Neon Inferno

In glittering Baal-Hazor, the place to be was the Iron Rose, a burlesque club on the west end of the city that pierced the static-colored sky above.

“Something’s wrong,” Zarachiel overheard someone say as he shouldered his way through a dense crowd, his eyes searching routinely for the slightest amount of trouble. It was dimly lit, despite the abundance of flashing green and blue strobe lights, and the atmosphere was tart, the sharp scent of mildew creeping up on his nose. The people here would hardly take notice of a small leak or a mildew scent when constant activity consumed their attention unless they were like him. Couples were whispering in the corner over a deck of the Emperor tarot, youths were dancing with wild energy in the center of the club while the men drank away, some of whom slumped over at the various tables strewn within the club. And within this mad cacophony of laughter and festivity, women tilted their heads to gasp and shriek under the neon spotlight that illuminated their faces like ghouls.

He spotted the two men who were talking, a pair of youths who stood in the corner, hidden underneath the shadow of an alcove. One of them took a long sip from his glass, nodding half-contently towards the other; a scruffy-looking guy who kept shooting glances across the bar. “Do you hear the rhythm of the city? Something’s up.”

They were speaking in Low Gothic, an unintelligible and archaic language before the rise of His Golden Majesty. Nobody seemed to pay any attention to them; they were youths, telling Sprawl jokes amongst themselves in Low Gothic. Nothing was suspicious to the unwary eye; the Iron Rose was a bar for professional and seasonal expatriates, and all kinds of illicit activity were performed here, and two youths talking was nothing unusual.

Still.

Zarachiel gripped the holster on his belt, edging closer to the trio before stopping, spying a flashing red icon in the top left corner of his vision. It was emanating from his Animus, a supercomputer bolted to the side of his head that filtered logic and his thought to help perfect his duty as an Observer. Grumbling, he let go of his holster, remembering the words of his captain as he pushed through the crowd to get to the center of the bar.

“Zarachiel, you cannot keep taking dangerous risks that threaten to expose our work, so as your captain, I am placing you on strict restrictions. Do not stray from your target.”

Up ahead, he spotted Ishim at his station, and weaving through the crowd with the delicacy of a cat, he approached the bar, raising his left hand to signal a drink.

Ishim was tending the bar, the prosthetic arm on his back jerking monotonously as he filled a tray of glasses with some cheap Kirin. He looked like a spider, his mechanical limbs always moving, darting here and there as he rushed around the tiny space. Ishim saw Zarachiel and smiled, his teeth a webwork of metal, jagged pieces, and a weathered brown. Zarachiel found a seat between the crisp naval uniform of a space officer who had passed out drunk and a fierce-looking doctor who nodded sleepily off to the side.

“Whatcha need, Z?” Ishim exclaimed, showing off his mismatched teeth and rotting breath. “Maybe some business with you?”

Zarachiel shrugged, and a trio of girls giggled hysterically as the speaker blared another unintelligible song across the bar.

The bartender’s smile widened, much to his disgust. His ugliness was legendary around these parts and in these golden days, it was almost heretical to look upon. The machine’s arms whirled around him, a cyclone of neon pink and green but he didn’t seem to mind the blur of color as he washed a cup with a grimy rag.

“Nobody comes to me unless they want info,” Ishim grunted; a sound that he knew from their business was his sort of laughter. He scratched his filthy white shirt with one hand, pouring a glass of cheap Kirin in the other before sliding one to him.

Zarachie sipped his drink slowly, watching the man’s eyes bulge out from suspense. It was funny to watch these cockroaches, squirming around in this filthy underbelly of society that they call home. He chuckled lightly to himself, and Ishim leaned forward on the ball of his feet, as he spoke, “So, what, somebody got to be funny around here, and it sure as fuck aren’t you.”

The trio of laughter behind him rose another octave, and he shot them a death glare. At first, they just looked directly, their petite mouths turned upward in a downward frown before they noticed his badge, a neon pink triangle on his left shoulder. So they left, a triad of giggles that, like perfume, trailed behind them as they waded deep into the club.

“Lord Jesus,” Zarachie groaned, sipping another cold brew down. Some days he was grateful for being an Observer, the serum they were administered made it all but impossible for them to become inebriated. Not today though, as he chuckled lightly to himself, “What kind of club are you running?”

“Ha,” Ishim grunted, his whirling mechanical arms picking up the pace as he wiped down the warped, scarred wooden counter that separated them both. “So, what are you looking for or am I not supposed to know?”

This was taking too long, Zarachie thought, watching Ishim stumble about like a bloated fisherman dangling info in front of him. On most days, he would have just continued this back-and-forth banner but not today.

Zarachie picked up his beer slowly, letting one of those strange instants of silence descend upon them like the Harrowing of Hell, a silence that was louder than any voice, more profound than any secret, and yet as crushing as a wave. He chugged it slowly, letting it build as if a thousand distinct conversations were left on pause.

The trial of girls let out another wild chorus of laughter which washed over the crowd and they both knew what was to be expected. Before them, the silence broke, shattering like the dreams and hopes of man.

He pushed his empty glass forward, his Animus whirling as green and blue lights danced in front of his vision. A high-pitched whine followed as the machine warmed up. On any other day, he would have waited but the raucous noise in this bar was enough to provide him coverage.

Time slowed all around them, but he knew that it was just an optical illusion. It was just them two now, but they were not here or in any place on earth. In short, it was a brilliant invention, allowing the individual to transverse the one area that man has never dared to explore: the subconscious.

A flash of white lights flared forth, burning his retina but he continued, staring at Ishim who remained speechless, imposed in the palace like a hideous statue. Gradually, everything disappeared into the background, the blaring music a quiet stage in which he was allowed to perform his splendid task.

Another click and finally, he was ready, and he asked with the precision of a brain surgeon, “Where is Maximillian?”

Ishim grumbled, a husk of his former self devoid of all personality, “14th Armitage Street.”

It was enough for him as he turned off the machine, transporting them both back into the bar. As if it was waiting for them, he plunged back into a world of music and noise, grumbling disheartened as he picked up his glass, chugging down the rest of it.

Ishim was slumped forward, passed out cold on the countertop. His whirling mechanical arms remained lifeless as if he was a dead spider, the image of which made him laugh as he slammed down his glass with enough force to wake the drunken officer.

“Now that,” Zarachie shouted, pointing to his glass as all of his bitterness rose in him like bile, “is some good fucking brew!”

Zarachie was twenty-eight. At twenty-two, he graduated from the Observer Academy at the top of his class. Trained by the best, by Darkiel and Gazarniel, they help him become a legend in the biz. Yet, he operated on an almost permanent adrenaline supply, a byproduct of his youth, that was hardwired into his disembodied consciousness and protected into the consensual matrix that everyone had access to.

It wasn’t so bad.

But he hated that everyone had access to his profile. He’d made a classic mistake nearly two years ago, the one he swore he would never make when he left the academy. It was just a rookie mistake; he had stolen something from his employers. He still wasn’t sure how he was caught, not that he cared anymore. He’d expected to die, but his employees only smiled, reassuring him that it would never happen again.

They demoted him for sure but that was the least of his problem. When he got home, he found his wife’s disassembled body in the bedroom, deep maroon blood drenching the room and the foul scent of decay.

The damage was minute, subtle but utterly effective.

For Zarachie, he worked the next day. He had nothing to live for, but he couldn’t escape from the mechanization of work. He had devoted his entire body to one field, and now he was a prisoner of the flesh.

He swore never to make the same mistake again.

Two blocks west of the Iron Rose, Zarachiel found himself in an innocuous tavern called the New Heaven. Like most of the buildings in Baal-Hazor, the tavern’s neon pink and blue signs illuminated the nocturnal avenues, lights piercing the darkness like the angel of old. Zarachiel found himself a booth in the back, watching bar patrons enter as he washed down the bitter sting in his mouth with a double espresso.

All around him, he stared at reflections of himself. New Heaven was decorated with mirrors on every panel that scattered the neon lights that shone from the ceiling. It was disorienting at first, but eventually, one got used to it. He got used to it eventually, his job certainly had a play in that.

He chugged down another shot of double espresso, eying the door warily as he fidgeted with a flat pink octagon, his holodisk that recorded his activity.

To him, Baal-Hazor was like a deranged experiment in which Social Darwinism prevailed, all designed by a bored researcher who kept one hand on the throttle. It was survival of the strongest, even down here, in the lowest of the low, this was seen as the patron mingled amongst themselves carefully.

He spent years down here, sitting at this table and pondering the exact nature of the Baal-Hazor social web. At first, he assumed that the strongest were of course the loudest, the men who boast amongst themselves of their political achievements while the scavengers and outcasts sat idling underneath the shadow, watching and performing their illicit activity.

After all, it was common knowledge that if one stops hustling, then one sank without a trace, forever disappearing into this myriad social web. Move a little two swiftly and you make yourself an enemy, breaking the delicate surface tension of this experiment. Either way, you died, your body becoming nothing but dust.

But it occurred to him that he was perhaps wrong. Those who dwelt in the shadows thrive on being underestimated, they know how to survive against all odds like city vermin. The politicians and city men did not know the struggle of the working soldier, nor could they fathom the hardships they had endured. Sometimes, it was a wonder why those who dealt in the shadow never rose against these self-proclaimed men but then he remembered why.

It was his biz that kept things in motion, his job, bringing swift retribution to the Emperor’s enemy. That was why he had the Animus, to explore the enemy subconscious to root out insurrections. In an era when enlightenment has been erased, they have been summoned, they were his executioners against the stalwart enemy, subjugators of the mass to obtain blissful sleep. Being an Observer was a testament to His Will, and death was the acceptable punishment for laziness, lack of grace, carelessness, and failure to adhere to His Will.

He stared at the black ring of ground in his cup as he watched his captain appear from the corner of his eye. The glossy black of the table was worn, neon red illuminating its depths as he picked at a patina of scratches that carved gorges into its sleek surface. Like the city, New Heaven retained an uneasy blend of Japanese architectural style and pale Arabian style, but through its rather faux exterior, everything seemed to have a subtle tint, like a foggy mirror that was near impossible to miss or wipe away.

“If it ain’t my old pal, Z…..”

Zarachiel looked up, meeting two stormy gray eyes underlined with neon green paint. She was wearing a faded crop top, the bottom fringed from service and a sleek silver spiked bracer decorated with an eye sigil on her bare arm.

“I’ve been looking for you!” she shouted, barring white pointed teeth that glowed sickly underneath the fluorescent lighting as she casually slid into the seat. Her bright pink hair was pulled back in a sharp mohawk, and her face was adorned with neon pink and green tattoos.

She dug a crumpled pack of yen from her ankle pocket, slamming them down on the table proudly as she grabbed the tablet from him. “So how was the job? You look tired as hell Zarachiel!” Another wild grin followed, and her accent put her south along the Imperium borders, toward New Atlanta. Ever since he knew her from cadet school, he had always known she was badass; the thin triad of white scar across her cheek she had always boasted about to anyone who would care to listen. The pattern of the dot on her face reminded him of microcircuits or a city map etched out in neon.

Simply badass.

“Not if I remember to take my meds Sathariel,” he said, as a tangible wave of grief and longing hit him, riding on a wave of depression. Talking to his boss brought a wave of memory of his dear wife Zaqiel; he remembered the scent of a strong batch of coffee in the morning as the sun splintered ray illuminating their kitchen.

The love we had, he thought, sipping another cup of double espresso, never fades for it is like the golden glow of the evening, always there to guide you.

“Good,” she replied, narrowing her eyes, “Got another job for you by Wrench.” She lit herself a cigar, blowing a couple of smoke rings before fishing out a light neon tablet. Sathariel slid it in his direction, flicking the cigar on the floor before crushing it with her iron boot.

“Why the hell are you talking to Wrench!”

She narrowed her eyes, staring at him with a mix of fury, and he instantly regretted raising his voice as he shrank back into his seat. “You seriously better watch it. Remember our job.”

“Fatum est eternus. Omnis animus quirito pro salus. Ibi est haud salus sine dolor,” he mumbled as he picked up the tablet, feeling its etched line. It was etched in their brains; it was a part of him as much as his body. Their job was to the Emperor, they had no use for grudge, and it served him no purpose as he clutched his drink.

“You need to do good on this job. This could change everything,” she said, staring at him with those pale gray eyes as she stood up. There was nothing in them, everything he could see was already read. “Watch your back!”

Zarachiel nodded, anxious for her to leave as he watched her turn around and leave, the swinging plastic doors that lead to the back of the cafe swinging shut. He closed his eyes, watching yet still feeling the bright cage of red neon lights that pricked his skin. Clutching the neon disk, he slid it into the compartment in his Animus, letting the information download into his brain as he stood up. Reaching into his windbreaker pocket, he grabbed a wad of crumpled paper before placing it on the table.

He smiled upon hearing the familiar chime in his head as he walked out in the pouring rain, walking in the direction of his next job.