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Emergency Situation - Episode 3
3D Render by emarukkDespite the grim urgency of the day, Portauthor’s weather had shifted. The greasy rain of morning had burned off, leaving the city exposed to a raw, hard sun. All clouds left the sky, and an unusual blue shone above the towering buildings. Light bounced off glass towers and poured between concrete slabs, turning every paved surface into a skillet. UV alarms blared red on info boards, an ever-present bureaucratic joke, more about compliance than safety. The city didn’t care for human comfort; it was made for cattle that moved like automatons on their forever loop. It was a bad joke. The UV alarms glared from levels so low that real danger would never show on the warnings. The alarm was noted and ignored because it didn’t mean anything.
The taxi curved down from the aerial highway and landed back on the street, its antigravity engines switching to more economical wheel drive after soft touchdown with asphalt. After a short drive, I was pulled out of my daydream. Cabs' electric engine whined, then died as the car glided to a halt, drowned out by the guttural drone of generators from the gridlocked line ahead. Police had set up a roadblock, flashing signs announcing an “accidentthat probably meant little more than someone had crossed an invisible line. Engines idled, kicking up heat and the bitter stench of exhaust, ozone, and melting plastic. The air shimmered above metal rooftops, fumes swirling heavy and slow over the jammed lanes.
No point waiting. Danger was imminent, and I didn’t have time to sit and wait. I raised the hydraulic door, offered a curt thanks to the synth driver, and pushed out into the merciless sunlight, which was luckily shaded by a wall of buildings. The stone under my boots radiated heat; every breath tasted of copper and old oil, layered with the sour tang of fried food from curbside kiosks.
Ahead, the city’s soundscape pressed in: distant horns, the rising snarl of a generator struggling under strain, the sharp whistle of a traffic cop somewhere out of sight. Drones buzzed low, shadows flickering against the brutalist geometry overhead. Here, the city felt more contained, more regulated than the old town I’d just left. Ad boards flickered in muted blues and oranges, their hues blunted by the glare. Here, the memory coin would be crime, only Confederation Lari accepted, until the point where shadows were deep enough.
I didn’t wait, I moved fast, scanning for threats, cursing the no-fly rules and the tangled skein of delivery bots overhead. The traffic jam was already boiling over, drivers shouting from open windows, sweat stains blooming on their shirts. Some bright regulators banned the use of car air conditioning units in the Portauthor area a few years ago, in the name of energy saving. I had no idea what that saving was supposed to help. Most likely, they wanted to drive people to public transportation.
I ran, but I’d barely made it a block before fate intervened again. Mattias and Lotta, two faces from old jobs, trouble and opportunity in equal measure, were coming down the sidewalk, eyes already fixed on me. Mattias was a friend's son, a poor man who faced his sailors' fate when the OWTC freighter was damaged by micrometeors and burned in a reactor failure. Naturally, a wild child discovered the bad side of life and left poor mother sitting with tears in her eyes until I pulled the kid from Jonkoping’s gutters.
I was never sure if that was service for good or bad because my crew was not much better than street pirates with a ship and big guns. But despite his baby face, he now looked older, harder; he looked like the kind of man who could crack a safe or break a nose for a cause. Lotta, sharp and quick, stuck to his side like a shadow. She was mostly cute, but street-smart, and her hands never seemed empty for long. Both had a history of working the gray angles, sometimes my allies, sometimes obstacles, always ready to step on my side. If they decided to help, I’d have backup who knew their way around trouble. If not, they'd slow me down exactly the wrong moment. I had to read their faces, fast.
The taxi curved down from the aerial highway and landed back on the street, its antigravity engines switching to more economical wheel drive after soft touchdown with asphalt. After a short drive, I was pulled out of my daydream. Cabs' electric engine whined, then died as the car glided to a halt, drowned out by the guttural drone of generators from the gridlocked line ahead. Police had set up a roadblock, flashing signs announcing an “accidentthat probably meant little more than someone had crossed an invisible line. Engines idled, kicking up heat and the bitter stench of exhaust, ozone, and melting plastic. The air shimmered above metal rooftops, fumes swirling heavy and slow over the jammed lanes.
No point waiting. Danger was imminent, and I didn’t have time to sit and wait. I raised the hydraulic door, offered a curt thanks to the synth driver, and pushed out into the merciless sunlight, which was luckily shaded by a wall of buildings. The stone under my boots radiated heat; every breath tasted of copper and old oil, layered with the sour tang of fried food from curbside kiosks.
Ahead, the city’s soundscape pressed in: distant horns, the rising snarl of a generator struggling under strain, the sharp whistle of a traffic cop somewhere out of sight. Drones buzzed low, shadows flickering against the brutalist geometry overhead. Here, the city felt more contained, more regulated than the old town I’d just left. Ad boards flickered in muted blues and oranges, their hues blunted by the glare. Here, the memory coin would be crime, only Confederation Lari accepted, until the point where shadows were deep enough.
I didn’t wait, I moved fast, scanning for threats, cursing the no-fly rules and the tangled skein of delivery bots overhead. The traffic jam was already boiling over, drivers shouting from open windows, sweat stains blooming on their shirts. Some bright regulators banned the use of car air conditioning units in the Portauthor area a few years ago, in the name of energy saving. I had no idea what that saving was supposed to help. Most likely, they wanted to drive people to public transportation.
I ran, but I’d barely made it a block before fate intervened again. Mattias and Lotta, two faces from old jobs, trouble and opportunity in equal measure, were coming down the sidewalk, eyes already fixed on me. Mattias was a friend's son, a poor man who faced his sailors' fate when the OWTC freighter was damaged by micrometeors and burned in a reactor failure. Naturally, a wild child discovered the bad side of life and left poor mother sitting with tears in her eyes until I pulled the kid from Jonkoping’s gutters.
I was never sure if that was service for good or bad because my crew was not much better than street pirates with a ship and big guns. But despite his baby face, he now looked older, harder; he looked like the kind of man who could crack a safe or break a nose for a cause. Lotta, sharp and quick, stuck to his side like a shadow. She was mostly cute, but street-smart, and her hands never seemed empty for long. Both had a history of working the gray angles, sometimes my allies, sometimes obstacles, always ready to step on my side. If they decided to help, I’d have backup who knew their way around trouble. If not, they'd slow me down exactly the wrong moment. I had to read their faces, fast.
Emergency Situation - Episode 3
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