My eyes flick down. In my slicked palm is a crunked-up G3P Glock. Thing is, the barrel jacket is sagging. Probably melted by one of those plasma blasts before I got here. Fat lot of good that wad of steel's going to do me.
This bob I'm in doesn't know it though. My finger tugs at the trigger. It won't budge. In a jerk, the hand tosses the Glock to the pavement.
Eyes flick to my other hand. In it is a rusted shiv-like thing, looking like a pen swelling with green slime. It can only be a makeshift injector. Before I can be sure though, the hand is jamming the needle end into the other arm.
Blistered grace, vibrating warmth, heart-thumping acuity -- a mix of all the senses and one hell of a boost. Whatever you want to call it, a wave of pins and needles washes through every nerve in my body. This body isn't my own, but I feel it all. And I've never felt so alive!
Clenched calves spring me up. Tensed fingers grapple crumbling wall. My eyes shoot to the thug as I hop into the open. Every muscle, every nerve is awake, ready and hyper-stimulated.
The thug's eyes are wide. His brow is cascading sweat. That stringy twist of leather looks a lot less tough with all that fear streaming down his face.
Now! My legs launch me at the thug, sprinting, leaping, bounding toward the now trembling man.
In the blur, I feel a phrase burst from my lips. "Just try and get me now, you fuck!"
The thug shakes a foot back. I lunge into the air. He points the rifle. My rippling arms lash out. A scream. He fires and--
The world freezes. Mid-air, arms posed for the punch, plasma burning into me, glowing like a florescent bulb -- I am a portrait. This room becomes a freezeframe.
Wake up! The urge is now screaming through my brain. It is impossible to ignore. Like a babe pulled screaming from the womb, I'm torn out of Fugitive 3751. For a moment, I see him below me, like I'm some angelic observer. Then -- snap -- he is gone. All is gone. Reality splits into hues. It swirls. It fades. Darkness swallows all again.
Wake up! The urge pulses again. I resist. I push back. I pull for the light. The colors bubble back. Hues flicker and pop. I'm so close.
Wake up! Fizzle. The dream is completely gone now. The nothing is deeper. It's no use. I give in.
* * *
I open my eyes to the dull rays of morning streaked across a pallid ceiling. I am back in the real real world. And just like in my dream, the world forms, shapes and focuses as I blink out the sleep. Blink, a wall-length window, morning glowing through the blinds. Blink, a Tensai IV Terminal crunching code silently on my desk. Blink, a pile of skag rags is stacked to the ceiling. Blink, a cracked mirror reminds me how I should be ten pounds heavier and three shades darker to be even close to resembling a proper citizen. Yup, back to my real home. Back to the real world. Back to my real life. Sigh.
With a last loud yawn, I sit up inside the Lucid Dreaming chamber and kick off my covers. It's then that I see what pulled me out of my sleep -- the doorbell is buzzing. A monitor in the chamber blinks that it has been for the past three minutes.
I slip out of the chamber like toothpaste –- slow and lumpy –- my feet spilling into a pair of slippers. In a loud stretch, I lean out of the tube, grab my robe, and step over a jar of crystal lube, three open skag rags and a softWindow amping off a compiler -- remnants of last nights clustergeeking festivities.
All of that should have been enough entertainment for one night. It should have been enough fun to stay away from Fugitive. I mean, I'm supposed to be lying low, getting away from anything that could attract attention. I'm supposed to be resting up for our New Dawn gig. I know Tom is. But I just couldn't help myself. I just had to have my Fugitive fix. I mean, how is anyone supposed to be satisfied with this lifeless existence after experiencing that?
But I'm not worried. There's no way the cops could possibly find out that I had jacked into the Fugitive broadcast. I know I'm at least that good.
Waddling like a penguin, I scoot into the living room. On the other side of my cramped pad, the peephole monitor on the door is lit up.
Stepping up to the monitor, I stop. My eyes lock onto two figures on the screen.
My heart jumps.
It's the cops!
Crap, crap.
A Reality of Fiction
Coming Nov 3 2014
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