In Hero Years... I'm Dead Delux Edition Read Online Free Page A

posed for pictures with Vixen or with their feet on Twisters, as if they’d bagged them on some safari. One guy gathered up spent shells and another was trying to get a half-conscious Twister to sign an autograph.
    I might have been out of the game for a while, but I knew an exit cue.
    I limped off to the examination room and locked myself in. The coveralls and captured weaponry went into the false ceiling. I combed my hair back into place and sat down to wait.
    It took him an hour, but Mr. Baker himself came to let me out. “Mister Smith, we are so sorry. Are you okay?”
    I smiled and stretched, as if I’d been sleeping. It hurt a bit–I’d stiffened up. I even tossed in a yawn, and then pointed at the Murdoch. “I saw it all. I am so glad they didn’t come in here. Does this happen often?”
    “No more so than to any other bank, sir.” The Ingratiator tried on his best smile. “We take every precaution to make sure that our customers and their money remains safe in these situations. We have regular drills and, on days when an event is going to take place, we push to have trained staff on hand.”
    “You knew you were going to be robbed?”
    “Of course, sir, of course.” He laughed. “That’s how it’s done here now. That’s the only way to maximize media coverage. We’re committed to making sure it’s the best robbery experience for everyone involved.”

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Four
     
     
     
    I didn’t have to fake shock. Baker’s words made no sense. His expression shifted from conviction to compassion as mine shifted from surprise to a complete lack of comprehension.
    It had to be jetlag.
    Baker conducted me back to his office, got me some water, and insisted on giving me the uTiliPod as his gift. He escorted me to the door and promised to get in touch very soon. I had no doubt the uTiliPod would start buzzing before I got home.
    There was a concept. Home. I didn’t have one. I needed one. Several, in fact. I might not have been tracking as well as I’d like, but I had no desire to be pinned down in one place. I had a list of friendly sites from the Church, but I wanted to scout things out for myself. I quickly found the nearest CRAWL station, descended into the bowels of the earth and started riding.
    Capital City may have changed a lot, but the CRAWL hadn’t. Same crowded cars, same graffiti. Murdochs replaced the old advertising cards. Maps remained the same, with a few new stops, a few lost stops. Route colors hadn’t changed, making it easier for me to navigate. Green up, red down, other colors spider-webbing into weird corners of the city.
    I rode for a long while, transferring often. The crowds came and went, giving me a feel for populations above. Devil’s Dump and Tox Town were full of boat people and other refugees. Blue collar types and middle management lived on the lower East Side and around the Docks. The Village was still artsy, Emerald Heights had nothing but domestics. Less so the Gold Coast since residents there still had to work. West End was full of students and more working class folks. North End and Colonial Shores were older money and punked out kids coming home to use the ‘rents as ATMs.
    It was all familiar enough to let me pretend I was at ease. I needed a crash-pad and wanted one fast. That sent me back to Devil’s Dump. You could sink into obscurity there–the place would gladly swallow you whole. Oil slicked puddles in rainbow hues. The whole place smelled of fungus and boiled vomit. People stared sightlessly at the milling crowds from windows thrown open against stifling heat. They’d come to Capital City to live The Dream and now just hoped they’d wake up from the nightmare.
    Definitely my demographic.
    The Bluebelle Residential Hotel wasn’t on the Church’s list, and for a bunch of good reasons. The place had nothing blue about it save the mood of the residents. Most of the lobby’s light bulbs were burned out, and that was in