Adams Morgan, a renowned neighborhood in the DMV, was no stranger to riots. The last burning had left many buildings in this neighborhood blackened and broken. When fief-induced austerity rolled in and money dried up, they left the ruins marred and abandoned. The colorful culture once notable in these parts had taken on a sinister tone. Another kind of clientele had moved into 18th Street -- the tech boosters, amp-juice dealers, organ peddlers, and the harvester gangs. Adams Morgan had become a toxic latrine. And so many turds in one place had brought in private security goons and police stooges. Armed relay posts now stood guard every half-mile in this enclave.

Screaming sirens from police hover-patrols overhead faded with distance. In this part of the capital, protesters mobbed the streets, trudging about like wraiths dressed in some variety of Obscura. Four years ago, the couture appeared in Paris, Tokyo, then New York. Fashionistas said the trend was a protest statement on the sub-human condition of the plebeian mass compared to the lavish lives of the fief-lords. Paranoid anarchists said it was against the security culture prevalent in many of the world's cities where everyone was monitored. No one knew for sure which subculture or ism had inspired it. Now, it was no longer fashion; it was a basic necessity. Men and women wore face-shields or hid parts of their faces in spray-on face paint, fabric, or veils, and under hoods.

The air smelled of ozone after a heavy downpour. Porsche walked past a curved building splashed with graffiti. Onlookers took no notice of her -- she was just another figure in an oversize hooded raincoat. And she was armed. More than the weapons, she held a dangerous confidence that deterred thieves and brigands. Predators had a sixth sense whether prey was easy or not.

Fifty yards ahead of Porsche was her new assignment -- the walking brick wall was hard to miss. This one had acquired notoriety, an unneeded distraction in Porsche's line of work. Fame in all forms was no different from a toilet whirlpool, sucking in all kinds of bad shit. This play was becoming too high profile. You should have walked.

Porsche cursed her avarice. And DeWitt. He knew her buttons better than she did. He'd dangled the pouch like a lure and she'd bitten down hard. The bait was too juicy to ignore; she was closer to the elusive fuck-you money than ever, a stash large enough she could do anything she wanted -- retire and disappear for good. She was aware of the attached risk, now higher than ever. Uncle wanted to find Lockheart, with whom she was desperate to avoid entangling. And in front of her was the looming amazonian, her only lead to the Sandman.

Porsche followed Marlboro from the Metro stop into raucous Adams Morgan.

Ahead, clusters of lights amassed around tents as if a circus had laid down stakes here. 18th Street was no longer an open road. A tent city for 'AM gypsies', lit under crisscrossing strings of bootleg lights, sat hemmed in by Columbia and Champlain.

Marlboro moved fast in a straight line. Something had spooked her and quickened her pace. Instinct told Porsche to fall back just enough to maintain a line of sight.

Ahead, an angry crowd chanted and beat makeshift drums. The protesters held bullhorns standing on statue mounds crying out their message of injustice and reform, while the mass chorused their responses.

The big girl quick-stepped into a jog, moving between gaggles of people with ease.

Damn. To keep up, Porsche risked being seen. Just then she caught quick movements across the street -- two men in a mass of people also hurried their strides, betraying their cover. She almost missed them -- would have if they hadn't picked up the pace as she was about to do.

Porsche wasn't the only shadow. There were other hunters. They looked professional, could be the same night visitors who'd knocked on Moreau's door. By luck, she spotted two of them. But seldom was there just one pair. A standard surveillance box employed a second pair covering the other side of the street. And a third wouldn't be far.

Footsteps shortened, coming up fast behind her. She could hear a commotion just over her shoulder, someone pushing through the crowd. She veered off to visit a kiosk.

"Hi, how much is this?" She asked the vendor pretending to be interested in his wares.

Two men in raincoats rushed by, one brushing her right shoulder as he passed, one mouthing words she couldn't hear into comms, their attention locked onto her amazonian fifty yards ahead. But they screwed up. Their myopia had missed Porsche.

Confirm. She glanced at the crowd, trying to catch the telltale signs of recognition, and found none. She wasn't on the menu.

Porsche waited at the kiosk for a minute, oblivious to what the vendor was selling. Sure there were no more tails behind her, she picked up her pace, keeping under neon advertisements and billboards that hissed and crackled with static. One sign flashed on and off with bright neon -- Report All Suspicious Activities: a message from Homeland Security. Another banged away with audio, its sounds warping from punctured speakers -- Do Your Part: Pride in cleanliness.

The rabbit was going home, less than a mile away.

Porsche knew the address. Aware the others were ahead of her, she decided to close the distance and zigzagged through conjoining street alleys, keeping in mind the direction of the townhouse. Caution screamed for her to abandon the pursuit with good cause -- she had no clue the number of bandits on Marlboro's trail or their intentions. Yet, the danger drew her forward irresistibly.

And with each step she took, a looming decision crept closer. The dilemma visited her once again . . . Watch or act.

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* * *

Alex arrived home to the rental duplex she and Camila shared. They had the upper floor, the townhouse owner the ground level. Alex flung open the front door, startling Camila who was wearing only her silk robe.

"What are you doing home?"

"My Atlas isn't working. So, they sent me home." All true so far.

She kept the chip deactivation to herself for now.

Alex smiled and kissed her. "I love you." She held up a brave face. Deep down, she was gasping for air.

"What's happened?" Her lover sensed something.

"Nothing."

"I have a fun idea," Camila said, brightening.

"What's that?"

"Why don't we go away? Just pack up and maybe never return."

"Baby, where would we go?"

"There's a whole continent we can explore. Apply for a Midland visa. We can live off the land in Montana or Minnesota. You can fish and hunt and I can cook whatever you bring home. That's romantic." Camila squeezed her. "Just like the wagon trails in those old western movies."

"That's a tough life, mi amore. I can do it if I have to, but you wouldn't last more than a week before screaming to return to electricity and running water, and your electric shaver."

Camila pushed her playfully. "Hey, you like me smooth." She disrobed and stood naked in front of the mirror and sighed. "Now I got to get dressed."

Alex enjoyed watching her girlfriend get ready for work. Always had. And Camila knew it. Freegin' women, all the same, no matter how you flip them. Even ones whose chromosomes said they were born with different plumbing. Alex discovered Camila's truth early into their relationship and it enticed her even more. It was the rage to swap out your gender and go on the wild side for a month or so and return anytime you want. 'Why get locked into one boring existence' the ad-service had crowed about the painful gender morphing procedure: as easy as putting on clothes. But many took the perm route once they discovered they liked their new selves and refused to revert. Take a beautiful boy and snip off his frank and beans, buy him a silicone rack -- and she was standing there bitching about lipstick and clothes, or staring herself for hours in the bathroom mirror with her rear-end hanging out. But how Alex enjoyed the routine, watching Camila laser her eyelids with precision-paint, the topo-laser spraying a thin blue tint below her eyebrows and layered in a shade of pink over the lids. Heck, there was a goddess prancing around blessing the floor with her underwear.

That's why I love the little slut so much.

"I have something to tell you," Alex said, stroking Camila's hair, turning her around.

"Uh-huh?"

But here and now seemed brusque and improper. She should wait for tonight. Alex could only kiss her neck to fill in the disquieting gap. "Never mind." The kissing became passionate.

"Can't." Camila pushed herself away. "No time. But my shift ends early at nine."

"Oh, you tease," Alex said, slapping her butt.

"Hey," Camila feigned protest and laughed. She danced her way to the shower, wiggling suggestively. "Only if we had time . . ."

"We could, you know." Alex followed her to the shower stall.

"No, alone." Camila giggled. "Save it for tonight."

"Okay," Alex said, her heart in her throat. "I'll get something scrumptious for us to eat. Can you duck out early?"

"I will for sure."

"Go on then, you cow. Get in the shower."

Alex went to the living room, reached into her liquor stash and fished out a big bottle of clear alcohol. She unscrewed the metal cap and filled a tall cup to the rim. The TV was on to occupy her.

There were other programs she could watch to kill time, but she returned to the news like an addict. Reports banged away about the death toll from riots in Caracas and elsewhere, numbers unverified but estimated to be in the hundreds stemming from last night's fighting. Chaos floated in the air, closing on her.

Alex turned it off and cursed herself for watching.

With her Atlas inert, she was unhooked for a few hours of peace. Peace, who was she kidding? By turning off her Atlas, someone had drawn first blood.

As she gulped down the clear liquid, she heard a chime. She hadn't gotten used to hearing the doorbell in the new place. Ping, the doorbell rang a second time.

Through her hand terminal, she saw what the door camera captured. Two cops in uniform stood beneath the camera lens, looking up.

"Yes?" Alex spoke into her hand-held.

"Metro PD, open up," the first cop replied, a tall pockmarked man.

"Let me see your badges."

Their chest shields looked official -- but the badges could be toys from cereal boxes for all she knew. Compelled to obey, she slid off the chain.

"What can I do for you officers?"

"You Alexis Marlboro?"

"Yup."

"We got a complaint about you jumping a Metro turnstile," the pockmarked cop said.

"You kidding?"

"We have you on camera."

"You mixed me up with someone else."

"You're under arrest, Alexis Marlboro. Please turn around." Cop 2, a pudgy fellow with narrow eyes, produced handcuffs from his belt.

Alex backed away, refusing to comply.

Just then, Camila emerged from the bedroom in a long shirt three-buttons opened.

"What's going on here?" Camila demanded, scowling.

"We're taking your girlfriend in, miss," Cop 1 said.

"On what charge?"

"Public theft." The pudgy cop leered at her, making her close her shirt.

"This is wrong," Alex snapped, sensing danger. "Get the hell out."

"You can't throw us out," Pudgy said.

"You got a warrant?" Camila demanded.

"Don't need one."

"Go and call the cops," Alex said, retreating and gesturing for Camila to make for the bedroom.

"We are the cops."

"No fucking way," Alex said. First her Atlas, now this. "I ain't going nowhere with you fake cops."

"We could do this the easy way -- or the very hard way," Cop 2 said, his hand moving to the Taser holster. "Your choice. Personally, I like the bumpy road."

"Bring it on." Alex squared her stance.

Pockmarked cop cued his body mic, tilted his head and spoke, "We got a problem. Better come up."

"Now you've done it," Pudgy said to the girls with a creepy grin.

"Lock the door!" Alex yelled out to Camila, putting herself between her girlfriend and the men.

Camila raced to the bedroom and slammed the door. A click of the lock satisfied Alex -- but it won't hold for long. The door is cracker-thin. Get out through the window -- please.

Just then two men in great overcoats appeared at the front door. One carried two huge valises and placed them on the floor. She heard glass clinking within.

"What's that for?" Alex said, eying the ominous suitcases.

"That's for you," Pudgy replied with an icy grin.

"You want to take me, fine. But you let her go," Alex said. "I won't resist."

The two cops and the luggage man circled Alex. They produced stun sticks instead of firearms. She knew why. No mess, no evidence.

"The girlfriend's in there," the pockmarked man spoke to his buddy. "Go get her."

"You said nothing about a second body."

"You're the cleaners," Cop 1 said. "So clean."

"We don't have enough shit for two more bodies." He skirted around the circle and made for the bedroom.

"No, stop!" Alex pleaded with outstretched hands. "Do whatever you want with me. Just leave her alone."

"Sorry babe, wrong place, wrong time," Cop 1 said. "Should have come quietly."