cigarettes and fish. Instead, I inhale a short breath, lean closer, and say quietly, quickly, like it's a secret since that seems to be all she wants, "I'm not supposed to talk about that."

I wonder what that is dripping from beneath her helmet. Thinking back to the times I've seen her at the Belly, I'm not sure I've ever seen her without it. It's not uncommon for people to wear the same thing day in and day out. I tend to change up my look more often personally, though I suppose now I may be stuck in this sea of yellow until the month is up. The thought is more sobering than my practical side cares to admit.

"Are you okay?" I watch her eyes, wondering what she's hiding. "Do you need..." I'm not sure what I can offer here. At the Belly, I at least have an arsenal of options available. A drink. Food. Napkins. A better seat. A reason to step outside. "...something?"

I watch Bristol go, torn between following her and satiating my curiosity and taking the opportunity to roam free without my designated "minder" on my heels. If she'll be the one ferrying me, I'll have plenty of other opportunities to learn more about whatever she's hiding. Who knows when I'll next have this amount of freedom.

After I've thought it, I realize how sad it is that, already, I view this as freedom.

I head further into the room. If Hedges and Benson think Lucky Strike killed his mother, then they must not have done it, but I'm not so easily convinced that it wasn't an inside job. If one of the Sippians pulled the trigger, they'd certainly be motivated to keep it quiet now. The first Sippian I can think of having an excuse to seek out, unfortunately, is Karo. I roam the space a bit, head on a swivel, looking for him.

You don't have to search for long - you hear Karo standing on the edge of a balcony as another Sipp is trying to teach him to fish with his off hand. Karo is milking this injury and you're pretty sure the Sippian knows it.