Story by Charles Hawkmoon. Translation VictorX.
This short story is part of the Science Fiction Storm series. All stories in this series are inspired by randomized prompts, ensuring that each tale is unpredictable and utterly unique. Here are the random seeds for this story:
Cyclone – Chills – Swallow – Thong – Kidneys – Glove – Plastic.
They’d stolen my damn kidneys. I could hardly believe I’d fallen for that trap, right when I was about to close a deal with Demetrius’s crew. I woke up feeling like crap, shivering. Those bastards—rather than killing me outright during the process—had left me alive. Was this some twisted act of cruelty, or a bizarre form of mercy? Perhaps they thought this way they wouldn’t bear the weight of outright murder.
There was no time for philosophy. I barely managed to drag myself over to grab a sip of water to swallow a Xoretil pill. Luckily, I had a crushed one in the pocket of my pants. The pain was excruciating.
“Turk! They screwed me over, man… Maybe it was Demetrius, but I’m not sure yet. I’m sending you my location. I need to get to a hospital, or I’m done for.”
“My kidneys, man—they stole my damn kidneys!”
They’d taken my fucking screen too, but thankfully I could still manage almost everything with my implant. Looking around, I realized I was in a dingy hotel room, blood everywhere—my blood. A surgical glove lay crumpled on the floor. I picked it up and stuffed it into a plastic bag. Maybe they could extract some DNA from it and trace it back to the bastard who ordered this.
I wasn’t sure if Turk could access my implant, but I hoped he’d find me. My attempts to move or open the door weren’t working. I vomited, then rolled over into my own mess. The chills wouldn’t stop, and I was halfway unconscious when I saw the door swing open.
I never thought I’d feel happy to see Turk’s ugly mug.
“Holy shit, man!”
That was the last thing I heard before I blacked out.
I woke up to that unmistakable hospital detergent smell clinging to my brain. I was hooked up to a dialysis machine and could tell I’d be tied to it for a long time. Still no screen.
“Turk?”
“Yeah, I’m awake. Damn! Four days?”
“Got it.”
“Got it.”
“You have the glove?”
“The damn glove I put in a plastic bag.”
“What the hell, huh?”
“Fine. Fine.”
“Alright, just keep me posted.”
Turk had saved my life, and now I owed him one. But the damn glove was gone. How the hell was I going to figure out who those bastards were? I was confused and pissed, but I didn’t have time to wallow in bitterness.
My teletext implant flickered on.
“WANT YOUR KIDNEYS BACK?”
“Of course, you son of a bitch!”
“FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS. COMPLETE THE MISSION, AND WE WILL REIMPLANT THEM.”
Holy crap! Now this? Did these people eat shit? They leave me half-dead, practically a wreck, and expect me to complete a mission?
“AN AGENT WILL DELIVER THE MATERIALS IN 20 MINUTES.”
The “agent” was a short nurse with a no-nonsense expression.
“Take this screen and put this on.”
“A yellow jumpsuit? Seriously? I’m going to look like a goddamn walking highlighter!”
“I said put it on, not throw a tantrum.”
She pulled a syringe with a massive needle out of her coat pocket. The liquid inside was clear but shimmered as if laced with powdered light from a projector lens.
“Wait, hold on…”
Before I could say anything, she jabbed it into my arm through the IV port. My arm locked up, my body burned from the inside, and I clenched my teeth. What the fuck was this stuff?
“This will give you strength for about three hours, maybe less.”
Once the burning subsided, I felt invigorated. The first image on the screen showed a plastic bag filled with pink liquid and two small lumps inside. An animated arrow pointed at them, alongside a zigzagging, flashing caption: “YoUr KiDnEyS.”
The second image was of Adriana Cyclone. Dotted lines outlined the blonde pop star’s neck, accompanied by another dancing caption: “YoUr TaRgEt.”
Seriously? My target was a teenage pop star? Sure, I hated her music, but killing a girl who hadn’t done anything to anyone…
The third image was of a hammer—not just any hammer, but something stylized, a cross between a mallet and a war hammer, like it had been pulled straight out of a damn video game.
The nurse handed me a heavy backpack, and I immediately knew the hammer was inside.
“Don’t forget to wear the mask. Head to the rooftop; there’s an air taxi waiting for you.”
Minutes later, I was in an autonomous air taxi built for two passengers: me and the backpack. I opened it and saw the hammer. It looked like it would weigh a ton, but when I picked it up, it felt surprisingly light. The mask was a strange mix of carnival costume and Power Ranger helmet.
“We are approaching your destination,” said the vehicle.
The night over São Paulo was dominated by strange lights, but this… this was a full-blown pyrotechnic spectacle. Beams of light and fire streaked across the sky in an incredible display. All of it was coming from the Allianz-Zeneca Park. Fireworks exploded right next to my window.
Any regular air taxi would’ve been redirected by the aerial security system, but somehow, I found myself descending rapidly toward a massive stage at one end of the stadium.
“Thank you for traveling with 99-Uber.”
I tumbled onto the stage, wearing the mask and that ridiculous sequined jumpsuit. I suppose everyone thought I was part of the show.
I saw the doubt in Adriana Cyclone’s eyes, but I didn’t hesitate. I advanced on her. One good blow with the hammer and my mission would be accomplished. But no. I saw the terror in her eyes, how could I crush such a cute little thing? But how could I not? I didn’t hesitate, but my blow was blocked.
The next thing I knew, there was another guy, dressed in purple, holding a sledgehammer. Our sledgehammers crossed in the air and I felt a strong shock wave pass through my arm and almost ripped off my right shoulder.
There he was—a guy dressed in purple, wielding a similar hammer. The bastard spun his hammer, knocking my mask off and taking a few teeth with it.
“You piece of shit!” I spat, blood spraying.
I slammed my hammer into his gut, and he collapsed, doubled over in pain.
It was him or me. I raised the hammer and looked down.
His tight clothing came loose in that position and part of his belly and back was exposed and I saw it. Damn them! The guy had fresh scars on the sides of his back. He had been forced to fight, like me. What did the bastards want? To exalt the spectacle? To see two strangers killing each other in a live show?
Instead of taking a sledgehammer to the big-bellied blue guy, I crouched down and took off his mask. Jesus! It was Demetrius! That wasn’t random. I just didn’t remember the guy being that big-bellied.
Then it hit me—those bastards never intended to give me my kidneys back. Sick bastards. Lights and music continued to roar around us. Adriana Cyclone ran to the other side of the stage and continued singing.
“Demetrius, are you okay, man?”
“Rolo? What the hell is going on?”
I lifted my shirt to show him my scars.
“Fuck! They set us up, man! Gaaaah!!”
Demetrius writhed like a slug drowning in salt, his agony accompanied by a wild guitar solo.
It was horrifying! His stomach exploded.
Some spider-like robot drenched in blood crawled out of his guts, tangled in his intestines. One leg of the thing got stuck in Demetrius’s intestine and that gave me enough time to bring the sledgehammer down hard. That was it! That thing was gone! I smashed it with the hammer, obliterating it.
Before I could think, I was hit. The cops had finally stormed the stage, silencing the music at last.
They beat the crap out of me.
“It’s a setup! They framed me, damn it!”
They didn’t care. I passed out under their blows, waking later strapped to a hospital gurney in a military infirmary.
They wanted to know why I did that, how the aerotaxi had broken through the security system and so on. They had a lot of questions, and I had few answers.
Years later, with my kidneys back, I was living the high life at a resort in the northeast of Brazil. Sun, sea, unlimited drinks, and buffets—this was the real life.
I had become a case study for a new type of marketing. My name, the photos, and videos from that damn show were plastered across books, online courses, and other crap. Reality Drama Marketing, they called it. Some preferred the term “Visceral Marketing.”
I didn’t care, as long as those fucking dollars kept rolling into my account.