Motoboy Sampa Blues

by Alex Lopes

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Marcel hammers his Feizer360 through São Paulo, the wet asphalt reflecting the city lights like a broken mirror. His helmet displays eighty klicks an hour, but it feels faster. Cars are jammed, going nowhere. He loves that. He dips low, a phantom in their rearview mirrors, Interlagos his only goal. Forty pieces of sushi on the back, and they won’t wait.

Rain is just a mist. Marcel’s bike slices through it like it wasn’t even there. A semi tries to muscle him near the Transamerica exit. He slams the horn, the bike spitting out from under the truck’s nose, a near miss that sends a jolt through his teeth. Up the bridge he goes, leaving a message glowing from his cargo box: “It’s not rush, it’s not madness, it’s food getting cold.” Late meant no tip, and a one-star review is worse than a broken neck.

Jurubatuba opens up. He loosens his grip on the handlebars, taking a second to breathe. This part of the Marginal, he likes it. Dead trees, their branches like skeletal fingers, reaching up to the flashing, flickering holograms selling everything and nothing. Fake women, all smiles and impossible curves, towering over the whole mess, holding up beers that never emptied. A hundred klicks flash on his visor. Five minutes. He can taste it, that sweet, sweet tip money.

A buzz cuts through the engine noise. Marcel glances up. A black shape carves through the gray sky, a Magalumazon drone, its cargo box a dark belly slung low, skimming the tops of cars. Premium delivery. Memories.

Ten years ago, guys like him, they ran that show. High-risk, high-reward. No tips, just a clean slice of the take. Back then, he only worried about two things, cargo thieves and red zones. Then came the automation, ate up all the good gigs, left him with scraps, books, makeup, crap like that. So he went back to basics, food and meds. More deliveries, less chance of getting his head caved in, and no way a bot is hitting a hundred klicks on these streets for peanuts. Motorcycles don’t have reverse, he thinks, because life only goes forward.

He blasts down Interlagos Avenue, a rocket aimed at its target, the Jurubatuba River a stinking, sluggish snake below. A cop car, lights flashing, escorts a flatbed piled high with bikes, casualties of some turf war. He recognizes the crew’s tags. Marcel grins, leans on the horn, a victor’s salute. His helmet cam blinks on, records the moment. Share it later.

Turning into the residential zone, he checks out the scenery. Fake bushes, bursting with plastic flowers, line the streets, next to matte-black lampposts, those old-school bulbs dangling like afterthoughts, high-res cameras watching from above. Two and three-story houses, all clean lines and white paint, stare back at him. Living walls, green and artificial, add a touch of bohemian chic. Nice places. Yards, big windows, birds chirping. Security drones buzz overhead logging his plate, his device ID, probably got his weight and shoe size by now, who knows what else they’re scooping up. Ah, suburbia. Wouldn’t mind a little slice of that life. A guard on a black motorcycle falls in behind him. Tactical gear, a .45 slung across his chest, a whistle dangling like a warning. Safe now.

His helmet pings. Arrival. He swings off the bike, pops the helmet, thumbs the doorbell. A quick check of the sushi, it’s pristine, seal unbroken. An old guy, maybe fifty, answers the door. Flip-flops, white t-shirt, belly straining the fabric, head shaved clean and gleaming.

“Bout time,” the guy says. “Hour I’ve been waiting.”

Marcel smiles. Time. Like the rain, like the traffic, never his problem. He hands over the sushi. “Twenty-eight minutes, boss. Straight from Morumbi. Check the app. Wild Dogs always deliver.”

He lets his eyes drift past the guy, into the garage. A sleek gray Model Y sits bathed in soft light. He clocks the tires and sees it’s a 2098 edition. “Sweet ride, boss. You optimize that energy consumption? Settings, then security, individual operational mode. Your battery will thank you.”

“Seriously? Battery’s been a pain. That all it takes?”

“Tell you what. Let me take a look. Tweak that heat dissipation, squeeze some more life outta that battery. Maybe clean up those circuits a bit.” Tips, you gotta earn them. That engineering degree, it wasn’t just for show. He grabs his toolkit from the cargo box. Time to dive into the silicone.

Mission accomplished. Another five-star review. Delivery fee goes to the collective, keeps the wheels turning. The tip hits his wallet. He considers grabbing another delivery, close by. But no, not a green zone. Risk running into the Vultures, maybe the Sledgehammers. Not worth it. He nods to the guard, fires up the bike. Back to his own turf.

Gomes Cardim is a reborn realm. Used to be just another forgotten corner of the city. Now it’s the beating heart of East Zone deliveries, all under the watchful eye of the Wild Dogs. This is their turf, their rules. They make sure there’s enough for everyone, from the food trucks spitting grease to those fancy restaurants with names you can’t pronounce. Want to do a delivery here? Not a chance, unless you’re wearing that sticker — a dog, no helmet, popping a wheelie — the Wild Dogs’ mark.

Marcel swings off the Merlo Freire Highway, a symphony of smells hitting him like a punch. Fried dough, yakisoba steam, that spicy Mexican tang, all fighting it out with the ever-present scent of engine oil and cheap perfume. Neon signs paint the wet streets, the sky above a dull gray. He pulls his bike into the garage, a sprawling space reserved for Wild Dogs only. Bikes and scooters, every color imaginable, each one bearing the mark of the pack.

The breakroom smells of fresh coffee and something warm and cheesy. He grabs a cup, snags a roll, spots Duda and Beto sprawled on a beat-up leather couch. Asphalt veterans, the three of them.

“Look who it is,” Beto calls out, nodding as Marcel walks up. Duda raises her cup in greeting.

Marcel claps Beto on the back. “What’s up? See that clip I sent? Vultures got their asses handed to them. Roads are rough out there today.”

Duda snorts, a sound like gravel under tires, her braids swaying. “Quit complaining. I just got back from Alphaville, a free ride there and back. Action in Interlagos? Any spills?”

“Nah, all quiet. Just some bald dude, didn’t know the first thing about his own car battery.” He takes a sip of his coffee.

Beto’s mustache twitches, the ends lifting like a bird spreading its wings. “You’re not gonna believe this. Old lady, made me climb sixteen flights ’cause the elevator was busted. Just wanted someone to share her pizza with.” He shakes his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Good tip, though.”

“Keeping her company, huh? What was it, codfish pizza?” Marcel grins.

Duda lets out a laugh. “If it was, he ain’t telling. This one, he never says no to free food. Not even from grandma.”

They share a laugh. Beto checks his device, hoping for a delivery, a way out of their teasing. Still nothing.

A siren slices through the laughter, making the coffee tremble in their cups. The door bursts open. Wild Dog soldiers, emblems stark against their black jackets, stand framed in the doorway. The cantina lights gleam off their cold, hard stares.

“Alert!” one soldier barks. “Sledgehammers attacking MegaRaia in Penha. All couriers armed, NOW!”

The canteen erupts into controlled chaos. Without hesitation, Marcel leaps down the metal stairs, racing to his Feizer360. From the bike’s compartment, he pulls out twin handguns and a few emotion-control explosives, stuffing them into his jacket. Beside him, Duda arms herself with a sawed-off shotgun, while Beto readies a .38 caliber revolver.

“Guess granny’s pizza was just the appetizer, huh?” Duda says, trying to wear a game face, but her voice betrays a crack of nerves. Beto forces an agitated laugh in response.

Marcel locks his helmet in place, the sound of his deep, steady breaths reverberating through its internal mic. “Let’s roll, guys.”

A tidal wave of motorcycles surges through the dimming streets. The deafening roars of dozens of chopped exhaust pipes head for MegaRaia in Penha. A string of bicycles trails the motorcycles at a distance. The road becomes a sea of headlights as armed couriers surge forth, their faces set for the skirmish that awaits.

Horns blaring, pilots screaming, cars and pedestrians frantically reroute to side streets, clearing a path for the juggernaut of metal and fury. Black police choppers hover above, surveillance is their only goal. They aim to ensure no protected properties get damaged. The East Zone neighborhoods aren’t officially security-sponsored, but certain megacorporations have storefronts scattered around, requiring special protection.

Competing couriers mid-delivery ditch their bikes and scuttle into shops and homes, waiting for the groundswell of motorcycles to pass.

The scenery doesn’t shift much on the way to Penha. The neighborhood isn’t the goldmine that Gomes Cardim is, with its focus on pharmaceutical trade. But Penha is also a gravitational hotspot for the Wild Dogs collective, an easy ride from their central hub. Plus, it is strategically appetizing for anyone looking to take them down, so it has to be protected.

As they pull up at MegaRaia’s block, they find the Wild Dogs have set up a makeshift barricade between an ancient bus stop and a street corner, using whatever they could get their hands on, like shop doors and parked cars. The pops and sizzles of small grenades crack in the distance, and here and there, sparks ricochet off car hoods. On the other end of the street, there’s another barricade, and a sea of rival couriers and bikers that looks way thicker than their own.

Beto rushes over to a group issuing directions to newcomers, while Marcel and Duda join a cluster of couriers hunkered down at the corner.

“What the hell’s going on?” Marcel shouts into the ear of a kid crouched down, peering through binoculars. His head is jutted just far enough past the wall to take in the chaos unfolding.

“They’ve taken over. Heard about the big resupply run today. They’re taking everything!” The boy yells back. Marcel spots a hint of a mustache on the youngster’s brown face, barely a man, and a pang of pity pinches him. Another gunshot ricochets nearby, and they duck for cover, the boy’s face reflecting sheer terror.

“There’s too many of them!” Duda says. “This isn’t just about snagging deliveries. I got a bad feeling about this. We’re screwed.”

Emerging from his discussion, Beto briefs, “Look, this won’t wrap up in a jiffy. Word is they’re aiming to take over all of Penha. I even heard they’ve got flamethrowers. Either they go down, or we do.”

Marcel sizes up the situation, grabbing the binoculars from the kid. He sees a wall of soldiers on the other side, some even perched atop buildings. Most are crowded around the pharmacy, loading and ferrying goods, all while being shielded by gunfire. A realization comes to Marcelo. The Wild Dogs are outgunned and outnumbered. That’s a lot of couriers, a lot of bullets, and a lot of manpower. Very expensive to maintain all that. An idea pops up. He looks at the sky, searching for choppers, then stops.

Turning to the young lad, he instructs, “Kid, get to that pizzeria down the block. Order ten pepperoni pizzas, extra cream cheese. Hurry!”

Turning to Beto and Duda, Marcel says, “I’ve got an idea. We can’t win this head-on. We gotta cut their income, then they can’t sustain this troop count for too long.”

Duda, brows furrowed, asks, “And how are we going to pull that off?”

“The Sledgehammers are probably burning credits fast with this, and that MegaRaia supply run seems to be their lifeline,” Marcel says, laying it out. “If we break their pickups, they’re going to feel the squeeze. They’ll have to spread their troops elsewhere to make pickups and keep the cash flow running, and that will make our lives much easier.”

After a moment’s silence, Duda and Beto give him a collective look that screams ‘And?’. So, Marcel carries on, “At first, I thought of blowing up MegaRaia’s collection point. But that would bring down the law, what with protected property and all. Then I looked up to scout for choppers, and I saw something. The Radio Base Stations? They’re gNodeB,” he arches an eyebrow, a sign of a revelation. Faces around him remain blank. “Penha still operates on 5G, and Vivotim’s central? It’s right here in the hood. So here’s the kicker: we break into that central, feed the antennas some rogue firmware. They’d have to fix it manually, but only after the street is clear.” He pauses, looking for any signs of understanding. Seeing none, he adds, “Those antennas aren’t protected property. I’ve swiped a couple now and then to boost signals back home. They break all the time.”

Duda and Beto exchange a ‘who’s going to talk’ look. Duda finally breaks, “I didn’t get half of that. But if it gets me out of this mess without losing my creds, I’m in. What are you thinking of?”

Marcel smirks, “Trojan pizzas.”

---

Unlike the towering office buildings of mega corporations, the Switching and Control Centers, an anachronistic name, operate almost entirely on their own. AI systems, fine-tuned from mountains of code and logs from the computers of engineers who once held these jobs, manage the equipment, data distribution, and monitoring. The centers typically skimp on security, due to repairs being a dime a dozen, thanks to layers upon layers of backups and to the sheer lack of ill-intended agents. After all, nobody wants to pull the plug on the internet, especially not in the East Zone.

The Vivotim central building rises like a massive block, spanning upwards for a few floors. It’s wrapped in tiny gray and white tiles, giving its facade a pixelated appearance. Rows of tiny windows, grouped in fours, play out like squares on a chessboard, each veiled behind grayish-white blinds and shaded glass. None of the windows open. The entrance, adorned with blue metal slats, is purely for show, the blue clashing rudely with the building’s drabness. Artificial palm trees line the gap between the fence and the building’s front, their presence an awkward attempt at offering comfort to onlookers, their colors meshing with the grays and blues to portray a visual equivalent of nails on chalkboard.

They stride through the open gate and jab the intercom button.

“Delivery. Ten pepperoni pizzas for Network Operations. Dunno. Yeah.” He glances at the pizza boxes he’s holding. “From Pacheco’s. Yup. Look, these are getting cold, don’t make us lose our tips, boss. Right. Okay.”

An awkward pause ensues before the matte black glass door emits a beep, unlocking.

Stepping into the building’s dim entryway, they’re met by two figures. One, a guard wearing a wrinkled uniform and a matching face, behind a gray counter topped with wooden panels, and the other, a round-faced man on the verge of thirty, lingering near another glass door.

Eyebrows furrowed, the young man remarks, “We didn’t order this. Guess boss is planning overtime tonight. Just great.”

“Sorry, man,” Marcel offers, a lopsided grin showing his sympathy.

“Help me out with these?” The young guy reaches for one of the boxes Marcel is holding.

“For sure, boss,” Marcel says.

They navigate the sterile white corridor, its bright lights and stale air evoking Marcel’s memories of a hospital stay after a bad fall, hours of waiting, feeling like an ignored specter on a gurney on the hospital’s corridor. As they wait, the faint sounds of the elevator lends the space a certain uneasiness. Marcel’s eyes dart to Beto, noticing the butt of his revolver peeking out beneath his jacket, pulled up by the pizza boxes. With a slight but urgent gesture, Marcel signals to him.

The elevator chimes softly, its doors slide open and they get in. When they part again, there’s an uncanny sense of deja vu. They squint, trying to discern whether they have arrived at a different floor or not. The young man exits first, oblivious to the oddity, with Marcel and the crew trailing.

“Right here, just set them on the table,” the young man instructs, swiping his fingerprints across a dim metallic door handle, releasing it.

Inside, the room’s walls pulse with enormous screens. They paint a live mural of latency curves undulating like the sea, vivid maps dotted with glowing pinpoints, and real-time footage from the region’s Base Stations. The room hums, a soft chorus of server whispers. The dimmed overhead lights let the screens dominate, sparkling like constellations in a vast data universe, casting a blue-hued digital glow over the crew’s faces. Marcel’s eyes are drawn to the winking LEDs in the back, housed within sleek black steel towers. Their transparent doors refract colors, scattering shimmering beams around.

What a dream, Marcel thinks. This, right here, is where he wants to be. Punching the clock, dependable paycheck, tech toys to play with, meals on the house, paid education for his daughter, and a safe, temperature-controlled environment, present moment excluded. No longer would he worry if tomorrow some gang or cop might wipe out his livelihood. All this for the price of his knowledge and time spent ensuring corporate assets run smoothly. A deal he would take in a heartbeat. But the spots were limited. Just a handful of engineers per hub, just enough to keep the AI models on track. Making sure their output matches the real world and correcting any AI hallucinations. Only one engineer was truly essential, but after a few unfortunate incidents, the megawigs realized backup was wise. Not just to keep company, but to handle the odd breakdowns that seemed to plague engineers who spent 84-hour weeks talking only to hardware and code. They hadn’t quite fixed that glitch yet.

He wasn’t supposed to be here, not even remotely. The color of his skin was already against him, and even before that, he wasn’t born in the right coordinates to forge the connections needed to even get a foot in the door. Slim chances, no tickets, but he doesn’t complain. He has his moments. Right now, he’s soaking it all in for his fifteen minutes. As his granddad used to say, when life hands you lemons, deliver.

“So here’s the deal,” Marcel starts, pulling his guns from his jacket, leveling them at two engineers absorbed by their massive screens. “You guys are gonna huddle up over there because the game’s mine now.” A cocky grin claims his face. Duda and Beto brandish their weapons, each picking on an engineer.

Blue Screen. The engineers freeze, mouths ajar, brows raised, pure bewilderment written all over. The guy who’d been their guide, clutching a single pizza box, drops it. The wet thud of pizza meeting floor underscores the moment.

“EVERYONE, CORNER, NOW!” Beto and Duda shout in unison. Duda advances on one seated engineer, smacking him with the butt of her sawed-off shotgun. His pained yelp sends all four engineers scrambling, darting toward the switch towers.

“What do you want? We’ve got nothing of value here!” stammers the engineer who had been their guide. Marcel shoves him with the rest, then strides to the open terminal, laying his guns beside the tactile keyboard embedded in the table.

“We’re just having a little fun. Behave, and everything will be alright,” he says, diving into the terminal with adept fingers.

The tang of conditioned air and fearful sweat circulates the room. Duda stands sentry by the door, eyeing the hallway, while Beto oversees the huddled engineers, who are whispering amongst themselves, questioning their predicament and wondering if this will go into their annual evaluation.

Marcel sails smoothly through the digital sea. The engineers shoot him glances, a mix of confusion and awe. They can’t fathom how a mere delivery guy can wreak such calculated havoc on their system.

“In a bit, Penha’s going dark. Let’s roll, guys” Marcel announces, rising from his seat and grabbing his guns. “But first, gotta make sure they don’t stop the deployment.” With deliberate precision, he takes aim and fires at each terminal core. The sharp cracks make the engineers cringe. One nearly dives into the gap between equipment towers.

The three dash toward the elevator, each step punctuated by victorious yells and little jumps. The elevator door parts, welcoming them. They punch the ground floor button with a shared urgency.

“Easy peasy,” Beto sighs, leaning against the side, the thrill of victory evident in his voice. “Sure beats dodging bullets back in that dump.”

“Didn’t know you were a hacker, Marcel. Need some help snooping on my ex’s ConectaMi,” Duda teases, a sly smile playing on her lips. Marcel just chuckles, shaking his head.

The echoing blast of a gunshot shatters the corridor as the elevator’s doors slide open. Hovering down the hallway is a sleek drone, black as midnight, streamlined like a diving hawk. The word ‘Taurus’ glimmers on its matte surface. From its frontal appendage, a 9mm barrel smokes, distorting the light of a pulsating red LED on top of it.

“Aah!” Duda cries out, feeling the sting of the bullet in her belly. Beto’s reflexes kick in and he pulls Duda to his side, pressing her against the elevator wall. Marcel lunges to the opposite wall, stealing a glance only to be met by the gleam of the drone’s barrel as it fires once more.

“Damn it! How do we get out?!” Beto shouts, panic threading his voice. He snatches the blood-streaked shotgun from Duda’s trembling grip. With a mixture of fear and determination, Beto fires down the corridor without aiming. The sharp, shattering sound of glass echoes, signaling the corridor’s end door has met its demise. Yet, the haunting hum of the drone’s blades remains.

In what seems like a retaliatory move, the drone fires back, its bullet striking Beto’s shotgun. The force catapults the weapon out of his hands, into the elevator’s back wall. Beto’s eyes, round as saucers, dart to Marcel, who mirrors the shock.

“Now what?” Beto’s voice shakes, hoping Marcel holds some semblance of an answer.

Duda clutches her abdomen, each breath accompanied by a groan, her face turning into shades of ghostly pale. A numbing cold spreads, as she battles to stay conscious.

From his jacket, Marcel produces three black spheres patterned with tiny squares. Emotion-control grenades. Meeting Beto and Duda’s gaze, the message is clear. As Beto hurriedly hits the elevator close button, Marcel primes the grenades, sending them rolling into the corridor. A muffled boom follows, seeping through the closed doors. Outside, the drone is assaulted with pulses of blinding light, and a sonic wave ripples down to the lobby, pushing the drone into the ceiling and causing lights to shatter. Glass shards from one light jam its rotor, stalling it. As the elevator doors part once more, the mechanical hawk lies defeated, beak facing the wall.

They dash down the corridor, an arm of Duda on each shoulder, who seems to float between them. As they reach the lobby, the security guard hides behind the counter, gun in hand, the drone’s control discarded at his feet. Marcel pauses, taking in the guard. The old man’s face, etched with years of hard living, is tight with tension. Deep creases around his mouth intensify, swallowing up any previous boredom. The loose skin under his chin quivers, revealing a fleeting moment of uncertainty. For a heartbeat, the tired eyes narrow, gauging whether to confront the impending danger or beg for mercy. An unspoken understanding fills the room.

“Give me the gun,” Marcel commands, his voice icy. The old man hands over the pistol without a fight. The trio exit the building unhindered, making their way to the Wild Dogs headquarters. Beto takes Duda onto his ride, leaving her bike behind.

They roar into the Wild Dogs garage, engines screaming. Tires screech as Marcel and Beto pull off a slick skid stop that reverberates through the tight space, the scent of burnt rubber pervading the air.

Dismounting, they rush Duda to the infirmary. Marcel feels Duda’s blood-soaked abdomen as they carry her. The warmth of her life’s essence slips through his fingers, reminding him time is against them. With that realization, Marcel doesn’t bother with door handles, and kicks the infirmary’s PVC door with all his might, shattering its frame with a resounding crash.

“We need help, NOW! She’s been shot in the stomach!” Marcel’s voice slices through the air.

The doctor’s eyes, wide with a mix of shock and understanding, dart over the beds, each occupied by couriers bearing the brunt of the ongoing territory battle. She moves with a purpose, grabbing a wheeled stretcher and hurrying it back to Duda.

They gently place Duda on it. The doctor, scissors in hand, cuts through Duda’s blood-soaked shirt, revealing the gunshot wound just below her navel.

“Missed the kidney and bladder; looks like it hit the intestine from this angle,” she comments, then retrieves a device from her pocket. It seems like an ordinary pen at first, but its end is adorned with metallic claws, like the ones in arcade machines where you abduct stuffed animals. She activates a red beam of light from the device, directing it onto Duda’s wound. The claws, flexing into a single filament, delve into the injury. Duda, who had been unconscious until this moment, jolts awake with a harrowing scream. Marcel and Beto brace her, holding her down as the doctor’s tool does its work. A green light blinks on the pen’s top.

“Bullet located. Extracting. Initiating micro-cauterization,” the doctor states, her voice a sharp contrast to Duda’s screams.

The bullet is eventually pulled free, held victoriously above the wound by the clawed device. Setting it aside, the doctor pulls out a different tool – a small yellow pistol with a black rubber grip. She directs it to Duda’s wound. Marcel winces, looking away as the sound of a staple gun punctuates the air.

“That’s done. Find her an empty bed and give her these for the pain,” she instructs, offhandedly tossing the extracted bullet and painkillers to Beto. Without further ado, she moves on to another patient, continuing her relentless dance of triage.

Hours drag on, and finally, Duda’s feverish haze starts to clear. “Did anyone catch the license plate?” Her joke barely registers, a whispered jest escaping her lips. Beto takes a seat beside her, offering silent support. Meanwhile, Marcel hunts for the latest news on the battle.

With the Net going dark in Penha territory, couriers shifted their routes, whisking away their gear and escorts. The battlefront thinned out, giving the Wild Dogs the upper hand to send their adversaries fleeing. While the war’s not done, the Wild Dogs have nearly reclaimed their turf. But the Net’s still down, no deliveries till they get it fixed tomorrow, during business hours.

Marcel returns, sharing the news with his friends. They share a silent cheer to their role in the fight, relief washing over them for having saved their turf and keeping their spots in the delivery queue. There will be consequences to their actions, they are sure, as Vivotim likely already saw Duda’s bike that was left behind, and knows exactly where to come for a reimbursement of repairs. They agree that it is a problem for tomorrow, and for Wild Dog’s leadership, not them.

Marcel settles beside Beto, who watches over Duda, deep in thought. Another day won, he thinks, and releases a sigh that’s equal parts exhaustion and relief. The after-rush of adrenaline hits him, feeling like he’s been thrashed by bamboo. He checks the time.

“Wild night, huh?” He pushes himself up, “Gotta head back, or Rita’s gonna kill me.” With a brotherly slap on Beto’s back and one last glance at Duda, he heads out.

The Wild Dogs’ garage holds only a fraction of its daytime hustle. Marcel watches the couriers coming and going, the rhythmic dance of bugs under the hum of overhead lights, and the collective’s ambulance making another delivery to the infirmary. He shrugs off his blood-stained jacket, stowing it and his gear in his cargo box. Time to head home.

It’s two in the morning when Marcel pulls up. White smoke paints the world, windows fogged and cars dotted with droplets. A trio of street dogs, the neighborhood’s ever-watchful guardians, greet him with barks, tailing him till his home. The houses speak of faded grit, wear and tear from daily battles with time evident on their exposed brickwork, some plastered, a few painted in colorful shades. Marcel guides his bike through the rough-walled alley, resting it by the front door. A warm glow seeps through the window gaps. His daughter, Rita, is still up. She opens the door as he approaches.

“Look who decided to show up!” Her voice drips with mock irritation. “Thought you’d gotten lost.”

Marcel arches an eyebrow, fatigue etched on his face. “Good evening to you too,” he retorts.

“Read about the fight in Penha. Was worried that you were there,” she says, looking down, her voice more tender now.

Under the dim living room glow, her curly black hair shimmers, a beacon of welcome and warmth. Her eyes, deep and mysterious, echo the soul of his departed wife. Within those eyes, Marcel finds traces of gracefulness and lethargy, a serene blend so unmistakably inherited from her mother. Marcel’s lips curl up ever so slightly, comforted by the familiarity of home.

“I’ll warm up some food,” She says, guiding him inside the cozy living room. “So, were you there?”

Marcel just shakes his head, grabbing fresh clothes and heading straight for the shower. The cascading warmth seeps into his pores, the day’s burdens melting away. Another day won, he reflects.

Seated at the dining table, he digs into his meal with an intense focus.

“I heard they had flamethrowers. See anyone get burned?” Rita probes.

“Didn’t see anything,” he mumbles between bites, “stayed clear, made some extra runs.”

“I heard it got messy. You sure you didn’t see anything?”

“Just saw an opportunity for surge rates, got some overtime in,” he deflects. Letting out a yawn, he washes his dish, then kisses Rita’s hair on his way out. “Bedtime, you have school early.”

In the refuge of his room, Marcel collapses onto his worn-out bed, the old foam barely registering his weight. His deep snores punctuate the stillness. At dawn he will be up again, chasing deliveries, making up for the missed profits of the day won.

---

ALEX LOPES grew up in the periphery of Brazil, captivated from a young age by books and the computers in his father’s repair shop.

Over 20 years, he navigated the universe of technology, moving through virtually all areas of IT, until finally finding himself as a software engineer.

A lifelong enthusiast of both literature and tech, he seeks to join these worlds in his writing.

You can read more of his stories at hexapunk.com

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