Legacy (The Biodome Chronicles) (9 page)

The orange glow of the butt seemed unusually bright against the darkness as he looked out over the water. A chill ran through him, and he decided to go up Madison Street to get away from the direct breeze coming off of the Sound. He hung a right at First Avenue, taking long strides. He kept his head low as he passed closed shops and gated parking garages, taking another drag on his cigarette, flicking the ashes onto the sidewalk.

Multi-colored lights flashed and glared on the wet road and cast eerie reflections, reminiscent of artistic surrealism. Fillion imagined that his distress and anger swirled and moved with the refracted lights, creating an urban masterpiece of demented fury. Walking at 3:30 a.m. was a strange experience. There was hardly anyone around or awake. The world was all his to take pleasure in and also to fear, with nothing to distract the thoughts from raging inside his mind.

A police drone flew through the air, and its 360-degree scanner searched with programmed determination for criminals in the shadows. The spotlight locked onto Fillion, and he swore under his breath. A holographic law enforcement officer appeared beneath the drone, looking at him directly, and Fillion rolled his eyes.

“Face the camera and place your hands in the air,” a computerized voice commanded. Fillion complied, glaring at the camera. A light scanned his face in several motions, and then disappeared with a mechanical click. “Identified as Fillion Malcolm Nichols of Mercer Island. Minor. Wanted. Contacting police backup. Halt or I will be forced to subdue you using sonic disruption. Please be advised that this will result in vomiting, loss of bowel control, vertigo, and disorientation, at which point you’ll be physically restrained until human reinforcements arrive.”

“Mis-identified. Please update your records,” Fillion responded in a clear voice, despite the cigarette that hung loosely from his lips. He sensed it was safe to move, so he slowly pulled out his fake ID. The scanner locked onto the personal-records bar code. He tried not to blink and took in shallow breaths while waiting for the police drone to correct its information.

“Identified as Corlan Nathan Jayne of Seattle. Age, twenty-two. You are clear and your digital recognition records and biometric vitals have been updated. On behalf of the City of Seattle, our apologies for the mistaken identity.”

“Thank you. Apology accepted,” he replied nicely as he lowered his hands, knowing that this recorded incident would be reviewed and archived. God, he hated being polite with robots. The police drones were programmed with conversational skills and to reply appropriately to tone of voice and body language. They picked up on social cues better than some humans he knew.

“You are welcome. Be safe, Mr. Jayne. This is a high-crime neighborhood.” The scanner light shut off, and the holographic law enforcement officer tipped his hat before disappearing. The drone’s search light popped back on, and it continued down First Avenue.

Fillion remained where he stood to allow his heart rate to slow down, taking a long and jittery drag on his cigarette. He needed to keep moving before he was mugged. A moving target was harder to attack than one who stood shell-shocked. His legs continued forward, and soon he found the rhythm in his footsteps. He walked faster, focused on making it to The Crypt without further incident.

Yesler Way came into view, and he released a pent-up breath with the roaring sound of drunks and early morning parties. It was a welcome sound to his ears after the unnatural silence of sleeping streets.

Motion gained his attention, and he watched a woman hang partially out of a window in one of the historic brick buildings. Her black bra was stark against her white skin and spiked orange hair. A crowd gathered as she threw clothes at a disheveled man below her window and screamed accusations about cheating, every other word censurable. The crowd jeered and yelled obscenities, filling the night sky with their raucous laughter.

Fillion puffed on what little remained of his cigarette and skittered down the steps to the entrance of The Crypt. The bouncer acknowledged him with a hard stare, coming to a stand and cracking his knuckles as Fillion approached. Slowing his steps, Fillion casually attempted to walk by with a bored expression and an aloof posture.

“I need to see your ID.” The large man placed an arm in front of Fillion, preventing his entrance.

The thumping sound of glitch electronica pulsed through the door, and reverberated in his chest. The energy hypnotized him before he returned his attention to the bouncer. He threw the butt into an ashtray, and then reached into his pocket. One of his chains clanked and dangled against his leg as he pulled out his wallet. Fillion continued to appear detached, a natural pose of cool irritation as the man verified the ID, scanning it with a security app on a Cranium device.

“All right, you can go in, Mr. Jayne.”

“
Baka mon da
.” He took the ID back, and then spit on the ground, giving the bouncer an annoyed look before stepping inside. He was a stupid man, doing a stupid job. Worthless and pointless. Half of the bar was filled with minors. He prevented nothing. The bouncer raised an eyebrow at him in response. Fillion smirked, knowing he probably thought he thanked him.

Fillion paused inside the entry and scanned the scene, then casually waltzed along the perimeter of the rave floor as he headed toward the bar. He kept his head low to blend in but a few recognized him and stared curiously, whispering into each other’s ears. A drunk slammed into him, and Fillion nearly lost his balance, colliding into someone else. He flipped off the asshole and then continued angling his body around people who were in various acts of drowning out their lives.

This world existed because of his dad’s generation. Young adults worldwide now paid the price for a futuristic lifestyle built on a foundation of glass—a foundation that was shattering, its shards cutting deep.

His generation—known as the anime gen—had become empty zombies. They flocked to The Crypt and bars like it worldwide, their bodies resenting the curse of death and rising up in search of something to devour, hungry for something more than their meaningless existence.

Computers did nearly everything these days. At the same time, the older generation hounded them to live out Green values in a way that pretended all the rapidly evolving technology (that the older generation itself was creating) didn’t exist. Fillion was tired of hearing how eating food would kill him. Breathing the air would kill him. Spending too much time in front of a screen would poison his ambition and dull his creativity. Everything
must
be organic and the way nature made it, but it was still OK to manufacture, package, and ship on machines. Not to mention the very fact that this Green life was supported, marketed, and funded thanks to machines. Stupid hypocrites. The hell with them. Each person would die one day. Their obsessive worries couldn’t stop nature’s sacrificial demands. Or their deceptions.

Feeling like they had no other point or purpose, he and the rest of his generation reached out to indulge idleness. The Crypt was a speed bar. Most people there were hyping out on Brain, a pure form of amphetamine. It had become the fuel to stimulate their continuation as they raged against their culture and their life. They wanted to feel alive.

Fillion found crystal meth and speed disgusting. But this was where his particular circle of influence chose to consume their drinks and entertainment most nights. It was their social anti-depressant, watching people in worse conditions than their own. They were a cerebral group, all graduating high school early, skipping grades, some even with college degrees, and all under the age of twenty. Humanity had no place for them, too young to be of use in the real world and too intelligent to be wasted. Tech and science jobs were a dime a dozen. Regardless of their achievements, they were treated no better than average, hence his job in the dungeon.

Three girls paused in front of him deep in conversation, distracting his introspective rants. He slowly slid through their group with a playful grin and a wink, and then continued toward the bar in search of his friend. Fillion easily found Mack, his blue, white, and green hair made more vibrant with the black lighting. He eased up next to his friend at the bar with a mischievous smirk, and gave Mack a shove, sloshing his beer.

“Watch it, dumb ass!” Mack turned his head, and gave a rascally grin when recognition hit him. “Flew the coop?”

“Fire broke out in the core processor.” Fillion waved over the bartender. “Double whiskey, neat.”

“Yeah? There are other ways to get a fifteen-minute break, Fillion.” Mack took a sip of his stout, nodding to the music.

Fillion gave a small smile. He turned and leaned against the bar to view the scene, brooding over his discovery at work and the judgment to come later in court. Mack knew him well; no other words were necessary.

His eyes roamed the pulsating crowd, entranced by the rhythm. He wanted to join the gyrating bodies, to lose himself to the rave and forget the ache he felt deep inside. The holographic confetti fell over the crowd and intensified the rush for the drugged-out dancers. Some were tweaking, their twitchy paranoid reactions laughable as the confetti burst over their heads. The computerized DJ smiled at the crowd, and then showed an old-school iPod, changing to a new song.
Dirty bass thumped through the floors, and Fillion felt it resonate throughout his body.

His eyes wandered back to his friend. “Anyone we know?”

“Nadine came in earlier, but she left an hour ago after finding her target. Poor man,” Mack derided, making Fillion laugh. His friend turned and faced the dance floor. “Kev hooked up and is off, too. It’s been me, all by my lonesome, for the last hour or so.”

A young woman sauntered over with bright purple hair past her shoulders, curled slightly at the ends, and gave Fillion an invitation as she slowed her pace. Her hips swayed in purposeful tempo with the music as she enticed him with another look that aroused him. His eyes traveled over every curve she presented for his enjoyment as a flirtatious grin formed on his face. He sipped on the whiskey, and the burn brought him back to his senses as she approached.

“Are you Fillion Nichols?” the young woman asked, leaning against him.

“Never heard of him.” He gave a bored expression, taking a sip of his whiskey and turned his head away.

“Seriously?”

Mack darted a quick look his direction and then said, “He really doesn’t know who that is. I don’t think he ever spends time on the Net. The guy lives in the Dark Ages.” His friend finished with a gesture that suggested that Fillion was crazy.
She raised her eyebrows and gave a little laugh.

“Did I ruin your fantasy?” Fillion asked the young woman and slowly met her gaze while maintaining an air of detachment.

“Not really.”

He felt her hands travel down his waist, and her thumbs hooked in his pockets as she gave him a playful smile. Fillion shifted his weight against the bar and narrowed his eyes at her.

“Too bad. Not interested.” He shoved her off his hip and she swore at him.
Purple hair whipped in the air as she abruptly turned and then continued down the row of other potential inebriated victims while raising her middle finger in the air.

“Go home,
bishounen
,” Mack said with a flat voice. “I might actually have a chance that way.”

Fillion snickered. “Quit your gritching. You don’t want her. She’ll rip you off.”

“Ticket girl?”

“Something like that.”

“Who cares?”

Fillion gave him a surprised look. “You’re crazy. Wipe your face, save your
nosebleed
for a girl who honestly wants to hook up, or you’ll lose stamina.” Mack pretended to wipe his nose, and then rubbed his hand on Fillion’s arm. He humorously shook his head in response to his friend’s antics. “You’re pathetic, you know that?”

“Please, oh wise one, save my pathetic soul,” Mack said, begging with his hands melodramatically. When his plea ended, Mack imitated a hair flip, poking fun at Fillion’s
bishounen
status. A smug, satisfied smile stretched on his friend’s face as he picked up his stout off the bar counter, surveying the crowd.

A girl walked by in a short, tight, low-cut black dress. Fillion watched as Mack checked her out while casually sipping on his beer. A plan instantly formed in Fillion’s mind and he flashed his eyes in challenge at his friend.

With smooth and playful movements, Fillion grabbed the girl’s hand and pulled her toward him. A coy look formed on her face in response, and she softly bit her lower lip as her eyes lazily traveled to his mouth. He gave Mack a sly smile as his hands slowly slid down her body until they cupped her hips. Mack responded with an irritated chuckle and then looked away to reign in his annoyance, but he continued to watch from the corner of his eye. So Fillion lowered his head, hovering over her mouth for a few seconds as he felt her breathe deeply in anticipation. God, he loved this kind of power over a female.

Satisfied with her reaction, he winked at Mack and then whispered in her ear. She giggled with his whispers, glancing at Mack. Fillion let go of her hips as she angled toward his friend. He leaned back against the bar and bit the inside of cheek. Mack raised his eyebrows in question at first, but quickly turned his attention to the girl when her fingers flirtatiously played with a button on his shirt.