Burned fuels : Part 1

Updated: Sep 9

It always hit you first, the scorching heat and the vicious air. It reeks, I'm wrecked, It took me everything to get here.

The people I represent hate nothing more than exposure, I know I do, so coming in this rat hole is as pleasant as seeing your wife's boyfriend. This time though, I'm actually worried, mostly because the last time the syndicate had an extraordinary meeting there was nothing good coming out of it and partly because it's the first time, since my integration, that I'm back to the place that made me.

I said coming here was unpleasant, being here is actually not, I think we call it nostalgia. Coming though, fourteen hours cramped in the hidden compartment of a smuggler's truck, funny type of shit when you hear it from somebody else, not as much when it's you and you're claustrophobic. But yeah whatever... As they say, you don't choose this life, it's this life that choose the dumbest irresponsible fuck of them all. Yep, that's my sad personal take on it.

Guess why they call it The Blurry City? Cause of the incessant rain? The bluish tone of the architecture? Well yes, but also because this place is going to tear your life, steal your time and hard-earned money and then leaves you with a fragmented memory of what you once were, we call it the blur, they call it the GCC, the Guaranteed Citizen Contribution. Frankly, I got nothing against giving people meaning, but I can't fathom the idea of not having the choice.

There is no choice.

Just walking in those streets again, riding a hovering brain on an automated circuit. I wish I had no face, thinking about it, I probably don't, faces blend well in the concrete jungle. Strangers are walking by, a small window, an ellipse of their life, and they're gone. I'm keeping a fast pace, I'm trying to look down but just can't. These neon lights man, it's cliché, but I missed them so much without even knowing it.

Teen I used to get paid by the Backyard Devils Gang to break those of the store who were late on payments, yep we ironically called it protection, for them, I was the pizzo kid, for me it was just a meal... and drugs.

I know what you think! What an asshole! These poor small business owners!

At least we got this cover.

I'm supposed to meet with the heads of all the major organizations in the city, don't get me wrong, The Blurry City it's not a peaceful postcard town, but it could be way worse without the firm grip that the Syndicate hold on the interlope world.

So in a way, they are not that bad... Kind of... If you don't take into consideration the thousands of unlucky bastards who got violently killed in the last decades.

The point is: once I'm there, I'll do everything to get the fuck out A.S.A.M.F, fucking P. It's not gonna last long like my exes used to say! Yeah the unoriginal joke is on me. In and out, few questions no answers, action and cut then it's in the box baby (hopefully I will not act like a complete jackass and everything is gonna go smoothly). I believe there will be a dozen voices or so that will be heard. The rendez-vous point is undisclosed for now. I still need to go under for confirmation, but first I got to take a small detour.


For a longtime called the cookeries, Section 3 was the shittiest part of what was already considered the slums of the city, the infamous Clovertown. Decripit barracks ruled by gangs. Housing the orphans, the sick and the disabled. The poorest of the poor. Easy to exploit.

Most of them worked for the Backyard Devils, some kids grew to become part members of the gang, cannon fodder in others terms, others perfected the art of cooking and synthesis. So yeah you can see what's next, a generation teach how to shoot blasters and manufacture synthetic drugs, the perfect mix to go boom.

I was around twenty when Section 3 really became Section 3, I'm still having cold sweats from the night of the new era.

First, they took the heads of the backyard devils gang, like literary, around twenty leaders' head chopped off, all in the same night. Then they blew up the stash house, rob their armory and waited for war... And motherfucking war they got. The syndicate was utterly pissed. The new kids on the block had fucked with the status quo and whoever did that had to pay the ultimate price. However, Section 03 didn't go all-in without a trump card of their own, knowing that half of everything in the city was cooked inside theirs own walls, the section just decided to turn the faucet dry.

Barricaded for weeks, carefully preparing before going out in the streets for a round or two of guerilla warfare, simply put, just a bunch of desperate kids fighting for their independence...

And a huge fucking pile of money.

The fights lasted all the winter, until the State and the Singular told the Syndicate to cut it off. They listened, but only because they understood the value of the expertise built at the cookeries over the years.

On the 40th week of 217, the leaders of Section 03 were invited to a cease-fire.

I was part of them and on this day, through blood and fire, we had earned our freedom.

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