Ghost Town in Yellow Soup
As the rain let up, smog rolled back in like it was reclaiming its territory, enveloping the world in a thick, viscous yellow haze. The air reeked of acrid sulfur and metallic tang, that vile flavor coating my mouth. It's 2085 now. Late 21st century, no doubt. But this clotted yellow gas party made it feel like I'd dropped into the late 19th century. Like the nostalgic stench from Jack the Ripper's era. Of course, that killer prowled London's East End, while this Acton town was out west—a key difference.
"Whoa. How does the air even have texture?"
"If it clumps up a bit more, you could probably chew it like gum, young master."
"Oh? Now I'm curious. Wanna give it a try?"
"How many workplace harassment reports have we had again?"
This was all fallout from the Fusion Event and the brutal economic crisis that followed, when industry regs basically vanished. In spicy capitalism, productivity is king—collateral damage? Just a side gig.
I was just sharing my slum debut impressions when a corner of my HUD pinged: smog density increasing. Bell's voice cut in, laced with concern.
"Atmospheric pollutant levels exceed WHO standards by about 220 times. Any breathing discomfort, sir?"
"Fine for now. Respiratory filter's handling it."
"Glad to hear it. I was considering transferring purified air from my system via respiratory contact if needed."
"No hotline for employee harassment?"
I pictured it: me like a baby penguin suckling mom for milk, hooked to Bell's breather. Ugh, awkward as hell and straight-up embarrassing. Good thing most of my body's synthetic now. Terrorist bombing trashed the original—had no choice. Come to think of it, even before waking in this mystery future, I'd been on language study abroad and got pancaked in a traffic wreck. Weird consistency in the bad luck department.
"Vision unobstructed?"
"Infrared mode fixes that."
I blinked to switch visual modes and pressed on down the street. The sickly, jaundiced haze of a dying world swapped for pale gray outlines—no bloated corpses floating in the murk anymore. Smog scatters visible light, but it can't block infrared amps cranked thousands-fold. Visibility cleared right up. But hey, peering into the sewer just shows you the sewer bottom.
"What kind of village stacks that at the entrance?"
Ahead loomed a low hill of flesh. Cart nearby suggested they dump the dead from town there.
I shook off the cozy mental fog and jacked into my neural aug for a fix. Seen plenty of bodies lately, but truth is, a pampered noble like me doesn't enjoy the sight.
> Cognition filter: Apply [Tag: Corpse] mosaic processing.
> Executing immediately.
A familiar, merciless whir echoed in my skull. The sub-AI kicked in, mosaicking anything my vision tagged as a corpse. Eased the view to just mildly queasy.
"Settings done. Let's head in."
"Mm. I was hoping for a situation where you'd rely solely on me. A bit disappointing."
"Keep that 'inner' stuff to yourself. Anyway, got someone to find—let's hustle."
Bell nodded, a touch pouty. Stepping into what I'd pegged as a lifelong no-go slum? Had a reason: classified docs from the war safehouse. I recalled the map in my neural storage and said,
"Gotta link up with Father's company's underground network here. No clue if they'll listen at this stage... but worth a meet."
Reason for hunting Elson Management's secret contact? Simple: high chance intel division still linked up. Asset managers like them built spy nets to track money flows. One such web sat right here in Acton.
I double-checked our path, then to Bell: "Less ghost town than expected—signs of life everywhere. Fewer bodies too; locals must clean 'em up."
Bell, scanning wary without radar to avoid backtrace: "Yes, sir. Smog isn't always this bad, so likely spillover from regular zones."
"Gotta live breathing this poison. City sprawls yearly, but who buys those houses?"
"Elson revenue includes housing flips and rentals."
"Ah."
Our company was one of the house-price culprits. Nah—renters are grateful suppliers. Market forces at work. Whatever.
"Extra caution in a hot zone like this. Hope you connect quick."
Bell only cared about my safety, nothing else. I kept path-checking while scanning gray street outlines through amp filters. Shattered villa windows sealed with plastic or plywood against toxins. Neon shop signs worn to shards, letters missing glow. Crumbling walls scrawled with swastikas, Stars of David, hammers and sickles, vile graffiti. Under flickering streetlamps: cig butts, syringes, trash piles. Shocking, yet paradoxically alive.
No mosaic here... what's next to it?
Streetlamp mosaic nearby: crouched figure. First local spotted in this shadowless smog street. But our debut resident was rummaging the mosaic with a blade, pocketing bits.
> Forward: single scavenger. No other threats detected. Prepping arms for contingencies.
Bell flagged it too, pinging wireless via neural aug. I accepted; her virtual voice flowed in.
(Forward: single scavenger. No other threats detected. Prepping arms for contingencies.)
(Local doc or EMT? Nah.)
(Not classist prejudice labeling him a criminal preemptively. You're safe.)
(Wasn't saying that, but anyway—don't poke the bear. Skirt via side alley.)
Retina map showed a detour alley right next: 200 feet out (60m in old units), bypass clean. We slipped in quiet as ghosts. Back to us, low detection risk.
...Something off.
Media called corpse-riflers like that scavengers. They usually pack up. But solo act here. Bell cleared no hides, but instinct had me glance back.
Cropped hair, external neural implant on his occiput. Cover ports? No—lenses. Back-of-head eyes. If active observers, we'd locked gazes.
...
Silence hung. Scavenger rummaged his bag, stood, spun.
Gas mask with IR aug, coat over work clothes. He bolted our way, road-pounding leap, heavy axe gripped two-handed. Not a friendly hello.
Bell vaulted ahead, blocking, deploying arm components into weapons. "Behind me, sir! UnID hostile locked—engaging now!"
