May 7, 2021. 19:21. Richmond.
"Fuck. We need more," Benny said to no one in particular, staring at another crate of SynthCoke.
The words came out smoother than he expected.
Some guards nearby stared at him, treating it as typical for a mundane night.
Of course, looking and sounding confident was part of Benny. But unbeknownst to others lately, he'd questioned himself a lot, wondering if it was authentic or just a facade.
Hell, he didn't even know if he was faking it till he made it anymore.
Earlier, Benny's office had been renovated.
Not fully, of course. That would have implied taste, money, and enough time to properly replace everything. Instead, it was just minor repairs, replacing damaged items and pieces of evidence that indicated he got his ass beat by a man wearing a full motorbike helmet and a woman who thoroughly kicked his ass.
The couch in the corner was new, yet it quickly took on the smell of smoke, sweat, chemicals, cheap perfume, and SynthCoke residue.
Home sweet fucking home.
Benny forced a smile as two couriers lifted the crate and moved it toward the far side of the room.
"Careful with that. That's worth more than both your lives."
One of them laughed nervously, which meant obedience.
Usually, anyways.
Benny's expression twitched before he quickly fixed it.
His jaw ached whenever he smiled too hard, with a phantom pain coming and going on occasion.
Sometimes it was even in his wrist. Most of the time it was his jaw. Rarely, it was both.
The doctors had patched him up well enough, but nothing felt right anymore despite it technically being so.
His bite sat weird. His hand cramped whenever the weather changed. And every now and then, when some girl looked at him the wrong way, his mind flashed back to her.
The woman that fucked it all up for him.
Her, whoever she was. An absolute bombshell with an incredibly sexy aura to her, with sharp eyes and even sharper hands. The same one who had smiled before twisting him apart like she was adjusting furniture.
He hated remembering her. He hated remembering how easily she had done it even more.
Benny rubbed his jaw lightly, then immediately stopped when he realized one of the couriers was watching.
"What?"
"Nothing." The courier looked away.
"Yeah. That's what I thought."
A notification buzzed on Benny's desk. The burner he got from his new boss, Mister.
His stomach tightened.
For the past few days, that burner had been his new leash, belonging to a helmeted fixer who now had the reins over this operation without technically having officially taken it over.
Benny, of course, did research in secret whenever he had time. This Mister guy was apparently a rising fixer in Vancouver, and in fact, tons of people knew him.
Yet none had any dirt on him.
What was even more frustrating to Benny and his pride was the fact Mister hadn't emptied Benny's accounts, hadn't stolen the entire operation, or hadn't even demanded something simple, like half of everything.
No, that would've been easier to swallow.
Instead, he had drawn a fence enforced by merely a phone at first glance, but backed by memories of a painful defeat that Benny had no clue how to defend against should it be repeated.
What the fuck would he do? Squeal to the boss of the entire Melders gang and make himself a fool?
No, his balls were in a death grip by a random-ass fixer and whoever that woman was, on the condition that he only sell as far as New Westminster, never touching Burnaby or Vancouver, with every deal going through Mister first for authorization.
Sure, Benny could keep his face, his smirk, his office, his throne of wealth and debauchery.
But none of it was actually his anymore, all because of one fucking man.
And that pissed him off.
He checked the phone.
No reply yet.
Of course.
The asshole only answered when he felt like it.
Benny had already sent the message five minutes ago.
"Springford is coming on a routine check."
Then another, because apparently panic made him stupid.
"Need an alibi again. They're asking why product hasn't moved deeper west."
Still nothing.
Benny clenched his jaw and immediately regretted it. "Fuck."
The magnetic lock on the office door clicked as another Melder stepped in.
"Benny."
"What?"
"Ironwood's expecting visitors."
Benny stared at him. "Yeah, I know. Springford."
"Not just him." The man's expression shifted.
Benny's blood went cold.
FUCK. Of course it's not just him.
Because the last few nights weren't bad enough already, Benny needed more complications.
Finally, the burner buzzed.
Benny nearly dropped it pulling it up, seeing the message from Mister.
"Keep your cool. Proceed as normal."
Benny stared at the screen.
That was it? That was the advice?
Another message appeared.
"Your excuse remains logistical. Say that 'the heat is increasing in Burnaby and Vancouver,' with VPD patrols expanding due to the ongoing Militech-backed funding. Because corporate activity raises risk to the entire operation, pulling distribution east protects supply lines and avoids unnecessary seizures."
Benny swallowed. Dry saliva formed in his mouth as he tried to contain himself while reading the third message that followed, all the while fighting the increasing anxiety of Springford, his boss, arriving.
"You are not retreating. You are preserving the product until pressure stabilizes. Repeat and double down on that if questioned."
Benny typed back quickly. "They're not gonna like it."
The response came after a few seconds.
"They do not need to like it. They need to believe it."
Benny stared at that for a moment. Then he laughed once under his breath.
"Yeah. Easy for you to say."
A voice crackled over the office intercom. "Benny. Downstairs. Now."
His stomach dropped.
Showtime.
Benny adjusted his jacket, checked his reflection in the dark glass behind his desk, and forced his face into something that resembled confidence.
Then he headed down.
Ironwood looked worse from above.
The abandoned mall—his base of operations—felt more like a prison to him now. The chandeliers hung too low for his taste. The gold railings that once made him feel rich and powerful now felt like a mockery of his accomplishments. The velvet couches that sagged beneath girls pretending this was glamorous instead of dangerous only reminded Benny of his own encounter with that woman.
Melder soldiers still moved everywhere, yes, but the fact that a few disappeared the night Mister came in to ruin things only continued to bite away at Benny's confidence.
He watched as some of the guards moved boxes of SynthCoke into storage rooms and back corridors.
Pushing those thoughts aside, he reached the lower floor just as the crowd began to part.
There, Ray Springford was waiting for him.
People usually called him Springford.
Never Ray. Not to his face.
He, the boss of the Melders, walked like someone who had forgotten what a normal body was supposed to look like and decided that was everyone else's problem.
His eyes were bugged out and wet-looking, surrounded by exposed circuitry that disappeared beneath scarred flesh and into visible nerve ports along his temples. His arms were a mess of scratched metal, bolted plates, and swollen tissue that looked like it had rejected half the cyberware and then been forced to accept it anyway. At this point, there looked to be more horribly grafted metal plating than actual organic material left on his body. His legs were robotic, but not cleanly designed. They looked slapped together from different models, different metals, and different eras, powerful but ugly in a way that made Benny's skin crawl.
Springford was strong. Everyone knew that.
He was also disgusting. Everyone knew that too.
Beside him walked Requiem.
The boss of the Banshees looked like something dead that had learned how to be beautiful out of spite.
Pale skin. Short grey hair. Dark blue eyes that looked almost too cold to be natural. She wore dark military fatigues beneath a fitted tactical vest, practical combat pants, and heavy boots that looked far more suited to a battlefield than a business meeting. Glowing tattoos ran from beneath her eyes down along her jaw, faint lines of light pulsing softly from cybernetics whenever she turned her head. Her skin was strangely smooth, almost artificial, like something stretched over older damage and polished until it looked young again.
Of course, Benny knew the rumours.
Combat drugs, adrenaline pumps, cybernetics beneath the skin, and enough chemical maintenance to keep most people awake for a week and kill them by the second day. All of it mixed with beauty products to keep what would otherwise be a killing machine looking feminine.
The closest thing to a fucking zombie.
Requiem smiled at him. Benny wished she hadn't.
"Benny," Springford said, his voice buzzing wrong, like damaged speakers underwater.
"Boss." Benny forced a grin. "Didn't know you were bringing... company."
Requiem's smile widened slightly. "Should we leave?"
"No, no. Course not. Always happy to host."
"Good." Springford walked past him toward the nearest crate. "Now, open it."
Benny gestured quickly to one of his men.
The crate was opened.
Inside, sealed packs of SynthCoke sat arranged in neat rows.
Springford reached in, picked one up, and turned it over in his hand.
Requiem leaned closer, studying the markings.
"Clean packaging," she said. "I like it."
Benny nodded quickly. "We've tightened things up."
"The production? I hope you're making the most out of the boys I gave you earlier."
"It's stable."
"And the distribution? The eddies are consistent?"
There it is.
Benny felt his pulse hammer once.
Then he remembered what Mister told him to say.
"Adjusted," he said.
Springford's bugged-out eyes shifted toward him. "The fuck you mean 'adjusted'?"
Benny paused, anxiety clutching at the bottom of his gut.
"Heat's bad westward," he continued, doing his best to hide any fear the bosses might pick up on lest he out himself. "Burnaby and Vancouver are getting ugly. VPD's moving harder with Militech funding. More patrols too. Pushing product deeper there right now risks us getting into fights with the badges. It's better to save the supply, keep our shit moving east, and wait until things balance out."
For a second, nobody spoke.
Benny held the smile, even when his jaw started to hurt.
Springford stared at him in silence, his bugged eyes constantly zooming in and out through his optics, inspecting him.
Benny hated it.
Meanwhile, Requiem tilted her head, pursing her lips together.
"A logistical caution," she said.
"Exactly." Benny's smile twitched.
"And you came up with that?" A smile of amusement spread across Requiem's face.
"Yeah."
Springford tossed the pack back into the crate. "Hm."
It wasn't approval—but it wasn't death, either. Benny took that as enough.
Springford turned away from the shipment, already speaking to Requiem like Benny wasn't standing right there.
"We'll continue expanding regardless."
Requiem crossed her arms. "Into Surrey first, right? There's plenty of space for the both of us."
Benny kept his face still.
Recruitment, sure. That was one word for it.
"Bodies are bodies," Springford said. "We build bases there. Pull in anyone useful. Force the rest if necessary."
Requiem nodded. Forceful recruitment wasn't a surprise to her, not at all. She treated it as if it were just another mundane chore.
"What about the other gangs?"
"We handle them before they become a pain in the ass."
Benny suddenly became very aware of how close the exits were. His eyes slowly drifted toward them every now and then as the two gang leaders talked.
Springford continued.
"Dead Kings. Velvet Fangs. GTown Boys. Mox. Byte Raiders. Black Dragoons. All of them are either useful, irrelevant, or dead."
Requiem's eyes narrowed slightly. "That's one way to classify them. I'd say we leave the Byte Raiders for now. They keep to themselves anyways."
"So does GTown. Might be a pain in the ass if we piss them off, but I doubt it'll happen."
"What about the Dead Kings? Your men have had more encounters with them than me."
"Biggest fucking issue." Springford's lips pulled into something ugly. "At least the Mox just pussyfoot around and do their social justice shit."
Benny's heart sank a little.
Everyone knew the Dead Kings had been growing cleaner and more stable. In turn, they were trying to clean up their act.
That made them dangerous in a way street gangs usually weren't.
Springford looked toward one of his men. "Send feelers to GTown and the Byte Raiders."
Requiem raised a brow. "I thought we were planning on leaving the neutral ones alone?"
"I want the option of having them on our side."
"The Byte Raiders won't care."
"Then we make them care."
Requiem considered it, then gave a faint shrug. "I'll humour it."
"Black Dragoons too." Springford smirked. "If they want in, they get in."
"What do you plan on doing with the VPD then?"
"We hit them before the next shipment of corpo gear arrives."
Benny paused, his fingers turning so cold that he clenched them and hoped nobody was watching.
Even Requiem paused. "With Gestalt there?"
Springford smiled. Somehow, the expression made him look worse.
"Even better."
Requiem studied him. "That is extremely reckless."
"It's a bragging right." Springford's bugged eyes gleamed. "Think about it! We slaughter the mayor before he runs for PM and every gonk in the city—no, the country—will remember us! Think about our reputation. Think about the power we can flex."
"Hah... ambitious, aren't you?" Requiem scoffed. "Really making me earn my keep here, Ray. You really want the 'Militech reject' to do the heavy lifting?"
"Shut the fuck up before I put that mouth to use somewhere else. We're both contributing to this equally. I don't need you more than you need me. End of story."
Rather than being offended or scared, Requiem smirked, gently raising her hands in surrender.
"Alright. Just don't come crying to me when the badges kick your ass."
"They won't."
Benny stared at the open crate and tried very hard not to look horrified.
This wasn't normal banter, nor was it a regular business meeting.
This might actually be the beginning of a war on the streets. Something that Vancouver and the entire Lower Mainland had been desperately trying to leave behind thanks to Gestalt's efforts.
And it was coming soon.
Springford looked back at Benny. "Keep production moving."
Benny nodded immediately. "Course."
"No delays. Am I clear?"
"Crystal."
"No excuses."
"None."
Requiem stepped closer to Benny, close enough that he could smell something chemical beneath her perfume.
"If your caution costs us momentum and cash, we'll know."
Benny forced himself not to step back.
"It won't. I guarantee you."
She smiled again. "I hope not."
The meeting lasted another fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty.
It was hard to say when Benny barely remembered most of it through the fear of dying.
They checked shipments, asked about suppliers, questioned courier losses, and talked vaguely about pressure, timing, bodies, and territory while Benny kept nodding, smiling, and pretending he wasn't standing in front of two people who could have him killed before his next breath if they felt like it.
Eventually, Springford and Requiem left, taking some of the Melders soldiers with them.
And with that, the mall slowly returned to its usual noise.
Music. Shouting. Laughter. Crates moving.
Benny stood there for a while after they were gone.
Then he walked back to his office, sealing the lock behind him with a soft thunk.
Only then, after hearing it lock, did he let the mask drop.
He sat behind his desk and pulled out the burner.
With slightly trembling fingers, he hovered over the screen.
What the hell was he supposed to say?
That the Melders and Banshees were preparing for a fucking war on the streets?
That they wanted to take over the entirety of the Lower Mainland?
That they planned on crushing the VPD and assassinating the mayor, dragging the entire city back into the dark ages just to flex and build a reputation that every other crime group would notice?
And Benny was stuck right in the middle, holding a leash tied to a fixer who might be the only reason he was still alive.
His jaw ached again.
This time, he didn't bother hiding it.
Benny stared at the burner for another long moment before finally sending a message to Mister.
"We need to talk."