5.
Holograms dot windows; signs plaster dozens of doors. Browsing narrow alleys, Milly scours the shady electronics flea market. A stall door scrolls shut, metal creaking. Shoppers are clearing out. “Brazil should be right here,” she mumbles.
Milly rounds a quiet corner. Before her, like a pillar of muscle with a wide, pink neck, back turned, stands an imposing man. She shivers. Milly tiptoes in reverse, only to be confronted by a smaller guy from behind. She’s hemmed in.
The little man waves both hands. “Looking for me?” Rings adorn his fingers.
“No, Bingo.”
“Milly, Milly, must we do this again? So inefficient.”
The big fellow stomps around the bend. Milly’s tall but he’s half a head taller. Grunting, he reaches out.
She freezes.
Easing her hair aside, he plucks out one of her earrings with surprising gentleness for such thick fingers.
“I made a mistake”—Milly sighs—“wearing those.”
Bingo says, “I disagree. They’re interest on your debt.” From the shadows, a small drone flies over, perching an arm’s length above his shoulder. The silent breeze from the drone’s loop magnets flutters Bingo’s curly red hair.
The big man removes her other earring and then gives both to Bingo.
He pockets them. “You’re making Turtle work too hard.”
“He has a name?”
Glancing at Bingo, Turtle eyes Milly’s bracelet. “The service fee?” His accent: Eastern European.
“Turtle knows words?” she jibes.
His brawny shoulders slump.
Raising her arm, Milly glares. “You mean my bracelet? No.”
Bingo shrugs.
Turtle snatches her hand.
“Oops.” Her eyes narrow. “I’ll get it.”
Unclasping with her other hand, she mashes her thumb onto the bracelet. In a flash — it’s a knife. She snaps her blade upward, just under Turtle’s throat, twisting her left hand away, locking his thumb in her palm. Milly spins behind him.
Wide-eyed, Turtle blinks.
Bingo draws a pistol from underneath his trench coat. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” He aims at what little is visible of Milly. “Uncool!”
“Agreed!” Her eyes rage. “I said — no!”
“All right … OK. Let Turtle go. Creative thinking is not his strong suit.”
“You first.”
Bingo lowers his weapon.
She releases the big guy’s thumb.
Steady as a droplet oozing downward, Bingo holsters his pistol.
Milly eases her blade away from Turtle’s neck.
He pivots, head shaking in ominous silence.
Relinquishing her knife into her jacket pocket, she looks up, nodding, then braces.
Turtle’s eye twitches — hesitation.
She tilts her head. “Oh, sweetie,” Milly whispers, “it’s OK — just not the face.”
His massive arm jerks.
Milly grunts, crumpling to the ground, punched in the gut. She wheezes.
The ballistic fiber of her jacket would’ve softened the blow — if only she’d remembered to zip it up.
With a vengeful sneer, Bingo advances, lifting his boot over her.
Turtle puts his hand on Bingo’s chest, stopping him.
A nearby stall door flies open. A young man, bursting forth, contraption on his head, raises a shotgun—“Out!”—menacing both men.
Art: bfporker
They back away, hands up, drone in tow. A neighboring shopkeeper scurries for cover.
Groaning, Milly coils and then straightens her legs in pain.
The debt collectors turn the corner.
The young man lowers his shotgun. Pasty white skin peeks through holes in his black T-shirt as his chest heaves with adrenaline.
“Why did you”—Milly rises with discomfort—“do that?”
He blinks. “What’s wrong with you?” But something’s wrong with him. Metallic implants, lights flickering, protrude from his shaved skull. His face is twitching. He’s glitching out.
Just meters apart, he and Milly share an awkward silence.
Her hand eases into her pocket.
The knife …
“Let’s try this a-a-another way. What are you”—he waves at their surroundings—“doing here?” His facial tremor calms down.
“You just want to feel”—Milly blinks—“helpful, don’t you?”
He nods repeatedly; VR glasses rattle on his face. “I just saved you!”
Sliding her hand out of her jacket, Milly shakes her head. “No, but you can help me find Brazil.”
“What? That’s me!”