2.3

I feel like I’ve just closed a deal with the devil, and the ink on the contract is still wet, burning through the paper like a brand on my soul. It’s a strange, tingly sensation—goosebumps, no doubt.

Rico lets go of my hand, takes another sip of his drink, and shuts the suitcase. “Grazie.” He slides the case over to Fingers and she picks it up, whistling brusquely.

It’s time to go. We’ve had our discussion. Now all that’s left is preparation. I can’t help but shake the feeling that we’d need more people to carry out this fix successfully, but given the inconspicuous nature of Rico’s job description, it’d make more sense for us to keep things small. The security on a ship carrying such valuable material is likely to be rigid. Any wrong step here and we’ll end up behind bars, or worse yet, dead.

I grab the spoofing device off the table and stash it in my inside jacket pocket, along with the data shard which I promptly remove from my temple port, for safekeeping, of course. I’ll likely study this a bit later, when I have the time.

We exit the VIP section and head downstairs. On the way out, I see that the men who previously catcalled us are no longer sitting; instead, they're being held by the necks of their jackets as Tatum and his dual-chipped counterpart hurl them out onto the street, telling them to, ‘Keep their murky hands off the patrons!’ I laugh a little. I’d suspected something of the sort would happen soon enough. Some men just cannot keep their hands to themselves. Same goes for some women, too. We cross the assholes on the way out, their drunken heads lazily foaming and snorting as they try desperately to pick themselves up off the asphalt. One of them almost does, but Fingers shoots forward and kicks him rightly in the rear, causing him to stumble into a trashcan and knock it over. Garbage flies everywhere; the gentle wind carries it off towards the road. He doesn’t get up—or move—after that.

We hop into Fingers’ jeep and she switches on the radio. Rock music, just like before, although this time she turns it up so loud that I feel it vibrate through the footbed. She tells me that today is going to be a good day, that she’s starved and we should grab a bite to eat before brainstorming ideas on the job. I wouldn’t mind that. I feel like I haven’t eaten in decades, and I very well may not have. So, we head through the busy streets, watching as sweeping tides of cityfolk surge from crosswalk to sidewalk in their lambent and equally slimy synthetic leather, umbrellas bobbing like luminous jellyfish in the thin but persistent rain. The more I look around the more I seem to remember pieces of my past. However, everything is still splintered; even the picture, Something Special, doesn’t bring back anything. It’s just a feeling deep in my subconscious, buried, layered with cement and reinforced with alloyed steel. I can hear the voices screaming out, but they’re so distant, so minute, that they may as well be silent.

We stop at a small, corner-shop restaurant sometime later. I don’t bother to take note of the name. All I can think about is food, and water; I hadn’t realised it before but I’d built up a scratchy thirst and my voice was dusting up by the second. We stay here for a bit, and I talk to Fingers a little more interpersonally. I haven’t known her long at all, but I feel like if I’m going to do a mission alone with her, then it only feels right that I know who I’m working with, even if it’s not particularly applicable to the job. Besides, I feel I’ve been quiet all this time. I don’t want to seem... well, timid, even if I most certainly am.

The diner itself is dim yet colourful. The floor is chequered black and white, the booths are small yet comfy, with mahogany cladding, and the bar stretches in a long, polished curve under dodgy sodium-vapour lamps. Overhead, shelves stocked with mugs, diner-style coffee pots, and pre-packaged snacks sit below a glowing menu board listing simple, hearty offerings. A row of stools with bolted-down bases line across and around it, occupied by men and women alike, the seats covered in cracked vinyl or faux leather. One of the men spins his stool sadly, head propped in the palm of his hand; it squeaks like a rusty door, and the sound is painful, getting right under my skin. Luckily, one of the other patrons yanks him off the stool and tells him to sit in one of the booths. Again, I laugh.

I order a sea bass and OJ. It comes plated with a side of kelp chips. A drizzle of tangy, citrus-infused nanogel sauce glistens over the fish. Looks good, but upon taking my first bite, I learn very quickly that colourful things aren’t always pleasant.

“Tastes awful, right?” says Fingers, chuckling.

Not awful per se, but very dry, like one of those home-cooked meals where the heat was turned up a little too high for your liking. “What’s your story?”

Fingers raises an eyebrow. She herself ordered a simple plate of nachos, dip, and a pint of Coca-Cola. “How do you mean... Mono?” The last word comes out eerily, as though I’d ventured into unchartered waters and this was a warning to spin the helm and head back to shore, but a creeping smirk betrays it, and she adds, “You’re a little new to be asking such questions, dontcha think?” She folds her arms, and now the smirk metamorphoses into a cold, calculating smile, the kind that promises trouble rather than charm. Her eyes narrow just slightly. It was impossible to tell if she was actually bothered about it or if she was just being funny. Though, I’d wager she’s playing around; it just seems to be in her nature.

I sip my OJ from the glass to help wash down the overly dry fish. It takes a couple tries. “When did you start all this...? When did you decide one day you were going to take the hard road? Sorry if that’s a little personal. I’m hoping your explanations can help me, well, remember something about my past.” It’s a lie, and I’m sure she knows that. Still, it feels more natural to put things that way.

Crunch. Fingers wipes the pieces of tortilla chip from her mouth with a napkin. She burps with her mouth closed but covers it regardless. “I only really care about the money kid. Getting a typical job in this economy is... well, all I’ll say is I grew up in one of the poorest complexes in the city. And where there’s poverty, there’s, you guessed it, crime. Not just any crimes either. Some pretty serious shit.” Crunch.

Looking slightly ashamed of myself for asking, I put the fork down. “You have family? People in the city?”

Fingers pulls the laces of her hoodie away from each other, tightening the hood. She massages her forearm, as if it’s in pain, though I can tell there’s a level of emotional discomfort. “It’s... complicated. My parents, well, to put things simply, they’re dead. Killed innocently when I was six years old. It was during the riots. The people of the slumps finally had enough. Enough of the corporate bullshit. They controlled all the resources: food, water, energy, healthcare. Anyone without a job would have to pay more for even basic crap. You ever notice how the two sides of the city are somewhat different?”

I shake my head. “No, I haven’t. How so?”

“The people on the South aren’t as, well, prosperous. Sure, there’s estates with plenty of money and business capital, but most of the time, deep in the city, it’s run-down apartment complexes with crime rates through the roof. Just like our HQ. You saw how awful the people look. How... sick.”

I recall the man puking, and the workers cleaning up after him.

Fingers goes on, her voice becoming less steady: “I grew up in the slums. That’s where we all grew up. Not so sure about you. My parents didn’t want any part of it, the riot. They weren’t activists or radicals. They just wanted to survive. To keep me and my...” She pauses. “To keep me safe. But when the uprising started, corporations didn’t care about any of that shit. They sent in their private security, their mercenaries. And they didn’t care who got caught in the crossfire.” Her voice catches, but doesn’t stop. “They just started shooting. The people from the slums were so violent. Some of them got access to weapons. There was no ceasefire. Just slaughter. My parents were in the wrong place at the wrong time. We tried to run, tried to escape, but the streets turned into a warzone. My mother shielded me.... She didn’t make it. My father.... He wasn’t killed by corpos.... He was killed by one of our own.

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“In the end, the rich faced no consequences. I didn’t even cry when I found out they were dead. I was moved to an orphanage until I ran away at seventeen. Got involved with crime. Swore I would get back at those corporate bastards. I have a dream of destroying their entire economy someday. But I understand that destruction only leads to more destruction.... No one wins. Know?” She tightens up. “You can’t erase the past, but you can at least make sure it doesn’t repeat itself. Eddies is the only way of implementing some sort of change.”

“That’s... horrible,” I say.

Fingers was still looking at me with those ambiguous eyes; the grin had long since faded and was now replaced with a straight, unobtrusive line. Another crunch, and then she says, “Did you have a look at that video on the way here?” Another sip of Coca-Cola.

I’m taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation, though I understand, at least now, this is something of a sensitive issue for her, and decide not to press forward. “No,” I say, unzipping my jacket and removing the data shard from my inside jacket pocket. I make sure not to slip out the spoofer, just in case someone recognises it. I twirl the data shard around in my thumb and forefinger. “I was thinking we could come up with a plan later tonight, when things settle down. Just not in a place like this.”

“I want you to study it,” Fingers says. “Look for any access points, danger zones, ventilation systems, unmonitored areas. Anything. In the meantime, I’m going to research the area. The area that the drone didn’t catch. Just in case there’s some security outside of view. I’ll copy the video file on the computer back in HQ.”

“Should we ask for help?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

She shakes her head. “Absolutely not. It’s safest with just the two of us. Any outside interference, even from our own... well, it could end pretty badly for us. Even if it’s just Dance externally monitoring the area. They could sniff out suspicious data and put the place on lockdown.”

I nod. “Smart. Makes sense. I take it you’ve seen this happen before?”

She sighs. Crunch. Sip. “All I’ll say is, there used to be more of us.”

“Oh,” I say. "Sorry."

“You don’t need to apologise for every damn thing, Rhea.” It was more obvious this time—she was mad. Not completely but partially. “I’ve told you before, this is what people sign up for, what we all signed up for. Including you.”

I take a moment before responding. I start picking away at the kelp chips, not bothering to use the fork this time. These don’t taste as bad, salty but digestible nonetheless, especially with the peculiar lemony sauce. I grab one of the napkins and dab my mouth. “So, what exactly is so special about these suits? The ‘tech-v’ whatevers.”

“V-technica anti-fibre suits,” Fingers says. “They’re special because, for one, they’re really expensive and only really accessible to military personnel, unless sourced through the black market, and two, they work off light manipulation tech. Meshed with microfibres with sensors and conductive threads. Uses AI to analyse the environment, the lights and the shadows, and projects a cloaking effect. They also call it Chroma-Skin. You ever see chameleons?”

“So, if I’m understanding you correctly, they... turn you invisible?”

She shrugs. “Ding ding. Right on the money, Mono.” Crunch.

“How is it powered? And... how long does it last?” I ask.

Fingers runs a hand under her hoodie, through her scalp, as if clearing away stress. She wipes a bead of sweat from her brow with her wrist. It’s kind of hot in here, especially given that the air conditioning seems to either be turned off to save costs or busted altogether, if such a place had even opted in to having air conditioning to begin with. It definitely seems shabby: the food, the patrons, the environment. No wonder everything was so cheap.

“It’s powered by a compact energy core, but the core isn’t like your typical core.... It’s sort of spread out.... Look, I don’t know the ins and out of the things. Don’t really care either, but it works, and that’s all that matters. Know? It will last long enough for us to complete the job.” Fingers finishes the last of her chips but leaves a hefty amount of Coca-Cola in the glass. “You want this?” She points to the glass.

“I’m okay,” I say.

She walks away and dumps it in one of those drink disposal cylinders, next to a trashcan. She dumps the used napkins and nacho paper in there, too, then heads back. She lights a smoke. Neither the patrons or the staff seems to care. She blows a puff in my face and I cough. Although I cannot smell it, I can taste the slightly bitter residue lingering on my tongue, a sharp, metallic aftertaste that leaves a strange dryness in my mouth.

Then the door to the corner-shop restaurant jingles open, and a tall man walks through, dressed in a plain leather jacket and jeans. Next to him is a little girl, who mustn't be a day over nine years old, wearing a puffy coat, a scarf, and a beanie, one imprinted with a cute bunny stencil. Her face is similarly gaunt-looking, just like the lady behind the counter at Quick Bites. She and the tall man walk past us and step into a booth several seats down from us. Perhaps it was because I had been so fixated on the little girl and her drab bunny hat, or perhaps it was because I had been distracted by conversation, but I didn’t recognise the face of the man until he sat down. It’s Raze, and for once he doesn’t have such a cold, soulless look on his face. He’s... smiling, not cheekily, not sarcastically... but truly. How does a man like that find joy?

He notices me looking at him, but only for a moment, then, as the waitress approaches their table, he submits his attention to her and orders.

“His sister,” Fingers says, and I look back at her. Suddenly, and without reason, she stubs her half-smoked cigarette on the table, brushing the ashes off the table with a sweep of her sleeve.

I look back at the two again. The little girl takes off her beanie. She’s completely bald, shaved down to nothing but skin. I didn’t notice it until now but she has no eyebrows either

“Oh...” I say.

She nods, chuckling. “Every payday it’s the same. He takes her here to treat her. They live in a pretty run-down apartment around the block. Food isn’t always great or consistent, he says. Skips meals so she can eat sometimes.”

I turn back. “And the government doesn’t help?”

She scoffs. “Those pigs? They’re the reason we’re all up in this shit to begin with.”

Raze reaches across the table and takes the little girl’s scarf, placing it next to him, laughing. The girl is laughing, too.

I turn away again. “Hey, so maybe we should head back and work on that video.”

“Not gonna finish your food?”

I look at the plate and push it away. “Lost my appetite. It’s a load of crap anyway.”

We stand, head to the jeep in the parking lot, and make our through the city again, back to HQ.

It's not raining anymore.

* * *

Somewhere, in a dark place where the air smells sterile, heavy with the scent of metal and chemicals, a faint hum of machinery echoes through the stillness. A maze of flickering lights, their sickly green glow casting long, uneven shadows across the concrete floor. Overhead, exposed pipes snake along the ceiling, dripping with condensation that glistens like sweat. The walls, barely visible beneath the intense light-filled smog, are secured with dark cabinets, their contents hidden behind frosted glass, and an array of knotted cables sprawls across the floor, leading to a large, robust, beating machine.

A single figure is strapped to a chair, their body a silhouette against the cold, clinical light. Tubes and wires are hooked up to their limbs, injecting an eerie, bright green liquid into their veins as they pulse. Their eyes are half-lidded, unfocused, the skin underneath bruised, perhaps from sleepless nights, perhaps from one too many procedures.

The machine hums. A display screen flickers with rows of data, pooling far too quickly for the human eye to process any of it. The only sound, aside from the machine’s whirring, is the soft beeping of a heart monitor that tracks a slow, steady pulse.

It’s interrupted by distant footsteps, and then a singular beep. The door to the area opens.

There’s silence for a moment. Someone steps inside. Finally, after what must have been thirty seconds of agonising quiet, the voice, deep and gravelly, says:

“She’s alive.”

Slowly, the eyes of the figure peel open, revealing bright green, glowing irises.

“I know,” the figure says, the voice gentle, soft, and ultimately, feminine.