One-Off Artsy Stuff

This story was written for the Born to Run challenge to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the album's release. Thank you to WaxPhilosophic for organising this event, and thank you to Bruce Springsteen for the music.

The boss man's givin' you hell, all day, shoutin' at you across the ever-present hiss of the rain, glarin' and pointin' and you just wanna do your job, shitty as it is, loadin' them crates, the wonky ones the androids are too particular to load, and you just wanna do your hours and get your pay, is that too much to ask, do your job and get the bux, it's not like you're demandin' handouts or anythin', just wanna do your job in peace, without that fucker yellin' at you like you don't know your shitty job, because what are you, some shit for brains who don't know how to load crates, all you gotta do is pack 'em down, nice and snug, then use the Air-G lifter to put 'em on the belt, and then the belt and the androids and the boss man do all the thinkin', like which dock they go to and who gets bribed to pass 'em and who gets fucked up if the ship or train gets where it's supposed to be and the crate ain't on it...

But that's not you, and you don't give a shit about all that, all you wanna do is work your hours, get your pay, and fuck off outta here, so you keep your head down, ignore the fuckin' boss man, make it to the end of the day, to hand it over to the nightshift, some skinny guy with a grafted leg that always sounds like it needs an oilin', you don't know his name and he don't know yours, you just exchange nods, exchange places, and it's all his now, the crates and the dock and the androids and that yellin' piece of shit, because you're off the clock now, you've punched out and got your bux in return, seven bux an hour, twelve hours of loadin' crates, that's eighty-four bux on your cashcard, eighty-four bux that will get you a bowl of noodles at Funghi Chicken, and a tube of somethin' smooth to wash it down, a shower cell that's as watery as the rain on the docks but at least it's hot and there's a bench that's hard but you can steal an hour's sleep, not supposed to sleep in the shower cells but everybody does, and then you kick your work clothes into your pack and pull on the black synth trousers and vest, and the white coat with its high collar and long tails, and you slip on the cheap shades you're gonna toss anyway and you close the cell behind you and step out...

Not the Night yet, not the real Night, it's just a shadow of the Night, the City at night with mud and concrete and grey strangers and the silent cars, and everyone caught up in their own business, heads down, mutterin' into their phones, goin' about their shitty lives on a shitty night in the shitty City, and they don't know you and you might not know them, just bodies bangin' into each other, bags of bones and meat and petty concerns, blind to the Night, the glory of the true Night, all the wonder it brings, but just now so are you, blind in the dark that's ripped by neon lights and sirens, but you know where you're goin', you can feel the road that leads along 10th, across the square and into the alleys, steel and concrete shinin' from the rain but still dull, reflectin' the neon in warped rainbows that are broken by bodies passin' by, until you get to the underpass that's Fast Freddie's office.

"Twenty bux for an hour, you know the price. How much you got?"

"C'mon, Freddie. You know me. I ain't no one-timer you need to make a handful of quick bux off."

"The price is the price. I got costs, risks, overheads. Shit you know nothin' about. How much you got?"

You play the game every time, Freddie knows how much you have, you know how much time he'll give you, and you settle on three hours for fifty bux like you always do.

"How's your sister, Freddie?" Beth, cute thing, smart too, too smart for a life hustlin' for bux and bits in the City's underpasses, been to school and got herself some proper learnin', got her implants done by a licensed worker, not in the back parlour of a tattoo shop, been back now a few months, smiled at you and went on a date, been wantin' to ask her again but you ain't seen her, Freddie's too protective of her, c'mon man she's a smart girl, can make her own bad decisions, but Freddie's not lookin' happy now, lookin' over his shoulder, looks like guilt, looks bad.

"Beth's gone missin'."

"The fuck, Freddie, how'd you let that happen?" He's got muscleboys, you can see two of them lingerin' in the underpass, he's got connections, in the City and in the Night, he ain't no star jacker but Freddie knows people, he ain't no regular pedlar or common alley rat, but now he sure is lookin' like one, all shifty an' loser-like.

"Went runnin' with a bad crowd. Maximum Lawmen, maybe, the Poets. Got herself in a shitload of shit, not seen her now for three nights." He clears his throat, looks shifty. "Listen man, I gotta ask... You know I never interfere, what you do with the time you buy is your business, what you do in the Night, none of mine, I just sell the timebanks and you do the rest, but you're him, I know you are, you're the Magic Rat?"

Fuck, that's a name you ain't heard for a while, not since it all went fuck-a-doodle-doo...

How long's it been, three years since you ran the Night like you owned it, just you and Kitty casin' the City, followin' the leads, trackin' who's a player, who's an operator, who's a name, sellin' the know for timebanks, gettin' the feel, makin' the deal and keepin' it real, until that one time, you and Kitty and everythin' that went wrong, and you can still that one scream, that endless scream that echoes in your ears like the hiss of the rain, that endless scream that choked off, and that was much worse because that meant somethin' and you didn't dare to look but you had to, had to look into those blank eyes that looked back inside you, and you knew it was your fault, knew the risk was too much but you took it anyway and Kitty paid the price and now Kitty was gone and the Magic Rat was gone too, the person you were, gone all those long years ago, nothin' left now 'cept a silent dockworker takin' hell from the boss man until you can escape into the Night for a few hours, pretend like it's still the same, sniff at the wonder without ever tastin' it anymore, not really, just watchin' the Night like a movieholo, always changin' and never changin', an addict afraid to touch, an outsider never breakin' on through to the inside, not anymore because the inside ain't nothin' without Kitty, without the Magic Rat and what you used to do...

"Not me," you're sayin', shakin' your head and turnin' away, once you were but no more, bye for now Freddie, shrug, what's there to say, what's there to do, another bright future snuffed out, shame 'bout that sweet smile though, but what you gonna do, the Poets, Lawmen, that's bad shit alright, only a shit for brains would get involved.

"Fuck man," that's Freddie, grabbin' your arm stoppin' you from walkin' wavin' his muscleboys over to block the way, you pause and look at him but he ain't lettin' go and his boys ain't movin', "you're him, you're the Rat and you know it, might be shit now but once you were and you're all I got, do this and I owe you."

Owe you? Fuck right he'll owe you, he don't need to say what he wants it's clear on his face, clear he knows whoever goes up against the Poets, the Maximum Lawmen, they ain't comin' back unless they're the shit or unless they get lucky.

But he ain't givin' you a choice, he's givin' you your fifty bux back now you got three hours in the Night but you both know you'd better get it done or die tryin', Freddie's connected and he'll have the know, so you shrug and nod and he lets go so you back away, eyes on those muscleboys, nothin' much you could do about them here, and you're out of the underpass, back up onto the streets, hunched up against the rain, the drizzlin' rain, soaks your face in minutes, shove your hands in your pockets, fingers curlin' around the timebank Freddie sold you, three hours, just three hours, gotta make them last if you got to play the hero to some damsel in a dress, fool girl shoulda known better, the Lawmen, the fuckin' Poets, what the fuck was she thinkin', wish you could forget about her and walk away, lie low for a few weeks so Freddie and his muscleboys don't find you, get your hours from somewhere else and forget about Freddie and his sister and the Magic Rat and Kitty and the whole fuckin' past...

So why you not jacked in yet, why ain't you plugged the timebank into your skull so the Night comes alive, at least for three hours, and so do you, alive from this rain and grime existence of loadin' crates down on the dock, why you standin' here in the mouth of this alley, old boxes piled against the walls, saggin' with the rain, probably the last refuge of a drunk and his pet fleas and rats, a siren far off cuttin' through the sounds of the City so you hear them almost for the first time, and you think what a shithole this is, what a life, and you wonder again how you got trapped here, used to be someone, used to have a name that meant somethin', that stood for somethin' in the Night, used to be a big noise there, now look at you you piece of shit worthless dockworker head down to hide from the rain and the watchin' eyes like anyone fuckin' cares and what you gonna do about that girl...

You got your phone in your hand, scrollin', where's that holo, back in time, not that many holos anyway, what the fuck is worth takin' a holo of anyway, but Beth was worth it, here she is, a waif of a girl, all black hair and pale skin and big, dark eyes, the kohl burned on permanently, did that when she was away at school she said, givin' a look that says she'll fuck you or she'll fuck you, whatever she pleases, and you remember bein' afraid before you got to the fuckin' 'cause she was intense, so intense for a kid, what she say, twenty-three, handful of years younger than Freddie but only a bit younger than you but she looked much younger, never grifted on the streets, never lived in the Night, never woke shiverin' in an alley like this one, never spent her last bits on half an hour of Night, and now she's likely already cold meat, but maybe she don't know it yet...

Only got three hours in the Night, no point wastin' them, dodge the cars on the street, silent except for the tyres hissin' on the wet black, headlights puffin' in the murk, go see Faisal about a knife, somethin' slim, fits up your sleeve, razor trigger and sharp as shit, ask around, maybe someone's seen Beth, seems unlikely if Freddie can't track her, but only a shit for brains wouldn't try, and what you know, Hazy Janey knows somethin'.

"Yeah, I seen her, three days gone, set her up with some empty timebanks."

Thanks Janey, and you buy a pair of ghosts from her, ghosts that you wear in your eyes in the Night, bye Janey and walk away, now you know somethin', but what you know is Beth been fooled by that crazy notion of endless hours in the Night, usin' old timebanks and somehow fillin' them from some permanent source, never have to leave the Night always jacked in like a fuckin' dream, the Promised Land the mad old man on the riverfront used to talk about, just waitin' there for whoever had the balls to grab it...

Jackers been chasin' this dream forever, for as long as the Night's existed and probably even longer, you even sold one or two timebanks to a shit for brains in the past, promisin' endless Night and laughin' as you walked away, so why does Beth think she got the knows to do this, somethin' in her fancy schoolin' perhaps, is that what got her involved in the Lawmen, the Poets, it's gotta be, maybe she's sellin' it to them or they're sellin' it to her but either way it's gonna end bad for the girl...

What sets her apart from all the alley rats and shitmongers you see everywhere you look in this City, huddled in corners, waitin' for the fuckin' rain to stop, does it ever, can't remember last time it wasn't rainin', Beth got that legit jack implanted in her skull, got it done up at school, the Poets or the Lawmen would want it, a legit jack with high access protocols, all traceable back to Beth but what do they care, not a fuck that's what, timebanks or not if she ain't dead yet she will be soon, so time to jack in, done all the preparin' you can with your blade and your ghosts, quiet spot so you can adjust without bein' hit by a car, against this wall, broken neon flashin' overhead, bit of shelter from the rain too, deep breath, deep breath, here you go, jack it in, fingers fumblin' why they fumblin' done it so many times always fumblin' and it's in and the connection hits and-

Every muscle sings, you're here, here in the Night, the real Night not the washed-out version that's the City with its rain and grime and beggars and fools on their 'phones, all dark broken by pale neon, here in the Night it's alive everythin' stands out starkly against the background sharp lines soft curves neon that seems to sparkle, reflectin' off the gleam on the streets and the polished chrome on the cars as they stream by like coloured fish in a nighttime river, all smooth motion and acceleration, silent electricity powerin' them along like the current, you can almost feel it in your own body, drivin' you, urgin' you away from this wall, step out into the Night and go in search, look for the dead girl, hope she ain't dead...

You got the ghosts in your eyes and you follow the lines, in the Night you see the lines markin' out the territories, you see the punks, the shills, the grifters, you see the grafts and the holotats on their hands and cheeks, know who they run with, read the territory like you're lookin' at a map, follow the ebbs and flows, see who's makin' the connections...

"Hey, gotta smoke?"

A skinny thing, nothin' but bones and whipcord and a pair of mirrored glasses, standin' before you makin' a cigarette gesture, you gonna say no, brush past, till you catch the circle on their neck, a silver circle that's not quite closed at the base, like an old omega symbol but this is for the Poets, it's a torc and who the fuck even knows what a torc is nowadays, this kid probably don't, but they got news, they got the know, who's who in the Poets these days, so you make pleasant, no smokes, but walk with me and I'll buy a pack, soon you're talkin' like old friends, you and your new friend Smokes, and they got a wealth of knows that they don't mean to share but you're smooth and you got the knows too, know what to ask, know what to say, impress Smokes with your cool aura, collar of your white coat up like you own the Night, so they feel cool by association as you glide over the square, at home in the crowd, still markin' all the punks and the grifters and their holotats until you get a name, someone of the Third Circle, high up in the Poets...

Need to get some wheels, somethin' slick and silent, like this one, new and freshly imported from So-Ko, all black with coloured lights like New Gangnam, gotta hustle the kid drivin' it, a posh girl with ten thousand bux sunglasses and black steel rings on her thumbs, don't know how the Night works so you tap into the feeds and conjure up an ID that looks legit and impressive, gotta borrow your vehicle ma'am, important City Enforcement business take this card to the central Enforcement Station, yes ma'am sorry I can't help it you should be able to collect your vehicle before lunch tomorrow thank you for your cooperation, and you slam the door shut on her slightly worried look, check the mirrors release the break foot on the power and off you scream into the Night...

This is where the Night really comes to life, racin' along with the lights overhead lights comin' towards you lights on the dash lights flashin' on the windscreen HUD, information all information comin' at you through the ghosts, cars and people and streets and turns and more people and all around you the tall buildings of the City, black and impregnable, blocks of nothin', vanishin' behind you one by one, left in the dirt of this smooth ride, check the battery nearly full you could go for hours, more hours than you got in the Night, swervin' left right left round the corner hard turn avoid the bikers so fast past the Enforcers they don't even see you what a thrill to be alive hands sweaty on the wheel foot almost tremblin' on the power fuck this is good this is what the Night is all about fuck you've missed this why did you ever leave, but there was Kitty of course and now there's Beth and you slow down because you here now...

The place is called Free's Out, fuck knows why, maybe it means somethin' to the Poets, they made it one of their dens but you get in easy enough, strut like you belong, bob to the music like you belong, nod to the doorman like you belong and you're in, all thumpin' bass and epileptics flashin' from the ceiling and the walls, bouncin' off the mirrors that are everywhere, sweaty bodies bouncin' to the thump, lots of bare skin and glitter and polished grafts, you see a girl with a tat all in silver crawlin' up her arm, some kid with a vizor over his eyes, a handful of alley rats with articulated arms, but you ain't here to dance, ain't here to case the general population, you turn down the music in your ears to concentrate, look round, there on the raised platform is the Poets, three of them loungin' like they own the place, maybe they do, Poets are well connected, well heeled, two of them are pretenders but the third is the one you want, the one that Smokes let slip about, got two extra arcs around her torc, Poet of the Third Circle, fuck knows why they call it that...

Melvai she's called, you call her, nod your way past the goons so quick you'd barely even know they were there you so slick, then you're on the platform leanin' in close to Melvai whisper the message you know she wants to get you hope she hasn't got it yet, heart thumpin' almost as loud as the music try not to hold your breath make yourself look calm, casual, cool, so cool, just doin' your job nothin' to worry about here's the message you wanted...

No sweat, you follow her off the platform through a heavy metal door that was hidden in the dark but becomes a slit and then a rectangle of red and there's someone hard on your heels, muscleboy, Poets this big don't just meet with anyone without muscle around, been so fuckin' long since you did this shit, wait for the right moment, down a passage past doors on either side music still thumpin' through the building's bones just pretend to focus on Melvai's swingin' arse before you, round a corner the corridor ends in another big metal door, bar across it, two more doors on your left now's the time to act have to get it right, just as you pass under the light fitting you reach up and you're in the Night so you pull down the power supply and glide to the side as the muscle passes, too close behind you to stop, and you jam the cable into his neck, in the jack zap zap sparks in the flickerin' red light and in your fingertips and he tries to scream but his jack's shorted and he flickers like a faulty advertisin' holo and then he's gone.

"The fuck?" Melvai, just turnin', eyes flickin' about, where's the muscleboy gone what's this fucker doin' with that power supply chest heavin' and steppin' close to me?

One zap with the supply on her jack, she goes limp around the knees, not ejected though, let go of the cable, grab her around the waist and drag her to the doors, the big doors leadin' outside into the black, except it's not black 'cause it's the City and there's always light in the Night, neon lights and headlights and dead lights and even the sky ain't never black here, always reflectin' the lights, but it's an alley and not much of the light reaches here, not after the doors fall shut on the red.

"The fuck?" Not very imaginative, not for a Poet, what happened to poetry, should be ashamed of herself, but she only looks dazed and confused, bit of drool on her chin, leanin' against the wall with one hand, wipin' with the other, bent forward, lookin' at me through her hair. "The fuck?"