It was already dark at the western docks of the seventh district. The thudding of rain against asphalt was strangely soothing.
But it was cold outside.
I sank deeper into my coat, seeking warmth, pulling down my hat.
The streetlights flickered. My steps firmly thudding against the cracked pavement.
A long exhale. I let out a thick puff of smoke.
Today was a special day.
I walked past the broken streetlamps and shadow-veiled commie blocks. Always feeling their eyes on me. Somewhere under those shadows. Somewhere in between those narrow alleys.
It was a far shot from the image sold about the utopian megapolis.
...
The spine of human misery that acted as lifeblood to the lavish inner districts. The unwilling pillars of Eden.
The harbor was especially poor.
The cost of electricity was prohibitive, despair was copious, and the cheap relief of drugs intoxicatingly sensual.
It had spread like a calculated pandemic, turning every corner, shadow, and alley into an addict shelter.
Living under tents made out of wood and cardboard. Wearing rags, sometimes cheap clothes, if fortunate.
After a heavy downpour like this one.
Some always died.
It was a pitiful sight.
Not an uncommon one.
...
I kept walking, inhaling another, longer puff of smoke.
The downpour was intensifying.
In the distance stood the silhouette of a man. Sitting on the pavement, leaning against the wall.
He wasn't standing in my way.
He was just… there, looking at the starless sky, his eyes glassy, his ragged robes were drenched in freezing rain, yet he did not shiver.
He was not dead. He wasn't alive either.
We called them 'husks'.
Only god knew what the gangs did for the eyes of a man to look that empty…
My numb gaze faltered at the sight, but my steps did not.
I was incapable of helping him. I had never seen one recover.
I suspected it was impossible to reverse the damage.
I turned the corner.
I could only offer him relief by not making it more painful.
Once more. Today was a special day.
A special day, to murder a specially ruthless man.
...
Through the thin fog, the chatter of conversation in the distance caught my attention.
There was only one establishment around this area that could afford to pay the electricity bills. So it was hard to miss.
I kept approaching, noting small details.
Three expensive SUVs were parked in front. Few could finance such a vehicle in the seventh district. It was clear who the owners were.
I could see five men standing outside, although I could feel nine in total. All dressed in heavy overcoats and matching three-piece suits.
There was a woman too.
"C'mon, doll. You're comin' with us."
One of them had grabbed onto a woman, forcefully retaining her in his lap.
Seeing me approach, his tone faltered for a few seconds. Caution apparent in his expression.
He continued talking, albeit in a lower voice.
"Come, or we drag ya."
He threatened, almost whispering.
Never breaking eye contact with me.
It was clear they were alert.
I was a new face, after all.
By now I was standing a couple of feet away from the tavern's door.
I was also standing next to the unwilling woman. Certainly a beautiful one. Almost shoulder to shoulder.
I talked first. Keeping eye contact with the talking head.
"I got some business with him."
I said cautiously, avoiding sudden movements.
My hands slid under my coat.
Fifty dollars pressed into his palm, his unreadable face turned a twisted kind of amused. A green card.
"Have fun." - I said monotonously.
Sliding past the wooden door and into the tavern.
Much like the exterior, the interior reeked of stale whiskey and smoke.
The superficial warmth and chatter on the inside immediately turned hostile. Most eyes were on me. Especially the ones on the back, right next to the back door. I took note of that.
New faces were not welcome, not a surprise.
The chatter gradually eased; the clinking of bottles and glassware continued.
I walked towards the counter, dodging side glances and discreet foot-sweeps alike.
I let out a long sigh.
Attending the counter was a fat man, he had sideburns and a receding hairline, he was also dressed in white shirt and blue jeans.
A golden chain around his neck, a thick golden watch on his wrist.
His face cleanly scarred, with a blind left eye and a few gang sigils on the left section of his face.
"A glass of whiskey."
I ordered, now leaning against the wooden counter.
The atmosphere tensed with guttural silence.
I could feel stares as daggers piercing my back.
Again, the men in the back of the crowd proved to be particularly hostile. Without turning my back, I pinpointed the five of them.
The rest were likely ordinary customers. Albeit compliant.
A few seconds of silence from the owner of the tavern, the one behind the counter, looked down on me.
His face morphed into an unsolvable puzzle for close to an eternity.
He scoffed.
With a loud thud, he smashed the glass of the wrong alcohol against the wooden board.
Only a miracle saved the piece of glass from shattering.
'He probably spat on it.' - I thought, drinking anyway.
The ticking of the wooden clock at the far end kept a steady rhythm. A couple of minutes went by. I spent them paying attention to the chatter.
"This mornin' caught a runner tryin' to snitch on our Soma deal. Left him for the rats." - One on the back bragged. His fingers playing with a lusterless black knife.
His tone proud, but unenergetic.
"Heard about this dockworker. A new face, thought he'd skip our tax. We had to break his knees." - Another one commented, gulping down his scotch in one go. - "That fifty-pounder of bliss is going to fetch a pretty sum." - He continued. - "Drinks on me."
The claim seemed to fall on deaf ears.
"Your bliss trade's cute, man. I tell you." - Another one said.
"The money is in the sweatshops. Churning ten grand a day off those bitches." - Dropping the comment with a nonchalant attitude before focusing back on a game of poker.
There was not much to further describe about the situation.
If anything, I was not going to regret anything happening today.
Though it was still a little early.
I finished the whiskey in a single gulp.
I leaned into the counter. Bold, but never making eye contact.
"I've got businesses between both of you." - I lied, loud enough for the fat bartender to hear.
"I believe a conflict is in no one's interest…" - I continued. Feigning something resembling a subtly drunken state.
His back was turned on me, however, I could tell he was listening.
"How do you think it'll play out?"
He served himself a bottle of his strongest alcohol.
"Who knows?" - He answered, his voice raspy and hoarse.
Probably not willing to provide any more information.
I did not press further.
...
"It was probably a setup from outside."
To my surprise, he did keep talking.
'Well, that much is obvious,' - I thought.
"They'll figure it out." - He finished.
After that, he didn't say anything else.
I lit a cigar.
The last five minutes burned in silence.
The night breeze was moist, heavy rain poured down. This was as good a moment as it would get.
'Let's clean.'
I snapped my fingers under my coat, it was barely audible and further silenced by the chatter. No one noticed, and nothing really happened.
Unbothered, I finished my cigar.
However, time seemed to stop at a crawl.
Each second heavy.
The ticking of the clock continued, steady.
…
The smooth, wet rhythm of a vehicle sailing under the torrential downpour. The quiet chatter coming from outside quieted.
It was clear something was happening.
The sharper ones had noticed by now, but no one moved.
Seconds stretched.
Taut and heavier by the second, each tick of the tavern's clock a hammer in the chest.
The thump of a window sliding down.
Then, muffled thwips. The sound of five suppressed shots in deadly succession. Each hitting its target.
Soft, sickening thuds followed, five lifeless plops on the wet pavement.
The air tightened, the silence screaming now.
Then chaos.
A sudden crack-crack erupts. Return fire, unsuppressed and wild. Tires screech, the vehicle's engine roars to life, accelerating in a snarl.
The five men at the back move first.
Their hands reach for the firearms inside their coats.
Three run straight outside, kicking and pushing away anything in their way.
The other two stay inside. I can feel one of them casting glances at me.
He suspects me.
Sharp one.
Before he can act, however, a deafening boom interrupts the brewing chaos. An explosion ripped through the night, its shockwave rattling the tavern's bottles and shaking the wooden walls.
The fading echo of death and the patter of debris. Invigorated by the frantic survival instinct of the mass of people inside.
Everyone comes to live in violent mayhem.
Everyone wants to get out.
I follow the maddened herd, merging right in.
They reach for the back door.
Adrenaline-fueled sweat, rubbing shoulders, I can see fights break out in the corners of my vision.
The shots do not cease.
Another three dead thuds echo outside. The three acting as reinforcements are struggling to escape the frantic crowd.
They begging shooting to open the way.
I stay cool.
I do not act like I am, though.
A few seconds in, half of the crowd has already made it outside.
Not me, though, I was the farthest from the exit.
Pulling and pushing my way, I discreetly draw closer to the two men who stayed inside. Not by coincidence, might I point out.
One is mounting a carbine, the other an automatic rifle.
I lock eyes with him.
The closest one, the one with the carbine.
At this distance, I can grab his wrist.
In an instant, my mark is deployed.
Layers under my skin rattle in ecstasy.
In an instant, with practiced ease, his brainstem dies at the critical spot.
The corpse stays eerily rigid.
However, I do not stay to watch the light in his eyes fade.
I keep walking in fake turmoil and lock eyes with the remaining one.
The look of terror in his eyes… it looked like the paranoid one had noticed. Not good.
He gives an unconscious step back, pale as a ghost.
I'm extremely lucky his terror overtakes his rationality.
That is sufficient to draw close enough for the kill.
Realization hits too late.
He is dead. Much like his friend.
Once more, I prevent him from collapsing by forcing tension on his muscles.
Though not for long. I have seconds now.
By now, the gunfire outside, much like the crowd, has faded into an ominous stillness.
The two are gone, and everything is eerily quiet.
I take a second to confirm.
There are no remaining heartbeats outside the building.
"Wonderful." - I muttered.
I turned around, locking eyes with the man in question.
Gerth Carbone.
The man posing as bartender, his face remained frozen in the numbing detachment one would expect from a calloused murderer.
Grim, dark, and insidiously feral.
The druglord responsible for the single synthetic drug that had decimated the lives of my family.
And had grinded the people of the seventh district into hopeless dust under poverty's heel.
The willing complice of the human market that ran below these streets.
And also the one screw-up that had forced him to rot in this slum for years, quietly raking in blood-soaked profits from the shadows.
Blood brother to the tyrant who lords over this cursed hellhole.
The reason today was special.
Is because today I would get to kill this man.
Even if the pain that motivated me had already grown numb.
I focused away from my thoughts.
My eyes darted to the shotgun over the counter.
I knew it was loaded. I also knew Gerth was capable enough to nail both shots in the blink of an eye.
I held my own gun with a grip of steel. Tightening.
No one made the first move.
…
Too slow to react.
A single muffled thwip from my suppressed pistol knocked the firearm far away from him, a clean hole rendered it unusable.
He crouched under the counter, but not before I emptied the full mag on both of his knees.
"AGHR!!!!"
A short-lived shout of guttural pain.
Clank.
I fail to notice the ballistic strength with which he launches a whiskey bottle over the counter. It knocks my weapon away. To a distant corner, much like his.
By the time I came back to my senses he was already closing the distance.
I could feel something alien move and seethe under his skin.
In an instant, it ignited in fierce incandescence. Flowing like a snake of deadly scorching might. His dark irises turned fiery white.
Gerth Carbone had deployed his mark.
Thick clouds of scorching steam emerged from his arms, with the violence of firecrackers, two scorching hot brass knuckles glistened in his hands.
If I let myself be grabbed hold of, I'd die.
I backed away into a wall.
My heart ran wild, but my head stayed cool.
Tables flipped and crashed against the wall as he pushed. Shards of glassware were flying everywhere. Ricocheting on the walls.
Even after his knees had been turned to bloody paste, the mix of grit and adrenaline inside him managed to keep him moving.
My vision narrowed.
Resolute, I leaned on the wall and pushed a table against him. The wood cracked and bent under the strain, flying towards him with inhuman strength.
He shattered it to splinters without batting an eye, by the time he did, however, I had already moved.
I continued drawing distance, and he kept crossing it.
Glassware, bottles, anything sharp I could find. No matter what I threw or how hard I threw it, I could not stop him. Not even bruise him.
By this point, it was clear I would not be able to defeat him without a firearm.
I clenched my teeth.
With my back pressed against the wall, my eyes darted around one last time. The cold pond of alcohol at my feet, sharp shards of glass, a silver knife.
There was nothing to throw anymore.
To my dismay, I had been too focused on surviving the seconds of brutal onslaught to have made use of the two firearms dropped by the gangsters.
Quite a mishap, for sure.
I locked eyes with Gerth.
His eyes glinted with cold and twisted malice. I heaved. Even at this distance, the intensity of the scorching steam was excruciating.
I could not take him out the same as the others.
'Damn.'
It felt like I'd tried everything I could.
And still lost.
…
With difficult breaths, my hands rose in the air.
"I admit defeat."
...
The puzzlement on the druglord's expression lasted for a second.
"I can not win against you in a fist fight. Gerth."
My numb, cold eyes betrayed any impression of such a feeling.
They were not the eyes of a man about to die.
A sly smile emerged on my face, and I triggered my mark once more.
The incandescent steam Gerth wielded prevented me from direct contact.
The layer of spilled alcohol that soaked the floor, however…
My grin widened.
Gerth stopped smiling.
His face turned pale. A loud gulp stuck in his throat. His cold sweat frozen in time.
"You will regret this." - For the first time, confidence felt absent in his words.
His eyes looked treacherously spiteful. Even in his last moments.
I shrugged.
Lighting a new cigar.
"Sure."
Then his head cracked.
Like a watermelon.
Clumps of brain, blood, and brain splattered everywhere.
His body fell loudly. Limp and dead.