There are the Slums, and there are the
Slums. This place, from what Six Pac could tell, was the former. A bit dingy, perhaps, and not the best taken care-of place, but it was almost assuredly not as bad as it looked around the edges. That tavern there smelled more like onion rings and hamburgers than beer, so it was probably almost respectable. A rich person might not want to walk here alone at night, but Six had grown up in the
latter section of the area, and had been a child of street gangs. He did not fear much here.
He heard a sudden rattling, and looked toward his left. Was his nightly constitutional about to be interrupted by a mugger or pickpocket? But the Rattegan he saw bore no knife, and his... peculiar body needn't worry about the man's claws or teeth. Or was it a woman? Six couldn't tell.
But rooting around in the trash, now, that was universal, as was Six's greeting. "I feel you, brother," he said, his voice a low hiss of sympathy.
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