THE PRIVATE STASH
The Ash always tasted like metal and regret, even on a day that promised a plate of greasy eggs. Rain slicked the cracked pavement, reflecting the warped neon glow of the cityscape. My stomach rumbled, a reminder that even immortals had biological needs, especially when processor time was running thin. Ahead, the sign for ‘Diner’ buzzed, a promise of lukewarm coffee and lukewarm solace.
Perched on the awning, a black raven eyed me, its head cocked. A perfect, obsidian blot against the grim grey sky. For a split second, the bird wasn’t a bird. It was a flash of something else. Jackie Angel’s laugh, bright and sharp as glass. The smell of pancakes, real maple syrup, not the synthetic junk I usually processed. Her small hand, sticky with jam, reaching for mine across the kitchen table. The sun, a warm, honest sun, streaming through the window of our home in Paradise. Dolly, her doll held tight, giggling. It was a memory, sharp and unwelcome, because it made the Ash feel colder, harder. A brief, perfect morning, almost within reach.
Then the diner sign above the raven began to flicker. The neon ‘D’ sputtered, went dark, then surged back with a sickly green pulse. It wasn’t the wiring. My sentinel instincts, honed by a thousand simulations and a lifetime of digital warfare, screamed. Angela. A warning. She always had a way of cutting through the noise, a ghost in the machine, my guardian angel in this digital purgatory. DW. That simple-minded son of a bitch. He was getting boring. Predictable. Almost.
The plate-glass window of the diner imploded inward, a spiderweb of cracks before it shattered completely. Machine gun fire ripped the air, a stuttering, tearing sound that echoed off the damp brick. My training took over before my conscious mind registered the threat. I dove, a reflex honed to razor-sharp precision, slamming behind a rusted mailbox just as a spray of hot lead chewed concrete where my head had been a heartbeat earlier.
Panting, I pressed my face to the cold, grimy metal. My eyes scanned the debris, searching for an edge. In the gutter, half-submerged in a puddle of rainwater and oil, lay a tire iron. Long. Heavy. Knobby with rust. Angela, I thought, a sardonic grin twisting my lips, always had the table set when I was hungry. She knew I preferred to eat my enemies.
I snatched the iron, the cold weight familiar in my grip. The gunman inside, a hunched figure silhouetted by the diner’s dim lights, sprayed another burst, wilder this time. He was an avatar, a piece of code given form, but the damage he could do was real enough in this reality. I coiled, muscles screaming with digital strain, and hurled the iron. It spun end over end, a dark blur against the flickering neon, a blur aimed with an assassin’s precision.
It hit him. Dead center. The sound was a wet thud, followed by a shower of sparks as the avatar’s form glitched, a brief static burst, then it collapsed in a heap of broken code and twisted metal. The machine gun clattered to the floor, silenced.
I pushed myself up, my knees protesting. The Ash, for a moment, seemed to hold its breath. A yellow taxi, its paint peeling like sun-dried skin, screeched to a halt beside the curb. Its destination light read ‘ANYWHERE’. Perfect.
I yanked the door open and slid inside, the stale scent of old cigarettes and exhaust fumes filling my nose. I hung my head, the weariness a sudden, crushing weight. I rubbed my eyes, the grit of the Ash clinging to my eyelids. My processor hummed, a low thrum that always preceded the shift.
I lifted my head. Opened my eyes.
The taxi was gone. The metal and regret of the Ash had evaporated, replaced by the warm glow of our kitchen. Sunlight, real sunlight, streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The smell of pancakes was real, not a memory. Jackie Angel, my daughter, stood before me, a small, worried frown on her face.
“You look tired, Daddy,” she said, her voice a chime. “Need a hug from Dolly?”
