The people currently in possession of the Blizzard chip called themselves the Crazy 8’s. Lead by a brother-sister duo, they were a small pirate crew that operated on the lower end of the east side, not far from the market that Damien had visited just a few days ago. According to Lana’s intel, this crew had executed a series of high risk raids over the last week, and they were looking to offload some of their ill-gotten items on the Net, away from the prying eyes of the law. The Blizzard—the most crucial element of the upcoming mission—was just one of those items.
From what Damien had been told, the Crazy 8’s were unorthodox in many ways. For one, they actually owned and controlled territory within the city. This was rare for a pirate crew. Staking control of neighborhoods was something that only gangs usually did, since you’d typically need a lot of muscle and manpower to protect your turf. Maybe this was why the Crazy 8’s reign didn’t stretch very far; only eight city blocks housing run-down apartments that most people didn’t want to live in due to their lack of amenities and their proximity to nearby factories. That’s about as much as one could hope to control with a small crew. Overreach any further, and the nearby gangs would undoubtedly stop by to take their turf and remind them who was truly in charge.
Damien and Marcus had considered two options for obtaining the Blizzard. They could make a deal to buy it amicably, or they could take it by force. In the end, they decided that a legitimate transaction would be the better option. Their most important mission so far was just around the corner, and they didn’t want any injuries or problems of any kind right before the big event. After all, Damien was still feeling the lingering effects of the poison from his last battle.
The chip would undoubtedly cost a lot, but they were willing to pay the price if it meant avoiding unnecessary trouble. With Lana’s financial support, they could buy it upfront and pay her back with the massive amount of funds they’d receive once this was all over. Damien would lose a decent chunk of the paycheck with this new loan, but it was worth it. There would be plenty of funds left over, maybe enough to buy those shurikens and the Tiger MK-I which his heart still yearned for.
In fact, he’d received an opportunity to make some funds just fifteen minutes ago during their drive from Lana’s home to the meeting spot. Valerie had messaged him stating that a client was looking for some protection for the next three days, and that Damien would be perfect for the job. In the end, however, he declined. To accept would’ve meant that he’d have to forgo Zero’s mission in favor of hers, and there was too much on the line to do that.
But the offer alone had perplexed Damien. Why was she contacting him at this time? Did she not know that he was busy working with Zero? He’d assumed that the two of them worked closely together, and that they’d be on the same page regarding their own activities. Perhaps that wasn’t the case, and he’d misjudged their relationship to one another. That thought only motivated him to learn more about Valerie and the Inkeye at a later time. For now, they had a job to do.
The Crazy 8’s had instructed the two pirates to only enter their turf on foot, so they decided to park Marcus’ truck a few streets away and walk the remaining distance. When they passed a UTS terminal beside the underside of a bridge, a thought prompted Damien to interrupt his partner who was in the middle of yet another story.
“You sure I can’t wear my new armor to this meeting?" he said. “You know, just in case?” Thanks to the UTS terminal, he could transport his gear to his current location and quickly slip it on.
“No, you can’t go into a meeting with combat armor like that,” Marcus said. “Especially when the whole thing was set up in good faith. It can give off the wrong vibe and send a message that you don’t wanna send.”
“I don’t see the big deal. It’s just a protective measure.”
“Doesn’t matter. I know it makes sense to be better prepared, but these illegal transactions are a dance between both parties. There’s a lot of give and take to make things run smoothly. A single weapon’s no big deal, but if you arrive strapped in battle armor, it screams ‘we don’t trust you, and we might be up to something ugly’.”
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“But we don’t trust them…”
Marcus shrugged. “Of course not. But these are the game you gotta play with street politics. It’s just a business deal. They posted the item for sale, and we’re showing up to buy it. If things go wrong, I can talk my way out of it. Besides, Lana’s name carries a lot of weight, so it’s unlikely that they’ll mess with us.”
Ah, yes, the name thing again… Damien thought to himself.
“Back to what I was talking about,” Marcus said, his voice lighting up again as they walked through the broken streets. “I’m telling you, there’s an art to war, and image can be more important than reality. That’s how Razor got to the top. He bluffed his way out shitty situations and now the mere mention of his name is enough to make every leader on the east side shit themselves. As much as I hate to admit it, strength isn’t the end all be all. Cunning is what gets you to the top, and it’s how you stay there.”
Damien nodded along. His partner had spent the entire car ride gushing over Razor, the leader of the King Slayers—the biggest gang in the entire city. Apparently, he was a samurai, too.
Marcus told stories about how this street legend climbed his way to the top with a cunning that was as much genius as it was brutal and devastating. Those exploits had even gained him a mythic nickname: The Grim Reaper. Because if he wanted your head, ten times out of ten, it would end up in his hands.
He’d even named his gang after his preferred way of dealing with opposition. Instead of defeating rival gangs with overwhelming force on the streets, Razor would only focus on taking out their leader. Then he’d instigate conflict within their organization and let the other members squabble over succession. A classic divide and conquer strategy that hadn’t failed him once.
“Some say he controls entire branches of government,” Marcus continued. “Personally, I don’t buy it; that’s a bit too much. But that’s what a powerful name gets you. People will shroud you in myth and form a legend around you. Sometimes they’ll build you up to be even bigger than you really are. I dunno about you, Dame, but that’s the level of clout that I'm aiming for.”
“Sounds like you’re half way there,” he said jokingly.
“Damn right.”
Damien chuckled. There was a certain charm to Marcus’ stories and the way he told them. He was always enthusiastic and offered his own commentary that taught Damien a lot about Neopolis. Plus, he never missed a moment to add his own humor, sometimes enjoying his own jokes with a hearty laugh.
When they arrived on to what was officially Crazy 8’s territory, a young boy in his early teens approached them. "You here for the chip?"
Marcus looked around the damaged neighborhood then nodded. They’d both decided to let him take the lead with this meeting, since Damien was still learning the intricacies of street politics.
“Come with me,” the boy said as he took them down a narrow street past two small and crack-riddled apartment complexes. Surely, this kid wasn’t an actual member of the Crazy 8’s, so were the leaders using him as a messenger to keep their identities a secret? Perhaps it was a show of good faith. After all, it’s unlikely that they’d want violence to break out in their own neighborhood with children around.
The youngster brought them to the front doors of one of the inner apartments, then turned around and ran back to where he came from. A few seconds later, someone held the door open from the inside, and they entered into the lobby which had been converted into something resembling a shoddy hang out lounge. A tough-looking man and woman were seated on one of the tattered-up couches at the center of the room. Were they the brother and sister leaders?
“Sit,” the woman said with a pleasant voice as she pointed to an identical couch on the other side of the coffee table before them. Marcus obliged, and Damien followed one step behind, sinking into the stained couch.
“You two know XO?” The man asked.
“Depends on you define the word know,” Marcus said, looking toward Damien for a moment. “We’re acquaintances and we do business together. That’s all.” The response didn’t get a reply. Not even a reaction.
The elevator at the side of the room let out a ding and the doors creaked open, revealing five men, each with a pistol in hand apart from one. The man at the front wore a backwards-facing baseball cap and he stomped forward with an aggressive and purposeful walk, his back severely hunched over. The other four, armed men followed closely behind.
The hunchbacked man spat on the ground. “So, these are XO’s little bitches.” He stomped his foot on the wooden table then leaned in toward Damien and Marcus, his eyes wild like a rabid animal. “I bet you’re expecting that chip, huh? Tell me, how fucking stupid do you think I am?”