by Lucy Smoke
Thayer turns in his seat, completely at ease and begins to talk to Levi. Haze watches the road ahead, steering the craft through the narrow streets. Hovercar locks don’t usually disengage when it’s in transport, so it comes as a great shock to them when, as Haze slows at a busy intersection, I burst out the side door and take off running. I barely notice that I don’t have my boots on even when my feet sting from little pieces of debris left on the walkway paths next to the roads.
There’s a bevy of shouts and curses as I stumble into pedestrians and bolt for the bigger crowds. The smog in the air lifts slightly. We’re on the very border of Steamer Town and I can see Hollow Pointe—a set of buildings so tall they had to use old metal from skyscrapers salvaged from the wreckage of Earth’s surface. Unlike what the lower buildings are made of, it’s the kind of metal that sways and bends in the wind.
I change direction when I see something that might buy me enough time to get away. I’m short and my legs aren’t nearly as powerful as theirs. Darting up a set of outside stairs of a pod complex halfway down the block, I eye the ladder built into the side of the building not five feet away. I can hear the thumping of boots and heavy breathing behind me, followed by the cries of people being shoved out of the way. I stop at a landing three flights up and swing a leg over the railing. A glance behind me tells me that Thayer is catching up. He’s on the second landing with Levi not far behind. I swing my other leg over and take a breath before I leap.
“Shit!” Thayer’s curse follows me as my hands slap into the metal siding of the building and I scramble to catch a rung of the ladder. I cut my palm and wince as I scramble up, knocking my knee into another rung and likely bruising a few more limbs while I’m at it. The building is only about ten stories high, taller than most buildings in the immediate area. In no time, I’m more than halfway up, my adrenaline pumping fast. My bare feet slip every few rungs as I climb and the small muscles in my arms protest the workout to keep me at the grueling pace I’ve set.
“Goddammit, Kida! We’re not gonna hurt you!” Thayer’s shouts fall into the wind as I reach the top of the ladder and climb over onto the roof of the building. I glance over the side and see that, while Levi has turned back to climb the ladder I just used, Thayer’s feet are still pounding up the original staircase I was on. They won’t reach me in time.
Turning, I can see the tops of Hollow Pointe from here. I wait another few seconds before I see exactly what I’m waiting for. A zipcar attached to a thick length of cable, passes a few buildings in the distance. If I can catch the underside of it as it passes through, I’ll be able to ride it to safety and freedom. I pat myself down, hoping the guys hadn’t done the same. I mutter a curse when I realize they have, and most of my weapons are gone. I slide my hand down the side of my pants, hoping against hope, and smile.
Such gentlemen, those boys were. I pull out the mini switchblade that I keep tucked into the side of my underwear for extreme circumstances, and search along the debris on the roof for something to cut into strips. If I can’t find anything, I’ll have to use my shirt. I toss a few boxes aside, hurrying to get the task done before the zipcar comes any closer. I curse as I hear the sides of the ladder clanging on the other side of the roof. Levi’s getting closer. A dark head of curly hair appears at the top railing of the building across from me as Thayer reaches the end of the stairwell. I glance at the bolts holding the ladder to the top of the roof, but there’s no point in trying to loosen them. There are bolts all along the sides of the ladder holding it to the building.
Quickly I change direction and scan the rest of the rooftops in the nearby distance. This one is the tallest and the one that will be the closest to the zipcar when it passes. I rip off my shirt and begin slicing. Sweat slicks down my back and chest, drenching the dark coloring of my bra until it turns from navy blue to black. I tie the ends of the fabric together and come up with two long separate strips of fabric. I wind them together to make a twisted rope a foot longer than my arm. I back against the furthest reaches of the roof just as Levi’s head bobs up over the rim of the ladder. He swings a leg over the side of the roof and in a graceful movement, pops up to a standing position, his eyes drinking in my mostly bared torso.
“Is this supposed to distract me into letting you go?” he asks.
I shrug. “Depends on if it’s working or not,” I say.
He doesn’t reply. Instead, he takes a look around the roof, at the dusty old boxes that have been broken down and reused more times than they probably should have been. “This is where you stop running?” He doesn’t sound angry, as I had expected, merely curious. “Why?”
Against my own self-preservation, my lips twitch. “If I tell you all my secrets, then what fun would I be?”
He raises a copper eyebrow. “I have a feeling that your kind of fun and my kind of fun are two different things, Troublemaker. Now, come here.”
“Sorry, Golden Boy,” I say, “not happening.”
He huffs in frustration. “You don’t have anywhere else to go, Kida. You’re caught.”
I flinch at the reminder that he doesn’t know my name. That he still thinks I’m my best friend. “Boys always think they have everything figured out, don’t they?” I ask by way of answer. “You always think you’re one step ahead. When really…” I catch a glimpse of the zipcar drawing closer. Attached to a building much taller and further away, it comes down at an angle. I step back onto the ledge of the roof and Levi’s eyes widen as he inches forward, his thigh muscles tensing under his pants as if he’s waiting for me to leap to my death.
“When really,” I repeat with a smirk, “you’re always a step behind me.”
“Don’t—”
“Sorry, Levi,” I interrupt. “I’d say it was nice meeting you, but I’m not into being tied up.”
“I’m sure I could change your mind,” he challenges as if he can’t help the quick comeback.
My smirk continues as I shake my head. “Hey,” I say with a laugh, “at least you got the girl, too bad you couldn’t keep her.”
The zipcar casts a shadow over his face, temporarily blocking out the sun. I take a breath, praying that my self-made rope won’t snap under the combined weight of my body and steady speed of the zipcar. The zipcar hovers just over my head and I leap, each hand twisted in one end of the rope so that I can’t simply slip away. The rope catches on the bottom part of the zipcar and yanks me away from the safety drop of the rooftop.
Levi stands there, staring after me, jaw hanging open. I can't bring myself to let go of the death grip I have on the rope dangling me from the bottom rung of the zipcar's undercarriage, so instead of a thumbs-up or even a flip off, I smile and kiss the air, feeling emboldened by my escape. I watch, his features blurring with the distance, and for a second, I think he's going to yell something at me. Instead, I'm left with the ringing of his laughter, rich and loud as I'm carried further away, towards the metal cage bars at the top of Hollow Pointe.
Sometimes, I wonder what outdoor markets were like hundreds of years ago when there were billions of people living on Earth's surface like it was nothing. Were there rows and rows of unending tents and tables set out for people to browse? Did our ancestors haggle loudly with tradesmen like they do in the shaggy parts of run down Hollow Pointe?
I traverse the last row of tents inside the Hollow Pointe cage that I managed to scramble into after swiping a shirt from someone's clothes line. The bottoms of my feet are still crusted with dust, but I've managed to bargain for a cheapo pair of boots with some money I pickpocketed. They're a little big around the toes, but considering they're made for teenage boys, they aren't a bad find. I'll probably keep them since I lost my favorite pair to the jackasses that tried to kidnap me. The shirt I've stolen hangs off one shoulder, revealing the thick line of my bra strap and I draw more than a few curious eyes as I stride down the aisles between tents. Ignoring those eyes, I head straight for a dented door leading into the building that supports the birdcage like stru
ctures that make up Hollow Pointe. A grotesque, dark movement of clouds hover closely above, already lowering to encroach on the market and its tents. I bet when people lived on Earth, they didn't have to actually worry about trying to work inside of a thunderstorm. They probably just watched it from below.
Several of the market's customers and patrons are already preparing to head home or to wherever they go to get out of bad weather. I hope the drains on the roads below don't get clogged again. The last time that happened, I heard a few of the sewage workers drowned trying to unclog them. Water had run in the streets and up to the front doors of pod complexes until enough time had passed and much of it had evaporated. Even with all the zipcars and hovercars and aircrafts and other technologies, they still haven't perfected plumbing.
The interior of the building's stairwell is darkened, but I've been here many times before. I know exactly where I'm going, and I don't even pause as I turn down a hallway at the end of the staircase before heading inside a shop that I've been to many times before. When I open the door to Blister's Pawn Shop, the strong scent of body odor hits my nose with a wave of hot air. I scrunch up my nose and power forward. I even allow the door behind me to swing shut, sucking me into the dense odor.
Blister—the owner—flips through a magazine on his hand sized e-pad. He flicks his dirty brown eyes up for a moment before returning his dead stare to the words on the page, probably written by some fancy shmuck living the life in one of the other cities. Maybe it's an article on intellect and the decline of university enrollment from Dendera or a media gossip column about Basra's latest and greatest scandal. Whatever it is, it's obviously more important than a patron.
I don't let that deter me. I stride up to the counter and lean into the structure, waiting. Blister raises one bushy, red eyebrow at me before holding up a thick finger and flicking to, what looks like, the end of a very racy romance novel. Huh, not a magazine or article after all.
Blister folds his hairy arms over one another before looking at me. "What can I do ya for, Cass?" he asks.
Despite that I've willingly been answering to Kida for the past few weeks and that I've spent the last however long I was with the jackasses as "Kida,” there's something altogether soothing about being called by one's own name. Cass—Cassandra—Cassie. Kida used to tell me a name was a signature, completely unique to you even if someone else shared it; it was different for them than it was for me.
After the fiasco with Thayer, Levi, and Haze, I'm thinking that going by Kida's name isn't going to continue. It's too risky. I'll have to figure out another way to get her to take notice and come find me. I'm sure the very second I break our standing promise that I won't go searching for her, she'll find me and beat the ever-loving shit out of me. Girl takes her promises seriously and, unlike some people, doesn't hand them out like empty bags of candy.
"Have you seen Morgan lately?" I ask.
He tilts his head. "Depends on who's asking?"
"I'm not here for a client," I assure him. "Just myself."
"In that case," Blister leans over to the right and flips up a section of the countertop so that I can pass through, "head straight back and to the left, he's not gonna be here long though."
I pause and turn, flipping the counter back down. "Got a match lined up tonight?"
"Doesn't he always?" Blister turns back to his e-pad and ignores me as I stride past him into the back rooms clouded with smoke and the smell of burning roots.
"I see your shipments from the lower sky villages haven't been affected by what's going on with the Tanks," I say as I step into the room.
The body odor lingering in the air is even stronger back here. So strong, in fact, that my eyes start to water. The only reason Blister is even able to handle living with his son is because of the explosion that happened years ago in the engine rooms of Tartarus where he used to work. He lost half his hearing which was later replaced by a small aid inside the right side of his skull just behind the eardrum and all sense of smell which was, thankfully for him, never fixed.
Morgan's greasy, matted hair is shaved down both sides of his head so that the limp, dead-hand-looking, engine-oil-dyed hair on top is all I see when I look at him. It doesn't make him look any cleaner. The smudges of purple under each eye, and the bruises along the inside of both forearms tell me that he's been hitting his own stock harder than the last time I saw him. One of these days I fully expect to see his name flash across my scanner in the daily obituaries that I've been keeping track of, making sure that Kida hasn't gotten herself killed yet.
"Motherfuckers don't make it any easier," Morgan complains, responding to my comment. "What're you here for?" He inhales from the rolled-up joint between two of his dirty fingers.
"Heard you're setting up a match tonight," I say.
His eyes sharpen as if scenting a deal. He sits up straighter. "What'cha look'n for?"
"Not a what," I say slowly, "a who."
"Oh no." Morgan leans back into his seat as I prop myself against the doorway, trying to breathe shallowly through the stench in the room. "She'd have my head if I helped you go looking for her. Kida doesn't mess around. Last time I did something she didn't like, she broke my arm."
I smirk. "Next time don't sell your shit to minors."
"He said he was eighteen!" Morgan yells before taking several more pulls off his joint as if he needs the relaxant. I roll my eyes.
"Well, no worries about her breaking your arm again. I'm not looking for her."
He sits up again, curious. "That's all you're ever looking for. You two break up or something?"
"Had a rough run in a little bit ago. Some guys were looking for her—caught up to me. Thought I was Kida–"
"Told ya using her name as an alias was a dumb idea," he interrupts.
I shoot a glare his way. "Thank you, genius," I say sarcastically. "Do you think anyone at the fight tonight might be able to tell me who they are, or better yet who they're working for?"
Morgan shrugs. "Probably. What kind of information you got on them?"
"Mostly just first names and descriptions," I reply. I scratch the inside of my wrist where the cuffs were lined. I'm disappointed that they managed to keep not only my boots but my gun as well. I could have hocked that thing for a couple of one-way tickets out of Tartarus.
"I'd say go ahead and come out tonight. It'll be somewhere you're familiar with anyway."
I drop my hands to the pockets of my pants, hooking four fingers in each and leaving my thumbs out. "Where?"
He winks and gestures to my person. "Why, right under your pillow, baby," he says.
"My pod complex?" I ask in surprise. "You haven't held one there in months."
"I know," he says. "That's why it'll be perfect for tonight."
I grimace. "It's closer to the Enforcer Station." It had been the cheapest pod that Kida and I could find in the city, but in a city of crime, no one wanted to live near Enforcer Headquarters.
"Alright, I'll meet you there then." I sigh and turn to go.
"You gonna wear that?" he calls from behind me.
I narrow my eyes at him over my shoulder. "The fuck is that supposed to mean?"
He blinks before turning his head away, focusing on the far wall as if it's the most interesting piece of art he's ever seen, never mind that it's completely devoid of color or decoration. "Nothing," he says without inflection. "Wear whatever you want."
I turn my eyes down and frown. The stolen t-shirt is too big, and it's got a few holes, and my pants are in serious need of a wash. I groan and look back over my shoulder. "Make sure you take a shower before I see you tonight," I snap. "You smell like ass."
"I am an ass!" he yells back as I head down the hall and I don't reply because it's not like I can tell him he's wrong.
Three
Ghost Fighter
There's bloodlust in everyone's eyes. Even in the women’s as they dangle on their friends’ and lovers' arms. Morgan handles the crowd like he's closing anoth
er drug deal, with experience and finesse. Despite his unkempt look from earlier, it seems he took my advice and had a shower. His hair is wet in a shiny, clean way instead of his usual oily, flopping mess. It rests against one side of his partially shaved head while metal hoops glimmer in his exposed ear as he takes bets against each fighter.
I rarely come to these things anymore. Tonight, he's got some kid closer to my age nicknamed the Ghost Fighter going up against a more experienced fighter that I've actually seen in action.
Poor kid, I think. From the rumors I hear as I walk the length of the basement, it sounds as though the kid is new to the fighting scene. Even though he's already earned a name like the Ghost Fighter, he's going up against the Executioner tonight. The Executioner rarely leaves his opponents still breathing. It's part of the reason I stopped coming to these fights. People die in the ring and no one cares. Hell, people die all the time, every day in Tartarus, and no one cares because it's Tartarus. It's expected, but sometimes, I wish it wasn't.
I stop next to Morgan. "So, have you heard anything yet?"
"Huh?" He pulls his greedy eyes away from the piles of money he's snatching from people as they shove it at him and his two assistants.
"The names," I prompt sharply. "The descriptions?"
"Oh, Alvin's been working those. Go talk to him."
"You were supposed to do this for me, Morgan," I snap. "Not get one of your lackeys to do it. I don’t trust them.”
"You don't even trust me," he replies honestly.
"I trust you a hell of a lot more than I trust Alvin." The little weasel would sell his mother if he still had one.
"Just go talk to him."