The stench of the gutter is nauseating. Her nose has lost its ability to filter out the many less-than-pleasant smells of the slums. Her lungs are the same. They have forgotten about the smog from the heavy industries blackening the windows and swallowing the light of the gas lamps at night. Her ears have grown sensitive to the constant cacophony of pickaxes against bedrock deep in the Abyss.
She asks herself if the First Circle had always been this bad? It always has. Regardless‚ after tomorrow, she'll be able to separate herself from these slums by one more circle. Even the Second is too close to this shithole excuse of a district.
The City of Slaves is densely populated. The lower levels are a compact maze of steel beams and sheet metal intersected by claustrophobically narrow streets. The mountain has been hollowed over millennia into a hive of steel and stone where the anonymous masses spend their days as insects making their little offering for the superorganism to breathe and live. Dysfunctional and surviving despite all. Thriving in organized chaos. People here don't know about any other way of life. The city is everything. The outside world is mythical and they don't know it truly exists.
Derr's place looks like last: a heavy steel door with an armed guard. A new guard, though. The outside isn't unlike the slums in general, with its rusted and grimy metal. It seems like nothing out of the ordinary but for the guard and door. Just another shitty shack housing another starving family.
"I want to do business," she says.
"Is Derr expecting you?" says the guard.
"He knows I'd come sooner rather than later."
The guard notices she isn't from the slums. She is dirty from the journey, but her clothes and gear are the best credits can buy. He has probably already figured out that she works for a corporation. Not someone at the bottom of the societal ladder. Not someone from the First Circle. She's not gutter trash anymore. No one from the upper city would go down here without a good reason and an even better confidence. Perhaps he even knows who she is. Not someone you fuck with.
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
He opens the door for her. She gives him a nod as she passes. The first to meet her eyes is a crystal chandelier as they strain against the light despite her dark sunglasses. Electromancy, ballsy. It wasn't there last time. Wonder if it's this-world technology or from a rift. Either way, he'll be dead if the authorities find out. She doesn't want to know how much of whatever fortune he has paid for it was financed with her blood credits.
Everything in the room that can be gilded is gilded. As are Derr's teeth and prosthetic eye. It looks ridiculous, but this is what happens when a poor slave boy becomes rich. Derr sits on his red couch. He won't fit in anything else. His fat body looks like it has melted on top of it. He has a pipe in his hand, as always. Wisps of smoke levitate out of the bowl and are carried away by the faint draft.
"Have you missed me?" smiles Derr.
"I need a fix," she says.
"Oh, Vyss. You usually do, don't you?"
"Does it matter to you?"
"It doesn't. You want the special, huh?"
"Yeah."
Derr motions for his bodyguard to open a massive safe in the corner of the room. Vyss stares at it like a starving dog stares at a slab of meat. She is sweaty and shivering. Aching, nauseous. Longing.
"Yeah," she says, "I don't have the credits right now. I just came to the city. I haven't had the time to collect the payment from Xerïon."
"Xerïon," says Derr, "You've come a long way since you sucked cock for credits. What was your high score again? Fifteen a day?"
She doesn't answer.
"Nevertheless," says Derr, "I'll give you one vial for old times' sake if you promise to pay me back tomorrow."
"Yeah, yeah," she says, still staring at the safe.
Her hand trembles as she receives the vial. She goes to the couch and sits in the tiny space Derr doesn't cover. She loads the vial into the injector and finds a vein in her arm and injects herself. The drug hits her as waves of pleasure. She shudders as she leans back into the soft cushions and takes a deep breath. Closes her eyes. Welcome blissful oblivion.
"What a story you are," says Derr, "Born rich, becomes addicted to drugs. Ends up in the streets doing whatever to fuel your habit. People like me quickly figured out they could use you. You've never been charming, but you're beautiful in your own special way: dark hair, pale skin, violet eyes. Who the fuck got violet eyes? You're a commodity, aren't you? They all wanted that commodity back then. And you thanked them with a dagger in their heart. Look at you now. All grown up. An assassin contracted by Xerïon."