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incredibly bright eyes that glowed in the dark, but as science reinvented itself, so sprouted some of the simpler inventions of the past, like colored contact lenses. It was almost too easy. The Elder touters, those hard-core fundamentalist preachers, praise Elder Corp like rabid dogs, thanking the Hunters for protecting humanity from those monstrous Harpies . But it’s really not that simple. Hunters aren’t super-human. Sure, our reflexes are faster and our eyes are sharper, but the real difference is in the blood. In Hunters exists a Harpy allergen, which left alone would leave the enemy with a bloody nose and a sore stomach, but, augmented in labs all throughout the Elder Empire, that blood becomes a weapon, the only way to make a sure-fire kill.
    I never said Hunters were perfect, powerful beings. Even I’ve been guilty of letting a Harpy escape alive, but that’s something I can never tell anyone. Ever.

    As a joke I nearly suit myself up in Shelley’s new pink rad suit, but decide that humor probably isn’t the most appropriate thing right now. Instead I lace up in my old gear, worn-in black leather pants, dark brown combat boots and a white long-sleeve anti-rad shirt. I stuff my bags with pills for radiation sickness and a rad mask—just in case. I lock the door before I leave, my stomach flipping from nerves and who knows what else. It’s always before a big event that there’s the most tension. Once it’s begun, you just have to follow the wave until it’s over.
    The streets are quieter in the evening, the Holo-sky fading into the same deep sunburned pink as yesterday and the day before that. I could go on. I hop on the streetcar and ride near the back, hand gripping the cold metal bar until I reach the underground Elder Corp building. Glancing up at it, it’s obvious that it’s the only building that surpasses the sky, the grey bricks seemingly rising forever. Even though it’s Ichton and the Corp knows where I am, I still keep my face down as I enter the building.
    As usual the main lobby is swarming. Some older people with radiation sickness hold up protest signs asking for a cure while young Corp initiates pass out flyers outlining their latest projects, always asking for money. To think that after years of war, we still can’t figure out money. I make a bee-line to the elevator, thankful that when the doors slide open, most of its inhabitants scurry out into the lobby. There’s a sign above the doors that reads: Please be courteous and let passengers exit before boarding . As soon as it’s clear I shuffle in. A young girl stands next to the button controls, and looks at me patiently as the doors slide shut. I fumble around in my pockets until I find the address.
    “Umm, A7 please,” I mumble. She presses the button, but her gaze doesn’t waver from me.
    “So you’re going above ground?” she asks. Her long hair is tied in pigtails and her denim shorts are covered with cheap plastic gems.
    “I guess so,” I reply vaguely. I’m not good with kids, never have been. She tilts her head and smiles at me.
    “Don’t worry, it’s not so scary up there,” she says. Then the elevator stops just before we breach the surface and everyone but me steps off. As the doors close I watch the girl’s pigtails bounce away among the crowd.

    A5. A6. As I climb higher my mind imagines the air getting thinner, my lungs struggling to obtain oxygen, face turning blue. Ding. A7. I step out of the elevator into a long windowed hallway, the last rays of the real sunset shooting through my eyes like daggers. I crouch quickly to the floor and cover my face. Even the legendary Holo-sky can’t truly imitate real sunlight. I reach into my bag and pull out a pair of sunglasses. Once I have them on, the bright light fades until I can see the shape of the hallway, the walls painted a plain light blue, the floor layered with tile. Neutral paintings hang evenly spread down the hall between windows. I look at my