The convoy of vehicles descended a looping road, where the frays of the upper city’s revered architecture, caressed the edges of congested erections lining entry into Lowtown’s deplorables. They traveled for a time, heading southeast through shortened passages and byways until they reached the tunnel entrance to the second largest Mobile Communication Server Cluster on the continent.
The newly installed fifteen-meter gate system recognized the convoy from a short length away and opened to match the speed of their arrival.
“I’m still not impressed with the poor security around the No-Cit districts,” Mathew said, as the lead vehicle passed under the darkened tunnel.
Another gate opened at the opposite end in similar fashion to the first. It grated loudly in the tunnel, as if the rickety mechanisms of the hinges discorded in song just to apprise the convoy of the inner circle’s decrepitude.
Anxiety twisted Mathew’s insides, as they drew closer to the assembly area. The invasive message he’d received on his multus instrum the night before last still tormented him. But like one with a reopened wound, Mathew had decided to tend privately to the resurging affliction.
Mathew had been running unofficial investigations, when he had found himself tangled up in what he suspected to be the pretentious scheme of some obsessed hacker. Way too late is when Agent Mathew Branson realized that he’d fallen victim to the machinations of a much more sinister plot that threatened his career if he reported the infraction.