Would You Like to Reset...?

My iron weighs heavy in my sweaty palm, my hand a fist around the pistol shoved into the pocket of my baggy jacket. A jacket with no branding or bright colors. A piece of fabric meant to be overlooked.

There he is, maybe 5 yards away. My eyes lock onto that dumb bastard pig. A danger to donuts and minorities alike. Look at those beady eyes, scanning around, waiting for an excuse to pull out his gun. That piece of shit is probably no better at home. Probably drinks too much. Hits his wife, too, I bet. Yeah, that’s what he is, a threat. To others, to his wife, to his kids, and to me. That’s why I’m doing this. That’s why I’m closing in behind him, why I’m pulling my hand from my pocket. That’s my role, the scorned underdog, the hero that no one admits they secretly admire. I’ll go down as a criminal, maybe even a terrorist, but they’ll talk about me in the streets. Maybe even get a mural of my face spray painted on some brick wall. Shit, he’s still shoving that fucking donut in his face, ain’t even looking at me. No, I need him to see me—need him to know what’s coming. “Hey, bacon man!” Not my best line, but it don’t matter, cuz’ now he’s looking at me, facing down the barrel of this 9mm I’ve got pointed ‘tween his eyes.

He sputters out crumbs and fumbles for his hip. His gun slips out his hand and clatters to the ground. Fuck! Why’s he got to fuck up the moment! No, gotta build the tension again, keep the scene going. “You piece of shit fuckin’ pig, I’ll show you!” Show him what? Doesn’t matter, it’s enough time for him to fall to the ground and wrap his fat fingers around that pistol.

Then, that sound—gunfire. Always shocks me how loud it is. The kind of loud that almost tricks your ears into thinking there’s no sound at all because they’re too busy rattling in your skull to even process it. I tell myself I won’t flinch, but I always do.

The pain is different, though. First a dull, subconscious ache, like my brain hasn’t registered that I’ve got a few new holes in me yet. I look down at the blood pouring through my shirt. I didn’t hear separate shots, but I count three holes, so I guess he squeezed the bang switch thrice. Then, like my brain suddenly realized what happened and yells to the rest of my body, “You’ve been shot, dumbass!” the pain shifts to a sharp, white hot searing sensation. I think I screamed the first time I ever felt it, but I try to hold back now. I try to live in it, let it seep into me.

I’m on the ground now, the tile cool against my cheek, until it isn’t, now wet and sticky and warm with my blood. My eyes catch the glint of a few brass casings on the ground. I count them. One… two… three… four? I didn’t know where the fourth bullet was lodged. Probably into some wall or maybe an innocent bystander. All I know is that the pain has reached my bones, I am bleeding out on the floor, and for some reason I can taste a deliciously cooked piece of steak in my mouth.

Oh. That’s my tongue cooking on a hot piece of lead. Guess that’s where the fourth bullet went.

[Would You Like to Reset…?]

[YES] or [NO]

I punch the red button and wake in my bed. I need a drink, feeling like I’ve got sand in my throat every time I swallow. Which was bad because that was usually a sign that I had been playing ‘round in the digi-space for more than an hour. Which was really bad because I put on the headset about 30 before I had to run to work. Which was really, really bad because it was the third time I had done this. This week.

“Fucking god shit fuck,” cool as a synth-cumber, I keep a level head and disconnect from the virtual-sim deck, yanking the plug from my CNS-port. That means central nervous system, for the uninitiated (ie; productive). I grab at my pile of uniform on the ground and throw on the threads, stubbing my toe a mere twice amount, then run out the door so I can hurry up and miss a cab to get to work.

“You were supposed to be here two hours ago.” The first thing I’m met with as soon as I get through the door of this junk store.

“Traffic jam—”

“And it took two hours to detour?”

“Well I, uh, there was bunch of cars. Cops. Guess someone got gunned down or something.” She wasn’t buying it. My boss is always able to see through my bullshit, no matter how many times I rehearsed my story in the cab. “Look, can’t imagine you’re overworked here, nobody ever stops into this shop anyways.”

“Yeah well, we might actually have regular customers if you’d bother to do your job,” she reaches under the counter, then throws something at me. An aerosolized can of concentrated teenage locker room. “Spray this on. You look like you haven’t showered in weeks.” Not fair. Its only been one week.

I watch each second blink into the next on the old LED display on the wall. Another piece of outdated junk collecting dust and interesting nobody except for the hipster jackasses that love to pretend holding onto the past with white knuckles and gritted teeth makes them all the more ‘cultured’ and ‘sophisticated’. See, see—it may be slow and irritating to use, but that’s part of the charm! And if you can’t understand it, then you must be stupid or lazy, and actually its cool to use tech that makes you want to tear your hair out! That’s what this shop stands for, a haven for those that can’t see it for what it is. A junkyard. A big ol’ pile of trash where every stripped wire comes with a price tag, and a dead end job that pushes me to virtual suicide every night. I hate them. I hate this stupid fucking shop. I hate--

Krzt—T-t-ting!

I hate that broken digital door chime. My boss insists that it’s charming, but the sound gives me a headache. I’m just grateful that the door rarely opens.

But it did open now, so I pull my head up from the counter top and plaster on a smile to appeal to whoever is wasting their time in this shit hole, “Welcome to Vannie’s Vintage Bargain Bin, we currently have a buy-one-get-one 20% off sale for select items—”

Woah. She’s really pretty.

She walks up to the counter and leans against it, looking past me and at the assortment of junk behind the counter. “Looking for parts to fix my rig. You sell old Ono-Sendai decks?”

Black hair, jet black, and braided into two buns that sit on her head like mouse ears. The rest of the braids rest down on her shoulders with holographic beads. Spikes in her jacket, on her boots too. A chick like her doesn’t belong in this relic trash heap. She looks like she belongs on a reel of some rock and roll virtual-sim.

“Oi. Earth to pawn man.” The snap of her fingers yanks me down from the clouds.

Oh shit, what was she asking for? “Huh, oh, uh you’re looking for Satoshi’s, yeah?

“Ono-Sendai.”

“Oh, right. Uh, are you looking for pre or post-war? ‘Cuz the difference being, um, the radiation in the circuits changing the—”

“Pre-war era. Need next to zero interference for CNS processing. Could use some ram, too, if you’ve got it.”

“Sure! I mean, I’ll check and see if we got it. Them. The things you asked for.” Smooth.

I walk around the counter and to the portable computer area and look through the towers of stacked, cigarette stained, gray plastic brick machines. An Ono-Sendai. Those usually sell for a decent amount of credits, top of the line machines. At least, half a century ago they were. But they’re hard to come by, too, and this shop doesn’t usually get that lucky. “Um, sorry miss, I don’t think we have one of those. Maybe you’d be interested in—”

“Thanks for looking.” Shit, she’s walking away!

Before I can think better of it, my feet race to get between her and the door. “I, um, you said you’re looking to repair your rig, yeah? Maybe I could help? I’ve got some stuff that’s not in shop. Like, at my place. Not saying you gotta come home with me, I mean, maybe I could get your number and,” I wasn’t getting through to her, and I could tell she’s getting more annoyed by the minute. Of course she is, I’d be pissed off, too. I am pissed off, at myself, every single day. She ain’t even looking at me. Like all she can see is that door behind me.

Then she’s grabbing my shoulders and throwing me to the floor. And the sound that follows, deafening—gunfire. Only it ain’t like the little pea shooter from my digi-dream. This is something bigger, meaner, ripping through the shop and sending sparks and debris flying. Boss is gonna be pissed.

The chick pulls out her own iron and starts to return the message. I crawl across the broken glass and plastic on the ground and worm my way behind a flimsy pile of tangled cables and speakers. Fuck—its so fucking loud, can’t think! I risk a glance at the door and see a car pulled up on the sidewalk covered in some kind of gang paint. I count three guys shooting, one in the car and two behind it. Looking back at the chick and her pistol, she’s not even sweating. Just another day in Hell, and she’s brought sunglasses. But me? I’m scared shitless, terrified to move, to breathe, to even think! I need out, I need out, I need—the back door. That’s it, that’s my escape, I just need to slip through the gunfire and fucking bolt. They’re after her. She’s the target. If I time it right, I should be able to fall out of sight. Just need to stay cool, wait for the right moment. Cool, cool, cool as a synth-cumber, just stay cool.

There’s a pause, brief. Reloading. I don’t think, don’t breathe, just scramble to my feet and bolt to the back. I jump higher than I ever have and clear the counter, twisting my ankle as I land but not stopping for a second. My hand grabs the door handle and nearly rips it off. I rush through and slam face first into something, something softer than wall, meatier. I flinch.

The concrete is cold and slick, until it isn’t, now warm and sticky with my blood. My ears ring. I feel my heart pump in my neck, and a dull ache in my gut.

Four. There were four gangsters.

[Would You Like to Reset…?]

[YES] or [NO]

I punch the red button and wake in my bed, sweating and gulping down air. Right. I got off of work hours ago. Yeah. Came home and opened a beer and…

And I plugged into my virtual-sim deck. Clearly. Got the headset on my forehead, cable jacked into my CNS-port. I throw the headset aside and yank the cable out, then jump to my feet pace around the small room, wringing my wrists and trying to calm my shaking hands. Fuck, they’re shaking bad, like I’m tripping on drugs way above—or below—my pay grade.

Just another day in Hell. Just like any other. Get a grip, dumbass, it wasn’t real, none of it was.

Well, some of it was. I did go to work today. But that chick probably wasn’t real. Definitely wasn’t real, no way I’d have the balls to go after her in real life. That was the digi-dream confidence. But this? This is reality.

I stop pacing. For a split moment, I feel the hairs on my neck stand on end, the blood in my fingers turn to ice, and my skin break out into goosebumps.

No. I know damn well the difference between real and digital.

I look down at the sim deck, a machine of scratched red plastic and faded labels. My hand finds the CNS-port in the back of my neck, circling the warm metal socket. Empty. Disconnected.

Yeah. Yeah, I know the difference.

Wouldn’t ever confuse it.