Bhadra 22 2131 (7th of September 2075), 10am
Cinder
Monsoon finally is about to seize. Tomorrow, the big festival of Indra Jatra is going to draw swarms of people to the Place of the King's Palace, Durbar Marg, to celebrate the Living Goddess Kumari. Every now and then, heavy rain washes away the dirts and plastic bags of Kathmandu's people, the fumes and dust of its streets, the ashes and bones of its dead, and the blood and brains of those who didn't last.
But for you, it was a day like any. There would always be dirts and bags and ashes and bones and blood and brains. And yeah, there would always be festivals. Some caste, some religion always had a festival. Few were as big and as important as Indra Jatra - even more so since The Living Goddess Awakened - but the police job was as dull as any day.
That is, it was a lot duller. And the thought of it burnt you from the inside. The last weeks you felt like a policeman. There was work to do. About two weeks ago, a young boy came to the police department. Said his name were Lucky, but his friends weren't, and played a song in front of the whole police department. Most thought it a joke and so he was dismissed.
But once a fellow policewoman told his story in an aside, you knew it was worth following the lead. You knew it, because you didn't hear the name "Shree Yela Sai Baba" for the first time. So you met him. Asked questions. Talked to your boss. The case was investigated. People interrogated.
And then: the file closed. Over and done with. That was three days ago.
You sighed heavily. You longed for some gulps of Chaang but you knew that the drinking cops were the bad cops. You didn't join your teammates' behavior because you were one of the few who wanted to make a difference.
And failed in doing so. Mornings suck.
Bhadra 22 (7th of September 2075), 12am
You commlink buzzes. It's Kira, a workmate who was as enthusiastic as you were. You just want to answer the call when you realize it's only a voice message.
"Hey. I managed to get hold on a special friend. Come to Sanchowk's Carpets in Jamal. Be prepared to ask anything you wanted to know the last couple of weeks. And hurry up, you lazy bastard."
Bhadra 23 (8th of September 2075)
Scarcrow
Indra Jatra sucks.
Nepalis suck.
Dal bhat sucks.
Rain sucks.
Why would any sensible people celebrate the end of raining season on a rainy day anyway?
Damn, those streets suck.
You wanna buy proper food but for proper Western food you need money. And if you had money you wouldn't be here.
Oh sweet Jesus, dal bhat sucks!
Your life has been a misery the past couple of weeks. Your short-time girlfriend broke up with you and with a name like Scarcrow it's not easy to find a new one. The hookers have you pay double and it's not real fun anyway. Oh, and you don't want to eat rice anymore. Time for a job.
It's afternoon. You know you should spend the time training, but you found it increasingly difficult to focus on your daily exercise in a country where everybody is as relaxed as a cut sinew. Instead you sit in a bar and drink some rakshi, silencing that nagging feeling you should go and do something. Anything.
That feeling sucks.
And then it rang. buzz buzz it went. Jesus, mercy you think, but you take your commlink anyway. In your claws it looks like a potato chip picked up from under the table. But the potato chip is buzzing and when you answer the call with a sigh, it says something that really doesn't suck at all:
"Need a job?"
Mark
That's life. Who cares whether the weather is crap? Online, it's always shiny. Who cares whether all the people gets exhilarated at the same day because of some Goddess who sits around idly threehundredfuckingsixtyfour days a year? Online, no one is idle and it's just a wonderful day to kill some virtual Nazis.
The tank simulation in The Dark Side was dashing. It felt almost like rigging. You became the tank and aiming with the cannon was like pointing at something with your index finger. Yet, the AI was strong, and it took all your talent to evade the enemy rockets.
Then an ARO blended into your field of vision. Easy. You owned the game. Not in a legal way, but it was yours. Like a girlfriend. You don't really own it, but it always gives you the feeling that it's yours. Without stopping in your movement you answer the phone.
What the caller says, however, manages to finally draw your attention away from the Nazi tanks.
"Money, sweetheart?"