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.