Connor and Smith's Righteous Ride

Connor found himself in a part of the city much like the one he came from. In fact, the buildings around him were barely anything compared to Center’s financial district. Even so, they had a cozier vibe. Old brick and neon showed reminders of what Center once was. Off in the distance lay what it had become. The sky overhead, filled with low-hanging clouds, seemed as bright as day from the city’s light. Connor’s breath came in white puffs. He tugged the coat on while Smith led the way down the sidewalk. People pushed all around the pair on their quest for presents. Connor kept his eyes on a swivel, prepared for the worst.

After a 10 minute walk, the pair came to a parking garage. Smith placed a gloved palm on the sensor. A brief jolt and they were through. The rebel grinned and showed his palm to Connor. The scrapper was impressed; he didn’t know digicloth could do that. Each thread in the cloth was woven around a microscopic fiber-optic. In turn, it usually allowed the wearer to manipulate the color and heat level of the fabric. DNA encoding took a premium ice-breaker, and that was with actual bio-implant devices. Doing it with digicloth was like ice-breaking with an ancient fridge monitor.

Smith held the door open while Connor paced inside.

The garage was home to the regular collection of brands one expected in Center. A few flashy rides, but nothing spectacular. Smith whistled as he walked to the elevator. The pair entered, rose, and emerged in a car nut’s greatest dream.

The top floor of the garage had been cleared out. Most of the space was taken up by several fully stocked workbays. The red Stingray Connor had a vague memory of was there. So were a few more vintage hotrods. An ancient Mercedes Gazelle, Camaro, Charger, and several others gleamed under floodlights.

In North Center, they would have been spare parts within minutes. Smith noticed Connor’s wide eyes and chuckled.

“Perks of being an ice-breaker,” the rebel beamed. “Borrow a penny from every fatcat in the city, and your wallet is bursting. Oh, and don’t sweat being recognized. We’re too far east for that sort of stuff to matter. And with so much going through everybody’s head on the day–to-day, you’re practically ancient history at this point.”

“Not to Flynt. Or bounty hunters or ice-breakers.”

“Trust me Connor. The easiest place to hide in plain sight. Old boy would never think you would actually be out in the open.”

The scrapper had to admit there was a bit of truth in Smith’s words. Nobody in their right mind would hunt him down in a public place. Most bounty hunters were either infiltrators or smash-and-grab. Center’s countless shopping malls had top of the line security to prevent any thievery. And stealing a potential customer would be an outrageous sin. While Connor mulled it over, Smith produced a set of keys. Two revs as mighty as thunder erupted from the hood. The scrapper almost jumped at the sound. Smith laughed and waved him in. Connor couldn’t stop himself from grinning.

This was going to be fun.

Ψ

An hour later, the hotrod pulled into the parking spot with ease. Smith had chosen the closest mall. Even with sparse traffic and a lead foot, Center was still massive. The mall took up four stories and covered two miles worth of ground. Connor stumbled out of the Charger into the furthest reaches of the parking lot, ears still ringing.

“I never want to hear another flute in my life,” he muttered.

“Oh come on dude,” Smith followed after him. “You cannot tell me you don’t feel something from those lyrics.”

“Yeah. Nauseous.”

Smith grumbled and flagged down a tram. The pair jumped on, and within a few minutes were delivered to the mall’s front doors. Connor was never one to frequent these types of places beforehand. In fact, the only time he had ever even stepped through a mall’s front door was on a job hunt. Somehow the longhaired scrapper who constantly voiced his opinion on price points wasn’t hired on as a retailer. Connor smirked at the memory of the interviewer. The man was thoroughly upset that his potential worker knew each manufacturer’s legal loopholes to stay afloat.

Said memory almost flew out of his head at the crash of a shopper rushing through the door in front of him.

The scrapper cursed as the older woman fell upon him with a mountain of packages. Smith rushed to help, pulling his new friend up and turning to extend a hand to the woman.

“Oh, I don’t need your charity!” she huffed. “You punks just came here to slurp cola and oggle girls, isn’t that right? Nasty habits. Nasty indeed.”

Connor was about to curse the old bag out. Before he could, Smith grinned like a devil, eyes gleaming in the dim light. The old woman paled as he opened his mouth loudly.

“How’d you know?!” the rebel crowed. “Not only that, we’re picking up some rock n’ roll records. Hard stuff. Metal. You know, like the guys in spikes and chains? You like, grandma?”

The old woman muttered a prayer, gathered her packages, and raced off.

“You didn’t answer the question!” Smith yelled after her. “You a fan of Dokken? Sister? Classics like them never die!”

Connor stood, slack jawed at the rebel’s confidence. Then burst out laughing. Smith’s smile returned to normal as he turned to face the scrapper.

“You get those crones a dime a dozen in here,” the rebel said. “Always looking to spoil me and Sara’s fun. Not very nice to judge appearances, is it?”

“You’re telling me,” Connor chuckled. “Never thought you’d be a comedian.”

“Oh, I’m on tour every day baby!”

The pair snickered. To emerging shoppers, they looked like twin idiots. Exactly the type of mallrats the old woman had preached against. Even so, they simply didn’t care. After a few more laughs, Smith smacked Connor on the arm. He walked inside without a care in the world. Connor followed, momentarily forgetting his creed. The newfound comradery of Smith had given him somebody to engage. A foxhole buddy to fight with.

A great supporter in the battle against thousands of angry shoppers looking for last minute deals.