Locket

Locket

The Peddler

Run.

Tickety-tickety-tickety-tick.

As the wheels spin. Faster.

Tickety-tock-tickety-tock.

Lose them. First order of defense. Faster.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.

Premium speed! As fast as he could handle – bent and twisted before his years. Feeling the strain. Organs aren’t what they once were – they groan like floorboards in vagrant places.

His cart would carry him – his home, his honey, his happenstance. Vitality and love! A livelihood of innumerable years. Resplendent!

He would push on and they would follow. Push and push and push; push toward refuge in refuse; push toward safety; layer upon layer under the city – eons of a past that had forgotten itself. Labyrinthine and deadly enough to deter a passing poltergeist. But not these men. No, not these men. What the peddler had was worth dying for. What the peddler had was worth killing for. Priceless in any hand.

Tickety-tick-tickety-tick.

The locket had been an aftermath gift – the cause and effect of an ugly slaughter over its contents. A bloodbath in a nameless alley. Not unusual, but significant. Carrion was his business. Guns and knives for the Stadium and its love; chems for the Vapor Dens; ordinance for the demolition squads; gems for velvet lust in the Neon District. Tokens and trinkets; bouquets and baubles; profit, partake, but leave enough for the Ferryman.

This was different. This was freedom.

The last man standing had been unlucky; he had outlasted the firefight, but failed to retain his insides. Shiny and delirious, he clutched the locket; the peddler plucked it from the babbling man. Heavy. HEAVY. Heart shaped and made of gray metal, it fit in the palm of his hand. It did not warrant its weight. He opened it.

Stunned silence. Star dust and silphium. A wonder.

It was a crystal. No bigger than the tippity-tip of his smallest finger. It was enough energy to power a city for centuries. Dead World tech. A renaissance in his pocket – in heart of his heart shaped locket. SNAP! He closed it shut. Enough light to kill a man, idle in its glow. Withering sickness. Few could withstand the rays. It’s casing seemed to contain the death inside.

Pure fascination! Dreams of its buyer. He had not noticed more men arrive.

Tickety-tickety-tickety.

“We’re ‘na catch ya, oldster! Stop runnin’ and we’ll make it quick!” Out of breath, the peddler had them at a distance.

Fools! They’d never get him. These tunnels were the back of his hand – his home, his honey, his happenst –

Clickety-CLACK!

He sprawled to the ground. Cart on its side. Bloody arms and knees. Shock and surprise.

A broken wheel.

“No-no-no-no-no!”

All of his life, all his possessions. He couldn’t leave them. They would TOUCH them! They would put their HANDS on them! His things, his profit, his! Time was running out.

A quick inventory: guns and knives – nab a pair; chems – useless; gems – useless; ordinance – ORDINANCE!

“I love you! I love you! I’m sorry!” A quick goodbye to lifelong companion.

He could hear footsteps encroaching. So very little time. Set up the trip, connect the wires, flip the switch, clutch the locket, run and hide. Take refuge in refuse – he had lived among the garbage for so long he could emulate it.

“Where did he go?”

“He’s hiding somewhere.”

“Search the cart!”

Rummaging, rummaging, touching his things with their nasty NASTY hands!

“It’s just a bunch of ju” –

BANG!

His whole body felt the crunch of the explosion. Ears, skull, chest, groin; he was tossed from his hiding spot and landed hard. The hollow boom resounded through the catacombs. Dust and rubble. Ravage!

Pick yourself up! Something wasn’t working right. Broken arm, broken ribs. Manageable. He stumbled to his feet.

Assess the damage! Assess!

Where there had once been six there were now two; the others had been vaporized or scattered about. The survivors fumbled listlessly – stunned from the concussion. Disoriented.

Serendipity!

The peddler withdrew his knife. He hobbled toward the men. It was short work. He was magnanimous – quick in his vengeance as his pursuers had promised to be.

The locket was his.

BLISS!

The Merchant

The merchant sat in his place of business, studying the locket that sat in front of him. It had been a very good day. Many a person had come through his storefront; he had made many a trade, but this was beyond compare.

At the time of close a wreck of a man had floundered into his storefront. He had been rambling and inconsolate. The man was covered in blood, some of which the merchant surmised, did not belong to him. The find of the century, the man had said. He was not wrong. The merchant gave the man half of his wares, including an electric wagon to store them in. It was a small fortune that the merchant had spent most of his life accruing; he had traveled vast distances to find the items that this small broken man had haphazardly shoved into his pockets. He had traveled beyond Outland Rubble; he had traveled to the edge of the Glass Lands. It was funny how all of that work could suddenly become inconsequential in the light of this new spectacle. He had no doubt that the this transient sort of man would blow through his newfound riches in no time at all, but that was none of his concern. All he cared for was the locket and the crystal inside of it.

He was not from the city, and consequently it had never accepted him. He had traveled from far far away to reach the last bastion of civilization in a burned world. He had been regarded as more of an object of curiosity than an actual person. Passerbys and customers alike came to stare at the lines that had been etched into his skin. He didn’t mind, but he had always wished for more acceptance for himself and his family. Now he had it.

The locket was more than enough to buy his way into the city’s aristocracy. It was more than enough to change the city’s structure in the hands of those who could implement it. Sitting on his desk was his chance at ascension and equity. The city he had made into his home would have no choice but to accept him – accept his family. His wife would cease to know toil and his children would never go hungry.

The Demagogue

She sat in the highest tower basking in its glow. Her marvel, her centerpiece, her crown jewel in the city that she owned.

“You’ve come a long way haven’t you? We both have.”

She could see her reflection in the dull gray metal of the locket. A soldier, a concubine, and now a queen. She was moving up in the world.

The merchant had brought it to her. He was somehow stoic and brimming at the same time – an odd combination, but a charming one. He relayed how he came upon the trinket. His aspirations were pure. She purchased it from him for a hefty sum; he wanted assurance that his wife would never work and his children would never hunger – she was true to her word. She had her men dispose of their bodies at the edge of the Anxious Empty – the vast wastes. The dead know no hunger; the dead know no toil. Time and space would dispose of their bones and all evidence of their knowledge.

She was combing the city for the peddler. She was knew of him and his haunts. It was only a matter of time before he was found. Every last trace of its existence must be purged. It was hers and hers alone. It was dangerous.

It could upend things for her. Change the very structure of the city. Did she have a home in its glowing paradise? The answer was a resounding “no.” She was vice and violence; avarice and lust. Blood was the currency of her city and that worked for her – it worked just fine.

“If it ain’t broke don’t fix it,” she giggled.

Profit from the pain.

She snapped the locket shut and slipped on the necklace. She would wear her city’s greatest secret until her dying breath.

“It’s mine,” she whispered.

“Mine.”

“Mine.”

Locket