Chapter 1: The Edge

"Shit,” Miguel muttered to himself. “It's a while since I've been this close to the edge of the city."

It was a typically hot afternoon, and Miguel Rubio was looking down from the city wall of New Baravia to the refugee settlements beyond. It was a sheer drop down, with just a chest-high wire fence to preserve his safety. Fifty yards or more below he could see several clusters of metal huts, each one representing a small refugee settlement. He could also see the quarries where they worked, breaking stone that would later be shuttled into the city to be crushed for concrete. The refugees, on the other hand, would stay outside the walls.

What did they aspire to, and what did they think about from day to day? He knew so little of them, and they were – surely – entirely unaware of him.

Then, as he had done so many times before, Miguel reached into the small bag he was holding and pulled out a handful of the small tokens, and deposited them in his pocket. Then he took a further handful, and flung them away from him, way out over the wall.

“One for you, and one for me,” he muttered. “The rich scum won’t miss it.”

The falling tokens swirled and spiraled, a few of them bouncing off the wall itself as they descended. Soon they were out of sight. Miguel narrowed his eyes, trying to focus in on specific individuals down on the ground. It would be fascinating to get some idea of how they were moving around, of the work they were doing... of their pathetic lives. To see their reactions to his act of stolen charity.

But they were all so tiny from up here.

He had no idea whether his small offering would reach someone in need. Still. It was a comforting thought that someone could be broken out of the endless anonymous cruelty that made up a life in the shadow of that vast concrete city wall.

Miguel turned and walked a few paces from the edge. There was still no sign of Dana Kampion’s heavies. Still, as Kampion was the premier crime boss in this district – no, he mentally corrected himself – the premier entrepreneur – she wouldn't be short of employees. They would get here soon enough.

A few yards away, across the gravel, there was a flashing billboard, and Miguel looked up at its current ad for a moment:

Roll up, roll up! Welcome to the greatest interactive show for the whole family! Watch your favorite actors and the most powerful senator-CEOs vie for supremacy in Demon Hunters – the ultimate test of bravery and cunning.

He had seen it many times before – and he wasn’t impressed. As far as he was concerned, Demon Hunters was a stupid, self-indulgent show where the super-rich – the kind of people who ran the city state’s largest companies, and were therefore granted one of the seats on the city’s governing senate – ran around trying to kill everything from mutant elephants to dragons.

Yeah, he got it. It would be fun to do, and he could even see why people would want to watch.

The thing is, none of those goons were actually real players. They weren’t gamers, like him. They didn’t know the first thing about strategy, skills, or optimizing your equipment.

No.

Instead they just spent millions of drubes to get a technical edge over their wealthy fellow competitors. What’s more, they didn’t even care if they won, because the aim was just to get more adulation and to raise their own profiles.

Stupid.

In contrast, Miguel played strategy games morning and night, whenever he was home in his grade C state-owned residence apartment in Neighborhood 65F of New Baravia. Other people sometimes called him an addict, but the reality was that he was competitive – there was no way Miguel would play a game if he wasn’t playing to win.

But then, as he glanced again at the ad, something caught his eye that was new. After the last shot of grinning viewers faded away, a simple rectangle appeared in the screen – very small but growing, and there was lettering inside that was gradually becoming large enough to read. He took a step forward, frowning.

The letters said:

How would you like to battle a demon? For one week only, we are running unique open auditions for Demon Hunters. This is the chance you’ve been waiting for – an opportunity for ordinary people to join the game. Just snap this code...

He paused, stopping on the curbside. Hmm. Something about this spoke to Miguel. A chance to prove himself against those wealthy bozos. To show that tactical nous really mattered, even nowadays.

But then... it probably wasn’t worth it. After all, there had to be a catch.

Just then, the crunching of wheels on gravel attracted his attention, and Miguel looked across to see that a blocky armored car was pulling up. It stopped on the gravel, just twenty yards from him.

His contact usually came on foot.

Miguel swallowed, clutching the small bag of money tightly. He had been selling the product around Neighborhood 65F on behalf of Kampion’s crew for some time now, always passing on the proceeds at a weekly rendezvous. But today, things felt different. A new meeting place on the edge of town. The late arrival. The unusually high-end vehicle.

Yes – something was off. Unfortunately, he could probably guess what.

The vehicle doors slid open, but there was no sign of his usual contact. Instead, a broad, light-skinned man in a tan suit got out. He was middle aged with a wide scarred face and very short cropped hair. But rather than walking towards Miguel, the man stooped to assist another passenger from the vehicle. A woman.

A woman with a very familiar face.

“Madam Kampion?” muttered Miguel to himself, incredulous.

It was her – there was no doubt. As well as being the boss of one of the oldest and largest crime families in New Baravia, she was the master of the black market throughout the city. Despite the nefarious nature of her activities, she was very well known.

Kampion was dressed in an elaborate outfit that Miguel knew would have cost more than he made in a year. Red dress, puffy sleeves, diamond embroidery. He didn’t know what an Empress looked like, but if he had to guess, it would be something like this.

She approached alongside the man in the tan suit. Two heavies in combat fatigues and shades followed close behind in their shadows.

Miguel looked to Madam Kampion and then to the man in the tan suit, unsure who to address. “Afternoon,” he said eventually. “But, hey. Where’s my usual guy?”

“Miguel Rubio, my name is Dana Kampion,” said the woman in a firm and serene voice, “and this is Rishi. Your ‘usual guy’ isn’t coming today.”

“How so?“

“Because you've been stealing from us, Miguel,” growled Rishi, taking a step closer and half blocking his view of Dana Kampion in the process. “And now the game is up.”

"No," lied Miguel. "I wouldn't dream of it. It's just, man... your guy probably counted wrong. He’s been the one stealing.”

“We both know that’s not true. So, if you haven’t got a better explanation, then this ends now.” Rishi was clutching something inside his blazer pocket.

“No, no – wait. I can explain. It’s the refugees down below.”

The broad-faced man glared at him for a moment. “Go on.”

”I admit – on just a couple of occasions, mind – I threw a few drube tokens down there, Perhaps some of those poor fools can bribe their way into the city, you know. It’s small change to Madam Kampion. Think of it as charity. Good for our souls. After all, life’s about becoming the better person, right?”

Dana Kampion was now staring at him intently. Rather like a predatory bird might stare at a bug that it is preparing to eat, Miguel thought. He felt sweat pooling across his back, and wondered if there was something – anything! – he could do to get away from the situation.

“Let me get this straight,” said Rishi. “You threw our earnings – not your own money, but our earnings – over the city wall and down towards those damn refugee camps. You threw it away, basically.”

Miguel glanced down towards the ground level, impossibly far below the city itself, and then looked back at the gang, licking his lips. “I admit, it sounds a bit crazy... but I do feel sorry for them," he said, nodding his head in the direction of the nearest stretch of wall. “The refugees, I mean."

Now Dana Kampion shook her head slowly, then looked around at Rishi. They shared a brief, mirthless laugh. “They are vermin,” said the crime boss, looking back at Miguel and shaking her head; all trace of mirth was already gone. “Nothing more. So now, tell me. Can you give me a reason why these boys here shouldn’t throw you over the wall to keep the vermin company?”

“I... I dunno. Becoming that better person, I guess?”

“Refugees,” muttered Rishi under his breath. A cruel smirk crossed the gang enforcer’s wide face for a moment.

It hadn’t escaped Miguel’s notice how badly the interaction was going. “But they could live out their lives and die down there, man,” he said, his voice dropping.

At this point, one of the two heavies in fatigues and sunglasses stepped around from behind Rishi, and Miguel’s eyes widened at the sight of him. “Bratislav?” he murmured in astonishment.

And it was indeed – the man looked a little different, but he was still recognizable as Miguel’s oldest childhood friend. It had been many years now, but he and Bratislav had been inseparable during their days in the Urban Elementary School 0328. They had remained close up until the age of fourteen, Miguel supposed, or even fifteen.

After that, Bratislav moved on to bigger and better things. He was an athlete and had a mind sharper than anyone that Miguel knew. His everyday crimes had escalated until he was moving in bigger, more dangerous circles. And at last he had left, recruited by... Well, the folks of Neighborhood 65F had never quite known who.

Now Bratislav took a step forward and spoke up. “Miguel, nobody cares,” he said sharply. “And none of them will care about you or feel any sympathy if they find your broken body down there. If you are lucky, one of those animals will say a quick prayer over you before they chuck your corpse into some stagnant pit in their quarry.”

Miguel winced. His old companion’s words might be harsh, but he was right about one thing – the refugees would neither know him, and nor would they care.

But was that the point?

Rishi stepped closer once again, this time pulling a compact laser pistol from his jacket pocket and raising it up in front of his face. “Miguel, thank you for your candor. You’ve made my job easy. You had a good run, but nobody steals..."

“Rishi, wait."

It was Bratislav who had spoken up, grabbing at the elbow of the enforcer’s pistol arm.

"Be quiet, kid,” the broad man growled.

“Dana, please,” said Bratislav, ignoring Rishi and addressing the question not to the man with the gun but to the crime boss herself. “I know this guy of old. Just let me speak to him for a minute. As a favor.”

Dana Kampion narrowed her eyes as she stared at Miguel, silent for a moment.