Brooklyn had always been an ultra-cosmopolitan neighborhood, but after the Great Wave, this particular attribute had skyrocketed.
Brooklyn was now a veritable sampler of the old world. America's renown as a melting pot was concentrated a hundred times in New York, and that concentration was at its absolute strongest in Brooklyn.
There was, unsurprisingly, a very dark streak to that reputation. Brooklyn had become the black market hub for the entire East Coast, a place where you could find absolutely anything you wanted, provided you had the funds to back it up—drugs, counterfeit currency, forgery services, human organs… and even humans themselves, for whatever purpose you might require.
The very worst corruption and perversion of human nature were on full display in Brooklyn, made worse by what had become a blurry line between legality and illicit horror by the year 2036.
When Alexandre's cab drew close to his destination, Alexandre didn't see some grim concrete jungle, but what appeared to be a pristine, upper-class neighborhood almost indistinguishable from Soho or the Upper East Side. The streets were clean, filled with well-dressed people and teeming with businesses of every kind. On the surface, this neighborhood seemed like a remnant of the old world, a place where people could pretend nothing at all was wrong.
But as in nature, a beautiful surface often hid a sinister interior. Alexandre wasn't interested in these pretty buildings and people of the surface. No, he was concerned with what lay beneath the skin of the city, in a very literal way. "Take me to the Clark Street station," he said, "and wait for me to return."
The cabbie wasn't terribly happy to hear that. "This isn't what I signed up for," he grumbled. "Every second I sit outside one of those portals to hell is another chance for one of those demons to rip me off!"
Alexandre rolled his eyes and deposited an even fatter tip than before in the car's fare account, which was emblazoned in several places inside the cab in the form of a QR code. "Just do it," he said.
Indeed, what interested Alexandre was not on the surface but underground. Shortly later, Alexandre's taxi pulled up in front of Clark Street station and let him out.
Alexandre descended the 24 meters to the platform, but rather than wait for the train, he turned and walked down an dark, unassuming tunnel that was simply labeled "Underground." The tunnel soon terminated in a wooden double door engraved with two skulls and a crown. It was strangely out of place, more what someone might expect from a pirate movie than real life.
Alexandre wasn't the first one there, either. A small line had formed in front of the door, and every minute on the dot, the person at the front of the line was permitted to enter. The people waiting were surprisingly varied—a man wearing a suit and a Rolex stood impatiently behind a young woman who looked like a college student, and in front of her was a bum covered in ragged clothing.
The Underground attracted all sorts of people, from the richest to the poorest. The only thing that was certain was that the customers were absolutely not in charge. No matter how rich, famous, or connected you were, nobody got away with disrespecting those who ran the Underground from the shadows.
Alexandre didn't know exactly which cartel was in charge, but he knew better than to cause trouble. On a previous visit, he'd seen a drunk man aggressively attempting to pick up a young woman, and the consequences had been swift. Two men who'd been pretending to be customers moved like ghosts and grabbed him by each arm, dragging him kicking and screaming into a nearby room.
A few hours later, the man's body had appeared in a nearby Dumpster.
The man had, before his death, been a millionaire.
Eventually, Alexandre reached the front of the line. A minute later, a whistling noise sounded, indicating that he could enter. Alexandre opened the two double doors, which moved surprisingly smoothly on well-oiled hinges.
On the other side of the doorway was a man standing at something very much like a hotel reception desk. A maroon carpet led past the desk and to an elevator with golden doors that were, currently, firmly closed.
"Floor and section?" the receptionist asked in a rich, deep voice.
"Basement floor three," said Alexandre, "and Zone 38."
The receptionist nodded and slid forward a card reader. "$4,500, if you please."
Alexandre inserted his thumb. The machine scanned it, then displayed a message reading "payment accepted." At that exact moment, the elevator doors opened with a quiet hiss.
The receptionist gave a polite smile. "Lift access to Zone 38 is, unfortunately, currently undergoing maintenance. You'll need to walk through B3 to get there."
Alexandre nodded and stepped into the elevator. The moment the golden doors were closed, the sound of a whistle came from the other side. Whoever controlled the Underground, they certainly didn't keep their customers waiting.