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[Kerris]

The Work:
The arm of the record player swings into position on the old forty-five, and with a crackle, starts the somber notes of a blues song you'd have to be a connaisseur to know. The yellowing, peeling walls are stacked with shelves upon shelves of records. Everything you could think of, and a lot of things you probably couldn't. Jazz. Swing. Blues. All the good stuff. And we sit around and listen, me and Frank, in our loose ties and tilted fedoras. We select what we want and Frank tells me all about it. He's the real expert. He knows all the artists, he knows all the band members, where it was recorded, and any story it might have behind it.

"She's real bad/real bad news," croons some old black man with a guitar. I don't really care to ask Frank who it is this time. I just want to sit and listen, but there's this nagging feeling at the back of my head. Almost a distant pain, it feels like somebody smacked me on the back of the...

"Hey. Jackass. Time for work."

My perception shifts to a broken concrete ceiling, and dim neon light filtering in through the plastic covered window. Lady Expac swats me again, ruining my self-imposed dream world. LEx is a tough chick, and I seem to make a habit of relearning that every day when I "forget" to set an alarm. She was once a beauty queen, I hear, but she crossed the wrong people and now she's a nobody. Squatting with the likes of me in the bad part of town, making a living how we make a living. It's not good work. Nowhere near it. But it's good money. Good enough for hot tech like Frank and the hardware to run him. I can keep myself in ammo and keep myself fed, but I could never cross the line from a rich squatter to the middle class. Or even the lower class.

It's the work. It's all I've done for the past three years, since I was forced out on my own. No parents. No siblings. No extended family. None that I remember, anyway.

I grab my knife and my nine, tools of the trade. This part of town is dangerous, but in my line of work, it's flat out necessary. You gotta be sharp, you gotta be fast, and you gotta stay alive. I don't know how anybody would do this alone, so LEx and I have a deal. She doesn't shoot me in the back, and I don't shoot her in the back. It's simple.

We head out the door and down the street for some eats. You can't stay alert on an empty stomach, and mine was yelling at me, so that's two good reasons for some generic nutrient. It's packaged in some corporate label, designed by some corporate big wig, and sold in some corporate outlet for "value" prices in whatever flavor you want. I'm sure they make a huge profit on each one sold. Those that can afford this stuff work hard for the money, and those that can't afford it work even harder just to find food. Being one of the lucky ones that can afford it, I pay for a couple, chow down, and follow LEx through our rounds.

We check all the usual places. The alleys are empty, and the warehouse turns up nothing. Pickings seem to be slim today, which means one of two things. Either we're late and somebody got there first, or it's going to be a rough day. Unfortunately, we can't bail this time. LEx has some debts to pay. We need to score, or I'm out a partner. And like I said, you need a partner.

The church is always a good bet, if nowhere else hits, so we head through the greystones and office buildings until we see the half-fallen parapets and busted out windows looming above the all but abandoned street. I toss my extra nutrient to one of the fortunate that survived the night, getting no thanks except for the desperate tearing of wrappers and the ravenous breath of a near-starving animal. If he was smart, he'd save some, but he can't help it. See food. Eat. That's the way it goes.

A bullet hits the door as LEx opens it, and we duck reflexively to the sides, guns instantaneously at the ready. LEx gets the door. I shoulder-roll in and behind an old broken statue of some saint. I fire a couple shots into the room to cover for LEx as she flits in to the right. She gives the signal, and we advance to the last row of pews, on opposite sides of the room. Looks like this was the place to be for a score, and somebody got here just before we did. We dodge a couple more shots, advancing further. We still don't know who's here, or how many, but I figure it's just one, or there'd be more gunfire.

Somebody jumps me from the next pew, and all I see is the flash of a blade in front of my face. He's aggressive on the attack, skillfully jabbing and slashing with the blade, trying to guess my next move. He's better with a knife than I am, at least at this speed, but LEx has my back. I see her appear from where she was holed up, and two shots ring out. She only ever needs one, so that means there's at least one more of these amateurs.

If there's one thing that any in our profession know, it's to get out when your partner goes down. It's that simple. No partner, no work. Even amateurs know that, and this guy must be no exception. We search the place, only finding the dead. The unfortunate. Four of them.

Four livers.

Eight lungs.

Eight kidneys.

Four hearts.

Time to start cutting.
______

Edit: Removed a few sentences in the paragraph about the generic nutrient. I think it flows better now.

Edit: Hyphenated some words that should be hyphenated (forty-five, for instance), added two words to the last full paragraph.