The two-mile march through the sprawling, desperate slums of Sector Four was a slow, grueling procession through a dying ecosystem.
The harsh, overcast February sky offered a pale, flat grey light that aggressively highlighted the absolute misery of the refugee camp. The ambient temperature hovered just above freezing, causing the deeply rutted, trash-strewn pathways to solidify into a treacherous, ankle-deep slurry of half-frozen mud and raw, untreated sewage. The howling surface wind whipped through the maze of blue plastic tarps and rusted corrugated-tin shacks, carrying the sharp, acrid sting of burning plywood and the heavy, suffocating stench of thousands of unwashed, starving human bodies.
Ren walked with slow, deliberate, mechanical precision, completely indifferent to the hostile environment.
