A while later a loud ding from the printer machine woke him up from where he’d fallen asleep on his black leather-like couch. He checked it. Two packages, the ring and the tablet. The ring was black and the tablet was red. Charlie must have chosen the colors for him. Suatre felt that warm glow again.

They both came with instructions for use, but he barely understood them. The tablet turned on and the ring had a little glowing light on the inside, so it seemed to be on too. He put the ring on and tried to operate the printer, waving his hand around at it, but the holoscreen that popped up didn’t react to him.

He sat and held the tablet. In his old life, he could remember computers, and smart phones, neither of which he’d seen here yet. He’d never been good with technology even then. The internet was too confusing. He wondered if the Link was the internet. He wondered what the implant did and if he could get one. If he’d want one.

He opened what looked like a search bar in the tablet screen and typed in a band name. He had been missing music so badly. The search didn’t have any results. He wasn’t even sure if he was on the internet or what. He felt simultaneously too old and too young.

Bored and restless, he put his new hoodie and coat back on and left, walking to the grocery center. He needed a special cupcake. He hoped his sad attempt at canvassing had earned him one.

It turned out it had. He brought home a small cake decorated like a beach, the ocean washing up over sandcastles and seashells.

He went to the cafe down the road and found out they served beer. He hadn’t had a drink in so long, despite the feeling that he used to drink all the time. He remembered hazy vodka fueled parties with friends whose faces and names were too fuzzy now to know. He sat at the counter and drank beer, some kind of local thing the tender was excited to talk about, but Suatre barely listened. It tasted like beer. He’d never been a connoisseur. He lit a cigarette and stared into his drink.

It had been a few days since he’d been canvassing. He hadn’t volunteered again, even though he kind of wanted to see Charlie and Jun. And he was anxious that Sorrel wouldn’t come back. Suatre didn’t fully understand, but to him it seemed Sorrel had a lot of complicated issues against the Vote, and maybe he didn’t want a pro-vote human tattooing him anymore.

Suatre’s opinion of the vote swung towards yes, but he wasn’t positive. There was so much he didn’t know about it. Back in the day he’d voted sporadically, never feeling like it would make much of a difference. But now that basically every worry humans had could be solved in one fell swoop, there was this palpable energy in the air and he couldn’t help but feel drawn to it. This was where he’d ended up and this was his life. If things went back to the way they were, he couldn’t even imagine what might happen.

Maybe he’d wake up somewhere else again.

Another beer, another three cigarettes. He wasn’t sure he was getting drunk at all. He felt the warm rush, the relaxation, but not the inebriation. Maybe he was doing it wrong. He didn’t want to ask.

Around him people were talking. He wanted to ignore them. The noise and the ineffectual drinks were beginning to get on his nerves. All around him were people’s holographic windows, floating in front of their faces even as people at the same tables spoke to each other, scrolling and swiping and gesturing at their multi colored sheets of light.

It was all getting real depressing.

Suatre walked back. As he passed the row of apartments where Sorrel lived, he paused, looking at Sorrel’s door.

What would I even say, he thought. I’m tired of questions. I’m tired of confusion. I hate feeling so out of place. He couldn’t help me with that.

The sky was getting dark early lately. Grey clouds hung in the sky as he walked down the peaceful streets where he lived.

He needed music.

In his shop he paced. He couldn’t find a music player, he couldn’t find anything. He still didn’t know how to work the printer and he’d been too lazy and embarrassed to go ask Charlie.

Why didn’t anyone ever come into his shop? He was unknown, yes, but he was right here. People walked by all the time. He didn’t know anyone, how could he ever find a way to fit in? He had a sudden vision of himself fading away into nothing, and with a jolt he went to the mirror and looked at his face. He was solid, he was still real. He stared at himself, his shaggy hair, his fading tattoos under his eyes. He looked until his reflection faded away, his vision swimming. Suddenly he saw the beach. He stepped backwards with a jolt and everything came back into view. His own face, pale, scared. He went to his couch and sat down, head in his hands.

What if he was going to vanish again? What if his lucidity and memories he’d made here were about to be erased at any moment? Where would he end up next? Would he at all? Would he just disappear, leaving an empty shop? Would his new friends(?) come looking for him? He’d be forgotten, nothing, his small efforts he’d made here counting for nothing at all.

Suatre knew where this was going and he was powerless to stop it. He was spiraling into depression. It’d been a while coming.

Grinding his teeth without noticing, he looked around. Maybe he could tattoo himself. Some pain to keep him here. Keep him present. But…

His arms, his legs, his back, he was blank everywhere besides beneath his eyes. Those jester-like crescents never left. He recalled ghosts of tattoos he’d had before, or maybe just wanted, in another life, but he had none of those now. He didn’t remember their meanings.

Over to his tattoo station he dragged himself. His body felt like it was made of mud, but he knew it was all in his head. He knew the pressure building around him, threatening to encase him in a brick of badness. He tried to move quickly before he lost all motivation.

He set up his machines, putting a thick liner needle into the grip, securing the grip to the machine, connecting it to the power cords. He poured a cap of red ink. He pulled his shirt off and threw it on the tiled floor. He put his hands into the gloves and picked up the machine.

In the mirror he looked at himself, then started tattooing his chest with no stencil lines to guide him. In the center, the outline of a heart shape. Coming out horizontally from either side, two lines with three tilted vertical slashes going through them. He wiped the ink and blood off, the two reds inseparable from each other. He stood and watched blood ooze slowly from the new tattoo. He’d hardly felt the pain as he worked but now it was a sharp sting across his chest.

He felt numb then. He washed his chest and applied long bandages clear across the tattoo. He cleaned up his station, washed his hands, and went upstairs and lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling until he fell asleep.

The next day it was raining hard. Suatre woke to it’s clatter on his window as the wind blew it almost sideways. He was cold, and wrapped his blankets around him. His comfy hoodie was downstairs but he couldn’t quite summon the will to go get it. He had to pee but he didn’t want to get up. He just listened to the rain, trying not to think at all.

This was bad. He was getting bad, and he was all alone, and no one loved him. No one knew him, no one knew where he was. No one could help him.

He’d been awake twp minutes and he was already depressed as fuck. It was horrible.

Finally he went downstairs to pee.

He washed his tattoo in the sink. It was surprisingly good for being a desperate bit of self harm/self care. It ached vaguely.

He went to where he’d tossed his coat and hoodie on the couch and slipped the hoodie on over his bare skin. He looked out the window. Miserable dark grey skies. The streets full of water rushing quickly into the storm drains. Across the street Charlie’s shop was dark but the apartment windows above the commercial space were lit up behind curtains.

Swallowing hard, he backed away from the window. Maybe if the weather was better he’d have gone over there, knocked on the door, interrupted Charlie and Jun from whatever they were doing. But it was raining too much. Yeah. That was it.

Today was going to be bad, bad, bad.

He ate the rest of the cake he had in the little fridge, eating the blue and yellow frosting representing the beach and ocean waves first. He didn’t have any other food.

He sat on the couch, smoking. He should do something. Maybe in another life he’d play his guitar and sing to himself. 

The rain fell outside and he wished he could cry, but it was nothing in his chest where the tears lived. Just nothing.