We Dream In Ones and Zeros: An Anthology

This Voice You Gave To Me

CW(s): lots of swearing and explicit language, mentions of substance abuse.

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The last thing Yema wanted right now was to wake up.

Sure, the old sofa she'd rescued from the nearby dumpster was no more comfortable than a plank of wood, half of her was hanging off the tiny thing, and her cheek was pressed against a pool of her own drool.

And, yes, the mattress would have been a (questionably) better spot to sleep in. But Yema also knew, for a fact, that the second she got up she'd have to face the very real prospect of spending the rest of the day with her face hanging over the toilet.

So, discomfort be dammed, she'd cling to blissful unconsciousness for as long as she could.

Or she would have, if her ID chip implant hadn't been ringing in her brain non stop for the last ten minutes.

"For fucks sake..." she groaned, turning her head as slowly as she could, and instantly regretting it when the sheer brightness of the room burned through her eyelids.

Hissing, she pulled both hands out from under her to press a finger on the screen of her watch.

Immediately a screen popped up over the table in front of the sofa. It took a while to adjust to the words, but through the blur Yema was able to make out a long list of calls and the name attached to most of them.

"What the..." Yema frowned, making a bit more effort to blink away the grogginess.

Ever so slowly, she rolled off onto her back, throwing an arm over her eyes to block the artificial sunlight streaming through the fake windows.

"VAL, call butt-face."

"Calling 'Butt-face'," a droning, almost clinical, female voice replied.

The whirring sound of the calling signal lasted no more than a second before it was answered.

"Yema?" a breathy male voice called from the other side of the line.

"37 messages, Neil?" Yema snapped back, only to immediately lower her voice to a low hiss at the sharp pain that followed, sinking into her temples like a needle. "This better be damn important, I'm not in the mood for-"

"Thank the fucking stars!" Neil yelled, the sudden rise in pitch of her friend's voice only pushing the needle in further. "You finally decided to pick up. Where the hell are you?"

"What do you mean where am I? I'm at my shitty apartment with a galaxy-sized hangover. Where else would I be?"

"You-" Neil stopped and the call went silent for a second, though Yema could swear she heard some heated whispering on the other end. "Wait. How did you make it back home?"

Yema groaned. She could already taste a trace of bile rising in the back of her throat, so she sat up, movements slow and careful. With her hands pressed against her temples and head hanged low between her knees, she took a couple of deep breaths before replying.

"I don't know, a robo-cab?" she mumbled, brushing a hand down her face. "What's with the inane questions?" she paused, lifting her head up to frown at the grey call screen. "Are you high?"

"You don't know?" Neil replied, voice weak with disbelief.

This time Yema clearly picked up another voice on the other side. More than one, in fact. But she didn't have time to dwell or focus on them as Neil suddenly spat out a dry, almost crazed laugh.