Another few days of nothing. I did manage to set aside some time and looked around the neighborhood, but the large swathes of downtime is getting to me. Doc doesn't have any actual space for me to live in, so I'm stuck living out of a spare hospital bed. Sometimes the benches in the lobby if the place gets too crowded. As expected, people still have health problems and occasionally get stabbed and/or shot. Sometimes large groups of them. Doc says I could look into finding a place to stay out here, but I don't even have the first clue as to where to start.
It's pretty obvious why this is making me restless. I don't even have the excuse of my kidney nearly being ruptured, or even missing a boatload of blood. I'm just stuck here. Laying in a hospital bed, staring at the ceiling. Nothing to do.
That is, until I can hear the Doc hurriedly walking down the way. I've never heard him in a rush like this unless it was something important.
I sit up in my bed when the Doc peeks his goggles-covered face in. “Hey, Doc. What's the matter?”
“Ah, the crew out of Sidbano's is looking for—” He pauses. “A ringer? They've been short one member for some weeks now, and I did somewhat inform them that you may be a fit.”
“A ringer?” I sit even more upright, scratching my cheek. My stubble is threatening to turn into a beard at this rate.
“Yes, like one for a sports team? They are for a lack of a shooter. I informed them that you may be able to fill that role, what with the hand cannon you came in here with. So they wish to give you a test of sorts.”
I'm not sure how to take this. I can't accept a job without knowing what it is, but an opportunity for steady work is something I should jump at. Or, at the very least, I should hear them out. I open my mouth to respond, but the Doc cuts me off.
“—Spot will be waiting for you outside of the garage, should you make a decision. I would believe you're due to go outside to ease off that visible restlessness.”
He wasn't exactly wrong.
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This time I knew where I was going. I didn't waste thirty minutes walking up and down a block. Straight to the garage.
The music was just as loud as it was this time, but someone was waiting out front for me. Spot, most likely. Dirty blonde hair, a backwards baseball cap, a wife beater, aviators and a toothpick hanging out of his mouth. A surprisingly lanky build, too.
“Spot, I assume?”
“Johnny on the Spot! Eyyy.” He fires up two finger-guns. It takes me a minute to catch onto the fact that he smells utterly like pharmaceuticals. The sunglasses were definitely not to keep the sun out of his eyes. If I had to wager, his eyes were bloodshot to hell under there.
“—Johnny on the Spot?,” I must've sounded incredulous, because he gives me a look.
“You know, close at hand. Whenever I'm needed.”
I really have to resist saying that I understood why he was introduced as Spot, and not Johnny on the Spot. His full name sounds like he's a urinal installation guy or something. Even Johnny would be a point of teasing if anyone knew his full name. I just smile and nod.
“Lucas. I think Doc said something about me looking for something to do?”
“Ahh, yeah. The rest of the crew's kind of spread thin?” He phrases that like a question. My initial hunch was right. He's probably stoned out of his mind right now. “So, the Doc brought you up to the bosslady, and she said to take you along for a job and, like, see how you were?”
“The bosslady?” I ask, despite likely knowing the answer to this question.
“You know, Springbok? I think you might've met her?”
“Yeah. I did. Dropped a package off for her. She swung by the clinic—Right, not to skip over the pleasantries, but what's the job?”
Spot chews on the toothpick, letting it roll around in his mouth before he speaks up again. “We've got a few nobodies squatting in a building slightly further north from here? Normally, that totally wouldn't even be a problem. Like, not even an itch. But they're going around, smashing up windows and asking people for a protection fee. Really, not the best look on our end if we let them linger around?”
I'm almost having a difficult time following what he's saying, what with the bizarre way he's drawing out his words and posing statements as questions instead. I once again smile and nod.
“I know the type. Low-rent gangbangers who think they're a few pegs higher than the rest. How many is a few?”
“Three or four. Any more than that, and Springbok might've thought this wasn't training wheels for you?” He waves me to follow as he talks, circling around to the back side of the building where a blue AutoModo Streetster was waiting. A workhorse sedan you usually see all over the city. Four doors, room for five, and a fair-sized trunk to match. I'd comment on the engine, but this one's been visibly souped up, with the hood being replaced with an apparently custom one to make way.
I can't help but whistle at the amount of custom work being put into what should be a family sedan.
“Like it? I call it the Beast. It's my pride and joy. Rebuilt from the ground up from at least four husks we found sitting around. New suspension, new everything. You just, you know, take what you can out here?” He laughs as he ducks into the driver's seat. I hop in the passenger seat. He wasn't wrong about everything not being the original model. The seats they have in here are synthetic leather, whereas a Streetster normally has cheap fabric.
“Reminds me of the older patrol cars we had sitting around,” I mutter as I buckle up. I'm almost feeling nostalgic for something I was doing a few weeks ago.
“Yeah, but this one kicks twice as fast. I used to race professionally in the Metroplex. Under my actual name.” He hits the ignition and the vehicle roars to life. I can see why he calls it the Beast. Almost need ear plugs while you're sitting here. “—The team was sponsored by some sort of detergent company? Turns out our manager was double dipping and owned a small detergent company of his own and we ended up losing all of our sponsorship money. We all got canned, I got lots of offers from the other teams, but… You know how life is. I moved out here because I got bored with it all. You might've heard of me?”
I vaguely recall hearing about the controversy some years back. Maybe a decade? My brain could just be making things up. I don't know for sure because if this did hit the news, it was probably just a tiny blurb on the scrolling ticker. I just nod, as usual.
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A few minutes of racing down near barren streets, and we've hit our destination. I suppose I can't complain about how sparse it is out here. It beats the sometimes bumper-to-bumper traffic in the city. I figure now's the best time as any to unholster my Adjudicator, loading it up as we slowly come to a halt. Five zapper rounds loaded in, non-lethal. They're just low-rent gangbangers supposedly. No reason to kill them, right? Just put them down, detain them for a bit, and let them be on their way.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
I can see Spot whip out his piece out of the corner of my eye. Mahler M9. Standard security personnel sidearm, but they get all over the place with how many Mahler produces. I wouldn't be surprised if you could buy one second-hand from one of these open air markets for a few credits. He steps out of the driver seat, patting down the roof of the car in an attempt to catch my attention. Attention that he already has.
“Right over there. You see that warehouse?” He gestures with his gun towards what could've been a warehouse a few decades ago. Two big receiving doors, a tiny metal door alongside that. About half a block away from where we parked. I disembark and try to get a better look. “From what we can tell they usually operate real late at night. They're probably all in there still sleeping now, so. We'll try to sneak in, and take them by surprise? Sounds good?”
If I was with Bobrovnikov, I wouldn't be against kicking the door down and making a scene. The kind of way you're supposed to do it as a cop. But, their turf, their rules. I'm fighting against instinct that's been trained into me for a better part of a decade.
“Sounds good.”
We move out towards the warehouse, looking over the door for any kind of visible alarm system before trying the handle. Surprisingly, it's unlocked. And no alarm. I shouldn't be surprised. To both ends, low-rent gangbangers. I gesture that I'm going to take point, and Spot either knows what I mean or he's simply used to someone else going in ahead of him.
First of all, it's dark as hell in here. No power. The only light coming through is the starlight dancing through the dirty as hell skylights above. It's not really a problem for me, considering I'm used to this kind of environment. Scavvers take to these kinds of places like rats in a sewer. If there's one thing I'm thankful for, it's the fact that there's crates scattered all over the disused scaffolding that would make for decent makeshift cover. I'm not sure how well it'd take a bullet, but at least hiding behind something makes it a little harder for them to aim at you.
I flag Spot to come in. I can tell that he's not usually on the front lines of things from the hesitation that he shows before scrambling up next to me. At least he didn't trip over the debris that's strewn all over the floor from the lack of maintenance and cleaning throughout the years.
A quick peek over the crate that I'm hiding behind after a moment of letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. An old forklift, some desks— Bingo. An old drum sitting in the center of what looks to be a circle of old mattresses. Three mattresses. Three people on the nose. I figure it'd be a simple task to end this without even firing a shot.
Stand up. Carefully stroll towards them. Inching closer and closer—
TWONK.
I quickly fire a glance over my shoulder, only to see Spot mouthing the word ‘sorry.’ I don't even see what he tripped on before my attention fires forwards. The crew that we were supposed to get the jump on were now literally jumping off of their mattresses.
“What da fack,” one of them calls out. I try to stick myself low and near a crate so I'm not the first thing they see once they turn in this direction.
“You heard that, right?” the second calls out. Thankfully, Spot got the picture and kept his head down too. This is going to turn into a shootout no matter what happens, so I may as well catch them while they're unaware and groggy. Deep breaths.
I shoot out from cover, guessing that they most likely haven't moved from their spots. Three of them. Two orks, one human, judging from their statures. Hard to tell in the darkness. I have to bite my tongue and not shout out the usual spiel before squeezing the trigger.
BANG. I can barely see one of them going down in convulsions due to a zapper round hitting them straight in the spine thanks to my gun recoiling up and nearly hitting my face. Got to get used to shooting this thing again. They definitely know where I am now. The human scrambles behind the oil barrel before I can draw a bead on him. Where's the other one?
I get an answer seconds later as I hear what sounds like the world's loudest sewing machine being fired in my direction. The crate I'm hiding behind practically explodes into splinters, raining debris all over me as I scatter for better cover. Was that ork literally sleeping with a fucking LMG under his pillow?
Thankfully, Spot has the foresight to give me some covering fire as I dive for another crate. The one hiding behind the oil barrel tries to make a run for it, but lady luck must be on my side, because I catch him in the side with a snap shot as I slide to a halt.
“Holy shit, that's some cowboy shit, man!” Spot calls out from his cover. I don't even have time to tell him to shut up before his crate gets raked with a burst of automatic fire.
Fuck. It'll be a bad look if I show back up to the garage with him in a body bag. I vault the crate and find myself in a standoff with the LMG-toting ork. Mano y mano. Whoever has the faster trigger finger wins here.
Everything slows down as the adrenaline hits. I see the ork, gripping his LMG tighter and already pointing the damn thing in my direction. I take a glance at my cylinder and see the three remaining shots I've got left, more than enough to take him down. Neither one of us has time to properly draw a bead. I squeeze the trigger. He squeezes his trigger. The zapper round catches him in the leg, causing him to go to a knee. A burst of bullets whizzes past my ear, narrowly missing me—I think. I don't have time to think, letting practiced reflexes take over. I squeeze the trigger again. This time, I hit him in the chest, causing him to drop to the floor in convulsions. Single shot left. I reach into my pants and start thumbing in more rounds into my Adjudicator's cylinder as I backpedal back to check on Spot.
“You good?” I call out before I even see him.
“I'm good.” The pained tone indicates that he isn't good. I hurry back to him instead of keeping up with the meandering backpedal. He's clutching his shoulder. Shit.
“Hold on. Let me see that.” I peel his hand away promptly. Maybe I should've waited for him to move it on his own. I'm not religious, but I'm about to thank some god above. It looks like he was just skimmed. “Ha. Yeah. You're good.”
I offer out my hand and help him up, but I hardly expect the incoming earful.
“—Zappers? Who the hell uses zappers, dude?” He struts forwards, apparently gaining some sense of bravery now that he's not on the other end of a barrel. The ork with the LMG starts to push himself upright, refusing to get the message whatsoever.
CRACK.
Spot sends him a different message straight through his skull. He drops to the ground like a sack of meat. “Go back to the car. I'll handle this.”
Of course I oblige. Their turf, their rules. Spot comes out of the building a few minutes later, looking as if he was about to drop a freestyle verbal assault on me. He takes a deep breath, and seems to cool down a second later.
“You can't use those around here, okay? Maybe in the city when you've got a badge on and laws to uphold, but out here? Those guys would just take the slap you've given them on the wrist and come back a few days later, even more bold 'cause they know you've got the kid gloves on.” He shakes his head as he ducks into the driver seat. “I'm not gonna tell Springbok, though. You did good.”
He's still bleeding all over the place, despite his arm only being skimmed. I guess his adrenaline must still be kicking too, because he doesn't seem to notice at all. I check the glove box to see if he has a medical kit sitting around or anything to stem that. No dice. Just a whole lot of saucy magazines featuring half-naked ork chicks.
The engine roars as he guns it out of here, apparently not wanting to deal with whatever he left behind in the warehouse moments ago. Maybe things aren't as great as they seemed in the first place out here. My mind is a mess right now. I've just been so adamant about the non-lethal thing unless it's absolutely necessary. Especially since that day with McNamara, the fucking prick.
“You good, dude? Didn't get shot or anything?”
“Just thinking about crap. I'll be alright.” I fire off the laziest thumbs up in my life. I guess I should've seen this coming. They still have to protect what's theirs, right? Part of me still feels like I just flubbed up a job interview and didn't get the job for it.
“Man. You're looking down about something and it's bugging me. Sometimes it's just how it is out here,” Spot laughs awkwardly, shaking his head. “I had the same problems when I came in from the city. It's the same back there, dude. It's just got a sterile sheen on it. It's like a facade. All the dirt gets swept under the rug. Everyone acts like it's fine and dandy. It isn't, but at least here you can know where you stand with someone without worrying what dishwasher detergent brand is sponsoring them.”
He's got a point, I guess. I decide to actually throw down my input for once instead of being the criminal introvert that keeps their mouth shut all the time. “Did you lock up back there, or what happened?”
“I'm not exactly a shooter. Springbok probably has the most practice with guns out of all of us, which isn't saying much? Our old shooter decided to get out of the game. I just drive people around,” he remarks, still wearing that dumb stoner grin across his face. “Like a low-rent limo driver. I'd build one, if I could find the parts out here. Just kind of hard to take hard turns when you're three sedans long.”
Awfully jovial for someone who just nearly had their arm taken off by a stray bullet, but he's the second most tolerable person I've ever had driving me around. I guess that's worth something, isn't it?