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Raghib juiced up his own virtual image: a proud black warrior with bulging biceps and a glittering afro sculpted into the sleek outline of a spaceplane. Raghib's realtime fists clenched inside his gloves, glove sensors translating the movements into digital pulses that caused his virtual image to mirror the gesture. Raghib purged the Helldragon simulacrum from his netspace before the crazy Jap could rant at him again. Jamaal punched him in the arm, a good shot for a bony ten-year-old, and stared at him with pleading eyes. They hurried down Grand, dodging a pack of tattooed, depilated blackhearts cooking a slab of ribs over a heating vent at the corner of Michigan Ave.
A street freak lumbered out of the alley beside them, the smell reaching them before he got within five meters. Four lean teenagers slipped out of an abandoned flophouse between him and the Tube, silver jackets shimmering with jade dragons that seemed to dance inside their chests.
As the world faded into midnight, Raghib Jones stared at the wreckage of his brother, searching for the boy's departed spirit. It didn't take Raghib long to figure out how to uplink from his microprocessor to Wacker Hospital's main system. He was wearing his baddest Zulu astro-warrior look, kicking back in a corner of Wacker's virtual lounge, when she sat down at his table. Raghib sat in his corner of the lounge and studied the stream of data that flowed across the tabletop.
A short Latino with a silver skull tattoo on his forehead rose from a nearby table, smiling through blackened teeth.
It took Raghib several hours to show Akuma's hackers how to download Jam-All into the Helldragon's secured netspace. Raghib tried to shake his head, but the muscles in his neck were as dead as childhood dreams.
So far authorities are baffled by the attacks, but Gang Intervention sources believe a rival street gang known as the Ninja Storm may be responsible. Raghib heard the hum of the door's locking sequence and swiveled the gel-bed toward the sound.
Akuma's eyes seemed to pull at him with their own demonic gravity, black holes swallowing every bit of light around them, leaving nothing but empty space. Raghib and Calico stared at the wreckage of Akuma in stunned silence, Calico still gripping the stinger beneath knuckles as white as bone. Raghib smiled the most unfettered smile he had managed since his last trip through Old Downtown with a jittery, motor-mouthed ten-year-old. Raghib stared back at the ghost on the wall - the ghost in the vast machine that kept the rich folks safe from all the madness down below, made life so hard for those who couldn't afford the climb. Antibiotics wona€™t help with stomach flu because it is a condition caused by a virus, which antibiotics are unable fight. Please note that we are unable to respond back directly to your questions or provide medical advice. As the fastest growing consumer health information site a€” with 65 million monthly visitors a€” Healthlinea€™s mission is to be your most trusted ally in your pursuit of health and well-being.
At least once a week he tubed up the Ladder, through the nether levels all the way to Paradise: Chicago Metro Level Five. The Netware Engineering classroom of Virtual University dissolved around him, replaced with a swirling fractal fog.
Raghib checked the lobby monitors carefully before palming through the flophouse exit into the gray twilight of Hell's day-cycle. In a world of programmed vision, Raghib saw something hideous reflected in Calico’s eyes - the specter of his own bigotry. An army of hairless blackhearts surrounded them in the gloom, brandishing laser torches and gutting knives. He jammed enough techno-babble down their throats to get them totally confused, but they were too proud to admit it.
A slight Japanese girl floated beside him in a hover-chair, lips pressed together in a tight, grim line. Something monstrous crouched behind those eyes, far more terrible than any stupid VR dragon.
The multi-jointed robotic arm of the auto-nurse - the mindless contraption that gave Raghib injections, took fluid samples, emptied waste containers - swung away from the wall behind Akuma, arcing toward the little bastard's outstretched hand.
Raghib heard the hum of a stinger pulse, the electric shriek of a luminary panel exploding overhead.


A small boy stared back at them, wide eyes shining from a chocolate face that was too smooth, too perfect to be real. Both of which will support, guide, and inspire you toward the best possible health outcomes for you and your family. Three-quarters of the luminary panels had been shattered by punks or juicers, leaving the leprous metal skin of the place in perpetual dusk.
Up there, above the stratified metal shell of the city, he could walk under an open sky beside the Topsiders. Raghib cursed as the image of an immense dragon filled his goggles, its armored body covered with scales the color of jade, its tail bristling with bony spikes dripping blood. She busted her ass - did the best she could for them - but the best of Level One was still shit, and she couldn't turn it into gold. He mumbled something that sounded like a plea as he stretched two scabrous hands toward Jamaal. This was a research lab for her, a chance to see all kinds of ugliness she'd never see in Heaven. He did reconnaissance every chance he got, searching for signs of Akuma and the Helldragons.
He had never seen such an elegant blend of feline and human graphics, her cat shape melting seamlessly into the lines of a beautiful woman.
She led him from the lounge to a separate netspace where they crafted a private reality, a place of soft lights and soft caresses. She was just a harmless VR ghost, her image shifting to match the thermal fluctuations in the skin of her realtime body.
A fence made from stacked columns of human bones circled the perimeter, its top lined with ribs curving to sharpened points. Last time you defy me, I take your legs slowly, because traitors to Helldragons are only fit to crawl. Raghib watched it like some slow-motion gunfight in a bad western: Calico spinning to face Akuma, Akuma aiming coldly between her eyes, the auto-nurse unfolding like the leg of some gleaming insect.
Akuma's stinger flew across the room as the arm of the auto-nurse wrapped around his skinny chest, pinning his arms to his sides, squeezing him like a jointed metal python. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the norovirus causes over 19 to 21 million illnesses each year. Except, of course, during sleep-cycle, when the wary fled the glowtube-speckled darkness to cower in their apartments until it passed; when demon-boys and blackhearts lurked in hungry shadows, swallowing the foolish, the unlucky, and each other.
Sometimes he stayed past sunset, ignoring sublevel curfews so he could watch the stars sparkle above Lake Michigan, watch the moon glow overhead like a wedge of ripened honeydew.
Raghib scanned the shadows for trouble as he hauled his little brother through the skeletal remains of Old Downtown toward the Michigan Ave Tube. He wondered which poor dumb juicer had been butchered in an alley so this bunch could have their little picnic.
Raghib grabbed his brother with both arms and backed away, Jamaal's little-boy scream jabbing into his eardrums.
Raghib watched in horror as two of them raised stingers to their mirrored eyes and sighted, numbly realizing he still held Jamaal in his arms. Eyes the color of flame glittered above her whiskered nose, their orbs bisected by ovals of obsidian. The gangs have hacked into everything on Level One: food and water delivery systems, power, communications. She offered him every fantasy he had ever dreamed, a chain of phantom passion joined with links of silk and flame.
The poor devils in Tortilla Towers could get all the food they needed without begging the Helldragons for it. A serpentine neck sprouted from the wreckage above his shoulders, ending in a familiar face.
An altar of human skulls rose from the cracked floor nearby, eye sockets glowing from the fire that burned in the altar's hollow belly. Long black hair framed a china-doll face: large almond eyes, a dainty nose, skin that had never known a blemish. She turned the hover-chair for a better view of the vid screen on the wall of the hospital room, choosing an angle that still gave her a clear shot at him.
The stinger clattered to the floor near where her feet should have been, and she began to sob.
Wish to god it was - I need to make up for all them things I said, all the ugliness I dumped on you.


Raghib glanced at the frail Japanese girl with the will of steel and felt a surge of shame. During day-cycle a homeboy could move around if he knew which areas were DMZ, if he crossed the turf borders in the right places and could afford the tolls. He ducked under the palsied swipe of the street freak and hurled Jamaal toward the mouth of the alley. One of them pulled a crystal dagger from his belt and knelt beside Jamaal, burying the blade in what remained of the boy’s chest to claim the kill. The injuries to your spinal cord were extensive, Raghib, too extensive for us to deal with down here.
In his home sector, Jamaicaville, he'd tied Dragon hackers in so many knots they were chasing each other.
A long spit jutted above the iron grate that formed the top of the altar, barely visible through the smoke.
The tattooed cannibals carried the struggling image of his mother to a blood-soaked slab beside the altar. Emotions mixed inside him like toxic chemicals, eating a hole in his chest, leaving nothing but a smoking void. Her slender arms were folded above the void where her legs should have been, as if she were hugging herself against a draft only she could feel.
He still carried the guilt, would probably always carry it, but it no longer suffocated him. He had always pictured Akuma as a monster, even in realtime, some gruesome incarnation of the virtual disguise he wore.
As they hustled to put some pavement between themselves and the blackhearts, the battered entrance to the CTA Tubeline came into view - the gateway to blue sky and green grass and cotton-ball clouds. Your mother gave us consent to bring down some Topside specialists to perform an experimental procedure.
That night, as he lay sleepless and alone, giant scaly lizards writhed in the darkness above him, laughter gleaming in their mirrored eyes. He spent hours refining the micro's VR prosthesis, strengthening his presence on the nets as the realtime Raghib Jones faded toward oblivion. Breasts swelled gently above her slender waist, nipples hidden by the caramel fur of her chest and belly.
What if he lyin' dead on the streets 'cause you so full o' hate you ain't got room for truth?
He fought to reach her, but some invisible barrier had been programmed into the virtual geography of the place. For the first time since he had awakened inside the walls of Wacker Hospital, he felt almost free. Raghib could see the blood trickling from the places where steel cut into flesh, could see the dragon raging in Akuma's eyes.
He could only repeat the same two words again and again, like some shell-shocked combat vet. Food, clothes, medicine, tronix - Hell got the worst of everything, shoddy discards from up the Ladder.
Not knowing who to blame, he turned his fury on the Ninja Storm, sending strike after strike across treaty lines onto Storm turf. He could do nothing but watch in horror as the four blackhearts held her fast while a fifth raised his gutting knife. When she looked at him, she didn't see a kage, didn't see another punk busting heads for the Black Widows or the African Avengers. Everybody deserved a taste of sunshine, and it wasn't fair that folks buried on Level One couldn't afford it. Nichols tried to restrict his link time, but he slipped the security easily, spending every conscious moment in VR. The streets of Tokyo West glowed with incandescent rage as bitter fire fights erupted during every sleep-cycle.
He lay there, a useless block of ice, and saw it happening all over again, just like in the alley on Michigan Ave.
Please, God, please don' make me watch somebody else I love get blown away by this piece o' garbage.



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