Street Capitalists
Two men in muted silver atmosphere suits stood outside a large red brick building on a red dirt road. A tall, lanky man loomed over his short, stocky companion. They wore Kalashnikov-style rifles across their backs, and rucksacks hung under their arms. A cloud of rectangular yellow plastic credits burst from the slamming door of a six-wheeled rover. A sign that read “Central Market” hung high above them. Their heads turned in unison as they watched the vehicle speed away, kicking up a red plume of dust behind it. Merchants and street urchins walked by them on the main thoroughfare and stared with veiled judgment as they skirted the pair and the cloud of bills. The two looked at each other face-to-face, their reflective visors becoming transparent.
“That fuckin’ prick left us! Explain to me why we trusted that junkie,” Left, a tall, light-skinned man, exclaimed to his shorter companion through the helmet’s communicators. His brow furrowed over brown eyes and a-crooked-from-being-broken nose. A painted image of a black dragon wound around the right arm of his suit and moved as he plucked one yellow bill from the air and studied it.
“Because we’re broke, Left. Remember? Rent?” retorted the shorter one with pursed lips and a stylized depiction of a white dragon around his left arm. Right, a young, dark-skinned man with light brown eyes glared at his partner and the bill in his hand.
“Don’t remind me. What are we gonna do with this worthless plastic shit, anyway?” Left stuffed the bill in his suit; the black dragon on his arm accentuated the gesture. “There are thousands here.”
“Didn’t you ask to get paid in electro?”
“I didn’t think I needed to ask. Nobody uses this shit anymore.” Left studied the bills on the ground, “There’s gotta be at least seven hundred grand here. How the hell are we supposed to carry it all?”
Overhead, blue orbs of ion blasts disturbed the hazy fog as one vaporized a floating bill. Left and Right hit the ground, landing on their knees.
“I’m sorry, I fucked up. Just grab what you can and move.” Left pulled his rucksack open and crammed handfuls of the yellow bills into the bag. Right did the same.
“We good?”
Right said nothing but nodded and shouldered his full rucksack.
Left and Right looked around at the dirt-covered road as a quadrupedal robot lumbered past them, behind a person wearing a heavy collection of coverings that made them look like a mound with a round helmet on the top. Men in gray Atmos suits wielded surplus ion rifles and marched toward them from a jagged hole in the wall of the Central Market.
A short, heavy guard approached them with a rifle pressed to his shoulder, sights fixed on Left then moving to Right. Behind the soldier’s clear visor was a thick black mustache affixed above a frown that split his face. Behind him, a horde of guards followed.
“Freeze, shitbirds. That money is now the property of Central Market Incorporated!” the guard yelled. “Put your hands up, or I’ll blow you away.”
“Wot, mate?” Right’s visor returned to reflective silver as he walked nonchalantly toward the agitated guard. “This money is ours.”
“C’mon, man, we don’t have time—” Left tried to get Right’s attention.
“You know this money is worthless.” Right held out the open rucksack that overflowed with yellow bills. “So why the fuck do you want it?”
“That’s Central Market business, and Keiser requires your presence.”
“Give that old fuck a message for me,” Right said with a wry laugh.
“You can tell him yourself.”
“I know. I’m about to.” Right accessed his suit’s mental link and shot a small rocket from his back. A startled expression flashed on the guard’s face as the rocket shot upward in an elliptical trajectory, apexed, fell to the ground, and exploded. A mist of blood and gristle splattered Left and Right’s Atmos suits.
