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Message: <blockquote data-quote="johndaw16" data-source="post: 2583824" data-attributes="member: 12033">...remember that better lives have been lived in the margins, locked in the prisons and lost on the gallows than have ever been enshrined in palaces________________________________________________________________________ Ding...Ding...Ding...Something chimed in his head. Echoed painfully. Hot, steaming pressure at the back of his eyes. Consciousness demurred at the suggestion of making an appearance. He slipped back again, into the dark. Ding...It was back again. That noise. Recognition tickled his brain. The pain was worse this time, too much to ignore. Reality, coherence, all fell back into place. Miller Bahr tentatively opened an eye.  Just a slit, no need to go fast. Ding...The sound echoed in his head this time, each reverberation a lesson in pain. Find the source, make it stop. Miller opened his eye a bit more, things were blurry. His eye darted about. There. An ignition key still slotted. The cabin door was ajar.  But whose car was this? His brain was still too sluggish, the hangover still too overwhelming; memory was optional right now. Miller reached up, snagged the offending key and jiggled it out of its slot. Finally silence. He gathered his will, hoped it would be enough to steady his stomach. He laid a death-grip on the steering wheel and heaved himself up. Vertical orientation was problematic. His stomach did a jig, threatening an explosive morning opener. Deep breaths those are key, deep slow breaths.The car wasn’t his; it was a brand new Patriot Motor’s Poseidon coupe. He ran his fingers reverently across the LCD console; even through the hangover he could appreciate a car like this. Too bad it wasn't his.  And whoever owned it likely wouldn't take kindly to having a disasterously hung-over corporate nobody passed out in it. Miller twisted the rearview mirror, appraising himself.  No puke, good sign.  His Di Meo shirt only bore the tell-tale wrinkles of being slept in.  Crumpled in the breast pocket an empty Lucky Strikes pack crinkled among the tobacco and paper remains of his last cigarette.  He reached into his slacks, found a cocktail napkin tie-dyed with the washed out remains of some girl’s persona ID.  His Communiqué pad sat on the front dash.  Miller picked it up turning it over in his hands; its battery cell had been removed.  He stuffed the now useless piece of hardware on top the Lucky Strikes.  The car sat in the middle of an industrial alleyway, one of thousands of anonymous channels through the sprawling Potomac Industrial Zone.  The ranks of industrial production units, warehouses, and distribution hubs marched into the distance inhuman and unfriendly in their austere uniformity.  This was the realm of autonomous industrial AI’s, locked in their pre-programmed paths of commerce.   He was alone in the middle of a nameless intersection, the crossing alleys clinically neat, swept daily by automated cleaners.  He realized he was isolated here.  Disconnected, he might be the only truly living thing for many square miles.  The thought unsettled him, but driving the Poseidon back was out of the question.  He lacked the ignition code and he didn’t fancy getting picked up for theft either.  It was going to be a long walk to a payphone.He gazed around trying to choose a direction.  And jumped, she must have been there the whole time.  Funny what you’ll miss.  She was beautiful, strikingly so.  She lay across the back cabin, graceful even at rest, her curves inviting, suggestive and sensual.  He was holding his breath, fearful of disturbing her stillness.  ---His was mouth dry, stomach menacing again.  The stillness wasn’t natural; her careless pose was just that, an artful arrangement of stiff limbs and cold flesh.  He reached to her now, trying to steady his shaking hands, pushed a lock of silver hair from her forehead uncovering a single dark spot and a rivulet of blood long dry.  A sliver gun, a good one probably.-^-He was wiping his mouth palms slick with sweat.  He didn’t remember getting sick.  The smell filled the car now.  He had to get out. Miller closed his eyes, the pressure building again. Asphalt wasn’t so bad to lie on.  He tried not to see, but it was there behind his eyelids, dried blood across pale skin.  He slipped back again, grateful for the dark. Only the hum of an engine held it at bay.  And the hope that it brought.</blockquote>

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