illphated
Neon Serenade on Sector 7
The synth-salon buzzed with the low thrum of a thousand illicit connections. Rain, perpetually acidic in Sector 7, slicked the grimy ferroconcrete outside, reflecting the neon glow in distorted puddles. Inside, amidst the flickering holograms of cyber-cacti and the vaporwave wash of fuchsia and electric blue, stood Jax. Her blonde hair, subtly augmented with fiber optics that pulsed with the beat of the undercurrent music, cascaded over the faux-leather of her jacket. Her green eyes, sharper than any replicant’s, scanned the dimly lit booths.
Jax wasn’t looking for a data chip or a black market upgrade. Tonight, she was looking for him. Kai. She’d seen him across the crowded laser line dancing floor a cycle ago, his silhouette sharp against the swirling holographic tumbleweeds. There was something about the quiet intensity in his gaze, a flicker of genuine interest in a city saturated with manufactured desire, that had snagged her attention.
She’d managed to transmit a simple query across the tightly controlled comm-frequencies, a digital whisper in the cacophony of the net: “When are we gonna link?” A playful, almost anachronistic phrase she’d picked up from an old pre-Collapse data stream.
Minutes stretched into an eternity of synth-bass and the clinking of synth-ale glasses. Each new arrival, bathed in the strobing neon, wasn’t him. Doubt, a familiar ghost in this city of fleeting encounters, began to creep in. Maybe he hadn’t received the message. Maybe he’d dismissed it as another random digital flirtation.
Then, he was there. Leaning against a pillar bathed in a soft violet glow, his face partially obscured by the brim of a dark, worn hat. He wasn’t the chrome-plated, bio-modified type that usually frequented these haunts. There was a rawness about him, an analogue quality in a digital world. He caught her eye, a slow smile playing on his lips. He raised his synth-ale in a silent acknowledgment.
Jax felt a surge of something unfamiliar, a warmth that cut through the Sector 7 chill. Maybe, just maybe, amidst the neon grime and the broken promises, a real connection was possible. Tonight, under the flickering glow of the synth-salon, they would finally link. Whether that link would lead to a fleeting spark or something more permanent in this ill-fated city remained to be seen. But for now, under the vaporwave sky, hope flickered like a faulty neon sign.
