Chapter Text
The gas station’s bathroom mirror is cracked. Spiderweb-shaped fractures spread across its surface. Multiple years’ accumulation of dust and dirt muddle the reflection. The station’s electricity has long failed, but at this hour of the day, ambient sunlight just barely trickles in through the open door. Not for the first time, I lament having to use such a substandard instrument for this task.
I stand atop a grimy old plastic footstool, in order to ensure my entire upper body is visible in my reflection. I study the image of myself in the mirror. One of my twintails is loose; I correct it, then smooth out a wrinkle in my skirt. There is a light smudge of soot on my right cheek. I leave it be.
Finally, I take a small breath in, then clear my throat, and put a smile on my face.
“Greetings, kind stranger! I couldn’t help but notice you driving by. My name is Paris Suzuki, and I’m a—”
No. That’s wrong. My phrasing is awkward, nothing like the mannerisms I’ve observed in others. And my smile is… off. Inauthentic, observably so. Perhaps I should try a more straightforward approach.
“Hey, pal. Listen, I hate to do this to you, but I really need a ride. I promise I can make it worth your while, but—”
Too aggressive. These words sound anachronistic coming out of my mouth. I shouldn’t risk causing offense, or appearing suspicious. This greeting should be more casual, with more efficient usage of words – the shorter the interaction, the less chance there is that I will make a social blunder.
I study my reflection again, and slowly reposition my facial features into my best approximation of a shy smile. Another breath in.
“Hi there! Um, my name’s Paris. I don’t suppose I could hitch a ride with you back to civilization?”
There. That’s the one.
I run through the winning line again, with slight variations each time. I experiment with the placement of the “um”, which hand I wave with, and the volume of my voice. Then, once I decide on a combination, I rehearse it ten more times until I can perform it on cue.
I’m ready.
. . .
I hear the truck coming before I see it. Decades ago, before the Exodus, perhaps the calls of animals and the rustling of vegetation would have muffled the noise. But in their absence, even the slightest new sound is perceptible.
It’s late afternoon. I’m inside the gas station at the time, searching for any additional supplies – a largely futile effort. Anything worth taking will have been scavenged by now, including the fuel in the pumps.
I spot the dust cloud the truck is throwing up in one of the security mirrors I’ve placed by the front entrance. Once I do, I shift priorities immediately. I will have less than a minute before the truck arrives at my location. Current tasks are as follows:
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Retrieve duffel bag containing key supplies
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Ensure belt is securely fastened
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Rehearse greeting one last time
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Leave gas station and intercept motor vehicle
I climb out through one of the station’s shattered windows and jog up to the side of the road. The truck has gotten closer – through the dust cloud around it, I can see that it’s a semi-truck with a worn coat of black paint, pulling an oversized van trailer behind it. I stick out my thumb.
The truck approaches, not slowing down. I’m partway through calculating the merits of stepping out onto the road – relying on the driver’s empathy for human life forcing them to stop – before I hear the sudden squealing of brakes. The truck comes to a stop in front of me, its dust cloud rushing past via inertia. I’m forced to shut my eyes for a few seconds until the air clears.
The truck’s passenger side door pops open. Sitting in the driver’s seat is an older woman – perhaps in her 60’s. She’s unusually gaunt, and dressed in overalls and thick-soled boots.
I clear my throat. “Hi there! My name’s—”
“What do you want?” the woman scowls.
I blink, recalibrating. “Excuse me?”
“What do you want?” she repeats. “Transport, I’m assuming.”
This isn’t ideal. I wasn’t expecting to be interrupted like this. Now all my preparations are useless. “Well… yes. That would be useful,” I manage to say.
The woman rolls her eyes. “Jeezus. Every small-time Jack and Drifter takes one look at the wheels and starts expecting a ride.” Then she frowns, looking closer at me. “You look a little too shiny to be a Drifter, though.”
“I…” I begin, then stop myself. I need to be cautious of what I say.
“Well? Speak up!” the woman demands.
“I’m not a Drifter,” I hurriedly say. “I’m a colonist.”
“A colonist!?” the woman bellows. She looks over her shoulder, back into the truck, and shouts, “Dunn! We got a colonist out here!”
“Well, how’d he get all the way out here?” a man’s voice calls back.
“Yeah, good point,” the woman mutters, turning back to me. “What’cha doing out in the wastes? You can’t seriously be telling me they’re taking tour groups out in these parts nowadays.” She gestures over to the gas station’s sign – it’s weathered, but still legible.
L ST REST STOP F R:
[439] MIL S
I was expecting this question. I know what to say here. I just have to stay on script. “It was my boyfriend’s idea. We were going on a trip to celebrate our graduation, but he wanted to rent a car so we could see the sights at our own pace. Do it old school, you know?”
The woman raises an eyebrow. “And where’s this boyfriend of yours now?”
A strategic pause. I drop eye contact. “…We got in a fight. He drove off and left me behind.”
The woman sighs, then purses her lips. “Right. Can’t you just call someone else for help?”
“I don’t have a phone. And besides, if the Corporation finds out I went out into the wastes… I could get in really big trouble,” I explain. “I promise, I just need a ride back to civilization. I’ll be okay by myself from there.”
“Yeah, I get it, but… you’re asking a lot here. I can’t just drop everything to pick up every waif that crosses my path, this ain’t a charity service. I’m gonna need you to reciprocate that generosity, savvy?”
“Yes, I can do that,” I respond. In a practiced motion, I unzip the duffel bag, allowing her to see inside. “I have some spare E-injectors that my boyfriend brought with him. If you give me a ride, I promise I’ll give them to you.”
The woman scoffs. “You honestly think I’m rich enough to afford an android?”
Of course she isn’t – I wasn’t expecting her to be. Because if she was, she would be able to recognize the weight of the E-injectors, and realize the ones I hold are completely empty. “Okay, maybe you can’t use them yourself. But they are valuable,” I lie. “So you could still sell them to someone else.”
The woman narrows her eyes, thinking over my proposition.
I decide to take a risk and press the issue. “Please? I really need help. I don’t know what else to do.”
“Alright, alright, you don’t have to tug at my heartstrings,” she says. “I can make a pit stop at the next town and drop you off, that work for you?”
“Yes. Thank you,” I say, taking a step up into the truck cab.
She holds out a hand to stop me. “Ah-ah-ah. Payment first.”
This contains risk. The E-injectors – empty or not – are my only leverage in this negotiation. If she reneges on our deal, I will have few avenues to protect myself. But I’ve been at the gas station for far too long already, and the likelihood that a more charitable benefactor will pass by is infinitesimal. I reach into the bag, withdraw the half-dozen injectors, and pass them to the woman.
She smiles, unaware I’ve just handed her useless metal scrap. “Welcome aboard. What was your name again?”
I climb up into the truck cab. “Paris,” I answer simply.
“I’m Grace. Go ahead and get settled in the back, Dunn can give you the tour.”
There’s a hole cut into the back of the cab, and flexible material – the same type used in the skytrains – creating a corridor back into the trailer. I can see a makeshift living space back there.
Grace presses down on the gas pedal, and the truck begins moving again. It gradually builds speed, driving down the long, dusty road, finally moving away from the broken-down gas station.
And – much more crucially – far away from the shallow grave I dug behind it.