Nyoma or “Little Tokyo” was a vibrant place. The roads were full of sleek cars, the air pulsed with nightclub music, and the alleys and sidewalks bustled with colorful young people. It felt like one of the few LowDowns areas still thriving. Little Tokyo had its share of shitty back alleys and crowded trash filled streets too, but even they were a far cry from the dead LowDowns outskirts or the towering high rise slums of the inner city.

  Did that mean I liked it? No. The Yakuza knew how to put a damper on things.

  Shozima, a part of the Medtek conglomerate, owned everything from apartment buildings to businesses in Little Tokyo and their policies were harshest for the poor. Evictions, repossessions, and permanent debt were a fact of life for the lower classes here. This pushed the poor towards the gangs and the gangs of Little Tokyo were always in contention. With endless recruits, they were free to be ruthless.

  On the other side was the private police force. Nyoma Private Police, or the NPP, was a name the entire city knew. They were merciless in their opposition to the Yakuza gangs.

  They were also more crooked than a bucket of snakes. Bribes, extortion, hired hits, hell, they were the kind that took corruption on the nose and still turned around to shoot the briber in the back. When a journalist reporting on the crime in Little Tokyo disappeared back in ‘87, it was a fifty-fifty whether the Yakuza or the Police had a hand in it.

  So, on every block corner was either a police unit armed with riot gear and assault weapons or yakuza soldiers with illegal cybernetics and automatic guns. In this particular part of Little Tokyo, near the Red District, it was the Yakuza. They were on every block, standing on the corners or sitting in the shops, watching the streets behind their intimidating ceramic oni and dragon masks.

  At the center of the Red Tiger's territory was the neon fortress, Itomori. It was a massive structure, column-like, made up of a hundred floors that ran up to the ceiling of the city. In a show of decadence, the sides were terraced like a Japanese castle. Its edges sparkled bright red, almost blindingly so, with mesmerizing LED lights that fluctuated between orange and purple in long waves.

  It was a grand monument to the sin of Little Tokyo and to the prosperity of the Red Tigers. To the police, it was a beacon of their weakness. Though no one said it, most people didn't think the NPP had the manpower to assault the building and that’s why it was still around. I believed that to be true.

  I hid in the shadows of the lowstreets just a block from the glittering palace. The low roads were empty and dark, starkly contrasting the main streets above which bustled with expensive cars and young drunk voices. The beautiful architecture of the highstreets was also absent. Everything down here was grey, lightless and without features. At least it was safe to sneak through.

  The club was in sight, brightly pulsing over a low rooftop and glowing in the empty spaces between buildings. A great red sign, the size of a small house, flashed overhead in the air, hanging over the tops of lowrise roofs. “Itomori: Club Red” in burning letters glowed ethereal in the sky. Underneath was a Japanese translation.

  I tried to imagine what that was like for the poor folk who lived nearby. The hellish light had to be blasting through their windows at all hours of the night.

  I slipped through the lowstreets and up some slick concrete stairs. Then, the excitement of the highstreets met me. Steam hissed from gutters. Cars honked. People crowded the sidewalks. And the club pulsed, the music loud enough to break through the stone walls of Itomori and shake the air with bass.

  There it was. Itomori. The largest den of sin man had ever created. It was so massive, you had to look straight up just to see the whole thing. I’d never been inside, and I hoped I never would be.

  Across the main street from Itomori was a smaller three story club battling the sickening red glow of Itomori with its own dizzying deep blue neon array. Both clubs fought for the loudest noise in the city.

  The surrounding neighborhood formed around the club, creating a giant square with Itomori at its center. Nearby shops, restaurants and low rises rose up like monoliths around it, bathed in crimson and dwarfed beneath the club sign.

  Along with that, cars bustled in the streets, many of them fancy, expensive Japanese muscle cars with cracking engines. The sidewalks overflowed with people of all types bustling to their next fix. Tired workers in coats and coveralls did their best to wade through the crowds, while groups of young rich people with slick clothes and slender smiles strode through thick groups of criers, scuzzheads, and roamers. Everyone stayed clear of the obvious groups of Yakuza soldiers posted on the corners, watching over various rings of prostitutes hustling on the sidewalks. For good reason, too.

  These guys looked hardcore. Locking eyes with them was a serious offense and they did not fuck around.

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  But if you followed the rules, and had a little extra cash to grease the wheels, Little Tokyo was a sinner's paradise. Gambling, drugs, sex, all of it was pushed through this square right here. You could find whatever vice you were looking for and more.

  But the strangest thing the Yakuza had to offer were their neon soldiers.

  These gangsters were like no other in the entire city. They dressed nicer, in fashionable oversized jackets, tank tops, and athletic wear, or if they were high rollers, sleek, high-end clothes, straight-fit colored slacks, and button-downs with expensive belt buckles. They had the newest shoes, stolen probably wholesale, and their bodies, whether flesh or steel, were covered in gang tattoos.

  There were good cybernetics throughout the city, even in WarZone, but here the work was magnificent. Elegant metalwork made the prosthetics and enhancements look like porcelain.

  And each Yakuza member carried a katana as a symbol of their status. The rumor was, you had to kill someone to get it. I never heard if that was true, though.

  Their scariest feature was definitely the mask: full-skull or half-skull, hardcore yakuza members wore oni or dragon masks to conceal their faces. Each mask glowed in mesmerizing neon lending the warriors their name and notoriety. It was easy to see how as the masks were terrifyingly effective.

  Tito, on the other hand, didn’t wear a mask, though he most certainly had killed his fair share to earn the necessity of anonymity. He was a pusher, a real pusher, not some LowDowns slinger like me. His takes were large-scale.

  That’s why it was strange that he dealt to people like me. Small fry slingers made pennies in comparison. Tito had no reason to put himself at risk for what amounted to pocket change, but, sure enough, there he was streetside waiting for slingers like me to slink out of the shadows to deal with him. Personally, I think he got off on it. Though what he enjoyed more, the risk or scaring the shit out of us small timers, I couldn’t say.

  It was easy for me to pick him out on the block. He was huge compared to everyone else, towering over the sidewalk like a giant lump of flesh. His eyes skirted the traffic in front of the club with careful precision while three other masked men hovered around him.

  Across the street, the other club bounced with music and a line of people went around the corner. But there wasn't a line outside Itomori.

  Itomori must be closed to the public. That was odd because the music was still bursting through the walls.

  I sighed, gaining the strength to finally ditch the shadows, and rushed across the street through heavy traffic. Tito eyed me before I even got halfway. He called over one of his crew and they brought him something for me. That's not a good sign. Usually, I told him what I was selling.

  No one paid me any mind when he walked up to meet me.

  “Dreamer. You out already?” His voice bellowed from his belly. It was dark and judgmental.

  “Yeah, sold to some WarZoners for scrunch.” Scrunch meant quick, easy money.

  “Right.” He didn’t believe me. As long as I had the money though… He opened his hand. I tossed the roll of money Chuckles had given me over to him. There goes the rest of my scratch. I was penniless now.

  He didn't even count it before tossing a thick clear bag into my chest. It was a collection of some of the things I sold… except there were needles at the bottom.

  “Hey. I don’t sell Mezadone anymore.” Tito looked at me like he couldn’t believe what he’d heard.

  “You sell whatever I give you, slinger. Backtalk me again and I’ll bitch slap you.” My blood started to boil but I held back.

  I didn’t sell Mezadone anymore. It was too dangerous. The junkies were quick to cut the dealers and they didn’t care how they got their fix. Plus, the time for Mez distribution was twenty years in prison.

  The fact that he’d given me Mezadone meant he’d had some extra stock he was trying to get rid of quick. Unfortunately, it undercut my other product. Now, I’d have to dump the Mez and just take a loss. And Mezadone was expensive.

  I should’ve just walked away, but... I gathered up my courage again.

  “I’m not taking the Mezadone needles. I don’t deal to Mezzers. You’re ripping me off.” Tito stepped off the curb towards me, beyond pissed, and that’s all it took. I backed away.

  Tito was far larger than me. He could snap me in half if he wanted to. And worse, some of the other guys were staring now, too. Not good. I took it too far.

  “You take. What I give you,” he spat out, advancing with the gait of a predator ready to pounce. The only thing that saved me was his lack of enthusiasm for the chase.

  After a minute of following me into the crowded street, he pointed a meaty finger and shouted, “Now, fuck off.” His jacket opened and I saw a chrome plated pistol in his waistband. Right. It’s time to go.

  I briskly shrunk back into the shadows without saying another word. Then I was back trudging through the lowstreets, my heart beating into my ears..

  Deep down I was seething. I'd been ripped off. Those needles were probably lying around in a storage room somewhere for a month before they decided they needed to get rid of them. Then, they chose to offload it onto some poor sap, which was me. I was their garbage man. And I was going to lose money for it.

  Anger boiled up inside me but so did helplessness. There was nothing I could do. I was just grateful he didn’t call his crew to kick the shit out of me.

  Shameful. This shit sucks. Embarrassment, shame, fear… it all ran through me like a sudden illness.

  And the saddest thing was… they thought I was nothing but a slinger high on my own supply. And they were right…