The Rise of I

'i-1'

Rage. Burning, searing rage. Smashing, breaking, shattering. Glass, wood, metal. Fists and feet flying. Everywhere people running, hiding, screaming. He didn't stop. He couldn't. He'd lost all control, his blood pumping, sweat pouring. It went on and on until the world turned black and his brain stuttered and shut down. And then there was nothing.

***

'What's that smell?'

It was foul.

Rotting cabbage?

Something scuttled across Jayson's legs and he opened his eyes.

Green recycling bins.

Whatever the creature was, it had gone. So had one of his shoes.

He closed his eyes. His head throbbed, his mouth was dry and his stomach was spinning like a washing machine. He opened them again and eased himself to his feet.

'Where the Hell am I?'

The street was narrow and the buildings were old, very old, and made of brick - some sort of back alley. With no sign of his missing shoe, he hobbled along until he came to the main street. The pavements were full of people, taking their morning exercise, earning their reward money. Jayson had a flash of panic - there were so many of them, and they were all looking at him. He slunk back into the alley then reminded himself it was just his paranoia kicking in, gathered himself and re-joined the throng.

He kept his head down as he walked, trying not to catch anyone's eye. He couldn't avoid their freak dogs, though, they were everywhere. He could cope with their attempts at beautification - just about - the huge manes, extravagant tails and bright colours; pink, purple and green. Those altered to shock were another story - they were repellent, their owners often disfiguring themselves with equal relish.

At least they had a choice.

And when an eight-legged spider-dog drew alongside him, he couldn't bear to look and had to cross to the other side of the road.

After a few minutes, Jayson lifted his head and scanned the street - the rows of abandoned shops, their fading signs and dark doorways. To his relief, there was no sign of "him".

Not yet, anyway.

He upped his pace, wanting to get home, to wash, to rest. Then back to Acing's Restorium, where he could make his apologies to Johnny and settle his bill. After, he could make it all go away. Before the shaking and the sweats got too bad.

A couple more turns and he was back in familiar territory, the buildings growing in stature until their long shadows had blocked the last of the light. Ahead, he could see a row of farm scrapers – the famous "Green Fingers". With his place just a few streets beyond, he began to feel a little better. The block's turbolift's sixty-five storeys in 10 seconds, however, did not improve things. By the time he got through the door to his apartment, he needed to lie down. He pushed a pile of discarded clothes off his bed, picked his pillows from the floor and flopped onto the mattress. What he needed now was sleep. Everything else could wait.

He woke, an hour or so later and the effects of the comedown were worse. His head may have cleared, slightly, but the pain from his many cuts and bruises was growing and the shakes had begun in earnest. He sat up. It was time to get moving.

Shower, then Acing's.

Acing's Restorium was only a few blocks away, in the basement of one of George Town's tallest buildings. There was nothing to announce its presence, its metal door dented and scratched and covered in ancient graffiti - like some long-forgotten service entrance. And it was locked. Jayson banged on it and kept banging until he heard sounds of movement from inside.