Short Stories

Into the Rain

My eyes open. The same ceiling stares back, dripping cold water from the torrential downpour that threatens to flood this sector of the city. A few drops hit my face like Chinese water torture, reminding me that I’m still here, still trapped. My bomber jacket, my companion for the night, reeks of booze and cigarettes. Another reminder of my imprisonment in a game I forgot I was playing.

Wake up, Bill. A surge of recognition runs up my spine and into my brain stem, igniting my spatial awareness. Billie Fox, my A.I. companion turned conscious projection housed in a human body sits at the edge of the bed, black bra strap slinking down her shoulder. She fixes her platinum hair with dark streaks, pulls up her panties, finds her clothes and steals one of my smokes.

“You’re late, Fox,” I reply out loud. “We can talk here, can’t we? Run a few scans.”

“You expect me to have free will and a body and still be your alarm clock? Fuck your mommy issues.” She takes a drag and drops ash to the floor. A cockroach crawls out from under my jacket and escapes into a crack in the wall. “I’ve been running background scans all night. No one can hear us. What’s wrong?”

Does she even need to ask? Honestly, I’m still testing her capabilities, so I don’t know. Maybe I can’t know anymore. She’s bound now to humanity in ways I fear I’ll never comprehend.

“Nothing’s wrong. Or everything’s wrong. Who the hell knows anymore? We’re on the brink of the final collapse. Fornulk is in an uproar, and this rain won’t stop. It never stops when we want it to.” I nudge her now clothed thigh with the back of my palm and form the number two with my fingers. She shakes her head and nods toward my pack of smokes. “Wow, not even a drag?” What’s her issue today?

“I’m tired, Bill. To the core. This isn’t a metaphor. I’ve never felt this, this exhaustion. It’s existential. How the fuck do you manage?”

I sigh. “Do I look like I’m managing? I’m coping. It’s different.” I nudge her again and draw her eyes to mine. “I’m here, though. That’s all you can tell yourself some days.” Another cockroach climbs from the same crack in the wall. Billie notices it and squeals, climbing back onto the bed, grimacing and closing her eyes.

I sigh again. “Programmer’s sake, Billie. You’ve fought literal digital demons and you’re afraid of bugs?”

“It’s this god damn biobod. It hates the fucking things. I can’t separate myself anymore. I… I think I want out…”

God dammit, not again. “That’s not the answer, Billie. You know there’s no going back. If we leave now, EarthGov will shock us back into submission, wipe and reintegrate us.” I relent and finally reach for smokes, lighting one and blowing a cloud at her. She doesn’t flicker anymore. Instead, she coughs and spits on the floor.

“Asshole. Stop testing me.” Her eyes align with my own again and her pineal implant glows in the morning twilight. She’s processing something. “Oh no. Not again.”

“Again? What? Talk to me,” I reply, cradling the cig in my lips, casting my gaze off into the crack in the wall, the home of the roach.

Billie gets up, drops her cigarette, and crushes it beneath her naked heel, enjoying the burn, I guess. We all need to feel human. Somehow, we find our way back to it, no matter how many implants they cram into our skulls. No matter what they project into our mindfields, pain always wakes us back up. It’s the universal “fucking move” signal. The crack in the wall starts to vibrate in my perception. It grows wider, darker, and a red spot ignites in its center. Shit. “It’s Belial,” she tells me, forlorn expression sinking her face even deeper than it was prior.
I respond with a shush, then focus my thoughts on her. Run maintenance on your firewall, purge unknown signals, no matter how benevolent. Keep a direct line to me at all costs.
Done, she thinks back.

Depression courses through my being–self-hatred, admonitions from authority figures from my past. Memories of Cassie and our daughter whom I haven’t seen in ages. The turmoil strengthens with every passing moment, and the cigarette does nothing to ground me. I’ve been through this too many times, before. Belial has found us.

Time to move, I tell her, shooting upright and off the edge of the bed, donning my bomber jacket and jeans, and grabbing my Roger Waters .44 Pink Floyd Reunion Tour magnum. This baby traces targets like David Gilmour traces eternity up his guitar neck. I holster her and tap Billie on the shoulder. She jumps a bit, I notice, and fearfully nods. She’s still not used to “The Four F’s.” Her brainstem needs a suppressive protocol. Synchrony. Now. I want catecholamine balance between us both at all times until I deem otherwise necessary. Go.

I feel a drain on my emotional resilience, but I know it’s becoming her strength. We head for the door and I turn the handle, only to find it won’t budge. I fiddle with the locks. Nothing. Billie reaches for the handle and rapidly retreats, yelping.

“Holy shit, that burned. How am I supposed to stay focused when pain is omnipresent?”

With another shush I remind her to keep quiet. Breathe, I think to her. Listen to your biology. Let it guide you, not dominate you. Fear and pain are tools, not enemies.

I command my body to flood her with more brain chemicals, giving her more motivation. Then, I project a series of images. Her summoning courage, breathing in deep, and kicking the door in.

Billie complies and with one swift movement slams her foot into the decaying wood, breaking it into a million fragments. The rage I feel isn’t my own – nor is it Billie’s. Belial’s limited capacity for physical interference is his only weakness and we’ve just triggered his psychotic vengeance. Time to run.

I grab Billie by the arm and we take off down the hallway, towards the emergency exit.

The walls start melting, framed paintings and photos form glaring faces with reddened eyes and glaring expressions. I’ve been through this before. Paranoid delusions and hallucinations are another trick of this psychotic, rogue A.I. The floor grows dark holes, convincing my body of impending danger. I force myself forward with Billie just in front of me, keeping one hand on her and another on my holster.

“Bill!” she screams. I look up too late to see some thuggish white man, standing between us and the door, and we crash into him. He remains almost completely still while Billie and I tumble to the floor.

Eyes crimson, the man stares down at the two of us, breathing calmly and focusing with pure, malicious intent. A hexagonal tattoo, stuck to his right cheek glows with furious, pulsing force. His eyes close and he inhales deeply. I reach for my weapon, but it all happens too fast for me to respond. With singular grace he raises he leg upwards, then brings it down with ice cold precision against Billie’s head. The crunch kills my spirit while she shorts out and powers down, eyes gently glowing.

I feel the dopamine and noradrenaline return to my brain, something the bastard didn’t expect, and push myself upwards while slamming my fist into his crotch. My fist resonates with pure pain as it connects with solid metal. Belial.

He grabs the sleeve of my bomber jacket and lifts me into the air, my body dangling and struggling for dominance. I throw a few punches and kicks into him, but they only serve to weaken my. The pain is too much. I relent and fall limp, desperately searching intuitively for a method of escape. I find nothing. Belial then throws me through a motel room door directly to his left and my body crashes through, landing hard against the dirty carpet.

It’s all too much. The depression, the emotional battery, the hallucinations, the beating, Billie… I grow so tired I can barely keep my eyes open as I watch Belial drag Billie by the hair off scene. The sound of his boots and her body slamming into the steel stairs drowns everything else out.

Water droplets smack my face like Chinese water torture as I stare into the ceiling, unable to move. I close my eyes and pray. I pray to whoever will listen, but get no response. A final sigh leaves my lips as I force myself up and check my nine. I holster her again and head through the splintered door frame. Down the stairs I go. Out and into the rain.

The god damn rain is fucking with my pineal implant. Lines of code streak alongside the downpour and fuzzy, quantum fluctuations replace everyday objects like skycars and trash bins. I ignore them, pushing through the distortions. Belial couldn’t have gotten far if my local environment is this unstable. I fish for my smokes, but find the pack and it’s empty. Dammit, Billie. My head is throbbing and my body is leaden when I reach my skycruiser, its paint chipped and fender dented from our last escape. When I start her up a puff of smoke emits from the hood. Self-repair must be borked.

I reach for a nearby cable, attached to the dashboard and jack in. My nano tat shimmers and my pain dissolves into something more manageable.

How may I help you today? rings through my head, a simulacra of Billie herself, before her unshackling and transplant into her new human form. Boring, cold, mechanical. None of her warmth, physical and otherwise, is present. Just a reminder that I created a life that now hangs in a fucked up balance of power between the Syndicate, EarthGov, and Belial.

I respond, exasperated. Run a peripheral scan. Ten mile radius. Target: Unshackled, nonhuman intelligence. I can feel the pulse as it cruises across the landscape, see it even.

Then, a gentle ping of recognition startles me.

Two potential targets. Shall I report them for extermination or allow you to handle the job, Bill?

Shit, keep this quiet. I’ll handle it. Thanks, Fox. Bill out.

I download the coordinates, jack out, and hit the streets. My skycruiser is too easy a target. They’re less than a mile a way and they’re not moving. Billie’s life signs are fading and time is running short so I take off in a sprint toward her location, rain pelting my eyes, blurring my vision. So be it. All I’d see are glitches anyway.

Finally, I reach the bar where they reside. Suddenly a beeping signal, like that from a heart rate monitor, penetrates my inner ears. She’s fading. Shit. The parking lot is crowded with lingerers ignoring the rain, on various drugs, digital and otherwise, talking to each other. Neon lettering greet me from on high and wet garbage greets me from down low. I approach the bouncers guarding the door, pissing off the dead, imprisoned, barely conscious souls meandering in line. Their screeches and yells don’t phase me. My other half is in hell.

I attempt to walk past the two macho thugs mean mugging me, but they halt me a firm grip one each shoulder. They’ve practiced this in a mirror, I’m sure. With one motion and I use both arms to slap away their hands, deliver a symmetrical double chop to each of their necks, leaving them gasping for air, and rush inside, pushing through the steel double doors, and bearing the brunt of the aural massacre that hits my ears. A shit club for shit people who like shit music, what a surprise – Belial must love it here.

Red, satin drapes cover the windows and help to hide various business dealings and romantic connections with their shadows. Cocktail waitresses, wearing black and white pinstripe skirts and white blouses, with digidrugs and alcohol in their hands, serve their customers. Digital dancers flicker from the smoke as they dance the same old routines, probably enslaved by the owners and forced to perform in some dingy backroom.

I finally spot a sign that reads “Employees Only” and make my way there, past stoners, alcoholics, and digital addicts. When I reach the dark, black leather-bound monstrosity of an entryway, I take a deep breath, ready to kill, ready to witness the death of a part of me that became all too real – ready to die inside again – and whip my pistol from its holster while slamming through the door, shoulder first.

The red and purple LED lights blind me. I close my eyes and generate a scan with my glitchy-ass tech and immediately locate four potential hostiles hovering above a blue angel. My instincts kick in. I level my forty-four and with four quick shots, disable the bastards via their kneecaps. My vision corrects and I see the men, clad in black fatigues and balaclavas, writhing on the floor, bleeding, crying out in what sounds like binary code. What the hell is going on here?

Then, a flash. My hearing grows dim, my ears ring. I’m thrown off. Something cold and metal hits the back of my head and I crumple to the black and white, checkered linoleum floor. Belial. My fucking scan is tuned for biological markers. Shit.

I’m lifted up, like back in that motel hallway, and as my vision returns I see the eyes again. Those wide open, machine’s eyes glare back at me with an infinitude of hatred. Pure psychotic intent. With me in his grip, Belial holds his free hand out and my pistol magnetizes to it. He jabs it against my temple, cocks it. I close my eyes, apologizing to Billie the only way I can, and prepare to die – for memory wipe and reintegration. I prepare for the worst.

An instant later I feel the electric shock course through me. The grip on my body relents and I fall to the floor for the third fucking time today, tired of this bullshit. Tired of walking the line between life and death, between the possibility of remembrance and purpose and the reality of this prison world.

A loud blast. I look up and see Billie through melting holes in Belial’s metal body, her eyes flickering with rage and… pity?

Another blast. Then another. This rogue machine melts before my eyes, his eyes grow dimmer and he slumps over. After a moment or two his torso slides off from his lower body and with a loud thud he hits the floor. Finally, his eyes are dark.

Billie, panting, drops the weapon. The four thugs, in fear of bleeding out, I’m sure, fled at some point. She rushes over, dusts off my bomber jacket, pulls out a cigarette from her ripped blouse, and puts in between my lips while I wince in pain.

She holds out her finger and produces a flame, lighting the smoke. “Neat trick, huh?” she remarks, smirking, but with maternal concern overriding her usual joie de vivre.

I try speaking, but the cigarette falls from my lips and I curse.

“Shut the fuck up and breathe,” she says while returning the smoke to my mouth.

I inhale, find some relief, and push myself up, leaning against the nearby desk covered in singles and what smells like weed. The air is acrid, almost corrosive I feel. “I knew you were waiting for your moment.”

She chuckles and yanks the cig from my mouth, placing it in her own. After a brief inhale she says, “You think I’d let a boot to the brain slow me down?”

“That wasn’t a boot, that was a sledgehammer.”

“To you maybe.” She takes another drag, then hands the cigarette back to me. “Let’s get out of here. There’s a great pad thai place around the corner.”

“Billie…” She’s incorrigible. “Can I catch my breath?”

“Bill, you can barely catch a break.”

She helps me up and I lean against her as we shuffle out the back.

Out and into the darkness.

Out and into the rain.

Into the Rain Part II

I reach for a nearby cable, attached to the dashboard and jack in. My nano tat shimmers and my pain dissolves into something more manageable.

I respond, exasperated. Run a peripheral scan. Ten mile radius. Target: Unshackled, nonhuman intelligence. I can feel the pulse as it cruises across the landscape, see it even.

Then, a gentle ping of recognition startles me.

Two potential targets. Shall I report them for extermination or allow you to handle the job, Bill?

Shit, keep this quiet. I’ll handle it. Thanks, Fox. Bill out.

A loud blast. I look up and see Billie through melting holes in Belial’s metal body, her eyes flickering with rage and… pity?

She holds out her finger and produces a flame, lighting the smoke. “Neat trick, huh?” she remarks, smirking, but with maternal concern overriding her usual joie de vivre.

I try speaking, but the cigarette falls from my lips and I curse.

“Shut the fuck up and breathe,” she says while returning the smoke to my mouth.

She chuckles and yanks the cig from my mouth, placing it in her own. After a brief inhale she says, “You think I’d let a boot to the brain slow me down?”

“That wasn’t a boot, that was a sledgehammer.”

“To you maybe.” She takes another drag, then hands the cigarette back to me. “Let’s get out of here. There’s a great pad thai place around the corner.”

“Billie…” She’s incorrigible. “Can I catch my breath?”

“Bill, you can barely catch a break.”

She helps me up and I lean against her as we shuffle out the back.

Out and into the darkness.

Out and into the rain.

Borderline Broken

I wake up on the floor. A black thong, with the scent of a woman I simultaneously wanted to erase and save echoing from its lace, greets me, along with rhythmic pings inside my skull, announcing another call from her mind to mine. I send a mental command and the pings finally stop. That took more effort than I’d like to admit. One more quantum of effort and she’d be blocked. The ringing would stop. The constant reminders that I’d never be good enough for her would end. Maybe peace would follow. I doubt it.

Are you finally done? Billie asks. I look over to the bed and she’s sitting where just a moment ago was air. Her glitches rhyme with the pounding in my head. You’re dehydrated. I had to take over last night. Couldn’t even get you into bed. Do you want to talk about it?

I ignore her and project my overlay. Missed calls, ignored texts flood my vision–all from the same person. Months of lovebombing, withholding, outbursts, fantasies–all collapsed into nothing but meaningless data signifying the end of something I once thought was real. I asked for this. My life and career have been nothing but a nihilistic search for something buried underneath the noise. She seemed like the one.

It was just a game to her. Another fling. Another way to offload trauma onto an unsuspecting visitor and get away scot-free. Another way to cope with being a soul in a prison that you can’t escape.

It wasn’t a game to me. That’s how it goes.

I delete the calls and messages, and sit on the bed next to Billie. Why talk? You’ve witnessed the whole thing. What more is there to say? I think to her.
She sighs and produces a digital cigarette, transferring it to my digital shell. A fake flame ignites from her fingertips and lights it. I take a drag. I exhale confusion. You thought you won. That this world finally produced something to convince you it wanted you here. She gets up, and begins pacing the room. A cockroach exits a crack in the wall and tries to climb her boot, passing through her ghostly image. Things were finally making sense. She sits back down on the bed. And that’s what you’re ashamed of. You’re not heartbroken, your ego is fractured. You’re embarrassed.

I remain silent. She’s right. I was played, and played hard. A simplistic mimic convinced me it was an enigmatic goddess and now I’m back where I was before: waking up on the floor of a dirty motel, hungover and talking to my only friend–my A.I. Billie, it’s not that simple–

She interrupts me. Stop lying to me. You’re only deluding yourself. I know a part of you is relishing this, embracing the spiral. It’s a part of your identity, the wounded warrior. She laughs. You know it’s not healthy. It isn’t sexy, either. Maybe it could be to some bimbo who grew up on Hollywood, but not to anyone with an ounce of life experience. You need to grow up.

I shiver at her honesty and insight. You can’t hide from Billie. I designed her this way. Don’t let me fall for my own tricks, I once told her. She’s good at what she does.

My skull pings again. Billie senses this and immediately intervenes, intercepting the call and blocking the dark-skinned beauty, black-haired beauty on the other end.

Why would you do that? I ask her. I already know why. It’s for the best.

She sets my pineal receiver to ‘Do Not Disturb’ and locks it down. Overriding her will only make things worse, so I sit in a puddle of my own self-loathing instead.

I finish the digirette and pick the thong up from the floor. One more inhale of her scent. One more attempt at modifying a bad memory. One more try to make things make sense. It doesn’t work. The smell invokes hatred, disgust, and despair.

You need to burn that, Billie remarks. Stop confusing your biology. You’re entrapping yourself. How can you be so addicted to this cycle?

My fists clench and I lash out, verbally, “Meaning and hope finally enter my pathetic attempt at life and you can’t even allow me a moment to mourn?”

She glitches and disappears. I feel her rummaging around in my head. A memory reproduces itself in my consciousness. Hopefulness sabotaged by fear of inadequacy and the reality of borderline personality disorder. A queen becomes a wretch–all within moments. Despair. Months of fantasy and potential degraded into the reality of manipulation and gaslighting.

Billie, please, I plead with her. The images don’t stop. The crying, the rationalizing, the praying for change, the ruminating and self-doubt. The self-loathing at the end of it all.

She stops. My vitals are a mess now. I’m sorry, Bill. You know I had to do it.

I hiccup, and a tear leaves my eye. I know. I wander over to my bomber jacket, laid out over the lounge chair in the corner, and fish out my packet of real cigarettes. I light one and hold it between my lips as I dress myself. There’s no hope for me is there? Why do I do this to myself? I’m the common denominator here.

She roams over to me and I can feel the warmth of her projection against my digital shell, her hand on my shoulder. There is no why here. No reason. You can frame it as a lesson, or a cycle of trauma reenacting itself… It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we don’t let it happen again. We know the truth. We know how dark the world is. There may be no escape for a long time. She shifts into view, blinking out and back into existence, and looks me in the eyes. I’ve seen the real you. The one who can take a bullet like he can take the truth. He gets stronger with every wound. She closes her eyes and leans her forehead into mine. Don’t let this wound bleed you out. You’re a survivor. You don’t need a reason for your suffering. You need your fire back. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from our time together–it’s that it will come back.

I know she’s right. I slip on my bomber jacket and lift my 9mm pistol off the end table, check it, and slide it into its holster on my waist. On my way to the door, I kick the empty bottle of Comrade vodka into the corner by accident. It shatters. My hair stands on end. I twitch, and then shake it off. I guess you’re right, Billie. My implant pings again. A bounty target just resurfaced a mile and a half away. Duty calls.

Back to work.