The Red Law

A thick fog covered the city as Gordon flew past the ruined skyscrapers of Haven Tread's outskirts. As he weaved his personal shuttle through the maze of half-collapsed towers his head pulsed with pain. The old shuttle shook and creaked as it slowed to a stop and hovered in midair. He rubbed the sides of his malformed, enlarged cranium. The added brain matter was supposed to make him a genius with numbers, which it did, but the side effects were painfully obvious: frequent migraines. He pressed a small button that was stitched to his neck and sent a wave of numbness rushing through his jugular and to his brain. Relief, for the moment at least. Aside from the intense headaches, he suffered from a myriad of other problems. From the mouth down, sores and blisters covered his body. He wrapped himself in tattered rags to hide them, the best he could find in these wretched outskirts. Only the upper half of his head could be exposed, the rest was far too fragile. His eyes were black pools and the blue, purple color of veins pierced through the paleness of his weathered, wrinkled skin. A repulsive sight for anyone who crossed his path. The scientists in the inner city performed countless genetic experiments on him from before he was born, but they failed to make him anything more than a ghastly monstrosity. He was a lab reject, blessed with intelligence but cursed with a repulsive, painful body.

He didn't ask to be an experiment as a child and an exile as an adult, but that was how the pieces fell for him. His first memories were blurry, but he knew they took place deep within the inner city. Perhaps he even laid eyes on one of the thirty-six priests who ruled over Haven Tread, catching a glimpse of the strange masks that they wore. In any case, he ended up as another lost soul fighting to survive in the war zone that circled the city. Every now and then, a distant memory would flash in his mind, but he kept them out of his thoughts. The past was irrelevant in this place. Anybody who frequently drifted into memories here would soon find themselves dead, lacking the focus to keep up with the struggle for survival. All Gordon cared about was acquiring enough money to live. In the arms dealing business, he could do that quite well.

One look out of his shuttle's cracked window allowed him to see past the fog and straight to the edge of the city, as well as what laid beyond. Barren plains and lifeless seas were all that remained in the twenty-sixth century. After centuries of environmental and societal decay, humanity found themselves on the only continent above water, scraping what they could find from ages past. Many tried to resurrect civilization, but only one rose above the rest. Haven Tread, the iron city, the last sanctuary of technology. Its blinding lights shone through the gloomy days and nights like a ray of sunlight in an eternal night—at least, that's what the priests would say to the public. Not all of it was bright, however: A war waged within it. The Thirty-Six, Haven Tread's ruling priesthood, used military forces against an ever-growing criminal organization in the outskirts. According to the priests, the law must be obeyed, for it demanded bloodshed for those who would bring disharmony into the city. "To fight evil is to bring peace," that was their mantra, the way of the so-called "red law." Such a law seemed counterproductive to Gordon. How could fighting bring peace? What sort of game were the priests playing? Whatever the answer, he had no place meddling in their business. Even still, he couldn't help but be curious.

As his shuttle accelerated, Gordon went over the current mission in his head. An unnamed weapons supplier waited for him at one of the most desolate parts of Haven Tread. Suspicious, yet promising. The crime lords, currently losing their street war against the police force, would accept any and all help. Not that Gordon cared about the cause of the crime lords. After purchasing the equipment, the selling price would be raised to a ridiculous amount. His customers, being as desperate as they are, would pay any price.

Accelerating past broken towers, Gordon knew that he had entered a particularly run-down sector of the outskirts. Nearly every building was ruined beyond repair due to many years of fighting. The war had moved on from this area, leaving it as nothing more than a deserted scar. Whoever this supplier was, the last thing they wanted was to be seen by anyone other than Gordon. This place was perfect for a private meeting.