At 2:21PM that afternoon,

a bomb goes off

in the Sector 1 reactor,

one of eight in the Free City.

A young android

named Tif

sees the explosion

from the room she rents

in the Paradise Motel

on 90th and Prento,

deep in the shittiest part

of the slums of Sector 1.

Furious red energy shoots

out of the fractured, flaming

body of the reactor,

along with clouds of shrapnel —

pressure-shredded concrete, steel pillars,

plastic and glass —

all rendered into deadly trash

from what was once

a building.

The fleeing mako energy

flashes in Tif’s eyes.

“I know who did that,”

she whispers to herself.

“You say something, honey?”

Tif is watching the explosion

from her bed

as she entertains a client,

her head turned

to see out the window.

“No,” Tif says,

not taking her eyes off the explosion,

“keep going, baby.”

It’s like nothing she has ever seen,

gargantuan,

so bright, so nuanced in detail —

Shouldn’t she be frightened?

Beneath her client’s rhythms,

she feels the motel shake,

as the flare of the explosion

gets brighter,

bigger,

her client convulses,

the enraged light

soaks the panes of the window.

What a horrible way to die,

Tif thinks.

She does not die.

Her client collapses

on top of her,

all sweaty flesh and chest hair.

Tif watches

as the light of the explosion

finds an equilibrium,

and instead of an explosion,

it is just a gigantic

fire.

Lights in the city go out.

Tif’s do too,

but she hardly notices.

She is still looking at the fire.

“I know who did that,”

she whispers to herself again.

This time, her client says nothing.

Sirens break out,

so many sirens

like she has never heard before.

She hears feet

running down the hall

outside her room.

Still, the fire dances in her eyes.

Tif pushes her client off.

“I have to pee, baby.”

He grumbles in return.

She closes herself in the bathroom,

but instead of using the toilet,

she looks out

the bleary window.

She has never seen anything

so red.

Her whole life

she has waited to see

something like this

she knew

they were going to do it,

didn’t she?

Even though she told herself

they were all talk.

Nothing like that ever happens.

But now,

here it is,

filling the horizon,

a crimson

more startling

than blood.

She uses the toilet,

and goes back out into her room,

“I have another date coming soon,

baby,”

she says, but she sees

he’s already hopping around

with his pants on one leg.

“I know, I know,” he says.

“Why is it so dark in here?”

“I...don’t know.”

“See you next time?”

He asks, putting on his jacket.

“Of course,” she says.

He goes out the front door,

his voice calling on his way out,

“What is all that fucking noise?”

Tif flips the TV on.

She checks all the channels.

Nothing.

She does the same for the social feeds.

Not a word.

She throws on her underwear and robe

and lights a cigarette.

Our eyes turn away from Tif,

and watch the mad conflagration

as firetrucks descend from above,

shooting retardant in webby blobs

at the towering flames.

The sirens wail like helpless angels.

Before Tif knows it,

her cigarette is done.

She squeezes it out

and clenches her hands together,

considers another smoke —

CLUMP CLUMP CLUMP

It’s him!

Those heavy boots

clomping down the hall

towards her door.

DON’T KNOCK DON’T KNOCK DON’T KNOCK

The boots stop.

There is a knock on her door.

What can she do

but answer it?

The thin door squeaks open.

On the other side,

towering over her,

is Carlo Turner,

also known as Hellhand,

former muscle for the

Crystal Syndicate,

and the biggest black man

she has ever seen.

Before she met him,

she didn’t know

humans could get so big.

And yet —

his soft smile

and warm

but weary

eyes

looking down at her,

right now.

“Hey, Tifala,”

Carlo says in his deep voice.

“I brought you something.”

Instead of a hand

at the end of Carlo’s

right arm —

as everyone knows—

there is a high-caliber rail-cannon,

hence his nickname,

“Hellhand.”

It is this weapon

that she expects him

to shoot her down with,

right here,

payback for snooping on

him and his friends

through the wall

these past four months.

But —

No, Carlo is holding out

a plastic shopping bag.

She takes it without thinking,

and looks inside,

pulling out a fresh orange.

“Where did you get this?”

she asks.

“Just saw some for sale.”

But there is something wrong.

She can smell the sweat on him,

the anxiety,

his clothes and skin

are soaked with it.

“I just know androids need their

Vitamin C,”

Carlo tells her.

“Ah, yeah...” she agrees.

“But... I can’t repay you for this.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says,

“Just being neighborly.

Neighbors gotta look out

for each other, you know?”

“Yeah,” she says, still amazed

by the fruit in her hands.

Carlo turns,

clomps to his room’s door,

and opens the lock.

“I’ll see you later, Tifala.”

to be continued....