Chapter Fourteen-A
Blood dripped down the steering wheel, slick rubber smeared with a symbol, a much-needed reminder that Malory was alive, that she was in control of her own body and not a puppet to some digital entity from lifetimes ago. She slid out, abandoned the van near the monorail terminal, and took in the sights—Bagley Market was just how she remembered, but embraced everywhere by night and neon. The same three tiers of stalls and shops selling fish, eggs, fried synth-meats, colorful textiles, shoes, bags, books, and toys; the things a good consumer wanted, needed, all for sale to those who could afford them. Mal circled the archway entrance, the vivid signage, the holo trees that shed false leaves, and headed for the staircase that led into the depths of the emporium; the staircase that let out at the four-way intersection they’d robbed as kids. She paused at the top and wondered whether the shoppers below saw her the same way she envisioned herself, as an avenging wraith about to drag a sick bastard back to hell. She adjusted the rifle strap on her shoulder, still not used to carrying so much gear, and descended the steps two at a time. She felt anticipation build, but didn’t let it overwhelm. She was going to take her time. She was going to enjoy this.
When she reached the intersection, she froze. There were the same animatronic mannequins displaying updated fashion styles, the food, cases of electronics, and aggressive ads hovering gold and red overhead. The place hadn’t really changed, and the implant flared to life spitting out so many data labels it made her head spin. There was something sinister there, below the surface—a compelling aspiration for destruction, the desire to unload on the unsuspecting crowd buying and selling, to sow terror in the hearts of all souls present. The ghost was predatory, and it wanted to wield its influence like a cudgel. Malory refused, even in the throes of her emotions. It wasn’t who she was, or who she wanted to be. She focused on the vivid memory of being marched from the basement of the real-meat boutique for the public whipping and remembered the way. She did not head straight there. Instead, she found a small noodle stall overlooking the way in and took a seat. Observation first. Careful calculation. The old man, plating a bowl of Wonton for a customer, flashed a look of concern. He’d seen mercenaries before, but she was the first one that bled on his counter. Wrestling with whether to turn her away, most likely.
“What can I get for you?” he asked. His voice was strained, as if he’d screamed the lyrics at concerts as a hobby his entire life. He had a dingy rag draped over his shoulder, and he used it to wipe his hands clean.
“What do you recommend?” Mal asked. She shrugged the rifle off and leaned it against the counter. The ghost took the empty stool next to her.
“Do you want something heavy, or something light?”
“Heavy, please. It’s been a long day,” Mal said. She looked down at her hand, tried to move her fingers, and winced.
“I can see that,” he said, and ducked below the counter. He rooted around for a second, pulled out an old medical kit, and undid the clasps. He reached inside, and then threw a roll of gauze to her. “Should keep you from bleeding in your food, at least, but you should get that looked at soon. It’ll get infected.”
“Thanks,” Mal said. She peeled off the scraps of her shirt and went queasy when she saw the hole. It was unsettling to be able to see straight through her own hand, and she thought she could see splinters of bone in the mess. She wrapped the gauze as tight as she could without screaming bloody murder, and used some of the extra to wipe the man’s counter. It wasn’t sanitary, but she felt it was the effort that counted.
“No worries,” he said. His eyes lit up to take her order. Decided not to turn her away, then. “You good with spice?”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“Sure,” Mal said. She wasn’t a big fan, but anything would do. Her body had been abused long before the shootout, and she knew her unstable state was the only reason she was still up and moving. It wasn’t going to last forever, and food would put off the crash enough to accomplish her goals.
While she waited, Mal spun around on the stool to watch the people, to take in the patterns, and to catalogue each one that headed for the meat boutique. She wasn’t sure how rough it’d get when she went through the doors, or if they’d let her march down to the basement to protect the business and the clientele. A group of kids ran past clutching the newest VR headset and she knew their lives had parents, apartments free of mold, but she wasn’t jealous. Despite the state of her body, she was in the market as a paying customer. Mal wasn’t famous yet, didn’t have that little cottage on the lake with Nadia, but she didn’t have to steal to survive anymore, and that meant enough to her to cut through the overwhelming cloud. She didn’t let go of the rage, though, or the sense of injustice ingrained so deep down the implant couldn’t influence. She put it on hold, set to the side to spring forth at a moment’s notice. She wasn’t going to stop until Banks was the same consistency as the steaming synth-meat behind her. When she tore her gaze away from the kids, she side-eyed the ghost beside her—the entity that rooted itself inside her mind like a virus was drooling at the sight of faux-pork going into a bowl.
“Here you go,” the old man said. He placed the food in front of her, chili oil radiating from the sauce. Sloppy noodles and pickled vegetables, submerged. “My signature 500 credit dan dan.”
“Looks amazing,” Mal said. She broke the disposable chopsticks apart with her good hand and stirred. The spice stung at her organic eye, and she sent the money before she shovelled the noodles into her mouth.
“I’ll throw in some Oolong, free of charge,” he said. He placed a paper cup in front of her, little wisps rising in the air.
Malory focused on eating above all else, bite after bite, and didn’t notice the heat catching up to her until it was half-gone. She took a deep breath, sipped at the tea, and looked around. The old man had moved on to other customers, and the ghost next to her mimed slurping noodles from a non-existent bowl. Guess it was possible to miss things like food in death, after all. Mal wouldn’t have shared even if she could. Nearby, a street performer with dermal implants done in bronze mimicked a moving statue for donations, and Mal watched the way his limbs jerked around. He used a cane and a suitcase as props to sell the image of an old-timey businessman, and no one paid him much attention. It was hard work, and sacrificing his appearance to commit to the act was admirable. Mal sent a dozen credits as a tip and went back to her food. The meat approximation melted in her mouth, and she had to stifle a moan. One day she’d have real protein, but until then, it went in the books as the best thing she’d ever tasted. When she was done, she placed the chopsticks on top of the empty bowl, stood, and slung the rifle back over her shoulder. A little break was fine, but there was a man destined for the recycler, and she was the one meant to send him there.
Describe it to me. It is difficult to remember. Remember. REMEMBER.
“Thanks, old man. I appreciate it,” Mal said. She ignored the ghost begging for knowledge and headed toward the boutique. Observing the place had netted nothing except disdain for the shoppers going in and out, and she was devoid of patience.
Moving through the crowd was an experience she could get used to—the people parted around her, giving space in a way that made her feel like a big-time mercenary on the way to Purgatory for a gig. The power of being visibly armed. Before, she always had to fight her way through, bumping into shoulders and swinging arms like she didn’t exist at all. When the bell on the door rang as she entered, dozens of eyes landed on her, none of them friendly. The place was lit by hanging lights, and there were class cases housing the many cuts of beef, ham, chicken, goat, and more exotic selections like alligator and kangaroo. Little placards labeled each in bold black lettering, and the floating digital displays overhead listed price per ounce. The rich clientele, who normally turned their noses up at someone like her, as if trying to avoid the stench of bottom-dwellers, looked at her instead with fear, apprehension, and indignation. Mal didn’t belong there, but the rifle functioned as an all-access pass none of them were brave enough to deny. She waited a moment for the employees to process her arrival, and when it was obvious none of them intended to stop her, she strolled to the door that led below.
