• Towers. All he could see were towers. They rose above him and the swirling smog that lingered dangerously over the city. People. People laughing, crying, screaming, murmuring, staggering, slouching endlessly, down by the pavements, some less than sober souls running into the dazzling glare of headlamps on the crowded roads.

    And the noise! It never stopped, something was always happening, whether it was one man cheating on five girls and three men or a raucous gang of adolescents were being kicked out of a nightclub. Ambulances and police cars screamed past, squeezing through the never-ending traffic.

    Bright lights seemed to blind the man, as he squinted into the glare of a giant television screen, which loudly advertised Coca Cola, then Pepsi, then Coca Cola again. News reporters looked down on the city, with 'I-must-look-serious-even-though-it's-Friday-night' frowns on their perfectly sombre faces. Lights in offices were still switched on, contributing to the near-blinding luminescence of the noisy, chaotic city.

    The future certainly was an interesting place, however. Clothes ranged from neon yellow, glittering micro skirts to skin-tight, dark blue t-shirts made of a strange substance that reminded you of sapphires glinting in the moonlight. Teleports were set up on every street corner, and people were always coming and going, and there were gigantic, bustling queues of people fighting their way towards the device that would get them home quickly, if they could afford it. For everyone else however, there was still the tube and taxi service.

    Sighing, the man snapped on his black goggles, revved his huge, dark motorcycle and began to weave his way through the endless stream of vehicles. His business was elsewhere. More people blurred past, the noise became a surreal ripple of disjointed music, with a constant underground beat pulsing from the nightclubs. Soon it became as familiar as his very own heartbeat, a comforting reminder of civilisation.

    Eventually the noise began to subside as the man turned into a number of side roads, each one quieter than the next, until the chaos of the city centre was like a distant, long-forgotten memory. The streets were still far from empty, however. People down here liked to keep things silent, for these were the dangerous parts, and one had to keep an ear out for the coppers at these times of night. Men in dark trench coats and hats shrouding the face wandered the roads, as though searching for their once-pure souls, lost due to a life of crime, gambling and poverty. It began to rain, and the man shook the rain out of his platinum-blonde, gravity-defying hair. His business was still elsewhere. He revved the motorcycle once more and sped down the streets, towards the dangerously dark alleyways.

    People lay in the gutter, from either this night or even the night before, unable to muster the willpower to bother moving. Gangs stalked the streets and gathered at corners, suspiciously watching the man, ready to club him with their crow bars if he tried anything. However, his business was still elsewhere. One, two, three, four alleys passed by, then he finally reached the place he was looking for. The Wreck.

    The Wreck was originally an amazing building, full of grand offices, smartly dressed workers clambering over each other to get a job, no matter how lowly. Once the man had gotten off of his motorcycle, he leaned against it, folded his arms and smiled wryly. He had been one of them. However, on the opening day it was bombed by terrorists. People were killed. Now it was a dangerous reminder of what would happen if this city were ever to boast of its wealth, talent and influence again.

    Shards of glass on the ground crunched under the man's feet, and he kicked a couple of bricks out of the way, stirring up flurries of dust, which was creeping up the man's neck, ready to strangle him. He was undeterred however, and kept on walking, his boots making a sickening crunch on something he'd rather not know about. Rats skittered across the concrete, squealing at the sight of the man and racing back into the sewers. Eventually he arrived.

    A gang was waiting. They held knives, glinting threateningly in the moonlight. They held guns, fully loaded, already pointed at him. A man came forward. He was well-built and muscular, and certainly already looked imposing. However, that wasn't enough. He also had a fake, robotic eye which he could use to see through walls, or so the stories said. Also, his entire right arm had once been ripped off, but instead of giving him a prosthetic, they gave him a gun for an arm instead. Tonight it too glinted relentlessly in the hypnotic moonlight, and tonight it was pointing at the man's head.

    Tonight it was going to kill him.