This is for my kids

 

Earlier this morning the weather android said it would be grey skies with a heavy chance of rain, same as it was for the past forty-eight years in Neo Chicago. My broken-down Toyota 2112 Highlander was leaking from the windows again and unfortunately, I forgot to buy the cybertape to fix the hole that my grandfather made when he crashed it as a teen. Annoyances were adding up as the traffic on the I-190 was murder. Aerocars clogged together like the arteries of a man who lived off of Taco Queen. I tried to let it not bother me and I called up my Grandfather’s old Spotify playlist to listen to some Golden Oldies, the voice of Billie Ellish filling my aerocar with melancholy and nostalgia.


An hour of slow travel later I finally arrived at my apartment, take a turn off Lightfoot lane to find a respectable old Chicago building. Gray stucco walls built over a century ago and definitely showed it. The Windows were an okay place to raise a family, the name coming from the fact that this apartment complex was the only apartment complex in all of the Eighteenth District to have real life windows in their apartments. Those windows were a greater badge of honor than a 2358 Ferrari, A constant reminder to me that I was unworthy. I only lived here because a friend of mine from college, Carey, owned the joint and let me crash here for free. As I pulled past the laser gate and snuggled my car into the cell it was assigned. I began my slow ascent to my apartment. My suit was soaked from all the rainwater and I needed a shower.


I opened the door to apartment 44, It was dark, I forgot to turn on the lights that morning. I stepped into the threshold and saw what always looked back at me. My apartment was a simple affair, a two bedroom with living room, the living room was simple, a buttery faux leather couch overlooking a sizeable screen. I flicked a switch and the synthetic fireplace turned on, giving this place a dark, unearthly atmosphere. The fire’s light licked over the walls of the room, covering pictures of our wedding, Darek’s first time riding a holobike, our family portraits and all our memories in a soft orange haze. I stepped forward and heard a crunching sound, looking down I saw the bent and broken face of one of my Cera’s dolls. I swept it aside and sunk into the couch. I could hear the pitter patter of rain upon the glass, the only noise in the whole apartment echoing quietly through the dark. I closed my eyes and let my mind wander. I thought of the news, incurable the doctors told her. But she still fought. She tried her best, but in the end, it wasn’t worth the effort. Breaking out of the past I decided to watch a good tragedy to clear my mind, I called up my answering Android.


“Computer, play the last three messages.”


“Zzrt... last three message play back...”


The first act monologue was played by the role of a pale android dressed in a nurses outfit, informing me that Darek and Cera’s conditions hadn’t changed, that the symptoms of … whatever it was called, some obscure Latin name I couldn’t pronounce were mostly dormant, but could wake up any day now, informing me yet again that the price to save my children’s life would be Five-Hundred Thousand, and to contact my insurance for more information.


Act two began with the calm and gentle face of the Devil himself, Mr. Acthung. Informing me with a smile that it was his great displeasure to inform me that the Insurance policy our company used didn’t cover this illness, and that he was... truly sorry for my loss. An excellent performance that critics would call a delightful simulacrum of a man pretending to be human.


I told the answering machine to wait as I got up for an intermission, walking into the dirty kitchen, overrun with filthy plates, muddy glasses, and the detrius of a man who had completely given up, I ordered my proverbial popcorn and soda, A bottle of Jack Daniels, and returned to my seat for the thrilling conclusion.


The dramatic act three was controversial amongst cinephiles, as the director boldly chose to not grant our hero a respite of hope, for the real world doesn’t always have a happy ending. The ugly, warted face of Mr. Johnson, the manager of New Verity bank filled my screen with the faux sympathy of a man who really enjoyed making poor people suffer. Informing our hero in no uncertain terms that unfortunately the bank would not provide a loan to people of such... disreputable backgrounds, you understand, and recommended that I speak with my employer if the need really mattered that much.


And then cut to black, I didn’t want to applaud. As my good buddy Jack soothed the wounds, I heard a new sound I hadn’t heard before in the several times I had seen this story play out before, a light beeping noise.


“zrrt... One new message.”


Filling the screen was my only rock I had left. Carey was a simple man, long and lanky with a simple dress shirt and jacket with no tie. One would be forgiven for thinking that Carey’s father was secretly a globe, cause every aspect of his face was circular, a circular head, with a round shaped nose, round eyes, and round curly hair.


“Hey man, just calling in to check up on you, Sorry I was away on... business shall we say. I heard about Emily and the kids. Please, call me if there’s anything I can do.”


The machine flicked off, leaving me with the dark reflection of myself. Loose salt and pepper hair that used to be a thick healthy black. Thick stress lines that cut deep like canyons across my face. My unkempt gray suit and blue tie were still moist with rain, and I noticed the third button was missing from my jacket. I didn’t care. My hands rough and coarse, fake E-rolex on one, a tan line from where my wedding ring was on the other. I sighed; I knew what I had to do.


Carey told me to meet him at the Little Panda Diner, A place with a reputation that everyone in the eighteenth district knew. The little panda diner is one of the oldest, dirtiest, diners in all of Neo Chicago. Whether the dirtiness refers to the establishment or clientele has yet to be confirmed by a third-party source. Built ages ago by an immigrant with a dream from IChina, It is found by taking a right on Thunberg street down to the edge of the District 18 airdome lock. Built into the wall of the airdome itself, you are greeted with a smiling cartoon panda sticker plastered onto the brown windows, peeled from age so much that it looked more like zebra then a panda, once you force open the pale green door your sinuses are immediately mugged at knifepoint by the acrid stench of burnt peanut oil and soy sauce. The floor of the little panda was back in the old days a simple black and white checkered pattern, now gray with the blanket of dusted snuggled an inch thick on the ground. The room was haphazardly scattered with small brightly colored plastic tables strewn about like a toddler spilling its cyber M&Ms on the ground. Crammed thick on the tables like sardines were various menu tablets, cleaning lasers, hardlight chopsticks, and synthetic soy sauces. The whole room saturated in a green hazy light from the hololamps that were flickering with an unnatural staccato, the room would feel less claustrophobic but the but the layers of dirt on the windows were trapping the light, like a spider on its sticky web within the room. The pitter patter of rain upon the windows creating a dissonant syncopation that accompanied surreal movements, as the rain drops on the dirt of the windows gave it the look as if the windows were undulating. All overseen by a light humming from the chef behind the low countertop. As he let the android work as the waiter, an odd sight indeed in these years, preferring to man the grills himself. A thick cloud of smoke from the sizzling chicken steamed up the chef's horn-rimmed glasses, perspiration from the effort clinging to the hairs on his mustache and occasionally dripping down into the Moo Goo Gai Pan.


Carey was sitting at a table by the undulating windows, He was dressed to the nines as usual. We’d been friends for years, even with him choosing... that kind of lifestyle. I walked over to him and sat down. He smiled lightly and said:


"One General Tso's chicken for you, and one egg fried rice for me."


"Oh, thank you, Emily used to love this place."


I sniffed the chicken, it still carried that same smell from when we were just a bunch a kids ordering cheap takeout to facilitate a night of romance.


"You know I think they changed the recipe, at least since the last time I was here."


"Ah dammit, they forgot the rice."


"Really? sorry, you want some of mine?"


"No, it's alright, I'll suffer through it."


One of the first tricks I picked up in business school , was to make your client feel like you owed them, by denying Carey’s rice I was hoping to subconsciously make him want to help me, true what I was asking for was a lot bigger than some rice but I had to try.


"So... how are the kids doing?"


"... Not great."


"...the hospital bills I'm guessing?"


I swallowed, This wasn’t easy


"They want Five hundred thousand for treatment, I-I don't have that kind of money."


"Jesus"


"God Bless America am I right?"


"It's utterly criminal what these insurance companies would do for a quick buck, trust me I would know. Anyway, with the pleasantries out of the way. what's this I hear about you wanting to rob a bank?"


I gulped, him saying it out loud just made it … real somehow, before it was just some idea in the back of my head, some childlike dream of getting revenge against those that hurt me, but now, with Carey’s confident, well dressed gaze leveed at me, it felt less like a dream, and more like reality.


“Well, y-yes I was hoping that you could help me with... Your talents. I mean I help you with your talents, I mean I help me with-”


“It’s alright, I get it.” Carey cuts me off. He sighs and slowly raises some rice to his lips and thoughtfully chews.


“I know you need the money, but have you really thought about this? I mean, if your kids find out.”


“That’s a risk I have to take.” Gaining courage, I took my chance and kept pushing.


“Carey, I have no other options, I can’t get a loan, my insurance doesn’t cover it, I need that money, no matter what.”


Carey sighed again, weighing the rice on his hardlight chopsticks as if he were weighing the options in front of him.


“Alright, there is one job I could use your help with, if successful you’ll have your money and your kids will be fine, as long as you’re not afraid.”


“I’m not, I have to do this.”


Carey finished his rice, and cracked open a fortune cookie, he held up one to me.


“Fortune cookie?"


"Sure why not." I grabbed one, Carey read the little slip of paper on his.


"'Don't wait for your ship to come, swim out to it.'"


"Huh, what's that mean?"


"No idea, and yours?"


I cracked mine open.


"Wow, you've got to be kidding me."


"What is it?" "'A great fortune is in your future."


Carey smiled, humor dancing in his eyes.


"Really? boy isn't that ironic."





I waited in the large black Dodge 2400 Ram van, a haze of black from the sunglasses over my face giving everything a sinister tint to it. I sat and looked over the New Versera bank. The bank was a modern building, twisted steel walls that somehow managed to glow despite the heavy storm clouds pouring down from above. The building emanated power and prestige, the air felt thick in that way that it does when you were visiting a famous monument constructed ages ago. The importance of what you are standing next to practically choking you. I sighed and leaned back in the driver’s seat, reminding myself of my task for the twentieth time to make sure I didn’t screw up. I sighed and looked to my left. Between me and the door was a heavy Mk.330 Smith&Wesson blaster. I was scared to have it, but Carey assured me using a blaster was easy. Just point and shoot, the complex series of gleaming black tubes and cylinders were just for show he told me were just a force of habit from the designers, who used to build handguns back in the olden days. The soothing melodies of BIllie Ellish from the radio wasn’t coming my nerves, nor was the visit from my good friend Jack Daniels. I stopped. What was I doing? I was just a simple businessman, I shouldn’t be here, I should be at home, with my kids, I should be working on paperwork, I should be doing anything but sitting here in an aerocar waiting as my friend and his gang robbed one of the richest banks in all of Neo Chicago. I could feel the sweat pooling underneath my collar, a felt feverish and scared. So, I forced myself to repeat a simple prayer over and over.


“This is for my kids.”


“This is for my kids.”


“This is for my kids.


I heard shouting in the distance, screams and loud tinny whirring sounds of blaster fire so I spoke louder


“This is for my kids.”


“This is for my kids.”


I heard a rapping sound on the window, a thickly mustached man in a security coat motioned for me to roll down my window. As I did a cloud of e-cig smoke invaded my mouth and nostrils.


“Sir, there is a situation happening at the bank, I’m going to have to ask you to move.”


My insides were screaming in fear and horror, but the smoke from the cig clouded my mind in a haze and I did the only thing I could. Continue the vigil.


“This is for my kids.”


“Excuse me?”


“This is for my kids.”


“Sir, what are you saying?”


“This is for my kids.”


The security guard slowly put his hand to his hips, resting them lightly on the blaster there, whilst undoing the buckle he said:


“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the vehicle.”


Terror gripped my thoughts as I found myself unable to say anything else. Knowing I only had one option my hand crept to the blaster at my side, I only had one option left.


“This is for my kids.”


“Sir, Step out of the Vehicle!”


“T-this is for my kids.”


As if we were two actors who had been training for the scene for months, we simultaneously pulled the blasters up, At the last moment however I faltered, how could I kill this man? He was just doing his job. And I resigned myself to the fate I was given.


My face became a Jackson Pollock canvass as the security guards blood splattered across it and he inside of the car. Carey stood behind the hulking mass of flesh that used to be a man, blaster in hand. The rest was a blur of motion as the gang piled into the van with their sacks of money. They were screaming as a dixieland jazz concert of noise erupted around me but I had no idea what was said or done, for as I punched the aerocar down the highway, screaming police mechs behind us Only one thought remained in my head.


“This is for my kids.”