You find yourself waking up to another cold day in the city. Tinted like a dream, nauseous. The rough blanket hurts against the cuts that cover your body. Each bruise cries out against the rock-hard mattress. You swing your feet to the floor and stand as if the effort itself would cause you to collapse. The clothes across the floor from the night before are stained, blood flakes from the denim when you put your pants on. This part of your morning doesn't feel like home to you. What feels so familiar are the dog tags on the bedside table, your name engraved, lovingly sharpened along the edges until they resembled razor-blades, a cold chain bound with barbed wire holds the metal to your chest. When you've got it on you feel ready, you feel unstoppable.
You hit the dirty streets like a memory of cancer. Everything the same and repeating, until you reach the old corner store that acts as a front for the Pits. The same pits where you earned your tags - same pits where you break your knuckles every other week for front plus a little extra. Lloyd runs the Pits like a machine - bodies in one end, blood and money out the other - like a slaughterhouse. Only difference is, all the pigs want it, they all get thir share. But his time you don't see Lloyd's smiling face to hand over the cut. No, instead you get his body, or whatever's been made of it. Some teeth behid the counter, twin arterial sprays like jet contrails, a caved-in aw, and a cruel but steady heartbeat. Someone roughed him up bad. They took the week's earnings, would've taken Lloyd's like if the damned Beacons would allow.
You call the paramedics, tell them it was one of the gangs of kids that haunt these parts. Then you drag his body out front. It looks better that way, and he won't have to talk to the cops about the millions of dollars his run-down shop is missing.
You head back out, trying to conjure the clues out from nothing. The worst thugs leave calling cards, but this was something cleaner, organized. This part of the city ebbs and flows by Lloyd's wishes and you know that even the worst thugs wouldn't fuck with him. No one makes a dollar unless he wants them to. Problem is, as you see it, that the rest of the city is too rich or too busy to care. He only had a short list of enemies so you head back to the hub to find someone to help. maybe if you cross off enough names you'll find the money, maybe you'll even find
|Beacons||Series||Anders: 4 | 6 – Elspeth: 1 | 2 | 10 | 11 | 13 | 15 – Jerome: Cautionary | Journal – Lewis: 2 – Moncada: Letter to Wife | Obituary – Steve Wilks: 4 | 5 | 6 – Triya: 1 | 3 | 4 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 12 | 13 | 15 | 17 | 20|
|Standalone||Abbess | Anti Beacon Flier | Crossroads | Cycles | Letter to Resident | Non Human Beacons | Smugglers Note | Time Capsule | Trooper Noir|