[Thursday | 13 September 2266]
Being underground for over two weeks isn’t as fun as you might expect. No showers, no caffeine, and the ground was our communal toilet. At least, each night as we passed out to the aroma of our own piss and shit, a guardian angel was leaving us nutrition bars. Despite our rotating roster of standing guard as the rest of the group slept, the bars still secretly made their way to us. It doesn’t make you feel great about the skills in the group, but they got past me too, so who am I to judge?
But who was it? Mikel? Mittens? No, somebody else, apparently—as I unwrapped my nutrition bar, I found a note:
Tomorrow. Noon. The slum’s centre. Bring your friends.
—S
‘S?’ Sector? Seattle? Shit… the Slumlord? Or does the new Chief’s name start with ‘S?’
Hopefully whoever it is, isn’t an officer. And if not, I hope to hell they’ve accounted for the hundreds of officers and shinobi they have swarming the Slums.
wastanley.com 