In which Varrett’s shopping trip turns abys-mall.
Varrett sat his haunted ass down on one of Olof’s hard plastic chairs, folded one leg out over the other, and fell into fidget-hell, his foot bouncing and his fingers tapping out a rhythm against the knee he’d stuck out to the side.
Two Runners shared the station with him. One up at the desk, arguing with Olof about how it wasn’t his fault verge coils looked like fuel injectors (they didn’t), and one sitting a chair off on the left, a WreadSheet in his lap. Varrett’s eyes slid from one to the other. The first dude was Buzz (not his actual name, but, like, his Runner’s nick). The second one was plain old Dave, who’d been a nine-to-five accountant with a love for extreme sports at the side. Buzz had started out as a street racer.
Varrett’s fingers kept drumming.
Oh, he was fine.
Absolutely fine.
Peachy, really.
Wasn’t like he hated waiting and wasn’t like he had only one singular thought running itself ragged in his head.
Writing. Reading. Dreaming. 