The door pushed them into night heat thick with exhaust and fryer grease. Sixth Street was alive in its usual way—half-shuttered dive bars bleeding bass, vape haze clinging under the awnings, and sidewalk vendors hawking "official" corp merch from blankets. A holo-billboard flickered against the brick across the street, Elias' face stalled mid-blink, skin ironed flat by whatever filter New Life's PR thought passed for perfection.
Slug tightened his grip on her hand as a drunk couple lurched past them, their companion drones following dutifully like pets.
"Welcome home," he muttered.
The block ahead was choked with bodies—not the usual crowd of buskers and vendors, but a circle forming around something else entirely.
They edged closer. At the center stood two figures in identical ivory suits, skin flawless under the floodlights, smiles preset to corporate standard. Their movements were polished, engineered. A banner above them pulsed:
PERMANENT CITIZENS — MEET TOMORROW, TODAY.
One synth bent down smoothly, handing a balloon to a child. The latex bore New Life's slogan in a sans serif font. The kid's mother clapped, her personal drone swooping in to catch the moment.
Melissa let out a low breath. "Ambassadors."
Slug's mouth twisted. "'Permanent Citizens'? More like permanently full of shit."
They pushed east off Sixth, away from the bass-throb and neon, into streets that smelled like wet concrete and burning coolant. Delivery drones skimmed overhead in jittery formations, their collision sensors lagging just enough to make people flinch when they dipped low. A row of curbside kiosks scrolled ads at eye-level for genetic meal kits, "forever" dental implants, New Life merch discounted for "early adopters."
Melissa glanced at the alleys narrowing around them. "Seriously. Where the fuck are we going?"
Slug didn't slow. "Check-in. Edgar."
"Edgar who?"
"You'll see. Knows things nobody should."
The deeper blocks were lit by barrel fire burning under overpasses. Kids kicked plastic bottles while old men with ocular mods were laid out and fried so bad the screens just showed static. A mural of Elias stretched three stories high on a cracked wall, already peeling. Someone had spray-stenciled PATCHLORD across his chest, but the paint was thin. The corporate drones would buff it out by morning.
They ducked into an alley littered with vendor carts folded up for the night. The only light came from a flickering sign wedged between a pawn shop and a vape den:
EDGAR'S ELECTRONICS