Strange Minutes
My silly little piece about apathy and inappropriate behavior in public, with some sci-fi elements for spice. I submitted this as an entry last June 2022 to a certain contest hosted by a certain university and won second place. As someone who was competing against students pursuing master's degrees in Creative Writing, I think I did fairly well.
The website where this was originally published is still down as of writing.
Word count: 1279
Above the city which knows not sleep, the clouds of smog reflect the sickly sodium-yellow lights of lampposts below. In the corners untouched by illumination shadows twist and writhe: the implication of a presence both shaped and formless, existing between reality and imagination. A patch of void detaches itself from a length of darkened wall, manifesting into a man-shape as it comes underneath a lamppost. He pauses momentarily to check the time on his phone, and keeps walking.
Triste spies a familiar neon sign, half-faded against the facade, and enters the establishment. It is one of the last mixed bars in this area of the city, catering to both Augmented and un-Augmented in an age when most businesses would opt to enforce segregation. Only a handful of people occupy the tables and the counter, though physical presence in this era is the exception, not the rule.
The bartender nods in greeting as Triste seats himself at the counter. His order for tonight is something light, and the bartender slides a chilled bottle across the countertop. Triste takes a small sip and looks around: a woman sits across a man at one of the tables, their fingers intertwined on the tabletop; a group of friends at the far corner, laughing over a card game; and others like him, all drinking by themselves. An assembly of characters from various backgrounds and lives, all lonely or loved at this late hour. Which one is he?
The door to the bar opens, and the new patron who walks in reeks of burnt rubber and grease. Triste does not need to look over his shoulder to know the other patrons are watching the newcomer. They sit at the empty spot beside him, the whir of cooling fans and the subtle creak of moving metal becoming more apparent with the proximity. From the corner of his eye Triste looks at them: the dim light reflects off mechanical arms, and cropped hair reveals luminescent Augmented veins at the temple and neck. From what he can see of their features, the newcomer is beautiful, androgynous, though Triste immediately discovers he cannot remember the curve of their nose nor the jut of their chin when he looks away.
“Sorry for the smell. I know the wires stink,” they say, voice airy. Triste turns to face them.
“It’s fine,” he tells them, giving the newcomer a proper once over and barely stopping himself from grimacing at what he sees.
“I haven’t been on top of my upkeep,” they say, simply, as if the mechanical Augments aren’t one loose bolt away from falling apart. Triste looks once, twice, at the state of disrepair and knows this is the type of damage which warrants medical attention. A visit to the mechanic would do little to relieve the pain of nerve endings perpetually on fire, nor would it ease the sharp pressure of metal edges cutting into tender flesh. “I’ve been busy,” they continue, and offer a placid smile.
Triste gives no response and finishes the last dredges of his drink. The newcomer asks the bartender for a menu, and turns to Triste to ask for his opinion. “What do you recommend?” they ask, at which Triste raises an eyebrow. “I don’t go to bars very often.”
“What?”
“Recommendations?” The newcomer tilts their head, eyes glassy and pupils blown wide. Triste, now slightly miffed, points out several options, fingers drumming on the countertop as the newcomer pesters him with follow-up queries. “This. One for me and one for you,” they tell him, pointing out something strong, and orders before Triste can protest.
“I don’t know your name,” Triste says, when the bartender places two glasses before them.
“Does it matter?” they say, taking a sip of their drink. Triste checks his own for signs of being spiked, only drinking after ensuring its safety. “Ah, well, I’m Nora.”
“Triste.”
Nora only blinks at him, eyes glazing over as they stare at some faraway thing beyond them and, as if remembering themselves, redirects their gaze back to their glass. Metal fingers curl around it, and Nora downs half in one swig. Triste imagines the drink traveling down their throat in a searing line and cringes.
Implants jutting out the back of Nora’s skull catch his attention: small, stubby cylinders glowing blue-green, pumping their bloodstream full of some unidentifiable liquid. The skin around them is raw, red from irritation. “Inhibitors,” Nora tells him, when they notice where his gaze is directed. “I’m not that kind of person. They’re just inhibitors. And painkillers.”
“I’ve never seen Augments like that,” Triste says. His vision blurs, for a moment, and he blinks the haziness away. “I’m not un-Augmented. I have one for my heart.”
“They’re bioware. One of the newer lines. They’re a bit sensitive. It’s terribly easy for them to get hit. Have you ever seen someone die that way?” The last part of Nora’s sentence comes out staticky—a faulty throat Augment. Triste only notices now the slight bulge beneath the skin after hearing the distortion in their voice.
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah.” Nora bobs their head from left to right. “The cylinders are difficult to remove by yourself, but it’s possible. My friend was, what, fifteen? Sixteen? This was when implants were new,” they say, speech somewhat incomprehensible beneath the static. Triste strains to hear them. “She yanked hers out one time when she was upset. I remember her screaming after it came off in her hand. It was horrible, but for some reason I can’t remember anything else.”
Nora finishes the remainder of their drink, wiping their lips with the back of their hand. “I know she died on the way to the hospital. Do you think it hurt?” they continue. “It must have. I wonder how it felt. I want to—”
The static explodes into tinny feedback noise, cutting off whatever Nora is saying. The other patrons turn to look, and the bartender moves to leave his position behind the counter.
“I’ll take them outside,” Triste says, pulling Nora to their feet. The world sways as he stands. Nora does not resist, their attention fully directed to the malfunctioning throat Augment. Triste watches them claw at their throat, sees red welling up where their fingers leave gashes in the skin. He can see their lips moving, but whatever Nora might have been saying comes out as pained screeching.
The stench of piss and smoke fills his nose as Triste exits the bar, the humid air of the world outside immediately greeting him as he steps out onto the street. Nora stumbles away from him, mechanical legs sparking as their knees hit the sidewalk. The screeching continues, eventually devolving into wordless groans, followed by silence. Nora remains still where they kneel on the pavement, save for the slight movement of their shoulders as they breathe. Triste waits.
“That happens sometimes,” Nora tells him, voice airy once again, and stands up. Something dark drips down from their fingers to the sidewalk. “When I talk about my friend. Sorry.”
“You should go home,” Triste says, unsure of whether Nora understands him through the slight slur in his words.
“Okay. Good night,” they say. Then, in the clearest voice Triste has heard from them, “Take care of yourself.”
An unpleasant feeling settles in his gut as he watches Nora dust themselves off and walk home, wherever it may be. Nora will not see the sunrise, Triste knows, somehow. Perhaps this will be last time anyone will see them alive. He stares at their retreating figure, wandering and stumbling beneath sickly sodium-yellow lights in these strange minutes past midnight.
Triste takes one last look, and heads back inside.
