"Oh fuck, don't let me die out here," I whined as I limped my way up to running speed. My ankle cried out with each step.

  Behind me, the giant lunk chased with bloodlust. I knew it. I didn't have to look.

  Meanwhile, the two men shouted from down the street. People stuck their heads out of windows, poked curiously around corners, and stopped their work to stare at the scene playing out. From the men's calls came nearby comrades, other workers scouring the markets. An orange jumpsuit here, a couple of labor-beaten workers there; like roaches from the woodworks, they joined the masses of curious onlookers.

  Some went to help the beaten man, rushing down the street past me. Others took one look and, with the case in my hands, recognized me instantly.

  "That's him. That's the guy," they murmured from street corners and alley mouths. I didn't turn to look, but I knew they were eyeing the beast that hounded me, wondering who the hell I was and why so many people were out to get me. It wouldn't be long before they joined the chase, too.

  Gotta get off the street. Too many eyes. With that, I turned a corner and disappeared into a network of alleys, hoping to lose my pursuers.

  As I ran the narrow network, worker voices shouted nearby, calling out to unseen friends to join the chase.

  "He went down there! No, the one on the left."

  "Come on. I can hear him on the other side of the fence."

  "Yeah. That's the guy. Someone try to cut him off."

  Heart pumping, I fought through the pain of my injuries to keep my speed up. They wouldn't catch me this time.

  At the end of a narrow backstreet, a worker stepped into view, cutting me off, but adeptly, I climbed over a set of crates and onto a shambling rooftop, hopping over to the other side.

  I went as fast as my legs would take me, booking it down a dirt road with no turn-offs. Behind me followed the sledge-like steps of the thief. He was chasing me like a maddened bull.

  My heart dropped when the road ahead ended at a wooden fence. Luckily, it was low enough to hobble over.

  As I did, the lumbering oaf closed the distance, grabbing the collar of my jacket just as I dropped to the other side. Luckily, his grip slipped and I was off again.

  It was only a short reprieve as the thief pulled a board from the fence with his bare hands. His strength was astounding. Instead of creating a hole he could fit through, the big man launched himself through it, cracking the boards completely in half.

  Dear god. This guy's a freak.

  Down a cramped alley, a worker blocked me off from the only exit. As I turned to go back, another OutPost worker was waiting for me at the other end.

  "We got him. Come to me!" One of the workers shouted. A moment later, however, the man was seized by the back of his collar. The thief picked him up and tossed him away like a garbage bag. His body was sent careening into a wall where dust and breath broke away from the man as he fell against the dirt.

  Shit. Hatred filled the thief's eyes. If he could, the man would turn my head like a corkscrew. What did I do to this guy?

  Judging between the two, I gauged which death would be least painful and opted to climb over the stone wall beside me. I threw the case over and hopped up to the high ledge, pulling myself with all my strength. When I did, the two parties, hesitant over the other, forgot their differences and rushed to stop me.

  I was slow, but not slow enough. I landed on the other side, hard. My ankle felt like it had split open.

  I cried out. The bones in my foot burned like fire.

  My ankle was busted. When putting pressure on it, my leg gave out, and I tumbled to the ground. Still, with death so near, I managed to wince through the pain, grab the latch box, and limp my way down another alley.

  There was a scrabble on the other side of the wall. I turned a corner when the workers shouted on the other side.

  "He's jumped the fence. Go around, go that way!" I eyed behind me to see the big man climbing the wall after me.

  Turning the corner, I limped my way down a very narrow corridor. Pipes hissed above me, going god knows where. Birds flapped excitedly away as I limped past low nests hidden in electrical boxes on the walls.

  Behind me, the clobber of footsteps approached. It was the big man. He was huffing and heaving and catching up fast. Where I slipped past different obstacles in my way, he ripped them straight from the wall.

  Escaping the narrow part of the corridor, I dashed towards the mouth, forgetting how bad my ankle hurt. Trying to run broke my will to stand, and my body tumbled to the dirt through the corridor exit.

  I slammed into the ground, chin smacking the dirt, the case sliding away from me. My body failed me. Try as I might, none of my limbs had the strength to lift me. Breath after breath, my lungs heaved oxygen. Meanwhile, the big man was coming.

  I was in some kind of clearing, a hidden square behind a series of houses that connected alleys in a four-way. There were people here. Without much hope, I looked up to see–

  Chuckles. He was leaning against a far wall, talking to Moaner, who crouched in the dirt beside him. The one I could never remember the name of stood beside them both, smoking a cigarette and leaning against the back of a car. They stopped what they were doing and looked at me like I'd just fallen from the sky.

  "Dreamer?" Chuckles asked. I'd never been so happy to see that boy in my life. With a miserable second wind, I struggled to my feet, grabbing the case and limping to the safety of their presence. The heaving man came running through after me, with the intent to smash my head like a grapefruit, but seeing the four of us together, he suddenly hesitated.

  Right then, a group of workers broke into the hidden space from a connecting alley. There were seven of them, of varying strengths, all men and women of the scrapyards. Beefy. Tired. Angry. And at the forefront, like a bull ready to charge, was the man Slag had stabbed in the shoulder. His shirt was off, and a bandage bled red. He looked ready for revenge.

  I bet this guy was sent back to watch me since he was injured. So, he's the one leading the search.

  Chuckles and crew gathered around me, sensing the danger.

  "Who're these guys?" Chuckles asked, putting a hand on the knife handle at his belt. Moaner stood beside us, the three forming a wall around me. For once, I was grateful to them.

  "Slag…" was all I could say through heaving gulps of air, meaning, did you find him?

  "Yeah, we found him. He's alright."

  "This… is the guy… who beat Slag.." I couldn't breathe.

  The injured man was too angry to be scared. He cracked his knuckles. His worker group was ready to fight right behind him.

  "Is that right?" Chuckles said, drawing his knife. The man didn't like that.

  "Don't get in the way, ya fucking punks. We'll do the same to you," the man threatened.

  "It sounds like a fight to me, Moaner."

  "Yup," Moaner replied simply. He was wrapping his knuckles with tiny chains from a cargo pocket. The third boy had pulled a pipe from the trash beside the dead car and swung it in circles at his side. The boys stood tall against them all, fearless, hate in their eyes. I'd never seen such courage... or psychotic rage. I couldn't tell which.

  "You're mine," Chuckles said, pointing a finger at the lead man. The man didn't give a shit about these kids. He wanted me.

  "I warned ya. Rough em, up boys. Beat these punks till they piss themselves," he ordered.

  Then, the scramble started.

  Seven against three. Not good odds. But Chuckles and the boys were from WarZone. They knew how to take a beating.

  The workers, though, as tough and strong as they were, when they were smacked with an iron pipe on the ribs or the shin, they were out for the count. When Chuckles split someone's face with his knife, the worker backed away, cradling his face. His friends hesitated to jump in afterward.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  No one made it out safe, though. Chuckles was beaten badly until he got a couple cuts in, forcing the crowd back. Moaner's nose was bloodied at the start of the bout until he kicked away a worker or two and turned the tides.

  I pulled off a worker or two myself, yanking them away from the group in the scramble, tossing them to the side until one of the boys could beat them into submission. Eventually, the ruckus earned the attention of Tax, the biker kid with a violently red mohawk. He came sprinting down the alley like a madman, jumping into the fray, kicking, punching, and biting. Even Slag, covered in bruises and cuts, limped into the fight.

  By the end, the workers, bloody and broken, bolted away, leaving three of their friends behind. One was the injured man. Chuckles and the rest beat him mercilessly, mirroring how Slag was beaten earlier in the day.

  It was brutal. Cracked ribs, head stomping, spine tapping, the boys wouldn't let up. The sight was sickening.

  God knows they'd earned their victory, but... I couldn't watch the man die, even if he was planning to do the same to me. These weren't bad people. They weren't like us. I stepped in and pulled the boys off.

  "Stop," I called out, "Stop. Don't kill him. They're just workers from OutPost." I stood in their way so they wouldn't hit the man anymore.

  Moaner got an extra kick in at the end. By then, the man was bloody, lying still in the dirt, much like Slag had been hours ago.

  Chuckles looked at me like I was crazy for stopping them. Blood dripped down from a wound on his buzzed head.

  "They're nobodies. Just leave em be. You've done enough," I reasoned. Chuckles didn't like it but stopped, spitting onto the bloodied man's back in finality.

  One of the other workers cowered as we passed by. Tax kicked at her on our way.

  I grabbed my case and then we left without ceremony, leaving the workers bloodied and face down in the alley. The man who'd worked with the thieves? He was long gone before the brawl even started. He was smarter than I'd thought.

  "Yeah, we found him kicked to shit. Said you were jumped and carried off. We been looking for ya all day. Honestly, thought you were gone. Pretty bummed about it," Chuckles said as we rested in a safe place somewhere outside of the markets. The whole gang was there, even the ones I didn't know so well, gathered around a fire someone had going.

  "Thought I was goner, too. Shit. Had me tied to a chair. And this freako junkie was gonna cut me up for my case." The latch box sat comfortably in the rotted seat of a dead junker. "At the last minute, this chick walks in and tells me everything was a lie, puts a knife in my hands, and just walks out on me."

  "Whatcha do after that?" Chuckles asked, hands in his pockets, standing next to where I sat on the ground. He seemed so adult now. So ready. The fight we'd just been through hadn't even phased him, nor the cut on his lip growing purple and puffy.

  "I cut the ropes and dashed out. Been running ever since. Had to kill a guy to get out of there," I said regretfully. Chuckles seemed like he was waiting on that news. Satisfied, he stood back on his heels.

  "Then, I got to the market, and these kids tried to steal the case, too. And this man, this huge man, bigger than any man I've ever seen, starts chasing me for it. Out of fucking nowhere. What a day," I rubbed my bloody hands into my hair, absorbing it all. I thought I'd never feel safe again, but in the middle of all of these ruffians, I'd felt the safest I'd been in a long while.

  "Everywhere I went today, someone's tried to get their hands on it. And they don't even know what's in it. Fucking crazies out here," I spat. Chuckles smiled proudly, huffing an amused breath at the thought. "Be careful who sees it. Everybody wants what's inside whether they know what it is or not."

  "That's some crazy story, Dreamer," Chuckles said, looking to the sky. I think he was imagining it all.

  "That's putting it lightly. If it wasn't for you guys, I'd be dead," I said, tapping Chuckle's boot with a finger thankfully.

  "Thank Slag. He was half dead when we found him, but still managed to get up and come find us. Even helped us search." I looked at the boy, grateful, even if it didn't pay off. I threw him a nod.

  Slag looked terrible. Exhausted, he sat with an elbow on a knee, bent over like a deflated tire. Purple bruises line his skull. His lips were all bashed to hell. Blood bled down into his tank top and stained the front. One eye was black. Still, he mustered a tired smile and threw up a thumb. Someone had cleaned his wounds.

  "This place is nuts. I'm sick of it," I said, finally.

  "That's why you should stick with us more often, Dreamer," Chuckles commented offhand. "We look out for each other."

  I looked around for Moaner. He was off on his own, picking at the dirt and idly throwing little bits of debris. It looked like he was pouting about something. I wanted to thank him, but he didnt want to be bothered.

  "What's wrong with Moaner," I whispered up to Chuckles. Without whispering back, he responded abruptly.

  "He's acting like a pussy. Saw Milo was with you, now he's all butt hurt about it. Has a thing for her," he said as if he was frustrated about it. Probably upsethis number two is distracted by something as silly as a girl.

  Moaner eyed me with jealousy, trying to hide it, but not putting up much effort.

  "Yeah, well, I'm not with her. That's disgusting." I got to my feet with effort. "Alright, let's get this over with. It's gonna be dark soon. Don't know what the market's like when that happens."

  The case was all banged up, with a large dent in it from smacking heads with its heft. On top of a junker trunk, I slung the case up and opened it. The contents were rattled to hell, but nothing was spilled.

  "We're ready, Dreamer. What do you want us to do?" Chuckles asked. He'd gathered everyone around.

  I inspected the boys. They looked mean, with sinister smiles on their overconfident faces. After the brawl, I was sure. They'd make good slingers, no doubt. This is the perfect start to their professional gang activity, I thought sarcastically, with a black mark of shame on my soul.

  But I didn't have time to feel bad. They'd have to take care of themselves like I did when I was their age. It was the WarZone way. Morals would get you killed.

  "Change of plans. Instead of finding clients or being muscle, I want you guys to push. Chuckles, you can decide who does what." Chuckles' eyes lit up, and a gapped grin stretched across his dirty cheeks.

  "Hell yes. What did you bring us?" He asked, stepping up to the latch box. He couldn't make heads or tails of its contents though.

  "Alright, gather round," I told the rest of the kids. Moaner and Slag gathered up with some of the ones I couldn't put names to. The young kid and Stefi were missing, but that didn't matter.

  "Moaner, Slag, Chuckles, you're in charge of your product. The rest of you act as muscle for them. If someone gives you shit or tries to shortchange you, give em something to think about. Remember, the money is the most important thing."

  "Don't worry about that," Chuckles said, drawing his knife. The other kids laughed as it glinted in the sun.

  "Don't do that," I said gravely, "The police here are brutal." If that's what you called them. On the border, the police had pretty much given up patrols and doomed whole sections of the city to ganger raids. In retaliation, groups of vigilantes started ganging up and taking matters into their own hands.

  The situation had gotten so bad that the local government issued these bands with temporary legal rights to keep the illusion of control in place. But there was no law. It was shoot, beatormaim on the first suspicion of law-breaking.

  "A back alley brawl is one thing. Bringing attention to yourself, especially with this shit on you, is a death sentence. If you get into trouble, run first. Fight last. And the cops don't give a shit about your drugs. They have their own." Cops was a loose term. They didn't have police uniforms, but you knew them by the green raincoats they were issued and the gas masks they frequently wore.

  "Now," I slipped a bag out of the latch box, "Pay attention. These blue ones are DuckStep. They go for two hundred a dose. That's two pills. Can you all count?" Most of them stayed quiet. Chuckles chimed in when nobody answered.

  "Yeah, I can count. Moaner can too."

  "What? No, I can't." He whined.

  "You can count good enough. Slag can take whatever you sell one of." I shook my head. This was such a bad idea.

  "Alright." I pulled out two DuckStep. "This is how many," then I slipped it back in the bag and held up a couple fingers. "This is what two hundred looks like. Two bills. One for each finger. Understand? Sell these to caravaners and randoms looking for a good time."

  "Now, these are Zentiaf," I pulled out the blue and red capsules. "They go for four hundred per capsule. These are easy to sell. Take em to the bars where the workers go and to caravaner guards. It makes people sleepy. They'll pay extra for it if you make them. Remember this now. If they ask you for Zeltrel, you tell them this does the same thing for cheaper." They nodded... enthusiastically.

  "These clear capsules are Nilone…" I continued giving them instructions on where and who to sell to. I didn't expect them to remember any of that, but it didn't matter. Whatever they learned was good enough for me. I just wanted the drugs gone. Drug dealing gave me a bad taste in my mouth, and I was sick of it.

  After the explanation, they confirmed what they'd heard in surprising detail.

  "Go have fun, kids," I said, swallowing the shame and shaking my head at myself. The boys took turns grabbing bags of drugs. No time to be decent in the past. Now's not the time to grow a conscience.

  It was Milo's fault. Something about the past few days with her had made me a little soft.

  Chuckles, on the other hand, didn't have a soft part in his body. That kid was iron and lead. I knew the skills I taught him would only lead to bad things. He was just a kid, lost, trauma broken. Maybe he didn't deserve the things that happened to him now, but as the years go on, the trauma becomes life. Then it's you doing the trauma. That's when the excuses run dry.

  But maybe it wasn't too late for him yet. You could let the trauma swallow you, or you could swallow it.

  I pulled him to the side with this in mind.

  "Clock's ticking, kid," I said, tenderly. "You're near the end. What are you going to do about it?"

  Chuckles looked at me with vacant eyes. Confusion played across his face as he tried to understand if what I said was a threat or not.

  "I asked myself that same question. Now you gotta answer it. Don't make the mistakes I did." Chuckles crinkled an eyebrow, as if I was taking life too seriously.

  "Dreamer, you high? You're acting funny."

  My heart dropped. Words couldn't reach him now. WarZone was all he knew. Poor bastard.

  Before Chuckles did anything stupid, I slipped off my jacket. He wasn't a great kid, but he had been there for me, and that counted for something. I slipped the coat into his arms. He took it confused.

  "You're the boss now. Good luck." Then I walked away without another word. He watched my back with glaring, confused eyes until I was out of sight.

  That was it. It was over. I was alone, more naked than usual, but without any debts or desires. As the streets turned from white stone to dark concrete, and the lights in windows became more frequent, the sounds of the city melted back into reality.

  It felt… scary. I hadn't been to the city in over a year. Had it missed me? Had I missed it? A part of me was relieved. After a taste of my childhood, I wanted the cushy city life back. I wanted to see people again. I wanted to dip my head away from the sun until I turned pale and ghostly.

  Disappointment followed that feeling. It felt like betrayal to my WarZone roots. But it was also exhilarating.

  The sun fell behind ever-growing highrises until I wasn't sure if it was dark or the city had swallowed me. Soon, I'd be back to where I belonged. I could smell it.

  The buses would take me as far as the wall. They had access to the city, but without proper ID, I wouldn't make it past a checkpoint. I'd take off on my own at a drop-off near the wall. There were plenty of forgotten passages under the city through the walls. You just had to know where to look. I'd been back and forth so many times I knew the way like the back of my hand.

  I'd never see the border again. These hollow buildings. This broke down zone. These forgotten people. I would have said something to commemorate the moment, but all I had was…

  "Good riddance."

  so much to the sixty people who decided to follow this project. That's mind boggling to me. I expected and I'm not joking here, like five people to be interested in this, so to you cyberpunks I am eternally grateful. And a special thank you to those who favorited this, who commented, and for those of you who rated it so highly. It's beyond words. <3