Trophy & Talisman

The base level promenade of H-Bloc 323 is a chaotic conglomerate of junkies, gangs, and everything else illicit. Bright and shimmering with neon and holo growing out of every surface. Wet with the stench of the two hundred and something levels of human dampness raining down through the central atrium. And it is exactly where I want to be.

It is difficult to hide in any of the H-Blocs. Sure, they are enormous, but the Order maintains the flow of traffic in and around each. Checking id at gates between levels and blocs. Patrolling where they can best impose their influence. Poised to protect the aristos of the upper levels first, the environmental control and rad scrubbing second, and maintain the status quo third. And almost nobody is suicidal enough to fuck with the envirocon or radscrub, almost. I heard about one that was taken out when trying to do… something with those systems a couple years back. The aristos applauded the Order for their decisive action, the gents weren’t happy and raged silently at the inhumanity of it all. On the base level promenade the outcasts and the fringe protested and rioted. Here the Order doesn’t mind letting the people blow off some steam. If someone gets killed in the dregs, it is just one less person they have to keep under their thumbs.

The lack of order down here makes it easier to hide.

I walk out of my flat and onto the concourse of the promenade. The overhang of the level above hovering overhead defies logic, but that rarely crosses my mind anymore. The walls rise up and stretch out, all sinuous curves like the pictures of trees from the old holos before the century wars stripped the earth. Everything around is metallic and glittering with the constantly shifting neons and holos trying to sell us drugs, or new mods, or worse yet a better life in the ranks of the Order.

There is a small quad skate gang harassing a kid out in the middle of the concourse. They circle like vultures gliding on luminescent wheels, their fits lined with glowing asymmetric patterning and large circle-As on the back of their vests. Anarcho punks are unpredictable at the best of times. I keep my head low. They won’t hurt the kid and I might not be so lucky if I intervene. I lace my fingers through the shock-knuckles in my pocket just in case.

As I pass them, I hear the tell tale sound of skate wheels pushing off smooth concrete coming up behind me. I hug the wall around a corner to keep out of sight of the rest of the gang. I suddenly hear a stray set of wheels skimming and crossing grooves between slabs of concrete. I shift back around, and my eyes catch a solo skater as she rounds the corner.

“Oi, love where you running off to?” The skater shouts out. Her hair is neon pink and shaved on the side in a design that matches the shimmering geometric pattern on her black vest and pants. Her arm is a mod, chrome with the same pink neon lacing through it. My eyes ride the curve of her body up to her face where her pink lips and eyes give me a knowing smirk. I’m a little stunned. She corners me against the wall and braces herself with an arm over my shoulder.

I stammer, “Just taking a walk.”

“Taking in the sights, eh?” She leans in closer and looks me up and down like I just did to her. The skates give her a few inches on me, but I can tell we are similar in height.

I feel her eyes roll down my chest and halt at the heart-shaped locket I keep nestled between my breasts.

“What’s this then?” She reaches to my neck and pulls the locket out into the open.

My breath catches in my throat.

"Lavish for a little promenade thing like yourself. Polished, too. This is old, isn't it love? Your mama's? How nice." She coos.

My left hand snaps to the chain and tucks the locket back into my shirt while my right comes out, knuckles sparking.

“Aya, don’t need to get bent pretty, just having a look. Where you headed? I’ll walk with you.” She pushes back and rolls away from me, eyes on the sparking shock knuckles that wouldn’t be so kind to her nerve endings or her mods. I know I should keep my distance, but her presumption intrigues me.

“You gonna take those off?” I nod at her skates and return the shock knuckles to my pocket.

“I don’t mind taking it slow for you,” she says with a smirk.

I keep a comfortable distance and start walking, keeping my hand on the knuckles in my pocket between us.

“I’m Lira by the way,” she says as she pushes along beside me.

“You can call me Toni.”

“That short for anything?”

“Antonia,” slips out. I try to shrug it off, but Lira's too quick to let it go. She narrows her eyes as if she knows something.

“Name like that, chain like that, seeming a little bougie to be down in the dregs with us, Toni.”

“I have my reasons.”

“And what are those? Fight with mummy? Daddy cut off your allowance?” Lira taunts.

As I open my mouth to retort, Lira's eyes dart away and back. She's distracted.

Her eyes finally lock onto me in a sudden rush of clarity. Exasperated, she coasts a little further away.

I spin my gaze around to see what caught her eye and there hovering off the wall is an uncomfortably large holo rendering of my baby face circa two years ago, glitzed out with golden face jewelry like the other aristos, platinum hair in a tight french braid, shoulders capped in a dainty white fabric with golden trim. Text scrolls underneath it.

Wanted for the brutal slaying of her parents, Master Julius and Matron Octavia Rivington, the Order is offering a reward for information that leads to the capture of Antonia Rivington. If you know anything, perform your duty to order.

I flip my hood up and turn back to Lira barely containing a slight smirk.

“Like I said, I have my reasons.”