I step off the curb into the street that resembles any street here in the vast wasteland dystopia of metropolis city. Unless you want infection, disease or certain biological failure due to toxicity, when doing this, you’d be doing well by yourself to step over the gutter.
The gutter, where accumulated grit and filth coalesce in a stream of liquid shit and piss flowing downstream into the eventual drain, passing through the bars into below the street, if not clogging it ; in which case a flooding of the street occurs, a frequent occurrence at that.
But then again you’d be doing yourself a favor by avoiding the biohazard zone that is metropolis city all together. Everywhere within its boarders is public space including your own living room, if you’re lucky enough to have one. The place is lousy with degeneracy, the public offices held by professionally self-interested curroptioneers. Empty rhetoric vomit out their pudgy, pock-marked demonic faces displayed on massive vid screens plaguing every street corner on every black red-light lit sky scraper in the city.
My name is Trevor Mallard, and I carry a blaster. I mention this due to the importance of self-defense in this postmodernmodern future where savagery is the default unspoken code of the land. Not to mention the “illegality” of owning such an object. Illegality I place in “scare quotes” here because of the fluidity of the law proper, and its subjective not only interpretation but jurisdiction. The law’s enforcers too are dubious as to their allegiance, and to who it applies, to be redundant, is up to debate. Suffice it to say, the oligarchical law makers are legal positivists, who honor only their self-anointed devine right to lord over the loathsome plebs.
I step one step further after my gutter hop, and keep on moving. The barricades of built up and abandoned vehicles surrounding this block prevent traffic. A withered hand pops out of a cardboard tent in the middle of the avenue, holding out an icredit device and mumbling in a weak incantation “alms.” This I ignore. I do not give credits, I only trade credits for equal value. Since I harbor no empathy for the old voters of the current establishment charity is far from my mind. Allocated funds are to flow into my current interests, which for at the moment involve a paying gig. A big project. For which I have financial backing not only, but a personal interest.
The larger than life neon sign for the casino looms overhead as I weave in and out of little encampments here and there, iCredit devices will be held out for a gracious transfer and will be ignored, the intimidation of wild eyed thugs will be ignored- only the advance of my destination is at hand. I see now the tuxedoed brute, negroed doorman, named Tget.
“You back now?”
“Back, Mr. Seprume is waiting-you already now.”
A pause as Tget’s eyes glaze off into no particular direction as he receives instructions from his employer through the auditory implant in the right side of his brain close to his ear. I now felt his eyes on me. Receiving instructions no doubt, considering the vid implant in Tget’s optical nerve, giving a direct feed to Seprume’s office vid screen. I feel the gaze once again when Tget turns back to me, to say.
“Mr. Seprume says proceed.” Tget holds out his icredit to collect his toll, I take my own out of my inside breast pocket; tap out 50 and flick a scanning inferred laser onto his open screen displaying his Personal Pairing Code.
It beeps ready, he looks down at it to make sure, then turns his one green prosthetic eye toward the door which instantly opens out. The garish doors, ornate in a classically Greece kind of way with long ornate, useless handles running up and sown the length of them birth entrance to me.
Wordlessly I pass by the gatekeeper into the belly off the south town beast.
End of Part 1