Of Cops 'n' Robbers

Foreword: A Not-So-Fateful Meeting

Okay, so maybe flinging myself off of a roof wasn't the brightest idea.

I fell like a rock. People compare falling to freedom, but it's really such a hopeless feeling... when you can think through the wind and realize that you're going to splatter in about three seconds. Then again, it's pretty hard to think when you're about to meet the ground.

Hey, at least I had a good fall ahead of me.

I was just off the building, a two hundred-story monster. My prize, a pretty necklace of some sort, was clutched in my hand as I dropped.

For anyone else, it would've been suicide.

I somersaulted, bouncing off things as I saw them—banners, poles, ledges, the odd passing airfreight. I broke my fall against a sorry-looking tub of begonias. An old lady in a grubby nightdress looked out of a smudged window at me, staring. Of course, I knew I looked like an idiot. I had my rear stuck in the planter, and was struggling to get out.

The sirens made me hurry, and I popped up with a cheery wave to her. She shuffled back, and I reeled to the side, shaking my head; now that was a fall! Once I got my bearings (which, I'll admit, was pretty quick), I darted off, slipped the shiny trinket around my neck, and hopped the railing that bordered a flight of cement steps. I fell the last story to the ground, rolled expertly to my feet, and was off again.

It'd been a great haul for the night, so I didn't head home—if I did, the Laws would swarm me, or I'd meet a bullet, courtesy of Jerro's sneaks.

I was going to get rid of the shiny at the Swaps. Cash sounded good.



Life in Neo York is far from easy, and I'll be the first to say it. Sure, it's not much different than life in the city of Lost Angels, or Shikagone, or Hewstown. I'm sure they've all got it hard there, too. And in Hewstown, it's hot and sticky; at least in Lost Angels, it’s a nice vacation spot, and Shikagone, it's just cold. Good weather for soup, if you have it.

Then again, we all know what cold feels like.

All right, time for some description.

Neo York is a huge city, fallen into ruin from humanity's mistakes. Ever seen the cinema called The Day After Tomorrow? It's worse than that, a lot worse.

Hundreds of years ago, in a time of great worldwide wars, our country fell. Because of the leaders' failure, the nation divided, fought within itself, and died. Cities were destroyed. Almost the entire Northwest was abandoned, and billions died from hunger, disease, and exposure. Most of them didn't even have homes, or families.

Of course, survivors of the holocaust fled to the big cities—Neo York, Lost Angels, Shikagone, Myahmy, Washingtown Deesee—in the hope that the Government would help.

And the Laws killed them off, 'cause there wasn't enough food and shelter to keep even their own populations alive.

Now, it's even worse. The cities are old, crumbling to the ground. People live in decaying buildings, if they're lucky. The rest of us live on the streets, or in holes, or wherever we can. There's no food, almost no money—poverty is the norm, the wealthy, the state of those who have food to feed their children at night. They're privileged.

And the Highborn just sit around in their clean, new houses; they eat their unspoiled food, live their perfect lives while the rest of us suffer.

I know it's not fair to hate, but what else is there? I steal, I run, I live—that's the most I can do in a day. I'm not a hero; I don't save people. What would I feed them?

I'm a thief, and tonight I'm eating.



I got to the Swaps around nine o'clock Night, weaving a little drunkenly from my stunt. It'd been flashy, and I was dizzy. But flashy was good—as long as the Laws didn't get you. I grinned smugly as I walked through the underground building, sliding glances to the people behind stalls as they stared at the amulet.

I only stopped at one kiosk, though. The man behind it raised bushy eyebrows at me, though I knew only one eye saw—good old Carl! He stepped forward as I stopped before the rickety counter, arms folded smugly over my chest. He reached out and lifted the necklace, eyeing it.

“I'll give you twenty dollars and a loaf of bread,” he grunted, and I settled back on my heels for a good bit of haggling. Don't get me wrong; twenty dollars could last the whole month, if I was careful! I was just in the mood to be contrary. Must’ve hit my head.

“Throw in a chicken and some rations pellets, you've got a deal,” I replied.

He frowned, thought it over, and nodded gruffly. I slipped the necklace off and handed it to him. Carl turned around and put the items into the messenger bag I gave him. I stuffed the twenty safely down my shirt, pulled the strap of the filled bag over my head, and turned my head to look at the newest fight. I’ll be honest, there’re a lot of fights in the Swaps, but this one made me stand on tiptoe to get a better look.

Some guy was getting shoved around by one of the regulars, a big ugly dude called Congo. Don’t ask me where he got his name; as far as I’ve figured out, two guys were talking when he escaped from the last jail, and one said, “How far can that con go, anyway?” Bad joke, but it’s the best I’ve got.

This was no ordinary guy, either. For one, he actually had a wallet. And he wasn’t covered with the customary layer of grime that was usually found in the Slump. And he had a knife, which he was currently pointing at the brute’s face. He was fighting back.

Wow.

“Step off!” he said in a distinct accent. He wasn’t from the Slump, I knew well enough. He sounded like a Highborn. That, together with the fancy knife and the weird clothes (and his wallet) made me jump in just as Congo was about to bash his face in with a meaty fist. That would’ve hurt.

“Hey, now! Let’s not get touchy, eh?” I asked, laughing, and Congo narrowed his bloodshot eyes at me. He looked even more like the stereotypical criminal now. “C’mon, let’s give him a break,” I said, reaching back to put an arm around the Highborn man, grinning.

The guy looked at me like I was filth, and I had half a mind to leave him to whatever might happen. But I didn’t. Call me a nice person.

“See?” I asked, pulling him down a bit to my level. “Jack doesn’t want any trouble. Right, Jack?” He looked at me, and I growled out of the side of my mouth, “Nod, you idiot.”

He nodded slowly, then more quickly, and I turned my eyes back to Congo.

“See? We’re all buddies here. So, we’ll just sidle on out and be on our merry way…” I bolted, dragging the Highborn along behind me. Congo tensed and made to follow, bumped past someone as they got in his way, spilled something, and other horrible things happened. Altogether, it had the effect of starting one huge fight, which had to be broken up with bats and the odd shocker.

Lucky for us, we were already legging it back to my place. It took a good five minuets, even at a run, but we got there unharmed, and I shouldered open the door and dragged him inside.

“Who are you?” The first of many questions, I predicted, and I locked the old door carefully before moving across the room. It was small, maybe ten by ten feet, and cluttered with my stuff. Old things I’d stolen, things I’d found, all sorts of odds and ends that I didn’t quite know what to do with at the moment. Amidst all of this clutter was a ratty blanket, an old coat I used as a pillow, and a small pile of books on mechanics.

“A thief,” I replied, dusted off the top of a three-legged stool, and sat on it to begin digging through my bag. I pulled out the loaf and laid it to the side, grinned silently at the little chicken in a box, and popped a rations pellet into my mouth.

“Do you have a name, thief?”

He was formal, this one.

“Enid Cross,” I chirped, and flopped off the stool to flounder for a moment on the blanket, drawing out the twenty. I smoothed it out, grinning. “And who’re you, man?”

“Jackson Kent,” he said, and I raised an eyebrow. I’d gotten his name right off the bat. Bully for me. Did I get a prize?

“Where’re you from, Jacky-Boy?” I asked, rolling over onto my stomach, still smiling happily at the twenty. I tucked it into my jacket when he wasn’t looking and adjusted the goggles on my forehead. “You’re not from the Slump. You’re a Highborn.”

He scowled at me. “I abandoned that,” he snorted. Most unbecoming of him, that expression, but then again, who am I to judge?

“A runaway,” I sang, kicking my feet in the air above my rear. I laughed. “That’s so dangerous! Have you ever been in a fight? What about danger? Had a lot of that?” He stared blankly at me, leaning moodily against my wall. That was rude, him taking advantage of my wall like that.

“Well,” I said to his expression, “we’re going to have a ways ahead of us, then.” He looked at me, giving the distinct impression that there were very large chipmunks currently plotting world domination on my shoulders. “Jacky-Boy, I think we’ve started ourselves a beautiful friendship.” I grinned at him in what I hoped was a charming manner, rolled over, and went to sleep.

Who knows? He could turn out to be a great asset, even if I just dump him and haul rear when the Laws show up. He’d work well as a distraction.

Yeah, that sounds like a plan.