Megacity one was a rough place to be, for everyone. Citizens, gang members, judges, it didn't matter who you were, either way it always boiled down to the fact you were nothing more than meat. Walking, talking slabs for the recyc. The end of the world had been and gone, and they were all still here, wallowing in the after math they called a megacity. The gigantic, concrete constructed cities, amidst the blocks outside, were no safer than the streets; in fact, nowhere was safe. This was a fact you ALWAYS kept in mind in this 'new world', or you might as well stick your own neck on the chopping block. At the end of the way you were disposable, eight hundred million people crammed into a tarmac system; all disposable. If you had nothing else left, you found someone who'd take you in, and you better damn well have a skill. Gangs, 'new families' who'll feed you, so long as you offered them something; Gun training, hand to hand combat, medical skills, or techie training were all desirable qualities, and if you had one of these, you stood a chance.

He had the last one, because he sure didn't have gun skills or combat training. He might have been tall, hitting up at about 6'1, but his physical prowess was most certainly lacking. He was a lithe, pale child, almost sickly pale when coupled with how thin he was, and this was only extenuated by the lengths of greasy, unkempt ginger hair that fell around his face and over his shoulders. Had he been in better condition, he might have clawed himself the description of 'pretty', but he'd certainly never be masculine. Still, being called pretty was just as dangerous within the gang circles, and if you thought the only people pushed into the whore house industries were women, you were wrong. Maybe he was bright enough to know this, and that's why he kept himself so run down looking.

He was young, too, early 20's if that, but he didn't really debate himself with many. He didn't have anyone, and that's why he found himself where he was. No parents to speak of, they were long gone. He'd only had a mother to begin with, and no idea who his father was. He didn't think his mother even knew who his father was, but she'd still been a good woman, ultimately. When she died though, she died poor, and he had nothing left. If he'd had any idea what was going to happen to him, he might have opted to stay on the streets, risk starvation, risk death, hell even risk judges. The situation he got himself into was actually making the idea of a few years in the isocubes a little more alluring. Still the urge to eat was a strong one.

So he's started (and stayed) roughly at the bottom of The MaMa clan, the first one who'd have him. He was a self-taught whiz with computers, technology was his niche and he looked it. He'd not really earned his position straight off though, oh no, apparently the first thing a clan did was teach him his place, teach an already desolate and desperate young man how to behave to his superiors. They could have just told him, maybe shoved a knife in front of his face and he'd have gotten the idea, but that's not how the system worked apparently. He knew torture in a fair few of its many forms now, and those memories kept him well and truly in his place.

For the first few weeks it had been just about bearable, a few beatings here and there as and when he found himself in the 'wrong place', although they never did specify which places were the wrong place. Apparently said places changes with what day it was, but even if he wanted too he couldn't defend himself, and if they wanted something to kick around he was the ball and that's how it was. They never did much serious damage to him, a few bruises, sprains, but never any breaks or much blood shed. He'd had so many knives held to his throat to make him squirm that eventually it became common place, but it still never stopped him squirming. They liked that, and it was better to satisfy them than give them an open invite to try harder. It had gotten worst though, when one day a specific member, who's face he was very familiar with after the amount of times he'd made his fists acquaintance decided his squirming under threat just wasn't quite satisfying enough anymore.

That had been the worst day of his life up until that point, and he'd begged to be let go. He'd even begged to be shoved back out on the streets but his words went unnoticed, stuffed into a tiny back room with barely 3 meters between each wall. It might as well have been a large broom cupboard. He'd tried to push himself as far into one of the corners as he could, half sure he was about to die in that instance and maybe that would have been preferable to what came. Seems keeping himself pale skinny and greasy hadn't done him the favours he'd wanted as effectively as they could have. He'd had his face pushed into the wall, agonizingly tight grip in his hair as his trousers had been yanked down so roughly the front button had broken and the pull had caused bruises on his hips. The splitting, burning pain that followed made him scream, paw at the wall, until the pain reached a breaking point and he'd blacked out. When he'd woken up it had seemed his blacking out hadn't prevented the other guy from finishing the job. The limp home with broken trousers hadn't been a fun one, people stared, people KNEW. No one helped him, because no one dared, not unless they wanted to risk getting raped in a broom closet themselves. It had taken him a few days to recover from that, physically, but he never recovered mentally. He kept himself to himself after that, barely left his post, and never spoke about it.

He was good at his job, mock control and surveillance of the entire city of Peach trees. His clan had the access to every camera in the building, and therefore had eyes on practically every inch of the place. He knew what he was doing, and he only got better quickly the more he played with the system, keeping under the radar of sector but doing what needed to be done. They'd never really had issues in peach trees that challenged him, mostly it was involving surveillance of other gang movements, which should they displease his boss, got monitored and then removed. She had control over every last inch of the place, and he was her eyes. The better at his post he got the more they left him alone, because Mama wouldn't have taken too kindly to someone mauling her little techie boy. SHE was the only one permitted to mishandle him. Unfortunately, mishandling him herself would come. He was good at his job but only as good as his eyes were, he had the information on screen but he could only look at so may surveillances at a time. Perhaps if he had a group of technician's in here they could watch the system more effectively, but there were cheaper ways of improving his performance than keeping a few more technicians, cheaper…and far nastier for him.

He'd been called into her 'quarters' at about 9pm, curiously terrified because people didn't tend to be summoned past that heart adorned door very often, and if they did, coming back was unlikely. His entire body was shaking, head to foot, eyes kept firmly on floor. He knew his place, and he tried to stay in it. It wasn't the life he'd wanted for himself, but what choices did he have? He had to eat, and the streets would kill him quickly. No credit meant no eating, and begging could earn you time if a judge found you. Hands stuffed into charcoal grey cut off trousers, he stepped through like he was walking to the hangman's noose, no idea why he'd been called in. Once through he pulled his hands from his pockets and tugged at his Red t shirt, attempting to wipe the sweat off his palms as he looked up.

"You called for me…?"

Meek, voice barely stable, but they liked that didn't they? The amount of times other members stepped too close as and when he did leave his post just to see him swallow and cower were now countless, and he was pretty sure the knowledge of the broom cupboard incident was well and truly spread around. They knew, and they probably laughed, because they sure as hell liked to subtly imply threats of a repeat, and watch him try to ignore it.