Neglection

Last week and this week were full of hard work, setbacks (the posted chapter today had to be re-written twice since I lost about 2 hours worth of work one night because of it not backing up to my cloud storage) and Fallout.

I finished the Far Harbor DLC and have been wandering around the Commonwealth in my dapper suit, topped in a black fedora and glasses. I've been making tons of Jet, since I have nothing else to use fertilizer for, and been peddling it around, making a ton of caps. If you're huffing Jet in The Commonwealth, it's most likely been cooked up at my chem station. So, essentially, I've become the post-apocalyptic Heisenberg. I am the danger. I am the one who knocks.

Been plugging away at school, managing to keep my grades up. I've been reading Babbitt for class, and the satire is all too real in this day and age, which saddens me because it means it was all too real in 1920, which means it's been all too real for a while. In this election year, all it's been is soul crushing image after soul crushing image, with fears being tossed about like bad race slips. My disillusionment with the political landscape of America is back in the red zone, and that's all the political talk you're going to get out of me.

This is the last chapter of To Slice The Sky I'm going to be working on for this month. I'm switching gears completely to try and shave down and edit my NaNoWriMo book, Some Call Me (Steampunk Django on Mars) since tor.com has opened up unsolicited submissions again, and they're particularly looking for Space Opera and Cyberpunk. While they won't accept anything that's been published before (so By Starlight was out), I feel that Some Call Me has enough elements of Space Opera, with punk grittiness, to qualify. If not, it's not like I'm not used to the, "It's not quite what we're looking for".

So, without further ado, here's your dog picture:

The American Pit Bull Terrier Dream

I wish you wouldn't use me for page views.

C:\>11_Electric_Kool-Aid_Acid_Bath

     "Hey, buddy,” Whispered from somewhere in the dark.

     Trip opened a lazy eyelid onto more darkness. The air was stuffy with body odor and indistinct animal. The right side of his body throbbed in pain. Capped with a head made of lead, he sweat inside the cheap lining of his jacket, mouth tasting of an empty stomach. A hand touched his shoulder.

     Trip grabbed the offender in a reflex.

     “Ow, ow, ow, lighten the frag up,” the stranger said.

     "Where am I?"

     "Chinatown, bud. ’bout Bowery and Canal. Can you fraggin’ let go of me?" A bony wrist wobbled in Trip’s grip.

     Trip let the stranger go. They made a light thud when they hit the ground followed by what sounded like a cane. Trip backed himself up against the door. His mobile screen was a mess of jagged cracks, but the backlight shined on a filthy bud. Red eyeshine flashed from beneath a wide-brim cap wrapped in a leopard-print tailcoat. A group of Furrie tempers huddled together, scooting out of the invading light into makeshift tents and piles of slag.

     “I’m sorry,” Trip felt a wave of anxiety assault his guts as he fumbled with the door handle.

     Moonlight poked through holes in the clouds, reflecting off empty black streets. The rain had stopped, but the asphalt was slick with its memory as steam poured from the manholes into the cold autumn night. Trip slunk between parked cars illuminated by blinks of business signs and advertisements sputtering back to life.

     He crossed the street, evading a Johnny Cab that careened outta nowhere. A discordant car horn chased Trip into another alley. He leaned against the corner of the building as the street lights blanked out. His body stung cold in the dark with tonight’s injuries. Rest didn't last long as a lone street light shone down on the Johnny Cab.

     He held his breath till the count of five three times before the light switched off. The cab idled in silence as the same light shone down again like a prison break. Trip got his breathing under wraps while wrapping his brain around what he witnessed. A peek around the corner revealed an empty sidewalk in Chinatown; a dud roman candle of holographic signs sputtering color into the night.

     The Johnny Cab honked out Shave-and-a-Haircut with a flash of the surrounding signage light. Creeping away from the dark safety of the alley, Trip stepped into the pulsing loglow. He poked at the cab as if it would spring to life and eat him in a moment’s notice. Doors unlocked and popped open. Trip gingerly crawled into the back seat. A clickbait article of “Worst Possible Things to Do Right Now” rattled off in his mind. Number 8 will blow your mind.

     “Wwwher-er-er-ere too m-m-m-m-mmmmmaaaaac?” The Johnny Cab VI stuttered out. It sounded like a buffered sample from an ancient film noir.

     “Um,” Trip cleared his throat, “The Pit?” An overpowering feeling of everything being wrong punched him repeatedly in the gut. “On Washington and Spring street.”

     “Y-y-yo-yoo-yooou got it, mmm-m-m-mac-c-c.”

     The electric motor whirred in the taxi’s cabin. Trip buckled his seat belt as the cab tires laid down rubber. Off they zoomed along Foundation Island’s streets. Trip wasn’t much of a praying man, but thriced himself regardless.

*

     After a top speed zigzag through the city grid, the cab screeched to a halt at the edge of “The Wail Zone”. Bile in Trip’s stomach threatened to make a guest appearance on the Johnny Cab’s back seat. Instead, his seatbelt unfastened and the door opened on their own.

     “Pllleas-se get-get-geeeeet out.” The bitcrushed cabbie voice sweetly demanded.

     Wheel hydraulics shifted, shaking Trip right out the crumpled door. He wanted to protest, but the cab peeled out, hung a sharp left, and flew through a security barrier into the Hudson. A smattering of people down the road reacted to the sight.

     “Holy fraggin’ skag.” Was all Trip could muster.

     He shook himself, looking around at his surroundings. Lights in Clowntown twinkled like stars across “The Wail Zone” with Foundation Island blacked out.

     Above The Pit, a time display blinked 02:40 amidst a rainbow sparkler freak out of former business signage. Remaining undetected increased in difficulty with the more populated sidewalks. Spastic city lights continued to cavort about the occasional media screen and hologram display. They danced in a janky rhythm off of the wall and down towards the plate edge into the docks level.

     If the last day was a citywide art installation, 'Electric Kool-Aid Acid Bath', would make a great title.

     Trip headed down to the docking area along Foundation’s ridge to be greeted by early workers and burnouts. Excitement was still abuzz from this fragged up night, and the suicidal Johnny Cab. Lack of lighting rose Trip's paranoia to nigh-paralyzing levels. He rushed past every corner as his imagination danced with thoughts of roving teenage hooligans, discarded genetic experiments, surly dock workers who don’t care if your tits are on your back and more, all occupied Trip’s thoughts.

     A smoker’s rasp came from behind, "Hey guy, you alright?"

     Trip spun around and squealed in a clumsy terror reflex, ending with him in a heap of limbs. His phone skid across the metal floor into darkness. His eyes moved from a pair ultra-wide stilettos with stubbly legs crammed into them up to a gaudy faux-fur coat and pancaked makeup over five-o’-clock shadow.

     "Yo, hey, sorry, didn't know you were gonna freak.” The coat and heels turned to walk back into the shadows, “In a jacket that ridic, ya'd think ya'd be sportin' a pair of brass ones."

     Sitting upright, Trip groaned into his palm. "What am I doing here? What was my plan? I'm so out of my league here, man."

     He checked his pockets for Mentarts™, forgetting he traded them to that ugly frag at the Underbridge market. Despondent at the lack of an intelligence booster to help think is way around this, Trip forced himself to his feet. Light from the only functioning lamp post caught Trip’s attention. As he turned towards the light another—further down the walkway—came alive with a flutter.

     “Frag It”, Trip followed the path Ocean City provided him.

     Following the blinking lights led to the darkened stairwell leading up to “The Wail Zone’s” Underbridge. Trip wondered how he'd become so dear to a city where most of his free time was spent vomiting in its streets. Furthermore, how did Roplaxive not have access to their CCTV surveillance cameras to find him when the city had no issue leading him into potential doom.

     It didn't matter to him as long as Decker was in Clonetown. Once they were together, they'd be able to defrag this current situation. With that, Trip entered a vertical shantytown in the stairwell.

     Night in the Underbridge was drastically different. Storefronts were repurposed into shelters, teeming masses transformed to huddled. Light from fires and old television sets lightened the lulled faces of their viewers. No officers came down here letting the Underbridge revert to Ocean City's forgotten.

     Dawn was already painting the sky in its beginning hues when Trip made it to the end of the stupid long bridge. A pair of Peace Officers halted Trip's stride. Officer Claxton-Kaye-Montez-Williams outstretched palm moved itself to an unimpressed hip, "'scuse me, 'scuse me, sir. Please step through the scanning area and place your hands above your head."

     The other’s badge read Officer St. Croix-Al Jahani. She waved Trip towards the ominous contraption with a flashlight. Trip exhaled through his nose, preparing for the worst. His shaky legs forced awkward stumbles through the scanning apparatus.

     "Sir, ‘scuse me sir. No touching the equipment, sir. Damage will result in a fine up to 35,000 creds and a minimum two-year sentence," said Officer Four Names.

     Somehow Trip's heart moved his ribcage while up in his throat, "I'll try not to scuff the paint."

     "I know you're not getting smart with me," Four Names snapped at him, hidden from view by the scanner. "’bout to come over there and beat that skinny ass of yours.”

     Lights flashed around Trip, probing everything about his current biological data, except his true identity.

     "You’re through, sir. Please enjoy your stay in Clonetown,” said Officer St. Croix-Al Jahani.

     “Watch out for Gizzardo's. Nagahide tempers aren't as hot as they sound," Claxton-Kaye-Montez-Williams voice ushered him to the other side. "Goodnight Mr. Parsonsandson."

     "Uh, wow,” Trip didn’t know what to think but chalked it up to his digital guardian “You, pronounced it right?"

     As if he said nothing, Four Names checked her nails and turned back to Two Names, "So, Brenda, she was all like, 'I got my pearls'…"

     As a guvvy, Letting the sun go down while in Clonetown was a bad idea. Walking straight in after dark was number 8 on his list of bad Ideas. He hoped coming in at the crack of dawn held a small amount of good fortune.

     Trip's guardian abandoned him at the gate. No matter how many times Decker told him Clonetown’s, “really not that bad,” it really was. Adding to the all-around deucefest that had become Trip’s recent life, he had no clue where to go.

     Trip's mind flashed to the worst parts of The 818 and none of them held a light to this skaghole. Communication with the locals broke down to colorful versions of, 'frag off, guvvy'. Any attempt to enter an establishment was rebuked, twisting Trip further away from anyplace helpful. Deep seeded regret took root in his gut when he felt for his slagged mobile, lost somewhere in the docks, wishing for a public terminal to appear from nothing.

     Trudging about this foreign place filled with familiar faces, Trip spotted a vandalized monitor flickering the word 'BAR' over the hatchback of a Honda. Stenciled on the wall in bright orange read, The Revolving Door. With alcohol being the great unifier between all humans, Trip hobbled into the open space, ignored. He slumped into a corner chair, away from a dozen clustered same faced drones, as his body invented new ways to feel pain.

     Asking to use a house phone, if this place had one, seemed absurd. He was certain, the staff would be more accepting of him not hassling them. Trip searched for comfort in the smallish chair, feeling his head doze off. Sleeping here would be…

*

     Trip woke up when his face hit the pavement. Whoever did the tossing muttered something that ended in 'guvvy'. The first wave of domestic caste workers poured from hovels and foundation cracked tenements, getting ready to find themselves isolated to Clonetown as Ocean City’s systems failed. None of them had a moment to stop and give some fallen off the grid vagrant, possibly on the lam from Johnny Law, the time of day, or a hint if there was a Public Terminal in this concrete scab.

     Taking it upon himself to get the job done, Trip moved against the foot traffic, making little progress as more clones spilled from their dwellings and into the streets. Trip, using his height advantage over the average domestic and maintenance caste, stood on a porch stoop, watching where bodies originated from. From everyone’s movement, he set a path down the street to what could have been a heavily populated area. Trip busted out another futile prayer to The Trinity that city planning bothered to install a public terminal in the heart of Clonetown.

     Centered in front of a corner alley, with a clear view to the edge of the island, sat a defaced public terminal. Trip forgot about all of the safeguards Decker taught him regarding anything for public consumption and navigated the menus in jubilation.

     He remembered the password for his facetime @dress on the third attempt. Decker's lame connection music played inside the privacy dome. Trip flinched at every disturbance outside the booth. A lull in Clonetown traffic left an eerie silence outside the dome. Bad static burst onto the line once a connection was made, startling Trip with a jump.

     "Decker? You there?"

     "Who 's th–*hisssss*"

     Trip fist pumped in victory, "Frag. Yes. I'm so glad to hear your distorted voice."

     "Who is this?" Decker's voice a little clearer.

     "Dude, it's Trip. Can't really talk. On the run. You wouldn't believe epic adventure that was my grandiose escape.”

     “Dude. Why are you on a public terminal? Didn’t I teach you better than that?”

     “I’m in Clonetown, looking for you. What rat hole are you curled up in? Ocean City's flipped to berserk mode. We gotta blow town."

     "Dude, I’m not in town anymore. I can’t give up my location on an unsecure line if things are dicey."

     "What the frag happened to you?" Static cut over Trip's voice. He spotted a slickly dressed suit at the end of the alley. With a hand up to their ear and a nod, they advanced on Trip’s location. Whatever Decker said sounded dismissive and full of static.

     "Suits normally don't wander through Clonetown, do they?" Two more rounded blind corners, filling in behind the first.

     "Not unles*ssh* they're look-k-looking for trouble."

     "I'm in trouble.”

     "Stay calm, dude. RoPhar probably still want you alive."

     "RoPhar wears much cheaper suits." The last word was muffled by a rough hood being slipped over Trip's head.

     Then the hurting started.