Chapter Text
"... The grave punishment shall await those who do not bend their knee to God!"
He feels the warm moisture of sunlight on his face and bathes in it in blissful excitement. The preaching he is giving today is going beyond his expectations, resonating soundly across the church's hall.
"... The floods, the acid rains, the frigid soil that bears no fruits these days! The corporate oppression! The innocents killed each day in thousands just trying to survive!"
As he speaks, his voice is climbing the tonal ladders from rumbling low to ominous high and back. He hears the subtle murmuring among the followers who've gathered there this beautiful Sunday morning. The sun fills the hall, playing on the battered walls, shining brightly over the hundreds of his devotees, enhancing their vengeful faces. They agree with him, he knows.
"... Who would say that this is not the wrath of our Lord! For all the sins committed against mankind!"
The clamour is getting louder, converging over the high ceiling. Some of the followers are giving him shy nods, others are voicing out their agreement in screams:
"Aye, aye!"
"Hear him!"
"This is the truth bestowed upon us! He's right!"
He feels enforced by these yells of approval, for he knows he is right. He raises his hands to the sky and then down and gives a loud thump on the desk in front of him.
"... But hear Him, the people of His flock! See the jappies who will steal your children to stuff them with their filthy implants!" A soft roar from the crowd is heard. "See the governments spilling your blood over the devilish technologies! See the perverts indulging themselves in every kind of fetish out there," another roar, much louder than the previous one, "in corrupting your loved ones with their braindances and dollhouses!"
He senses the fury flaming within him. This is the God, he is here, at my sermon.
In the corner of his eye, he sees the people standing up from their seats, their hands in the air and their mouths open in a sense of awe. Among them is a man in a dark grey suit, standing aside the common rabble, as if trying to distantiate himself from them. He wears elegant corpo attire, looking so misplaced among the others in their ragged, cheap clothes.
The man's face is unreadable as if it was the only one of all the other faces that is in shadows. The features of his manner are melting into a noise effect, swaying in blue and red circles like ripples on the water's surface.
He is unable to concentrate on the man for long, so he continues.
"... How many beloved ones you lost in the last Corporate wars, tell me! How many people have to die for you to open your eyes and hearts to our Lord! For He is merciful towards the suffering ones but cruel to the ones that are to blame!"
Somehow, it is more the ringing in his ears than the yells of the people, a whining howl of electricity, and so much rage that his vision started to oscillate with neon colours.
"I feel God, he is with us tonight!" someone shouts in a high-pitched tone.
"Yes! Let us deal with the fuckers who spoil our kids!"
"He is right! God damn the fucking corpos! We should kill them so they do not kill our families!"
The blood is pumping through his heart, stronger and stronger with every second, followed by what feels like the cracking of a thunderbolt. The hatred and desire to spill blood are strong within him, intensifying with each passing second. The people around him feel it too and raise from their seats, their eyes bloodshot and voices loud and angry.
"… Know Him! See Him not with your eyes, hear Him not with your ears, sense Him not with your body! For He reveals Himself only to those who know Him with his heart!"
With each word, the ringing is getting stronger in his head, turning into a bell toll. Every conscious thought in his mind is gradually giving way to primordial rage. So potent is the voice of God in him, and so powerful is His will to share His truth with His followers.
The man in grey makes several steps towards the exit, ready to leave the sermon. He points at the man, and the crowd immediately follows, gathering around:
"... And you! Where do you think you are going?!"
Not uttering a word in his defence, the man suddenly stops still in the middle of the hall. He sees the man’s lean posture, his muscles beneath the layers of clothes, his neat haircut and his hands clenched into fists. The strength the man is emanating is no less than that of a well-trained killer.
The bells are banging so hard they reverberate through all his body. These bells, he knows, they are calling to this man’s demise.
“… Say something, you, a creature of the Hell! Do you think God does not see your sins? Or are you with the Devil hisself?”
The man slowly turns around, aware of his surroundings but not ready to move just yet, and his eyes are glowing red.
The crowd closes on the man in small steps, screaming, cursing him in every language known. Some of them pull out pistols and shotguns, and others arm themselves with Bibles and candlesticks. Someone activates their assault implants with loud beeps. Burning with rage, the people are all geared up and set to attack the man at any moment.
The only reply from the man is heard, almost drown in other people’s rageful voices:
“Lovely sermon, my dear priest. Though I’d rather drown in the blood of the Lord,” something long and metallic in the man’s hand catches a sunray and morphs into a sword, sending bright flashes everywhere, “than hear more of it any longer.”
The people in the congregation take another step towards the man.
He is sure that everyone hears this shrill, strong banging of the drums. The buzz in his head is forming into a tune of an irresistible urge to tear and slice, a song of just one word:
“KILL!”
The scythe of time hangs in the air for a moment before taking a final sway, and then the rampage begins.
The people charge at the man, aiming to hit him. Yelling curses, he tears a meter-long Holy Cross from the wall behind him, viciously attacking everyone he could reach. A bloodbath ensues with every shout and shot and hit.
People around him are screaming in rage and pain. Bodies fall, bloody and torn. Shots are fired, and brains and guts are scattered across the walls. Someone throws a grenade, blasting to ashes the good portion of the hall and a dozen people with it. It is man-against-man, and the bells are banging Hell.
Everyone is engaged in the full-scale slaughter in the church. He is as well, feeling his mouth filling with blood as someone bangs him with a heavy chalice. In his stead, he knocks the attacker to the ground and pokes his stomach with the Cross. And then pokes again, and again. He just can't stop, the pointy edge of the Cross is piercing the body oh so sweetly…
Here and there, he sees the flashes of a katana, and with each body dropping on the floor, the man in grey is tearing his way to him through the crowd, rushing towards him with unhumanly speed and agility.
And he charges at the man back too, raising the Cross high above his head. Twenty steps, fifteen, ten… but in a blink of an eye, the man is already close. His face is blurred and bloody but undoubtedly twisted with hatred.
The last thing he remembers is how the katana is stubbed in his mouth in a single stroke, how it pierces through his brain and comes out of his head on the other side.
<<< END OF RECORDING >>>
Eggsy pulled out of the slumber abruptly, sweating hard.
He tore the headset off his head and blinked a few times, trying to adjust his vision to the familiar surroundings: stiffy basement room filled with all sorts of editor’s equipment, dimly lit corners, trash on the floor, and the nearby sofa.
That last blow to his head, Eggsy almost felt every inch of the blade plunging into his skull. Trying to shake off the feeling, he sat upright on the couch, his hands on his knees, and took several deep, long breaths.
“This BD is fucking rank, choom,” he said to the man sitting behind the monitors. “The carnage is gross, never seen anythin’ like that. That the real Kentucky massacre? Where d’ya dig that shit up?”
The man across the room was somewhat in his forties, his wrinkled face covered with the trace lines of his brain implants. Several cables were hardwired out of his spine and back to his skull. His artificial eyes, more like car headlights, were glowing startlingly red. One could say that his looks, and his choice of cyberware, made the man look repulsive.
“You're my best customer, Eggsy. But my sources are my sources.”
“Fine, fine, Bucks, won’t nudge you.”
“Enjoyed the show?”
“You couldda say so. A preacher with a braindance chip, how’s that for technological advancement?”
Bucks grinned wider, showing ugly yellow teeth, and watched as Eggsy got up on his feet unsteadily.
“What do you want to see next? I have a couple of new BDs of your… usual stuff. Brand new porn all to your liking. Price’s the same.”
“Nah, me good. Need to take a breather, still got this feelin’ my guts shredded to pieces with that katana.”
“A’ight, suit yourself.”
Eggsy waved his hand goodbye to Bucks, took his coat off the stand in the trashy corner of the room, and tumbled out of the room to the dilapidated hallway, full of junkies and crackheads. The stench of the bodies stuffed with all sorts of chemicals beat Eggsy in the nose, so he quickly walked to the exit to the street.
Japantown welcomed him with traffic noise, sakura holograms, the stink of rotten fish and all sorts of scum. From the junkshop next door, the TV ads were screaming. Across the street, irritated customers were trying to screw the bodega cashier over to give their money back. Nearby, a couple of joytoys in cheap syn-skin tights were watching passersbys hungrily, their hands touching their tits and crotches attentively from time to time.
The sun was blindingly bright today, and Eggsy covered his eyes with his palm, trying to remember where he had parked his Thornton.
He darn liked the offers of BD scrolls that Bucks had—there was porn of all sorts, mostly gay and fetish ones, though these times no one cared once you have enough eddies—as much he liked it as he disliked the neighbourhood. The most precious thing to Eggsy was that Bucks never asked questions. Never tried to make acquaintances. Once you have the money, you can scroll whatever you like. Bucks would forget your name and face once you left his shitty parlour. And that made him stand out in a long row of other BD shops in Night City, where they would like to make you their most valuable customer, where they would analyse your likes and build a profile of you, sell you subscriptions, send you messages of NEW ARRIVALS and HOT TAKES.
It was never easy for him to stick to somewhere where too many questions were asked. Privacy, a thing that’s almost forgotten nowadays. He was too young, after all, and too cautious to leave a trace anywhere. Most of that came when his mom flatlined herself after V-DAY, and insurers knew about it once he arranged a cremation for her. That, and Militech who was searching for him for not paying credits for his implants. The fuckers just loved their money after all, but in a sense that made them nothing alike to himself.
The parking lot was a couple of minutes around the corner, and Eggsy took a small pace towards it, still making himself breathe full lungs after what he had experienced today in braindance. He needed to grasp back at the reality, he knew. Manoeuvring through the crowd—the streets were always full there, corpos, clerks, tourists all the same—he crossed the road and took the route to a huge residential building nearby. On its dark concrete wall, covered with all sorts of neon-coloured graffiti, large words were painted over in white paint, letters taller than a man’s height:
WHAT COLOR IS ETERNITY?
Fumbling with the car keys in his pocket, Eggsy thought about the man in grey from the BD scroll. It was not that unusual when people’s faces were blurred in recordings: that happened in porn scrolls, so the watcher could imagine someone special in place of sex actors, as well as in other more elaborate real-world records—when the person’s face was protected by security scripts.
To this man, Eggsy thought, there was something more than that. In ordinary BDs, the net-protected people seemed surreal, as if deliberately pulled out from the picture after a recording was done. In this one, though, the man fitted so naturally into the surrounding, his identity concealed so subtly that there could be no way other than it was some top-rated netrunner work.
Eggsy recalled the bloodthirst he—no, not him, the preacher—was indulged in, and the blade piercing his head again. Ugh, gross.
Approaching his car, he saw three mobsters-looking weirdos, mohawks of neon-bright colours and ragged bandanas over their heads; they were watching him from distance, calculating if Eggsy was an easy prey to rob.
But he wasn't. Eggsy showed them a fist, his Gorillas knuckles of chrome shining distinctively in the sun, and the mugsters turned their backs to him, giggling and spitting onto the pavement.
When Eggsy finally got to the car, his holo rang with an incoming call. Pulling his cap low on his head, he took it instantly, though a bit absent-mindedly while checking that the tires of his car had not been punched.
“Hola, Eggsy. It’s past midday now. Where da fuck ya’ve been?”
Near one of the wheels where Eggsy’s car was parked, the concrete pavement had cracked, and a bright-green sprout with a couple of small leaves had made its way through it. Eggsy’s mind, though, didn’t seem to register the weirdness of this rare sight, being completely occupied with the voice of his friend.
“Hi, Pixie. Had… stuff to do. Any news for me?”
“Change o’ plans. This weekend’s job is happening today. Dean’s ragin’, lookin’ everywhere for yo sorry ass.”
Eggsy heaved a deep breath. Things were never easy with his fucking fixer.
“Oh fuck. What about the briefing? I can be at the bar in… let me see...”
“No need. Dean’s flicked me all the detes.”
“Oh, he’s flicked you something now, hasn't he? You, of all the crackheads, who won't know an Archer from a Quadra?”
The rampant laughter of a reply was heard, obviously of Pixie taking no offence from that remark. Then, it was a rustle of something unwrapped on Pixie’s side of the call.
“Aren't ya the pain in my humble ass, amigo. Let's say I diverted his attention to something more lucrative for us all rather than making you come here and take the beating. Saved ya the usual hassle, y'know."
“Sure hell I know, and for that, you have my thanks. So?” Eggsy said, getting into the car.
“Pi-sh me up on the cor’ of Congress and Pajaro ina’ hour,” Pixie said, apparently chewing on something, so the words came out ragged and barely comprehensible. “I’ll exsh-plain everyth’ on the way.”
“Aye, bruv. Make sure you don’t gag on that whatever cock you eating till I’m there.”
“Ass-hgh-hole. Te veo, Eggsy.”
"See you too, Pixie."
The second the holo call ended, a message beeped Eggsy. It was a photo of a huge plant-based chicken sandwich from Pixie and a note:
<< the COCK. get ya 1?
Any thought of food at this moment would instantly remind him of peoples’ chopped guts and the sprays of blood and the fucking katana. Eggsy sent a quick reply:
>> thanks, i'm good. not hungry
Heaving a breath, Eggsy started the engines. On a second or third attempt, his modest but lovable car finally came back to life. Radio came back on, banging in the last notes of some rock song before giving way to a news broadcast.
“Hello, this is WHS News, and I am Arif Iqbol. Today’s main story is…”
Everyone dreams of a gig like that. A posh house in North Oak, owned by some corpo-ass mediocre clerk. Huge garage, easy access, no security. Just nab the car and get the fuck outta there. Everything you can grab in the house, you grab, and you can even keep 5% of extra profits.
And of course, everyone in Heywood dreams of a gig like that. Especially, when it is a low-lever punker from Arasaka who’s getting screwed. Or from Militech, or from whichever else Megacorp is out there. A satisfaction no one of Eggsy’s street kind would pass on. And won’t you ever start crying over the poor being—as the corpo in question would eventually be unscrewed back by insurance payments covering all the losses.
Eggsy did dozens of jobs like that, though it was mostly the quiet car parking lots and remote streets, with no one to see him, but he knew the drill. He gets the car, shitfuck gets their money. Simple as that. In the end, it’s a win-win situation.
“OK, so it’s a mansion near the columbario. His Herrera will be in the garage. Hideaki Takayama, the owner, has put a block in his planner for the whole night tonight, so it's going to be quiet there. We'll just be nearby and wait till he's gone."
Pixie was sitting in the passenger seat of Eggsy’s car, speaking in a fast and abrupt manner, shaking his head like a bobble doll with each word. A guy right about Eggsy’s age, of apparent Chinese descent, but putting so many holas and cabróns and pendejos in between every sentence that one could think he's trying to pretend Hispanic. Pixie's small composure, his shaved clean head, half-covered with dark-green plastic ‘ware plate, and giant netrunner googles made him look like a human-sized fly.
Though crackhead or not, Pixie was good with tech, especially when it came to disabling cameras and car alarms. Eggsy even liked the guy. It was fun with him.
“Any thoughts on where the guy’s headed to?” Eggsy asked, rubbing his forehead tiredly.
“A party of sorts, maybe.” Pixie shrugged. “Dean said he’s taking a taxi downtown.”
“A’ight, so he will be gone for a while. Why're we nabbing the car from his house? It’d be much easier to do when he’s at work, just come to the parking lot and do the dung.”
“He’s headed to Tokyo tomorrow ev’ing. No return ticket for his name. Don’t think he’s gonna swim back here to NC.” Pixie popped a chewing gum bubble larger than his happy face. “And note this shipping request for a container the size of his house next week.”
Someone from behind them hollered the car horn angrily, and Eggsy noticed that the streetlight had already turned green. He pushed the gas pedal, sending Thornton’s engines to roar in forward motion.
“Right… so he’s going to skip the town. And the security?”
“A few cameras over the perimeter, a couple of alarms, that’s all. Before you ask, though,” Pixie unpacked a beer can from the dozen ones he fetched for their ride and took a long soundly slurp, “there is a catch—"
“Knew it.”
"—the keys are in the safe somewhere in the house.”
“Can't smell roses about it already.”
“Relax, amigo. You find the safe, I'm taking care of it. Then we take everything we fancy and chk!—" Pixie snapped his fingers, "—gone. Faster than your choomba snorting his dust."
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Damn like it ain’t!”
The car headed upwards the hill, where the glory of Night City’s richest was sprawled across the dead soil: North Oak. Huge villas and small chalets; groomed lawns and crystal clear pools; tall fences and spotless streets. Eggsy and Pixie, with the Thornton cheaper than a light bulb from a streetlight here, seemed totally out of the picture.
“Me feeling sad for the choom who’s just got a car too much nice for him.”
“Oh cut it, you don’t feel any sad.”
“Of course, I’m not, amigo. We’ll just help him, you know. Choom will need to spend so much on that cargo container if we don’t.”
The evening slowly started to fall onto the neighbourhood when they approached the lookout spot at the columbarium’s parking lot. The target mansion was just down the street, and its entrance was clearly visible from where they stopped.
“Here, park over the corner,” Pixie instructed him. “Let’s make it look like we’re visiting our grandma’s box.”
Eggsy smiled.
“For the record, whose grandma it is then, mine or yours? Like to get my story straight before spitting it to the cops.”
“Fuck you, really.” Pixie grabbed another beer and shoved it to Eggsy. “Here, get a breather. We’re here for a time.”
Eggsy nodded and, leaning back in his car seat, took a sip, watching the lamps lighting up in the mansion’s windows one by one.
Eggsy must have dozed off, as he came back to his senses when it was closer to midnight. The radio hummed old punk songs in the background; Pixie was still there, scrolling something on his DataPad and chewing gum. Stretching, Eggsy yawned, shaking the sleepiness off his body.
‘Cause it makes, ma-ma-kes me feel better!
“Anything changed?” Eggsy asked Pixie, who wasn’t a bit startled by the sudden activity from Eggsy’s side.
“N-O-P-E,” Pixie spelt. “I’ve seen the guy marching back and forth on his balcony, but that’s it.”
“You sure he’ll even get out of there tonight?”
“Not so, now. But if we don’t wait to see and confirm that, Dean will skin us alive.”
“Either that or he’ll make us barge into there, taking hostages and shit.”
“Preem prospect,” Pixie gruntled.
Outside, the world was already dark and nightly, though everything in the sky was so bright that one couldn’t really tell. Megabuildings looming over ever-busy highways; transport gyros and AVs lighting their paths; holograms with Kiroshi ALL EYES ONs and US Cracks and NI-COLAs slowly scrolling over and over high in the sky, getting eventually lost at the stratosphere where the human eye couldn't really discern the details.
“…Go-ood evening to you Night City, and this is World News Service with you today,” the radio announced. “Tonight’s major story is the protest rally in front of Arasaka Tower. People demand the legal claim to Arasaka to be taken to the court…”
Eggsy turned the radio volume up a bit, listening to the news.
“…Valentine Corp. failed to meet the demands of victims of the mass cyberpsychosis event, also known as ‘V-Day’, which happened over two years ago, in 2074. For the context, Valentine Corp. had gone bankrupt after that event and was later acquired by Arasaka, so people hope that Arasaka might take mercy and compensate them for the losses Valentine Corp. caused—”
“Turn that bullshit off, please,” Pixie complained. “How d’ya even listen to that is beyond me.”
“The news, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“Like to be in the gist of it, y’know.”
“I can tell ya the gist of it, to save your time.” Pixie closed his pad and picked up the binoculars, looking over the mansion. “Good peoples are getting fucked by corporations and no one is gonna pay ‘em a single eddy, that’s it.”
“…the NUSAP press office still made no statement about the situation,” the broadcast cut into Pixie’s words.
“The cabrónas never care for us folks,” Pixie concluded.
“I’d still like to see them try just once. Y’know, for mum’s sake and Daisy’s,” Eggsy said, but instead of a reply, he got Pixie suddenly reaching out to Eggsy’s head, waving his hands erratically. “…the hell’s you doing, Pixie?”
“Trying to get that pink glasses off yo’ stupid cabeza,” Pixie smiled and got off Eggsy, picking the binoculars again and this time getting serious. "Look, there's something at the house. A taxi's arriving."
“Let me see,” Eggsy said, taking the binoculars from Pixie’s hands.
Eggsy saw the lights going off in the mansion and a black limousine approaching the main gates. The limousine was surely a Villefort modification, its windows toned dark and its rear sides livered with white checkered stripes. No one was present at the driver's seat.
“Fu-uck…” Eggsy ushered quietly.
Takayama, a small Japanese forty-something man with a balding head went out of the house and stopped in front of the car, looking about warily.
“What? What do ya see?” Pixie squirmed in his seat, exited and jittery. “Wh—”
“This is no regular taxi to you, you crackhead. That is fucking Delamain car." Eggsy felt the shrill sense of worry at the back of his head. "You said, he is a low-level network engineer at ‘Saka, right?"
“He is…” Pixie replied, fidgeting his fingers nervously. “But it doesn’t matter anyways, ¿no? We're still doing this."
“Aye…” Eggsy replied hesitantly. “Just… what in the hell he needs Delamain car for...”
Clutching to something rectangular of a size of a small briefcase in his hands, Takayama finally got into the limousine. The car took a roundabout in front of the mansion, ruling towards the street.
“Nevermind, Eggsy. Vámos, right?”
In a few seconds, the Villefort steered down the street and finally got out of their sight.
“Right.” Eggsy sighed and took the binoculars off. Pixie set the timer to ten minutes.
“We wait if he comes back or not, then we go.”
Eggsy got out of the car, stretching his body and sniffing the heavy summer air.
“You wait in the car, I’ll come and check the mansion before we go in.”
“Está bien.”
The last words Pixie said over the holo connection. Eggsy chuckled and opened his car trunk, pulled out his Liberty pistol from there and a couple of rounds. On second thought, Eggsy took a small case with screwdrivers and prods with him, closed the trunk with a loud thudmbd, and went over to Pixie, looking in the car window.
“Pixie.”
“Wha—?”
“You’re Chinese, what’s with that whole Spanish attitude of yours? Gods, you even hate tequila.”
“Like to be in the gist of it, eh,” Pixie cackled and soundly popped a gum bubble. “Heywood paints you so, you just can’t resist it.”
“I resisted it somehow, didn’t ya?”
“That’s because y’re an asshole. Nothing sticks to assholes really. Except for shit.”
“Ain’t you the sensitive one today, Pixie.”
Eggsy adjusted the holster on his hip, tucked it beneath the shirt, and started walking down the street, sticking to the shadows of tall fences and lifeless houses. Save for some celebrities, no one really lived here in North Oak. North Oak was always the place so that people could show out, like, see, I can scratch enough monies to afford it. In other ways, the area was inhabitable and unfriendly.
It took him five minutes to reach the mansion from the back, where he would not be seen from the streets and nearby buildings. Eggsy carefully counted the cameras and alarms outside, then moved closer to the fence. It was built with thick solid concrete, twice as tall as Eggsy. He walked by it for several meters, trying to figure out a blind spot. Close to where the hill behind the house turned a sharp end down, there was a good place to infill.
“OK, Pixie, I think I found the in route.”
“Yeah, can see ya. Ten mins're up, I think we can do it. Should I get to ya now?”
“Nah, wait a minute. I’ll try and find an access point to turn the cameras off.”
“Don’t ya even think to cut my pay down only because ya did ev’thing yourself.”
Eggsy stopped, concentrating on the top of the wall, then made a jump. His fortified ankles doubled the initial effort, allowing him to charge at the edge of the wall and grab it with ease.
Eggsy leapt over the wall gracefully and landed on one knee on the other side with a soft, barely heard sound. Hell, how he loved that piece of 'ware in him.
“I’m in,” he whispered. “No one’s here, it seems.”
“Told ya so.”
Suddenly, a loud hiss was heard from behind Eggsy’s, and something big and white pounced at him, quacking. Startled, Eggsy blindly shoved whatever that was with one hand, covering his eyes with another. After a short fight, it released Eggsy and did a few steps back.
“What was that?” Pixie asked over the comms, alarmed.
“Some fucking thing attacked me,” Eggsy replied, opening his eyes. The fucking thing turned out to be a giant white bird, which angrily hissed at him again and retreated to the small pond nearby, swaying its wings furiously. “Hell, the guy even has swans in here."
“Can you turn it off?”
“The bird? Fuck no, it retreated. Not a threat I think.”
Eggsy raised to his feet, brushing his jeans off, turned on his flashlight and looked around. The bird paid no attention to him now and was swimming on the pond in perfectly round circles. Its movements were so systematic and repetitive that it was obvious it was robotic. To say the least, no mere man could even find a real—biologically speaking—pet anymore.
The two-story mansion towered over Eggsy, casting long shadows over the patio and the pond. The territory was looking less spacious now he was inside, much less than one could think looking from the street. In a few steps, Eggsy reached the patio door leading to the house. A palm-sized black panel was built into the wall near it.
Eggsy pulled out the screwdriver from the set and cautiously hooked the edge of the panel. It gave in with a fine plastic click, revealing an access point. He pulled a cord out of his palm and jacked in. An augmented interface of sorts appeared in front of him, like a huge half-transparent red billboard floating in his vision.
“A’ight, what do we have here,” Eggsy muttered to himself, scrolling through the settings. “Pond temperature… in-house temperature… electrical appliances… right.”
He navigated to the SECURITY section and the panel instantly bleeped ACCESS DENIED. Eggsy cursed and selected manual input. The panel beeped again, raising credentials prompt over the menu.
“FUCK-CORPOS is my password, you stupid piece of tech,” Eggsy mumbled, releasing a daemon. It calculated the password for a couple of seconds, then the interface flashed green with another bleep, a more welcoming one.
“Access granted, Pixie. Come over, I’m opening the garden gate for ya,” Eggsy said over the comms.
Eggsy tweaked the menu for a while more, humming a song under his breath. Trace logs… clear… pause… yes. Doors… open… yes. Gates… mhm… Alarms… disable… yes. Cameras... are you sure...
“Yes please,” he said to himself. “Disabled.” Now, the mansion was good to go.
“Nominating you for persona del año, Eggsy!" Pixie hollered in a happy voice, raising behind Eggsy's back, and shoved large sports bags into Eggsy's hands. Pixie's goggles were hanging on his neck, his breath is heavy from the running.
Eggsy jacked out of the panel, giving space to Pixie, who then instantly connected to the panel himself.
“We’re good?” Eggsy asked.
“Yeah. Go inside, I’ll play with this thing a little, give us more time.”
“Copy.”
Eggsy opened the sliding door to the hallway and stepped in. Inside, the hallway walls and floor were made of different kinds of white and grey marble, emanating the expensive coldness and luxury; the furniture was all of the oak panels and granite. Eggsy let out an admired whistle, touching the stone walls, feeling the cold marble with his fingertips.
“It is nice in there, you should see it.”
“Coming,” Pixie replied.
“Posh shit, but really… nice, y’know,” Eggsy said to Pixie once he entered the hallway. “That huge TV… and the syn-skin leather sofa… nice one.”
“Ev’thing is nice in there, but remember it is corpo nice, not our way nice,” Pixie responded to him dryly, though his face gave out his admiration for lots of expensive tech as well. "We have about thirty minutes from now on."
Eggsy pried the door close to his right, and it gave way into the garage. The luxurious blue-and-steel Herrera Outlaw was inside, flashlight in Eggsy’s hand contouring its fine edges and sophisticated design. “The car’s here, so let’s see if I can find the safe. Let’s split up, I’m taking the upstairs.”
“OK, my man.”
Eggsy walked through the hallway past the kitchen zone, where Pixie was standing in front of a coffee machine as if contemplating rich life and at the same time thinking if he could fit the thing into his bag. Eggsy smirked and walked past, towards the stairs.
The insides of the house were compact, neat and featureless, but everything still screamed M-O-N-E-Y in there. All the appliances were top-notch, the furniture clean and classy.
Eggsy went upstairs. Here, three doors were seen, and he checked each one by one.
The first one was leading to the bathroom; Eggsy went there for a moment, checking if anything of interest was inside. Apart from the basin, standing on a large wooden postament, and a toilet, there was a huge bathtub with lots of intricate knobs and buttons; hell, if they’d had more time, Eggsy would even take a swim or two in it.
He checked the cupboard—full of towels and underwear—and the cabinet over the basin; here, he found a fancy golden wristwatch and lots of colourful bottles of pills. Stims, ‘dorphs, antidepressants—a lovely menu for your regular choom. Without a second thought, Eggsy grabbed it all into the bag he was carrying.
Next door was a bedroom in pale tones with a large balcony and a huge oil painting. The painting was showing the scenery of a town unfamiliar to Eggsy; a set of open travel suitcases were stacked in the corner, with shirts and shoes inside; else, nothing stood out in there, save for a pretty table clock and a last-gen DataPad on the bedside table. That all went to Eggsy’s bag as well.
The last door gave way to what seemed to be a home office. There was a big sofa; an antique standing clock with an elaborate pattern carved on its sides; a huge bookcase filled with actual paper books; and, in the middle of the room, a heavy black oak desk. Running the flashlight over the desk, Eggsy saw a table lamp, a laptop, and a photo frame.
Eggsy came over to the bookcase, running fingers over the rustly old spines. He tried to read the names, but most of them were in Japanese; his chrome translator explained that for the most part, these were about mechanics and computer engineering. Many of them dated back to the 2010s when paper books were still widely used.
“Eggsy,” Pixie called over the holo, “there’s not so much to salvage. Anything on your end?”
“No’ing yet. There’s some kind of office, maybe it is around there somewhere.”
Eggsy stepped to the table and turned on the desk lamp. Soft yellow light spilled over the room, chasing shadows a bit. He opened a laptop, but it prompted him with another password as well.
“Well, well…” he muttered to himself. He pulled a jack cord out and shoved it into a switch on the back of the laptop. A quick scan told him that it was well protected; his ICEbreakers were not fitted for such a level of security.
He stood for a bit, trying to think of a solution. The photo frame on the table caught his attention: Takayama himself was pictured there with a girl aged twelve-ish on his lap in front of the Arasaka Memorial in Corpo Plaza. The frame itself was new and, unlike many other things in there, not dusty at all.
Eggsy took the photo out of it On the back of it, words were written in a diligent but unsteady manner, as if the child made it, in Japanese. The translator picked it up instantly:
Father, thank you for the trip. Please come back home, I miss you very much. —Kaoruko
Eggsy pondered at it a bit, then tried the password at the laptop:
>> Kaoruko2061
<< FAIL. ACCESS DENIED, the laptop replied.
>> Kaoruko2062
The laptop responded the same, showing the number of attempts left: three. I'll try one more time, then leave it to Pixie, Eggsy thought.
>> Kaoruko2063
<< SUCCESS
Geez, even after so many years nobody's learnt a damn thing about passwords. Good for me, tho. The laptop screen went full alive, showing Eggsy the latest news in the background.
“Pixie, come here. I think it is something,” Eggsy said over the comms.
“Wha-h, you steal my ways of making money now,” Pixie said, emerging in the doors with his large bag rattling something. “Ya brain is not that small for netrunning after all.”
“Just tell me if there's anything interesting,” Eggsy pleaded, taking the bag off Pixie’s shoulder and landing it on the sofa.
“Not much… spam and shit…” Pixie’s eyes went glowing blue as he connected to the laptop and rummaged through the mailbox. “Wait, here’s an invoice, look.”
Pixie showed him the email on the screen.
>> SERVICE REQUEST 8762HT2076BS934
>> FROM: Safe House For Every Matter
>> TO: Hideaki Takayama
>> Dear Sir,
>> Pleased to inform you that the safe model BOOKSHELF-934 has been successfully installed in your house. The password is set as per your previous request. Please see the invoice attached...
“This is it,” Eggsy rushed to the bookshelves, running fingers across them again. “The safe should be here.”
He started to empty the shelves of the books, but nothing came out. As a last resort, Eggsy pried on the edge of the bookcase with his fingers and heaved at it to push it away from the wall, until he saw a steel gleaming in the back panel of the bookcase.
“Bingo!”
The safe digital panel gleamed yellowish in the dark, awaiting the input. Pixie clapped his hands and rushed to Eggsy’s side.
“Now it is my turn. Sit back and relax while the great Me will solve that last puzzle for you!”
“How long that’ll take?” Eggsy asked warily.
“About three mins. Ma-aybe five. Told ya, relax. Easy as paella.”
The antique clock in the corner of the room was ticking loudly, and Eggsy looked at it, watching the long arrow making its way around. He counted second after second in his head.
Eggsy sat on the couch. His heart was beating hard, and he didn’t even know why; the gig was coming out just as planned, but nothing is ever as planned, right?
Then he heard it: a loud screech of tyres outside. Eggsy momentarily raised on his feet and looked upon Pixie. Pixie’s face was clearly showing the same as Eggsy’s: worry and fear.
“Not. A. Word,” Eggsy mouthed to him and waved him to continue. Pixie nodded, visibly shivering. It was only another minute to go.
Eggsy quickly turned off the table lamp and looked out of the window. It overlooked the driveway a bit, and there were red-and-blue lights and some strange commotion outside. It was not clear if it was related to their house anyway, until…
Three things happened all at once.
The safe opened with a gentle click, and Pixie looked at Eggsy, his expression a mixture of pride and excitement.
Then, Pixie’s face twitched in the most cruel way of pain and shock, and, shaking as if he grasped onto a naked high-voltage electrical cord, his body dropped onto the floor, his hand still connected to the safe panel.
And with that, a loud BAM thundered over the ground floor, letting inside heavy steps and irate screams and something that sounded like a sack of rocks thrown onto the floor.
“Pixie, Pixie…” Eggsy’s heart skipped a long beat once he rushed to the guy and checked his condition. Pixie’s body bent weirdly, saliva running out of his open mouth, and his eyes were as if deliberately pulled out of his eyesockets and then shoved back again in a wrong manner, each one looking its side, left one to the left, right one to the right. His heartbeat was flat.
Pixie was as dead as a fucking doornail.
Eggsy clutched his head with his head in terror, feeling his guts nauseously rising from the pit of his stomach. Outside the room, the screaming was getting louder, reminding him of another problem.
He got up to his feet shakily, his thoughts rallying about in his head and eventually forming all the derivatives of the word FUCK.
Inside the safe, there was only a keychain with a running jaguar logo and a stack of credit chips. Eggsy grabbed it all with trembling hands and shoved it into the pockets of his jeans.
Alright—of course, it was nothing close to alright, but—it was the very time for Eggsy to delta out of here. He tried to concentrate on the thought, pushing away all others for later. Adrenaline and shock were pumping in his body hard, even deafening him a little.
Eggsy took out his Liberty and checked the rounds, quietly stepping towards the door to the main hall. He looked out of it and, down the stairs, saw Takayama lying on the floor. Next to him, two men were standing in black indiscernible uniforms, their guns pointed right at Takayama’s head.
“Tell me where is the fucking case!”
Even in the dim lights spilling into the house from outside, it was crystal clear that Takayama was bloody and beaten, and beaten hard. He was pleading and mumbling something in response to the yells of the other men:
“I don’t… I don’t know… please… no case…”
“Where is it, I’m asking you!” One of the men, who was seemingly taller and bulkier than the other one, pushed the gun to Takayama’s forehead. The man was cowering and crying in tears:
“I don’t kn-now where it is, please, I b-beg you… please… don’t k-k-kill me… I don’t know where the scrolls are, that is why I c-c-came… please…”
Eggsy remembered that there was a balcony next door. He forced himself to come out of the office, close the door behind him and, crouching, started to move towards the bedroom.
“You’re lying,” the other man said, his voice threatening and coarse. “Tell us where it is and maybe we will kill you quickly.”
“P-please… I don’t…”
Shivering, Eggsy opened the door to the bedroom hopeful he wouldn’t be seen. Then—BANG!—he heard a gunshot and a hefty rumble of a body falling. Dumbfounded, he clapped his hand to his mouth, afraid to make a sound. The all recent variations of fuckery-fucking-godforsaken-fuck in his head now converged into a single plangent FUUUUUCK.
Eggsy stepped towards the balcony door thinking of how he didn’t want to be the third body in his house today. If he could just escape in time before they find him… fucking goddamn bloody balcony door why are you stuck...
“And where do you think you are going, boy,” Eggsy suddenly heard the low, croaking voice behind him and a click of a cocking gun.
He froze in place, petrified.
“Throw that gun away and turn over, slowly,” the man ordered.
Paralyzed with fear, Eggsy didn’t move. His mind was a chaotic mess of panic and weak attempts to calculate his chances to get away with it. Maybe if he could disarm the man… or maybe just jump right into the pool from here…
“Do it or I’ll zero you as well.”
No chance, no fucking chance.
Very slowly, Eggsy turned around, raising his hands over his head. His whole body felt so heavy to him now, it was a torture to even make a small breath.
“The pistol,” the man commanded, his gun pointed right at Eggsy.
Afraid to make the tiniest wrong move, Eggsy gradually leaned down and laid his Liberty on the floor. More slowly then, he raised back to his feet, still trying to show bare hands above his head.
“Kick it to me,” the man said. Cursing under his breath, Eggsy did as been told.
“What do we have here,” another voice said, cheerful and nonchalant, and the other man walked into the room, the tall one. “What a surprise.”
“Take that gun from him,” The Croak said to him and nodded at the Liberty lying on the floor, then warned Eggsy again, holding him at gunpoint. “You, don’t move.”
Somehow, there was no place for even a single grain of doubt: The Croak was going to shoot should Eggsy just but flinch.
The Tall took a step towards Eggsy, holding his gun on him too, carefully grabbed Eggsy’s pistol from the floor and handed it to The Croak. Nova, now it’s three guns against none, Eggsy thought.
What Eggsy had perceived earlier as a black military uniform appeared to be NCPD bulletproof vests. Fucking badges, as if it was not a bloody mess for him already. Eggsy thought of Pixie’s body lying cool in the other room; he couldn’t decide by the men’s looks on whether they had seen it or just not yet.
Eggsy missed the split second when the Tall made a swift move onto him, kicking his breath out of his lungs with a precise hit to his stomach. Eggsy doubled over with a suck of air but tried to hit the man back, only to be pinned down to the floor. After a short fight and kicking, Eggsy’s hands were securely handcuffed behind his back, and The Tall was now standing over him, his heavy knee pinning on between Eggsy’s shoulder blades. The man thoroughly patted Eggsy’s shirt and jeans. Credit chips and car keys he took from the safe made a hollow clatter and immediately went to the man’s pockets.
“Fuckers,” Eggsy muttered with hatred. In reply, The Tall hit him in the face with the butt of his gun, and Eggsy instantly felt his mouth filling with blood. “Fucking… cops…”
“A gentleman,” The Tall noted and, raising to his feet, fed Eggsy with another hit with his leg. The pointy edge of his reinforced boot landed just between the ninth and tenth rib, and a certain crack of bones flashed through Eggsy's body, making his eyes water from the sharp pain.
The Croak took Eggsy’s gun to his face, examining it closely, then blanked the mag, counted bullets, and put the mag back into the pistol. His right hand was shining chrome and steel from the lights outside.
“What’s your name, boy?” he asked.
“S-saburo… fucking… Arasaka…” Eggsy gasped in reply.
The Tall’s smile got a hint of anticipated violence, and he took a full swing at Eggsy's belly as if he was going to do a twenty-meter kick at a soccer ball. Eggsy squirmed just at the last moment and managed to dodge it, so it was his left hip instead of his balls that took the hit. Not the most painful one, but the one that would surely leave a huge bruise on the soft skin.
Seeing that Eggsy’d still got some nerves to resist, The Tall didn’t stop at that; with maniac’s thrill, he showered Eggsy with hits and kicks till Eggsy lost all his breath and The Croak stopped him with a silent gesture; then the man yanked him rudely by grabbing his hair and made Eggsy stand on his knees.
The Croak made a few steps towards Eggsy and squatted down. The Tall made space for him and went over to the wall, examining the painting hanging there with a wild disinterested look on his face.
Looking at Eggsy’s face closely, The Croak tilted his head to one side and squinted.
“You know why we are here, right?” he asked quietly.
Shaking from dull pain in his strained muscles, Eggsy groaned and spit the blood right at the man’s feet. The man didn’t even flinch, not even raised his hand at him; though something dark deep in his eyes made Eggsy think that he’d rather it be a hit than this stare of his, freezing cold and emotionless.
“The boy next door, was he with you?” The Croak asked again, still patiently waiting for an answer. "Why are you here?"
“Dunno no boy,” Eggsy told him and, smiling, licked his bloodied lips. “Went to visit me grandma at the cemetery, tripped over a stone, lost me memory, then woke up here.”
“Don’t play stupid at me.” The steel in The Croak’s voice trembled dangerously. “The case with the datashards. Have you seen it? Do you know where it is?”
He didn’t, but he did. Eggsy remembered the thing Takayama was holding onto when he left the house. Could it be…
The Croak seemed to notice Eggsy’s wavering. Eggsy saw it back too in his cold stare, but before he could even muster a reply, the man got up to his feet and waved The Tall over to them.
“Here’s what we are going to do,” The Croak said, holstering his gun. “You are going to take a ride with us, boy, and we will see what you know.”
And that is when Eggsy felt the true fear, a heavy pulsation that run through his body, echoing in his strained shoulders, and curled inside him, swelled right under his wildly beating heart; the handcuffs were scratching his wrists badly, bruising the skin; the knees were sore from where they were meeting the rough carpet; and where his left leg took the hit, the muscles were twitching with spasm. But none of that was compared to the sheer realization that wherever they were going to take him, that would be his one-way ride.
“Get up.”
The Croak stepped towards Eggsy and yanked him by the collar of his shirt. Eggsy flinched, refusing to stand, and The Croak slapped him across the face with such sudden force that he lost his balance and fell to the side, almost blackening out. It went full flashes and explosions dancing under his eyelids; a whining noise filled his hearing, ringing through his skull. His Kiroshi optics flashed red with a warning that Eggsy might need to see a doctor about concussion.
He was just about to throw up and coughed hard when he felt how he was pulled by his hair somewhere out of the room.
The Croak was, despite his unassuming looks, much stronger than The Tall; it was no deal for him to drag Eggsy across the floor like he was merely a shell of a man. When Eggsy opened his eyes, it was the stairs leading down in front of him; The Croak kicked him under the feet, saying:
“You’re going down one way or another,” and Eggsy wasn’t completely sure if he really meant the stairs or something else.
“A’ight, a’ight…” Eggsy coughed, “I’m going, just let me…”
Another kick and Eggsy almost stumbled down the stairs; with great effort, he got up and limped on his own, The Croak following in his uneven steps.
In the hall, Takayama’s body was lying in a pool of his blood, his face a white mask of terror that comes onto the man with his last dying breath. Eggsy forced himself not to look; pushed by The Croak, he went outside to the main gates, where a police car was standing. Cool night breeze stroked him barely, giving him an itchy sensation on his grazed forehead.
The Croak as if decided not to talk to him anymore, and Eggsy would sincerely prefer it otherwise. For him, it was always easier to fight words with words—shouts and curses, laughs and mocks—and how to fight silence, he never knew.
They went to the car, and the man opened the backseat door, gesturing Eggsy inside. Eggsy hesitated, only to be rudely pushed inside onto rough stinking seats, separated from the other part of the car with thick bars like a giant cage. It was no first time for Eggsy to find himself in such circumstances, but never before had it felt to him so claustrophobic.
The Croak slammed the door shut behind him, locking it, and for a while, Eggsy was left alone. He was still dizzy and nauseous, his vision was blurry and mudded with blood running down his forehead, and the annoying alarm from his cyberware was flashing in the corner of his eyesight, making it even worse.
He tried to seat upright; although, with his hands cuffed behind his back, that was definitely no more comfortable than lying down. All of a sudden, the car shook with its trunk opening; something heavy landed inside. Then, after a minute or so, it was another shaking. Eggsy wondered which body was loaded first—Pixie’s or Takayama’s.
Each second now lasted as long as a thousand goddamn years.
Eggsy closed his eyes and concentrated on making himself think about something, breathing hard through his nose. He recalled today’s recon with Pixie—could it be clear to him from the very beginning that the job would go so gloriously blasted? The thought of Pixie’s twisted dead face made him squirm.
He made himself switch to something else—and this else was Takayama leaving the house tonight with something that looked like a small briefcase. Where in the hell did that thing go… A flash of a chain of thoughts, and it was already Takayama’s beaten body on the floor.
Eggsy tried to find anything else to think about, and it was only today’s braindance with folks' guts and brains splattered across the damn church. Whatever Eggsy could think of, it eventually ended with blood and death.
The Tall and The Croak returned after another minute, chatting quietly. In the corner of his eye, Eggsy saw The Croak lighting a cigarette; thick blue smoke raised in stiff air, swirling around his dreary face. The Tall was gesturing something expressively, and in reply, The Croak nodded towards Eggsy, said something… and smiled.
Oh fuck they are definitely going to kill me, Eggsy thought, and his heart squeezed with horror. He felt his eyes watering a bit, but shook it off and turned away.
It took them some time to get into the car; first, it was The Tall who took the wheels and started the engines, waiting for the other man; then, The Croak finally came over, giving The Tall no sign or word, and the car started moving, its tires rustling softly over the gravel. Eggsy saw a reflection of orange and yellow over the car and turned back clumsily to see—a gulp of fire started to nourish itself on the mansion’s ground floor. Eggsy watched it rapidly spreading over as they drove and drove away until he couldn’t see it any more but bright flashes on the roofs of surrounding buildings.
First raindrops started hitting the car’s rear windows as they drove to Interstate 9, and Eggsy leaned over the cold reinforced glass, tiredly watching the droplets drawing weird patterns and smudging the headlights of rare cars passing by. The silence in the car was disturbing, it didn’t feel right to him; that was, Eggsy realized, because the radio was off, no regular police transmission that was always rustling with random announcements, and that added to the heaviness of his heart.
Although, instead of where they should’ve been turning right to Santo Domingo and the rest of the city, the car took a sharp turn to the other side, towards the Red Peaks. Eggsy noticed looks that The Tall gave him from time to time in the rearview mirror; the man smiled, and that smile was the most unsettling one.
“Well, thought of anything important to tell us?” he asked.
“No,” Eggsy gritted through his teeth. Then, after a beat of thought, added: “Wait, actually, I did. Fuck you.”
The Tall was not at any surprised nor insulted; but he also said nothing in response, only steered the car’s engine, increasing the speed.
It was no longer than fifteen minutes—which still felt like an eternity to Eggsy—when the smooth asphalt of a highway gave way to a rough badly paved road; outside, it could be seen none from the rain pouring over them, but a turn and then another—and Eggsy knew where they were heading.
The trash towers of municipal landfill loomed over them in darkness, getting closer and closer with every heartbeat. Even the Night City’s lights were barely seen from there, obscured by the downpour.
The Tall seemed to know exactly the route to their dancefloor, navigating through debris and garbage with ease. Eggsy gasped for air from the adrenaline rush when they stopped at what was one of the most remote parts of the landfill.
The men started to unbuckle themselves; to suppress the panic, Eggsy broke the silence:
“Can I at least exercise my right to a phone call?”
The Croak didn’t react at all, didn’t even look at him, but The Tall laughed, clearly amused.
“Real funny, that one. Right, call your mama, tell her you won’t be coming to dinner tonight, or ever.”
And with that, they both went out of the car to the heavy rain. One bang of the car door, then another—both were like sucker punches to Eggsy, beating his last breath out of him. Right, he wasn’t even going to make a call, who he would ever call? His mother was dead for a long time, his only friend just died at him too; Dean and his goons would not do anything for him ever; and with that, Eggsy’s short list of acquaintances was actually over.
Eggsy squirmed, feeling the anger and helplessness engulfing him, agitating his burning mind. He leaned over, banging his head over the steel bars.
The car trunk opened with a loud screeching. First body.
Eggsy thought hard. Just if this was it, was there any sense in calling anyone? His mom… Christmas… he remembered one of the nights when he was small, and it was mom, and father who didn’t come home… he then felt as helpless as now…
Then, it was a flash of memory of a man who came to their house that night and gave them a number. If anything… Eggsy raised a holo menu in his optics, scrolling thoughtlessly through the contacts, searching for…
There it was.
He was not sure whether to call, while the cops were busy with the bodies they could still hear him, so he just texted to what was listed under EMRGNC:
>> my name is gary unwin. i’ve been told i can contact you if i ever need help. i think they gonna kill me
His last tie to reality, his last hope, his last resort bleeped instantly with a reply:
<< ERROR: CONTACT NOT FOUND
Eggsy almost cried out loud, spending the last effort of his to suppress the horror, and tried again:
>> please help me
<< ERROR: CONTACT NOT FOUND
The car shook again. Second body. Eggsy desperately flinched in his handcuffs, pressing his forehead against the bars, and felt the tears running down uncontrollably.
>> FO FUCKS SAKE HELP ME
<< ERROR: CONTACT NOT FOUND
The car door to his side swung wide open. It was The Croak, and his wet cold metallic hand reached out to Eggsy.
“Come out, boy.”
With his heart beating so hard it felt like it is going to rip his ribcage apart, Eggsy texted the last thing—just once the cops see his eyes glowing, they would know—
>> OXFORDS NOT BROGUES
And groaned in pain in his shoulders and back when The Croak grabbed him by handcuffs, wrenching him the totally wrong way, and pulled him out of the car.
He knew what the answer would be. His holo blackened out, for all he cared now.
Eggsy dropped into the mud, right onto his wounded ribs, and let go a scream, one that was more of despair than of pain.
“Get the fuck up, you piece of shit,” The Croak snapped at him and kicked him right inbetween shoulder blades. The Tall came over to them to help the other man to drag Eggsy away from the car and put him onto his knees.
Eggsy opened his eyes to them and instantly saw the limp dead bodies to his side; The Tall was now standing in front of him, not a glimpse of fun in his looks, only the weariness and anger; and he knew at this moment that whatever comes next, he was alone.
“This is the last chance for you to speak,” the tall man told him. “So listen carefully. Where’s the BD box? Was it in the house?”
Now everything was gone. Eggsy’s mind was so blank, he even smiled at the easiness of the thought. Gone.
The other man was standing behind him. The click of a gun charge resonated through the rain.
Eggsy definitely didn’t want to go as terrified fucker Takayama did, so he mustered a single thing he was able to do at last: a faint smile; and said:
“Let’s get on with it, I’ve got a new Watson Whore episode to catch.”
And took his eyes away from the man, raised the head to the sky, eyes wide open, embracing the wind and rain and coldness and whatever else, and somehow the sky was rippling with flashes of all blue and red and neon green, and even the black now had its own colour.
“Thought as much.”
Eggsy hoped his looks were peaceful now. Not everyone gets a chance to flatline with a fucking smile. He closed his eyes, waiting for the shot.
But none came, not in a second, not in two.
“…Yes,” a muffled croaked voice was heard from behind him, and a note of disarray broke the ever-indifferent tone of the man. “But… b— yes. Of course.”
Eggsy didn’t open his eyes.
Nor did he when he felt the handcuffs being opened and taken off of him.
Nor did he when he heard the car doors slamming and the engine squealing away.
Nor did he when the last thing that was left to him was the goddamn rainfall.
Not until his heart started beating again, stronger and harder than ever before. Beating and banging through his body, bringing him back to his senses, to his sore knees, his cracked ribs, his grazed wrists, his tensed shoulders, his beaten legs, his burning chest, his aching brain.
He was alive.
Eggsy fell onto his hands and knees into the mud and, with hot tears streaming down his cheeks, screamed and screamed until he almost lost his voice:
“FUCK! FUCK! FUUUCK!”
Microwave ovens and washing machines and scraps and rotten cars and a half-disassembled helo carrier were answering to him, echoing back the curses muffledly, as if ashamed to return Eggsy’s voice in full sound.
“… Uuuck, Uuuuuck…”
At the funny thought of it, Eggsy laughed, suddenly for himself. He was alive, and that was what mattered. That, and maybe a bit of shock. A hella bit of a shock. That kind that won’t let itself be known for a while, then, after a few weeks or months, would wake you up screaming in the night.
Letting go of the panic and devastation, Eggsy felt relief. Still too shaken to comprehend the full picture, he raised to his knees, waited till dizziness passed, then full-back to his legs; his shoulders were twitching painfully, and his left leg went a bit limp, but that was of no matter to him now. He felt so alive and powerful now, he thought he couldda endure ten times more than he had today already.
No notion of shock and stress disorder, though he knew the things from Militech courses. Again, what’s a darn Militech to a man when they’ve just escaped death?
Paying no glance to the bodies of Pixie and Takayama, Eggsy turned away, to where he felt the exit from the landfill was. A step, then another… he just walked and walked, water slurping and gurgling in his ruined sneakers. The rain helped; it reflected brief flashes of ads above the city, and rare lightning shone the path for him.
It took him a while to reach the northern part of the landfill, where the path was expanding and the towers of scraps and trash were more, if one could say it, neat; the rain had almost stopped by then, leaving the itchy wetness in Eggsy’s shirt and jeans. Only rare raindrops were falling, and the moisture hung up in the warm air, filling out his lungs with each breath. Nearby, a welcoming stack of old sofas was standing, and Eggsy even wanted to take a rest at it; but in a second, he swayed this thought from himself, perfectly knowing that if he stopped by there, he might never get up again.
Soon, the pavement appeared, devastated in most places by trucks and cars; tired to his core, Eggsy tried to concentrate on the count of his steps, just to give his weary brain a fixation on something that was not the pain or exhaustion: two thousand five hundred eighty-two, two thousand five hundred eighty-three, two thousand five hundred eighty-four…
At two thousand nine hundred thirty-one, he saw the gates leading the way back to the interstate. At two thousand nine hundred ninety-seven, he saw a faint silhouette of someone parked right behind these gates. At three thousand one hundred-five, he could’ve seen enough to understand that someone was not moving, as if waiting for him.
A man was standing alone in front of a beautiful Rayfied Caliburn in a perfect shade of metallic silver; he was holding an umbrella above him, his hands folded. He seemed to wait for him for a long time. The man was alike to a statue, if someone would even install one in front of a goddamn landfill, and he had hideously long legs and chic clothes that made him look like a still from a comic book.
Eggsy gathered all his courage—or whatever he could call the tingly mess of feels inside him—and walked right towards him.
The man seemed of no age; one could give him mid-forties and late-fifties at the same time. He was dressed in a stylish corpo suit and wearing glasses, blinking dimly in the headlights of his car. His face was nicely worked with intricate metal lines of implants, each across his jawline and up to well-combed hair. His body, lean and gracious posture, gave off something predatory that seeped through his aura of a regular corpo; the looks in his eyes were tired and seen-enough.
“Need a ride?” The man asked in a soft voice with an unfamiliar accent, that kind where all vowels were as if coated with honey and consonants sounded like posh shite, rolling around his tongue and rocking down the throat.
“You a cop too?” Eggsy asked warily.
“Pretty much far from that, actually.”
“Just… You is not the type who’s just takin’ an evening ride through the fucking scrapyard.”
“Because I am not. And that was not an invitation, Gary Unwin. Get in the car.”