The bazaar was in a rather unique position in one of the middling levels of the Deep Core world of Empress Teta. Close enough to the cosmopolitan spires above to alert Tetan Security should anything overtly violent occur, but also deep enough that patrols rarely came around. It was close enough to the elevated surface that many travelers, though rarely tourists, passed through it in search of a wide variety of both illicit and legal goods. While local gangs still held sway, their authority was often defanged the moment anything turned louder than a knife in a dark alley.
Sunlight trickled between the few cracks and lanes above, competing with the nauseating and overwhelming artificial lights of blue, teal, and red which dotted the cramped duracrete walls. Pollution choked the air as many of the old filtration units were in a state of disrepair and both water and sludge pooled in areas with poor drainage, runoff from the artificial lakes and parks above and faulty pipes.
Merchants manned stalls or shops, just as many with a license as without, hocking wares to bustling rows of people which were the only stable foundation this place had. Thousands of sentients filtered through these markets everyday, with pockets full of credits.
It was here that a haggard vagabond stalked through the flowing lanes of people like a fish in water, searching. It had been two months since his stint for petty theft but by his appearance it was almost impossible to tell that not long ago he had consumed three meals a day and lived in a sterile environment. He hadn’t eaten in a cycle, and given the gauntness of his cheeks, food was never a guarantee.
Threadbare, frayed, dirty, twitchy, he appeared no different than any other addict except that while his eyes searched for a score they appeared surprisingly unaffected by the lifestyle. Soft and round, rather than hawkish and edged with malice. They could not, however, hide the predatorial glint as he scanned through the crowd.
All he needed was one good haul, to pinch the right item off the right person, the pocket of some low level aristocrat or corporate that had strayed too far from sterling safety and the transient would be off the rock that had been his home. His left forearm ached for the feel of the injector, yet it hadn’t been long since his last run-in with needle, the vagrant had enough control of himself that this time things would be different.
A single score between him and freedom.
Sunlight trickled between the few cracks and lanes above, competing with the nauseating and overwhelming artificial lights of blue, teal, and red which dotted the cramped duracrete walls. Pollution choked the air as many of the old filtration units were in a state of disrepair and both water and sludge pooled in areas with poor drainage, runoff from the artificial lakes and parks above and faulty pipes.
Merchants manned stalls or shops, just as many with a license as without, hocking wares to bustling rows of people which were the only stable foundation this place had. Thousands of sentients filtered through these markets everyday, with pockets full of credits.
It was here that a haggard vagabond stalked through the flowing lanes of people like a fish in water, searching. It had been two months since his stint for petty theft but by his appearance it was almost impossible to tell that not long ago he had consumed three meals a day and lived in a sterile environment. He hadn’t eaten in a cycle, and given the gauntness of his cheeks, food was never a guarantee.
Threadbare, frayed, dirty, twitchy, he appeared no different than any other addict except that while his eyes searched for a score they appeared surprisingly unaffected by the lifestyle. Soft and round, rather than hawkish and edged with malice. They could not, however, hide the predatorial glint as he scanned through the crowd.
All he needed was one good haul, to pinch the right item off the right person, the pocket of some low level aristocrat or corporate that had strayed too far from sterling safety and the transient would be off the rock that had been his home. His left forearm ached for the feel of the injector, yet it hadn’t been long since his last run-in with needle, the vagrant had enough control of himself that this time things would be different.
A single score between him and freedom.
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