Week 1; Hard Times, chapter 1 partial

 Going public with Hardcopy has long been a dream of mine. Toiling away at small and often too specific chunks of data often makes for poor substitute for fresh, unsullied earth. But it is painfully obvious to me that I cannot do this alone. Many beautiful games have been built from the ground up by a single person - the indie game movement has been a whole new romance for me with gaming. But as a designer, I have long felt that this system must be digital. Parsing the data of dungeons and dragons is as old as computing itself - pen and paper has grown up with computers, and vice versa.

But I digress......

Here is the intro bit for a piece I've been working on for some time.

The neon sign was in Japanese – the symbols fractured hyponotically in technicolor rainbows. Blood loss... is a bitch. He could still see the eyes following him, a glowing, floating pair red lights bobbing in the rain. It looked enough like an ambulance, four or five people with machines, compressing, injecting, yelling. Somewhere he saw a woman holding him, a vague dream, she was screaming for a doctor, all the while trying to staunch the river flowing out of his shoulder and a cold, creeping darkness was overtaking him. Instead, the flare of two red lights pierced his vision, haunting him, watching him stay awake as he stared into those burning neon lights lost amidst a sea of visual noise.

The rain smelled like shit. It was wastewater from the cooling vats overhead, run off from industrial factories that bathed Sector Zero in a stench that never went away or faded, no matter where you went. Commercials ran on repeat, thousands of stations on the ceiling, the roof of Zero, caught mostly through the clear plastic umbrellas carried by the medics. The sound of overhead commercials blared out over the pavement, "-a magnet to women in your brand new Plastisteel Mercedes, turbo-nuclear land-to-air hovercar! Ride with the top down and plug your conscious mind into our state-of-the-art comfortability software, or feel the wind in your hair with our 99.9% accident free autopilot, voted top-of-its-class by NeoMotor Magezine!"

Before you could even find the right screen, maybe catch a glimpse of the overpriced name-brand chrome-skinned cars and beautiful girls, it was over. But he could still see the red lights hanging over him, watching him bleed out in the street.

Georgie woke up alone in bed from a dream he couldn't remember, but his heart was fluttering, still thumping hard in his chest. He felt the unfamiliar pain inside the back of his head where the Cerebral Implant sat embedded between the two halves of his brain, right up to the nasal cavity. The doc he’d asked about the slight defect in the placement of his CI said it had just gotten put in slightly off to one side; not quite far off enough to scramble his brains when they put it in, but still close enough to give him regular migraines and grind his teeth in his sleep. Worse than that, though, was the numb feeling of his non-existent right hand, and the throbbing sting around the adapter at his right shoulder.  He usually slept with his right side flat against the mattress, with his left hand wrapped around Sammy. His wife always said he was lucky to still have his left arm, especially given how much overtime he’d done in the last few weeks.

She was right, after all. Georgie had seen how most guys down at the factory were turned into lifters within six months of employment. After they lose enough body mass in the foundries, Bull fits some of its employees with actuators and rotors to do all the heavy lifting for them. Nobody in the right mind lifted without mechanical assistance at Bull Industrial on the foundry floor, and whether from accidents which were sometimes real but most times purely intentional, somebody lost an arm on the lines every other day. Bull usually signs the bill for their prosthetics, fitting them with mechanical skeletal implants, bones with sockets for attaching new, suddenly job-related industrial equipment, bones which they just bought, y’know, if they make it to Tanaka Medical before they bleed out on the foundry floor. So now you’re half machine by Friday, except you work weekends now, and every cent more you earn is “paying off” the new limbs. Georgie knew it was shit pay for foundry work up in Sector One, and the company housing in Zero was even worse. But it was better than starving on the streets.

Once you were under contract at Bull, you were their property, another organic slave sold into the mob controlled industrial complex of Sector One directly overhead Sector Zero. A guy could find a decent health insurance plan at Tanaka Medical, but nobody wanted to go to Tanaka's so-called “hospitals.” Tanaka sold organs by the vat throughout the United Federation of States, and as one of the largest medical corporations in the UFS, they always needed more product. Organics walked in, and cheap-o plasteel Androids walked out.

"George! Get up already, you're gunna be late." Samantha had poked her auburn crowned head around the corner into their bedroom from the hallway. George barely even heard her, still staring at work from his bed.

When he didn't respond, Sammy gripped the doorway.

"Georgie?"

George turned to her, finally sees her, and smiles wearily. "I'll be right there, beautiful."

She smiles back, walks directly to him, and they embrace.

 

Company issue food from Bull made for a terrible breakfast as usual. It bothered George more than it should have. “Get going, dumbass!” Sammy was already at the door. “You have to quit oversleeping, Georgie. Especially on the first day back!” She was already dressed in her nurse’s clothes, looking stressed for work. He sighed, and went to put on his raincoat over his new working clothes. He grabbed his light-umbrella, and met her at the door. Sammy kissed him on the lips, running her hand down his back while she did it. Georgie loved his wife dearly, but knew her well enough to know to open his umbrella. She pushes him out the door, hardly giving him enough time to find his footing on the slippery polycrete of the third story, leaving George to run in place for a moment before grabbing the nearby railing for dear life. “Love you baby! See you tonight~!” Sammy passes by George, the front door already locked, and waves back at him while she hurries down the stairs. By the time he thought to speak, she was lost to the noise of the rain and the hustling crowd.

Georgie felt like a foreigner in New Dallas, even though he’d lived here with his parents his whole life. It was just another day in Zero, and he hated every second of it. Soon, he’d have a brand new place in Sector One, since he’d survived long enough working for Bull that they were ready to invest in him, ready to bring him up and out of Foundry work. But, hopefully for the last time, he had to make the walk to work.

“I might not be back for a couple of days, you know.” George had never explained to Sammy what moving up in a mob company meant.

Samantha squinted her brown eyes at him, and then crossed her arms. “What is this new job they’ve got you doing anyway? I don’t see many factory workers going in wearing jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt.”

Georgie hugged Samantha. He was, after all, thrilled to be making some real credits doing real work. She held him hard, and he could feel her nervousness about his promotion, and a crack in her voice.

“I told you already Sammy, it’s a big promotion. I’m in returns now.”

Samantha pushed him away, looking more worried. Georgie smiles, and tries kissing her, but she moves further away from him. “I don’t care how much it pays, George! If it’s not good for you, then it’s not good for the both of us!”

George sighs, taking in a breath of foul air at the top of the stairs. The deafening rain masked everything, like a never ending deluge rolling in rivers down along the sidwalks, rushing into the sewers below even the bottommost Sector of New Dallas.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle, Sammy. Promise.”

 

George made it to the bottom of the stairs, still trying to come to terms with already being so late. But today felt wrong. He was moving slow today. He felt a nervous vomit working its way up to his throat.

“Heya Georgie!”

George turned and saw McKenzie at the top of the stairs. He was a little shit, only about 4'7, but he was still a Chronosian. He had a dog’s head, short brownish fur, and a chiseled, canine-esque muscular build, almost akin to a Hyena, with bright green eyes and an infectious laugh. Like any Chronosian, he walked with a haunch, and like most Chronosians Georgie knew, he dressed way too colorfully. The actuators on his digitigrade prosthetic legs whined happily as he jogged down the stairs in record time to meet George. He stopped in front of him and held up his right hand. "High five?"

George rolled his eyes, "You know the first thing I'mma do when I put on that sweet, sleek, new Tanaka prosthetic?"

McKenzie made a wide, sharp-toothed smile only a Chronosian could manage. "What's that, Georgie?"

"Beat your fuckin' head in, that's what."

"Eyyy, c'mon Georgie! You wouldn't wanna ruin that shiny new chrome!"

 

The two began the long walk through the crowds, chatting quietly as they went, pushing through the mercantile portion of the sector. Zero had a region where trade was supposed to be conducted- most people sold goods with carts, despite the rain. But some corps made their money vending the necessities, like food, clean water, appliances, plastic and synthetic fiber clothes, prosthetics, or the ever popular light-umbrella. The one thing nobody around seemed to sell were weapons, even though packs of Yakuza walked around Zero with swords and machine guns. Gangs roamed the streets, unbothered by uniformed police or autonomous police units, although there were next to few of the former.

"So uh, Georgie - you get a new contract?"

Considering the question, George felt unreasonably mad. "What's it to you?"

"Look, I'm just tryna ascertain the reason they need a slummie working a desk. We don't, uh, usually qualify, you know?"

"Well… I did."

"Yeah... and I'm askin' why."

George looked back at McKenzie, who looked seriously concerned.

Sighing, he shook his head, "Look, McKenzie, how me and my family move up isn't the problem. I'm just trying to catch some sunlight for my kids, maybe-"

"HALT!"

The command made McKenzie and George stop where they were. A bright floodlight suddenly lit up the area around them, and it was coming from an Autocop, which was was staring at McKenzie. At seven feet tall, it’s speaker boomed over the crowd, and everyone even remotely in its way cleared a path directly to them, carts and all. It rolled toward them on big metallic treads, closing the distance of twenty feet slowly, even though Georgie had seen them move more than thirty miles an hour. But it was carefully rolling along toward them at a slow and steady pace, like they always did when they went to make an “arrest.”

Once it was close, the floodlight turned off. The front panel on its square, box-like body provided subtitles in four languages while it addressed the two of them in a masculine tone, "Welcome a-and have a n-nice day! Please present your citizen card. C-Comply." The voice was distinct for every Autocop, but it was always too happy, and the pops and crackles of a ill-repaired synthbox didn’t help it sound less nightmarish. Probably rebuilt by whichever underpaid engineer at Tanaka Proper designed the robots so intentionally ugly. But New Dallas was a Tanaka family member, so Autocops flooded the streets. Three more were checking other people nearby. And George could hear one of the three people begging with the machine for their life.

George quickly pulled out his citcard and held it up. The Autocop’s head shifted toward George suddenly, and its largest central eye flashed from red, to white, blinding Georgie. George closed his eyes and opened them.

“Uh…” He saw nothing, only darkness.

The Autocop was silent in front of him. Usually, a response within the first two seconds could result in an “arrest.” Georgie could hear someone else pleading now, and the count of the Autocop over their voice, declaring in a happy female tone, “One.”

Another disturbingly slow second passed, and the Autocop stood there in front of them, dead silent. It could be processing, or maybe its synthbox went out. Georgie might have been able to read whatever commands it was issuing, something like telling him to hold up his Citcard again, which he did just in case.

But all he could hear was the screams of someone being thrown under the full metal treads of a nearby Autocop. Paving was corporal punishment at its finest, shredding organics and robotics alike into a warm puddle washing down into the sewer. Autocops were heavy, box-like robots filled with heavy duty nuclear motors and armored with a thick layer of durasteel across the chassis, more than enough weight to crush just about anything underneath their treads.

Georgie waited another second, blinking. Finally, he saw a dim light, and suddenly realized he’d been staring at a nearby wall, holding his Citcard up to it, horrified that he might die at any moment.

"Welcome, citizen! Welcome!" it chimed suddenly, playing a happy musical tone. It wasted no time in turning to McKenzie, who was still digging around in his pockets after all this time. George could hear him doing it, afterall, but couldn’t seem to find him in the din of the rain.

"Coulda sworn I had it in my-"

"Please, comply! Five."

George hated it when McKenzie did this. Why did he do this? They both had seen, nearly every day, people being thrown to the ground and turned into skid marks across the polycrete by these things. Yet here he was, fucking around with an Autocop. Again.

"Please, comply! Four."

McKenzie checked his innermost jacket pockets again, then his pants pockets again, "Shit, which pants did I wear yesterday?!"

"Please, comply! Three."

"Quit fuckin' around, McKenzie-" said Georgie warningly.

"I'm not fuckin' around! I can't-" said McKenzie, panicking.

"Please, comply! Two."

"Look, either you find it, or we bail!" George almost ran into the nearby wall, barely stopping himself before sprawling onto the pavement. He could still barely see anything but shadows, and he laid in the rain, helpless, already on the ground, and ready to be crushed.

"Son of a BITCH!” Yelled McKenzie “Wait wait wait-"

"Please, comply-"

McKenzie reached down into his boot, pulling out his Citcard and waving it in front of the Autocop, who flashed a picture. Georgie was glad he had decided to close his eyes, almost glad to still be partially blind. The three sat in silence.

Another moment passed.

“Look man, it’s in date.”

The autocop dinged an unusual tone, almost like a bell. "Welcome, citizen! Welcome! Have a nice day." Immediately, the Autocop turned around, already spotting someone else in the nearby crowds trying to run away, whom it turned its floodlight on.

George sighed wearily, "Goddamnit McKenzie, if you make me shit my pants like that again, I'm gunna report your ass for misconduct."

"You ain't gunna report shit! Besides, I wasn't messin' around. I forgot it was in my shoe."

The two started back down the road toward the elevator. Behind them, they heard a man begging their former assailer for his life while the cold machine counted down to his death.

"Oh, you mean you forgot where it was, like every time we do this? Just like every single fuckin' day we walk to work? And who wears shoes with prosthetic legs anyway?!"

McKenzie snorted, "It ain't every time."

"Bullshit."