From the Black Irish pub, Warchild and Rotter limped out into the street and tried desperately to mix in with the mass of pedestrians. Hard to do with a bleeding Rotter getting unwanted attention. People recoiled from the blood; many began recording the pair for social media. There was no escaping the cameras, hundreds of them filming. From afar, Warchild could see police converging on Air-Segways, coming in fast, ushered toward them by the pointing crowd.

Luckily, it was getting dark.

Warchild hefted Rotter onto his back and carried him, sprinting as fast as he could away from the neighborhood.

Police sirens got louder.

The fastest way out was the Metro Red Line, built on a 12.8-mile double-tracked, standard gauge rail, a station every half mile. Almost the entire route was set on elevated rails snaking through canyons of high-rises. A station was close by, within jogging distance.

Their progress was slower than expected, Rotter grimacing with each crushing step. But he took the pain. They soon reached the overpass station.

During off-peak hours, train schedules were twenty minutes apart. Feeling safer now that they were a few blocks away from the police maelstrom, they loitered to wait in the shadows between support struts.

And they weren't alone.

Around them, eyes of the homeless watched these intruders, peeping out from under makeshift shelters. Rotter and Warchild had stumbled upon a dreg encampment under the rail bridge. The free-air residents gave them proper distance. In these parts, young strong men on foot out at night were seldom the gentle kinds.

"Power's turning on us. I can feel it. This isn't a one-off," Warchild said, holding Rotter up as the pair stumbled outside. "We need to warn the rest of the team."

"You do that." Rotter winced with each stabbing step.

"First, we need to ditch the trackers," Warchild said. "Or we won't get very far."

"Just how do you plan to do that, with our teeth?"

"Ask them for a knife or something sharp." Warchild gestured to the vagabond camp.

The piggyback pair sauntered over to the nearest tent, which was made from glued cellophane and plastic trash bags. Warchild put him down.

Rotter approached and tugged on the side of the bivouac, holding his sides. "Excuse me."

"What you want, man?" An unkempt man appeared from the other end holding a pipe. Other people appeared behind him.

"Sorry for the intrusion. We're hoping to borrow a knife, something to cut."

"Go away, I kill you," the tent owner hissed.

"Come on, anything with an edge."

"Here," the old man threw them a rusted can lid which rattled on the cement.

Rotter grimaced to pick up the filthy scrap. "You kidding me. Might as well use a rusty spoon."

"Improvise, didn't they teach you anything?" Warchild said, thumbing the edge. He sliced the lip against the spot where the Atlas chip hid. He ran the jagged metal over the skin until it gaped open to red meat underneath. At a sufficient depth, he handed the can lid over to Rotter and enlarged the bloody hole with index and thumb. His fingers dug deep, his face showing no pain. Then he found it, pulling the micro-cylinder from the ragged wound. "Your turn, we don't got all night."

Rotter copied Warchild and in no time pulled his out. He crushed it underfoot.

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"Now what, we got no money, nothing," said Rotter.

"Jump the gates," said Warchild. "Just watch for the cameras."

Rotter registered horror on his face. "I got no meds except for what I have on me."

"How many doses?"

He checked the pill canister in his pocket. "Enough for two more days. I got a month's stash at home."

"Forget it," Warchild said. "We move on. Well, that was easy -- we just established our priorities. Find more meds. Everything else is secondary."

"And clean bandages too."

"Now we wait for the train right here."

"There's no one up there," Rotter said.

"You don't know that. Not smart being on an open platform."

"So who hit us, man?" Rotter asked, trying to stand upright.

"We should ask -- who else did they hit?" Warchild said, troubled.

"Why you think that?"

"We're under a kill order -- can you guess why?"

"The video leak," Rotter said. "But we got nothing to do with it."

"You tell them that," Warchild said.

"Come on, where's this blasted train?" Rotter became uncomfortable, biting down on the surging pain.

"You all right? Hang on, kid."

"Need a minute." A moment later, he said almost pleading, "Whoever hit us is long gone, man. I say we go for the train."

"Yeah? Keep on believing that," said Warchild flicking his head down the road beneath the rail line.

The street, lit by a few working lights, was pockmarked with glistening puddles from rain spill off. The asphalt like a blackened tongue unfurled before them. And at the far obscured end was a maw they couldn't see. Until a set of headlights two hundred meters away suddenly flared.

They grew brighter, floating above ground level by ten feet. With its distinctive high pitch hum, this was no car. It was an aeroflyer.

"Move," Warchild snapped in a hushed tone. The pair sunk back into the shadows, edging toward the vagrant camp.

Crouching behind a dry heap of rubbish, Rotter managed a hoarse whisper, "Maybe it's just cops. If so do we come out?"

"You kidding?" Warchild said. "They tracked us here."

"Mother f--."

"We keep out of sight and let 'em pass. Make like we're bums."

"How'd you make like a bum?"

"Think poor."

The flyer hovered, advancing slowly. IR scanning waves pulsed out from the craft, penetrating around every corner. It picked up multiple thermal signatures from those in the encampment as clear as noontime, running biometric scans on their faces.

Warchild and Rotter knew to put their heads down.

The scratchy whine got louder, then gradually faded into a gentle wheeze. And silence. The men breathed sighs of relief.

Not a minute later, above them, the sound of a coming train rolled down the track. They could see parts of the overpass growing brighter from flashing beacons embedded in the platform floor.

"Do we take it?" Rotter asked, eyes wide, muscle coiled for a sprint. "Now or never, goddammit."

"How are you going to run?" Warchild said.

Just then, the aeroflyer did a one-eighty and proceeded on its way back.

"Oh, Christ Jesus," Rotter mumbled.

"And the hits keep on hitting," Warchild cursed.

Just then, another set of headlights appeared under the overpass far to the left side. A car this time, with a noisy antiquated internal combustion engine.

"It's a jalopy," Rotter said. They looked at each other knowingly. Government assassins didn't drive fifty-years-old junkers.

In the meantime, the aerocar neared. This go-round, the scanners wouldn't miss.

No time to lose, Warchild carried Rotter on his back and raced toward the wheeled truck, moving in and out of the shadows so as not to draw attention from the aerocar.

They reached the pickup, parts of it half-eaten away. It was a scrap hauler paid by the city to truck out heaps of refuse to the dumps. There was plenty of room – inside, behind the mound of garbage.

They popped up on the passenger side window, startling the driver. The man produced a snubnosed .38. "Back off, I got nothing for you."

"Mister, we want no trouble," Warchild whispered with his hands up, while Rotter kept an eye on the other set of headlights getting nearer.

"What do you want?"

"A ride."

"Piss off."

"I can pay," Warchild said. Rotter glanced at him -- with what? They'd removed their Atlas, which meant no access to any payment means. Warchild licked his ring finger and yanked out his thick wedding ring. "It's pure platinum. Brought me nothing but trouble. Maybe it will give you luck. What do you say, sir? Please."

He handed the ring to the geezer who gauged the bauble by its weight.

"I'm going to the dump."

"That's where we're going too," Warchild answered. "Imagine that."

"Any trouble and you two are gone."

"No trouble from us, sir, honest," Rotter added.

"Come on then, get in the back."

Rotter and Warchild hopped in the back. There was an old muddy tarp covering loose refuse. As they pulled on it, rats scampered between their feet causing Rotter to yelp.

"I hate rats," he hissed.

"Quiet!"

The pair flattened on their backs and pulled the tarp over their heads, ignoring the squeaks of critters.

The whine of the aerocar grew louder. It hung about to the left of the truck for longer than usual, running its scan. The men prayed the metal skin of the pickup would mask their heat signatures.

"What?" the driver shouted at the Aerocar's blackened windows.

Eventually, it drifted off.

Ten miles out, the truck pulled over and left the pair by the side of the road.