I walked back through the middle of the cluster, persistently glancing around at the tables that were just starting to fill up. The goblins were crawling out for breakfast. The customary cycle followed by the lazy majority of the Outskirts. Yawning widely from crooked mouths, they traipsed sluggishly, groaning and sighing, coughing and wheezing... No one was in a hurry. Lazy, unmotivated. A lot of them even slept through the start-of-work alarm at eight in the morning, because why leave your capsule and put yourself in Mother’s sights when your job was already there in your interface? Why rush to stuff breakfast in your mouth and rush to start working, scratching your fresh injection sites, when it was still so early and you knew you only needed four or five hours to finish your job? Why, indeed. There was no need for that. Better to chew your nutrition cube slowly, sip on water just because, chat with your neighbors, watch the screens hopefully — who knows, there might be a game challenge! They happened a lot. Even if it wasn’t for you, you could still watch someone else play. Grit your teeth in envy if they win, laugh viciously if they lose... Even a poor goblin could enjoy life if they wanted — there was plenty to do all the way up until noon. And lunch... Well, lunch was a sacred thing! Afterwards, an hour-long nap. Then around three in the afternoon or so you could trudge over to your job site and do your job begrudgingly. Once it’s done, back you go, skipping gleefully back into the cluster! The evening would pass in a blur, with the screens hardly ever going dark — just game challenge after game challenge, long ones and short ones, always something to watch!
As soon as I turned into our camp-hospital hallway, I realized we had a problem.
In ten more steps I identified the threat, and snarled viciously —
Fortunately, they hadn’t managed to cause any actual harm — Yorka was scowling distrustfully at the two men, standing on the ledge in front of them. The other two from Johnny’s crew.
I looked closer, laughed silently, and quickened my pace. I liked what I saw. Yorka was staring daggers at them, hands up in front of her, almost poking each one in the face with an outstretched middle finger. I adjusted my course, shifting slightly to slowly approach them from behind. Yorka saw me first, and joy started to creep across her worried face. I pressed a finger to my lips.
“Are you really that dumb? We told you — double ones is toast. He’s not coming back.”
“The bastard’s dead!” The second man, slightly shorter than the first but with broader shoulders, tried to sound menacing.
“And now you’re all alone! Did you grow a new arm? Great! Now you can work even harder! Bring us the same stuff for now, same place as before. And don’t drag your feet if you want to live, bitch!”
“Hey, say something, bitch!”
Didn’t they know any other insults? Johnny was a real bad seed — hadn’t he taught them how to swear properly?
“Maybe we should cut her. Hm? Lemme cut this bitch! She’s asking for it! I hate females! Stupid bitches! Stupid! Only good for one thing!” The short one shuddered, elbows spread wide and mouth open, breathing noisily. He looked like a hen giving birth, realizing that mating with an ostrich was a mistake.
Neither of them turned around. Not once! I stood breathing down the backs of their necks, and they didn’t react in the slightest. No internal tension, not the slightest hint of a sensation or cautionary instinct. They sent that drugged-up buffoon to take me down with an awl, and decided he would automatically succeed? What was wrong with these goblins?
I looked up at the ceiling. Mom was out, the kids could play.
Yorka let out a choked sob, then grunted and covered her face with her new hand.
“Hey, don’t cry, dummy!” The first thug said. “Don’t worry! Yeah, you screwed up, really caused trouble. But we can put it behind us. We’ll talk about it this evening in our hallway. Come to some kind of agreement. We’re all human, after all...”
“You’re less than human,” I disagreed, slamming my awl into his right shoulder muscle.
The second punk got the spiked club to the back of his thigh. It wasn’t a deep wound, but it was an incredibly painful spot. He collapsed to one knee. I managed to wrench the club free and throw it to Yorka, who caught it. Only then did the guy with the awl in his shoulder react.
“Ow! Motherfucker! Ow! Ow! Ow!”
“Shut up, worm” I said, putting pressure on the awl to cut off his complaining, but he started wheezing instead, shaking like a pinned fly. What a low pain tolerance. I had to repeat myself, growling:
“Hey! Shut up!”
