A small bed, a mini fridge to keep his energy drinks and frozen food, a microwave, a bathroom with a square tub, and a table and chair. That was the gist of Arthur's apartment.
The air was cold, the window streaked with neon raindrops overlooked the street below. His next door neighbor was silent, but the floor above rocked with music.
Arthur threw himself on the bed, exhausted.
He didn't even have the energy to eat. He just wanted to sleep. To put his head down and fade away.
But it was never that easy with acute insomnia.
He could go sleepless for weeks at worst, saved only by micro-naps that charged him briefly before he'd jolt awake. Twenty minutes here. Thirty there. At most an hour.
Arthur stared at the ceiling.
Sleep.
Sleep was a blessing many took for granted. They say Synth City never sleeps but that wasn't true. You slept eventually. Arthur couldn't sleep.
Arthur reached into his pocket, pulling out the Pivro pill.
He stared at it intently, then threw it in his mouth, following it with a swig of water.
He closed his eyes.
Falling asleep with insomnia was never a pleasant experience. Like wading into still water while the storm was inside of you.
Arthur lay there comatose, replaying through unpleasant or pleasant memories, like a coked up accountant running their finger across a row of dense files.
For Arthur, it was the same memory.
His father, mentally fractured, knife in hand, towering over his bleeding mother who stared at him with fading eyes, reaching for him, ringed hand raised for a moment before falling limp in fresh blood.
His father slowly turned, looked him in his little eyes.
And rushed him.
***
Arthur awoke, panting, slick with sweat. He reached for the water, grabbed it and took deep swigs and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still heaving.
That was another thing with insomnia. You never really knew if you were sleeping or not. He had near perfect awareness during his dreams—or nightmares, rather. There was no getting used to it.
He went mental and checked his notifications. New messages from Snake. He rechecked his balance, just to make sure the whole charade last night hadn't been a dream.
And no, it hadn't. The number was a crisp 352.
He flatlined two people he knew nothing about.
He clicked open his Net feed, headed over to a section he usually never did.
News.
He set the location to the Blister and checked the top three headings from new to old.
[BREAKING: Synth City Congressman Jared Winger says the Blister crime must be 'resolved with force.']
[BREAKING: Machinist movement in the Blister. Blister citizens urged to be cautious during evening hours.]
[BREAKING: Ionide Gunrange raided by Jack Boys.]
No mention about the shootout. Strange. Did no one hear the gunshots? Or was this taken care of by that strange, ugly old man, too?
He then checked his messages.
>Snake Eyes:
I've attached the Carver's address. Tell them Snake sent you—they might charge less. Or more, depending on your luck.
The Carver's location and Contact immediately uploaded onto Arthur's chip upon download. He still felt groggy and half awake, his bedsheets stained with sweat.
He looked over past messages.
>MARA:
Hey, Arthur. I'm sure our last talk wasn't the most positive, but please consider our recommendations carefully. Huntington's is a complex disease, but please don't lose hope. Make the most out of the time you have left and spend cherishing your loved ones. (Your next free-of-charge MARA appointment will be in 27 days. Looking forward to it!)
Arthur checked the time.
4:31 AM.
Two hours of sleep. Lucky him. Maybe he should get some more Pivros from Sadie. Developing an addiction was likely worth it if he could gain some rest.
Arthur took the time to enjoy a quick cigarette. Having tasted the Silver, Red Jacks didn't feel the same.
His father had told him once, after handing him his first cigarette and lighting it for him:
'Don't tell your mother.'
Arthur chuckled to himself, then grimaced as he felt a swell of emotion. He groaned, stifled the cigarette on a filled ashtray, wiped his face, lifted himself off the bed, took a cold shower and put on a pair of clothes that passed the sniff test.
He still made a mental note to head to the drycleaners later.
***
Water poured from a gray sky lit with dim hues of neon color from floating holographic advertisements.
A row of Automated Cleaning Vehicles known as ACVs drove by the sidewalks—a square, cereal-box shaped contraption that loudly hummed as it cleared out the toxic rain. Through its booming speaker, it commanded:
"STAY CLEAR!"
Arthur's focus shifted back to the elevator doors, which slid open, spilling out a tide of people.
He stepped aside and waited until the last of them cleared before walking in with the rest.
In the basement floor, the scene repeated—only this time, he was the one being pushed out.
The elevator leading to the underground metro was like a throat, swallowing him into brutalist stone maze. Long hallways seperated by colored floors and confusing routes lit with green lights, with a map that resembled tangled wires with no starting or ending point.
Spacious, give it that. But give nothing more because it smelled worse than the damn nightclubs and skittered with mutated rats the size of basketballs.
Arthur moved past the duty-free stores and AI helpdesks and hordes of apathetic men and women.
He arrived at long line of holographic tollgates that scanned the metrocard in his pocket and blinked green. A flight of stairs later and he stood by the Red Line.
A tall metal barrier fenced the train tracks, cracked here and there. Many had thrown themselves off of it. One of the more common modes of suicide. Just a step in front was a red holographic projection suspended mid-air with the image of a hand spread out. It read:
"STAND CLEAR."
A lone Metroguard stood by the far end of the tunnel. Circular headmask and tactical armor and an assault rifle in his gloved hands. Just in case someone was stupid enough to try damaging a billion dollar toy that the city, or rather, the poor, depended on.
An announcement crackled through the intercom, the male voice British and professional:
"Red Train arriving shortly."
The building trembled as the Maglev—a streamlined Japanese design, red chrome and plastered with adverts—glided into view, hissing across the tracks and coming to a stop. The doors slid open.
The holographic imagery had changed to "BOARDING."
Arthur stepped in and took a seat by the window as the doors closed and the train started moving and the city view outside turned to a blurry smear.