Rug-Pulled at Altitude

"Don't look at the menu."

"I'm just seeing what they have, Sam."

"You're broke, Yung. We are both broke. Don't look at the menu."

Yung sighed, a harsh, nasal sound, and swiped his hand through the digital projection hovering over his plate. The glowing text flickered, glitched into a block of static, and vanished. He slumped back in the high-backed chair. The chair squeaked. It was supposed to be high-end synthetic leather, but it sounded like cheap plastic when he moved.

The restaurant was spinning. One full revolution every hour. It was meant to give the patrons a complete view of Sector Four, but right now, all it did was make Sam's stomach turn. He hated heights. He hated the slow, grinding hum of the floor track vibrating through the soles of his boots. Mostly, he hated looking at his younger brother.

Outside the reinforced glass, it was spring. The city below was a mess of aggressive color. Bright pink cherry blossoms had erupted overnight in the bio-domes, spilling out into the streets. Yellow pollen coated everything—the roofs of the mag-trains, the edges of the skyscrapers, the outer hull of the restaurant itself. It looked like a thick layer of toxic dust. The sun hit the glass, reflecting a harsh, blinding glare straight into Sam's eyes.

He shifted his weight. His right arm, a heavy, outdated mechanical prosthetic from the shoulder down, clanked against the table. The linen tablecloth snagged on a loose bolt near his wrist. He yanked it free, leaving a tear in the fabric.

"You didn't have to pick this place," Yung said. He was bouncing his left leg. Up, down, up, down. The vibration rattled the silverware.

"I didn't. You did."

"I picked the plaza. You picked the top floor."

"Because it's public," Sam said, keeping his voice low. He leaned forward. His back ached. It always ached when it rained, and the pressure systems outside were building up for a heavy spring storm. "Because if we met in an alley, I probably would have strangled you."

Yung stopped bouncing his leg. He looked away, staring out the window at the pink and yellow smog. His jaw tightened. Yung had a new neural jack installed behind his ear. It was sleek, flush with the skin, surrounded by a faint red LED ring. It looked expensive. Sam knew exactly how Yung had paid for it.

"Let's just get it over with," Yung muttered.

"Get what over with? The part where you explain how you zeroed out our shared accounts? Or the part where you explain why a corporate extraction team has been knocking on my door for three days looking for you?"

"They went to your place?"

"They kicked my door off the hinges, Yung. They stood in my kitchen. They smelled like gun oil and cheap cologne. They told me you owe them a lot of money."

Yung rubbed his face. His hands were shaking. Not a lot, just a slight tremor in the fingers. A side effect of overclocking his nervous system to match the new jack. "I had to dump the crypto, bro. Aunt Jen was going to rug-pull us!"

Sam stared at him. The sheer volume of Yung's voice made two people at the next table turn around. They were a couple, dressed in smart-fabrics that shifted from slate gray to a muted blue, reacting to the sudden noise.

"Keep your voice down," Sam hissed.

"No, listen to me," Yung leaned in, planting his elbows on the table. The sleeves of his jacket were frayed at the cuffs. "I saw the blockchain traffic. She was moving everything. All the assets from the farm. She was routing it through a shell server in the upper sectors. If I didn't pull our stake out yesterday, we would have lost all of it."

"So you pulled it out."

"Yes."

"And then what did you do with it?"

Silence.

The restaurant rotated another fraction of a degree. The sun shifted off Sam's face and hit Yung, highlighting the dark circles under his eyes and the pale, unhealthy color of his skin.

"Yung. What did you do with the money?"

"I put it in a short-term lock. A high-yield contract with the Vargas Group."

Sam's stomach dropped. The physical sensation was sharp and sudden, like stepping off a curb he hadn't seen. He felt the blood leave his face. "You gave our money. To the Vargas Group."

"It was a guaranteed return! Three days, forty percent payout. I was going to buy us both out of the lower sectors. I was going to fix your arm."

"You selfish prick."

Sam didn't yell. He didn't have to. The words carried a heavy, dead weight.

Yung flinched. "I was trying to help!"

"You were trying to get rich quick, just like Aunt Jen. And now Vargas has our money, and because you used my registry ID to open the wallet, Vargas thinks I'm the one holding the bag when the contract defaults."

"It won't default—"

"It already did, Yung! That's why the extraction squad is at my door!"

Sam slammed his metal hand down on the table. The sound was a loud, flat crack of metal on wood. The water glasses jumped. Water spilled across the torn linen, soaking into the fabric.

The conversation at the surrounding tables stopped completely.

Sam felt the heat rising in his neck. He hated scenes. He hated people looking at him. He glanced around the room. The couple at the next table were staring directly at them. The man's optic lenses—thin, silver implants that replaced his natural irises—were glowing with a faint red ring.

He was recording them.

People were always recording. It was a reflex. See a fight, buffer the feed, upload it to the grid.

"Stop recording," Sam said. His voice was flat.

The man didn't blink. "I'm just eating my meal, pal."

"Your buffer light is on. Delete it."

"Mind your own business," the man said, turning back to his partner, though the red ring stayed lit.

Sam started to stand up. The heavy servos in his shoulder whined.

"Sam, don't. Seriously," Yung grabbed his good arm. "Sit down. Don't make it worse."

"You made it worse. You sold us out to a cartel because you wanted a shiny new hole in your head."

"I didn't know it was a front!"

"You never know anything! You just act!"

The argument was spiraling. Sam knew it. He could feel the familiar, exhausting rhythm of fighting with his brother. It was a loop they had been stuck in for ten years. Yung messes up, Sam yells, Yung makes excuses, Sam fixes it. But this time, there was no fixing it. The Vargas Group didn't send warning letters. They sent people who broke bones and took collateral.

Sam looked at the half-empty glass of water on the table. He was thirsty, but his throat was too tight to swallow. He looked out the window again. The bright pink blossoms, the yellow pollen, the harsh blue sky. It all felt too loud.

Then, the lights died.

It wasn't a flicker. It was a hard, instantaneous cut. The warm ambient lighting, the digital menus, the soft glow of the table centerpieces—all gone.

A split second later, the heavy, grinding hum of the floor track stopped. The silence that followed was massive. It pressed against Sam's ears.

Someone in the back of the room let out a nervous laugh.

Sam didn't laugh. He felt the hairs on his arms stand up. The air in the room suddenly smelled different. The synthetic truffle oil was gone, replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of ozone.

"EMP," Yung whispered. His voice was tight with panic. He grabbed the side of his head. "My jack. It's burning."

"Get under the table," Sam said. He didn't think about it. It was instinct. He reached across the table, grabbed Yung by the collar of his jacket, and yanked him downward.

They hit the floor just as the glass exploded.

The sound was deafening. It wasn't a shatter; it was a detonation. The reinforced smart-glass, designed to withstand hurricane-force winds, blew inward in a massive wave of sharp, heavy chunks.

Sam covered his head with his metal arm. He felt the impact of the glass against the steel plating—loud, rapid clangs like hail on a tin roof. A piece of silica the size of a fist grazed his shoulder, tearing through his jacket and biting into his flesh. He grunted, squeezing his eyes shut against the dust.

The wind hit them next. Cold, high-altitude air rushed into the pressurized cabin, carrying the thick yellow pollen. It coated Sam's throat instantly, making him choke.

Screams erupted from the dining room. Tables overturned. People scrambled over each other in the dark, slipping on the layer of glass that covered the carpet.

Sam opened his eyes. The glare of the sun through the massive hole in the wall was blinding. Silhouetted against the bright sky, four figures swung into the restaurant on thick carbon-fiber cables.

They hit the floor hard. Heavy boots crunching on broken glass.

Corporate extraction. Vargas Group.

They didn't look like soldiers from a movie. They wore bulky, scratched tactical gear. Their helmets were matte black, scarred from previous jobs. They moved with heavy, brutal efficiency. No shouting, no warnings.

The lead figure detached his cable and raised a short, thick rifle. A kinetic slugger.

"Target acquired," a voice crackled from the leader's external speaker. It sounded distorted, metallic. "Table four. Secure the asset. Neutralize interference."

Table four was them.

"Sam," Yung choked out. He was curled in a ball under the table, holding his head. The EMP had fried the surface circuits of his new jack. A thin line of blood was leaking from his nose.

"Move," Sam yelled.

He kicked the heavy base of the table. The metal pedestal snapped, and the heavy wooden top flipped upward, creating a makeshift barricade just as the lead extraction agent fired.

The kinetic slug hit the table with the force of a sledgehammer. The wood splintered, showering Sam with heavy chips. The impact pushed the table back, sliding across the glass-covered floor and pinning Sam's leg against a structural pillar.

Pain shot up Sam's thigh. He gritted his teeth, tasting blood from a bitten lip.

"Yung! Run!"

Yung didn't run. He scrambled out from under the broken table, slipping on the glass. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, flat device. A localized scrambler. He slammed his thumb onto the activation switch.

Nothing happened. The EMP had killed it.

"Dammit!" Yung threw the useless plastic at the nearest agent. It bounced harmlessly off the man's chest armor.

The agent stepped forward, swinging the butt of his rifle directly at Yung's face.

Sam didn't have time to think. He planted his good hand on the floor, leveraged his weight, and lunged. He threw his entire body between Yung and the agent.

He brought his metal arm up. The rifle butt hit the steel forearm with a sickening crunch. The force of the blow rattled Sam's teeth. The servos in his elbow whined in protest, a high-pitched grinding sound, but the metal held.

Sam didn't stop. He pushed forward, driving his heavy metal shoulder directly into the agent's chest.

It was a sloppy tackle. They both went down in a tangle of limbs, crashing through a row of chairs. Sam felt a sharp pain in his ribs as a chair leg snapped under them. The agent was heavy, smelling of sweat and stale coffee beneath the armor.

The agent brought a knee up, catching Sam in the stomach. Sam gasped, losing his breath. He tried to swing his metal fist, but the agent grabbed his wrist, pinning it down.

"Got the brother," the agent grunted over the comms.

Another pair of heavy boots stepped into Sam's field of vision. The second agent reached down, grabbing the back of Sam's collar, preparing to drag him off.

Suddenly, the boots vanished.

Yung had tackled the second agent at the knees. It wasn't a clean hit. Yung bounced off the heavy armor, but it was enough to knock the agent off balance. The man stumbled backward, his arms windmilling, before tripping over a ruined table and falling hard onto his back.

"Get off him!" Yung screamed.

He grabbed a heavy glass water pitcher from the floor—miraculously unbroken—and smashed it directly down onto the helmet of the agent pinning Sam.

The glass shattered. The agent grunted, his grip loosening for a fraction of a second.

That was all Sam needed.

He wrenched his metal arm free, the servos screaming, and delivered a short, brutal backhand to the side of the agent's helmet. The metal fist connected with a loud crack. The visor cracked. The agent went limp, slumping sideways onto the floor.

Sam scrambled to his feet, breathing hard. His chest burned. His leg throbbed where the table had pinned it. He looked at Yung.

Yung's hands were bleeding from the broken pitcher. He looked terrified.

"Behind you!" Yung yelled.

Sam spun around. The third and fourth agents were moving in. The third agent raised his slugger, aiming center mass.

"Down!"

Sam tackled Yung. They hit the floor as a kinetic slug tore through the space where their heads had been, burying itself in the kitchen service doors behind them.

The air was thick with yellow pollen blowing in from the breached window. It mixed with the dust from the drywall and the smell of discharged weapons. Sam's eyes watered. He couldn't see clearly.

"Kitchen," Sam rasped, pulling Yung up by the jacket. "Go."

They ran. It wasn't a clean escape. They stumbled over overturned chairs and slipped on the silica. The patrons of the restaurant were huddled in the corners, screaming or frozen in shock.

Sam hit the swinging kitchen doors shoulder-first. They burst open, leading into a narrow, stainless-steel corridor. The kitchen staff had already fled. Pots and pans were scattered across the floor. A fire suppression system had triggered, raining cold, foul-smelling chemical foam from the ceiling.

"Keep moving," Sam pushed Yung forward, slipping on the wet tiles.

Behind them, the kitchen doors burst open again. The third agent stepped through, his boots sliding slightly on the foam. He raised his weapon.

Sam grabbed the edge of a massive stainless-steel prep table. It was bolted to the floor, but the bolts were old. He engaged the overdrive in his mechanical arm. The warning lights on his wrist flashed red, indicating critical pressure.

He heaved.

The metal groaned. The bolts snapped with loud pops, like small firecrackers. Sam flipped the heavy table onto its side just as the agent fired.

The slug hit the steel surface, punching a deep dent into it but failing to penetrate.

"Service elevator!" Yung pointed to the end of the corridor. The doors were standing open, the lights inside dead due to the EMP.

"It's dead!" Sam yelled over the noise of another slug hitting the table.

"The shaft isn't! The cables are manual!"

They abandoned the table and sprinted for the open doors. Sam's leg was screaming at him. Every step felt like a nail driving into his thigh. He was slowing down.

Yung reached the elevator first. He grabbed the emergency manual release lever and yanked it down. "Come on!"

Sam dove into the dark elevator car just as the agent rounded the prep table.

Yung slammed his foot against the door brake. The heavy metal doors slid shut with a loud clang, plunging them into total darkness.

A second later, a heavy impact hit the outside of the doors. Then another. The agents were trying to pry them open.

"Up or down?" Yung asked in the dark. His breathing was ragged, panicked.

"Up," Sam said, leaning against the cold metal wall, clutching his bleeding shoulder. "They expect down. Go to the maintenance deck."

Yung found the manual crank wheel on the wall. He grabbed it with his bleeding hands and started to turn. The gears ground loudly. The car jerked, then began to slowly ascend the shaft.

They sat in the dark, the only sound the heavy, mechanical clicking of the manual winch and their own heavy breathing.

Sam slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor. He touched his shoulder. His fingers came away wet and sticky. He wiped them on his pants. His ribs ached. His head pounded.

"You okay?" Yung asked from the dark. He didn't stop cranking the wheel.

"No."

"Your arm?"

"The servos are stripped. It's dead weight right now."

Yung kept cranking. "I'm sorry."

Sam didn't say anything.

"I mean it, Sam. I didn't know they would come like this. I just wanted to get us out."

Sam closed his eyes. The darkness in the elevator was complete. He could smell the chemical foam on his boots, the blood on his hands, and the stale sweat of the fight. He thought about the yellow pollen outside, coating the city.

"You're a selfish prick, Yung," Sam said softly.

"I know."

"But you hit that guy with a pitcher."

"Yeah."

"That was okay."

Yung let out a short, breathy laugh. It sounded more like a sob. He kept turning the wheel. The car moved slowly upward, inch by inch, away from the floor where the corporate squad was waiting.

Above them, the maintenance hatch rattled in the dark. Wind whistled through the gaps in the shaft. They were moving higher. Higher into the spring storm that was brewing outside.

Sam rested his head against the cold steel wall, listening to the gears grind, waiting for the doors to open.