I wake to the sound of my neighbor's pet parrot cursing at the sunrise. The bird lives three doors down, yet its voice slices through the paper-thin walls of my shoebox flat as if we share a pillow. I reach for my holo watch (holographic watch), knock it off the crate I call a nightstand, and watch it clatter across the bare floorboards. Six oh five. Already late.
My room holds exactly four items that matter: a futon, a rusty clothes rack, a chipped electric kettle, and a battered courier bag. Rent costs more than the whole collection is worth, but the place is close to the canals, and the canals are my highway.
I splash tap water on my face. Brown pipes groan like dying whales. I yank on a cleanish T shirt, canvas jacket, and cargo pants with one functional knee pocket. Breakfast is two bites of stale protein bar. The third bite goes to the tiny silver fish that lives in a jar on the windowsill; it stares through thick glass like a disappointed landlord. Sorry, buddy, economy's rough.
Bag over shoulder, helmet clipped to belt, I stomp down three flights of creaking stairs. The landlady waves a rent reminder from her holo pad. I promise coins by tomorrow. She answers with the kind of smile that says pay or pack. No pressure.
Outside, dawn air smells of river mist and fried dough. I wheel my grav bike (gravity defying motorcycle) from its rack, slap the ignition rune, and feel the hum of antigrav plates lift the frame a hand breadth off the cobblestones. Blue neon underglow flickers; one strip is dead, but I'm saving for a new kit.
Before I kick off, I tap the faint circle tattoo on my left forearm. It's a thin line, barely visible unless light hits just right. It's my guard sigil: dormant, unnoticed, and strictly off the city registry. Dad called it "a secret seatbelt." It activates only when I really need it. The rune warms under my fingertip, like it's saying good morning.
Goals for the day: seven deliveries, an on time bonus, maybe enough tips to buy real dinner instead of protein crumbs. Long term? Earn enough bronze points in the Tower tryouts to register the sigil legally, get a guild contract, and stop living like a rat. One dream at a time.
The canals slice Dawn City into glittering veins. Floating planters bloom with neon lilies, and tourist ferries toot cheerful horns. I weave between them, grav bike skating on invisible rails of magnetized air. Water slaps stone below, spraying cool mist. My visor projects a red arrow route; first drop is a pastry shop in Old Market.
A street sweeper leans into my lane. I jerk left, thread a gap, and shout thanks. The sweeper flips me the peace sign with a grin. Adrenaline flares; I laugh. Morning obstacle course: complete.
The pastry shop door jingles. Warm cinnamon steam erupts, slapping hunger into my gut. Mrs. Deleon, apron dusted with flour, claps her hands when she sees the box.
"Bless you, Rowan! My sugar molds arrived before the breakfast rush."
I scan her receipt rune; tip notification pings, two credits. She thrusts a tiny cinnamon roll at me. I try to refuse. She smacks my shoulder.
"Eat. You're bones on wheels."
I devour it in two bites; icing sticks to my lip. Mrs. Deleon wipes it with a mother smile. I'm halfway out the door when she says, "Sky looks odd today. Don't ride into trouble, eh?"
I promise, knowing trouble usually rides into me.
Next stop is a cramped electronics stall under the monorail. The owner, Mister Jin, tinkers with a junk drone that smokes from every joint. My parcel contains micro capacitors; he needs them to resurrect the drone before a customer arrives.
He pays exact credits, no tip, but hands me a spare power cell.
"Old crater put out weird signals last night," he says, sliding the cell into my jacket pocket. "If your bike glitches, swap to that."
"Magnetic readings?" I ask.
He shrugs. "Who knows. City's sensors are acting drunk."
I zip the pocket, feeling the weight of new worry.
A florist boat bobbing on the central canal takes parcel three. Bright orange marigolds spill over its railings. I leap aboard, nearly tipping a crate. The florist, Chela, covered in petal tattoos, catches me by the jacket.
"Easy, courier boy. My blooms bruise."
We trade package for signature. She slips a marigold behind my ear.
"Yellow on red sky makes hope," she says.
"You think the sky's red?"
"Check the rim over South Hill." Chela's eyes follow the river south, uneasy.
I tuck the flower into my helmet strap and push off the boat. Tips: zero credits, one free hope blossom.
Back on the bike, local radio crackles through helmet speakers. A chipper host jokes about a "crimson sunrise selfie contest" while an expert warns of "anomalous magnetic spikes around the ancient impact crater." Words like fluctuations and geomancy interference buzz, but the feed breaks into static whenever the expert tries to give coordinates.
Coincidence? Cheap station? My gut ties itself in knots.
The last parcel is a pharmaceutical cooler for the clinic on South Hill, the steepest street in District Seven. My bike's antigrav whines at the angle. Sweat beads under my helmet. Pedestrians clear a path, cheering me like I'm in a race.
Halfway up, the sun breaks through the haze. Instead of yellow gold, it glows copper, even blood orange. Clouds above the crater, two miles south, twist into a spiral, tinted deep crimson. They look like someone stirred paint into the sky.
I crest the hill, lungs burning, and park at the clinic. Nurse Adele signs, tips three credits, then swears at the horizon.
"Sky shouldn't look like that," she mutters.
I ride to the hill's overlook wall and rest boots on the low stone. From here the whole city stretches like a quilt of glinting water, slate roofs, and darting sky traffic. At the southern edge, the old crater yawns: a black bowl rimmed with construction cranes and half dead holofences.
Above it, clouds turn, red on red, swelling like a storm cell. Lightning flickers inside, but no thunder follows. Tourists aim phones, laughing nervously.
A tug on my sleeve. I glance down.
A street kid, fifteen maybe, clutching a worn skateboard and a cheap holo cam. Freckles dust his cheeks; eyes wide as saucers.
"Mister Courier, look. The clouds are bleeding."
He points. My visor zooms. Crimson vapor streams upward, not down, sucked into a tight column. The column pulses once, twice, the color of fresh lava.
I swallow. "Storms don't pull up."
The kid edges closer, voice a shaky whisper. "Is it the crater? Teacher says a meteor fell there ages ago."
"Yeah," I answer, heart pounding. "Star iron crater. Been quiet for years."
Lightning flashes again, brighter, a jagged red spear lancing down into the crater floor, silent but blinding. The air pressure pops my ears. The kid yelps, dropping his board. Phone screens around us light white, then die.
People scream. Power in street lamps flickers. My bike's dash rune goes dark, then resets with a warning glyph I've never seen.
Another spear stabs the crater, then a third, each thicker, each holding. Three red pillars burn a triangle into the earth, and in their center, a glow grows, pulsing, hungry, almost alive.
I feel the guard tattoo heat under my skin, as if sensing a challenge.
Holo news drones buzz overhead. Sirens fire in the valley below. The kid grabs my sleeve again.
"Should we run?"
I stare at the impossible light, feel rooftops vibrate, hear shop alarms wail all the way up the hill. Every instinct screams yes.
And yet a quieter voice in my head whispers something worse.
Or should we watch?
Wind gusts hot against my face, carrying the smell of scorched metal from two miles away. The marble underfoot trembles. Somewhere a glass pane shatters like thin ice.
The columns roar.
I swing a leg over the grav bike, hand trembling on the throttle, eyes locked on the blazing crater. My courier route just ended. Something bigger just began.