Inkchanger

1: Zara & Sofi

Steeltown. A run-down city on the edge of the country, somewhere that can't make up its mind whether to be a perpetual sauna or walk-in freezer. The air is visibly grimy with decades of pollution smeared into the clouds, tinting the sunsets violent orange and neon pink. An emphysemic wind blows in off the rainbow-slicked bay all year, wheezing through the husks of years-deserted condos. Big Mamma Steel pulled up her sooty skirts and fled not too long ago, leaving her dependent children to wander and fend for themselves while she searched for blacker pastures. Those that could escape, did; now it's all old-timers reminiscing about the glory days and punk kids tearing themselves apart to escape the gravity of stagnation.

Crossing the rusted railroad tracks in the north end takes an unsuspecting townie directly into a no-rich-man's land, where they're accosted by panhandlers, buskers, and addicts. It's the diseased heart of the city, where those sadly lacking a mountain-brow McMansion scrape together the pieces that make up their short, brutal lives. Down here, under the unflinching gaze of the escarpment, abandoned buildings clutch entire communities of otherwise-homeless citizens, each wishing for a magic wand they can wave and charm life into making sense again.

At the intersection of most residential neighborhoods, you'll find a miniature version of the city itself in the ubiquitous corner stores run by immigrants who arrived seeking work and found nothing but deeper debt and new mouths to feed. No one there speaks much English, but they're fluent in the simple language of a loaded shotgun under the counter. Petty theft and assault has doubled and tripled since Momma Steel's hasty departure. It's amazing the "I'd never do that" things you'll do when money is scarcer than food.

Standing at the corner of Market and Hess, skirting the border between swanky downtown and lock-your-doors downtown, you'll see one of those c-stores, its fluorescent yellow glare too bright against the murky backdrop of smudged concrete apartments. The shelves overflow with every imaginable shade of neon packaging, every corn-syrup laced confection, every MSG-toting snack a 2 a.m. shopper could want. All the produce is spotted, the expiration dates are carefully blacked out, the doors are always open.

And if you peek between the lottery signs plastered over the plate-glass window, you'll spy two sketchy girls – one a short, blonde pear; the other a tall, dark wirebrush – getting ready to make a break for it.

They'd shopped here before. Okay, maybe not so much "shopped" as "shoplifted." Distinctions like that get murky at best when you're perpetually out of cash. Either way, you go home with groceries - that's what's important, right?

Zara slipped a dusty box of macaroni and cheese into the waistband of her jeans with practiced skill, flopping her oversized sweater over the bulge. The front pocket whispered as a can of chicken and stars slid to the side. She eyeballed the tantalizing display of Doritos but knew better; anything crinkly, no matter how delicious, could get you caught. And that meant going back to the state home, back to school, back to hell.

No one wanted that.

At the other side of the convenience store, Sofi lingered among the antique medicine bottles. A roll of toilet paper up each billowing hoodie sleeve made it harder than it should've been to pocket a bottle of aspirin; the pills rattled alarmingly as she tucked it away. Thankfully, her petite frame made it easy for her to slip behind the rusted shelves without being spotted in the convex ceiling mirrors. For the zillionth time, Sofi thanked whatever bedraggled deity watched over thieving street kids for inventing brain-dead adults that didn't install cameras.

The girls met up in the back near "feminine paper" and plastic utensils to compare notes, making sure they'd lifted everything they needed before nonchalantly strolling out the door. The five-high stacks of cracked pop carriers in the corner made a convenient impromptu conference table. It was their sixth lift at this place, and it had to be the last for a while. When you're stealing from folks, you have to give them a chance to restock and, more importantly, forget your face.