Marble, glass, steel. Cameras above the doorways. He looked directly up at the old building, one of few left from the early days of the city, and a gargoyle spread its jaws back at him, its granite claws digging into a cornice. Inside its mouth one glass eye stared passively back, a bright red LED drawing in the attentions of anyone who looked up, just to let them know they were watched, to let them know they were safe, to let them know that if they looked up from a crowd of people, someone somewhere was going to look back. Somewhere, a computer ran the picture of his face through the databases and confirmed that he lived nearby and that his score was acceptable: no outstanding warrants, no criminal records, no radical activities or associations with extremist religions, solid credit, good job. Owner of a luxury condo in the district.

That he’d had a name change raised a red flag, but an officially approved doctor’s letter on file confirming he was transsexual lowered it. His score was a 96, the computer decided: a good citizen who could be reassured that the cameras were only there to keep him safe. The woman to his left, on the other hand, was difficult for the eye to interpret. Her hair made scribbles across her face that baffled the software, puffed out like a black and white spray of frizzy spikes and hid her from view. The computer calculated her height as above average and she seemed to be walking with the 96, so it could guess what sex she was assigned at birth from that, but without a clear picture it couldn’t determine if she had filed the correct paperwork to even be considered a “she.”

Her picture was passed along to a human operator, who took one look at her and knew perfectly well that she didn’t live anywhere nearby. The operator sent a signal out, and a nearby police officer set down his coffee and drove slowly past them. The camera on his car was a next-generation model capable of thwarting the standard ways of avoiding facial recognition software. It had her in seconds. Bad credit, questionable associations, an arrest for soliciting but no conviction, officially male. No outstanding warrants. Claimed legal residence in one of the northern districts, but no lease or utility bill registered in her name to prove she actually lived there. The officer took into account her companion was a 96 and decided not to stop and frisk her, though he drove slowly past several times as they walked so she would know she’d been noticed.

As though she’d had any doubt. But then they walked north and crossed the line out of his district, into the place where she probably belonged. The officer wondered what a 96 would be doing walking over that line with her – there was no record of drugs or even public intoxication for him, but why else would someone from the district be walking so far north? The officer pulled into a “no parking” zone right near the line and decided to sip his coffee and wait. He notified Central that cameras should keep an eye out for where the 96 re-entered and do a full analysis on his behavior. Old brick, broken. Weeds like trees waving over their heads from the toothgaps where row houses once stood.

Wood panels nailed over windows. He’d never been up this far, but he’d swept through panoramic views online and he knew what the neighborhood looked like. That’s why last week he’d demanded she visit his place first. “Shit,” she’d sighed, slumping into his leather sofa, eyeing the artisan cheeses he’d set out before she arrived, “next time you come visit me, alright? I showed you the way now, you’re a grown ass man and you can come up yourself for a Craigslist hookup. I fucking hate going down to the district.” “Why?” He looked at her. “The district is safe, and it’s clean. I like the district.” She snorted, “Yeah, that’s cause they score you good when they see you. When I go down there I gotta get in and get out. You saw that cop circling us, didn’t you?”