Cross-Worlder

Chapter 1- Just Desserts

Glenn's shadow loomed over the road as he waited. With the exception of the buildings, it stretched out longer than anything else along the boulevard. From the passing cars to the streetlights that hung over the asphalt and concrete like watchful angels.

Watchful was a good approximation. The keen observer would notice the cameras installed next to the light-bulbs, linked to a surveillance network that monitored the entire capital. The technology was new, and something beyond what the means of the People's Republic of Bekhof, or any of other countries in the alliance of global communes. That question, among other things, was why Glenn was sent here months ago as a covert agent of the United Talmoran Republic.

Behind him, was the first floor of an apartment complex. The interior was as old and dated as its exterior. Mouse holes, water stains, and small trails of ants feeding off the residue left by its human inhabitants. The owners however, strove to make-up for this by installing several bright lights on the first floor. Blinding light after all, concealed blemishes just as well as the dark.

To his left was a dark alleyway. If that wasn't enough to deter any would-be visitors, then the squeaking rats and the stench of piled rubbish and garbage sealed the deal. To his right, the street turned, from which Glenn could hear the grumbling complaints of people waiting in line to collect their rations from the state office.

Beyond that were a line of buildings in various states of decay. They morphed with distance, gray paint replaced by modern colors, century old bricks replaced by plaster, faded glass replaced by tempered variants. Even the road changed, with less and less potholes and cracks as it got closer to the shining white building towering over the horizon. The State Capitol.

One might see it as inequality and poverty. However, not according to the state media. Inequality and poverty did not exist in the People's Republic of Bekhof, regardless of what the eye's saw and the mind thought.

Glenn was just a figure in the picture He was not a foreign agent, but Rodrigo, who the state knew to be an unassuming construction laborer who did his allocated amount of work and collected his allocated rations. His face was riddled with pock marks, scars, and wrinkles garnered from years working under the sun. His brown hair was cut short on the sides, to allow room for a worker's helmet. He wore state-issued blue pants with thick suspenders looping over his shoulders, and a faded orange shirt, probably from a foreign charity. His hands were smeared with dirt, though careful observation would reveal the strange absence of any callouses associated with physical work. On one hand was a spoon, and the other a steaming bowl with stew made from a ration-pack. All in all, he was just another worker on a brief lunch-break.

If all went well, Glenn would be homeward bound by the evening, and for the last time. It was the last year on his contract. After nine missions and nine overthrown governments, he had enough excitement for a lifetime.

There was nobody else on the street, save for a hunch-backed old lady limping along with her cane on the opposite side of the road. There was a blur as a car whizzed by, uninhibited not by the absence of any speed limits or traffic regulations, but because nobody was there to enforce it. It steamed out a spray of hot water vapor as it passed, onto the granny. The retinal scanners installed into Glenn's eyes scanned the vehicle in an instant. Numbers and words populated in his vision, revealing the make and model of the vehicle. One of the latest in the world, from a Talmoran company, accessible only to the wealthy.

The old lady stopped, waving the droplets away from her face. She raised her cane as if to yell, then lowered it in resigned acceptance. She resumed her struggle forward, wherever her destination lay.