Tales from the Multiverse

Neon Sunset

Bright city, named so for its projected future and the new beginnings it promises, not the kaleidoscope of neon bursting from billboards, shop fronts, vending machines, businesses and streetlights. This city is a lie. I've caressed the underbelly. The misery, the pain, the poverty. As if on cue, a stage play to my inner thoughts, the light fades as I pass under Mayor Gallow bridge or The Gallows as it's known on the street. Ironic, as entering the city is equivalent to slipping a noose around your own neck. Tents, mattresses, and the derelict all huddle beneath this concrete giant. Spray-painted next to a torn tent is the word broken. I huff. How fitting.

I turn onto Rhine Street. On the left, my favourite Chinese food restaurant, Rosie's, is being held up by a couple of hoods. I contemplate pulling over when the owner's arm opens, revealing the hidden shotgun built into her prosthetics. She'll be cleaning their brains out of the carpet for weeks.

On the right, a Bio-clinic closes its doors for the night. Heavy iron bars slide across the door as the owner activates the buildings defences. I've seen this before. The black panels above house 50 calibre turrets. Enough fire power there to deter even the most psychotic chem-head.

The lights ahead turn red, and I slow to a stop. A group of prostitutes are huddled under an awning, sheltering from the rain. It always rains in Bright City. One of them sees me looking and opens her coat, revealing a nude patchwork of back-alley chrome. The only top shelf she's packing are her breasts; the Meigatech logo blazes under her left nipple. Those things will expand and deflate, vibrate, change colour and texture. She gives me a look that says,'You know you want to', and I reply with the accelerator, leaving her in my rear-view.

I continue on, through the city that never sleeps. I hear its pulse, and the sound is gunshots. Screams, moans, and machinery. Every corner is an ecosystem unto itself. Some have dealers pushing the latest designer drug, Shimmer, along with the age-old classics. Another has a group of Bangers, standing around, looking tough. Each one has a story of their own. Desires, goals, needs. Each one thinks they'll be the next Arlo Patrione. They all think they'll end up on top. Living it up in the penthouses. Thing about penthouses in Bright City; there's a long way to fall and too many places to trip. Everyone ends up in Mausoleum Lane. Streetpunk and Corpo alike. We all look the same lying down. There are no happy endings in Bright City.

I pull into an alleyway and honk my horn. As the seconds pass by, my anxiety grows. My finger taps on the leather steering cover. A door halfway down opens, and there she is, silken hair flowing out behind her. Coat waving in the rain. Slung over her shoulder are her modest possessions. She smiles, and my lips curl up in response. In a city full of neon lights, she shines the brightest. She jogs to the passenger side and lifts the door, sliding in. She places a red nailed finger on my thigh and leans in. Our lips meet in an explosion of warmth and the promise of safety.

She sits back and slides the harness over her shoulders. "Let's blow this joint." She says, and I throw the car into reverse. We punch out the alley, and I reef the wheel towards The Gallows and a new start. I flick a switch, and my window slides down. The only barrier between myself and the city. Rain runs gentle, filth scented fingers over my face. My head gravitates towards her. She looks lost in thought; a rainbow seizure crosses her features as we pass by more shops. Perhaps she, too, is mourning for this city. Not because we will miss it but because of what it has taken. Of what it has become. Of dreams shattered.

We round the curve up onto The Gallows ramp, ahead is the toll point. The ten lanes on the right side are for entry; even now, the toll men are busy vetting new hopefuls. Dreams for the breaking. The single lane on the right is for exiting. It lies empty, guarded by turrets, searching for meat to sink their teeth into and a single toll booth. The toll is steep. More than most will see in their lifetime. Bright City's last, desperate attempt to keep you stuck in her orbit. We both saved for months, but we have enough. I pull up next to the booth, and a window slides open. A man pops his head out, eyes shimmering emeralds scanning the car for contraband. For any reason to take our money and refuse our escape. My finger taps again. His eyes stop shining and meet mine.

"Toll," He says, voice a symphony of gears and synthetics.

I hold my chit out to him, and he grabs it greedily. He scans it, and we wait. Wait to see if his rent is short this month. If his chrome needs repairs or his greed feeding. Any reason to take more. Bright City takes everything. The machine beeps, and he looks back at us, expression impossible to read behind his glass orbs. His mouth softens, and he hands the chit back.

"Don't come back." He advises. There is no hint of threat in his tone. Perhaps he is jealous that we are escaping and he is not. It can't be easy, being Cerberus to a town few can leave. I nod him farewell and screech away, faster than I need to. I don't want to risk the city getting its claws back in, not while we are this close to freedom.

We drive for a good while before I feel pressure on my thigh. Gentle. Delicate. I look over and see her smile. "We're free," she beams. "We are out of there."

I can hardly believe it myself. My fingers lace through hers as I look out the windscreen. The world is barren on both sides, and the blacktop stretches out for miles. A daunting expanse of open land promising nothing but fresh air. I smile. And freedom. A new day. A new start. In the distance behind us, Bright City is nothing but a neon sunset.