Blades of light crept slowly across the cluttered bedroom floor. They passed slowly over torn skin-mags, ricoched off of spend Wish shooters, and climbed unhindere to the top of a very ragged and unkept bed upon which slept an even more ragged and unkept bed. When the rays of light pierced the thin veil of his eyelids, John roled. For a split second he realized his mistake, but John’s wiry frame connected solidly with the floor.
Without any false pretense of pride, John peeled himself from the ground. He approached his dresser, sweeping a pile of junk from the top of it, John reached inside a drawer and pulled out a small cylindrical cartridge. The Wish is a pyschotropic chemical and bacterial cocktail twisted in such an elgantly deady manner that during intoxication the user’s every desire seems to come true, but afterwards leaves the user so drained they wished they hadn’t taken the drug. With a few practiced motions John pressed the Wish into his medical-grade hypodermic injector and pressed it into his elbow. Euphoria gushed from his every pore. John was swept away in a glorious tide of pleasure.
Through the wild years of his youth, and subsequently drug-soaked years of his manhood John had grown acustumed to waking up in places he didn’t remember actually going to. But where he was now was so profoundly different from any other place that he had been before that it shocked him into consciousness. The rough wood against his face did not surprise him, neither did the putrescent smell of feces mixed with vomit and a dash of urine, and even the darkness was somewhat familiar. The sound of metal sliding smoothly against metal and a low ocillating rumble. A train? He’d seen them in some of the older Holo’s, but the last one was scrapped at least 150 years ago! Thoroughly confused, John pushed himself up and as he shoved and pushed his was upright he instantly regretted standing. The blood rushing to his skull carried with it the painful reminder of the price a cheap Wish extolled from the user. He staggered in pain, steading himself on a nearby object. John silently cursed his Genie for selling him Russian Wishes. Another wave of agony swept over him and he clung tightly to the object he’d grabbed earlier, it was cotten and mildly forgiving…
“Hey watch yourself you dirty farker!” roared his arm rest.
For a moment, John was overwhelmed with a desire to strike this man, hard, someplace vital, but it passed as quickly as it came. The flare of rage was replaced with a seathing ember of loathing. The ember was then quickly doused by another wave of throbbing agony. John backed against the wall of the railroad cart, and leaned carefully. What was he doing in a railroad car? Why was he packed like so much cattle in the car? And why in Gord’s name was there a train in the first place?