In the little café I visit for breakfast, my favorite spot is in the far corner wedged against the wall. There's a little concrete crevice where I place my things so they're out of the way, out of sight and out of mind. This leaves me with a lot of options for when I don't feel like minding my own business, which is often. Nobody can look at what I'm doing, but I can see everything people with their backs to me are up to. I can infer plenty about the people facing me, too. You can tell a lot about a person just from the combination of laptop, literature, and comportment.
Take the man sitting in front of me. He's got a book about cities and towns, urban planning. Maybe he wants to be an architect, maybe he's a fanatic follower of urbanism influencers. On-screen, there's some floor layouts and attached descriptors. Maybe he's planning some kind of heist and needs to study local urban planning to figure out the optimal getaway plan.
There's a woman sitting next to him wearing the finest headphones that $500 can buy. Her screen isn't facing me, but I can see that she’s kept the back of the laptop completely stock. Not a sticker or other personal identifier in sight. A pity. It's a shame when people think they're too good for the little things that make us all human. I drink deeply from my cup, enjoying the unearned aura of marginal superiority I feel when I behold my own laptop. The entire back panel is completely covered with stickers reflecting my various affiliations and interests.
A person in a puffy vest is sitting across the café from me. They're sipping from a to-go cup even though they sat down inside. Wearing one of those clip-on bluetooth earpieces, but not using it at the moment. A champion of capitalism who is ready at any moment to pounce on the first Business Situation they see. A real road warrior who can't even let themselves be nailed down by a ceramic cup for a single moment. They must be ready to jump into action at the first call, lest they be beaten to the punch by the other runners in the high-finance rat race. Or maybe they're just a jogger, who knows. They cannot spend too much time inside before the call of the wild beckons them back on their feet and away with the wind.
I try to really take in the taste of my matcha. What do all these people think of me, sitting over here in my hovel corner? I haven't showered in two days, my hair's a mess barely contained within my beanie. If they look closely, they'll see my dirty nails and grimy skin. If they were brave enough to get close enough to smell my breath they might see my chapped lips, or the bags under my eyes. But I know none of them are looking. It takes a rare and nosy person to actually look around at the other people surrounding them in public. Everyone is much too wrapped up in themselves, what they're doing, and how they appear to others to actually notice when someone is dressed or behaving out of the ordinary.
That's one of the biggest things that allows the world to keep on turning, I think. The fact that people are very unlikely to notice oddities unless it's shoved right in their face. Our brains are good at tuning out anything we're not expecting. It's one of the first painful lessons of being gender non-conforming, that nobody is looking at you or trying to be the gender police. On the off-chance that anyone does decide to make a problem out of it, they're the ones who will be seen as the problematic one, not you. At least, that's the comforting lie I tell myself to explain why nobody looks at me when I'm on a grubby gender bender in public.
…
Oh no, what time is it? Am I late to work?
Quickly gathering myself, I plunk what’s hopefully enough money onto the table before hoisting my rucksack up to my shoulder. Speedwalking out to my car, I mentally prepare myself for another day, another dollar earned becoming cryptozoology's biggest loser.
I've been renting my time on this job for the past six months and have come to the decision that it is just not going to work out in the long term. I signed up because they sold me on hunting down creatures that exist outside the hierarchical classifications of science. It wasn't supposed to be about giving tours to rich mythology enthusiasts, and it definitely wasn’t about unclogging toilets or keeping all-night vigils for chupacabra droppings. Yet here I am, doing that day in and day out.
The pay is terrible, the benefits actually made your life worse, and it was nigh-impossible to get the stench out of my uniform. It was a great indignity, given they aren’t really interesting in captivity. They just sit around depressed and bored all day, because there's nothing to do here. Anyone toiling away in David Ingram Special Preserve was at a particularly deep valley inside the lowest point of their lives; and yet it was never lacking for applicants. It was a crappy job, but it was a steady job- a rare thing to come by in this economy.
There were enough bougie business boys willing to pay a group like DISP to see the things which should not be seen in a controlled environment, where they could have all the same thrills the normies get at Disney Land. Drunk tourists with wads of money spilling out of their pockets, asking for directions to see 'a real Bigfoot’ - that was the first thing they all asked. Luckily for them, they'll all be getting too drunk to remember how disappointing it was in person the next day. The poor field warders are trying to spice things up with special events like the senior specimen birthday parties, but there hadn’t been any new-blood Sasquatch introductions since 1994. They had acquired a stuffed Yeti, but it made for a poor substitute given that Yetis stink to high heaven and look like little more than overgrown gorilla suits.
The most popular attraction was, by far, the Pool of Possibilities. It was a reflection of happenings in other worlds, possibilities and realities that never realized themselves on this timeline. Usually the scenes had absolutely no pertinence to the viewer, even when they did, it would only be to notice or remark on some locality that was familiar to them. Events on display were a random sampling of infinite possibilities across time and space. Banality is the glue holding up the wallpaper of the universe, and peering in this pool was like watching it dry.
There were also some stuffed specimens; a personal favorite was Barnum & Bailey's infamous mermaid. A monkey sown onto a fish is a lot more creative than what really goes bump in the night. This is what I was looking at when the latest drunk tourist grasped me firmly by the shoulder.
“Excuse me miss- I mean sir- I mean, uh, whatever, hey, you know where the… the… whatchamacallit, the little kid version that turns into the hairy guy, you know, with the great big toes?” This guy's clammy touch felt like condensation on a can, he sounds like a beer too. "That's what I'm here to see. The baby version of the famous footman."
Brushing his hand off my shoulder, I found myself looking into the eyes of yet another snobby coastal frat boy with too much of his parent’s money and time on his hands. Sporting half-gelled hair, crocs, and a Hawaiian shirt so garish it would make Mike Love blush, he was the very model of a modern male majoring in jerk with a minor in wad. Sighing, I deploy my well-trained script.
“While we don’t keep any juvenile specimens in captivity, due to issues with the species growing up in confinement, we do have a close cousin which you can learn about down this hall.” I point towards the relevant enclosure. "I can also offer you a brochure, if that's your thing."
Staggering, the young man pulls a hitherto unseen plastic cup from behind him, seemingly for the sole purpose of spilling a foul-smelling brown beverage onto my uniform. “You're lying, I saw it on Facebloc, you got them babies hidden up behind these things and it's secretly a big secret so you people can harvest their hairy organs. So you gotta show me. I'll put you in a citizen's arrest if you don't.”
I force a smile and fold my hands in front of me, trying to keep them from taking on a mind of their own. “No, I’m good. Like I said, we don’t have any in captivity. Whatever you read online is erroneous. Now, I can direct you to the skunk ape exhi-”
Before finishing the sentence, I feel a hard shove in my chest. Stumbling backwards, I catch myself on a food cart as the man squares up a few inches from my face. “You stupid gender freaks, always the same lie! I go to parties, people like you are always trying to trick me by being all pretty and beautiful on the outside, but I know! You’re a man and you always will be. You disgusting freak. I’ll be waiting for you in the parking lot later, liar liar.”
The man may have intended to go on, as so many others had before, but that was when I hit him hard enough that he temporarily connected to heaven’s Wi-Fi. I told the citizen’s militia that he touched me inappropriately, so I knocked his dick into the dirt. This got a good laugh from the cops, but unfortunately my employers were not so amused. Former employers now, an unexpected end of what had been a good run.
***
Trying to keep an eye on the road, I run through the finance spreadsheet I keep in my head. God, what a mess this thing is. I may as well be using an e-accountant for all the good tracking my own financials does. There’s one more paycheck coming from this job, probably no severance pay, minus the cost of laundering the uniform. If I go to the soup kitchen on Wednesday, I’ll have just barely enough to pay some of my debts. After that, who knows what might happen.
It’s not like stringing along a gaggle of would-be paramours is a sustainable solution to my housing crisis. I still owe a few of them back rent. Sometimes I feel like I’m a sex worker who gets paid in housing. I'm not committing to any of those losers, so pushing any one of them too far might lead to trouble. The last thing anyone needs after losing their job is to come home to a fight. But I can cross that bridge when I get to it, or if I'm already there, I can try to cross a different bridge. Or something.
Traffic in NeoEugene is terrible this time of year, every hour takes a turn to be rush hour and the incessant honking is deafening. The stupid traffic authority abruptly shut down the Charles Piggott Memorial Bridge for emergency repairs, so everyone has to brave the inadequate side streets. Two-lane roads jammed with vehicles of every shape, size, and color. Electric wheelers, boarders, bladers, and hoverpunks bounded from car tops to truck beds as they flowed over top of the gridlock like the world's most metallic car wash. In my weakest moments, trapped by heavy traffic, I envied their freedom.
Posters lined the brick walls on either side of the gridlock. All politicians worth their salt know how to take advantage of a captive audience. A lot of the posters were laid over-top one another, but I can see the glossy portrait of Mayor Chester G. Randall Jr. peering out more often than any others. A clean shaven, smiling white face with the slogan “A Timecrowave in Every Kitchen” right underneath it, a thousand pairs of eyes cheerfully glaring towards me from all angles.
Pulling off to my exit, I feel pity for the political walking dead. Why anyone bothered trying to compete with Mayor Chet and his political machine is beyond me. Between the lower classes loving him for bread and circuses, and the upper classes loving him for keeping the lower classes busy, there wasn’t really a lot of room for everyone else in the middle to do anything about politics. But that is a problem in the abstract. As I pull into the apartment complex driveway, I blanch at the sight of all of my possessions lying in a heap.
Slamming my car door shut, I run towards the junky pile. Clothing looks fine, but anything that would break after falling off a balcony is broker than me. Oh, god, she must have found out about something I did. Which thing was it? Can I come back from this? An angry voice calling out to me, interrupting my worries. “I hope you’re not feeling sorry for yourself! It's just not working, Rebecca! I'm really through with you this time!”
Looking up, I see the world's angriest lesbian standing on the balcony of the apartment we’d been sharing. My face drops when I see that look on her face. That's the look of a furious mind, fully made up. This is something that's been simmering for a long time. How could I not have noticed she was this close to the edge?
She's still yelling at me. “You never pull your own weight, I’m done subsidizing you! I don’t need a deadbeat paying half her share of the bills every other month. But I put up with it, all I asked was for you to be honest and communicate with me. This morning one of your secret girlfriends came calling, so it sounds like you have somewhere else you can sleep. Hope it’s nice. I’m changing the locks and don’t need your key. You’ll be a bad memory by next week. Bye!”
Before I can respond, the window slams shut and it’s all over. Collapsing onto my broken pile of things, I cry hot, bitter tears. This day could not get any worse - wait. The one thing that she didn't throw out were all of my pills…and my HRT. How could this day get any worse?
It’s at that moment, as if it were waiting on my cue, that the sun goes out.
Absent the sun, capsule hotels are a valuable piece of real estate. Guests don’t miss out on anything when the view through any given porthole is pitch blackness, or, for a lucky few, the fleeting flash of the curfew copter searchlight. Halogen street lights, eat your heart out. The Pillbug Hotel in downtown, with clairvoyant foresight, went about installing ultraviolet lights in their ‘rooms’ after the last solar shutdown. A little bit of vitamin D in every room. The glow didn't make it easy to sleep, but there are other opportunities to drift into unconsciousness out in the endless night.
Now they’re raking in the big bucks. I’m lucky to scrape together the last of my pocket change in exchange for a week’s worth of sleep time. It was the cheapest option available, but it took all my remaining money, leaving me with a week to figure out how to avoid homelessness. That is, if I'm not already there.
At least I wasn’t the only one gazing forlornly into the abyss. Even wannabe-punky transfemme wordsmiths were struggling to make ends meet, at least if the texts I've been getting from my old flame are to be believed. Back when the stars were in proper alignment Lily and I went to the same college before taking highly divergent life paths. She went into freelance writing and did well enough to be squatting on California Island. Meanwhile, I moved into the neighborhood where giant pulsating eyeballs roamed the streets scaring off the debt collectors. There is an evil part of me which relishes seeing someone who had flown to such highs brought down to my level. But, that’s not really something I bring up to her face. Or I guess in this case over the phone, because she's calling me now.
Staring through my broken phone screen, I shift my weight in the capsule. It was just barely large enough to accommodate my body and the suitcase I had been using as a combination pillow/dresser/nightstand/emergency flotation device. I spoke in a light whisper; these capsules have strange acoustics and anything louder would bounce around the ‘room’ to make everything I said unintelligible. “So are the 2020’s just going to be the most busted decade on record, or do you think there’s anything that can come along to salvage it?”
Lily's face on my phone screen lit up, auto-adjusting its brightness and broadcasting her voice in the faintest monotone. “Who the hell knows, Beccs. There’s enough time to make things better. But there is an equal amount of time for more things to go badly. Given that we’ve had a global pandemic, all the rain ran red, and now the sun’s gone missing, we seem to be getting a new-age remix of the old ten plagues of Egypt.”
“I’m mostly afraid because nothing’s been bad enough to make things really fall apart. Like, I can still get another job. Most places are more or less still open. They didn’t even make the bus free if you’re going downtown on weekdays. But there’s more shoes that could drop, you know? What’s gonna be the straw that breaks the camel’s back, if knocking out the sun isn’t going to be the coup de grâce?”
Her voice starts getting tiny as the signal fades in and out. “Yeah. Equal time to get better or worse. Using the past as a predictor at this point feels naive.” That’s what I'm pretty sure I hear her say. The reception in this place is god-awful.
“Easy for you to say. You didn't just have all your good stuff thrown in the toilet or smoked without you.” I groan. "I spent good money on that stuff. I had uppers, downers, the works. Odds are I'm never going to have a stash that good again. If her place wasn't stable enough, nowhere I stay is."
There was a sigh from the other end of the line “I feel bad for you that you stink so badly at gambling, but it's really your own fault. Putting it all in one spot like that is a classic blunder. It’s like you were betting on Serena not winning at Wimbledon or the Shackletons losing the Under-World Series.”
Rolling over onto my belly, I lean my head into my phone to trap it between my ear and shoulder. “Hey. Many wise guys agree things that happen once can happen again. This has to be when the system finally unravels, right? How the hell are they going to keep people from noticing that the sun stopped rising?”
"Not really, that's a pretty easy one to cover up. Nobody's looking at the sun that closely in their daily life, you can fudge it for a little while. Hang on, I'm still making my dinner." I can hear the sound of her pots and pans and kitchenware clattering as she moves them. Imagine having a kitchen. Ooh, a kitchen with an island. While I'm dreaming, give me a food processor and some proper pans without that non-stick carcinogen garbage too.
I'm sure Lily has all that and more; she cooks good food all the time. I can hear the sound of chewing from the other end of the phone. The sound makes every muscle in my body tense, but I don’t say anything. Last time I did that, Lily got huffy and it became a huge fight about a bunch of unrelated things. I still haven't gotten commitment to a bed and a hot meal out of this conversation, and it is absolutely still on the table. Lily is in a good mood tonight and I know better than to spoil it.
Lily continued on. “You know…CRUNCH, CRUNCH… I thought I would get more out of knowing what’s real. Being behind the veil. But I’d be happier if I were still plodding along ignorantly. There’s some artificial satellite sun keeping all the normons in the metaphorical dark. If they don’t figure it out soon, and I’m sure the astronomers already know something’s amiss, everyone’s gonna have a lot more broken bones and dead plants in the future.” There was a faint sound of swallowing. “Bought them some time, at least.”
I roll my eyes. “Good for them. They can honestly do whatever they want. In a few months or years I’ll start worrying about my vitamin D, if any of us manage to survive this long-term, but for now I desperately need a job. You wouldn’t happen to have any leads on that, would you?”
“I don’t think anything I could show would be anything you’re qualified for. I mean, no offense, but you’re not even a script kiddie." Lily paused, probably to swallow. "If someone asked you about copy you’d probably think they were talking about paste. But…”
“All of the easy jobs like cashiering and talking to people got swallowed by AI.” I pause, grimacing in the dark. "How long do you think you have left before every writing job is being done by a soulless machine?
She's quick to snap back. “Shut up. Do you want my help or not? I’ve got one thing that might be up your alley. I know you’re not usually in the business of being an errand boy, but-”
“I’m not interested in being a boy, period.” I hate it when people who should know better misgender me. Lily, of all people, should know that there are zero contexts in which I'll let someone calling me a man slide. I'm tired of people who wrongly think otherwise. "You know, it's really not becoming of you to be misgendering another trans person like that, especially when I've stuck my neck out for you-"
Lily cuts me off. “Shut your mouth, zip it, shut up. Respectfully. I got offered a freelance gig about a week after the big switch in the sky got flipped. They want a courier to deliver the manuscript by hand. I don’t mind doing it myself for the extra cash but if you’re really desperate, it’s something.”
Squeezing my hand up to my face, I pinch my brow. “I hate myself for saying this, but you think you could text me specifics?”
“For a small fee…” I can hear the grin in her voice. "I think maybe you should be giving me a cut still, yeah? Nobody else is serving you up a golden opportunity like this, right?"
“Lily, I thought we weren’t messing around?” I close my eyes and take a deep breath. "I know you're joking but can we be serious for two seconds?"
“You started it. I think I’m gonna cocoon myself in blankets and put realityslop shows on in the background, maybe tell myself that I’m trying to sleep, but I’ll text it to you before I get wrapped up in that." She yawns. "Come back to my place once you're done, they'll give you some money for me. I know how much is there, so don't even think about pilfering any." There's a brief pause, for a moment I worry the call got dropped, but then Lily keeps talking. "One more thing I almost forgot, please remember to call me when you get here. Do not use the intercom again, the noise that thing makes scares the crap out of me.”
“If you want. Thanks.” The phone screen dimmed as the call ended. Resting it on my chest, I sighed as hard as the small space allowed me to. Courier work was meant for zippers on hoverboards hurling harpoons into hapless passing vehicles. I couldn’t even afford a helmet, let alone a board. Still, it was probably my best lead since I’d promoted myself to unemployment. What a bad day. What an awful mess all of this was. My heart was restless from all this extra stress. Or maybe it's because I didn't have any speed to take the edge off.
Suddenly my phone is buzzing, sliding off my chest. Fumbling in the dark for the stupid thing, I squint down and see Lily’s latest text:
Warehouse at Park and Uderzo. Go there tonight, ask for Checkers. Give this to them on a little card or something I'll c u later xoxo
There is a file attached, Dancing_In_The_Dark_Final_Final.txt. I wonder if she titled it like that before or after the sun went out. Maybe she came up with it the last time this happened. It had been a while, but she does have a reputation for tardiness. But I don't have to worry about her punctuality right now, maybe not until I ask her to pay me.
Checkers? I let the name roll through my head as I gather my things, squeeze myself out of the sleeping tube, and download the file to a microdata card. The name sounds too wholesome for a shady underground publishing magnate. Maybe that’s the idea. After all, who are the moralizing censors going to chase after first, someone with a nickname like Dr. Pornopolis or some dork calling himself Checkers? One can only imagine how deep the nickname presumption meta game could go. I choose not imagine it for my sanity's sake.
Stepping out of the hotel, cold night air flowing through my dress and hair, I begin my quest auspiciously, by fiddling with my phone and headphones to play some appropriate walking music. Settling on contemporary goth pop, I start my walk down the block. The big orange streetlights hum overhead, illuminating the large open plaza in front of the nearby Government House. Old-fashioned lights, always a step behind the rich parts of town. An entire district of infrastructural hand-me-downs.
Behind Government House was a graveyard, which seems fitting to me. The building had originally been a church, it still had some inward Neo-gothic fittings but the outside was now an appropriately brutal-looking concrete monolith towering over the crypts and tombs. The graveyard is a great shortcut, I feel smart as I stroll through the wrought-iron gates to the foggy interior. It’s actually the last place you’ll run into a deranged mugger or some court jerk trying to serve papers. Most of the graves were older, covered with moss and overgrown by vines. But there were still a few visible, as I look I can make out one of the short inscriptions: I Told You I Was Sick.
Sometimes I worry about picking up a persistent haunt, wandering through a place like this so cavalierly. Maybe I'm already cursed, maybe that's why my luck is always so terrible. I tried to imagine what sort of evil spirit would be haunting me from a place like this. A whole collection of angry departed souls scheming together to find ways to make my life miserable. No, it's not plausible. The decisions I make that screw me over are entirely my own, the only thing ghostly passengers in my brain would have to do is sit back and enjoy the show.
I kept on humming my tunes, carrying on without pause. The other side of the cemetery was busy Park Street, bustling with commuters and students and ne’er-do-wells. It was weird to see so many people on the street in the dark. I still wasn’t used to it. On the street corner, a disheveled man was screaming something about repentance and waving a pile of crumpled paper pamphlets. I've seen his stuff before, just some cheaply mimeographed tracts extolling the virtues of jamming a glorified breadboard into my brains and hooking it up to a big, benevolent networking service. Hogwash and nonsense, hard enough to take care of a flesh body without complicating it with all the extra work electronics add to the equation. Digital immortality is more trouble than it's worth.
The brick exteriors of nearby buildings were all coated in fading posters advertising local shows, social work, some missing pets and people too. I tried to not look too closely at them and kept walking. There were some days where it was nice to stop and sniff the flowers, but today was not one of them. Rounding a corner, I was nearly knocked out by an overwhelming aroma of ammonia. Looking away, I saw a poster advertising Delta-12 dietary supplements. An image of someone dressed like a soldier or some kind of secret agent with a green Delta on their chest giving the viewer a big thumbs-up.
Not every part of town had walls covered in paper trash. Every once in a while there would be some hip establishment that could afford to have them regularly pruned. A few of them could even splurge for some painted facades. Places with names like Hop Shelf Brewing or Polly Wanna Parrotball. I've got no time for that bougie nonsense. In some places, a few abandoned storefronts had been converted to open shelters. A few televisions affixed wherever there were outlets, bare mattresses laid on the dirty floor, a mini-fridge humming in the distant corner. I thank my lucky stars my car still ran. As long as that was true, even in the worst case, I won't have to sleep in a place like that.
There was, in fact, a warehouse at Park and Uderzo. Almost looked like an aircraft hanger, apart from the lack of runways. It was surrounded by a chain-link fence topped intermittently with barbed wire. The whole thing is covered with graffiti tags; large intricate murals and crude tags alike. The only break was a small windowless yellow booth, adjacent to a gate. Approaching it, all I can see is an intercom with a call button. The button feels satisfying to press.
At first, nothing happens, but then a metal slat opens up and a bloodshot eye looks out at me. After a beat, it closes shut and a metallic voice barks at me through a speaker. “State your name and your business, please.”
“Uh, here to see Checkers?” I'm not sure, but it sounds like I can hear music coming from behind that voice. But it's the classic conundrum, is that noise music or is it just the natural rhythm of electronic signal interference?
“Give me a minute.” A few moments pass, I shiver a little from standing still. The gate buzzes, slowly sliding open as if to tease me about what lays on the other side. I peek past it and towards the interior of the warehouse. A gruff voice barks at me from the dark. “We don’t got all day, miss.”
What a jerk. “Fine, fine, jeez. I’m going.” Passing through, I begin trekking towards the warehouse. The gate is rattling shut behind me, so there's not anywhere else I can go now. Lily had better not have sent me somewhere to die. She’d do the background for something like this, at least that's what I hope. Maybe it'll be full of cool people selling my favorite vices at reasonable prices. Lily wouldn't knowingly send me into the lion’s den.
Unless I did something to piss her off and forgot about it. Too late to worry about that now. A door opens, with light on the other side. Blinking, I step past the threshold and into a rolling party. Women dressed in bunny suits glide around on in-line skates, offering martini glasses to guests from trays they're balancing on one hand. Everyone is wearing some sort of roller skate or blade on. But they're also all about ten feet below me; this door opens to a parapet leading down to the skating rink area. Up here, there are thin catwalks going around the perimeter, and a little platform up front being used as a lounge. The DJ booth is situated on a similar platform on the opposite side of the warehouse. A man in a black turtleneck and jeans escorts me over to a standing pub table.
Across the table is a pale man, wearing nothing but a leather dog muzzle, a leather thong, and well-worn Hello Kitty loafers. Sitting next to him is a larger man wearing a full-body gimp suit. Both are wearing dog collars, with a double-locking leash linking them together. Hanging in the middle of the leash was a shimmering silver tag reading CHECKERS.
The man in the dog mask clears his throat to speak up. “So the first thing I’d like to make clear is that this isn’t a kink thing.” He sips some brown liquor from his glass, looking at me for my response.
I nod politely. Anyone who said something like that was absolutely doing some kind of kink thing, so it was best to just roll with the punches rather than try to make the person doing business with you angry. I can't deal with another messy breakup at this moment of my life. I sit in my chair and try not to be weird, but my fingers refuse to stop fidgeting.
The man in the gimp suit spoke up in a muffled but enthusiastic tone. “It’s not. Truly, it’s not. This is just me, who I am. Being myself doesn’t have to be a kink thing, now does it? If I have the clout to be in this position, I should be allowed to have- allowed to be myself and express myself.”
I cough, shift my weight a few times, and look away. "I guess so. The editor-in-chief answers to nobody." I didn't really know what else to say. I can’t articulate what specifically I think is wrong with it but seeing these guys brazenly in their kink outfits makes me feel uncomfortable. These guys are operating on a spectrum of perversion beyond my comprehension.
The man in the dog mask excitedly points at the revelers below us. “That's right! The dress code for this party is strictly kinky. But you didn’t come here as a guest. Let’s take care of our business. Did that writer tell you what the deal was?”
"Not really. Just that it was a courier job, shuttling something to you…” I pause, holding up the small microdata card. "Then getting something in return as a payment, which I presume will be some sort of currency tokens."
Coughing, the man in the mask wheezed in a voice only a lifetime commitment to Phillip-Morris products could produce. “That's cool. We really dig this writer so we hope this can be one of many times we have the privilege of paying for her work. It's not every day a writer with such a high pedigree sends you high-end nudes and higher-end material. That's basically a unicorn in our business. So you're taking it back then, man?"
“I’m here for the job, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m also a girl, for the record.” Crossing my legs, I stare at where I think his eyes might be looking through the mask. It didn’t have obvious eye-holes but that didn’t mean this was any less of a stare down. “Are we going to get down to business or do y’all not want to get back to whatever it is I interrupted?”
The pair glance at each other before looking back to me, the gimp speaks up. “Oh, you're in a hurry? What for? It'll happen when it happens. The writer says you’re experienced. Do you do courier work often?” He exhales sharply, pointing to his head. "If you've got too much baggage, you might not be up to the task."
It's hard to hear the tone of voice through the gimp's mask but I think he might be making fun of me. Exorcising that thought, I shrug. “I don’t really travel heavy. But I can take it wherever you need for it to go. If it's hard to lug around I'll deal with it.”
Both men speak in unison “Can you take it to your girlfriend?”
I can feel my face turning red. “She’s not my girlfriend.” I try to keep calm, but inside I'm feeling several conflicting emotions at the same time. "Really, she's just a girl I know who gave me a break by giving me the job."
Dog man gives me an exaggerated shrug. “Whatever, it's not that important. We have a business relationship with her and she’s said you’re her girlfriend but if you don’t want to be the girlfriend that’s none of my business.”
"She said I'm her girlfriend? I mean…" That was stupid, why did I say that? “We don't need to be talking about her. Are you going to give me some cash, or a money order, or something?” I put my rucksack on the table and open one of the pockets. "I can just take it with me now and be out of your hair, no problem. You're probably busy with this whole party and I don't want to take up too much of your time."
The dog man sighs, gazing wistfully at the gimp. "Oh, the poor little wren. Thinks this is going to be something that easy. Such a pity.” He turns my way, looking at me with mischief in his eyes. “It is not how things are done. You'll be okay taking it back in an… unorthodox way?”
The music and the sound of all the skates beneath us is so loud, I can hardly hear. Between that and the muffled voice it takes me a minute to actually work out what's being said to me.
“Fine." I put the microdata card on the table. "Here's the card. Now what are you going to do for the money?"
They ignore my question. The gimp grabs it before unzipping his suit enough to reach inside. Rummaging for a moment, he retrieves a sweaty-looking personal data organizing gadget. He sticks the card in, waits for a moment, then lets out a muffled but still audibly satisfied sigh. "Perfect. This is going to be great after the centerfold. Make people feel classy again after looking at something so dirty. Now, let's get started."
Before I can understand or get another word in, someone, no, multiple someones are behind me, jamming my dome into a VR headset. I writhe and struggle but they hold me down. At first, I don’t see anything, complete pitch darkness. Then suddenly there’s an unfathomable amount of ones and zeroes. They’re all around me and more numerous than the total number of humans, living or dead, to ever ilve on planet Earth. I'm held down in my chair as encrypted financial transfer information from some shady bank in a South Arctic Cryo-Crypto account is burnt into my cerebral cortex against my will. It hurts like the worst migraine multiple concussions can buy. It feels like someone is boring a laser directly into your brain, or like jamming a white-hot poker into your soul. Then, as suddenly as it began, it's over.
As I sit there, trying to compose myself, the one in the dog mask claps his hands. “Good, you're still conscious. Listen up, only Lily has the means to extract the payment. You got a day to bring it to her or it'll degrade too much, then get stuck in your brain. That'll not do either of you any favors.”
God, my legs are shaking like a baby deer. I back off from the table. “What the fuck was that for? You didn't even ask! What is wrong with you? What's wrong with both of you?"
They laugh uproariously at my outburst. The gimp, doubled over with glee, says something I can't hear. The man in the dog mask, gasping for air, waves me away. “Don't have time to tell you. Don't worry. You don’t need to run! I know your girlfriend's not that far from here. Good luck!”
I ran and ran and ran through the cold night. Past the chain link fences, past the graveyard and the train the cold brick buildings. The freezing air slapped the jitters right out of me. This sucks, but at least I know where I'm going and that someone is there who knows what to do with me: Lily, who now owes me big-time.
Lily's bedroom is a hell of a lot nicer than the inside of my car or a capsule hotel, even if she sent me straight to the shower upon arrival. But showers aren't so bad when you have hot, pressurized water. The place is a palace. There were heating UV lamps positioned in the corners of the room, a walk-in closet, room enough for a light fixture on the nightstand, a water cooler, a headboard, and a really comfortable mattress. I'm blissfully laid out on my side of her bed now, cozy and dry in a very comfortable pink towel. Lily is checking the funds she'd just withdrawn from the first bank of my grey matter.
“Those clowns just had to be dramatic, huh?” Lily shook her head and pulled herself back under the blankets. "At least he paid me in full this time."
I held Lily’s naked body close. I heard the VR headset clunk off the top of the bed and thud onto the wiring sprawling across the floor below it, destined to be ignored until the next day. There were contracts, papers, all scrawled in hand-written blue e-ink. Thank god it hadn't been nearly as painful to take it out as it had been to put it in. It took a little longer, but I was able to sit on the bed and drink a cup of tea while she worked it out of me. Once it was gone I felt so much better, I can see what neurocouriers are getting out of it. Not going to be a regular gig for me, though. I'm not that desperate yet.
The way I used it felt sort of like getting high in reverse. I'd gone from feeling rotten to feeling light, and now I feel better than I have in days. The touch of Lily’s leg hair as it brushes against mine is exquisitely pleasant. The feeling of her breath blowing in my hair is hot and human, blowing down layers of alienation effortlessly. I nuzzle closer to it and try to let my mind go blank. After all the hardship, after all the stress, losing a job, unwanted mental intrusion, it was nice to feel at home. But I just had to open my big mouth. "So, why the hell are you writing for a crazy guy like that?"
Glancing away uncomfortably, Lily shifted her weight away from me. "It's nothing. It's just something for baby thinkers. People who are just starting to live behind the veil. It's stupid."
"Can I read it?" I reach my hands out and start making grabbing motions. "I'm an expert in reading stuff for perverts. Maybe I'll even learn about this veil thing you're always talking about."
"I'd rather you not, it's kind of embarrassing to hear you talking about yourself like that." Lily turns her head away. "I swear, it's like every time you're in my presence you forget how to have things like dignity and composure."
"C'mon." I began pinching Lily in all of the her least favorite places. "Let me be myself and stop complaining so much. Show me what you've written, I want to see it!"
"Fine! fine." Rolling off the mattress, Lily began digging haphazardly in a pile of papers precariously perched besides the desk, before producing a dog-eared collection of papers which she thrust towards me without looking. "But I'm warning you, it's a bunch of bullshit. Has to be, so that it can reach the target audience. Morons who don't know how to expand their thinking."
"Harsh." I smirked momentarily before turning my eyes to onto the papers.
DANCING IN THE DARK: A POSTVEIL MANIFESTO
by Lily Doroatpip
1 Containing the princess
The list of things the Powers have done right is dwarfed by the list of things they foolishly tried to stamp out. Who are the Powers? They are the arbiters of reality, the ones who draw the chalk line determining where the concrete acceptable world is and amorphous alien anomalies are. A Power is any organization that can lock away the parts of reality they don't like. They overcome their collective feelings of inadequacy by pretending everything and everyone they insecurely detain doesn't actually exist. This means their most detested group of people are the ones dancing on that line, who make the Powers feel an embarrassment they cannot explain to themselves. There is a giggling princess waiting in high tower, guarded by a humorless dragon, hoping we can save her.
2 Faking history
[1]People are being fed a sanitized version of history and reality in order to control them. This is an obvious abrogation of human dignity, and it also leads to a terrible situation of people hating on one another unnecessarily because they do not have all of the information necessary to make sense of their reality. These distortions cause their thinking patterns to become illogical and, therefore, much more hateful and malicious and angry.
[2]When lying becomes the norm, it is difficult to understand how things in the world came to be the way they are. Even the most basic things about life, like where all of the insects have gone and why the oceans are slowly turning black, are either complete mystery or completely unknown to the average person. They lie to themselves, and others to them.
[3]There is now little to be gained for anyone by telling the truth. Everything is a pack of lies and everyone knows everyone is doing it, so the trust crucial to binding a community is now coming unwound. This is just one of the many ways the Powers become family annihilators, sowing the seeds of dishonesty throughout the minds of every honest person toiling under their invisible yoke.
[4]When people are denied crucial knowledge about the world and how it works, they are also being denied basic human decency. The heroes they look up to in history classes and in the history of culture are fake or cartoon exaggerations, fabrications so that those attempting to follow in their footsteps always fall short. This has the added effect of making the Powers feel better about their own continued failures.
[5]Knowledge doesn't work as well as pain. If you can inflict pain effectively, it'll take you all the way to the top faster than talking can. Pain isn't the most sophisticated way to communicate but nothing else will be as hard to ignore or get your point across as quickly. If they keep taking our language away it is in fact the only means of inter-class communication left.
3 Who's running this place anyways?
Everything is senseless. Everything is the opposite of how it should be. It's like if Jonah swallowed the whale, so don't stop swimming or you might be swallowed up too. The Powers are the masters of nothing, a world-ending do-nothing menace to life as we know it. But even lost in the dark, there is something you can do with your brain turned off: surrender to watching the execution of your own joyful potential. If it's all too much burden to bear, the Powers are always hiring.
If you can't beat them, join them, right? There is always a job waiting for people like us if we give up and go back behind the stage. The only thing more difficult to find than skilled talent is the humble worker. If, in the course of your new duties, you tragically lose your life, a gold star will be awarded as a posthumous decoration for your service. You earned it.
4 A postveil manifesto
[6]Humanity is still in the cave, hiding and afraid. The Powers say they will protect us, but they stand up only for themselves. While humanity toils in the dark, they stomp on our shoulders to keep us from the light. We reject this so-called veiled order, and demand a future where all can live in a strange and beautiful world. As if a universe that demands the absurd and impossible could be tamed with ignorance.
[7]That's not the end of where we fight. I may not be certain what I am ready for but I know that if I do not stand up I cannot expect anyone else to do it for me. There simply must exist a next-man-up mentality. Otherwise we are done for. Our mere existence is the greatest act of rebellion, it is time to stop hiding and stand up.
[8]The message to the Powers is simple: we see you, we know what you are doing, and soon so will everyone else. There are people propping up the oppressive weight of the veil, paid by those who wish to destroy us, so we will show them that we see their actions as tantamount to an attempt at crushing us yourselves. Violence as an act of self-defense is not wrong. The Powers will send their agents of pain, but they're not going to catch us off-guard anymore. This is a light shining into your face from those you thought of as beneath you.
[9]Metahumanity is being abandoned to the jackals. They're circling us now, and it's only a matter of time. Nobody else is protecting us. So we are standing up for ourselves. The Powers and their institutions think they already have it all figured out when it comes to wiping out postveil thinking. We are disrupting the narrative of our inevitable doom. We cannot go gently into the night. We have always existed, we will always be here, we will always fight back when we are under threat. There is no amount of prayer, financial backing, or violence that can erase us. We are not stupid. Everyone can see what is happening, so do not think we will sit idly by and let you hide behind a veil of toxic norms.
[10]We are meeting our oppressors where they are. They think they can kill us off from behind closed doors, but they are mistaken. The Powers are responsible for spreading hate across not just nations, but the entire world community. The Powers supporting this crusade of ignorance won't stop until there's nothing left outside their custody. We will persist, with our bodies and our words, to put a punctuation mark on our right to live as we choose and not as they choose. Even if our power is cut off, we'll still be dancing in the dark.
***
Looking at the paper, I frown. "Soaring rhetoric, but what are you actually talking about? It's so… specifically vague." I turn it upside down and shuffle through the pages, looking for anything I missed. "I mean, I don't hate it, but it's kind of a nothing when you fully take it in. It's taking a stand that doesn't really need to be taken. Those "Powers" are losers, even degens like me hardly have to think about them. Except when they do stuff like turning off the sun, but even then, it's not like it's the worst thing going for me right now and it's something no amount of rabble-rousing is gonna fix. Am I missing something?"
"It's really just about the money." There's some pain in Lily's voice. "You're not missing anything. They told me what sort of thing they were expecting to see written, and I wrote that. That's all there is to it."
I look up to see the face of a woman who knows everything I've just read is baloney. "So journalistic integrity is truly dead, then? You're willing to write all this about something you know isn't true?" Tossing the papers on the bedside table, I roll towards Lily, pulling her back down into the bed.
Turning her chin up, Lily looks away but allowed herself to be pulled down into the blanket pile. "It's not a principled editorial, it's for the money. And I told you it was rubbish."
Turning the pages upside-down, I hold my fingers to my chin as I pretend to read it some more. "You know, for something positing itself as a principled call to action, you're pretty light on the details of what you actually want people to do after reading this."
"I'm not trying to start a movement, Beccs, I'm just trying to get paid.”
"Who's paying you? What's this magazine called? Am I going to be able to get it at the grocery store newsstand or do I have to go someplace special to get my hands on it?"
"It's those two you met, pet project that goes heavy on the petting, Owners Club Weekly. It's not something you can buy in a store. You have to order it through a subscription. I'm sure some bookstores that cater to… certain audiences would have them."
"Balancing out the racy photos with some intellectual jargon?" I giggle. "It's funny to me, I guess, because I always imagined you as writing for more high-brow kinds of publications. You don't feel like you're slumming it taking money from an outlet like this?"
"You would be surprised the kind of circulation this magazine gets." Lily spreads her arms as wide as her wingspan will go. "Lots of people read it. There's not just perverts reading these things anymore."
I put my hands together. "So who is the alleged audience for this piece, persons recently released from the brain trauma ward? Graduates from the academy for the criminally insane? Or just garden-variety morons?"
Sniffing indignantly, Lily wheels herself out of bed, walking over towards the bathroom to mess around aimlessly with her pink poof hairdo. "It's none of your business, but this is for a zine directed at people who, until recently, didn't know any better. So I guess if it had to be any of the things you said, it'd be the last one."
"Targeting specific morons from a specific garden? I didn't realize micro-publishing had gotten quite so niche. How long do you think you can string these people along for? The longer they're not living inside the fantasy land where their former employers rule the world, the more likely it is for them to realize nobody takes those losers seriously?"
"Look, this is something I personally struggle with and I don't need you making light of it, Rebecca Vanko. I know that it's wrong to but I still see things that way, at least some part of me probably always will. I wish I could stop taking those losers seriously but a lifetime of deference is a hard habit to break."
I hadn't heard her use my full name in living memory. I really must have struck a nerve.
"… It's mostly a scumzine, also. I tried selling them some pictures… they liked how I described myself, and asked me to write something that they could use as a defense against people calling them smutty. Something a little more heady."
I roll towards her, grinning. "Oh, so this is heady now? Writing something that sounds nice, but isn't really saying much of anything? How does that make you any different from the big shots who work in the editorial pages of real newspapers? I thought the whole point of the underground angle was that you got to read something written by an author who actually believes what they're writing."
"It's all a sham. It's… everything is like this, Beccs. I'm sorry for lashing out at you." Sitting down at the edge of the bed, Lily sighed heavily.
Part of me wants to go comfort her, but the other part that likes looking at her back keeps me sitting pretty. Salvador Dali was really on to something when he painted his wife nude and contemplating her own back. The human back, the basis upon which the entire rest of the body is built, is truly one of the most beautiful sights in the universe. My eyes follow the contours of Lily's back. In doing so, I also gaze into the infinite.
Lily shrugs, snapping me back to the present moment. "I guess I'm just feeling a little self-conscious, you know? You're the first person to read that who told me it was bullshit, but I know you're right because I've felt a little bit that way since I wrote it."
I grab a glass of water from the nightstand and take a swig. "Oh, also, did you actually mean what you said about anyone being able to get a job with the spooks? I know you write about it like you're selling your soul, but you're already selling your dignity by writing this and I don't want to be unemployed anymore."
"Trust me, it's not worth it. They wouldn't hire someone like you anyways." Lily's hand flew up to her mouth and her eyes went wide. The room was awfully quiet now. A cold breeze rolled through, I could see the hairs on the back of her arms stand up at the same time as mine. I looked her back in the eye very carefully, and finally I spoke up.
"The next thing out of your mouth better be a very careful explanation."
Sighing, Lily put her head in her hands. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be acting like they have some high standard. They're ghouls who do ghoulish things. I'm glad they wouldn't want someone like you, it's because you have guts, more than anyone else I know. Enough of a backbone to quit a job when it sucks. Me, I wouldn't have ever stood up for myself no matter how badly I got treated. I'd just be grateful for the wage."
I try to speak, but the words aren't coming. Finally, I manage to spit something out. "You really think that much of me?"
"Shut up, now you're just fishing for compliments." Lily leaned down and picked up her nightgown off the bedroom floor, sliding it on over her shoulders. "But yes, you're the only person I know who would get fired before they take mistreatment at a job. Most people learn to just shut up and put up with it."
"Fat lot of good that's doing me now, I'm basically homeless." I instantly regret my choice of tone. "I'm sorry. I know you're being nice to me. I've just been having a really hard time lately and there's a lot of negativity inside me."
Lily harrumphed, taking her head out of her hands to fold her arms across her chest. "Whatever. I was just trying to say something nice. But I really am sorry for being sanctimonious."
I lean forward and begin gently rubbing her shoulders. "It's not your fault, you lived for decades with their blinders on, drinking the system's flavor-aid. Even if you've taken them off, the indentations are still going to be there. You don't need to be so hard on yourself for making a living. I know I was rubbing salt in the wound earlier, but, it's really not such a bad thing, you know?"
"Thanks, I guess." Lily paused, before turning around to look me in the eye. "Hey, if I share some of my molly and screw you, will you stop bothering me about the ethics of selling my bad takes to a tabloid porno rag?"
After pausing for a few moments' consideration, I nod the same way I would if someone asked if I brush my teeth in the morning. Obviously. Duh. Do gay bears do drugs in the woods?
***
I have a most optimal place to sit almost everywhere I go regularly. When I'm riding the bus in front of me, I aim to sit in the seat farthest back and furthest to the right, the last one before you get to the riser seats. Not that the riser seats are all bad, but they have a black separator bar in the middle of the window that completely ruins my view. Had I been born shorter, they'd be my first pick. That's because my fellow passengers are my other favorite thing to look at on the bus. Ride the same route often enough and you'll soon recognize your whole neighborhood.
Unfortunately, in my car there's no room for preference. If you drive, you get one choice and that's it. It's ironic that the symbol of freedom chains you down more often than not. If you drive an old Prius like me, you're chained to the perceptions people have about you because of your car. Maybe that's okay when you first buy it, but the car stays the same while people change. Unless you're rich, which I am not. When you have money, the power to make your world always reflect you inevitably turns you into a narcissist. I prefer looking at others than myself. There's always people to look at here in my little cafe.
I don't know why I keep coming to this place. It's been so long since I started coming here that the entire staff has turned over, allowing me to become a regular to them multiple times over. I keep up the same coffee order and they keep learning it. It's a ritual that people have been going through since we began getting familiar with and recognizing people outside our own tribes. To be seen is a beautiful thing. When a room full of workers who are otherwise strangers smiles when they see you that's a beautifully human moment.
Maybe I can get a job here. There's every indication that they're actively hiring. Plus, I've not seen anything exciting in the classified pages. Restaurants and unlicensed nursing homes as far as the eye can read. I'll find a diamond in the rough here again, just like I always do. Sitting down in the first open seat I see, I drink deeply and enjoy the taste of my coffee. Moments like this are really what makes life worth living. Maybe that's too dramatic, but I am definitely content in this moment. I wouldn't mind sticking around in a place where I get to experience these moments and be paid for it.
Somehow I can't see myself as a barista, running around that little espresso bar with all the angry caffeine addicts breathing down your neck. Then again, it's not like I've got a lot of other options. Lily's only going to tolerate me loitering around her life for so much longer. Or maybe not? Maybe she likes me. I don't know. I'm not feeling too sure of much these days, but somehow it's not bothering me as much as I feel like it used to. I'm not feeling numb to it, but it's easier to accept things as they come. Life is going to life.
Still, everyone behind that bar had a pronoun pin on, and there was a note saying that customers are expected to respect queer employees. I've never had a job that would actually stick up for me like that before. I don't actually think I realized before this exact moment how much I would like that. I get up, walk to the counter, and pick up one of the job applications sitting in a tray next to the 'Help Wanted' sign. The nearest barista looks up at me, smiles, and gives a thumbs up.
Sitting back down to fill it out, I look out the window and see the outline of the trees against the sky, at last. The sun is coming up again this morning, it is apparently back and hopefully not for a one-off sort of sunrise. Whatever the machinations of the Powers that had kept it away, everyone was happy to see it come back. God only knows what the long-term consequences would be but for this moment, it’s nice. Like seeing the world in a new light for the very first time.