“This is as far west as I’m gonna go, you’re gonna have to get out here kid.”

The cab hovered down to the pavement, and I climbed out. Steam rose out of the grates on the sidewalk as I made my way to Little Eden. The smell of old rations, drugs, and mold invaded my senses. It’s been 3 years since I’ve been home. It’s funny how a smell can take you straight back to a place.

Old cars parked along the street, most used as shelter for the impoverished. Cars that still had tires. Not a lot of hover crafts make their way over to Little Eden, except for The Institution of course. But even they try to leave us alone. To them we’re nothing but trash, and Little Eden? Well it’s the dumpster. Best to leave the trash where it belongs.

Neon lights reflected off of the wet streets as the sun began to disappear. Street vendors line the streets, selling knock offs, ration cards, and drugs. Addicts on edge watch me anxiously as I make my way through the market. I almost forgot I’ve got this huge mini gun attached to my shoulder where my left arm used to be. So much for subtlety.

“Hey! City Boy! You, with the mod! Turn around!”

I stop dead in my tracks. The gawkers wait eagerly. I turn towards my heckler. Great. Some punk with a double barrel shotgun mounted to his right forearm stood about 30 feet from me.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

The punk makes his way towards me, weaving in and out of the crowd. I take a few steps back.

“You mind telling me where you got the piece? That’s a sweet mod you got their kid.”the punk compliments.

“Yes.” I answer.

“Yes what?”

“Yes. I mind telling you.” I turn around and continue my strut.

“You son of a.. who do you think are turning your back on me?” The punk demands. “Hey! I’m talking to you.”

I keep walking, I don’t have the luxury of time for small talk or petty confrontation. I have somewhere to be.

KaBlam!!

The sound of the shotgun echoed through the market, people stole their moments by stealing from the vendors amidst the chaos. Another firing of the shotgun, polycarbonate barriers begin to buckle under the assault. I duck behind an old Jeep Wrangler. These things used to be great for off roading. At least that’s what my grandpa told me.

KaBlam!

“I want that piece! Let’s make a trade kid!” The punk gets closer.

“No. Let’s not.” I shout back over the Wrangler.

More sprays of the shotgun reverberate against the rusty jeep.

“It’s either you give me dat’ piece kid, or I’ma have to take it from your dead body.”

I really hate Mondays. I open up my backpack and take out a drone. It’s out of ammo, but it’s targeting system is still functional.

Zooom! The drone zips around, turret gun mounted and aimed at the punk.

“Ha! You think your little toy is gonna save you?” The punk chortles.

KaBlam! The drone dodges the shotgun blast.

It dodges a few more blasts and then the punk gets smart.

“You’se ain’t even got any bullets in this thing do y—“

BRRRRTTTTTKKK!!!

I unload my mini gun into this chumps back finally getting him to shut up.

I load up the drone, and look around. People have made their way back to the market in a matter of seconds. Just another day in Little Eden. No one gives a damn.

Alright, let’s see if we can make it to uncle Freddie’s by dinner time.