Part Two

Green Court was quiet, too quiet for Burke’s liking, and on a Friday night at that? Something wasn’t right. Burke kept his eyes peeled as he past the first couple columns of Stacks, a low-income housing solution with up to five Modulars stacked on top one another. The air surrounding the Stacks was surprisingly crisp and cool, despite the amount of people packed in here like sardines; that was thanks to the revolutionary thermal vents, the city’s way of trying to make life out here less sucky. Burke cautiously moved in and out of the shadows of the Stacks, being careful not to trigger any alarms. The last thing he’d needed was for some loud-mouthed, rifle-barring, mad man in his underwear coming out to meet him in the streets. Bullets have long since been rationed, hoping in some way that it would cut down on the amount of violence. The problem was, people are innovative and came up with another solution to handheld, killing machines: charged carbines, like making those Star Trek phasers a reality, and a little more deadly. Of course, none of this made Burke feel any easier about the situation he put himself in. Clank, clank, clank, clank, went the trio, up the metal stairs of the fifth Stack on the left, and into the second Modular. Burke checked twice to make sure the coast was clear and made a break for it, holding his fedora tight on his head as he jogged across the street. Like a cartoon burglar, Burke cemented his back to the side of the lower-level Modular, holding his breath, ensuring no one caught on to him. After a few seconds of dead silence, Burke makes his move, carefully coming out of the shadows, slowly and creepily stepping up the stairs to the second Modular. Each home, if you could even call it that, had a platform surrounding it on all sides, with about two to three feet of walking space between the railing and the Modular. Burke crept quietly around the walkway to the row of glass, acting as a sort of panoramic window. Inside, Burke spies the two original dinguses, but no girl. Without their black trenches and trying to be steampunk goggles, the two young men are relatively handsome, well-built, not the typical Bottom Feeders Burke’s use to. These guys seem like they’ve got themselves together, like they’re the sort Burke wouldn’t mind grabbing a pint with in his younger days. In walks the girl, breaking Burke’s thoughts, a wonderfully cheery young woman, rocking a  brilliant pink, pixie haircut and yellow sundress, with the bluest of eyes, eyes that Burke can’t help but feel he’s seen before. He ducks back down; okay, I’ve got a description, but what could they be after, what are they up to, Burke questions in his mind. As he percolates over these questions, a gorgeous, powder blue, Helium C6 pulls up to the Stack. Burke watches carefully as the suicide doors open. Stepping out from the passenger’s side, a very well-dressed man; he straightens his black vest and tie, looks around, and then takes a deep breath in. Seemingly pleased with the air, he waves for the driver to come around. A large, perhaps at one time professional weight lifter of a man, steps around the car, silenced carbine pistol in hand. “We won’t be needing that,” the well-dressed man calmly says to the Mr. Universe runner-up. Bruno seems a little disappointed as he pockets the pistol. Still stuck to the shadows like a cat too shy to come out, Burke remains transfixed on this man, trying to place him in his mind. Someone like this, an Elite as they're known, would've, should've stuck out to Burke. Most, if not all Elites have their own, personal, virtual ad space. Sure, some of the Elites are old school and prefer “real” media, but those who really want to make a statement have bought virtual space. Burke's no stranger to the virtual world, he practically lived in it as a kid, from school lessons to training for the academy, virtual and augmented reality's just been a part of the norm. This Elite, with his fancy black suit and combed over, blond hair however, was a complete mystery.

    As Mr. Fancy Pants and his bad cop partner took their time up the stairs, Burke could only concentrate on remaining absolutely still; one false move, one loud breath and he'd be made. When they reached the second level, Burke's nose caught the Elite’s cologne, a vanilla sort of smell, like aged bourbon sitting at the back of your mouth. Burke had smelled this smell a hundred times, maybe even two hundred, but never on a sober man. There was something uniquely attractive about his eyes, like finding two bronze coins among the brushed sand of his skin. Most men, most folk in general, Burke could place in one of his two categories: trash or useful trash, usually within about five to ten seconds of meeting them. This guy? Well, let's just say Burke's ten seconds had come and gone and he was still scratching his head. A simple knock on the door was all it took to get the wonder twins to welcome their visitors. With the sound of the pneumatic door closing, Burke finally let his lungs lose, trying hard to muffle his coughing. Probably need to cut back on the cigars, he thought to himself; he laughed at the idea. Now that the newcomers were welcomed inside, it was time for some actual detective work. Burke pulls out a small, circular camera and sticks it to the window, making sure it faced the right way. He connects the video feed from the camera to his hololens and syncs the audio to his wireless earpiece. Burke applies the facial tracking feature on the camera and sets it to follow the suit; even if the guy went to take a leak, the camera would follow. He activates his earpiece, “we agreed on a hundred thousand credits”, the taller of the two Bottom Feeders says, “yes, but now that I see the product, our agreement has changed,” calmly replies the Elite. Product, Burke thinks to himself, what product? He moves the camera to sweep the Modular; a simple, clean common room, two moderate bedrooms, your typical bathrooms, and an average kitchen. Without a camera on the inside, Burke can’t get a peek behind any of the doors, but with a deal about to go down, surely this ‘product’ would be in sight. “Now Mr. Peely, I can see you’re a reasonable man, perhaps a little naive, but reasonable,” the suit says to the taller one. Peely, Peely, Peely, why does that name sound familiar, Burke questions in his mind. The Peely brothers! Of course! Marcus and Vincent Peely, the notorious Southside smugglers; the force has been trying to catch these bastards for a year now. And here they’ve been working out of Green Court this whole time. “How does fifty thousand credits sound,” the suit questions Marcus, the taller brother. “We got another offer, for seventy-five thousand, how ‘bout we just go back to them, eh?” “There’s no reason to get hostile, Mr. Peely”, the Elite calmly replies, “nah mate, you ain’t seen hostile yet”. The big man bucks up to that and in a flash, has his carbine pistol trained on Marcus’ head, charged and ready to fire. The suit gently rests his hand on the big man’s shoulder, “now, now my eager friend, we wouldn’t want to scare the product”. What? What does that mean, Burke questions. ‘Scare the product?’ So the brother’s stepped up their game and smuggled in a living thing? That’s new. Muscles puts his gun away with the disappointment of a kid having to put away their toys. “Believe it or not, I’m not particularly fond of violence,” the Elite says, finally deciding to sit down on the plush chair, “but often times I find it necessary. I hope this isn’t one of those times?” “We called you, because we heard about you, and now you come in here, with your fancy clothes and neanderthal friend, threatening us!? Go fuck yourself”, Marcus belts, loud enough to make Burke turn down the volume on his earpiece. The Elite calmly straightens his tie, brushes his vest, and then snaps his fingers. A blink and it’s done; Marcus and Vincent, laid back, a brand new hole in the their heads, smoke coming from the big man’s barrel, the girl to in shock to even realize what just happened. The suit lets out a disappointed sigh and shakes his head, “this could’ve been prevented,” he says, wiping the blood splatter from his forehead, “truly a waste”. He tosses the bloodied cloth, “now then", he says, turning to the girl, "let’s get what we came for”.