I shot a man in Reno. Badlands Arc #2
"Drek drek drek drek DREK FRAG DREK!" Growled Low-Key as he ran through the backstreets of Reno. It was dark, it was cold as all hell and Low-Key was leaking blood like it was a lot less precious to him than it actually was. The wound was not fatal, but the bleeding, the hypothermia and the people on his trail probably would be.
A moment after ducking down behind a 2057 Honda 2200 Turbo (The year they had those annoyingly popular but useless 'airducts' along the side), Low-Key popped up to look through the windows. His breath threatened to fog the glass, but a quick wipe with his forearm gave him just enough clarity to see the pursuers.
Dressed in black, they had the look of crime. Not the warrens or sprawl or whatever the
local designation for 'hellhole' scum sort of crime, but instead, the kind of crime that wore impeccably tailored suits, sun glasses and carried silenced pistols. The worst kind of criminal; the one better prepared than you.
He ducked back down, hissing with the pain of it, listening to the slow, paced splatter of his blood on to the ground below him. Gritting his teeth, he timed the passing cars till he heard the lull. Thank god for gridguide. It made it possible to do that; the local system liked to group cars in tight packs to maximize traction. The snow up here could build up between cars, so the system put the heaviest vehicle at the front, so it sort of plowed the road for the other cars. For safety, it made gaps in the line so that it kept each group of 5 cars separated. It kept accidents to a minimum and allowed for the addition of more vehicles at will.
His good hand, the one not soaked in blood from pressing on the wound, stabbed at the cellphone. "Dial G-Cap." He grunted, his breath turning to mist front of him. The ringing phone taunted him once, then twice, then a third time before finally it patched through. The connection was crackling, popping, something that caught Low-Key as odd. As odd as bleeding a trail through Reno.
"G-Cap. Wassup Lo-brow?" Asked the orkish male on the other end of the line.
"No time for jokes brother. Reno's gone, homey, whole damn cells gone."
"Gone? What are you talking about?"
"I'm telling you man we got Yakuza up here who just came through and wiped out all of us. Unit, Pace, Panther, Mojo they dead, G-Cap, and I ain't far behind. I'm bleeden, I'm runnin, and I got yacks on my ass thicker than your momma's overbite."
"Drek Omae drek. What the fuck are the yak doing in Ute Territory? They ain't supposed to be up there. You get away. I'll put together a team from Truckee to come get you."
"Dunno bro, but they hit us so hard and so fast, they had to have been here a while. They walk like they ain't got a care in the fucking world from the cops, too. Don't bother extracten me, chum. I ain't gonna make it. Only reason I ain't dead, I think, is they want me alive. Ain't gonna happen omae. Low-Key ain't no snitch."
"No man. You ain' no snitch. But you gonna make it. We be up there tomorrow. Now, get your ass moving." With that, the man on the other end of the phone killed the call.
Low-Key closed his eyes, shaking his head and putting the phone away. He thought for a moment about his bitch back in Orktown. He wasn't gonna see her again, not her or the sprogs. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. It was getting harder to think. He glanced over the car again, his face getting sprayed with a shower of glass from the window that shattered next to him. Japs were fucking close.
With an act of desperation and determination, Low-Key, one hand pressed to the wound at his side, dashed in to the road, lumbering for the gap.
Why did the Low-Key cross the road?
It's an old joke, but the answer was simple enough.
He didn't.