“No one gonna fuck you for a pill,” they said.

Another snorted. “Probably got a new bug. You dead, bitch.”

The others laughed. They continued to joke about her condition as they walked away. Welga kept her crouch and shuffled forward, careful to maintain the appearance of illness.

The majority of buildings she passed stood in darkness, their doors closed and windows boarded. Hives towered with dim light leaking from upper-story windows. The lack of activity—human, swarm, or bot—disconcerted her more than the literal darkness. She steered away from any sound of violence, mostly metal on metal, and toward voices if they weren’t raised. The first four times, they belonged to vigilante guards who left her alone as she gave them a wide berth. The fifth time, she walked past three people, one receiving a blow job, the other waiting their turn. Must be getting closer. Another corner brought her to humanity scattered on the streets.

Homeless people formed dark masses against or inside bots whose rusted condition predated the Machinehood’s attack. Some of them coughed, too. No one paid attention to Welga. Phoenix had fewer itinerants than San Francisco. The heat and dust storms drove them into shelters, and those who couldn’t find one didn’t live long.

Welga moved easily down the center of the street, while murmuring, “Pretties? Joyrides?”

“Hey,” a voice called. “Over here.”

Welga headed toward them, a slender, young person with cropped brown hair and lean muscles along their bare arms.

“You’re new here. Don’t need to whisper. Nobody cares, especially not now. You got cash?”

Welga pulled a microcard from her pocket and flashed the amount at the dealer. “What you got? I need pretties and joyrides.”

Their eyes narrowed. Why would someone like you need zips?

“For my brother,” Welga clarified. “Westside Brown.” The gang had existed two decades ago, in her high school years. Thank Christ for the network blackout, because this dealer looked like they wanted to call someone and check on the affiliation.

After several tense seconds, they shrugged. “Don’t matter to me.” They opened their case, which had its own light.

Welga scanned the pills and spotted half a dozen quads, a good number of duos, and a plethora of juvers. She hadn’t expected the variety and spent longer than she should have deciding what to get.

The dealer snapped the box shut. “You buyin’ or not?”

Welga shook herself as if from a reverie. “Yeah, yeah. All the quads, twelve duos, two antivirals, and two wound wipers.”

The dealer laughed. “You think that card’s gonna buy all those?”

Welga pulled out two more.

“Better,” they said. “You’ll need to double that.”

Welga shook her head. She’d left most of Papa’s cash at the house. They’d need it to pay for their passage on the boat.