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Poison sighed and shaded their eyes as they surveyed the market. The sun beat down, hot and heavy and laced with radiation, making a few of the market’s awnings sparkle like satellites in the mid-morning air.
“What are you looking for again?” they asked Kobra, who stood beside them with his sunglasses on and his bandanna pulled over his nose and mouth. Kobra hadn’t said a word since they’d left the diner, and Poison was beginning to worry that something was wrong with him.
Kobra pulled a small, crumpled list out of his pocket. Poison leaned over to read, but Kobra was already speaking in a hushed, hoarse voice.
“Sunscreen, if they have any,” he said. “Water. Gas. Ghoul wants more gunpowder. Jet needs another mug because the kid broke his yesterday.”
Poison felt around in their pockets for loose carbons. They wondered aimlessly if one of the vendors would have any of those little quarter-machine things, the plastic figurines in the ball containers. Sometimes, if you were lucky, you could find the ball containers full of temporary tattoos or pieces of small, chalky candy. Poison didn’t care for the candy, but Ghoul liked it when they brought him some back, and Jet liked to find little alien sculptures with various cartoonish poses.
Six carbons littered the inside of their jacket. Probably enough for trinkets, if Kobra would let them sneak away and find any. He didn’t quite approve of spending frivolously—living in the desert was hard, and Poison understood that and all, but Kobra didn’t need to be that uptight about money.
“C’mon,” Kobra said. “Let’s get going. Sun’s out already and it’ll be there for awhile. You’re always . . .” he cast a dark look back at his sibling, nose wrinkling. “You burn too easy. I don’t know how you haven’t tanned yet.”
That was mean , Poison thought, but trudged after him as they headed towards the market. It was true that they hadn’t tanned well, and it was doubly true that they sunburned at the idea of light. But that didn’t mean it was something to hold over them. It was . . . city-skin, or something. They just weren’t acclimated yet, or something.
The market was bustling on the inside, ‘joys of every shape and color and ideal running to and fro like a whirlwind of neon and masks. Kobra forged ahead, exuding one of those patented S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W energies that somehow repelled every killjoy in a thirty-foot radius. Poison sighed and rolled his eyes, keeping away from their brother’s dreaded shadow.
They managed to slip away only when they determined that Kobra was fully entranced buying a new mug for Jet, which seemed like it would’ve been easier if he’d’ve just let Poison pick it. There was a perfectly good one right there, the one that read “WITCHFUCKER GENERAL” in splatter-painted lettering. Both they and Kobra knew that Jet would hate it, and that was exactly why they’d wanted to buy it for him.
But, alas, Kobra had shoved them away, and Poison had taken that as an invitation to go looking for other things on the list.
In the center of the market was a little square, and someone was playing music from a drum set that sounded like it was nothing but cymbals anymore. A half dozen people were dancing to it, playfully tossing carbons at the single ‘joy behind the set. Poison dodged past it all, surveying the booths instead.
On one end of the square, a ‘joy was hawking grilled meats with a sign that looked like it was assembled from scavenged band posters. At the other, a different stand held AKA Loretta merch, along with several hats that proclaimed “WE ALL HATE THE ZONE 5 ROCKPILE”. They gravitated towards that, looking for something cute to get the Girl, but before they reached it, something else caught their eye.
Almost hidden by the stalls that surrounded the makeshift market center was a skinny, sandy alleyway, somehow dark despite the sun overhead. Down the alleyway, Poison could just make out another sign.
They drifted towards it, trying to make out what the sign said. It was old, and wooden, and the words looked like they’d been written with a stencil. That struck Poison as a little weird, because it was hard enough to make stencils in the Zones—but these looked perfect. City-made, almost. Maybe even pre-Analog War.
As soon as they entered the alley, the air cooled dramatically, sending little goosebumps up across the skin of their arms. The light dropped, causing them to squint in the dark.
At the end of the alley, a figure waited behind their tables. A silver watch glinted at their wrist and their teeth gleamed in the dark. Poison could read what the wooden sign said now, and they almost wanted to roll their eyes.
TOMMY CHOW MEIN’S MINATURE PARADISE: COME GET IT WHILE THE GETTINGS GOOD
“Hi, Tommy,” they sighed, heading deeper into the gloom to see what the old man had on the table. “Didn’t expect to see you out here.”
“Well, you know how it is, kid,” Tommy replied, shrugging. His eyes looked insectoid today, a little too faceted to be usual. He was one of the stranger finds out in the zones, a black-haired adult just beginning to go grey. His suit was well-fitted and usually neat, with the exception of a small bloodstain on the upper lapels. He leaned over the table, segmented antennae twitching softly in the gloom. He leered at Poison with a crooked grin.
“Wherever the money is . . .”
“Is where I’ll be. See? The old DJ’s taught you something or two.”
“You got any little things for the kid, Tommy?”
“Not on me. But on the table? Maybe. Take a look. I’ve got a little bit of everything today.”
Poison took a look at the table. It was strewn with things of all color and size and shape, a menagerie of scavenged and stolen parts. They brushed a couple of the more lurid pages of SHINY off of a cloth doll and held it up.
“How much?”
“Ah, nice find,” Tommy replied, his voice slipping into a perfectly practiced hoarse salesman routine. “Ten carbons. Less if you’ll throw in an autograph.”
“An autograph?” Poison recoiled, nearly dropping the doll in shock. “Why the fuck d’you want my autograph, Tommy?”
Tommy gave that crooked leer again. “You’re a celebrity, love. Best thing the Zones have seen since our good Doctor started playing with the airwaves. If you can get that brother of yours in, too, you can have the doll for free.”
“What?”
“I’m not asking you to sell your soul, kid. But I do know how much people’d pay if you started selling merch. You’ve got a good kill list, kid. I’d hate to be a Bat in front of your gun.”
“I don’t kill people, Tommy.”
“The Dracs you ghosted yesterday say different.”
“I don’t-”
“Poison?”
The voice came from the other side of the alleyway, a little surprised and a little higher-pitched than Poison usually heard it. They turned around too quickly, kicking up a little puff of sand around their boots.
“Kobra?” they asked, meeting their brother’s sunglasses and then looking back at Tommy before the bug-eyed vendor could disappear into the sands. “What’re you doing here?”
“Looking for you, jerk,” Kobra huffed. “But if I’d known you were hiding in dark corners trying to get a bad deal, I’d’ve left you.”
“Listen,” Tommy said, spreading his hands. “You’re a household name! People’d kill to hear more about you! We could start a zine!”
“I don’t-” Poison said, breaking off. “I don’t think I want to do that . . .”
“We don’t,” Kobra said, his hand landing on Poison’s shoulder. “Thanks, Tommy, but no thanks. I think I’d rather get clapped than be your new poster child.”
Tommy scoffed, spreading his hands. “It’s not a poster child thing, per se. Just . . . a marketing opportunity. What if I split the carbons with you? Eighty-twenty. No, seventy-thirty!”
“We’re not taking the deal, Tommy,” Kobra deadpanned.
“Fine then. Have it your way. Did you want to buy anything, Poison, or just let your ‘C/R/O/W speak for you?”
Kobra’s grip slackened on Poison’s shoulder and they suddenly felt grateful that their brother’s face was almost entirely covered. “Don’t call him that,” Poison growled, tossing the doll back on the table. “We don’t need your dust trails, Chow Mein. We’re good enough as it is.”
“Suit yourself,” Tommy said, taking a step back into the shadows. “But if you ever find yourselves a little light on carbons, boys . . . you know who to call.”
“Thanks,” Poison drawled, trying to inject as much sarcasm into their voice as humanly possible as they dragged their brother out of the alley. “We’ll keep that in mind.”
In the square, they turned to Kobra and turned him to face them. They took his chin in one hand and his upper arm in the other, trying to get him to look at them.
“Dude, are you okay?” they asked, as Kobra fought against their grip.
“’M fine,” Kobra muttered, grabbing their hand and twisting the wrist away. “Poison, ‘m fine. I can . . . I can take it. It’s true.”
“Hey. Hey. Don’t let him get to you, he’s a jerk who wants money. A carbon-grubbing little parasite. Like rice weevils, okay? You’re not a ‘C/R/O/W, you’re my brother. Okay?”
“Poison, I’m fine,” Kobra said, wrenching himself out of Poison’s grip. “I’m fine. I’ve been fine. I’ll be fine. Stop treating me like I’m some kind of toy you’re going to break if you tell it it isn’t real.”
“Kobra . . .”
But it was too late. Kobra was already heading back into the market, disappearing amongst a throng of brightly colored ‘joys.
“Meet me at the ‘Am in an hour if you want to get home!” he called before blending, almost perfectly, into the crowd.
Poison sighed and shaded their eyes as they surveyed the market, mentally cursing the name of Tommy Chow Mein. They wondered if any of the stalls were selling little trinkets like the kind they’d been looking for, the figurines and toys that the Girl liked so much.
Maybe they’d find one to bring back for her.