The Mark

Samira heard the magpie’s insistent tapping on the aluminum roof of her shack. She slid open the trapdoor and he fluttered down inside, shuffling impatiently on the upturned crate she used for a table.

“Yes, yes, give me a minute!” she chided, reaching for her lockbox of useless trinkets and proffering it to the excited messenger. After she had untied the scrap of paper from his ankle, he hopped over to the chest and began busily rooting through it with his sharp beak. He selected a tiny heart pendant, pulling it out and nudging it towards her.

“Oh yes, I’m sure your lady friend will love that one,” Samira told him, looping the delicate silver chain around his neck. He dipped his head gracefully, preening his feathers before disappearing back through the hole in the ceiling.

“Don’t forget to come back for the reply!” She called after him, but he was gone, making lazy loops back towards the ruined church tower and his nest in the eaves.

The message was in code, taken from one of the few books she owned; a tattered copy of “500 One-Pot Wonders – cooking without the clean-up!” As the phases of the moon changed, so did the code, making it harder to intercept. Not that there was a lot of espionage going on in Tent City.

There weren’t many tents left, of course. After the first rush of desperate refugees set up camp on the outskirts of the habitation dome, the name stuck. It soon became apparent they were forsaken, and no amount of begging would help them acquire the coveted Freedom chip and admission to the sun-filtered dome. Gradually the Unclean scavenged any building materials they could from the old city, building rickety mud huts and colorful dwellings using empty plastic bottles within chickenwire frames. There was an ingenuity to the architecture, and irony that if only the world had recycled as much in the past, Tent City would never exist at all. The only old building that remained was the bell tower – the magpies and ghost stories scaring away even the bravest scavengers.

Samira’s place was cramped, but then her needs were few. It was simply a place to rest between jobs. She had three different exits, of course. An assassin knows better than to get cornered.

Now she sat down on the old plastic sun lounger that was her bed, the cookbook open on her lap. Slowly she flipped pages, decoding the message.

“You are kneaded to ice the main squeeze of head of millionaires lot. Stir yourself overnight and do not leave too long. Make it look like food poisoning. 50 servings.”

Samira frowned. Millionaires Lot referred to a group of shipping containers that were stacked ten high over by Trash Mountain – a patch of scorched grass that had once been a cheerful city park. The Millionaires were a gang run by Rafferty, a small-time dealer dabbling in Euphoria, the street drug that killed more of the Unclean than skin cancer and communicable diseases combined. His main squeeze? That must be his wife. He probably had a bit on the side, one of his street gals perhaps. A typical hit - why was murder the automatic reaction of so many men when their marriage failed? How did love so quickly turn to hate? Oh well, for 50 water purification tablets she’d kill anyone. With that kind of bargaining power, she might even be able to get a real bed.

The evening klaxon sounded, warning people it was now safe to leave their homes. Since the solar flares started fifteen years earlier, people knew to stay indoors during the hottest parts of the day. Business hours were from 5 am till 9 am, and again from 6 pm till midnight. For a while, tent city would be a hive of activity, kids playing underneath the old highway overpasses, markets trading in salvaged goods. Her stomach rumbled, tempting her to head down to Souper’s Row, maybe treat herself to a fried rat or some protein curry. But she knew better than that – always work on an empty stomach. The last thing she needed was a stitch as she tried to make her getaway. No, better to get some sleep, the midnight klaxon would wake her. She balled a sweater beneath her head and stretched out on the lounger, feeling the plastic slats press against her skin. She slept like a cat – deeply, but with a knife in her hands.

Waking refreshed, Samira dug through her disguises and found a pair of torn fishnet tights in an ugly neon green. A black pair of sequined booty shorts and a cropped pink puffer jacket completed the look. Pricking her fingertip she squeezed a few drops of blood out, using it to rouge her cheeks and redden her lips. She could do nothing to hide the scarring on her right side – make-up was a thing of the distant past.

She left via the roof, softly leaping across the narrow gaps between the higgledy-piggledy shanty houses. A few streets over she jumped down onto a loaded mortuary cart, the soft landing briefly outweighing the disgusting smell of the dead beneath her. Soon she was walking swiftly in a seemingly random direction, nevertheless arriving in the Lot at around three in the morning.

It didn’t take long for one of Finnegan’s goons to find her. At 6 feet 7 inches he towered over her, his face scarred and pitted where skin cancer lesions had been excised. He was not an attractive man, even by Unclean standards.

“What’re you doin’ round here? You’re not one of ours,” he said, spitting tobacco at her feet for emphasis.

“I’m looking for work, heard they was lookin’ for girls round this way.” She held his gaze, unphased by his threatening posture. She’d dealt with bigger men than this before now. He looked her up and down, evaluating her.

“Not a lot of meat on you. Reckon you’d be a bony ride. But I guess you’re not bad, if you like that sort of thing.”

“Gee, thanks. Why don’t we go ask the one doin’ the hiring?”

He slapped her hard in the face – she saw it coming, steeling herself not to flinch, allowing tears to shimmer in her eyes.

“Don’t sass me, girl. I see your type come and go by the dozen. You won’t last a week down here, I’ll bet.” He softened as he saw the tears roll down her cheeks. “Oh, hey now, don’t be dumb, it wasn’t that hard. I’m not the type to go markin’ up Finnegan’s gals. Look, I'll tell you where to go, okay?" He slipped a queen of hearts playing card into her hand and gestured to one of the stacks ahead of them. "You go there, show the dude on the door this card. Tell him Joe sent you to see the Missus. He'll understand. Now scoot, stop wasting my time."

Men are such simple creatures, Samira mused as she headed over to the janky skyscraper. So easy to manipulate.

Within minutes she found herself on the uppermost floor, knocking on the door. So far so good, everything was going to plan. All she had to do was to get hired and wait for the right moment to use the poison. Hopefully, before she had to do any, ahem, 'work'.

The door was opened by the prettiest woman she'd ever seen. In her mid 30's, she had almond-shaped brown eyes and jet-black hair that fell almost to her waist. Somehow, she had none of the lesions and sun-marks found on most of the Unclean. How on earth had she ended up outside of the Habitat? The woman sighed when she saw the playing card.

“You’d best come in. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Samira stepped through the doorway, slightly unnerved by the encounter. She was used to people begging for their lives, not offering refreshments. She'd never had to befriend a mark before.

The older woman bustled around, fetching flowery china cups in gold-rimmed saucers. No cracks - real antiques! She poured boiled water into a matching pot.

“Is that…?”

“Tea? Yes, it is. I’m running low now, of course, can’t get it outside the habitat anymore. But it’s just the thing on a cold night like this. You look like you could use the warmth in you.”

Samira sniffed the brew, enjoying the light, floral aroma. She took a sip and closed her eyes, transported back to the Before Times for just a moment - sitting in the kitchen, feeling so grown up as she drank milky tea from a saucer.

“Thanks,” Samira said and meant it. This woman wasn't much older than her, but she had a comforting, maternal air.

“I’m Marisol, by the way. I’d ask your name, but I’m sure you don’t want to share it, so how about I just call you… Hope.”

“Hope?” Samira was bemused.

“Yes, you have a sort of wistful air about you. And you’re not dead yet, so… Hope.”

“Okay, I guess. One name is as good as another.”

"Are you sure you want to work for Finnegan, Hope? He's not a kind man. He's cruel and violent, and people who don't please him tend to go missing."

“I know, but I don’t really have a choice. I need the money.”

“For Euphoria? You don’t look like you have the Glow.”

“No… just, look, do we have to talk about this?” She was growing uncomfortable, wanting to just get done and leave as fast as possible.

“If it’s money you need, I don’t have a lot.” Marisol rubbed a scar on the back of her neck. "I sold my freedom chip a few months ago, so Elise could get out… she was pregnant, and that never ends well here. Most of it’s gone now, but I can give you what I have, to tide you over. It isn't safe here, and you're on the old side too – you don't want to know what they do when the girls get too old to work."

I don’t think I can do this! She’s so nice… she sold her freedom chip? So she DID come from the habitat. Those things are more precious than Euphoria!

There was a knock at the door, Marisol disappeared in the back of the unit to answer it.

Samira hesitated a moment, steeling her resolve. She seized the opportunity to sneak poison into the teapot, swirling it gently while it dissolved. She was back in her seat before Marisol returned, propping up a bleeding and battered girl.

“It’s ok Lena, you’ll be ok. Oh sweetie, I’m so sorry, what did he do to you?” Marisol helped the girl lie down on the sofa, hurrying to fetch a first aid box. The injured girl looked barely 17, and barely alive. She groaned softly as Marisol set to work with rubbing alcohol and bandages.

“Hope, will you pour Lena some tea? She must be in shock.”

“No!” Samira started, then realized how strange she sounded. “That is, it’ll be cold by now. I can make a fresh pot?”

Marisol furrowed her brow, looking towards the still steaming teapot with suspicion.

“Oh Hope, we both know it’s not cold.” She looked disappointed, like a mother whose child had told a lie. “I know why you’re here now, and honestly, I’ve been expecting you. Can you wait a few minutes longer, though? Lena really needs my help right now.”

I’ve never taken the life of someone who just accepted it without judging me. This is all wrong!

“I have a better idea,” Samira said, kneeling beside Marisol and helping dab the wounds. “Two questions. Does your husband drink tea? And do you know who has your freedom chip?”

“Yes and yes,” Marisol replied with a smile. “But we can talk about that later. I knew you were Hope. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”