District 3
District 3 is a precarious foothold above the world of the masses. Here are the salarymen, the managers, the skilled craftspeople, entry-level programmers and the people on the lowest rung of the corporate ladder. They cling jealously to their position above the mires of poverty below them, behind manned building entrances sealing themselves off from the horrors of the Golden City. The 3 is defined by the fear of losing what little these people have compared to the have-nots, and the corps play on that fear to drain away the best years of their lives.
The corporate message is everywhere. Loyalty to one’s corp is woven into everything here, blatantly on competing billboards and holographic ad projectors, subtly in the tickertape screens displaying warnings about anti-capitalist criminals. Corp-subsidized housing smothers its inhabitants in the message, from the alarm tones played every morning to the branded food oozing from their autocuisine units. A soul can be born into a corporate medical facility, raised by its education system, and tracked along its management training programme, never leaving the corporation’s embrace until death. Woven into the message is a warning – you cannot leave. Your corp is your family. Freedom is betrayal.
The gangs are here meet the vast need for escape among the salarymen. Illegal stimulants get you through a 12-hour shift, and narcotics or extreme sensory VR programs banish the misery of home. Gangsters are a more acceptable face here, with the tailored suits of the Aizutachi Yakuza or the plush interior of a Snakehead Triad casino, but the truth is just beneath. District 3 is only skin deep, and once you tear through the surface the raw brutality revealed is just as cruel as anything in the 5. No one is ever more than a missed payment from the reach of the underworld, and a manager’s legs break just as easily as anyone else’s.
The cops care about keeping the peace on these streets. The gangs are partners, not enemies, because they hide the crime away from the public eye. They take their cut from the proceeds of organised crime in return for letting it happen. It’s an ecosystem that feeds on misery, in the knowledge the stress of the corporate grind will always create more.
The corps take their wages back through heavily branded spending opportunities. Cavernous malls, the cathedrals of the capitalist religion, form holo-drenched vistas designed to drain the money out of visitors’ pockets. Intelligent holo-ads address customers by name, subtly intimating that this clothing line or that personal tech gadget will mark them out as belonging to the better half of the population. A flashy car, a week’s vacation in the simulated sun, a beautiful trophy spouse, are all sold as worthy ambitions. You must become the image of a successful corporate leader, and for the clothes, the cars and the people required, you have to pay.
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