Broke and Bussin

The sun was too bright. It was a vicious, unblinking glare that cut through the cracked window of the third-floor studio, spotlighting the dust suspended in the air. Spring had hit the city like a riot. Dandelions punched through the asphalt down in the street, thick and aggressive, their yellow heads loud against the gray decay.

Len sat on the floor. His knees popped as he shifted his weight. He didn't notice the flowers outside. He was staring at the pile in front of him.

Caps.

Metal caps. Plastic caps. Rusted beer crowns. Faded soda lids. He had them sorted into stacks of ten. His hands were black with dirt and grease, the skin around his fingernails chewed raw. He pushed a stack of ten across the warped floorboards. Then another.

Four hundred and twelve.

He rubbed his eyes. His stomach gave a hollow, scraping turn. He hadn't eaten since yesterday morning, and the coffee he'd boiled over the camp stove was turning acidic in his gut.

Rent was ten thousand.

The door handle rattled. Len didn't look up. The door stuck on the frame, requiring a hard shove. Toby kicked it open.

Toby brought the outside in with him. He smelled like diesel exhaust, and motor oil. He dropped a canvas bag on the floor. It hit with a heavy, disappointing thud.

"Well?" Len asked. His voice was flat.

"Sold three shirts," Toby said. He dropped onto the mattress in the corner. The springs screamed. "Traded the denim jacket for a sack of rice and a handful of AAA batteries."

Len stared at the stacks of caps. "We needed caps, Toby. Grist doesn't take rice. He doesn't take batteries. He takes caps. Or he takes the room."

"People aren't spending," Toby said, staring at the ceiling. "Everyone's holding. The market down on 4th is dead. I stood there for four hours. A guy offered me half a tire for the gray hoodie. I told him to walk."

Len picked up a rusted bottle cap. The logo was completely scratched off. It felt sharp against his thumb. "Rent is due tomorrow. Ten thousand."

"I know the number, Len."

"Do you? Because we have four hundred and twelve. We're short."

"How short?"

"Over nine thousand."

Toby sighed. He rolled over, propping himself up on his elbows. He looked at Len, then at the meager pile of metal on the floor. "We're cooked."

"We're completely cooked," Len said. His chest felt tight. The panic was a physical weight, pressing down on his ribs. He couldn't get a full breath. "We have two sewing needles left. The thread is rotting. We're basically trading buttons, no cap. Literally. No caps."

Toby sat up. The exhaustion on his face vanished, replaced by that sudden, manic spark that always made Len's stomach drop. It was the look Toby got right before he suggested something incredibly stupid.

"What," Len said.

"I heard something at the market."

"No."

"Just listen."

"Toby, I'm not robbing a water caravan. I'm not stealing copper wire from the grid. We are tailors. Bad tailors, currently, but tailors."

"It's not a job," Toby said, standing up. He grabbed his boots, pulling them back on. "It's a salvage. You know the Starlight Galleria?"

Len blinked. "The mall? Out past the dead zone? It's gutted. Scavengers picked it clean ten years ago. Grist's guys stripped the copper. The locals took the glass. There's nothing there but concrete and rats."

"That's the baseline," Toby said, lacing his boots fast. "But a runner came through today. Said he was hiding out from a patrol near the east wing. Floor collapsed. He fell through into a sub-basement. Said there were boxes. Sealed boxes. He didn't open them because the patrol was right on him, but he saw the logo on the crates."

"What logo?"

"He didn't know it. But he drew it for me." Toby pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and threw it onto the floor next to the caps.

Len picked it up. It was a crude sketch. A swoosh. A checkmark.

Len stared at it. The air in the room felt suddenly very still.

"Pre-collapse apparel," Toby said. His voice was quiet now. Serious. "Dead stock. Sitting in the dark for twenty years. If there's even one intact jacket in there, it's worth a thousand caps to the right buyer. If there's a dozen? We buy the whole building from Grist."

Len looked at the window. The bright spring sun was mocking them. The city was a chaotic mess of overlapping territories, trigger-happy landlords, and desperate people trading trash to survive. Walking out to the Starlight meant crossing three different gang lines. It meant risking a knife to the ribs for a rumor.

Len looked back at the four hundred and twelve caps.

He stood up. His knees popped again. "Get the crowbar."

***

The walk took two hours. The city in spring was a contradiction. The concrete was crumbling, the steel skeletons of high-rises were bleeding rust, but the plant life was winning. Vines choked the rusted husks of abandoned cars. Wild cherry blossoms drifted through the air, sticking to the sweat on Len's neck. The smell was a jarring mix of raw sewage and sweet jasmine.

They moved fast. Toby led the way, stepping over rubble with practiced ease. Len followed, his eyes darting to the shadows. They stuck to the alleys, avoiding the main avenues where the trade caravans moved.

The heat was brutal. By the time they reached the perimeter of the Starlight Galleria, Len's shirt was soaked. His throat was dry. He swallowed, but there was no saliva.

The mall was a massive, sprawling corpse. The roof had caved in years ago. The glass atrium was entirely gone, leaving jagged teeth of safety glass around the steel frames. Nature had taken over here, too. A thick carpet of moss covered the parking lot. Saplings grew out of the cracked asphalt.

"East wing," Toby whispered, crouching behind a rusted sedan.

Len nodded. He gripped the iron crowbar in his right hand. The metal was warm from the sun.

They moved across the lot, slipping through a massive hole in the exterior wall that used to be a department store entrance. The temperature dropped immediately as they stepped into the shadows.

The interior was a cavern. The floor was tiled, covered in a thick layer of dust and dried leaves. Above them, the broken skylights let in shafts of brilliant, hard sunlight. It looked like a cathedral built out of trash.

They walked in silence. The crunch of their boots on glass was deafening. Len's heart hammered against his ribs. Every shadow looked like a scavenger. Every breeze sounded like footsteps.

"Here," Toby said softly.

They stopped. In the center of the concourse, the floor had simply given up. A massive crater opened up into the dark. Rebar twisted out of the concrete like broken bones.

Len looked down. It was a fifteen-foot drop into blackness.

"The runner said he fell," Toby muttered, shining a small, cracked LED flashlight down the hole. The beam was weak, cutting through the swirling dust. It hit a pile of rubble below.

"We aren't falling," Len said. He pulled a coil of nylon rope from his bag. He tied it around a thick concrete pillar, testing the knot twice. "I go first. If the floor down there gives, pull me up."

Toby nodded.

Len slipped over the edge. The rope burned his palms despite his calluses. He slid down, his boots hitting the rubble with a soft crunch. The air down here was different. Cold. Stagnant. It smelled like ancient dust and cardboard.

"Clear," Len called up, his voice echoing in the dark.

Toby came down a minute later, landing lightly next to him. He clicked the flashlight back on.

They were in a storage corridor. Cinderblock walls. Metal doors, most of them rusted shut or busted open. They walked down the hall, checking each room. Empty. Empty. A room full of rotted mannequins. A room full of moldy paper.

Len's hope started to evaporate. The familiar, heavy dread crept back into his chest. It was a wild goose chase. They were going to go back to the apartment, and Grist was going to throw their sewing machine out the window.

"Wait," Toby said.

He stopped in front of a heavy steel door. It was dented, but intact. The locking mechanism was electronic. Dead for two decades.

"Crowbar," Toby said.

Len stepped up. He wedged the flat end of the iron bar into the gap between the door and the frame. He threw his weight against it. The metal groaned.

"Help me," Len grunted.

Toby grabbed the bar. They pulled together. Len's boots slipped on the dust. The muscles in his back burned.

With a loud shriek, the door popped open.

They stumbled back. Stale air rushed out of the room. Toby raised the flashlight.

The beam swept across the darkness. It hit cardboard. Boxes. Stacked floor to ceiling.

Len stopped breathing.

They walked in. The room was bone dry. No water damage. No mold. The boxes were dusty, but the cardboard was firm. Toby stepped up to the nearest stack. He pulled a pocket knife from his belt and sliced the packing tape.

He opened the flaps.

Inside the box was a thick plastic bag. Toby ripped the plastic.

Color exploded into the dim room.

It was so bright it hurt the eyes. Neon pink. Electric teal. Blinding yellow.

Toby pulled the garment out. The nylon rustled, a crisp, sharp sound that hadn't been heard in this building in a generation. It was a windbreaker. Color-blocked. Pristine. The zipper was perfect. The elastic cuffs were tight. The tag was still attached.

Len reached out and touched it. The fabric was slick, cool, and completely unnatural. In a world of mud, rust, and patched denim, this jacket was an alien artifact. It was a glitch in the ruined landscape.

"Oh my god," Len whispered.

Toby opened another box. More jackets. Track pants. Bucket hats. All neon. All flawless.

"Len," Toby said. His voice was shaking. "There's fifty boxes here."

Len's mind raced. The math shifted. Four hundred caps. Ten thousand caps. It didn't matter anymore. This wasn't about rent. This was capital. This was power.

"We can't carry it all," Len said, his brain snapping into logistics mode. "We take what we can fit in the bags. We hide the rest. We come back tomorrow."

"Who do we sell it to?" Toby asked, shoving jackets into his canvas sack. "Grist won't give us what it's worth. He'll just take it."

Len paused. He looked at a neon green track jacket in his hands. It was loud. It was arrogant. It was exactly the kind of thing that commanded attention.

"Not Grist," Len said. "We take it to King Riff."

Toby stopped packing. He looked at Len. "Are you out of your mind?"

"He has the caps. He has the territory. And he cares about how he looks."

"He's a warlord, Len. He crucified a guy last week for stepping on his sneakers."

"Exactly," Len said, zipping his bag shut. "He appreciates footwear. He'll appreciate this. We don't just sell him a jacket. We sell him a uniform."

***

The walk back was an exercise in pure paranoia. The canvas bags were heavy, bulging with nylon. Every person they passed on the street looked like a threat. Len kept his hand in his pocket, gripping a heavy pair of fabric shears.

King Riff's compound was on the west side of the river. It used to be a massive laser tag arena and arcade. Now, it was a fortress.

The exterior walls were painted in chaotic, clashing colors. Skulls were mounted on pikes, but the skulls were wearing cheap plastic sunglasses. The Bright Glitch was in full effect here. The guards at the front gate carried heavy crossbows and baseball bats wrapped in barbed wire, but they wore mismatched, brightly colored golf shirts over their armor.

Len and Toby stopped fifty yards from the gate.

"If we run now, we can still make it to the market," Toby said. His bravado from the mall had vanished. His face was pale.

"We're not running," Len said. His stomach was doing flips, but his jaw was set. "Follow my lead. Don't speak unless spoken to."

They walked up to the gate. Two guards stepped forward, raising their weapons.

"Halt," the taller guard said. He was chewing on a toothpick. "State your business."

"We're tailors," Len said, his voice steady. "We have a meeting with the King."

"You don't have a meeting," the guard said. "Nobody has a meeting."

"Tell him we found the Starlight cache," Toby blurted out.

Len flinched. The guard's eyes narrowed. He looked at the bulging canvas bags.

"Search them," the guard said.

The second guard stepped forward, grabbing Len's bag. He unzipped it. He reached in and pulled out a fistful of neon pink nylon.

The guard paused. He stared at the fabric. He rubbed it between his fingers. The crisp rustle of the material was loud in the quiet street.

"Bring them in," the tall guard said.

They were marched through the gates and into the arena. The interior was a massive, dark space lit by erratic flashes of blacklight and neon signs running on generators. The ramps and platforms of the old laser tag course were still intact, covered in graffiti.

King Riff held court on the top platform.

Len and Toby were shoved up the ramps until they stood before him.

Riff was young. Maybe twenty-five. He was sitting on a throne made from a stack of chrome rims and a ripped velvet theater seat. He was wearing a chest plate fashioned from a yield sign, and over it, a fur coat that looked like it used to belong to a very large, very dirty dog. His hair was dyed a patchy, chemical blonde.

He looked at them. His eyes were sharp, erratic. He tapped a finger against the armrest of his throne.

"Tailors," Riff said. His voice was surprisingly quiet. It forced everyone in the room to lean in to hear him. "I hate tailors. The last guy made me a pair of pants that split when I sat down. I fed him to the dogs."

Len swallowed hard. The silence in the room was heavy.

"Show him," Len said to Toby.

Toby unzipped his bag. He pulled out a jacket. Electric teal with a hot pink swoosh. He held it up.

The blacklights caught the neon fabric. It glowed. It was the brightest thing in the room. It looked like magic.

Riff stopped tapping his finger. He leaned forward. The fur coat slipped off his shoulder.

"What is that," Riff whispered.

"Pre-collapse nylon," Len said. "Dead stock. Untouched by the sun. Untouched by the rain. Water resistant. Wind resistant. Lightweight."

Riff stood up. He walked down the ramp. His boots clicked on the metal grate. He stopped in front of Toby and took the jacket.

He held it up to the light. He ran his hand over the slick fabric. He found the zipper. He pulled it down.

Zip.

The sound was perfect. Smooth. Uninterrupted.

Riff pulled his fur coat off and dropped it on the floor. He slipped his arms into the windbreaker. He pulled it up over his shoulders and zipped it to his chin.

It was a perfect fit. The bright teal clashed violently with his yield-sign armor and dirty cargo pants. It looked ridiculous. It looked incredible.

Riff looked down at his arms. He moved them in circles. He did a quick shadowbox routine. The nylon swooshed loudly.

"No drag," Riff said. "It breathes."

"It's tactical," Toby lied smoothly. "High visibility. Shows you aren't afraid of being seen."

Riff looked at them. A slow smile spread across his face. "I want it. I want all of it. How many caps?"

Len took a step forward. His heart was hammering so hard he thought Riff could hear it. This was the moment.

"We don't want caps," Len said.

Riff's smile vanished. His hand dropped to the pistol at his hip. "Excuse me?"

"We're not merchants," Len said, keeping his voice entirely flat, entirely calm. "We're tailors. We don't just sell clothes. We curate. We style. You take this jacket, great. You look good. But what about your guards? They look like they fell through a charity bin. You're a King. Your crew should look like a royal guard."

Riff stared at him. The guards shifted uncomfortably.

"We have fifty boxes of this stock," Len continued. "Track pants. Windbreakers. Hats. We can outfit your entire upper echelon. Uniforms. Color-coordinated. No one in the city will have anything like it. But we don't sell it for caps."

"What do you want?" Riff asked, his voice low.

"We want the old Honda dealership down the block. We want the space. We want the locks fixed. And we want your protection. Anyone messes with the shop, they answer to you. In exchange, we are your exclusive stylists. We manage the wardrobe for your crew. You get the neon. We get the shop."

Toby was staring at Len, his mouth slightly open. It was a massive overplay. It was insane.

Riff looked at the jacket he was wearing. He looked at his guards. He looked back at Len.

He zipped the jacket down, then up again.

Zip.

"The dealership needs the roof patched," Riff said.

Len exhaled. The breath left his lungs in a long, shaky rush.

"We can patch a roof," Len said.

***

The sun dipped below the ruined overpass, bleeding orange light across the broken skyline.

Len sat on the floor of the glass-front office that used to sell used sedans. The room smelled like old carpet and Windex, a sharp chemical smell that felt like luxury. The glass was intact. The door had a deadbolt.

Toby sat next to him, leaning against the wall. The canvas bags were piled in the corner, safe.

Outside, the spring breeze picked up, rattling the chain-link fence that surrounded the lot. Two of Riff's guards walked the perimeter, clad in bright yellow track jackets, their crossbows slung over their shoulders. They looked absurd. They looked terrifying.

Len pulled his knees to his chest. His hands were still dirty, but they weren't shaking anymore.

"Ten thousand caps," Toby muttered, staring out the window. "We didn't pay it."

"No," Len said softly. "We didn't."

He looked around the empty room. They needed a table. They needed better needles. They needed thread. But for the first time in three years, the knot in his stomach was gone.

The world outside was still broken. The economy was still trash. People were still starving. But in here, the air was still, and the door was locked.

Len closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the drywall, listening to the wind rattle the glass, wondering how long the neon would last before the dirt reclaimed it.