A single, naked bulb cast a dim, unsteady light across the gloomy room.

  The slightest movement sent the grating sound of metal chains echoing off the exposed concrete walls, followed by the crackle of a shock baton’s purple electricity tearing through the air. A girl, her hollow eyes wide with terror, shrieked at the sensation of a cockroach crawling up her thigh. Through the iron bars of her cell, she pleaded with the fully mechanized man standing guard.

  "Please! Help us, we—"

  A sharp click of his tongue, a glint in his dull, mechanical eyes. He unlocked the cell and stepped into the chamber where the girls were kept. As if to make an example, he brought his boot down with full force on the stomach of a boy who was breathing in shallow gasps.

  "Did you say something?"

  "..."

  The guard shoved the shock baton into the boy's bruised, discolored wound and flipped the switch. A violet current surged through it. The boy's body convulsed like a frog in an electrocution experiment, a spray of saliva and blood flying from his mouth as he went limp, the whites of his eyes showing.

  "Y-You monster! Get him... get him treatment!"

  "Don't say another word."

  It was another girl, chained like the rest, who silenced the frantic one. Her own cheek was swollen, a trickle of blood running from the corner of her mouth. She fixed the guard with a defiant glare from her emerald-green eyes. "If you say anything more, you'll put his life in danger. You need to understand that by now. How many times are you going to make the same mistake?"

  "But... but, Satera, at this rate he'll—"

  "I know. And as long as you keep screaming, that machine will just keep inflicting pointless violence. Isn't that right? Or am I wrong?"

  Satera, with a strange and unwavering composure, glanced at the sobbing girl before her eyes settled back on the guard, specifically on the electronic key dangling from his belt.

  This room, she had surmised, was a warehouse for human beings slated to be sold as commodities. Beyond the bars, two fully-armed, fully-mechanized men stood watch in shifts, acting as needed. If someone screamed, they silenced them with violence. If a woman begged for help, they would torture a man she was close to. If a man showed defiance, they would break his spirit by torturing a woman. The mechanical guards knew exactly how to subjugate those unaccustomed to violence, those sensitive to the pain of others.

  Satera spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor and looked at their former leader, now hanging limp and unconscious. She lamented their foolishness, how they had underestimated what the Low-level city truly was.

  It was true that she had once sympathized with his ideals, with the convictions of their circle. *Even the people of the Low-level city,* they had believed, *if you preach compassion, they will surely listen.* They had come here to spread the teachings of the holy book—love thy neighbor, turn the other cheek—to bring the wonder of love and peace to this forsaken place. To do so, they had slipped in among the Mid-level citizens who had been condemned to "fall" to the Low-level.

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  But reality was a cruel master. Unaware of what it meant to be "fallen," ignorant of the conditions they were walking into, Satera and her friends were assaulted by overwhelming violence and the grim, pervasive stench of death. The moment one of them saw a rotting corpse lying by the roadside, he went mad with terror and was silenced by a bullet to the head. Then came the vultures, the corpse-scavengers who swarmed the body, their hands slick with blood as they carved out organs, placed them in preservation containers, and sold them to buyers. It was a vision of hell.

  Screams stained with blood, the fangs of ghouls preying on the weak. To the inhabitants of the Low-level, Mid-level citizens were nothing but blind, defenseless sheep. They were livestock, raised in the warmth and safety of a cage, fattened without ever knowing a true threat. Satera, having escaped a mob of men and women whose glistening eyes burned with turbid desire as they killed those who were too slow and harvested their fresh organs, understood the rule of the Low-level city in that instant, with primal clarity.

  The law of the jungle. The weak are prey for the strong, and the strong, in turn, are prey for the even stronger. A food chain. To the people here, Satera's group were all lumped into a single category: the weak. They were the hunted. No matter how brilliant you were in the Mid-level city, no matter how much money or power you held, that was a currency valid only there. A person who had never handled a gun, who had never killed, could not possibly remain sane in this madness.

  Was it good fortune amidst the wailing and mockery, or was their misfortune simply not over yet? The vagrants and children who had been in the midst of the slaughter scattered and fled the moment they saw a truck approaching. Satera's companions were relieved, thinking help had arrived. But the girl, now understanding the rules of this place, knew instinctively that a more powerful predator had just appeared.

  She would never forget the words of the fully-armed cyborgs. Counting the survivors one by one, one had said, "Is this all the pigs that are left?" Then, to make an example, he killed one of them. He shot down another who resisted without hesitation. "Pays to have connections in the Mid-level city, eh, Mr. Ailey?" he'd said, glancing at a slender man beside him who was assembling a 3D puzzle.

  Ailey was a man cloaked in an overcoat embroidered with a strange symbol: a complex intertwining of gears and a brain. It was the mark of The Trembling, Maddened God, a cult known even in the Mid-level city for its aggressive proselytizing.

  "Indeed," Ailey had said. "Our organization, and all within it, belongs to our Prophet. It is because of our church, The Trembling, Maddened God, that even these lost lambs who have fallen to the lower level can find salvation. Not a meaningless, worthless death, but a meaningful one, as part of a new flesh."

  "Heh. Can't say I'm interested in your religion. But what's the deal? The followers down here seem a lot crazier."

  "That is because they seek a simple death. The meaningful, valuable death we seek is the liberation of the soul. To release the spirit from the chains of the flesh. Through the salvation of death, the soul is freed to take its true form. The salvation of the White Holy Angel and the One-Winged Savior will surely guide us to the promised land."

  "The promised land, huh."

  "Oh? You seem interested. How about it? Would you care to listen to a wonderful sermon from our Prophet?"

  "Sorry, not interested in religion. So, Mr. Ailey, what's your next move?"

  "Why, to do what is necessary in the commercial district. I was thinking it is about time we replaced the ruler of that sector."

  "You planning on picking a fight with the Ranks of the Dead? Don't. They're not as soft as you think."

  "An organization from the Low-level? They're nothing. They'll blow over with a single puff of wind. Besides..."

  "Besides?"

  "This should not be a bad proposition for you Ruffians, either. To join hands with my organization, The Trembling, Maddened God, and form a business alliance with the Mid-level mafia."

  The fully-mechanized man burst into a hearty laugh, but his voice was chilling. "Don't say another stupid thing. I'll kill you." He leveled the muzzle of his large-caliber, portable gatling gun at Ailey.

  "The only reason I'm here is because the boss ordered it. None of the Ruffians will ever join forces with you, and if any idiot does, he's dead. If you want to go to war with the Ranks of the Dead, you'd better pay the right price. You piece of trash."

  At the man's words, a vein throbbed in Ailey's temple, his quiet fury palpable. He took several deep breaths to compose himself, then managed a confident smile.

  "By all means, consider it, Ruffian."

  He glanced over at Satera and the others.

  The man called Ailey, she deduced, was a member of a mafia organization operating in the shadows of the Mid-level city, and also a follower of The Trembling, Maddened God. He must have somehow obtained information on who was sentenced to fall and was now colluding with organizations in the Low-level. Even as she trembled with fear, Satera pieced together the answer from their exchange.

  "Right, I'll transport these ones to the warehouse. What are you gonna do now?"

  "I will inspect the merchandise and arrange the shipping destinations. The Low-level city is a fine place... where people are reborn as money."

  "Is that so? Just make sure you pay up, Mr. Ailey."

  Hearing this, Ailey muttered under his breath, "Shut up, you Low-level scum," and glared at the cyborg.

  The memories of Satera's descent from the Mid-level to her capture were a bloody nightmare, but as the girl replayed this scene in her mind, she bit her lip and watched, waiting for a chance to escape.