The path was lined with emotionless concrete facades, highrise factories as far as the eye could see, each topped with billowing smokestacks and the occasional squat retention tank water tower. Burnt steel and plastic tainted the air. Malory walked fast, avoided breathing too deep, and was careful not to let her grip loosen, even when their palms began to sweat. She led Maya up a fire escape, across the corrugated metal that was near rusted through, and into a broken section of wall on the fourth floor. The interior was caked in dust and cobweb, but she continued on. Sheets and discarded tarps hung from the rafters and crunched as they moved. The low rumble of surround sound vibrated in the distance, and Malory knew they were close. Runoff pooled on their path, a leak left over from a storm the night before, and caused their steps to slap, wet and hurried. She shoved a wooden barricade aside and then they were there: they stood in the rafters overlooking what used to be the Ford drive-in movie theater that had been enclosed by the industrial resurgence of the city and remodeled as a vintage viewing experience. The massive silver screen was airing commercials before the run of her sister’s favorite D-tier horror movie.

  “Wow,” Maya said. They sat together on the edge, their legs suspended over the audience below. “How’d you even find this place?”

  “Oscar told me about it when he was drunk a couple weeks ago. Apparently, it’s a front for a division of the Black Hands.” She wondered what a group of hackers turned cartel needed a rundown theater to hide, but it didn’t matter.

  The lights dimmed, and a few moments later, the movie started. The opening scene was the expanse of a carnival, filled to the brim with rides, attractions, and the painted faces of clowns herding crowds into queues. The focus of the film was a group of rich kids on vacation blowing off steam and their boisterous, shitheel antics. They cut in lines, littered, made fun of the performers during displays of talent, and intimidated anyone that got in their way. In the middle of the runtime, the group split into pairs and headed in different directions. The camera followed each of their journeys and signature rides, and alternated back and forth with terrible pacing. The twist revealed the rides were designed to kill—the clowns were only there to shepherd damned souls to the afterlife. Each of the rich kids died in a gruesome way, dripping with schlocky blood spatter and dismembered parts. The film ended and all the carnies packed up like nothing happened and headed to the next town where there were more rich kids and sinners to ferry into the great carnival in the sky.

  “Thank you,” Maya said. She was beaming. “It looks so much better on the big screen.”

  “We’re not done yet,” Malory said. She stood and led her sister back the way they came. The monorail was less crowded the second time around, free of the morning commute. The stench of the industrial sector clung to them until they got off near the riverside—the park was one of the last green spaces in the city, and normally cost a fortune to access, but Malory’s hack let them in unhindered.

  “That’s gonna get you in serious trouble, one of these days,” Maya said. She tightened her grip on Malory’s hand.

  “Maybe,” she said. Detention Center and forced labor couldn’t be much worse than the lashing.

  The grass was fresh, mowed in even checkered lines that washed away the stress of travel as they followed the path to the river. In the distance, the massive span of the hypertrain bridge loomed out to Toronto, alight in bright neon and displays even during midday. Malory hacked them cheap synth-cakes they could eat as they walked along the bank and listened to the flow of fresh water—it was the lifeblood of New Detroit, an artery that brought in all the corporations like flies on shit. When they finished eating, they went to the edge and picked up rocks to skip along the surface. Maya managed seventeen, they counted, as the sun began to set.

  “I know what you’re doing,” she said. She dropped the rock she held and gave up on the game. She sighed deep.

  “What are you talking about?” Malory asked. She crammed her hands in jacket pockets and shifted on the gravel. The water rippled.

  “Just promise me something,” Maya said. She turned until they were face to face. “Even if we end up on opposite sides of the city, promise me we’ll always be there for each other.”

  “Always,” she said. She reached out and pulled her sister into a tight hug. “Forever.” The sun slipped behind the horizon, behind the megatowers and highrises, the wall, the river radiant for a moment until light twinkled out.

  They decided to walk back to the orphanage and enjoy the spectacle of budding nightlife. B-girls, dressed in provocative clothing, coaxed pedestrians into bustling bars and clubs while the bouncers, decked in after-market military implants with iron on full display, menaced anyone looking to cause trouble. Outdoor seating was stuffed with noisy eaters, and traffic filled the roads, congested the air. So much noise, so much life. The way the throngs moved along was organic, mesmerizing, an autostereogram in reverse. There were automated turrets, customers, and greed in every direction. Every few blocks, Malory spotted one of the new Model Eight Aeon bots that almost passed for humans moving about on errands and advanced AI programming. She wished she could get her hands on one, but her amateur hacking was nowhere near capable, and buying wasn’t even worth the fantasy. Everything thinned the further they went: there was less light, obsessive advertisement, and less safety in numbers. They cut through an alleyway near the orphanage and immediately regretted it. The ground was still wet from rooftop runoff the night before, and cardboard and trash piled high on each side, mixed with the torn canvas of years-old tents and the miasma of human refuse. People called it home.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  A ways down the alley, directly in their path, stood a machine that was once a man—he was a monument of shifting chrome, unmarred by superficial synth-skin, and glinted in the low-light path. In his hand was a black revolver that he lifted and fired once, twice, and then he moved. The steps were slow, measured, but carried the weight of inevitability, an unending tide that would wash away the world’s wrongs. Malory tried not to breathe, to exist, and clung to her sister in pained silence. The monstrosity bent down to grab something, paused a moment, and another gunshot joined the night-noise of the city. He turned then, swung his mechanical hand precision-perfect to point the smoking gun at the two girls.

  “We didn’t see a thing,” Malory managed. She felt her sister convulse in her grasp and wanted to scream. She hated the powerlessness she felt, the misfortune that stalked her like a scorned lover, and couldn’t help but think how perfect the green demon skull graffiti behind the man looked covered in viscera and gore.

  The man lowered the pistol, and Malory saw acquiescence cloud his eyes before he holstered it and lumbered out of the alley. The sisters turned and sprinted back to the main street, careful not to slip on trash or shit-slick pavement. It took them fifteen minutes to circle around to the orphanage; their lives circled the abyssal drain of New Detroit just to conserve fifteen goddamned minutes, and they only survived by whatever grace rattled around in the chrome-sick mind of a psychopathic mercenary. Their lungs burned as they worked their legs.

  They reached the front door looking much the part of blood-drained apparitions, and before they could talk about what happened, found the director waiting. The foyer was stifling, solemn, filled with the overpowering scent of lilac perfume. The floor, stained and filthy as far back in memory as the girls could reach, had been polished to a shine. Candles had been lit and placed around the room. The chandelier they had a running bet on falling any day had been refurbished, and it shone bright and restored in all its antique glory. On the table nearby, expensive china was set out for tea that still steamed in cups. On either side of the table stood a man and woman dressed in enough money to make a corpo blush. The man, in a dinner jacket laced with dark and gold that evoked cascading obsidian. The woman wore a black sequined gown smeared with blooming flowers in negative. They both had optical implants that threw out so much digital noise their facial features melted to a blur. It was clear the trio had been waiting for the sisters to arrive. Bile festered in Malory’s stomach and lurched its way up her throat until she tasted it.

  “Your return is most timely,” the director said. Their tone was kind, foreboding. “You have my congratulations, and condolences.” The contradiction carried the same air as the psycho’s black revolver, a certainty that life would never be the same. The director cleared their throat. “Our esteemed guests have chosen to adopt.”

  “No,” Malory squeaked. The world spun. She knew what was coming.

  “The processes and paperwork have been completed,” the director continued. Their countenance slipped, just for a moment, and revealed heavy melancholy.

  “Can we hurry this along?” the man asked. His voice was unearthly, distorted. Another implant. He turned his head to the side, looking at an internal display of the time. “I have another engagement I must attend to.”

  “Certainly,” the director said. They clapped, then motioned with their arm to one of the sisters. “Maya, I’m afraid you’ll be leaving now.”

  “There’s no need to pack,” the woman added. She clasped her hands tight in front of her waist. “We’ll have new things procured.”

  “Once again, I offer my congratulations. And my condolences,” the director said.

  “No!” Malory screamed.

  “It’s okay,” Maya said. She pulled her twin close, squeezed bone-tight, took a deep breath, and whispered in her ear. “Just remember your promise.”

  “Please,” Malory begged. She didn’t want this.

  “Say goodbye to everyone for me,” Maya said. She kissed her on the cheek and let go. Her expression was stoic, unmoving, as she followed the couple back out into the city.

  The moment had been an absolute whirlwind, and before Malory could process, she was away and running down the hall. She didn’t stop at her girlfriend’s makeshift closet workshop, she didn’t acknowledge the other kids, and knew when she stopped the raw, unforgiving truth would collapse into her. She climbed the stairs three at a time, tripped, and skinned her knee through her leggings. The borders of her reality quaked. She continued, one foot in front of the other, and burst into the room they used to share. The smell of her sister lingered. She closed the door behind her, climbed into the bed, threw the blanket over her head, and cried until nothingness consumed her.