We sped down the maxway, rain pelting the windshield in weak waves. Here we were again, just like back then. Mackie stared out the window, watching the black waves of Lake Trimond tumble over themselves. His mind was occupied, though on what was hard to tell.

There wasn’t a hint of Mackenzie left anywhere on him, nor of M. This Mackie was someone new, a whole person built replacement piece by replacement piece. I don't know what would make a person want to go through that, but maybe after living so long, they just needed to be someone else for a bit. Who was he now and how long would it last? Was there a way to know?

Mackie had been kicking around for nearly half a decade now. Besides some old-timers in the undercity of OldTown, far beneath WarZone where it was the safest, I bet he was one of the oldest living persons in WarZone. At thirty-one, I bet I was up there too.

Though now, technically Mackie was younger than me, everything except his brain.

Streetside, nobody went for more than thirty-five years. You were lucky to reach twenty-five. Below the street was a different story. Not sure what the average life expectancy was down there, but I’ve seen plenty of old people down in the markets. In LowDowns too. I’ve seen em walking the streets like normal people. They're strange. All wrinkly like dried grapes. Timid. Slow.

Strangely, I’ve always felt more akin to them than I did people my own age. Maybe it’s because we know our end is coming. For them, it could be any day. For me, I’ve got four good years left supposedly. I wonder If I’ll spend them well.

For Mackie, there was no telling how long he’d live. Like a roach, he always skittered out from some dark place just when you thought he was dead. And seeing the state of older people, no kidding Mackie didn’t want to be like one of them.

Replacing your face every five years, deaging your body with steroids, stem cells and robot parts, maybe you could stay young and live forever… But what was it all worth in a life like this?

I wouldn’t mind being old one day. Make the world slow down just for you, maybe even have some grandchildren running around. But age worked differently for us in the slums. People lived faster there, life sped by like a bullet. Twenty years was ancient. The wise were children. And the weak were dead.

It's strange, you know, at first, you’re a child, pure and in need of protection. Random strangers willingly throw themselves on the pyre for you. But after a certain age, you become a nobody, and everyone else loses interest. Then, you were nobody forever. Doesn’t matter how much you change, what pieces you refit, or how old you get. After that, nothing changes. I was always confused by that.

Mackie watched out the window, oddly quiet. By now, the adrenaline of the highway was gone. I slowed to the speed limit, the cars around us suddenly caught in molasses.

“Damn. This feels like that CX you used to have.”

“Yeah,” I said, remembering the feel of the steering wheel. I missed it.

“I miss that car.”

“I was just thinking that.”

“You ever miss racing, Sleeper?”

“Not really. It was fun, but not anymore.”

“What changed?”

“I don’t know. Just realized I’d never be the best. After that, the high wore off. Then it was just a risk.” I knew he didn’t know what I was talking about. He always chased the high. It’s what life was about for him.

“What if you could’ve been the best? Would you have kept racing?”

“I don’t know. I’m glad I didn’t. Seems stupid now.”

“Maybe you’re right.” That's a strange thing to say. Mackie, Mackenzie, whoever... This person in the passenger seat would never have said that. I downshifted to change lanes, looking for an exit back to the city.

“We used to have fun back then though, didn’t we? I mean, shit, we were good at this shit,” Mackie said. I contemplated for a moment.

Back then, I was working in LowDowns mostly. Even had a place there for me and Mackenzie where we used to hang when a riot tore through WarZone. I used to rip cars for a living– still did, but only beat ups for a few extra bucks. Back then, I was hitting the newest sports cars from LowDowns and selling em to chop joints in MidCity.

Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

Mackenzie ran a profitable racketeering operation with a small group of good criminals. Robbing gangsters, turning over my stolen cars, free hacks, extortion, they were set up pretty well. We both had a thick wad of cash come the end of the week.

“Yeah, I guess we were good, weren’t we?”

“I mean for real. We owned this city.” He laughed.

“I don’t know about that. We were low end street scum.”

“Yeah, but we were the kings of the low end street scum.” I chuckled to myself. That was total bullshit. There were a thousand guys just like us, but he knew that. “Shit, Sleeper, that’s the first time you’ve smiled since I’ve seen you.”

“Feels nice,” I mocked.

“Yeah, it feels good, doesn’t it? You should do it more often.”

“With you? Not a fucking chance. Hanging with you is gonna give me gray hair and stomach ulcers,” I joked with a serious face. Mackie started laughing, chuckling in small doses like a truck struggling to start, until even I couldn’t keep a straight face. It felt good to laugh. There hadn’t been much to laugh at for a while.

“Man, I miss that fucking car. Why’d you sell that thing?”

“Just some shit,” I said somberly. That meant don’t ask.

Mackie, back in his Mackenzie days, was the one who tipped me off to the shipment of brand new CX models coming in from overseas. Most cars were fitted with security systems, the newer models with state-of-the-art versions. Impossible to crack for the first five or ten years on the market. And when stolen, easily traceable.

Sometimes though, when there was a recall on a model or something was wrong with the software, companies would speed ship a model completely free of any software to be refitted on location. They were called dry marks. Easy to steal, but you needed to know how to drive manually.

Through Mackenzie, I got connections to the shipyard and boosted one of those bad boys for myself.

“That was one of the coolest takes I’ve ever gotten,” I reminisced.

“Shit, no kidding.” I remembered the pride I felt taking the boosted vehicle out for a spin for the first time. No tags. No tracers. No software. Just a man and his car. It felt like complete freedom for the first time in my life.

I never realized it, but that was all because of Mackie. He knew I liked cars. And it wasn’t a money job for him, either. The refitting would’ve cut into profit too much for a boosted sale to make either of us much money. He did it just for me. I wonder if I ever thanked him. Too late now.

“Yo, you know what the coolest take for me was?” Mackie asked.

“What?” I was genuinely curious. He’d done a lot of cool shit in his lifetime. Even I had to admit.

“You remember that guy that ran the nightclub in South Ramp?”

“Yeah, Mouse.”

“Mouse. That’s right. He was a connected guy, you knew that right? He always had a bunch of top guys from Midtown come in once a week to play poker and gamble in his backroom. Shit, the cash they’d bring in was crazy.”

“Yeah? How’d you know that?”

“I used to dance there.” I looked at him for a second. The thought of Mackie dancing made me laugh. He clearly meant as Mackenzie, but the way he was looking back at me meant he understood how it sounded too.

“Shit,” he said, cracking up only after I started laughing.

“Dancing? You mean this?” I mimed a lude gesture, and he laughed harder.

“Shut up. I was telling a story. So, on one of their poker nights I see all the usuals go into the back room together. When Mouse tells me that they're playing cards, I crack in, masked up with two other guys, and knock the game over. Took thirty-five thousand Minnies home that night. And the best part, they thought Mouse set them up. Haha, they beat the piss out of him.”

“Shit,” I chuckled. Mouse was a scumbag. That was a good ending to the story. “So Mouse didn’t think it was you?”

“Mouse didn’t care. They broke his jaw. Fucked up one of his eyes. And he walked with a cane afterward. He wasn’t gonna get em their money back. Of course, I didn’t dance there anymore.”

“Thirty thousand minnies, huh? That’s not bad. But that’s your best story? That’s what? Ten thousand minnies split to the three of you?” His smile softened.

“Yeah. That’s one of my favorites. It ain’t all about money, amigo.”

“Shit. It is for me.” His smile softened further.

“That’s fair, I guess. I got some other stories just like that one. Didn’t make a dime off them, but they’re some of my favorite memories.” He went quiet as he looked out the window again.

“Come on, tell me one.”

“No. Not these. They’re just for me.” I shot him a curious look. His level of introspection tonight was worrying. Mackie was too busy staring out the window to notice.

“Shit," I broke out, "We’re so far away from where we need to be. Where’s an exit?” Our joyride had lasted too long. We were almost to MidCity now.

Damn, we used to be good criminals. I reflected one last time in the quiet of the ride. There was a period of our lives when we were making steady profit from our work. Mackie and I were both making good money, making smart decisions... it wasn’t until now that I realized it, but we were professionals back in the day. Not anymore though.

Rough times hit us for a while. Nothing specific. Just a chain of dominoes that ended badly for us. In the end, after a bad job, I took my vow to leave the city seriously. I stopped racing and sold the car to pay off some debts. After that I was walking, or quick jacking beat-ups for easy jobs, always chasing a quick buck.

Come to think of it, it was after I sold the car that Mackenzie disappeared for good. A year later, Mackie was in my life…

“Hey, Sleeper?” He started.

“Yeah?”

“Are you afraid of dying?” I looked over at him again, but he was still staring out the window.

“Yeah, every day.” An exit finally came up and I took it, zooming down the offramp.