‘Next one takes ya ear off.’
The Cracker wiped the drop of blood with a grubby finger and brought it to his lips. His tongue flicked out again, cleaning the blood away.
‘I takes that as a no.’ He smiled and shrugged. ‘Your loss.’
He reached his left hand into his shabby coat.
‘Slowly,’ demanded Zyra, waggling her remaining razor leaf.
‘Oh, of course,’ said the Cracker, slowing down to an exaggerated extent. In the distance Zyra could hear the perimeter drone coming around again.
‘Comes on,’ she encouraged. ‘Not that slow.’
‘Is plenty of rich houses up here on the Hill,’ he continued, ignoring her attempt to hurry him. ‘Theys all has keys. Go gets your own. Go now, and I'll forgets this ever happened.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I'll even gives you a tip. Fat Man's away. House is easy target.’
Zyra moved her hand as if to throw the razor-leaf.
The Cracker shrugged. ‘Don't says I didn't gives you a chance.’
He carefully extracted his hand, holding up a plastic card. It was the size and shape of a standard credit card. Metallic blue with an embedded microchip, it had no markings save the Designers Paradise logo. It shone gently in the shadow of the wall, as if it had its own power source.
‘Praise be to the Designers,’ whispered the Cracker.
Zyra breathed in sharply, all her attention focused on the card. This was what she was after. A key! The ability to gain entry to Designers Paradise and escape the World, at least for a little while. She held out her free hand and took a step forward, indistinct images and memories playing at the corners of her mind.
As she did so, the Cracker clenched his right hand, the constriction of the muscles activating a device concealed in his right sleeve. A pellet shot from his coat sleeve, hitting Zyra between the eyes. The pellet burst apart in a spray of acid. She would have been blinded were it not for her balaclava.
Zyra whipped it off before the acid had a chance to eat its way through, revealing her short red Mohawk and numerous piercings. She tossed the balaclava at the Cracker. It hit him in the face, spreading just enough acid to burn his cheek and cause him to yelp. Over his shoulder, Zyra could see the approaching perimeter drone. Knowing she had to move fast, she leapt at him, throwing him against the wall, which fizzled and tingled but felt solid enough. As the Cracker clutched his face with one hand, Zyra smashed his other hand, the one that held the key, against the wall. With a sickening crack, and an accompanying scream, the Cracker let go of the card.
Zyra caught the card, let go of the Cracker and hurled herself down the path the Cracker had created in the razor-bush. As she ran, she heard the perimeter drone, but didn't stop to see if the Cracker made it out alive.
4: The Cracker
The Cracker's eyes focused on the approaching perimeter drone and widened in terror. With hardly a second to spare, he jumped. His right shoe burst into flame as he tumbled through the limp section of razor-bush.
He fell to the ground on the other side, smothering the flames in the grass. He scrambled to remove the smouldering shoe. As he threw it aside, he looked down at his hands. The middle finger of his left hand was bent back at an impossible angle and both hands were covered in small cuts from flailing about as he tumbled through the razor-bush. The limp area was quite narrow and in his eagerness to escape being roasted alive, he had not been careful enough.
He took a moment to lick the wounds clean. He then clutched the bent finger with his right hand and yanked it back into place.
Crack!
He winced with the pain, but made no sound.
His gaze then lifted to see the distant figure of Zyra disappearing down the immaculately manicured streets of the Hill. He brought a hand up to his face, to gently stroke his burnt cheek.
‘Oh Zyra, my pretty-pretty.’ He cracked the knuckles of his right hand, sharply, deliberately, one by one. ‘You has crossed the wrong thiever. This ain't over yets. Not bys a long shot.’
Slowly, a truly ugly smile spread across his pockmarked face.
5: The Plan
‘I gots this lot from a princeling's guards,’ said Tark, as he held up a small pouch.
Zyra raised a heavily pierced eyebrow as if to say, big deal. Tark ignored the expression and headed to a corner of the dilapidated basement. He carefully prised a brick from the old wall, and then reached in, searching for something. Finding the concealed switch, he flipped it with his finger and stood back.
A substantial section of the old rotted floorboards sank several centimetres, then slid aside, revealing a shining metallic surface. Tark knelt down and placed the palm of his right hand onto the surface. A light flashed from within the metal, scanning his palm-print.
Tark looked up at Zyra. ‘Comes on, ya turn.’
Zyra sauntered over and put her hand next to Tark's, almost touching it. They briefly looked into each other's eyes with a yearning that went beyond words. The light flashed again. As they removed their hands, the metal sheet slid back. Out of the deep darkness below, a battered old chest rose up on a pedestal.
The chest was made of dark wood, cornered in brass, with strips of patterned leather studded across its rounded lid. A heavy metal padlock with two keyholes secured the lid to the body. Tark and Zyra fished out their keys from beneath their clothing and, in unison, inserted and turned them in the lock.
Tark took a deep breath and lifted the lid. Inside the chest was a varied collection of coins and jewellery — everything from coppers and silvers, to rings and necklaces; from a few gold pieces, to three rubies and one diamond. This meagre treasure was the result of months of thievery. Tark's eyes almost glazed over as he stared at the stash. It was their future. The chest was only about half full, so they still needed more.
‘Every little bit ’elps,’ said Tark as he emptied the contents of the pouch into the chest.
He watched intently as coins of silver and copper, as well as a few bronze rings, tumbled into the chest. He gave a deep sigh, then tossed the empty pouch to one side. He looked across at Zyra and a grin spread across his face.
‘Wot are ya grinnin’ at?’ she demanded.
‘I also tooks this ’ere weapon.’ He pulled back his tattered cloak to reveal the sheathed sword.
‘Big deal,’ huffed Zyra, exerting her superiority. She was three centimetres taller and a month older than Tark, and usually lauded it over him. ‘Ya gots yaself a sword.’
‘Oh Zyra,’ said Tark, rubbing at the scar that cut a path through the dark stubble on his head. ‘This ’ere ain't no normal sword. This ’ere is a sword o’ light.’
Zyra's green eyes narrowed to cat slits, her piercings glinting around them. ‘Wot's some snivelling princeling doin’ with one of ’em?’
Tark shrugged. ‘Dunno. Probably nicked it. Don't care.’ An uncharacteristic thoughtfulness crossed Tark's face. ‘Scared of it, ’e wuz. Hads himself a mage to looks after it. Dead now!’ But then the thoughtfulness was gone and he laughed. ‘’Course ya know wot this means?’
‘Gold!’
‘Yep!’ He patted the sword hilt. ‘With one of these babies I'll be able to go a dragon and wins its stash.’
‘Well I's gots news, too,’ said Zyra, putting hands on hips, striking a pose and looking very satisfied with herself. She reached into her boot and pulled out the plastic card.
‘A key!’ gasped Tark. ‘Ya gots a key already! How'd ya do that?’
She casually flicked the card.
Tark watched it sail through the air and land in the chest. One key, allowing one visit to Designers Paradise. Would they be able to get another? Thoughts of a better world, a better life, flitted through his mind and were gone
