Addicted to Ruby and the Rix - Part 1

The itching creeps through his scalp again, crawling over his shoulders. His nails scrabble against his skin, trying to catch the sensation before it reaches his spine and spreads down his back.

His fingernails pulse, throbbing like he’s trapped them in a door. He did that once, as a kid. His dad slammed the car door just as Robbie reached out. The pain was so sharp and fast that for a moment he felt nothing. Then, he held up his fingers, twisted white and red like fleshy sweets, and all the hot agony raced up his arm. He screamed so loudly his own ears hurt.

Dad left a week after that. Robbie often wondered if his screams drove him away.

When Robbie looks at his fingers now, they aren’t red and yellow like a twister gummy. No, they’re golden like a sunrise. They look so delicious; sometimes when he’s really gurning he sucks them, dreaming of Rix. Last week, he sucked them so hard the skin around the nails bled.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets, and tugs open the metal side door. The building they are crashing in is huge, floors upon floors of abandoned rooms with paint and plaster peeling from the ceiling and damp crawling up the walls.

There are loads of these houses in the Indus sectors, once owned by rich folk and abandoned when the factories and warehouses were all moved into the area. Most have been taken over by the Mechs since the Switch, but they’d been gifted this one.

“Headquarters for the Central London Flesh Hunters,” Traps likes to call it. Makes them sound official, powerful.

What does Robbie care,as long as he can get another fix and have a place to crash out and lie in the beautiful golden haze that is Verixil.

He shuffles into the living room on the second floor where Traps and the rest like to mellow out. The air is thick with must. It smells like home, though his mum’s entire flat could have fit inside this room. He wonders if she is back there, but quickly pushes the thought away. She’s better off without him.

“Alright, Dreads?” Traps lifts a lazy hand from the sofa where he’s sprawled. Robbie’s long blond dreadlocks earned him the nickname. That or the fact that Traps doesn’t seem to care about learning anyone’s name. Maybe that’s a good thing—no one lasts long these days.

“Ruby or Twig around?” Robbie asks, eyes flickering over the inert bodies that are draped over couches, armchairs and an old, cubist rug. No sign of Ruby’s white-blond hair.

“They went out hunting with Forehead.”

Robbie nods and slopes off to the kitchen, trying to hide the way his heart thumps uncomfortably in his ribs. He reaches the sink and splashes water over his face, the cold slap shaking some of the lethargy from his bones.

He needs to think. He needs a hit. He needs Ruby. Should have asked how long she’d been gone, but if he asks now, Traps will notice.

Traps doesn’t like it when any of his crew get too close—‘split loyalties’ he calls it. “Don’t need no one thinking about their cock when we’re facing up against those THV bastards.”

But Robbie reckons Traps just doesn’t like the idea of anyone caring for someone more than him. He always has to be the centre, the thread that ties them all together. He likes to think he was the one who picked each one of them up, saved them from the chip, “brought them their great purpose.”

Robbie still remembers the first day he saw Ruby. Her silver hair was tucked up beneath a flat cap so that she could almost pass as a boy. But when she lifted her chin, those ice-blue eyes gave her away. No guy could have eyes like that. Bambi round, and set either side of a perfect button nose, framed by thick dark eye-lashes that bobbed like fans when she blinked. He dreams about those eyes every night. She’d been sitting, hunched on a bench overlooking the Thames, a golden vial twirling beneath her fingers. A slight tremor shook her shoulders so that at first Robbie thought she was cold.

“Hey, sorry, I don’t wanna scare you, like. But it’s not safe sitting out here in the open with the Mechs takin’ people off the streets.”

She let out a little thrilled giggle and shook her head. “I’m all good, thanks. Got protection,” and she waved the little gold vial in his face. “You take this, and you’re golden.” Another giggle.

“What is it?”

She shrugged. “A guy called Traps gave it to me once before, and man, it tastes like heaven, like honey sunshine pouring through your veins.”

“Then what’s stopping you now?” Robbie asked, sitting next to her.

“I want it, and I don’t like that I want it. Not decided yet if I want to keep wanting it. You get me?”

He did. Sort of.

Before the Switch, he’d tried puffs of Loot behind his block of flats with the boy from three doors down. He remembered its soporific pull, the way it made the world soft around the edges. How lovely it would be to stay in that blurred out space so that you didn’t have to feel all the sharp stuff. But the next morning there was still his mum to look after and a headache, and a mouth that tasted like rot. Still, he’d felt the pull of Loot, often lingered in the hallway to see if the boy from three doors down would offer up another puff.

“Will you take it with me?” She’d asked, holding up the vial. “If you take it, the Mechs leave you alone. You don’t have to have the chip, you just help them out with finding people is all.”

Robbie’s never paused to think if Ruby was a lure, and he was the mark. He’s never wondered if Ruby really was teetering on the edge of Rix and if he’d said no, he might have pulled her back from the brink too. Robbie took a sip, gazing into ice blue eyes, and felt Ruby and the Rix dig their golden talons into his blood and bones. He was hooked.

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Addicted to Ruby and the Rix - Part 2

“Ruby’s still not back.” Robbie stands in the living room doorway, staring across the half-empty room at the figure slouched on the couch.

“Yeah, what’s it to me?” Traps says, pouring the last crisp crumbs into his mouth before tossing the packet towards the slowly growing rubbish heap in the corner.

“Well, it’s been eight hours. Something’s wrong; we need to go find her.”

“You go then. And I’ll just have to keep this hit for myself.” Traps holds up a little golden vial. The weak lights of the living room disappear into it, absorbed by its sunlight glow. Saliva rises in Robbie’s mouth; he can almost feel the Rix slipping into his veins like silk, soothing the burning in his lungs, calming the itching of his skin. He steps forward, lifting a hand involuntarily, and Traps snatches it back to his chest like a child hoarding sweets.

“So, you going out to play hide and seek, or you sticking with me?”

“Where’d you get it?” Robbie says, running a hand through his long, matted blond hair.

“Picked up a new batch from the Mechs after we told them about the THV bunker we found in Parson’s Green.”

Robbie chews on a hangnail. Ruby’s been gone for too long. Something’s not right. But man, he wants Rix.

“Your call,” Traps shrugs, lying back and pulling from his pocket a palm-sized IV bag.

Though that gleaming bottle of gold still winks in his mind’s eye, Robbie tears himself away. Find Ruby first. Then Rix.

He shoves his way out of the dilapidated house and onto the street. It’s cleaner out here on the pavement. In their slum of a house beer bottles, crisp packets and cans of caked beancorch are piling up in the corridors and no one seems to know what to do with it.

A Mech walks past Robbie, dead eyes straight ahead, like he’s not there. Robbie used to freak out every time one came near him, sure they’d lift a pistol to his skull and force him to take the chip. A couple of his crew did get taken once—the Mechs hadn’t got the memo that they were Flesh Hunters now. Robbie had thought the Mechs all worked with one brain, one super mind that moved them like puppets, but Traps said it doesn’t work like that.

“They’re like kids, see. There’s one big AI that made them and then gave them their own brains. Their own… what’s the word?”

“Autonomy?” Said Twigs, the only one who actually finished school.

“Yeah, autonomy. They ain’t all connected. So when those dipshit bastards picked up Twitch and Joey, they didn’t know they were part of our crew. But now the big boss gave them an upgrade.”

Robbie still hates the Mechs. Hates the way the chips turn their eyes to the flat of a TV screen. He saw it happen to his mum after the Switch. That morning, when he stumbled in half fucked from booze, she didn’t give him the usual look. The one that’s both pissed off and trying not to laugh. She didn’t prod him towards the shower with a wooden spoon and lecture him on having the decency to be home early enough to make her breakfast. She didn’t roll her chair to the window and shove it open while calling out for all the neighbours to hear, “Christ Robbie, you stink worse than a junkyard’s arsehole.”

No. Her lips turned up into a thin, placid smile, and she said, “Are you having trouble with your chip? A nurse will be arriving shortly to assist you.”

No more Rita Driscoll.

Robbie hates Mechs.

Traps said Ruby and Twigs went out hunting. Robbie taps his fifth message out on his watch.

Ruby answer would u im getting worried

The calls keep dying without getting a chance to ring.

He turns his feet towards Parsons Green. Maybe they’re out there, lying low, hoping one of the THV tries to pick up supplies left at the bunker.

London glistens under the sharp glare of the sun. Sweat beads on his forehead, makes runnels down the middle of his back. His shirt starts to cling, making him itch all over again.

He shoves trembling hands into his pockets, trying to suppress the shakes that are starting to snake up his arms.

Just pop a little baggie in the vein and whoosh, all this would go away. Sunlight clear. That’s what the world becomes. He could turn back. Traps might have some left.

A stream of Mechs exit an office building to his left, talking in that quasi-human way: the more realistic the upgrades make it, the eerier it becomes.

“The Republic of Scotland. It lacked economic logic,” a tall, lithe, blond-haired Mech says. Robbie wonders if the guy was a model before the switch. He sure doesn’t look like an investor.

“Yes, but the numbers have changed dramatically since that scenario was last drafted.” The woman beside him is nearly a foot shorter, with pimpled skin and frizzy hair. But she doesn’t gaze up at him with those doe eyes you used to see girls get.

Do Mechs get boners? They’re still in human bodies and a hard-on is a chemical thing, right? At least that’s what his Ma said after she found him halfway through a tug and he nearly climbed out the window and never came back.

So if they’ve still got a human body, Mechs have got to have a sex drive.

The thought of sex tugs his mind back to Ruby. Not that they’ve done it. He’s thought about it, mind. More than he’s proud to admit. She’s only fifteen, and it doesn’t feel right; he might be a jacked-up junky, but a kid is still a kid.

Fuck, Ruby, where are you?

He tries his watch again, but nothing.

What if another team of Flesh Hunters have found her? There are good junkies and bad ones. But when the side-hustle is to hunt down the last members of the human race, you can imagine which kind that would appeal to. There aren’t many good ones left.

As Robbie turns down a cut-through so narrow his shoulders brush the sides of brick walls, the shakes are traded for a stabbing pain in his gut. He bends over, hand pressed to his belly, and vomits. Yellow and brown mingle in a watery puddle on the ground. At least he missed his shoes. Raking his nails across his scalp, he straightens, wipes his mouth. Got to keep moving.

What if the THVs got her? They wouldn’t kill her, right? Coz she’s still human and they only kill Mechs. So at least she’d be safe there. But how would he ever find her? They’ve got bases hidden all over the country. If they moved her out of London, she’d be gone forever.

As Robbie steps back out onto the main street, a camera on the corner blinks down at him. Mechs have cameras everywhere, surely they could track her. Except, what if it’s the Mechs that took her? He’d heard about what they’re doing to the THV in their medical centres. It’s the same place they pick up Rix and Robbie’s seen through the windows. No screaming. The Mechs don’t go in for torture. Just experiments. Cutting away at a different piece of the body each time. Fuck knows what they’re doing it for.

Robbie starts hoping the THV have got her.

His watch pings, sending vibrations up his arm, lighting a little spark in his head.

Unknown: Got your girl. Bring Rix or I’ll send pictures of what I do next.

Shit.

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Addicted to Ruby and the Rix - Part 3

A location pin glows on Robbie’s watch. That tiny red dot, surrounded by a spiderweb of roads, is Ruby. He could go there now, fight his way in, tear apart anyone in his way. Adrenaline races in his veins, spearing through the cravings, the shakes, delivering a sharp, white clarity.

But with clarity comes reality.

Where’s the evidence? Ruby’s missing but that doesn’t mean they have her.

“Got proof you got her?” Robbie dictates into his watch.

A picture pings back within a second. His heart stumbles, falls. He projects it in a holo to see more clearly, hungry for the details of her face. Fearing what he might find there.

It’s Ruby, sleek blond hair wrenched back, head tilted up to the camera. Her lower lip is cut and there’s a shadow on her cheek, the first signs of a bruise. Gold threads through her sharp blue eyes that are narrowed in defiance. But in the corners, fear glistens.

Another message cuts across the holo.

Unknown: Get me a crate of Rix and deliver by 9pm or next ones a video and you won’t like what ye see.

Robbie: I don’t have any Rix!

Unknown: Sucks to be Ruby then…

Robbie: Don’t fucking touch her I’ll get some K?

The next message is just the sound of a ticking watch. Tick-tock.

Robbie slams his fist into a brick wall. He hears a knuckle crack. Pain lances his arm, judders through his shoulder. Pressing his head against the wall, he cradles his hand.

Stupid.

Fucking.

Bastard.

He has to get the Rix, pay the price, and get Ruby out.

The red dot glows like the end of a blunt, gleaming with possibility. She’s so close. An hour’s walk from here, maybe less, in the parts of London that never saw smog and grit and trash on the streets. Never had bums shivering on street corners or dealers hovering in doorways.

How did Flesh Hunters get set up in those parts? Because that’s what they must be, Flesh Hunters, because THV wouldn’t hand over their location like that.

Unless it’s a trap.

But what would THV want Rix for? Unless they’ve gained a taste for the stuff.

Fuck, this is a mess.

Robbie paces back towards his house—he sure as hell can’t call it a home.

He’ll show Traps the message. It’s Ruby for blood’s sake. He can’t just let them have her. But as Robbie pushes the front door open, his feet glue to the chipped wooden floorboards. Robbie knows Traps, has known men like him all his life: he’s an every man for himself kinda guy—that is, until he needs something.

The tosser lies fast asleep, bathing in the glow of the empty IV that’s still tapped into a vein, hanging from his arm. As Robbie leans over him, the faint stench of sweat and urine wafts from Traps’ body. A low, throaty snore emits from his lips.

Robbie stares at the couch, searching for a stray bottle. The empty vial lies on the floor, not a drop left.

Hands shaking, Robbie slips a finger into each of Traps’ pockets, rooting around.

Nothing.

Traps lets out a groan and rolls over. He falls from the couch, thumping headfirst onto the floor. And continues to snore.

Robbie carves a circle around the room, scouring the drawers of an old dresser, on top of the mantelpiece, under the sofa. He abandons the living room, rifles through kitchen drawers, bedroom cupboards, stepping over a couple of inert bodies, one that’s so still they might be dead, and climbing a second set of stairs to the attic. It’s empty save for a few boxes so thick with dust they must have belonged to the owners of the house, wherever those poor sods are now. He’s about to give up and head back down when he spots a gleam of silver tucked in the corner beneath a fractured beam. As he approaches, the outline of a slim, grey metal case forms in the dark. The same kind they collect payment in from the Mechs.

Saliva rises in his mouth, the hunger for Rix burning in his throat.

Ducking low, he half-walks, half-crawls into the corner and tugs the box into the grey light cast by the roof window. He flips open the lid and his heart sinks. Not row upon row of gleaming vials. That would be too fucking easy. Instead, set in a mesh-like black foam, are twenty small coins, each the size of a thumbnail. He runs his fingers over one, and a tiny red light flashes from it centre.

“What are you doing?” Trap’s voice is dry, cracked from snoring, his eyes still gleaming gold from the hit.

“What are these?” Robbie says, standing.

“Why are you snooping around up here?”

“I was just looking for something. What are these coins? They’re some sort of Tech. Did you know about these?”

From the way Traps doesn’t even glance at the box, Robbie knows that he does, and from the tightening of his jaw, he knows Traps is pissed.

“S’nothing to do with you.”

“That came from the Mechs. What you planning to do with them?”

“They’re trackers.”

“Trackers?”

“Yeah. Thinking of putting them on one you. Let the THV catch you and lead the Mechs right to them.”

“You want to serve us up to the THV?”

Traps shrugged. “Haven’t decided yet. But not I’ve shown you mine. You show me yours.” He steps forward, hands curling into fists. The veins in his forearms stand out, biceps bulging. He’s skinny like the rest of them, but pumped by the Rix. It doesn’t just make him feel beautiful, invincible, for a few hours any assets he has are heightened, multiplied. Robbie’s hanging out the arse end of a comedown; this is not a fight he can win. Not now.

He hangs his head, giving Traps the submission he craves. “I was looking for Rix. They’ve got Ruby, man. A bunch of Flesh Hunters have taken her, and they want a box of Rix in exchange.”

Traps’ shoulders relax, his fists unfurl. “Huh, didn’t know we had another crew so nearby. Well, they ain’t getting any.”

Rage burns away the last of Robbie’s logic, and he shoves Traps in the chest. “It’s fucking Ruby man!”

“She got herself into the mess. She can get herself out.”

“We only just got payment last week. There’s got to be some left.”

“There is and you ain’t getting it.”

Robbie hurls himself at Traps, tackling him to the floor. The knuckles he already broke scream with every punch, but he doesn’t care. Traps hammers a fist into his ear, knocking him sideways. After staggering to his feet, Traps delivers a swift kick to Robbie’s gut. Robbie gasps, folds, and by the time he’s back on his feet, a silver, sharp click rings through the air.

Traps holds a cham-pistol levelled at his head. Robbie can’t see from this angle what setting it’s on. A guy like Traps probably thinks the tranqs or neurals are for pussies. Robbie doesn’t fancy getting plasma burns or an old-fashioned bullet in the skull, so he raises his hands. Traps spits a wad of blood on the ground.

“I thought you weren’t as thick as the others, but maybe I was wrong. Still, I like you, Robbie. I’m going to let you live, but you’d better fuck off now. Don’t bother coming back unless you’ve got something real good to offer as an apology.”

Robbie traipses down the stairs, Traps close behind with the cham-pistol still raised. When they reach the front door, Traps shoves him through it.

“Good luck with Ruby.” He gives a short laugh and then slams it shut.

Robbie’s watch pings again.

Tick-tock.

Another photo of Ruby. And part of him wishes Traps had shot him in the head.