It’s hard to stay cordial while fighting for your life, even when your life doesn’t amount to much.

Even when you’re just a lump of clay.

Some kind of missile — a stone I guess — smacked the brick wall inches away, splattering my face with stinging grit. There wasn’t any shelter to cower behind, except an overstuffed trash can. I grabbed the lid and swung it around.

Just in time. Another slug walloped the lid, denting plastic instead of my chest.

Someone had me nailed.

Moments ago, the alley had seemed a good place to hide and catch my breath. But now its chill darkness betrayed me instead. Even a ditto gives off some body heat. Beta and his gang don’t carry guns into this part of town — they wouldn’t dare — but their slingshots come equipped with infrared sights.

I had to flee the betraying darkness. So while the shooter reloaded, I raised my makeshift shield and dashed for the bright lights of Odeon District.

It was a risky move. The place swarmed with archies, dining at cafés or milling about near classy theaters. Couples strolled arm-in-arm along the quay, enjoying a riverside breeze. Only a few coloreds like me could be seen — mostly waiters serving their bland-skinned betters at canopied tables.