Punish the System - 10

“So, were you really shot?” Jaz asked, not looking up from the glovebox as she rummaged through the mess of someone else’s receipts, breath mints, and spare mags.

“I’m sensing some scepticism,” Connor said. “Not sure I like it.”

“Well, yeah. To hear the boss tell it, you were plugged but good and died on the table shortly thereafter. Now we’re what, three days later? And you’re back at work and surreptitiously trying to look down my top.”

“I am absolutely not trying to look down your top!”

“I have access to your visual field, Mr Connor, and can confirm you have, thus far, glanced down and to your left six times in the last twenty minutes. Four of those were during conversational lulls. And two were while your companion was adjusting her seatbelt.”

“I’m just saying,” Jaz said. “I’ve been shot. And I absolutely didn’t bounce back inside a week. I had six weeks of physio and a whole lot of therapy before suiting up for Round Two. A bullet to the head? Well, that should’ve left you out…forever, no?”

“The Dane made more about it than he should have,” Connor said, seeking to drag some dignity back into the conversation. “It was just a couple of through-and-throughs. They barely scratched me.”

“Barely scratched you? They said you coded on the table.”

“Temporarily.”

“In case you are wondering,” Izzy said, and Connor could not help but notice she seemed to have added a couple of pom-poms to her Fame inspired outfit, “You were clinically dead for forty-three seconds before I applied a series of emergency protocols. Not a record, but would definitely be a notable event for a baseline human.”

“It was just some mild blood loss. Rumours of my death were greatly exaggerated.”

“You do get that this is why no one likes you, right?” Jaz said, turning in her seat to glare at him.

“What?”

“This, too-cool-for-school ice-water-in-my-veins act you’ve got going on. I’m sure you think it’s all very James Bond and all, but the rest of us just think you’re a cowboy. One who’s going to get himself - or worse, one of us - killed.”

“Wow, mate. Tell me what you really think.”

“Trust me,” Jaz said, “You don’t want me to do that.”

They fell into an uneasy silence. There had been plenty of those during the last four hours of talking too little and watching too much. The inside of the car had become an extension of their discomfort. Its windows had fogged at the corners and the air had gone stale with takeaway wrappers and half-finished arguments. 

The sky was slouching its way towards the afternoon, and was significantly overcast enough for the neon sign of the Turkish barbershop they’d honed in on to have kicked in, splintering colour across the oily pavement. Red, green, and migraine blue danced off wet concrete like someone had smashed a stained glass window into the street.

Inside the shop, everything gleamed too much. Backlit mirrors turned the smallest movement into cinema. Chrome chairs, wiped down after every cut. Men in gloves offering hot towel shaves to not many clients at all who always, always paid in cash. Connor didn’t need Izzy to tell him no one in that place had ever heard of a receipt.

He shifted in his seat. Despite his bravado, his ribs still pulled slightly when he moved, like someone had tied a violin string just beneath the skin and was waiting for a reason to pluck it.

“I don’t think I’m a cowboy,” he said eventually.

Jaz didn’t look at him. 

“Then stop acting like one.”

“I don’t…”

“Lazarus,” she said, holding up a hand. “You got shot. You died. And then, less than a week later here you are, back on the street like nothing happened. You don’t get how weird that is?”

“You’ve got orders same as me. The Dane wants eyes on any secondary traffic.”

“And if this is a major play?” she said, real anger in her voice this time. “What then? You thinking you’re just going to walk off a double-tap again?”

Connor opened his mouth, closed it. His tongue felt too large all of a sudden, like he was being asked to swallow something unsayable.

“Well?” she pushed.

“Oh! This is going to be one of those formative trust-building moments I’ve read about! These are crucial to the success of newly established partnerships. Please don’t mess it up!”

“I know I’m not bulletproof,” Connor said.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“You don’t have to like how I play it, Jaz, but you should know I don’t make moves unless I’ve done the maths.”

“Maths is great until someone’s got a gun to your head. Speaking of which…”

A blacked-out saloon rolled past the barbers. It was moving too slowly to be out for a casual drive, and was far too expensive to be anything local. Connor had clocked it too.

“That’s the third time it’s circled past,” Jaz said.

“I saw.”

They both turned to watch as the car disappeared again into the city’s latticework. 

“Remember when Turkish barbers were just where lads went for a fiver fade and a bit of eyebrow threading?” Connor said.

“Sure, but that was before half the OCGs in the Midlands learned they were a perfect front,” Jaz said. “Late hours, all-male staff, cultural reluctance to ask questions, easy cash movement and no stocktakes. And if you want to store a bit of product? Who’s going to search under the aftershave cabinet?”

“Not to mention no one blinks twice if five different lads open the shop on different days. Different cities, even. You ever try getting the same bloke twice at one of those? Feels like a fever dream.”

“Surprisingly, I don’t think I’m their target audience,” Jaz said, running her hand over her close-cropped head.

They’d been watching this particular shop for a little over an hour, easily long enough for Connor to memorise every crack in the pavement outside and fantasise about being anywhere else. His back ached, his legs hated him, and his bladder had issued threats.

For as long as they’d been parked across the street, the barbershop had hosted three clients. All the chairs were full, but no one was cutting hair. The razors stayed silent. The music, something with more bass than melody, was too loud, and thudded through the windows like an unsubtle warning. No one seemed to be talking. No one was laughing. It was clearly a waiting room for something that was remaining unsaid.

It was Jaz who’d got a line on this place.

They’d only been away from the office for a few minutes when she’d told him to pull over and had jumped out of the car, telling him to stay put with the immortal words: “My contacts, my rules.”

Her tone had grated on Connor, mostly because she didn’t even say it with venom. Still, he’d been impressed as he’d watched her move through the streets like she belonged to them. At first, she was all tension, shoulders tight, jaw set, and head on a swivel. The professional mask he knew from his own training. But as soon as she began approaching a cluster of lads outside a chicken shop, the change came fast. 

Jaz’s walk shifted, becoming much looser, with more sway in the hips, and freer arms, like she was moving to music no one else could hear. Her face softened just a touch, and suddenly she wasn’t an operative anymore. She was someone else entirely.

The group of lads - all tracksuits, lean muscle, and being possessed by the nervous stillness of boys who sold to survive - clocked her fast and moved to circle her like sharks testing prey. One tugged his hood tighter. Another adjusted something in his waistband that might’ve been a phone. But probably wasn’t.

Connor had tensed, one hand on the car door, already halfway to leaping out of the car. His pulse picked up like it always did before something kicked off. But Jaz hadn’t even blinked. She’d just said a few words. Maybe a joke, a bit of light flirting and her posture had opened up enough to invite confidence. One of the lads laughed out loud and slapped one of the others on the back. 

They spoke for a bit, but then she was walking away, crossing the road back to where he waited without any hurry, eyes scanning instinctively, and coat flapping like she didn’t have a care in the world. She swung into the passenger seat and shut the door before Connor could speak.

“Drive.”

He didn’t argue.

The same pantomime was reenacted with another group. And then the next. Each time, Jaz approached them casually and chatty, but Connor didn’t miss the way her eyes never stopped moving.

“God, I love her,” said Izzy, unexpectedly in his ear. “Did you see that? That little shoulder twitch she does before she leans in? That’s mimicry programming. That’s a real social instinct. I didn’t even know humans could switch modes like that! Why aren’t you more like her?”

Connor ignored her jab. In the centre of his vision, Izzy’s avatar started strutting exaggeratedly, arms swinging, hips rolling like she was heading to start a turf war with Barbie dolls. She was clearly trying to mirror Jaz’s walk but failing badly.

Down the street, Jaz had finished up her latest interrogation and was circling back to him quickly. Whatever she’d picked up, it had either confirmed her suspicions, or raised new ones.

She opened the car door without looking at him, still shaking off the rhythm of the street. 

“Geraldo’s got a spot just off Queensgate. A barbershop with, I quote, some real ‘fly gear’, know what I’m sayin’? Man’s out here movin' like he’s God’s gift to fades and fast cash.” Then, in her normal voice, “I swear, I drop ten IQ points every time I have to code-switch for those clowns. I need a shower and maybe an exorcism.”

“A barbershop around here that’s not actually offering haircuts? I’m shocked, I tell you. Shocked to my very core.”

“Didn’t you know, Lazarus, heroin’s got follicular benefits.”

Which had led them to their current position. And, thus far, it seemed like Jaz’s intel was right on the money.

“There are certainly some interesting ratios at play within that establishment, Mr Connor. That shop contains more men than it requires for the apparent customer volume. Would you like me to initiate a very discreet visual recognition scan?”

“No,” Connor said aloud. “Just watch for now.” Jaz glanced sideways at him. “Sorry,” he added. “Thinking out loud.”

“Right. Because you talking to yourself makes me want to trust you more. And it’s not the first time in the last hour.”

Suddenly, the barber shop door slammed open and one of the staff came out for a smoke, his eyes scanning up and down the street like he’d lost something. 

“Matey boy seems a bit on edge,” Connor said.

“Looks to me like he’s expecting someone.”

Connor’s gaze flicked back to the end of the road, waiting to see if the dark saloon made another pass. Minutes passed, but nothing.

“What do you reckon?” he said, eyes still on the nervously smoking man. “Think he’ll get less tense if they suddenly get some unexpected custom?”

“I think it would be fair to say that might further disturb his fragile equilibrium.” Jaz went to open her door, but Connor reached out and pulled it shut.

“Nah, this one needs to be me. You said yourself, you’re not their target audience. We want them nervous, not suspicious.” Without waiting for her answer, Connor popped his own door and swung out. “Keep an eye out for the saloon. Contrary to apparently settled opinion, I’d like to avoid re-enacting the OK Corral in there.”

“Noted,” Jaz said, already shifting across to sit in the driver’s seat, pulling out her weird gun and pressing it between the door and her hip.

Connor jogged across the road and made for the barbershop door. He didn’t look at the smoker until the man noticed him approaching and moved to intercept, stepping forward with the hard, coiled energy of someone who knew precisely how many knives were hidden on his person.

“Shop’s closed, mate,” he said.

Connor didn’t break stride.

“Mate!” the man said more sharply, putting out an arm to stop him. Connor, though, slipped past without a word, angling his shoulder like they weren’t even in the same conversation. The man swore under his breath and turned to follow, but then at the last moment stopped from going in after him. As if he was now someone else’s problem. Which was interesting.

The bell on the door didn’t chime and, inside, the temperature jumped a good ten degrees. It smelled of aftershave, damp towels, and overused clippers . The front windows were steamed by humidity. 

Absolutely no one inside looked pleased to see him.

One of the ‘barbers,’ a thickset man with sleeve tattoos and carefully waxed moustache tips, straightened from where he was checking his phone behind the desk. 

“We’re full, mate,” he said.

“No problem,” Connor said, grabbing a seat on the bench at the back and flicking open an abandoned newspaper. “I’m in no rush at all. I’m more than happy to wait.”

The tension ratched up another ten degrees. One of the clients – a man who looked like he sold watches off motorbikes – glanced towards the rear door of the shop, then back at Connor.

“There’s a booking system,” said another of the ‘barbers’. “We don’t accept walk-ins.”

Connor nodded, licking his finger and turning a page of the newspaper. 

“That so? Old-school. Love it! You don’t get enough places who commit to such old-fashioned service these days.”

He could feel all eyes fixed on him. Assessing. Calculating. Maybe deciding who had the sharpest blade within reach. One of the pretend customers said something in Turkish to the guy with the waxed moustache. The barber replied, but too quiet for Connor to catch this time.

“Mr Connor, I’m not sure what ‘white boy looking to get cut’ means, but from available context, I would suggest you prepare yourself for something imminently violent to occur.”

The third barber – this one younger, leaner and strung-out around his eyes – crossed over to stand over Connor. He was not quite looming, he didn’t have the height for it, but he was trying his hardest. 

“Listen, mate,” he said. “This ain’t the kind of place where you just sit.”

“I have to say, you’re doing your establishment down. I’m sitting quite comfortably here. Loving the vibe.”

There was a beat of stillness, then the last of the clients – the only one wearing jewellery – kicked his foot against a towel cupboard hard enough to make everyone jump. His bracelet clinked, and a gold crescent moon on it shone, far too bright to be fake. 

“What’s the play here, brother? You got a death wish or something?”

“What? I don’t understand! All I want is to get my hair cut.”

“You’re not going to get your hair cut in here, brother. You need to leave.”

“You sure?” Connor asked, glancing up at the wall where the price board listed beard trims, skin fades, and ‘VIP treatment’ in vinyl letters. “Your rates look eminently reasonable. I feel I could become a regular here.”

Wax-moustache picked up a pair of scissors and began slowly snipping them open and closed. Connor raised his eyebrows. 

“You do amateur theatre too, mate, or is it just the hair?”

Nobody laughed, which Connor thought was a shame.

Then the one standing over him leaned in and poked him in the chest. Just to the left of where the bullet had gone in. It hurt. 

“I think you’ve got the wrong shop, mate.”

“No,” Connor said. “I really don’t think I do.”

Another burst of Turkish between them. Louder, now. Tension looping into repetition.

“Well done, Mr Connor! This has been an extremely assertive disregard for social pressure and overt threat. I’m very pleased to inform you that you’ve generated enough XP in this encounter to gain a point in Will!”

“What? Now?”

“Indeed. I have added +1 to your Will. This will give you improved resistance to psychological coercion, a higher capacity for mental strain, and a moderate buff to resilience against physical intimidation. You are now statistically harder to intimidate, irritate, or, indeed, hypnotise! Congratulations!” Izzy gave a little clap. “I mean, obviously, I think you’re about to be stabbed repeatedly and your body disposed of in, what the chap over there describes as a ‘meat locker out back’ but you’ll be feeling less stressed about it when it all kicks off!”

Connor had had enough. He folded the paper and threw it aside. 

“I guess I have two important questions. The first is, do you lads do hot towels or not?”

“We do not. And the second?” one of the barbers snapped.

“Is the guy hiding out back with the massive bag of drugs willing to share?”

Things became a little chaotic after that.

The first punch came from the lean guy standing over him. Connor dodged and drove upwards, carrying his attacker straight into the wooden counter on the other side of the shop. Glass jars of blue disinfectant smashed to the floor as Connor came up first and stamped on the back of his attacker’s knee. The shriek he gave suggested he wouldn’t be getting back up in the near future.

A second guy came from behind, this one with a straight-razor he was flashing. Connor spun the barber’s chair beside him with both hands, catching the blade with the metal headrest and then ducked low, shoving forward with the chair and slamming it into the attacker’s shins. The ‘barber’ stumbled as Connor took advantage of the opening, rising fast to jab hard with his elbow into the bridge of his nose, splattering the mirror with blood. He followed up with two clubbing right hands and that guy fell to the floor in lalaland.

He felt... good. Too good, actually. Connor didn’t need Izzy’s running commentary on the fight to tell he was noticeably faster than he remembered ever being. Faster than in training drills, and much faster than the last time he was sparring in the gym. There was even something predictive about how it felt watching the men lumbering to accost him, like his body was moving a second before his conscious brain caught up. 

“The benefits of being a Candidate, Mr Connor. As I mentioned, although +1 might not be that impressive in the grand scheme of the System, compared to normal humans… incoming!” 

The man with the gold bracelet slammed into him. Although he was much heavier and slower than the first two Connor had dealt with, his fists were like bags of bricks. Connor took a glancing blow to his ribs, which hurt like anything. 

He didn’t let himself register it, though - not yet - sidestepping to regrab the edge of the barber’s chair, and swinging it to crash into the man’s knees. There was a crunch and the man howled, hopping off-balance, which allowed Connor a moment to grab the collar of his shirt, and haul him face first into the bloodied mirror. The glass cracked in a starburst and Gold Bracelet slumped, coughing and spluttering red into the sink.

Scissors lunged in with a low tackle and Connor let himself be knocked to the ground, but then rolled, ending up on top, bringing several clubbing fists down into the perfectly coiffured head. He still seemed up for the fight, so Connor reached out to grab a dropped hairdryer by the cord, and swung it down hard. The plastic casing exploded against the man’s temple.

There was a hum in Connor muscles, an awareness he couldn’t quite name, but suspected he knew its origin. Not thinking about Izzy, though, he stood and stepped through the half-lit corridor to the back. 

A storeroom door stood ajar.

He kicked it open to find the man within already reaching for something strapped under a table. Connor didn’t give him the chance. He crossed the room and booted the table into the man’s gut, pinning him with his forearm across the throat. The man gurgled and flailed before Connor ripped free his own gun and pointed it at the man’s head.

On the floor of the storeroom, he saw two bricks of white powder, plastic-wrapped, each stamped with the same crescent moon he’d seen on Gold Bracelet’s wrist.

“Yippiekayay,” Connor said, somewhat unnecessarily.