Weary Traveler

The electric streets of the Twilight rumbled in a chaotic frenzy. Icy air flowed with the droning buzz of chattering voices and the distant base of thumping electro-beats. Tech-clad nomads stomped across the road, munching on to-go boxes of synth-food, staggering into and out of body augmentation shops.

Mitch stumbled down the middle of the road, head tilted downwards, uninterested in the crowd. He bumped shoulders with the passerby, eyes focused on the loaded credit disk clutched in his hand, rope wrapped around his wrist like a synthetic garden snake.

His thumb traced the circular perimeter of the disk containing more credits than he had ever seen. Ever held. A way out of the fiery pit of hell that had devoured his life. That dark dungeon of repetitive thoughts that swallowed his soul and trapped him in a den of despair. Booze and bonzo gluttony. Miserable addiction from a past not confronted. A life not lived. A future forever abandoned as a hopeless dream.

Now, a glimpse of light shone through the foggy dawn. A glimmer of hope radiated and ignited a spark within the depths of his unconscious. A breath of a new life. A chance for free will to overcome and banish the fate that the Universe had condemned upon his soul.

“Whoa, slow your roll, fella,” a deep voice said, “Gotta watch who ya bumpin’.”

Mitch looked up from his credit disk just as a tall, slender man with ebony skin turned around.

“Hey, looking pretty sharp there, friend!” the man said, waving his hands and moving his hips to the musical beat coming from the building behind him. “Care for a drink at my bar? Half price right now.”

Mitch tucked the disk into his right pant pocket and peeked at the sign above the overhang. Reggie’s Saloon flashed in neon orange and purple lettering. The O had been fixed since the last time Mitch slogged by on his search for bonzos.

He lowered his gaze and peered at the brilliant lights piercing through the haze of chalky smoke wafting around the bar like a smoke screen. There was a live electro-jazz band rocking on the stage at the back of the room. They plucked, strummed, pounded, and breathed into the tech-instrument-implants built into their torsos and limbs like some kind of cyborg orchestra.

“You Reggie?” Mitch asked.

“Sure am. How ’bout it?” Reggie said, pointing his index fingers into the air and wriggling them as he swayed his hips back and forth.

Mitch placed his hand over his right thigh and tapped the disk in his pocket. His mouth watered at the thought of a cold beer flowing down his thirsty throat to soothe his-

He whipped his head from side to side, shook the thought out of his mind.

“Ain’t got no credits.”

“Well, how about some live music, then?” Reggie said, wrapping his arm around Mitch’s back, ushering him through the front door. “We got Jazz Hand’z bumpin’ some sweet, sweet, sweet tunes up front. Pay homage and rejoice!”

Mitch stumbled around the circular bar tables glistening with glasses and mugs of booze, stopped about twenty feet from the stage.

There were five band members: an electric sax and trumpet blared from instruments built straight out of the two musicians’ chests; an electric keyboard at the back with a wild, female musician jumping, jiving, and kicking the air in a fit of musical ecstasy; a muscular, bare-chested, hairy man with metallic arms pounded an electric drum set next to the woman; and the lead singer strummed an electric guitar that extended from her left arm. Their faces were illuminated by a luminous pink and indigo glow that beamed down from rotating light fixtures above the stage.

Mitch’s right foot started to tap. His head bobbed and fingers drummed against his pant leg, unconsciously moving to the electro-beat.

“Can I get you anything, Cowboy?” a sweet voice asked.

He turned towards the left and gazed at the bartender standing behind the long slab of brown wood, glistening with splashes of spilled booze. His heart shot through his throat and pounded within his skull at the sight of the woman. Her lime green eyes illuminated by a radiant, neon glow that shined through the chalky smoke like two points of starlight managed to shine through the gray haze of Rosenfell. She had tiny freckles of light dotted on her cheeks. Full sleeves of tattoos on her left and right arms, from her wrists all the way up to her shoulders. Her glossy, purple hair brushed to the left side of her head. While the right side was half-shaved and decorated with a thin sliver of tech implanted in a horizontal line from above her right ear to her right temple. Her fingernails were painted a lustrous white to match her glowing cheeks and eyes.

Mitch cleared his throat, blinked a few times to gather a douse of moisture on his eyeballs. Then he rubbed them rapidly as if to pinch himself awake from the hallucination of the beautiful angel standing in front of him. But, when he lowered his hands, she remained, grinning, gazing at him with those mesmerizing, lime-green eyes.

“You doing okay over there?” she asked, smirking. Her head tilted sideways, studied Mitch.

He shook the cobwebs from his head.

“Umm… no thank you, miss. I mean ma’am. Don’t got any credits to spend,” he said, pulling at the collar of his shirt. “Just came to listen to some music.”

“How about a beer on the house?” she said. “I could use some company.”

“Yeah, sure,” Mitch muttered. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Plant your butt right there and no more of that ma’am stuff. Call me Nova,” she said, reaching across the bar. Her luminous, white nails absorbed and reflected the neon and fluorescent light of the room like each nail was a shade in an augmented rainbow.

“My name’s Mitch,” he said, grasping her dainty hand. “Mitch Henderson.”

She let go and hitched up on her toes to reach for a glass mug above the bar. Her pale yellow crop top crept above her bellybutton, revealing a piercing with a dangling string of lime green pendants to match her eyes. Mitch tried to look away, but his eyes zipped back towards her tight stomach like a magnet sucked his stare towards her navel.

Nova turned her back towards Mitch, tucked the mug beneath a beer spout, and pulled the lever. She wore a pair of tight-fitting, low-rise, silver pants that shimmered in the light. A black and gray tattoo of a tiger covered her entire left shoulder, disappeared beneath her top.

“So, what are your plans today, Mitch? Aside from stumbling in here to check me out,” Nova said with a quiet giggle.

Mitch chuckled awkwardly, cursed under his breath.

“I was just wandering around Rosenfell, looking to get off of the streets. It’s a busy place out there today.”

“CorpoMax and Rotech Convention is this weekend,” Nova said. She turned around and placed a full mug of cold beer on a cardboard coaster in front of him.

“Yeah, heard something about that. You ever been?” Mitch asked. He gripped the mug’s handle and gulped down a mouthful of ice cold beer, bubbles tingling his parched throat.

“Not interested. I do have a few pieces of tech on me though. Nothing crazy. I see you got one yourself,” Nova said motioning towards the tech on the side of Mitch’s scalp.

“Wasn’t really my choice. Long story.”

“You look like you’ve got a lot of stories, Mitch Henderson,” Nova said.

“Maybe one or two good ones,” he said, returning her smile. “Too many bad ones to count.”

“Streets of Rosenfell can be a dangerous place. Cheers,” Nova said, raising a shot glass towards Mitch.

Mitch raised his mug and clinked it against Nova’s glass. They both tilted their heads back and emptied their glasses. Nova placed hers in the sink and glanced towards the front door.

“I’ll get you one more fill up. Then you’ll have to fork over some credits or that weirdo, Reggie, over there will send his goons after you,” Nova said.

Mitch glanced over his left shoulder. Reggie was busy chasing down nomads and shoving them through the front door of the bar.

“Been through it all before,” Mitch said. “Thank you, Nova. You are a kind woman in a cold, dark place.”

Nova placed her right hand over her heart and leaned away as if taken aback by the compliment.

“Why, thank you, Mitch Henderson. You are a gentleman and a poet.”

She grabbed Mitch’s empty mug and refilled it beneath the spigot, twirled around and set it in front of Mitch.

“There you are, Cowboy.”

Mitch grasped the mug, lifted it to his lips and took a long swig, set it down and began tapping his foot, bobbing his head to the soothing electro-jazz flowing through his ears. The intoxicating jitters of the beer squirmed through his veins, tingled his skin. He watched Nova shake her hips and mumble the words to the sweet song emanating from the stage, washing over the minds of the drunken patrons in the saloon.

“Good song,” Mitch said.

“It’s one of my all-time favorites,” Nova said in-between lyrics. “It’s called Rebirth. Because it makes you want to keep coming back for more.”

Mitch closed his eyes and focused on the electro-beat wafting through his eardrums, filling his mind with a rhythmic euphoria that jumpstarted his heart like it had been electrified by pure, mystical sound and cosmic vibration.

“There is this ball…” Nova said as the song faded into the next cadence. “You may have heard of it.”

“What’s that?” Mitch asked, gazing into Nova’s glowing green eyes.

“After the Corpo Convention. On the final evening, Rotech throws this extravagant dance. Tuxedos and gowns and the most luxurious decorations and delicious food from around the world.”

“You’ve never been?”

“It’s an invite only event. Only corpo players and their spouses can get in. Maybe some day,” Nova said.

She marched towards the end of the bar, whipped up a few drinks and slid them across the slick wood to a couple of nomads, then strut back over to Mitch, leaned over the bar so their eyes were level.

“You’ve got gorgeous eyes,” Mitch said.

“Nice try,” she said, grinning, “but I’ve heard that one before.”

“Yeah, but I bet no one tells you quite like Mitch Henderson,” he said, pointing at himself with his thumbs, smiling at her with his gap-toothed grin.

Nova giggled, looked away.

The wild, electro-jazz beat filled the air, mixed in with the chalky smoke and neon light as if sight and sound and smell intertwined into a single, sensory experience.

“How’s that beer, Cowboy?” she asked, turning back.

Mitch gulped down the last few chugs, pushed the mug away from him.

“Best beer I ever had,” Mitch said, falling further into her eyes like they spun towards him, hypnotized him. “Hey, Nova, I was wondering… maybe you and-”

“One sec…” she said, shuffling over to two corpos in black suits to Mitch’s right. She turned towards the beer tap and set two mugs underneath the metal spouts.

Mitch brushed his thin hair over his scalp, glanced at his concave stomach and his skinny limbs. He picked at the dirt and crud still trapped beneath his long fingernails and tried to brush off the black gunk on his hands and knuckles that failed to wash off in Eleanor’s powder shower. He slid his tongue across the gaps in his mouth, tasted the grime that coated his crooked teeth.

Nova returned, planted herself in front of Mitch on the other side of the bar.

“What were you saying?” she asked.

“Ahh…” Mitch said, swatting the air, “it’s nothing.”

He climbed off of the stool and placed his anxious feet back on solid ground, tried to steady his shaky knees.

“Time for me to get going. Don’t want Reggie over there tossing me out for drinking all his beer. It was nice meeting you, Nova.”

“It was nice meeting you, too, Cowboy. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime,” she said. The illuminated freckles on her cheeks seemed to glow brighter above her white-toothed smile.

Mitch walked a few steps away from the bar, spun, and stared at Nova. His heart pounded against his rib cage hard enough to rattle his eardrums.

Boom boom… Boom boom… Boom boom…

“What’s your last name?”

“Zion,” Nova said. “Why?”

“Because next year I’m taking you to that Rotech Ball like the queen you are, Nova Zion,” Mitch said.

Nova chuckled, rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, okay, Mitch Henderson. That’s sweet of you,” she said. “If you can find a way into next year’s ball then I would love to be your date.”

Mitch grinned, gave a single, firm nod, turned and slogged towards the front door. His head held high, chest puffed, arms swinging at his sides.

“Thanks for the free music,” Mitch said to Reggie as he ventured out of the saloon.

“Oh, yeah, you got it, my man! Come back and groove anytime!” Reggie shouted.

Mitch ventured into the Twilight, fingers tapping his pant pocket, tracing the outline of the credit disk tucked inside. Every few seconds his mind jumped from thinking about all of the tech and nomad threads he could purchase, to fantasizing about all of the booze and bonzos he could buy with one-thousand C’s… one-thousand credits!

His mouth salivated, fingers wriggled, lungs heaved in a faint fit of hyperventilation, seeking out a breath of oxygen within the contaminated filth. A breath of air fighting against the dizzying, mechanical fumes spewing out of grates in the ground from the Crawler’s fortress below. Mixed in with the savory, synthetic aroma wafting out from the ventilators and cooling fans above restaurants and food carts. Combating the sour stench of booze-laced piss clinging to the brick and stone walls down dark alleys where his fellow bums rambled and challenged the void like they fought and communicated with ghosts.

Mitch made his way across the Twilight, shoving through the parade of nomads. He squeezed out onto a less populated section on the outskirts of downtown and slowed to a stop outside of Zoxillian’s popup laboratory.

He crouched behind a pile of black trash bags stacked on the side of the street. The decrepit building was dark, no sign of the Zox or any others. He looked left, right, searched the surrounding area for any guards or Crawlers or nomads that might be tracking him down and prevent him from entering the mod for another round. Another crack at a memory.

Then, he jumped to his feet and marched up to the front door, raised his fist, pounded against the steel with the fleshy part of his hand beneath his pinky. Hollow thumps echoed through the laboratory, reverberated up and down the abandoned street.

There was a muffled, metallic clash on the other side of the door, followed by a series of pounding steps on pavement.

“What do you want?” Zoxillian said through a speaker on the door’s keypad lock.

Mitch cleared his throat, leaned towards the keypad so that his face was level with the speaker.

“It’s Mitch.”

“Who?”

“Mitch Henderson. I met you yesterday.”

“Meet lots of people. The Zox is a busy salesman.”

“You put me in your Memory Mod,” Mitch said. “I got attacked by one of those creatures in the black robe. Killed me right in the middle of my booze and bonzo memory.”

There was silence. And then a shift of sliding metal on the other side of the door, followed by beeps and dings that emanated from the keypad. The steel door slid open a few inches, just enough for one of Zoxillian’s white-in-white, marble eyes to peek through, glare at Mitch. The eye looked up and down, scanned his entire body, studied his burgundy, button-down shirt, black pants, and shiny dress shoes.

“Don’t recognize you,” Zoxillian said through the crack.

Mitch spread his arms out and gazed down the length of his body.

“Well, the last time you saw me I was almost beaten to death… wandering around in my underwear.”

Zoxillian pulled the door open the rest of the way and squared his body at the center of the frame. He wore a tight-fitting, flamingo pink suit with gold pinstripes that flashed as if they absorbed and reflected light. He stared at Mitch with both eyes now. His forehead wrinkled, mouth hung slightly open. And then, his brows shot towards his greasy, black, perfect corpo hairline.

“Weary Traveler!” Zoxillian shouted. “You clean up nice. What’s up? You bring me any more testers?”

Mitch looked towards the right, scratched his eyebrow.

“Couldn’t find anyone so I brought myself for another round.”

“Ohhh…” Zox said, wincing, “sorry, friend. Like I said last time, only a prototype. Still got too many bugs to work out. Need to figure out what to do about those entities in the black robes. But thanks for your interest. Be sure to send your fellow bums my way and I may be able to sneak you a few credits under the table. See you around!” Zoxillian said, slamming the steel door in Mitch’s face.

“Wait!” Mitch yelled, throwing his arm in the crack to keep the door from closing all the way. He grimaced as the edge of the steel clamped his forearm, pinching his nerves so that a tingling numbness crawled up to his shoulder. “I’ve got credits,” he said through the crack. “I can pay you.”

The door crept open about a foot. Enough for Zoxillian’s face to appear like it levitated on the shadows of the room.

“What’s your offer?” Zoxillian said.

“Fifty credits.”

“You think I’m some chump? You see this fucking suit?” Zoxillian asked. “One-hundred credits.”

“Don’t got that much,” Mitch said. “Seventy-five.”

Zoxillian was silent. An expressionless face plastered across his floating head. And then, the door swung open and the Zox’s right hand shot out from the shadows.

“Deal.”

Mitch shook Zoxillian’s cold hand. A frozen chill squirmed up his wrist, crawled through his arm, and dispersed throughout his entire body like he had dunked his soul in a vat of icy rain water. Signing a deal with a frozen devil.

“Pay now.”

Zoxillian let go of Mitch’s hand, reached into his suit jacket pocket, and pulled out a black, Rotech card with glimmering white letters, held it out in front of him. Mitch yanked the credit disk from out of his pocket, turned the screen away and adjusted the settings, then held it over Zoxillian’s card until both credit wallets chimed.

“Welcome back to my lab,” Zoxillian said, tucking the card away. He turned and marched into the darkness, pink suit swallowed by the shadows.

Mitch hustled after him. Mind swirling with the hazy recollection of murky memories. Distant dreams from a forgotten past. His brown eyes zipped back and forth, up and down, searching through the dumpster fire of his brain. Sifting through the folds and ridges and grooves of gray matter. Seeking out his past experiences for a slice of meaning. The reason for his existence beneath the sorrow and suffering. Prodding the dark depths of his consciousness for the meaning of it all. His life’s purpose.

“Alright, Weary Traveler, you know the drill,” Zoxillian said, slapping the top of the gurney. “Kick back, open up your mind, and set it free.”

Mitch shuffled to the side and plopped onto the flat bed. The rusted hinges squeaked and groaned as his withered bones settled, poking through the hard pad and digging into the gurney’s metallic surface.

Zoxillian peeled the strips of paper off the sticky white adhesive and stuck them to Mitch’s temples, handed the third strip to Mitch to stick on his tongue. Then Zox slid the sensory immersion rig’s neural connector into the input socket of Mitch’s tech.

He gave Zox a thumbs up and nestled his skull onto the headrest.

“Close your eyes and relax your muscles,” Zoxillian said. “Quiet your thoughts and still your mind. Focus your full awareness inwards…”

Mitch’s steady breath dropped several octaves, spread ripples of air into the shadows of the lab like a refinery boat bobbing atop the filthy, ebony, oil seas off of the coast.

Silence engulfed his existence. Followed by that psychedelic cloud of color that bubbled up and out from the center of his mind… the seat of his soul… the transmitter of consciousness… the third eye…

A mystical rainbow of smoke swirled around his body, carried him away and dropped him like a bundle of rocks onto solid ground. The impact shot a flash of white light up through the soles of his feet and out through the crown of his head. Mind teleported from waking reality into the realm of distant memory from a time long past.