Game of the Streets

Tech and Trouble

Jace Varn’s boots crunched on broken glass as he ducked into a narrow alley off 12th Street, the kind of place New Cascadia forgot to light. The air was heavy with the stink of burnt circuits and spilled booze, and the faint buzz of drones overhead kept him on edge. Last night’s job at the Docks still had his nerves fried—corporate goons chasing him wasn’t part of the plan, and that data stuck in his pocket felt like a ticking bomb. He needed answers, and Riko, his fence, wasn’t picking up. Typical. Jace wasn’t about to sit around waiting, though. He had other ways to move his haul.

That’s why he was headed to Milo’s, a black-market tech shop buried in the slums. Milo was a twitchy old guy who dealt in everything from cracked datapads to sketchy neural mods. He wasn’t as connected as Riko, but he’d buy the memory chips Jace lifted from Tiko’s stall, maybe even take a look at the data stick. If anyone knew what kind of heat Jace had stumbled into, it’d be Milo. The guy had a nose for trouble and a mouth that ran too much.

The alley opened to a street lined with flickering holo-signs, advertising cheap implants and “guaranteed” job contracts that were just corporate scams. Jace kept his hood up, weaving through a crowd of hustlers and workers hustling for their next gig. A kid hawking bootleg stims tried to flag him down, but Jace waved him off. No time for distractions. The city’s pulse thrummed around him—neon lights, shouting vendors, the constant whine of drones. New Cascadia was a beast, and you either kept up or got eaten.

Milo’s shop was a hole in the wall, literally. A rusted metal door sat under a flickering sign that read “Tech Trade” in half-burnt-out letters. Jace knocked twice, paused, then knocked again—the signal to keep Milo from pulling the shotgun he kept under the counter. The door buzzed, and Jace stepped into a cramped room lit by buzzing fluorescent tubes. Shelves were stacked with junk: cracked screens, tangled wires, and implants that looked like they’d fry your brain faster than fix it. The air smelled like solder and sweat.

Milo was behind the counter, a skinny guy with gray hair sticking out like he’d been electrocuted. His eyes, one real, one a cheap cybernetic that glowed faintly red, flicked up from a datapad he was tinkering with. “Varn,” he grunted, not looking happy. “You better not bring heat. Had a corp drone sniffing around last week.”

“Relax,” Jace said, flashing a grin. “I’m just here to give us both some credits.” He leaned on the counter, keeping his voice light, but his hand stayed close to the data stuck in his pocket. Milo wasn’t the type to snitch, but he wasn’t above selling you out if the price was right.

Milo snorted, setting the datapad down. “Credits, huh? What do you get? And don’t waste my time with junk.”

Jace pulled out the two memory chips from Tiko’s stall, sliding them across the counter. “Good stuff. High-capacity, untraceable. Worth at least a couple of hundreds.”

Milo picked one up, squinting with his good eye. He plugged it into a reader, muttering as the screen lit up with specs. “Not bad,” he said after a minute. “I’ll give you one-fifty for both.”

Jace laughed. “Come on, Milo. Don’t lowball me. These are clean. Two-fifty, minimum.”

Milo’s cyber-eye whirred, focusing on Jace like it could see through him. “Two hundred, and you’re lucky, I’m feeling nice. Market’s tight—too many gangs muscling in on supply.”

Jace haggled for a bit, settling on two-twenty. It wasn’t great, but it’d keep him fed and out of the rain for a while. He pocketed the credits Milo transferred to his phone, feeling a little lighter. But the data stick was still burning a hole in his jacket. He debated showing it, knowing Milo’s big mouth could make things messy. Screw it. He needed to know what he was holding.

“Got one more thing,” Jace said, keeping his tone casual. He slid the data stick across the counter. “Picked it up… somewhere. Any idea what it’s worth?”

Milo’s eyebrows shot up, his real one twitching. He grabbed the stick, turning it over like it might bite. “Where’d you get this?” he asked, his voice dropping low. “This ain’t no standard drive. Looks like high-grade corp tech.”

Jace shrugged, playing dumb. “Found it. You're going to tell me what it is or just stare at it?”

Milo plugged the stick into his reader, his fingers moving fast over the keys. The screen flickered, spitting out encrypted code that made Milo’s face go pale. “Holy hell, Varn,” he muttered. “This is locked up tight. Military-grade encryption, maybe higher. You don’t find this lying around.”

Jace’s stomach knotted. He’d figured the stick was hot, but military-grade? That explained the corps goons at the Docks. “Can you c***k it?” he asked, leaning closer.

Milo shook his head, yanking the stick out like it burned. “Not without frying my setup. Or my brain.” He looked at Jace, his cyber-eye glowing brighter. “You’re in deep, kid. Stuff like this? It’s the kind of thing players mess with.”

There it was again—players. Jace’s skin prickled, like the city itself was whispering at him. “Players?” he said, keeping his voice steady. “You mean those weirdos everyone’s talking about? What’s their deal?”

Milo leaned back, wiping his hands on his greasy shirt like he could wipe away the conversation. “You don’t want to know, Varn. Trust me. Players… they’re hooked on something big. Brain chips, not the cheap crap I sell. Real power. They see the world differently—missions, scores, like life’s a damn game.”

Jace’s mind flashed to the squat, the drifters’ talk. He’d brushed it off as street nonsense, but Milo wasn’t the type to chase rumors. “A game?” he said, skeptical. “What, like they’re leveling up or something?”

Milo’s laugh was dry, nervous. “Something like that. The point is, they’re dangerous. And whatever’s on that stick? It’s the kinda thing they’d kill for. Or worse.” He slid the stick back to Jace, shaking his head. “Get rid of it. Sell it, ditch it, I don’t care. Just don’t bring it back here.”

Jace pocketed the stick, his grin masking the unease creeping up his spine. “You worry too much, Milo. I got this.” He didn’t, not really, but admitting that wouldn’t help. He turned to leave, but Milo’s voice stopped him.

“Varn,” he said, low and serious. “You keep poking around with stuff like that, you’re gonna to end up on someone’s radar. And not the kind you can outrun.”

Jace nodded, not turning back. “Noted.” He stepped out into the alley, the door clanging shut behind him. The neon glow of New Cascadia hit him like a wave, ads flashing overhead, promising a better life if you just bought the right tech. He wasn’t buying it. The city didn’t give you anything—it took.

He moved fast, sticking to the shadows, the data stuck heavy in his pocket. Milo’s words echoed—players, brain chips, power. It sounded like a scam, but the stick was real, and so was the heat from last night. He needed to find Riko, get some answers, but his gut told him Riko wasn’t gonna be happy to see him. Not with this kind of trouble.

The street buzzed around him, vendors shouting, drones humming. Jace’s eyes darted into every shadow, half-expecting another ambush. He was getting paranoid, and he hated it. Paranoia makes you sloppy, and sloppy gets you dead. He needed to stay sharp, keep moving. The credits from the chips were a start, but the stick was a problem he couldn’t ignore.

As he turned a corner, a flicker caught his eye—numbers, maybe, or code, flashing in the air for a split second before vanishing. Like last night, that glitch in the street. Jace froze, heart thumping. Nobody else seemed to notice, just kept walking, lost in their own grind. He rubbed his eyes, telling himself it was nothing. Just the city, messing with his head.

But deep down, he wasn’t so sure. Something was out there, watching, waiting.

And Jace had a bad feeling he was about to find out what.