One Good Night

“Do you have fire?” she asked him.

His eyes met her face: this stranger. They stood staring outside of a closed bodega around midnight on a bleak, wet night. The sky spit with uncertainty; a low mist hid dark crevices.

“Uh, hello?” she said with curiosity. “Do you have any fire?”

“Uh, oh, I’m—yea, here,” he said. He passed her his Biccer, an electric lighter. She took it, lighting a cigarette in her mouth and breathing in the smoke deeply. She returned the Biccer to him. He had expected this to be just another mundane interaction with a stranger. She would leave and go about her business; and he could go about his business. But, she didn’t.

He started to grab a cigarette from his own pack only to realize he still had an unlit one in his mouth. They stood together in silence, smoking, as drops of rain occasionally reminded them of the cold, unforgiving touch of night. His gray trenchcoat was wet; his face prickly and unkempt. Despite his relative youth, his skin seemed to sag from the weight of drugs and debts and rents and angst. He hadn’t eaten any real food in a day, and he had no clue where he would hideout tonight. If he wasn’t careful, the Debtmongers would find him: send him to a work camp or something.

He had no clue what her deal was. She just stood there next to him smoking. Her hair was auburn and she wore a white trenchcoat that fit her well. He noticed she had port implants on her neck. She must be a cyber-nautic: a person with cybernetic implants to their brain. She could control some electronics and connect to networks with just an impulse. At one point, he had wanted to be a cyber-nautic, but the cost was too high. You could get sponsored by a private company or the government, but he was wary of what they might do to him…or what they might force him to do.

“Sorry, if I startled you earlier,” she finally said, disrupting the pause, and throwing her spent cigarette away.

“N-no worries. I have a lot on my mind.” Pause. “Sorry for ignoring you.” He worried about why she stayed there. There was no one else around for at least a block. He checked his comp-wrist. It was almost one, and he still hadn’t heard back from a friend about a place to crash for the night. He didn’t want to have to sleep on the streets again, unprotected.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“What’s yours?” he retorted.

“My names Natalie,” she said with a grin.

After a second, he responded, “I’m Tomly. I’ll see you around.” He started to walk away with more pressing concerns.

“No, wait. I’m looking for someone.”

“Someone named me?”

“Possibly. You certainly look the type.”

“What type is that?”

“The type I’d buy a room for.” she said with mirth. Common sense should have told him something was off. Here’s an attractive cyber-nautic woman, in the wrongest part of town, soliciting a junky loser. Common sense should have told him to keep walking.

But, Tomly prioritized a room, a warm bed, and some bouncy-bouncy time over common sense. They walked off together into the darkness.

He knew a sleazy hotel nearby. When he was desperate (which he technically was), he’d bring others here to make some money. Mostly they were older men he had little attraction to, but could pay him a grand or two in credits or drugs for a night or two of debauchery. That would usually last him a couple weeks; less if he was using, and he seemed to use more after these sessions. But it was the best way to make money and keep moving.

He had to constantly be on the move so the Debtmongers didn’t get him. His credit score and debts wrapped around him like a constrictor. He couldn’t escape it. His parents had used his name and government-code on bills and fast cash schemes as a child because their own credit scores was garbage. And, of course he had his own government fines biting on his heels. The Debtmongers had taken his mother once--just broke into the house they were squatting in and dragged her away. He didn’t see her again for three years. When she returned, she was a changed person, like the Debtmongers took a part of her personality to pay off her debt--though, she was still in debt when she returned. (One never actually gets out: it’s a perpetual cycle that contains people better than any prison could. Despite its incorporeality, it hung around one’s neck like a reptilian noose, following them to the ends of the earth and back. The Debtmongers worked for the corporations, and the government let them act with relative impunity.)

At least tonight he had a bed where they couldn’t find him… for now. Natalie promised him 500 credits for three hours of anything she wants. She promised to feed him too, so that was something. It had been a while since he’d had bouncy-bouncy time with a woman.

She bought them a room from the sleaziest hotel clerk you’d ever see. They were given a key card to get into an hourly room. Natalie paid for the next 12 hours. They entered their room; it had only one bed, a computer to connect to networks, and no windows. Natalie went straight for the bathroom. Tomley took off his wet clothes and laid on the bed naked, slowly stretching out over the smooth fabric of the sheets. She came out with a robe on and laid next to him, rubbing her hands slowly over his skin. She found a collage of his past: acne scars, cigarette burns, scars from self-mutilation, poorly done tattoos, and enough track marks to run a marathon.

As her finger searched his body for each individual mark, she asked him about where it came from.

“Why do you want to know?” he asked suspiciously.

“You said three hours, anything I want,” she replied matter-of-factly.

He rolled his eyes at the impeccable logic. He didn’t tell her everything about every single one. Only the ones which were the least painful, the least embarrassing, the most forgettable. She seemed to be genuinely interested in his answers; at least, she feigned empathy. She eventually got bored, leading to their first round of bouncy-bouncy time. In-between sessions, they both smoked cigarettes. He asked her about her cyber-nautics.

“I got them for work,” she said. “It is quite handy always being connected to the net, to store extra memory, have additional processing power. While you were inside of me I was doing some rich guy’s taxes.”

“Really?”

“Don’t worry. I was still enjoying you. But, these little chips in my brain are useful like that. Help you compartmentalize. I could play chess and give you a blowjob at the same time.”

“Do you like it?”

“Like what? Blowjobs or chess? Yes to the first; sometimes for the second. I was just using it as an example.”

“I meant, do you like your work?” he said blowing smoke.

“It keeps the Debtmongers away,” she said wincing.

Before he could ask her anything else, she had maneuvered her head down to his waist, initiating round two of bouncy-bouncy time. They went several more times. He actually enjoyed himself for once, unlike many of the previous occasions. At least he had one good night.

After three hours, they were spent. Tomly quickly fell into a deep, snoring sleep. Natalie sat there on the bed next to him. She had a dead-eyed stare that cyber-nautics get when they dissociate from their senses in favor of the virtual world. This went on for awhile as Tomly snored deeply.

Eventually she snapped back to the actual world. She put her clothes back on, and grabbed a syringe, a vial, and a little black box from her purse. She verified the correct dosage, filled the syringe with fluid from the vial, and injected a sleeping Tomly with it.

She sat on the edge of the bed with her little black box. The words “small black notebook” were written on it, and it easily could have been confused as one. It was a Moleskin brand that allowed one-to-one encrypted communications. She plugged the box into one of the ports on her neck. Her eyes rapidly moved and her head jittered as she entered passwords to verify her identity. She said out loud, “Debtmonger 2112 reporting a bounty capture: one male, Tomly Eco, debt-identification number: 3865484743. Chemically incapacitated. Bounty value: 30,000 credits?” It was unexpected, he was only 10,000 credits last week. The extra 20,000 did little to ease her conscience. She transmitted her coordinates to those who would come pick Tomly up and send him to wherever the algorithms wanted him to go.

“Sorry, kid,” she said with a sigh. “They come after us all; and you never get out.” She left the snoring Tomly to his fate as she herself had been left to her own, and she went about this business that fate brought to her.