“Rico”

The holo rang. The ringtone bounced off the walls and filled his room with noise. Who was calling him? Everyone knew he worked nights — at least, all his close friends knew. He rolled over, fumbling to get his hands out from under the sheet. Then he threw his hand onto the dresser like he was squashing a particularly annoying bug. It was dark in his room. Heavy blackout curtains hung in front of the window of his cramped apartment. There were empty food containers everywhere, as well as spare parts and junk scrap he was tinkering with. The holo stopped ringing for a second. It’s probably nothing. Thank God, I can go back to sleep.

The holo rang again. Rico turned over and slammed his hand down on the dresser again. This time he found it and answered.

"What do you want? I'm tired!"

"Rico, we've got a problem." The voice was familiar - just a smidge nervous.

"Who is this?" Rico asked, swallowing to get rid of the cotton mouth he suddenly realized he had.

"It's Jon," the voice said. Rico sat up slowly and sat on the edge of the bed.

"You know I work nights, man. If someone isn't dying, I swear I'm going to block your number-" Rico said.

"Yes, yes, we know Rico, everyone and their fucking mother knows you work nights. But someone is actually dying here, and we need help." Rico couldn’t catch his breath, his head felt light - oh God, I’m gonna pass out…

"RICO!" Rico came back and took deep breaths. One. Two. Three. He collected himself; I’m fine. Everything is fine.

"Please don't let it be the cartel."

"What? No - listen, it's not a good idea to talk about this over the phone. Meet me at Rissa's clinic in thirty." Click. Deadline

.

Rico threw himself out of bed and ran to the closet, grabbing the carpet and ripping at it. By the time he got it up his fingers were torched and bleeding. His thoughts were racing. What if something happened to them? Something bad? There was a hole in the floor where his carpet used to be, deep enough that he had to lie down and stick his arm in it to grab his bag. He tore it open and rifled through it until he felt the cold steel of his pistol. He cocked it and shoved it in his waistband, before grabbing his bag and running for the door. Maybe they’ll let them live if I give them the money.

Rico stopped at the front to grab his shoes; a hand grabbed his shoulder. He threw his back into the door and put his hands up.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"What's wrong, Mijo?" his mother asked. Rico was terrified to tell his mother the truth; she already thought his friends were no good, and he didn't want her to know she was most likely correct.

"Nothing, mama, I'm just going to go and meet some friends before work," Rico said. "Well, come back soon. I made stew for dinner."

Once he was out the door, he bolted down the hallway.

He and his mother lived on the 8th floor of the towers, a notorious housing project that was home to a third of the migrant population of Centralica. He ran to the elevator, punched the button, and waited… and waited… and waited…

"Fuck it, I'll take the steps!"

He flung open the door and dashed down to the first landing. By the time he burst out of the front door, he was out of breath, and his chest hurt. He tripped and ate shit, landing on his face. He pushed himself up and looked around - no one saw him. He jumped to his feet and ran, barely managing to catch a bus at the corner. The bus was decrepit - a metal shell plastered with grotesque advertisements and lightly stained with piss. But that was normal in the lower districts of Centralica. Rico hated it. The bus slowly pulled away, the city's cascading scenery passing by. He stared out the windows as the buildings streaked by in the glass. It was raining - just like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before… The dreariness hadn't dawned on him until now. Rainy days came with pain, and as his grandfather used to say -

Hopefully, this one is different.

The platform was flush with rainwater. Kids sloshed in the puddles, kicking around a can in the monsoon - screaming, laughter, joy. The loudspeaker kicked on.

“Red Line arriving! Red Line arriving! Please stand back”.

The hover buses came gliding into the station one by one. The fluorescence of the overhead lights made it really easy to see just how neglected the vehicles were. The bright white made the rust and filth all the more apparent. Rico looked out his window at the hordes of red-line passengers, full of anxiety. He mumbled to himself as he clutched his duffle closely.

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“We should not react to that which we can’t control, only control how we react.” A good little mantra - too bad it couldn’t bring his friends back to life after the cartel is done ripping their fingernails out and blowtorching their - Shut up, brain! Quiet!

He was breathing haggardly, the world around him was white noise. The loudspeaker kicked to life again.

“Redline final stop - sixth street, please exit.”

His feet were heavy, his palms were sweaty, and his knees were weak. He clutched his waistband as he shuffled down the aisle. He passed the driver, staring down at the puddle the bus was hovering over. It was like a metaphor for his life. Somehow, no matter what he did, things always ended with him getting cold and wet. He jumped off the bus and landed in the puddle, sending water splashing in all directions. The smell of gunpowder and street food filled the air - the stench of desperation and poverty. He maneuvered the tight concrete hallways of the station until he’d made his way to the top of the Sixth Street Parking Complex. He made his way to the side and got down on his knees. He pulled out his scanner and aimed it down the block, zeroing the lens he spotted the Tiallice Vet Care sign.

“No one out front, no cars blocking the entrance, they must be being held inside.” Rico took a deep breath.

He leaned against the wall and reached into his waistband, pulling out the Raider 35. Smooth black steel, no safety, twelve-round extended clip. One problem - he had never shot someone before. His hand shook and he grabbed his wrist in an attempt to calm himself. He racked the slide - it slammed back into place with cold machine efficiency. He took a deep breath and put his hood over his head. Once he reached street level he crept down towards the vet, ignoring the fiends and the corner boys starting their daily grind.

The neon in the lower numbers was blinding. The city didn't spend money on good light because the residents shoot the lights out - according to them, anyway. Rico did two loops to make sure he wasn't being watched, before making his break for the clinic door. Once he felt secure that he was moving quietly enough, he pulled his kit from the duffel. He cracked the dark plastic box open and rifled around until he found what he needed. Two thin silver lockpicks - one cut like a city landscape, the other bent at the top. He went to work on the door - it wouldn’t take long to jimmy. Clarissa never took his advice, so she never added any computerized security. He wouldn’t need to do any slicing to get in. He peeked through the front window as he worked. No movement from the waiting room. No customers this late in the morning? Something’s wrong.

“Spider, wake up,” Rico whispered.

There was a stir in his duffle bag. A glistening mechanical leg stretched out of the fabric and braced itself, and then another one. A small, eight-legged drone pulled itself out of the duffle and crawled towards him.

“Scope it out,” Rico said to the drone as he worked. It crawled up the wall beside him until it was in the middle of the window. Rico jumped when he heard the screeching sound of glass being cut with reckless abandon.

“Quietly!” he hissed through his teeth.

The drone chittered for a moment but obeyed. Once he popped the door lock, he grabbed his things and bolted to a nearby alley. He made his way down it until he was at a dark green dumpster. He yanked his terminal from his bag and set it up.

“Computer, connect to spider.”

“Confirmed,” the computer responded.

He watched as Spider crept slowly along the ceiling of the hall. It stalked through the vet office like it was hunting. In a way, Spider was the closest thing to a pet Rico had ever had. His mother didn’t like animals much. The camera feed was choppy but it was clear the clinic was a ghost town. Spider reached the exam room door and dropped from the ceiling to the floor, landing on its feet with feline grace. It couldn’t go further - it was too big to get through the cracks in the door.

“Fuck,” Rico muttered.

He could see four pairs of feet under the door. He sighed with relief - at least he knew where they were being held.

“Thank god they're alive,” he said to himself, as he drew his gun from his waistband.

“I need to get them out.” He called Spider back to his bag through the terminal before tucking it away and making his way back to the clinic.

He was sucking air, sweat pouring down his face. He was wearing tons of layers but he still felt cold. Clammy. He had never shot anyone. He was a thief, sure. A bank robber, a safe cracker. But a murderer? That was a stretch. But for his friends… he was willing to become anything. He steadied himself against the clinic's front door, pushing it open silently. He crept down the hallway almost as silently as Spider had.

“This is it, Rico. This is where you’ll shoot someone for the first time.” He gave himself a countdown from five, faltered, then decided he should do a count-up instead.

“I’ll go on five. One….Two….Three…. Fo–”

The doorknob started to turn. Rico's eyes went wide. He flung the gun upwards and squeezed the trigger. Gunshots and screaming filled his ears. Who’s screaming? He wasn’t sure. Someone - he had to have hit someone. They must be in pain to make sounds like that. It hadn’t dawned on him yet that he was the one howling like a wounded dog. He felt a hand grab his wrists, pinning them against the wall. Rico tried shaking off his attacker. He bit at the hand like an angry dog. He felt someone hit him in the head. It made his ears ring - but he couldn’t give up. He had to save them, had to get in that room. He heard the click click of his gun letting him know it was empty.

“Rico?”

Rico paused and opened his eyes. It was Jon.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Jon screamed.

Rico turned his head to find out whose hand he was biting. Case was glaring back at him. He let Rico’s wrist and smacked him.

“You’re a fucking moron,” Case said.

“I thought you all were in danger and being held hostage….I thought I was coming to save you all” Rico said meekly.

“I said help, not hostage! HELP! And furthermore, you can’t hit shit with your eyes closed, dickhead.” Rissa peeked her head out of the door and looked at the bullet holes littering the door frame.

“Great, guys. Just great. You even hit the roof, too. Wonderful. Case, let me see that hand. You’ll be lucky if that doesn’t get infected.” Jon busted out laughing and Case shot him a final glare as Clarissa led him away.

Rico let out a sigh of relief from all the tension leaving his body.

“So are we gonna tell him what's going on? Or are you enjoying this too much, Jon?” Nat asked, appearing from where he’d been taking cover from the gunshots. Jon turned away, trying to hide his laughter.

“Okay. Okaaay. I’m done.”

Jon sat down next to Rico, offering him a smoke.

“Rico - we’re going off-world. And we need you to come with us.” Rico was speechless for a moment.

“Why..?”

Jon paused before speaking, the corners of his mouth fighting to keep a grin from manifesting.

"Retribution."