#ivanxberk

Seventy-five thousand credits and the sound of polite applause condemns another human being to erasure. Now, fifteen naked forms remain, each one dreading their turn to stand under those punishing beams of white and red light. Nothing but the promise of pain separated them from the rows of ravenous eyes that watched them from the dark. Thus, they huddled close together like cornered lambs and shivered despite the drugs coursing through their swollen veins, and the warm air - heavy and sick with smoke, perfume, and greed - that swirled around them.

“Bidding on #3 will begin in fifty seconds, starting at $40K. Increments will be at $5000,” a clear, distinguished voice spoke from speakers above the elevated auditorium stage. “That is $40K, ladies and gentlemen.” Below, a young woman with wild golden eyes done up in mascara and lips painted a soft pink, is pushed forward until the magnetic bindings on her angles snag onto the rotating platform’s braces. Unable to sit, to focus, to run, she tries to cover herself with her thin arms without much avail. “Vietnamese. Estimated mid-late twenties. Minimal augmentations: Visoa Optics and Rapidfyre hand modifications -” the descriptions went on, interjected by whispers and whimpers that struggled to grow into a scream.

Transfixed by the tremors upon her lower lip and the desperate heaving of her half-covered chest, Simons watches the anonymous woman turn like meat upon a platter through the holo projection playing upon the crimelord’s wall, and tries not to imagine what her life was like before.

“You like her?” the old woman croaks through clotted lungs as she gently rocks herself within her red, cushioned chair. “You can have her, my dear. My gift to you.”

With half-lidded eyes, the Illuminatus turns his attention towards her, and earns a throaty chuckle for his unenthusiastic reaction. They did not need to strip Augs for parts, nor did they need to buy their specimens in gaudy, live auctions like the one hosted by his current company. They had other, more effective ways of obtaining living human beings. “She’s not my type,” he responds, deadpan.

The woman chuckles again and lifts her blonde coloured brandy to her wrinkled lips. “No, my good boy. She’s not.” Then with a sigh she sets it down and runs her painted nails through her dyed hair, her age showing in the tired furrows beside her closed eyes. “Half this lot is shit. Most are pozy-addicts who climbed into the wrong van, and the rest are street filth plucked from the ghettos. These immigration restrictions are really putting a damper on our livestock.” Her hand trembles when she sets the glass down, but Simons knows it is not from weakness but from tempered anger. “Heh. Guess border security finally got good at doing their job.”

Simons slips towards the boss and her desk. A hand descends and taps gently upon the hard expresso-stained wood. “But not too well, I trust,” he rumbles with a warning concern.

Brown eyes quickly snap open and her head shakes from side to side. “Oh no. No, no. Our arrangements are still sound. You’ll have the shipments within a week-”

-“Sold! Eighty-five thousand credits.” And applause once again cascaded against the office’s grey walls.

A crooked grin slowly grows across her withered face. “Well, well. Not too bad,” she purrs, taking another sip. “Guess I misjudged.”

“Guess you did.”

Indignant surprise erupts within her eyes and her glass wobbles again. “Heh! Don’t be so smug, young man.”

“No,” he snaps, tearing across the room to get a closer look at the next item of sale thrown out upon the show floor. This time the victim was a young man of an age similar to the woman currently being dragged off screen, except his augmentations went far beyond those of an abducted desk jockey. Extensive body modifications had become popular just before the collapse of the mechanical augmentation industry, but the existence of cybernetic people with more machinery than flesh was still a rarity. None had that tell-tale rabid look of fearful desperation quite like this one either.

It was unmistakable. He had seen that look before on the streets of Prague. He had seen it beaten black with bruises and oil. He had seen it volunteer to deliver the same…

“Take this one off the market,” the man orders, his eyes still upon the cowed lad.

“I thought you didn’t like Augs…or boys,” she snorts before pouring herself another glass. “Now why would I go and do that? I’m generous to you Simons, but I know this one will make a pretty penny no matter what uses they have for him. I can’t give you this one.”

“Keeping him is not my intention. Kill him if you want, but sell this boy and you’ll eventually have a gun pressed to your throat: whether it’s the law’s or an irate customer I would not know.”

- “Seventy thousand!” - The first bid.

Her brow perks, both cautious and intrigued.

“It’s difficult to work with someone when they’re dead,” he sneers, turning back on her. Drawing closer now, he explains, his voice heavy and severe: “Watch the news lately? Somewhere down the line someone’s going to scan in those augs or look at his face after a session, and recognize him for the metro bomber he is.” Quickly, he snaps open his P.D.A and pulls up the third image on the investigative reports to show her. “And people, as you know, talk…”

The room goes silent for a while save for the cheer behind another, higher bid. The numbers grow by the second.

“Nine-ty-thous-and,” she enunciates, challenging him with greed as she taps the P.D.A closed. “Ah - ninety-five.”

Simons leans in until they are eye-level, his minted breath barely mingling with her alcoholic flavors. “End it."

“Will that be a hundred-thousand from you, Simons?” she nudges coyly, flashing him a smirk that might have charmed men in her younger days. “It’s hard to work with someone when they’re dead.” Slipping her glass between them, she goes for another sip. “And I know you can afford it.”

- “Ninty-five thousand, ladies and gentlemen? Ninty-five thousand?” -

Her confidence was met with stalwart coldness, but within his eyes there was a fire. “He might be worth a hundred-thousand credits,” he answers with a minor shake of his head. “But are you?”

- “Going once? Twice?” -

Her eyes dart back and forth between his own, uncertainty growing within her twisting gut. With an angry huff, she slams her palm upon the desk and twists her chair away so that she could call without the man looming over her. “Simons, you humorless son-of-a-bitch. Geno. “Outbid” the sale. We’re going to keep this one a little while longer.”

He pauses, expression neutral.

She had asked him quite nearly the same question. Asked him what he truly wanted. The power he could attain rising up the ranks of the Dvali, or the love of a woman who could truly know him. He had thought he’d known the answer then. He had told her so much. So much so she would know him. Because she loved him.

Or so she had said.

“Feared.”

The response is soft, but certain.