High Ball
The Sprawl - Memphis
“That’s eight! Scratch and high ball! Come on, fork over the cash! Losing all day, but my luck is finally turning around!” Memphis shouted. He’d been playing dice with the others in the dive bar, a dingy spot wedged between a stack of tenements in the Sprawl, since the early morning hours. The game was called Bicycle Sevens, popular in Vargos but often dismissed by those in the nicer parts of the city as a poor man’s pastime.
The rules were simple, which only added to its appeal among Vargos’ throngs of working-class residents. Players took turns as the Shooter, rolling two six-sided dice to win the pot. Rolling a 7 on the first roll meant an instant win. Rolling a 2 or 12 meant an immediate loss. Any other number became the “High Ball,” the target the Shooter had to match to claim half the pot, while the other half carried over to the next round. Rolling a 7, 2, or 12 while aiming for the High Ball was a loss. Side bets, especially after a few drinks or hits of synth, made the stakes even higher. Memphis had embraced that reckless style, and now he was deep in the hole.
He’d already bet all his loose cash, the credits on his personal chit, and even his revolver. If he wasn’t careful, he’d lose his shirt and shoes next.
Debbie was up as the next Shooter. She was new to the game, but her luck had been suspiciously good all day. Memphis was banking on the dice turning against her, hoping to claw back his losses, or even a miracle win, with a side bet. Sweat stung his eyes as he placed his money on the roll and let it ride, watching Debbie shake the dice in her hands.
Before she could throw, she froze. The circle of players fell silent. Her fingers clenched around the dice as her eyes locked onto something behind Memphis.
Then came the pressure–sudden and crushing–on both his shoulders. A moment later, he was airborne. The impact rattled his skull as he hit the floor. Dazed, he looked up at two hulking figures, holographic visors covering their eyes, deep scars carved into their cheeks. They were Reds. Memphis’ stomach twisted. The Reds only handled things personally when they were about to get violent.
He barely had time to brace before the first boot slammed into his face. The world snapped to black for a split second before another blow shot pain through his ribs. He threw up an arm in a feeble attempt to block, but his hand slipped, leading to another kick to the chest. Then another to the face. He rolled over, curling in on himself, but the onslaught didn’t stop.
Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it ended.
Memphis lay on his side, gasping, ears ringing. The bar was deadly silent. He forced himself upright in a flurry of blood spitting onto the floor. Around the table, the other gamblers stared at their hands, avoiding eye contact with him, and especially with the Reds. Debbie still hadn’t rolled. Her fist was clenched tight, trembling, the dice trapped inside.
“Memphis, time to go,” one of the men said. His voice was surprisingly high for his size.
Memphis recognized him. Chubby. They’d crossed paths before. And now Memphis knew why they were here. A week ago, he’d sold the Reds a busted car. He hadn’t realized who he was dealing with at the time, but now? He knew the score. His luck had run out.
He scrambled to his feet, but he didn’t make it far. Chubby’s partner moved fast, slamming him back to the ground before dragging him toward the exit. Memphis barely had time to protest before they hauled him outside and into the packed streets of the Sprawl.
Chubby followed close behind as they muscled him through the crowd. Memphis thrashed, desperate, his voice raw as he shouted for help. No one looked. No one would. This was Vargos–intervening in someone else’s beating was a good way to end up in one yourself.
The Reds dragged him off the main street into a trash-strewn alley. They tossed him onto a pile of rotting food containers, then started in again. Fists. Boots. Headbutts. Memphis lost count of the blows, the pain blurring together.
Desperate, he grabbed a handful of garbage and flung it at them. Chubby barely flinched. If anything, it only pissed him off. The next hit sent Memphis sprawling. Then Chubby grabbed his wrist, the one with his old cyberhand, and with a sharp twist tore the mechanical augmentation clean from its port.
Searing agony tore through him. He nearly blacked out.
From there, he went limp. The beating continued, but he barely felt it anymore. Then, mercifully, it stopped. Chubby’s partner stepped back and pulled out a gun.
The gun was sleek, high-tech and foreign. By the etchings along its side, Memphis guessed it was German-made, the kind of firepower that could drop a rhinoceros with a misfire. His stomach clenched as he imagined, in horrible detail, what it was about to do to him.
He tried to lift his arms to shield his face, a pathetic attempt at protecting himself from certain death, but his body refused to respond. A broken sob escaped him as the realization set in. He could hardly move.
The two men chuckled. Memphis couldn’t see their eyes behind their visors, but their smiles told him everything he needed to know. This wasn’t business to them. They weren’t just here to settle a debt. They were enjoying every second.
“Oh, Memphis, why’d we have to get here?” Chubby asked, crouching down to meet his bloodied face. “You could’ve just told me the car was a lemon, man. But no. You thought ripping off the Reds wouldn’t be a big deal.” He shook his head. “Bad move, man. Bad move.”
“I didn’t know. I thought–” Memphis sputtered, choking on the blood dripping from his nose and down his throat.
“Thought what?” Chubby cupped a hand to his ear.
“I didn’t know you were with the Reds,” Memphis finally gasped.
“Oh! Oh, okay, no problem then!” Chubby grinned, his voice full of mock relief. “Had no idea? What a relief! Here, let me help you up.”
He extended a hand. Memphis hesitated, then took it, hope flickering in his bruised face.
Chubby yanked him forward and, in a flash, drove his forehead into Memphis’ face with a sickening crack. Memphis’ vision exploded into thermal agony. His nose was broken. He cried out, falling back into the refuse pile with a groan.
“Dumbass,” Chubby spat. “You never rip off someone who might come back to haunt you. Look at you now, you’re skeltered.” He gestured toward the alley. “Even if you tried to run, you know we’d put you down before you made it five steps. This is how it has to go. You’re gonna rest right here, in the trash, where you belong.”
He stepped back and gave his partner a nod. The gun powered up with a high-pitched whir, neon-blue lines flashing along its barrel. Chubby beckoned Memphis forward.
“On your knees. Have some dignity while you still can.”
Memphis wanted to resist, but there was no point. His body was battered and broken. He was out of options. Fucking Reds. They never cared about getting their money back. No interest. No late fees. They just liked the killing part of a deal gone wrong.
Shaking, Memphis crawled forward, resting his knees on the grime-caked alley floor. He let his head drop, feeling the cold steel of the barrel press against his skull. He’d been here before. On his knees, a gun to his head, a deal gone bad. But this time, it felt different. Final. Merciless. But stupid on their part.
Because they hadn’t tied his hands.
The barrel shifted slightly as Chubby’s partner steadied his aim. Memphis lunged. With every ounce of strength he had left, he gripped the gun’s barrel with his left hand and yanked it free, twisting it toward himself in one swift motion. He aimed and pulled the trigger.
Nothing.
Another pull.
Nothing.
Heart pounding, Memphis stared at the weapon through blood-blurred eyes. It was powered up, primed and ready. But every time he squeezed the trigger it just released a soft useless click. The Reds chuckled.
Chubby stepped forward, casually prying the gun from Memphis’ trembling grip. He gave him a light pat on the shoulder, shaking his head with something approaching pity.
“It’s a Berliner firearm, Memphis.” His voice was smooth, almost kind. “Fingerprint encoded.” Chubby’s grin widened as he spoke.
“You know how it is, don’t want your weapon falling into the wrong hands.”
His partner let out a sharp, barking laugh.
“Or in your case,” Chubby added, eyes gleaming, “the wrong hand!”
They roared with laughter. Chubby flicked his fingers, motioning Memphis back down.
Back at the bar, the gamblers cleaned up their game and made idle conversation, planning on when to meet tomorrow, discussing their upcoming work week, and counting their winnings and losses. Debbie walked towards the exit accompanied by another player, tucking her newly loaded personal chit and loose cash into her pocket as they entered the street and made their way back to their homes. Debbie turned to her companion with a grin.
“Poor Memphis man. He would’ve won the whole pot on my last throw there if those guys had come in just a minute later.”