Dangan Ressha

(TRIGGER WARNING - VULGAR LANGUAGE, SEXUAL CONTENT)

~

The train lines of Rubico stretched outward in all directions from the center of the city, encapsulating the neverending stretch of boxy high-rises and one story whatever shops in a comically large spiderweb of public transportation. Even when it wasn’t night, it was raining, so the turquoise-glow of tracks buffeted everything below with its titanium shine. But if you played music in your headgear, you’d barely hear a cut of air pass above you, that is, if some homeless wasn't up in your eardrum. Probably a combination of headgear being soundproofed from drive-bys and the “every screw’s perfect” engineering of the bullet train. The dangan ressha, as the Japanese called it. They made it, we use their term, it’s a pretty damn good trade-off. 

I slowly blink my eyes open, and for a few seconds I can’t tell if it’s the morning haze or the rainy fog that’s obscuring my vision. Turns out it was a combination of the two, but mostly fault of the latter. When I drifted off, I could still see the invasive neon ads of the city through my eyelids, but now? Nothing but pitch-black. I squint. Still nothing. What does daytime even look like? My eyes sure as hell don’t know. Speaking of never going outside, I reach for my headgear charger. Fingers grip leather seating. What the fuck? Eyes see soft pastel yellow orange lighting. What the fuck? Oh, yeah. I won that first-class lottery. Always told my friends whenever I’d buy my first lottery ticket I’d win. But only the first time, I said, I’m never getting hooked. 

My fingers reach to my pockets and thumb through slips with losing numbers. 

I’d like to say I’d miss the Chinese water torture drip of those faulty apartment pipes, my neighbors with violent marital issues, or the high school kid who’d sit out front with an automated pocket pussy getting him off on the stairs. If Jimmy wanted the last three months of rent, he’d have to wait. I blew the last of everything on this one-way, and the rental once I get there. Once I get OUT of here, more like. What limp-dick parents named their kid Jimmy? It’s like they’re asking for everyone to bully him. I’m just following tradition. The place is clean. He’ll rent it out to the next basement-dwelling dipshit that rolls around if he knows what’s good for him. 

As for me, I’m on my way to bigger and better. No more people who know me, no more running into people who knew the me that isn’t me anymore. No more weight, no more baggage. No one knows me, and it’ll be a fresh start. Zero regrets. Blank slate. It’s coming. I could change everything about me, not only my city but my usernames, my banks, my work, my looks. Get some cybernetic modifications so no one can even look at me the same! I’ll be completely unrecognizable. No one will even know I’m the same guy by the time I die. Why don’t people do this more often?

‘Auta Shitty’, the slightly-English, heavily-accented, clearly-Asian voice chimes, ‘Auta Shitty Wan’. Shit, my last transfer. That was the caveat to my little 1% excursion; Like three or four fuckin’ transfers. With two or more hours of fuckin’ waiting at train stations. “1% excursion”, who am I kidding? The rich wouldn’t even touch the ressha. Just being in the general vicinity of us pobres would get us capped. I gather my things: a backpack, headgear, extension-corded charger, and an airport paperback I bought out of obligation for ¥2000 because the cute cashier was glancing in my direction. Too bad I can’t talk to women. 

I flip it open and skim the pages. Thick with needless prose. Ew, gross. 

I stash the book. 

The train comes to a halt, a lot less harsher than when you’re in economy, and a door noiselessly slides open at the end of this crimson-carpeted Victorian cab. As soon as my foot hits the cracked marble of the train station, the ressha’s door slides shut. Instinctively, I slide my headgear over my eyes and ears because my brain can’t stand being under stimulated for more than an hour at a time. Good for sensory overload, my doctor tells me. He also tells me there’s no way I live past thirty. 

Oh well, that’s better than most people out in the Wasteland. 

No, I’m kidding. 

I’m fucked. 

I ignore the obviously-probably-shitty look of the station and finish jacking in. My least favorite symbol, an red-orange battery with a stupid little frowny face plastered on top, flashes up and augments my vision for a few seconds. I forgot to leave it charging in the goddamn train. Rookie mistake. But, that’s what these power banks in my bag are for. I latch one onto the right side of my belt with a click, just as I’ve done hundreds of times before, if not thousands, and sit down to check all my shit. Rent past due, ignore. Denied payment, ignore. Upcoming payment, ignore. Shitty job offer, ehh. How bad is it? Whatever. Didn’t read it, don’t wanna do it. A buncha useless shit that’ll only stress me the fuck out. I put on The Damned to drown it all out. Music from a bygone era, just like I’m about to be. It’s tuned up LOUD. And so is my stomach. 

I flip through one of my bank accounts and see if I can stand the heat to pay for a little lunch. Enough yen for a croissant or two, maybe some wine if I’m lucky, that’s not half-bad. It all depends on how shitty the bakery is. I crane my neck, and immediately gravitate for the poorly-lit hole-in-the-wall joint that looks on the verge of closing its doors. There’s some chick behind a cracked counter, jacked into her headgear, tapping at controllers and devilishly grinning. All the lights in the place are off, except for the display stand with some less-than-fresh-looking bread and pastries adorning it. It’s only thanks to the proud lights of the train station that this joint’s even visible. Man, some of these employers really don’t give a shit. Guess we are in the boonies though, and this place looks like the only shot I got for the next little while.

I wander over to the shitty bakery that was made for people like me, and peruse the grossly-fluorescent lightning for flies or any sort of insect traces. Nothing so far, so it’s fine to me. “hey m—s—, w—e c—,” I can half-hear through my blasting music. This chick must be screaming to get this far into my ears. I hold up two fingers. “Those two croissants, and!” I also shout, “Do you guys have any red wine?!”

I wait for the train with a wine stain on my shirt and croissant crumbs on my lips. At least I had my coat open, otherwise, she would’ve thrown the wine at this pearly white cotton! That would’ve been the real travesty. My fifth dangan ressha of the day pulls into the station, and the doors stutter open. I shove the last croissant into my mouth, zip up my unstained cotton jacket, and take my V.I.P. seat out of this hell. Goodbye mediocrity, hello paradise!

Another window seat, another Victorian cab with red carpeting, warm lighting, a cedar wood bar (complete with bartender!) and the smell of cinnamon in the air. Complete with those furnished leather seats I fell asleep in last time. Wonderful. “Bartender,” I murmur, not knowing how to articulate my voice with The Damned still blasting, “A cabernet sauvignon, if you will.” He nods and probably says “of course, sir,” or “as you wish” with a British accent, but I couldn’t hear him for the life of me. Maybe he said nothing. He probably said nothing. I take my seat and get ready to do it all over again for the very last time. It all starts now, new me, don’t gotta worry about anybody else. They can chase me to the ends of the fuckin’ Earth but they won’t be able to find my ass. This ass is wiped. 

As I mentally jerk the new me off, someone takes a seat next to me, and the green yen hologram pops up, making a 'cha-ching; jingle, and chimes, ‘arigatou gozaimashita!’, followed by some other Japanese I’m too dumb to translate. I look over. She has jet-black hair, which stretches out to loud red highlights curling over her forehead. Beady green eyes, paler than pale skin, and a frowning grin. The woman’s wearing a loose black sweater, plaid short shorts, and black tights which lead into red shoes like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz.

“Awe shit, a cyberwitch,” I think.

“A cyberwhat?” she exclaims.

Fuck, I said that out loud. 

“Nothing, sorry,” I wave. 

My eyes look around the cab. Ab-so-lutely barren. No one besides us two. My eyebrows furrow. I look back at the woman. She’s been staring at me the whole time with this insulted expression on her face. Whoops. I open my mouth to ask why she sat next to a scraggly-looking guy like me, but before I can do so, she spills my cabernet right on my pearly-white cotton jacket with a fur hood and gold engravings. 

“Ohmyfuckinggod,” I sputter, trying to wipe off wine from cotton. “You were asking for it,” she declares. I shout, “WHY THE HELL-” before he volume warning for the cab sparks on my heads-up display. ‘声を低くしてください’、 it pleads. Grating my teeth, I lower my voice to an angry whisper. “Goddammit, lady, what the hell is your problem?!” “You underpaid me back at the station, that’s my problem. You owe me 5000 yen.” She pulls out a small metal square, which flips open to a hologram displaying…my receipt. The woman looks at me and frowns. 

I sigh. “Listen, you should’ve just asked me back then, I would’ve paid it!”

“I doubt you would’ve paid for much of anything,” she objects. A grossly-crimson digital square interrupts the porno I started watching minutes earlier, and covers my display. Great, she really is a cyberwitch. My eyes skim the square for info. “....Aaaaannddd it’s my unpaid rent. Come on, witch, what are you? A cop?” She grins. “No, I’m an opportunist. You’re gonna cover my fare AND what you owe me thrice over before you get off this ressha.” I raise an eyebrow. “Are you really hard-up for that much cash?” She points a finger at me. “You clearly are.” My bank account pops up on screen. “So? What’s it gonna be?” 

“Listen, I’m not very golden right now. Either bleed my bank account, or find some other punk to scrub down.” 

“I don’t have the software to bleed. You gotta transfer it.” 

“Won’t you have to give me your account information? I can just report you after this whole shabang.” 

“And I could deny it. The banks’ll see it as a mutual transaction, and I can deny your story! You underpaid me for the food, you’re not paying your rent, you’re not a very good citizen of the state, are you?” 

“FUCK the state, all I want is outta here.” I throw my hands up in the air. 

“...Whoa there,” she lifts her eyebrows. “Chillax. I’m just extorting you.” 

“And I just want out." "I’ve been here too goddamn long, I’m sick of this shit. 

Take whatever you want, I don’t care. Put me into the red. 

As soon as I’m off this train, I’m a new man. 

You don’t know me, I don’t know you, 

we’re good to go.”

   A long silence fell over the cab, and if it wasn’t obvious we were the only two there then, it’s sure as hell obvious now. I set up a transfer, but before I can complete it, she interrupts me. “Just give me 15k yen, that way you’re not in the red. That covers my fare and your shitty croissants. We’ll call it even.” I give her a grimace, but it at least makes me feel a little better. 15k gone. That leaves me with something around 7k yen. 70 bucks when I start my new life. Inflation is a bitch. Or is it conversion? Whatever, they’re both bitches. And just seventy bucks? That's no good.

Oh well. I let out a sigh, and complete the transfer. The woman props up her shoes against the front seat, much to the dismay of the security bots imploring ‘yamete kudasai’s. She completes it on her end with those janky-ass 2000’s controllers of hers, and props up her headgear, extending a gloved hand towards me for some reason. She holds a devilish grin, the same one she had back at the station. I had just got ripped off by a cute chick, hours before my old life ends. Goddammit. What a way to go out. 

“Pleasure doing with you, Travis.” 

“You’re the last one to know my old name. My new name is…”

I pause. Haven’t given this much thought. But then, it strikes me.

“'Watashi.'”

“Huh. A Japanophile. How cute.”

“Fuck off! Isn’t everybody in this day and age?” 

“No. Not if you’re interesting.” 

She gets up from her seat, and presses the ‘request stop’ button. A pin-pon sound quietly reverberates through the cab, and the strip of lights lining the ceiling changes from a dull yellow to a bright orange for a few moments. The dangan ressha begins to slow down only moments after starting. I wonder how far we’ve gone in only a few minutes. Who knows, technology isn’t how it was in the 20’s. I didn’t realize I was still looking at the woman until she looked back at me and grinned. “Good luck with your new life, loser,” she said while the door slid open.

I raise my empty wine glass to her.

“And you, with ripping people off, you witch!

Plus that shitty-ass job of yours.”

She snaps her fingers.

"Joke’s on you, I don’t even work there.

Just hopped behind the counter.

Bon voyage.” 

And just like that, the last remnant of my old life stepped out the door. 

The ressha started up again in a heartbeat, not even wasting a moment, and it left me with my stained jacket, stained shirt, crummy mouth, and near-empty bank account. I pulled my headgear off, and stare up at the ceiling. Not seconds later, I get a notification on my watch screen.

*Anonymous has sent you a money request.*

*Title: ‘The Rest Of It’*

*Due: ‘One Year From Now’*

Goddammit.

I guess you can’t get rid of everything.