"Seven, eight, nine! Sixty-nine commons" the dealer whispers. Pulling at the ratty scarf hiding my face, I pull 6 large, 1 medium, and 4 small hexagon-shaped tokens out of my pocket. Staring at the hard-earned credits, I take a deep breath and hand them over.
Chuckling, the dealer whispers, "It's cheaper if you charge to your living slot y'know?" wrinkling my nose, I stay silent. Rule one of the black market, don't let anyone know where you live. Waiting for a few more moments, the dealer grunts and takes the credits. It always amazes me how they never make any sounds when grabbing credits. Sliding me a fluorescent purple vial, the dealer rasps, "You probably know how to use it, but listen anyway. It turns transparent when slightly heated and is untraceable after about three hours. If anything is traced back to the market, the market will find you and you will be held as the sole responsible party."
Noticing the distinct feminine voice, I look at the body type. Tall and lanky torso, but bulky head and shoulder profile. Modified. Following my eyes, It chuckles, "I see you've figured something out. All you need to know is there is no real way to hide from the Spikes." Grabbing the vial, I give it one last glance before disappearing into the crowd.
Spikes, it's what the governing gang calls itself. Officially, we're just a working district under the union. Coal mining, textile, steel, some organ harvesting, and becoming experiment subjects, that's what we are known for. Area 4. Homey right? Personally, I prefer textile work since I can use the scraps for myself.
As the oldest still existing area, we are one of the farthest noncombatant areas from the center and contain the most corruption. A while ago, some big shot from area 23 was transferred here to ease the corruption. Rumor has it that her family was in the Spike's hands before they even made it to our air space. No surprise what happened after right? they were all sent back dismembered and randomly smeared around in the transport ship. The only thing keeping the union from using military force to take us back over is the multitude of previous attempts. The moment Union soldiers raid our area, not a single sign of the Spike's existence can be found. They just disappear. The Union withdraws after a few months of investigation and the Spikes magically reappear, sometimes during the send-off.
Walking by an official enforcer, I stare enviously at his hat. Some people say money, property, and weapons are a sign of power. To me, I could care less about those things. What I want is to be free, to live without fetters. To never give answers. To have my own hat. No one wears a hat here. The standard combination is a face covering with a hood. I just wrap my face with an old scarf and cover my head with an old but sturdy sack. Unfortunately, my hair is dirty violet. A hair color that is fairly uncommon in this area. Something I inherited from my loving mother.
Tossing two small credits to a street vendor, I grab a portion of fried zombie fingers. With this being a frontier area, monster dishes are the main cuisine. Zombie fingers, in particular, have an overpowering taste so any additional flavors are indistinguishable. Taking out the vial, I drench the street food. Peeling my glove off over the vial, I toss it into a drain.
The only way to get out of this pit of servitude is to be selected as cannon fodder. That's my current goal. It may be a death sentence, but it comes with its own opportunities. To be selected, you need to fulfill three conditions: Being the eldest in the family, or having no family, committing a crime deserving death, and being young enough to survive at least a week of hard exertion. The only problem in my case is my mother is still in her prime and capable of taking the consequences for me. With my age being just under 16, my guardian takes the fall.
The logic makes sense, younger people can still be used until their prime. Those already in their prime have very few years left. It's not like passing you're prime and becoming susceptible to disease or slowly having your body break down. It's called population control. For working areas, once you pass your prime, you are either killed or worked to death in the mines on an enhanced work cycle depending on your musculature.
My mother should have a good five to six years left due to her body state. Working as a transporter, her body is still in excellent shape. That's the first problem, the second is killing someone from the Union and not dying instantly. Lastly, the command has to believe I don't want to be selected. Of course, the last one is just speculation, but it's best to hit all the bases right?
Turing into residential row five, I count the slots until I hit 33. Mentally preparing myself, I practice my smile for a few moments. Unlocking the door, I give my best cheerful greeting, "Mom, I'm home!"
A slot is a general living space, 2 meters by 4 meters given to all working families of 2 or more. finding my mother sipping boiled water, I give her my trademark naive smile. Staring at me with her deep blue eyes, she pulls me into a warm hug, "You know, everyone says that a certain princess has a smile so beautiful that it causes the sun to set. Your smile causes my sun to rise every day."
Pinching my cheeks, she checks me for any injuries before letting me go. Looking into her loving eyes, I excitedly show her the street food, "Look, mom! I got your favorite, fried zombie fingers!"