The vibrant orange syrup hits the back of my throat like molasses. I struggle to gulp it down, like choking on sugary pond slime.

It’s nothing like the Luck I drank yesterday. By comparison, it tastes like a science experiment—lacking the refinement of the straight syrups.

Pins and needles flood my extremities, buzzing at my fingertips, cramping my feet. I stand and shake it off, but it persists, like I’m surrounded by a swarm I need to get away from. I can’t stand still.

Yet a wave of calm washes over me, a voice speaking directly into my mind.

It’s alright. We’re okay now.

I help Dani up, and they gaze at me expectantly.

“Which way do you think?” I bounce from one foot to the other, glancing around the alleyway, gauging our route. The road we came down is abandoned in dark shadow. In the other direction, Main Street’s workers are brightly lit by the sun.

That way.

I hesitate. Main Street? It can’t be safe…

But the buzzing in my feet intensifies, forcing me to move. It’s like a static charge prevents my feet from staying on the ground. I push into a brisk walk, pulling Dani along behind me.

We emerge on the side of the large central carriageway, carrying VIPs in AI cars to Central Square. It’s busy—the cars queue in twin rows, bumper to bumper, edging along the road in silence while their passengers stare at screens within.

I barely stop to take it in, turning right and jogging along the road, carried by a hopeful breeze. Our progress is unhindered—not a single warden in sight. Workers keep their distance from us, focusing on the pavement, eager to get to their shifts without getting tangled in any drama.

Almost there.

The apartment blocks springing up on either side of the road shift from luxe duplexes to standard living dorms, and slowly but surely we return to the abandoned portion of Skycross. Rather than the hour we would have taken by the maze of back streets and pedestrian paths, we’ve walked for only twenty minutes.

“Greetings, Patron,” Dani says, tugging on my hand.

A sharp pain in my left ear, ringing like tinnitus.

I duck into the alley to our right, off main street and into the shadows. The pain in my ear rings out as I brace myself against a wall, getting my bearings.

Slowly, the pain eases, and I check the main road again.

Warden.

A warden stomps past the alley, glancing into the shadows for a moment. I hang my head, staring at the pavement and adopting a slumped posture—mirroring Dani’s confusion as best as I can.

The warden grunts. “Damned wasters. What are you doing back here, eh?”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Greetings, patron…” Dani gives the warden a blank nod, and wanders towards the back of the alley.

“Whatchu say?” The warden takes a step into the alley.

The buzzing in my heels drives a sharp shock up my calves, propelling me into action. I jump towards the warden, grabbing his armour at the shoulder.

Shout.

“Hey!” I mimic a drunken Caleb, dangling my arm around the warden’s neck like he’s an old buddy, and grinning inanely at him. “Don’ I know you frum somewheres?”

The warden grimaces, peeling me off him and pushing me aside. “Urgh, gerrof me!”

“S’no need to be rude,” I slur, letting my arms dangle uselessly at my sides.

Dani has wandered far into the shadows at the back of the alleyway, deeper towards Skycross’s slums. The warden peers after them, holding a hand out to stop me from hugging him. “Get back, damn you.”

He pulls out his rifle and points it at my face. My heart pounds madly in my chest, but the voice whispers in my skull, maintaining control.

Hey now…

“Hey now!”

What does this do?

I grin down the barrel of the charge rifle and walk my fingers along it. “What’s this do?”

It’s pretty.

“So shiny…”

The warden pulls his rifle away and shoves me to the ground. “Back off! Filthy waster.” He spits on the pavement in front of me, and squares his shoulders, straightening his armour. “Piss off into the shadows where you belong, you hear me?”

Didn’t mean nothing…

“I didn’t mean no harms, offisher…”

He winces and storms away, leaving me alone in the alley. The buzzing returns, crawling across my body and puppeteering me. I drag myself to my feet and jog down the alley to retrieve Dani, who is rummaging through overflowing bins.

“Alright, Dani, with me.”

We return to the street, and I pull them straight into the sun without checking for wardens.

It’s all clear. It’s all good.

Continuing as if on autopilot, we dodge through AI cars, workers, and wardens until we pass another three blocks unseen. Across the street, we duck into the alley next to a large storage unit with boarded windows and doors. My inner compass directs us to the back, the third window across. A large plywood board rests on the ledge. I hook my fingers underneath it and lift, and it rotates on a hinge, allowing access underneath.

In we go.

Dani and I crawl through the window and land in an empty room, dusty and full of cobwebs. The door opposite the window is open a crack. I keep my hand on the handle and lean against the panel to listen in.

“No, no one, yet,” a woman’s raspy voice echoes around the unit. “I thought you had a safe house, anyway?”

They pause, umming and aahing at an unheard reply, probably on a phonecall. I turn to Dani and hold my fingers to my lips, pushing the door further so I can peek inside.

The unit is filled with surveillance equipment and monitors. Barely a patch of the vast concrete floor is visible—scattered with cables and power leads, storage boxes and furniture.

Closest to the door, the objects are arranged in a U-shaped bank of monitors and computers. It looks like a security room, only hashed together with recycled scraps. Beyond the observation desks, second-hand furniture makes up a living space—humble but clean and comfortable looking. A sofa, a bed, and even a gas stove all have their own sections of the unit, with tables, chairs and books scattered all over.

A woman walks into view, pacing back and forth between the living area and the observation desks, speaking into a headset. She’s covered head to toe in black denim and studs, leather and plastic. The clothes look strange, though—not the simple cotton and hemp that workers wear, and not the ratty shreds the abandoned live in. It’s like she’s taken VIP clothes from the trash and repurposed them, added her own flair and style, cutting some pieces, adding rivets to others. The overall effect is intimidating, and a little sexy.

With her back to the door, she plants a hand on her hip, sighing loudly. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out. Not much I can do out there, you know that, Frank.”

Yes. Go ahead.

“Lena?” I say softly, opening the door a little wider.

The woman spins on her heel, not showing any signs of surprise or shock. “Ah! There you are. Panic over Frank. Throw this burner. I’ll send you another tomorrow. Yup. Shall do.”

She taps her earpieces and steps towards me, confidently strutting in chunky black boots. “Lena Miller. You must be Kyla?”

I nod, shaking her hand. The buzzing in my palm recedes immediately, leaving a pleasant warmth in its wake. The voice whispers once more.

All done. Take care.