XXXII - Street Level

The acrid burn of toxic air hit her lungs even through the worn mask strapped across her face. Native south american girl Maya adjusted the filter valve, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she navigated the crowded sidewalk with her long transparent hooded protective cover. Around her, other women hurried past—some in government-issued grey bodysuits heading toward the mandatory biomechanical training centers, others in the telltale orange armbands marking them as work slaves transitioning to labor assignments.

A sandstorm warning flashed on the holographic display embedded in the building facade beside her. 5 minutes until acid dust advisory. She needed to get inside. Now. But she knows a place close, below the High Line.

The streets were a kaleidoscope of neon advertisements competing with emergency alerts. “NEW ORDER PROTECTION ZONE - 2 BLOCKS NORTH” pulsed in crimson letters. Below it, a smaller ad promoted something more disturbing: “PETRA'S PIERCING - SMOKE - COFFEE SHOP - Specializing in compliance modifications. Walk-ins welcome.”

Maya ducked into a café just as the first gust of brown wind began to howl down the avenue as it punished the surviving vegetation. Inside, the space was sealed behind thick atmospheric glass panels. Through them, she could see the street outside beginning to disappear into a maelstrom of dirt and debris. The establishment was one of the newer franchise types—what they called a “monitored zone.” We should mention that the place was impeccably clean. Transparent screens displayed online real-time feeds of security footage while patrons sipped their coffee. Smoke curled lazily from the espresso machine, mingling with the haze of incense burning in the back corner. The music—a slow, melancholy tune—padded the air with an otherworldly quality. Through the atmospheric glass, the storm raged on, but inside the café, time seemed to stretch out, to the sound of mixed conversations in the background.

At 22 years old, Petra the barista and owner daughter, a young woman whose left ear bore the famous working class regulation steel piercing denoting unmarried status, looked up with tired eyes as Maya removed her transparent hood better revealing a metal collar to match Petras. Both girls had an exotic beauty, no doubt, but there was something almost animalistic about Maya that Petra found utterly alluring. Too many years spent in the service of her father had taught her to notice such subtle details. Maya`s features spoke of ancestral roots deeper than the modern city: fuller lips, black hair, high cheekbones, skin the color of burnished copper. But it was the native skimpy gilded clothing that truly caught her attention.

“Your spanish banker owner has expensive tastes,” Petra observed, her tone carefully neutral. The espresso machine hissed steam again. “Those skimpy pieces look authentic. Pre-Columbian reproduction work? These monitored zones are some of the safest places during a dust storm i would say.” Her gaze flicked to Maya's exposed midriff, then back up to her face. “Though I suppose you're used to being 'on display' by now like me, aren't you?” She teased her friend.

"Some of it" Maya shifted on the bench, very aware of Petra's scrutiny. The clothing wasn't meant for comfort—her owner had commissioned it specifically to display what he considered his most valuable asset. During their last exhibition at the Cultural Heritage Museum, she'd worn even less. This outfit was practically modest by comparison. That's without even mentioning the ridiculous visits to zoos. “He likes things that showcase... ownership.....ancestry.,” Maya said carefully, her fingers tracing the edge of the collar at her throat. —the steel cool against her skin. “Says it reminds people who I belong to forever.” A brief, awkward moment of silence followed this statement....

“You'll be waiting out the storm?” Petra changed the subject while masked, with a transparent shield on her face, her voice carrying the slight accent of generations removed from Athens. She pushed a strand of dark hair behind her left ear, the steel piercing and green eyes catching the café's warm lighting—a mark that denoted her availability within the working-class hierarchy....