The stratus pouring over the bridge was a solid haze of aerosol ice. Red emergency lights lining the concrete arches above led on into obscurity, their gloom falling on abandoned cars, each one a ghost sheathed in fog. A lone figure moved between them, his pale face lit in a dying glow.

Eyes hidden behind a black bar, his gaze scanned the sea of cars.

Samuel removed the cigarette stub from his lips, flicking it away. “It’s bloody cold, Aamon. What are we supposed to be seeing here?” he said. The visor showed nothing.

He moved to the bridge’s edge, his vision piercing the fog but finding only black churning waves. The city below had subsided back into the crashing ocean, forming a treacherous rock bed to the horizon. Only this mad floating catwalk to nowhere remained.

It had all been blown to hell a while back. Millions drowned.

A drop in the damn bucket, he thought.

He stared down at the waters, then forward along the swaying bridge, suspended a mile over the Pacific. The Megalopolis was at his back.

“Where the hell are you, you tin can?” He pressed his finger to his ear, turning his radio off and back on again.


The air stung his eyes as he flipped up his visor. Well below zero and falling and no clear purpose for being here. With his partner run off, Samuel’s mood was turning grim. He clenched his teeth, murmuring a curse.

He was the City’s man on the ground, responsible for reporting in the blindspots, the black zones, and keeping them clean. There were better leads to pursue than some drug den at the far edge of nothingness.

“Yet here I am…”

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he marched on, flipping his visor back down. Continue reading