Burned.

Seeing my foster parents was unnecessary; as soon as I got into the city there were signs of the dealers’ presence. Spray-painted tags that had sloppy poleepkwan writing concealed within their designs, numbers written in the insides of public telephones and bathroom stalls. “For an out-of this world experience, call XXX-XXXX;” “got shrimp? Call this number.”

It was dark when I arrived in Flagstaff, and early in the morning. The night life was out and about, stalking fresh meat for the market and piling their “wares” up and down streets and in the few buildings I managed to sneak a peek into. Like the docks in New York, I wasn’t noticed—I stuck to the alleys and other undesirable locations, and the few people that saw me could care less. What’s the point of reporting a prawn here? Better to jump him if he looks like he’s got something worth stealing and leave his twitching corpse for the fuzz to find.

Something worth stealing…like a backpack. I realized my fatal flaw as soon as the calling started.

“’Ay. Grillo.” Strangely, this voice was feminine; the smug, boisterous tone of a runner was unmistakable. “’Sup?”

Tentatively I turned and stared at a wall just past the woman’s ear, not directly looking at her but analyzing what she looked like. You never look a runner in the eyes, or a dealer. It’s disrespectful, and more than enough reason for them to kill you. I didn’t want to get killed or seriously miamed, so instead I averted my gaze and croakily spoke. “What?”

“You’re pretty far from your stable, ain’t ya?” She pointed to my lower torso. “I see that tag you carryin’. It ain’t ours.”

“Urm…yes. Yes, it’s not yours, but I’m just passing through—” Fuck! If they thought I was trying to sell to anyone here, I was dead. I still had Blue Fly’s logo embossed on my hip, which when coupled with the fact I was sneaking around made me look guilty.

“Bullshit. You’re turning tricks, ain’t ya?” A deeper voice cut in from my left. It must have been another runner, or maybe even a bodyguard—this guy was tough. Silent alarm bells went off in my head as the man walked in closer. “Ain’t ya, camarón?” He pinned me against the wall with a forearm. “I asked you a fucking question.”

I whimpered and felt the dull crinkle of bills through the cloth of my bag against the wall of the alley. “I…don’t want any trouble…” This was too much like all the times I’d angered Blue Fly, all the times I’d done or said something wrong by mistake and paid dearly from it. “Please j-just let me go…please please please…” I could almost hear the phones again and feel that pipe bashing against my skin. Vishnu, this was it…world-wide, this was it. New York, D10, Arizona…it’s like this everywhere. Where could I go where I wouldn’t be raped or mugged by someone?

“Nah. I don’t think I will. Hey chica, get the light. Let’s put some shrimp on the Barbie.” He held out a hand; the woman put something into it and stepped back, grinning. I met her eyes this time—she glared back and I looked down. The man smirked and shifted his grip on me; he held a lighter. With sickeningly deft moves, he smashed it against the wall and let the clearish liquid drip on the section of plating that the logo was painted on. It was as if he’d practiced it; I tried to squirm free as the other runner lit a match and held it to my soaked hip. The lighter fluid ignited immediately, and it felt like someone had decided to rip my plating off.

I failed. I’ve done nothing except get myself hurt and make it worse for any poleepkwa in the area. I’m so sorry everyone...please forgive me, or at least overlook this transgression. I haven’t gotten anything done…