1.2

  Another person is waiting in the alley when I step outside. A young, timid woman who avoids eye contact and barely acknowledges my greeting. She hurries inside, arms folded tight. Must be the two-o’clock Dr. Maelstrom mentioned.

  I pull out the electronic map and take a look. It only covers a portion of the city, but sure enough, the tracking device shows up as a blinking blue dot: right here, in the alleyway on Carter’s Street. Across the bridge, a cluster of buildings comes into view, one circled in orange marker. A fair distance away. That must be it.

  Once I get this sensory issue sorted, I’ll need to start saving for a place to stay. And a ride. Walking everywhere in a city this big is just asking for trouble, especially if I used to run with a gang. What if I did something unforgivable? What if someone I wronged spots me, thinks I’m a ghost, and ices me right there on the street?

  Unsettling thought.

  I push it aside and move through the city, crossing the bridge towards the buildings marked on the map. The rain is lighter on this side, the wind gentler, just a seabreeze drifting up from the river. My neural interface displays the time in the top-right corner: 14:47. Working hours, yet the roads and sidewalks are packed. People here don’t seem to slow down. Maybe they’ve upgraded past the need for downtime. Or maybe Neo Arcadia is just one of those cities that never really rests.

  The pedestrians thin out as I weave through a series of twisting alleyways, ducking beneath low-hanging metal sheets where grated balconies jut out from apartment windows, held in place by rusted bars. Litter skitters across the pavement as I kick it aside, eyes scanning for a sign that reads Old Mill. It’s the address I was given, but the map doesn’t acknowledge its existence. The buildings here are blank, unmarked save for the occasional apartment complex. I move on, past the glow of orange sodium-vapour lamps and neon signs flashing Japanese characters over steel shutters. Up ahead, where a tangle of wires peels away from a blank cyan LED screen barred over a shuttered building, I spot a wooden post nailed to a wall. The letters are hard to make out from a distance, but as I approach, I see OLD MILL scrawled in black paint. Only, the building it’s attached to looks nothing like a mill, and it sure as hell isn’t old. It’s mostly metal and red bricks wedged between cracked cement, and the front door resembles an airlock you’d expect to see on a shuttle or spacecraft. To the right, a buzzer sits beneath a neatly squared intercom.

  Is this an apartment? Doesn’t look very gangy. Am I even in the right place?

  I double-check the address scribbled on the scrap of paper, then glance at the circled area on the map. This is it. No doubt about it. Still, I’m a bit nervous. Has Dr. Maelstrom spoken to that guy yet? What was his name… Fingers? Did he give him a heads-up that I’m coming? Because if not…

  Static rasps from the intercom, and a voice plays out of it no more than a second later: “State your business.”

  My heart skips a beat. The sound caught me off guard.

  “Hi. I, uh… Dr. Maelstrom sent me. He… well, he said—”

  A chuckle crackles through the speaker. “This is what he sends? Seriously?”

  Goosebumps. “Listen, I have experience.” Not entirely a lie. “And I’m not unequipped. I have—”

  “Yeah, we know,” the voice says. “Not exactly an impressive strap, mate, but better than nothing. Name’s Rhea, yeah?”

  I nod. “Yeah. Rhea Steele. I was told to ask for Fingers.”

  A grumble. A cough. A few seconds pass before the door buzzes open.

  “Take the elevator to Dash Two. Fingers is waiting. And don’t touch anything.”

  I'm quiet for a moment. Just nerves. But at least we got that part out of the way. Now all I have to do is head inside and hope to God I don't get killed on the way down. But what are the chances of that?

  Come on. Breathe.

  In we go.

  The inside is well-lit by fluorescent bulbs drilled above dirty aluminium doors. Up ahead, a rusting washing machine sits next to a couple of oxygen canisters outside someone’s unit. A gaunt man in ragged clothes leans over it, bracing himself. His whole body shudders before he wrenches open the machine’s lid and vomits inside. Disgusting. Either too many bottles or too many needles. Hard to say.

  I keep walking, eyes forward, but he glances up at me. Tries to slur something, then crumples to the floor before another syllable gets out. Stepping around him, I make my way to the elevator at the end of the corridor. The wall beside it is crumbling, chunks of plaster peeling away to expose rusted skeleton. Across the elevator doors, a spray-painted message glares back at me in bright-white lettering:

  THE BLUES FUCK US RAW!!!

  Someone has a bone to pick with authority. Makes sense. If I’ve got the right idea about gangs, they’re people who reject societal expectations, people who’d rather tear the system down than waste away in a nine-to-five.

  Was I like that at one point? Full of rage, desperation, whatever it is that fuels people to spray warnings on walls and pick fights with authority? I certainly don’t feel any of that energy now.

  I press the elevator call button and wait as it screeches its way up to my level. The sound is so horrendous that I start second-guessing whether I should even step inside. Feels like the whole thing might collapse under the weight of a scrawny five-five woman like me. But that theory shatters the moment the doors grind open and a tall, stocky man in all black strides out, a gym bag slung in one hand. Only, I can tell he’s not on his way to a workout.

  “Watch it,” he mutters, brushing past me like I’m nothing more than an obstacle in his path.

  I had barely registered the fact that I was in his way. Stupid. That’s on me.

  Stepping inside, I find myself in a box barely big enough to hold the full-length mirror bolted to the back wall, a mirror that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in years. I hit the button labeled “-2”, and the elevator groans, then begins its descent, once again screeching like metal dragged over asphalt. I turn to my reflection, taking in the bloody scavenger gear, the stiff, dead weight of my non-functioning right arm, now tucked into the side pocket of my leather kutte. At least it doesn’t dangle. That would be worse. I should really look into getting it chopped off, if only for convenience. But there’s a hell of a lot higher on my priority list right now. Feels like my life is just one long list of problems waiting to be solved. First things first: enough creds to stay alive. The rest, I’ll figure out as I go.

  The elevator jolts to a stop, and the doors jerk open. Another corridor. This one’s different: no apartment doors, no overhead fluorescents. Just a single, bare bulb dangling from a string. A slow drip echoes from a leaky ceiling pipe. Grated steel walls are reinforced with thick metal sheets, and behind them, other rooms sprawl out: larger, filled with furniture and tech. Hard to make out from this angle, but there’s a lot happening in there.

  Voices up ahead, to the left.

  So, I walk. And walk. Until I turn the corner into a dark, windowless room full of smoke and red light.

  It’s sort of like a living room, sort of like an office, with a leather sofa and cotton chairs, all circling a large wooden table at which three people are sitting, legs sprawled. Three men, each with heavy cyberwear embedded across their bodies. Cybernetic arms, glowing optics, necks laced with titanium and Kevlar.... And their clothes: strikingly simple and of no similarity. They wear jackets, the sort you’d expect to see in slightly cold climates, with cargo jeans to match.

  One of them stands out. His fingers are long. Too long. Metal extensions gleaming under the low red light, and he wears a weathered yellow oilcoat. That has to be Fingers.

  The only other person in the room is off to the far left, a woman idly flicking a jackknife in and out. Bright blue hair, shaved at one temple. Thick fingerless gloves. Dark clothing. She’s the only one who looks truly out of place here.

  Well, aside from me, of course.

  The man on the right exhales a slow drag from his cigar, arms draped lazily over the sofa’s armrests, legs kicked up on the table. His hair is tightly cut, blonde, his voice deep and rasping like someone who’s been smoking since birth. “Seriously?” he mutters, dropping his feet to the floor. He taps the cigar, ash scattering onto the table, then dips his head with an incredulous shake. “You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me.”

  “You’d be surprised what Neo Arcadia has out there,” the man with the long metal fingers muses, tapping them against the table. His voice carries this strange, almost eerie British lilt, like he’s always on the verge of amusement. And he fixes me with a grin, too wide, too knowing. Like a dog that’s just found a new bone to chew. “Always nice to see fresh talent, mmm, yes.”

  “Talent?” the blonde man scoffs, barely sparing me a glance before flicking a dismissive hand in my direction. “You call that talent?”

  The man to the left shifts in his seat. “I dunner. Thought you said someone experienced was gonna sher up, Fingers.” His brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail, a thin silver band bolted across his eyes, connecting to either side of his skull. When he presses his neural port, the band buzzes to life, glowing blue. “For someone experienced, you do manage to er, well, avoid all sorts of wanted lists. Would er at least like to see yer on a list by now. Or're you that good?” He grins, showing teeth that are only half there.

  “I... excuse me?” I frown, unsure if he’s insulting me or trying to make a point.

  The blonde-haired man pushes himself up from the couch, cigar smoldering between his fingers. He steps close, too close, bending just enough to bring his face level with mine. Then, with slow deliberation, he exhales a thick plume of smoke into my face. The taste is acrid, utterly disgusting.

  “Tell me,” he says, “have you ever been shot before? Ever killed someone? Ever...” He chuckles. “... done anything? Anything of value?”

  Something small and spinney whips past my shoulder, causing me to jump and turn. A knife. It landed right in the bull’s-eye of a dartboard.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Knock it off,” a feminine voice says.

  I turn just as the woman in the corner rises from her chair, flicking her jackknife shut as she steps towards us.

  The blonde-haired man barely acknowledges her, still watching me like I’m some stray that’s wandered into the wrong alley. “Tellin’ you, Fingers, I don’t get what you see in this girl. But it’s your loss if she ends up fuckin’ us. I say we throw her out.”

  “I think he can think for himself,” I say bravely.

  “He?” The man chuckles, stands up straight, and then sits back down on the sofa chair.

  I look at the man in the middle with the long fingers.

  He’s shaking his head.

  “He’s not Fingers,” the woman says, pulling the knife out from the dartboard. “I am.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  She smirks, reading me effortlessly. “I know exactly what you were thinking. Don’t worry about it.” She claps a hand on my shoulder, firm but not unfriendly. “Nice to see another woman, so I won’t be too harsh on you. Won’t be too nice either. You wanna work with us, I need to see some credentials.”

  “Credentials?” I say, confused. This isn’t what Dr. Maelstrom talked about.

  She nods. “Not a CV or some flashy piece of paper. I mean real credentials. How you hold up in the field. You follow?”

  I hesitate, staring at her blankly. “I think so. You want to see what I’m like in action? That it?”

  Another nod. “Bingo. Right on, Rhea. That is your name, right? I’m talkin’ to the right girl?”

  “Yeah,” I confirm, not bothering with my surname. Doesn’t seem important.

  “Hm.” She eyes me for a beat, then gestures to the others. “Some introductions, then. The guy with the long fingers behind me is Cormac. To his left, Vander—explosives expert. And the grumpy one on his right? That’s Raze. You’ll figure out who’s who soon enough.”

  “Got it. Cormac, Vander, Raze. And you’re Fingers.”

  I briefly consider asking how she got the name when, from what I can see, her hands look normal. But I let it go. For now.

  She holds my gaze for a moment longer, then smiles. Another pat on the shoulder, firmer this time, before she steps out of the room, motioning for me to follow, and the others start to rise.

  “Surprised you guys wanna watch,” Fingers says, glancing over her shoulder.

  “Didn’t come here for nothin’,” Raze mutters, grinding his cigar out against his jacket sleeve before flicking the spent bud into the ashtray. “Sick of sittin’ around. Need to stretch my legs. And, let’s be real, we all wanna see what this kid’s got. Not often a lady walks through our door askin’ for work.”

  “I’m more for the air, oh yes.” Cormac coughs into his sleeve, rolling his shoulder with a slight mechanical whirr. “Raze and his cigars… they’ve got a certain pungent quality, if I do say.”

  “Pretty sure you just haven’t showered in a while, Corn,” Raze fires back.

  Vander grabs a water bottle from under his chair, twisting off the cap with a flick of his wrist. “Where’s Dance, anyway?”

  “Probably off fuckin’ some BD slut,” Raze scoffs, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

  Fingers motions for me to follow again, and this time, I do. “Dance isn’t feelin’ well. He’s resting up today.”

  “That lazy prick? Only work he does around here is chemistry, and how often does chemistry help us?”

  “More than you think,” Fingers replies coolly.

  He gives her a slow, sarcastic nod. “Yeah, sure. Like I’ve ever needed a pick-me-up from that guy.”

  Fingers guides me deeper into the underground hideout, stepping carefully through a mess of loose cables and scattered metal parts. I watch my feet, careful not to slice my ankle open on something sharp. She stops at a door, pressing her palm against a hand-recognition panel. A soft beep sounds, and the door slides open to reveal nothing but darkness. She heads inside and claps her hands once. Fluorescent lights flicker to life, casting a harsh white glow over what, frankly, I wasn’t expecting when she mentioned credentials: a firing range. On one side, a long table holds an arsenal of pistols and rifles, neatly arranged beneath the tabletop. On the other, bullet-riddled humanoid targets hang in the distance, black paper bodies perforated with thousands of holes.

  “Smell the gunpowder?” Raze says, scratching his fuzzy crewcut.

  I don’t, obviously, but responding to that asshole isn’t worth my time. “So, you want me to shoot the targets?” I ask. “That it?”

  “Not just that.” Fingers pats my back and points to a large holographic screen behind. There’s a list of scores on it. Cormac, Dance, and Vander sit near the bottom. The top two spots belong to Raze and Fingers, her name sitting at the very peak with a score of 2,184.

  “How long have you people been around exactly?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me. “To have a set-up like this?”

  “Too long,” Raze says.

  I look at him, pursing my lips. “Dr. Maelstrom says you’re new.”

  He chuckles. “That fuckin’ guy,” he says quietly.

  Fingers cuts in. “We’ve been at this for the better part of seven years,” she says. “Lost some people, gained some people. In the grand scheme, we’re not that old, but we’re not that new either. Not compared to the real corporations.”

  “Corporations?” I say.

  “The biggest gangs of all, sweetheart,” Raze says, loudly. “Fuckin’ hate that word: gang.”

  “Got a better way of puttin’ it, mmm?” Cormac chimes in. “How about organised lawbreakers? Rolls off the tongue, dunnit?” He laughs, a weird, squawky sound.

  “Anything wrong with the word team?” Raze asks, folding his arms across his chest.

  Silence follows. The awkward sort.

  Fingers picks up from where she left off. “Back to the point. I don’t just want you to hit the targets and call it a day.” She smirks, eyes sharp with something teasing, something challenging. “I want you to beat that asshole’s score.” She nods towards Raze. “Two women in the lead sounds better than one, don’t you think?”

  I blink. “You… I’m supposed to… what?” I start, unable to string together a sentence that accurately conveys my frustration. I look up at the screen again and see that Raze’s score is 1748. There’s no way I’m beating that. Not with one arm. Not after being inactive for so long. Hell, I don’t even remember if I’ve ever used a pistol before.

  Fingers tilts her head. “If you’re as good as you say you are, this shouldn’t be an issue, right?”

  Raze steps up behind me, resting a heavy hand on my head like I’m some kid who just swam into the deep end of a pool. “Ms. Experience, eh?” His voice is cold, and his grin is wide and smug. “Let’s see just how experienced you really are.” Then he glances at Fingers. “Oh, and what’s the other rule again? No outside weapons?”

  Fingers nods. “Just to make sure you don’t have some smart-lock software installed. You have to use one of our pistols. Understood?”

  Like it’ll make a difference. I hand over my pistols, watching as she checks the safeties before tucking them away in her pockets. Can’t be too careful, I suppose. Stepping up to the range, I reach under the shelf and grab one of the pistols. A basic A-22B Pulse. Not much different from a standard Glock, except for the bronze finish along the slide and the rubberised grip.

  “If you wanna maximise your chances,” Fingers says, “aim for the head. I’ll tell you when to start.”

  I aim the pistol at the target range, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu, like I’ve done it many times before. The sensation is stuck in the back of my brain like a trapped thought readying to burst free. But it never does.

  The humanoid targets begin shifting across the range. Some lift towards the ceiling, hoisted by retractable bars. Others duck behind cover: brick walls, road signs, washing machines, stacks of tyres. There’s no real pattern to it. The whole setup looks thrown together, like someone raided a junkyard and slapped an AI on top to control the moving pieces.

  My hand’s a little shaky at first, but it eases. Fingers starts counting down from three. Once she hits zero, a target flips down from the centre of the ceiling, playing the sound of a woman that yells, “You moron.”

  Almost instinctively, my hand snaps toward it. My finger pulls the trigger before I even process the action. The bullet lands clean between the target’s eyes, and for a moment, I just stare.

  “Well, I’ll fuckin’ be...” Raze mutters, his voice dropping even lower than usual.

  The reflex had caught even me off guard. I expected to take my time lining up the barrel. Instead, I found the target instantly, fired without hesitation, and landed a perfect headshot for maximum points.

  The target flicks back up. Two more pop out, one from behind a washing machine, the other from a brick wall. And just like before, my hand moves on its own.

  POP! POP!

  Again, both shots land dead-on. Quick, clean, precise. The AI seems to hesitate before retracting the targets, as if recalibrating. Then, four more emerge, this time moving. Shifting side to side.

  My arm shifts again, smooth as clockwork.

  The targets fall, one head at a time, all within the space of two seconds. Maybe even less.

  “I like this girl,” says Cormac, laughing.

  “You sure she ain’t cheatin’?” Vander asks.

  Fingers shushes him.

  This goes on for another minute or so. Each round of targets is more complicated and compact than the last. Soon, not only the targets move but also the obstacles, as if being wheeled along on rails, and they’re not smooth movements either; they’re more like jerks. Road signs lift off the ground, shielding targets from incoming fire. But before they can fully block my view, I’ve already adjusted, switching focus, prioritising open targets, waiting for the split-second the shield drops and—

  POP!

  Another headshot. I try to fire again, but the gun clicks. Empty. Reloading with one hand will take too long. Instead, I grab another pistol from the table, flick off the safety, and keep firing. Not even two seconds later, another click, but this time the magazine still has twenty rounds left. I can see the exact count on the digital gauge just below the sight.

  I panic at first, thinking there's something wrong with the gun, but then I realise: the timer: it's gone, and a loud, strident beep echoes across the range.

  “Session complete. User: Rhea. Has acquired: Two thousand. And. Fifty-five. Points. Thanks for playing.”

  I freeze. My grip slackens. The pistol drops from my hand. Turning towards the leaderboard, I watch as my name appears on the screen: second place. Right below Fingers. But above Raze. It’s oddly quiet. Raze reaches into his pocket, pulls out another cigar, and lights up. He takes a slow drag, exhales, and says nothing. Doesn’t even look at me. Cormac and Vander do, though. But their faces are... somewhat unreadable.

  Fingers steps closer, and she’s not smiling anymore. “When Maelstrom said he had experienced talent looking for a job, I didn’t think he meant a shooter.” Her tone is sharp. “Tell me. What gang did you work for?”

  I stare at her, unable to come up with a satisfying reply, at least one that satisfies both of us. Eventually, I just say, “Well, I can’t remember. That’s sort of the problem. I lost my memory.”

  She snorts. “You really expect me to believe that?”

  “Scan me. It says I’m supposed to be dead, right?”

  She smirks. “I don’t have netrunner-ocs. If everyone could see each other’s identity, then we’d be in a pretty messed-up society. That aside, you lost your memory... but you remember how to shoot?”

  “I know how it sounds, but it’s true.”

  Raze finally moves, unfolding his arms and strolling over to the range. He picks up one of the pistols I was using, turning it over in his hands. “You really pulled in a crazy one, ay, Fingers?”

  “Crazy or not,” Cormac drawls, tapping his long metal fingers against his coat, “that was a damn fine show. Gave me chills. I’d pay good money to see that again, oh yes.” He tilts his head, eyes glinting creepily. “We’re talking indeed professional hitman levels here, Fingers. Be a crime to turn her away, oh wouldn’t it?”

  Fingers pinches her lips with her thumb and forefinger, eyeing me thoughtfully. She looks at the scoreboard again, and then at Raze, who still hasn’t let up on checking the weapons for any signs of cheating software. “She’s clean, Raze. I would have seen it if she put a chip in.”

  “Even if she did have a cherp,” says Vander, “only experience can er make you shoot with that much confidence. ’Sides it’d want to be some pretty expensive software to hit right between der eyes, and you gotta ask why she’d want a job with us if she can erfford that sort of crap.” For the first time he sounds convinced. He pulls a chapstick from his sleeve pocket and starts rubbing it across his lips like a woman getting ready for a night out on the town. He even pouts. Cute.

  Raze places the pistols back on the shooting-range table. “Her other arm is broken. Interesting.”

  “Only now you noticed?” Fingers snarls. “She’s been walkin’ around like a bodyguard ready to draw at any second. Maelstrom already told me.” She maintains eye contact with me, gives me a once-over, and says, “Alright. Well, I can’t lie to you, at first, I didn’t expect you to match up with the rest of us. I was fully intending on turning you away, because more often than not the people who show up are all talk. Loudmouths. You know the sort, I’m sure.”

  I do.

  She pulls out my pistols and stares at them. “You have two guns here, but you can only use one arm. Why is that? To quickly whip between the two so you can avoid reloading for forty bullets straight? Not gonna lie, that’s clever. Definitely helped you break the two-thousand mark on the leaderboard.” Fingers’ voice is soft and intense. She hands me the pistols. I didn’t notice this before because it was so dark in the office room, but there’s a silver ring on the third digit of her left hand and a fancy pink-glowing ring on the pinkie of her right. She notices me looking at them and knocks them together, making a horrid little click that sets my teeth on edge. The impact results in a spark. “Beautiful, ain’t they? My sister gave them to me. One on the right cost two thousand creds while the one on the left cost two and a half. Good birthday gift, wouldn’t you say?”

  I swallow. For some reason I feel nervous all over again. “Yeah, they are.” I tuck the pistols back in their holsters. “So... I hate to be a bother, but am I in? I really need the creds. Just to fix the stuff wrong with me, that’s all.”

  She doesn’t take long responding. “Oh, you’re in,” she says. “Like Cormac said, I’d be stupid to let you go. Guess you can join us for a job tonight. See what you’re really made of.”

  I smile with childlike glee. “Thank you,” I say breathlessly. “And yes. That’d be perfect. What sort of job is it?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” she says. That’s about as much information that she or anyone else will give me, and that’s okay.