CageWire...
2079. London
Demyan Anastas pulled the asymmetrical collar of his red leather jacket up the back of a shorn neck. The last of his military haircuts, he promised his reflection and the chill London wind, which whipped the ever-present rain sideways and down to moisten his t-shirt. Regardless of the moisture wicking properties of Neo-LinenTM preserving the filtered liquid in a pocket along the bottom, the emancipated man shivered and rounded a side street to the curve and bustle of Piccadilly Circus.
Gritty holograms spackled between triangulated mirrors & unwashed lenses combated ultrabright neon emblazoned in a cacophony of colour. Ceruleans and emeralds, electric purples swept into magentas so bright his eyes stung and he grabbed for the mirrored comp-glass kept in a thumbprint-locked pocket. The lens of the glasses dimmed enough light to compensate for the explosions of pigmentation, without casting the rest of the world into a dismal shadow.
A timestamp in the lower left corner counted down in ancient cyrillic numbers, the temperature in the top left, flashes of yellows, oranges and reds alerted Demyan to potential camera angles or stray selfie shots. He searched for a blind spot, a place to wait out the contact.
Piccadilly was a visual vaporwave sonata catching up to the boom and thunder imprinted in the rubble of Demyan's memories. One hidden earbud buzzed in coded pings to indicate whether he was following the city schematics loaded into his pocket deck. Why here, in Picadilly?
See where Demyan ends up on his first night in London in the CageWire short story in Future’s Lens.
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