After discovering that John’s sports car had not been reported found, and not getting a ping on it’s GPS locater, Marcus leaves his two passengers at the police station at the edge of Hemmington where they’d reported the carjacking. After taking the tinfoil package from the glove compartment, He parks his own car in the nearby airport parking lot, opting to take public transport into The Main. Knowing the stories of The Main, and adding in the fact that the police were totally unsurprised that John’s car’s GPS had been deactivated, Marcus quickly reaches some obvious conclusions.

1: Cars get stolen in The Main on such a frequent basis that his would undoubtedly fall victim as well.

2: The men he’s following are most likely in The Main.

If his profiling on the three of them is as accurate as his profiles usually are, the Red Bastard would not be able to resist the place. The area of lawless vice plays home to all sorts of criminals, fugitives, ParaHumans, and the cosmetic and prosthetic junkies that frequent the myriad biological and cybernetic chop-shops that thrive in the area. None of them, not even the red bastard, would raise a multiply-pierced eyebrow walking down the streets laden with scum, filth, prostitutes, and filthy scum-laden prostitutes.

The first train Marcus catches is well maintained, with reasonably uncomfortable seats. The passengers range from office workers in simple suits, to college and university students and a number of retirees going into Hemmington central to spend their pensions.

The second train however, is in a much greater state of disrepair. Many of the uncomfortable cushions have been torn from the uncomfortable seats and many places on the train car showed signs of small fires, likely started by cigarette lighters.

Marcus looks around the graffiti-scoured and vandalized car at the four other individuals he shares it with.

Three of them look to be university students, a young man with short blonde hair and a modestly bejeweled stud on the left side of his nose. His clothes, like those of the two women sitting next to him are the sort of out-of-fashion second-hand garments that bohemian university students have always found irresistible.

One of the young women has shoulder-length brown hair, intelligent but plain features, and is taking a drag from a half-smoked cigarette she is sharing with the third girl, who has dyed hair, candy cane red now fading to a washed out pink. Her eyes are wide-set, brown, with lashes heavily coated in mascara. The three are having the kind of quiet, pseudo-intellectual conversation that trendy bohemians cannot resist. Marcus resists the urge to roll his eyes at the young man regurgitates almost verbatim a paragraph from a book Marcus had read and dismissed most of fifteen years ago. Psychology majors.

Marcus’ attention turns to the fourth passenger, a man with extensive prosthetics and other body modifications, ranging from the flickering glowing tattoos known as  Lumos across his forehead in the form of a slogan “In the name of the Machine God” to stud implants in his shoulders, vaguely reminding Marcus of holographs he’d seen of the Venisian invaders from almost ten years ago, and later in 2001. The man is bobbing his head in time to music only he can hear, probably another sub dermal implant or one of the new “Wet-Net” brain implants that allow you to connect to the WorldNet anywhere without any external device. Marcus can’t trust the Wet-Net technology yet, finding it too new and untested, but in the technocratic Asiatics, any new technological trend was immediately snapped up and massed-produced.

After another ten minutes, the train finally pulls up to Main Station, the multi-platform terminal. Due to the early hour, the foot traffic is relatively light, but there are still a lot of people moving and milling about, not to mention a number of beggars and squatters sleeping in the underground terminal.

Marcus scans the faces, and finally sees what he’s looking for, a middle-aged, balding Chinese man sitting on one of the benches, watching the newsfeed on his WorldNet Portable. The Asian man wears a faded brown jacket over a Hawaiian shirt and dirty khaki shorts. Instead of shoes, the man wears rubber flip-flops. Aside from the jacket, he looks like he should be on holiday on a tropical island, a gaudily colored drink in his hand. Marcus moves over and sits next to the man, pulling out his own WNP.

“It’s been a while, M.” The man says without looking up from his WNP. “Two and a half years. I’ve missed your business.” His English is flawless, with no hint of an Asiatic accent, making it clear he is not a first generation immigrant.

Marcus follows the man’s lead, and his eyes don’t leave his WNP. “I got good at rationing when I went private. Wasn’t easy.”

The man raises a thin, barely visible eyebrow. “I am sure it wasn’t. From your request, I am guessing you are almost out just some of the more common animals and the strongman left?”

Marcus tries not to look uncomfortable. This topic always unnerves him, despite how intrinsic to his life it may be. Perhaps of how intrinsic it is. “A good guess, A. Chasing that red bastard’s called on a wide array of – “ Marcus hesitates, for just a moment, before continuing. “ – Talents.”

The man can’t help but smile at Marcus’ discomfort. “Mmmm, still chasing ghosts and shadows. How does the Great Chase go, man hunter?”

“Close, ever since February last year. It’s been cat-and-mouse across the country, but I think I’ve got him. Which is why I need more.”

“Last February . . . you don’t mean that college? I didn’t think there was any footage or reliable witnesses.” The man’s expression is genuinely surprised. “And didn’t the Expatriates claim responsibility for the explosion? Do you think your Red Ghost is one of these Expatriates?”

“I’m not ruling it out, A. But I find it hard to imagine he’d run errands or attack targets for them. He’s not the sort to make – or keep – allegiances easily, I think.” Marcus says, clicking away at his WNP. “Check your account.”

“I am constantly surprised that FLAG doesn’t just go after these Expatriates, M. They have been responsible, or at least have claimed they have, for a good many of this past decade’s great disasters.” The man sits a crinkled brown paper bag onto the seat between him and Marcus and puts his WNP away as he prepares to get up and leave.

Marcus picks up the fist-sized bag and slips it into a pocket. “Now A, you know the coming war’s got the pressure on for FLAG. Besides,” Marcus smiles and stands before A can, making the man have to wait ten minutes after Marcus to leave. “If FLAG locked up all the Expatriates, it’s a lot more than my business you’d miss.”

Marcus smiles at the Apothecary’s silence as he leaves the platform for the streets above, and the coming Hunt.