My heart nearly jumps out of my chest as I get a message from Burabō. I open it, expecting a huge fine and loss of social credit for running amok in their resort, that, or an outright expulsion. Instead, I get an apology letter for my vacation being cut short by the fire in my bungalow and an apparently unrelated incident involving an unknown trespasser. The message goes on to show a fleeting image, captured by an IC, of a busty, voluptuous woman in a jumpsuit. It is requested that I come forward if I have any information on the mysterious intruder.

They say that they understand why I would flee into the tunnels. The shot that I took at a security drone was out of line; but no harm was done. They will reimburse me for the day and my luggage. In addition, they have invited me to stay at one of their fine casinos, how thoughtful of them.

I am glad to see that I am out of trouble. But the relief is tainted by a new concern. Who is that woman? Why was she there? Is it related to my search for Jill?

I descend to the base of the skyscrapers. I can no longer make out the shapes of the majestic buildings, now they just blend together into a sickening haze of metal and concrete. By the time I reach ground level there are so many things in the way that the sky is completely blocked. They don’t get sunlight; it isn’t for them. The artificial lighting is poor, the overhead lamps are few and far between, and as is, many are broken. I wish that I had invested in a better set of eyes, ones that could see in I.R. or maybe thermal, anything that would help with this darkness.

Section 4143 is a housing area for industrial drone monitors. It is a neglected slum, a festering sore on the shapely body of our fair city, but you can’t hate the place too much because it is just one of many. The air is bad, I wonder if the filtration system is even functioning. Many of the residents are quick to violence. They are not bad people, certainly no worse than what you will find on the higher levels. But they are more desperate, and not as closely watched.

The area is supremely dirty. A layer of dust and grime cover nearly every surface. Garbage, much of it discarded bits of packaging, is strewn around, or stuffed into the many holes that had been knocked out of the walls. There are cleaning drones that go around picking up the messes that people make. It is actually kind of impressive that they have managed to get the place so filthy.

I switch between the different augmented realities. Each dimension is a maddening cacophony of advertisements. Always someone trying to sell me something. Here they want to sell me sex, there they want to sell me an ideology; here they want to sell me a religion, there they want to sell me drugs. Even in the slums I can’t escape it.

I end up on the Alpha Prime frequency. I see a digital wall, much like the ones that divided up the resort. The display stretches out so that a large area is cordoned off. This warning tape says that I am under no circumstances aloud to cross into the forbidden zone, or else I face a massive fine and the risk of expulsion.

I activate a filter that searches all of the company networks. After sorting through the results, I come to the conclusion that the area’s landlord made a disparaging comment about Muslims. Alpha’s response was to cut the area out of existence, so to speak. This is nothing, one time they did it to a whole moon when one of the colony’s founders expressed his hatred of Christians.

No matter which frequency I am on I can see the area that has been marked off by the police. It is a murder scene. Another network search reveals that it was a shooting, that much is certain, what the companies can’t seem to agree on is why it happened. Burabō insists that it was drug related, just another nasty part of the drug trade. Fauré thinks that the victim’s weird artificial genitals were the cause of a hateful attack. And Délta knows for a fact that it was over the victim’s support of Mars.

As I push deeper into the section, I scan the locals wearily. No matter where you go, you should always keep a watch out, that’s just common sense.

A folding table with a shell game is set up next to a money changer’s booth. A shady looking man in a long coat lurks in a doorway. A cloaked figure passes me, a set of eyes glow like embers under its hood. The entire left side of one woman’s face has been replaced with metal, an array of scopes and optic systems are mounted where her eye would be. In the distance I hear a voice calling out, “You are guilty, the very fact that you exist makes you guilty, there is no denying this!” My first instinct is to say that it is a Pee Bee street preacher, but those words could really be coming out of anyone’s mouth.

I leave the main route, heading into one of the individual complexes. Any sense of style or eye toward decoration has been completely abandoned. Places like these are made for the sole purpose of providing housing for as many unfortunate souls as possible, at the lowest cost that is viable.

I spot a group of young men walking my way. They sport bright red shirts that are covered in lines of little metal buttons, the kind that snap together. Their pants and footwear vary. Each one of them eyes me like I am prey. This display is intentional, but their act is based on real emotions.

I know what they are, because I used to be one of them. Not a member of this particular gang, but I spent time in a similar group.

My mind flashes back to those days, doing so completely against my will. We wore a shirt like that, only ours were white with black trim. Our rival gang dressed in blue, with a white cravat. Different groups used different colors and accessories, but they always had those buttons.

Reveling in sadistic glee, we attacked anyone that we could take. My group loved to wander up to the higher levels, we could get away with it in those days. We delighted in competing for the affections of women, many of them Kawaiichen, and scrapping with rival gangs. It’s a subculture that worships violence, we lived to fight and fuck and look good doing it. And we were filled to the brim with youthful exuberance.

With shouts of joy they charge. I am quickly surrounded by seven giggling lads, each of them sharp eyed, only breaking their combat ready stances to tease and taunt me.

One sports leather pants and a set of boots that wouldn’t look out of place in a VR game about the seafaring pirates of old. He mocks me, but the insults and accusations are pure gibberish, many of the slang words aren’t even listed online.

I start to notice that they are all looking toward the one that wears a set of urban camo fatigue pants and a pair of combat boots. He must be the leader.

I look into the man’s eyes, “This sort of thing doesn’t work if the person that you are messing with is armed.”

Their eyes go wide, except for the leader, he makes a show out of not being scared, “You will get in big trouble with your company for owning a zipgun,” he warns or more like taunts.

“You are assuming that I can’t afford to buy a legit weapon.”

He wavers for a second, but recovers swiftly, “But can you afford the self-defense tax?”

He’s got me there, but I am reasonably quick with a comeback, “Who says it would get reported?”

The other lads are amused by this. They howl with mirth. “Get him, man!” one of them yells out in joy. He wears blue jeans and a pair of tennis shoes.

With a carefully practiced finesse the young man rips his shirt off, the rows of buttons breaking it into several sections. This is the garment’s shtick; you can quickly remove it in a fight. Now he stood there shirtless, holding his arms out wide, inviting an attack.

The temptation to dash forward and strike a blow is immense. I was always told that age would cause such violent desires to pass, but I find that the urge is still just as strong.

I do my best to stay calm, “I used to be like you. I got out, you should do the same.”

“What happened? Are you an informant, a rat?”

“I took a bullet to the chest. I had it coming.”

With that, I keep walking. They let me pass.