Persistent shadows swallow the dim light of a halftone screen.
A pervasive silence coated the room only broken by nails tapping on touch keys.
The only light to work under was a shifting red *RENT DUE* sign glowing softly over the rooms only door, dousing the room in a bloody monotone, washing the passing time away with a monotonous routine.
“no no-NO!”
Rapid works of warring reworks against climbing notes and pulsing icons of urgent red bleeding errors.
Every line pushed rallying problems, falling through dormant code and isolated functions in violent waves. A corrupting cascade of errors, exceptions, and undefined variables who clawed through the depths of dependant libraries as untraceable failures amongst desperate efforts of restructuring.
“FUCK!”
Three weeks of vacation, carved through in a marathon sprint to create a single elusive program. A hack built to to solve problems that stalked behind improbable circumstances, ones which seemed to be gaining ground every minute more he contemplated their loose hold over his declining stability.
They called him paranoid, feeling as if every grain scattered, kicked up by hasty steps down a littered path, held a mundane moment newly lost to a encroaching forest.
They were right, he knew that. The city is out to get him, he Knows that.
They weren’t mutually exclusive.
Shots echoed from the roads below, roaring engines cut short. Light flashed though the moth bitten gap in his blackout blinds, searing his strained retinas as a thunderous bang shook the thin walls.
A road chase successfully played out between two gangs no doubt, at least one vehicle now lost to the inevitable scavs. And, by the sound of the screams, a couple civvies too.
This was the truth of night city.
A collective dream layered lie, veritable deep gouged nightmare, wholly faded unto the masses.
A Privatised Pandora. Sufferings freely distributed, Hope locked tight in neon signage.
Suffer-less freedom was the right of all souls. You traded yours for stainless cold steel chains and digital crutches against mortality.
Not that anyone would ever live without at least a nominal level of cyberware, certain integrations being all but mandatory. But in years of terminal advancements, where personnel had their soul mapped into databases updated with every step, you’d be remiss to believe any opportunity for surveillance would slip through the gaps.
They are most certainly watching.
With his last creds blown on a scrapyard deck prepared solely for the honour of a now tarnished program, he was steps away from giving up entirely.
Not restarting, he’d rebuilt and reiterated too many times now for any hope at even the skeletal build he had carved the features down to. No, by now, there were no routes left to chase.
And more importantly, no more time to do it.
Sitting in the highlighted section of the terminals inbox was one solitary message from wherein he is currently employed, marked out as reply for one final stretch of days he was entitled to under his current contract.
‘@jack7thcrockett054
You’re request for remaining mandate time off will be prosseced in 4-5 business days.
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
[email protected]’
It was wrong, the message, everything about it. And he was understandably upset over it.
Emails haven’t been used in a good decade, they didn’t even have an automated reply system. It was all designed to get under his skin in a way only those who knew him for years could.
Oh and the age old tactic of pushing the remaining free days until after the contract renewal so a slight change in days can render the remainder as ‘not part of the contract’ certainly wasn’t helping the situation. But nothing better could ever be expected by any who held the works of a corporation, titanically huge or otherwise.
So time was up.
Tired eyes and cramping hands tore themselves away from their logical prison as their delirium begged for just a moments rest.
That is to say, he was rather very tired.
*BEEP*
*BEEP*
*BEEP*
But such things could wait until times more suited for self hate, a breath of fresher airs would do him a world of good for the windows could not open, and AirCon cost extra.
He pushed back from his desk, crushing cardboard casings from the cheapest deliveries possibly found. Ignoring the cost, the only thing lower of quality was the nutrition which would lead him to an early grave should it have the chance to replace his every meal. For now, it was the barest of acceptable substitutes for ‘real’ foods, only marginal more respectable than feeding off the black mold drywall, and only marginally less favourable.
Grabbing the lone leather jacket hanging on one manually installed coat hanger, a little renovation that had cost him extra on the rent, he quickly dressed up to a more socially acceptable level, or at least what his older standards told him was socially acceptable. He would always blame his father for the 2030’s aesthetics taking over his limited wardrobe.
Even then he couldn’t escape the two glowing neon strips running vertical down its sides, though a little colour is always appreciated. It was comforting in a way overtly large leather jackets could be as it was always possible to retreat into its depths in order to hide from either people or the weather.
The lights were out already and his terminal was disconnected to any network, hopefully it would protect from any Netrunners.
The door slid open to tarnished steel supports and stained walls, piles of trash lining the pathway out of the complex, a disgusting walk even if it was a short one. He supposed that living on the lower floor had that one unintended benefit.
Of course the streets immediately around such a dilapidated and overlooked area held not much better under any sort of scrutiny, so all who inhabited the place decided unanimously to simply ignore it.
There was a reasonably paved path, so it was that he would take. Not that he paid much attention to it any more, having taken the same steps through the same filth time and time again, simply following the rhythm of the streets for a while.
It cleared his head, usually, stumbling blindly though the corporate zombies, toiling away in harsh routines days unimaginable without a dose to keep you energised. Made all life’s shortcomings seem just a little closer to freedom, instead of the horrible oppressive fear that balked down over any thoughts of even a stretch of his potential.
But that was not enough.
No, before the city, or his own encumbering paranoia either, crushed mentally and physically into the dim flame that was his hope... or a bullet, caught him first. That was what the Program was supposed to be. It was going to solve everything when realised and more still, only... nothing had come of it. It would be called L.A.G he had decided one delirious night, a joke on the purpose, an acronym made of the word, a play on the absurdity of it all in this ghoulish city.
And it would stand for Light Augmented Ghost.
His feet led him closer to cleaner streets, secure billboards and armed guards.
Others would find this a comfort. He was not Others.
Every layer of security, bureaucracy, of power, only held a darker shadow of demons behind each corner.
In here? The threats were too poor to care about, not even the shadows could afford to loiter, and the rats struggled with rent payments. So no, he would not continue toward the greener pastures, as only blood was free to fertilise them. Instead he took a sharp left, between the building, into the maze where the last husks of life roamed this city before they lost their fight to the wind. He knew them like he knew his fears, absolutely.
There were problems with the idea from the start, see? He would need access to every eye he caught himself in view of, for he wished to hide from all eyes, the peoples, the AI’s, the Corporate Overlords that already own a section of his senses, of his brain. But how could one account for ever make and model, for ever undisclosed new optic trial, an antique piece of tech taken for a drive to see how our ancestors once had.
And after he had mastered these laws of the new world, there was still the issue of manipulating them. He need to shift data in the minds and decks of crowds to cover his tracks... misplace his positions, and give him just the edge needed to overcome any challenge. and to run all that on engraved wafers lodged inside his skull all at once, to take static code and expand its capabilities to adapt to any circumstance, and to do it all without searing his brain from the inside out.
He paced faster now, step after step in increasing energy, prattling on to himself of all his hubris, the pounding of thick soles against aged stone as his habits brought him back to courts and cover he once believed his sanctuary. Any who could see him would know he was lost to the world, in his mind while his limbs marched him through the rising dawn barely reaching this deep back.
It was not enough to settle him unfortunately.
Wipe the optics, Okay, done.
Manipulate the data, sure, why not.
Go for the kill and die, because for every pair of eyes taken down there is a lens, pointing from cameras and terminal, from even the paving you walk on. And under it all is the unseen world taunting him for even daring to try.
What could any man hope to achieve against seeing thermals and x-ray imaging, against sound imaging and echolocation.
To hide from a city brought alive simply to track your very soul,
It was Insanit-
“HEY!!”