As much as I hate to admit it, taking on the Enforcers on their home turf is practically like kicking a hornet's nest, and the sheer amount of firepower they have is more than enough proof. I know I don't stand a chance in hell by myself. A single .357 magnum with four rounds and a knife isn't gonna cut it. Even if I manage to rig all the dismantled drones sitting on my workbench, I could only hope to take down a squad.
My best bet will have to be the black market, where everything is sold at a price, with American money being the most accepted currency aside from trading, depending on the item at hand. While money is the most commonly used in these transactions, its value has severely dwindled since the market follows the trends of the United States. In short, when the economy fell years ago due to inflation, there was no place hit harder than Scrap City. To buy even a poorly made handgun would cost thousands of dollars. On the other hand, parts come cheap since finding a complete set can take over a year.
That being said, the prices are justified when you consider how many people can board the transport helicopter. With security as tight as it is, it's a wonder how some smugglers did it each cycle. Although you could make deals with the Enforcers, they've been known to send those synthetics knocking at your doorstep if you forgot to pay interest. However, what I'm after isn't made in a factory, but by the people.
Hired hands, to be more specific, the cheap kind. Albeit a lucrative business, slaves are best for cheap labor and tend to be pumped with enough psychotics to make a junkie blush. Serving as practically a mercenary, I never touched that side of the market in the past since putting a bullet in someone is considerably more straightforward than catching them and putting a price on their head. My own personal feelings aside, transforming a slave into a personal guard isn't a bad idea, depending on how damaged they are. Desperate people will cling to the slightest glimmer of hope, even if it means risking their lives. I know that tale all too well.
With that in mind, I had to dig out two hundred dollars I stored for safekeeping, which should be enough to afford one or two slaves at best. Above all else, though, I need to keep my heart planted in reality and avoid helping someone young. Being a saint and raising an orphan would be wishful, especially when I don't know how much time I have left. Then again, even the illustrious black market fears time, as evident by their secrecy and the fact they gain clients through word of mouth. Luckily, I remember each entrance into the market, and they all lead from the sewers.
Back in the day, the black market was nothing more than a complex tunnel system to deliver goods from district to district at the city's formation. Due to the tunnels winding into a maze, the original convicts that came up with the idea decided to form a centralized hub. Deep below the heart of the city, these men took every trader and contract killer to create their slice of heaven. A hollowed cave that harbors a second city, fitted with buildings, electricity, and working water. A thief's paradise.
You'd think the Enforcers would crack down on something of this, but it's a double-edged sword due to the market's sheer scale. The founders knew the Enforcers would want to destroy their home, so they took the path of mutual destruction. By lining explosive charges in the sewers, the market ensured the amount of infrastructure collapse and casualties would be too substantial for the Enforcers to handle. Though the Enforcers have been known to demolish specific entrances for interfering with the peace, I haven't heard of raids through radio chatter yet.
In all honesty, I hoped that it didn't have to come to this. The market is only filled with old memories of Ace that are ingrained into my memories. Although I did have other friends, I cut ties with them when I left the market, and I doubt they'd like a surprise homecoming. I should be dead in their eyes, and I mean it literally.
I've been out of the loop, so I can't expect free handouts from people who recognize me either way. Although I was ran with the market and was well-respected, my leave was filled with criticism, saying I was a fool and a traitor. It wasn't until about a week after I left that their opinions were silenced, and I became a martyr when the only person who knew where I was staying spread a rumor about me dying. Nowadays, my name is just brought up around fires out of respect for taking the fight to the Enforcers or setting an example for the next generation. But I can't let that bother me as I strap on my combat gear and a sling backpack before leaping into the nearest manhole.
The tunnels are dimly lit up by lights embedded into the walls, the caged industrial type that never seems to die no matter how much it's aged. If you're unfamiliar with the tunnels, you could get lost or, worse, get flushed out by the automated system. It's not uncommon to find a mangled corpse wash up in the waste treatment ward. To circumvent this, factions within the market made their own safe zones and hidden paths. If I had to guess, there had to be other twenty routes I don't know, similar to the one I'm on. Weaving through the tunnels and false walls to get here, it's clear I'm near one of the entrances.
Degenerates always hang out at these locations, waiting for easy pickings like crows. It was a matter of time before one of them had the balls to step out of the shadows after tailing me for so long. A muscle-bound idiot with an ungodly amount of tattoos around his head, practically screaming that he's never done an honest day of work. It doesn't help that I can't take his stare down seriously because of his comically shiny bald head.
"You lost, little pup?" He sneers, trying his best to seem intimidating.
Following his cue, two more people emerge from behind me, using weapons which are bad choices in these close encounters. The guy to my left is wielding a chain, suitable for outdoors but terrible to use in a group fight or narrow corridors since you need time to swing the chain for momentum. The other is holding a metal baseball bat in sweaty palms. While good if he charges in first, the guy with the chain can't step in if his swing goes wide. The guy in front is likely concealing a knife in his pocket since his hands are stuffed deeply.
It's blatantly clear as he fidgets his hands too much like he can't decide what grip to take. It must be their first hit of the day if they're this nervous. These guys must run with a gang since they all have matching haircuts and tattoos that are starting to annoy me.
Gangs forming around the market aren't uncommon. Although, only the most idiotic or small-time gangs would even dare set up near the market. Well, at least these guys will give me a warm-up. No one will miss them, right?
I could tell these guys were amateurs since their boss threw a punch from a mile away, which I sidestepped, pressing my back against the wall so I wouldn't get hit from behind and catch his arm as he stumbles. Taking his momentum, I pull him into me and headbutt his nose at full force, which sends him reeling back. His blood painted the concrete and my helmet a tinge of red, but that wasn't enough to dissuade his men.
Seeing his boss in trouble, the guy with the bat rushes in and takes a wide swing. Letting go of their boss with a shove, I slip under the bat, which lands with a dull thud as it hits the wall. The blow reverberated back into his hands, stopping him for a moment and letting me move into his guard. While staying as close as possible, I slam my heel against the back of his kneecap, making him collapse before following up with a knee to his jaw.
I could already tell their boss had recovered from the corner of my eye as he walked to me in a drunken stupor. I hear the snap of a folding knife from his pocket before he lunges at me. Much to his surprise, the knife tears through the jacket, snagging into the lamellar plating hidden beneath it. Not wanting to waste the opportunity, I cuff his neck collar and drag him like a matador.
The third guy tries to swing his chain but hesitates when I wrestle his boss in front of him. Without any momentum, his chain lightly taps against both of us before he tries to reel it back. As he does, I grab the chain and snag it on their boss's pants, making them both stumble around. As he pulls his boss backward, it gives me a perfect opportunity. Once they were lined up, I pushed his boss into him and sent them reeling with a side kick.
Their boss wasn't finished, though, as he tried to tackle me into the murky sewer water, but his seething rage gave him away. Once his head dipped below my waist, I wind an elbow straight into the back of his kidney while sprawling back, scraping my boots at the edge of the walkway. As soon as his strength leaves him, he tries to pull away, to no avail, as his legs buckle. This gave me enough time to sink my hips under him and heave him over my shoulder.
By the time the guy with the bat got back up and came at me with an overhead swing, I had already gotten bored playing. Not wanting to waste any more time, I step into his guard before he can react and grab his wrists as I pull out my tanto from under my jacket in one swift motion. With my blade as dull as is, I feel bad that he's forced to choke on his own blood when it meets his windpipe.
Turning to check on his friend with the chain, you would swear he saw a ghost for how pale he was when he turned tail and ran. As much as I wanted to hunt him down, the automated flushing system would be more than enough, so I fished their boss from the sewage instead and tossed him back on the walkway. Flopping like a fish out of water while clutching his side, it seemed he was still writhing in pain from the blow as he coughed up sewage water. I take my time to step behind him and tap the flat edge of my blade against my hostage's cheek. The fear in his eyes told me he knew what came next.
"Now that the nuisances are gone, who's the guard at this station?" I ask as I draw blood from his cheek.
"Fuck you, asshole! Once my boss hears about this, you're-" I interrupt him mid-sentence by slamming the blade into his shoulder.
"You didn't answer the question. Try again!" I growl as I twist the blade within his shoulder till his screams practically perpetuate through the tunnels.
"It's a woman! She goes by the name, Spades! You'll need the calling card if you want to get in! Take mine! Please, just let me live!" He begs as tears stream down his face.
"Well, thank you for your time, but you'll be a nuisance later," I say as I take out the blade.
The color from his face drained immediately as he lurched forward, in a feeble attempt at escape, only to fall flat against his face. I knew he'd die from an infection, regardless if he got away. His screams of wordless terror were enough to drag me back to the day I got cornered by the Enforcers, and I didn't want to see it. Quickly putting him out of his misery with the flick of my knife was the least I could do as I sank it deep into his ribs.
I smudge the blood off my hands, onto the guy's clothes and rummage through both of their bodies. They had about one hundred and fifty dollars between them and that calling card that guy was talking about: an ace of spade playing card with a custom drawing of a royal flush as the centerpiece on the back. Well, almost a royal flush since an empty crown sits beside the queen. In my eyes, these are a familiar sight to behold.
The queen sits atop her throne in the middle, surrounded by her royal advisors: a knight dressed in gilded plate armor stands beside the throne with a jester standing below them dancing a merry jig, while two knights below him stand respectably clad in a surcoat embroidered with clubs and diamonds, beside a fat man in merchant's garb with a heart tattooed on his cheek, and a knight in a surcoat stands in front with a spades embroidery, holding a shield out. This seemed like a change in leadership from my old pen pals since I remember the person who commissioned the piece wouldn't stop complaining about the angle I wore the crown at. As much as I'd love to jump for joy, none were remotely prepared to lead.
The Queen or the market's daughter was one of the orphans hand-selected from my litter to serve as a lineage for the boss, who was "sterilized" after one too many fights involving a gun. Being the boss's daughter has its perks since our group was occasionally given quality equipment and food. Even had a few moments with her, but we were too innocent to know the meaning behind our words. If there was anyone who felt the weight of my loss, it had to be her.
She is the person I'd least want to encounter on this trip. Other than losing the emotional support I could have given her, she most likely had to inherit my responsibilities. Out of everyone, she'd be angrier rather than happy about my return. I'd be lucky if she'd shed a tear before sticking a knife in my gut.
The decorated knight or Jack, the guard, and advisor to the Queen. He was third to Ace and me in our group in terms of combat efficiency. Solid and reliable in a fight, never lied, and was my eternal rival. The only person from my group who knew I wasn't dead.
Before I left the market, Jack proposed a challenge to me. Either he beats me, and I stay, or I beat him and leave. After winning the fight, he tailed me to my new base before returning home. The following week, rumors spread that I had died from a 'reliable source,' Jack. That being said, I'll never know why he covered my tracks when he wasn't obligated.
The jester or Joker, the royal assailant. He does all the dirty work for Queen and Jack. Never uttered a single word, hence the name. Even though we were from the same litter, I couldn't say I was close to him.
To be perfectly honest, I just assume that 'he' is a guy. Even saying that he was from the same litter would be a mistake since he wasn't part of the market until I was eight. The story goes that one of the scouts said they found a kid dressed in tightly fitted black cloth who killed two Enforcers in an alley. Hearing this, the boss took an interest in the kid and turned him into his personal assassin.
When we went on contracts or hung out together, neither once did he remove those stuffy black rags. He did try getting close to me even though I didn't understand a single thing about him. While I should be thinking of his talents, I can only remember him as odd for some reason. Like the time he nearly snapped my arm when I tried to rip off those rags.
Clubs and Diamond are twin siblings that protect the market district. A sister and brother tag team: Diamond is the older sister, while Clubs is the latter. Even though we were only a year apart, they treated me as if I was their teacher, being very attached to me. I remember both of them shadowing what I did. They are among the most brilliant people in the market, inventing new security measures such as drones and tracking chips.
Clubs had always tried to mimic me, while his sister wanted to be someone who could impress me. Due to these methodologies, there was a clear, stark difference in how they learned and their skills, so I had to train them separately. While I'd call Diamond my star pupil, Clubs was nothing to laugh at regarding guns.
Then, there's Hearts or Hearts The Cannibal, the market dealer. Two years younger than I am. Got his nickname after a contract where he was rumored to have decided to torture a man by forcing him to eat himself. Not much of a rumor to me since I was with him on the contract. Pretty sure he kept the fork he used as a macabre souvenir in his room.
Even still, the man has a silver tongue regarding trade and interaction. He is not a terrible person necessarily, but I never saw eye to eye with his methods. He used slaves as a means of protection, to which I disapproved though, I'll admit, he did treat them well. I'd be a hypocrite to say I'm not going to do the same. Then again, I think it was the fact that he never sought to improve himself that annoyed me.
Then there was Spades. Spades, that's a name I haven't heard in a while. She was an orphan who was about the same age as me. She would usually stick close to Ace and me. The last time I remember her, she was rather shy and timid, the type to never instigate problems.
I disappeared without a trace, without even a goodbye or where my hideout was back then. I knew for a fact that Spades was just as devastated from the incident as I was, but I wouldn't want her getting involved with my hellbent destruction. I'm surprised that she even became a guard and was chosen by the market. It's not like she wasn't strong but never did kill anybody. Too kind and soft for a life of violence, but people can change after a disaster.
I wonder how much has changed in the market in the past four years. The boss still had a few good years ahead of him, so I'm curious about the state of affairs. If I can avoid it, I would like to keep my identity a secret from everyone down there unless I'm forced to otherwise. I clean off the blood from myself with a spare water bottle and kick the corpses into the stream before continuing down the tunnel.
The entrance into the market is a heavy steel door with no handles on the outside and a slidable steel grate for the guard to confirm access. Easy to miss since it blends into the background. Even if the Enforcers could find this door, the doors are lined with plastic explosives rigged to detonate at the nearest intrusion. Funny enough, most of the time in the past, the Enforcers don't trigger the explosives, but the boss looking for a good laugh.
I activate the voice modulator on my helmet and cock the hammer of my revolver as I readied for the worst-case scenario. I knock at the door and wait as the heavy grate scrapes open. A pair of piercing emerald eyes glare at me with caution from the slit.
"Who are you, Scav?" She asks in a firm yet gentle tone.
"A friend told me to come here," I say as I hand her the calling card through the slit.
She seems taken aback by the fact that I even have the card as she eyes me with distrust. Even as she reluctantly took the card, the long silence after she shut the grate told me everything. I could hear a series of locks turning and chains rattling before the door swung open as I waited.
Inside was a long, concrete corridor with only her standing guard. Fluorescent lights align the grey walls, revealing a worn sofa and a shaft that looks like it is meant for food to be transported near the entryway. Most importantly, at the end of the corridor, the elevator to the market stood waiting with a peering camera just above it.
Spades stood off, her back pressed firmly against the cold steel door. Had I not been told she worked at this location, I wouldn't have expected her to be the same person who stood by me four years ago. I could feel an aura of confidence coming from her as she tapped her steel-toed boots against the concrete when she noticed my gaze, showing off a sheathed knife. Her jet black hair flows down past her shoulders, sweeping into her striking emerald eyes. Even her slim physique, hugged by her black-on-black BDU pants, long-sleeve compression shirt, and kevlar vest, kept my attention for all the wrong reasons.
But, that fawning was short-lived when I saw the glint of black metal on her hip. Despite it being partially hidden against her silhouette, I could make out the gun to be a Glock. Clubs and Diamond must have been refining their craft since I can't tell whether it's kitbashed like my revolver. It did bother me that I couldn't make out which model it was without inspecting it, but the way she had her hand on her gun said I had more than enough time.
Not wanting to draw any more attention, I briskly walk down the corridor when the iron door creaks shut behind me. The lights suddenly shut off with boots clacking, leaving me standing in darkness. The familiar sensation of a gun barrel pressing against the back of my head made me smirk. I could only raise my arms in surrender as I stood completely motionless.
"So, is this how you treat all your guests?" I joke, trying to gauge where she was at.
To be honest, I wouldn't be surprised if she pulled the trigger. Even when we were younger, she was always suspicious of others, chastising Ace and me on who we trusted. A step ahead of the competition to avoid surprises. I know I might have a fresh bullet hole from this old habit if I'm stupid.
"You can wipe the blood off your hands, but you can't hide the stench. Who do you work for, Scav, before I put a bullet between your brain?" She coldly demands without a hint of hesitation.
She must be at least three feet away from me from how close her voice is. Since she also knows where she aiming, I can assume that she's wearing smart contact lenses. Most likely, low-grade night vision coupled with a targeting system. This rules out most weapon confrontations since she'll see me draw them out beforehand.
I'll need to act fast if I'm to create distance. Depending on the bullet caliber, I'll survive a shot with a broken helmet from this distance. Although, there's no doubt in my mind that they've equipped the guards with custom rounds. Just have to hope it isn't tungsten.
Even though she is a woman, I still need to be careful; she was also trained by Ace. Disarming her would put me in a challenging situation, forcing her to engage. Although Spades was never competitive like the rest of us in hand-to-hand combat, she never turned down a challenge.
"I'll count to ten unless you speak up now," she orders. "Ten."
My thoughts ran wild as she slowly counted down. Her voice was white noise in the back of my head compared to the hammer of her gun cocking. My body moved on instinct before I knew it.
I shifted my weight to my lead foot in the heat of the moment and attempted a spinning heel kick. Unsurprisingly, Spades reacted quickly by letting off a round that cracked through the plating on the right side of the helmet and grazed my cheek, sending sparks flying in the narrow corridor. My gamble paid off as my heel kick connected against her hand, sending her gun skittering across the floor, firing another stray round in the hall. Using her own momentum to recover, she throws a spinning elbow that barely misses as I step back.
In the darkness, her boots clacked against the concrete loudly, but not enough to disguise the distinct sound of her knife accidentally scraping the sheath. I immediately back away till my back was pressed against the elevator door, frantically trying to call the elevator up, but I knew it was futile. I had to escape or defend myself, or else I'd be done. I could feel my hand twitch instinctively for my revolver, but I hesitate as memories of Spades flood my mind.
Why did you have to be here?
I grit my teeth tightly in annoyance and hear her steps hasten towards me. I only have one option, and it will be a long shot.
I flip off the voice modulator switch as she is a mere hair's breadth away from killing me and yell, "Spades, stand down!"
I raise my arms to block the attack, which I horribly miss as it gets lodged into the lamellar plating, just below where my heart would be. I could feel a cold sweat drip down my neck as I slowly brought down my hands and rested them on her knife. We stood utterly motionless, huffing and puffing as the adrenaline still flowed through us.
"King, is that… is that you? She somberly asks as she slowly withdraws the knife.
"You've never mistaken my voice before. Turn back on the light, and you can see for yourself." I sigh in relief.
Heavy footsteps echoed throughout the hallway before the lights flickered back on. Spades stood in front of me, tears streaming down her pale, rosy cheeks. I could see a glimmer of hesitation mixed with the fear of disappointment in her eyes as her trembling hands reached out for the latches under my chin. As soon as she saw my face, my helmet slipped from her hand and clattered against the floor.
What I didn't see coming was an uppercut, straight to my gut. When I was about to lurch forward, she propped herself against me and smothered her face in my chest.
"Idiot." She said as she grabbed my shoulder. "Right when I was starting to accept that you were gone, here you are… Like a ghost from the past."
She bit down on her lip, trying to find the right words, but nothing would come out. As I peered down at her, I noticed her hands nervously fidgeting with her holstered gun. I almost thought she was gonna kill me until she opened up her mouth.
"Why? Why didn't you come back for me? I thought you were dead," she demands.
I pulled her in tightly for an embrace to comfort her. She acted like there was an invisible air of static separating us, at first, until she caved in. After losing contact for four years, she was a foreigner to me, I didn't know how to answer, but I had to somehow.
"I'm sorry…." I muttered into her ear.
"You could have at least said your goodbyes to everyone." She said as she clenched harder, sinking her nails into the small gaps in my armor.
"I know... And, I can't make up for it." I whisper.
"Four years. It's been four years, two days, and eleven hours since you've been gone, dammit. Not a day went by when we didn't think of you. When I didn't think of you... When I regret not being with you back then," She said mournfully.
"I'm back now. That's all that matters, right?" I said although those words were mostly for myself.
"Was it worth it?" She asks with a hint of fear lingering on her lips.
I opened my mouth for a second before stopping myself from talking. Her simple words seem to utterly break my resolve. I could only bring her in tighter.
We both stood there in silence, listening to each other's heartbeat. Maybe I should have taken her with me, but that would have only led to regret and sorrow. For now, I'm fine with just this final embrace from her. She seems to know this as well since she had her gun in her hand the whole time, never easing off the trigger.