Day 13:Van

11 pm

The sound of thunder rips across the Dome. Storm, shaking the world, storm awaking the globe.

The only light that sick glow of telly blasting through my living room. I struggle, my eyes closing again, but another thunder blast, sending me upwards into the dark—one by one, the lights since my life signs. Forcing myself to my feet as I stumble towards the bathroom as the path lights up.

As I stand there, the path to the bathroom is leading me to relive myself. My hand resting on the cold wall as the lighting crashes once more.

My vision hazy from that joint and from that drink. My body is moving back now into the living room as the telly drops down. My house knows me well, flicking to the news.

A freak storm, attacking the Dome and noting that it seemed to be a hacked into the weather system. I am picking up my black death, placing one between my lips, flicking my lighter. The tobacco is filling my maw as I suck it deep down into my lungs.

Smoke organizes my thoughts into a razor line as I move to the windows watching it rage out there, over the poor. They will drown, but it was a war zone, and I know in the AM. The hack would be over, and dead gangers and no real cause of death, the weather master was back.

The Weatherman hacks into the system, making it his weapon of chaos. Uses the weather itself to distract, to cause havoc, to kill. See, the thing is the Dome has no real climate. This AI runs it called the Sunny protocol.

But, Weatherman is whispers tricks, works his magic removing the AI from the sector. Replacing it with his desires, he has hit everything up to 12. But 13 to 20 where us Corporate Citizens live, seem to be immune to his tricks, or he has yet to do it.

As I exhale the smoke into the air, RED blink bottom left-hand corner. A private DM, swiping with my right hand, the left now holding my cigarette.

<Buddy> Randy, co-worker

<Hello, there, Mr. Defrienas.> ME

<Got a report for you, you know smooth sailing but a little bump.> Randy.

<Send it through the proper channels.> Me

<Nah, urgent sending live feed.> Randy's eye starts to thump, his vision beginning to send back images to me.

The image bar, cheap rundown somewhere, they should not be. As I watch, there is a bunch of men with large mohawks. Inside of the back of the van, three suits new to the company, getting taken. Randy is an informant, not a real suit, not a real person.

<Randy, who they get.> Me

<Three, Doctor Elias, Doctor Peterson, Mr. Allen.> Randy

<Fuck, I'm on it. Picture of the plates, I'll save the file.> ME

Work hit like a fucking mac truck, on this night of all nights. That was Sector 9, bar for corporates to buy some tail. Young naughty, flesh for the highest bidders. I mean, not like the slummers had the money or the time to chase it for moola.

Blood on the dance floor, skulls in the tea. Dead zones in the back as I scan all those images. The beep of the tag, as I exhale the smoke. Fucking, Hell now than it is waiting game for ransom or body parts. But, it's going to be a long one, sending a message to the Security commander.

Beep Beep. Boop Boop. That was the sound the world makes when it's all hitting the fucking fan. So many voices and some many faces, now to run em the fuck down. Logging out, time to find my victims.