You end up taking the internal earpiece you need for the big day and leap into your old battered Coil electric car, battered and dirtied from decades of grime. You head into the city, the electronic billboards blurring in your windshield and irritating your irises as you make the drive down to the arthouse cafe. Charlotte, just like any other big city nowadays, saw many opportunities for what was to come. Most feared it, and that’s why they loved it. To watch or to indulge.
And the lucky ones will fulfill those dreams, no matter that cost. But the cost doesn’t matter. You and many others know the cost is the best part.
A33’s arthouse cafe was an emporium of the greatest modern out. When most think of a typical cafe, one might think of a cozy, quiet spot on the corner of their local plaza. But here, the cafe was a large, silicon complex that spanned an entire plaza. Many statues were decorated the courtyard, silver figures with plaques underneath them that were dedicated to many artists that had inspired so many to follow in their footsteps. Bilal. Abramovic. Pavlensky. All were names of trailblazers not recognized in their time. It’s too bad. You would have loved to study them when they were alive. We all do.
When you step out onto the fresh concrete, you’re met with an eerie yet familiar silence. The parking lot is dense, lined with all the latest models of the current generation, and quite a few that are muddied and broken from decades long gone. A few people would shamble past you– some netheads and some organics. Most of the netheads that pass you by as you walk up the marble steps stare dully ahead of themselves, almost falling over themselves as they drag their feet across the floor. You could recognize that they were plugged in, vacant and bored of the lives they lead. If you were being honest with yourself, you were beginning to sympathize with them; you wouldn’t call yourself ‘plugged in,’ but you acknowledge that you had begun to approach that point; it has become so tantalizing to buy the newest upgrade, and continue expanding your capabilities. Stronger. Faster. Able to think a mile a minute and calculate any advanced problem in seconds. It feels like your body can do what it needs to do on its own without barely any effort being put into the thought of it.
Roll out of bed. Feed Clarence. Go to work. Come home. Feed Clarence. Sleep. Roll out of bed. Feed Clarence. Go to work. Come home. Feed Clarence. Sleep. Roll out of bed. Feed Clarence. Quit work. Come home. Feed Clarence. Sleep. You’re aching for something to break the formula, and you can’t wait for the glorious moment it does. Your heart needs to pump. Harder. Harder. Harder still.
Stepping inside, a sickeningly-sanitized scent fills your lungs, as if the staff had deep-cleaned the entire building from the last few days you last came here. The place was laid out like a theatre, with tables spread all around a dimly-lit auditorium. Overhanging the tables were several sets of monitors currently buzzing with static sounds, with prominent plug-ins on the front for special interactive moments with the audience. A stage was set at the far back, usually decorated for an opening performance only to be disassembled for a rare main event. Today, in the center of the stage, laid several sets of barbed wire, along with a dugout full of dirt and cement. Wooden crossbeams littered the spaces that had some freedom from the serrated metal, and a large row of old rifles set up just a hair above the dugout atop metallic mounts. Within the dugout, squirming and heavily breathing, was an older man.
You lean forward as your vision zoomed in to get a clearer image of him. He was around the age of 50 with the grayness in his beard, though the vivid color in his eyes, the shine of his teeth, and the plate at the back of his head indicated that he was probably a nethead. His clothes had been torn up, and his arms were reddened and coarse from likely hours of slithering in the dirt. His body had fragments of the barb mixed in with the dirt sprouting from off-angles, as if he had been squirming in the mess for hours on end.
Despite all of that, and despite the nervousness in his face, and the outright horror as the guns shot blank shots over his head every now and again… he was still smiling. As the guns fired, he let out a gasp, yet an almost playful giggle seemed to irradiate from his throat in a metallic rattle– there was joy in the suffering. Even if the pain looked the slightest bit gratuitous to you, however… there is a part of you that enjoys it, who wants to be a part of it even. It’s not your personal taste, but… the rush, the emotion… that’s what makes these so valuable.
You glance around; there were a few who showed signs of interest, and those who didn’t have their eyes glued to the monitors above their tables. An organic might wince or turn for some time while watching every now and then, but even they weren’t immune to the art in front of them.
What did it mean? It had something to do with war, you knew. You just needed some time to think about it a little more. Your brain didn’t recognize the violence itself; it was merely a vessel for your thought of the implications it had on the greater society. The greater purpose and meaning of the act in front of you. You even saw yourself in the man in the moment. His joy. His excitement. His fear. You-
“You there!” You turn after the snobbish voice of the man softly radiates through the auditorium, temporarily hazing away your focus. He was sitting at a table a quarter across the cafe, a half-eaten cinnamon roll sitting in front of him with a side of tea. The steam from it softly caressed the side of his face. Two people were by his side– conductors. Their wide, black hats barely overshadow the masks that show an exaggerated and painful smile and frown respectively for each of them. They move slowly, yet with a purpose. They were the ones who ran the show for A33, and they are just as unnerving in person as they are behind the screen.
An ever-so-slight smile creeps on his face as he ushers you over, and you reluctantly oblige. Samson Thomas was a tall, lanky man, standing like a tower above you when you had first met. His face was without any cybernetics, but it somehow looked more uncanny than most netheads; his eyes were sunken above dark circles that spanned a little bit lower than they should have. His suit was a dauntingly dull grey color while his tie spiraled in black and white. He would refasten it around his neck often with the clearing of his throat, and when he raised his hand to his collar, you could see the indication of grizzled and scarred skin on his arm. His eyes had remained half-open every time you’ve seen him, never leaving a vacant leer that he would give to all those whom he gazed down upon. And when he spoke, his voice creaked like the caw of a crow and hung in the air like a broken wire.
“It’s a pleasure to see that you’ve made it in a timely manner. How was the trip here?” He glances at the figures to his right and left frequently.
“It wasn’t anything special. Same old street. Same old billboards. Same old city. That’s why I’m here, y’know.” You lean back in your seat a tad.
Samson takes a careful sip of his tea. “Yes, yes, you aren’t the first of my clientele that has had such sentiments. Cybernetically-enhanced individuals such as yourself aren’t particularly easy to please.”
“On the contrary, it seems like everyone here’s roped into the latest… performance.” You took a glance at the stage again, barely able to tear your eyes away from it.
“And are you not entertained?”
“I would be lying if I said it wasn’t interesting. It speaks to me; it makes me think. I’m still wondering what it means.”
The tinge of a smirk escapes Samson’s face. He gazes upon the stage, appearing to be more than pleased when the guns shoot off their blanks once again. “People from all around the world come to places such as this to express their deepest passions and fears through the art of performance; people like us are left to interpret it as we see fit. Take this man for example. Miller Fox. He came to me some time ago, wanting something that could show him the excitement that he used to have in his life as a soldier before he stuck too many of those tacky chips in his head. Now look at him, expressing just how much his mind was a slave to his past, stuck within the trenches of war.”
“Is that what it’s supposed to mean?”
“Of course. Can you not see it yourself? But, even if it’s not, art is subjective, is it not? My interpretation holds very little weight compared to your own, even if it comes from experience.”
“... Yeah. I bet that’s what everyone cares about. Your experience.”
His expression tensed at the slightest indication of challenge. Samson is praised as an excellent manager, but he praises himself to be a critic. Unfortunately, he fails to realize that you and no one else gave a damn about what he says. His word isn’t going to encourage or deter you from what you want to see, no matter how important he insists that his word matters.
He raises his glass once again, though he seems to guzzle the rest of his drink down until his cheeks swell for half a second before he swallows. He opens his mouth to say something, takes a look at the two beside him, and sits back in his chair with a dejected look. The two conductors stare at him for a brief moment, before one turns to you. The faint indication of eyes within the abyssal sockets above the painful smile on their mask makes you suddenly uncomfortable in your seat. A masculine whisper exudes from its throat.
“We have collaborated on your performance. We have done our research– your act shall be crafted perfectly for your… position.”
“And here I thought I would be coming up with the idea.”
“Your thoughts have been considered, but we insist… you will certainly be pleased and crave more for what we have planned. Our kind… always do. Through the ribcage… your inhibitions will be released.”
You feel your heart begin to pound. Fear? Excitement? Maybe a mix of both. The two of them stand up; the main monitor on the stage buzzes to life, displaying a countdown to thirty minutes from now. You take one last look at Samson as you stand up to head to the backstage zone; the rumors of rows upon rows of rooms of countless artists behind the curtain buzz in your head. And the last person to see you as you are now only waves at you with a pompous grin and a silver fork in his mouth.
You hope that you won’t end up like Clarence.
***
You are led into the backstage area, and it’s just as the rumors described; a long row of doorways lined a long hallway, darkness enveloping the open rooms. “Gateways,” one of the conductors calls them when you ask about them. You continue walking for a few moments before finally stopping at one of them at the far end of the corridor, where they tell you to take the earpiece you brought from your home and bring it to them. They fasten you to a gurney-like device that you know is typically used for surgical procedures, even if it looks as if it were some kind of horrifying trap in one of the dozens of movies generated this decade. A spider-like set of claws move around you, one that will take care of the procedure and another to stick you with a local anesthetic. The sharpest pain lasts for only a second, before a series of only light dull pains. You barely notice it, though. You are too focused on this very moment; a grandiose feeling. The red static in your eyes that you’ve seen so many times before returns, growing with your anticipation.
Once your procedure is complete, you stand up and walk with the two conductors once again as they march as if on a routine. You can feel your heart throbbing and tingling in your chest, the static in your eyes fogging up your vision as you make it to your final destination. The conductors turn on a dime and face you, gazing upon you with expectation. They raise their arms and motion for you to step in, and before you enter, you notice a sign above the doorway– the art piece’s name is barely visible in your blurred vision: “Je–o-s W–s.”
When you step inside the room, the conductors proceed to slam the doors shut, filling you with nothing but black. The stench of the room is horrific; a coalition of fresh, wet scents that cause the nose to tingle and the eyes to water. The air is oddly moist when you take a breath in. You wait for a few seconds, then a few minutes. Then several. You are waiting for something to happen. Anything. The silence was so deafening that even the sounds of your breathing were even beginning to become compromised. Until suddenly…
There is a faint whisper that comes from beside you. “Why?” It asks you. You perk up and look around. Nothing.
“Why do you exist?” Another voice. One that you find vaguely familiar, but cannot discern who belongs to fully. You know you’ve heard it before.
“I can feel you. We see you. We want to feel you.”
The voices began to pick up. A pair of eyes appear in front of you. The scleras are illuminated, but the irises are a dull black. They’re curious. Interested. Yet lifeless.
“So pretty.”
“Do something. Do something.”
The voices begin to stack on top of each other. You can feel them piercing your brain. You feel them almost poking and prodding at your brain. You could have sworn something brushed against your body.
“We can say anything?”
“I want to see them. All of them.”
“Peel the worthless fucker off the stage.”
More eyes began to fill the room. The lights around their eyes begin to illuminate the room.
The static is burning your eyes. It irritates them. You feel the urge to tear them from your sockets. Maybe you should.
The voices begin together; a wail of whispers. Soon, the room fills with nothing but obscenities of vague voices of the past and present. You can hear slurs. Obscenities. Infatuations. Confusions. Drooling, mindless excitement.
You could have sworn this has been going on for hours. And hours. And hours. The whispers fluctuate– they die down only to fill your ears with their unfiltered frustrations. Their pain and pleasures. As the hours go by, you can start to see their faces. Some with wide grins, some that reach farther than others. Some drooped faces from failed procedures. Some stone-faced, looking with wide eyes with no emotion. You can hear their breathing. It matches yours. It quickens. It quickens still.
You feel it. What you wanted. The static has completely enveloped your eyes. You feel your body wriggling. Tingling. Like hands are pawing and grabbing at your body. Their hands. The faces in front of you blend together into nothing but a sea of eyes. A oil painting of mishapen smiles. The noise has begun to meld into white noise. You think you pull your hair. You think you scratch yourself. You think you laugh or cry. You can’t tell which. It doesn’t matter.
This is bliss. Your name doesn’t matter. Your gender doesn’t matter. Your appearance doesn’t matter. Your body doesn’t matter. Your age doesn’t matter. Your life doesn’t matter. Perform.
You are the life they desire. You are the entertainment.
You are a Crowdpleaser.