Dirty Work: Volume 1

The rain was a cold, miserable shroud over Region 57, seeping into my already sodden clothes. My stomach rumbled a protest louder than the Magna-Train rumbling overhead, reminding me that even the 'special offer bread' from Odd-Job-Jae was out of reach now. Soon, my mould-ridden apartment would be out of reach too.

I hurried beneath the Magna-Train overpass, seeking a momentary reprieve from the downpour. The air was thick with the scent of damp concrete and desperation. Graffiti, unintelligible and defiant, screamed from a pillar. Beyond, the cul-de-sac of apartment buildings huddled together like shivering animals.

Just as I was about to scurry towards the path leading to my temporary shelter, a shout tore through the din. I looked up, only to see a figure plummeting from the Magna-Train line above, clearly intending to use me as an unwitting cushion. There was barely time to register the impossible, the insane, before they slammed into me, knocking the wind and every other coherent thought from my body. The impact was brutal, a sickening crunch that resonated through my bones.

"What the hell are you doing?" I gasped, every fiber of my being screaming in protest. The figure, a man with wild, startled eyes, scrambled to his feet, pulling me up with surprising strength. Just then, a gun blast singed the air above his head, cleaving a stark line through his unkempt hair.

"Fuck!" I yelled, realizing with dawning horror that the shots were now meant for me too. Two figures stood on the Magna-Train line, guns outstretched, their weapons glowing with a re-charge. I had three seconds, maybe less, to make a decision. My legs, despite the pain, had already decided.

I ran.