"Which gang's Master of Whispers you spot for, scav?"
"Just the locals. Copper Elephants, Ruby Monkeys, and the Sanguine Needles." The scav points across the street. "That corner is where all three of their territories meet. The Needles' bagwoman came through just before sundown. She and her armed escort were the last visible gangers in the area."
Adi’s jaw tightened. Of course it fucking is. Trust her luck to pick the festering armpit where three of the city’s nastiest little gangs played footsie with turf lines and blood feuds.
She leaned in a fraction closer, enough that the scav felt the hum of the Shadowfury’s micro-servos vibrate through their jawbone. “That mean this alley’s neutral, or are we about to get caught in a three-way dick-measuring contest?”
The scav didn’t flinch. “This doorway’s piss-neutral, fem. Nobody claims it outright, but they all watch it. It’s a buffer, a bleed zone. Surveillance tags, spotters, whisper nets. You hang around too long, someone’s gonna come sniffing.”
"I've never dealt directly with any of those gangs. What happened to the Scarlet Demon Lilies?"
Adi was somewhat familiar with Nymphe, the Lilies' leader, having done a few minor jobs for her. While not unknown on Chendiuria, all-female gangs are not as prevalent as all-male gangs. Gang borders and spheres of influence change constantly and for various reasons, not always because of law enforcement.
Major crime syndicates were among the first to colonize space. Crime syndicates play offense. Stricter rules force law enforcement to play defense, and these rules prevent them from making the same tactical decisions as the syndicates. Playing offense only means that somebody will eventually slide past.
"The Basalt Cartel briefly allied with the Sanguine Needles pushing the Lillies out of most of their territory and killing a majority of them."
"I hadn't heard that."
"Damn, fem. You been away for a while, eh?"
"Something like that." Adi lowers her rifle's muzzle so it points approximately at the sleeper's body. Good shielding concealed the sleeper, and Adi didn't notice them until they moved.
With her net, Adi commands her rifle to change ammo and magazines from the armor-piercing magazine to the anti-personnel magazine. She felt her rifle vibrate as it changed the ammo type in the chamber. Adi's 15 mm bullpup-style pulse rifle beeps in her neural net, signaling the completed ammo change, a sound only she hears through her net.
Adi's HUD updates.
[Armor-piercing magazine: 235 discarding sabot super-collapsed tantalum rounds]
[Anti-personnel magazine: 249 high-explosive fragmentation incendiary rounds.]
[Note: The use of anti-personnel rounds in the current environment is inadvisable.]
[Note: Single-use, disposable drum magazines.]
Adi rolls her eyes. Leave it to her 'net to state the fucking obvious.
"The Lilies got pushed out near a year or so ago. Not too many of 'em left." The scav wiggles around in the pile of trash covering it.
They point to two separate streets. "This is disputed Needle and Monkey territory now. But the fucking Red Dragons have made some probing skirmishes."
"I've dealt with the Red Dragons before."
"Who the fuck on Chendiuria hasn't?"
"Truth."
"The Dragon's main territory is down by the wharves, but they always seeking new markets."
"I'm not getting involved in a fucking gang turf war." Adi looks around.
Adi scanned the opposite side of the street again, eyes flicking past shadowed eaves, smeared windows, and potential sensor blind spots. Her enhanced vision peeled back layers of grime and half-concealed threats. She perceived no motion, yet in such a locale, stillness spoke louder than shots fired.
“They’ve got watchers?” She asked, voice razor-thin.
“They always got watchers,” the scav said, his voice now barely audible. “Might be human, might be microdrones. Maybe both. Maybe worse.”
Adi’s neural net pushed heatmaps and probability cones into her HUD, drawing lines of potential sniper nests and ambush zones. Her internal systems ran a dozen simulations in the space of a breath.
“You got a name?” She asked without looking at the scav.
“They call me Pustule.”
“Cute. Alright, Pustule. Crawl back into that hole you oozed out of and forget you saw me.”
Pustule nodded, keeping his hands raised, his eyes flicking toward the trash-choked corner he called home. “Don’t gotta tell me twice.”
Adi stepped back, rifle still tracking until she was certain Pustule would do nothing stupid. Then she turned, sweeping her gaze up toward the rooftops and beyond.
She did a quick net search. Sanguine Needles. Copper Elephants. Ruby Monkeys. Their shared traits, according to reputation, included flamboyant appellations and liberal violence. And she had just dropped pulse rifle fire right into their buffer zone. Fuck. Time to move.
"Other than killing you, which is sounding better every minute, what do you want for a few minutes lead time before you squeal on me to your contacts?"
Adi considers shooting the scav anyway, but decides not to kill them. She resorts to killing only when all else fails.
"I've given ya' lots of information. I deserve some scratch, eh?" He rubs his grubby fingers together in the universal "pay me" gesture.
"No free chicken. I got it."
Adi remembers learning in the Corps that in military slang, "free chicken" refers to useful advice, tips, or guidance given for free. It is wisdom that costs you nothing but could save you a lot of trouble later. It's often used when a senior or more experienced person passes down knowledge to help others avoid mistakes. She assumes the scav is older than she is, but it's hard to tell through the filth.
"You got any script on you? I need a little jus' to get me 'till the next dole payment."
Adi exhaled through her nose, a low, humorless sound. Scratch. Of course. Everyone down here wanted something. Money. Drugs. Cred markers. Or simply enough to postpone subsequent suffering.
Adi is unsurprised that the scav receives the Basic Sustenance Allowance, as over 75% of Chendiurian residents are on the dole. Adi's kin, maintaining self-sufficiency, earns her pride; Nyomi's family shares this distinction. There's supposedly no shame in taking BSA payments, as they are available to all Chendiurian residents.
"No script." Adi hasn't used the shadow economy script in years, as it's usually not worth the data wafer it's printed on. Adi learned that lesson the hard way when an early Rat-brokered job payment came in large-denomination credit wafers. When she tried to cash the script on Chendiuria, Adi discovered that the script wafers were worthless off the space station they were from. She never ever made that mistake again.
She leaned closer again, her augmented eyes narrowing into hard, gold slits that reflected the faint street glow like some predatory thing engineered for war. Her voice dropped into that flat, glacial register that made grown men piss themselves.
“You got one chance, Pustule. Don’t insult me.”
Grift swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. “Fifty creds.”
Adi arched a brow. “Fifty? You’d sell me out for fifty?”
“It’s better than nothin,' fem. And you are still breathing.”
Her knife-hand twitched again, just a whisper of temptation riding up her spine. Be so damn easy. But no, not unless she had to.
With a sigh, Adi triggered her neural net to flick a single encrypted fifty-credit transfer from one of her burner wallets. The transaction flickered on the local net.
Pustule's eyes flicked to the confirmation ping on his ancient, half-cracked wristpad. “Much appreciated, fem. Fair trade.”
“It's not fair. But it’s not charity either. Now fuck off. Consider it hazard pay for not dying tonight.”
Pustule didn’t wait to be told twice. They slunk backwards into the shadows like a frightened rat, head low, hands still raised as though expecting her to change her mind. Smart.
Adi stayed still a moment longer, watching the ripples of danger refract through her MSI overlay. Though the gangs remain stationary now, their movement is imminent. And she’d just bought herself maybe three minutes, if she was lucky.
Adi's skin crawls at the thought of the doorway's filth getting on her. She hates getting dirty. She muttered under her breath, voice bitter as recycled air: “Next time, I’m using the fucking thermobarics.”
Her boots whispered against the stained pavement as she moved to the mouth of the doorway.
