Shattered Ladder 1-29 (Patreon)

The crick in Ken’s neck was starting to feel permanent.

Arms folded across his chest, he stood on the corner of a street that didn’t have a name so much as it did a codename — the sign just above and to his right reading ‘Point 108SW’. What does that even mean? The apprentice clicked his tongue, realizing that was something he’d have to ask about or figure out later. 

But that was later.This was now.And now, Ken was staring straight up at the massive metal plate above them. 

A bad habit.

One he thought he grew out of since he was five.

Gram… His lips pursed together. Gram used to smack the back of my head for doing this. Well, it was for looking at the sun too long, but same difference. Said it’d burn the sense right out of my big head. 

She might have been right on that, but this wasn't the sun.

No, it was a vein of light.

Way up, past the tangled wires that strung across the street like black cobwebs, past the dripping undersides of the taller mega-buildings they called the "upper-strucks," a streak of blue-white streaked through the gloom. 

It barely made a sound, at least not one loud enough to be heard over the street traffic. No, it was just a vibration that rattled the buildings around for a full three seconds after the light was gone.

“See ‘em?” Don pointed a finger upward, a half-eaten skewer of something fried dangling from his other hand. They’d been at this for half an hour already, Zee deciding that Ken had stayed inside too long and needed to see the ‘real world.’ Seeing as Don was the only one who actually knew the real streets, he was serving as tour guide for the day.  “Lev-haulers. Mag-lines. Fast transit for the important folks.”

Ken rubbed the back of his neck. “Fast.”

“For the tenners and the twennies,” Don nodded, grease shining on his chin. “People just… get on ‘em. To go places. Like it’s nothing. Zip. Gone.” He let out a laugh loud enough that Zee shot him a look, the girl standing there in a mesh crop top — pink as ever — and a pair of black shorts. “Down here? It’s all cargo. Sometimes people, but mostly heavy crates. You want to ride one, you need to be someone.”

Zee clicked her tongue and kicked a piece of loose concrete, sending it skittering into a puddle of oddly non-colored sludge trailing down into a drain. “Lame. It’s just a lev-train.”

“Heard somebody tried to jump one once,” Don kept talking, Ken’s eyes still tracking the afterimage of the blue light. “From one of the upperstrucks, a real scraper up in the thirties.”

“To rob it?” Ken’s attention snapped his way. That’s suicidal. There was no other word for it, considering those upside-down tracks had to be at least a thousand feet up. He didn’t know much about the ‘Thirties’, given that it was supposedly a bit better than the block of districts they were in right now, but he was pretty sure the doctors couldn’t be that good up there.

Don let out another short laugh, the bark almost sending a chunk of meat flying free. “Respect the attempt, yeah? Didn’t work, though. Ended up in the recycler half-done already.”Recycler? Ken frowned, already not liking the sound of that. 

But before he could ask, Zee scoffed out loud and pushed her hands into her pockets. “Yeah, of course he did. Now, let’s go.”

The three of them started walking again, a sharp shove from their boss getting both boys legs moving.

Days of going out into the city had taught Ken one thing above all others; walking in District 44 was a contact sport on its own. Even with Zee walking beside him, in brighter colors than a glass-skin toad, the crowd could only move so far back. His own card hanging from his chest turned eyes aside and made a few inch away, but it could only do so much against a solid wall of meat and ratty fabric. 

“Yeah, ‘bout a billion of us packed in here, maybe a billion-two.” Don started talking again, the redhead weaving through a gap in the crowd Ken hadn’t even seen. “ Don’t think too hard about it. Brain’ll melt.”

Billion.

He knew how many were on just this one floor in total — Zee had made sure he knew that very first day — but one-hundred-forty-seven billion was such a crazy number he couldn’t even bother to think about it. 

One billion, though? Yeah, sure, that was a lot less.

But still insane either way.

Back in the Waste Valley, a crowd was about fifty people, give or take. A hundred Ken was sure counted for almost a whole tenth of his old village. A billion pretty much meant nothing because it was just… noise. 

Literally too much to imagine.

“Hundred forty-four districts total, yeah?” Don tossed the empty skewer into a gutter already choked with trash. “Forties through the Eighties got it rough. Forties a lil’ less rough, but not much, y’feel? That’s us. That’s here. Lucky us.”

“Forties ain’t that bad,” Zee shouldered past a man carrying a crate of rusted gears. “We got the markets.”

“Ehhhh, well…. Thing is, see, tens are living good,” Don shook his head, a finger held up in Zee’s direction. “Real good. Twenties, thirties? Still decent. Forties?” He clicked his teeth. Tsk-tsk. “Nah. Outer districts are bigger, yeah, but more people too, so it don’t feel bigger. Feel smaller, y’know? Like wearin’ a shirt that’s too small for you, kinda.”

Ken pulled at the collar of his new green tunic. 

His eyes flicked to the structures on each side of the wide and packed street, both pressing in on either side. Whether you called them buildings, upper-strucks or stacks, they were as big as they were wide; layers of living built on top of layers, welded together with scrap metal and only saved by a mind that had to have planned all this well in advance; each one taking up almost a block on their own.

“See them upper-strucks?” Don pointed to the building to the left, dozens of windows on one side with laundry hanging limp in the heavy, humid air. “People living there. People living under there. People living in the walls, probably.”

A drop of something wet hit Ken’s cheek.

He wiped it off and looked down, eyes going wide at the sight of a red smudge layered into his thumb. “Blood?”

Ken almost froze where he stood, heart kicking harder against his ribs.

“Nah nah nah, bro, no blood.” Don waved a hand with a smile on his face, too eager even as Ken stared at him with near-panic in his eyes. The other boy shook his head and pointed up again, Ken following the path of his hand. “See the rust raining off them upper-strucks?” Ken nodded slowly. “Yeah, see, It rains rust from here all the way through the eighties. Forty-four got maybe the worst of it. Not the worst worst…” Don tapped his chin, grease coming off bit by bit. “Nah, that’s deeper in, more by the eighties, but bad enough, yeah.”

Ken looked at the smudge of dark red coating his thumb, the gritty not-blood already smearing free. That… that can’t be healthy.

“Almost every stack you see? People in it. Top to bottom.” Don spread his arms wide, nearly hitting a passerby who snarled something in a language Ken didn’t know. “Streets say this Four-Four’s got about twelve thousand Walkers. And that’s out of a billion-two. You do that math.”

“Math sucks.” Zee grumbled, glaring at someone who dared to walk too close.

“Every district got its own thing, yeah?” Don ducked under a low-hanging wire. “Four-Four got the meat markets, the scrap trade, and Junker Fists sharing ground with Scrap Boyz. Forties got the cheap clinics, the sump-docs, the street surgeons. You want real medicine, you go up-district or you pay Iron for it.”

“Or you find someone you can trust to do good work.” Ken tilted his head. He wasn’t sure if Don was exaggerating on that part, because he and Wei had sold herbs and done medical work for prices as low as people could afford year after year.

“Yeah, sure, or you die,” Don bit back a snort. “Population goes up every set. People keep popping out pups. City just… absorbs ‘em. Somehow.”

They turned a corner, and the chaotic noise of the general street behind them dropped down to near-nothing, the path in front of them suddenly tenser and quieter than a street this packed should be. Ken’s eyes darted from side to side, spotting walls coated in spray paint: aggressive chrome tags that caught the ambient neon and threw it back hard.

“Eyes front.” Don’s voice dropped, the bounce dropping flat to the ground and going nowhere else. “Hounds out here thick.”Ken leaned in, one question on his lips. “...who?”“Wha….” Don stared at him for a second, dark eyes narrowed in confusion, only for them to widen again as he seemed to remember who he was talking to. “Hounds, Chrome Hounds, they got this set of stacks in the east. About from here to stack row one-three-six. You see chrome tags? You’re in their space and they get real territorial.” Don shook his head. “That means don’t touch their stuff. Don’t look at their stuff. Don’t think about their stuff.”

Ken looked at a tag sprayed over a shuttered storefront, the badly-drawn dog’s skull with gears for eyes staring right back at him.

“Clunk-Cats run the pipe markets and the old hauler tunnels.” Steering them to the center of the street, Don kept talking. “Small crew, y’know, small-ish, but nasty. Real nasty. They got this thing with fingers. Like, taking ‘em.”

Ken curled his fingers into a fist at his side. Nineteen bones. Keep them.

“Junkerz think they run it all, top to bottom, just ‘cause they’re biggest out here.” A quick shake of the head told Ken exactly how Don felt about that. “Don’t run everything, though. Most things, sure. Big-big difference, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah, the Fists, whatever.” Zee puffed out her chest a little, the pink top seeming to glow brighter as she did so. “But we all know the Syndicate is the real power. They got fingers in everything.”We do? Ken raised an eyebrow sky-high, looking back at Zee. It was amazing how quickly both of them could forget that he was new to all of this, especially considering they made the same mistake a couple times a day.

Don took a half-step and stopped, turning to look at Zee with a look on his face that Ken really couldn’t put together. For a split-second, he almost looked like he was in charge here.

“Syndicate?” Another split-second later and it was gone as Don waved a hand. “Yeah, I know ‘em. They ain’t really here though, boss-lady. Twenties and up, that’s their space.”

Zee frowned, blonde eyebrows knitting together. “No, they s-”

“Syndies come down to Forties maybe once, twice a set for specific business,” Don cut her off with another laugh. “They don’t base here. Syndicate runs things clean, its how they like it. We too rough in the Forties..”

He kicked a pile of wet trash that squelched and shook his head again. “Half don’t know who the Syndies even is. Other half know enough to not want to.”

“...yeah, sure, I guess.” Ken watched Zee’s face fall, jaw tight and hands crossed across her chest as she looked away.

“Four-Four is all Grendel’s. He’s the Junkerz big-boss.” Even if Don noticed Zee’s sudden attitude shift, he did the smart thing and pretended he didn’t as they kept walking. “Two before it all the big man’s, and the next one too. Rax, that’s his brother, got the next four over. I mean, they share ‘em, they say that y’know, but gangs don’t really share. Grendel’s got this whole place by the throat and they know it. Chrome Hounds and Clunk-Cats exist ‘cause Grendel lets ‘em exist. Rax tries to work with them, and Grendel hates that. That’s the real-real.”

The deeper they went through the heavily-tagged streets, the heavier the air felt and the more eyes Ken saw pointed their way. Then, the street narrowed, and Ken knew what he was looking at before anyone had to tell him. They made it obvious enough; a barricade of old shipping pallets and rusted girders blocking foot traffic. A checkpoint?

Three men stood there, none of them in uniforms and all different sizes but they had a few things in common; thick necks, shaved heads, and heavy boots, decked out in all-black. Junker Fists.

If it wasn’t obvious enough, the one in the middle had a fist that looked no different from a lump of raw iron. Yeah, Junker Fists.

Zee slowed as they got closer, fingers flexing at her sides as her spine suddenly remembered straight was an option and her chin went high with it. “Boss…” Don’s hiss went ignored as the boss stepped forward, golden eyes unflinching as she stared down the Junker in the middle. 

“Why you in my way?”

The biggest guard blinked slowly at the question as he looked down at her. “Toll.”

The word came out slow, so slow that Ken wasn’t entirely sure if the guy fully understood the words that left Zee’s mouth or the threat not at all hidden in them. 

Zee’s hands tightened into fists and she stepped f-

“Okay, okay, nonono-!” Don was there, sliding in between Zee and the guard like his whole body was made of the grease still dabbed on his chin. “None of that. Just… just don’t.” He hissed the words at Zee again, louder this time as he eased the bristling girl back with one hand. A blinding smile fixing itself on his face in an instant, Don spun to face the guar-

The guards.The other two drew in closer, curiosity bordering on aggression clear on their faces.

“Ay, ay, brothers! We good, yeah? Just passing through, taking long way round to market.” Don laughed out loud, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “You know how it is.”

The middle guard frowned, Don’s smile not faltering as the man spoke the only word he seemed to know with the same exact slowness. “Toll.”

“Toll, right, right,” Don nodded like they were still making conversation and all this was the most reasonable thing in the world. “Respect the gate. Respect the Fists. Know the rules, love the rules..”

He reached into his pocket and out came a small packet, a white-and-red square.The guard looked at Don’s hand and then those same eyes, dull and barely-focused, slid over to Zee and then Ken. “Hm-Hm?”

Don laughed again, tracking the man’s shift in attention, “These two? Nah, they’re with me. My crew, yeah? Small operation, small-small, nothing on Junkerz, swear on it.” Don opened the packet and shook something loose, a thin white stick that he held out on his palm. “Real-real backy. Nothing cut here. Straight from Thirties, big man.”

The guard looked at the offered cigarette.

“Real-real?” The words came with a grunt that almost overpowered each syllable.

“As the City, friend.” Don’s promise came with a bigger smile as he slid the single loose smoke back into the pack and held it out again. “Take the whole pack, brother. Long shift, yeah? Feet hurting? Know the feel.”

A heavy hand reached out, no hesitation and more speed than Ken would have expected from the guy, as the offering was snatched clean from Don’s hand. A single nostril flared wide enough to jam two fingers in as the man sniffed at the cigarette pack. 

After a few seconds, he grunted again.

This time with a nod as he stepped aside. “Go.”

Don didn’t waste a second, the redhead grabbing Zee’s elbow in one hand and Ken’s sleeve in another as he started speedwalking. “Thanks brother, stay safe!”

Ken quickly walked past the barricade, the other guard’s eyes still on his back, a physical weight between his shoulder blades that didn’t ease until they were around the next corner.

Zee ripped her arm away from Don.

“I had him.” She hissed back into the redhead’s face.  “I was gonna dent his face.”

“And if his friends had irons, what then? Dented face for hole-y skulls?” Don’s smile dropped off his face like it had never been there as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Ain’t all about fighting down here. Pick your battles, boss lady. You can fight the small crews. You can talk to Scrapperz. With the Fists, you give ‘em something to feel good about. None ain’t too bright, y’see? Make ‘em feel like they’re in charge. ‘Cause they are in charge, yeah? Just… gotta remind ‘em gentle.”

“Cost you a pack, though.” Zee raised an eyebrow. “That ain’t no Gray.”“Yeah, Thirties…” Ken licked his lips, pulling from what Don had told him already. As confusing as it was, he wasn’t an idiot. “You said that’s Thirties is where stuff starts getting expensive, right?”

“A pack of syn-smokes in cleaned up Thirties packaging. I can trade it or sell up, and bring in real coin. Iron or Bronze, no Gray.” Don smirked. “Still cheaper than new teeth.”

He looked at Zee, pointing a finger. “And that’s why we don’t headbutt for no reason. Lesson one of Forty-Four, free of charge.”

Zee crossed her arms again. ”Coulda taken him.”

“Yeah, you would have, boss-lady,” Don sighed as he started to walk again, bounce returning with every step. “Would have brought a whole war on our heads, though.”

Ken looked at Don’s back.

The redhead was annoying. He talked too much. He lied like he breathed.

But he was alive. 

In a place designed to kill you, Don Lee was very, very alive.