Chapter Text
The dirty sun hung low in the sky, and Marco picked his way among the trash. He wasn’t fast or strong or a good marksman like his brothers. His arm had never been right since he’d sliced it open on a sharp bit of rebar. But he was clever, and he could still help gather useful things to sell.
Today he had found two cyberware shards, a length of copper wire stripped out of an old holo display and a can of NiCola. That last one was a rare treat. Every step he felt it swing in his pocket and he desperately wanted a sip. Just one little sip. But he wasn’t the only one in his family who was thirsty.
It wasn’t so hot, now that the sun was setting. Everything shone with a golden glow, bathed in the light from the sun and the hazy smoke of trash fires.
One more car to inspect, and then I’ll head home.
Momma would pet his head and tell him stories. He’d play with baby Dora. His big brothers would bring something to eat. Maybe Dad would come back. Maybe, just tonight.
Marco pulled at the driver’s side door, but it was rusted shut. Engine had been picked clean long ago, but there were sometimes still things inside that other scavengers had overlooked. Thankfully, the windows had been smashed out, so he boosted himself on to the hood and crawled in through the windshield. He wasn’t heavy, but the old hood groaned and bent under his weight as if he weighed a ton. Once inside, he set to work dismantling the dashboard.
Outside, he thought he heard someone moaning. No, it couldn’t be. He told himself. Just the wind blowing under the overpass.
He set back to his work. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to show for his efforts. Any good parts had been stolen, and wind and rain had rusted away any valuable metal. He sighed, gathered his tools, gave the door a swift kick and headed for home.
Marco rounded the front of the vehicle and froze.
There was a dead man lying there.
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a dead body. Not by a long shot. In Night City it was practically a right of passage. Sooner or later every kid came across an overdose in an alley or a Cyberpsyco on the wrong end of MaxTac. Marco had seen more than his share.
Once, when he was feeling especially brave, he had climbed the hill overlooking the Valley of Flies. It was the only place in the dump he was forbidden to see. When he asked why, the only answer that ever came was “that’s where Trauma Team leaves their trash”.
If the warnings didn’t stop him, the smell always had. It smelled like something lived there. Something warm and animal. When he lay awake at night, just teetering on the edge of sleep, he would imagine a monster coming up from the Valley of Flies. Something massive, with grey wrinkled skin, sharp teeth and yellow eyes. It was the monster that drove him to see. He wanted to know if it was as bad as his imagination.
It was worse. Much, much worse.
Piles of limbs, dismembered and half rotted lay scattered everywhere. Plastic sheets snapped and fluttered in the wind. He saw a head with its eyes rotting out. Clouds of flies rose up and hit his face, filling his vision and crawling in his nose. And over it all was that smell. So strong here, it felt like air had become a solid thing. It stuck to the back of your throat. Sweet, like rotten orange juice. Marco turned, ran down the hill and vomited. He never went back.
Compared to that, this body was fresh as a Corpo’s dry cleaned suit. Shot in the head, execution style. He was probably a gang banger. The kind Momma told him to stay away from. Valentino by the look of him, with his gold cyberware and tattooed chest. A large golden cross still hung around his neck.
Marco’s eyes widened. That could be worth a fortune. Momma could make Eezybeef again. He could get a pair of shoes that didn’t rub the back of his heels raw, or let water seep in through the holes. Dora could go to the hospital and she wouldn’t cough anymore.
He reached out to touch it, but he hesitated. The man was twice as tall as Marco, and probably three times as strong. Even standing over him, Marco felt small.
Marco shook his head, took a deep breath and gathered his courage. He was 8 years old, after all. And dead men couldn’t hurt him.
Lightly, his tiny fingers curled around the base of the cross. He moved to lift the chain over the dead man’s head and screamed. The man was staring straight at him.
Marco dropped the cross and jumped backwards like he’d been hit with an electric shock. He tripped and fell on his back.
“Mierda...” the dead man moaned.
Marco could still see the blood trace its way from the bullet wound in his skull. It carved a dark line into his eye and down the left side of his nose. Like tears. Marco thought.
Even as his chest rose and fell. Even as his eyes pleaded for mercy.
“Hey, kid… help…” He coughed, and then screwed his eyes shut in pain.
Marco turned and ran as fast as he could for home.