Finally semi-edited this piece. Its zero context first person cyberpunk bs but i dig. obvs very unfinished
The British Empire
I grab my keys, mobile, wallet and the like off the kitchen counter. I quickly lock the gate and screen door then skip and trip down the stairs. The glass door at the apartment entrance opens.
All the noise rushes in. The walking. The driving. The loudest are the hundreds of eyes. Their way of darting, scanning everything is deafening. The fear in their pupils. It’s not even defensive any more. Over time, it devolved into a type of offensive defense. Every glance is furious and sharp with the rest of the face as still as stone. These looks never call for retaliation. Their recipients should do the same. If not, It might be taken as a threat.
I make my way down Victoria II. None of the streets named after royalty have any extra titles like “square, “circus” or “avenue”. They say it disgraces their name and sovereignty.
In here it’s all grey. The street floors, the store walls, the pipes, the ceiling, the on-goers. There are hundreds if not more down this infinite avenue. I am simply one in a sea of nobody. I don’t mind. Neither do i feel very special. I am sure anyone in this crowd -with any wits about them still- is thinking the exact same. Even this.
One of the shops is surrounded by four constables. There are bars and road blocks bordering off the shop. It is the only one on the whole of Victoria II with its shutter closed. Presumably the shop owner, is in panic and tears over whatever has occurred. It is odd. He does not seem to be reporting but explaining. As if pleading for his life.
I notice something. The sign on the wall above the shop, and the same length, is covered. There is a tarp hung up in front. There are the usual words hovering, projected onto it. They flicker and move. Red, blue, red, blue. A gust of wind passes and the words glitch and split into three copies: one red, one green, one blue.
WARNING: INDECENT CONTENT
Of course. My eyes dart around to find evidence. There. There is a small curve from a graffiti letter peaking under the tarp. The spray leaks down the wall like fluorescent pink blood. A disgusting, horrible color that was banned by Divine Law. How could it still be wet? How was the artist not caught? I turn and keep walking. I am not in the mood to see how this will end.
A while later I arrive at the end of Victoria II. It ends in a massive circus: The Centre of Saint George.
The circus intersects with William IV, George and Home Street. William IV was across from Victoria II (representing their marriage and rule) and George to my left.
In the centre lies a colossal pillar. It is the largest, most beautiful structure I have ever seen. Built of some dark marble with white veins, all the carved leaves and extra ornaments are dipped in gold with dozens of red velvet flags of all different shapes and sizes but all fitting perfectly into shape with where they were hung.
The monument is several yards in width and length but in height, it almost makes you want to give in to this place. This particular part of the Empire is one of the more massive colonies. They have existed through ages, only growing and growing. In this one particularly, its architecture does not extend outwards even a fraction of what it can upwards. 125 floors, all of an impressive height individually with The Circus of Saint George in the core middle. The pillar reaches all the way to the 115th floor with a massive window at the top.
At the moment, a sliver of the sun is showing through the skylight, but will soon be gone for a few more hours. Here, the sun’s position is of no importance to them. Here, the floors, walls, ceilings and ferries shine a vivid, constant light on everything with hanging, white neons on every edge and corner. Here they live on a clock. There is not night and day, there are working hours and sleep hours.Â
The ferries are the worst of all. They are hooked onto a rail on the ceiling and have stationary lamps that burn down on the crowds below. For those on the ferry there is no bother. For those walking there is a sudden blinding moment then the ferry silently moves on.
After turning on to Home Street, I sneak into one of the alleys branching off. These are in utter darkness. They have no lamps and should have no people. The ceiling down this walkway quickly lowers until it is only a few feet above my head. I eventually reach it: A rusty fire escape stairway with a thick white door up the side of the wall. The stairs stick out into the alleyway. Above the door and its landing is a yellow lamp, slightly hanging of the wall but relentlessly shining down on the door. I can smell the bittersweet, thick scent of dampness. I audibly reach into my lungs, trapping it. Out there on the main road everything is gray. Even the smells of metal, oxygen. Pure and mundane. Perfect and thus dead.
Here there is a drip, drip, drip from a forgotten pipe. And a hum from the old lamp. There is life and history. Here you can smell the blood sweat and tears of secrets.
I calmly place my full palm on the centre of the door. There is a noice. Something stirs inside the door and its frame as it slowly moves backwards into the wall, off its supposed hinges.
