There is a red light shining above the door. Red as rage. Red as war. The glass covering the bulb is filthy; it's turning the clear red emergency light into a polluted sunset. There is no emergency. At least not for me. At least not yet.
There are three people in the room, not counting myself, and using the word "people" in its broadest possible sense. They're all going to have to wait their turn. I'm first. The second that red light goes out and that rusty metal door opens, I'm in there. This sitting around is not paying the bills and I'm starting to think it's wearing my arse down. It's been hours.
The latest customer to find his way through the door down there in the alley -the one that looks like it's boarded up but really isn't- has some pretty serious leakage issues. He's quite obviously Tech -low Tech, I'm sure- some old battlescarred soldier model. Not much soldiering to do in this city, these days, and he looks like he might be lacking the necessary customer relation skills to become a bouncer. Now, I'm not saying that I haven't received a few dents and scratches myself over the years, but at least I'm not the one sitting here in the waiting room with my arm in my lap. It looks like it's been severed at the elbow, or perhaps simply pulled off. The cream-coloured fluid is dripping onto the floor, sieved through a dirty rag that has been inefficiently tied around what's left of his arm. He's stinking down the whole room. I'm not sure what the super conductive fluid that passes for our blood is made up of exactly, but it certainly does smell. The stench seems to be a mix of cleaning fluid, overheated circuits and melted plastic. In some later models, especially the recreational ones, they added a red dye to the mixture, in an attempt to give us a healthier -read: more human- skintone. I'm pale and proud, but I'm no hypocrite. Our blood stinks.
The customer who came in just before Mr. Leaky is most likely not here for surgery. He is twitchy, on edge. His skin is yellow, a smouldering cigarette clamped in the corner of his mouth. Could be anything, Tech or just a poor excuse for a human. Can't tell from here. His hair is tangled into matted clumps, has probably not seen shampoo in an age, and his clothes look like they have been stolen from Garbage Hill. The biggest give- away though is the large box he is carrying. I can tell it was once white and the lid is clamped down in place by several sturdy clips. Parts dealer. Only waiting for the surgeon to finish up in there so he can get rid of his illegal wares.
The last patient in waiting is sitting in the corner opposite me. He is Flesh. I know that for a fact because I can see his breath in the freezing cold of the room. Our exhaust never gets warm and humid enough to cause those little clouds. He's young, just a kid really, not a day over twenty, but he no doubt fancies himself a hard man. Wouldn't be here if he didn't. Wonder what he's getting done. Wonder if he'll take the pain in silence or if we'll hear him scream through the metal door. All the same, he doesn't have that soft look that so many of them do. The way his face is carved, you'd almost think him designed. Some hi-Tech fancy model. One I wouldn't mind a go of, if the situation had been different. And he did look at me, although I suspect the knife hilt sticking out of my chest is taking away somewhat from the impression my cleavage might have made.

The red light above the door is tinting the whole wall. It's gloomy enough. Behind me, there is a window with some bent, rusty blinds. Across the alleyway, on the wall of some kind of club, there is another sign. Another red light. It's shining through the blinds, colouring the rest of the room the same shade of red, streaked with shadow. We're floating in an aquarium of blood, waiting to be let in to the kitchen. Onto the chopping board.
An hour ago, I would have thought the redness in the room was only a side effect of the emotion. I saw red. Literally. But I needed it. Did you never feel that you didn't get angry enough? She was my friend, the woman he killed. She was my friend and she was only doing her job. No need for that. No need to do it like that. They found parts of her all around the alley behind the club. So far beyond repair that not even EterniCorps' best scientists would have been able to do anything. And still, all I could feel was this dull anger. So I found someone. I bought something. I got some Rage. And then I got my revenge.
I don't know who he was and I don't care. Some VIP club member, some middle-aged rich guy. He thought he could do anything he liked. She was chipped, damned hard to get any work without it. Unless you're doing dirty work. Like me. The Rose is the biggest employer of female Tech, both kinds. The pain and the pleasure. I'm lucky, I deal in pain. Anyway, she might have been chipped, but that's no reason to drag her outside and tear her to pieces. Long story short, I killed him. Don't care how VIP he was. I took a syringe full of Rage, straight into my blood -or what passes for it- and the world turned red. I remember very little after that. I'm pretty sure his head is stuffed down the skip outside the kitchen, next to some fish heads, but all other details are a bit hazy. People were looking at me funny when I came back into the Rose. Must have been all the blood. Oh yeah, and the knife lodged in my breastbone.

There is screaming behind the rusty metal door now, somebody is in a whole lot of pain. I'm not feeling so great either, my chest hurts like hell every time I breathe in. Don't want to pull the knife out though, it might make it worse. I might start leaking like that old guy. It was the VIP, of course, who planted it there. His last act of self-defence. His last act of anything.

One day, if I get some money, I might get a dispenser implanted in my jaw. Stock it full of Rage capsules. That would be an asset in my line of work, instant berserk on demand. I could teach the scum out there a lesson or two in humanity. Even if it is artificial. The Flesh are all on pills as well. Natural emotions don't seem good enough for anybody these days. Natural bodies aren't good enough. Just look at that kid across the room; he's in the prime of his life. Even though he is pale, that healthy, fleshy glow is all about him. Like you can see the blood through the skin. So organic, I'm getting a little hot despite the pain and the cold. A cruel joke of simulated nature. My skin temperature does not increase; the heat is all in my mind.
The screaming stops at last, the light goes out. The door opens. Another old warrior steps out. His chest is wrapped up in bandages so thick that he has problems getting through the door. His face is white as a sheet, his eyes like red holes in his face. I see the young guys' eyes flit over this creature and I know what he's thinking; "if he was screaming like that, what will it do to me?" Still, when he gets up from his seat, it's not to chicken out and run back down the stairs. He's not shaking, not showing any fear. I'm impressed.
"Next!" the surgeon shouts.
I'm next. Looks like somebody is forgetting himself. The young Flesh guy's eyes meet mine for a second. He is scared. I smile. He is scared and I am the only one in the world who will ever know. He gives me a small nod before he sits back down and then he's gone behind the metal door as I'm closed in. Outside, I can picture the red light coming on as the surgeon gestures towards the metal table.

Half an hour later and my chest is back to normal. I put the surgery on the expense account for the Rose and keep the knife as a souvenir. Time to get out of this filthy, stinking kip. I mean the room, not the dimension, even though that would be nice.
Once I met an old guy in the Rose, must have been three hundred years or more. I have no idea how he managed to last that long , but now he was winding down rapidly. He told me that he had fought in the War. One of the original Tech Soldiers. He told me about Home. He might have been glorifying things, but it sure sounded nice. Glistening cities, super speed transport, Tech men and women with no forced expiration, just living the life. Then the Elementals ruined it all. Kicked up a fuss. That's how he put it. Slaves escaping the world that was all but killing them might be looked upon with more understanding by some people, but the old generation Tech will never be those people. I know lots of Techs that hate Genies for just exactly the same reason as the locals. They caused the war. They got us stranded here, in this dark, dirty city with the only way of getting back home out of our reach. Yeah, lots of us hate Genies. Just carrying on the legacy, so to speak. I don't exactly hate them myself, but that doesn't mean to say that I socialise with them. We're just so different.
The waiting room has all but emptied out. The parts dealer must have lost his patience and left. Leakage guy is still there. So's the nice young Flesh. This time, when the surgeon shouts 'next', it is his turn.
Being Tech has one major advantage. When you get hurt, when you get fixed back up, there's almost no recovery period. You're either hurt or you're whole. When they fix you up, you're done. All that painful healing and stuff that the Flesh have to go through, that's not for me. I feel fine now. Once I've cleaned up, I'll look it too, but on the way out the guy doesn't look at me. He stares in through the open door, then gets off his seat and starts walking almost mechanically, forcing himself in the direction that he probably wants to run away from.
"Good luck," I say.
He turns his head towards me. There's something about him, some quality that I can't put my finger on. Something... extra, I guess. Not like the locals. Then he's gone as the door closes.

Back at the Rose, the boss is going mental. Apparently somebody found the parts of Mr. VIP in the alley behind the club and managed to identify him by some means. Now his friends are all pissed off and looking to place some blame. I'm sure that more than a few of my colleagues know fully well that I'm responsible, but they won't tell. We look out for each-other like that, even the Flesh ones won't rat anybody out. The only danger now is that one of the guest saw me going after him and put two and two together, but even that doesn't seem likely. And then it strikes me. The one person that could really land me in the shit. The Salesman. The guy who sold me the Rage might very well recognise the effects of his wares in the incident. And he's in here a lot. He'd know what happened to my friend. He'd know who did it. And he'd know what I'd do about it... shit.
He's at the corner table as usual. That stupid multi-coloured wig on his head and the horrible, brash green suit. A clown of our times if ever I saw one. But he's no fool, unfortunately. The minute I start walking over to the table, zigzagging between the little islands of furniture, I can see that he knows what this is about. The room is quite dark, the black walls reflecting very little light, but I know he can still recognise my face from halfway across the floor. He gets up and tries to get lost in the crowd, but at this hour of the day there isn't much of a crowd and I have no trouble following his movements. I grab him just as he makes it out into the kitchen. Now, the Rose is no restaurant and the kitchen is not used for much apart from the occasional resident coming down and making something for themselves to eat. Right now it's empty.
"I never said nothing!" he shouts as soon as I lay my hands on him.
Pity that, I had hoped that he actually would have said nothing.
"Who did you tell? Those guys that came in and hassled the boss?"
He shakes his head violently from side to side, strands in all colours flying back and forth across his face. I don't know why he's so scared of me; it's not rational.
"Stand still, all I want to know is..."
Suddenly, a sharp pain bites into my stomach. As I flinch and pull back, he pushes me hard and runs out the door. Then it starts. My entire body seems to pull in on itself, become denser, like a fist tightening, and I realise what he's done. He's stabbed me with a syringe, the closest weapon at hand. It is still sticking out, the needle stuck deep in my body, the transparent tube bobbing up and down, still with traces of red inside it. The same red that is colouring my world. The stupid bastard. The last thing he should have done was make me angry.
Rage is like an itch. People seem to think that you go berserk instantly, that you can't control yourself. That's not how it works. You can control yourself fine; it's just that you really lose the will to. Everything grates on you, everything annoys you, and why shouldn't it? Everything is so fucking annoying. This whole city. I need to lie down, breath deeply and try to sleep it off. That's the only way to deal with it. And then I remember. I left my room key in my jacket. And I left my jacket at the clinic.
A thousand crimson shards smash against the floor as I sweep a stack of plates off the nearest table. The crash is deafening but music to my ears. The walls have taken on a throbbing, infected nuance. The itch of a sore that's not hurting enough to be painful. I have to get back there, get my key, shut myself in. Can't afford to do any more damage, the situation is bad enough as it is. But he deserved it! I leave by the back door, stepping into a world of red light. I don't know if it's the setting sun or just the Rage in my head.

The door with the sawn-off boards nailed to the front and sides is closed tightly. To anybody passing by it would look impossible to open but it knows better than to mess with me as I jam my fingers into the hole where the handle once was and pull hard. The stairs are dark and narrow, no light spilling down from above. If the surgeon gives me any grief, or refuses to give my jacket back, I can picture the way his body would bounce down these steps. Actually, the stairwell is so tiny that he would probably get stuck pretty much right away.
As I start up the stairs, there is a sound from above, a door opening. A shaft of red light falls over the steps but a second later it's blocked by a shadow. Somebody leaving. A shape in the dark, stepping down. There is no room for two on the stairs and I was here first. We meet in the middle. Two faceless strangers in the shadows. None of us say anything; just waiting for the other to make a move. Now, I thought the rage would make me shove him -because it is a man, I can see the outline of him against the lighter wall on the floor above- out of the way, but something stops me. Maybe it's because I have a feeling I know who he is. The smell of him is definitely non-Tech; I can almost feel the warmth off him. And then my eyes have grown accustomed enough to the dark for me to get a rough idea of his face. Oh yeah, it's him. Must be finished with the surgery now, I wonder what he got done. I wonder if he recognises me.
"Do you mind?"
My voice sounds uncharacteristically loud in the small space as I realise we've been standing here for more seconds than I should allow.
He only has three steps to walk back up, but he's still clearly hesitant. When we reach the landing, I can see why he wouldn't want to get into a shoving match though: both his upper arms are wrapped in bandages.
"Sure, ladies first," he mumbles as I squeeze past him, and although he's clearly trying hard, he doesn't quite manage to disguise the pain in his voice.
They must have cut him up good. In my experience, the Flesh aren't good with pain. That's what makes my job so easy. Again, I get the feeling there is a little more to this guy than meets the eye. No time to dwell on that now though, I have a jacket to reclaim.
The metal door is closed and the red light on. Might as well have been a white light; everything looks red through my eyes. The parts dealer has returned and is sitting in the corner, chewing on something. A handful of others are sitting around, waiting their turn. Then my fists are hammering the steel on the door, knocking flakes of rust onto the floor. For a second I feel something clawing at my back, probably one of the waiting patients trying to pull me away. I give a hard shove backwards and it stops. It must be a full minute before the door opens. The surgeon is not impressed. Neither is the guy on the operating table. I try my very best to ignore them, because I know that if I don't I'll end up killing somebody. My jacket is where I left it, on the table against the wall, and I grab it and get out before they can piss me off too much.

I'm walking down the road when it happens. A group of about seven men come running at me from a side street. I can see glints of steel; they're carrying weapons. VIP's mates, no doubt. I'm glad; a good fight is just what I need to burn off the Rage.
My arms seem to react on their own. My right fist flies out and hits the first guy in the throat, knuckles out. He falls down with a strange gurgling sound. It doesn't stop the rest of them. My whole body has been coiled tight, like a spring, ever since the drug took effect and now it releases all the built up kinetic energy in a whirlwind of kicks and punches. For a while I cease to be, dissolved into a dark red pulse of fury. When I become aware of my body again my arms feel heavy and there is a taste of melted plastic in my mouth.
Darkness has fallen while we were fighting. Now there are bodies on the ground; perhaps dead, perhaps just unconscious. There are also footsteps growing fainter as some of them flee the scene. And there is one man left, standing on the edge of the reach of the alley's only streetlight, staring at me. He's holding a gun. Guns are very hard to come by due to the strict control. Only the police and EterniCorps official security forces have access to firearms. Which one this guy belongs to I don't even want to know. He's grinning, his teeth are bloody -I must have got one punch in at least- and raises the gun, aiming it straight at my forehead. I can almost feel the small red dot dancing above my eyebrows. Maybe it's the lack of blood on my face but I can tell that he knows I'm Tech. He knows a headshot is required to put me out of commission permanently, and he looks confident that he can take that shot. Unfortunately, so am I.
The Rage has dimmed down, the drug circulated so many times through my heart now that it has become weak and diluted. I'm starting to feel the pain. The laser dips into my eyes for a second, making everything bright red again, and then returns to its place on my forehead. He's squeezing the trigger. I should move, run, do something, but I'm tired now. And then there is a sound behind him in the alley and he swings around. A hollow ringing sound echoes between the narrow brick walls of the alley. It's the sound of the man's head connecting with a steel pipe; hard enough to make the sturdy metal resonate. The guy drops, revealing the dark figure behind. I don't need any light to recognise him. Coincidences do not exist, only cause and effect. The circular pattern of meetings and consequences makes me feel both comforted and nervous.
"Have you been following me?" I ask.
He steps out into the pool of the streetlight at the corner.
"Don't flatter yourself. I was on my way home and I saw you in a scrap. Thought I'd see how it turned out."
He drops the steel pipe and shakes his arms out. I can see blood stains on the bandages on his upper arms. You're not supposed to put any strains on your muscles for about a week after having implants. That includes bashing people's heads in with bits of plumbing. I can see that the pain in his muscles is worse than he anticipated, so I say thanks and then I pick up the gun for safekeeping. He just stands there, like frozen, looking at me. I remember thinking at the clinic that he didn't look like the locals. Too much... prescence, I guess. Also, not many of the Flesh have such clean-cut faces. Everything in its place. Nice. Now when I'm close, I can get that fleshy scent off him as well, and I'm just about to ask him if he wants to go for a drink back at the Rose when I see something gleam in his eyes. Something powerful; like a force of nature. It frightens me.
"What's wrong? You look like you think I'm going to hurt you," he says.
"Yeah, fat chance. I've got the gun, remember?"
Yes, I do have the gun, and still I can't help feeling uneasy when I see that strenght in him. I don't think he wants to hurt me. I don't think he could. There's just something... else.
"So you do. What is it then?"
"You're human?"
I have to ask. He smiles.
"Yes."
"You're... Normal?"
"Define normal."
Then I know what it is. He's not regular Flesh. He's a Genie. He's got the Elemental force in him, that's what I can see, that's what scares me. That slow, steady pour of energy that comes from the sun and the earth. Not the dry spark of electricity and brittle circuits, but the organic, unstoppable power of sap rising in a tree. I back away, thinking about Home -where I have never been and will never get to go- thinking about how Genies once were our slaves and what are they now? Enemies? And at the same time, I can't take my eyes off him. Tall, dark and handsome and I'm not joking.
"Right, I'm off."
He's starting to walk away and suddenly I feel desperate.
"Wait!"
He stops and turns around slowly.
"You're bleeding," I say, "I could fix you up. I work not far from here."
"Where?"
"The Black Rose."
He studies me for a while with that breathtakingly intense gaze and then he nods. I can feel my skin heating up again, even if it doesn't really, and the traces of Rage left in my system only enhances the sensation.

We sneak in the back door and up the stairs to my room. It might be small and damp, but at least it has a solid lock on the door, about the only thing you really need in this world. I fetch some gauze from the bathroom and change his bandages. As the old ones come off, his blood runs over my fingers, hot and deeply red. It's strangely quiet, neither of us speaking, but all the time I can feel that flow of energy, that unfamiliar, raw force that flows through all living things except us Tech. Animals have it, even plants. When I die, or wind down to a stop, I won't decompose, at least not all of me. Then I start thinking about the soul. Is that different too? They say we have weaker feelings, that's why there's drugs, that's why we inject the colours. To be human.
"Thanks," he says when I'm finished and sits back against the headboard of my bed.
The last of the drug has gone from my blood and I feel lost and empty. Maybe I should ask him to leave. Maybe I should never have invited a Genie back here in the first place. Then there is a knock on the door, a desperate fast banging. Someone wants in in a hurry. I look out the spyhole and see a bloodsplattered clown wig turning rapidly back and forth. What's this? Earlier, he was running from me, now he wants my protection? I open the door and he burst in the room, almost knocking me over.
"Lock the door! Quick!"
He is in a right state, the horrible green jacket is covered in bloodstaines and his face looks like somebody has been using it to practise tenderizing meat.
"Raine, you have to help me! They're trying to kill me!"
"Who are? VIP's mates?"
He shakes his head and little droplets of blood fly out and hit the wall.
"They're not his mates, they set him up! They wanted rid of him, so they gave him reds so he would kill Lorna! They knew all along that you would take care of it after that! It was a trap..."
"And now they know that you know. I see. Well, that's tough shit and all but..."
I realise that he's not listening to me. He's staring over my shoulder with a look of pure horror on his mangled face.
"You..."
It's the guy he's looking at. The guy I brought back without even asking his name. The guy with the bleeding arms and the black eyes.
"Hello Porter."
"What is he doing here?"
The Salesman - apparently named Porter, I never knew that - is starting to look like a rat with his tail caught in a trap. He's scrurrying around on the spot, constantly in motion but never getting anywhere.
"That's really none of your business," I say.
"Are you crazy? Raine, he works for Morrison!"
So did VIP. So did Lorna before she came to work for us. She must have had something on the big boss, something they wanted her to take with her to the grave. Then I would clean up their tracks by depositing VIP's head in the skip. The only problem left was Porter, who had supplied the drugs to both VIP and me. And, of course, me.
"So you were following me."
I turn and look at the relaxed shape on the bed. He doesn't look worried about being in this mess. Maybe the wounds on his arms are only shallow cuts, deliberately inflicted to fool me into thinking he was weakened, make me trust him and let him get close to me. Well, that was exactly what happened.
"I guess you won't believe me if I tell you I'm not involved in this? I do work for Morrison, but I'm not here to kill you. Either of you, actually. That's someone else's job. Although, I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I showed some initiative and took advantage of the situation..."
He's smiling at me, a smile completely without malice. Porter is almost spinning on his heels, wanting to run away from this stranger but at the same time too afraid to go out the door. I don't know what I'm feeling. It's not fear. Maybe if I was human, it would be.
"So, what are you going to do, Raine?" the stranger asks, picking my name up from Porter's hysterical entry, "He won't give up. Never does."
"I don't know," I say, trying to sound indifferent.
Just because we're not Flesh doesn't mean we're not afraid of dying. I don't think any sentient being can bear the thought of its consciousness being wiped out forever. Where will your thoughts go? It's strange how impossible it is to imagine not existing, although we all have done it. After your death, odds are that things will be just exactly like they were before your creation. No you then, no big deal. Still the fear.
"I guess you could come work for us," the stranger finally says, "Morrison will be chuffed at the side-swapping, and I'm guessing Brianna hasn't the same letting go issues as he does. She wouldn't kill you if you left, right?"
"No. Her dirty laundry basket is nowhere near as deep as Morrison's. What about..."
I point my thumb at the anxious drug supplier. The Genie just shrugs his shoulders. Porter seems think there's an opportunity here and starts talking.
"I can swap sides too! I can work for Morrison! I have great connections, very reliable, high-quality colours! You'll put a word in for me, won't you Pitch? I've sorted you out loads of times before! Hell man, we go back! You were just a kid when you and the black guy used to come around and get minutes off me..."
"Oh shut up already!" the guy apparently named Pitch says, "They don't even care if you live or die! Morrison knows your spine is missing, presumed gone! They just wanted to give you a kicking you know to keep your mouth shut."
"I do! I don't even know what this is all about!"
"Then get lost."
He stands up and walks over to the door, Porter jumping out of his way as if he had the plague. The hallway outside is empty and dark.
"Go on, out you go."
Porter eventually decides that it's safe and scurries out and down the back stairs. I listen out for screaming or any other noise, but everything is still as the grave.
"He'll get killed, won't he?" I ask as the door closes.
"Nah, he'll be fine. Now what about you? Have you thought about what I said?"
He looks into my eyes. The energy flows, pulses, stretches between us. Darkness, so warm and strong. Yes, I'm going with him. To Morrison or the ends of the earth, whichever, but not yet. In the morning.

We leave as the sun is coming up. In the east the sky is bright red, all the pollution breaking the rays. Red like war. I'm thinking again about the soldiers, rushing out under this red sky, over two hundred years ago. Of course they were not going to let the Elementals go without a fight. I never realised it but we need them, what they have in them, to feel good. Last night was... life, there's no other word for it. I felt human and I'm not going to let that go. I'm not going to let him go, no matter what happens. I'm prepared to go to war if I have to.