The Heights; circa 1 AM

  She was a child of the sprawl, just like Amber. Long black hair sprouted feline ears, framing a Japanese face still tender with youth. Beneath the patina of dirt and grease, Amber reckoned she was cute. Might've been, if she weren't mugging her with her own Desert Eagle.

  She stared down the barrel of the gun, felt her senses sharpen in seconds. She kept her expression calm, controlled, letting fear pool in her jittering legs. "What's your game, kid?"

  "Don't call me kid," said the kid, glaring at her.

  "Least you could tell me your name."

  Her assailant scoffed, kept the pistol trained on Amber's head. "Nozomi. Nozomi Iwakura."

  "Cute name."

  "Picked it myself."

  "Niiice... That's two of us, then."

  Amber bared her ursine teeth in an exaggerated smile, showed off the claws she'd gained as a hybrid. Nozomi's face softened. Feline eyes glistening with neon.

  "What'm I even doing, man?" she said, drooping her gaze with the gun. Amber snatched it back in one fell swoop. Made sure to flick off the safety.

  "Something stupid, that's what. You gotta be flat-broke rob a bitch like me. Either that, or fucked in the head."

  "Why not both?"

  "Ain't we all?" Amber sighed, leaning against a dumpster stacked high with PCBs. "I could really use a goddamn cig. What's your poison?"

  "Red."

  Amber blew out her cheeks. "Fuckin' hell. Shoulda known it. You'd probably rip my eyes out if it mean gettin' that sweet, sweet Sand."

  The kid's revolver leapt from its holster, glinted neon as it stared Amber down.

  "Wanna bet?" snapped Nozomi.

  "Bet. You ain't seen what I've seen."

  Cock of the hammer. "What's that, then?!"

  "Seen the baddest motherfuckers turn into a bitch for Red."

  "I ain't like those bitches-"

  "Aw yeah? You the baddest of 'em all?"

  "You don't know me! I... shit..." Nozomi shook as she pondered the question. Amber sunk back against the dumpster. "I ain't gotta take this! I don't care if you're just like me. I'll rip your goddamn eyes out!"

  Amber braced as the Desert Eagle let loose. A dull flash stung her eyes as she launched forth, socked the girl off her feet. She watched her curl up, writhe in the rot with audible pain. Amber kicked her broken revolver across the pavement. A single fifty-cal had split it in half.

  "Thanks for savin' me, kid. Now get outta my sight."

  A quiet curse followed her into the neon night.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Southside; 1:30 AM

  Old Glory. Amber's former stomping ground. A flickering sign hailed her as she emerged from beneath the sixteen-lane Lincoln Highway, bearing the flag of a country that was long gone.

  A vagrant broke off from his ilk, tried to beg Amber for cash. A conspicuous stroke of her iron warded him off, but not before she'd flicked a cig into his callused palms. She knew damn well, the only difference between them was a cheap studio and a hundred bucks. And even the former was on the far side of town.

  Seconds later, that familiar guilt was chased away. This time by a wave of nostalgia.

  She'd seen the place change before her very eyes. Whole city blocks turned to deserts of ferrocrete dust, inhabited by refugees from all across the heartland. Her outfit made a name for themselves in the tent city. Scrapmonkeys who could get you anything from a motorcycle to a main battle tank. She watched the money roll in, saw tents give way to favelas, give way to giant kowloons. They stood like minature mountains before the horizon. Teeming hives of ferrocrete, biz, and neon.

  She couldn't place when it all went south. Likely when the Patriots showed up. To Amber, they represented everything people hated about the old empire. Executions, intimidation, corruption up the wazoo. Came to rule the favelas with an iron fist. Ripped her off more than once.

  Then came the corpos, and everything changed. Suddenly the urban wastes were private property, trespassers will be shot. Armed thugs outside every juicy ruin. Her outfit still snuck past at night, skimmed a bit off the top. That caught up with them the moment they met a drone.

  She still remembered that last night. How her breath had grown shallow, how lifeblood pooled beneath her body. Some others among her crew weren't so lucky. Twin rockets had turned her resident joeboy to a splatter of blood and guts. Only the arms remained intact, twitching like worms.

  Ironically, it was corpo security that'd rescued her. Figured blasting some scrappy teenagers wasn't a good look. They'd paid every crypto of her hospital bill, set her up with new pair of lungs. Made a nice headline for the PR rebound. Amber even posed with a double of the CEO.

  By time she got out, her scrappers were gone. Among those still alive, most had left town, or disappeared into the impenetrable sprawl.

  All except her old flame.

  By all accounts, Vick Masters was a success story. Coming of age just as the dust had settled, he'd risen above his humble origins, become an upstanding member of society. Now he worked for the police, helping people and fighting crime all across The Heights. And he'd been handsomely rewarded. Now he owned a comfortable abode, had friends throughout the city, and attended dinners with the corporate elite.

  What a crock of shit.

  Amber knew what the screamsheets never would. The Vick she'd known before that night. The sharp wit and keen eye, who hit like a freight train both in the streets and in the sheets. In those halcyon days, Amber felt the two of them were invincible, right up till he took their bike and sped off on his lonesome.

  She'd laid there stunned. Let a strange darkness encroach upon her. One that'd since grown all too familiar.

  Now she stood before his "comfortable abode". A minature compound ringed with ferrocrete and memwire. Amber found a loose brick, cast it at the top of the fence. A section of wire became a yard-long spear, pulverized the stone midair, before an electric current drew the memory metal back into a coil.

  By now, it'd begun to pour. Her internal batteries - literal and metaphorical - were sustained by thin hope and crude spite. She had to get inside, get a charge. Maybe a plate of real food? Hunger alone was enough to stare down the barred steel door, kick its hinges with ursine strength. Felt as if she broke her leg.

  "God-damn, mother-fuckin'-... Eh?"

  She turned the handle, slammed her shoulder against the steel, only to stagger effortlessly into the miniature compound. That meant one thing: Vick knew she was here.

  She closed the front gate, turned the handle on the front door. Twin smoothbore barrels met her gaze, held steady by a compact man sporting a buzz cut. The lack of clothes made him all the more familiar.

  "Happy to see me?" she asked, eying his chub.

  "Cut the shit, Amb. You kickin' dust?"

  "Been a bad fuckin' day, Vick. Don't need you to make it worse," she sighed, sheltering beneath the lintel for another cig. The gun lowered. "What's got ya all bent, anyway? Watchin' a dirty sensie?"

  "You know I got a girlfriend."

  Amber glowered. "No kiddin'. Hope you fuck her brains out. I just need to crash, ya dig?"

  "Cute. Fixin' to swipe my wallet again?"

  Amber faced him with tired eyes. "Vick...Scrapper's Honor, remember?"

  Vick stared at her. Then pulled his shells from the shotgun's breech. Blanks. "Look, just get inside."