Vengeful Memory III was not happy. She was not made for happiness. She hated all jobs.

  The street smelled of antiseptic. It was the smell of hospitals, not of cities. The air was too clean, the temperature too even. The sound of the city had rhythm—cars, machines, and people moving like parts of one vast song. A city should not sing. A city should groan, shout, break, rebuild. This one did not. It was quiet even in its motion. The sun hung high and hot but did not burn. The air-conditioning grids above kept everything comfortable. Comfort disgusted her.

  She turned her eyes to the opposite corner. Punny Dadjokes was waiting, rocking on his heels. She despised his name. He thought it clever. He thought everything clever. His grin was wide and lazy, and he winked when he saw her looking. The wink irritated her more than the name. It was his way—he took pleasure in her frustration.

  He liked to tell people he looked like Brad Pitt, stretched sideways. The comparison was nonsense, but not without merit. In another age, maybe he could have been handsome. That age was long gone. The old films remained—scratched DVDs and brittle drives salvaged from before the Regulation. Somehow, Brad Pitt movies had survived, where others hadn’t.

  Vengeful did not care about old films. She had other things to think about. The plan had to work. It was a good plan, they had rehearsed it for weeks, but a good plan was still only a plan. The city was alive with eyes. Drones and lenses and scanners swept the streets in their endless patterns. The worker drones might not notice them, but the system could. If it saw a misstep, it would erase them.

  She adjusted the strap of her bag and watched the timer on her wrist. Two minutes. Punny shifted his weight again. He liked to call it a “heist.” She hated the word. He said it sounded cinematic. She said it sounded stupid. This was not a film. This was a last chance.

  The light turned red. The Ed truck rolled to a perfect stop, just as every Ed truck did. Predictable. Blind. Programmed.

  Vengeful stepped off the curb. Punny moved a second later, their motions rehearsed down to the breath. She slipped her hand into the bag, hid the stun gun under the fabric. The cameras would lose sight of her right arm for only three seconds—that was the window. Her left hand found the glass-breaker.

  She reached the truck in stride, swung the tool, and shattered the window. The sound cracked through the perfect air like thunder. The Ed did not move. He stared forward until she pressed the stun gun against his neck. The shock dropped him instantly. His eyes rolled back.

  She opened the door and pushed him out. He hit the pavement with a soft, hollow sound. She climbed in, pressed the ignition pad, and the engine came alive. The light turned green. She drove. Punny appeared beside her, panting but smiling.

  The truck moved fast, faster than she liked. Punny bent over the console, fingers darting over the data screen. The truck’s link to the central network had to be cut. Otherwise, every camera, every drone, every Bob in the city would trace them before they reached the tunnel.

  Fifteen minutes. That was the window. No more.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “There,” Punny said, grinning. “Disconnected.”

  “Good. You want applause?”

  “Wouldn’t hurt. Maybe a parade. Or a pi?ata.”

  She didn’t answer. Her hands gripped the wheel. The streets were narrow and clean. The city’s perfection made the drive more dangerous—everything here moved in smooth patterns, and she was the flaw.

  Punny clung to the dash. “You always drive this fast?”

  “I have to drive like an Ed. They run one-forty on these roads.”

  “They’re bred for it. You’re not.”

  “Noted.”

  She focused on the lines of the road. The simulator had taught her the pattern, not the feel. The steering wheel kicked against her arms; every curve wanted to throw her. Her stomach clenched. She missed the chaos of old streets, the kind that forgave human error. These roads had no forgiveness built in.

  A red light. Thirty-eight seconds of stillness. She exhaled, looked at Punny. He said nothing. Neither did she. The green returned and she accelerated again.

  “Right on time,” Punny said.

  “Surveillance or police?”

  “Surveillance. They’ve triggered the police now. Perfect. We’ll get the full delay—sixteen minutes, maybe seventeen. As long as nothing else goes wrong.”

  “Make the call.”

  He took out the communicator. “Five minutes to the tunnel. Surveillance engaged. Police three minutes behind. Reindeer with bacon. Square root of i.”

  She glanced at him. “What?”

  He shrugged. “Code phrases. They hung up after I said five minutes. They’re ready.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “Probably,” he said, and grinned again.

  The tunnel came into view, black and gaping beneath the elevated tracks. The air shimmered with heat. Vengeful pressed harder on the accelerator.

  “Police, two minutes out,” Punny said.

  “I see them.”

  The tires screamed as they entered the tunnel. Darkness swallowed them. The air smelled of oil and wet concrete. Ahead, lights flickered—figures, the tunnel team, the second truck.

  Vengeful braked hard. The stolen truck skidded to a stop. She jumped out, scanning for the getaway car. Panic rose until she saw it parked beside the second truck.

  “Punny, move!”

  “You go,” he said. “They’ll need me here. I can guide the second truck out.”

  “You sure?”

  He nodded. “Go.”

  She hesitated, then ran to the car. As she drove away, she looked back once. The trucks were side by side, men moving fast and precise. It looked like victory. It felt like doom.

  She circled the perimeter roads, keeping to the routes they’d planned. Her heart pounded. Each turn felt too sharp. The world around her looked too clean, too measured. It wasn’t built for people like her.

  The phone rang. She jumped. Punny’s name flashed on the screen.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, we did it! We’re clear, outside the city limits.”

  The relief hit her like a wave. Her throat tightened. She wiped her eyes.

  “Are you crying?” he teased.

  “None of your business.”

  “You’re crying. Admit it.”

  “I admit nothing.”

  She laughed, just once. Then the laughter died.

  The cars around her had stopped. All the lights were red. The whole grid was frozen. No movement.

  “What’s wrong?” Punny asked.

  Sirens rose in the distance. Blue light reflected off the glass. Police cruisers slid into the intersections from every side. Bobs stepped out in their black armor, scanning each car.

  “Oh no,” she whispered.

  “Vengeful? Talk to me.”

  “They’re here.”

  “There’s no way they traced you.”

  “They did.”

  A Bob approached her window. He was calm, almost polite. He raised a scanner, held it to her face. A chime sounded.

  “This is one of them,” he said into his radio. “The female.”

  He opened the door, pulled her out, and cuffed her wrists. She said nothing. Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth. He guided her toward the patrol car, firm but efficient.

  Her phone lay on the seat, Punny’s voice faint and distant through the open line. “Vengeful? Vengeful, answer me.”

  The door shut. The sound stopped. The air smelled of metal and disinfectant. She sat very still, hands bound, heart pounding. Outside, the perfect city kept singing.

  And she hated its song.