Dream City - District I - Night
Down in District I of Dream City—the worst of the worst places to be—where the poor, abandoned, and forgotten lived beneath a sky choked with the smoke of corporate machineries, a decommissioning truck rumbled through smog-filled alleys. Its destination: one of the old disposal facilities that dotted the fringes like rotting teeth.
Behind the wheel sat a not-so-enthusiastic driver, a lit cigarette dangling from cracked lips, as he made a call.
"Hey, you better get my credits ready. I got five good ones this time," he told his buyer, voice low, eyes twitching with nervous greed.
That was the game with manuals. Everyone made easy money—if you did it quietly. The trick was to sell a few off the top before they reached the scrap line. No questions, just cold credits.
He was still arguing over prices when something stepped out of the bushes and into the road.
In a near miss, he swerved hard—metal groaning, tires screeching. The automatic brakes kicked in, saving him from a collision.
"Damn it!" he barked, slamming a fist against the dash.
He climbed out, muttering curses, already reaching for his EMP device. Then he heard it—a repeated, glitchy phrase drifting from the shadows:
"Serve... tea. Serve... tea..."
He froze. "Oh hell, another damn manual."
It was a Model 1—old, outdated, slow. Practically a relic. Scrap value was near zero, not even worth melting down. But maybe, just maybe, he could bundle it with the others, claim it was a bonus unit and squeeze a few extra credits from his buyer.
He circled it slowly, wary.
"Serve tea?" the manual asked again, voice calm and distant.
"I don't know about tea, but credits? Oh yeah."
Without hesitation, he zapped it with the EMP. The manual twitched once, sparks spitting from its ports before going limp. He grabbed it by the arm and dragged it into the back of the truck, tossing it in with the others like discarded junk.
Then he hopped back in the cab, reversed onto the main road, and disappeared into the haze, already dialing his buyer back.