Simlog #23, recorded by Babsie, Noodle Corner
She is recording, sitting on a stool at a Chinese noodle shop, a cart parked on the curb. Cheap neon signs with Chinese letters on it advertise their products. But the only thing she seems to understand are the garish colours and the AR popups that throw around cheap fotos of the meals and the noisy music. The soup is hot and the awning protects her from the rain, so she holds the styrofoam bowl in her hands to warm them at it. “Okay”, she is mumbling to herself, “the pawn shop was a bit awkward. And either the earring that I lost for the information was worth a lot more than the ten creds he said, or… I just fuckin’ have no idea. I think this Ticks was hiding something. Maybe it was just this scam about the earring and the other glitz. Maybe…” Her voice trails off and she concentrates for a while eating the soup. “But why did he know I was fucking recording? Why did he know I was wired?” “第二部分?”, the noodle soup man asks her. She is sitting down at the other side of her corner and she nods, the nodding lets bump the recording of the noodle cart up and down quickly. “Ja. Please.” He fills in more soup.
“Okay. So he’s scamming people. This is maybe normal for a pawn shop like that. But I bet he’s involved in fencing. But he didn’t know me. Maybe he’s just paranoid, which would be something I’d understand. Maybe I get more answers if I ask him without recording? But let’s concentrate on… oh shit!”
A police car is slowly driving up the street and she drops her bowl a short burst of, “Xièxiè”, to the noodle man, then she ducks away. But she forgot her bag on her stool, gives up the hiding behind the cart and grabs it. The police car breaks and the tires slide over the wet asphalt. Doors spring open. “Shit, shit, shit!”
She runs. Two cops jumping out of the car, boots splash in the puddles, she dives into a side alley. Not the dark one where she got brutally battered by the hags, she turns around to cross the street and runs into the other. Around a corner into an alley they looks like a wet and cold Seattle version of an arab bazaar. Sellers of all races and ethnics on the left and right side. Not so many people on the bazaar like she might had hoped.
“رخيص !رخيص !رخيص!”, someone yells at her and grabs her arm. The arabian looking guy holds up some glitz and shakes it in front of her face. “Leave me alone!”, her voice jars in panic. She tries to get away, but his hand tightens around her upper arm. “Really cheap!”, he tries to tell her in heavy arabian accent. “Get off me, jerk!” She kicks him and hits his shin. But he doesn’t let go. One of the cops closes in. She is looking over her shoulder. It’s one of the two she met yesterday. “Fuck!” Her right hand in the pocket of her jacket finds a fist sized thing, she pulls it out. The hissing of a spraycan with pepper-punch and a white foam is shooting out of her hand into the face of the arab. He let’s her go, starting to curse. “Fuck you too!”
She runs. The cop with his twenty kilo of gear is stronger and faster than she is, but the load levels it out. She bounces off some of the customers who look at her with surprised, mouths and eyes open. She tumbles a few times, but keeps running, avoids to fall, crashes into a seller with earrings to sell and the goods fly around. More cursing. She gets to her feet, overwhelming fear and adrenaline runs her system, the cop closing in but has himself trouble to get over the chaos she leaves behind. She gets away a few meters from him, he yelling: “Stop! Police!”
“Fuck you too!”, her breath is going heavy when she rounds the corner and directly runs into the baton of the other cop. “Shit!” A spike of pain, followed by red blackness.