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“If it leaks, we’ll know it was you, so don’t risk it by telling anyone. Not a peep.”
    She gets into her shiny orange sports car and rides the gas hard. Her speedster spins out as she maneuvers out of the parking lot. I wonder if she’s actually old enough to drive. But I figure being a member of the Core has its benefits.
    A yellow cab rumbles past, and I wave my hand and whistle. The car crosses two lanes and pulls up to me. I open the door and climb in back. “Where to?” the cabbie asks.
    I tell him, and he raises an eyebrow. Pulling out the wad of cash Gus left me tonight, I hold it up to show him I have money. He flips on the meter and merges into traffic. I don’t blame the guy for being leery of heading into the belly of the beast—the old downtown. Gangs, pimps, and your garden-variety lowlifes overrun this area like weeds. I’d clean it up if I were a member of the Core. (Just thinking this sends a shiver through my body. It’s just too perfect a thought for me to consider.)
    We ride through the Loganstin business district. Buildings that reach for the sky house the titans of industry. These movers and shakers trade in commodities I can’t even pronounce, much less understand. This part of town is all that’s left to remind us of what Loganstin used to be. This is where the businessmen, lawyers, and politicians hold court. The streets are clean, the glass on the buildings shimmers under the sun, and hope springs eternal.
    People like me aren’t welcome in this part of town—at least not during the day. A few years back, two degenerate terrorists, Monger and Gunner, locked horns here. The dirties leveled the place. After that, the city tried to pass an ordinance banning the use of powers in the business district, but the Core was vocal in its opposition. The measure died, but the sentiment remains, along with an empty lot where the Grinde Investment Building used to stand. The structure had to be demolished after the battle due to extensive damage. The area is an ugly reminder of the destructive force of dirties.
    The taxi takes a turn and it’s like we enter another country. It’s amazing how quickly the landscape can change in this city. The buildings are abandoned, run down, and covered in graffiti. Prostitutes mill about on street corners. Drug dealers hide in the shadows, ready to disappear if something bad goes down. The police stay away as much as possible. It has its own laws, and they’re well outside of what the men and women in blue are supposed to enforce.
    The taxi pulls to a stop in front of Broadway Liquor. “That’ll be twenty bucks,” the cabbie says. I peel off a couple of bills and hand them to him. Before I even have time to shut the door, the cabbie jams his car into gear and races down the street.
    I find Yvonne in the alley next to the liquor store. Three junkies mill around her, offering her various things in exchange for a fix. One pulls out a ten-dollar bill and hands it over. She quickly pockets the money. The man wipes his runny nose with his sleeve. He twitches with anticipation as he waits for her to work her magic. Yvonne lays a hand on his shoulder, like she’s greeting an old friend. Her eyes roll into the back of her head as she conjures her power. The effects of getting zapped make the junkie look like a marionette getting its strings cut. His legs wobble as he sways back and forth. It’s as if he’s moving to music only he can hear. He turns around and slowly slinks out of the alley toward me.
    He’s walking in a daze, and I don’t even think he sees me as he staggers around the corner. He steps into the street, apparently unconcerned when a car blares its horn and swerves to avoid hitting him. Once he reaches the other side of the street, the junkie disappears into the dark crowd.
    Another addict plops down on the cold concrete and slides off his dirty sneakers. Kneeling on