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Peach in the Presidium
The Citadel rotated lazily. A large window hung over the Presidium. Outside, the sun was starting to dip behind the moon signaling that nightfall was within the hour. The Presidium was the polished and pristine heart of the station. It contained the council chambers and government offices, interplanetary embassies, and major financial institutions, such as the federal bank and stock trade. Mushroom Hospital, the premiere medical house for the rich and powerful, was also located here.
Peach wore a snug white t-shirt and navy leggings that clung to her athletic frame. She wore a pink hoodie with the hood up and her head down to keep from being recognized. Being the princess and de facto leader of one of the most populous core worlds carried with it a certain amount of fame and intrigue, two inconveniences she was eager to avoid. She made her way through the bustling Presidium. Crabbers tended the floors, cleaning the scuff marks from the rubber shoes on the chrome tiling. The hour was late and government employees had just called it a day, ready for a drink down in the Wards. They pushed past her, bumping shoulders with nary an apology or an "excuse me." Life moved fast and hard in the Presidium.
Peach stopped short before a virtual intelligence. The VI was the hologram of a young woman in federal uniform that served as a navigation center for visitors to the colossal Citadel. She spoke on a loop, a predetermined script written by an idiot ages ago, unless prompted otherwise. "The Presidium is home to the embassies of the major civilizations of the galaxy. Located below are the Wards where the major shopping districts are. Enjoy cool drinks at Plessie's Den or games at…," said VI, trailing off as Peach lost interest and continued towards her destination.
He sat on a bench near the large fountain in the center of the Presidium. From that angle, he could see all movement in the crowded place. People coming. People going. He kept eyes on it all, ever scanning for his quarry, until, at last, his eyes landed on her. She tugged at her pink hoodie with her head down as if that would make any difference at all. Even at that distance, he knew exactly who she was and more importantly, exactly what she was worth. As soon as he locked onto her, his black needle-point eyes never left her. He tied his handkerchief above his nose and waited. He was an impossibly patient man with a singular focus, which was, of course, how he got the job in the first place. He watched her push through the flooding crowds, never the wiser that she was, indeed, being hunted.
The fountain emptied into a wide reflection pond that stretched the length of the Presidium. Red barberry bushes and large white soapstone platforms flanked the lake. On one of those platforms was a stargazer who was in the middle of a particularly piquant sermon. He was dressed in stained rags that hung from his wiry frame. His brown beard and hair were oily and knotted from a lack of soap and water that was headed for the one month mark. His hands reached above his head and his eyes were wide so that the whites were visible above and below. His grungy, chaotic visage was a far cry from the clean and bored government drones that constituted the general patronage of the Presidium.
"Repent, I say!" shouted the Stargazer. "For in penance, ye shall be saved. So sayeth the prophet. Do not, my friends, put your faith in the metals of man for they shall fall to rust and disrepair. Trust not in the structures and scaffolds that confine thee to thou doom. Trust instead the prophet for she alone shall save us." No one in the shuffling crowd batted an eye as he finished his speech for the seventh time. He began again and finally, someone had had enough. It was a long and monotonous day, which was bad all on its own. But having to push through the late afternoon crowd while listening to a cultist loop his insanity was too much.
"Shut up, you friggin' howlie," said the bystander. Howlie was a derogatory term for members of the cult due to their incessant howling of all things prophet. He chucked his cup of soda at the stargazer, which hit him square in the chest and exploded fizzy brown drink all over the front of his shirt: another stain to blend in with the others.
Peach watched but kept moving. Her stomach tied in knots to watch the common folk fight among themselves. She thought of her castle and how tall her tower was. At the top, everyone below her looked like ants on a pile. And she was above it. All of it. With her great mirror, and her perfumes, and her many dresses, and all the different outfits for the vacations that she had taken or planned to take. And her shelves upon shelves of books of the great histories full of so much wisdom from those that had come before. She had read every word so, surely, she knew better. Shouldn't everyone know better? But down here, they were in the muck or something like it, fighting over the same old shit. Religion. Poverty. Belonging. Goddammit, she thought. What else is new?
"Bare witness," the stargazer continued. "Bare witness to the transgressions that I endure. Your bigotry does not deter me. The Great Devourer comes! And when he does, all shall burn."
Peach shuddered at his words and made her way out of the main courtyard. The man on the bench with needle-point eyes rose and followed. She skipped down a flight of stairs that led to a back alley. It was dark and dingy, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. Clearly, the crabbers didn't make their way down there. It was lined with beggars and overflowing trash bags that hadn't been picked up all week by a stretched-too-thin sanitation department. It reeked of body odor and rotten food. Peach wretched and lifted her shirt above her nose. She marveled at how the quality of living could be so different between the Presidium and the lower decks and they were separated only by a flight of stairs. The man followed a few paces behind and pulled at his handkerchief, which did little to block the reeking stench.
She shuffled past a lone police outpost, which was little more than an information kiosk. The portly toad officer was reclined in his chair and dozing, a snot bubble hanging from his nose. Just past the outpost was Processing, but down there, everyone called it the Tubes. There were a couple of reasons for this. First, and most obvious, were the vials of blood that they centrifuged for testing, quite literally, test tubes. Secondly, disease ran rampant in the Lower Decks but actual medical care was scarce and typically reserved for the upper class workers of the Presidium. So, if it happened that you needed testing for something you caught, you could consider your life to be "down the tubes."
She pushed through the front door and a bell at the top chimed to signal her entrance. An attendant in a white nurses uniform and an accompanying hat with a red cross looked up with a plump and pleasant face. Her makeup was tidy and professional and uniform freshly pressed. "Welcome to the Tubes," she said. "How can I…" She stopped short in shock when she saw the face of a princess nestled in a pink hoodie.