Tavon's ride was smooth, and all that could be heard from the cruiser was a low-pitched hum escaping from the exhausts. In the driver's seat, there sat a humanoid construction composed of a metallic exoskeleton that had been fused to both the chair and the internal engine. On the dashboard, a giant screen displaying a map of Zone D appeared and focused in on the taken route. The taxi operator tried to use the sound system to play music, but it quickly malfunctioned before generating a static noise preceding silence. He cursed but remained composed as he looked back with a superficial grin.
“Are you a local here?”
“Huh,” Tavon was distracted. “Oh. Hold on a sec.”
Tavon finished setting up his reservation for two at Deaux Tut. “I'm just getting together some dinner plans for later…”
“Hot date tonight?”
“Yeah,” he replied somewhat indifferently, “you could say that. Just wish Deaux Tut didn't charge so damn much.”
“That's in, uh… Zone E, right? –Heh,” he scoffed, “I stopped going after getting a bill I reckon was worth half my paycheck. This job doesn't fetch as much as you'd think.”
“I wouldn't know.”
Just shut up.
“Yes, my friend; they got me into the Operators’ Program here after spending a whole year on a bloody wait-list, and then they finally needed some drivers… I ended up with this joke. If it wasn't for my wife, I'd be living on the streets—by the way, you know the Executive makes money off the poor here?”
“I guess; I can't say I know about all that.”
“Yeah!” The administrator remained enthusiastic despite Tavon's disinterest and continued attempting to steal some eye contact. “Get this: they try to get Zone D's poor communities to stay that way. It gives Zone cops the opportunity to stay occupied puttin' people away on minor drug busts and shit, then it makes our Executive look good to the higher ups because he's just promoting how good his Zone's cops are! The more they put behind bars or fine, the more money goes around and gets invested in a higher class here; doesn’t that sound crazy?”
“That's some shit, but it doesn't surprise me in the Citadel. I grew up here.”
“Well—”
Tavon cut him off, “—Sir, sorry but I don't feel like talking. I'm not much of a morning person.”
The driver-passenger looked offended for a second but shrugged off the curt reply. “It's fine, my friend. I'll let you handle your bus—what in—?!”
They suddenly passed by the emaciated body of someone who'd most likely starved to death in the streets, eyes glazed over and aimed toward the skies; perhaps hope shimmered on the horizon for them at one point in time.
“Guess no one's picked him up yet.” The operator appeared much more morose after having born witness to what was a common issue in that area.
It was now seven in the morning, and Tavon sat almost half-asleep waiting for the RD to kick in and give him the usual adrenaline boost; he could take care of the rest. The taxi hovered past a large crowd of police vehicles focused around what seemed to be a riot in one of the D Projects. His window was cracked, and so he was able to clearly hear a bottle break against one of the Zone cops' cruisers.
This noise was followed by the sound of static from a ranged, taser-like weapon. Further on, a group of wealthier looking individuals strolled down the street with drinks in hand and yelled unheard obscenities at Tavon's taxi. They continued on into a tunnel overcast with graffiti that had been covered time and time again before it was just resprayed in retaliation. Surrounding him was a bitter mantra; he read “Freedom,” “Dignity,” “No love here; no love anywhere,” “Fuck the Dawn Feds,” and “Educate yourself. Save the future.”
The cruiser traversed a bridge constructed from a collection of silver interlocking beams, and its minimalist design style revealed the Lower-City: a section of the Citadel containing shipping yards, direct transportation to the World Below, four Quadrants, and the descending, spiral path into the Citadel Prison. Tavon could see just past the Lower-City and caught a glimpse of an outline of a large green pasture belonging to the World Below. From his perspective, it looked perfectly natural; despite this, that same pasture could very well be the home to brigands, beasts, and enemy soldiers sent from foreign nations.
It wasn't a recommended venture for the weak.
He contemplated those expansive fields as the vehicle cruised through a more populated area showcasing bustling businesses and street corner vendors, music emanating from every open bar and restaurant. The City in the Sky was a country supporting a massive population that never slept, and so there were always millions awake at any time trying to finish up one last project or simply grind to get by in this society. No matter the conflict, the Citadel stayed alive —arguably even more so in the D Projects.
Finally, after a long ride, they arrived at Gam's Cantina where Tavon ordered two shots of Itzchemil—a local, 90-proof specialty tart in flavor—in order to blend in with the regular customers. Some time after his taxi disappeared, he waited at the bar for a while and watched a broadcasted game displayed on a giant, holographic screen curving around the interior of the room. It was complemented by smaller televisions hovering around on small jets on both the interior and exterior of the Cantina. All paraded the latest basketball rivalry between Zone D's “Demons” and the Upper-City Blue Sector’s “Wolves.” Zone D was losing by a wide margin, which promoted a feeling of familiar disappointment and unrest at the bar.
While one of the players for the Demons was about take a big risk to score, Tavon paid on his tab and disappeared just as quickly as he’d arrived amid the tension produced by the game. Zone D at last possessed a real shot at the Citadel Finals, but their dream was being crushed by a team from one of the higher prefectures. The Upper-City was notorious for rigging competitions against them; thus, this generated more collective hatred from the Mid-City as a whole.
While everyone remained distracted, Tavon was able to fade down Yorktown Boulevard with ease and began concentrating on future clues that would lead him to his target's whereabouts.
-
Sky-bound vehicles cruise by on a web of several interconnected highways; the sun ascends, peaking its head on the horizon, and the winds settle into a stiff, calm breeze. On a nearby street, a group of young men lounge on a wooden bench while staring sullenly at the ground and focusing on the amount… how much the next re-up would leave them short…
A stranger sauntered up to the group and asked an unheard question; one of the men extended his palm before offering him nothing but an expectant glance. The stranger handed him a wad of cash, and the man on the bench pointed to a distant spot around the corner of the street where the newcomer could pick up the product—where he could satisfy his need for a fix…
And in a room on the top floor of one of the surrounding buildings lurked Tavon, who crouched by a window, fogged with condensation, and watched with an uncommon vigilance not normally displayed by the carefree assassin.
Angelos had issued him a digital patch applied to his Kom Cell that would allow enhancement of his vision and was equipped to deal with lighting in any type of weather condition. He focused its sights on a large figure with a black headband and wearing a white tank top which exposed a muscular, mostly tattooed frame. The stranger wore a pair of ripped skinny jeans, and the sight of his bulky thighs being aggressively choked by his own pants caused Tavon to feel something close to embarrassment for his sake. He also sported a pair of brown sandals and an old chain that had become gradually discolored over time.
The customer from before had approached him and from behind the man a door opened. A much shorter individual wearing a navy, ripped wife beater and bleeding from a large gash on his arm staggered out while displaying a pained expression. He limped up to his colleague and handed him a small, wrapped package. The item was then transferred to the customer, who was told to take an alternate path through the neighborhood to avoid being noticed.
The one with the
bandana quickly closed in on the other soldier after the buyer’s departure and appeared to threaten him, which caused the newcomer to quickly run back inside from where he'd emerged. The entire operation belonged to a group who were all branded or tattooed with the symbol of a sideways “X” underscored by an “I” split in two. Both symbols were engulfed by a geometrically correct square shaded in with red or black depending on whether they were branded or tattooed.
Mobsters sat on a bench that was encircled by an apartment complex that extended across several buildings expanding over into other districts. At one time, the area had been a playground equipped with merry-go-rounds and jungle gyms as well as other equipment. It was now long abandoned after generations using it had undergone the consequences of bureaucratic decisions they didn't understand.
These were the Yunce Street Projects, and they were populated with families intertwined with numerous gangs having competed for territorial supremacy over almost a decade now. The buildings around the syndicate's operation were inhabited by mothers, fathers—people who either worked a low-paying, odd jobs or hustled on the streets—and sons and daughters who were far from sheltered and determined to get out of that lifestyle.
Unfortunately, the torch was continually passed down through generation after generation in Zone D. The wealthy upper class of the Citadel had all but tried to forget about their neighbors, humans suffering perpetually under unstable Executive governance. In patches of fields dispersed throughout the Yunce Street Projects, the youth mostly stuck to playing soccer or basketball—some of whom dreamed of being the future athletes of the Citadel. Tavon had come from a similar upbringing that was far harsher but still remembered wanting to play for Zone D's Demons or Zone C's Space Trotters.
Now he played the role of Death in an absurd world…
The assassin continued observing them and spectated as customer after customer approached the seated men and received what seemed to be the same product: kiine. As far as Tavon knew, kiine was easy to manufacture and distribute and possessed incredible potential for growth as a product. There were always new, safer, and more powerful strains of it becoming available, and so the underground market had begun maximizing profit for all dealers with connections to kiine.
Tavon retrieved the plain tobacco leaf wrap he’d purchased earlier and wetted it before emptying a cylindrical container of ground up herb onto the apparatus. While barely keeping an eye on the scene unfolding before him, he rolled the hashish and closed the leaf tightly around it as he sealed the wrap together at its edge. He generated scorching heat from his fingertips, a power he'd been given years ago, and ensured the final result was crisp before lighting up the papers and unleashing a pungent, earthy aroma upon exhalation.
One of the men on the bench was repeatedly referred to as “L.” L sported a black and white letter-man jacket coupled with a black baseball cap attached to a light blue visor. His top remained open to reveal a white t-shirt underneath that displayed the number “65.” He had on a pair of black and azure high tops, somewhat matching his hat, and he played with a pair of brand-name sunglasses looking as though they costed quite a bit.
Another man wore a letter-man jacket as well and of the same shade but with no undershirt and instead exposed a cross tattooed across his bare chest. One of his teeth appeared severely chipped and, additionally, another had been replaced with a replica which shimmered underneath a silver sheen. He had a lazy eye and a distinct patchy, grey beard. They called him “Nathan”; he possessed a much more passive demeanor and could have been considered humble upon first impression.
The third and final member was clothed in a jacket like the others, only he’d had its sleeves removed. Underneath the jacket, he carried the weight of a bulletproof vest equipped with side plates and a groin protector. He complemented his garish style with a pair of camouflaged cargo pants secured by a hazel, leather belt. This person sheltered his feet within a pair of steel-toed, fur boots; on both hands, he loosely gripped pairs of brass knuckles that extended into a flexible mechanism wrapping around his back and torso while doubling as further protection. On his head was a black beanie positioned above a set of circular glasses he must have thought would accentuate his wardrobe in some way. The third man was their shepherd…
They called him “Magellan.” He dwarfed the rest of the crew in size, and—though he didn't speak as much as the others—whatever he did happen to say was listened to with complete interest; absolutely no one ignored Magellan.
Impressively, the three of them took command of the business from that one location. Without being forced to relocate, they’d worked out a relatively efficient system of their own and developed a method for turning away those they believed were suspicious. Tavon witnessed as several addicts approached the gathering. They would pretend like they were going through a withdrawal for pity—and often they'd be turned down within a few seconds. Others arrived and engaged in overly lengthy conversations with the mobsters, who’d eventually start yelling and threatening newcomers if they didn't leave. Still others approached and were inexplicably allowed to go ahead and pay for the product they wanted without much prior conversation.
This was psychological profiling at its finest and all in an effort to detect snitches, cops, and to deride their attempts to bring down a business borne from the shadows. And even if an encounter turned violent, there were enough members Tavon noticed hiding in the darkness who could spring into action at any moment provided the situation suddenly went south.
I'll give it to them: gunmen hiding in buildings, gunmen hiding behind walls, gunmen hiding in every corner… this place is held down. Tavon smiled. But I like a little bit of a challenge…
-
“Yo. Nathan.”
“What’s up?”
“Ay, I’m thinking we gonna be able to go far beyond just a re-up this time around. Business been good for the boys lately, know what I mean?” said L as he changed the setting on his Kom Cell to Radio and tuned into the Zone D game.
“You need to get off that 'beyond re-up' shit, boy.” Nathan’s demeanor was patronizing. “Ain't nothing ever changed in this neighborhood for us.”
Wolves were in lead 43 to 32.
“See,” L paused for a moment before sneering as he continued, “that's the type thinking that keeps us back, old man. I'm talking about finally branching out—different products, more soldiers on the streets, protection for this op—shit—and we can even get in on some other scores, too. There ain't anybody out here who's got the resources to stop us anymore!”
Nathan shook his head. “You're missing the point—wait,” he turned to see a new arrival on the scene. “The hell do you want?”
A woman had come up to them displaying a pale appearance and shuddering uncontrollably. In her arms, she held an infant.
“Y-you got… any of it?” Shame crossed her features as she listlessly looked toward the grass at their feet.
“Depends on what you askin' for?” said Magellan, glaring at her with an emptiness in his eyes familiar to that of Tavon. He gestured to the buildings behind him. “You looking for housing? There's places for your family to stay close by, lady.”
“N-no, I mean…” She gave him a guilty smile. “I-I… wanna get lifted, you know—can you help me? -Please. I'll let you do whatever you want! I—”
“Get off me!” Magellan pushed her as she stepped closer. “Tch. We're not about to go servin' mothers out here; this place already fucked up as it is—No… if I ever see you again,” he edged near and glared at her, “I'll kill you. I swear—even if I have to raise that kid myself.” Magellan puffed out his chest. “Get the fuck out this place before you start pissin' me off, lady! I don't got the patience for tweakers like you.”
The woman gasped before scrambling to get away from them as quickly as she could.
“Damn, Magellan, you didn't have to treat her like that!” L exclaimed while seeming to express a measure of guilt.
“Look, I only do this to
make sure my kids can afford one of those home school gear things—so they can study for the Exams like they supposed to be.” He sat and folded his arms. “My son deserves what I didn't have… Zone D fucked us all over, man! And Blood Disciples don't need to serve anybody, you hear? We gonna raise this place from the ground up and keep our families fed, right?”
Nathan remained silent.
“I understand, bro, but what we do isn't the type of noble work a man can stand behind. I mean, my kids won't be able to look up to—fuck!” L looked away. “Here's another one. We gotta start delegatin' this shit better, man…”
L sprinted up to the next customer.
“Don't you remember me?”
“Fuck no I don't remember you! What you want?” demanded L, his tone tinged with aggression.
“I just need a solid bump of whatever you got, sir. Please…” He wheezed. “I'm old… I don't know how much time I got left in this world.”
The three of them considered it for a second, then Nathan spoke: “I'm sorry, but no—”
“Naw. It's all good.” Magellan decided for all of them. “You got the money, guy?”
“Sure do!” The giddy old man handed over a moderately heavy sack of coins to L, who swiftly counted it out in his head.
“Go to that man over there.” He pointed. “The only thing you're gonna say is ‘bag,’ and don't you let us catch you sayin' ANYTHING else, got me?”
“No problem, sirs… b-bless you!” He hurried away to pick up the product.
The three of them took their seats and relaxed.
“Look, brother, I've got other ambitions in life right now. I gotta get out there and make my own music—start a legit business so I'm not constantly looking behind my back.” L was earnest. “How we supposed to keep doing this… honestly, fellas?”
Angelos Odyssey Page 9
