Icarus
An older story that got me started in writing flash fiction. Technically, the photo didn't inspire this story, but I wanted a picture to pair this with, so I dug around for something appropriate. This one seems to work.
---
Rooftop gardens, condensers, chicken wire dishes. Junktown spread out before Cal as he crouched on the edge of the roof, dirty tiles cold under his bare feet. In the distance he could see the towers of downtown, and beyond them he could feel, though not see, the wide, tree lined avenues of the enclaves and communities. Cal looked slowly from right to left, peering closely at Junktown, cataloging the kludged and retrofitted buildings, imprinting it on his brain. He wanted to always remember this place. After he left, he wanted to be able to sit back, close his eyes and be here. That way he'd never forget why he did this, followed this dream up and out of Junktown.
---
Cal had grown up in Junktown, a childhood wandering through empty, concrete paved lots overgrown with grass growing through the cracks. Not that he'd ever had many people to wander with. He had always been thin, sickly and slow, no fun for games or exploring. So he was never picked for booster-ball and left behind when the other kids ran off to play Grunts and Guerillas.
What real doctors his parents could afford had just shrugged their shoulders. Junktown had made him, they'd said, the waste, the residual carcinogens in the walls and floors of the old factories that made up the bulk of Junktown architecture. No one was ever supposed to live in those places, the doctors had patiently explained, voices slow and words small, they were filled with chemicals.
After burning years of savings hearing the same words over and over, Cal's parents had given up and brought him to the street clinics, where off-duty paramedics and license-revoked veterinarians wanted to heal the inhabitants of Junktown. The clinics were enough to keep Cal going, let him grow up, albeit rail-thin and stringy. But he'd always known Junktown had made him what he was. All the other kids had always ignored him because of Junktown. He'd get out of Junktown, and everyone would watch.
---
Cal looked down and could see ant-like people scurrying this way and that under the multicolored canopies of the street bazaar. Cal wasn't high enough that the people were the size of ants, but they looked like ants, each absorbed in their singular missions. Get food, get money, get drugs, get sex, get get get. A slow smile spread across Cal's face. He'd give them something else to think about. He'd make them look up and see, share his dream and soar out of Junktown.
---
He'd had the first dream when he was 11, and most nights ever since, flitting and soaring behind his eyeballs every time he slept. He knew there must be a way. And a little over a year and a half ago, Cal had found it. Neurokinetic extramuscular subcutaneous myolymer implantation. He'd seen it in a magazine Justine had left behind at his place, buried after an article on the latest Shanghai fashions.
It had taken a few months to figure out how to get his hands on the technology, then another four months to actually get the plans. Six months of design and another five months of crafting. Not to mention the surgery and healing time.
But Cal didn't mind. His dream would come true. After 13 years, his dream was here and he had a way out.
---
Cal's hands scrambled over the fabric of the baggy, extra-long anorak, tugging and seeking purchase, pulling it over his head. Cal winced, hissing in through his teeth as the material snagged, the sharp jerk transmitted up through his left shoulder blade, causing a slight twinge in just healed tissue. Cal tossed the pullover to the side, shivering mildly in the sharp air of morning, the hairs on his arms standing on end. Rubbing his hands together for warmth, Cal giggled, it was nearly time.
---
Harvey had told Cal he was crazy. But Cal knew that. Harvey wasn't that sane either. No one who lived in Junktown was particularly right in the head. But Harvey said Cal was really loony.
Harvey had hovered over Cal while he worked, muttering and tugging on his hair the way he did. He distracted Cal so much, Harvey caused him to snap one of the struts by mistake. Cal had shoved a lit thermite lance at Harvey's face, that had made his roommate retreat back to his side of the apartment.
Cal knew it was a crazy dream, he didn't need to be told. But it was his dream. It was his way out of Junktown.
---
Cal shifted on the rooftop, spreading his feet a little for stability. He tensed the new muscles in his back, arching his spine and bowing his head. The eerie creak and sudden shifting weight of his new appendages nearly tumbled him off the roof. It was twelve stories to the street below. Cal stared down and rocked slightly on the balls of his feet, eyes wide and happy, reveling in the vertigo and finding his new center of balance.
---
Dr. Rusty had thought Cal was crazy too, but he hadn't said anything. Rusty never said anything, just looked sad, grunted, ground out his cigarette, took Cal's money and went to work. Cal lay face down on the table, his back cold and heavy under the anesthetic.
Rusty had lent him a pair of holo-goggles with a five-year-old hang gliding demo on it, something to distract him during the operation. But Cal couldn't pay attention to it, no matter how much he wanted too. He was too busy feeling the dull pulls and pushes against his back, picturing the operation in his head. The implants, interfaces, melding and fusion. Only Rusty's nerve-blocking relaxant kept him from quivering with anticipation. Everyone would see him live his dream, and he'd make them feel the joy.
---
Cal stood, spreading his arms and raising his face to the sun. It was a low smog day and the sun was warm in the skin of Cal's face and chest. The wind ruffled his short hair, whipped at his pant legs and pushed against his new implants, shoving him playfully, like a child. Cal laughed out loud and crowed to the sky. He was so close, so close to the dream.
---
The surgery had left Cal numb and slightly paralyzed, forced to lay on his stomach for three weeks, while Rusty's speedhealers worked. Justine had come by a few times, but she could never stay long, looking at Cal laying on his bed in his new form. She knew this was coming. Why was she angry about it now?
The last time she came by was to collect her things, tossing underwear and clothes into a backpack, taking her toothbrush from the bathroom and sifting her music out of his library. Harvey had lingered, wanting to help, but Justine ignored him as usual.
Cal didn't mind very much when Justine stopped coming, or when Harvey gave up trying to talk to him. He had too many things on his mind. He had a way out of Junktown.
---
Cal dropped his arms to his side, inhaling until his ribs hurt from the pressure. This was it. His way out. People would see Cal and know. Today he'd change all their lives.
Cal flexed his implants a few more times and dropped back into a crouch, putting his arms between his legs to touch his toes, looking out over the buildings like a cat about to pounce. With one massive push of his legs, Cal launched himself from the roof.
For one terrifying instant, he wobbled in the air. Then his wings caught and the wind slammed him skyward, nearly knocking his breath away. Cal whooped, tears whipped away from his eyes as fast as they emerged. His loose pants snapped in the air like flags and Cal spread his arms to embrace the world sliding beneath him.
Then, with a white hot wrenching, something went wrong, something tore in his back and Cal's left wing twisted violently back, squeezing an agonized scream from his lungs. He started to spin out of control and fall through the air, heading straight for a cluttered rooftop. He barely had time to cry out for mercy before he crashed through a small forest of dishes and antennas, each one scouring and flaying his body. He slammed into the roof's surface, plowing a new furrow across a shallow tray of tomatoes before ramming headlong into the steel structure of a condenser, snapping his neck with a sickening crunch.
---
Most people in the street didn't even notice Cal's aborted flight. They didn't have time, they had things to do, errands and jobs. A few did look up though, watching the thin young man with polished chrome wings, shaking their heads in pity at another Junktown suicide.
---
Rooftop gardens, condensers, chicken wire dishes. Junktown spread out before Cal as he crouched on the edge of the roof, dirty tiles cold under his bare feet. In the distance he could see the towers of downtown, and beyond them he could feel, though not see, the wide, tree lined avenues of the enclaves and communities. Cal looked slowly from right to left, peering closely at Junktown, cataloging the kludged and retrofitted buildings, imprinting it on his brain. He wanted to always remember this place. After he left, he wanted to be able to sit back, close his eyes and be here. That way he'd never forget why he did this, followed this dream up and out of Junktown.
---
Cal had grown up in Junktown, a childhood wandering through empty, concrete paved lots overgrown with grass growing through the cracks. Not that he'd ever had many people to wander with. He had always been thin, sickly and slow, no fun for games or exploring. So he was never picked for booster-ball and left behind when the other kids ran off to play Grunts and Guerillas.
What real doctors his parents could afford had just shrugged their shoulders. Junktown had made him, they'd said, the waste, the residual carcinogens in the walls and floors of the old factories that made up the bulk of Junktown architecture. No one was ever supposed to live in those places, the doctors had patiently explained, voices slow and words small, they were filled with chemicals.
After burning years of savings hearing the same words over and over, Cal's parents had given up and brought him to the street clinics, where off-duty paramedics and license-revoked veterinarians wanted to heal the inhabitants of Junktown. The clinics were enough to keep Cal going, let him grow up, albeit rail-thin and stringy. But he'd always known Junktown had made him what he was. All the other kids had always ignored him because of Junktown. He'd get out of Junktown, and everyone would watch.
---
Cal looked down and could see ant-like people scurrying this way and that under the multicolored canopies of the street bazaar. Cal wasn't high enough that the people were the size of ants, but they looked like ants, each absorbed in their singular missions. Get food, get money, get drugs, get sex, get get get. A slow smile spread across Cal's face. He'd give them something else to think about. He'd make them look up and see, share his dream and soar out of Junktown.
---
He'd had the first dream when he was 11, and most nights ever since, flitting and soaring behind his eyeballs every time he slept. He knew there must be a way. And a little over a year and a half ago, Cal had found it. Neurokinetic extramuscular subcutaneous myolymer implantation. He'd seen it in a magazine Justine had left behind at his place, buried after an article on the latest Shanghai fashions.
It had taken a few months to figure out how to get his hands on the technology, then another four months to actually get the plans. Six months of design and another five months of crafting. Not to mention the surgery and healing time.
But Cal didn't mind. His dream would come true. After 13 years, his dream was here and he had a way out.
---
Cal's hands scrambled over the fabric of the baggy, extra-long anorak, tugging and seeking purchase, pulling it over his head. Cal winced, hissing in through his teeth as the material snagged, the sharp jerk transmitted up through his left shoulder blade, causing a slight twinge in just healed tissue. Cal tossed the pullover to the side, shivering mildly in the sharp air of morning, the hairs on his arms standing on end. Rubbing his hands together for warmth, Cal giggled, it was nearly time.
---
Harvey had told Cal he was crazy. But Cal knew that. Harvey wasn't that sane either. No one who lived in Junktown was particularly right in the head. But Harvey said Cal was really loony.
Harvey had hovered over Cal while he worked, muttering and tugging on his hair the way he did. He distracted Cal so much, Harvey caused him to snap one of the struts by mistake. Cal had shoved a lit thermite lance at Harvey's face, that had made his roommate retreat back to his side of the apartment.
Cal knew it was a crazy dream, he didn't need to be told. But it was his dream. It was his way out of Junktown.
---
Cal shifted on the rooftop, spreading his feet a little for stability. He tensed the new muscles in his back, arching his spine and bowing his head. The eerie creak and sudden shifting weight of his new appendages nearly tumbled him off the roof. It was twelve stories to the street below. Cal stared down and rocked slightly on the balls of his feet, eyes wide and happy, reveling in the vertigo and finding his new center of balance.
---
Dr. Rusty had thought Cal was crazy too, but he hadn't said anything. Rusty never said anything, just looked sad, grunted, ground out his cigarette, took Cal's money and went to work. Cal lay face down on the table, his back cold and heavy under the anesthetic.
Rusty had lent him a pair of holo-goggles with a five-year-old hang gliding demo on it, something to distract him during the operation. But Cal couldn't pay attention to it, no matter how much he wanted too. He was too busy feeling the dull pulls and pushes against his back, picturing the operation in his head. The implants, interfaces, melding and fusion. Only Rusty's nerve-blocking relaxant kept him from quivering with anticipation. Everyone would see him live his dream, and he'd make them feel the joy.
---
Cal stood, spreading his arms and raising his face to the sun. It was a low smog day and the sun was warm in the skin of Cal's face and chest. The wind ruffled his short hair, whipped at his pant legs and pushed against his new implants, shoving him playfully, like a child. Cal laughed out loud and crowed to the sky. He was so close, so close to the dream.
---
The surgery had left Cal numb and slightly paralyzed, forced to lay on his stomach for three weeks, while Rusty's speedhealers worked. Justine had come by a few times, but she could never stay long, looking at Cal laying on his bed in his new form. She knew this was coming. Why was she angry about it now?
The last time she came by was to collect her things, tossing underwear and clothes into a backpack, taking her toothbrush from the bathroom and sifting her music out of his library. Harvey had lingered, wanting to help, but Justine ignored him as usual.
Cal didn't mind very much when Justine stopped coming, or when Harvey gave up trying to talk to him. He had too many things on his mind. He had a way out of Junktown.
---
Cal dropped his arms to his side, inhaling until his ribs hurt from the pressure. This was it. His way out. People would see Cal and know. Today he'd change all their lives.
Cal flexed his implants a few more times and dropped back into a crouch, putting his arms between his legs to touch his toes, looking out over the buildings like a cat about to pounce. With one massive push of his legs, Cal launched himself from the roof.
For one terrifying instant, he wobbled in the air. Then his wings caught and the wind slammed him skyward, nearly knocking his breath away. Cal whooped, tears whipped away from his eyes as fast as they emerged. His loose pants snapped in the air like flags and Cal spread his arms to embrace the world sliding beneath him.
Then, with a white hot wrenching, something went wrong, something tore in his back and Cal's left wing twisted violently back, squeezing an agonized scream from his lungs. He started to spin out of control and fall through the air, heading straight for a cluttered rooftop. He barely had time to cry out for mercy before he crashed through a small forest of dishes and antennas, each one scouring and flaying his body. He slammed into the roof's surface, plowing a new furrow across a shallow tray of tomatoes before ramming headlong into the steel structure of a condenser, snapping his neck with a sickening crunch.
---
Most people in the street didn't even notice Cal's aborted flight. They didn't have time, they had things to do, errands and jobs. A few did look up though, watching the thin young man with polished chrome wings, shaking their heads in pity at another Junktown suicide.
posted by Ryan at 4:29 PM
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