Year: 2335
281 AGC, (After the Great Cataclysm).
The Red Square unfurled before him, alive with a dim, anxious glow. Scattered lights shimmered in rain-slick puddles, throwing broken reflections across the cracked red stone walls. Signs of flickering amplified light carved sharp, rust-colored shadows through the ashen haze, illuminating a maze of crooked stalls across the bustling streets. The air was dirty with barter and negotiated deals, a fragile marketplace permitted only by the indifference of the powers that governed here. Beyond it, St. Basil's loomed like a phantom. Its onion domes leaned under centuries of weight, paint faded, stone fractured, yet still regal, an echo of an empire long past. Against the utilitarian skyline, the cathedral's silhouette looked out of place, as though the Omega Wars had scorched everything but this stubborn relic of the Motherland.
He slid on a pair of thin gloves, concealing the cybernetic enhancements that marked him. His hands were a constant reminder of a deal gone wrong, one that had cost him more than just his pride. He flexed his fingers once, testing the fit, then returned his gaze to the swelling tide of people as they scuttled about.
Beside him, an orb, floating silently. Its sleek surface caught faint glimmers of the market lights. About the size of an apple, the engineers called it QORD: Quantum Observation and Retrieval Device, but Mitya had given it a simpler, more personal name: Nyx.
"You're nosy today, Nyx," Mitya muttered.
Nyx responded with a faint, cheerful chirp, her glow intensifying briefly as she interacted with the biometric scanner on the sustenance unit beside him.
The sustenance dispensers were government-issued and purely utilitarian, their glowing screens displaying rotating icons of nutrient packs, each tailored for specific lower-tier roles. Worker Pack 472-A (Red): Heavy-duty fuel for laborers, packed with protein bars and hydrating gels. Engineer Pack 381-M (Blue): Omega-rich gels and antioxidant cubes for cognitive endurance. Technician Pack 211-T (Green): A balance of light proteins, caffeine gels, and cognitive-enhancing nutrients, Mitya's personal favorite. There were none designed for Red Market smugglers.
A green pulse emanated from the scanner, signaling that it was ready to analyze a worker's biometrics, tier, and caloric needs before dispensing the appropriate pack. For most, the process was automatic. For Mitya, it was always a gamble. As a non-citizen Mother Tongue, the machines weren't designed for him.
"Do your thing, Nyx," Mitya murmured, motioning toward the scanner.
He knew to watch for the flicker of an Enforcer's optics. He saw the way two street hawkers suddenly cut their conversation short when they passed him. He smiled wider, as if to mask the tension with arrogance. In the Fray, confidence was currency, and by this measure, he was filthy rich.
Moments later, a nutrient pack slid from the red glowing chute.
Mitya grabbed it, grinning. His exuberance quickly faded when he saw the red label: Worker Pack 472-A.
"Devil take me, Nyx," he groaned, shaking his head. "You know I wanted the Technician Pack. I needed that caffeine gel, not this…brick!" He said with frustration, "Come on, time to get to work." He tore the packaging open with his teeth, as his face reflected exaggerated dismay while pulling out the dense, protein-packed bar. "Are you trying to kill me with this sludge?"
Nyx spun in place, emitting what almost sounded like a mocking trill, and Mitya chuckled despite himself. "Oh, don't play coy with me, you knew exactly what you were doing."
He took a seat and bit into the dense nutrient bar, his nose wrinkling at the bland, synthetic taste. Even so, he ate it, his sharp gaze never straying far from the crowd. Mitya wasn't one to take risks lightly, but he also wasn't one to starve. His grin returned, faint but confident, as he leaned back, chewing and watching.
Around him, the Fray moved with its usual chaotic rhythm, workers hustling to their next shifts, drones flitting overhead, Enforcers stalking the streets. He seemed perfectly at ease in the chaos, even as the warnings printed on the nutrient pack stared back at him: 'For Official Use Only – Misuse Punishable by Reassignment.'
Mitya patted Nyx lightly, her glow dimming in what almost felt like approval. "Well," he muttered, "guess I've upgraded to the 'not starving' category. Nice work, as always."
He finished his meal quickly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before slipping into a narrow alley. Nyx drifted beside him, its faint glow tracing restless shadows across the damp, crumbling walls. The winding passage led to an unmarked stairwell descending three levels beneath the street. Guards loomed at key corners, their augmented eyes sweeping alleys and exits in mechanical rhythm.
Mitya scanned the dark until a figure detached itself from the wall beside the stairwell, a broad man, half-swallowed by shadow, with a massive dog at his side.
"You're late," the man said.
"Time's subjective," Mitya replied dryly. "You of all people should appreciate that." He pulled a square token from his pocket, gold-plated, etched with the Phalanx insignia, and held it out.
The man took it without a word, slipping it into his coat before melting back into the alley's darkness.
"You're welcome," Mitya muttered, shaking his head as he turned toward the stairwell.
Nyx brightened slightly, its ambient glow revealing the damp concrete steps spiraling downward. Mitya's boots echoed with each careful step, the sound fading into the hollow hum of the underworld that pulsed beneath the Fray.
At the bottom, an entirely different world unfolded, a clandestine labyrinth where merchants and traders wove the lifeblood of the infamous black market, aptly named *красная рынок, the Red Market*. The name owed itself not only to its proximity to the legendary Red Square but to the perpetual, hellish glow of crimson emergency lights that drenched the underground corridors in an eerie, bloodstained crimson hue.
At its entrance loomed a gold-plated skull, untouched by even the most daring hands, an unspoken warning rather than an ornament. Mitya glanced up at it with a smirk, tipping a condescending two-fingered salute as he passed beneath, his expression laced with irreverence, as if mocking the silent sentry of this underworld. The gold-plated skull grinned down from its perch, a glinting totem of vengeance and power. Everyone in the Fray knew better than to touch it. Even the elites on Luna Prime had heard the tale of what happens when they come shopping in the wrong district.
Mitya and Nyx quickly faded into the haunting shadows of the Red Market.
CHAPTER'S END
