The status window flickered in my peripheral vision like a dying neon sign. Even with my settings cranked to minimum opacity, the damn thing never quite went away. Just another reminder of where I stood in the grand scheme of things:
[MARCUS CHEN]
Level: 6
Class: None
Potential: D-
Status: Restricted
I pulled my collar up against the acid rain and quickened my pace through Level -2 of the Undercity. Above, the massive foundations of Upper Manhattan's arcology blocks blotted out what little natural light might have filtered down. Not that it mattered – the perpetual glow of skill-signs and status markers provided more than enough illumination, painting everything in harsh blues and reds.
"Fresh meat coming through!" A cargo hauler's warning blared, its driver's level 15 marker floating smugly above their cabin. I pressed myself against the grimy wall, letting the massive vehicle thunder past. The crates it carried were marked with that familiar blue sheen – medical supplies bound for the upper levels, where people could actually afford to heal properly instead of relying on natural recovery rates.
My wrist chirped: another notification from the System's job board. Probably another D-rank fetch quest, the only kind my restricted status allowed me to take. Dad had been level 4 when he had me, Mom level 5. Their combined "potential" stats had apparently been just low enough to saddle me with the worst possible starting conditions. These days, anyone with an A or B potential rating made damn sure to hit at least level 20 before even thinking about kids.
The notification persisted. With a sigh, I subvocalized the command to open it:
Stolen story; please report.
[URGENT REQUEST]
D-Rank Recovery Mission
Target: Lost Maintenance Drone
Location: Sector -2, Block 47
Reward: 50 System Points
Requirements: None
Warning: Area contains level 5-8 environmental hazards
Fifty points. Barely enough for a day's worth of clean water credits, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Besides, Block 47 was just ahead, and I needed something to do before my night shift at the processing plant started.
A group of teenagers huddled around a street vendor's stall, their status windows showing a mix of levels 3 through 7. One of them had a floating [Apprentice Scavenger] class marker – lucky bastard must have had a family connection to secure the training slot. They watched me pass with that familiar mix of relief and contempt. Relief that someone was even lower on the ladder, contempt that I was still here at all.
Most people in my situation took the one-way ticket to the frontier colonies. The System was newer out there, they said. More opportunities. But I'd seen the mortality rates, and I'd made my peace with scratching out whatever existence I could here in the shadows of the giants.
I accepted the mission with a thought and felt the familiar tingle as the System acknowledged my commitment. The drone's last known coordinates pulsed on my minimal HUD – just past the hydroponic gardens, in a section of maintenance tunnels that had been officially abandoned decades ago.
My hand brushed against the cheap polymer baton strapped to my hip. Environmental hazards usually meant rats – the real kind, not the System-enhanced variants that the higher levels hunted for sport. I could handle rats. It was the other D-ranks desperate enough to compete for these scraps that worried me.
But that was life in the lower tiers. You took what you could get, and you tried not to think too hard about how far above you the sky really was.
Time to get to work.