A jingle plays, a horribly upbeat tune that clashes with the dead, dark streets I'm navigating. The radio launches into an advertisement, the voice saccharine sweet:
[Feeling down? Future got you on your knees? Try **Elysium Elevate, **the only antidepressant in a can! Crack open happiness anytime, anywhere. Nine out of ten consumers report instant smiles!]
An engine revs and a cheesy synth beat underscores the chirpy voice. I grimace through a cloud of cigarette smoke.
The voiceover speeds up, whispering the catch: ["Side effects may include nausea, hallucinations, organ failure, and existential dread. Elysium Elevate: Climb above the clouds!"]
I shake my head. Even the ads in this city have a twisted sense of humor. I flick ashes out the window and keep driving. The rain has let up slightly, now a steady drizzle that blurs the edges of my vision.
The talk show returns, Sam's voice now dripping with irony: ["...some folks on the city nets claim they've seen wild dog near the old shipyards. Mutts scavenging the warehouses. Gerald, you up for a field trip to confirm?"]
Gerald snorts. ["You first, buddy. I'm not about to become chew-toy for some mutant rottweiler that may or may not exist."]
Sam cackles. ["If the dogs are out there, maybe they're better off hiding. Can't blame 'em for steering clear of this mess and to our listeners lucky enough to have a furry friend at home, hold 'em tight. They might be the last of their kind. Up next: we want to hear from you. Have you seen a real dog in Crystal City? Lines are open."]
I tune the volume down as a jittery caller starts babbling about a "pack of cyber-hounds in the sewers." The satire has done its job, keeping me alert for a few more miles. I toss the stub of my cigarette out into the wet night and rub my eyes. Fatigue tugs at me, but I'm nearly there.
As if on cue, a small green icon blinks in my peripheral vision. My neural comlink picking up an incoming signal. A soft chime in my skull follows. Incoming Call – MARTY.
I stare at the road, jaw tightening. After a few rings, it stops. Then another chime. Incoming Call – JESSICA. They're tag-teaming me. I clench the wheel tighter.
Through the drizzle-streaked windshield I can just make out the ghostly shapes of old warehouses along the riverbank.
A new notification forces its way into my HUD, text this time:
[New Message - JESSICA: "Bale, please. We heard something's happened at hospital. Are you okay? Where are you? Marty and I are worried. Let us help."]
Worried. Right. I grind my teeth, ignoring the sting as I run my tongue over the spot where I bit the inside of my cheek earlier. I can't deal with this right now.
Whatever good intentions Marty and Jess have, I don't have room for them. They weren't there in that alley when bullets were tearing me apart. They didn't see Marlene...
Marlene. Her name slices through my thoughts like a razor, quick and cruel. I shove it aside. Focus.
Another message blinks in quick succession:
[New Message - MARTY: "Goddammit, Bale, answer your comm. Don't do anything stup-"]
I blink twice hard, executing a manual override to mute the comlink alerts. The messages vanish, along with the persistent ping of Jess's incoming call. An oppressive silence fills my head, broken only by the muted crackle of the radio and the thrum of the car's engine.
"I don't need a damn babysitter," I growl to myself, voice lost in the empty car. Marty and Jess can wait. If Silvio's really in trouble, I'll find out soon enough.
I shut off the radio entirely. The sudden quiet inside the car is jarring, but welcome. Outside, thunder rumbles in the distance, and the rain picks up again, pounding the roof.
The urban skyline has faded behind me. I'm in the ruins now, old industrial territory by the river, where city lights fear to tread. The road beneath my wheels narrows and cracks, weeds poking through fractures in the concrete.
To my right, through skeletal remains of chain-link fencing, I catch a glimpse of black water. The river, choked with decades of debris, reflecting nothing but darkness.
The headlights cut a narrow tunnel through the sheets of rain. I roll past the rusted shells of factories and processing plants. The silhouettes of chimneys and cranes loom like grave markers against the night sky.
This whole zone is a graveyard, the final resting place of jobs, people, maybe ideals. And somewhere amid this sprawl of decay is Silvio's sanctum.
My heart beats faster the closer I get. Not out of fear though there's that, swirling in my gut but out of cold determination.
Silvio saved my ass more times than I can count. He pulled me out of my darkest hole once, when the bottle nearly swallowed me whole, and gave me purpose again.
If he's in danger, or if someone sold him out, I owe it to him to set things right. Or at least to see it through.
I navigate around a toppled water tower lying across what used to be a rail yard. Up ahead, through the misty rain, I spot the shape of a familiar warehouse. A faint glow of a failing floodlight outlines its corrugated metal flank. That's the place.
I kill the headlights and coast to a stop a half-block away, behind the husk of an old semi-trailer left to rot on the side of the road. The car's engine rattles into silence. Only the rain pattering on the roof remains. I peer through the windshield at the building everyone in our crew jokingly called Pizza Plaza, a slab of concrete and steel that knows nothing of pizza or plazas.
Even with minimal power in this district, I can make out a faded mural on the side of the warehouse, a cartoonish pizza slice wearing sunglasses and giving a thumbs-up. Silvio had a twisted sense of humor, all right.
Above a loading bay entrance, there's a busted neon sign that once proudly proclaimed "Pizza Plaza" in garish red and green. Now the letters hang dark, except for a few that flicker weakly: P za Pl a.
Despite the tension coiling in my chest, I huff a quiet breath of amusement. I remember when Silvio christened this place. Years ago, one of his smuggling schemes involved delivering contraband hidden in pizza boxes.
The crew got a real kick out of it, started calling our operation the Pizza Mafia. When Silvio set up shop in this abandoned warehouse, the joke was that it was the flagship pizzeria. The name stuck around long after the joke got old. Trust Silvio to turn an old hangar into a punchline and a fortress.
I step out of the car, immediately drenched again by the rain. The cold slices through the lingering warmth of the cigarette. I slide my pistol from its holster and check the mag by feel in the dark, locked and loaded.
With my thumb, I enable the safety on the injector rig Roger gave me, strapped to my forearm; if I need a boost of painkillers or combat stims, it's ready at a moment's notice. I probably look like a half-crippled mess, but I'm far from unarmed.
Staying low, I skirt along the line of abandoned vehicles and junk toward Silvio's HQ. My leg throbs, and my side where the stitches pulled screams for rest. I ignore it.
As I close in, the warehouse looms taller, its outline jagged against sporadic lightning. The place looks quiet. No sentry on the roof, no guard at the door. Normally, Silvio would have at least two guys on perimeter watch, even on a bad night. Right now I see and hear nothing but the storm and distant hum of the city.
Roger's warning echoes in my head: If he's back at HQ, he's on the other side of life.
Knock, knock.