[SFT]: Unsolutioned

Prologue

New York City

2057

She yelled into his ear again. He was late, she screeched, and he had parked too far away. The man held the phone away from him for a moment, and then replied calmly. Stop being hysterical, he told her – he had arrived. He tapped the phone off and slipped it into his pocket. Women. Shaking his head, the man shut off the engine, got out and slammed the door, then turned back to lock it. Cars stood still ahead of him, making it impossible to park any closer. Maybe he should have tried one of the cross streets. What he wouldn't have given for one of his Father's self-driving cars. Oh well. They would finally finish rebuilding the network soon. Then he wouldn't have to worry about a thing.

Unhurriedly, he looked to his left, up Broadway, past crumbled buildings, towards Times Square, and then at the setting sun behind him. He patted the roof of his car and began walking uptown. Shafts of light peeked through the buildings from the West; the sky above was pink. Ahead of him, lights began to flash and the faint sound of music wafted into his ears. He loved New York City.

It was chilly, so the man turned his collar up against the late autumn wind.

"Delilah, time please," he said to no one in particular. A voice piped up from his wrist.

"Hello, Winston. It is a quarter to seven."

Delilah's voice was too shrill. He would have to change the settings later. But his timing was excellent. He would make it, and probably even have time to stop for a quick drink before dinner. Yes – he would pay Jamey a quick visit at the bar before going to the show. Jamey was delicious and never complained.

A beat-laden tune pumped out from his wrist, breaking the silence around him. Annoyed, Winston rejected the call. Veronica nagged way too much. He could probably slip away from her at intermission and pop over to the bar again to convince Jamey to take a small break. By the time he got back to the show, Veronica would be drunk, and he could take her back to the Crowne Plaza to enjoy the rest of the night in peace. She wouldn't last long, and before she got yapping, she would pass out. Jamey, however, was different. She was nice. Winston whistled tunelessly to himself, enjoying scenes of Jamey that played through his mind.

Pleased with his plan, Winston focused on the street ahead. He could now just make out shiny limousines lining up along Broadway, the brown-tinged cabs resting in front of the theaters, shops and hotels. The dazzling ads on billboards and screens were lit up against a darkening sky, which began to wink with a few stars. He stumbled in mid-stride, and then abruptly righted himself. Darkening sky, already? The sun was setting unusually quickly. Looking up, he craned his neck to read the warped sign he had just passed. 30th Street. He stepped up his pace to brisk walk. Around him, only his footsteps echoed on the pavement.

After a block, Winston heard the clang of metal and a groan. Nervously, he turned to look around and started to jog lightly. The only visible illumination was coming from the bustling square far ahead of him – he couldn't see anyone around. But the sky was dark. And he suddenly knew. He knew that he was late and that he had parked too far. Shit. He broke into a run. Two tall, thick, metal towers flanking Broadway came into view in the distance. The Gate. The vibrant, purple sheen of light stretching across them and rising into a dome above Times Square pulsated. People had begun to gather just behind the curtain of light. Shit. Fuck. Shit. In his head, a refrain of curses punctuated each breath.

He felt them before he saw them. It was cold, but sweat made his clothes stick to his back and his legs as he ran. Swearing at his skinny jeans, he risked a quick glance over his shoulder, and saw them. They were thick shapes darker than the night, approaching slowly. There were only three of them, but the man knew that one was enough.