<strong>RUTH</strong><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide</div><div class="spoiler_body">Esther's like, "So, what?"<br/><br/>She tugs her chair out from behind the desk.  It's one of the kind with wheels, and better yet, the wheels are still on it, and she rolls back up to the desk, starts collecting her cards and sorting them in a tidy pile.  Cringe has a lot of reach, it's true, but none of that reach really threatens Esther; Cringe hasn't got much of anything she wants, and if she did, there wouldn't be much to stop Esther from taking it.  That's sort of the way Esther runs things here; she takes what she wants, but she doesn't want for much.<br/><br/>"Anise is the cute one, right?  'If it the Golden Age hadn't ended, I'd be a princess'?  So what are you going to do about it?  My advice: Find out who did it and put a bullet in 'em.  Stop that shit where it starts.  Or make nice with Cringe, but then why bother with the gun?"  She takes the gathered deck of cards and taps it on its side, <em>knock knock knock</em> on the desk.<br/><br/>"You want me to march in there and take care of it for you, you know the price." <em>The price.</em>  Ruth had heard it before, but not often; Esther had put it on the table in the past and never felt a need to bring it up again.  What she'd said was, "You join the gang, move your shit into the compound, you're one of mine and nobody will ever fuck with you again.  Think about it."  That was a long time ago, though, and nobody'd really fucked with Ruth since then, except maybe Esther herself, but at least it was usually mutually beneficial.  Now that offer hung in the air again.<br/><br/>Now <strong>Ruth</strong>, what makes it such an ugly choice to throw in, official-like, with the Boss?  What do you do?</div></div><br/><strong>AMBROSEA</strong><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide</div><div class="spoiler_body">It's late afternoon, and it is terribly, terribly hot outside; the sun is casting its rays down from its edge of the sky and they cut through the real, honest-to-god glass windows of Cringe's pad.  It's not hot in here, though; honest, it's a little <em>chilly</em>, and imagine how fucking expensive it is to keep the air conditioner she's got running, clunking along, on the generator.<br/><br/>Cringe sits on a big bag, plastic or leather or who knows what, exactly, on the floor.  It's full of some kind of tiny, soft pebbles or beans or whatever, and she swears it's the most comfortable seat she's ever owned.  She traded an assault rifle and two boxes of ammunition for it.  She's topless – she always is – and it's so cold in here, her nipples stand like tiny towers over her chest.<br/><br/>She's got an old record player, and it's spinning a track, putting some music out that occasionally scratches or skips.  A woman's singing from the big phone on it, <em>love I find is pleasing and I'm feeling fine...</em><br/><br/>Nearby, on a heavy wooden table, all the stuff she talked out of Ambrosea in exchange for putting up those twenty-or-so cultists, going so far as to oust a couple of her other renters to make room.  Just a month, but that's okay.<br/><br/>She says, “Balls is probably making dinner soon.”  Well, Balls doesn't cook, but someone at her place does.  It's Cringe's place more than Balls', but whatever, Balls sticks her name on it.  Idle.  Cringe is holding a little bowl with some of this cream, it's like a gel infused with beetletree fruit.  She dips a finger into it and spreads it onto her lips.  It makes them very, very red, and she smacks her lips together.<br/><br/>“So, that's done,” she says.  “Have your friends settle in, just remember the rules.”  The rules are pretty simple, and mostly, they're “Don't interfere with the market,” and “Everyone gives Cringe her take.”  Pretty standard.<br/><br/>“This place is getting a little crowded,” she says, leaning back into the chair.  She sets her eyes on Ambrosea.  “What are you doing here, Ambrosea?”<br/><br/>The music box is singing, saying, <em>We could've made it cruising, yeah, yeah, riding high on love's true bluish light...</em><br/><br/><strong>Ambrosea</strong>, what <em>are</em> you doing here, in Gomorrah?  What's your relationship like with Cringe, has it been decent in the past?  Is there anyone with power here in Gomorrah that <em>isn't</em> threatened by you and your wonderdrug?  Anyway, Cringe is talking to you, what do you do?</div></div>