Mad megalopolis

It was an hour after midday when Charlotte arrived in the City. She alighted from the train to see a massive crowd in the station. Even several hours after the fact, a veritable mob filled the halls as confused and disgruntled travellers read the notices on huge screens explaining exactly why the Mag-Lev was not running: an entire section of its underground tunnel through the mountains had collapsed. There was no information on how this had happened, no mention of possible neglect by the maintenance crews, not even the hint of a terror plot brewing. It was simply noted as an unforeseeable accident.

Harold was already gone, having left the train at a smaller station just outside the ramparts, which had a lift shaft into the Burrows. By now, he must have already seen what Charlotte beheld now. And it would have been awful enough with just a shady tunnel accident throwing a wrench in her day and probably her week. The City was just as deeply afflicted as the suburbs by this "yearly religious ritual", which, for all she knew, it might well be. For every few vacationers moaning to each other about the transport disaster, another was busy drowning his or her sorrows in pussy or cock, or both. And not half of the participants in all these blatant public displays were anywhere near as pretty as the first couple. It was suddenly less tempting to choose a dedicated pussy eater when the selection appeared so poor.

Stepping out of the overcrowded train station, Charlotte dragged herself and her luggage over to a bench and dropped upon it. The air on the small plaza outside the entrance was freezing but it contained more oxygen than the sweaty, breathy horror house that the station's population had made it into. Likewise, the snow on the wood under her could only be so unpleasant after so long in a hot stuffy wagon full of horny apes. Besides, her coat was snow proof. Looking around her she saw a woman on her knees sucking a guy off, but they were the only two getting freaky in sight. The streets wouldn't reek of sex any time soon.

While she sat there stationary, the rest of the City got on its way, specifically all the various people either arriving in town from the trains or returning home frustrated. They spilled onto the plaza in small blobs at a time. It was impossible not to notice their reaction to the lone girl, sitting on a bench with lots of luggage, and not wearing any holes. The men looked confused, and disappointed, but moved on swiftly, always eager to see the next pair of tits wherever it may be. It was other women who gave this renegade a wide berth, and made sure to give her the most disapproving fly-by stares they could manage. At any moment Charlotte half-expected one of the bitches to make the oxymoronic jump and call out her shameful chastity.

Finally she'd had enough and the cold was beginning to bite through her cloth armour. It was time to go. She would sign into the hotel father had booked for her as planned, and phone the university to tell them she was sick. The whole reason she was here was to attend a truncated course in linguistics. Somehow the idea of trying to follow a series of lectures during which there was even less guarantee than usual of a quiet, attentive audience, and during which she might be the only person bothered by any distractions, was profoundly unappealing. It would be especially irksome to turn up only to watch the professor fucking each student who might have a crush on him or her (and there were always at least a couple).

Charlotte was nearly at the hotel. She knew it was on the other side of a bridge, one that crossed where one of the canals used to be, and she could see that the skyline ahead dipped downwards a few hundred yards after the next intersection, so the spot was near. But just then, her phone buzzed. Stopping at the traffic lights, she put one foot on the nearest wheel of her suitcase, and set about digging through her outerwear to try and reach the device. It was in her trouser pocket, mid thigh, so as to make sure she'd notice when Harold's status report came in.

It wasn't Harold. It wasn't even a written message. An unknown number had called her, and the phone had automatically refused the request. Charlotte stared at the small screen as if it might explain, but her unspoken rage was in vain. Meanwhile, her neglect to move herself and her bulky luggage out of the way bore its fruit. A dark shape glided across the road, did not see the great mass of plastic in front of it, and accidentally kicked it into a spinning tumble. But the figure didn't stop, and was out of reach before Charlotte could speak. She whirled around to watch the as the stranger hurried away into the crowd, growing smaller and smaller each time a line of sight opened up between them. It was impossible to distinguish gender, Charlotte realized, because the person was thoroughly hidden under a full circle cloak, hood up. A bit dazed now, she grabbed her things and set off again. Her legs ached and she yearned a hot shower. Any further headache-inducing cognitive effort could wait.

Crossing the bridge was a novel experience. Several hundred metres below and about that deep was a wide trench with sloping walls. In it were houses, streets, small parks, an entire section of the City lower than the rest. Northwards, the trench led to a former reservoir, a huge circular basin of land. It was here that the tallest skyscrapers were rooted, since it was the last place to have allowed construction. By that time, the cheapest way to go was straight up, since the City could no longer expand horizontally. In the opposite direction, the trench ended abruptly, right under the train station. The wall in that place was bare of any structures except for four large elevator shafts, because it had to be easy to take down in case there was trouble beyond: what remained of the locking system, where the canal descended steeply down in small steps.

Halfway across, her phone vibrated twice more. Charlotte stopped dead, and took a deep breath. Her calves were throbbing, and her side was aching from the slanted posture she had after carrying her backpack and saddlebag and also dragging that wheeled case along. Still, she shoved her stuff against the bridge barrier so no one would crash into them, and reached into her trousers again.

There were two messages. The first was Harold, stating that the "worst" had happened and his wife was batty. The whole family, living together as Burrowers often do, had already thoroughly explored each other's intimacy in detail. But Charlotte only spared half her attention for him, immediately accepting the second message request. It was from the same stranger as before.

Hi. I heard you were in town. I need to speak to you. It’s urgent. Please call me when you can.

Charlotte huffed to herself. She'd changed coordinates a solid year before, and sent a warning to all her contacts. It couldn't be anybody of note if they didn't care to keep up. But then, how did they know she was here?

Who are you?

The answer came almost immediately: Evie Oliver.