Z on 13.

Z was in awe of the twentieth century.
Although she had never met anyone who was born in the magical years, the latter decades of art, ideas and politics fueled her imagination no end.
She lived on the thirteenth floor with her cat: Orangeman or to give him his full title, Orangeman bad. 
She didn't really mix with the other residents in the tower block. Most had been conditioned now, through years of globalist propaganda, to not trust anyone other than their immediate circles of family and friends. Bullshizen! She thought of the Halcyon days of the real left wing warriors and the big city squat scene. A time when men still had some honour and would fight for the women in their communities, unlike today.
She ran a silver encrusted hand through her short blonde hair and studied her twenty something face in the mirror. The black eye she had received from the Somalian in the lobby of the flat block was going slightly yellow and healing. He had ended up coming off worse in the fight,as she carried around an old Sandoz battery in a sock. When the fuckhead had grabbed her arm as she had made her way to the tubes, to get her ride upstairs, she didn't stop to hesitate and had whacked him clean on the jaw with the battery. As he went down she leapt on him and scratched his face with her long talons. He had cried then like a pussy, he had more cock in his personality than his pants she thought contemptuously, she had gone through his pockets and rinsed the sap, taking his cash credits and synth weed. You just picked a fight with the wrong animal, she said to him before spitting in his face. She knew that they would be looking for her now. These soyboys around here were a joke! The warlords running this economic zone could go about their business unhindered; taking what they could from any hard working citizen, enslaving the women in bang shops, getting them hooked on the strongest O: that were opioids from Chinese labs.
Z felt her blood get hot with anger and looked at the Multiplier Console that the two guys from Sandoz had left her. She had endured a heavy few months on the Yellow Hop, walking round like a fucking zombie as the dream coma took over her life.
She couldn't afford to be vulnerable like that now. She clapped her hands as the Swans sang "You're not real girl" came strumming through the air. She dropped to the floor and started her press up/sit up rotation, about a hundred of each should do it!
As she finished her work out she undid her jeans and climbed into the hose box, letting the hot water massage her body and mind as she hummed to herself softly.
Orangeman was purring on the other side of the curtain and she smiled. The console from Sandoz even had a special headset adaptation for her beloved pet, they had kindly thrown in a very mild yellow hop Salmon flavoured cat food to help Orangeman adapt to the up coming jungle expedition by boat. What did they want in return? They had instructed her to contact some rogue operator called K. She would then deliver a series of coordinates for an upcoming drone.attack! At first she had told them to Fuck off! Now though she could see the cash credits gleaming in her minds eye. Here was a real chance to move her and Orangeman out to the beach colonies where at least the men had some blood flow, unlike these sad fucks limping around the city. The two guys from Sandoz were a bit weird alright and one of them had insisted she confess all under the influence of some drug. When she had asked him about any personal risk to her or her cat he had just smiled kindly and said: "It's only a game."
What's the worst that could happen? She thought.

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