HUB-28 Ara Metus Habitat, United Martian Territories
Seven aions later
HUB-28 on the bottom rings o' Ara Metus ain't a place ye want to be. I used to think 'twas, though. Ha! Thought 'twas hot shit till I got here myself only to discover that 'tis the lowest o' the low, the ninth circle o' all hells built inside a space station basking in the shadow o' an unimpressive turf o' a moon floating high in the blood and puss o' the Martian sky. 'Tis a place where even the shit leaking from the station's recycling units settles on yer head.
Now don't get me wrong, Ara Metus is as fancy as licked otra. The best that Martian wealth and power has to offer...but only if ye live on one o' the upper Hubs. Up on the teens and such. But if ye happen to drop down far enough, say... down to HUB-24, ye start to see the signs o' poverty creeping in: bulkheads dull with scratches and peeling paint, working-class slobs too unrefined to be in possession o' money with any weight to it, fresh-off-the-boat migrants clawing their way up to the top or disgraced trust fund babies swirling down society's drain like shit flushed, dusty whores hovering with their cheap liquor and even cheaper guneh. All those sorts o' things. And if ye dare to slide a little further down to the 28s like I have, well, ye've officially hit rock bottom, my friend.
And once the Magnetics in yer Gravs get a lock on the metal flooring o' HUB-28, ye begin to settle like the shit too. Ye find yerself getting mixed in with all the people who couldn't cut it up here amongst the stars but are too ashamed to head back down planet-side to the frowns o' their families who'd pinned all their hopes on the who'd made it: Junkos rotting out their brains and teeth, turning their Core® and their BioJack networks to right shit with Tweeq or Chryso or some new fandangled drug; whores who can't get proper work papers 'cuz their network is full o' malware and their guneh is so far gone with the Rot, that not even an AUT® nano-flush for their immune systems can fix it; the mistakes that Upcyclers hide from their rich customers up-level, genetic experiments gone so wrong that they can't be called human no more; Gaian data processors who broke their circuitry and their Nodes in a desperate dash for freedom only to realize that freedom ain't all 'tis cracked up to be.
A soup of pure misery, that's what we are. Sheer wretchedness packed tight into sixty-two thousand square meters. And if ye're looking to survive up here in the sky, ye've gotta make yer heart hard and yer blood ice-cold and yer trigger finger lava-hot. Ye've gotta have a madman's lust for blood and a temper that don't tolerate no shit from nobody. To survive in the 28s, ye can't be like the other folks around here, running chicken and scared across the place, laying yerself careless and all for a boson to find its way into yer skull. No sir. If ye wanna live, ye've gotta be able to look square into the void o' yer soul and be content with the blackness living in there.
A shout. A scream.
Smoke. Fire. Blood. Death...
...and then...
Banshee braces against the blows raining down. She cowers like a frightened child on the floor o' the Cage, her nose pressed flat now, her left eye socket crushed beyond recognition, and I'm certain there ain't gonna be no more teeth left to spare in that mouth o' hers after my fists get done with that xia.
"Fight! Fight! Fight!" The crowd goes insane 'cuz that's what they all came down here to HUB-28 to see.
Girls gone wild.
Animals gone rabid over the scraps o' winnings that the Ringmaster will pay after the fight.
The pot is at seven thousand Șzabos and rising fast tonight. And if a rogue titty pops free o' its strappings in the process, then all the better.
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