[M] Futuropolis 2094

[Khawarij]

The haze around him seemed to come and go like fog. All the bright lights of the city, flashing in an out, and the feeling of being wrestled from one place to another, it all percolated into a panic that would not leave Kaji alone. In the backseat of the aerocruiser, Kaji stirred. He tried to wipe the back of his head, to feel his skin split, but his hands were cuffed together. For a moment, he once again lost consciousness, only to be awoken by the impact of his head on the vehicle's window. In a glance, he saw the elderly lady from the noodle shop in a car. Was everyone following him?

He looked over and saw Richter cuffed next to him. The car itself seemed worn, and handed down. He tried to kick his feet, to do anything, but found an incredible soreness in any movement he had. His nose was broken. That was for sure. His medical knowledge, drilled into him through years of study, confirmed that he had at least a bit of a concussion. But concussions don't make you lose your sense of reality. So it must be drugs, then. He had been drugged. He had been drugged against his will and now he was trapped in this car with this.... Scum! And policemen, who probably knew the Jannisaries, and wouldn't you know it, they were gonna find him, and kill him!

Kaji feinted in the backseat of the aerocruiser again. When he awoke, he was in sometimes of a garage. He was being escorted by that man who had shot him in the alleyway! He tried to do something to help himself, even biting, but he couldn't find the strength to do anything. As he stumbled through the hall, he tried to look for any way to escape the facility. There was a fire hydrant on the left wall. A first aid kit mounted next to it. Every officer was wearing some kind of pistol. A couple of the female officers had bobby pins in their hair. Tired as he was, Kaji couldn't do anything, and was thrown into what seemed like an interrogation room. Kaji was used to being on the other side of things.

As he was shoved into a chair, Kaji watched what was supposed to be a two way mirror turned into a one way looking glass, accompanied by a familiar noise-cancelling thrum. The UAE had designed that tech. In this space, no one can hear you scream.

For the first time since he had been attacked, Kaji cried out. "Let me go! This is a misunderstanding!"

[MarsShadow]

Richter stayed mostly quiet as he stared into the looking glass. His hair, wet with rain, slumped like a mop on his head. His heart pounded and he gritted his teeth as the cuffs pinched the skin of his wrists. He'd usually been successful at weaseling his way out of jail time, but this situation wasn't looking good. Incarnation meant being put back on the grid which then meant his father could track him down again, but then what? This could easily be a bail too steep for even a man of his connections to pay, and that was of course assuming Richter wasn't simply thrown into a black site and tortured. All this trouble for cutting a line, he thought to himself, what a shit-show.

Once Kaji spoke, Richter chimed in and spoke directly to Cellobs. "I thought detectives were supposed to solve crimes, not to assault college kids."

[Q]

The tension was killing. High Street's patrolmen were as afraid for the oppressive detective as the poor souls in the interrogation room were. Gordon had reluctantly tasked his men to strip Kaji and Richter of anything dangerous - like Kaji's near-antique .45 and Richter's trusty swinging-pipe.

Throughout the pair's objections, Cellobs remained focused on his holobadge, that relayed info about the suspects. Joseph was, like the modest man he is, clean of any criminal charges. Aside from minor notes, like a face-recognizing camera spotting him keeping another man's lost wallet on the MagRail to Downtown Aixia.

Kaji, however, intrigued Cellobs far more. Between the detective's bigotry, self-imposed justice and overall naivety about the society he lived in, he saw Kaji as a grave danger to his beloved system. The doctor's file was shrouded with missing links. Fresh in Nova Casqua, with a warrant for his apprehension from Saudi Jannisaries - a group Cellobs never heard of.

Luckily for Kaji, European high command wasn't on the best terms with the Saudis. Western influence never seemed to match with middle eastern idealogy, evident by the bullets flying between Italy and Turkey for the past two decades. The diplomatic relations were better than those between the American states and the Islamic world, though. After the french bombed New York in 2054, the world all seemed to get along for a few years of american scapegoating.

Cellobs placed his holobadge back into its socket inside his coat and leaned over the interrogation desk.
"Don't play dumb with me, Arab. I know you know what I think you know."
His hand transformed into a fist.
"Who is the leak!?"

Cellobs was of course talking about the repercussions City Hall's destructive nature: for half a year now, it had imported cobalt cigarettes to get rid of their less loyal voters: the undercity. A good fourth of its citizens were now addicted to these life-ruining cigarettes, all in order to pave way for the richest of Parisian refugees. Mayor LaPaige seemed to think it was a necessary evil, but like all totalitarian monarchs, he wouldn't dare inform the populace.

Perhaps this gave the detective a reason for his irrational behavior. Humanitarian sympathy seemed to grow these days, and the already fractured city states along the atlantic seemed to either burst out in chaos or simply sink into the sea. They were nearing the end of the western world, as many philosophers have said since the start of the century.

Meanwhile, sergeant Gordon was sipping his coffee on the other end of the one-way mirror. Cellobs had shut the sound off, but this was his precinct. He sighed. Pff. Like eavesdropping on spooks wasn't common tendency. Just another authoritarian asshole, he thought. Gordon especially had sympathy with the kid, Joseph Richter. He'd seen the camera footage. Greenflower was a mess; he just happened to be at the wrong spot.

[Enigma]

With a sigh, the aerocab came to a landing at a public taxi pad near the Orange Habitat.

"Sir, this is as close as I can get," Auntie said over the cab intercomm, luxuriating in the sunlight streaming in the windows, then unlocking the passenger doors before he even paid.

Ten to one he'd just flash the badge.

Twenty to one he'd promised the department would pay for it, without keying in the department code.

One hundred.... no, two hundred to one that he'd actually pay the fare.

Five hundred to one he'd pay with his own cash.

[Q]

Q quite comically slapped ten creds on Auntie's shoulder, hoping to ease her tension. He liked her harshness. Alas, she didn't seem to be on the same line with him.

As he stepped out into the lingering crowd hanging around in front of Orange Habitat, which kinda looked like an orange from a few streets up, a dread-locked girl waved at him.
"Q-boy! 'Sup man, wanna toke?"
The dread-locked hippiechick passed him a joint, severely breaking up the stoner's circle to the dismay of her fellow stoners. Q figured they were mostly men wanting to get into her pants - like the antifeminists they were - so he couldn't resist accepting. This chick was too groovy.
"Wow, thanks Mike."

He looked over his shoulder to Auntie Simone, then stared back to the hippiechick with a confused face.
"Say, Mikey, do I look like a cop or something?"
The hippie-chick, who permanently wore round biker goggles over her dreadlocks, smirked. She knew what he was talking about.
"It's the jacket, dude. And the hair. You need a few braids in there, bro!"
Q frowned.
"I've already got a few braids. If I run into neo-nazis in Drywater again, they'll think I'm a fag!"
Mikey Mabel, the dreadlocked hippiechick, snarled back.
"So, blast those fuckers!" "And pass the joint."

"Right..."

Q knocked on Auntie's window, holding a half-smoked marijuana cigarette in front of the window. For the wintered stoner, this was an expertly twisted joint. Mikey Mabel sure knew her shit.

[Q]

On the hanging plaza underneath both High Street station (where Kaji and Richter were kept) and Orange Habitat (Q's place, where he, Mikey Mabel and Auntie Simone were toking that herb), Avalon was casually riding on the curbside.

Two distinct towers broke up the line of sight between the plaza's south and north side. Between the two giants was a street - the plaza's most prominent street. It was littered with trash and merchants alike, and its neon signs reached all the way up to Orange Habitat. When the Babe took miss Vernier to the other end of the corridor, a blue-dressed crowd blocked her path. Another protest? Their faces looked far more dangerous than any green-go hippie the NosCas middle class nouveau riche was known for.

These were french nationalists, and about fifty of them. While their political opinions were often less extreme than their neo-nazi counterparts up north, they were far more influential. It's said mayor LaPaige played poker with the leader of this blue-clad bunch; some general from the world war. Armed with traditional belgian bullpup rifles, the front guard of the mass shoved their way through the corridor.

Upon spotting Avalon on her bike, who had little way of knowing she was gonna run into the neo-napoleonic guard, they rammed their riot shields on the metal beneath them, creating a wall of polycarbonate.

[Enigma]

Wonders of wonder, the man fed the meter - only to return to offer her a joint.

Was he trying to be friendly?

Or trying to get her busted?

Leaning over to her microphone, Auntie Simone said, "Uh, thanks...? I'm flying the unfriendly city skies here, they'll bust me for that."

She wondered, eyeing the smoking crowd, if there was another fare here or if she should just take off?

[Splat]

Avalon continued down the oppressive city corridors and she could already feel the nice, warm bed waiting for her at her home. Well, nice was perhaps a relative term, and it was more of a couch than a bed, but she was used to it. She deserved a rest, anyways. Breakfast was a tiring endeavor.

As she rode, she nodded her head to the beat of the music playing inside her helmet, some synthpop earworm she’d been trying to get out of her head for weeks. A flashy sign caught her attention (working as intended, it seemed), advertising some new imported liquor. She was halfway through noting how much she could use a bottle of that right now, and she hardly noticed the huge blue-slacked crowd amassing further down the street. Her focus locked onto the protesters at the precise moment they noticed her. They slammed their smooth, black riot shields into the ground as her bike dubbed the Babe was still speeding towards them.

Avalon twisted the brake, the sudden halt nearly throwing her forward off of her bike. Instead, it came to a screeching stop in front of the polycarbonate phalanx and tipped over, sending her flat on the ground with nothing more serious than splotchy bruises. As soon as she regained her footing, she climbed off her feet and tore off her helmet. Her eyes were alight with rage.

“What the FUCK is wrong with you?” she shouted, emphasizing the “fuck” with a punch to the nearest riot-shield. It hurt like a sonuvabitch, but she was too angry to care. “I could have died, you assholes!” The protesters remained stony-faced behind their shields, refusing to engage. Behind them, other rioters smashed video screens and car mirrors, indiscriminate in their quest to vent their anger against the system. After about a minute of unharnessed fury against the unmoving wall, she relented. The only thing this would accomplish was a broken hand and more damage to her babe. With a final, disheartened kick to another riot-shield, Avalon picked up her ride and spun around to face the other direction. Riots like these were cropping up all over the city. If she wanted to wait the whole thing out in peace, she’d have to go....

Her eyes drifted upwards towards the warm glow of Orange Habitat, but they soon moved towards a less inviting building on the same level. Though she noticed a crowd of sign-bearers gathered at the door, it still seemed a steel-plated bastion against the destruction outside. Avalon groaned. She hated cops, bureaucracy, everything that building represented. But she hated rioters more. Idiots thinking they’ll change things with baseball bats and molotovs. You can break as many news screens as you want, that won’t change the headlines. And anyway, she already noticed one scuff-mark on her bike from the earlier near-crash, and she didn’t want to risk another.

Planning the quickest route, she put on her helmet and sped off down the street again, dodging broken bottles and street fires. Eventually, after climbing a few levels of the city, she made it to the precinct. She made sure to leave her bike in a nearby garage, protected from the bat-wielding public. There was no way she was leaving her pride and joy to the protection of the non-existent police presence. Making her way outside again, she pushed through the crowds and stepped into the station, breathing a sigh of relief from the chaos outside. As she entered, she unfolded her trusted pair of violet-tinted sunglasses and slid them onto her face.

“Can I help you with anything, ma’am?” A disinterested voice called out to her, the owner of which- a tall, bullish man in an NCPD uniform- sat behind what appeared to be a reception desk (more like a reception barricade). He looked more like a real cop than a desk jockey, but Avalon didn’t care enough to pry.

She rolled her eyes at the question. “Have you seen outside? I’m just here to get me and my bike the fuck away from the destruction.” She took a seat at one of the rickety waiting chairs and rubbed a thumb over her bruised knuckles. Now that she calmed down, they throbbed like hell. “I could use a bandage though, I guess,” she added with a sigh.

[Q]

"Getting bust? In this weather?"

With Mikey Mabel's laughter backing him up, Q gestured around him and the chaotic futuropolis. His arrogant smirk disappeared in no-time, though, probably due to his cabby's elder age and his obedience to stoic women.
"I'm kidding, Cabby. You're wise. Traversing these streets is madness."

At this cue, four punks on motorbikes zoofed past Orange Habitat, via the walkway above. Their rough engines echoed throughout the city's hollows. The bikergang's leader was riding some blood-red Japanese crotchrocket, while his gang rode jury-rigged ratbikes.

Mikey Mabel's eyes shot up in the air, her dreadlocks flinging someone in the face as she turned to spot her arch enemies; the infamous Red Kanedas, who she had frequently beat in Nova Casqua's once-honorable streetraces.

They came for retaliation for last race. Mikey had crashed her bike into a Red Kanedian's after one of the easterling riders threw caltrops on the coastal highway where the race was held. Illegally, of course. Mikey Mabel, though warm of character, had grown up in the undercity and wasn't very forgiving. The biker she crashed into probably didn't survive the fall. But to Mikey, she simply followed the law of the urban jungle; to do unto others what they do unto you.

Before even Mikey, most adapted to the threat of the overhead bikergang, could react, a rain of firebombs impacted against Mabel's orange window, a bit higher up than the entrance where Auntie Simone, Mikey Mabel and Q where casually chatting. While her room engulfed in flame, burning oil spat down to the entrance.

Q, like the profeministic hero he always tried to be, pulled Mikey with him as he ducked back into Auntie's cab.
"Go, go, punch it!"
Mikey was shocked. She elbowed Q and stuck her head out of the window, gazing at the burning rooms.
"My freaking house, man!"

The Red Kanedas' tires screeched as they drifted around and took the lower road to Orange Habitat's entrance. A few of them could be seen priming imported automatic pistols alongside their signature firebombs.

[Q]

Back at High Street Station, the police precinct, Avalon took a seat at one of the rickety waiting chairs and rubbed a thumb over her bruised knuckles. Now that she calmed down, they throbbed like hell. “I could use a bandage though, I guess,” she added with a sigh - speaking to the officer on desk duty.

"Athena!"
He shouted in disinterest, his eyes still locked on the various pieces of paper and holopanels. An advanced yet aged medical bot flew into the waiting room, blowing the dust back into the precinct's crannies. Recognizing Avalon's injury; a boxer's fracture, Athena assembled a cylinder underneath her main chassis and with obvious symbolism (multiple arrows) she hinted to Avalon to put her hand into the cylinder.

At the interrogation room, a bit down the hall, detective Cellobs was still barking at Kaji and Joseph. He'd lost his way, clearly, so deep under the influence of hierarchical pressure. A crowd of cops had amassed behind the one-way mirror. As disgusted as they were by their own corruption, seeing the authoritarian bully an immigrant and some undercitydweller went too far. Perhaps it was due to the current mood of the city - Nova Casqua had never been so desperate, at least not in the recent years.

"...Like a pair of filthy hyenas leeching on the hard work of establishments of ORDER!"

Cellobs' rant didn't seem to be coming to a close. After losing his rationality (which was hard to find to begin with), he could also have lost his credibility to Kaji and Richter. But his authority was ever-present. Tales of the street told of black-clad inquisitors snatching single mothers from their bed under the banner of democracy.

In a burst of anger caused by the interrogated pair's silence, Cellobs grabbed Kaji by the collar and threw him against the one-sided mirror with great force. Due to Kaji's athletic build, his genetic modification, Cellobs' genetic modifications and the precinct's stagnating architecture, Kaji flew clean through the wall. The mirror itself didn't break, but the walls around it collapsed under the near-superhuman force.

There was a moment of silence. Cellobs realized he'd been the subject of his own theater, Richter probably felt lucky he wasn't the one getting thrown, the spectating cops wondered whether they'd get into trouble with the Inquiry, and even Avalon, a long hall away, caught a glimpse of the precarious situation.