Little Tokyo was underground, a level below the surface. From my place you had to take a subsurface train to get there. It was located right beneath the High End district in LowDowns.

  High End was a small sector of the city, a series of platforms between highrises where the wealthiest of the LowDowns lived. Technically, these “High Enders” shared buildings with the poorer classes of LowTown beneath them, but High End was physically cut off from the lower floors with no way to reach it on foot. This was for good reason.

  Beneath High End's booming city was a slog of crime ridden concrete towers, vertical slums with no windows, no exits, and no cause for living. It was known as the Stix.

  But just above it, beyond a few floors of solid concrete, was a bustling city meant only for the premium LowDowners and the poorest MidCity citizens. Money, extravagance, and leisure awaited those with the capital or the know-how to get in. Meanwhile, chaos ensued meters below their feet.

  The High Tower was at the center of the district, a massive building even in comparison to the city surrounding it. It was one of the few LowDowns constructions that rose cleanly above the mess below and was a landmark for the surrounding classes too poor to get in.

  High Tower was the pride of the city sector, housing the richest industries, the priciest resorts and residences, and home to its esteemed, but critical, law enforcement services.

  The sector was a marvel, admittedly. Neon projected from the sides of buildings in stunning arrays. Covered bridges and platforms connected high rises into dense commercial or leisure spaces. And its few roads were wide and lined with fake trees where multiple lanes of traffic were suspended in air above the rest of LowDowns. Most non-residential buildings were full of shops and middle end malls, businesses and the like. And the people who lived there were some of the richest, cleanest, and most modified people in the whole of LowDowns.

  As far as the LowDowns went, it was the nicest part of the lower city. I'd never been there myself. Only seen the vids and holozines. But underneath it all, even the Stix, laid another sleeping devil. And that hell I was all too familiar with.

  Little Tokyo. It was miles wide, a mess of sparkling buildings rising like pillars to the city ceiling. Cracked narrow roads and bridges crowded the air space between rundown low rises, dark alleys, and bright bumping neon nightclubs.

  The lower classes and the high intermingled, leisure and work constantly battling for dominance. The tired poor worked for the rich, or the gangs, crushed between the lethal law enforcement who ruled with an iron fist and the ruthless yakuza gangs.

  The Red District was the heart of Little Tokyo. It was both the richest and the scummiest part of the city sector. In contrast to the High End above, the Red District was a neon shadow full of high priced night clubs, thieves dens, and gangster safehouses. Only the dangerous or the well paid dared enter.

  At the head of the snake in Little Tokyo were the Yakuza clans, one of the most fearsome being the Red Tiger. The club Itomori was its headquarters. That’s where I was headed.

  My hands trembled as I grabbed my train ticket. The L4 train: a sparkling white subterranean train system, clean, and expensive. It was worth it. The L6, the train system my class of people routinely used, was far cheaper but I didn’t feel like getting shivved today.

  People filtered in and out of the train around me as I lounged on the clean green seats of the L4. I definitely felt out of place. These were High Enders not the usuals. My oversized trench coat, dirty pants and overworn shirt didn't bolster any facade that I belonged there.

  I hid my eyes behind my sunglasses. Don’t want to freak the good citizens of LowDowns out. God knows there are very few of them.

  Once the train started, it rumbled softly, picking up speed as it shot down the railway.

  Tito. He was the cause of nightmares. Up both arms Yakuza tattoos ran up like sleeves, each one symbolizing some horrible deed he’d committed, and the man liked to show em off.

  Unlike most Yakuza, Tito was one of the few clan members who didn't carry a neon blade. His love for guns was too strong. All of the gun dealers in Little Tokyo knew his name and saved special weapons of destruction just for him.

  Tito’s love for me, on the other hand, was not. Each trip felt like a flip of a coin. One day, it would land on the wrong side and I’d disappear.

  “Next Stop: Canes Street, District 9. Proceeding stop: Takimori Station, District 10. Arrival times are thirty minutes to…” The intercom droned on, but I was listening to the race of the train. The way it sliced through the wind pushed a slight roar against the train window where I laid my head. The thick glass vibrated my skull as the air rushed by.

  With dreamy eyes I watched through the windows in a half daze. The train tunnel was all pipes, concrete, electrical cables and steel. It whirred together, blending into funny colors. Then, whoosh. The train broke free from the tunnel. The weightlessness of descent disappeared. We were at top speed now, blasting through the open air. And outside, the undercity opened up.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Every time I saw it, a breath caught in my throat. For miles, the cityscape expanded, with great columns of connected structures rising to the grand stone ceiling where it supported the surface city above. Each one was a behemoth with a hundred thousand glowing eyes staring back at me. Around them, the city fell into a mess of black shapes, rising and falling, twinkling a million times, broken by countless neon signs, glowing billboards and stunning light shows. It was both frightening and amazing.

  I raised my sunglasses for a bit to watch with my own eyes. It was stunning. All this light but the sun nowhere in sight.

  One of the other passengers caught my eye suddenly. A man sat opposite me, at the end of the train car, with a shy looking woman on his arm. It was her staring at me while she dug her face into his shoulder. We locked eyes before she looked away fearfully.

  The train slipped into a service tunnel, the view beyond the windows snapping black once more. Random tunnel lights blazed by like flashing orbs. My face lit up in the window between the brief bouts of darkness: the red eyes, the greasy hair. The embarrassment made me shut my eyes.

  I looked pathetic, like a streetside slinger. Nothing more than a junk head pusher. I bet the other passengers on the train were terrified I was even riding in the same car.

  The Yakuza were LowEnders, sure, but high class criminals compared to me. Tito only saw me as a slinger too, scum that sold and used at the same time. Maybe he was right.

  I felt the train shudder as it exited the surface tunnel.

  I opened my eyes to watch the cityscape again, this time slipping the glasses back over my face. Eyes were watching me; their pressure heavy. But I couldn’t blame them. I was exactly what I looked like.

  Don’t blame me. I was born like this…

  As we passed the first stop, no one got off. The doors closed and my anxiety worsened. We were getting closer. I could feel Little Tokyo’s presence approaching like dread in a nightmare.

  How’d I get here? Why was it me and not someone else? It could’ve been anybody else on this train.

  Gangers were bad. They were the scum of the earth. They learned to kill at a young age, and love maiming and torturing, raiding and burning. But they didn’t know any better. They were wild animals at best and worst.

  But the inner city gangs were something else. WarZone was hell incarnate, but these LowDowns guys were trained to kill, to hunt in the city.

  Most carried automatic weapons, side arms that could split you in half, and sharp blades burning white hot, and they knew how to use all of them. They could drive. They dressed well. They blended in. They could read. There were less of them, but something was dangerous about an animal with intelligence.

  At least the Yakuza liked money. I wondered for a while how long a Yakuza member would last in WarZone. Little scenarios played out in my head in the silence.

  I wish I didn’t have to deal with either one. I thought, growing bored of the game. I was tired of all of this. So tired. A part of me wanted to just step off at the next station and disappear. Become one of these people.

  My eyes drifted to the woman and her partner secretly, my gaze hidden behind my glasses. They were well dressed. Clean. Cuddling up next to one another, the woman nosing the man’s. They were smiling. I turned away before they kissed. Give it a break.

  Another pair of travelers were at the opposite end: an elderly lady and a child. The child kicked his legs back and forth under the seat, reading something from a pink magazine. The old woman sat beside him half asleep, her glasses falling down her wrinkled nose. Curly gray hair grew wild atop her head. The look of them both almost made my lips curl.

  The boy reminded me of Chuckles, Milo and the rest.. reminded me of myself at one time. So innocent. How do I get back there?

  Suddenly, I couldn't breathe. Choking, I clenched my eyes shut and tried to heave out a breath. I couldn’t.

  Then, a headache started, scorching my brain like a flash frier. I pushed my hands over my face, squishing my skull together like it was coming apart, my glasses drifting off into my lap. It felt like something inside was trying to break and shatter into a million pieces. I held it together by squeezing my head, hunching over in my seat, pulling at my hair until the sensation stopped.

  Then I wiped my face and put my glasses back on. My breathing stuttered back to life as I calmed myself. Whatever it was trying to break inside held together, but the tension was like a taught string ready to snap. This happened sometimes. Don't know why.

  I looked back at the kid and his grandmother, watching them momentarily with a thick, dark emptiness falling over me like a veil.

  At the next stop the train cabin emptied. Then, it was just me riding to my destination. The city sprawled out like strange shapes in the dark. Mesmerized, I watched alone.

  What was it going to be this time? My stop was close. Would I step off the train or just ride it to somewhere new?

  “You there. A fine day in Nyoza, isn’t it?” The intercom spoke to me in buzzing Japanese. Nyoza was the official name for Little Tokyo. “I hope you are enjoying your ride on the Katoma Railway. Your next destination [Nyoma Station Six] is coming up soon. Wouldn’t you like to get off and take a breather? There is plenty to do there. And if you present your ticket, there are many places that offer discounts on Katoma products, including: [food, transportation, rooms, entertainment]. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

  The train finally slid to a halt. The train intercom interrupted the ad: “Nyoma Station Six. All Passengers are free to disembark. Thank you for riding with Katoma. Next stop…”

  “Hey there, handsome," another ad broke into the noise, a sultry woman's voice, "Make sure to stop by Nakatori Plaza. You look like you could use a friend.”

  “Yeah, right,” I spat, leaving the rail car.

  Longer chapters, less release, or shorter chapters, more releases?