N3On

The first short story in my 'Project Universe' series.

Neon
The City stretches on beyond the horizon, disappearing into the fog. Arching buildings, constantly buzzing lights, and rain everywhere. The smooth, plastic pods people call home protrude from every building like hideous growths, and below them, the poorer individuals huddle together beneath tarpaulin shelters or shivering in a burnt out cruiser.
The fog is orange today. Safe. I would never dare be outside if the fog was purple, or worse, blue. Nobody would be out in blue fog, even the hardiest of junkies.
Ever since the discovery of Neon, the City has been growing, stretching beyond country borders, barely slowed by the presence of a forest, or mountain range, or ocean. Before long, the entire planet will be City, and everyone will be on someone else's smog ridden horizon. Not even the high ups will be breathing clean air then. The filters will clog, the wells dry up and everyone will choke to death.
Not yet, though. And while there're people, there're junkies, and junkies need a dealer. Which is where I come in.
Rain dripping from my hood and shielding my eyes from the glow of the generator plant, I carefully chip away tiny chunks from my stash. The blue crystal hums with the melody of the addicted as I break away the precious neon. Every tap sends a glow shimmering through it, reminiscent of the same stuff spreading through a man's bloodstream.
Eventually, I have a small pile of Neon chunks, sitting in my hand, unnaturally heavy in the earthen gravity. I tip them into my grind flask and pull the tarpaulin down over my stash. Nobody I know can climb this high to find it, but it always pays to be careful. You never know when some bent cop or down on his luck businessman might get his hands on a set of parawings and go for a cruise. My Neon would show up like a beacon for anyone flying above.
Tapping the grind flask gently, I begin twisting the top, listening as the hum of the Neon gets higher and higher, being crushed into gravel, then sand, then dust.
‘Wait till it hits G sharp...’
Foaly’s words come back to me from those long nights under tarpaulin shelters. The trick with Neon is to grind it fine enough to have an almost unbearably high hum, but not so fine it starts to ‘screech’. Screeching ruins the batch, and Screech Neon sells for a tenth of the price of Sharp Neon.
Finally, I stop grinding and let the music of the Neon wash over me, shuddering slightly. Memories...But two years clean is too good a run to waste, and I’d rather have food for a week than ecstasy for a day.
A trickle of rain escapes past the brim of my hood and runs down the side of my face, making me wince. It always rains here. I glance up to the horizon again, where the smog has darkened to a deep red. Time to go. I pull my mouthpiece up, flick the filter on and hook the grind flask, full of precious Neon, onto my belt. Then I check my Neon stash and step off the roof.
Junkies buy. Dealers sell. Grinders make. And Runners are the middlemen, getting the produce and money from one place to another, always sticking to the rooftops, always avoiding patrols. I’m all three, but the Neon community, made up of junkies and those that supply them, is hardly held in high esteem by the rest of the City. We get caught? We get curb stomped by a cop or dumped into a generator by a civilian.
I land solidly on the roof below my clocktower home and take off. I have a date to keep, one that’ll keep me in bread for a long while. I jump across the gap to the next roof, glancing down at a thousand anonymous faces below me. The next roof is dotted with obstacles, so I leap and slide my way past air ducts, ventilation shafts, and personal generators.
I reach the next gap and jump, sailing across the void, and then I’m off again, across the City towards Market Town.
It was the final leap that got me. The sky had almost darkened to purple and every breath was catching, as I drop off a roof down onto a catwalk. One leap, bounce off the wall and catch the window frame. I tense, leap and push my foot off the wall. The wall that, for the past decade, has had torrential rain on it. My foot slips and I fall, smacking my head on the catwalk and dropping into the darkness below.
~
The now dark blue fog whips around the wings of a bedraggled crow as it soars above Market Town. Raindrops batter it from every side, and, desperate for shelter, the crow swoops down beneath a catwalk and lands beside a heap of ragged clothes, a small silver flask resting in the refuse nearby. The crow takes a step forward cautiously, pecking at the ground. It shifts one of the clothes, revealing, to the crows great delight, an eyeball. The crow cocks it head to one side, then jabs forward.
My blissful world of darkness and soft, sleepy velvet is shattered by a sudden, agonising pain and I shoot to my feet. Or at least I try, because both my legs are broken, so I just sort of spasm painfully, blood gushing from one eye out onto the smooth concrete of Market Town. I scream, a primal roar that sends the flow cawing and flapping way.
Whimpering, I cradle my eye socket, tucking my legs up as much as I can. I’ve never felt such pain, not in all my days dealing, running and grinding. Nothing hurts this much. Never have I felt any feeling this intense.
Except...I have.
I was a junkie, and as much as this hurts, Neon delights. For every spasm of agony this brings, Neon would respond with a burst of pleasure. And there’s Neon close. Lots, enough for a careful junkie to last a month...Sharp, not Screech. If I could just...
I lean forward, my vision swimming, and the pain quadruples, sending me into a violent spasm. I scream again and propel myself forwards, fingers closing around the smooth metal of the precious container. Shivering, I unscrew the cap and peer in. The familiar blue glow stares right back.
When you stare into the abyss, sometimes the abyss stares back.
The quote surfaces from nowhere. I offer up a swift prayer, and suddenly Foaly’s face, scowling and disapproving, with the words, ‘That stuff is life and death around here. Make sure you’re on the right side of the deal.’
I glance down at the neon again. I already know I’m dead. Nobody survives injuries like mine, and even if I did, I’d never run again. The Neon in the flask would kill me just as quick. All of it. The pain would just...disappear.
“I’m sorry, Foaly...’ I murmur. Then I open my mouth and tip the entire flask down my throat.
Almost immediately I'm floating. My veins throb with a turquoise energy and the world blurs like a painting smudged by a clumsy child. I fall backwards, and the last conscious image that crosses my mind before the sweet envelop of death greets me is a crow, circling, slowly, above the City, watching from above, as another insignificant life is snuffed out.