text: Screaming sirens forced his eyes open. Unable to fall back asleep, he pulled his aching body out of bed and trudged to the kitchen to pour himself a drink. Specks of rust dotted the chromium walls of his tiny apartment, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the city. The bed stood alone in the center of the room, the single piece of furniture he had been able to bring himself to purchase, trying to avoid another tether to this space. Outside, a blazing neon blimp floated by, blaring its ad for spotless luxury condos in Uptown. The models’ unlined magazine-beautiful faces sneered at the decrepit landscape as they passed through. He gulped the mixture down, an oily, gritty substance that burned his throat as he forced it into his body. A slow warmth started blooming in his belly as he took a pull from his narco-pen and waited for the combination to creep through his system and exact its familiar anesthetizing effects in his frontal lobe. Long pulses of light brightened the room at random intervals, and the insistent screech of sirens burst through the haunting silence that smothered the inhabitants below. Dust floated like ash between the tall honeycombed towers that stood like aging sentinels, disused and uncared for. A rising tide of prosperity had left the majority of denizens strewn about like so much driftwood in its wake. Unlit corners of the street below buzzed with an angry activity, hooded figures scurrying to and from the pockets of darkness, cigarette burned pockets filled with grams of various balms to soothe the pain of poverty. He sat heavily on the bed’s edge, running his fingers through a thinning underbrush of weedy growth. Thoughts buzzed by, honeybees floating on the updrafts of a warm summer breeze, as the drink started to envelope his mind in a pleasant haze. His mind began to wander into the space between consciousness and oblivion, waves of mild pleasure bringing him back to a narcotic sluiced wakefulness and releasing him as they rolled by. The harsh ringing of the phone wrenched him from his pillowy half-sleep. “‘Lo?” A familiar toneless robotic voice. “312 new avenue. Apartment 457. Instructions will be coming shortly.” The line went dead. Duty calling, always at the most inopportune time. But he needed the money and you never knew these days how much time would stretch between calls. Two years ago, when everything went bust and people started defaulting on their payments, he’d have a backlog of jobs piled up, work enough for the next month. Now he was lucky to get a job every other week. A glance in the cracked, grease coated mirror revealed a sagging face darkened by lack of sleep, and he quickly looked away. The digital display flickered past 4am as he pulled on his uniform, a matte black armored bodysuit. The final touch was the helmet. That helmet changed him in the eyes of those he passed in the poor quarters. He could see it in the way they stiffened and gave him a wide berth, the hate brimming in their eyes and the curses muttered under their breaths. Few were so bold as to engage him, but he’d seen and heard it all. Always through the thick screen of the helmet, which muffled their hoarse screams and flailing limbs as they flung their anger at him, as though he were watching an old film. The sound of the door snapping shut bounced around from wall to wall in his skull, each reverberation a muffled thump that shook his head. His brain was still swimming in the fog that had settled in during the early morning session as he mounted the rusty company issued hoverbike and set off. Few people were out this time of night, and those were the dregs that had blossomed like maggots in a festering wound. Onto new avenue, which had infused the area with a brief glimmer of hope, a sliver of incandescent joy at its width and richness. Strolling couples and babies in carriages. Then a rapid decline as shops closed up and businesses moved uptown, unscrupulous characters haunting the corners and alleyways, little by little the shiny veneer wore down until it cracked and sagged. Two minutes out he started to get that familiar dread, like he’d swallowed a handful of gravel that now churned in his guts, burning. A rancid stench hit him like a wave as he dismounted and entered the building, scanning his company badge to unlock the door. No lifts in this part of town worked, so he lugged it up the stairs, battening down the hatches and preparing his mind for what was to come. The sounds of his knocks echoed down the hallway, soliciting cracked doors and curious eyes that he could feel like targets on his back as he came face to face with a dirty, wan face. “Please, just a few more days. Just a few more days, I’m begging you.” “You’ve failed to make the requisite payments to The Cintall, Underwood, Newman, and Twit Company who has graciously extended you an extra day to make good on your contract. I will now escort you from the premises.” “Please, please, I have two children, where are we supposed to go? I have nowhere, I’m begging you please.” “The system has determined you be removed, and it is my duty to remove you. Gather what you can carry and exit the space.” His foot prevented the door from closing and shouldered the door the rest of the way open. Two round faces stared at him, peeking above the couch, eyes wide. One hand tightened white around the crumpled edge of a frayed blanket. The other latched on to that of the older sister. The woman continued to beg and plead, mewling at his feet before quickly turning to rage. It always went like this, the belief that they could talk their way out, then the shift to begging, changing to explosive rage as they realized they could do nothing. The outcome had been decided, and he was just the human cog designed to make sure it was carried out in accordance with the laws set down in lines of code. The waves of the woman’s rage continued to break against the wall of his calculated indifference. He glanced at the children and quickly away again. Tears splashed down their faces, brought on by the outpouring of emotion from their mother. He grabbed her and pulled her roughly to her feet, beckoning the children over. “Tell them to come. Make this easier on yourself” He smacked the hand that was clutching, the thick padding of the glove rendering the impact nonexistent. Her desperate, guttural yells bounced back and forth through the apartment. “Take off the mask, you fucking coward. You can’t even look me in my face. Look at my kids, you’re killing them is what you’re doing. You put us out there and we’re dead.” Her face was twisted into a snarl, bloodshot eyes wide with a potent combination of fear and rage, strands of spittle flying off as she raged. “Let’s go.” he said. “Now, before you end up with some broken bones that I know you don’t have money to fix.” The two children shuffled from the couch to their mother’s arm, tears streaming down their face, tinny sobs wrenching their shoulders. A triumvirate of misery, salty streams running in rivulets and splashing onto their worn clothes, bleary eyes resigned to the slow march of death in missed meals and harsh weather, a bleak future of indeterminate length stretching out in front of them. Innocence that would be grounded out like a boot crushing a spent cigarette. They fanned out like a thin human flag as he dragged the mother from the apartment, the steel door snapping shut. Possessions trailed them like breadcrumbs, to be gobbled up by the vultures in the neighboring apartments as soon as they passed out of sight, erasing the trail home. Again he could feel the eyes, equal parts hate, fear, and relief, boring into his back. Down the stairs they went, the children frightened into silence and mother resigned a fate that was unescable. The ragged tune of their steps echoed throughout the metal stairwell. His frame took on more and more of her weight with every stair, as if the journey was robbing her body of the strength it needed to stand on its own. By the last stair, she was draped over him, silently sobbing against his shoulder. As the door shut behind them and the air outside hit them, autumn-cool with an undercurrent of the winter to come, the woman slipped off and lay on the ground, a puddle of misery, arms wrapped tightly around the children. He mounted the aging bike, started it, and drove away, forcing his eyes away from the scene but drawn back for a last glance in the rearview mirror. The three figures were tiny, diminished against the rising background of steel greys and flashing broken neon signs. Two sets of small wide eyes followed him as he left. As soon as he entered his apartment he collapsed against the doorway, slid to the floor, and wept. Huge, shoulder heaving sobs, gobs of snot and slime mixing with the salt of the tears running down his face. Thirty minutes passed like this until he inhabited an empty shell of a body, exhausted and spent from the outpouring of emotion. Occasional sniffs punctuated the relative calm until the only sounds were the muffled shouts of advertising jingles from the blimps that floated by. Then, silence. A heavy stillness thickened the air until it was pierced by the shrill call of the company phone.