[[ ??? ]]

It has been approximately six months since Clear disappeared from our hovel in the Outer Rim.

In the Outer Rim, there is no law. That means, if someone goes missing, they may as well be dead, but NIKKEs, even if they’re hiding as humans, don’t die that easily. Sprawling in every direction is derelict after derelict, gray and dirty, poorly maintained neon signs flickering with their designation molded into the chemical glass. Despite the Central Government’s complete disregard of the Outer Rim’s existence, physically embodied by the massive wall that separates the ghettos from the glittering paradise that the Central Government claims the Ark to be, there’s an actual society here. There’s decorum, rules, a hierarchy. You learn everything by fire; it’s bad form for someone to tell you what’s up and what’s down.

Thankfully, Clear and I were here from the beginning. We witnessed the rules being made. If there was one thing we made sure to never erase from our memories, it was the unspoken rules of this hole.

Though, I wonder if that matters now.

SLAM!

My pain sensors pick up on the violence being enacted on my body, but they’re tired old things, and are on the verge of shutting off. I still need them on for cues to react properly to the beating, and will them back on when they turn off. Not that that matters now, either; if it weren’t for my appearance, I’d already be outed as a NIKKE. At least the consensus is that NIKKE are female, and I’m excluded by my appearance.

“Had enough?” A robust man asks me, a bit too close to my face.

“Got an itch on my back, if you think you can get it next,” I grunt, propping myself up on my elbows on the ground. It’s the right answer, but I still get a kick to my side while I’m down. Satisfied with his work, the robust man takes a step back and returns to the side of a raven-haired man of indistinct Asian descent. He’s sitting in a chair while he has the robust man do the work for him, simply lounging while I’m getting the shit beat out of me. The doors are locked to keep others from seeing me like this, being essentially the only luxury I’m afforded in this scenario.

To be blunt, I’m in the den of one of the numerous gangs in the Outer Rim. Hwang-geum Domabaem, or just Hwang-Do for short, is one of the classier types of gangs to be in the slums, but is a gang nonetheless. Led by a man named Cassiel, they specialize in human trafficking, specifically women for NIKKE production, but only a few people like myself know the actual purpose of their trafficking being in connection to NIKKE production. The bodies are anonymously sold wholesale to the highest bidder, and it’s the only time select individuals are allowed from Hwang-Do into the Ark.

We’ve been associated with this group for a while, but right now I’m trying to get cozied up with them so I can get into the Ark at least once.

I’m not particularly starry-eyed about the place, to be honest. It’s just where I figure Clear is.

Cassiel boredly leans his chin onto his palm, and his lightless eyes focused on me once more. The man has a look to him; a consolidated, fine and prim look, his raven hair matching his black, lightless eyes, his lips typically drawn into a light, knowing smile. He wore a white button-up shirt that hid a myriad of tattoos on his back and neck, the latter of which peeped to observe the situation from his collar. Two mass-produced NIKKEs flanked him, loyal only for the shelter Hwang-Do offered, their expressions covered by visors. They held standard NIKKE rifles, but if I were to really trip up here, they wouldn’t be able to fire upon me. Their inhibitors, as far as I knew, were still intact, and it would blow my cover if he ordered them to fire upon me. NIKKEs can’t fire upon other NIKKEs without command from a commander.

Cassiel himself must be in his late twenties. It’s only presumed because he’s rather youthful looking, but as far as my sensors detect, he has no underlying health concerns due to age. He waves a hand and with one small gesture dismisses the crowd in the room, save for me. The sliding door unlocks and opens automatically by a single button press. The NIKKEs don’t spare a second thought to the leader’s wellbeing, or mine for that matter, and file out to have a seat outside. The robust man who had to be in his forties let off a satisfied grunt with his performance and filed out as well, a robotic arm catching the door as it began to move for him to let it slide shut haphazardly behind him. Cybernetics were popular in the Outer Rim as a means to an end, and a way of survival. Unlike the Ark, with its allegedly perfect healthcare, the Outer Rim simply needed to find a way to staunch the bleeding and, supply permitting, replace the utility. Cassiel himself possesses no bodily replacements, a little something he prides himself on.

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I prop myself up and crawl into an absent chair near my beaten body, slumping back into the support of the chair with a bloody nose. I wipe it on my black sleeve and suck in a breath, lacing my fingers together. All in all, I’m sure I look rather eloquent.

“You don’t take punishments personally,” Cassiel starts with an assured tone in his voice. “So I assume this occasion was much of the same. You understand why it happened?”

“Crystal,” I replied, pinching my nose and pulling my head back.

“Our pull rates have had rather poor results since your brother’s rather bloody disappearance. One I’m helping cover up, for reasons I don’t need to know.”

“Just so,” I murmur, nodding. The maneuver to stop the nosebleed was only for appearances. I’ve already shut off coolant flow to the nose.

“And with the trouble I’ve gone through, you’ve struggled to repay the work.”

“Correct,” I mumble this time. “So paying with blood is the only reasonable alternative.”

“Good to know it’s something second nature for you. You could simply repay us instead, but at least you’re no fool.”

“Thanks,” I say, perching my elbows on my knees and sitting slack.

“So far you’ve netted a total of thirty-three surviving bodies, whereas your brother would have broken into the hundreds by now.”

“Can’t say I have the most angelic touch,” I say regretfully, “Compared to Clear.”

If I had such a touch, I’d be much closer to the number they’d want. Without my squadmate here, it’s much more obvious I’m a bruiser compared to him. Every girl I manage to net winds up getting killed one way or another from farm-to-fridge, and it’s been a massive pain trying to figure out ways to get them hunted without blowing my reputation in the Rim. I let off a massive sigh, and cradle my head in my hand.

“It’s quite the deficit, but having you is a good boon, regardless, so don’t lose sight of why you’re here.”

“Thanks,” I say, and can’t help but code his feedback as highly artificial. The lightless look in his eyes reminds me I only have worth if I do the work; I’m not a lazy sort by any means, just a sort with horrible luck.

“Bring me three girls by the morning or I pull support,” he says with a warm tone, but the deadline is anything but. It’s a bit of a clothesliner, because my jaw drops when he finishes speaking.

“By the morning,” I re-state, somewhat in disbelief. Cassiel gives a fine nod. I can only nod back, still slack-jawed.

“It won’t be a problem, will it?” Cassiel inquires innocently, sitting himself up in curiosity to see me squirm. He’s got a warm attitude around him sometimes, but it’s all simulated, specifically for the sake of watching others unable to deny him.

“No,” I answer firmly, and Cassiel looks a little disappointed that I’m not stammering, but he knows me by now. I move to get up -- I better start working as soon as possible to maximize my profits.

“Going already?” He murmurs, leaning back. “Be sure to get some sleep.”

“Right,” I answer again, but this time it’s just a lie. His arrangement here is going to steal away any sleep I could’ve dreamed of simulating. At this rate, I’ll be Mind Switched just like Clear. No sense in bemoaning the situation, though -- I grab my coat and hang it over my shoulders, and the electronic door slides open via a Cassiel-led button press. I head out without a look back. I can already imagine what Clear would have said if he was there with me. ‘Just three?’ is exactly what would have escaped his lips. The man ran laps around me every day for this kind of work, and for the time we’ve been in the Outer Rim, it’s served us well and taken the focus off my inadequacy.

“... I’ve got my work cut out for me…” I mutter, exiting the bar Hwang-Do runs. The NIKKEs from before look on curiously as I disappear out the door. The bar, called Last Wish, is a fancy little place, themed after the old world’s more western aspects; dim lights, umber tones, faux brown leather, very bourbon-y, not as busted as any other place on the block but certainly run down. There’s a bar to the right of the entrance, and the lineup is probably the most impressive there is outside of the Ark and the absolute top organizations of the Outer Rim. Opposite that, a trio of booths back-to-back allow groups to gather comfortably enough. The robust man is having a smoke in the alleyway the bar inhabits. I check shoulders with him, causing him to flare his nostrils, but I don’t have time to beef with him.

Tonight, I need to safely bag three human women.

… Without killing them.

[[ CHAPTER 12 END ]]