Cigarette Burns

By John R Muth

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I always pick at the cigarette burn on my wrist during my brother’s birthday. It’s about the only time of year that fucks me up, making me wonder whether I did the right thing getting unplugged. There’s not enough time to pick it until it bleeds because Franzi’s comm beeps and that never means anything good.

“Oh shit. That fucking idiot did it,” Franzi says, flipping her comm shut and scoping out the rest of the crew. “Sayed went to the blocks to get his C-jack scrubbed. Joaquin just said they found him crashing out.” She grabs her coat, tossing me mine and calling my name to get my attention. “Jorge, quit picking at that,” then she calls out for everyone else. “We gotta get him, niños. Those fucking sig-nants just rip the jacks out, not giving a shit about how that leaves you.” 

“Let’s go,” I say, slipping on the coat. This should at least get my mind off my brother. Fucking Sayed, knew he wouldn’t be able to hack it. 

Tall and spotted with vitiligo, Franzi spends most of her days studying how to do the jack-removal operation herself (some of us jag her because she’s trying to get certified instead of just being underground), but now she’s getting everyone hyped up as we prepare to head out for the blocks. We all wear dark vinyl coats to cover the cigarette burns and polarized shades to blend in with the Norms. It’s more so the Jakes’ drones don’t fuck with us. I feel the hype pulling me out of my funk, so I call out, “Grab your shit. Get the shivs and bats. Let’s go pukes!”

“What’s the point? He’s going to be a zombie by the time we get there anyway. No one comes out of a C-jack scrubbing.” Jeremy is a hard case but takes a step back when Franzi steps up to him. He’s small yet solid, with a spray of curls topping his head. But Franzi’s not afraid of anyone.

“We’re trying to get people unplugged, right. We gotta save as many as we can, and once they’re out we gotta keep them well, right. Sayed couldn’t take having that one jack left. Many can’t, so we don’t judge. I said, right?” She puts her hand on the kid’s head and smiles. He nods. That’s why she’s our leader. “And we fuck up anyone who messes with us. Right?“

Everyone yells out. Now we’re amped. Buncha kids between thirteen and twenty-two, ready to go get one of our own.

“We’re gonna fuck ’em up,” Bryce screams, repeating what Franzi just said. We all laugh whenever Bryce cusses because he’s the youngest. In that way, and others, he reminds me of my actual little brother. He’s only gotten sixteen of his jacks removed so far because of some immuno-deficiency. My little brother got the Jeets (Jack Toxic-Shock Syndrome) when his plugs were put in, so he was never fully jacked in. It turned into one of those things where the company tries to sue you for not being able to be jacked in. 

Like we always do, the nine of us hit the worn-down spot on the door frame that used to read Employees Only, as we pour through the corrugated f-glass hut. The place is a real shit hole, but it’s home. Me and the others bunk here at night, and play games or work on some kind of endeavor to better ourselves during the day. My main job is scavenging together old comms for us to use. Resources are limited if you’re not on the company line, so we can only use the same machines for so long.

After most of us were unplugged, we’ve either been kicked out of our families’ houses for it or charged with “destruction of private property” by the company, this is the only place we have. My dad was a company man, so he’d always tell us how fortunate we were to have the top-tier streams we did. When we were ungrateful, in his eyes, well… Let’s just say my desire to get unplugged didn’t come from nowhere.

Getting all the company’s shit out of our bodies is a problem, for them, because we’re choosing autonomy over being slobbering slaves. The old timers — older than my dad, probably — talk about how our bodies used to be our private domain, but now we’re owned by the company. We call the scars from removing our jacks cigarette burns because those folx have small, faded purple marks on their arms or necks. They try to play it off like they really had it bad, but the deep, twisted scar tissue we bear on our arms, necks, legs, and up our spine, takes a long time to heal and won’t fade away. The scars also rise into small jagged points, leaving us all with little spikes. The old timers joke it makes us look like lizard people and say we’re secretly ruling the world. 

We are ruling the world in the way we’re trying to fight against losing it. So many people are still jacked-in, taking in the nourishment of slimy-ass electrolytes and glossing over the news to where they’re just… What’d they call it? Right: prisoners of the panopticon. Like Franzi says, those still plugged in are cradled in the tits of our corporate masters and it’s our job to get them weaned. The only jack most of us have left is the one going into our cerebral cortex. The C-jack. Most people don’t fuck with those, but the temptation goes both ways. I don’t miss the feeling of being jacked-in, but I miss being connected to my family. I know that wasn’t really being connected, but I mostly miss my little brother. It’s harder on his birthday, and now it’s been two years. It fucks me up wondering how he’s doing. It’s the only temptation I have for plugging back in. But becoming a zombie is a reason to leave the C-jack alone.

Heading down the cracked road, smelling the warm asphalt and sweaty garbage everywhere, we keep our eyes on the sky looking for drones. They’re sneaky until they get real close. We don’t see anyone else before we curve around onto R-deo Drive, past the mark on the side of the building showing this is our haus. It’s where the slum transforms into a luxury shopping plaza. The Norms’ six-thousand credit jacks are carbon-fibre and laced with diamond-LED matrix lights that flash and swirl enough to cause seizures, or burn out your retinas if you ain’t got polarized shades. (The idea is everyone’s jacked in so what’s even the fucking point? Other than deliberately fucking with scabbers or the disabled.) The smell is a sickening sweetness like ozone mixed with vanilla. Running through this block we smile wider as the Norms have to break their fantasies to make room for us or risk getting fucked up, because we don’t show up on their trackers. Ultimately, these aren’t the people we need to unplug. We need to get our people out. The ones still doing the work, even though most think all this shit is automated. The ones who still clean the scum arms in the sewers and maintain the subsystems, burning the shit that makes our “bright future” happen. The company keeps them plugged in and playing them like what they’re doing is respected by the company, while underpaying and over-working every single one of them. It’s why I could never understand my dad’s defending that shit. He’s who we need to be freeing.

At least thirty of these Norms will call the Jakes due to our disturbance, but we’ll be gone before they can find us — instead they’ll wind up harassing some scabbers to charge more credits or risk detainment just for existing. Fucking Jakes: serve and protect the company’s profits. Some of the people have small metal-hounds (dogs who’ve been enhanced to chew metal), so we keep clear of them unless we wanna lose a leg. 

“Sayed better be okay, niño,” Franzi calls out as we jump the fence off R-deo and head down W–hington. Old ass street names: no one even knows what those words mean anymore. A couple of the others swing their bats at shit laying in the street. I see Bryce slice a tire on some auto-cart—fucking up someone’s rideshare. We turn down another street. Oak Street. At least with Oak or Maple, we know they were trees, and if you head out into the ‘burbs you can see the rows of saplings where the chippies are trying to reestablish forests and nature, and shit.  

If I had known more about the chippies before I got unplugged I may have joined them. Chippies are the folks who still have their jacks but use them to maintain a free web. They aren’t connected to the company’s system, but they keep connections open to allow information to be distributed freely, without ads or credit-sinks. No matter what the company does, it hasn’t been able to overcome a determined human mind, so all their firewalls don’t work against the human VPNs. Being in nature, what there is left of it, and actually doing something against this shit: I can imagine how it could’ve been different for me. Maybe I could have taken my brother out there with me. We could’ve had a good life, working a field and allowing free access to others. Seeing the sun and sky without the wires and smog. But I didn’t and wasn’t thinking clearly then. At the hint I was thinking about getting unplugged, my dad put me in Re-Form. Old timers call it something like, “Cuckoo clock Tangerine” or some shit. After that first session I knew I was fucking out: no more jacking in, no more company, and then no more family. That was okay, we hadn’t been a family since mom died.

As we come around to the blocks and hear the cacophony of ghazals and hip-hop mixing into the air with the dust and smoke from chillum-vapes, we head toward the chop-shop Franzi knows about. But Jeremy sees Joaquin waving us over and we head to another place. 

“The fool’s in here,” Joaquin says, holding the side of a tent open as we all pile in and find Sayed sitting on a rickety old zero-grav chair. It’s actually pretty cool, but makes it look like he’s jacked-in. “I keep trying to talk to him, but he just keeps saying some shit about a dog.” 

“Where’d you find him? Bucci’s?” Franzi asks as she gently lifts Sayed’s head, peeling back the damp bandage on the back. Others look at Joaquin, confused.

“What’s that mean?” 

“What dog?”

Joaquin shrugs and looks around seeking someone else who might know. 

“Fuckers didn’t even cauterize. Shit, he’s leaking brain juice everywhere. His brain’s going to  overheat if we… Darren. Aisha. Find a clean rag and get me some fire. Hopefully the bruising isn’t too bad because there’s not going to be anything I can do about that.” 

“Me and Jada found him when we were looking to score…” He pauses, knowing he’s fucked up by mentioning that. Means they were out looking for a jack-in subroutine. Most of us just use comms once we’re unplugged, but if you want to get back in, even just for the feeling; you gotta score.

“Where’s Jada now?” Franzi asks, overlooking the comment because she has other things — like Sayed’s brain — on her hands. She’s looking around, not seeing Jada. We can tell she’s pissed.

“We need to fuck Bucci’s up,” José says. Next to Franzi, José is probably the oldest. He’s the most likely to fuck up a Jake than run. It makes me think about how shitty of an older brother I was. How I chose to run rather than stand up to my dad. To the company. 

The others agree with him. They’ve got their bats and shit. They’re worked up and looking for blood. 

“She took off after I called you. She said she’d go find someone to help in case you all…” He hesitates and eyes the rest of us. There’s always the fear being picked up by the Jakes or getting fried by drones. That’s all those oversized beetles can really do to you unless you willingly get in their pod. None of us ever gets in the pod. Not willingly. I’ve been fried twice before, but it wears off in an hour unless you get picked up. If you get picked up, the company doesn’t let you out again. You go straight to Re-Form, and then they put you in the factory. None of us know what the factory is, but all the rumors make it sound worse than anything we could imagine. 

Sayed groans with the handling of his body but doesn’t say anything. Then in a moment catching us all off-guard, his eyes flick open, locking right onto me, and he goes rigid. His hand grabs my arm right on the cigarette burn I was picking at. I know he says something, but with the grip and those eyes, all I hear is, Take me with you.

“The dog can save you..?. The fuck’s that mean?” Franzi looks between Sayed, Joaquin, and the rest of us. “Is that what he said before?” Franzi asks Joaquin, who nods his head.

“Yeah, some shit like that. That mean something to you, Jorge?” Joaquin asks, and all the other eyes turn to me.

“No. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t even really know Sayed, bro. He’s new to the haus.” I clock his still freshly healing jacks and catch his eyes, still locked on me. “What the fuck are you saying, bro? What dog?” 

“Let’s go, kid. I want to fuck someone up!” Somebody calls out. All the voices in the tent are melding together. I just see Sayed’s eyes and feel his hand on my wrist. He’s got a hold of the cigarette burn I’ve been picking at and all it’s doing is stirring up memories. 

It’s getting heated in the tent. The slap of the bats against tense flexing fingers, the stomping of boots on the hard-pack ground: anticipating the violence.

“Papa will be here soon. Please, Jorge. Jorge. Take me with you!” The brain-fried eyes keep looking at me and mine start to water. I remember my little brother before I left home. Papa will be here soon, Jorge. Please, take me with you. His little brown eyes looking up at me like that. His little hand grabbing my raw arm right where the fibular wrist jack had been. His chest scanner poking out from under his shirt. This connection feels like being jacked-in. How the fuck is Sayed in my head.

I rip my arm away and turn from Sayed and Franzi, and the others. “Jorge! The dog can save you!” His voice is slurring, but he just keeps saying it. I throw my shades off so I can wipe my eyes. It’s like electricity is running through my veins. I know Sayed said the c-jack made him feel like he was still hearing the web. Now he’s in my head and I was already feeling fucked up.

“You two grab him,” Franzi says, holding the bent butter knife over the nitro-lighter Aisha found. Her hands are shaking, feeling the adrenaline. She tries to center herself, wiping her brow, but calls out: “Hey, you all need to chill the fuck out. We need to help Sayed. Hold him steady.” 

The room’s energy turns to nerves. Franzi can have that effect on people. The slapping bats and stomping boots turn to fidgeting fingernails and toes digging into the dirty ground. A couple of them whisper, “Come on Sayed.”

The blue flame licks at the steel, the heat wrapping around it turning it black. Then glowing red, until it’s white-hot. There’s no scream of pain when Franzi holds the knife to Sayed’s gaping wound. Just the smell of scalding hair and flesh which makes everyone gag, even though it’s nothing we’ve haven’t smelled before. When the sizzle stops and Franzi lays Sayed back — his eyes rolled up in his head as his nervous system internalizes the pain and induces unconsciousness — everyone’s eyes turn back to me. 

“I told you all, I don’t know what that shit about the dog means,” I scream and slap some moldy-ass magazines or whatever off a ledge, as I push by Bryce and José. Then I get outside as fast as I can, to get away from the stench and the memory. The dog can save you… What’s that supposed to fucking mean?

I make it two corners from the blocks when I hear the bleat of the siren and the thrum of the fans. The Jakes must not have moved on, or maybe it’s just a slow day. The clipped voice reverberates off the different cheaply manufactured walls, “Stop where you are.” Drones are hard to ditch, but not impossible. My mind just ain’t right. I scope out the area and realize I’m outside the area I’m used to. I don’t recognize anything around me, and other than the sound of a dog barking behind a tagged-up privacy fence, I don’t see where to run to or what I could use as a weapon. “Turn around, scabber.” 

I want to cry out that I ain’t no scabber, but it already knows. These drones try to get a rise out of you so they can fry you. They say the company doesn’t have emotions, but it seems to enjoy torturing us when it gets a chance. So I turn; my hands up in the air. My coat covers any place that would reveal a scar, but the lack of any hardware gives away I ain’t plugged in. Shit, my shades are gone. 

“Get in.” The voice orders as the drone opens its pod doors, like an insectoid’s gaping maw, and I see the jack waiting at the nape of the head rest. “Get in,” it repeats. The pod is only just big enough for a single person, and I can feel the cool breeze of the enclosed environment waiting to hold me. We don’t ever get in the pod. Not willingly. I hear the weapons begin to charge. “Get in,” it orders again, and that dog barking gets in my head. 

My brain’s a mess, and I didn’t even get my jack fucked with. I need to sit down and get my mind right. I feel dizzy and I can’t stop thinking about my brother. There’s been too much happening and now all I can think of is checking on him. I look at the jack. The seat looks inviting with its cushions and cool, fresh air. I step forward and take the seat. Belts drop and latch me in. As the drone takes off and the pod closes, I see the dog barking through the small window. It’s a metal-hound. A big one, too. It would’ve fucked this drone up. The dog can save you. Shit! I get it now, but I’m tired and my eyes are still stinging. There’s talk that sometimes brain-fried folks can see the future or some shit. It ain’t worth the risk of being zombified, and I had never seen it before today. Why today?

The screens kick on numbing me to the world before I’m even jacked-in. I hear the clang of rocks and some other shit bouncing off the drone as it turns to take me back to the company. I know the others have discovered me being picked up. The pings off the hull tell me that if I could have hesitated just a little longer they would’ve rescued me. I realize I don’t want to be saved. I need to check on my brother. Before my eyes gloss over to the shit on the screens, I get the feeling the reason they’re outside is because Sayed’s going to be okay. Now he doesn’t have to worry about this happening to him. His jack is gone. I feel the tight screw of the jack lock into my cerebral cortex. It’s been, I don’t even know how long since I jacked-in, so the force and the jolt hurts more than I remember. I hope Franzi gets her certification and can save more people. Maybe I can get my brother and we can come back to the haus. After the pain, my mind opens up to the connection. 

“Relax. You’ll be safe now.” The drone’s voice is a soft whisper in the recesses of my mind. I feel the feeding tube enter my mouth after a readout states I’m malnourished. When the company gets you again, it doesn’t let you out a second time. As the screens flash past my corneas, I don’t even remember my brother. 

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John R. Muth is a writer and cartoonist who is fascinated by the world and the things that make us all tick. He takes in the viewpoints of others and tries to rectify it with what he’s seen. John has lived and traveled many places otherwise to be noted. Find more of his work at www.ridiculousendeavorpress.com or MYLIFE (turned upside down).

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