Book 2: Chapter 34: Shit Happens (1/2)
The downtown streets were uncharacteristically, but understandably, grim. The aftermath of the violent gang war had left the city reeling, and the community of lower downtown had closed ranks entirely. Dan saw Scales on every corner, obvious watchdogs who gave him wary glares as he passed. They knew he was out of place, as did he, but as long as he didn't cause trouble he should be left alone.
The air still smelled like gunpowder and blood. The streets were still stained with shades of green and red, where the blood hadn't been washed away by melting ice. It had dried along brick walls and concrete streets, forming grim, tragic street art. There was a palpable tension in the air, a feeling of 'what next?' that seemed to pervade every pore of downtown. It felt more like the quiet before a storm, rather than the aftermath. The Scales had to be preparing for war as much as the APD were.
Every now and then, Dan would spot broken lines of police tape, where people had simply ripped the barricades free and gone about their business. Stores that had been hit had reopened, regardless of the APD's directives. This deep in Scale territory, the police were no longer sacrosanct. Especially after the failures of the past few days. There were no firm figures on how many lives had been lost to the Crew's blitzkrieg, but even a cursory examination would show how devastated these urban neighborhoods had been.
It should be the work of months before it was all put back to right, but the people here seemed determined to cut that down to weeks. They were out in force, men and women with dozens of different upgrades, all working with each other to restore what had been taken from them. There was something... uplifting about walking through these broken communities, and watching as the inhabitants helped put each other back together.
Dan came to a stop beside an apartment complex. The first floor was a wreck. The doors were off their hinges, and the lobby was still covered in a thin layer of melting ice. He could see people stripping away the carpeted floors, where the ice had melted and caused water damage. Others were removing broken furniture, and shoring up the walls.
There was a scale by the entrance, watching Dan as he approached. The man made no secret of his allegiance; between his bright green shirt, slitted eyes, and the rows of rippling, armored spines running down his arms, he was the poster child of a Scale crew chief. His thick, muscular tail lashed at the ground as Dan approached, and the gang member held up a hand.
”I don't think so,” he stated firmly.
Dan came to a stop a few feet away. He watched the people working inside, barely sparing a glance for the guard. Dan felt... restless. If he'd been sitting, his leg would be bouncing up and down like a jackhammer. Abby was gone, taken away via private jet to her family's mansion in Florida. Her words, though, lingered with him. Her worries. It made him itch, made him need to move and do something useful.
Dan gestured with his thumb behind him, towards the distant Bering street. ”I was a volunteer at Station Three. Shit went down and we had to leave, but I figured I'd come by today and see if there's anything I could do to help out around here.”
The Scale's yellow eyes squinted at Dan. ”Yer one of them orange-vest fellers.”
The thick southern drawl coming from a forked tongue was disconcerting, but Dan quickly got over it.
He nodded. The high-visibility vests were the volunteer's most distinctive feature. ”Basically, yeah.”
As far as jobs went, it was hard for people to complain about a crisis volunteer. There just wasn't anything offensive there for someone to sink their teeth into. It was like complaining about firefighters, or paramedics. Even criminals had to respect those services.
The Scale guard seemed to share this opinion. He glanced up and down Dan's body, taking in his jeans and t-shirt. He had a pair of work gloves tucked in his back pocket, and wore the same heavy boots he used during his volunteer work. Dan was fairly built at this point, though nowhere near the Adonis perfection that could be found in mod-crafted musculature.
He must have passed muster, because the guard finally shrugged, stepped aside, and declared, ”Whatever.”