District 23.
That was my home.
When I was a child, I wanted to become a fixer, but instead, I was here, doing this damn office job.
The rain poured as I returned home, my face bleak, smoky dark skies, I didn't want to do anything but sleep, which is probably what I deserved, but in this world, you don't get what you deserve, only chance, fate and alongside whatever chaos went your way. The fact that nothing went my way would be your example.
Family dead, no citizenship, $0 to start with, unlucky. At least I got a job.
District 23's citizenship eligibility was abysmally hard to achieve, you either had to be a certified fixer, or prove your worth through schools and certificates, which was only meant for those rich enough to bribe the teachers.
This world was rigged against you unless you had the talent, which made you a tool, or the background, which made you a target. Either way, power in this world meant making yourself the perfect target to kill for clout.
And me? Well…
I'm a nobody, but I hope to at least get into the Node. Node is a district's capital, and is just filled with more greedy rich pigs than the backstreets but better quality of life, which was kind of obvious if you looked hard enough on a finance graph map. District 23 is a 3rd Generation District, big enough to make it respectable, not big enough to make the 2nd generation even bat an eye.
I work for a backstreet company, The Officing, a popular local accounting firm for the backstreets. The Officing accepted those with adequate education, which was the case for me because I passed their test.
Today's pay was enough, well $230 in this place was usually the acceptable amount. Being a worker of The Officing had its very obvious advantages, it's better explained in a live test so I'll leave it there.
Accounting for it all, this was enough for my apartment fees, basic meals, laundromat costs, had enough leftovers to spend on luxuries or have it be kept in a safe, to save more, I walked to each location. I brought a low quality suit, second hand, reeked of the last owner, which probably got wasted, mugged, then probably immediately pawned right after for a quick buck, but it was mostly pristine after one wash and dry later, this suit felt brand new—or as close as it can be to brand new.
Returning back, I grabbed my personal accounting book and listed down my costs. I placed my extra money after the expenses in an iron safe underneath the floorboards. Thieves were common here, but if your place looked poor enough, they didn't even try.
I was mentally tired, lying there on my bed, this reminded me there was another scuffle between The Officing accountants and some gangsters who didn't understand what $285 expense on guns meant today. A Grade 9 Saw Collective fixer noticed and stepped in, lowest of the lowest, but certified, things got quiet quick. I call the Saw Collective, or groups of Fixers, scammers because all they do is walk around our office and kill those who are obvious douchebags, but they somehow never kill themselves. On that note, maybe all Collectives aren't like that.
Things got bloody, but we were trained for this, a few hours of cleaning and you could only smell the rust of blood, but no actual sight of it, which was good enough—air refresheners are quite expensive in the backstreets you know?
As I was talking about that workplace incident, our boss was joking about how it's so hard to actually see the sun, yet day and night was so obvious. This man was trying to make us work more under the guise of not being night while playing it off as a joke, classic boss behavior. I wonder how even a gangster lives a good life surrounded by so many idiots, or maybe I'm just the smart one—I wish for the latter so I can get out of this place already.