He’d been told that, at the turn of the 21st century, South Side wasn’t a bad place to live. It was a middle-class area, and the sprawling manor, white picket fence American Dream existed as a much more modest apartment, but the people were still the same. They had hopes, dreams, and aspirations. Hopes that the economy would turn around some day, dreams of their children living an even better life than them, and aspirations to live in the high rises to the north. Somewhere along the line, however, the South Side lost sight of their goals. Perhaps all the wealth moved north. Maybe it was some conspiracy to further the gap between the classes. Some were even bold enough to state that the government was at fault for South Side’s decay, intentionally pulling almost all police forces out, fencing the river off, and diverting all funding from the South to the North. Of course, this was all speculation. Nobody would ever know the truth. All that could be said is in 40 years, South Side transformed from a blue-collar haven into a monstrous shell of its former self, filled to the brim with poverty, drugs, and violence. 

Clint Parker heard these stories from the few older residents, most of them having died at the hands of criminals or simply jumping ship. When these hollow-faced men and women spoke of the glory days, the bright glint in their dull eyes suggested they told the truth, although it was hard to believe when looking at the sprawling shanty town. Clint, having only arrived a year ago in Calson City, usually failed to spot these tiny shards of the past, though they did occasionally shine through the layer of grime that coated the city. The crumbling brick building of a dentist’s office, shattered windows looking like gaping maws. Abandoned hospitals filled with the homeless, no longer receiving the care they desperately need. In truth, the old city was long-forgotten, with the current youth concerned only with how to survive today instead of laying the brickwork for tomorrow. Every day, the shards continued to fade, and soon none would remain. 

Clint’s shadow appeared only as a faint, shimmery avatar of himself on the cracked and beaten sidewalk, as the only light in the street was that illuminated from the neon signs of businesses. The purple, blue, and yellow neon lights, advertising loose whore and slot machines, were obnoxious to most, but Parker found them comforting, having lived much of his life beneath the bright signs of Las Vegas; still, Main Street in Calson City was a far cry from The Strip. Prostitutes lined the streets, but they weren’t the voluptuous, eager girls like the ones in Sin City. These men and women were walking skeletons smeared in make-up, their clothes loosely draped around them and track marks marring every inch of exposed flesh. Their advances were not playful or teasing, but straight-forward and desperate. One truly miserable girl, looking only 18, practically threw herself onto Clint as seductively as she could, though she just came off as pathetic. Her low-cut grubby shirt revealed little, save for the bones beneath her skin, and the girl’s miniscule shorts were held up only by her pelvic bone. The prostitute wrapped her scrawny arms around Clint’s neck and whispered the dirtiest things she could think of, her voice barely choking back the sobs in her throat. Clint’s heart sank, and he gently pulled the girl’s arms off, but as she began to fall, he swiftly caught the woman in his rough hands. 

“Please, mister, I’ll do anything, I haven’t eaten in days,” she begged, looking up into his eyes. Clint looked into her face, but failed to see the sunken eyes, filthy skin, and matted hair. Instead, he saw the woman she could be. Bright blue eyes full of life, healthy dark complexion, and a white smile that never ceased. He was startled when he realized the girl bore a striking resemblance to his own mother when she was a girl. Parker slowly helped the girl to her feet, and gently placed a crumpled hundred dollar bill into his skeletal hand. Cash was rarely used in the North Side, replaced largely by transactions via smartphone, but cash remained king in the crime-infested South Side. 30 years ago, when Clint was a boy, one hundred bucks would take you a long way; his mother managed to stretch one bill for an entire week, making sure her only son was properly clothed and fed. Rising costs of living quickly ensured this would no longer be possible, and the girl would be lucky if she could feed herself for a day or two. Still, she trembled with excitement as she clutched the bill, but her face rapidly twisted into a face of horror when she realized the man had just handed her more than four times her usual charges. What degrading acts was he about to inflict upon her?

Clint saw this look in her eyes, and shook his head. “Consider it a gift,” he said softly. “Just make sure you hang onto it, alright?” The young woman nodded and squealed with joy before running down the street, apparently reinvigorated by the cash in her hand. Clint stood idly for a moment, watching as she disappeared into the night. For all he knew, she could be running to the nearest dealer to buy zydrate, the newest drug that plagued South Side. Zydrate was unlike any other drug on the market, as it used nanobots to deliver mood-altering drugs to the brain, thus rapidly decreasing the time it took for the effects to be felt. The glowing blue substance was injected intravenously, and gave the user similar side effects to heroin, but much more potent. Many users die their first time, as they always believe they can handle larger amounts like the longtime addicts. The streets were becoming filled with bodies, and in their hands they clutched little glass vials half-full of zydrate. Still, the girl could very well be rushing off to buy food for herself, or possibly her child. The thought sent chills down his back. Maybe he should have given her more.

Clint cleared his mind of the incident and continued walking down the busy street. The only cars that drove past were from 2020 and under; the year Congress passed a new law that required all automobile manufacturers plant tracking devices in their vehicles. Shortly after, in 2022, another law passed that required weapons to have the same chips. Nobody wanted to be tracked by the cops in South Side, so they opted for older models, sacrificing performance for security. However, there were those capable of removing these tracking devices from the object; Parker, having worked on cars for most of his life, could remove the chip from any vehicle with the right tools. Firearms, however, were a little more difficult as the work was more precise, and many newer models were including fingerprint identification systems that prevented anyone but the owner from operating the weapon. These added difficulties made weapon designers and weapon smiths invaluable members of the criminal community. Clint took a turn off the main road, burying one hand into the pocket of his[url=http://images.shopmadeinchina.com/B10815FAFB570E2BE040007F0100062A/230/8453230_10/men-s-collar-jackets-dust-coat-outwear-Hooded_8453230_10.jpg] jacket[/url], and pulling down the bill of his simple black baseball cap. Clint stopped suddenly at the mouth of the street though, as he heard feet gently pounding on the corrugated metal roofs above him. He looked down the narrow alley and spotted a solitary woman walking in his direction, evidently oblivious of both his presence and the individual above her. Parker hated those types; the South Siders who ran on the rooftops, preying on the weak below, safe from both fist and bullet. Perhaps he was a little jealous as well, knowing fully well that his injured knee would never allow him to perform such acts. Clint felt the familiar metal grip of his extendable police baton in his coat pocket, and had a feeling he might need to use it as the figure jumped down from the rooftop and before the woman. He decided to hang back and wait to see what would happen before barging into the peculiar encounter.