Brian's GPS searched for a decent rental nearby—a place where he could crash for a while. Now and then, he still had to stop and ask around.
"♫ Let us pause in life's pleasures and count its many tears,♫" The man turned on a car radio.
His car rolled to a stop in front of a crowded old apartment block. Through the windshield, he spotted a plump middle-aged woman sitting outside the building, completely glued to her TV screen. She looked like she practically owned the place.
♫ While we all sup sorrow with the poor; There's a song that will linger forever in our ears; ♫
Brian leaned out his window. "Hey, ma'am!"
No reaction. The woman didn't even flinch, eyes locked on the tiny holographic screen in front of her. ♫ Oh! Hard times come again no more. ♫
He tried again, louder this time. "Hey! Lady!"
Her round face snapped toward him, eyes wide and furious.
"¿Qué?! Ya no hay cuartos. ¡A volar!" Her accent was thick Latin Spanish—and her tone made it clear she wasn't in the mood.
"Can't hear ya!" Brian blinked, trying to decode her words. "Can you say that again?"
"Ay, yay, yay!" She rolled her eyes and raised her voice. "I said, no more rooms, handsome. Go!"
Brian scratched his head, baffled. "Oookay… fine, thanks." He shrugged, shifted gears, and drove off.
He turned down a narrow alley. That's when a junkie wearing a black face mask came sprinting toward him, clutching a small white box tight to his chest. Seconds later, a blue-and-red patrol drone zoomed overhead, chasing him. A squad car swung around the corner, blocking the runner's path. "Sir, drop the package now!" the drone barked, firing a stun shot. The masked man collapsed, twitching on the pavement.
Brian didn't even look back. His expression didn't change. "Another day in America."
Every alley, every corner, every wall has its shadows, he thought. Something's always hiding out there… dragging me into this city for reasons I don't even understand. God, it's so damn quiet here—way too quiet. Feels safe… but it ain't.
♫ There's a pale weeping maiden who toils her life away, ♫
♫ With a worn heart whose better days are o'er: ♫
He kept driving until he reached the 15F road near Mountain Park, up north of the city. A young mother crossed the street in front of him, pushing a stroller with a sleeping baby wearing a digital visor that shimmered with soft blue light. The woman herself was pregnant again, balancing two kids with calm grace.
Brian stopped and helped her across.
♫ Though her voice would be merry, 'tis sighing all the day, ♫
♫ Oh! Hard times come again no more. ♫ The woman smiled at him as she walked past.
The man continued down a street lined with nearly identical little houses—boxy, plain, and colorless. But one of them had a For Rent sign in red letters plastered on the front door.
He pulled over and stepped out. The concrete under his boots was warm from the desert sun. The house was small but neat, its fence slightly rusted but holding up.
"Eight hundred a month," Brian muttered, reading the bright red text across the door. "Not bad, not bad."
He dug out his phone, scanning the glowing barcode sticker near the lock.
"'Designed by LRD Corp., property of… uh, Ernst… Kirsch—whatever. Man, I suck at German."
The red scanner lit up, and a holographic interface appeared above the door. He tapped through the digital lease options until the message flashed:
Lease Confirmed — Access Granted.
♫ 'Tis the song, the sigh of the weary, ♫
♫ Hard Times, hard times, come again no more. ♫
♫ Many days you have lingered around my cabin door; ♫
♫ Oh! Hard times come again no more. ♫
The door lights switched from red to green. Brian grinned faintly and walked back to move his car into the sleek little garage beside the house.
Inside, the place was spotless—walls freshly painted white, furniture minimal but new. A small living room, kitchen, bathroom, and a bedroom just big enough for one. Everything was already there—kitchenware, fridge, even a washer.
For the first time in days, he let out a long breath. The interior was bland and very quiet.
But somehow it was a peaceful place for him to live in.