MONOCHROME
By Violet Winter

I

It’s February 14th, 2036. Valentine’s Day. As if I care. My morning starts out bad when I put on my combat boots, and a lace breaks. My last pair of laces. I look around the house for something else, some cord or string, anything. But all I find is a coil of old wire. I try twisting it all the way up the eyelets, but it’s a pain in the ass. So I give up, and only wire it half way. Then I decide both boots should match, so I wire the other one. A few snips with some cutters, and I’m satisfied. It should work for now.

I need some new boots. New clothes, too. I hate the stained men’s trousers I’m wearing, and this tank top is way too big. It’s hard finding clothes that fit me. Not many nineteen year olds are only four-foot-eleven. And I know I’m too thin, living on ramen noodles and french fries is bad. Money’s been scarce lately.

Maybe I’ll go lift some clothes. I know a store downtown that has no clue about shop lifters. If I had money, I wouldn’t lower myself to petty theft. But I loaned all my cash to Dennis last night. He begged me for it while we were drunk, the conniving little bastard. Sometimes I hate to love Dennis. I owe him a lot--he pulled me off a very bad road.

This is Dennis’s house, and I’ve lived here for a year now. It may not be fabulous, but it’s better than where I came from. I used to live on the streets. Back then, I worked for a heroin dealer in San Francisco, carried the junk to all of its slaves. For a while, I shot up too, to numb the raw despair I felt every moment of every day. But then I met Dennis, and we became close friends. He offered me a place to live, on condition that I clean up. No smack is allowed in this house. I’m glad, because I still feel an occasional desire for that evil drug. And I’ve been clean for a year now.

Out of the six people who live here, I'm the only one who’s unemployed. Everyone pays rent to Dennis, and Dennis owns a semi-successful adult bookstore. It baffles me that my roommates are always broke, even though they all work overtime. Poverty’s an epidemic these days.

Everyone’s at work now, except for Josh and Brenda. These two must have the day off, because they’re sprawled on a couch in the living room, smoking a joint. There’s a complete stranger sleeping on the other couch--someone’s friend who got too drunk to go home last night. It’s always the same story.

When she sees me Brenda chirps, “Reiko! How are you, sweetie?” She called me sweetie. I want to reach over the coffee table, tug on those hippie pony tails, and yell, “Get out of your time warp, sweetie!” But Brenda isn’t a bad person, so I just nod hello.

Some people say that I’m in a time warp too, that punk is dead. Of course it’s not.

“Want some?” Josh offers me a smoldered roach, his eyes bloodshot.

“No thanks.” I don’t smoke pot anymore.

I maneuver my way around random bits of trash and dirty dishes and into the kitchen. Four punks plus two neo-hippies under one roof equals this perpetual ocean of mess. In the back of a cupboard, I find a package of ancient beef jerky, the only communal food left in the house. The fridge is full of my roommates’ groceries, and I’m sure Dennis or Janet wouldn’t mind if I ate something of theirs. But I never feel right if I haven’t asked their permission first. I tell myself I’ll find some real food for lunch, and choke the jerky down.

“See ya.” I wave to Josh and Brenda, and grab my long coat from the closet--a quilted retro style with fake fur trailing off the cuffs and a huge padded collar. It’s ugly, but it’s all I have. Before I leave, I examine my new lip piercing in the bathroom mirror. I’ve only had it for two weeks, and I really hope it takes. I now have two studs in my lower lip, a nose stud, seven piercings in my left ear and six in my right. It’s great. I could set off every metal detector in the Bay area. My liberty spikes are standing, though frazzled from being slept on. Oh well. I’m not in the mood to fix my hair today.

It’s just after ten when I head out the door. I take a deep breath of cool morning air and carbon monoxide. The ancient roar of an internal combustion engine rattles my ears, as our neighbor revs his car into life. Every time he starts it, it belches a cloud of exhaust. Must be from the 1990’s at least. He needs to retire that piece of shit. Combustion engines are illegal, but here on the poor side of town, the cops don’t care.

I reach into my coat pocket and curl my fingers around my computer. It’s an older model, about the size and shape of a tobacco tin, definitely not the best I could have. But it gets the job done. It’s my most important possession, my constant companion. I clip the end of its security chain to my belt. Personal interface computers are small, easily lost, and to lose mine would be devastating. All the illicit wiring and hacking tools in it would get me arrested, if some good samaritan turned it into the police.

Dennis has a vintage system in his bedroom, complete with a monitor, tower, and keyboard, from around the turn of the century. You don’t see things like that anymore. Everything nowadays is wired with molecular circuitry and voice recognition--cars, household appliances, and the walls of most buildings.

I clip on my wireless ear piece and tell the computer to play a song I like, “You Got No Life”, by a local punk band called The Cracked Babies. The incessant beat makes me walk faster. The weather’s nice today, about sixty degrees, a light fog rolling away on the breeze. San Jose’s been my home for the past year. It’s quiet compared to San Francisco, but only on the surface. If you really look around, you’ll see that it’s the same as any other city. Overcrowded, dirty, brimming with corruption and discontent. I don’t ever remember a time when things were different. This is the world today. The yuppies and their mega-corporations just want us to shut up and accept it. I refuse to live my life quietly and stupidly with the rest of society’s cattle.

I pass a stairwell smothered with graffiti, a group of bored kids lounging on the steps. A hybrid car whizzes by as I cross the street. Pigeons scatter noisily before my feet, pieces of a rotten burger dangling from their beaks. Somewhere, someone is blasting that old Louis Armstrong song, “What A Wonderful World”, so loudly that I can hear it over my own music. I turn up The Cracked Babies, letting their wail drown it out. I don’t want to hear about skies of blue and clouds of white, because I’m not in the mood. And because I’m colorblind. One of very few documented cases of full-blown monochromasy--blindness to the entire color spectrum. Doctors never could explain it, except as a rare type of genetic disorder. For me, the sky is just a flat shade, the clouds a paleness I assume is white. I know it’s pathetic that I’m bitter about it, but I wish I could see the colors of the rainbow. Maybe that’s why I hate that song.

Two blocks later, I catch the Free-Bus to downtown. The buildings grow taller as the bus nears the business district, the wealthy side of the city. The imposing spires of the Galahad Orbital buildings reach like greedy fingers toward the sky, towards the stars, fingers snatching billions of dollars from Galahad’s asteroid mining enterprise. Other corporate towers rise nearby, San Jose being a center for the booming new off-world industries. Companies in this area always come and go, but a few survive to make their monuments in concrete and steel, their skyscraper headquarters. I loathe coming to this part of town. Too many yuppies for me too handle. But there’s a place here that’s a hacker’s dream. Most of the security systems in this area are too complex for me. I could rob a safer store, on the poor side of town. But my motto is, when you have to risk shop lifting, do it in style.

I get off the bus and head for the store that’s tested and true. My usual victim--Giovanna’s, a snotty designer clothing boutique just around the corner. I pause in a nearby alley, make sure I’m alone, and crouch next to a dumpster to remain unseen. Then I pull my access deck adapter out of it’s hidden pocket in my coat lining. This is the most important piece of hacking hardware. All the processing and decryption occurs within this thin slab of high-tech mayhem. My computer is just the interface I use to view and interpret the coding languages. I snap the connector cables into their tiny ports, and routine-check my system for bugs. All’s in good shape. Now it’s time for some fun. I hide everything--computer, adapter, cables, and display visor--in my clothes. And I wait, watching through the revealing glass storefront. When I’m sure that all the clerks are in the back, I stroll inside.

I’m short enough to remain concealed behind the clothing racks, out of view of the store’s single security camera. Giovanna’s is arrogant, or maybe just cheap, to assume this weak set-up can protect them. In the far corner, I know where to find one of the access panels to the store’s system. It’s perfectly hidden behind a rack of gaudy cocktail gowns. I slip behind the rack, pulling a few of the gowns around to shelter me from view. With my heart racing, I place the visor over my eyes. And then I plug into the access panel.

This is my breath of true life. The plasma display in my visor bursts into view. This is the world where I have real power. I love to talk to computers, more than I like talking to most people. Dennis says I have a lot of talent, that I could earn a fortune if I found an honest career in programming. Only problem is I could never wear a business suit.

In minutes, I find the correct codes. How easy it is to decipher this outdated program. I could’ve disabled Giovanna’s in my early hacking days, back in high school.

“Keyfile, Sec662, blue, data coords 97GV, stand-by sequence...” I recite the string of code that is my killing command, telling the store’s computer to shut down all security files. It’s just a temporary glitch, freezes everything long enough for me to make my move. I only have five minutes before the system resets. But I don’t even need that much time. For a while, I wander around in plain view, whistling and browsing the racks. I examine the price tag on a sequined tank top with chain-link straps. Two hundred dollars? I can handle that. There’s a shoe section, with a pair of tall boots in my size. I like the chunky heels, although they’re a little trendy. I’ll take these, too.

Without warning, an employee comes back to the counter. She notices the hissing static on the security monitor screen. I barely have time to duck.

“Mr. Farrow, something’s wrong!” she cries, dashing to the back again.

I’d better leave, right now. I need more clothes, but they’ll have to wait. I run as fast as I can through the door, tucking my display visor out of sight. When I’m at the end of the alley, I find a plastic grocery bag on the ground. I stuff my new clothes into it, then continue on like nothing’s wrong. No one gives me a second glance. I swing the bag proudly. Top designer clothing for free.

It would be easy to rob Giovanna’s with Dennis and the others. I’m sure there’s a fat safe in that store. And I could easily crack the lock code, since I know the system so well. If only I can convince Dennis to do a run in this highly-patrolled area. Knowing him, he’ll say no. But if I bug him enough, he might give it a chance.

Out of nowhere a dirty hand appears.

“Got any spare change?” A bum with breath smelling of tooth decay and gin stands in my way.

I turn out my pockets, shrug sarcastically. “Sorry.”

I try to walk away. But he grabs my arm.

“Don’t I know you? You worked for Alphonse, down in the Tenderloin.”

At the mention of that name, my stomach turns.

“No. Let go of me, asshole!” I raise my fist and he lets go, but he follows me. I walk faster.

“I remember you! Reiko, the girl with hair like a porcupine in a wind tunnel!” He laughs and coughs at the same time, a horrible sound. “You were my cute little delivery girl! Say, you still work for Alphonse? Got any smack on you?”

I don’t ever want to hear Alphonse’s name again. I run as fast as I can, all the way home, and I lock the door behind me. Josh and Brenda, and the sleeping stranger, are all gone. I rarely have the house to myself, and normally I’d enjoy it. But right now the silence is making me edgy.

Thankfully, Dennis arrives home early from work. He stomps in with shopping bags full of groceries, porno movies from his store, and various things he’ll swear he bought. I know him too well to believe that. I’m only a shoplifter when I’m broke, but he has a habit of it. Actually, he’s a master. And he’s not even a hacker. I don’t know how he gets away with it.

He leaves his coat in a heap by the door and pulls off his shoes, a pair of beat-up All-Stars with grinning Mickey Mouse decals on the toes. He has a short mohawk trailed by three thick dread locks, and a grin that could charm the Devil. He does an odd little dance towards me, and attempts his usual comedic entry.

“Honey, I’m home!”

“I guess you had a good day.”

“I’m singin’ zip-a-dee-doo-dah!” He collapses next to me on the couch, and props his dirty stocking feet on the coffee table. “So, how’s it going today?”

“Nothing’s going.”

“You don’t look so great. You doing all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just in a bad mood. I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”

He nods, but I see concern in his eyes. He tells the house system to turn on some music, and doesn’t pressure me to tell him what’s wrong. I’m often glad that Dennis is easily distracted, his thoughts a whirlwind from one subject to another. He’s such an idiot. And he’s my best friend

“Hey, guess what? I’m going to dye my hair cerulean,” he says. “I tested the color this morning. What do you think?” Bowing his head so I can see, he runs a hand over his hair. All I see is a dark spot in a stripe of kinky bleached fuzz.

“Ahem. Dennis, why are you asking me a question like that?”

Alarm lights his face. “Oh God, I’m sorry! I forgot again.” With exaggerated sobs, he falls at my feet. “Please, please forgive me!”

I can’t stop myself from laughing, and poke him playfully with my toe. “Get up, before I kick you!”

“Nice boots! Are they new?”

“Yeah. Quite a steal.” He laughs, seizing me in a hug. He’s the only guy I allow to touch me.

“It’s time to do another run, Dennis. I’m so low on cash it hurts.”

“I know, so am I. But I have good news! We’re planning one, for tomorrow night. I just need to hear back from Shard.”

“Oh, really? Hey, I have an idea for the target. It’s where I got these boots today.”

“Nah! We’re through with clothing stores and shit like that. I want to take our next run to a higher level.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“I’m not telling! I’m the only one who knows, and the rest of you find out tomorrow night.”

I plead, hit him in the arm, even try whining to irritate him into telling me. He just grins and shakes his head. The only person more stubborn than me is Dennis. And he’s the leader of our little robbery gang, so I can’t make him reveal anything.

“Let’s go out tonight,” he says, trying to divert the subject.

“I don’t feel like it.”

“You might want to, when I tell you who’s performing at the Nexus Room. One of your favorites.”

“Who?”

‘The Cracked Babies.”

“Now that might change my mind.”

“I figured you’d want to go. You’ve only talked about that band every day for the past month.”

“Yeah, yeah. They’re alright.”

They’re more than alright. The Babies are my favorite band right now.

“So, you wanna go out?”

“Sure But there’s a little problem, Dennis. I’m broke, and you owe me five bucks. Remember?”

He laughs. “I know, I know. Thanks. I was able to pay the bridge toll just fine.” He reaches into his pocket and hands me a crumpled five dollar bill. Then he growls and seizes me in a bear hug. “All because of you. You’re a goddess!”

I laugh and wriggle out of his his arms, shoving him playfully. “No, not a goddess. Anything but that.”

Not much later, we leave the house. We can walk to the club since it’s only three blocks away. The sky darkens overhead, shadows fading into night. All around us, the squealing tires and honking of cars, vacant-eyed passengers gaping at each other, as the nightly mating rituals of the street begin. The smell of death on the wind, then we find a decaying cat in the gutter and we know where it’s coming from. Eau de Road Kill. On the horizon, the last rays of sun angle dramatically through the smog line. Pollution can be so pretty. Dennis kicks a bottle towards a wall, laughs when it bounces and shatters against a nearby dumpster. He puts his arm around me, and I lay my head on his shoulder.

“Are you cold?”

I am, but I tell him I’m not. The chilly air invigorates me. At the corner, we reach a busier street, and we wait for the signal when we cross, like good little children. Some people in a passing car shout, “Go home, freaks!” As if they’ve never seen punks in this town before. Dennis eloquently shows them his middle finger while they speed off, laughing at us. Stupid cattle. Who cares what they think?

A few minutes later we reach the Nexus Room, San Jose’s best attempt at an all-ages nightspot. One of the only clubs I bother to come to. But of course, I’d go see the Cracked Babies anywhere. There’s already a line at the door.

“Looks like it’ll be a crowd tonight,”

“They’re getting quite a following,” Dennis says. “I’m shocked.”

“What, you don’t like them?”

“No, I do,” he replies. “I just didn’t think people were into revolution punk anymore.”

“I know. The Babies are really reviving the movement.”

The Cracked Babies are influenced by a particular movement, a renaissance in music and culture that occurred in the early 2020’s. It was the first time in the twenty-first century that there was an insurgence of artistic quality and honesty into mainstream society. Of course, it fizzled out, became corporate and commercialized by 2030. The punk rock that came out of those years has been deemed revolution punk. And it’s some of the best music ever made, in my opinion.

About fifteen minutes later, we’re allowed inside. Without delay, people start claiming their spots for the show. The air buzzes with excited conversations, friends greeting friends, offering cigarettes and sips of cocktails. We go to the stage and get a standing position at the center front. Small clusters of punks and artsy college types gather at the side tables, the usual clientèle of the Nexus Room. Dennis offers me a swig from his metal pocket flask.

“What? How’d you sneak that in here?”

.“With the power of my voodoo, of course!”

I roll my eyes and take a long swallow. Dennis, Dennis. I wish I had his damn luck.

It seems like we wait forever. There’s no opening band, just some awful punk-pop playing over the club speakers. I’m getting impatient, and I can tell the rest of the crowd is too.

Then, the room goes dark. A single stage light appears, glaring from above, almost hurting my eyes. And the band finally appears. A rush of expectant applause, and the drums begin, impossibly fast and loud. Bass and guitar meld with a thundering drone. The singer, Morlock, steps to the edge of the stage, looks down at everyone.

“Good evening, boys and girls,” he purrs. He poses luridly, hips thrust out, and runs his hands over his tight, shiny space suit, over the fake plastic breasts, exaggerated curves of waist and ass. It’s hilarious, because Morlock is horribly ugly. He’s pale, gangly, both his face and body awkward. There’s a rumor that he really was a crack baby, hence the band’s name. But I don’t know if it’s true.

The audience whistles and cheers as he continues to flaunt himself.. “Come on, now, you know what I need,” he says seductively. “With a body like mine, I can take the stars.” He’s dressed like Princess Storm Droid, a popular fashion doll designed to interest little girls in the off-world industry. A bubble space helmet, his face and hair made up to match the doll’s trendy futura style, ridiculous oversized moon boots. The last time I saw the Babies, Morlock was dressed like Shiva the Diva, a similar doll. I guess he’s mocking the overt sexuality in these children’s toys. He always tries to make some kind of social statement. With one fierce movement of his arm, he tears off the space helmet and hurls it across the stage.

The music continues, quiet and steady now, so that Morlock can be heard. Morlock grows thoughtful, shakes his head. “Sometimes I think the sky is cloudy,” he says. “It’s so dark in the street. I look up, to see if it might rain. But there’s no clouds. No sun, no moon. All I see is a shadow. An endless row of buildings hides the sky. And I suddenly realize, I’m a prisoner, down here, in the shadows of the buildings. All the executive kings and tyrants, they look down from their high-rise palaces and laugh. Maybe they even spit on me. But I look up anyways, and I laugh right back. I pity them. Because what can they do, where can they go?” He pauses, the music swells.

Then his face contorts, and he screams, “What do you do when the sky falls down?”

The first song crashes by, two minutes of speed punk chaos. And then they play their weird stuff. Morlock prances the stage, a distorted version of pop culture, thrashes clumsily and wails to oddly-timed, fluctuating rhythms. The Babies’ unique sound. The other three band members hardly move at all.

“You kiss the slaves, to the system fornicating, don’t wake up, it’s all okay, the TV says so, so you know, avoid the strife, you got no life, you got no life.” This is their best song. I let myself drown in the beautiful cacophony.

One liberating song follows another, lights flash, the beat throbs in my head and chest. Morlock’s rhythmic words, his gawky frame convulsing in sweat and sarcasm. He falls to his knees, devastation and weariness in his eyes. I look at Dennis and see that he’s equally impressed. I’ve never seen the Babies play with this much energy. I feel alive, completely removed from the shit in my life. Almost as alive as I feel when I’m hacking. Almost.

The show ends too soon. Dennis and I leave immediately, before the crowd blocks the exit. On the walk home we discuss our favorite parts of the show, and how great it is that the Cracked Babies are from San Jose. There aren’t any other good punk bands in this town.

When we get home Dennis opens a bottle of scotch, and offers me a glass. We curl onto the couch together. I activate the house system before he can, and order a movie. My favorite film, “Casablanca”. Before long, we’ve finished the scotch, and we’re both absorbed in the world on the flat panel wallscreen. Bogart and Bergman, angled shadows and mist, cigarette smoke drifting. I like knowing that the film is black and white, no colors to mock my incapable eyes. It flickers in the darkened room. During the romantic scenes, Dennis lays his head on my shoulder. Later, his hand is on my thigh. When I try to move away, he pulls me closer. And then his lips are at my neck.

“Back off, you dog!” I laugh and push him. But Dennis is drunk, his breath heavy. To him, this is no game.

“I want you, Reiko,” he whispers. “You’re not beautiful, but so...exotic. Can we...you know, just once?”

“No!” I slide away from his groping hands, not because I don’t find him attractive. “It’d ruin everything between us. We’ve discussed it a million times, remember?”

He sways a little, and mumbles, “Oh. Right.” In a few minutes, he’s snoring. I stay up for the rest of the movie.

Our roommate, Janet, comes home a little after midnight, and she offers me some leftover Thai food. Soon after, she goes to bed. After Dennis stumbles back to his bedroom, I’m the last person in the house awake, playing a video game on my computer until about two in the morning. And I don’t notice the time when I go to bed, my buzz worn off, completely sober.

I wake sometime before dawn, can’t get back to sleep. To pass time I read a book on JEST, a new computer language I’m teaching myself. And around seven, my roommates wake up. I think it’s funny that they all work at the same time. Soon everyone’s in the kitchen, struggling to make breakfast. Dennis apologizes for being a jerk last night while we were drunk. I’m surprised he even remembers that. We make up with playful punches and then a hug, nothing damaged between us.

While Josh and Brenda puff a morning joint in the living room, Dennis pulls Janet and I aside. “Tonight’s run is on!” he says. “We’ll meet around nine, the usual place.”

Janet chews on a bagel with cream cheese. “Would you mind telling me just what the target is?” She’s the only other person in the house involved with our robbery gang. The other three roommates don’t know. Janet’s a tall white girl, with a shaved head and tattoos spiraling down her scalp and spine. She’s not always friendly, but she’s honest, and she respects my privacy. The two of us share a bedroom. It works out well enough.

Dennis tells Janet the same shit about a higher level that he told me, and that the target is a surprise.

She glares at him. “I don’t like doing blind runs,” she says, shoves the last of the bagel into her mouth.

“Okay,” he urges. “I’ll tell you this much--the payoff is bigger than anything we’ve done before.”

Janet says nothing, opens the door and waves goodbye to me with a flick of two fingers. Dennis follows, still rambling about our mysterious target as the door closes behind him. Will he ever change?

When they’re gone, I head for the kitchen. Janet said I could have some of her bagels. I eat two for breakfast, and I drink all the leftover coffee in the communal coffee pot. Later, I take a long overdue shower. When my hair’s wet, it hangs to my chin in a shaggy bob. I don’t have anything to spike it with, so I’ll have to go to the store. It’s also my turn to buy toilet paper for the house At the convenience store on the corner I pick up a dozen eggs and the ever-necessary toilet paper.

Back home I plug my computer into the house system and blare some punk over the surround speakers. Josh and Brenda retreat to their room. Guess they don’t like my music. Too bad, I live here too. They can go play that Ungrateful Dead shit, or whatever it is, in their bedroom.

It takes me an hour to prepare the egg whites and set my spikes back. Then I try to line my eyes the way Janet does, with intricate branching designs. But I don’t have a steady enough hand, so I do my usual makeup scheme, dark lipstick and eyeliner smeared clumsily across the eyelids. The afternoon passes slowly. I take a walk, watch soap operas for five minutes, and cartoons for three hours. When I’m bored past my ability to stand it, I log on to the Net a while. I hate the Net. It’s all ads and worthless trivia. I only log on when I need something specific. Predictably I tire of it, and spend the rest of my time playing computer games. Later, I nap on the living room couch. I wake when Janet walks in the door, a cigarette in her mouth and a tattered backpack over her shoulder.

“I see you’re ready for tonight,” she says, noticing my appearance.

“Well, I guess. I’m sort of worried. Dennis forgets that there’s limits to what I can hack.”

Janet crushes her cigarette into an ashtray on the coffee table. “Dennis can be a dick sometimes,” she says. I laugh, she doesn’t. She says she’ll be right back, and goes to our room. When she returns, she’s wearing a faded concert shirt and cut-off sweats. Janet’s face is pretty, a small nose and soft, curved mouth, lush pale eyes. She opens the glass door to our barren backyard, and in gallops Loki, her playful malamute. Loki’s eyes are the same icy shade as his owner’s. After he jumps around happily, he joins us on the couch. Janet’s always more relaxed when she’s with Loki.

“So tell me. Don’t you get bored being here by yourself all day?”

“Yeah. But I always find something to pass the time.”

Raising her finely tweezed brows, she lights a cigarette. Her fingernails bear chipped polish, and are filed to claw-like points. “Why don’t you look for a job? Something to keep yourself occupied.”

“I’ve tried, Janet. Am trying. I have real bad luck in that department.”

“I think you just haven’t looked hard enough.”

“Hey! How would you know? You haven’t seen how potential employers turn their backs on me.”

“Why don’t you try the place I work at?” She works at a music store in a nearby mall.

“Me? Work at the mall?” I make a nauseated face in attempted humor, she only smiles a little.

“There’s a person leaving there. I could talk to the manager, and try to get you the position. You’d like it, I think. It’s pretty laid back.”

“Sounds cool, thanks. I’ll try it.” I need to do something with my life, have to start somewhere. Janet finishes her cigarette, and in ten minutes is fidgeting for another. She’s an obsessive chain smoker. Still, I think she looks very film noir, with a trail of smoke always curling around her face. When I’m her age, twenty-four, I hope I’m as cool as she is. She asks if I’ve had anything for dinner, then offers to make me sloppy joes and baked fries. My stomach rumbles. Another great thing about Janet is she always shares with me. She knows my income is unreliable. My usual share of robbery earnings only supports me for a couple months, at best.

Our roommate Tom suddenly enters, with five other people. He’s a confused, approaching-thirty punk who’s trying to reform as a Christian. His friends all look like fanatical Bible thumpers. They come in talking and laughing, but become abnormally quiet when they see Janet and I, and how trashy the place is. They don’t stay long. Tom doesn’t say hello or goodbye, and we don’t care. He just uses this house as a stop between work and his Jesus fixes.

Then at seven, Dennis arrives. He bows to us and says, in a stupid British accent, “Fair chance that I meet you both here, my ladies!”

“And?” Janet’s not amused. Her face hardens when Dennis is around. I can’t tell if she really dislikes him, or if it’s just her demeanor.

He falls onto the couch, startling Loki from a nap. “Are you ready for the best night of our lives?” he says.

Janet snaps, “Will you stop and just tell us what the target is?”

“Alright. I’ve realized I can’t keep it a secret anymore. Friends, we’re going for the Union Bayside Bank.”

Janet jumps to her feet, bristling. “Are you out of your mind, Dennis?” There’s a tiny shriek in her voice. “We can’t get into something like that! How do you know Reiko can hack a god damn bank? Did you ask her?”

“No. Calm down! I was about to ask her. Just give me a minute to explain.” He pulls a micro-disk tag out of his pocket. “This has all the security pass codes for the bank on it. A friend of mine is the manager there. He’s giving this to you, Reiko, in exchange for a share of what we take from the vault.” He dangles the tag before me, as if it were a priceless gem on a key chain, and lowers it into my palm.

“This is crazy.” Janet says, shaking her head. “I can’t believe what you’re saying.”

“Believe it,” he continues. “Think how much money is in there. Until now, our runs have only yielded payoffs in the thousands. This is ten, a hundred times more. You’ve said yourself, Reiko, that shop lifting is so risky these days, you might as well do it in style.”

Janet’s interest is growing now. “You do have a point,” she says. “Small businesses haven’t been very profitable.” She looks at me, and Dennis smiles bigger than before.

“Why don’t you just check out the files?” he says. “See what you think.”

I sigh, rolling my eyes, fetch my computer from a nearby shelf and plug the tag into the drive. After checking for viruses, I put on my visor. Janet blows elegant smoke rings as I examine the contents.

“What do you think?” Dennis asks impatiently. “Can you do it?”

“I don’t know. I recognize the languages, but it’s pretty complex. I’ll have to get inside the bank, to a terminal where I can access the system. And I have no idea what the vault lock will be like.”

“So you can do it, then?”

“Yeah, I suppose. Given time. And luck. Alright, I’m in on it.”

He jumps up and cheers, worse than a jock at a winning home game. Loki barks at him.

“I haven’t said for sure that I want to go,” Janet interrupts. She and Loki stare at Dennis, four eyes like ice.

He pleads with her. “Janet, we can do this! When we have all that money, we won’t have to do another run for a long time. Doesn’t that make it worth it?” He’s so persuasive. Ultimately, he wins her over, and it’s official.

We’re going to rob a bank. We’re either stupid or insane. I think we’re a little of both.