Ash fell from the cigarette’s tip, shattering on the silver ashtray.

  Dick’s thick fingers steadied the filter, his hawk-like eyes piercing Danan. Though clouded, his gaze held the iron will of a veteran survivor. Old but overpowering, Dick downed his glass of water, rolling the melted ice on his tongue.

  “…You,” he said.

  “Dick. Didn’t you hear the Commander, kid?” Dick retorted.

  His words stabbed, his tone chastising. Glancing at Danan’s mechanical arm, Dick mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

  “…Dick, did you know the old man?” Danan asked.

  “What’s it to you?” Dick replied.

  “Nothing, just…”

  “Just?”

  “…Just thought he had guy friends too.”

  “…”

  Sipping bourbon, Danan groaned at the throat-burning alcohol, lit a cigarette, and exhaled. Purple smoke rose, dancing in rings under the dim lamp.

  Danan knew nothing of his foster father. The old man, who found him in an alley, never spoke of his past. Always smoking, puffing purple haze, drinking a glass of liquor at set times, reading rare paperbacks in the undercity, he seemed intellectual yet cracked crude jokes.

  That old man kept Danan alive—teaching him guns, relic survival, undercity ways, knowledge to endure. Nameless, he was Danan’s mentor, his name-giver. Danan had countless questions for Dick, who seemed to know him, but Dick’s aura silenced him. Covering his mouth with his mechanical palm, Danan hesitated.

  “Kid,” Dick said.

  “Danan.”

  “Kid’s enough for you. Earn a name by living up to it. Names carry deep meaning. Your old man… he spoke of that often.”

  “The old man did?” Danan asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Danan’s dark eyes locked onto Dick.

  “…Am I your Virgil?” Dick mused.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “What?” Danan replied.

  “Where’s your Beatrice, kid? Who’s Charon, rowing the Acheron? Who’s the sage guiding to heaven? Can you be the next Dante? Speak, kid.”

  Danan shook his head, baffled by Dick’s references. Downing another sip, he muttered, “I’m me. Nothing else.”

  “Right. You’re just another soul in this world. Existing, you sin, bear evil. Lamenting hope’s absence, standing at despair’s edge, eyes fixed on the abyss. You’re you—no one else.”

  “…”

  “Don’t chase, don’t cling, look away. The mountain’s not high; paradise starts in hell. Walk through hell, wander purgatory, chase stars, and only then grasp light, find your path. Kid… I’ll be your Virgil. Let others talk. Walk your path—as Danan.”

  Rising, Dick handed Danan a worn paperback. “Commander Gloria, I’ll take my leave. Security will handle the illicit plant’s destruction.” He donned his hat and coat.

  “Thanks, Chief Director Dick. But wait,” Gloria said.

  “What?”

  “I need to discuss something—deportation lists and ascenders.”

  “That’s not my purview. Legal and Management handle that.”

  “I knew you’d say that. It’s already arranged; just needs your signature.”

  “…Let me see. Send the list to my device.”

  Gloria smiled, operating his device, while Dick sighed. His eyes scanned the data, pausing briefly to glance at Danan, then resumed—a precise machine, a scanner.

  “Asking if you’re sane is pointless, isn’t it?” Dick said.

  “Yup,” Gloria replied.

  “Based on ten years’ exploration results and mission success rates, they pass. But three at once… I’ll need time to convince the others. Why them for mid-city, Commander?”

  “For a new order, a new society.”

  “The upper city won’t stay quiet.”

  “Dick, I’ve always thought permanence is a sweet poison, chronic paralysis. Mid-city’s getting ripe with trouble, right? We need hounds used to killing. Am I wrong?”

  “…Your dogs?”

  “No—friends.”

  “Fine,” Dick muttered, pocketing his device, shrugging. “I’ll consider it. Answer in three days.”

  “Thanks, Dick.”

  Adjusting his suit, Dick left the bar, Gloria waving. He turned to Danan.

  “Danan? What’s up?” Gloria asked.

  “This book…” Danan said.

  “The paperback?”

  “…The old man read it a lot.”

  “Your old man? Let me see.”

  The title was The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri—a classic epic.

  “Divine Comedy, huh? Sounds like Dick’s taste… your old man liked it too, Danan?”

  “Liked it? He read it often. Or maybe another book. I’m not surprised Dick reads it—anyone literate reads books. Just feels nostalgic.”

  Flipping pages, Danan’s fingers grazed liquid-stained paper, stopping at a red-lined passage: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

  “This…” Danan said.

  “That’s about hell’s gate. I prefer Faust or Thus Spoke Zarathustra, but what’s up?” Gloria asked.

  “…”

  Hell’s gate evoked the relic gate for Danan. Relics, teeming with alien creatures and deadly environments, were hell itself. The undercity above was limbo. Then, the gates from mid-city to the upper city—purgatory, a path to paradise?

  “Let’s go, Danan. My business is done,” Gloria said.

  “Yeah…” As Danan rose, still holding the book, his instincts screamed danger. He tackled Gloria to the floor as gunfire shattered the bar’s liquor bottles and lamps.

  While Gloria’s eyes widened, Danan deployed his mechanical arm’s high-frequency blade, drawing his shotgun. A figure in black-iron exoskeleton armor blocked their path—a reaper. Its chain gun roared, pile bunker raised. The upper city’s assassin, crimson mono-eye swiveling, declared, “Target confirmed. Commencing elimination.”

  Boosters flared, and it charged Danan.