Children of The Spheres

Chapter 3: Street Kids

My breath forms clouds in front of me, blending into the low-hanging mist. Shiro walks beside me, his CrystalLens visor casting a red glow across his face. Data flickers across the angular lines, unreadable to me. His fingers tap the hidden Echo R-30 hand cannon inside his coat. I do the same. The cold weight feels right.

It's been two years since that night. Two years since Jace was murdered, his body tossed aside like garbage. I remember the terror, the way my heart pounded in my chest, the feeling of helplessness that still lingers. I can still hear the crack of the gunshot. Always the same, every night—louder than it was. By the time I stumbled back, still shaking, Jace was already gone. Not a trace left.

We never found out where they took him, or what they did with his remains. No funeral, no rites. Just me and Shiro, sitting in silence, knowing it was only us now. We did what we could. Dug through Jace's things, found his stash of credits—savings he'd scraped together over time. Not much, but enough to make a difference. We didn't waste it.

I glance at Shiro. He's wearing Jace's old jacket, its red-and-white fabric covered with synthetic armor along the shoulders and forearms. Always looks good on him, but it's a bit loud for Isenhold's middle levels.

The motel appears, a flickering neon sign barely clinging to life. Rust devours the boarded-up windows, the place half-swallowed by decay. It blends in with the forgotten corners of the city, where no one questions who comes and goes. Shiro doesn't say a word as I knock three times on the door. A camera above shifts, its lens focusing on us. I hear the faint click of the lock disengaging before the door creaks open. Inside, the air is thick with dust, cramped, and the lights flicker like they're barely hanging on to life.

A woman is standing behind the door, and I immediately notice her left arm—a bulky metal prosthetic, rough and old fashioned. No synth-skin to cover the mechanics, just raw metal. Her brown eyes flicker between us, sizing us up with a quick glance.

"You're the ones?"

"Yeah," Shiro answers, not breaking stride. "Lorn sent us."

At the mention of the old fixer, she relaxes, just a fraction, and waves us inside without another word. As she moves toward the table, we follow. The motel's smaller inside than I expected, dirtier too. We sit down, and Shiro places the briefcase on top of it. With a flick of his wrist, he opens it, revealing the three vials of nightscream—black liquid, swirling faintly in the low light. It's designed for one thing: torture. I don't know who she plans on using it on, but I don't envy them. Nightscream doesn't just put you to sleep. It forces you into days-long nightmares, lucid and impossible to wake from. Pure hell in a vial.

She inspects them, running her fingers over one. "It's all here," she says, satisfied. She hands me a datachip, marked with a three thousand credit value—exactly what Lorn asked for.

I nod. "It's there."

She doesn't offer any more words, and we don't wait for them. Standing up, we head back toward the door, the motel's stifling atmosphere clinging to us even after we step outside.

Shiro finally speaks once we're back in the street. "That was easy."

"Just another gig," I say. Though, nightscream... That's the first time we've ever delivered something like that.

He taps the side of his CrystalLens, bringing up a display only he can see. "We've got enough now. For the augs."

My eyes go wide. "Already? Thought we still had a few more weeks."

Shiro shakes his head. "Not with the side gigs we picked up last month. We're prime."

I exhale. A year of scraping by—odd jobs, deliveries, anything to save enough for a shot at something more. More than being miners, more than Jace ever was—a street kid who didn't make it out. But sometimes I wonder if we're just fooling ourselves.