Brightdark Generation

Beat

Gun in hand, Jack walked towards the front door. He heard what sounded like metal scraping against metal. He then saw it.
It was a robotic policeman, similar to the one he encountered earlier, but unlike the others, it was covered in rust. Its legs were missing, and it used its arms to crawl on the chrome floor. A hissing noise came out of the permanent, now rusty grin. Jack remembered that they had the ability to open electronic locks. It tried to grab Jack's leg, but Jack kicked it away and shot it. "Damn cops."
The shots that came out of the raygun were equivalent to that of bullets, except they were made of condensed plasma rather than metal, and therefore burned considerably more; that is, if you were alive to feel it.
The robot immediately shut down, a gaping hole in its head. Jack stepped outside, hands shaky. His eyes widened. Surrounding his house was about a dozen more robots, most with missing limbs and rust like the one he encountered. All of them were looking at him, with pure black eyes. They then began to crawl towards him.
Shot after shot, the robots keeled over, hissing "you are under arrest." The gun was starting to run low on energy, and as it was night, it could not charge. There was only one option left: running. God knew how many more of those things were after him. He went inside, grabbed some fiber bars and energy drinks, put it in his satchel and ran.

The streets were full of the bots, some of them attempting to break into more houses. Sweat began dripping down his face. He saw one bot kicking someone who was begging for help, down on the floor. Jack shook his head, eyeing the bot who was kicking and continued to run, panting. He hid in an alley, catching his breath. Behind him was breathing.
Not robotic at all. He turned around. Standing in front of him was the same man who gave him the money, wearing the same dark clothes and with the same smile. "Like what I've done with the place?"
"As a matter of fact, I don't."
The man snickered. "I quite enjoy the show, daddy-o. Some slick stuff going on."
"Where the hell did you get these fucking things?"
"An old junkyard. They put them there all the time. All I did was reprogram them and fix them up a bit."
"Why did you... why did you give me that money?" Jack asked.
"To test you."
Like a hologram, he seemed to flicker in and out of existence, his image slightly staticky, before finally disappearing. Jack put the gun in his satchel, staring at where he was, barely blinking.

Jack, after questioning his perception of reality and looking down at his fingers to make sure he wasn't dreaming, ran off. The bots were everywhere but didn't seem to notice him, more focused on the people that were fighting. He managed to find a bus full of panicky people. It was a dirty old place, floor covered in napkins and food. He paid the fees with some change, someone behind him begging for the dollar. He ignored him. The fees were high at this particular time: a whopping buck. Normally it was around 15 cents, but the bus driver wanted to make sure only homeslicks could leave the city. The rest of the homeless, the ones who got the short end of the stick, could be left to rot in the bus driver's eyes.
The seats were full so Jack stood. He never bothered to get any better clothes, so to the busdriver he looked like one of the homeless. He almost refused to let him on until he gave him the dollar. A couple people in the back were singing some tunes Jack didn't recognize, their voices shaky, like they were anticipating death. The whole place reeked of piss and he tried his best to breathe as infrequently as he could.
About two hours later they were at their first stop, and Jack decided this was a perfect place to get off. Pretty How Town. Jack only heard rumors about the place, such as it being much more friendly to the less wealthy, but also being very old and dirty. Several abandoned buildings riddled the streets, which were just dirt, and some atonal piano music was playing from inside one of them.
He crashed at the nearby motel. "One room for a night, please." He passed the worker a dollar, was given keys, and immediately went to his room to sleep. Like the bus, it carried that piss smell, but he didn't mind much. As long as he could get some rest that's all he needed. I wonder, he thought, how much worse it could be. Nah, it could get worse from here. Sleep is all I need. Those poor people back at LaBerge, though. Even the homeslicks aren't safe. Those robots are rusty old things, though. Who cares, they'll fend for themselves. I could sure go for a damn drink. Too tired. Gambling would be nice. I don't have much to lose. I think I should... should... Then he drifted into sleep.

The next day the town was roaring with excitement, people cheering for their safety. All of them donned either suits or dresses, while Jack was wearing a simple coat, a t-shirt, and jeans. People gave him funny looks, as if to ask what the hell a homeless bum like him was doing there. Jovial songs were being played on old radios some people managed to bring. The sound was faint, but people still danced to it, doing moves like spinning each other around and shuffling their feet on the earth below them, and everyone was going to the beat. It was a new beat generation. The Brightdark days are over for me, jack thought. The beat is here. Everything is going to it. Everyone is going to it.

The next days were good. A couple card games with some regular homeslicks, alongside some music from their old radios, was enough to keep Jack entertained. One game he played a card, Jack of Diamonds, and someone he knew made a joke about him also being Jack. For about a week he was known as "Jack of Diamonds," then "Diamonds."
He thought this fit, as he was the kind of person to look up at the sky with that heavenly glare and compare it to a diamond. He was a diamond. He was no longer beat but he was in a generation of it.