Dousing the fire.

Vastness of water
Oscillating waves
A velvety symphony
Of blue, green, and grey
Festooned by a ribbon of white foam
In which I cast my desperate nets
Seeking new life
Avoiding your wretched gaze
Steering into the marine ataraxis
I escape, escape, escape
The raging inferno within your body
A red that flickers with passion and pain
These fulvous explosions ignited
With your dark, ravenous eyes
I now douse the longing
That conquered my heart, enslaved my brain
It hurt, it burns, it still singes where we kissed
My skin shrivels and sighs
At the thought of your voice in my ear
Of your fingertips on my wrists
But now I leave you behind
You and your halo of flames
An angel screaming in the firepit
That I finally escaped.

Let us drive into the vermillion sunset

It was Proust
Who said those wise words
Remembrance of things past
is not necessarily
Remembrance of things as they were
So help me see the truth
Help me be free
Help me forget those false pictures
Help me remember to breathe
Lead me onto the road to nowhere
On a torrid summer afternoon
Past the boulevard with the rollerblading lovers
And highways adorned with palm trees
Let's keep driving, escaping, disappearing
A hundred miles across the silent coarse desert
Another a hundred by the murmuring soft sea
Let us drive into the vermillion sunset
with reckless abandon, with dangerous speed
Make me fucking feel again
Make me shout, make me bleed
out all of the emptiness
that still afflicts me
Then underneath a blanket of glittering stars
Please take me in a wordless embrace
Lying on the bonnet of an 84 Testarossa
Staring into the darkest pockets of deep space
As balmy zephyrs caress our cheeks
And the crickets come out to play
I'll let go of all those memories
that caused me so much pain.

Murder

Like roadkill
Dead
Red
Scorched alive
Drowned in own blood
Left to die
Ripped pelage
Intestines
A host to ants
A magnet for flies
A parallax of death
Cloaked by the night
Placenta for the earth
Assault on the eyes
This is a dead man
No longer has a face
Life unjustly beaten away
By the cruelty and prejudice
Of strangers passing by
Saw him as an animal
They left him to die
Body rotting
Sinking deep
Into the dirt
He now seeps
Somewhere faraway
In the dark
His lover lies
And begins to weep

We're finally free.

I can see it. I can hear it. I can feel it.

The winds that susurrate through these streets.

And the birds that fly above these buildings.

The sound of water lapping gently toward the sand. 

The magnificent blood orange torch of a setting sun, beaming across the horizon.

A light so intense you can feel it glow on your skin.

The ability to love and be loved.

The small smile on his face. His human smile.

So fragile and full of emotion, yet a heart so strong and withstanding of the greatest obstacles.

We let our fingertips touch as we stare into his world, and leave mine behind forever.

I want to go out and not have to bring a purse.

I want to wear baggy jeans, an old oversized sweatshirt, and take a long drag of my cigarette while I lean on a balcony and the wind billows through my hair in the night.

I want to breathe in, and feel like things are moving in slow motion.

I want to feel curious, and enamoured by everyone and everything.

I know my heart will beat fast, but my mind will be slow.

And that nothing really matters but right here and now. 

I will feel the balmy summer breeze on my cheeks and neck. 

Watch an old street lamp flicker like a flame.

Then close my eyes. Tilt my head back slightly.

And feel an overwhelming calmness. 

Like I'm standing in front of an ocean. 

Watching the sun set across an iridescent horizon.

Glimmering tantalisingly. Red, orange, and blue.

So peaceful. 

So free of noise and bullshit. 

And when I open my eyes, I'll see the white moon in the black night sky above me. 

I'll wonder about the universe, and aliens, and other planets.

A vast space unexplored.

I'll rest my cigarette, and take another sip of whiskey. 

80s synthwave playing in the background. 

Ephemeral

And when he smiles, I smile.
When he laughs, I laugh.
I feel his fingers around my waist.
His eyes on my face.
And I know this won't last.
But I relish all of it.
Every gaze.
Every touch.
That endures a second too long.
I love it. Love it. Love it.

Sweet dreams

Oooh. Ooooh.

She moans.

Body writhing.

Back arching.

A beautiful bridge.

Of flesh and ribs.

I kiss her chest. 

Admire her lips.

But as I stare.

Look upon her delicate frame.

My tears unravel.

A history of pain.

It's been so long.

She says.

Reads my mind.

Too long.

I whisper back. 

Fingers caressing.

Her eyelids.

Her nose and cheeks.

Where have you been.

I ask. Voice wavering.

A waterfall of tears.

An ocean of grief.

A small smile she gives.

A bittersweet marker.

Of the life she lives.

Having fun.

She laughs. Nonchalantly.

I watch her calmness.

Collarbone heaving.

Translucent white skin.

Her arms are reaching.

Around my body.

Pulling me towards her.

A grip so tight. I suffocate.

Never let me go.

I think.

I won't.

She says.

I close my eyes. 
Enclose her with my embrace.
Please. Please.
Let me sink into her.
Let me be with her.
Let her stay.
This one time. 



I open my eyes.
Daylight seeping through the blinds.
It hits the spot on the bed.
Where she used to be.
It is empty.
It has been empty for years.
And I can do nothing.
But stare.
In silence.
Because last night.
Was just a dream.

Section 8.

Drunk. So drunk. 

I knew I was. 

Lights glittering.

Table glimmering.

With alcohol.

Smell of cigarettes.

On the balcony.

Vibrations beneath my feet.

Doof. Doof. Doof.

Feels so good.

Feels so light.

Everybody looks better at night.

Laughs. Giggles.

Flirty gazes.

Inappropriate exchanges.

Of touches.

Ever so soft.

Across my cheek. 

Around my neck.

On his lips.

In my hair.

Ahhhhh.

He whispers. 

Close your eyes.

Deep breaths.

Hot and wet.

I can taste it.

With my skin.

Hmmmm.

Don't let it stop.

Don't let this night end.

End

It's the dead of the night and the outskirts of the city have fallen into a trance. Old wooden street lamps with peeling skins of red and blue paint illuminate the hushed narrow laneways. Rusted metal bikes, plastic crates, and bits and pieces of gnarly wet cardboard are stacked high into hills of junk against the walls of people's homes.

In this part of town, the folks lived in old, low rise tenements; sleeping, eating, and shitting in flats so small they could barely be called 'rooms'. Cockroach infestations. Piss stains. And walls so thin you could hear a neighbour's cough from the left, and the screams of a woman being beaten by her abusive husband from two doors right.

Many of these flats were inhabited by depressed housewives looking after young children while the absentee fathers slaved at some chemicals factory fifty miles away. Sometimes, there is also a moribund grandparent deteriorating in front of the television, blind to the colourful images flashing on the screen, their eyes having already succumbed to the milky blue sheen of late stage glaucoma. If men lived here, they were drunks and losers whose bodies or minds no longer enabled them to work. All these people stuffed like sardines into weathered, dented, cold war era cans... rotting away their souls in a frothing stew of hopelessness and boredom, spiced only with what was available - wanton crime and adultery.

These tenements were essentially prisons. They were grey, and boring, and the windows adorned by a facade of steel bars. To keep burglars out? No. There was nothing of value to steal here. The more appropriate answer was to keep little kids in - from falling and splattering their brains on the asphalt, or to stop mothers from jumping to their deaths, fed up with husbands who never returned, and who were themselves dying from the lethal amounts of ammonia they inhaled daily at the nearby factory for unlivable wages. It was a woebegone backwash of a town.

And I needed to be free from it.

It was freezing, and I could see wisps of my breath dance in front of my eyes. It probably wasn't a good idea to take a stroll in this weather, time, or location, especially not as a lone woman.
 I had no phone on me, nor items that could be jerry-rigged as a weapon at any given moment. Assaults on women were notoriously common here, what with the lack of husbands around. Men drunk off baijiu would often roam the streets in the evening, scouring for prey. But it didn't matter to me. Not tonight.

I weaved through several more laneways and trudged past mounds of inexplicable textiles, a syringe, an old broken scooter whose parts have yet to be taken by an entrepreneurial passerby, and finally arrived at my destination.

I inhaled.

I had never been this far and was surprised that the river that stretched before me had not yet transformed into black still ooze strewn with Coca Cola cans and plastic bottles. Surely, despite its somewhat salubrious appearance, the chems from the factory two kilometres ahead would have poisoned it already. I wasn't complaining though. It would at least help make the end more pleasant.

I walked over to the shoddy steel bridge and looked over the water. I knew it was deep. A few children have drowned here over the last decade. With the parents away or occupied, toddlers were always falling out of balconies, running in front of trucks, getting stuck in drains, or wandering into rivers. Always dying gruesomely. Would there be any bodies left in here?

I climbed up onto the railing, and it shuddered beneath me. My hands gripped the pole, but my fingers were trembling. For the fifth time in the last thirty seconds, I inhaled deeply, sucking in the air until I could no more. But this time, I held it. I had played this over and over again in my mind - dreamt about it - desired it. And I knew I was more than ready.

Goodbye.

I leaped away from the railing, arms wide open, eyes closed, and suspended in the air for those brief milliseconds - I embraced my newfound freedom.

After WWIII

Every time I see this picture, I imagine this weird story. 

It's the year 2107 and several major events have altered the course of human history.

Firstly, Earth's population was almost wiped out with the outbreak of World War III decades earlier. The war itself stemmed from a fatal conglomeration of pandemic disease, bad politics, pro-anarchic hacker movements, and nuclear weaponry. 

Secondly, China became the first country to assert territorial claim over a chunk of Mars, galvanising a furious space race that almost killed the precarious detente being negotiated between superpowers in the aftermath of WWIII.

Thirdly, mankind has begun to slice up and colonise Mars, with multiple countries pouring resources into a universal terraforming process that will take at least another twenty to thirty years to complete. However, most of the terraforming and other technology being used for interplanetary administration is being funded by a powerful technocracy led by tech giants in Silicon Valley and Zhongguancun. 

At present, Earth is being viewed as a backwash for the underprivileged. Those who are wealthy and educated book their tickets to Mars. Mars, where the technocrats have enforced stringent migration checks and requirements to ensure nobody 'undesirable' is able to penetrate the new intellectualist-socialist-democratic utopia they've started to build. 

On Earth, few cities remain standing, and even fewer still function under a recognised government. Most others were pulverised completely during the war, or have fallen away to anarchist groups and self-serving warlords.

In those still functioning cities, the people are gripped by a widespread dysphoria. People are depressed, lacking in motivation, without hopes and dreams. Because dreams of peace and the future now belong on Mars. On Earth, all there is left around them are architectural ruins and pockets of ongoing violence and civil warfare. 

New York and Washington no longer exist. Seoul and most of Southeast Asia is being occupied by belligerent Chinese and Japanese administrations. Much of Europe has succumbed to disease and is cordoned off as an extreme quarantine measure. After the war, many 'modern' first world cities turned to rubble, and have become just another graveyard for lost souls.

However.

In the midst of all the political bickering and daily threat of warfare, somewhere in the tiny and unassuming West African country of Gabon, this picturesque glasshouse stands. 

It is a sunny afternoon, and pleasant zephyrs roam the air. The owner of this seemingly misplaced glasshouse, an ailing 103 year old WWIII veteran, strolls slowly in her wheelchair next to the potted plants, flowers and manicured hedges she had installed herself some decades ago. She comes to a stop at the far end of the glasshouse, taking in the colourful vista before her, admiring a scene of bliss that at the moment, very few people on Earth or Mars would ever be able to enjoy. To sit there without a worry, among beautiful flowers, and hear nothing but birdsong to break the tranquil rhythm of softly flowing water from a garden fountain, was an unthinkably lavish privilege. 

A young boy bursts through the doors of the glasshouse. He looks about 16 years old. The veteran turns around, and says she's been expecting him. The boy blushes, apologising profusely for his tardiness, and then reaches into his bag, pulling out a weirdly shaped cylindrical instrument that is a holographic recorder. He has only been allocated 15 minutes for the interview.

Actually, that is incorrect. He won those 15 minutes through a lottery. 

He will be the last person to speak to the world's only remaining WWIII soldier. And there is no leeway to stretch the time, as after those 15 minutes are up, she will die. She has chosen to die at a very specific time, having taken the necessary steps to implement her death.

He bumbles through his questions, knowing all too well the importance of her last words. They are the usual questions one would expect him to ask. What is your strongest memory of the war? Do you believe the war was ultimately meaningless? What do you think about the new Martian society? Do you have family or friends on Mars? What would you say to those in control of admission to Martian society? Do you think they are repeating the mistakes that led to World War III?

It is not long before those 15 minutes are up. The boy gulps in nervousness, thanking the veteran and stowing away his recorder. As he steps towards the door, the veteran asks him to stay. 'Please stay,' she smiles, 'and enjoy the sunlight with me.' When the boy nods in agreement and slowly steps back, she smiles even more broadly, her wrinkles twitching. 

She sits in her wheelchair. He stands next to her. Both of them tilt their heads up to watch a flock of birds dance near the trees outside. In the further distance, hippos walk across the savannah plains. He doesn't dare peek a glance at her until minutes have passed. 

When he finally musters up the courage to face her, he sees that her hands are clasped on her laps, and her eyes are firmly closed. She has fallen into a deep sleep from which she will never awake. 

The Kill.

'Who the fuck are you??!' yells the fat man with the cigar hanging out of his mouth. 'You ain't supposed to be in here lady!' He starts to get out of his chair, his left hand still gripping a bottle of Johnnie Walker King, his right hand clutching the game's winning set of cards - a Royal Flush. Well, how unfortunate for him. 'Fuck bitch! I said get ou-'

BANG. BANG. BANG.

One two three. Heads explode. Bodies drop. Blood splatters an expensive Persian rug. And all over their Spring 2015 Armani suits. I stroll over to their table, once host to a poker game, now petri dish for brains. I pick up a partially cracked shot glass, quickly take a sip of straight whiskey, gulp, exhale, cough like a fifteen year old taking their first hit of weed, then proceed towards the next anteroom.

'WHAT IS HAPP-'

BANG. BANG. 

One two. Beautifully splayed out like pirouetting ballerinas on the black marble floor. Skulls caved in. Eyeballs missing. A romantic embrace by two decapitated lovers from the grave.

'SHE'S GOT A FUCKING MAGNUM!' shouts a voice from above. 

BANG. BANG.

Shouldn't have spoken. Idiot.

I hear kerfuffles from the balcony. Many men. Moving. Organising. Arming themselves. 

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.

Silence. 

I have shot all the lights out. Time for fun. Time to party. I put on my night vision goggles. I scurry up the stairs like a ninja. 

Ahhh... look at them, so bewildered, so scared, huddling like little animals at the abattoir, about to be butchered, skinned, diced and cubed. Open season just began.

Snaking my way nimbly through the crowd of blind suits, I reach the bar and take my place beside the quivering bartender on the floor. I bring my magnum up. Breathe. Focus. I stand up and all I see are their backs. This will be easy.

A deafening series of blasts rock the darkened room as I let loose a tsunami of metal, copper and lead that's off the fucking seismographic charts. I smile as dozens of bodies shake and vibrate, dancing to the bullets perforating their flesh like sex. The bartender cries, pissing with fear, and covering his ears. I shoot him in the chest. 

I return my gaze to the front, and finish a few of them off. Some are hiding. Behind sofas. Behind shelves and cabinets. Hmm. I don't have time for this. I grab a couple of little lovelies from my belt, hit the 'detonate' buttons, and throw them into the centre of the room.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

The high-tech grenades fry them to smithereens. Limbs fly majestically. Juices flow like the Nile in the summer. Beautiful, haunting, operatic music, echoes within my brain. It was Deliverance. 

I walk out of the bar, turn right down an empty corridor, rip my goggles off, and make my way to the The Office. 

Shoots the fuck out of the double mahogany doors. Kicks them open. He is cowering behind his desk.

'Hello Vitaly.'

'WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?? WHO SENT YOU?!!' his eyes dart frantically. 'YOU HAVE KILLED ALL MY MEN. ALL OF THEM.'

'But I haven't killed you.'

'I CAN GIVE YOU MONEY! RICHES BEYOND YOUR IMAGINATION! JUST SAY WHAT YOU WANT! I HAVE EVERYTHING, ANYTHING! JUST-'

'I don't want your shit you motherfucking pig.' I step towards him. 'You don't remember me?'

He pauses for milliseconds. 'W-WHO...ARE YOU?!?!' He pauses again. He stares at me, intently. Thinking. Revising. Scanning memories. Then his eyebrows furrow in alarm. 'Ana??? Anastasia?!! I'M SORRY! I'M SO SORRY... PLEASE, PLEASE FORGIVE ME...'

I look at him, dead serious. We stay like this, locked in a trance. Slow, taunting moments pass by.

I suddenly burst into laughter, thumping my gun on his desk, scaring him shitless. He was about to erupt with tears, looking sweaty and pathetic. What kind of mob boss was this?

'Who the fuck is Anastasia? A long lost daughter you used to sexually abuse, Vitaly? A woman whose family you ordered to be slaughtered? Perhaps a demon, rising from the shadows of your conscience, come to take you to the ninth circle of hell?' 

His eyes bulge, watery and round. He clasps his hands together as if in prayer. 'P-PLEASE...'

I press the cold steel tip of the magnum to his forehead, grinding it into his filthy, wrinkly skin. 

'Just fuckin' with you old man. I don't know you. But salutations, from my boss,' I wink.

'Wh-'

Bang.

3. Red Light District - Basement Level 12

Fuck.

Like literally.

People out in the complete open were engaging in such rabid, explicit frottage that there was barely any significant difference between it and actual intercourse. One guy whose vintage Game of Thrones t-shirt clung so tightly to his chest that it looked like it would spontaneously rip into confetti at any second, was expertly grinding his ass against a pimped up Robogirl, unleashing insane body-rolls that synchronised perfectly to the doof doof doof of the track that was blasting out of invisible speakers. The song was Desire, the latest No1 dance anthem sung by oversexualised Polish-Chinese pop star Katarzyna Zheng. I only knew this because Zheng's new music videos were a pandemic point of discussion and analysis within the Flux community. Unlike most of the world's current pop stars, Zheng was actually human, not just a holographic doll whose every curve and breathy whisper had been electronically designed and produced by big South Korean record label companies. These companies have, by the way, come under increasing scrutiny for its employment of 3D programmers in slave-wage conditions. Thus, in her electronically unadulterated position, Zheng's tactile good looks and genuine vocal talent cemented her a place as the darling of the world's hologram-dominated music industry. Though the production quality of her music wasn't particularly above and beyond those of other holographic pop idols, she still was, in the words of adoring fans on the Flux and most of the international commentariat, 'the human salvation music needs', 'the long-awaited revival of classic pop', 'the iconoclastic sex icon'.

I turned to look at Milo152. He still couldn't wipe the amusement off his face.
"Surely, you will have gotten used to these scenes on the Flux," he shouted at me over the music, his words barely registering. I didn't bother answering, but mindfully earmarked this occasion as the first time in my life I had seen mass musically synchronised dry-humping.

As we walked, the crowd around us seemed to evolve from Rn'B clubbers to Gay Pride Parade. Soon, we were bumping shoulders with men wearing nothing but pink feather boas tied strategically around their -

"Johnson!" yelled Milo152. I jumped, startled. "Oi, Johnson!" He started flailing his hands wildly over his head, signalling to someone that seemed to be coming from the direction of a neon-lit peep show lane. This was indeed the case, and the man named Johnson was surprisingly, a terribly overweight slavic man with a disfigured face. No, that wasn't right. He face had been disfigured at some point, but now it was 'fixed' - by a somewhat gratuitous installation of flashy bionic replacements. The right side of his face had been subject to some special metallic skin graft that blended right into his epidermis, which impressively, also displayed some sort of moving tattoo design. The right eye was red and mechanical - an illegally built-in infrared scanner. He could definitely see everyone 100 percent naked right now, which was probably two percent more than the nakedness already on display. I immediately realised,  however, that 'everyone' now included me.

Milo152 and I walked over to the slightly quieter corner where Johnson was looming. The man looked me up and down without a twitch. Well, I wasn't sure if that was something his face could still do.

"Iz this her?" Johnson spat, with an indecipherable continental accent.
"Yeah," said Milo152, who shot me a friendly reassuring look to signal 'no-I'm-not-human-trafficking-you-to-some-fat-disgusting-looking-Bulgarian-pimp'. "She'll be able to help you."

"Uh, 'help him'?" I paused, analysing their faces. "What... do you mean?"

Johnson grimaced. "Well," Milo152 began calmly, " I mentioned on the Flux that I needed you to do something a bit... unconventional. Something I think you've probably never attempted before. That's why I risked it all by asking you to meet me in person."

I looked at Milo152. I looked at Johnson. I looked at Milo152. 

"Uh no. I... not that," said Milo152 a bit embarrassedly. Then he took a deep breath, switching his gaze to his mysterious counterpart.

"I need you. To hack him."

2. Underground City

We arrived at Basement Level 1, which was the most benign, family-friendly strata in the huge complex that was Underground City. During the day, school-kids would come to frequent the bustling food stalls and shop for whatever was the latest in trid mods and remote controllable gadgets - mostly racing drones and BattleMechs, both of which constitute hugely overrated competitive industries. It's a popular place for some classic father-son bonding sessions. There were multiple indoor racing and mech battling stadiums for hire, as well as a litany of arcade game stops and anime/manga stores.

I always thought that B1 would be the same at night. You know, a cool place full of fun gizmos where people could hold racing events, trip out their Mechs, and throttle the shit out of each other's expensive toys. Apparently, that's not all that happens in B1.

Around the corner of a deliciously fragrant takoyaki stall stood a bunch of glaringly bright teens whose hairstyles looked like they were in the midst of projectile vomiting rainbows into the air. I probably would have done just that if I had listened to one more second of the conversation between one smoochy couple.

"But babe," said the barely 16 year old girl in a whiny baby voice. "I thought tonight was just gonna be us. You and me. For some special private times." She started torturing him with the soft caress of her fingertip over his budding pea-sized pectorals.
"Aww sweetie," the guy giggled, "I promised the boys I'd take them to Sam's drone party behind Joe's Pizzas. But how about later...I'll show you my private drone...." he slowed, a lascivious smile rippling through his equally creepy, bee-stung lips.

Milo152 led me past the wildly hormonal group, but not without turning back, catching my disgusted countenance and giving me a thoroughly amused look.
"You don't go out much, do you?" he asked, but it came off as more a statement.
This time, I sarcastically returned his smile. "No, I'm a misanthropic troglodyte-cum-cybercriminal. I don't leave my computer if I don't have to. This..." I looked around at what would otherwise be a quotidian setting for everyone else, "is an adventure for me".
"This is an adventure?" he laughed, as we continued walking past rows and rows of Asian snack stalls. There were potato and cheese salads. Spicy Taiwanese chicken pop corn. Kebabs. Fried soft-shell crab. I couldn't remember the last time my olfactory senses had been besieged so pleasantly. I had gotten too used to the wet, dank, smoky smell of my rotting apartment back in Nunnek, which is not the nicest neighbourhood to live in.

We continued trodding forward through the masses that have come out for the Saturday night markets, weaving in and out of the boisterous crowds like two lone fish that have deviated from the school. For the first time, I noticed that though Milo152 looked Asian, he didn't have any epicanthic folds around his eyes. And he had a smattering of freckles on his left cheek. Perhaps he was half-Asian. Well, most people are half-something these days. Half-Chinese. Half-Spanish or Russian. Half-bionic. I started to wonder whether he would have gotten his face cosmetically altered, not so much for the aesthetic benefits but to help him become more efficient at his drug-dealing business. Who knows. Maybe he's the sort of guy who gets his face tweaked once every couple of weeks as a pre-emptive security measure.

"Hm, so I hope you're okay with where we're going then."
"Where are we going then?" I said, my tone slightly on-edge.
"Uhhh. Well. You'll see soon enough."
We rounded a corner, and there was another set of stairs.
"Let's catch the elevator instead," he said, turning left and into a darkish laneway. We were at one of the edges of B1, where the shops had dwindled to just a few. I hadn't realised we had walked that far already. In fact, the non-existence of foot traffic here made me feel weird.
"You okay?" he said. I began to realise that I was probably being a bit too obvious with my facial expressions, and it was revealing everything he shouldn't know about how I was feeling right now. Which was basically 'why-did-I-agree-to-this' and 'I-don't-want-to-get-stabbed-or-raped-tonight', although I was pretty sure Milo152 was not the stabby type or the rapey type.

There was a 'ding' sound and two metal doors slid open from an unassuming soot-covered wall. "Yeah, I'm fine," I lied.
He looked at me earnestly for a few brief seconds, as if not knowing what to say. Then he laughed out loud as we stepped in. His hand hovered over the elevator pad, then he pressed for the very bottom level - Basement Level 12.

It took me a moment to remember. All I could muster in the incredibly short five seconds we had in the elevator was "wait..."
Then the doors slid open once again. Deafening oriental pop beats hit my face like a sledgehammer. Half-naked girls and guys strutted around in 9 inch stilettos, shaking their flashing LED bras, panties and party hats into my line of sight. Dancing robo-girls with plastic moulded F-cup breasts spun around like mirror balls on elevated platforms. A holographic video of a young Scarlett Johansson warapped in a tight red mini-dress blew me a kiss.

My eyes bulged slightly.
Milo152 laughed.
"Welcome to B12 - the Red Light District."

1. Central Station

Standing outside the staircase leading down to central station, I glanced at my watch for the second time. 11.46pm. A slew of rain drops quickly smothered the dim blue screen. I shoved my hands back into my pockets, squeezing the heat packs that I had judiciously prepared before I left my apartment. He's late. 

Staring at the people walking by central station, it was interesting to see that some were clearly heading home, and for others, the night was just getting started. The latter demographic was young, noisy and probably comprising more than a few underage kids. They were all dressed in fashionable electroluminescent jackets and shoes that glowed iridescently like the lights that festooned Underground City - a neon maze of the hippest bars and karaoke outlets. Most were also chatting into their head-mounted trid-devices, which I assumed would be them hitting up a friend about which dodgy underground pub they should rendezvous. Yeah, this was Saturday night out on the town.

The more I waited among the party crowd and let myself become drenched in the city's pollutant rain, the more I became desperate for a cigarette. My brain had been itching for a hit all morning, but now it was clawing desperately at the fringes of my self-control, exacerbated by the anxiety of having to meet him in person for the first time. And well, by being outdoors, which itself is a lifetime feat.

Milo152 was his username on the Flux. A username like that was simple, non-revealing and devoid of character. Usually, you get cliched names like Omniscent_Shadow, Llama-hunter or even worse, an alliteration like Huge Hurricane Hancock, which tends to reflect much of the pubescent personality that dominates the threads. Milo152, was by that comparison, a perfectly mature adult. Boring, even. Throughout our encounters on the Flux, he never interrogated me about my age or gender, or prodded me about becoming his ally on High Fortress. He didn't even ask to fuck after I intentionally let slip I was, in fact, a female. Yeah, our relationship was pure business. He provided the drugs I needed to fuel my night-habits, and in exchange, I mined him whatever data he wanted. A simple and reliable quid pro quo.

Of course, these transactions weren't exactly lawful, which is why we've always kept our communications limited to the Flux, where it would be near impossible for any cops or narcs to trace our trails. This was because no trails existed on the Flux. All posts, photos, trideos and chats are wiped every 4 hours. Users don't need to make accounts either. It's all a completely liberal space, for some astoundingly illicit activities. And no-one can shut the Flux down. No one probably knows how to, except for the person who made it.

"Kano64?"

I whirled around. "Milo152?"

He nodded. The guy was tall, skinny, Asian, and grinning broadly from ear to ear. I didn't return the smile. In fact, I was quite taken aback by his amicable disposition. After all, we were both still strangers to each other, with no other ties than those that were strictly criminal.

"Sorry for making you wait. I'll tell you the good news later. For now, let's head over to somewhere where we can talk," he said, ignoring my momentary expression of 'what in the world am I dealing with here'. "I know a place in Underground City. It's a rare pocket of tranquility, if you don't mind the sort of people that come and go," he winked.

He started walking off in the direction of central station, down the winding staircase. I followed without another word, wondering why I agreed to a 'date' with my drug dealer in the first place.

#Facebook #universitystudents #FWP

Scrolling down on your Facebook feed as a litany of curse words escape your lips like a ringing alarm bell.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck shit fuck.

Your brows furrow. Your eyes narrow. You ask yourself.

ARE YOU SERIOUS? HE'S FREAKING NINETEEN AND ALREADY INTERNING AT (insert name of huge law firm) IN HONG KONG? WHAT THE FFFFFFFFFFFF -

You scroll down even more.

This girl's just won some international consultancy competition.
That guy's just written his first piece for Foreign Policy.
This person just got accepted to Cambridge for a MBA.
That person just got hired as a part-time sub-editor for Bloomberg News.

You slam your five month old Windows Surface tablet down and heave, simultaneously stressed as fuck, kind of depressed and yet miraculously motivated. You walk to the sink and pour yourself a glass of water, which you down as you return to the sedentary position, your butt adjusting to the moulded contours of the seat.

Fuaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaark You can't help swearing. You think about the baby-faced nineteen year old, with his smarmy smile and expensive suit, one hand conspicuously holding a  champagne glass - a glittering harbinger of this dude's totally premature corporate success - something that you feel has hitherto eluded you. WHY DOES HE HAVE TO BE YOUNGER THAN ME. GODDAMIT. You slam your glass down with slightly excessive force and heave for the millionth time.

Oh my god, I need to step up my game.
I need to get clerkships.
If I don't get clerkships... I'll... I'll apply for one of the Big 4 companies.
Oh my god I DON'T EVEN STUDY COMMERCE.


You open your tablet up, and without better forethought, search up the name of a younger colleague. She comes up as the first result. What the... You click. You click her profile picture. When did she get so freaking hot? THAT. is .such a nice dress are you kidding me jesus effing christ I need that dress arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhahdfwyuiasesfghaoi;wefhawioefh.

Next photo. She's at some sort of hipster club, a generic Mimco clutch in hand, laughing and dancing with friends as luscious locks of blonde hair flail against an ethereal backdrop of drunk teens.
68 likes.
Borderline brain-damaging comments ensue:
Oh my gosh looking that good shouldn't be legal!!! #gorgeous #slaya xoxo
Dayum girl. You can be my bae anyday.
Goddess! *emoticon* *emoticon* *emoticon*
Dat ass

Scroll down. Next photo. She's at some sort of Tanzanian safari park, hugging a tiger cub, her broad smile telling you how much more '#awesome' and '#amazing' (and #parentallysubsidised) her life is compared to yours. You stare into her three hundred dollar Ray Ban shades with uber intensity, but not thinking anything in particular. Just staring.
170 likes.

The next photo is even worse. You thought she was there on vacation. No. She's in Tanzania building schools for needy Tanzanian children, and there she is embraced and surrounded by hundreds of thankful, smiling kids. Oh so compelling, you scoff, third world volunteering opportunities bought by first-world privilege.
240 likes.

You decide you've had enough and log off Facebook, feeling weight on your shoulders.

At that same moment, someone else logs on. A fellow student - a mere acquaintance, perhaps a friend of a friend. He curiously searches up your name and shifts in his seat as he scrolls down your wall, seeing the latest photos of you at a recent government sponsored business forum, you shaking hands with the Minister of Multicultural Affairs, and an ever so smug smile on your face.

Book: The Reluctant Fundamentalist

Oh my gad. Dem feelz.

Why did I read this?

To help my COD and LOL/DOTA addicted brother get through the throes of VCE English.

Did I like the book? 

Yes. I loved it.

As I closed the woebegone cover of a library copy, I took a deep breath and leaned back in my chair, letting the crepuscular shards of sunlight hit my closed eyes through the window's laced curtains. I stared up at the ceiling and heaved, a single tear rolling down my cheek. I could almost hear Norah Jones' come away with me play in the background - the perfect soundtrack to a cliffhanger ending that was both sudden and utterly compelling.

What. A. Story.

Why did I crai?

I know for sure that if I had studied this book to death for VCE, I wouldn't have liked it as much, or even liked it at all. Firstly, I would have been way too caught up with the technicalities i.e. analysing the context, prose, themes, motifs, quotes. That would have stultified any sort of initial enthusiasm I had for the story. Secondly, I would have been too young and inexperienced to gage the significance of the protagonist, Changez's agonising self-discovery. 

But now, at 19.83 years of age, having lost the cock-sure attitude of first year uni and now grappling with issues concerning the uncertainty of my own future, I could actually empathise with Changez's problems. See, one of the main narratives in this story is about the 22 year old Princeton graduate's career at the exclusive valuation firm, Underwood Samson. After battling his way through a ridiculously competitive interview process, Changez wins a position at the firm and becomes its top new performer. Life seemed perfect. He got good money. He was dating a beautiful girl he had been smitten with for a very long time. He had won people's respect.  

But what does this all amount to in the bigger picture? 

Nothing, as Changez would discover.

His home country, Pakistan, is being invaded by American troops. His family lives in fear and danger. Pakistani cab drivers in New York are being racially abused after 9/11.

The love of his life spirals into depression.  

His company, Underwood Samson, gets rich by advising other companies where to lay off workers.

On the surface, his life seemed perfect. But behind the facade, things were pretty fucked up, and he was not in a position to change the status quo. To be honest, that's reality for most people. 

I related so much to Changez's story because like him, I once had a very clear image of my life's trajectory - I was so sure of where I was going to go. I was ambitious, passionate and idealistic. In fact, I wanted to change the world.

Suddenly, some shit things happened and I grew up a bit. Whether it be family or friends, academics or career prospects, some of my friends and I were becoming disillusioned, upset and a bit lost. We all felt the need to 'ace life', or at least show everyone else that we were. We were confronted with harsh realities and we had to make hard decisions. 

For Changez, 9/11 and its aftermath definitively changed the way he looked at America, but it was not until the girl he loved, Erica, committed suicide that he finally woke up to discover a robotic white-collar life at Underwood Samson did not amount to anything resembling true happiness or 'The American Dream'. He quit and went back to Lahore where his family lived. 

Of course, the book touches on a lot of other themes including American neo-Imperialism and cultural identity. These are pivotal catalysts for the story but for me, it was primarily Changez's harrowing love story with Erica and his disillusionment with his career that really hit me hard in the feelz. I guess my interpretation of where in the story lies its significance also says a lot about who I am and what I've been through.

I would recommend this book to everyone, especially people who are at least of university age. Not to be condescending, but I doubt most high schoolers, especially the happy-go-lucky ones would be able to truly empathise with Changez and understand the weight of his decisions.  

But... whatever. Good luck to my bro.

Amnesia

[Foreword:  this is a short story that I wrote at the end of 2012 or the beginning of 2013 (I've got a crap memory).  I recently submitted this to the annual Monash Creative Writers' competition and lo and behold - attained third place and a couple of free books.  FREE BOOKS.]

Lisa

It was like seeing you for the first time in my life – and in a way, this was true.  You were no longer you.  You were different, a complete stranger once again.  In fact, you weren't even human anymore.

"Hello," you greeted me, your voice giving off a monotonous robotic lull.  My heart bounced a little faster and my throat became painfully dry.  You couldn’t remember anything, could you?  You couldn’t remember what we were. 

Standing pathetically wide-eyed and speechless, I felt a sudden pang of vertigo.  Around me, the blue-grey hues of our ship’s walls blurred into a whirlpool of grief.  The real you only exists to me as a scattering of images in a distant mythological past that was no longer relevant.  The man standing in front of me now is a mere shadow.  A fake.  A flawed imitation.

It didn’t matter that you still had that jet black hair, those viridian green eyes and the same distinctive brush of freckles across your cheeks.  My insides lurched with pain as you flashed me his smile – because your gaze, however personable it meant to be, emitted a peculiar vacuous quality only seen among the machines.  There was no trace of your former humanity. 

"Hello," I finally managed to muster, coming off rather brusque.  Not that you would care about it.   

"I am John."  

So they changed your name too.  

"I'm… Lisa."  

"Nice to meet you Lisa."  

Your eyes perused our tiny vestibule, finally pausing at the MAC-10 on my desk, the weapon partially obscured by a black duffel bag carrying all sorts of contraband.  You glided over, picking up my pistol for a curious examination while I stood there looking at you in much the same way.  Maybe worse.  Like staring at an animal in a zoo, pitying a thing for living a life of controlled artificiality.   

"So are you a soldier too?" you asked coolly, green eyes darting back to me.  "Fighting the war against the Rebels? The R-nines?"

"Yes.  Ever since I can remember,” I say.  My eyes came to rest on your incomplete left arm.  A colourful array of wires, red, green and blue, ran across your fingers, convoluting at the wrist and spearheading into a mass of gold electrical chips at the elbow.  I felt sick again. 

I had to ask you.  "How much of you… How much of your body is… android?"  

"Eighty five percent."  

Your reply is immediate.  Clinical.  Unmistakeably robotic.  Registering the shock on my face, you let out an unnerving grin.  "It was a major breakthrough for Doctor Kio's team.  They had never attempted anything of such scale before and yet here I stand as proof of their achievements.  Faster.  Smarter.  Better equipped than any other android.  I am the first step of the solution.  With others like me, Lisa, we can win the war."  

Skin prickling. 

Spine tingling. 

Sense of disgust. 

Horror.  Anger.  Outrage. 

But you are not android.  

You are not.  

YOU ARE NOT.

A glacial layer of sweat had formed on my forehead and I turned my face away, trembling like I had during the maze incident back on planet Orkos four years ago - he and I trapped underground surrounded by at least a hundred wandering guerrilla R9s.  Now I couldn’t meet your eyes.  His eyes.  Without being reminded of when I believed it was the end.  Bits of coagulated blood around his ears.  Vermillion speckles of dirt all over his cheeks, with the left side smarting from a fresh laceration.  He had reassured me.  Held my face with calloused hands.  Looked me in my eyes. 

I’d never leave you. Never.

Everyone lied to me.  I realise it now.  I realise that the brilliant Doctor Kio - the man people dub the saviour of mankind, the people’s hero - had played me and everyone else on earth for a complete fool. 

This had never been a rescue mission but an experiment transcending all ethical boundaries – an experiment which, despite the possibility of presenting us with victory in a century long war, could set humanity back eons more than the war ever will.  Tampering with bodies and messing with memories until humans are no longer humans but machines built to kill.  

We would be the price of our own victory. 

"John...” I say, but end up whispering.  He swivels around mechanically to face me.   “I need to see Doctor Kio.  Right now.”

 "Alright," he answers, eyes flicking immediately back to my gun, appearing fascinated by the way the polish shone under the lighting as he tilted it at different angles.  I linger for a moment.  Taking in the face of someone I once loved and trying to discern which 15 percent of him that was left.   

It wasn't there. 

I walked out of the room, not looking back.  And not intending to. 

John

Her behaviour was abnormal.  Not like the others.  

Emotional.  Rash.  Unbalanced.   The program taught me how to see their moods. 

Her tone was cold.  Her eyes were watery.  Her mood, visibly shaken.  She had wanted to cry.  

Why?

This gun is heavy.  Seems too heavy for a small person like her.

It gleams under this phosphorescent blue lamp. 

This gun has interesting features.  It has been altered in many places.  Fitted with new functions.  A silencer.  More stable points.  But not the best there is.

Her bag seems heavy.  It holds weapons.  I scan it and there are fifteen small to medium sized automatics.  Eight generation six grenades.  One old Heckler and Koch MP5A2 with a chipped handguard.

I scan across a photograph in the side pocket.  I slide it out, careful not to rip it as its edges are worn.   It is of her and a man.

That man is me from another time.  I am sitting next to a young looking Lisa at a bar.  Frothy drinks in front of us.  We are smiling at the camera.  She looks nervous, but happy.  We both look happy.  As the program has taught me to recognise happy. 

I turn the photograph over.

Lisa,

In a desperate world full of hate,

You gave me love and hope from the

very first day we met. 

David

I do not remember being David.  I do not remember Lisa from a time before.  

I return the photograph to the pocket, sliding it in carefully to avoid scratching its already abrasive surface.   I pick up another automatic.

Now this gun seems quite effective.  Good stabiliser and ...