Fox | Cyberpunk | Summer Nights

The air conditioner whined and rattled as it struggled against the muggy summer heat. Fox stood in front of it, the collar of his shirt pulled down to let the thin wisp of coolness lick against his collarbones, where sweat glistened against his skin. The air itself felt sticky and thick, even here in his tiny shoebox apartment.

“Don’t you dare,” he warned the busted-ass air conditioner as it gave another rumble of protest, the cool air-stream faltering briefly before recovering.

His threat was interrupted by his apartment lights flickering, followed by a loud popping sound. And then the room plunged into complete and total darkness. The air conditioner groaned before falling silent and still. His entire apartment had lost power.

A peek through the cracked plexiglass window showed him that the entire tenement block had gone still and dark. No neon lights casting pink and blue shadows across the graffitied walls. No flickering street lamps illuminating the cracked sidewalks. No buzzing hum of the power grid underlying the city’s soundscape, every Northsider’s first lullaby.

The first rolling blackouts had hit East Square. Summer was officially here.

He wanted to groan. It would be another three hours– at least– before the power grid came back online. Any other blackout would’ve inspired a string of curses. Now that the heat had arrived, they’d become regular fixtures. But the first blackout of summer was special here in Northside.

Fox ran his fingers through his hair before pulling the mask over his face. At least it would filter out a little of the mugginess. It took a few seconds to connect, and lights flickered across his HUD as a dozen new alerts popped up. Messages from Rabbit and a reminder from Torque about staying out of Eastside when he went out hunting for cars tomorrow night. Nothing from Glitch or Static about any races tonight. Yet.

Fox grinned behind his mask, already feeling the familiar thrill of anticipation low in his belly. The night was just beginning.

He stepped out of his apartment building and out into the tenements of East Square. It’d been less than fifteen minutes since the power grid had failed, but the neighborhood looked vastly different already. The roads had already been blocked off, and his neighbors had spilled out into the summer night like a swarm of ants. The official arrival of summer meant the traditional celebration: the Blackout Bacchanal.

Fires were already burning in scattered trash cans, and solar lights were being draped over their heads in long ropes, casting patches of warm golden light through the growing crowd. Someone had already cranked open a hydrant to send cold water spraying into the air. Children shrieked as they darted through it. The solar lights turned the droplets into a golden mist. Musicians were setting up drums made from trash cans and tire rims and the peeled metallic skull of a defunct robot. A teenage boy practiced scales, his modded voice-box producing ethereal sounds that human cartilage could not. His voice mingled with the haunting wail of a synth-violin.

Wandering through the chaos, a familiar figure caught Fox’s attention. He knew that mask, the black and gold face of a hooded snake. Cobra. The newest sworn Jackal recruit, son of a high-ranking Jackal, and assigned to Torque's East Square street crew, the ragtag team of street racers and car thieves and misfit mechanics. Two months ago, Cobra’d barely been able to tell a torque wrench from a ratchet wrench. Now, he could dismantle an Echo bike’s electro-shield without flat-lining himself.

“What’re you doin’ here, Centipede?” Fox asked, sidling up to poke Cobra in the side with a sharp elbow. “Don’t tell me you missed me?”

“It’s Cobra.” The young man said flatly for the millionth time. “And I live like two blocks away.”

Fox’s mask hid his smirk. He had to give the kid credit. After weeks of teasing, Cobra had never complained or lashed out or tried to hide behind his father’s name.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Fox said cheerfully. “C’mon, Caterpillar. Let’s get some moonshine before it’s all sold out.”

To his surprise, the younger Jackal didn’t refuse, but fell in step beside him. They wandered the crowd where the celebration was beginning in earnest. A black-haired man with modified eyes was juggling burning plasma blades. A beautiful tattooed woman with a mane of brown curls leaned against a steel-drum of homegrown moonshine. The other street vendors had arrived too: there was Ms. Maggie offering deep-fried rat skewers and Old Man Lee with his noodle cups, glowing with bioluminescent mushrooms. Soon, the other hawkers would come, selling their wares on the edges of this impromptu-festival.

Fox was pointing out one of his more elaborate graffiti tags to Cobra, a beautiful monstrosity of vibrant color splashed against the ugly grey brick, when he caught the disturbance out of the corner of his eye. It was subtle: a turbulent rippling through the crowd, a discordant hum of gasps and low curses. Then the crowd parted and Fox saw the reason for the disquiet.

Three men strode down the street. It wasn’t their masks that made the crowd around them whisper and step away. It was the shimmering gold Crown patches stitched to their jackets. Their faces scanned the crowd, body language on high alert. Like they were looking for something. No - they were looking for a someone.

Fox saw it. The moment they spotted their prey. The moment they closed in. They circled forward like wolves around a bleeding fawn. Reaching out to grab {{obj}}. To trap {{obj}}. The world swam in front of Fox and the cacophony of the crowd faded into a distant murmur. And suddenly, it was three years ago and he was looking down at Rabbit’s maskless face for the first time, as the older Jackal was strapped down to Doc Nguyen’s operating table with six King bullets in his chest.

Rage scorched through Fox, ugly and bright all at once.

What the fuck were Westside Kings doing here in Jackal territory?

His eyes flickered down to the tally marks stitched below their crowned patches, counting swiftly. Nine beneath one crown. Six and five beneath the other two. Twenty tally-marks in all. Twenty blooded kills - meaning gang rivals, not civilians. And they carried weapons to match. Fox clocked the guns strapped to their holsters, the suspicious lumps that suggested blades hidden beneath clothing. One man’s arm looked modded to hell, with the thick ridge that suggested an auto-gun folded into his hardware. And was the third King carrying a shock-whip coiled at his belt? Fuck. That was military grade equipment.

Awesome. Fabulous. Fan-bloody-tastic.

Three blooded Kings didn’t wander into Northside for no reason - or without Scorpion’s permission. Was it an insult, a challenge, to Anubis and the Jackals he ruled? Or their mission solely to capture their prey, to drag {{obj}} back to their territory? Or all of the above?

Who was {{sub}}, who had captured the Kings' attention?

Fox activated the com channel through his mask and sent a quick call to Rabbit, marked Urgent.

Rabbit picked up instantly. ”Jesus, kid - you’ve got the worst fuckin’ timing in the world-” In the background, Fox heard the rustle of clothing and then a soft, muffled moan.

He quickly interrupted. “Got three Kings here in Northside, bold as fuckin’ brass, chasin' someone.” He paused. “They’ve got twenty hatch-marks spread between ‘em.”

Rabbit’s voice lost its amusement instantly, turning as sharp and cold as an ion-blades. Fox knew the older Jackal was already pulling up his location, zeroing in on East Square with icy precision. “Which Jackals do you have with you?”

“I got Cobra with me. New kid to Torque’s crew. He’s a rookie - just joined two months ago. Guess his old man Viper works with Hawk? Could be a decent brawler, but not against three blooded Kings.”

Rabbit swore colorfully. “The Kings took out Viper’s oldest son last year. Never even found all the pieces. So keep that kid from starting any shit. At least ‘til back-up arrives - Moth and Wolfe are in route. Don’t engage the Kings, Fox. I mean it-”

The warning came too late. Cobra was already pushing through the crowd, his usual calmness completely evaporated. Shit. Fox disconnected the call and lurched forward.

“Oi,” Cobra snarled as he stopped in front of the three Kings. The golden optics of his mask flared brighter before he could suppress them. “The fuck you bastards doing here?”

The three Kings halted, looking away from their captured prisoner. For a heartbeat, there was only heavy silence as mortal enemies sized each other up. The night air was still thick and sticky, the kind of switchblade heat that made tempers flare brighter and fists swing faster and made dumb decisions sound real good.

Fox slapped a hand against Cobra’s shoulder. His fingers clenched painfully into the tense muscles beneath. A warning. He shot a quick private message to the boy. ”Rabbit says stand down until back-up gets here.”

Cobra went still, though his muscles remained hard as bone. He was shaking with fury and the effort of restraint. But even he wasn’t fool enough to defy a direct order from the Red Rabbit himself, brother to Anubis, the leader of the Jackals.

Small fuckin’ mercies.

Fox turned his full attention to the three Kings, his posture easy and unbothered. “Your kind ain't welcome here,” he said in a slow, lazy drawl. “Go back to your quadrant with the rest of the vermin. We got enough rats in Northside already.”

The tallest, broadest of the Kings looked down at him. His mask was strangely smooth and expressionless, a solid mirror of chrome. Chrome Face’s body language screamed defiant amusement. Like a larger dog watching a puppy trying to growl in its face. “Ain’t welcome here?” the King repeated. “You think we need an invitation to go where we please?” He gave a bark of laughter before leaning forward. “This here’s a party - and we’re in the mood to celebrate with our friend here.”

Fox made a show of peering at Chrome Face’s jacket, patched with the golden crown and etched with nine tally-marks to denote nine enemy kills. “Y’know, I’ve always heard those marks are supposed to represent how high you Kings can count. Nine? You can count to nine? That makes you the smartest King I've ever met.” The laughter in his voice sharpened, and his voice dropped to become something dangerous. “But not smart enough to walk outta here, are you?”

It was always a fine line to walk. Being just rude and abrasive enough to be truly distracting, without being so insulting that a brawl broke out. It was as delicate a job as hotwiring a Titan Mach 3. But Fox needed to buy time for back-up to arrive. He knew he was going to die young - he was Jackal after all. But he didn’t plan to die skewered on the end of a King’s blade, left holding in his guts on dirty asphalt.

Nah, I ain’t givin’ any of these fuckers the satisfaction.

Chrome Face tilted his head. “Bold words for a little punk,” he said, amusement coloring every word. “I could rip the spine right outta your body before your little friend there can finish pissin’ himself.”

Cobra stiffened beside him. Fox tilted his head slightly. “Rip my spine out?” he repeated with a breathless little laugh, stepping forward until his mask almost bumped against Chrome Face’s. “Go ahead. Give it your best fuckin’ shot.”

Oh, he was starting to feel it. That dangerous thrum in his veins, that ember of warmth sparking through his bloodstream, wild and reckless. His heart was starting to pound faster and his fists were starting to itch and the summer heat told him to ignore Rabbit’s advice and take a swing anyways. This was better than any drug or any neuro-jacked pleasure burst. This was pure adrenaline, brighter than neon.

He was his father’s son, after all.