The sun finally sets.

You step out of the abandoned warehouse keeping to the shadows. You can't be seen.

You're what's called an imperfect.

Your parents conceived you the old-fashioned way, without genetic enhancements and without legal permission.

They meant well, but your fate was sealed before you were born.

You were nine years old when the tracers found them.

The last time you saw your parents,

Dad was shoving you down a hatch, whispering for you to run.

Before you had time to respond, he closed the hatch and covered it with the carpet.

When you heard your mother's muffled screams, you took off down the tunnel.

That was 17 years ago.

You still cling to the hope that they're alive in a prison somewhere,

but deep down, you know the truth.

Your growling stomach snaps you out of the daydream.

Imperfect or not you still have to eat.

And the factory district has plenty of off the books work.

Sure, they pay you barely enough to survive, but they don't want to visit from the Tracres

any more than you do.

It takes a long time to get to work. You have to stay far away from the patrols.

Tracers can smell sweat and even hear a heartbeat half a mile away.

Your heart murmur is a dead giveaway of imperfection.

You hold back a sniffle as a tear rolls down your cheek and wonder how the world came to this.

...