Chapter 7: Baseline Shifts
Three days went by in a haze of salt water, heavy nets, and sore muscles.
Ricky’s routine was dead simple now. He woke up at three in the morning to do his daily workout before his body could register how tired he was.
By five, he and Marek were on Vance’s boat. They hauled drift nets for eight to ten hours, getting back to their abandoned warehouse around three in the afternoon.
They would eat, hang out for a bit, and sleep early.
It was boring without a phone or a TV, but it was steady. They were pulling in an average of three to five dollars a day each which was more than enough than any average dockworkers.
Today, they had just finished up a decent run and walked away with six dollars. As they headed down the narrow alley toward the back of the warehouse, Ricky was thinking about what to get for dinner.
Then Marek stopped dead in his tracks.
Three young men stepped out from behind a pile of crates at the end of the alley. One had a thick wooden club, another held an iron pipe, and the third was tossing a heavy red brick from hand to hand.
Ricky whirled around to head back to the street, but the way was blocked. Paddy and Jones—the two guys he’d beaten up five days ago—stood at the mouth of the alley. Paddy’s nose was still slightly swollen and purple.
Jones had a thick wooden board in his hands.
"Nowhere to go, boys," Paddy sneered, a mean grin on his face.
Marek stepped closer to Ricky, his shoulder pressing against Ricky’s arm. He didn’t say anything, but Ricky could feel him shaking.
The three men at the other end of the alley started walking forward, stopping about ten feet away. The guy in the middle was tall and lean. He carried a heavy hickory nightstick, the kind the city cops used.
"I heard you did a number on Paddy and Jones," the tall guy said, looking Ricky up and down.
"More or less," Ricky said casually.
The tall guy chuckled, but his eyes stayed cold. "We’ve been watching you two for the last couple of days. Almost everyone on these docks pays their weekly dues to us. But you don’t. Not only do you skip the protection fees, but you also beat up our collectors."
Ricky stayed quiet, keeping his feet planted.
"I’ll tell you what," the leader said, tapping the club against his palm. "I’ll let it go on two conditions. You pay us twenty dollars right now, and then you stand there and let Paddy and Jones beat the shit out of you. Otherwise, you’re both going to end up in shipping barrels, sliced into a thousand chunks."
Ricky didn’t move. He had the money in his system vault, but he knew how this worked. If he paid them now, they’d just come back tomorrow for more. He had to fight. But five against two was bad odds, especially with clubs and pipes. Back home in Georgia, people used guns. Out here, it was all close-up, heavy metal and wood. One good hit to the head would either make him unconscious or dead.
He needed to be fast. Fast enough to see the strikes before they landed.
Ledger, Ricky thought. Open Character Sheet.
The translucent blue screen popped up in his mind, hovering over the hostile faces in front of him.
"Character Sheet"
Name: Richard James Stevenson
Age: 18
Tier: 1 (Steam & Steel Age)
Money: $100.00
Attributes:
Strength: 10
Agility: 9
Vitality: 12
Intelligence: 10
Perception: 9
Available Attribute Points: 18
Eighteen points. He’d been hoarding them from his daily workouts, expecting the gang to return eventually. He was just glad they were two days late. If they had cornered him on his third day, he wouldn’t have stood a chance.
He didn’t need to be strong enough to lift a wagon. He just needed to see everything and move like lightning.
Allocate stats, he thought.
+6 to Perception.
+6 to Agility.
+2 to Vitality.
+2 to Strength.
The moment he confirmed it, a sharp, cold sting hit his eyes, followed by a warm, tingling rush down his spine and into his legs. It felt like his nerves were suddenly on fire. His eyes watered from the quick spike of pressure behind his forehead.
The tall leader noticed and laughed. "Oh, look. The big baby’s crying. Don’t cry yet, kid. We haven’t even started."
Paddy and the others laughed.
Marek took a shaky breath, raising his small, dirt-caked fists. "I’ll... I’ll take the two behind us, Ricky," he stammered, trying to sound brave.
Ricky wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. When he looked up, the alley looked different.
The dim light seemed sharper. He could see every crack in the brick walls, every loose thread on Paddy’s vest, and the slow, rhythmic sway of the leader’s nightstick. Everything looked incredibly slow, like he was watching a video on half-speed. His legs felt light, ready to jump at a second’s notice.
Ricky smiled and looked at Marek. "Not to worry. I can take these guys on."
The leader scoffed, his face twisting in anger. "You’re even more arrogant than Madden."
Paddy and the others stepped into their stances, tightening their grips on their weapons.
Marek looked at Ricky’s calm face. He was still terrified, but a small sliver of hope started to cut through his panic.
In all honesty, Ricky wasn’t entirely sure if the eighteen points he’d just spent would make a difference in a real fight. But he wasn’t about to show it.
He looked right at the tall leader. "It’s alright to be arrogant. As long as you have something to back it up."
The tall guy’s smile vanished. "We’ll see about that. Get them!"
The four men charged.