Bad Habit's Arc

Chapter 1 of 10

A crew boss had put a price on Bad Habit's eyes. Not his head. His eyes. Word on the shadow districts of Los Memories said any dealer who spotted the man in black earned a fat purse. So Bad Habit could not walk the corners anymore, and corners were where you burned a boss out. He wanted every crew boss dead. He wanted the throne. But he could not cross a single street without a pointed finger. He crouched in his house, the one shaped like a snarling beast, its fanged door shut behind him. Two lantern windows glowed like watching eyes. Inside, small gremlins scuttled across his floor, chewing on wire and scrap. He fed them stolen batteries. They fed him ideas. One gremlin dragged a burlap sack toward his boots. Bad Habit opened it and found dried honey cakes. He grinned. His golden teeth caught the lantern light. By his window grew a plant with a serpent's face and dripping vines. It loved honey more than blood. He crushed a cake and smeared the sweetness across the cracked sill. The plant's vines uncoiled. Its yellow eyes fixed on the trail of honey he laid out the door and down the path. The bounty worked on sight. So Bad Habit gave the dealers something else to look at. He led the honey trail three blocks, feeding the plant a smear at every corner where a spotter waited. The vine followed, growing bolder, snapping at anyone who came near its meal. Dealers screamed and scattered. They pointed at the plant, not at him. He walked behind it in plain black, red eyes low, just another shadow chasing the monster. The crew boss stood outside a tall, sagging building, barking at his spotters. "Find the man, not the weed!" He was thick-necked, gold rings on every finger, a pistol loose in his fist. His men froze when the vine lunged for their boss's boots. Bad Habit stepped through the panic. "You bought my eyes," he said. "Look at them." The boss turned. Their gazes met. Bad Habit held the stare, and heat bloomed behind his own red eyes. The boss's collar caught first. Then his sleeves. He beat at the flames with ringed hands and only spread them. His spotters ran. He dropped, smoking, on the steps of his own building. The bounty died with him. No boss left to pay it, no purse for a pointed finger. The corners were open again. But a burning man draws a crowd. Bad Habit felt the eyes now, dozens of them, from windows and doorways. They had watched him kill a boss with a look. By morning, every crew in the districts would know his face and his gift. The bounty was gone. In its place he had earned something worse. He was no longer a rumor. He was a target with a name.