The central boulevard, while not as festive as last time we were here, is still beautifully appointed. The streets are clear, the Earth trees are trimmed, the storefronts are… Well, they are actively being cleaned. Here and there, we see signs of unrest in the dome. Painters are laying a fresh coat over graffiti on one building we pass. Shattered glass covers the ground elsewhere, remnants of a pair of bricked windows. That’s in front of a real estate shop with advertisements for Earth Corridor plots, a reasonable target for Louisa’s ire… I hope her whole group is remaining focused in their resistance, not just smashing anything they can. The place with graffiti was a luxury goods shop, which isn’t really an environmental target, but maybe—at a stretch—could be considered an anti-debt one.
Cleve guides us to the candy shop, where he finds the exact lollipop Bella wants. It is well-secured, locked in a glass display case that the attendant has to open for us. “Are you just getting one, or are you getting a backup?” I ask Cleve. “I don’t know if she tends to eat it or admire it, but if it’s something that she likes… When are you going to be here again to buy more?”
“True,” Cleve says. So he picks up a spare, as well as a bag of glittery pixie dust and a collection of glistening rock candy. That last one he says is for craws, who might like how the light plays through it. He doesn’t really want to draw attention to the barely visible shimmerfly with us, but he glances at her every now and then to see if there’s anything else in the shop she cares for. The rainbow lollipop seems to be the main attraction. And indeed, all she does is cradle it happily in her little arms as we continue on through town.
Fritz’s shop isn’t directly on the main main boulevard. We find his side street and turn down it, checking the building numbers as we go. 199, 201, 203—¡Ay, no! The signage above says Fritz the Tailor, but the windows are all boarded up! Some of the boards are newer than others, so the graffiti scrawled here is incomplete. The only words I can make out are, “Burn the—”
Although we’re well within the range of his displayed open hours, there’s a sign flipped to “closed” on the door. If Fritz was just a shop owner, maybe I could believe that he’d decided it was no longer safe to do business here. But Fritz is also Morris, someone who funnels exiles to Data Haven and organizes people to push back against the debt systems embedded in Morgan Industries. Is he one of the people that have been caught? A bunch of disastrous possibilities run through my head as I try the door. They’re just possibilities, though, I tell myself. I won’t know unless we investigate.
“We need to get this door open,” I tell Cleve as I crouch down to look at the lock, remembering Tenoch’s advice and Arx’s approach. “But I don’t have any picks.” I doubt he does either, but maybe he’s got something handy that can help. It’s too bad I don’t actually wear my hair up on a regular basis, or I’d at least have hairpins.
Cleve rifles around in his many pockets and then offers, “Well, here’s a screwdriver.” It’s small and thin, definitely a help. It’s not enough, though, I need something long and narrow with a bit of a hook at the end… like a barbed thorn.
There’s not much dirt in the streets here, but I scrape together what I can and hold it in my cupped hands. Then I close my eyes, calm my breathing, and focus on coaxing growth. There are twinges; I was expecting those. But soon a small sprig of xenofungus appears. It lives an accelerated life cycle there in my hands, growing at my will for as long as I fuel it. And right now, what I need is a lockpick. I snap off a long thorn and then shake out my hands, wiping the dirt away and setting to work. A moment later, I feel the pins shift. I haven’t damaged the lock nor made too much noise. I stand up, turn the handle, and open the door. The thorn disintegrates into dust as I spare no more attention for it, my thoughts solely concerned with what has become of Fritz.