My Short Story – The Death of Cyberpunk – Second Draft.

Tim tried not to stand out when he was working. It was a challenge, he didn’t dress like a normal person, his hair was bright green (roots his natural mousy brown). He couldn’t walk through a metal detector, even naked it would be set off by all his piercings. A punk, good for nothing, old leather jacket covered in arcane symbols, a leftover from his brief flirtation with paganism. He didn’t regret it, they looked cool. The jacket was too large, or he was too skinny, He didn’t get to eat all that often or all that well. Thing was, he had a way of blending into the background, despite everything. Probably a good thing, since when he did get to eat it was usually because he stole something, his work, if you could call it that.

A beautiful morning, the boardwalk bustling with people, sunshine bringing them out to look at the water, enjoy the summer warmth. Tim spotted the shop out of the corner of his eye as he weaved his way through the crowd. Jenny would have just lifted a wallet, Tim didn’t have her gift for getting out of trouble if he got caught, so he left the wallets to her. Instead he liked stores, and this one was crowded despite the early hour. Tourist trinkets and junk, nothing worth much, but easy enough to resell. The clerk was dealing with a tourist, an obnoxious American from the look of things. Good, she wouldn’t be paying attention.

Tim drifted to the back of the store, making his thin frame blend into the background. When he realized he wasn’t being watched he acted. There was a table full of higher end sweaters. Nothing amazing, but they retailed for a hundred bucks, something he could sell. He grabbed a couple, slipped them up under the back of his jacket. Easy, nobody saw. Time to bail, walk casually to the front of the store, no hurry at all. He ambled, mosied even. Nobody paid him the slightest heed. Finally, he reached the front and headed out.

As his hand touched the door a voice rang out “Hey, you want to pay for those sweaters?”.

Fuck. How the hell did she see him? She never even came to the back, he logged the location of all the cameras when he went in. No way he missed one. That wasn’t something he did.

He slammed the door open hard and started running. The great thing about stores like this, the clerk couldn’t leave and unless he was incredibly  unlucky by the time the cops got there and got a description he would be long gone. The crowds were heavy, that worked in his favour. He started weaving through the people, moving at nearly full speed anyway. People got out of his way, and he was able to wind his way between them as if they were statues, years of experience had taught him that trick.

He ran for a pedestrian bridge, hitting the wall next to the stairs, vaulting up it, grabbing the top so he could pull his body over. He was on the bridge in an instant, running across the street to a nearby cafe. Golden now, no chance they caught him. Better to ditch the sweaters though, come back later and see if they were still there.

He found a planter and jammed the sweaters in behind it, way out of sight. They would get a little bit dirty but no big deal, still worth a few bucks. Damn, how had the clerk noticed him? It was impossible. She hadn’t checked the back. He must have missed a camera. That was it, had to be. He walked down off the pedestrian bridge back into the crowd and headed for downtown. Better to check the market, see if there was something he could grab there, wait until the heat was off on the boardwalk. Cops would be showing up to the store any second, might even look through the crowd for him.

After a few minutes he was thoroughly lost in the crowd, far from the souvenir shop, when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Come with me son. I’m afraid you’re under arrest.”

“Shit. How the hell?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. The boardwalk is not going to be good for your type from now on. Hell, nothing’s going to be good for your type.”

The police officer led him to a car and put him in the back, pushing his head down as he forced him in. Once they were under way curiosity got the best of Tim.

“Seriously though, how did you catch me?”

“Didn’t you wonder why I didn’t ask you where the sweaters were?”

“Didn’t even think about it. Why didn’t you?”

“We have you on video. The whole thing, you taking the sweaters, ditching them at the planter, your whole run through the crowd shtick. All of it. You are done.”

“Okay, that’s bullshit. No way I missed that many cameras. Not possible. There are no cameras on the bridge. I know that shit for sure.”

“Language. Yeah, new security feature. If you get out of jail eventually let your scumbag friends know. Smart dust. Billions of tiny cameras, so small you can’t see them without a microscope, flying through the air, surrounding you all the time. You scumbags are done on the boardwalk, and once we get them spread you are done everywhere.”

“Nobody can watch that. Too many cameras are just as bad as none, everybody knows that.”

“The computer watches the feeds. Smart software. No people needed.”

Tim felt sick to his stomach. How were people like him going to survive?

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2 thoughts on “My Short Story – The Death of Cyberpunk – Second Draft.

  1. I thought this was a great story, held my attention, I wanted to know what was going to happen, and it was intriguing. One or two grammatical errors, to my mind – for example, comma after “challenge” in opening. For me, that would have been more dramatic as a full stop.

    I don’t think you need the parenthesis with the mousy roots bit – that he has green hair is enough – do we need to know any more?!

    And I cared about Tim somehow, despite his antisocial attitudes and behaviour. You made him real.

  2. I liked it.
    I have a weakness for boardwalks anyway, so perhaps I am partial?
    It felt like home for me. In the part of London where I lived there were literally thousands of kids over the years, falling into this state of absent-grace. Then growing up a bit; getting rid of everything, except the nose piercing, a bigger leather jacket, and the hair dye.
    We used to call them sold-out ponytails, back in the days when they had ponytails.I would meet up with them at the school gates, along with all the other invisible people, like me.
    Me? I like being invisible, it works.
    As a fan of Sci Fi I enjoyed the segue into microscopy.

    How is he going to escape?

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