6: Sharklings 

“Who tripped me?” I grunt, trying to stand. I can feel the blood rushing in my body as a massive bruise prepares to form on my side. There’s a searing pain in the back of my knee. Who the fuck tripped me? I raise my fists. 

The girl stands. “The Shark told him the job. He said he’d be able to keep up with us.” There are two others. I recognize one of them. That lanky ginger with a baby face who had been setting up a ‘contingency’ bomb outside the Pink’s Link. The other has a blaring, obtuse purple mohawk with the sides of his head shaved and tattooed. His eyes are heavy with eyeliner and bloodshot. He pulls a pistol from the pocket of his leather vest. 

“Who tripped me?” I ask again. 

“I did,” the girl says. “We should be moving.” She checks her watch. “We’re falling behind.” 

I launch a punch at her gut. 

She dodges. The purple mohawk is behind me in an instant. There’s a knife at my throat and the barrel of the pistol at my head. He presses his knee to the back of mine, forcing me down. “I don’t know, Rieka, he seems frail. He throws punches like a moth. He’s either malnourished or geeked out.” 

The girl, Rieka, looks me up and down. She’s damn cute. 

I wear just my open hoodie, tattered tracks and worn down shoes. No puke on my face this time. Progress. I crack my most dazzling sideways smile. 

“Let’s go, we don’t have time, Deqar. If he dies he dies. Apparently he’s a cockroach, though, so we shouldn’t have to worry about that.” Something buzzes in her pocket, which she checks, then silences. 

“C’mon man,” I say, nudging the man back. “Usually a guy would take me out to dinner first before pinning me down like this.”

  Deqar giggles, gutturally. “Hehe. Well in this case you’re taking me out for dinner and letting me pin you down.” He jingles a sack of credits before me. 

“Fucking robbed me,” I grunt. 

“We are thieves by profession,” he says, his accent strange and mixed, burnt by cigarette smoke.  

“Why don’t you complain to the doctor you robbed the credits from?” Rieka asks. “Get him up.” 

Deqar hoists me to my feet. Surprisingly, he isn’t actually bigger than me, just stronger. Usually its the other way around. “Why the fuck do you know that?” I hiss. Why the fuck does she know that? 

“Follow.” Rieka instructs. 

“And if I don’t?” 

“We’ve got permission to cap your ass,” Deqar says, flipping the gun in the air and catching it. He slides it into his vest pocket. 

“A bit too interested in my ass,” I mumble. 

“Follow,” Rieka says again. Like liquid, she slips off the roof, darting to the next one.

I don’t even realize that I’m watching her form with awe before the others are behind her. I chase. Off the roof, onto the flat stretch, up the fire stairs, over the scaffolding… 

She is fast. Efficient.

Deqar moves like a theatric. Flipping and spinning over simple jumps.

Varan, the lanky ginger, is struggling to keep up. I overtake him first. 

I’m gaining on Deqar, his purple hair like a beacon for me to follow. He does a weird skitter, looking almost like he double jumped like a video game character. It causes me to stumble, a gap appearing where there was none. I recover fast though. 

The pace cleans my pain. Who needs the fucking pills when I can outrun my aching. 

I’m neck and neck with Deqar when Rieka slides to a halt, grabbing a lightning rod and swinging round so she doesn’t fly off the building. 

Deqar and I both skid into the small ledge before the drop. He looks at me, panting and grinning. I’m not even breathing heavy. 

“It’s the ‘bakery’ right there,” Rieka points with her chin as Varan catches up. Some of her long brown hair has escaped her hooded ponytail and now flutters in the wind. Ribbons. I can’t believe she beat me here. Wouldn’t have if Deqar hadn’t pulled that shit. I want to see what she looks like without the hood. I want to know what she feels like under my hands.

Rieka has already slid down three stories using a support beam. She takes off to the right. 

“Aren’t we headed that way?” I ask, pointing at the bakery towards the left. 

Varan swats my hand. “Don’t point. Cameras,” he says, slipping after them. 

Fuck you. Kid should be in school. Or discovering hallucinogenic substances and prostitutes. Not wasting his life in a street gang. 

On the road, they break their jog, slowing to a walk as they weave through pedestrians. My eyes scan for police. None yet. It’s not raining. It’s as close to a nice day as is possible in West Side. The cloud fortress in thin above us, almost letting a ray of light through to the ground. The faces I see trudging on the roadside are sour enough to scare any light from truly staying long. 

Good. You all should be depressed. Look at your lives. Look what you spend your credits on. Look at what you have to do to get them. How much of the corpse of this land do you churn through every day to earn that fake coffee you drink. Just to give you enough energy to survive the day again. Keep you wired enough to buy a pill to sleep. Make you tired enough to need a coffee in the morning. Maybe I would’ve liked coffee before coffee beans went extinct. Who knows what it tasted like back then. They sip it so needfully. So desperately.  

Rieka walks into a convenience store. There’s aisles of junk and drinks on the right, with a row of slushy machines at the end. On the left are three rickety tables with menus taped too them. She sits down at one of the tables, motioning for me to sit at the other chair. Deqar and Varan pull chairs from the other tables and drag them over. 

I don’t sit. 

An old man, thin eyes and balding, shuffles to the counter. “Hello! Hello! Welcome to Master Choi’s shop and dine in experience! What can I get for you today?” 

“Chicken bun sandwich and a side of shrimp noodles. Three air sodas, thank you,” Rieka says. 

“Right away!” Choi turns around and presses some buttons on the rusty, grease covered food generator. I see the naked chicken breast appear. Then it is seasoned. Then battered. Pickles and buns form around it next. There is a ding, and the glass slides up. Choi takes the plate out and sets it down. He pulls a massive barrel from under the counter and unscrews the top, taking a massive ladle and scooped a mound of noodles into a carton box, setting both on a tray. 

Deqar stands, gets the tray, drops the credits and carries it over. He slides it to me. 

“Eat,” Rieka says. 

“I’m not eating that shit,” I stay, still not sitting. 

“You should. I mean, you paid for it,” Deqar laughs. 

“Bitch.” I sit. I bite. My mouth waters and explodes. My god. My fucking god. I haven’t eaten anything hot in months. Not since Tauren cooked for me after we’d gone to that awful street art showing. “Tastes like ass.” 

“Hands,” Rieka says. 

All three of them place their hands on the table, clasping them. 

“Are you about to pray?” I scoff. 

Each of them places the tips of their thumb, index and pinkies together, while folding their ring and middle fingers against each other. Almost like making a devil horn sign with both hands and holding them together. They begin breathing deep and slow, in sync. 

“The fuck is this?” 

No response. 

I eat my synthetic slop loudly. 

Deqar breaks first, shaking his body like a dog. His eyes open far too wide. “If you’re gonna cause chaos in the world, make sure your mind is streamlined. Otherwise, the chaos will follow you in there.” He takes a small glass vial from another vest pocket at his chest. He uncorks it and taps a line of white powder onto his forearm. He snorts it and lets out a guttural, husky breath, then smacks his lips together. “You gonna eat that?” 

I shove the noodles to him. 

He devours them. 

Varan takes the vial from him, dips his finger into it, then shoves his finger into his lip. His gaze sharpens. He looks older suddenly. 

“What fucking grade speed is that?” I ask. 

“You don’t want to know,” Deqar says, wolfing down noodles. 

“Give me some.” 

“No. Don’t want you dying with my speed in your blood. Be a waste.” He licks the bowl clean and wipes his chin. He crumples the napkin into a ball. 

Varan holds his hands on the table, creating a goal with his fingers and thumbs. 

Deqar flicks the napkin ball, sending it straight through. “Fuck yeah.” 

Varan grabs the paper ball and tosses it in an arc, landing in the empty bowl perfectly. “Fuck yeah,” he echoes. 

Deqar claps his hand. “Good fucking omens all around.” 

Rieka opens her eyes and jerks her head, motioning to Choi who is chopping something with a cleaver. Varan stands and walks to him, while Rieka heads to the aisles. 

“Hey Master Choi?” 

“Yes, yes?” 

“I’m wondering, do you offer catering services?” Varan asks. 

“Of course! What are you looking for?” 

“Well, my birthday is coming up, and I loved what I just ate, absolutely fantastic, so I was wondering if you would cater for the event?” 

“Definitely definitely! What location and date? Which menu items and how many people?” 

My eyes follow Rieka. She’s leapt from the slushy machines onto the top of an aisle. She’s pressing at an air vent in the ceiling. It pops free. 

Master Choi is still scribbling down Varan’s birthday details. 

“You want to tell me what it is we’re looking for?” I ask, leaning close to Deqar. He chews on his lip. 

“Not really, no,” he stands and follows Rieka, hopping up on top of the aisle shelf. 

I slip after him, silently lifting myself into the air vent behind him. 

“Don’t want to, but I will. Silver canisters. Shaped like small fire extinguishers. We just need one.” 

“You mean that shit they spray bread out of?” 

I look ahead, but the vent is so small that I can only see him. Wish I was behind Rieka instead of this jackass. It’s always safer to be in the middle when doing dumb shit like this. Would be a better view too, at least.

I hear Rieka pop a vent grill ahead. “We’re clear,” she drops down.