Strange City Magic

4: Emergency in Stereo

The neighborhoods surrounding the Wending Way were sparsely populated. Vacant warehouses and abandoned factories dominated the scenery of their walk, each as dark as the next. Each as silent as the next. Life didn't return to the streets until they approached the Theater. The building itself had probably started life as an auditorium or a stadium out in the real world, before the City got ahold of it. Now the complex occupied four blocks, and several buildings, its territory denoted more by mood than by any physical boundary. Groups milled about the entrance at all hours, and there was no exception that particular night. Folks chatted, laughed, and traded pamphlets amongst themselves. It was, above all things, a place to come and see a good show.

Five young women stood talking in the middle of the road, just outside of the pleasant hum of the main entryway. They were the first to notice Loren and Kian, stumbling out of the shadows. "Get Marco!" they cried. "Get Marco!" Half of the street lurched forward, toward the source of the commotion, and half fell back

Everyone in the City maintained their own theories about how the Theater managed to retain its status as a neutral space. Some said it was because there was little of value inside. Others said it was due to the number of people who would fight back to defend it. Then there were those who argued that even the gangs needed a little entertainment, and knew better than to squabble over it - but to Loren, the smart money was on Marco.

He jogged out of the building, and the assembled crowd lapsed into silence. He was old, by City standards. Parts of his beard were giving away to grey, and his hair was thinner than once it had been. Something about the way he carried himself intimated that he'd been in shape some number of years ago, but had since relied on attitude and pure physical mass to get by.

Loren had come as far as she could. No sooner did she enter the halo of light around the Theater than she lost control entirely of her aching and grossly overtaxed muscles, spilling down onto the ground like jelly slipping out of a bowl. Marco reached her in a few easy strides, and looked over the situation with a stony face. "Fetch Anna," he bellowed, to nobody in particular. A young boy with a shaved head nodded and raced inside. "Clear a path, tell The Locos they're not going on for another half hour," he continued. He motioned with his hand, and two men rushed forward to flank Loren's prostrate form. "Jumped?"

It took Kian a moment to realize he was being spoken to. "Yes," he said. "Sir."

Marco frowned. "Followed?"

"No," he said, automatically, then paused. "I don't know."

The two men stooped down and hoisted Loren between them like a couch. Marco spun on his heel and darted back through the doors, forcing anyone who cared to follow him into a jog to keep up with his pace. They traversed, at first, through the consumer-facing components of the Theater, which consisted of friendly faces, stages, and seating repurposed from cars and restaurants. Lanky kids tuned instruments, or scribbled poetry on their forearms. There were rooms with space dedicated to meetings, private chats, and playing games. But the deeper they went, the more serious it became. No background drone of conversation. No laughter. No more friendly faces, just harried-looking individuals moving with great intensity from room to room. Marco lead them down several long hallways, shouting instructions to people they passed on the way, then flung open a door and motioned everybody inside.

It was his office. A large desk dominated the space, and a small safe rested on the floor beside it. An empty liquor cabinet and a small couch had been pushed up against the wall. The only decoration was an embroidery hanging above the doorway: No Guns. No Magic. No Bullshit.

"Set her on the desk," Marco said, swiping various items off the surface with a broad arm. "Where's Anna?"

As if on cue, a woman entered the room. Tangled blonde hair hung over her pinched, harried face. She was pulling on a pair of blue plastic gloves. The two men placed Loren on the desk, as instructed, and wordlessly took their leave. She closed her eyes, and found it overwhelmingly difficult to open them again.

"What happened?" the woman called Anna asked.

"Would like to know that myself," Marco said.

Kian launched into the story. Loren phased in and out of consciousness, only catching random words and bits of sentences. Anna did something to her arm that forced her eyes open. Fresh pain ripped through her body, radiating from her elbow. Nauseating waves rippled over her being, contacting points of pain she'd forgotten about hours ago and re-igniting them. She screamed.

"Christ!" Marco said, drawing up to the desk. "Can't you give her something?"

"Have us airlifted to a hospital and I'll have her doped up prompto," Anna said, struggling to keep her patient still. "Help me hold her, now."

Marco pinned Loren's arms to the wooden surface, allowing Anna to reposition herself and tear off bits of clothing to get a better look at the wounds. Kian hovered awkwardly by the door.

"I think a few bones might be broken," Anna said, "and she needs stitches. We can let her pass out before we begin; she'll be going down either way."

"No," Marco said. "We have to keep her up."

Loren reeled. Anna huffed. "Are we torturing the poor girl?"

"Just keep her going."

A pair of hands forced Loren's jaw open and dropped two thin capsules onto her tongue. "Swallow, please," Anna chimed. They tasted awful.

"You know I like you, kid," Marco said, gently, into Loren's ear. "You got yourself straight. You don't cause too much trouble. Hell, you've even run some jobs for me. But what is my one rule?"

"Don't bring trouble to the Theater," she said.

"What's that? I can't hear you."

"Don't bring trouble into the Theater," she repeated, as loudly as she could. She felt the strain of speaking in her aching chest. Elsewhere she was vaguely aware of Anna's hands running meticulously down her body, squeezing and pinching until she hit the spots that caused stomach-wrenching pain.

"That's right," Marco said. "So, did you bring trouble to my Theater?"

"I don't know. I think... yeah, probably."

"What do I do to people who bring trouble? What do I do to people who bring the attention of the gangs to my front door?"

Anna ran her finger along the bruised, bloody mess that was the backside of Loren's neck, and she screamed again. Her body shook, and Marco braced himself to hold her onto the desk. "You throw them out," she answered, as soon as she was able to speak.

"Why, then," he asked, "should I bother with you?"

Loren's face was wet. "I had something. Payment. Coffee. It's gone, now. I left it."

"No, you didn't," Kian said from the corner, and everybody turned to regard him. "Thought it might be useful." He slung Loren's pack off of his shoulder and proffered it blankly to the room.

Marco took the bag, undid the flap, and produced its treasured contents. "Colombian." A broad smile widened on his face. "Dark roast. My absolute favorite." He cradled the beans for a moment, then placed them back in the bag and returned it to Kian. "Keep it," he said. "And you can leave. Sam will be down the hall; tell him all you can remember about where you were before the teleportation took place. I'm guessing there might be a few more people out there who are going to be in danger. Afterwards we'll get you taken care of."

Kian nodded, eyes wide and confused, and walked backwards out of the door.

Marco lowered his face to Loren's ear. "You're one of the good ones," he said, "and this City can't afford to lose any more of those." He placed his hands once more on her arms, and pressed them firmly to the desk.

"You're in for a long night, I'm afraid," Anna said, as she finished threading a needle. She was right.