Machete Girl Issue 8.4 Cyberpunk Short Stories

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Whisper
By Isaac L. Wheeler
Whisper walked down a dimly lit access,
her red leather trench coat brushing
her calves with each step. Cold
penetrated her coat causing goosebumps
to cover her flesh. As she went,
she passed identical doors, differentiated
by glowing numbers affixed above
each entrance.
She gazed over the railing that protected
her from a fatal fall. Across the light
tunnel was an identical accessway.
High above, the light tunnel’s apex was
capped with self-cleaning glass which
allowed the sun’s rays to illuminate the
residential sector during the day without
the need for electric lighting.
The tunnel illuminated hundreds of
levels, each with identical accessways
lined with identical doors. People had
MACHETE GIRL ISSUE 8.4
thrown themselves from up here to
escape from the monotony. All they
saw on the way down was more of the
same, whizzing by until their eyes went
blank, haunting them until the very end.
One of the doors was highlighted in
green by the augmented reality overlay
built into her artificial eyes. As she
stepped up to the door, she wrapped
her delicate fingers, shrouded in red
leather, around the unarticulated metal
handle. Her muscles strained as she
pulled open the heavy metal door and
stepped inside. “56 credits deducted”
scrawled across her vision. The price
has gone up again. Lights automatically
flickered on, illuminating the drab
grey room.
The door slammed shut behind her.
The sound was absorbed by concrete
peaks arranged evenly along the wall.
She pulled off the long red coat which
was lined with a black satin. Hanging
it on a hook by the door, it took on the
appearance of limp red skin. Beneath
it, she wore a black, long-sleeve t-shirt
which adhered to her fit form, along
with a concealed holster nestled in her
armpit.
A bed made up with dark
gray sheets dominated the room, and
on one wall lived a small desk with a
dismally gray swivel chair. She stepped
into the small kitchenette immediately
to the right of the entrance and focused
on the 3DP Food Printer. Her warm
brown eyes lit up with blue light as an
itemized menu of options appeared on
her eye’s lens, blueprints for meals she
had purchased over time from the 3DP
Virtual Market. Asian, not in the mood
to wait. Hmmm... Ramen.
The selection for Ramen lit up, “.45
credits deducted,” popped up, and then
the menu faded. A processing sound
emanated from the food printer, and a
count down appeared above it: “3:00”.
Three minutes felt like an eternity as
she leaned against the cheap press
board counter on her elbows, resting
her breasts against it, watching the
countdown. “2:00, 1:59, 1:58,” finally
reaching 0:00. She opened the door
and pulled out the steaming contents.
The bowl was papery and warm.
She took plastic chop sticks that had
printed along side it and took a bite.
Salty heaven. She sat on the bed and
took another bite, savoring the noodles
and the broth they were saturated in.
She licked her lips to indulge in a final
taste, set the papery bowl on the night
stand, and laid down on top of the covers
without bothering to remove her
gun. Her brown, shoulder-length hair
spread out across the pillow, framing
her face. She stared up at the stone
ceiling, which was pocked with air
bubbles, then closed her eyes. VR, Last
Night Club.
The dark behind her eye
lids retreated and she found herself
standing inside the entrance to the Last
Night Virtual Club.