Game of the Streets

Data Dash

Jace Varn’s breath fogged in the chilly New Cascadia night, the slums’ neon glow casting jagged shadows across the street. His jacket was zipped tight, the data stick from the Docks job and the credits from Taz’s lookout gig weighing heavy in his pockets. Riko was still dodging his calls, and the player talked—first from the squat, then Milo, now Taz’s buyer—was piling up like trash in an alley. Those glitches, those flickers of code in the air, were messing with his head too. He needed to keep moving, keep hustling. Sitting still in this city was asking to get caught.

He’d picked up a new job to stay afloat: data runner for a crew called the Wire Rats. They were a scrappy bunch, hacking low-level corp systems and selling the scraps to whoever paid. The gig was straightforward—grab a hacked data packet from a dead drop in the slums and shuttle it to a contact in a nearby district. Decent pay, high risk. Jace didn’t love running for hackers—they attracted too much heat—but the Wire Rats were reliable, and his empty stomach wasn’t giving him much choice.

The dead drop was in a busted-up parking garage on Pike Street, a concrete husk tagged with gang signs and littered with shattered glass. Jace slipped inside, keeping low, his boots crunching softly on debris. The air smelled like oil and mold, and the faint hum of drones outside kept his nerves tight. He scanned for cameras—none in sight, but that didn’t mean much. New Cascadia’s eyes were everywhere, and the Wire Rats had warned him this drop was hot. The Corps didn’t take kindly to data leaks.

He found the drop behind a rusted pillar, a small metal case taped to the concrete. Inside was a data drive, no bigger than his thumb, wrapped in a scrap of cloth. Jace pocketed it, checking the garage one last time. No movement, no drones. He was clear. He headed out, sticking to the shadows, his hood pulled low. The slums were buzzing—vendors hawking fake IDs, techheads twitching on stims, kids darting through the crowd with sticky fingers. Jace blended in, just another nobody in a city full of them.

The contact was in the Gray District, a step up from the slums but still rough, where low-end workers and black-market dealers mixed. The route took him past a row of holo-ads, their bright colors pushing neural mods and “secure” crypto wallets. Jace snorted. Secure, my ass. Nothing was secure in New Cascadia, not when every streetlight had a camera and every drone was logging your face. He kept his head down, dodging a group of drunks stumbling out of a bar.

Halfway to the Gray District, he stopped at a corner to catch his breath, leaning against a wall tagged with anti-corp slogans. A couple of guys nearby were talking low, their voices carrying over the street’s hum. “Saw one last night,” one said, lighting a cheap smoke. “Player, no doubt. Guy slipped past a gang like they were blind. Had this… glow in his eyes, like he was reading something.”

“Players ain’t real,” the other guy scoffed, but his voice was shaky. “Just tech junkies with too much wiring.”

Jace’s skin prickled. Players again, fourth time in a week. It was like the city was screaming at him to pay attention. He wanted to brush it off, but the glitches—those flashes of numbers in the air—kept coming back to him. He’d seen another one this morning, walking away from Taz’s deal. Code, sharp and bright, gone in a blink. He didn’t know what it meant, but it was starting to feel personal.

He moved on, the data drive heavy in his pocket next to the Docks stick. The Gray District was quieter than the slums, with cleaner streets and fancier lights, but it wasn’t safe. Corps patrolled heavier here, and the drones were smarter, their lenses catching every move. Jace stuck to alleys, cutting through a maze of backstreets to avoid the main drag. His heart thumped, but he kept his cool. He’d done runs like this before—stay sharp, stay fast, and you’d make it.

The contact was waiting outside a dive bar called Neon Claw, a grimy spot with a flickering sign and a crowd of lowlife types spilling onto the sidewalk. Jace spotted the guy—tall, skinny, with a cybernetic eye that glowed blue under his cap. He looked like trouble, but Jace wasn’t here to make friends. He approached, keeping his voice low. “You the Rat’s guy?”

The contact nodded, barely glancing up from his phone. “You got the goods?”

Jace handed over the data drive, keeping his eyes on the guy’s hands. No weapons, no sudden moves. The contact checked the drive, plugging it into a small reader that hummed softly. “Clean,” he said, tossing Jace a credit chip. “Nice work. Have you ever thought about running with us full-time? We could use a guy with your moves.”

Jace pocketed the chip, forcing a grin. “I’m good at solos, thanks. Keeps things simple.”

The guy smirked, like he’d heard that before. “Simple don’t last in this city. You’ll see.” He turned away, disappearing into the bar’s crowd. Jace didn’t stick around. The Gray District gave him the creeps—too many eyes, too many ways to get caught.

As he headed back to the slums, the contact’s words stuck with him. Simple don’t last. He’d been telling himself that for years, but lately, it felt truer than ever. The data stick from the Docks was still in his pocket, and Riko’s silence was a problem he couldn’t ignore. He needed to unload it, but Milo’s warnings about players and high-grade tech had him second-guessing. What if it was tied to this player crap everyone kept yapping about?

He stopped at a food cart to grab a quick bite, the vendor slinging synth-tacos that tasted like cardboard but filled the hole in his gut. While he ate, he overheard another conversation—two women at a nearby stall, talking over steaming cups of cheap coffee. “My cousin swears he saw a player,” one said, voice low. “Said the guy knew exactly where to go, like he had a map in his head. Creepy.”

“Creepy’s right,” the other woman said. “I heard they got chips that turn life into a game. You believe that?”

Jace’s taco stopped halfway to his mouth. A game. That’s what Milo had said, what the drifters at the squat had whispered. His hand went to the data stick, fingers brushing its smooth edge. Was it connected? He didn’t want to believe it, but the pieces were piling up—glitches, players, and now this stick that had corps chasing him.

He finished eating and moved on, heading for a flop to crash. The slums were darker now, the neon dimmed by late-night smog. As he turned a corner, another glitch flickered—numbers, sharp and glowing, floating in the air before vanishing. Jace froze, his breath catching. Nobody else saw it, just kept walking, lost in their grind. He rubbed his eyes, telling himself he was just tired, but his gut knew better. Something was out there, and it was watching him.

Jace picked up his pace, the city’s hum closing in—drones, ads, the endless pulse of New Cascadia. He was just one guy, one hustle, but the game was starting to feel real, and he was already in too deep.