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Hadrion
The dust of Lowtown would be enough to clog up the filter in anyone’s mask, and by the time I’ve turned off the freeway and onto the side-streets of this dusty patch of scrap and garbage that makes the industrial wasteland south of the city, I’ve had to stop and wipe my visor of my helmet off twice.
As I pull my bike up short at the top of the rise, the last one before Lowtown’s flat roads spill out before me, and the city at my back like a twinkling gem in the distance, I frown.
Lowtown, despite being just outside of Detroit, is only populated by a few thousand people, a couple of factories along the horizon pumping smoke into the air, and scant money for these people to get by on. The rest of the town is decrepit and run-down. I can see the top of the small town jail, its dirt yard fenced in with razor wire, and next to it stretches out the cross intersection of the two major streets.
In the distance, the main square and the old city hall, where the mayor and council and sheriff meet, stand tall and proud. They’re the only ones with any real money, and they’re the ones who make sure that none of the citizens of Lowtown ever makeit out. There are only a few houses, some stores, and more plots of land with trailers on them, temporary housing for the permanently enchained here in Lowtown.
And beyond them, along one of the further backstreets, is an old car shop, and the thing that’s drawn me to this shithole.
The bar.
I can’t tell much from here, but the bar doesn’t look like it’s seen an upgrade since the 1970s. But even from here, I can feel the energy of the place, and it’s... well, miserable, like everything else around here.
But inside is something that’s been calling me in my sleep for the last several weeks. Something, almost a month ago, woke me out of a dead sleep, my heart beating fast in my chest until I could take several gulps of cool air. My dream had been so real, as if the person had been in my bedroom, a warm hand on my shoulder, their breath hot and heavy in my ear, and a whispered name.
“Katydid.”
That name reverberated in the dark room I keep above my club in downtown, and it shocked me out of sleep so sharply that I was half-dressed and nearly out the door until I realized what I was doing.
The key had been found.
Someone, out there, had found it and woken it up. Whether it was one of my enemies, or a potential ally, or an ignorant human, I had no idea, but I stopped myself, hand wrapped around the frame of my front door, reminding myself that taking my time to go hunting for it was the wiser decision.
For one, I didn’t want any of my enemies seeing bolting out of my club. I have too many people, demons and human alike, gunning for me to give them ammunition. So I went back to bed, not to sleep, but to close my eyes, take deep slow breaths, and try to connect with that little spark of light that had lit up on the edge of my awareness.
Weeks slipped by, and each night, before I slept, I tried to trance down, find out the direction the key was calling me from. Last night, it had finally become clear enough, strong enough, to fully be sensed. And today, I woke up, scouring the few suburbs between the city and here, feeling it pulling me, ever more insistent the closer I got, toward this little scrap of old carpet that is Lowtown.
There’s not much to this place, but even though the bar’s a dive, it’s full of the most energy, the most power, and the strongest connection.
So that’s where I’m going. Whomever has it, I can’t imagine they’re going to be enough to over-power me, although I still have to follow the golden rule.
It has to be given to me freely. I can’t steal it. I suspect it would render its power inert, and I’ll really be trapped on this plane for the rest of my existence, which is going to be a long one.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t get them to give it up.
I rev the engine of my bike, the roar loud enough that people walking along the main road pause, looking up, and a couple of them even start to hurry away. Around here, most people stay quiet, and stick to themselves. Loud people, not afraid to make a scene, are either so powerful that they have nothing to be afraid of, or are so insane they have nothing to lose. Either way, I’mdangerous to the humans, eyeing me up as I roll down toward Lowtown’s main street. Nervous pairs of eyes follow me, a man gripping at his sweetheart tightly, pulling her into the vestibule of some boarded up store to avoid catching my attention.
Let them be scared. I’m not going to hurt anyone. I just have a question or two.
I ride slowly down the hill, my eyes catching sight of the few people who are still milling around. A pair of teenagers, the boy’s fingers laced through the girl’s, her hair long and dyed a vivid pink, her lips painted to match, and the boy wearing an old t-shirt with a faded logo for a band I don’t know. I pass them and they stare at me with wide eyes, and then scurry across the street, into a narrow alley, their shoes kicking up the dust of the street as they run.
This place is depressing, and it makes me wish that I was anywhere else but here. I can’t believe anyone ekes out a living in this place. Half the shops are gone, empty with trash inside of them visible through whatever windows are in one piece and not boarded up. The few businesses that are left look like they’re struggling. I don’t know what the hell could bring people here.
Unless they’re desperate, and don’t have any other choice.
The thought makes me frown, and I ride down the main street. There’s an officer outside the jail, his hat low over his face, a cigarette in his hand as he watches me roll by, his eyes in shadow. I can’t tell if he’s looking at me to try to stop me, but he’s not running or yelling, so I’ll take it as a win.
I take another turn, along a street with dirty looking trailers. Not even grass dares grow here. Most yards are dirt, and picked over stone. A few of them have worn and faded plastic lawndecorations, from when times were more prosperous. A dog barks, running up against the chain-fence of its yard. I turn my helmet toward him, looking at him, and he instantly yips, and runs away, hiding behind the trailer his owner lives in. A final turn, and the bar’s just ahead, the sign over the front door proclaiming ‘Hop’s Place’ in faded, chipped, neon orange.
A small crowd of men, some of them leaning against their pickup trucks, some standing, others sitting on the bench on the outside wall, and they all stop talking when they see me. One of them spits, the tobacco-chewing kind, and the liquid hits the dust of the road. I’m not sure if they’re waiting for the bar to open, or if they’re here to cause trouble. Either way, it’s not my problem.
I ride up the road and down the side-drive beside the bar, parking the bike in the back yard. The front pavement and sidewalk’s cracked and buckled and I’m not trusting them to keep the weight of the bike up if it gives way.
My boots hit the pavement, and I unclip my helmet, pulling it off, and the first thing I notice is the sudden silence out here, like a blanket over everything. That power it radiates from the building like an evening star, and my whole body tenses, in reaction to feeling the key so close. I need to get my hands on it, or rather, on whoever’s got it in their possession.
There’s a back door out here, but it’s closed without a handle, so I walk up to the front, where the group of men are eyeing me like I’m a piece of shit under their boots. A crow on top of the building caws, mantling its wings at me. A challenge. He’s not afraid, like the dog.
