Game of the Streets

Hustle in the Neon

Jace Varn ducked under a flickering neon sign, the kind that buzzed like a dying bug and painted the alley in sickly green. New Cascadia’s streets never slept, and neither did he, not really. The air stank of burnt circuits and cheap noodles from a cart across the way, where a vendor barked at some drunk stumbling into the crowd. Jace pulled his hood low, eyes scanning the mess of bodies weaving through the market. Drones whirred overhead, their red lenses glinting like vultures circling for scraps. He wasn’t here to sightsee. He had a job.

The mark was a tech vendor, some wiry guy named Tiko who ran a stall piled with knockoff implants and jury-rigged datapads. Tiko was sloppy—too busy haggling to notice his stock wasn’t bolted down. Jace had been watching him for days, timing the guy’s habits. Tiko always turned his back to yell at his neighbor over some turf spat right around midnight. That’s when Jace would move.

He leaned against a rusted railing, pretending to scroll on a cracked phone he’d lifted last week. The screen flickered, half-dead, but it was good enough to blend in. Everybody in New Cascadia was glued to something—phones, goggles, or the fancy neural feeds the rich kids up in the sky-towers used. Down here in the slums, you made do with whatever didn’t fry your brain. Jace’s eyes flicked to Tiko, who was waving his arms at a customer, spitting curses about payment. The guy was loud, distracted. Perfect.

Jace’s stomach growled, a reminder he hadn’t eaten since yesterday. A job like this could score him enough credits for a week of meals, maybe even a night in a flop with actual walls. He wasn’t greedy, just practical. Survival in New Cascadia meant keeping your head down and your hands quick. He’d learned that young, after his folks got chewed up by the city’s grind—his dad in a factory accident, his mom just… gone one day. No note, no nothing. Jace stopped wondering years ago. Wondering didn’t pay the bills.

The market pulsed around him, a chaos of voices and lights. Holographic ads floated above the stalls, pushing everything from cheap cyberware to “authentic” vat-grown burgers. A gang of kids in patched jackets slunk by, probably scoping for easy marks. Jace knew their type—he’d been one, back when he thought pickpocketing was a personality. Now, at twenty-seven, he was smarter. Not much, but enough to know a lifted wallet wasn’t worth the heat it brought.

Tiko’s voice cut through the noise, yelling at the stall next door. “Yo, keep your junk off my turf, man!” Right on cue. Jace slipped the phone into his pocket and moved, weaving through the crowd like he was born to it. His boots splashed in a puddle of something he didn’t want to think about. The air was thick, humid, like the city was sweating. He reached Tiko’s stall, eyes locked on a small crate of memory chips tucked under a tarp. Small, easy to flip, and untraceable. Jackpot.

His fingers twitched, ready to grab, when a shadow moved behind the stall. Jace froze. Another guy, lanky with a buzzcut, was poking around Tiko’s gear. Amateur. The guy’s hands were shaky, eyes darting like he expected a drone to swoop down any second. Jace almost laughed. Newbies always thought they could just stroll in and nab something. He backed off, melting into the crowd. Let the idiot take the fall if Tiko caught him.

Sure enough, Tiko spun around, spotting the guy. “Hey! Get your grimy paws off my stuff!” The newbie bolted, knocking over a stack of datapads. Tiko cursed, chasing him into the crowd, leaving the stall wide open. Jace didn’t hesitate. He slid in, grabbed two memory chips, and stuffed them into his jacket. Smooth, quiet, gone in seconds. He was back in the flow of the market before Tiko even turned around.

Jace’s heart thumped, but his face stayed cool. He’d done this a hundred times—small jobs, quick scores. Nothing big enough to make him a target, just enough to keep him moving. He cut through an alley, dodging a pile of trash and a couple of strung-out techheads muttering to their implants. The chips in his pocket could fetch a couple hundred credits if he hit the right fence. Maybe he’d even splurge on real food, not that processed slop they sold at carts.

The alley opened to a wider street, where a massive holo-billboard flickered overhead, advertising some new neural feed for “total immersion.” The kind of thing the sky-tower folks ate up. Jace snorted. Immersion? Down here, you were immersed in surviving. Rent, food, dodging gangs—every day was a hustle. He’d heard rumors, though, about people living differently. “Players,” they called them. Weirdos who moved like they knew something the rest of the city didn’t. Jace had overheard a drunk at a bar last week, rambling about a game that ran the streets, some secret tech that turned life into a score sheet. Sounded like nonsense, but it stuck in his head.

He shook it off. Rumors didn’t pay. He needed to find his fence, a guy named Riko who ran a chop shop on the east side. Riko was a pain, always lowballing, but he was reliable enough not to snitch. Jace adjusted his hood and kept moving, sticking to the shadows where the drones’ cameras couldn’t quite reach. The city was a maze of eyes—cameras, scanners, even the damn streetlights had sensors now. Privacy was a myth, unless you knew the blind spots like Jace did.

Halfway to Riko’s, trouble found him. Three guys stepped out from a side street, all leather jackets and bad tattoos. The lead one, a beefy dude with a scar across his lip, grinned like he’d just won a bet. “Well, look who’s out past curfew,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “You lost, Varn?”

Jace’s gut tightened, but he kept his face loose, flashing a smirk. “Nah, just taking a walk, Kael. You boys lost your way to the kiddie park?” Kael’s crew was small-time, shaking down stragglers for kicks. Jace had dodged them before, but they were getting bolder.

Kael laughed, stepping closer. “Heard you’ve been busy. Lifting stuff you shouldn’t. Hand it over, and maybe we won't break your face.”

Jace’s hand brushed the chips in his pocket. No way he was giving them up. He sized up the trio—Kael was the muscle, but the other two looked twitchy, probably high on cheap stims. He could outrun them if he played it right. “You want my stuff, come get it,” he said, already shifting his weight.

Kael lunged, but Jace was faster. He ducked, bolted past, and sprinted down the alley. The crew shouted, boots pounding behind him. Jace’s legs burned as he vaulted over a trash bin, cutting through a narrow gap between buildings. The drones above buzzed, probably logging the chase, but he didn’t care. He knew these streets better than anyone.

He lost them after a few turns, ducking into a boarded-up shop to catch his breath. His chest heaved, but he grinned. Another day, another dodge. He checked the chips—still there. Worth the trouble. He’d hit Riko’s, cash out, and maybe grab a beer to celebrate. New Cascadia was a meat grinder, but Jace was still here, still moving. That’s what mattered.

As he slipped back onto the street, a flicker caught his eye. Not a drone, not an ad—just a glitch, like the air itself flickered with code. Numbers, maybe, or letters, gone too fast to read. Jace blinked, rubbing his eyes. Probably just tired. But that drunk’s story about players and games nagged at him again. He pushed it down. Focus, Jace. Get the credits, get out. The city didn’t give you time to dream.

He didn’t know it yet, but something was watching. Something that wasn’t a drone, wasn’t human. Something that had already marked him for a game he couldn’t refuse.