I’m a rockstar, I’m a dealer

“Seventy-two…”

I’m a servant, I’m a leader

“Seventy-three…”

I’m a saviour, I’m a sinner, I’m a killer

“Seventy-four…”

I’ll be anything you want me to be

The sudden sound of a click echoed through the nearly empty basement room, the once heavy bass and tendrils of the even heavier guitar lines abruptly stopped, leaving only the grunting sound coming from a male as he continued his seventy-fifth upside-down vertical sit up from a bar he had set up in the middle of the room. The shirtless male arched his back, putting his body in an awkward looking bended shape as his bright golden eyes pierced the dark green eyes of his cousin.

“How about a maid? You’ve let my place go to shit.” The cross looking woman said folding her limber arms across her chest, looking up at the male with a dissatisfied expression.

The vertical position of the male forced the sweat from his legs to trickle up his flexed torso, up his neck and up to the very top of his head where it continued to drip off of him as he stared the female down. With an agitated sigh, he bent his torso up, practically folding his body in half as his fingers nimbly worked the metal restraints that had been clasped over his bare ankles, thus releasing the hold on him. With somewhat of a back-flip, the male fell to the floor deftly on the balls of his feet, bending at the knees to soften the blow some. He slowly straightened his back up, vertebrae by vertebrae until he was standing at his full six feet, two inches and ran his hand through his mess of sweaty hair. The sides of his head were shaved, leaving just a thick strip on the top of his head of hair to grow. Sure he could have put it into a mohawk if he wanted to, but that just wasn’t his style. He preferred the messy mop look. Hell, even if he wanted to try a different hairstyle, it was practically impossible for him to grow any hair on the left side of his head. A thick scar reaching from the back of his head wrapped around the top of his head, cutting just into the top of his eyebrow. It was a scar that probably should have had medical treatment, but instead was healed on its own, therefore still looking very raw despite the fact that he received the scar nearly a year ago. If only the memories of how he came to have that scar healed on their own too...

Approaching the woman with his chest heaving as the sweat dripped down his body in the normal way now. He reached over the female’s shoulder, keeping his eyes on her and pushed the play button on his Blender Lite music player, the Ozzy Osbourne song picking right up where it had left off just moments ago before the female had turned it off. A bright red light emitted from the music player, and with a few clicks on some buttons, a 3-D female dancer, nude, appeared in the air above the music player and started pole dancing to the beat of the music. The female glanced at the virtual stripper that was at least six times smaller than life-size and shook her head.

“Classy.”

“I told you not to interrupt me when I’m training.” The male’s voice said gruffly, a calloused tone in his natural voice sounding like he had been gargling rocks his whole life.

“Don’t be a twat Deon, I let you live here remember?” The female sighed. “Besides, I only came down here to remind you that I’m going to be gone this evening. I have a meeting I need to go to about project X-95.3. See there might have been some malfunction therefore we might have to do a total recall-“

“Kate.” Deon interrupted her, rolling his eyes. “I don’t care.”

Kate narrowed her already small eyes at her cousin, her middle finger subtly itching to flip him off.

“Just remember to not piss off A.D.A.M. again, I’m not about to leave my meeting just because you’ve been stuck with a neo-tranque dart again.”
Deon scoffed, picking up a dirty white rag from the floor and used it to wipe the sweat from his neck.

“You talk about that stupid program like it's alive. It's really kinda creepy...” Deon countered but then waved Kate off before she could remark back at him. “But yeah, yeah, you got it. No problems from me. Besides, I work tonight, won’t be home until your hitting your snooze button.”

“Yeah, work.” Kate scoffed, unable to help rolling her eyes as she turned to head back up the stairs to the main part of her loft.

Deon finished wiping down his neck and glanced up at the neon colored digital clock on the wall. The entire basement of his cousin's loft had been transformed into his own living space. It was dark, musty, unfinished…reminded him of his own room back in the fourteenth district actually, so he didn’t mind. He didn’t have time to start up another rep so he moved to his bathroom where he did a quick rinse down and dressed in new clothes of a beat-up looking grey wife-beater and a pair of black baggy cargo pants.

Moving over to where his mattress lay in the middle of the floor, he scooped out his sunglasses and headed up and out of the loft to the garage where he mounted his brand new, top-of-the-line motorcycle. Pressing his thumb to the sensor bar, it whirred to life and Deon was off to ‘The Spit.’

11:30 AM

Normal people awoke to an alarm clock. Maybe a strong urge to use the toilet thanks to a full bladder. Perhaps a growling stomach and a craving for breakfast.

Vander was awakened by a sharp ache coursing through her stomach. She groaned, the sound quiet even in the silence of her apartment, and curled up in a tight ball on the old mattress. Hazy late-morning sunlight poured in through the dirt-streaked glass of her window. She closed her eyes tightly, the light threatening to trigger a headache. When the hateful sunlight still pierced through her closed eyelids, she raised a hand to cover her face. Her fingers shook.

Shaking hands, aching stomach, light sensitivity... peering through her fingers, Vander looked across the wall at the time projected onto the wall across the room. Late morning. Almost noon. She wasn't sick, she was simply slept too long and was now having a withdrawal. Rolling off the old mattress of her bed, Vander quickly stumbled her way across the room to the tiny kitchen. On the counter, a syringe was ready and waiting for her. With a practiced, habitual motion, she rolled up the sleeve of her raglan sweater and slid the needle under the skin at the inside of her elbow. Her hand still shook, eliciting a slight wince as she slowly pushed the plunger down. The girl leaned back against the counter, exhaling a sigh of relief as the warmth of the drug coursed its way through her body.

She looked down at the counter. "Damn..." The empty hypodermic in her hand was alone. The last one in her stash. She bit her lip anxiously, looking at the empty syringe. She had to get more. Tonight.

Turning the lights on in her apartment, she walked around and looked at the space. It was a mess. Had been for weeks now. Dirty clothes littered the floor, the bed was unmade, and all of the furniture looked like it was older than she was. Which, as of three weeks ago, was nineteen. Vander frowned as a stab of regret hit her. Three weeks past nineteen, and there was no way she would live to see twenty. Lucid would claim her months before that would happen. She sighed and walked into the tiny washroom.

A few minutes later, her hair was brushed over the right side of her face. She was dressed in worn-out black jeans and a clean raglan shirt. Her eyes, slightly bloodshot, were lined with dark makeup. Grabbing her leather jacket from the floor and lacing up her boots, she locked the apartment door behind herself and walked out onto the streets of District 16.

7 hours - Emmett had been working for 7 hours so far tonight on the robot. He was stationed at the penthouse floor of a skyscraper in District 2, one of many due to the wealth and fortune that Alpha Zone was renowned for.

The interior of the area he was in appeared to be very disorganized. Very sparse and unfurnished, the floors and walls were a bleached white colors; large windows overlooked the bounding city. In the center of the room was a surgical table with the deactivated robot platform lying limp on it, a few desks topped with large, advanced computers centered around the surgical table; along with another table groaning under the strain of the tools and equipment that lay on it.

Emmett himself looked rather sparsely dressed compared to his usual, dressed only in a black button-up shirt with matching pants and leather shoes. His bright, luminescent blue eyes illuminating eerily.

He stepped up towards the prototype platform in front of him. It was advanced...more advanced than any current platform he ever laid eyes on: sturdy torso and head plating, synthetic fiber weave arms and legs, this machine could outmaneuver a human in regards to speed and agility while still maintaining an above-average durability...what was District Zero up to?

They had given him very little aside from materials and the fact it would reap great reward to finish. Emmett had always taken an interest in robotics but was never a robotics engineer, which made it all the more confusing that District Zero would come to *him* for help.

He winced sharply as he felt a deep jab of pain racking through his skull. Damn these eyes. He had less stress being completely blind rather than all the responsibilities that came with maintaining these prosthetics.

He slowly sat down at his desk, reaching for the small, metal bottle containing the luminescent green pills. He popped two into his mouth, washing it down with a can of soda that was laying opposite the bottle.

He shut his eyes tightly as he felt the pain increase substantially before settling down to a dull ache. It was going to be a long night...

Beep Beep Beep.... Beep Beep Beep.... Beep Beep Be-

James slammed his hand down on the old, black alarm clock he had bought at some antique shop in a lower district. He slowly opened his eyes and turned his head to look at the time, just as he always did when he woke up. The white letters on the black background showed the time. "Four twenty-two, pm," The man mumbled, groggily, to himself. He continued to look at the clock, and when the small black square flipped over to show the time was "04:23" the man got up.

James slowly walked over to the large window of his large room and took a deep breath. "Window, open." The dark screen of the window rose slowly, illuminating the room with the orange glow of a setting sun. The view was beautiful, "breath-taking" as one of the girls he had slept with, described it. His light brown eyes sparkled, and for a moment, everything was quiet, and he was calm. However, a few moments later, the noises of the city came rushing back into his ears, signaling that it was time to get ready. James sighed once more, and made his way to the restroom.

The water, like a soft waterfall, cascaded down from the shower ceiling, and onto James, all the while one of his favorite Motzart pieces played in the background. Once he was finished with his shower, and dressed in one of his usual outfits; a plain white dress shirt, buttoned up and left open at the collar, black pants, and a black blazer, an older style he had seen in old pictures which he had taken quite a liking to, he stepped out of his room.

"Get up, Mason! It's almost five! Your room looks shittier than ever, Mason. Learn to clean up once in a damn while, will you?"

James what met to a swift shot to his gut, which cause him to double over and let out a small groan.

Mason sat up slowly in bed, throwing his head to the side to move his semi-dark hair out of the way of his bright green eyes. His eyes narrowed as he looked over at his brother and he stood.

"How are you this fine evening, James? Stomach flu? Why are you bent over like that?" He asked innocently.

"Fuck you, Mason. Sometimes I want to strangle you. I really do." James straightened himself up and then turned, then made his way out of his brother's room. "What club are we headed out to tonight, Mason? How about Eclipse? The club is nice. Hot chicks."

Mason shook his head and followed his brother, a small smile on his face. "Nah, I think we should check out this place called "The Spit." I heard about it from a friend of a friend. He says it's a good place if you like rock, which I do. And I think we should give it a try. it is in the same district as Eclipse, too. It's bound to have hot chicks, and I bet you anything, they are going to be real freaks in the sack!"

James was quiet as he stepped into the living room of their flat, and then turned a few moments later. "Alright. Sounds good. If I don't like it, then I can just make my way over to Eclipse. Now, since that is that, go get cleaned up and dressed. Hurry up. Hop to it."

The crowd started an uproar of applause and cheers, the entire auditorium abuzz with noise and festivities. One of the official speeches of Alpha Zone talking about 'change' and 'refinery for Beta Zone'. Victor couldn't help but inwardly scoff, masked by a hollow and false, yet convincing smile exuding warmth and friendliness.

'The only thing retiree politicians and ambassadors are good for is taking up space, smiling for pictures, and attending these asinine events.' Victor thought bitterly to himself as he waved to the crowd. He had served as an ambassador and diplomat of Zone Alpha for over 30 years, speaking to disgruntled authorities, furious citizens, and of course; the anarchists. New Ancora was in a place of civil unrest and the windbags up in Zone Alpha Administration decided to sweep the issues under the rug, replacing it with lavish parties, all the booze you could drink, and uncountable wealth.

Victor felt a sneer tug at the edge of his lips, but managed to replace it with yet another convincing smile. How he hated this place, these people, this government. Even the people in Zone Beta were their own form of depravity: using violence and vulgarity as a way to send a message to Zone Alpha, a tactic that the poorer citizens failed to recognize did not work.

Victor sat through all the formalities and presentations following the speech, and took part in the luncheon that came after; but his impatience grew and he had grown tired of all the same old foolishness that seemed to come every few months to help keep the morale of the people lifted with hollow promises and false statements.

He left as soon as he could; which even then was longer than he had either anticipated or liked. Straightening his tie and shaking a few more hands, he headed out; followed by his single bodyguard, Davenport.

Davenport had proven to be useful enough, and, (like many others), was unaware of his identity as Jericho. Victor had managed to keep him out of the loop for some time now, but he wasn't sure how much longer it would last. 'Bodyguards are notorious for their paranoia' Victor thought to himself with a grimace.

Davenport was quiet as he drove Victor back to his home, a penthouse apartment suite at the top of one of District 1's *larger* skyscrapers, (though every building was unbelievably tall as it was).

Victor unlocked the door to his apartment and stepped inside, sighing with relief at the ever-yearned-for silence that came with solitary living. No more ass-kissing politicians to shake hands with, or reporters to shoo away. He was alone here and perfectly at peace.

He removed his blazer, laying it gently on the back of one of his chairs, his tie lying atop it. He sat down on his couch slowly, letting out a deep groan of relief as he could finally let his knees rest a bit. Though far from a nursing home, Victor was an older man; and had lately been feeling his age more often than not.

He scratched his chin with his hand absentmindedly. There was so much Jericho business he would have to catch up on: files to store away and download, traces to cover up; transactions to make. But he couldn't leave right now...he was too vulnerable, too...watched. So he settled down to watching tv instead, flipping the holovision onto a news report channel; just in time to catch up on an article about Henry Jamison, the 'number one candidate for New Ancora presidency'.

Victor scoffed condescendingly to himself as he heard the report. He had all the dirt he could want on Jamison: the affair, the bastard son, the assassination droid, everything. So far no one had come to him with anything either to hurt or help Jamison in the election...but Victor made the assumption such information would come fairly soon.

He reached into his shirt pocket, procuring a cigarette. He put it into his mouth, reaching for a lighter that resided in his pants pocket. So many these days were trying out these 'electric' cigarettes that were supposed to feed the craving while not harming your body.

'The market's attempts at making a buck by leveraging on the fears of the populace. An efficient, if not apathetic plan.' Victor thought to himself as he took a drag of the cigarette. No matter what the market came up with, you could never beat the taste or smell that came with the natural, the untouched by the cold, dead hands of industry.

(Posted in wrong section lol. Filler post here)

(Another. Goddamned. FIller post)