The Makings of a True Con Artist

“M-my bracelet. Oh, Gunther. They stole my bracelet!”

“Mrs. Morgan. Please, calm down and tell me what happened.”

“They stole it! That was my son’s only gift… Oh, but why?” She grabbed onto her son’s faceplate. “I’m sorry…” She pulled it close to her chest. “I’m so sorry, my dear.”

“Why don’t you get replacements? For your eyes?” Optical tech was on the rise. It wasn’t at all difficult to replace them. “I can also help set up a few security measures so that this kind of thing doesn’t happen again.”

“No… No, it doesn’t matter anymore. The bracelet’s gone…” Suddenly, she went silent. Then she made her way to her closet.

“Mrs. Morgan?”

She pulled out a white cane. “No, I’ll find that thief myself! I’ll make them regret stealing from me!”

“What?” That was the worst idea he’d heard today. What could she even do against a runaway thief? “Maybe you should reconsider—”

There was a loud knock at the front.

“Oh, just what I needed.” She brashly tapped the objects around her apartment. “Another reason to leave the house.” Using her cane as visual support, she hobbled towards the door.

“Where are you even going? Stop.” He guided her back to the couch and sat her down. “You’re being too rash.”

“No, I’m not. You don’t know how it feels!” She started to get back up.

“Listen.” He held her down. Anything to distract her. “You were right about the boy—my son.”

“I was?” She started to calm down. “Well, didn’t I tell you? He’s family! More important than blood.”

“Perhaps.” He took a seat next to her. “You’ve given me a place to stay. I don’t feel that it’s right if I can’t help your case.”

“But Gunther—”

Somebody banged on the door.

“Well, maybe I should at least open the door?”

“No, I’ll get that.” He made his way to the door. “You’ve already gone through enough today.” And he opened—

Some bratty looking teenager stood outside the apartment. He had graffiti-like tattoos and weird body modifications all over his arms and legs. There was a shotgun—by the looks, an M5-Destroya—shoved halfway into his pants and an oversized, bloody cleaver held in his grip. Was it real blood? The creator didn’t know. But he rested it on top of his shoulder like some sort of trophy.

“Huh? Who’re you? Where’s the grandma?”

“Sorry, wrong place.” He closed the door on the teen.

“Who was it, Gunther?”

“Just some nobody.”

“Are you sure—”

Several more angry knocks.

She got up. “Maybe I should take the door after all.”

“No, just stay put. Believe me, I’ve got it under control.” Whoever that boy was, he was starting to get on his nerves. “I’ll be right back.”

She sighed. “If you insist, dear.”

The creator swung open the door. “What?” His patience was wearing thin.

The teen grinned. “Finally coming to your senses, old man?”

“Old… man?” His nose twitched. Not enough for anyone to notice. He loosened his tie a smidge and stepped outside, making sure to seal the door behind him.

Red laser sight implants, low quality endurance amplifiers, roughly screwed on semi-mid grade tension bars… Even from a basic examination, he wasn’t much of a threat. But then he realized—

How does he even know about Mrs. Morgan?

“Yeah, old man. Where’s the grandma? You the new bouncer or something?” He looked him up and down. “A nouveau like you? What are you gunna do? Report me to the cops?” He laughed.

“You’d do well to watch your tone.”

The teen leaned in a little closer, tightening his grip on his cleaver. “Are you threatening me, old man? With what? Your business cards?” He smirked.

He took a step closer.

The teen pulled down his blade from his shoulders. “What’re you doing, old man? Don’t try anything funny.”

He already knew the teen wouldn’t win against him in a physical brawl. He had defense systems implanted all over his body that would activate autonomously when detecting a threat. There would be no evidence of a body if that ever happened. No blood, nothing. Everything would be gone, incinerated without a trace. It would be so easy and stress free… But then a muffled voice called out from inside—

“Is something wrong, Gunther? Should I come out too?”

“No!” the creator yelled through the walls. “No, stay inside!” He took a deep breath… He had momentarily forgotten. How could he think such a thing? No fights. He had promised himself he wouldn’t hurt a living soul.

“Oh? So she is here. Get out of my way!” The teen tried to push his way through, but the creator held him back. “What’s your problem, man?”

“What do you want?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I can call the authorities.”

He laughed. “Try it. I dare you. They won’t come. They know better than to mess with us.”

With us? It wasn’t just the boy? Was he a part of some kind of gang? There was a unique engraving on the boy’s metal-plated chest—some kind of snake on a hoverbike. Now where did he see that before…

“Get out of my way.” The teen tried to push through again.

The creator grabbed his arm and held it firmly within his grasp.

“Let go!” He squirmed. “What’s wrong with you?!”

“What do you want from her?”

“You’re not the boss of me!” The teen pulled at his arm with all his might, but the grip held in place. The look on his face made it clear that he was starting to realize the gravity of the situation. “I-it’s just money, okay? She owes us some coin, that’s all!”

The creator finally let him go. “Why?”

“Who cares, man?” He massaged his wrist. “Just ask her yourself.”

“Tell me why.” He grabbed the boy’s arm again and squeezed.

“Ow! Alright, I get it! I’ll tell you!” The teen pulled away. “Geez. She just needs to pay up for hiring us. Happy?”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

He pointed to the engraving on his chest. “Taipan Riders.” He grinned. “Heard of us? We’re pretty famous nowadays.”

Taipan Riders. They were one of the more prominent gangs in the city. He had heard of them on the news. Mostly for small robberies and the occasional murders. But that wasn’t his concern.

“Why’d she hire you guys?”

“I don’t know! I just joined.”

“Wait here.” He hurried back inside. “Mrs. Morgan?” She was on the couch, fidgeting with the faceplate in her hands. “Did you hire a gang for something?”

“Oh, is that why they’re here? Oh no.” She rummaged around the table. “What do I do, Gunther? I-I don’t have enough for today.”

“That’s besides the point. I can pay.” He changed the subject back. “Why did you hire them?”

“No, I can’t let you do that. It’s my responsi—”

He slammed his hand down on the table. It shook just enough for the room to go quiet. “Why did you hire them?” he repeated. His voice grew louder. “You’re telling me you have enough insight to know if I’m dangerous or not, but you’ve been hiring those punks out there? Without a second thought?”

“I… I had no choice, Gunther. The police wouldn’t help… They said he wasn’t worth their time.” She suddenly started to break down. “He was all alone. Scrapped for parts… He was treated with such disrespect!” She pulled the faceplate closer. “If only I had paid more attention…”

He wasn’t having any of it. “And you hired those punks? For what? To save your son?” Such incompetence. It angered him to no end. “They’re a gang, Mrs. Morgan! A gang! They’re obviously not looking to help!”

“W-well, no. You don’t understand. They offered to find him. I never intended to hire them. And look!” She held the faceplate up for him to see. “They delivered!”

The faceplate. That was all they had found. A single, broken piece of metal. It was garbage. It wasn’t even worth anything. And they had offered it? For money?

“How much did you even—” No, that wasn’t important. This was just a scam. A literal scam in broad daylight. How could she have fallen for something so simple? Not even a piece of the torso. They had found nothing else of his body.

That didn’t make any sense to him.

The faceplate was essentially the cheapest part of a mod doll, but that didn’t mean scrap pirates wouldn’t be able to sell it. There was still profit to be made. The fact that it was left behind, but everything else had been scrapped sounded entirely doubtful. Almost as if they had planned to save it all along…

Something smelled off about this. He just had a gut feeling. How could they have even known the son was missing in the first place?

“Hey!” The teen slammed at the door. “How long are you gunna be in there? I don’t got all day!”

The creator stomped out. He grabbed the teen by his collar. “How?” he asked. “How did you know her son was lost?”

“What’re you talkin’ about? How the hell should I know?”

He pulled him off the ground. “Answer my question.” The teen’s feet dangled in the air.

“Fuck! Let go, man!” He tried to squirm out but couldn’t. He swung his cleaver down at the creator’s arm, but the metal snapped into two. His eyes grew wide. “W-what?” He pulled out his gun and shot at the creator’s chest. The pellets bounced off like rubber balls. “What the hell are you?!”

“I said”—the creator tightened his grip—“answer my question.”

“Fuck, I-I don’t know! I really don’t!” The teen dropped his weapon. “Please, don’t kill me! I’ll give you anything! Anything you want!”

Damn it. He let go of the teen. What if he was wrong? What if there was nothing going on? The way the teen reacted sounded like he wasn’t lying.

“S-so… Can I go?”

“Get out of here.” He glared sharply into the teen’s eyes. “Whatever she owes”—he gestured to the apartment behind him—“it better be zero. So don’t come back.”

“R-right!” The teen scrambled to his feet and ran out into the rural streets. “I won’t come back!” He tripped a few times but managed to pull himself up. And he ran. Without a single glance back.

The creator knew. His gut feeling was rarely ever wrong. There was a chance that he was right about everything. A chance that all of this was, in fact, a scam. This could all just be a ploy to exploit the emotions of the vulnerable. But obviously, it remained just a thought.

Because there wasn’t enough evidence for anything more.