Surge :: part 1

[chaosphaere]

 You don't remember when you started watching the faces on the 1015 train. They never changed. People in shades from peach to ivory to sepia and ochre with hair in every color, occurring in nature and not. But they were the same. They moved in groups, laughing, from place to place. Scrupulously maintaining an inch of space between your bodies no matter how crowded the train was.

 

They tried to look different yet they were the same in their... resistance to sameness. You gripped the metal rod to keep yourself on your feet as your train lurched to a halt. You pushed your glasses back up your nose. You felt an object collide with your body from behind. You turned, startled, and it took you several moments to realize that a person had collided with you. You checked your pockets, everything was still there. A woman pulled her child back and muttered an apology, turning as her cheeks colored. You said nothing. Best not add insult to injury. 

 

The train moved again, jerking forward. It sliced soundlessly on its track through the haze, above the city. You looked out, as always, at the sleek buildings so even and precise and pristine, their pieces having been poured from machines. 

 

At least that is how they did it then, you thought. Who knows what they do now. Who knows what they’ll do tomorrow.

You walked home down streets that never went dark. You'd read once that the future would be lit in neon. 

 

But the advertisements poured off of the buildings on huge, flat screens that reminded you sometimes of the huge, glib antique television sets of your grandparents. No neon. Pastel, white, chrome and glass.  

 

You checked your Io brand wrist companion, fingering its black rubbery strap reflexively. You found it reassuring. You felt unique in the customized options you’d made. We’re Io and we help you be you. You’d worked that campaign once.

You walked rapidly past pastel-lit storefronts. Funny, you thought, you didn't remember these stores. A chocolate shop had moved in. Since 2017, it read. You shook your head as you passed. You worked that account, too. For values of "worked" that meant making sure the changed year (Atelier Chocolatier didn't open until about 15 years after that date) got changed everywhere it appeared. 

 

You touched two fingers to your wrist companion as the bright facade of your building came into view ahead of you. When you reached the door, you pressed the small tile against the panel by the front door. For a moment, no sound, nothing. You wondered if you'd paid your rent this week. You tried to remember if surge pricing was in effect. You tried to remember what the rent was. Click, whirr, the door slid open. It must've been deducted. You wondered what was left.

 

 

Comments

[lunitariaprime]

You give the briefest of glimpses into the world here - I already sense that it is a world run by money. :)