The Red Rock

Chapter 2: The Rim

Although the air is breathable and Mars is now habitable, I marvel at how the red planet hasn't changed its character despite human civilization. The day is ending, and the reddish-pink skyline is giving way to a faint blue as the sun sinks beneath the horizon. Even here, under glass domes and artificial skies, the sunsets feel ancient.

The air is rich with smells—each street saturated with spices from different regions back on Earth. It’s a reminder that people came here in fragments of culture, trying to stitch old lives into a new world.

Pedestrians push past in a hurry. “Excuse me!” I say after bumping shoulders with a woman. She doesn’t turn, doesn’t apologize—just keeps moving. Everyone’s trying to squeeze in a little more life before the temperature drops.

The evening here is still hot. Excess carbon dioxide keeps the heat pressed close to the ground, even after sunset. Shops stretch the length of the boardwalk—open stalls, robotic vendors, flickering signs. Electric vehicles hum by, low and constant. From a balcony above, a violin weeps over a raspy, soulful voice belting out Bella Ciao.

Then, from a nearby window, I catch the sharp sound of a couple mid-fight.

“You cheating slut! You can’t even clean the house!”

“You brought me on this rocket saying we’d be rich, and now look at us!”

Glass shatters. A plate maybe. I walk on. Her screams blend into the city’s static hum, like background noise in a movie you've already seen too many times.

Then I hear it—an unmistakable rhythm from the 2010s, raunchy and nostalgic. I follow it down a narrow alley lined with bar fronts and neon holograms. The music hits full volume. Doors pulse with flashing lights. Skimpily dressed women, hired ambiance, lean against the doorframes.

“Need company?”

“Special price tonight?”

One woman approaches me. She’s young, in a black pleather crop top and miniskirt, stilettos clicking against the pavement like a countdown.

“We could find a bar with a higher class for someone like you.”

I smirk and shake my head.

“Suit yourself,” she says, brushing my arm as she turns. “You look tense. I give a full-body massage.”

The door hisses open behind me, and I walk inside. The club is dark and cramped. Music pulses with too much bass. Laser lights cut through thick air like claws. It smells like sweat, smoke, and synthetic perfume.

I smile. “I found him.”

He sits at the bar like a shadow that refuses to dissolve—tall, hunched, twisted. A monster at first glance. A man underneath.

A woman leans against him. Blonde braids, likely Ethiopian. She laughs as he takes a drag from a joint and passes it to her.

I walk up and tap him on the shoulder. He turns.

His face is a wreck—scarred, sunken, misshapen—but his eyes are bright hazel, steady, painfully human.

“Old friend, it’s been a long time,” he booms.

“Jarek, you’re damn right,” I reply, loud over the music.

He leans and whispers to the woman. She glances at me, smiles knowingly, kisses his cheek, and disappears into the dancefloor haze.

“You always hated this shithole,” Jarek says, eyes narrowing. “What brings you to the Rim?”

I shrug. “Thought I’d buy you a drink.”

He snorts. I pull out my glass-thin com device, trace a circle. A 3D hologram hovers—an account balance in his name.

He freezes. “Don’t fuck with me.”

“They say you’ve been to every region.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“Urban legends.”

The bartender sets down a polished canister and a single shot glass. Jarek nods. Liquid hisses into the glass.

“You still don’t carry a phone?” I ask.

“I heard about the TMP expansion,” he says, then downs the shot in one go.

“So why such a generous f*e to take me out there?”

“You saved my life. Who else would I trust with this?”

He exhales, the tension in his scarred face softening just slightly.

“You remember how we met?” he asks.

I nod. How could I forget?