I.
Nobody knows how many years those damn warehouse neons have been flickering. And honestly, nobody cares.
Odma cracks his knuckles one by one. Elia stares at the ground. Somewhere behind them, two low voices trade the kind of gossip people share just to fill the silence and the boredom.
— 18 and 222 didn't make it back…
— Oh yeah? Damn, 18 owed me five bucks.
The static from the loudspeaker grates on their ears, but it's still better than the endless ringing of the receivers going off nonstop in the auction room next door. All they know is that in there, people sell “stuff worth more than your miserable lives” and that it has to be “delivered to buyers without a scratch and on time, got it?!” And that's all they need to know.
— 120, 75, 17. To loading!
Three shapes get up without a word or a glance, with less enthusiasm than prisoners on death row. Just another day, really.
Odma turns to Elia, then looks up at the warehouse's massive electronic board, where names and numbers flash and shift nonstop, sometimes for the better, often for the worse.
— 47th, huh…
Elia doesn't answer.
— Yo, I'm talking to you! You saw the board?
— I see it every day, Odma... Elia sighs, his mind elsewhere.
— Well look closer, four-eyes, Odma shoots back, forcing his head up. You were 65th last week, 47th today. You're climbing the ranks, man!
Odma raises an eyebrow and tilts his head slightly toward his friend.
— Okay... fine, seven still haven't made it back and three got picked up, but let's not dwell on the details, ahah.
— That's one way to look at it, he says, allowing himself a small smile.
He knows Odma has never been good with compliments, and that if his tact rivals, at best, that of an elephant, his sincerity is every bit as massive.
— It's the RIGHT way, yeah! Now... let's see those kicks.
He grabs Elia's ankle and carefully inspects his patched-up sneakers: cut soles, hand-stitched reinforcements, a couple of marker strokes for style... A hack job, sure, but a meticulous one.
— Sorry, ran out of materials to finish the job. These days I'd have better luck finding gold bars than real leather at Molly Market.
— It's fine.
— Hey! Listen to me: I'm gonna finish those kicks, even if I have to jump a recycler drone for it. Then you'll join me at the top of the board and we'll split the top-3 prize, easy!
— The shoes aren't the problem.
One of the loudspeakers starts coughing up numbers again in a shrill racket.
— 20, 72. TO LOADING!
— LET'S GO!! Odma yells, springing off the bench with a crash. You hear that?! We're together! The old man actually listened to me!
— Wait, what did you go and say to... Elia stammers.
20 and 72. Elia and Odma's numbers. People like them, the « M.U.L.E.s » (Metro Urban Local Express), don't get the luxury of a first name in this business. What's the point, anyway? Most of them end up falling off a roof, getting caught, or vanishing without ever being heard from again.
They walk over to the loading platforms and wedge their huge bags into the designated slots. Elia's number flashes on the small screen in front of him (72) while anonymous hands work behind his back. The bag grows heavier bit by bit. Odma blows on his hands, staring straight ahead, fire in his eyes, like he's ready to go fifteen rounds with the wall in front of him.
— Hmph. Let's see...
A lanky silhouette slowly cuts through the darkness. A man, salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, wearing a garish suit with questionable taste, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal an ugly scar barely hidden by a gold chain that catches what little light there is: the stable master. He walks in without looking up from his tablet, takes a drag on a cigarillo wedged in the corner of his mouth, then blows the smoke straight into the two kids' faces. Mixed with his way-too-heavy woody cologne, the smell hits them right in the throat: his own personal way of saying hello.
— Rank A delivery. No delays, no damage, no losses, blah-blah... You know the drill.
He slides his gold glasses down his nose. His sharp green eyes finally leave the screen and lock onto Elia like the barrel of a sniper rifle.
— No. Delays. 72. Got it? Or else...
Elia holds his gaze in silence. If Odma hadn't vouched for him after « the other day's incident », he wouldn't still have this job, he knows that. But here's the thing: Elia doesn't look away.
— No need to panic, Mr. Venazzo! Odma cuts in, pushing down on Elia's head to force a bow. Me and 72, we're a killer team, you know that! You won't regret it, promise!
— Pfft. Venazzo spits out a cloud of smoke laced with spittle. Your kindness toward him is gonna cost you more than mine's ever cost you, 20.
He hands them two chrono-GPS bracelets showing the delivery location and the time allotted. He turns on his heel, the sharp click of his shoes mixing with mechanical roars that now make the ground shake. Heavy metal hatches grind into motion, like the doors of a birdcage about to release its carrier pigeons. This is it.
— Alright, saddle up, you little punks.
BRRRRRRRRR !!!!!
The sun slams into their eyes and gusts of wind howl in their ears. It's like surfacing from the depths for one big gulp of air. On the horizon, Panam stretches up in every direction. Towers rising along artificial cliffs, linked by mobile steel walkways, streets boiling nonstop far below, rooftops bristling with electric barbed wire ready to tear open the clouds... A playground as fascinating as it is deadly.
Odma slaps Elia's shoulder, throwing him a wink, a small smile on his lips...
GO !!!
They launch out in unison.
Elia runs, rolls, slides. Odma climbs, gains height, vanishes and reappears ten feet further on. They surf this sea of concrete with a fluidity even the wind might envy. The city swallows them and spits them back out, alley to rusted stairwell, hallway to walkway shuddering under their feet. This job pays badly, barely enough to survive, and any delivery could be the last one for a thousand different reasons. And yet, right now, they feel free, light, untouchable. Like they're slipping between the sharp claws of some demon that would love nothing more than to nail them to a chair, in front of a screen, motionless for the rest of their lives.
But nothing ever goes as planned.
STOP !
A blocked passage: brand-new fencing, padlocks, anti-intrusion beacons... And tucked in the corner, a high-security scanner, its light blinking a threatening bright red.
— Damn it, this thing wasn't supposed to be here, Odma grumbles, checking his bracelet. The GPS never flagged any construction planned for this spot!
In a glance, he spots a gap between two buildings. Without thinking twice, he skirts the setup, takes a running start, and bounces hard off the wall before landing on the other side with a dull thud. He turns back toward his buddy.
Elia has stopped at the edge of the gap separating them. Frozen, he stares down at the hundred-foot drop, ready to swallow him whole at the smallest wrong step. It's like death itself is mocking him, taunting him, right there under his nose.
— Come on, jump, 72! The clock!
Elia doesn't move. His sweaty hands clench around his backpack straps.
“Elia, sweetheart, be careful...”
Whispers from another world seem to ride the gusts sweeping between the building facades, right into the hollow of his ear. His eyes close.
SHHHHHHH...
Suddenly he's six years old. It's hot. A big mechanical cast keeps his arm locked to the elbow. He watches, helpless, as kids down below run around a fire hydrant under the heavy August sun, splashing each other, laughing without a care. His mother's hand gently pulls him away from the window.
“Come on, sweetheart. Leave them be, it might give you bad ideas.”
He's eight, cheap braces strapped tight on both wrists. He's sitting in the bleachers with his mother while his classmates play the interschool championship final. Without him.
“What a dangerous sport! We're much better off right here, honey.”
Ten years old, leaning on crutches, he hears the echoes of the doctor's report drifting down the hallway: “abnormal bone fragility,” “caution,” “avoid impact.”
His mother nods, eyes glistening, with that smile that's both protective and pow|
ELIAAAAAAAAAAA !!!!
He finally surfaces.
Odma watches him from the other side, out of breath, eyes wide open. He glances at the clock, swallows hard, and starts talking with big, very slow gestures.
— Don't panic, okay? Go. Around. Got it? We'll meet down below.
Elia nods, back with him now. Odma spins around and vanishes at once.
— If you screw this up, we're both done for, just so you know!
He lingers one more second at the edge and looks down at the void one last time.
— Damn it!
He turns and bolts down a fire escape at full speed, cuts through covered passages that cost him precious seconds, then makes up for it by sliding down a drainpipe on a construction site. He's fighting a battle on two fronts against two fearsome enemies: his own frustration, and the countdown.
3 MINUTES
He spots Odma below, who just knocked over a street vendor's holographic display in passing. Elia follows suit, ducks on reflex to catch the device, and shoves it back into the furious vendor's hands without even stopping. Where'd he go? Ah, Odma just darted into a corner store. The street's sentinel camera is turned the other way, good. Elia isn't about to fall behind. He weaves between two self-driving cars going full speed, ducks through the store's doors making sure the sentinel doesn't swing his way, and slips between the aisles while tracking the chrono-GPS route. At the back of the store, he squeezes just in time through a secret entrance disguised as a broken-down fridge and lands in a long, dark hallway. Two massive, motionless security guards stand watch over a metal door, above which a sign flickers: NOBODY'S CLUB. Odma is already there. He turns around with a smirk.
— Not bad, bro!
The two giants look them over briefly, then one of them touches his earpiece, nods, and opens the door. The two kids rush in without waiting.
BAAAAAAAAAAW
Elia is stunned.
The bass hitting him is so LOUD it seems to skip his ears entirely and pound straight against his chest. Strobe lights slice through the darkness. The air smells like sweat and hot concrete. The crowd, massive and packed tight, screams and moves to deafening music. Who'd believe a scene like this is happening in the late afternoon, here, in a neighborhood this dangerous?
At the center of the room, a circle rising above the crowd sits bathed in a halo of light. Two men face off inside it under the crowd's watch, in a flood of sweeping, spectacular movement: Mouverz. Outlaws who've dedicated their lives to the forbidden art of movement and confrontation, for reasons you wouldn't get.
This isn't just dance, and it isn't just fighting — it's a conversation between two bodies in a language far more powerful than words: a BATTLE.
— No way!!! Odma points toward the back of the room. Yo, check that out!
A man juggling a mic whips the crowd into a frenzy with his voice! He turns every move of the battle into a legendary story, live, in real time. This guy's got a gift: he's the MC. Not far from him, on a riser, behind an imposing set of turntables, a figure faces the crowd. Tall, dark, unreadable. With just his fingertips on the machine, he seems to dictate the sound and rhythm of the showdown, like a true conductor: the DJ.
Elia suddenly feels something stir deep inside him. His whole body shiv|
1 MINUTE
— Follow me!
Odma plunges into the crowd ahead of him and tries in vain to shoulder his way through, without gaining an inch.
— Damn it, move, come on...
Every second counts. The two of them, too small to cut through this churning sea of people. Without a word, he stops, turns to Elia, and passes the goods into his bag. They glance at the clock, then at each other.
30 SECONDS
— Go, little brother!
Elia steps into the crowd next. But he doesn't force anything. He reads the gaps, slips through the openings, weaves through without bumping into anyone. The crowd is a thousand-headed beast, restless and unpredictable, and he threads through its jaws like a lab mouse.
00:23
The MC is up front, at the edge of the stage. Elia's almost there. So close, yet so far.
00:19
No choice, he has to cross the stage where the two Mouverz are facing off.
00:15
He darts across the circular arena, cutting behind one of them without realizing the sacrilege he's just committed. One wrong move and it's the e|
00:14
The taller one throws his best move. He fakes tossing his cap at his opponent while pulling off an acro|
00:13
The cap boomerangs back with a whistle, grazing his opponent, who shields his face: pure reflex. Elia's foot lifts before he even thinks about it: pure refl|
00:10
A cap spins around the tip of Elia's sneaker, one leg in the air, 200 stunned eyes locked on him. Time has stopped. He flicks it back on reflex toward its owner, who fumbles the catch. The cap hits the ground. Silence.
00:07
The crowd suddenly erupts into an indescribable mix of shocked screams and gleeful hysteria. The MC has frozen mid-sentence, mic in hand, mouth open. The DJ's hands are flat on the turntables. The music has stopped dead in its tracks. All that's left is the roar and the cheering.
00:05
A brief look passes between the MC and the DJ as Elia dives back into the crowd.
— NEVER SEEN BEFORE!! the MC shouts.
00:03
The music kicks back in, harder than ever.
00:02
The beast spits Elia out right in front of the MC. He drops to one knee and pulls the cord attached to his strap. His bag springs wide open.
00:01
The MC crouches down, grabs the goods, and pulls them out of their packaging. It's a set of vinyl records in colorful sleeves.
— You just saved the rest of the night! I like that!
He taps a chrono-GPS device of his own: the delivery is confirmed. He pulls out a small pouch and drops it into the bag.
Elia gets up, about to leave, but the MC's heavy hand suddenly lands on his shoulder and spins him back around.
— Hey, little prodigy, where'd you learn to move like that?
Elia doesn't answer.
— You deaf, or just stubborn as a mule?
Without a word, Elia gives a slight nod, turns on his heel, and disappears: the number 72 on his bag swallowed up by the crowd.
The MC turns back to the DJ and hands him the collector's vinyls. His interested look seems to say: “You see that?”
He turns again. Elia is gone. He scans the crowd for a few more seconds, then raises the mic to his mouth.
— Okay! You've all been waiting for it: let's go for tonight's MAIN EVENT!!
The crowd roars even louder.
The show goes on, but something lingers, unresolved.
For the rest of that wild night, a handful of eyes keep drifting back to the spot where the M.U.L.E. disappeared. But not all for the same reasons.
Each time, the same number on their minds:
“72...”
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