Back in District III, Shakes and Rolo were playing catch—though "playing" might be generous.
Rolo was terrible at it, constantly fumbling, dropping, or simply missing the ball. An old, rusty robot named Soul, long retired and mostly decorative, watched them from a nearby bench, emitting occasional bursts of static laughter.
Shakes and Soul chuckled every time Rolo missed. Unfazed, Rolo offered to make tea in exchange for catch lessons.
They sat together under the blurry, heavily polluted night sky. A giant object loomed in the heavens—visible even through the smog.
Rolo pointed. "What's that?"
"That?" Shakes said, glancing up. "That's the Lunar Offworld Base. Bineth's answer to Mars. See, they couldn't monopolize the Martian colonies, too many governments involved. So they made their own paradise—private, self-sufficient. All the best tech, medicine, AI, food synthesis—you name it. No diseases, no shortages. People up there don't even sweat."
Rolo tilted his head. "Do you want to go there?"
Shakes laughed. "Sure. Who doesn't? But that's a dream, kid. Emphasis on dream. A basic housing unit up there costs 250 million credits. That's enough to feed all of District III for a hundred years."
Rolo stared at the object in the sky. For a moment, something stirred in him—a connection? A pulse? He blinked—
Thwack!
The ball hit him square in the head. Shakes and Soul burst into laughter.
Rolo just stood up and calmly offered more tea.
---
Later, the trio made their way to a run-down med shop to pick up meds for Cindy. Inside, a few Rifters were already loitering, making the air heavy with danger.
"Hello, Shakes," one of them said.
Shakes stiffened. "Let's go," he whispered to Rolo.
The gang closed in. Taunts began. Shakes didn't retaliate as they shoved him. Rolo tried to intervene and got knocked aside. Two police officers walked in, but instead of helping, they raised their cams and started recording.
Rolo was confused. "Why are they filming?"
"Because they're told to," Shakes muttered. "That's what Rifters do—they own the police."
Then she walked in—Bridget, a high-ranking Rifter. Cool, unbothered, she strolled to the shelves, grabbed a bottle of meds, and downed the entire thing like candy. The store owner didn't dare speak.
"Good stuff," she said, chewing. "But not our stuff."
With that, she nodded—and her gang went wild, wrecking shelves, smashing displays.
She approached Shakes. "Been a while."
He didn't answer.
"The boss wants to see you. He found one. A real one this time."
Shakes shook his head. "No way. This is some trick."
"He doesn't lie, Shakes. Not about this. Just take a look. Then walk away. Back to your pigsty life. No strings."
Before Shakes could reply, Rolo stepped forward. "Do you want tea?"
Bridget blinked. "Who the hell is this swiny?" She kicked Rolo hard—he crashed into the wall, dented and groaning.
Shakes shouted, lunging forward, but the Rifters laughed it off.
Later, outside, walking home, Rolo moved slowly—his torso bent out of shape, parts wheezing.
"Why didn't the police do anything?" he asked.
Shakes lit a cigarette. "Because the Rifters own them. They own everything. The streets, the stores, the silence."
"Do you know them?"
Shakes didn't answer.
After a pause, Rolo asked, "Want tea?"
For the first time, Shakes actually thought about it.
"…Yeah," he said softly. "Maybe I do."