Access to the Marketplace requires an ID swipe and three advertisements. There’s no way I’m swiping my ID chip and leaving a record of being in the retail sector today. Not with a bag full of contraband.

 

At the next stanchion, a man watches a hologram featuring the latest energy drink — now in synthetic Yellow Fruit flavor! Absorbed, he doesn’t see me drop a mini-scrambler on the scanner.

 

Words on my retinal overlays hiccup and reshuffle.

 

Marketplace: Entry videos complete. Have a nice day, Clara. Don’t forget your monthly purchase quota!

 

I roll my eyes. My name’s not Clara.

 

The gate slides open, and Energy Drink shoots me a baffled look. A second advertisement spools up in front of him. I wink and tuck the scrambler into my bag, then disappear into the Marketplace.

 

The sidewalks bustle with silent Citizens going about their government-mandated shopping. Spongy plasticrete muffles footsteps and though MirageWearTM seems to swish, it does soundlessly. Targeted ads project directly onto individual overlays, making the crowd a mute, peaceful horde.

 

I blink, and the street schematics I loaded earlier flicker across my vision. Three blocks, turn left. A two-foot channel out of range of cameras and scanners runs alongside an alley wall.

 

When no one’s looking, I engage my speed enhancers to whip into the blind spot. Hidden in the alley, I shake my head, and fiber-optic scalp implants turn violet curls into a sleek raven waterfall. Next, I set the dial on my MirageWearTM and the sundress shifts into the appearance of leggings and a leather jacket. Disguise complete.

 

Around the corner, I pause in front of a nondescript building. A seven-foot bruiser with bulging muscle implants and dermal plating leans in the doorway. He gives me a once-over before nodding.

 

I step from the hushed street into a hidden kitchen. A wall of glorious, authentic chaos hammers me. The thunk of a cleaver on butcher block. Meat sizzling, sauces bubbling. Unlike personalized digital scents formed by manipulated brain neurons, the heavenly aroma of cooking food wafts freely — real ingredients, not synthesized meal bars.

 

Beyond the kitchen, I can hear the strange tinkle of silverware on plates in the dining room. Citizens spend the precious cubits they’ve saved after meeting their purchasing quota on an illicit meal of real food, not replicated substrates, and supplements. It’s an illegal indulgence where Citizens pretend to be Elite.

A tall man with an extra set of bio-reticulated thumbs catches my eye and his blinked words fill my overlays.

 

Chef Andy: What did you bring me today, Twilight?

 

Not my name either, of course, but I like the idea of a sexy alias. I pull a package from my bag and pop the top. Crimson heart-shaped fruits glisten like rubies, flecked with golden seeds. His jaw drops.

 

Chef Andy: Redfruit? Where the hell did you get them?

 

I grin.

 

Twilight: The Un-Augs grow them in dirt gardens beyond the wall.

 

He smirks.

 

Chef Andy: Fine. Don’t tell me.

 

I’m not lying. At least not completely. I really found them growing in the dirt — the honest to goodness dirt — outside the city. But the idea that wild bands of unaugmented humans rove the Wilds? Totally ridiculous. Everyone knows that.

 

Andy plucks up the Redfruits with his nimble bio-thumbs.

 

Chef Andy: I’ll take the lot.

 

I knew he would.

 

* * *

 

My overlays stop working halfway through the deserted service tunnel. Ahead, golden sunlight marks the opening beyond the wall. No one goes into the Wilds. Outside the peaceful city, there’s a cacophony of rustling leaves and chirruping insects. The earth beneath my feet is rich and loamy, and the breeze carries an unfamiliar floral scent. My senses buzz in deliciously bizarre overload.

 

I stride between the trees, searching for a bush of small orbs I’d seen on my last visit. I’m hoping the Bluefruit is ripe. A few handfuls will make me a killing in the Marketplace’s underground.

 

A twig snaps, louder than a pulse-bolt in my ears, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Something watches from the undergrowth. I’m used to the ever-present scrutiny of cameras and sensors, but this is different.

 

Alive.

 

The Watcher moves between the trees. I try broadcasting a general greeting but remember my overlays aren’t functional. My mouth goes dry. I’m closer to the tunnel than the Watcher. I could go back. Icy sweat pebbles my upper lip as I wait for the Watcher to make their move.

 

Time slips sideways.

 

Bugs stop singing. The canopy still whooshes in the breeze, as if the trees whisper amongst themselves, eager to see what happens. A shape unravels itself from the shade. She’s too small, too slight, with no biomechanical enhancements. Her hair’s a halo of dark tangles, and threadbare, woven cloth covers her brown skin instead of MirageWearTM.

 

Un-Aug.

 

In quick succession, I open and close my eyes several times as if she’s some overlay misfire I can blink away, though I know I’m out of UltraNet range. I refocus on her face, the distinct white scars at her temples. Her eyes are the deepest, earthy brown I’ve ever seen.

 

She opens her mouth and resonant modulations ring out. “Eegresa a tu ciudad, monstruo. Las Salvajes son nuestras.”

 

I know the musical tones should have meaning, but they confuse senses too used to silence and overlay-text.

 

In a flash, she’s gone.

 

* * *

 

Un-Augs are real. No one will believe me. They’ll say my overlays misfired. Her face, a paradox of delicate and strong, swims in my vision. Not digital recall, but truly my mind’s eye. I picture the overlay scars at her temples.

 

A need to know her burns in my gut.

 

There’s a guy on the DarkNet. I blink out a secure message.

 

Twilight: Can you truly remove augmentations?

 

It takes an eternity for the reply.

 

Butcher: It’ll cost you.

 

I remember the Blue Fruit bush and a rusty braying escapes my lips. It’s nice to laugh out loud.