Well, that was a disaster.

  I'd expected tears. Some sniffling. Or maybe a quizzical look as if saying, "Okay, Dreamer, why are you telling me?" But the pain in my shoulder… I didn't know how to feel about that.

  I rubbed my shoulder, sulking, bitter.

  "Crazy girl," I muttered, alone on the cracked sidewalk, shuffling my way between old husks of buildings. I didn't blame the girl, but it made it all that much easier to leave.

  The BorderZone was split into three sections, or blocks, stretching from the southwest to the northwest. It was a sector of turmoil for the city, barely part of its city limits these days. Raiders came and went; criminals hid in the abandoned zones, exiles, hideouts, the forgotten, and those wishing to be forgotten; they all gathered in BorderZone, the gateway to the WasteLand.

  There was NorthBlock… This section was still clinging on to civilization. It had electricity, jobs, residencies, a police force, but it was plagued with crime, worker gangs that warred with the unions, and harsh political groups who enacted violent and destructive riots during the hot summers. The city "government" held onto this block officially, but the situation was chaotic.

  MidBlock was a ghost town. This is where I was. The sector was still scarred from burn outs, blazes, and lond dead warring factions. Here, WarZone was taking over street by street. Highrises abandoned, the roads littered with dead vehicles. Street barricades a story high used to protect against ganger raids; now they stood destitute and slathered in graffiti and old bullet wounds at lost border checkpoints. It was a place of utter decay.

  It foreshadowed what the rest of BorderZone would become, a dead space between WarZone and the LowDowns. Every day, a little more of MidBlock came under WarZone's influence.

  There was life here somewhere, they said, but I'd never seen it.

  Then, there was SouthBlock... The Wild West. Civilization still thrived, but it was governed by the quick and the deadly. The markets were here, just on the edge of BorderTown.

  The markets were a strange place. A collection of nomads, scuzzes, scavs, and spicers, it was a refuge for the outcasts and the foreigners. All sorts of things could be found there, and all sorts of people. It only happened once a year, but when it did, everybody profited.

  The gangers, of course, the fuckers, would've loved to take a piece of the action, but the markets were no joke. They brought out all of the dangerous people from their hiding holes in BorderTown, people with guns and skills of their own. That didn't stop an occasional raid or two from some dumbass group, but everybody's gotta learn.

  More important than safety, it was a good place to sell. I'd only been once, but back then I was recovring from a real rough bender and owed some people a lot of money. Managed to sell a whole package on a loan and repaid the whole thing with profit to spare. If there was a place to start your own drug racket, it was at the markets.

  The kids would do well.

  I headed that way with my conviction to leave strong and the latch case swinging at my side.

  South BorderZone was much different than Central. A whole slew of populations existed there among the old buildings, harvesting old world tech, and living out lives in between LowDowns and WarZone. Though it still had its fair share of troubles, South BorderZone was saved from the plagues of everyday WarZone.

  South WarZone was perilous, but it was still the best place to enter the city from the wastes, albeit probably the only way. That's why the caravaners came through there, in long lines of protected vehicles. They'd set up a market and stay for a month at a time.

  As I made my way through South BorderZone, more people started to trickle onto nearby streets. Strange characters, robed men and women in strange breather masks, people in AR visors with decent prosthetic limbs—things I wouldn't have expected here.

  The streets crowded with more and more people, and the buildings became more lively and lived-in until I reached the market, where people packed into every available foot of space, eating, talking, playing music, and trading. This was only one of many side roads lined with stalls, and it was already packed with more people than I'd see in a whole year. And, I wasn't even to the main market center.

  But when I got there, it was stunning. The BoderZone had transformed into an army of red fabric tents and vehicles, sandblasted and armored, parked near packed-full buildings or holding up tent fronts. People called out, hammers beat on metal, visceral smells lit up my nostrils. And the sounds of countless voices mixed with the afternoon air. It was a lively place.

  Somewhere in all of that is Chuckles and the boys.

  I mixed in with the crowd, holding the case close. Everyone was packed together tightly, a whole ramshackle herd, shoulder to shoulder, sliding past one another with strange effortlessness. Voices encompassed me, odd accents and foreign languages. As I waded through it all, the wild markets consumed me. I became one with the crowd.

  These were strange people. Market thieves and criminals on the run were the least of my worries. People I'd never seen surrounded me, people with visors for faces, robed men and women covered in blue paint, people who were more machine than human. I'd never been to this side of the market before.

  I don't remember this at all. So many people. Focus.

  I needed to find Chuckles. The markets were large, but I was confident they'd find me before I found them. That was always how it happened.

  As I started through the crowd, shoving my way past people in the shadows of tents and highrises, I started to think about my plans again. After I was done here, I was on the first bus back to LowDowns... to start my life again. My rep had gone to shit there, but I could get it back. Low level execs, loan sharks, the usual scumbags, were always in need of skilled agents. Maybe I could work for one of the gangs pulling low-level schemes. It was dangerous, but it paid well. And it worked wonders for Rep.. You showed off your skills well enough and the jobs would keep coming in. I hoped my skills hadn't gone the same way as my rep this past year. If so, I was fucked for sure.

  But on one thing I was certain… this time two million wasn't enough. I was getting everything I was owed, even if it killed me. Besides, it was killing me not to.

  Mackie had died taking too many risks. I was dying avoiding them. It was apparent to me now that the only way to thrive in this world was take what you wanted and to give nothing back.

  And that's exactly what I was going to do.

  Despite my best efforts, Chuckles and the rest eluded me. I was getting restless with this case in my hand.

  The markets were a strange place. Red cloth coverings flapped in the wind. Alleys were packed with strange groups and I ventured through large squares where all sorts of things were sold I'd never seen before. Smoke rose into the air from juicy meats sizzling on skillets. I even saw some plants hanging near a spicer's booth. They were bright green but covered in lumps. Radiation poisoning.

  The spicers themselves were even stranger. They too were covered in lumps, with dark skinned faces decorated with painted symbols. They wore bright orange robes adorned with thick hoods, silver jewelry and strange trinkets made from chrome scrap. I noticed many had pale green irises that changed color in the light.

  "Dreamer…" I could barely hear it above the crowd. "Dreamer!" Someone was calling my name. I poked my head above the crowd to see.

  There, on a dead streetlight across the market square, Slag hung off halfway up, waving his arms at me. I waved. How the hell did he see me in all of this?

  I made my way through the crowd over to him.

  "Hey Dreamer. We made it. They're waiting nearby."

  "Take me to them," I said, "Let's get this over with." We left the main traffic for a back alley between smaller market buildings. From there we ventured down a narrow dirt street who width barely fit me and Slag shoulder to shoulder.

  "This place is sweet, Dreamer. I've never seen anything like it," he said with static in his voice.

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  "Yeah," I agreed, taking one last look at the market before it disappeared out of view. "I've never seen it like this."

  "Chuckles and the rest are goin nuts, here, waiting on you. They want to get out there. Hahaha. I don't blame them. This looks like a good place to pop your cherry," he boasted. Popping your cherry here didn't mean the same things as it did in the city. It meant taking your first kill.

  “Do me a favor, Slag. Keep that shit to yourself. And don't say that too loud. You never know who's listening."

  "These people ain't gonna do shit. They're pale faces. And the spicers look like weak old men. Imma get my teeth into something." Pale faces were people born outside of WarZone. I didn't know who he'd seen in the markets, but there were plenty of weird folk I did not want to push my chances with.

  "Just stay out of trouble."

  Chickens ran by, real chickens, as we crossed over to another street. Here, people, mostly robed, some workers in orange jumpsuits, loafed around in the quiet. Old sand blasted signs hung outside of buildings but they had no purpose anymore.

  Some stragglers sat on the side of the road. A man with a plastic prosthetic leg sat in a colored poncho with a tin cup, begging for change. Two workers sat on the other side, exhausted and covered in grease. One was a man who looked like his soul had completely drained away: eyes absent, rusty beard unkempt. He looked like he'd just returned from WarZone.

  A woman leaned against him, hugging his arm. Her black hair was slick to her scalp from sweat. Worriedly, she kissed his face and pet him, whispering things into his ear.

  As we passed by Slag kicked at the man's leg, laughing.

  "You old bum! Why don't ya get up and do something with your life?" I grabbed at the collar of his cut-off vest and yanked him to the side of the street in a fit of rage.

  "What are you doing?" I spat with bile in my voice. He looked at me confused, his breath revolting.

  "What, Dreamer? It's just a pale face." He really didn't get it. The boy was lost.

  "Don't do that shit."

  "What? What I do?" I could've punched Slag's teeth out. Instead, I let him go with a grimace. Returning to the woman, I stood over her. She cowered in fear. The man hadn't even reacted.

  "What's wrong with him?" I asked tenderly. She took a second to decide if I was okay. Then she answered.

  "Has roteye. Hasn't slept in days." I'd heard the name from workers in bars, but had no clue what it was. You got it from working in the scrapyards. Something about chemical poisoning. "The clinic doc said if he got some sleep, it would get better. All he needs is some sleep, but he won't close his eyes." She petted his hair softly with her worn out hands.

  "Oh. I'm sorry," I said, morose.

  "Please, do you have anything to spare? The money they give us won't... the clinics here won't take it, and the corpo clinics don't have anything to help." I felt for her. I reached into my pockets for some spare cash until I remembered.

  "No, sorry. I don't have any cash." She'd stopped listening after no, cradling the man's head. I left her there.

  "What are you worried about them for? Fuck em," Slag said as we went down the alley. That sounded familiar. I didn't respect his words with a response.

  The man's condition turned over in my head as we walked. I should stay out of it.

  "Shit," I said, finally. "Wait here," I ordered Slag, who watched me return back down the alley to the woman. I knelt beside her, laying the latch box on the ground and opening it. She eyed me with curiosity.

  I found a package of red and blue capsules: Zentiaf.

  "This will help him sleep. Give him two. Force it down his throat if you have to. The meds will put him out," I explained as I took out six tablets from the bag. The woman looked at me perplexed as I held them out to her.

  "But, I don't have any money…" she said, her stark blue eyes marred by stress rings. "I have nothing to give you for this–"

  "Just… take it," I said, waving my fist at her. She opened her hand and I dropped the tablets into her palm. "Keep them out of the sun, or they'll melt. And don't give him more than two a day. Oh, and this stuff is addictive. He'll have withdrawals afterwards. Just let him sweat it out. He'll be fine." I closed my case and stood up.

  With tears in her eyes she reached out and grabbed my wrist.

  "Thank you," she sobbed. Her calloused palm was hot. The intimacy frightened me. I snatched my hand away.

  "Don't worry about it," I said, turning away. The woman was already turning the man's chin to her and opening his jaw with a finger.

  "Take this, my sweet." I watched her for a second, hope reentering the poor woman's life. I felt a little good about myself for once, if only for the moment. I left them there and returned to Slag who shot me a confused look.

  "Just shut up," I said before he started.

  Suddenly, from down the alley behind us, chickens cried out as boots kicked them out of the way.

  "There. Him," a man's voice called. I turned to see.

  Three heavy-set men in orange jumpsuits, workers, stumbled out of the alley we'd just come from. They were all burly men, experienced laborers with forearms thickened from years of work. Grease and soot marked their faces, chiseled from the same hard labor, and hard life. They did not look happy.

  A fourth man in a white robe and black waders pointed a skinny little finger down the alley at… at me?

  The men trudged up the alley, grimaces on their faces. They looked like they were about to do some work. Did I know these guys? What did they want? Maybe it wasn't me they were after…

  "The one in jacket," the skinny man detailed after them. My heart dropped.

  "What the fuck?" I said out loud, backing away from them.

  "What is it, Dreamer? Who are these guys?" Slag asked.

  "I got no idea."

  "What are we gonna do?" Slag was ready, to run or to fight.

  "Just stay out of it," I spat back. Stepping into the middle of the alley to meet them, I called out, "What do you want?"

  "You have a debt to pay," the lead man bellowed, the toughest of the bunch. His eyes were ringed with hard, dark circles and thick lines. A patchy beard was roughed with gray and his hands were calloused and knuckle-bitten.

  Teeth gritted, he approached without slowing. There was unborn hate in those eyes. It he got one of his hands on me, I was sure I'd be a dead man. But I stood my ground.

  "The fuck I do. I don't know you. And I don't owe you shit."

  "Red sent me. I'm here to collect. You," he spat back with fire in his belly.

  "Stay back," I shouted as he advanced. I didn't mind plugging all three of them. I'd never heard the name Red, anyways. "I'm warning you."

  They didn't bother listening, only a few yards away now.

  "Alright," I broke out, "You want to fuck around? Then you earned it." Too close for limb shots. Center mass. Or head. No time to be nice. I reached into my jacket pocket for my revolver. The only skill of mine that had improved over time: my shooting--

  My pocket was empty. Why is my pocket empty? My heart turned to ice as the memory flooded back to me. Milo had it, and she was miles away.

  "Oh shit," I said. They were too close to run now. I'd fucked up. Afraid, anticipating what was about to happen to me, I braced myself as the first man descended upon me, wrenching my gut with a heavy fist that knocked the vomit out of my stomach. I doubled over, dropping the latch box.

  The men surrounded me. My right arm was yanked out of my jacket pocket by iron-gripping arms while another set pulled my head back into a headlock. I gritted my teeth, unable to struggle. They handled me however they wanted.

  "He was reaching for something. Grab it." Someone put their hand in my pocket.

  "There was nothing in there." My arm was freed, but then someone lifted up my legs and tucked them under an arm like I was fireword. Like that, I was hoisted off the ground.

  "Alright, take him back to the OutPost," the leader said.

  Who are these assholes? I struggled, but it wasn't worth the effort.

  Suddenly, from behind the group, I heard Slag's rotten voice.

  "Get your fucking hands off of him," Slag shouted. No! Just go, you stupid kid.

  Before the men could react, a gleaming blade dug deep into one of the men's meaty shoulders. The sound was a plump thud. He cried out before Slag wrapped an arm around the man's neck and jumped on his back. The boy tried to rip the man off of me but the man let go of his own will, grabbing onto the knife handle.

  My feet slumped back to the ground, and the pressure around my neck released, letting me gag out a couple solid breaths. I laid on the ground, choking.

  "He fuckin' stabbed me," one of the men shouted as the other two wrenched Slag off of him. The man fell to his knees, and I watched him slide the knife out of his shoulder, a bright crimson trail spurting from the stressed muscle.

  The other two workers picked Slag up and threw him against the alley wall. From there, they kicked at the boy, brutally knocking his head around, slamming his ribs, and thumping him against the wall. All Slag could do was cover up, but eventually, he fell unconscious.

  The third man, bleeding from his wound, flashed into anger, hiking back to his feet and taking out his anger on the now unconscious boy. I heaved a couple breaths before I was able to stand. Then, I limped my way over to the group.

  They were killing him. Blood dripped from cuts in his shaved skull. His body was a ragdoll beneath their punches, and they showed no signs of stopping. I drug myself over to them, gritting my teeth.

  "Stop!" I shouted through exasperated breaths. "He's just a stupid kid!" I tried to wrestle one of them off of him, but he pulled himself away. I grabbed the latch box and thumped him on the head, hard. His neck jolted at the impact, and the man fell to the dirt, holding his head.

  In desperation, I jumped on the other's neck, my weight far exceeding Slag's, and pulled on his throat with my arms until he fell back into the dirt with me. We hit the hard dirt road, the breath knocked out of us. Then, he pulled my arm from his throat with such strength it felt like my shoulder would pop out of its socket.

  Then I was wrestled into submission. The other two joined him, abandoning their beatdown of Slag. I was wrenched upright by forceful arms and dragged to my knees. Two of them displayed me to the leader, who walked up, blood dripping down his forehead.

  Heart pumping, I was exhausted and trapped, terrified of what happening, scared for Slag's life. Scared for my own.

  The last thing I saw was Slag's body in the dirt, motionless. Through gritted teeth, the leader spat his final words.

  "This is for Margo." Then, he cocked back his meaty fist and punched my lights out…