20 years passed...
Zatrice's bones ached from the chill of the sewer, the damp seeping through his threadbare jacket. Neon light filtered through the grates above, showing blues and pinks across the slick concrete. His sister Beulla paced, her shadow stretching and contracting with each pass.
"Sis, you're making me dizzy," Zatrice croaked, his throat raw from the acrid air.
Beulla's hand darted to her pocket. "Just... thinking."
"With your feet?"
She crouched beside him, her fingers ghosting over his forehead. "You need sleep… School tomorrow, remember?"
Zatrice barked out a laugh, the sound echoing off the slimy walls. "School? Right. Can't download lessons without creds, and my uniform…shit got a better smell at this point."
"Zat, I—"
"Save it," he cut her off, rolling to face the wall. "This piss-soaked concrete's as good a grave as any."
Beulla's intake of breath was sharp, pained. "Don't. Don't you dare give up."
"Why not? City's doing its damnedest to bury us anyway."
The air was thick with tension, broken only by the distant hum of maglev trains and the steady drip of water. Finally, Beulla spoke in a low, fierce voice.
"Because we're fighters, you and me. Always have been."
Zatrice shifted uncomfortably on his makeshift bed of cardboard, his words carrying a hint of annoyance. "Go to sleep Beulla, I'm not in the mood."
Beulla's heart clenched at her brother's dismissive tone, but she forced a smile as he settled into sleep. She knelt beside him, silently crying tears that had become all too familiar.
The next morning brought the familiar scent of burning gas and the sounds of boots on metal grates, Zatrice woke up to a soft touch on his palm which made him opened his eyes to find his sister's face hovering over him.
She pressed something into his hand - three luero with smooth edges,
"Eat something that isn't synth-paste, yeah?" She shouldered her bag, pausing at the ladder. "And Zat? Be careful ok?"
He grunted, pocketing the coins. "You sound like dad."
A ghost of a smile flickered across Beulla's face. "Someone has to."
Zatrice waited until her footsteps faded before hauling himself up. His uniform, stiff with grime, crackled as he moved. "Another day in this paradise," he muttered, beginning his climb to the surface.
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Runner City assaulted his senses as he emerged. Holographic billboards flickered and strobed, their images refracted in puddles of oily rainwater. The thick stench of burnt circuitry mingled with the sickly sweet odor of meat from nearby food stalls.
A growl from his stomach reminded Zatrice of the coins in his pocket. He eyed a vendor hawking skewers of vat-grown protein, the meat sizzling on a force grill.
"Three luero ain't gonna stretch far," he reminded himself, forcing his feet to keep moving.
As he walked down the bustling street, Zatrice searched for the alleyway that was his destination. He finally spotted it, a narrow strip of darkness, sandwiched between bright, flashing neon signs. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he made his way to the door at the end of the alley.
Its surface was covered in layers of grimy rust, and he left streaks of dirt as he knocked on it with his knuckles.
A holographic face materialized – Lenji, his features glitching at the edges. "What do you want, kid?"
Zatrice swallowed. "Got product?"
Lenji's pixelated eyebrow arched. "Depends. You got creds?"
"Three luero."
The laugh that erupted from Lenji's projected mouth was all static and derision. "Fuck outta here with that chump change. Come back when you're playing with the big boys."
The hologram winked out, leaving Zatrice alone in the alley. He kicked a discarded beer can, sending it clattering against the walls.
"Shit," he hissed, frustration boiling in his veins. "The hell am I supposed to do now?"
He looked ahead at the metro station, dread building in his chest.
The turnstiles were like predators, waiting to devour his non-existent credits. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he watched the steady stream of commuters, all heading towards their daily grind. After a moment of hesitation, he made a bold decision.
Zatrice slipped past the turnstiles, blending into the crowd until he reached a dingy bathroom stall. The smell of disinfectant stung his nostrils and he held his breath, trying to block out the desperation that clung to the walls. The rumble of trains passing by shook the ground beneath his feet as he waited, mentally counting down the stops until his destination.
"Academy of Luna," tweeted the AI announcer. Zatrice's heart hammered as he melted into the departing crowd, praying his unwashed uniform wouldn't give him away.
The Academy's spires pierced the smog-choked sky, a beacon of impossible dreams. Zatrice's steps slowed as he approached, drowning in the sight of students with their crisp uniforms and shiny tech.
"One day," he whispered, allowing himself a moment of foolish hope. "One day I'll walk through those doors, land a corpo job. No more sewers, no more—"
A vise-like grip on his shoulder shattered the illusion. "Thought you could dodge us, guttershit?"
Zatrice's blood ran cold. He turned, coming face-to-face with Leon. The man's cybernetic implants pulsed an angry red, his organic eye twitching with barely contained rage.
"L-Leon," Zatrice stammered. "I can explain—"
Leon's augmented fingers dug deeper. "Save it. Where's my goddamn money?"
"I... I don't have it. Not yet."
One of Leon's cronies leaned in, his rose-tinted uniglass reflecting Zatrice's terrified face. "Wrong answer, rat. Leon here's got an itchy trigger finger, if you catch my drift."
Zatrice's eyes darted around, searching for help. But the morning crowd flowed around them like water around a stone, gazes averted.
"I've got three luero," he choked out. "Tomorrow, I swear I'll—"
The slap came fast, stars exploding behind Zatrice's eyes. Before he could recover, Leon's fist slammed into his gut, once, twice, three times. The world tilted as Zatrice crumpled to the ground.
Leon rifled through his pockets, fishing out the meager coins. "Pathetic," he spat. "Next time, it ain't just gonna be a love tap. You feel me?"