Posthuman Blues

Found while rummaging my hard-drive for abortive original fiction:

The lobby was cramped and sad with decay, a fungal museum of twentieth century architectural tropes. The ceiling leaked slime and the overhead lights had been replaced with bare 40-watt bulbs. Ancient fans set them swaying; the room throbbed and writhed in misplaced shadow.

The elevator had been scavenged for its electronics. In its stead, the ad-hoc building administration had installed a frail spiral staircase, perennially wet, the grilled steps carpeted with gene-hacked Swarmer mold. Sensing body heat, the mold would light a psychedelic green that, though faint, left painful afterimages. Swarmer biotech asserted itself with belligerent intensity, borne on the air, taking up residence wherever possible until all that was terrestrial about a place -- all that was normal -- had been leeched, an implacable dampness left in its place.

Sterope Graff stood playing an arcade game in the corner, hands locked into mitts of rotting black rubber, a bowl-shaped virtuality helmet flattening her long black dreadlocks. She had pressed earbuds deep into her aural canals.

Eubert watched her as she gesticulated blindly, hips stiffening as she braced herself against unseen foes, head bobbing and weaving. Her 'locks thrashed behind her like the wake of a dark comet. Eubert found her movement funky and dreamily erotic. He sat down on a circular sofa with sagging acrylic cushions, aware of the stink of Nourishment clinging to his Bureau-issued worksuit. His skinny bar-coded necktie lay creased in his lap.

He looked at his watch, one of the awkward black affairs mandated by the Swarmers. He put it to his ear and listened to the malevolent clicking of its transponder. He nodded in rhythm, and saw with elation that Sterope moved in time. Somehow, the storm of electrons pouring from her rig corresponded to the device that invisibly governed his life.

Our lives intersect, he thought. At least on some level.