Quincy is a Pain in the Ass

Wilma, John, and I had stopped at a hotel for the night, and had walked across the street to a quaint, little, restaurant for some dinner. We had all ordered breakfast for dinner, and I was letting Wilma pick food off my plate so as not to be wasteful.

After learning how Wilma earned a living, I felt uneasy. She hadn't treated me any different when she had learned of my robotic nature, it was only proper for me to extend her the same courtesy. Even after she explained that she was picky about her clients, and only chose corrupt targets, I still couldn't shake the feeling that killing for a living was immoral, no matter for whom the bullet was intended. Even so, Wilma was still Wilma. She was my friend, and she had proven herself to be trustworthy on many occasions.

"I'm just saying, "said John, brandishing a fork with a piece of potato speared on the end, in Wilma's general direction, "now, everything makes more sense. It was easy for you to just up and take Ana to California. You really have no obligations to be anywhere everyday. It explains why I never saw you working, but you always had plenty of cash.

"I do other things too," seethed Wilma. "Anyways, what's your excuse? How come you can just come with us to California without having to worry about money?"

John sat up straighter in his chair, dramatically taking a bite of his hash.

"Unlike some people," he said pointedly at Wilma, "some of us prefer to live below our means, and save money. Some of us do not need fancy cars and upscale fashion to live respectably. I have been saving money since before I was old enough to go into the work field. My goal is to be a millionaire by the time I'm thirty, and I'm well on my way to do so. Since I recently find myself unemployed, I can easily afford this little detour.

Wilma smirked, "Keep in mind that my 'unnecessarily fancy car' probably helped to save your life today. As for my fashion choices, you didn't seem to have a problem with that when we were dating."

Realizing what she had said, her eyes flicked towards me, an apologetic look on her face for being insensitive. I had been quietly sitting, enjoying the verbal sparing match between Wilma and John.

"We never dated!" spluttered John, his ears going red. "It was just... one time, and it really shouldn't count." His eyes also quickly flicked in my direction before he looked away, and became very interested in a spot on the floor.

"You two, shut up," I hissed, eyes widening at the tv which had suddenly caught my attention.

Both Wilma and John turned in unison to see the daily news on a flatscreen, hanging on the wall, near the ceiling.

"The thief has not yet been caught," said the news reporter pompously. "Authorities say it is only a matter of time before he is apprehended. I spoke with Dr. Abrams earlier this week, inventor of the missing technology, and he still will not disclose the nature of the stolen technology. He had this to say."

The screen changed to two men standing in front of Warp Core Headquarters, their hair being ruffled slightly by the wind. One man was the reporter, the other, we recognized as Quincy.

I gripped the bottom of my chair, suddenly filled with an unexplainable anger at seeing my programmer. My eyes raked over his white, windswept hair, crossed arms, and once handsome face. Every inch of my body crawled with unrest and rage.

"Dr. Abrams," spoke the reporter, "do you plan to press charges against Arizona Technologies for stealing your property?"

"AzTech has assured me that the perpetrator was acting of his own volition when he stole my property. I will not be pressing charges against the entire company over the act of one foolish young man."

Quincy uncrossed his arms and turned his piercing gaze upon the camera. I shivered as his eyes seemed to see me through the screen.

"Stanton will be found, and he will be punished. I will have what is mine."

The screen changed to a picture of John's Warp Core identification card.

"Johnathan Stanton," said the reporter, "also known by Johnathan Callahan-"

"That's our cue to leave," Wilma interrupted the reporter. "Ana, get John to the hotel, close all the curtains, and lock all the doors. I'll pay for the food and be right behind you."

She tossed John her designer sunglasses.

"Scratch those, and I scratch you."

Luckily, the restaurant seemed to not be paying any attention to the news as we rapidly exited the building.