Denny knew he was coming. He'd be getting desperate by now. Reckless. All Denny had to do was wait. He climbed the stairs to the top of the building and stepped out onto the empty rooftop. As he waited, he slowly dribbled the basketball he had brought for the express purpose of trivializing the man's pleas.
The tall man moved like a cat. He clambered silently to the top of a hedge and, carefully distributing his weight, leapt up to grab a second floor balcony. With tremendous street-won strength he pulled himself up onto it. He rolled over until he was against the balcony door, then gingerly sat up and tried it. Locked. He frowned.
Nimbly he sprang up to the balls of his feet and crouched beside the door, thinking. He reached a decision quickly and confirmed it with a quick glance at his wrist timer. He removed his black tuque and wrapped his hand in it. He winced as he punched through the plate glass of the door and flipped the lock open. He darted through the empty apartment and out of it, shaking shards of glass out of his hat as he ran toward the stairwell.
Denny continued dribbling. Bouncing away as he gazed out across a surreal cityscape. Bounce. Bounce. Footfalls now. Bounce. Bounce. The hinge of the door squealed as the man threw it open. Denny caught the ball and held it to his side as they stared each other down.
The man emerged from the doorway in full burglar garb: a black tank, black track pants, and the black, glass-misted tuque. An image of death, Denny thought. Appropriate.
"Hey Denny," the man said as he approached.
"Chris-R," Denny sneered, "I've been lookin' for ya."
Chris-R. Chris the Reprobate. A member of the underclass, the untouchables. Freaks. Reprobates were incapable of rejuvenation. They only aged forwards until the end of their miserable lives. Truly they were forsaken, depraved. Cast out into the streets, they struggled for a meager existence. Drugs, prostitution, contract killing. These were the only scraps that the others would throw them. Not all of them accepted their station: some experimented with black market drugs and quack science, hoping to find some ramshackle way to roll back their timer. But it was all in vain.
Denny had used the label assigned by the Ministry. Chris-R. The scarlet letter used to mark the miserable few. But Chris-R didn't flinch. He welcomed the moniker proudly, just as he would brazenly display his outie navel.
He snatched Denny's basketball from his delicate hands. "Yeah, sure you have." He called the bluff: no one ever looked for repros unless they needed drugs or blood. He stared intensely at the cherubic pervert.
"You have my money, right?" he smoldered.
Denny lowered his eyes. "Yeah," he said, as a wave of fear flowed through him. He was losing control of the situation. Such an uppity repro!
"It's coming," Denny lied. "It'll be here in a few minutes." Chris-R had shaken the cool swagger he had envisioned, but the rest of the plan was still viable.
Chris-R's nostrils flared. "What do you mean it's coming, Denny?" He leaned in close. Denny felt his hot, unclean breath on his face and shuddered.
"Where's my money?" the repro asked, brimming with vitriol. Denny's knees began to shake.
"Okay. Just- Just give me five minutes." Denny stammered. Chris-R backed away. "Just give me five!" Denny added with a false friendliness. Chris-R nodded sardonically.
"Five minutes?" he asked, "You want five fucking minutes, Denny? Well you know what?" he reached into his back pocket. "I haven't got FIVE FUCKING MINUTES!" he screamed as he produced a silver pistol.
Denny froze in terror. The repro wrenched the boy's neck forward and threw him to his knees. Denny whimpered as he felt the hard steel jam into the base of his skull. Chris-R's words slurred and blended in his mind as his heart pounded. The gunman continued to scream at him as he awaited the final bullet.
The sound of pounding footsteps and scuffling pulled Denny back to lucidity. Three men were shouting now: the repro, Johnny, and Mark. The best friends had heard the screaming and ran to the roof to investigate. Incredibly, they wrestled Chris-R off Denny faster than he could pull the trigger. Mark snatched the gun away and held it to Chris-R's head, demanding that he put his hands up.
Proud though he was, the reprobate complied. They walked toward the access door and, as the prisoner turned to fit himself through the tiny doorway, Mark caught a glimpse of his timer.
0 years. 0 months. 0 days. 0 hours. 3 minutes. 14 seconds.
Mark stifled a gasp. He looked wide-eyed at Johnny. He had seen it too.
"Let's take him to the police." Johnny said softly.
Chris-R's death march continued. He stomped along, wishing feebly for a means of escape. As the three men emerged from the building, a pale, gaunt man skittered deeper into the alley, carrying a worn briefcase stuffed with gauze and cutting tools. Chris-R solemnly watched him go. Within the hour, Chris-R had been turned over the Ministry, terminated, and processed into hog feed. His time was up. Those were the rules.
Back on the rooftop, Lisa and Claudette interrogated Denny. Where did he meet a reprobate? Why was he using cash and not time credit? Only people who palled around with repros carried cash. He had crossed a line. Denny's nerves hadn't passed; he dodged their questions with inconsistent lies.
Finally he was rescued again by Johnny, who pleaded with the women to stop. It was a mistake. He didn't mean for this to happen. He just wanted a bunch of drugs to help seduce some college girls. He figured the Ministry would pick up the repro before he had to pay him.
The group filtered back down into the apartment. Everyone kept to themselves until the shock had subsided. In the evening, Johnny laughed gently as he placed the repro's gun– his sole legacy– into a small hinged box in his bedroom.