Red and goliath.
The decrepit elevator plummeted from the 50th floor; its mechanical howls of senescence provided the only music as it plunged to the ground floor. But its metallic screams were soon interleaved with the buzz-pinging of my nexus.
"Hello there, Goliath. I was just heading your way." I greeted my on-budget fixer; he always throws me jobs that I can make a couple of credits on; I do a couple of milk runs daily, although I knew they wouldn't be high-paying gigs. Most well-paying jobs came with danger and risk and I didn't even have the gear to take them, so I usually went for the lower-paying ones. High-risk slaughter arenas could wait, I prefer the micro-score washout hustle, the kind of low-cred shit pits that slipped through the synapses of the real Nocturnal warriors, the kind no one wanted to touch.
"Got anything cooking on the griddle for me, though? I am so low on credits, I doubt I will make dues past the weekend."
"And my debtors aren't making it easy either. You don't want to find me chopped up in some back alley, do you?" I whined, adding my woes into the mix.
"I wouldn't give a flying fuck and Kid I've been blowing up your line all damn night! Where have you been?" Goliath asked calmly.
"Do the Chrono, man. You called at 0300 dead of the night. What did you expect?" I lied; I hardly got any sleep, and it's not like our lovely city has a day-and-night cycle, the city was always awake and at peak activity. I just ignored his calls and again, when it comes to anything in this city, even as a consummate player in their micro-merc grifter theater, sometimes it pays to exude just the proper whiff of unavailability. After all, the rep was liquidity, and oversupply induced insolvency.
"Whatever, I tried roping your circuit-head buddy too to come and fetch you, but he too ghosted. I got something prime lined up—one we all get a fine slice from." He dangled the lure.
I stayed silent and didn't say anything, but when he heard my unspoken words clearly, he had the habit of making a run through the sewers sound like an opportunity of a lifetime, after all he's running a business.
"I mean it this time; I got my hands on a good and easy job; just come and see man," he promised.
"No bargain-bin swill like I was sliding your way. A game change, truly."
"you sure?" My tone laced skepticism. "Let's pray it doesn't end with some grams trying to slip me a roofie." The elevator slid open after reaching the ground floor. I stepped into the busy lobby of the building and looked around while still on call, only to see the usual—heavily armed goons guarding the entrances and every corner while screening every suspicious party.
"Well, it's not like I ever had a better offer for your discount-priced ass anyway," he added with mocking laughter.
"But this one is definitely your style and you will get to buy yourself some new pants."
I looked down at my patched pants and chuckled bitterly. "Low risk means low overhead—efficiency is the game. I want to keep this skull settled when those bigger waves come crashing, but I will definitely appreciate being able to buy some new chic."
His bark of laughter cracked the line. "You talk big, kid. Just get over here before I change my mind, D."
"Sure, I'll hunt for Red and be with you," I said before Goliath killed our link.
I made my way to the streets as I keyed in Red's ID. Soon after, the sensory onslaught that was Nocturna—Thronethrone, Sin City, and Hell's own urbanized Terran beachhead—filled my lungs, ears, and eyes.
Squatting ravenous upon the Atlantic's edge, it glared balefully across waters towards the sprawl of Long Island, New York City, and New Jersey. However, Nocturna dwarfed them all and was tethered to the American mainland by a series of now-blown-up bridges turned slums.
I stood by the Megaplex as I waited for Red to pick me up before heading out for another long day at the long-day factory.
However, as usual, Red was taking his damn time before he picked up, and after a 'few' rings, he finally picked up.
"Hey, D., what's up?" He said it with an unusually charming voice, and I could swear I heard a faint giggling of a girl, I am sure I must've misheard because there is no way that's a girl, I can only say that my friend's rizz game is subpar.
"Goliath got a gig for us; he said it's something big; meet me at his in 10." I delivered the news as fast as I could because I was not in the mood for Red's shenanigans again, but I got no answer.
"Red, are you there?" I asked, growing more irritated. But my eavesdropping skills kicked in, and amidst Red's lack of response, I could hear the unmistakable sound of a girl giggling and him weaving some overamped lies about how many circuits he fried and he's not so exaggerated spoils as a cyberrunner and how he's definitely not just a washed-up noobie who's only good at cracking Credsticks.
The damned weasel, was he hiding his rizz all this time?
"Red!!" I yelled into my nexus as I started making my way toward the nearest Brain pulse station for my morning fix of stimcaff. The sidewalk undulated underfoot like it was paved with backmasked porno tracks as I sidestepped the hordes of people walking in every direction. Cars filled the road, and when I looked up, Corpo delivery drones buzzed overhead like bees.
The city skyline is visible as an array of advertisements, neon lights, and windows, a collage of colors akin to a television set tuned to a dead channel. Despite the daylight, the sunlight struggled to reach the streets due to the towering monoliths of concrete, steel, and glass.
Red, after taking his time, returned with what seemed like genuine focus: "D, what were you saying? I didn't hear any of it."
Agitated by his antics, I answered through gritted teeth, "I won't repeat myself again. I said Goliath got us a gig; he said it's something big. So meet me there. By the way, where are you?" I asked, genuinely curious about his mysterious whereabouts.
"Wait, you really bought that?" He deflected, conveniently ignoring my question. Good old Red always had a knack for finding trouble, even when he wasn't actively looking. Most of his credits were spent buying new cyberdecks because it never takes much time before he gets them fried by poking around where he shouldn't, and now it seems he's poking around for trouble in meatspace.
"I don't know; he was all giddy about it; we will have to see."I shrugged, not really knowing what to expect. I didn't have much hope anyway, so either way, I wouldn't be disappointed.
"Also, leave your cyberdeck behind. We don't need it, and you'll just use it as an excuse to look busy while doing jack shit," I warned my circuit-head friend.
"Got it; meet you at his place, D; bring breakfast," he demanded before he hurriedly killed the link.
"I am broke, R..." Our link was cut before I could voice my not-so-great financial situation.
It's not like he's doing any better; he was my brother from another, he's there to patch me up when I'm bleeding out, and I can cover his six when the heat's coming down.
"What was mine is his," he keeps saying, and it may as well be true given our shared history.
I didn't know much about his past before I met him, and he's super cagey about it, and I respected that. After all, he wasn't alone in having secrets we'd rather keep buried, so I never pried. But he has been there for me since we met, and we clicked and vibed with each other since our first job together, gliding by the blinding glare of the future we were never truly invited into. A couple of misfits in a world that's happy to let us drift on the edge.
Yeah, he'd be a hell of a lot more of an effective partner if he'd pull his head out of that damn deck for a change and actually give me a hand in the real-world hustle. It's always screens and circuits with him while I'm out here in the grit, scraping for food tokens and scrap cred or a way to get out from under the boots of the big boys.
We first crossed paths doing mule jobs for some gangs here in Obsidian Quay, and ever since, we've had each other's backs. When my orphanage in District 3 or Sabletown—the marginally better place than the quay—"accidentally" burned.
It wasn't some sainted orphanage but a syndicate crèche—a crime academy manufacturing future troops and tempering malleable youth in the tradecraft. A kindergarten indoctrinates us into the family's holy scripture.
I was free from its shackles at 12, but my stay there stretched back to whatever zero point solidified my first memories—a military camp in all but name, subjecting us to lithic testing regimes and dogma-hammerings. Organized along cell lines, the dorm head played capo to us, the little grunt underlings.
Brutalities were homework; savageries were our playtime. Serving the syndes was ritualized from the crèche's early hours. Loyalty was transcribed in scar ribbons that riddled our bodies, and faith in the family's scripture was etched into our very beings. Conformity's paths were neurally encoded—veering from them meant pruning.
Every minor scandal that befell the barrio meant red-hot disciplining. Staying operational meant enduring stresses that would break other children. When the hell Urchin's house burned in the Promethean fire that is still jolting me awake to this day—I was free from that cage, though even now, I'm not sure if I am truly free or if it's a matter of time before I fall into their clutches again—that's why I made my little escape to the quay, among other reasons.
Although it's not that amazing here in the Quay with its identical megaplexes, grimy and crowded streets, and Ripper gang infestation, I didn't have a better choice. Financially, what you could afford here could cost you your soul in Sabletown, and let's not talk about the better, more stable and secure Kōtetsu Gai or Neo domingo.
After cursing Red in my mind for a few minutes while making it through the gauntlet, I reached the coke-caffeine dispo. I keyed my Credstick and placed my usual order—a triple bypass with a turbo-shooter coke chaser to get my synapses firing on all cylinders and breakfast for my friend.
The waiters whisked my fuel to the pickup drone as I squeezed into the only vacant seat in this cramped establishment.
Sipping the scalding semi-narco sludge, I scrolled through my newsfeed for any prime meat to sink my teeth into. Riots over the newest soylent-bred in the Corpro mega-farms, some corpus brat celeb selling an NFT fart, the usual dreck.
Finishing off my morning fix, I threw my cup into the recycling bin and made my way to Goliath's place.