the smuggler’s bible

Finley

She opens the door after the first knock. The man outside is wearing a skin-tight black jumpsuit with vertical accents casting a sharp neon glow across her foyer.

“What I’m about to tell you,” he says, “will seem too incredible even to consider.”

“Jesus, you said this was important. I don’t want to hear any more of your matrix crap.”

“Wait! First, it’s TRON—lightcycles and stuff. Way different.”

“And?”

“And I lost my wallet. I called you from the mall with 30 cents I borrowed from a janitor,” Finley says seriously. “Listen, I admit it isn’t a perfect system.”