Ride | A flash fiction story
50 of đź’Ż
Miranda bounced up and down on the passenger seat as the sixteen-wheeler sped through the collection of holes the driver called a road, a trail of dust following them.
“So…” Silence made her uncomfortable. “This is a big truck. Does it fit in the streets of Argon?”
“You’ve never been, huh?” The driver was wearing a dark leather jacket with only one arm — too warm for the heat of the wastelands.
She shook her head.
“Argon doesn’t have streets, kid. Not like you’re imagining. Nobody has cars there — why would they? That’s stupid.”
Miranda already regretted having started a conversation. She tried to make herself smaller on the worn leather of her seat.
“There are subways hobos call home on a never-ending ride around the city. There are trams with separate carts for service bots and people — though they all smell of pee, somehow. And sidewalks with ads so bright they can blind you — trust me, that's why I have barely any vision left. There are dark sidewalks too, but you’ll wanna stay away from those."
He cleared his throat and swallowed something. Miranda looked beyond the empty horizon, questioning a few decisions.
"In Argon, people walk, kid — except when you’re disabled and too poor for prosthetics." He knocked on one of his thighs and a hollow tin sound filled the cabin. "Some people prefer to not walk at all. They spend their days in pods and rigs — in the Aether — relishing the fake reality they pay a moronic amount to enjoy. It’s all fake, anyway: things in the ads, the sense of safety, friendships, happiness… none of it is real.”
He coughed and spat an obscene amount of mucus out the window. Then he rubbed his lips with the back of his hand and smirked at her. “The real world sucks, anyway. You’re gonna love it in there.”
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