The wall towered, hundreds of feet tall and encircling the city utterly. Its mottled surface spoke of countless repairs and old wounds patched over with brick, concrete, and plaster. How many years had it loomed silently at the edge of the metropolis? Or had it been decades? Centuries? Of all the people who fell into the ceaseless current of Central Avenue, not one so much as glanced up at the immutable fixture. The city’s residents had accepted it as a permanent backdrop to their everyday lives, and indeed, no one could remember a time when the wall had not stood guard at the perimeter of their world.
Troy Roski, however, glared up and wondered, for the hundredth time this week, whether anyone else in this goddamn pithole held even a shred of curiousity in the depths of their furtive and oblivious hearts. Troy’s was a face lined with brooding thoughtfulness, and despite his twenty-odd years he carried with him the weight of a philosopher—-a plethora of defunct histories and depressing truths that he had inherited with his uncle’s impressive collection of contraband literature. This love of the printed word had, unfortunately, left Troy afflicted with a passionate case of idealism, and as this romantic notion was entirely at odds with everything he saw in the world around him, he found himself constantly depressed. From his bitterness toward a world that grew increasingly alien to him blossomed the barbed sarcasm of a hermit. One of the few things that could entice him away from the comfort of his extremely illegal library was a call from Fenn Olivares—-the irony of which was not lost on Troy.
With a heavy sigh, he pushed off from the weathered brick wall of Grenloch’s Goods, one of the businesses he passed by on his way to the precinct. Today they were sold out, turning his mood sourer than usual. Troy missed the familiar routine he’d fallen into these past few months—-stopping to chat with wizened old Grenloch, purchasing this week’s ration of cigarettes, then pausing to light the first smoke of the day just inside the mouth of the alley beside the building. It was an excellent strategical position for moody silences, and he enjoyed the momentary lull before the bustle of the day almost as much as he did the relief of the cigarette’s chemical rush. Today offered neither luxury, so he grudgingly ducked his head, weaving himself seamlessly into the flow of bodies along the avenue.
It was unnecessary to say that Central never slept. The city’s vendors crowded the main street, eagerly vying for customers with brightly-painted signs, while the more upscale businesses proudly advertised their wares with coloured lights that glowed—-courtesy of Re-Gen. Of course, he thought wryly, these days, everything’s “courtesy of” Re-Gen. Electricity, water, sewage, healthcare… Troy stepped back onto the curb to avoid a bus that sped soundlessly through the clamor of the streets, battery-powered public transit being another of Re-Gen’s seemingly stringless gifts to the community. As he approached the corner where he turned toward the precinct, a man covered in patches of green, leathery skin grinned up from his seat on the pavement, rattling his coin-box.
“Sparrah cuppul cred fah’n ol vet, ayy?”
Troy paused nearby, one hand already seeking a couple of the old metal coins that passed for currency amongst the city’s poor. He nodded in greeting, his eyes drawn to a black sedan parked in front of the station’s entrance.
“News today, Hobb?”
“Ah, seh, som stef-nik cuns’lorr druv up, dem ner rund meh orr! Mussa ben fickt aba sum’n—-ben inder rite ba’aff ‘nurr nah. ‘N ah bit Kep’n ayn tuh ‘appy abaddit, seen as ‘ow ee gut droog uppan ‘urr aforeez doo twark. Ol kaja luffa, det, nawwamin?”
The vagrant’s particular brand of gutter-speech (not to mention odor) assailed him at breakneck speed, earning a playful grimace from the younger man—-something unpleasant was happening in that building… unpleasant, and important enough to warrant a personal visit from a City Counsellor. Very few things persuaded <em>that</em> lot to come down from their tower and mix with the lower classes. An extra credit clinked in along with his usual donation as he gave the ragged man a short smile and wave, hurrying on toward the precinct. Troy found himself grinning as he jogged casually up the stairs, curiousity giving wariness the boot as he tugged the door open by its cold brass handle and slipped inside.
