...Living up to its name, the Neon District was covered in layers of neon lights and glowing holomatrix displays that stretched across the ascending levels. The streets weLiving up to its name, the Neon District was covered in layers of neon lights and glowing holomatrix displays that stretched across the ascending levels. The streets were lined with bars, restaurants, clubs, theaters, souvenir shops, basically, every vice and entertainment you could think of. Every other kilometer or so, an alleyway would appear, packed with vendors and stalls selling all kinds of goods. The whole district was alive with sights and smells. One store, in particular, caught my eye: The Afterglow: Indulgence Emporium & Dispensary. Definitely going to stop there after I get the map from Philip. Now, given what I’ve told you about Philip, you might assume he’s some kind of reclusive, chronically online subspace dingbat, and you wouldn’t be entirely wrong. Back in college, this guy used to grow grass from rare old Earth strains in zero-g. His bud was so potent you’d skip realities. But before he’d even sell you an eighth, you’d have to sit through his theory on why Velstrazda V was an inside job.

But don’t let his dubious political rants fool you. In his free time, this bastard has practically mapped a good chunk of Autonomous Frontier Space, more than anyone else has ever done, all for free. Pretty good for a dingbat, eh? I arrived at the mega tower where Philip was holed up. An old-style neon sign depicting a cartoon sumo in full bushido armor hung over the entrance, glowing with that retro charm. Thanks to my optic interface, I could read the Japanese text: The Chunky Samurai. I took the elevator up to the roof of the gargantuan corporate-owned megastructure. When the doors opened, I was genuinely taken aback by the view. A lush, man-made park stretched out before me, with the Horsehead Nebula visible just above it, a strange oasis in the middle of this concrete jungle. I made my way down a path leading to a pagoda-style building, open on all sides. Smoke billowed from grills where yakitori was being cooked. It was a low-key izakaya, tucked away at the top of the world. Sitting at the bar, Philip, in the flesh, no less, made eye contact with me from across the room. Same tired eyes as always, like he constantly had a Virtu-matrix headset glued to his face. Another sign that Philip was dead serious about all of this. I walked up to him. “Sativa Salinger,” I greeted with a smirk, now standing in front of him. “Inktips,” he replied, a small smile creeping onto his face. I sat down next to him and pulled out the pocket safedrive from my back pocket. After putting the optical scanner to my iris, it verified my interface and popped open a port. A small holomatrix display appeared, showing the safedrive had 150,000 G//C inside. “Transfer Ports active” flashed on the screen. Philip pulled out his own drive and unlocked it the same way. He connected it to mine, and I watched as the numbers on my display dropped while his shot up. Once the transfer was complete, he smiled and disconnected. Then, he handed me a heavy slate drive, the starmap encoded within. I noticed it had markings indicating it was a chain map, with a two cosmic crystal charge requirement. “Woah, woah, woah, what kind of fetch quest bullshit is this?” I asked, a little peeved at the thought of having to track down two rare crystals just to access the full map and Surf Drive straight to the destination. Philip scratched his head nervously. “Well, you see, I had some problems generating the map without blowing out my whole logic circuit, so I had to compromise and make it a crystal chain map. Unless you want to buy me a brand-new Quad Quantum Computer rack and fork over an extra 200k.” I shook my head and sighed, accepting the map. “At least it’s just two crystals.” After a couple of drinks and a plate of Takoyaki, Philip and I parted ways, he was off to do, well, fuck knows what, and I had my own errand to run. The dispensary was calling, and I needed to stock up for the long journey ahead. By now, the streets were packed with the evening crowd, all the club-goers spilling out from every neon-lit corner. Groups of friends and couples were headed to one of two places: either the countless small clubs scattered throughout the district or the Big 5. The Citadel; a goth club housed inside an old cathedral, with stained glass windows casting eerie, rainbow patterns across pale faces had this whole "vampires under a full moon" vibe. Aerialia; basically a floating nightclub on a refitted rigid airship, hovering over the Neon District like some kind of futuristic Zeppelin rave. Habitat; a warehouse by day, soundstage by night, where the bass was thick enough to rattle your bones. Then there’s Topcat’s; invite-only, and let’s just say, it caters to more... intimate tastes. A swingers' haven for those in the know. And finally, Twin Palms, Fuzz Crew’s latest project: a synthwave-inspired mega-club with the most mind-bending holomatrix display ever built. The visuals there? Absolutely bonkers, like stepping into a living neon fever dream, a real trip, especially if you're riding high on -tosh. Weaving through the masses, I made my way past the crowd and slipped into The Afterglow. The smell hit me right away, incense, grass, and that unmistakable haze of herbal concoctions hanging thick in the air. The walls were plastered with ads for pre-packaged recreational drugs, a trillion-credit industry thriving thanks to the Union's relaxed public health laws. "Your body, your problem." That was the motto, and honestly? It was one hell of a culture shock for us humans back in the United Commonwealth of Sol, or you know the globalized offspring of the United States of America and the United Nations. We were still fighting the war on drugs then, too busy debating morality to notice we’d just legalized a trillion-credit industry overnight. Took the dopefiends a week to figure it out, then shit hit the fan. It was chaos, plain and simple. Goes to show, that even with all our advancements, humanity still has a talent for missing the fine print. After flashing my Commonwealth ID to the beefy security guard at the door, I was greeted by a table set up by some Cosmitosh producers. The brand? ChryBmb. Behind the table stood a girl with short red hair, matching outfit, and the kind of energy that only comes with either enthusiasm or stimulants. As I approached, she greeted me in Japanese, my optics helpfully displaying a live translation like subtitles. “Hello there! Would you care for a sample of our newest variety, Scented -Tosh?” She handed me a disposable one-hit canister with an orange printed on the side, about the size of a fat baby carrot, attached to a plastic atomizer. I twisted the safety with a satisfying click, lined it up with my left nostril, and Noz-Binged the fuck out of that little bastard. The hit was immediate, artificial oranges, smooth and clean, unlike the chemical tang I’d grown used to. It's kinda like going from Lysol to Orange Pledge. My head went fuzzy, and a rhythmic, euphoric buzz began rolling through my body. The psychedelic jazz they were playing in the background suddenly hit just right. “Thanks,” I said, still savoring the scent. “Reminds me of orange groves.” The -Tosh girl giggled and waved me off as I floated over to the counter, now in the perfect headspace to finally buy my essentials. The guy behind the counter; messy, dirty blonde hair parted down the middle, with piercing gray eyes that could almost pass for blue, looked like he'd had better shifts. His name tag said Scott, but his expression screamed “checked out.” He had the look of someone who’d dealt with one too many clueless tourists from dry systems, all eager to “experience new and unsober states of mind,” as they naively put it. I knew the feeling well, having worked in a shop like this before the Bossman gave me my shot. He didn’t even glance my way fully, his faintly glowing eyes browsing subspace through his optic. Definitely not getting paid enough to care. “Welcome in,” he said, his tone flat, his gaze somewhere far away. Even as the room around me seemed to melt, droop, and dance, this guy’s deadpan demeanor was grounding, like a pale life preserver in a sea of commercialized drugs. “Hey there!” I started, trying to sound functional. “I’d like to buy some ship stock. Heading to the Edge of Existence, so I’ll need four cases of that scented -Tosh the girl over there gave me”, I pointed to her, now handing samples to a Harvaxi in an elegant dress, “and twenty sheets of high-powered blotter acid, twenty ounces of Platinum Blue Dream”, a rare heritage strain, but worth the price, “and eight units of those zero-g grown shrooms I keep hearing about.” By the time I finished listing off my grocery haul, the total came to 10,000 G//C, which I forked over without hesitation. I probably would’ve spent a more respectable amount if I wasn’t already feeling like I was in a Salvador Dalí painting. ChryBmb doesn’t fuck around. Scott blinked slowly before responding, same tone as before. “The Edge of Existence... now that’s a destination.” he said looking at me, yet it almost seemed like he was looking right through me. “Uh, yeah, I-” “You’ve got a knack for adventuring while expanding your mind. I’m aware, Tracy Lawrence.” He cut me off, inputting the order into the register. Wait, what? Who the fuck is this guy? My mind raced until I finally blurted, “Do I know you?” “No, but I know your work. You wrote about the 2096 Bay City Skate Headz Invitational,” he said with a nod. "Skate or Die; The Church of the Pavement. Great stuff.” I was a little flabbergasted. I’ve been writing for a while now, but this was the first time I’d run into one of my readers in the wild. “Uh, thanks!” I stirred awkwardly, feeling that familiar denial gremlin crawl up from my subconscious, whispering that I didn’t have talent to begin with. “What’s your ship’s dock code?” Scott asked, pulling me out of my internal spiral. I retrieved the digital receipt the kiosk had given me earlier through my optic. “TND-1701,” I repeated. “Alright, a port drone will deliver and load your goods into your ship within the hour. Just sign here.” He slid a holotab across the counter, and I scrawled my John Hancock. With the receipt and manifest stored in my optic, I stumbled out of the dispensary. The neon streets pulsed with life, and I briefly thought about hailing a skycab. I looked up at Aerialia, the zeppelin club floating above the district, its spotlights sweeping across the sky, almost beckoning me to take the tractor lifts up for a night of hedonism. I wondered if anyone had ever gotten accidentally pulled up into that flying rave as it drifted over the crowds. Nah, I decided to walk. Maybe grab some food on the way back to the ship.