The Redlight

Amsterdam was the kind of town that members of society avoided at all cost.

Situated beyond the Border, it lay on the edge of the Lowland Territories, just to the north of the Wild Isles, but south of untamed Zealand.  It was populated by men who made their money building ships on the docks or gambling on Company bids.  The prospectors and sailors lived within the confines of an antiquated dome, even as the Company erected the Barrier around them.   The main street, named for pioneer Anton Van Huen, was built on a rise overlooking one of the old canals.  It featured a number of smooth-faced modern buildings, fashioned out of industrial-grade ceramic with a garish titanium-gloss finish.  They had been designed for longevity, not aesthetics.

On the corner of Van Huen and Rolstadt Streets, a particularly nondescript low-rise sported a sign which read, “The Redlight,” in ironic neon-orange.   It was the last refuge of one of the ancient city’s most time-honored comforts.

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Things were said to a dandy of which a revolutionary could only dream to hear.