30 Pieces

barElantxobe
Originally uploaded by Andyrob.

Sara stood outside the white painted bar, hands in her jacket pockets, her shoulders hunched under the battered brown leather. The hand-painted letters of the sign were in the same deep red of the bar’s titular anchor. She pulled the cigarette from her lips with a final puff, dropping it under her boot toe. She started to climb the stairs, her fingers tracing absently along the wall, feeling old stone beneath layers of paint, a storied history in masonry.

The inside of the bar was dim and smoky, a caricature of itself as pairs of patrons slouched at tables along the walls, their faces buried in games of backgammon or chess, glasses of wine at their elbows and small plates at hand with almonds, olives and cheese. Sara stood inside the door, her eyes adjusting to the light, peering into the back corners of the room. Spotting what she was looking for, Sara started weaving through the tables, until a large palm shoved into her chest stopped her. The fingers of the hand overlapped her right breast through the jacket, but the owner of the hand didn’t seem to care as he stepped out of the shadow and shook his head at Sara. He was tall and broad, a rough blue wool roll-neck sweater under a black nylon shoulder holster carrying a black-market Chinese flechette pistol, its oiled and modern mechanism of steel and polymer in sharp contrast to the scratched wood and dented metal of the bar.

“Let her pass, Hernand, she’s all right,” the voice came through the shadow and smoke as if without origin. Sara smiled tight-lipped at Hernand and shrugged, slipping past his hand and heading for the small table in the corner.

Gregor half rose from his table, a grin on his handsome face, “Sara, Sara, Sara. It’s been too long, we were worried about you, you know. You dropped out of sight after the SeCorp job. We thought the squeeze had grabbed you.”

Sara smiled, ran her hand through her short hair and nodded, “Almost did, Greg, almost did. I had to hide out for a few months, keep a low profile.”

Gregor sat back down, kicking out the opposing chair with a stylish Milanese boot. “Sit, sit.” Lifting a dusty bottle, he poured her a glass of sherry and refilled his own. “Just tell me you didn’t love to see those desk monkeys scramble to cover their asses.” Gregor’s laughter was infectious, “But enough about the past. Let us discuss the next job.” He raised his small glass in a toast, “The future!”

Sara raised hers in response, “To the future, Greg.” They sipped in silence for a minute, Gregor looking around the bar and Sara looking at Gregor. “I didn’t come to discuss future business, unfortunately, Greg,” Sara said, “but just wanted to stop in and let you know I’m alright. I had some business in the region and thought I’d track you down, say hello.”

“It’s always good to see you, Sara, “Gregor brushed his laser cut curls from his eyes, “even if only for the moment.”

“I’m sure your plans for the next job are brilliant, Greg, but I have to be on my way now,” Sara rose and came around the table to Gregor’s side. Leaning in, she kissed him on the cheek before whispering in his ear, “You did great things, Greg. Always remember that.” She pulled back and looked at him, a sad smile on her lips. His brows were knitted in confusion for just a second before his eyes widen slightly and he looked at her. “Great things,” she repeated as she straightened up.

“Yes, thank you, Sara,” Gregor said, his smile matching hers and his shoulders slumping the barest fraction. He raised his glass in another toast to her, nothing betraying his manner but a slight glistening of his eyes.

Sara turned away and headed for the front door. A man seated at a battered table playing checkers with a companion caught her eye with a raised eyebrow. Sara paused very briefly and nodded imperceptively before continuing out of the bar. Just as the louvered oak door clicked shut behind her, Sara heard a voice rise above the general chatter inside.

“Gregor Terovich! You are bound by law to stand down! You are charged on an international warrant with terrorism, espionage and violations of the Cayman Corporate Accords!” Shouts sounded on both sides and Sara could pick out the roar of Hernand and the staccato whistling of his flechette pistol before the general rattle of gunfire filled the bar. Ducking down the steps, Sara leaned against the wall under the red anchor. It was just a minute before she heard the bar door open and boots start down the steps. Sara bowed her head and turned away as a bloody and limping Gregor was lead past her. A black SUV with heavily tinted windows and studded tires skidded to a stop in the street and Gregor was hustled into the back seat with a pair of men, body armor peeking out from under their jackets and spidery gray submachine guns held loosely in their hands.

A man with blond hair and ramrod posture stopped next to Sara and watched the SUV pull away. “Your money has been deposited in your account, Ms. Vincent. SeCorp thanks you for your cooperation in this matter. I must remind you that, as part of our agreement, you are not to have any interaction with any of the parties involved in this matter. If you do, we will come for you.” The man’s feral grin caused a shiver to go down Sara’s spine as he walked away and climbed into a second SUV.

A tear trickled down her cheek as Sara lit a cigarette with shaking hands. Pushing off from the white painted wall, she ran her fingers over the lettering one more time before walking away, hands in her jacket pockets, her shoulders hunched under the battered brown leather.

Icarus

Prodbank
Originally uploaded by loufi.

An older story that got me started in writing flash fiction. Technically, the photo didn't inspire this story, but I wanted a picture to pair this with, so I dug around for something appropriate. This one seems to work.
---

Rooftop gardens, condensers, chicken wire dishes. Junktown spread out before Cal as he crouched on the edge of the roof, dirty tiles cold under his bare feet. In the distance he could see the towers of downtown, and beyond them he could feel, though not see, the wide, tree lined avenues of the enclaves and communities. Cal looked slowly from right to left, peering closely at Junktown, cataloging the kludged and retrofitted buildings, imprinting it on his brain. He wanted to always remember this place. After he left, he wanted to be able to sit back, close his eyes and be here. That way he'd never forget why he did this, followed this dream up and out of Junktown.
---

Cal had grown up in Junktown, a childhood wandering through empty, concrete paved lots overgrown with grass growing through the cracks. Not that he'd ever had many people to wander with. He had always been thin, sickly and slow, no fun for games or exploring. So he was never picked for booster-ball and left behind when the other kids ran off to play Grunts and Guerillas.

What real doctors his parents could afford had just shrugged their shoulders. Junktown had made him, they'd said, the waste, the residual carcinogens in the walls and floors of the old factories that made up the bulk of Junktown architecture. No one was ever supposed to live in those places, the doctors had patiently explained, voices slow and words small, they were filled with chemicals.

After burning years of savings hearing the same words over and over, Cal's parents had given up and brought him to the street clinics, where off-duty paramedics and license-revoked veterinarians wanted to heal the inhabitants of Junktown. The clinics were enough to keep Cal going, let him grow up, albeit rail-thin and stringy. But he'd always known Junktown had made him what he was. All the other kids had always ignored him because of Junktown. He'd get out of Junktown, and everyone would watch.
---

Cal looked down and could see ant-like people scurrying this way and that under the multicolored canopies of the street bazaar. Cal wasn't high enough that the people were the size of ants, but they looked like ants, each absorbed in their singular missions. Get food, get money, get drugs, get sex, get get get. A slow smile spread across Cal's face. He'd give them something else to think about. He'd make them look up and see, share his dream and soar out of Junktown.
---

He'd had the first dream when he was 11, and most nights ever since, flitting and soaring behind his eyeballs every time he slept. He knew there must be a way. And a little over a year and a half ago, Cal had found it. Neurokinetic extramuscular subcutaneous myolymer implantation. He'd seen it in a magazine Justine had left behind at his place, buried after an article on the latest Shanghai fashions.

It had taken a few months to figure out how to get his hands on the technology, then another four months to actually get the plans. Six months of design and another five months of crafting. Not to mention the surgery and healing time.

But Cal didn't mind. His dream would come true. After 13 years, his dream was here and he had a way out.
---

Cal's hands scrambled over the fabric of the baggy, extra-long anorak, tugging and seeking purchase, pulling it over his head. Cal winced, hissing in through his teeth as the material snagged, the sharp jerk transmitted up through his left shoulder blade, causing a slight twinge in just healed tissue. Cal tossed the pullover to the side, shivering mildly in the sharp air of morning, the hairs on his arms standing on end. Rubbing his hands together for warmth, Cal giggled, it was nearly time.
---

Harvey had told Cal he was crazy. But Cal knew that. Harvey wasn't that sane either. No one who lived in Junktown was particularly right in the head. But Harvey said Cal was really loony.

Harvey had hovered over Cal while he worked, muttering and tugging on his hair the way he did. He distracted Cal so much, Harvey caused him to snap one of the struts by mistake. Cal had shoved a lit thermite lance at Harvey's face, that had made his roommate retreat back to his side of the apartment.

Cal knew it was a crazy dream, he didn't need to be told. But it was his dream. It was his way out of Junktown.
---

Cal shifted on the rooftop, spreading his feet a little for stability. He tensed the new muscles in his back, arching his spine and bowing his head. The eerie creak and sudden shifting weight of his new appendages nearly tumbled him off the roof. It was twelve stories to the street below. Cal stared down and rocked slightly on the balls of his feet, eyes wide and happy, reveling in the vertigo and finding his new center of balance.
---

Dr. Rusty had thought Cal was crazy too, but he hadn't said anything. Rusty never said anything, just looked sad, grunted, ground out his cigarette, took Cal's money and went to work. Cal lay face down on the table, his back cold and heavy under the anesthetic.

Rusty had lent him a pair of holo-goggles with a five-year-old hang gliding demo on it, something to distract him during the operation. But Cal couldn't pay attention to it, no matter how much he wanted too. He was too busy feeling the dull pulls and pushes against his back, picturing the operation in his head. The implants, interfaces, melding and fusion. Only Rusty's nerve-blocking relaxant kept him from quivering with anticipation. Everyone would see him live his dream, and he'd make them feel the joy.
---

Cal stood, spreading his arms and raising his face to the sun. It was a low smog day and the sun was warm in the skin of Cal's face and chest. The wind ruffled his short hair, whipped at his pant legs and pushed against his new implants, shoving him playfully, like a child. Cal laughed out loud and crowed to the sky. He was so close, so close to the dream.
---

The surgery had left Cal numb and slightly paralyzed, forced to lay on his stomach for three weeks, while Rusty's speedhealers worked. Justine had come by a few times, but she could never stay long, looking at Cal laying on his bed in his new form. She knew this was coming. Why was she angry about it now?

The last time she came by was to collect her things, tossing underwear and clothes into a backpack, taking her toothbrush from the bathroom and sifting her music out of his library. Harvey had lingered, wanting to help, but Justine ignored him as usual.

Cal didn't mind very much when Justine stopped coming, or when Harvey gave up trying to talk to him. He had too many things on his mind. He had a way out of Junktown.
---

Cal dropped his arms to his side, inhaling until his ribs hurt from the pressure. This was it. His way out. People would see Cal and know. Today he'd change all their lives.

Cal flexed his implants a few more times and dropped back into a crouch, putting his arms between his legs to touch his toes, looking out over the buildings like a cat about to pounce. With one massive push of his legs, Cal launched himself from the roof.

For one terrifying instant, he wobbled in the air. Then his wings caught and the wind slammed him skyward, nearly knocking his breath away. Cal whooped, tears whipped away from his eyes as fast as they emerged. His loose pants snapped in the air like flags and Cal spread his arms to embrace the world sliding beneath him.

Then, with a white hot wrenching, something went wrong, something tore in his back and Cal's left wing twisted violently back, squeezing an agonized scream from his lungs. He started to spin out of control and fall through the air, heading straight for a cluttered rooftop. He barely had time to cry out for mercy before he crashed through a small forest of dishes and antennas, each one scouring and flaying his body. He slammed into the roof's surface, plowing a new furrow across a shallow tray of tomatoes before ramming headlong into the steel structure of a condenser, snapping his neck with a sickening crunch.
---

Most people in the street didn't even notice Cal's aborted flight. They didn't have time, they had things to do, errands and jobs. A few did look up though, watching the thin young man with polished chrome wings, shaking their heads in pity at another Junktown suicide.