Blade Runner - Lynching from above

From behind the closed door to room 408 came a variety of sounds. Heavy footsteps, followed by the sound of plates and glasses rattling in protest of the cupboard door slamming shut. A brief silence, a muffled curse. More footsteps. The loud crack of a glass exploding against the old, hardened lineoleum, the shower of fragments raining onto the floor.

Simon didn't quite know why he'd thrown the glass. He'd seen it once, in an old holovid. Some sort of Russian drinking custom. Simon felt it was quite appropriate, since he was, after all, drinking "imported" Vodka. He doubted it's authenticity. It was a far cry from the fruity champagnes and the flavorful wines he was accustomed to, and the buzz was not as light and carefree. No, the buzz hit hard and fast, and it was dark, dirty, and depressing. Simon deemed this appropriate as well. He'd quickly learned that this ghetto was not a place to cater to his tastes; champagne, it seemed, was in short supply. He learned to make do with what was available.

He let out a long sigh as he slumped against the archway that led from the kitchen to his dining room - slash - foyer - slash - living room, then quickly snapped to an upright posture like a soldier at attention. He had a particular disdain for people who had poor posture, and hated himself for slouching like that, even for a brief instant, even after a night like tonight.

He hated himself more for what he'd been a part of not thirty minutes ago.

Simon reached into his pocket and pulled out his holophone. With the subtle flick of a button the screen came to life and he breezed through the numbers until he reached Susan's, and then hesitated.

"What the hell am I doing?" he asked himself aloud. He realized he was struggling to keep himself calm. Was the answer more Vodka, or less Vodka? He smashed the holophone to the floor and watched its electronic components intermingle with his ex-shotglass. It was after midnight, and he couldn't justify calling Susan at this hour. Surely she was asleep... not that he particularly cared about disturbing her. As a model, he had to be a master at maintaining his composure, it was his job. He wouldn't falter now. It was just that he'd suddenly been overcome with the urge to get out of this place, stronger even than on the first day of his arrival.

It couldn't have anything to do with the dead man lying on the sidewalk, could it?

Maybe more Vodka was the answer.

He didn't really push that old man over the balcony, did he? No... no... he tripped. Stumbled over someone's leg. The professor's leg, yes. And hadn't someone had their hand on the old man's shoulder? Yes, someone had. Maybe they pushed him. They had all been arguing, and the accusations had been sprayed wildly like machine gun fire, hitting whatever targets they may. Everything had escalated so fast, and then someone suggested they move to the balcony to calm down...

Simon thought he had been a troubled man before. Now he longed to return to his simple yet extravagant life in the fast-paced world of haute couture and synthetic ecstacy pills, of hors douvres and high priced call girls.

Or call boys.

Yes, Simon had skeletons in his closet, and he didn't feel like adding any more. He assured himself he would purchase a new holophone in the morning, and have Susan pick him up and take him someplace far away, where he would stay in a luxury hotel at his own expense. The taste of Vodka still in his mouth, he laid down on his dusty mattress, thinking of bubble baths, and waited to greet the nightmares that surely awaited him.

His hands were still shaking. And, for once, it wasn't from the drugs.

What the hell were we doing? I had once taken a vow to preserve life and now....

Tyler Anderson stretched out on his musty lazyboy recliner, a glass of scotch next to his reading glasses. He looked almost like a snake sprawled across a rock on a hot summer day. Or like a dead man on the concrete, blood pooling away from him.

He took another long gulp, pushed down the urge to throw up and tried to settle his mind. It was, after all, his most valueable asset, especially in a time like this. If he can keep his head cool, if he can look at what is going on - well maybe he can help to figure out what has truly transgressed.

It was Simon that pushed him, wasn't it? Had he struck a deal with some of the others? Was Madcow really just a caring, if not strange, person trying to help things out the best he could? Simon had seemed a bit out of the ordinary. He claimed to be a top model - not a profession Tyler really respected, but he knew the needs of the masses often glorified those with the least value to society. But then again, Simon had made soem valid and logical points today.

Remembering about Plato for this first time today, his mind had been occupied after all, he rose to grab the synthi-mice to feed him. The mice looked just like the natural variety. They acted just like the real ones. But Tyler knew they were synthetic, manufactured. Like an android. Regardless, Tyler always felt a bit sad putting the food in the terrarrium. Didn't these too have a right to live? The method of conception and creation doesn't alter the fact that they are alive, does it?

My fellow professors; students; and others attending: We need not fear the androids - they are behaving just as humanity does when our most immediate need is take from us: freedom. They are scared, depressed, and yes, violent. But, they are alive, too. Yes, as a race we have 'created' them - but have we not been creating our own children for all eternity?

They didn't like that speech. No, in fact, thinking back, that was probably the last straw.

Last straw.....Last.....

Thinking about last chances, lost chances and scarecrows, Tyler Anderson drifted to sleep.