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Routine. That was probably the most appropriate word to describe the morning activities of the family known as the Ziggs. Mrs. Zigg would always rise first, no matter how tired she was, and then proceed to whip her husband out of bed - God knows the alarm couldn’t do it. Once Mr. Zigg finally rose, Mrs. Zigg would promptly move to their second-(or was it third) hand Gala-Grid Model N7 AutoRobe©™, which by this point barely had the necessary dexterity, or even parts, to dress a still-standing mannequin. The Ziggs usually dressed themselves nowadays, no matter how insistent the machine was about allowing itself to help them. Propping up the doors was always the hardest, for the AutoRobe©™ came with special locks and codes on the doors to prevent thieving. Since Mrs. Zigg was the first to rise, she always had to break the now mutilated lock up with a crowbar. She had made her complaints to Mr. Zigg numerous times before - saying they had to get it replaced soon, preferably with a newer model, like the N9x. Mr. Zigg had promised her an upgrade for her last three birthdays, as well as for Commercial Christmas, Black Week and Daylight Savings Day. However, the price tags had always been a bit too juicy for them - every time.
As soon as the missus was dressed and had left the room to wake up their son and daughter, Mr. Zigg would finally get dressed, too. His outfit was always the same - after all, he owned seven uniforms, and you did -not- want to get caught without your uniform at work. It was a standard issue Gala-Grid Model 61 “Old John”©™ penguin-like black suit over a white shirt, adjusted from its original human proportions to fit the barrel-like form of a Raygonian. Despite the flat, round trunks the Raygonians used as feet, Mr. Zigg still put on a pair of synthetic leather shoes that resembled those a human would wear, with a long, oblong sole (this one filled with cotton to simulate the foot that wasn’t there). It hadn’t really struck Mr. Zigg as particularly odd to wear there, he confessed - such had been the fashion for longer than he’d walked Raygon, and so would likely be the fashion for another, uh… Long time.
Finally, the man in the house exited his and his wife’s six square metre bedroom into their ten square metre living room. The last four square metres of the apartment were devoted to the toilet - the children slept in the living room. Believe it or not - they lived a fantastic life for anyone in the centre. 20 square metres for the price they paid was a one in a billion chance. His children already sat around the dining table (which was part of the floor when not in use), eating breakfast. Mrs. Zigg stood by the retractable stove top, stirring the contents of a smoking bowl with a plastic spatula. Mr. Zigg growled a guttural yawn and smacked his lips. Mrs. Zigg set a plate down on the table at his spot - it consisted of two pieces of toasted carbo-bread smeared thickly with RocketEngine©™ protein butter, a few slices of Happy Belly©™ fruit gum roll and rehydrated compound spinach. Mr. Zigg hummed and spooned a mouthful of spinach into his mouth. He frowned and turned to his wife.
“Honey? This spinach, what brand is it? It tastes different than usual.”
Mrs. Zigg placed her own plate down on the table and sat down. She put a spoonful in her own mouth and hardened her eyes at the plastic back on the kitchen counter. “Can’t quite see it from here, sweety. Think it was some Cosmart brand.”
“Happy Belly? Yum-Bo? Pepperridge?”
“Okay, relax, I’ll check,” she huffed and rose up. Their children, Sambel and Lobona Zigg, sat eyeing their food, occasionally stabbing fruit gums with their forks. Mrs. Zigg took the bag in her hand and offered it to her husband. “Remmizipp Farms, apparently.”
“Remmizipp?” Mr. Zigg mumbled and eyed the brand logo. “... Hang on, I know this one. Isn’t this one at least forty credits more expensive than Happy Belly’s?”
Mrs. Zigg looked away. “We-well… You know the bonus I got last month? I just thought we could--”
Mr. Zigg growled and rubbed his face into his palm. “Christ, Clora, that was supposed to go to our savings.”
“I just wanted one nice breakfast for once, Lobutos!” she shouted back. “Is it too much to ask that we can just have actual spinach for once?!”
“Mom, dad - please don’t fight,” Sambel protested. Mr. Zigg impaled a soggy, sloppy leaf of spinach on his fork and put it into his mouth.
“Son, if there’s one thing any of us can teach you, it’s that the only way out of here is to save up - no matter what the ads tell you. That’s why you eat as cheaply as you can in the hopes that at least your children can eat well in the top tier some day. Your mother here, on the other hand--”
“Oh, -I’m- the bad guy, of course,” Mrs. Zigg snapped and rose from the table. She turned and grabbed her jacket and bag.
“Honey, I’m just trying to teach our kids a--”
“I don’t want to hear it! I’m going to work, and if you don’t clean up those plates after you’re done, I -swear- I will…” She pressed the button for the door to open and nothing happened.
Mr. Zigg frowned. “Will what?”
“Ugh!” she screamed and kept pressing the button. Finally, it opened, briefly letting in the cacophony of advertisements echoing between the walls and she left without a word. The room fell silent again, save for some sad sniffing coming from Lobona. Mr. Zigg groaned and put another forkful of spinach into his mouth.
“Dad? Why did you get angry at mom for what she bought?” Sambel asked after a long reign of silence. Mr. Zigg sighed again.
“Like I said earlier, son, we gotta save every credit we can. It’s the only way you two can get a better life.” He impaled a slice of fruit gum on his fork.
“But, but… What about the ads? They’re telling us to buy, aren’t they?”
“They are - which is much of the reason why we’re, well, stuck here. Listen, it’s easy to get hooked on the sales and the bonuses and the subscription services, but we gotta--”
“Stevonbee’s parents have the unlimited hot water sub,” Lobona muttered quietly. Mr. Zigg grit his teeth.
“And Stevonbee’s dad is in huge debt with the mob -and- Adamantium! He fell for the trap, which I’m telling BOTH of you not to do.” The two children looked down and sniffed. Mr. Zigg took the moment to steal a glance at the small digital clock on the stove. His heartrate skyrocketed. “Aw, Christ, I’m late for work! Sambel, son, mind cleaning up after your old man?” Mr. Zigg had already risen from his seat and jogged over to the door.
Sambel frowned. “Sure, dad, but what about school? Our lessons are starting soo--”
As if by act of God, two SmartyPants©™ education touchpads lying in a dank corner of the room to charge, gave chirrup-like rings followed by a sweet tune. In unison and with broken mechanical voices, they echoed, “Children. It is. Time. To start your lessons in. Maths. Social. Sciences. And economics. Please touch. The touchscreen when. Ready.”
“And there it is,” Sambel muttered, “dad, we really gotta--”
“Yeah, I understand, son. Have fun with school! Just - make sure it’s clean before mom comes home, okay?”
Sambel returned an unenthusiastic thumb-up. Mr. Zigg winked back and donned his hat, pressing the opening button on the door at least nine times before it responded and lead him into the apartment complex hallway.
“... Only 599 credits! You cannot miss it! Only five nine nine credits for a brand new…” the nearest advertisement speaker blasted. Mr. Zigg had always been surly about the fact that they had received the room with an ad blaster right above the door - this one with a motion sensor, too. Down the hallway, he spotted the seventeen other speakers that seemed to turn to him like hungry wolves. As he passed them, one hand on his small suitcase and the other covering one ear hole, they each boomed their message, often backed up by a non-copyrighted track.
“Howdy there - you look like the type who could use a small break…”
“TANG SODA! EXCLUSIVE LIMITED TIME SALE ON TANG SODA AT COSMART! ONLY 39,99 CREDITS FOR A CASE OF TEN -- YES, YOU HEARD US RIGHT…!”
“... It ain’t just the air and soil of Sage 4 that makes proper, healthy grain… It’s love and care…”
“Flyer got wrecked by your neighbour? Did the boss violate your contract again? Call Oatman&Steve Attorneys…”
“Shalom! Be blessed by Elahim, shimshon. If you’re in need of a lil’...”
“In need of a loan? Adamantium Bank’s your ticket out of poverty! Drop by our nearest office today and…”
Mr. Zigg wiped the annoyed sweat off his brow as the advertisements became so overlapped that each message was indistinguishable from the rest. It was all just one audible, bubbling soup of words - taunting him and his family’s wealth (or lack thereof, rather). At long last, he reached the door, which thankfully was on the bottom floor. In the door, he met about seventy others: Raygonians, mostly, their barrel-like shapes wagging from side to side with their every step; sprinkled in between was a Putt or two, their shorter forms nearly drowning between their larger peers; finally, Mr. Zigg swore he could see one or two Shas, too - he had no idea any lived in his building.
“Mornin’, Mr. Zigg,” came a rumble from behind him. Mr. Zigg looked over his shoulder and tipped his hat.
“Morning, Mrs. Imhotr. Heading to work?”
The Qurok adjusted her hardhat, broadened to fit her skull size, and smirked. “Where else’d I go? Sewage pipes gotta be cleaned, lest this whole block’ll stink worse than it already does.” She lit herself a thick cigarette and took an unfathomably long drag. The whole group of workers had exited the apartment building and were moving through the loud streets, hoverers and flyers soaring over them and cars rumbling far below. Advertisements were just as deafening here as inside - perhaps even more so.
“Always wondered - don’t we have cybes to fix our plumbing these days?”
“We do,” Mrs. Imhotr replied curtly.
Mr. Zigg shrugged. “How’s the competition?”
She exhaled a thick, smouldering plume of smoke, her wrinkly features somehow even more pronounced in its shadow. “Eh, it’s manageable. Thankfully, the alloys they use in cybes down here’re still not strong enough to handle the acidity of the sewers. Still, they’ve pretty much outshined us in the finer pipes.” She shook her head. “Worst part isn’t even the competition - our boss’s squeezin’ out every penny he can get from every assignment. The micromanagement’s off the rails, I’m tellin’ ya.”
Mr. Zigg frowned. “Really sorry to hear that, Mrs. Imhotr. Hope the paychecks aren’t too affected. How’s the wife, by the way?”
Mrs. Imhotr groaned. “Ugh, she’s been a wreck lately.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Yeah. Found Vidrio in her drawer the other day. I think she’s reboundin’, man.” She took another long drag of her cigarette, almost draining it dry. They neared the station, which was packed to the brim as always with all manner of workers heading to their respective workplaces. The hiss of train breaks and hum of battery-driven engines nearly drowned out the blare of advertisements. Mrs. Imhotr shook her head. “I dunno what to do, man. I can’t afford to put her in rehab again, and I can’t afford to lose her. Not again.”
“H-hey, look, it’ll be alright, no? Just… Set some spending parametres on her wristband and get rid of the product she’s gotten so far. Where is she now?”
“I told her sister about it and we agreed she’d take care of her for a week or two while I clean the apartment. Her sister’s a good person - she won’t get in trouble there.”
“Well, as long as she’s safe. Hey, when do you get off work today?”
“Seven as always. Why?”
Mr. Zigg thumbed over his shoulder. “Actually, my wife’s pretty fed up with me, too. Want to head to Johnny’s after work?”
“You had a falling out with your wife and your solution is drinking?” she asked with a snicker. Mr. Zigg shrugged.
“In truth, our fight was so stupid. She’d bought some expensive lettuce, or was it spinach? Anyway, I got angry, but only because she can’t save cash for the life of her, Jesus…”
“Hey, HEY. You know how I feel about blasphemy, right?”
“Right, sorry, sorry. Gotta ask, how much big’s the church subscription these days? 99 a week?”
“79, actually,” she replied with a grin as she ducked under the slightly too low doorway into their part of the station. “They reduced it in time for the season.”
“Christ, seventy-nine a week to go to church…”
“Mr. Zigg.”
“Right, sorry. Blasphemy.”
Mrs. Imhotr rolled her eyes and sighed. “No, it’s alright. So, about your wife?”
“Oh, right.” They had arrived at the platform of their train, the time table predicting the arrival of the next train in three minutes. Mr. Zigg sighed. “Yeah, so things are pretty tight nowadays, and the wife decided to blow her bonus on some more expensive food… We got into a fight and bada-bing, bada-boom, I’m sleeping on the couch, I reckon.”
“You have a couch?”
“No…”
Mrs. Imhotr snickered. “Well, that sucks. On one hand, I don’t see what the problem is - a little good food every now and then should be a right; on the other hand, now… Well, I’m actually feeling it pretty hard.”
“Right? Like, what if we had needed the money to, to send the kids to the doctor, or, or--”
“Go to church?”
“Uh, I dunno, maybe? Point is - we can’t afford to buy on impulse, and my wife’s having a hard time realising that.”
“How big was her bonus, anyway?”
“Like, one-sixty? Not a lot, but a credit earned is a credit saved.” The train approached from their right and hissed gently as it slowed down. The doors were lifted up to unleash a river of alien flesh onto the platform, prickled with the occasional human. When the cart was almost emptied, Mr. Zigg and Mrs. Imhotr started wrestling their way inside, taking a standing spot before being figuratively locked in place by the rest of the commuters.
“But, like, it couldn’t have cost that much, right? Unless she bought, like, Remmizipp or something.”
“Exactly what she did.”
Mrs. Imhotr whistled sheepishly. “Ouch. One bag of that’s almost a hundred.”
“Right? And it has less in it.”
“Did it taste good, at least?”
“Oh, it was amazing, but not as amazing as those extra credits would’ve looked in our savings account.” Zigg cupped his face in his hand. “Ugh, talking about this leaves my mouth dry.”
“Did you bring your cup?”
“We’ll see,” Mr. Zigg mumbled and opened his suitcase. He rummaged about as deftly as he could, considering he could barely move. “... Crap, I forgot my cup.”
“Hang on,” Mrs. Imhotr mumbled as she dug around in her backpack. Shortly after starting, she had pulled forth a small, but thick, metallic thermos, which she handed to Zigg. “Here. It’s got the, the, uh, the dark roast sub.”
“The three credit one or the twenty credit one?”
“Three, I think.”
Mr. Zigg frowned and tapped his wristband against the cup. It went ‘beep!’ and said, “Three credits deducted from your account.” The cup then begun to vibrate violently for a few seconds before it gave a gentle sucking sound and sounded a ‘pling!’. Mr. Zigg uncorked it and gave it a whiff, cringing slightly.
“If the band hadn’t already told me, I could’ve guessed this was three credit coffee, yup.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied sourly with a half-grin. Mr. Zigg gave the thermos a slurp and then handed it back to the Qurok, who also gave it a swig. The train began to slow down, the next station approaching. Mrs. Imhotr let out a ‘nn!’ and corked the thermos. “Right, this is my stop. So… Seven, right?”
“Yeah, if you’re still up.”
She shrugged and tapped her wristband. “I’ll let you know if there’s a change of plans. If not, I’ll see you there. Laters!” She then proceeded to wrestle her way back out of the train, her two and a half metre tall frame wading through the masses as if they were water. Mr. Zigg made a half grin and leaned up against the wall of the train to close his eyes for a few moments, the rest of the passengers keeping him comfortably from falling over.
“So that’s the story, sir. So therefore, I wondering…” Mr. Zigg gestured a bit with his stubby hands.
Opposite a large desk made of plastic resembling mahogany sat a guppy mecha-suit, within which dome floated a frowning guppy, specifically Mr. Gurrpi, CEO of Gurrpi’s Golly Gunships. "Mr. Zigg, we're a small company, sure, but I still have 694 million employees here, and you know I like you all, but if I was to give everyone who asked for it a bonus, we'd be bankrupt within the hour."
"But!"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Zigg, but no. If you give it your all for the rest of the year, I'll consider it around Commercial Christmas, alright? Omni, make a note of that."
"Yes, Mr. Gurrpi. Note made to: Consider providing Mr. Lobutos Zigg, employee ID 459-993-101, with a Commercial Christmas bonus amounting to [unspecified] based on the sum of his merits," the robotic voice from Mr. Gurrpi's mecha-suit replied monotonously.
Mr. Gurrpi's suit gave a shrug. "I'm sorry, Mr. Zigg, this is all I can do for now. If you can make yourself worth it, I'll set the bonus to, uh, let’s say 15% of your December-2 paycheck.”
“Note edited: Commercial Christmas bonus set to: fifteen percent of December-dash-2 paycheck,” said Omni.
Mr. Zigg’s eyes glistened with surprised. “R-really? You’d do that for me?” And through the thick glass dome of the Guppy mecha suit, the Raygonian could see Mr. Gurrpi grin wholeheartedly.
“Of course! I appreciate all my workers, Mr. Zigg, and reward those who do a good job. Now, I think you oughta get to it if you hope to snatch the bonus for yourself.”
Mr. Zigg was already halfway out the door. “Don’t have to tell me twice! Thank you, sir!” The mecha-suit gave him a thumb up while the guppy inside had returned its attention to the display on its desk. The Raygonian closed the door behind him and giggled to himself. Yes! He would get a bonus and could make up for his wife’s dent in their savings! This was perfect! A beer with a friend later would put the cherry on top, so when the clock struck half past six and Mr. Zigg was skipping down the street from his office building, it seemed only fitting that all should come crashing down at the hands of an armed robbery in an alley. The masked thieves beat Mr. Zigg to a pulp and left him face down in a puddle of filth, hacking into his wristband to steal his money. They then disappeared into the night.
When Zigg woke up, he was at the last place he wanted to be. He would rather be in the grave, the alley or even the bottom tiers over a place like this. The walls were completely white - as were his sheets and the armless robe he wore. Next to him stood a Petalos dressed in a white coat, holding a touch pad. It gave it a few additional taps before noticing that the patient had awoken. Putting on as good as smile as she could, the Petalos faced Lobutos.
“Ah, you’re finally awake.” She adjusted her silver-rimmed glasses. “Mr. Zigg, is it?”
Mr. Zigg’s eyes darted around. “Who called the ambulance? Which hospital is this?”
“The caller never said their name. As for where you are, you are at Polygon Emergency Hospital, CT-Block A090-001-001, “Gala-Grid Heights”. How are you feeling?”
Mr. Zigg’s heart rate shot up considerably. “Polygon?! Fuck! FUCK!”
The doctor put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, if you would please calm down--!”
“My insurance doesn’t cover this hospital! Doctor, how long have I been here?! What treatment did you give me?!”
Immediately, the doctor distanced herself from Mr. Zigg and eyed the touchpad with skeptical pursed lips. “... Oh, is that so. Well, I had hoped we could’ve waited with this until later, but since you’re so eager.” She gave the pad a few additional taps. “Your grand total for a two day stay with the addition of a cast for your broken arm and a cybe replacement for your ruptured kidney--”
“Ruptured kidney?!”
“You had been stabbed, sir. It was either a replacement or removal.”
“Christ, you should’ve just removed.” He buried his face in his hands. “... I can’t pay for anti-rejection drugs, lady. I can hardly pay my family’s rent.”
“Well, shouldn’t have gotten stabbed, in that case. Health authorities always recommend staying out of the street at all times to avoid such unfortunate events.”
Mr. Zigg scowled at her. “I have no choice, doctor! I don’t own a hoverer!”
“Again, not my problem, sir. Your grand total is 13 999 credits.”
“Thirteen--” was all Mr. Zigg squeezed out before he clutched his chest, taking deep breaths. The doctor sighed and tapped a few more times on the pad.
“Adding a possible heart surgery to that, making the grand total--”
“NO! No.” Mr. Zigg slowly set his feet down on the floor. “I’m fine. How long do I have to pay?”
“Thirty days, sir, if you don’t plan on doing it right here and now.”
“I’m telling you, doctor, I don’t have the money.”
“Then thirty days it is,” replied the doctor and tapped the screen. A hologram of the bill was sent into Mr. Zigg’s wristband, where it gave the screen a blue-ish hue. “Make certain the amount is paid by this day next month or we will get in touch with the Adamantium Bank. Your clothes and such are in the closet over there. I would get the nurse to help you dress on account of the cast and all, but I take it you wouldn’t want to add more to that bill, huh?”
“Please leave,” Mr. Zigg growled.
The doctor smiled smugly. “Well, then. Have a good day, Mr. Zigg.” She then exited through the automatic slider door. Mr. Zigg stood up, shaking a little to regain his balance. He tapped his wristband and scanned the screen that popped up. His inbox had blown up and he had fifty-eight unanswered calls, mostly from his wife. He buried his face in his palm again.
“Christ.”
Raygon 8, the Commercial District, aka. the Oasis.
CT-Block I366-104-007 “Sunshine Park” - 30m from nearest Cosmart.
Cosmart’s special offer: 67% off on everything ArcadiaCorp! Limited time offer! Only at Cosmart!
Cosmart - Your store, no matter the system.
Subject:
Name: Lobutos Zigg
Age: 41 cycles around Raygon 0.
Residence: CT-Block I366-104-007 “Sunshine Park”.
Occupation: Advertisement Designer.
Workplace: Gurrpi’s Golly Gunships, a CruiserCorp subsidiary.
Routine. That was probably the most appropriate word to describe the morning activities of the family known as the Ziggs. Mrs. Zigg would always rise first, no matter how tired she was, and then proceed to whip her husband out of bed - God knows the alarm couldn’t do it. Once Mr. Zigg finally rose, Mrs. Zigg would promptly move to their second-(or was it third) hand Gala-Grid Model N7 AutoRobe©™, which by this point barely had the necessary dexterity, or even parts, to dress a still-standing mannequin. The Ziggs usually dressed themselves nowadays, no matter how insistent the machine was about allowing itself to help them. Propping up the doors was always the hardest, for the AutoRobe©™ came with special locks and codes on the doors to prevent thieving. Since Mrs. Zigg was the first to rise, she always had to break the now mutilated lock up with a crowbar. She had made her complaints to Mr. Zigg numerous times before - saying they had to get it replaced soon, preferably with a newer model, like the N9x. Mr. Zigg had promised her an upgrade for her last three birthdays, as well as for Commercial Christmas, Black Week and Daylight Savings Day. However, the price tags had always been a bit too juicy for them - every time.
As soon as the missus was dressed and had left the room to wake up their son and daughter, Mr. Zigg would finally get dressed, too. His outfit was always the same - after all, he owned seven uniforms, and you did -not- want to get caught without your uniform at work. It was a standard issue Gala-Grid Model 61 “Old John”©™ penguin-like black suit over a white shirt, adjusted from its original human proportions to fit the barrel-like form of a Raygonian. Despite the flat, round trunks the Raygonians used as feet, Mr. Zigg still put on a pair of synthetic leather shoes that resembled those a human would wear, with a long, oblong sole (this one filled with cotton to simulate the foot that wasn’t there). It hadn’t really struck Mr. Zigg as particularly odd to wear there, he confessed - such had been the fashion for longer than he’d walked Raygon, and so would likely be the fashion for another, uh… Long time.
Finally, the man in the house exited his and his wife’s six square metre bedroom into their ten square metre living room. The last four square metres of the apartment were devoted to the toilet - the children slept in the living room. Believe it or not - they lived a fantastic life for anyone in the centre. 20 square metres for the price they paid was a one in a billion chance. His children already sat around the dining table (which was part of the floor when not in use), eating breakfast. Mrs. Zigg stood by the retractable stove top, stirring the contents of a smoking bowl with a plastic spatula. Mr. Zigg growled a guttural yawn and smacked his lips. Mrs. Zigg set a plate down on the table at his spot - it consisted of two pieces of toasted carbo-bread smeared thickly with RocketEngine©™ protein butter, a few slices of Happy Belly©™ fruit gum roll and rehydrated compound spinach. Mr. Zigg hummed and spooned a mouthful of spinach into his mouth. He frowned and turned to his wife.
“Honey? This spinach, what brand is it? It tastes different than usual.”
Mrs. Zigg placed her own plate down on the table and sat down. She put a spoonful in her own mouth and hardened her eyes at the plastic back on the kitchen counter. “Can’t quite see it from here, sweety. Think it was some Cosmart brand.”
“Happy Belly? Yum-Bo? Pepperridge?”
“Okay, relax, I’ll check,” she huffed and rose up. Their children, Sambel and Lobona Zigg, sat eyeing their food, occasionally stabbing fruit gums with their forks. Mrs. Zigg took the bag in her hand and offered it to her husband. “Remmizipp Farms, apparently.”
“Remmizipp?” Mr. Zigg mumbled and eyed the brand logo. “... Hang on, I know this one. Isn’t this one at least forty credits more expensive than Happy Belly’s?”
Mrs. Zigg looked away. “We-well… You know the bonus I got last month? I just thought we could--”
Mr. Zigg growled and rubbed his face into his palm. “Christ, Clora, that was supposed to go to our savings.”
“I just wanted one nice breakfast for once, Lobutos!” she shouted back. “Is it too much to ask that we can just have actual spinach for once?!”
“Mom, dad - please don’t fight,” Sambel protested. Mr. Zigg impaled a soggy, sloppy leaf of spinach on his fork and put it into his mouth.
“Son, if there’s one thing any of us can teach you, it’s that the only way out of here is to save up - no matter what the ads tell you. That’s why you eat as cheaply as you can in the hopes that at least your children can eat well in the top tier some day. Your mother here, on the other hand--”
“Oh, -I’m- the bad guy, of course,” Mrs. Zigg snapped and rose from the table. She turned and grabbed her jacket and bag.
“Honey, I’m just trying to teach our kids a--”
“I don’t want to hear it! I’m going to work, and if you don’t clean up those plates after you’re done, I -swear- I will…” She pressed the button for the door to open and nothing happened.
Mr. Zigg frowned. “Will what?”
“Ugh!” she screamed and kept pressing the button. Finally, it opened, briefly letting in the cacophony of advertisements echoing between the walls and she left without a word. The room fell silent again, save for some sad sniffing coming from Lobona. Mr. Zigg groaned and put another forkful of spinach into his mouth.
“Dad? Why did you get angry at mom for what she bought?” Sambel asked after a long reign of silence. Mr. Zigg sighed again.
“Like I said earlier, son, we gotta save every credit we can. It’s the only way you two can get a better life.” He impaled a slice of fruit gum on his fork.
“But, but… What about the ads? They’re telling us to buy, aren’t they?”
“They are - which is much of the reason why we’re, well, stuck here. Listen, it’s easy to get hooked on the sales and the bonuses and the subscription services, but we gotta--”
“Stevonbee’s parents have the unlimited hot water sub,” Lobona muttered quietly. Mr. Zigg grit his teeth.
“And Stevonbee’s dad is in huge debt with the mob -and- Adamantium! He fell for the trap, which I’m telling BOTH of you not to do.” The two children looked down and sniffed. Mr. Zigg took the moment to steal a glance at the small digital clock on the stove. His heartrate skyrocketed. “Aw, Christ, I’m late for work! Sambel, son, mind cleaning up after your old man?” Mr. Zigg had already risen from his seat and jogged over to the door.
Sambel frowned. “Sure, dad, but what about school? Our lessons are starting soo--”
As if by act of God, two SmartyPants©™ education touchpads lying in a dank corner of the room to charge, gave chirrup-like rings followed by a sweet tune. In unison and with broken mechanical voices, they echoed, “Children. It is. Time. To start your lessons in. Maths. Social. Sciences. And economics. Please touch. The touchscreen when. Ready.”
“And there it is,” Sambel muttered, “dad, we really gotta--”
“Yeah, I understand, son. Have fun with school! Just - make sure it’s clean before mom comes home, okay?”
Sambel returned an unenthusiastic thumb-up. Mr. Zigg winked back and donned his hat, pressing the opening button on the door at least nine times before it responded and lead him into the apartment complex hallway.
“... Only 599 credits! You cannot miss it! Only five nine nine credits for a brand new…” the nearest advertisement speaker blasted. Mr. Zigg had always been surly about the fact that they had received the room with an ad blaster right above the door - this one with a motion sensor, too. Down the hallway, he spotted the seventeen other speakers that seemed to turn to him like hungry wolves. As he passed them, one hand on his small suitcase and the other covering one ear hole, they each boomed their message, often backed up by a non-copyrighted track.
“Howdy there - you look like the type who could use a small break…”
“TANG SODA! EXCLUSIVE LIMITED TIME SALE ON TANG SODA AT COSMART! ONLY 39,99 CREDITS FOR A CASE OF TEN -- YES, YOU HEARD US RIGHT…!”
“... It ain’t just the air and soil of Sage 4 that makes proper, healthy grain… It’s love and care…”
“Flyer got wrecked by your neighbour? Did the boss violate your contract again? Call Oatman&Steve Attorneys…”
“Shalom! Be blessed by Elahim, shimshon. If you’re in need of a lil’...”
“In need of a loan? Adamantium Bank’s your ticket out of poverty! Drop by our nearest office today and…”
Mr. Zigg wiped the annoyed sweat off his brow as the advertisements became so overlapped that each message was indistinguishable from the rest. It was all just one audible, bubbling soup of words - taunting him and his family’s wealth (or lack thereof, rather). At long last, he reached the door, which thankfully was on the bottom floor. In the door, he met about seventy others: Raygonians, mostly, their barrel-like shapes wagging from side to side with their every step; sprinkled in between was a Putt or two, their shorter forms nearly drowning between their larger peers; finally, Mr. Zigg swore he could see one or two Shas, too - he had no idea any lived in his building.
“Mornin’, Mr. Zigg,” came a rumble from behind him. Mr. Zigg looked over his shoulder and tipped his hat.
“Morning, Mrs. Imhotr. Heading to work?”
The Qurok adjusted her hardhat, broadened to fit her skull size, and smirked. “Where else’d I go? Sewage pipes gotta be cleaned, lest this whole block’ll stink worse than it already does.” She lit herself a thick cigarette and took an unfathomably long drag. The whole group of workers had exited the apartment building and were moving through the loud streets, hoverers and flyers soaring over them and cars rumbling far below. Advertisements were just as deafening here as inside - perhaps even more so.
“Always wondered - don’t we have cybes to fix our plumbing these days?”
“We do,” Mrs. Imhotr replied curtly.
Mr. Zigg shrugged. “How’s the competition?”
She exhaled a thick, smouldering plume of smoke, her wrinkly features somehow even more pronounced in its shadow. “Eh, it’s manageable. Thankfully, the alloys they use in cybes down here’re still not strong enough to handle the acidity of the sewers. Still, they’ve pretty much outshined us in the finer pipes.” She shook her head. “Worst part isn’t even the competition - our boss’s squeezin’ out every penny he can get from every assignment. The micromanagement’s off the rails, I’m tellin’ ya.”
Mr. Zigg frowned. “Really sorry to hear that, Mrs. Imhotr. Hope the paychecks aren’t too affected. How’s the wife, by the way?”
Mrs. Imhotr groaned. “Ugh, she’s been a wreck lately.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Yeah. Found Vidrio in her drawer the other day. I think she’s reboundin’, man.” She took another long drag of her cigarette, almost draining it dry. They neared the station, which was packed to the brim as always with all manner of workers heading to their respective workplaces. The hiss of train breaks and hum of battery-driven engines nearly drowned out the blare of advertisements. Mrs. Imhotr shook her head. “I dunno what to do, man. I can’t afford to put her in rehab again, and I can’t afford to lose her. Not again.”
“H-hey, look, it’ll be alright, no? Just… Set some spending parametres on her wristband and get rid of the product she’s gotten so far. Where is she now?”
“I told her sister about it and we agreed she’d take care of her for a week or two while I clean the apartment. Her sister’s a good person - she won’t get in trouble there.”
“Well, as long as she’s safe. Hey, when do you get off work today?”
“Seven as always. Why?”
Mr. Zigg thumbed over his shoulder. “Actually, my wife’s pretty fed up with me, too. Want to head to Johnny’s after work?”
“You had a falling out with your wife and your solution is drinking?” she asked with a snicker. Mr. Zigg shrugged.
“In truth, our fight was so stupid. She’d bought some expensive lettuce, or was it spinach? Anyway, I got angry, but only because she can’t save cash for the life of her, Jesus…”
“Hey, HEY. You know how I feel about blasphemy, right?”
“Right, sorry, sorry. Gotta ask, how much big’s the church subscription these days? 99 a week?”
“79, actually,” she replied with a grin as she ducked under the slightly too low doorway into their part of the station. “They reduced it in time for the season.”
“Christ, seventy-nine a week to go to church…”
“Mr. Zigg.”
“Right, sorry. Blasphemy.”
Mrs. Imhotr rolled her eyes and sighed. “No, it’s alright. So, about your wife?”
“Oh, right.” They had arrived at the platform of their train, the time table predicting the arrival of the next train in three minutes. Mr. Zigg sighed. “Yeah, so things are pretty tight nowadays, and the wife decided to blow her bonus on some more expensive food… We got into a fight and bada-bing, bada-boom, I’m sleeping on the couch, I reckon.”
“You have a couch?”
“No…”
Mrs. Imhotr snickered. “Well, that sucks. On one hand, I don’t see what the problem is - a little good food every now and then should be a right; on the other hand, now… Well, I’m actually feeling it pretty hard.”
“Right? Like, what if we had needed the money to, to send the kids to the doctor, or, or--”
“Go to church?”
“Uh, I dunno, maybe? Point is - we can’t afford to buy on impulse, and my wife’s having a hard time realising that.”
“How big was her bonus, anyway?”
“Like, one-sixty? Not a lot, but a credit earned is a credit saved.” The train approached from their right and hissed gently as it slowed down. The doors were lifted up to unleash a river of alien flesh onto the platform, prickled with the occasional human. When the cart was almost emptied, Mr. Zigg and Mrs. Imhotr started wrestling their way inside, taking a standing spot before being figuratively locked in place by the rest of the commuters.
“But, like, it couldn’t have cost that much, right? Unless she bought, like, Remmizipp or something.”
“Exactly what she did.”
Mrs. Imhotr whistled sheepishly. “Ouch. One bag of that’s almost a hundred.”
“Right? And it has less in it.”
“Did it taste good, at least?”
“Oh, it was amazing, but not as amazing as those extra credits would’ve looked in our savings account.” Zigg cupped his face in his hand. “Ugh, talking about this leaves my mouth dry.”
“Did you bring your cup?”
“We’ll see,” Mr. Zigg mumbled and opened his suitcase. He rummaged about as deftly as he could, considering he could barely move. “... Crap, I forgot my cup.”
“Hang on,” Mrs. Imhotr mumbled as she dug around in her backpack. Shortly after starting, she had pulled forth a small, but thick, metallic thermos, which she handed to Zigg. “Here. It’s got the, the, uh, the dark roast sub.”
“The three credit one or the twenty credit one?”
“Three, I think.”
Mr. Zigg frowned and tapped his wristband against the cup. It went ‘beep!’ and said, “Three credits deducted from your account.” The cup then begun to vibrate violently for a few seconds before it gave a gentle sucking sound and sounded a ‘pling!’. Mr. Zigg uncorked it and gave it a whiff, cringing slightly.
“If the band hadn’t already told me, I could’ve guessed this was three credit coffee, yup.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied sourly with a half-grin. Mr. Zigg gave the thermos a slurp and then handed it back to the Qurok, who also gave it a swig. The train began to slow down, the next station approaching. Mrs. Imhotr let out a ‘nn!’ and corked the thermos. “Right, this is my stop. So… Seven, right?”
“Yeah, if you’re still up.”
She shrugged and tapped her wristband. “I’ll let you know if there’s a change of plans. If not, I’ll see you there. Laters!” She then proceeded to wrestle her way back out of the train, her two and a half metre tall frame wading through the masses as if they were water. Mr. Zigg made a half grin and leaned up against the wall of the train to close his eyes for a few moments, the rest of the passengers keeping him comfortably from falling over.
“So that’s the story, sir. So therefore, I wondering…” Mr. Zigg gestured a bit with his stubby hands.
Opposite a large desk made of plastic resembling mahogany sat a guppy mecha-suit, within which dome floated a frowning guppy, specifically Mr. Gurrpi, CEO of Gurrpi’s Golly Gunships. "Mr. Zigg, we're a small company, sure, but I still have 694 million employees here, and you know I like you all, but if I was to give everyone who asked for it a bonus, we'd be bankrupt within the hour."
"But!"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Zigg, but no. If you give it your all for the rest of the year, I'll consider it around Commercial Christmas, alright? Omni, make a note of that."
"Yes, Mr. Gurrpi. Note made to: Consider providing Mr. Lobutos Zigg, employee ID 459-993-101, with a Commercial Christmas bonus amounting to [unspecified] based on the sum of his merits," the robotic voice from Mr. Gurrpi's mecha-suit replied monotonously.
Mr. Gurrpi's suit gave a shrug. "I'm sorry, Mr. Zigg, this is all I can do for now. If you can make yourself worth it, I'll set the bonus to, uh, let’s say 15% of your December-2 paycheck.”
“Note edited: Commercial Christmas bonus set to: fifteen percent of December-dash-2 paycheck,” said Omni.
Mr. Zigg’s eyes glistened with surprised. “R-really? You’d do that for me?” And through the thick glass dome of the Guppy mecha suit, the Raygonian could see Mr. Gurrpi grin wholeheartedly.
“Of course! I appreciate all my workers, Mr. Zigg, and reward those who do a good job. Now, I think you oughta get to it if you hope to snatch the bonus for yourself.”
Mr. Zigg was already halfway out the door. “Don’t have to tell me twice! Thank you, sir!” The mecha-suit gave him a thumb up while the guppy inside had returned its attention to the display on its desk. The Raygonian closed the door behind him and giggled to himself. Yes! He would get a bonus and could make up for his wife’s dent in their savings! This was perfect! A beer with a friend later would put the cherry on top, so when the clock struck half past six and Mr. Zigg was skipping down the street from his office building, it seemed only fitting that all should come crashing down at the hands of an armed robbery in an alley. The masked thieves beat Mr. Zigg to a pulp and left him face down in a puddle of filth, hacking into his wristband to steal his money. They then disappeared into the night.
When Zigg woke up, he was at the last place he wanted to be. He would rather be in the grave, the alley or even the bottom tiers over a place like this. The walls were completely white - as were his sheets and the armless robe he wore. Next to him stood a Petalos dressed in a white coat, holding a touch pad. It gave it a few additional taps before noticing that the patient had awoken. Putting on as good as smile as she could, the Petalos faced Lobutos.
“Ah, you’re finally awake.” She adjusted her silver-rimmed glasses. “Mr. Zigg, is it?”
Mr. Zigg’s eyes darted around. “Who called the ambulance? Which hospital is this?”
“The caller never said their name. As for where you are, you are at Polygon Emergency Hospital, CT-Block A090-001-001, “Gala-Grid Heights”. How are you feeling?”
Mr. Zigg’s heart rate shot up considerably. “Polygon?! Fuck! FUCK!”
The doctor put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, if you would please calm down--!”
“My insurance doesn’t cover this hospital! Doctor, how long have I been here?! What treatment did you give me?!”
Immediately, the doctor distanced herself from Mr. Zigg and eyed the touchpad with skeptical pursed lips. “... Oh, is that so. Well, I had hoped we could’ve waited with this until later, but since you’re so eager.” She gave the pad a few additional taps. “Your grand total for a two day stay with the addition of a cast for your broken arm and a cybe replacement for your ruptured kidney--”
“Ruptured kidney?!”
“You had been stabbed, sir. It was either a replacement or removal.”
“Christ, you should’ve just removed.” He buried his face in his hands. “... I can’t pay for anti-rejection drugs, lady. I can hardly pay my family’s rent.”
“Well, shouldn’t have gotten stabbed, in that case. Health authorities always recommend staying out of the street at all times to avoid such unfortunate events.”
Mr. Zigg scowled at her. “I have no choice, doctor! I don’t own a hoverer!”
“Again, not my problem, sir. Your grand total is 13 999 credits.”
“Thirteen--” was all Mr. Zigg squeezed out before he clutched his chest, taking deep breaths. The doctor sighed and tapped a few more times on the pad.
“Adding a possible heart surgery to that, making the grand total--”
“NO! No.” Mr. Zigg slowly set his feet down on the floor. “I’m fine. How long do I have to pay?”
“Thirty days, sir, if you don’t plan on doing it right here and now.”
“I’m telling you, doctor, I don’t have the money.”
“Then thirty days it is,” replied the doctor and tapped the screen. A hologram of the bill was sent into Mr. Zigg’s wristband, where it gave the screen a blue-ish hue. “Make certain the amount is paid by this day next month or we will get in touch with the Adamantium Bank. Your clothes and such are in the closet over there. I would get the nurse to help you dress on account of the cast and all, but I take it you wouldn’t want to add more to that bill, huh?”
“Please leave,” Mr. Zigg growled.
The doctor smiled smugly. “Well, then. Have a good day, Mr. Zigg.” She then exited through the automatic slider door. Mr. Zigg stood up, shaking a little to regain his balance. He tapped his wristband and scanned the screen that popped up. His inbox had blown up and he had fifty-eight unanswered calls, mostly from his wife. He buried his face in his palm again.
“Christ.”
