A Bolt Right Out of the Blue

A bolt of lightning arcing from the rooftop generator is what woke the poor man.

The aging machine, faithfully serving the building since the 1960s, had finally given up the ghost. It had lived a good life for over the years. A reliable source of power for countless tenants the dingy apartment complex had housed. Yet even with infinite energy, it's time was up. As such, the generator decided to go out with a bang. Rusty wires snapped, metal sang, and electricity launched its way through the sky in search of ground. The trifecta resulted in power being lost for the 27 tenants crammed into a renovated three story office building.

Connor Nineteen gasped awake at the onslaught of noise. His long and scraggly hair hadn't been washed in a week thanks to the water paywall. Bad enough he was putting back every penny into paying this dump off. His Landlord was now coming up with even worse ways to torment his tenants. Connor was fighting tooth and nail to make a life for himself.

And being an underdog in Center usually meant being ground up for tomorrow's sausages.

A sliver of sunset peeked into his window. The scrapper was used to the sight; he mostly took night jobs anyways. The golden rays illuminated his pale skin in the shadows of the cramped room. It was this darkness that threw him off. Directly across from the bed was a custom setup, piecemealed of trashed and plundered computer parts. Usually this would be glowing a reassuring green.

However, all that faced him now was a black square.

Connor's heart began to race as the sounds reached him once again. Tenants all yelling in panic. Some a realistic cry of worry, others raging about being literally left in the dark. A couple downstairs were even yelling about losing progress on separate games.

Despite the noise, one voice was louder than all the rest.

"Alright you pukes, shut up!" a digitized tone rang out. "Settle down and get down here. That means everybody!"

Seems like Landlord was pulling rank. Connor rolled out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans. Landlord (whose name the scrapper had never learned) used what he had left from the energy paywall on fancy cigars imported from Cuba. While the Fidel family had recently spoken about a more peaceful collaboration with America, Uncle Sam had still said no. Landlord was still forced to pay an arm and a leg for his deathly pleasures.

Connor rolled his eyes at the thought process. Paying for a swifter death, and replacing your whole throat with a filtration system to stave it off? Sounded as fun as running headlong into a smelting plant with cryopacks taped to yourself. Really savor that excruciating line between life and death.

The scrapper flexed his robotic arm in response to the thought. No matter how much he upgraded the thing, it was still a base model from the orphanage. It was starting to die off before his biomatter. Maily the servos. Not enough for anybody to tell, but not as fast as the scrapper’s thoughts. Connor looked at the digital display on the back of the mecharm and sighed. Landlord monitored everybody’s utility usage. Even if he wasn’t actively trawling, Connor was sure he’d be blamed for this catastrophe. Landlord loved the sound of his own voice, so the chewing out process would last around 40 minutes.

By then the scrapper would be late to his custodial gig.

A rock and a hard place.

Connor figured the only consolation would be work. The only regret he had for skipping out on a meeting was what Landlord would do with his setup. Connor was sure Landlord would strip it clean like a vulture on road kill.

But that was just his luck, wasn't it?

Connor pursed his lips and continued to glance around the room. After 30 seconds, his mind was made up. All of his moveable valuables he grabbed from their respective hiding places. Under the bed, hidden in books, even some from inside the ancient air conditioning unit. He threw them into a ratty messenger bag and changed into his custodian outfit. A bright orange jumpsuit with his nametag on it, which Connor made sure to keep clean. Several changes of clothes hastily stuffed on top of the other odds and ends. The few nice sets got cast into a cleaner duffel bag.

Using his mecharm, Connor pried open the window next to his bed.

A squeal came from the rusted portal. With a few more tugs, he was through. A piercing breeze blew in, heralding a day of cold. Snow dusted the gray landscape around him. Below, melted sludge had sunken into trash of the alleyway. A saving grace was the larger view of Center was blocked by the neighboring apartment. Connor never liked it anyways. All the highrises further into the city reminded him of where he was on the corporate food chain. He frowned at the sound of Landlord continually calling for all tenants. Hopefully the man would just think Connor hadn't come back home that night. The scrapper braced himself and began to climb down the fire escape. A short subway ride later, he would be right underneath Flynt Tower.

Head of all power and utilities within the continent.

Ψ

The north side of Center was usually a death sentence for newcomers.

A failed economic push a decade ago had resulted in a lot of renovated buildings with little structure. The free real estate had inspired several gangs to pop up and declare war on each other. While a majority were simple survivors fighting each other, Harold Santo's "Luchadors" were in a league of their own. The rich boy had struck out from his father's law firm and formed a gang of other similar men. All for the “improvement of the body alongside the mind.”

In reality, the ennui of having the world handed to them on a silver platter had caused them to band together. Their mission now was to take the cutthroat nature of business into the world of organized crime. The north side was their sandbox to play in.

And their family fortunes rewarded them with the biggest and loudest toys around.

Connor hurried down the block, eyes darting left and right. He would be safe in the subway station. There were ways of getting in even if you hadn't paid for a ticket. And for some reason, the Luchadors never messed with civilized areas.

As such, he made sure the sidewalk around him was packed with others.

He was mere steps from the staircase leading down when he heard it.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?" a sneering cry came.

"You’re holding a bunch of bags," came another. “Mind if we help?”

Connor could feel the people around him begin to split off. The scrapper couldn’t blame them. It wasn’t their fight, so why should they get involved? He locked his eyes on the stairs and strode forward with renewed strength.

Within seconds the two had grabbed onto him.

The pressure told the young man all he needed to know. His suspicions were confirmed when he was spun around to face them. Both were in what appeared to be three-piece-suits. However, the scrapper could tell these were strongarms. No self-respecting Suit would get any sort of implant. Went against "God's creation." Ironically, they were always happy to try out any tech. As long as the enhancements didn’t add anything into their bodies.

"Where do you think you're going, loser?" the first one crowed.

Connor had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. The two seemed to be stereotypical fraternity brothers, complete with mullets and handlebars. One red headed, the other jet black. Red was wearing a pair of giant sunglasses. Maybe from snow blindness, maybe because of a skewed fashion sense. Connor tried his best to look like a simpleton. He had two examples right in front of him.

"I'm just trying to get to work," the scrapper said. "Nothing more, nothing less. I think with enough of it, I could be as rich as you guys someday."

A plastic smile etched itself on his face. Suits always grew comfortable when you brought up their status on the food chain. Red nodded back. Black, though, needed some reassurance. Connor could tell he was still looking for a target. Before he could strike first, the Luchador opened his big mouth.

"What's your income then, loser?" Black asked.

"I don't make much," Connor replied. "Under a grand a week."

"How much exactly?"

Connor pursed his lips. Of course he wanted that number. Cold hard cash were the only things these types thought of. If the number wasn't up to their liking, they would rob you of the responsibility of having to count that high. Red crowed once again and reached for the young man's bags.

Connor knew he had one shot at this. Flexing his mecharm, he broke off the grip of the strongarm. Red's eyes grew wide at the action. Before Black could muster a response, Connor had shoved his way out of the grip. The scrapper turned to run as fast as he could for the station.

The element of surprise wore off faster than he had anticipated.

With a subtle flex, Red leapt over the fleeing prey and landed on the downward slope. Connor swiveled his shoulder, rushing straight into the Luchador. Their combined weight threw both down into the halogen brightness of the subway stop. Red gasped for air while Connor simply rolled and rushed for the turnstyle. He cycled through the various coding blocks in his head, finally landing on the code for open. His mecharm was only a few inches from slamming against the scanner.

The strap around his neck pulled him backwards into the waiting fist of Black.

The scraper refused to let out a yell. Make a sound and these idiots would pounce on him with vengeful joy. Instead, he simply went limp. Black whirled Connor around and punched him solidly in the face.

It hurt a lot. Not the worst thing he had ever experienced, but it still hurt a lot.

Red rushed from behind and pushed him down. The Luchador resorted to simply kicking the crap out of Connor. In the meantime, Black began rummaging through the scrapper’s bags. Clothes were strung all across the grimy subway stop. Connor managed to remain silent for what seemed like forever.

Getting no arise, Red finally stopped after a minute's worth of pain. After gathering what little change Connor had in his pockets, Black reached down for the scrapper’s wallet. He shook out the pittance of bills, then put his thumb on the drain. Connor could only imagine how much the Luchador took from his account. As if on cue, a short beep came from the wallet.

Every penny had been plundered.

Black threw the wallet in front of Connor, spitting on it. His wolfish smile shone down like a cruel sun. Red mustered one last kick, then walked over to his friend. Both straightened their ties and shook hands. With a synchronous bow, both spun and walked away.

"Thank you for your charity!" two voices laughed down the tunnel.

Connor sighed. This was going to be a long day.