Hot Neon - Segment 01.3

// Hot Neon Segment 1.3 : To Ashes

I hiss in a breath, let it out through gritted teeth as the laser gnaws into my inner thigh. As of yesterday, a pretty pristine bit of thigh, if I do say so myself - not a freckle, not a scar, nothing but smooth and hairless pink flesh.

The laser is burning away that very same skin with an intensity that would have most people screaming, yet here I sit like a mannequin, watching this thing slice up my leg.

I'm sitting in the seat at a reactive tattoo parlor, jeans on the floor, and my panty-covered junk cradled protectively in one hand, as the artist uses lasers to etch out the lines of my new ink.

After the tattoo needle does its work, a calibrated series of high-intensity laser bursts imbue the art with power, until eventually, my body's own bioelectricity is going to power the image for years to come.

It will have its own pleasing glow, and better yet, will react in ambient lighting, photopigments shot beneath my skin changing and shifting within their predetermined boundaries to give the ink some degree of fluidity and movement.

The design I chose for this piece is a small homage to my new life in the Blank Card Syndicate. A stylized playing card, an Ace of Diamonds, will glow on my inner thigh; in bare light, it'll slowly spin, front to back, while in low light or dark, it will be perfectly still, giving me a nice little trick when I need to flash someone something fun. For the right kinds, it'll be a beacon lighting the way right to my dick. Sure, I'll be your ace in the hole. You can bet your ass on this card, literally if you want to.

The aroma of searing flesh, like pork roasting in a pan, fills my nose, and my eyes flick shut, my lips parting slightly in a groan of considerable discomfort. This isn't exactly a pleasant sensation, and most aren't tough or crazy enough to sit for a reactive tattoo like this without anesthesia, which costs money and has side effects, so few just take it like a bitch and wait until the pain stops. Me? I've got a good tolerance, and I'd rather get the job done than waste time waiting around for my brain to stop feeling things.

Get in, do the thing, get out. The Pepper Strategy. I open my eyes again, gaze upon my naked thigh, and nod approvingly at the result.

"All set?" asks the artist, wiping down my thigh with a cloth. She's got strong hands, and a lot of reactive ink of her own, which just convinces me to tough it out a little better. Her shock of snowy white, spiked up hair has been blocking my view for the past hour or so. "You don't have any last-minute changes?"

I tense my thigh and chuckle out a little gasp as the laser bites deep into my skin once more. Final touches and all that. "No, no," I reply. "That's perfect."

Five minutes of excruciating agony later, and the artist finishes the tattooing process with a thin paste of dermal-enhancer cream. I rise, my leg screaming as though it had undergone an intense workout, and grab my jeans from the floor.

A quick appraisal in the mirror before I put my pants on, and I notice the artist is staring at my groin. Her fingers are touching her chin, and she's looking over the top of her light-duller shades at me. I lift my hand to rub my face, wipe away the sweat I'd worked up during the lasering session, and shoot her a smirk.

"Much obliged. You're a peach. Meet you up at the counter so I can pay up?" I chime as I rustle my leather belt back into place.

She nods, shaking off the momentary distraction that seems to have been caused by my crotch, and then rises from the chair, pulling off her black latex gloves as she goes. "All together, you're looking at 86,000 credits. Tips, of course, help."

86,000 credits? That's what this shit costs these days? The neko on my shoulder only ran me 62k, and I got that a year and a half ago. I purse my lips and swipe my palm over the pay station.

Beep. A small display invites me to tack on a gratuity, and I click on that option, adding it all up to an even 100,000. "There we go. Thanks for everything, sweetheart."

Her smile grows wider, and she dips her shoulders in a slight bow. She's kind of cute, in a rough, tomboyish, lots-of-scars-and-ink sort of way. "It was a pleasure working with you today. If you ever want another piece, drop on by. I'm Frosty, by the way."

My grin widens a bit. "Thanks, Frosty. I'll be sure to ask for you next time." We shake hands, and I make my way across the shop toward the exit. I try not to limp, but fucking hell, my leg hurts like a bitch. It's probably the best kind of pain, the kind that signifies a new modification, a new marker of progress. And that makes me happy.

I duck out of the tattoo shop and join the throng passing down Highbury Avenue, adding and losing membership at various places amidst the shopping district. My stomach rumbles as I walk past one of the many noodle joints, a brief whiff of sizzling broth tickling my nostrils, but I keep walking straight ahead instead of stopping.

Lately, I've been turning over the prospect of getting deeper into the criminal underbelly of Sunset City, and my reluctant mentor in the trade - the woman they call Rhino, but whom I could call one of the burliest, baddest bitches I've ever met - keeps telling me that I need to decide whether I'm going to throw myself away by joining this business, or if I'm going to stay soft and sling chems for a living.

I think about those two options every day, and I still haven't made up my mind. Maybe that's what the ink is for.

I'm not proud of what I've already done in this little enterprise, but a heavy sum of creds has a way of changing people's mindsets pretty quickly. Anyone would probably do it for the money, right?

The high life, the VIP treatment in night spots that, before, wouldn't have even let me through their doors, the ever-shifting tide of ladies who don't have many hangups about enjoying a simple bout of girl-girl screwing back at my apartment.

I feel like anybody in these clunky boots of mine would be willing to do some pretty nasty things for the chance to live that lifestyle. But am I really ready to become a killer? To take lives, if that's what it comes down to?

What does that say about me, about how far I'm prepared to go or how selfish I am underneath it all?

Everyone has a price. Maybe I should find out what mine is.

***

"So, this is a stick-up job? Shit, Rhino, I thought this whole syndicate was a little more legit than that."

I'm leaning against the side of the building, puffing my smoke-stick, in the hovercar lot where she said to meet. It's just behind a restaurant; must be a shitty one to have so little business at this hour of night.

Rhino flicks her head my way, her one cybernetic eye glowing in the dark. It's unsettling. "Yes and no. It's a bit more complicated than that." Her voice carries easily enough over the whirring of the cars passing us by, paying us no mind.

"We had a protection deal with this spot. They make a simple monthly payment, and in turn, nothing happens here." She shrugs. "Until now. Now we have to get paid for our services. They got the invoice, and decided not to pay. Three months now. So, I figured I would mix you in with a few of our other friends and give them a good show. Give them something to remember, eh?"

I sigh and turn this over. This isn't exactly my area of expertise, and I can tell from her tone that this ain't a negotiation. It's a hard line, and if I refuse, there will be fewer and fewer jobs for me until I'm left hanging with the scraps. "So, we're gonna strong-arm this business, whatever it is, and then demand payment?"

She shakes her head. "Fuck 'em. They made their choice. Too late to pay what they owe now. You guys are going to swing by, take them for everything they have, and wreck the place while you're at it."

"What if they fight back?" I glance around nervously. A couple of hovercars glide past overhead, taking off without so much as looking back. No headlights, either. I feel like someone's listening already.

"Probably will, girly. It's a gun shop. They give you a hard time, just shoot them. Take the cash, and leave their bodies for the cops."

Shit. My stomach does a backflip, and I'm pretty sure my cock retracts into my body cavity somewhere along the way, like a frightened turtle. Is Rhino serious? She wants me and some of her associates to try to rob an arms dealer, probably kill several people in the process?

And if they resist? If they manage to put up a real fight? I mean, I'm screwed. Even if I managed to avoid being shot, I'd be stuck with all these dead people in front of me and a shitload of stolen weapons on my hands. "And the reason you're not coming along for this terribly bad idea is..." I trail off, inviting her to fill in the blanks.

Her smile grows wider. "Pepper, I can't just walk you through every single step of this operation. I want you to learn. If you really want to choose this path, you're going to have to prove it to the higher-ups. Trial by fire. Do you understand? That's why I brought you in, and that's why I'm farming this one out to you and a few more seasoned players. If you come through, maybe I'll think about letting you tag along with me and my crew on bigger missions. Otherwise, I'll just keep sending you to run your own little errands, and you'll be... a special little helper on retainer for when the big girls and boys need someone with a little finesse."

Something about this agitates me. Something about the way she looks at me, and the way I can see that same glint in her eye, even though she knows damn well that I'm shaking inside.

She's lining me up to see if I'll show the stones to do her bidding, or if I'll chicken out and let her know I've been cut out of this game entirely. The chances this ordeal will turn violent are nearly certain. I don't doubt that for a second.

It's too late to back out now anyway. I'm committed. There's only one thing I can do. I need to go through with it. "For the record, I think I'm a pretty awful choice for this job, Rhino, but I guess we'll see how it goes." I draw myself taller. "You were right before. I am new to this. But I promise you, I won't screw it up."

She laughs lightly. "You're new. You'll bungle something. That's just what newbies do. Just make sure it's nothing major." Then she nods once. "Good luck, Pepper." With that, she takes off across the street.

***

The plan is fairly straightforward. I'm in the back of a nondescript hovervan with three other Blank Card crew. We've made only brief introduction before gearing and masking up, slinging on our ballistic vests and arming ourselves with guns and stunners.

There's Duchess, apparently a crack shot who has been playing around with handguns for years; with that long, wavy blonde hair and model-good looks, I'd have pegged her for a high-level socialite before she armored up.

We need some muscle on this job, and someone who can swing close combat if need be, and that's what Nero is: a big motherfucker whose augmentation and sheer muscle make him look more like a walking vault door than a person.

We've got a hacker along for the ride too, ready to suppress the outbound calls to SCPD, and ideally, route police patrols away from the block where the shop sits. She'll be staying in the van. From her mumbling, I think she's Drift.

She wasn't thrilled about having to suit up too, but if a stray round punches through the van, she's kind of screwed. She's got a look like some geek gone rogue; her glasses are thick black frames, her hair hanging in long brown tresses that obscure most of her face. When I meet her eyes, her lips curl downward in disapproval, like she thinks I should know better than to look at her. Like she doesn't trust me. I hate hackers. Fucking nerds.

Business hours are just winding down for R&W Armaments, and the last few customers are heading out the door as we pull into its parking lot.

I can hear my heart beating in my ears as Drift hops out of the driver's seat, sits cross-legged in the back, and whips her keyboard into her lap. Her fingers fly over the keys, typing furiously. It's clear to see that she's the brains behind the outfit. After a few moments of work, she nods toward the front of the van.

"We're good," she says. "Ten minutes tops, guys. In and out. Don't make me regret bringing you along."

Nero grunts his assent, while Duchess rolls her eyes.

I feel like such an amateur sitting here. For all I know, they could have taken care of this themselves. I let out one long exhale, trying to center myself, then put the solid white mask over my head. Time to get paid.

Nero makes for one hell of a doorbell, all clad in black save for that flat white ballistic mask, industrial-grade cybernetic arms punching through the steel grating which covers the entrance. He pushes through the heavy metal door, and we follow after, single file behind his imposing silhouette.

Once inside, there's a momentary silence as the lady behind the counter fumbles for a gun, before Duchess draws a bead on her.

"I really wouldn't. You make a single move I don't like, and I'll blow your brain out your ears. Hands up, now," she offers with a surprising calmness. My hands shake a bit as I unholster my own pistol, and not a moment too soon.

This looks like a mom and pop operation, given the middle-aged man that comes pushing out of the back of the store, clutching a shotgun in his hands. His eyes widen when he sees us, but he's quick to hide it by pulling the trigger.

The blast knocks Nero backward onto the ground, sending his arms flying upward, and shatters the glass windows beside us.

I have no doubt that the lady behind the counter slammed the silent alarm the second Nero came barreling in. Hopefully our hacker suppressed that.

Unsurprisingly, Nero pushes his way back up. It's going to take a way bigger hit than that to put this guy down. He's big, built, teched out... he's basically a fucking refrigerator with a temper. I catch the old guy racking the slide, ready to shoot again, only to find the business end of my sidearm pointed right between his eyes.

"Drop it," I bark, trying not to let on that I'm this close to pissing myself already. Thankfully, he sees reason, or just intuits that close range will beat out my inexperience, and drops his weapon without question.

"Smart. Lotta safe displays in here, and we don't have time to bust them all, so you and I are going to go get the keys. Play nice and don't do anything dumb, and you and your old lady will be fine."

He gives me a nod, and together, we head off to the back room where the keychip must be kept. Before we even enter, I can hear the woman screaming from the other side of the wall. Duchess's voice rises above the clamor. "Lady, don't you fucking...!"

The guy's eyes widen, adrenaline flaring in his veins. The resounding crack of small arms fire suddenly jolts us both, reverberating loudly throughout the building.

This definitely changes his plan to cooperate with me, his eyes going sidelong to a full-auto rifle resting against a desk nearby. Sweat trickles down my brow. If he goes for it, I'm going to have no choice but to fire before he fills my ass full of hot lead.

"Dude, don't. Please," I blurt, probably letting on exactly how green this girl sticking him up truly is. He tries anyway, tries to get the jump on me. It's almost bare reflex which makes my trigger finger jerk, and the gun bucks in my hand at the recoil. Not quite as fast as he was hoping.

The round punches through the back of his head, immediately dropping him to the floor with a fine mist of blood. Then more. A lot more. My insides turn icy cold, and I swear I taste vomit in my mouth.

For a brief moment, I think about turning around and running away, forgetting I ever made this happen. I didn't sign up for any of this shit. Grumbling to herself, Duchess comes stomping down the hall toward me.

In the storefront, I can hear Nero smashing open display cases, one after another, probably whipping rare and vintage arms alike out to the front of the shop.

"Should've kept her fucking mouth sh- oh. You too, huh? Thought I heard you crack one off," she remarks, stepping over the guy's body, barely breaking stride as she pulls open desk drawers, haphazardly.

"Tsk. Nice shot, by the way, new girl," she chuckles. She holds up the keychip in sheer delight, turning and running toward the storefront like a kid going out to play. "C'mon, newbie! Smash and grab! Ain't no time to stand around gawking."

I practically stumble along behind her, feeling outside of myself as I watch her hurriedly beeping open safe after safe, not taking the time or care to look inside. The lady's slumped, undignified, against the glass of the counter, her eyes wide, hair slicked with blood, not unlike the puddle she's lain in. Duchess probably put her down quickly, but still.

We're making our third trip to offload double-armfuls of guns into the back of the hovervan when Drift peers up from her display. "Disturbance report got out, two blocks down the street. Patrol en route. I'm estimating three minutes at the most. They're getting close. We need to get out of here, now."

Duchess sighs, as though this ruins the moment. "Fine, fine, I guess time's up. Newbie's privilege," she murmurs, pulling something from her tac-vest and tossing it my way. "Do the honors, pumpkin."

I've seen, but never touched, the thing she tosses me - the thing I catch. Straker Implements, Model 17 Handheld Incendiary Dispersal Unit. On the street, we call these flamespout grenades. It's exactly what it sounds like.

You pull the pin, throw it, and then run like crazy while a room-filling wash of sheer hellfire comes blasting out of it. Instant, palm-sized arson, that's what they are. And this little baby has thirty seconds' worth of fuel in it, according to the label. That's plenty of time for this whole building to go up in blue-hot flame.

It's an odd sensation to hold such power in your hands. It's doubly odd in my sick-feeling state, still coming to grips with what happened here. It feels like it isn't me, but someone else, some other girl, not Pepper - she's the one who flicks the switch to arm the thing, and she's the one who fastballs it through the broken front door of the shop. Maybe it's her, too, that turns quickly and ducks into the back of the van, next to Duchess and Nero, with the flames at her feet.

Drift piles herself into the driver's seat again, keys up the engine, and we take off like a rocket, bursting into the night sky.

***

I've changed clothes. Back into street clothes again. Jeans, a deep blue hoodie that, funny enough, reads "happy thoughts" in small print across the chest.

The others, I think, went off to drink themselves stupid after everything settled down. I feel weird being in their midst, and not the most okay I've ever been, either.

My head seems to hang, naturally, as I shuffle my way down Carver Street, people seeming to melt out of my path, avoiding me almost by instinct. At least half of them have the decency to spare me awkward looks, though I can't be sure I'm not just imagining anyone's gaze at this point. I'm all twisted up.

I'm passing by a string of garden-level apartments when a dusky, feminine voice calls out to me. "Hey there, pretty girl. Rough day?"

She's on the sidewalk ahead of me, leaning against the railing of a fire escape, watching me approach. I let out an exhale as I turn my eyes up enough to regard her. Mid thirties, maybe, with plump hips and a bust best described as ample. Her skin is darker than mine, a tasteful tan. Dark, natural locks tumble down her shoulders, framing her face with soft curls.

She smiles brightly as I come closer. "Well, you know how it goes," I reply. My throat feels tight.