Grumpy Crab Man

Last serve’s always the best. All day these crabs’ve been cooking. Best to have the final batch.
The stool which supported Minder Six was fairly worn down. It’s rugged, torn cushion matched the state of Minder’s jacket, and it’s steely, shining base matched his rain-soaked boots. Rain splattered on the floor a meter away from the stool’s base, but the stool itself, and Minder Six, were protected by the rain cover of the crab stand. It was night time, and it was busy. People went about their business; some trying to hide their intentions, and others plain as day about their criminal intent. Gangs plagued this area, now.
The Peacekeepers were now the prevailing force in this area. The gangs used to have stronger stomachs, it would have taken more than a few murders for the district to change hands that quickly in the Old Days. But things were different now, and Minder didn’t have a hard time adapting to that. It was his job to adapt, his purpose, and he understood that. But as much as he enjoyed the taste of spiced crab, Minder wasn’t here for the food; he had work to do. An old friend of his had agreed to meet him at this particular wharf at this particular hour on this particular date, and Minder Six would not disappoint him.
A cantankerous looking young man handed him his order; a plate of spiced crab, with a side of buttered cabbage. The smell of the wharf was not pleasant, and Minder took the opportunity to breathe in something other than decaying seaweed and sea salt as he placed a cigarette into his mouth and lit the end of it. The young man behind the counter snorted in apparent derision, perhaps offended that Minder would allow his crab to cool down before ingesting it. It had been a while since Six had strayed from his usual diet, but this was a necessary action to remain inconspicuous and nonchalant. It was purely a coincidence that Six very much enjoyed spiced crab, with a side of buttered cabbage.
He pulled up his jacket to reveal his DataTell, a small computer-like device that clung to his wrist. His contact would be arriving in precisely four minutes and sixteen seconds; enough time to enjoy his meal and finish his cigarette. He dabbed the ashes of his cigarette on a make-shift ashtray fashioned from an empty noodle box, and surveyed his situation for the sixth time in ten minutes.
Grumpy crab man. Geriatric eating noodles two stools away. Husband and wife arguing in second-storey window across street. Three gang members taking shelter from rain.
As he took the first bite of his meal, he felt as though there should be more happening. It was a Thursday night, and although a wharf wasn’t a particularly busy area, this wharf should be. There was a murder here only weeks ago, and that usually brought the attention of wannabe gangsters who thought themselves daring to be seen in the area of such an incident.
Probably the rain.
A few moments passed as Minder finished his meal and stubbed out his cigarette. As if he was watching, and waiting for Six to finish up, a hooded man paced the street towards the crab stand, seemingly ignorant of the torrential rain. He arrived, and sat on the stool next to Six, removing his hood to reveal his face; part of the meeting arrangement.
“Evening, Friend,” said the hooded man.
“Good evening Brother,” replied Six.
“Crab good here?”
“The best.” replied Six, a smug smile spreading across his face as he glanced at the moody crab man. The hooded man continued to make small talk with Minder, exchanging menial words that may well have been a carefully orchestrated exchange of information. Across the street the three gang members chatted loudly and made jokes, laughing in each others’ faces and shouting at each other. It bothered Minder more than it should have. At the end of their exchange, Minder and the hooded man gave each other a respectful nod, and the hooded man stood. Before he left, he handed Minder a USB memory stick. Minder smiled again.
Old technology. Offline. Smart.
He pocketed the stick and slid the crab man his dues, holding it in place with the empty plate. As he stood and made his way towards his apartment, he gave the gang members a glare, and continued on his walk. Tonight he would rest, and look over the information given to him. After his crab had settled and his jacket was dry, it was time to plan the assassination.

* * * * *

A thousand stars watched over Six from the balcony of his apartment, and he met their gaze. The city’s noise was not unbearable, and the temperature was pleasant. A cigarette rested between the index finger and middle finger of his right hand, slowly growing a solid extension of ash due to lack of attention. There was no harsh winds, and no rain to disturb Minder’s important meeting with his incandescent friends.
Soon.
A silent but bitter breeze broke Six’s trance, and he dabbed his wasted cigarette out against the railings as he paced inside, leaving the sliding glass door ajar. He liked the sound of vehicular emission and the neon glow of night as he worked. It was not out of character for Six to engage his work at night; he was largely a nocturnal being. Daylight ‘made things too clear’, and he preferred the silence of night to the bustling havoc of day.
As he sat at his favourite desk, the one he had dubbed his ‘Dawn Age’ table, he pulled out an old device that had not seen commercial use in decades, rendered obsolete by more efficient technology, as is the way of the digital revolution. There were advantages to these sorts of devices, as well as most of the equipment on the Dawn Age table; it wasn’t connected to anything. There was no way for anyone to monitor anything on these devices, unless they were physically present. It was offline, and that’s how Minder wanted it to stay.
At least, that was usually the case. This time, he wanted to try things another way. After a few minutes of transcribing the data from one device to another, and to another, he turned all the equipment off and tucked it all back into it’s relative position on the desk. The data had been transferred to a small square platform, perhaps no bigger than a coaster or a deck of cards. In the middle was a small circular glass screen, and next to it were a few buttons and a rollerball, used to navigate the contents of the device. It was called a HoloSpread, and it was new on the market. Technically it was very new; so new, in fact, that it wasn’t to be commercially available for seven months, but Six didn’t mind about that.
Minder walked into his bedroom and started removing his clothes, judging the temperature as he placed the garments neatly into a cubic wardrobe, a different pigeon hole for a different item of clothing. His eyelids sagged as though made from lead; a taxing day of hard work catching up to him. He was a firm believer in pyjamas, and changed into some soft cotton trousers before laying down to rest in his bed.
The room was dimly lit by an old LED monitor screen that Minder always used to watch the ever-changing stock market rates via an Dawn Age website relay. It calmed him to see the constant fluctuation of numbers; the loss and profit of the world, and to have the power to turn the screen off whenever he saw fit. For now, he needed darkness, and so he turned off the monitor, but not before placing the HoloSpread on the bed next to him, about halfway down his body, close to his right hand. He pressed a few backlit buttons, and above him was a sudden explosion of light. It was not blinding; a comfortable level of light filled the room, and a series of blue and green boxes appeared, all three-dimensional, seemingly empty, filling the upper segment of the room. One by one, the boxes began to fill with thumbnails of images, text files, and videos.
It was the information that his contact had given him, but in a more pleasing form to analyse this late at night. Minder remained motionless in his bed, having only to make the slightest scrolling movements with his fingertips against the rollerball of the Spread in order to access the differing files the device contained. It was very important to access his databases as he saw fit, and within the confines of his own comfort. A mind at ease was a mind more open to the realms of influence, and his job required him to think outside the box.