"Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides." - André Malraux
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The glow of neon is something wholly unique. There is nothing as intrinsically and fundamentally false. It shines brightly in the midnight air, bringing in moths to the flame. But everyone knows what happens when moths get too close.
These very lights shine on the pitch roads of the Lower Left. The rain pours heavily on the rain jacket of the strange man, trudging unceasingly through the bustling, busy streets. While his face was hooded, the man had no issues noticing the troubling glances flying in his direction. In the Lower Left, no one quite fits in; everyone is on edge.
The smoke billowing from lit cigarettes of street-dwellers clouds the night sky, combining with the rainfall and bright signs to create a magnificent spectacle. Police Hoppers flew through the streets in pursuit of justice, while begrudging denizens of the area brushed shoulders with the man, throwing insults and rude gestures in passing.
After a few more moments of walking, the man approached the entrance of his destination. The sign, in partial disrepair, was missing some letters, spelling a very unconvincing "Muni-pal M-mori-s". Luckily, the man knew exactly where he had arrived.
Municipal Memories reminded the man very much like pictures he had seen of old libraries; dusty, filled with judgmental old people and, more importantly, knowledge. Knowledge, indeed.
The shop's front door was laden with time; the worn oak wood of the original doorframe was warped and soaked with water from the frequent downpour, and the hinges, rusted and loosely attached, managed to do their job the best they could.
The mysterious man walked into the Municipal Memories shop and recalled old memories of the place. It had been a very long time since he had stepped foot inside those doors, and for good reason: memory can be dangerous; addicting, even. The center of the shop was lined with large bookshelves with just a little more weight on them then they should be carrying. And on those bookshelves lay the very catalyst for Municipal Memories: Shards.
The Shards were pieces of extracted emotions; happiness, sadness, fear, joy. They were transferred from the NECs of willing, or unwilling, participants. The strange man picked up a discarded NEC off of the counter and read the description to himself:
Neural Enhancement Chips. Pfff.
The emotions were created into a synthesized formula; a shard. These shards could then be uploaded into a gateway and the viewer could review the Shard's original memories.
There were multiple uses of the gateways. Some were educational; harnessed emotions of older politicians and world leaders to inspire children in school. Others were disciplinary. They would harness the emotions of prisoners from jails in order to keep potential criminals in line. They referred to this process as MRT, or Memory Remission Therapy. Some were for personal pleasure. They would harness the memories of sex workers and pornstars to relive their sexual fantasies. Tonight, the strange man was looking for something...different.
The old man, gruff and scattered, was dusting away carelessly at one of the gateway chairs. His tan shirt was covered in oil and grease, which made sense considering the strenuous maintenance these chairs required. He was wearing a red baseball cap, but the team's name was smudged on the hat. Years hard worn into the logo, and it was hard to make out any details whatsoever, except that it came from a time long ago.
"We're closed." He said in a gruff voice, his back still turned towards the door.
"Even for a friend like me?" said the mysterious man, a grin working its way to the corner of his lip.
The old man turned his head just slightly, only enough for him to see with one eye. He coughed slightly, before turning back to the chair.
"You can't keep comin' back here. I've already told ya about thirty times now. This ain't good for ya."
The mysterious man sighed. He shifted towards the old man, fidgeting with something in his pocket.
"Manny, listen I understand what you're tellin' me. But this time's different, I swear."
The old man paid no attention to the silver tongue of the patron.
"You get outta here or you're gonna be in big trouble, you hear? I'm within my rights to-"
The mysterious man at this point had already made his way to the chair, and had revealed the object in his pocket that he was fumbling with. It was a Wilkman .872; small-caliber handgun, silenced.
"Listen, Manny. We go way back. I know you cut people off, and I would -not- do this unless I had no other choice. Please. Don't make me do somethin' I regret."
Manny, the staunch old man, didn't move a muscle. It was clear to the mysterious man that this was not Manny's first rodeo.
"Listen here, squirt. I'm sick and tired of you pushin' me around. You get one more trip here. You hear me? One. And if I so much as see you on my steps again I'll blast ya brains out myself. We clear?"
The mysterious man nodded slowly, holstering his handgun. He then took his seat in the chair, fingering the NEC in his pocket. He knew exactly what he was about to do, but memory trips always scared him. Old Manny was as much a nuisance as he was right; memory is dangerous, and too much can be deadly. He always wondered how many more chances into the gateway he had left.
Manny turned to the console, pressing the power button as it whirred to life with a few flashing lights. It appeared to be malfunctioning; after all, the state stopped manufacturing NECs, so the Municipal was a dying breed.
"Who's it for?" Said Manny, an unlit cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He fumbled in his pocket for a lighter, before tearing it from his jacket pocket and lighting the end of the cigarette.
The mysterious man thought deeply to himself:
No wonder he coughs so much. Wait...when did he start smoking?
The mysterious man cocked an eyebrow for but a moment, before feeling a searing pain in his neck. Manny had begun plugging the mystery man into the machine.
He fumbled in his jacket pocket before pulling out a NEC. It contained some dried blood on top, with the writing scarred from intense trauma. He handed it to Manny in an almost reluctant manner; Manny had to almost wrestle it out of his hand.
"I want this one back, old man. You hear me? You can't keep her."
"A her this time, huh?" Said Manny.
"Yes, a- wait, what difference is it to you? Put me in."
The old man chuckled to himself, before raising his voice.
"What's her name, boy?"
His chair slowly began to slide into the gateway chamber, darkness beginning to surround him, before he answered Manny's question.
"Cinder Kane".
YOU ARE READING
The Savior of Ventura
Science Fiction"On the balancing beam of love and loss, is there ever truly a winner?" - Anonymous. Welcome to Ventura. A land of misery. In 2161, the world struggles to cope after the devastating effects of a traumatic disaster. As desolation sweeps the landscap...
