The memory starts in the cockpit of an LAPD spinner, moving fast at a cruising altitude of six hundred feet over a city that stretches and stretches and stretches as far as the eye can see in every direction. It's dark and not just because of the rain clouds; the buildings tower above as well as below, and there's a constant haze of smog and smoke and humidity that means the sky is never visible inside the biome. It's loud, the stabilizers for the vent system vibrating across the city, holo ads blaring so they can be heard over traffic both ground and air, sirens and engines and people yelling at each other. Neon lights are everywhere, lighting up the night until it reflects off the cloud cover.
Everything is dirty. Ash falls from the sky constantly like snow, and no one ever questions where it comes from anymore. There is no sign of anything at all alive except the human population - no trees, no grass, no shrubs. Nothing but crumbling concrete, nothing but rusted metal.
K has a headache, probably a broken cheekbone and there's dried blood crusted all down one side of his face and his arm stings and burns every time he moves it to adjust the course of the spinner; his entire body hurts like he's been put through a wall because that's exactly what happened, but he's fine so he ignores it. He's more annoyed about the torn shirt and the blood on his coat. He lands the spinner on top of the towering, blocky LAPD precinct building and heads inside at a decent clip, eager to be done with this shift.
The halls are crowded with other officers of every level - detective, patrol, SWAT - and the kind of people who have cause to be in a police station, arrested or handling civil matters or newly released from the block of cells they have here. K keeps his head down as he navigates, but several of the officers he passes go out of their way to swear at him - "Fuck off, Skinjob," more than one hisses at him with real venom - and several more would walk straight into him if he didn't dodge automatically out of their way. He says nothing, doesn't engage, he's used to it. It's better to just ignore it.
He drops off what is very clearly an eyeball in a plastic evidence bag at one booth, then doesn't stop again until he's in a room small enough to be a cell, padded dirty white walls and a stool in the center which he takes and waits, patiently, facing the camera set in the wall. It's several minutes before a formal voice comes over the speaker, no sign of the actual person: "Office KD6-3.7, let's begin. Ready?"
"Yessir," K answers promptly.
"Recite your baseline."
"A bloodblack nothingness began to spin -"
What follows is a series of call and response, the voice mechanically asking questions and K repeating a word mostly every bit as mechanically rather than actually answering. His heartbeat follows the cadence of the test, the words memorized, and he reminds himself to breathe through it; calm. Be calm. Give the right response, collect another bonus, call it a day. Be calm.
"We're done," the voice finally says, something human seeping back into it finally, a conversation more than an interrogation. K doesn't relax, but there's still a sense of relief when the voice says almost warmly, "Constant K. You can pick up your bonus."
"Thank you, sir." K does, and leaves the precinct at street level rather than going back to his assigned spinner. He has an errand to run and he stops, picks up a package from a shuttered store with a golden W logo over the kiosk, exchanging the entire envelope of cash and signing over a hefty chunk of virtual credits as well for it, and finally heads home.
Street level is so crowded and cramped that it never sees the light of day anymore, and he trudges through ash and refuse piled up that frequently goes over the top of his boots. Vehicles speed past without any regard for pedestrians, people are a nearly solid wall on the sidewalks, and street cleaners large enough to maim a person and not even notice plug past uselessly. There's a constant smell in the air, acrid and cloying, refuse and bodies in too close and the saltwater haze off the ocean and something long dead. K's apartment building is a one hundred story ancient monstrosity, and the smell of humanity crammed inside of it hits the moment he's in the door. Every apartment building below the middle class is crammed full of people, families that sleep curled up together on the floor as well as on every piece of furniture available, that burst out into the hallways and stairwells and street as soon as the light comes out to get away from each other - or with people who aren't tenants at all, seeking shelter amongst the mass of humanity already lingering in the building until the landlords figure it out and yank them out like weeds.
Children in little better than rags scurry past in the lobby and point at him and chant something with the feel of a nursery rhyme, then scatter as quickly as they assembled; old Mrs. Zakovian is perched on her landing and she starts shrieking in her powerful, rasping voice in her native tongue as soon as she sees him and doesn't stop even long once he's past, her angry jeering echoing off the metal ceiling and walls. Some people laugh, or just turn up their lips; some pointedly don't bother moving where they're sitting on the stairs, and force K to contort around them to avoid touching them as he goes. No one actively blocks his way though. No one actually touches him in turn, and K navigates it all as if it the stairwell is utterly silent.
One elevator is broken; the other is dangerous. He lives on the fifty third floor, and he has to walk all the way up to his apartment, to the door with FUCK OFF, SKINNER spray painted across it, and a few questionable stains around the bottom. More children go running past, older this time, giving him a wide berth; the oldest boy snickers, jabs the oldest girl in the ribs and points at him and they burst out laughing as they swing down the stairs. K doesn't look up from placing his hand on the security lock, and slips in when the door slides open.
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Date: 2022-07-15 07:53 am (UTC)Everything is dirty. Ash falls from the sky constantly like snow, and no one ever questions where it comes from anymore. There is no sign of anything at all alive except the human population - no trees, no grass, no shrubs. Nothing but crumbling concrete, nothing but rusted metal.
K has a headache, probably a broken cheekbone and there's dried blood crusted all down one side of his face and his arm stings and burns every time he moves it to adjust the course of the spinner; his entire body hurts like he's been put through a wall because that's exactly what happened, but he's fine so he ignores it. He's more annoyed about the torn shirt and the blood on his coat. He lands the spinner on top of the towering, blocky LAPD precinct building and heads inside at a decent clip, eager to be done with this shift.
The halls are crowded with other officers of every level - detective, patrol, SWAT - and the kind of people who have cause to be in a police station, arrested or handling civil matters or newly released from the block of cells they have here. K keeps his head down as he navigates, but several of the officers he passes go out of their way to swear at him - "Fuck off, Skinjob," more than one hisses at him with real venom - and several more would walk straight into him if he didn't dodge automatically out of their way. He says nothing, doesn't engage, he's used to it. It's better to just ignore it.
He drops off what is very clearly an eyeball in a plastic evidence bag at one booth, then doesn't stop again until he's in a room small enough to be a cell, padded dirty white walls and a stool in the center which he takes and waits, patiently, facing the camera set in the wall. It's several minutes before a formal voice comes over the speaker, no sign of the actual person: "Office KD6-3.7, let's begin. Ready?"
"Yessir," K answers promptly.
"Recite your baseline."
"A bloodblack nothingness began to spin -"
What follows is a series of call and response, the voice mechanically asking questions and K repeating a word mostly every bit as mechanically rather than actually answering. His heartbeat follows the cadence of the test, the words memorized, and he reminds himself to breathe through it; calm. Be calm. Give the right response, collect another bonus, call it a day. Be calm.
"We're done," the voice finally says, something human seeping back into it finally, a conversation more than an interrogation. K doesn't relax, but there's still a sense of relief when the voice says almost warmly, "Constant K. You can pick up your bonus."
"Thank you, sir." K does, and leaves the precinct at street level rather than going back to his assigned spinner. He has an errand to run and he stops, picks up a package from a shuttered store with a golden W logo over the kiosk, exchanging the entire envelope of cash and signing over a hefty chunk of virtual credits as well for it, and finally heads home.
Street level is so crowded and cramped that it never sees the light of day anymore, and he trudges through ash and refuse piled up that frequently goes over the top of his boots. Vehicles speed past without any regard for pedestrians, people are a nearly solid wall on the sidewalks, and street cleaners large enough to maim a person and not even notice plug past uselessly. There's a constant smell in the air, acrid and cloying, refuse and bodies in too close and the saltwater haze off the ocean and something long dead. K's apartment building is a one hundred story ancient monstrosity, and the smell of humanity crammed inside of it hits the moment he's in the door. Every apartment building below the middle class is crammed full of people, families that sleep curled up together on the floor as well as on every piece of furniture available, that burst out into the hallways and stairwells and street as soon as the light comes out to get away from each other - or with people who aren't tenants at all, seeking shelter amongst the mass of humanity already lingering in the building until the landlords figure it out and yank them out like weeds.
Children in little better than rags scurry past in the lobby and point at him and chant something with the feel of a nursery rhyme, then scatter as quickly as they assembled; old Mrs. Zakovian is perched on her landing and she starts shrieking in her powerful, rasping voice in her native tongue as soon as she sees him and doesn't stop even long once he's past, her angry jeering echoing off the metal ceiling and walls. Some people laugh, or just turn up their lips; some pointedly don't bother moving where they're sitting on the stairs, and force K to contort around them to avoid touching them as he goes. No one actively blocks his way though. No one actually touches him in turn, and K navigates it all as if it the stairwell is utterly silent.
One elevator is broken; the other is dangerous. He lives on the fifty third floor, and he has to walk all the way up to his apartment, to the door with FUCK OFF, SKINNER spray painted across it, and a few questionable stains around the bottom. More children go running past, older this time, giving him a wide berth; the oldest boy snickers, jabs the oldest girl in the ribs and points at him and they burst out laughing as they swing down the stairs. K doesn't look up from placing his hand on the security lock, and slips in when the door slides open.