Sodium Lights and Electrical Kittens

The bustling streets of New Cieren are bathed in fluorescent light, an omnipresent film of color coating the faces of the inhabitants as they move through the byways like willful parts of a simulated fluid. A tall Mycian, towering despite his hunched posture, trudges through the crowded alleys of the undercity. The patterns of the neon gods scatter across his esperteen coat, and in the chromatic light his mottled grey skin is washed out like everyone elses. His eyes scan the people he passes by, a myriad of faces imprinting themselves in his mycellium mind; that he recognizes none of them is a testament to the multitudes he shares this home with. And the sadness swells inside his chest just a bit, how many of them too, feel the empty weight of isolation as they drift through a sea of people.

The walk to the outskirts is a familiar one, the sounds of the undercity slowly fading into industrial noise, rhythmic thumping of great machines. But those sounds fade too, as he trudges out into the abandoned old districts, the plastic bag of supplies dangling by his side. A soft mist of rain coats the worn down sheets of metal covering old sheds, cool droplets trickling down the back of his delicate lamella.

The old silo rises over a derelict lot, surrounded by skeletons of old paper mills. A rusted tower looming over a graveyard of long forgotten and discarded livelihoods; at its crown, the relay lights blink in the twilight haze. He carefully ascends the ladder along the side, feeling the pockmarked metal under his palms, steady steps towards the heights.

The warmth of the sodium lights is a welcome reprieve, calm and soothing in contrast to the sharp glare of the city. The soft glow illuminates the small interior, high pile rugs cover the floor trapping sound and dust alike; thick velvet curtains adorn the walls in a gamut of soothing, earthy colors. The space is filled with constant quiet and familiar purr of electronics and a slight hint of ozone, the sounds and smells of capacitors and rectifier tubes. He glances at the display in the corner, "Novastream link: Active". Good, nothing has happened while he's been gone. He unpacks his bag at the makeshift kitchenette, a couple of nutrient blocks, a bottle of Ginsa, and of course, three large packs of dark roast. Because contrary to popular belief, even Mycians can get a taste for coffee. He warms his hand on the still warm pot he brewed before he left, the mist outside has coalesced into soft drops pittering and pattering against the corrugated steel; and the steam rising from his cup as he pours the inky liquid fills his nostrils with a comforting aroma.

He takes a deep breath, letting the tension drop from his shoulders alongside his coat, before he walks up the rackety wooden steps to the second half-floor. The dashboard hums with its familiar voice, the LEDs and lamps blinking and greeting him back to his well worn chair, the small screen shows its just about time, another thirty seconds. His ears are filled with fading melancholic synth notes as he puts the headphones back on, adjusts the dials, and leans in to the microphone.

His low and raspy voice crackles through the network, riding the waves across concrete sprawl and further still, where distant receivers catch his signal in the quiet hours.

"That was 'echoes in the subspace', you are listening to Wallow FM, the music for when life's got you down and you'd like to stay down for just a little bit longer. This is Mitch Morose, your custodian for the late night blues. Next up: "If silence had a name" and other tunes to make you feel like a spec of dust in the aether. Because its always 3am somewhere in the sector.”