by Various
College is out of the server for a second, blinks open the Throne of Shadows messenger client, struggling to read text in the hilariously cheesy looking fantasy font it insists on using for everything. In between sighing at the neck-beard bullshit he manages to shoot out a message to both crews. Go time.
• • •
Smash/Grab998677
IT’S ON! New game! Bristol (UK) trainer raid! Tune in and place your bets NOW! >>blink<<
• • •
Grids get the message, pulls his cap down tight, checks his scarf is round his face, checks his hood. The tiny Smash/Rob window pops open in his periphery. He’s already got 634 followers, climbing. Who knows who they are? Bored office workers, slum kids, stockbrokers, fashionistas, online griefers, lazy journalists, housewives, angry Daily Mail readers. Better give them something to watch. Go time.
782 followers. Nerves start to churn in his empty stomach. He glances across the car park and here they come, spilling out of McDonalds and Costa Coffee, the rest of the combined Lawrence Hill and Barton Hill crews, rolling nearly thirty deep, hoods up, caps low, spex and bandanas, black, white and brown skin all but disguised. Girls and boys, some young youths, some older soldiers. Moving en-masse towards him, on point, on cue. The nerves steady, adrenalin kicking in, significance taking over.
1000 followers. Achievement unlocked. 10x points multiplier.
And then him and Melody are through the doors into Track and Hood, on point, the others cramming through behind them, and it all goes off. Most of them are just grabbing shit, throwing it to the floor, kicking over displays. Some kiddie has bust open a tube of tennis balls and is lobbing them across the store, sounds of laughing and cheers and unadulterated joy. Playtime, pent up frustration and drab boredom channeled into expression and dance. Grids and Melody are more focussed though, that’s why they’re on point. He grabs a cricket bat, Melody finds a golf club. They laugh and whirl, raining stock from shelves with their newly found toys, for once enjoying their youth and innocence; free from judgement and control. They smile as one, the whole crew, a shared moment of ecstasy and belonging.
Grids smashes glass display cabinets full of over-priced AR fitness gadgets—run-trackers and pulse monitors—and coins dance in front of his face, clocking up points to a ker-ching ker-ching ker-ching video game soundtrack. He crushes boxes with his foot like Mario stomping mushrooms ker-ching ker-ching ker-ching.
3000 followers. Achievement unlocked. 20x points multiplier.
• • •
WhiteVanStan
Check my stream! Little chav kids kicking off at Avonmeads! Streaming live now! #Riots >>blink<<
• • •
Outside, most of the Lawrence Hill crew is preparing for the inevitable. Four of them hurtle around from the back of Pizza Hut, dragging and pushing a huge wheeled recycling bin, scattering civilians from their path—some of them running for the safety of their cars, but most of them, just hanging back, watching. Recording. Streaming. Filling the timelines with more traffic, a mixture of outrage, bemusement and shameful glee.
College has to move quick, this he knows. He drops his backpack to the floor, unzips it, pulls out the first micro-drone, throws it into the sky. Then the next, the third, the fourth. The four little insect things hang above him in the air, circling each other, suspended on quad-rotors, ball cameras twitching. With blinks he sends two through the shop’s open doors and the other two into higher orbits, a crow’s eye view. Windows fill the air around him and he’s running the media, jumping between streams—not just the drones, but from Grids’ and Melody’s spex too. Scratch mixing into one output to the Smash/Grab server—cutting, mixing, transforming, flipping highlights into backspun rewinds. From out of the shop a piercing alarm bell rings—a shrill, unending skull piercing tone designed to scare as much as alert—and he samples it with a couple of blinks. Runs it through a loop chopper to make a wall of noise riff, drops one of Melody’s pre-cooked beats, sprinkles it with 808 snares and grounds it with sub-base. Punctuates it with a few handclaps and dub-sirens. Checks levels, adds reverb, and drops it over the output stream.
Achievement unlocked—“Stanley Fucking Kubrick.” Media control bonus: 20x points multiplier.
The recycling bin hits the kerb and flips, unleashing its rolling and smashing cargo of bottles and jars in an explosion of colour and sound, College dropping a drone down to just a couple feet above the mess, close up art-house shots for the pixel-geeks and hipsters. Some of the Lawrence Hill boys have started on the windows, railing against them with their feet and bottles, trying to break the almost smash-proof glass. It’s not giving in—it never does at first—instead it turns itself into overlapping cobwebs of white, fractured patterns of infinite fucking detail. For a while College thinks it’s not going to go this time, which means means missing a massive destruction points bonus, until something hurls past him, something big and stupid and oh so wonderfully funny that College laughs so much that he nearly forgets to stream it.
• • •
F1Fan
Feral youths need rounding up and shipping off to Falklands. Teach them some discipline #riots
KattyKins13
Wow, apparently these filthy little chavs in Bristol want some new trainers bad! #lolscum >>blink<<
• • •
Grids pauses for as second, catches his breath, looks around and drinks it all in. Someone must have slashed open a goose-down ski jacket—who the fuck in these codes goes skiing man?—and the air is full of slow moving feathers, swirling lazily like anime cherry blossom. The alarm stubbornly persists in its efforts to make him flee, but it’s all but drowned out by sounds of laughter and glee, and College’s over-dubbed soundtrack. He watches Melody and two other girls gleefully take apart a display of rugby boots, their golf clubs and tennis rackets arching gracefully in the air, and realises this is the happiest he’s felt for time. He knows it’s fleeting, ephemeral, but nothing beats the rush of unchained freedom and significance.
Then there’s a crashing sound from the front of the shop, and he sees most of the glass fall in—it’s a shattered mess, but it’s largely holding together as one piece—as something huge powers its way through, slamming into the already wrecked clothes racks. It takes him a quick second to realise that it’s the security guard’s little electric car, and another to realise that Flex is driving it. Everyone in Track and Hood freezes and turns to look at him, the air full of palpable disbelief, as the fifteen year old stands up on the cart’s front seats, hands outstretched above his head in a gamer’s victory stance.
“YES INDEED FAM-A-LAM!” he bellows in an exaggerated Jamaican accent, “YOUR RRRRIDE IS HERE! READY AND WAITING FOR CARGO, SEEN! LOAD THAT BADBOY UP BREDRIN!”
And then everyone is laughing and cheering, bo-ing and fist-bumping him, and he’s taking bows and shaking his head in mock humility, loving the significance, as mans crowd round the little car, loading it up with trainers and t-shirts, stormsuits and caps. Ker-ching ker-ching ker-ching.
Achievement Unlocked—“Window Shopping.” Criminal Damage/Stock Liberation combo bonus: 60x points multiplier.
When Grids stops laughing he remembers why he’s actually here, and snaps back into objective mode. He grabs Melody and Threat Level—another member of his crew, currently puncturing footballs with a stanley knife—and they head to the back of the shop with one of College’s drones buzzing along behind them, their feet crunching satisfyingly on glass and debris. Behind the shop’s counter stands a solitary figure in a Track and Hood shirt, hands on his head in dazed dismay.
Grids levels the end of the cricket bat at him. “No fucking about blud, where’s the Sureshot trainers?”
“Shit Grids,” the kid says, “You’ve no idea how much shit I’m going to be in man.”
Grids pushes his spex up on to his forehead, squints at a familiar face. “Rizza? What you doing here man?”
“Trying to work fam,” He shakes his head.
“What?
I didn’t know you worked here?”
“‘Course he does,” says Melody, “Who d’ya think posted that clip?”
“Yeah, that was a fucking misfire,” Rizza says, despondent. “On WorkFair innit. When they find out about this shit they’re gonna cancel my travel-pass and I ain’t gonna be able to get to college man.”
Grids feels a pang of guilt, but it’s too late now. No turning back. “I’m sorry man, truth. But I need to get them kicks fam".
“Yeah, I know. Back through there in the store room innit.”
“You the only staff here?” Grids asks. Rizza nods back at him. “Then I suggest you fuck off. Now. And I’m sorry.”
And with that Rizza is gone, grabbing a few choice bits of stock on his way out, plus some paper from the till. Standard.
Grids follows after Melody and Threat, who has already kicked in the store room door. The three squeeze into the tiny dim room, and there they are—the red boxes with white ticks, stacked up all neat in the corner just like in the clip. He grabs the nearest box, rips off the lid, tissue paper falling to the floor. Lets his fingers run over the leather and plastic and the stitched detailing—flashback to that dim factory, those little girls’ hands—and he’s pulling them out, dropping the box, kicking off his own battered kicks and slipping on the fresh creps. His spex chime, a shoe icon appears in his periphery, followed by a green tick. Paired.
Around Grids’ feet, where his limited edition shoes hit the ground deserts bloom, city blocks rise and mountains rip themselves from the ground. Vistas erupt from each footfall, spreading like bacteria, mingling, creating landscapes. New places from the dead ground. Civilisations rise, intricate detail evolves around the soles of giant feet. The storeroom floor is transforming itself around Grids’ feet into streets and parks, buildings and city blocks. Infinite fucking detail, like Grids hasn’t seen since the last time. As he looks he can see little statues of himself, his face on billboards and video screens. So small, so complex, a perfectly formed world on the carpet-scale.
Achievement Unlocked—“Retail Therapy.” Stock Liberation Objective Completed: 100x points multiplier.
Grids feels himself mouth the words, not sure if it’s out loud or just to himself, “This is my world now, understand?”
• • •
BBCBristol
BREAKING: hooded teenagers looting sports stores in Avonmeads. WATCH LIVE NOW >>blink<<
xxKayleighxx
Disgusting. I feel sick. Someone should assassinate whoever runs Smash/Grab.
RealEngland
Let them get on with it I say. Let them burn their own neighbourhoods to the ground. Then when there’s nothing left maybe they’ll finally go back to their own countries.
• • •
Outside the Lawrence Hill crew is holding off a bunch of flabby, riot-shielded security guards with a constant hail of bottles and jars. All apart from a couple, who are playfully trying to take out a sinister looking police drone that’s hovering over Avonmeads. It flits left and right, effortlessly dodging their missiles, but no matter—the missing bottles arc downwards on to parked cars and vans. Bonus Criminal Damage points. Ker-ching ker-ching ker-ching.
College is a bit more worried though, he knows that drone means it’s time to start winding things down. He checks the CopWatch wiki—as he suspected, riot unit inbound. He fires up the Throne of Shadows client and drops everyone a three minute warning. Blinks into the vid feeds again—from the drone in the store room he can see Grids, Threat and Melody packing the Sureshot kicks into black plastic bin bags they’ve produced from pockets on their stormsuits. Nice footage, flips to Grids’ feed to get a close-up.
Wait. Nah. That ain’t right. What is this? Some dark room, much darker than the store room. Long tables with kids at them, in pools of overhead light. Murkiness.
He opens up a VOIP channel with Grids direct.
“Was up?”
“Was up? Your shit is fucked up, that’s was up fam!” College is pissed. “Why you never listen to me man? That QR you blinked earlier was straight mal bruv. Fucking trojan innit. Your stream is fucked and showing some random shit right now.”
“Bullshit.”
“Nah, it’s not bullshit man, you fucking go look and see what it’s sayin’.”
Grids pauses his packing and checks his stream. The factory, the kids. Little girl hands and OLED stitching. College is right, it’s that clip from earlier. Trojan business, jacking his stream. Shit, not now. He looks around, at Threat and Melody, and the shoes they’re de-boxing into the bin bags. Dozens of them. Enough that they start to look insignificant. Glances back at his stream, the little girls—same age as his brother—churning them out, filling the warehouse. He thinks fast. Knows what he must do.
College is back on the line. “I’m cutting off your stream Grids.”
“Nah! No! College fam, leave it man! Seriously! I want people to see that shit!”
“What? Don’t game-”
“Serious fam! Leave it! Please! Look, me and Mel are coming out right this second. Just leave that stream up, mix it with the main, and make sure you got a drone on me! Please!”
He can hear College suck his teeth on the other end of the line, pause. “OK. A’ight. But quick man. Feds soon come.”
Threat has gone, Melody and Grids grab one of the two bags each. They exit the Track and Hood, which looks like a bulldozer has been through it, the carpet compacted hard with crushed plastic and glass.The rest of his crew have all fled, spurred on by College’s warnings.
Out on the kerb, squinting at the carnage around him, Grids empties his black bag of trainers into a pile on the floor, snatches Melody’s and does the same.
“What the fuck-”
“Flares!” he shouts at her, “Now!”
She reaches inside her baggy stormsuit, pulls out the final treat. Two footlong black tubes, passes one to Grids. She ignites the end of hers with a disposable lighter, passes it to him, he does the same. The grim, overcast Bristol day is lit up by twin tiny, intensely bright green suns. He holds his out at arm’s length and he can still feel the heat on his cheeks. White smoke bellows, a dull wind blowing it across the Avonmeads wasteland. Grids watches melody turn—in slow motion—and launch her flare into the shop, it’s flight traced by neon light-trails across his retinas, the wrecked store interior instantly filling with white smoke. He turns back, his flare held high, pouring out that thick white smoke, looking for College’s drone. One drops down in front of him, head height, ball camera twitching until it focuses on him.
Grids breathes deep, summons strength, squashes nerves and self-doubt with significance. Looks straight into the camera, and speaks to the potential millions that will see him.
“If you’ve seen what’s playing on my stream yeah, then you know why I’m going to do this. This is for them, yeah, them girls. For all the kids. For all the kids that can’t come down here and do what we do. This is for them cos it’s their world now.”
He drops the flare. As it hits the pile of trainers they ignite, bright green and blue. A cloud of white smoke and the smell of burning plastic hits him and he stumbles back, and he can hear protests from some of the other raiders, but it’s too late. Time is up, game over. He glances to his left and he can see the low, squat, six-wheeled, windowless armour plated box of the riot truck swerve off the overpass, taking out some bins and half a golden-arch as it skids towards them, air-brakes screeching, a turret on it’s front twitching to life and aiming at him and-
“EYES DOWN!” he hears College scream.
He looks at the ground and covers his eyes with both hands, but still sees the flash. Everything goes red. Wide beam non-lethal anti-riot laser, standard procedure. When he looks up again the smoke is filled with stumbling shapes, clueless civilians blinded by the beam that’s meant to be protecting them, shuffling about in a panic like shopping mall zombies. And then he’s running between them, through the smoke and chaos, him and Melody and College following the oth
ers. Under the dark underpass and the roar of overhead cars and juggernaughts, and then up, over the chainlink fence and dropping down into the non-place wasteland beyond, between the infinite pylons and transmitters, the communications towers studded with dishes and aerials, and the diesel-blackened trees, following the train tracks until the towers of Barton Hill rise in front of them, welcoming them home.
• • •
Smash/Grab8726531
Today’s rising stars: Luana-G (Havana, Cuba), Grids (Bristol, UK), Suenna-Li (Hanoi, Vietnam) Flexman (Bristol, UK) >>blink<<
EugeneSureshotOfficial
Wow—looks like some of my people over there in the UK are hyped for my shoes! Keep calm little homies, hold tight. Only 10 days left! #thisismyworldnow
ManU4eva
Little feral rats should be round up and shot. And who says their poor? How can they afford the best spex and designer clothes then? Their dressed better than me! Disgusting.
BloombergBiz
Sakura (SKU) sees stock rise after viral campaigns and UK looting boost demand for new celebrity-gamer trainer range >>blink<<
PeoplesRepublikStokesCroft
Salute to Grids, Barton Hill crew. True soldier, showing us how it’s done >>blink<<
RogerHelmettMP
The suggestion that this is somehow about politics or human rights is ridiculous. These are nothing more than work-shy thugs looking to make a quick buck. It is time to take this country’s streets back from these scum.
DanCallistrio
Wow, watch them kiddies go. Fair play tho, I hate shoe shopping too. Never got anything in my size.
• • •
Someone knocks on the door, and Grids come out of his room. Checks through the spy-hole who it is before opening up—he’s had to keep his head down for a day or two. It’s not just the feds he’s worried about, but he’s pissed off plenty of people in the ends with his little stunt. Melody bought it, he thinks—in fact she even seemed a little impressed—but he could tell College was pissed, despite what he said. As for the Lawrence Hill crew—well, best he keep a low profile round the codes for while, unless he wants to get jacked.
