Kei hated the sounds of the city. The wailing of sirens, the scraping of metal, the shrill screams of anger and joy. No harmony, no elegance, no beauty to be found beneath the chaos. He twiddled with the dial on his new peripherals in the hopes of drowning it out. They cost two months worth of credits, but supposedly they would do something to dull the painful discordance. Top-of-the-line, or at least they were a few hundred cycles ago. He knew that the noise was waiting to get in, to rattle and poison his brain like it did to everyone who lived here. A losing battle, but the only one worth fighting.
He grimaced and looked up from the filthy streets. Between the fogged windows of a collection agency and the blinding lights of a sim parlor was a narrow alley, barely wide enough to walk down. Unremarkable and unassuming, it was his only escape from this wretched city. The buildings on either side were tall enough to block out most of the light and sound, but not all of it. Far above, the anemic glow of the dome’s simulated stars trickled down to reflect on the puddles of piss and who-knows-what that littered the alley. He tapped the light up on his peripherals and walked carefully; his new shoes had cost a fistful of credits and it would not be long before the collectors started their uncomfortable calls. At the dead-end of the alley was a single door, just as plain and functional as millions of others, and above it was a soft violet light. Not a sleek display like the ones that adorned the establishments on the street outside, but instead an antiquated weaving of tubes and wires. Quaint and unnecessary, but that was the entire point of this place.
The Broken Record
He opened the door and dialed down his peripherals as he stepped inside. The screeching of a car horn washed over him as the door closed and then…silence. Simple and wonderful silence. He closed his eyes and shuddered. This was one of his favorite sounds, and he cherished it more than anything on the other side of that door. He slowly adjusted to the dim light of the lobby as he took a moment to listen to his own breath. In, out, in, out. The padded walls shared the same violet color as the sign outside, the personal flair of the Record’s eccentric owner. The rest of the lobby was understated: curtains and hanging lights designed to acclimate its patrons into the experience. Even the standard access terminal guarding the hallway on the other end was draped in cloth to blend in. This was a “classy” place of business, so there was no need for primitive entrance barriers like they had at the rowdier dark dens. The highly calibrated neutralizers behind the walls were effective enough in the rare case that someone tried to hop the terminal.
Kei approached it and tapped his hand on the exposed screen. A harsh green light surged from the terminal and cut through the pleasant darkness of the lobby. The hologram letters “S T A F F” briefly flickered above his hand and the horrid *bing-BING-bing* chime ruined his mood as it always did. He had brought this up with management already and the answer was always the same. Everyone knew the blocky chunk of metal ruined the ambience, but regulations were regulations. Consortium tech was notoriously rigid, and tampering with it was not worth an awkward visit from Compliance.
As the awful chime faded to be replaced with his muffled footsteps, he made his way down the carpeted hallway. The brass lamps that lined the walls grew progressively brighter as the distant bellowing of a simulated saxophone trickled into the corridor. One of the owner’s ambience tracks, decidedly novel but synthetic enough to appeal to the Broken Record’s less-than-discerning clientele. The tune lacked soul, the sound itself tainted by even the highest-end speakers. Kei had grown used to it out of necessity; at least it was better than the “music” outside. It was pleasant enough – he even enjoyed some of it – but he was always eager for the brief silence that preceded his performances.
The track grew to its climax as he reached the heart of New Agamakar’s unspoiled jewel. An oasis from the unrelenting march of progress, a slice of time cut out and reserved for those with plenty of credits to spare. The Broken Record’s main lounge sparkled in the soft light shed by the crystal and brass chandelier overhead, every surface of the room meticulously polished by the afternoon crew. Velvet booths surrounded tables of carved wood, paintings of long-forgotten people in ridiculous clothes adorned the spotless walls. On one side of the lounge was the stage: Kei’s sanctuary, more of a home than his dingy apartment out in zone 6. It was barely large enough to fit four or five people comfortably, but it was his world. Overhead lights (ancient, bulky things) made it the focal point of the lounge despite its humble presentation. There were no monitors in sight and the rules prohibited peripherals or “distracting” mods. The dazzle of the Broken Record brought people in, but the stage loosened their pockets enough to bring them back.
On the other side was the bar, an expanse of black marble and brass trim against the far wall. The bartenders made a habit of pressuring him to have a drink before his sets; on occasion he would begrudgingly accept, but he knew he had to keep his head clear tonight. A single man sat on a stool far too small for him and hunched over a bottom-shelf bottle that he was likely to keep to himself.
“Sit down, kid,” he grunted without looking up. Kei approached and decided to oblige, mostly because he had shown up an hour early and had time to kill but also because Orik was a decent chat compared to the rest of the staff. The Record’s oversized bouncer had interesting stories at least; working for a who’s-who list of the city’s underbelly got him into enough trouble for a few lifetimes.
When Kei sat down, Orik looked up from his bottle to eye him over. The bouncer was a brute of a man, large by every conceivable standard and then modded to the teeth. Most of it was covered by an absurdly bulky trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat to keep the patrons at ease, but Kei had seen him changing in the staff room. Both arms completely replaced from the elbow down, presumably kitted with various tools from his line of work. His uneven gait suggested at least one leg as well. The metallic jaw was much more difficult to hide and made his speech a little off, but if the story was true then he was lucky enough to still be alive.
“New suit, new peripherals,” Orik commented. “Didn’t think you were a high roller, working for a living like this. Either that or you’re itching for a hot date with an extractor.”
Kei scoffed and readjusted on his stool. “I earn my credits doing an honest job. How I spend them isn’t your problem, I know what the important things are.”
Orik laughed half-heartedly and looked back down at his bottle. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard that from a kid who thinks he’s invincible. I’m sure you’ll change your outlook once the collection agents come knocking. You’ll start counting the cycles then, and trust me the number’s never enough. You won’t be thinking about those nice shoes when there’s an extractor in your neck and everything goes dark.”
It was not common knowledge among the staff, but Kei knew that Orik had put in his notice last week. 800 more cycles was all he could afford and he was not going to spend all of them keeping rich idiots in check.
“Besides,” Orik continued on a lighter note, “if you’re going to drop that much money, might as well invest in kitting out. An old work pal of mine got some good ear mods. Bastard said he could hear the couple 10 doors down fuckin’ if he wanted to.”
“They distort the pitches,” Kei said. “Lowers the quality on the finer things, some of the ranges get tinny. The last thing I want to do is ruin the music. Mods make it unnatural.” The last word felt awkward and ironic before it even left his lips.
Orik choked back a laugh, hoping to save some embarrassment at Kei’s expense. “Whatever you say. Won’t ever understand you artsy types anyways. Now that I think about it…”
His voiced trailed as he looked up to the balcony across the lounge. Up there, the Broken Record’s owner would watch the performances from above. Sometimes alone, usually entertaining some influential businessman or dealer, but tonight the balcony would be empty. Tonight she would sing.
“Maybe,” Orik mused, “you’re just trying to impress the boss for your little duet.”
Kei turned and pretended to fidget with his peripherals in a futile attempt to hide his blushing. A massive hand slapped him on the back, jolting him to sit upright. “Relax relax,” Orik chuckled, “I’m not gonna judge you. Fact is we’ve all had those thoughts.”
The bouncer looked over his shoulder across the empty lounge before leaning in closer to Kei. Orik always had a smug smirk on his face – even when dragging a rowdy patron out the back door – but now he only looked remorseful. “Maybe it’s the booze, maybe it’s my last week here, but I got some advice for you. You’re a decent guy Kei. You keep your nose clean, you haven’t dragged yourself through the muck like I have. I don’t know much about music and all that but I can tell you got talent. Do whatever brings you peace in this shithole, just keep your distance from her. Truth is, my old man tended bar for her until I came along and fucked up his plans. She was here before us, and I’d bet my last credits that she’ll still be sitting up there after we’re just numbers on a balance sheet. You don’t slip the collectors that long by playing fair. Just watch out for yourself. Nobody else is going to.”
Finding himself increasingly uncomfortable, Kei muttered some combination of thanks and an excuse to prepare for the show. He stepped back from the bar, casting a glance back at Orik downing the rest of his bottle before slipping through the plain door that led to the staff room. Unlike the lounge, it was purely utilitarian: metal benches, lockers, and a few cramped showers. Kei sat down in front of his locker, put his head in his hands, and waited in silence. The saxophone track had finished, replaced by the one with the lazily arranged trumpets. He dialed the sound inhibitor of his peripherals back on.
*******************************************************************************
Kei stared unblinking at the ivory keys. Only a handful of pianos still existed, the rest either locked behind multiple layers of glass in a museum or in the hollow apartments of people who could never appreciate them. He had personally only been allowed to play on it twice before; it was a pain for the staff to drag out to the stage, so it was saved for special occasions. The keys were cool to the touch as he let his fingertips drift across their surface. Around him, the dull hum of conversation slowly grew as more patrons filed in and were shown to their seats. His peripherals were tucked securely in his locker, but the thoughts and music in his head were substitute enough to drown them out. He ran through the pieces he would be playing, over and over and over, mentally mapping out the notes one by one. Not the light overtures meant to warm the audience up – that would come naturally enough – but the arrangements that had been prepared specifically for the main event. He looked up at the clock hanging above the bar. 30 seconds until the hour. He breathed in, out, in, out. His steadied his fingers over the keys, 5 seconds. He exhaled, then he began.
The first hour passed by in a blur, his mind racing faster than his hands could follow. He paid little attention to the empty tunes he played, and the patrons most likely did the same while they ordered drinks and waited. This was all a pleasantry, like chatting up an annoying coworker in an elevator. It gave him just a little a more time to sink into the melodies playing in the corners of his consciousness. He had to get it perfect.
He looked back up at the clock. Just a minute until the hour. He let the final notes drift off, the voices of the audience following suit as their eyes fixed on the stage. Once every 200 cycles, the Broken Record fell silent for just a moment. And then, the sound of heels tapping behind him.
The Broken Record’s owner walked onto the stage, gracefully approaching the microphone at its center. He saw her from a distance most nights, just a smiling face peering down at the world below, but up close she radiated elegance. Tonight she wore a black dress that sparkled underneath the lights; not sleek and form-fitting like the fashion that adorned the advertisements on every street corner, but rather simple and timeless. She always had her excessive feathered scarf, visible even from the balcony and bright violet like the sign outside. Leaning into the microphone, she spoke in a breathy half-whisper that still carried a captivating flourish.
“Good evening, New Agamakar. I hope you’re all enjoying the little slice of paradise we’ve carved out here. Take it easy, have a drink, unwind for tonight. All of the trials and tribulations outside aren’t going anywhere, they’ll still be around when we’re done. Now I don’t want to keep you all waiting, we have a special treat tonight so let’s get right to it. Our regulars might already know our protégé here on stage; ladies and gentlemen, Mister Kei Ilgard.”
She turned back to face Kei, a demure smile on her thin lips. When he had played for her before, it was always with a band. He would play whichever instrument was needed, he knew them all, but this was the first time he held her direct attention. To the world outside, she might be “cute” at best. Her face was rounder than any model’s, her features slightly uneven with a mole on her cheek. She was imperfect, but not to him. His heart stopped in the brief second their gazes met. Underneath the makeup he could see the subtle protrusions in the skin around her eyes, the telltale sign of full ocular implants. The violet irises shimmered as they adjusted and focused on him; even the highest-end eye mods were easy enough to spot.
Her smile widened, her lips parted, and she mouthed, “showtime”.
All of the anticipation and longing exploded from his fingertips. This music had been haunting his thoughts since the sheets arrived in his inbox, bubbling over until he could finally release it now. The first song was slow and mournful, understated but dripping with emotion. The lounge and its patrons melted away until only the keys in front of him and the woman on the stage were all that existed. Reaching the end of the intro, Kei let his notes trail off to leave an opening for her to step in. She leaned into the microphone and then started to sing.
Her first notes echoed through every corner of the Broken Record. Pure, untainted, incomparable. They filled the lounge and the souls of everyone in it, leaving no room for anything else. Kei was already too lost to discern the lyrics, but they did not matter. Her voice transcended something as primitive and trivial as language. The meaning resonated on a much deeper level, far beneath the bias and insincerity of words. He let himself sink into it, yielding his hands and his heart to her song. They progressed through the set, Kei playing from pure instinct and devotion. He was her instrument, and he wanted nothing more since the first time he heard her sing.
He looked up from the keys. The set was over. His head felt light as it reeled from the lingering echoes of the singer’s voice. She stood at the microphone, beaming as she waved to the patrons. Thunderous applause gradually pierced through the fog in his mind as it started to dissipate.
“Thank you, thank you,” she said, “you all are far too kind. I wish we could stay here forever, cycle after cycle, but we’ll just have to wait until next time. I’m already looking forward to it, my darlings. Now I’ll leave you in capable hands while you finish your drinks. Don’t be strangers.” She waved and blew a kiss to the audience before turning to exit the stage, winking to Kei as she passed by.
Kei returned to the motions of playing a light ambient tune, a mere formality as the room collectively came down from the performance. Many of the patrons left after getting what they came for, others sat and nursed their drinks to delay their inevitable return to reality. As the last one left and the cleaning crew emerged from the staff room like clockwork, Kei afforded himself a minute to bask in the afterglow. Now he only wanted to be back in his cramped apartment, to be alone so he could process what just happened. He stepped down from the stage, walking toward the staff room to collect his peripherals. His hand had barely touched the handle when his thoughts were abruptly scrambled by an audible cough. Orik was standing next to him, his usual grin still missing.
“Boss wants to see you,” he grunted. “She was pretty insistent. Door back behind the bar, two floors up, you can chip in.” Without waiting for a reply, he muttered something under his breath and left for the exit. Kei followed the instructions in a haze, passing around the bar to another unmarked door. He had never spoken directly with her; even during his audition, she watched from the balcony and had management message him afterwards. Perhaps it was meant to add to the mystery, but even they only referred to her as “the owner”.
Behind the door was a standard service stairwell, just as bare and metallic as the staff room. These undecorated corners of the Broken Record served as a reminder that beneath the illusion this was still the same rotten city. Just as Orik said, two floors up was another door with a standard chip panel and a heavy lock. As soon as he tapped it and stepped inside, a wave of thick perfume washed over him. He found himself thrust back into the dream: this room was just as decadent as the lounge downstairs but far less bright. He strained his eyes as they adjusted to make out the features of a posh living space: a luxurious couch, a few shelves adorned with sculptures, an expansive bed in the corner. Every surface was soft and round, a show of defiance against the angular, efficient design that defined the city. The silhouette of the owner stood in the far corner, lightly humming to herself as she stood at a tall crystal liquor cabinet.
“Kei my dear,” she called over her shoulder as he closed the door behind him, “we were fantastic! Best show we’ve ever had, and I don’t say that lightly. Come in come in, have a seat and get comfortable. Can I fix you a drink?”
“I appreciate it,” Kei mumbled, “but no thanks m’am.” He sat down at the wooden table on the close side of the room; it was definitely too small to have a meal on, but just the right size for an intimate conversation.
“No need to be so formal and stiff,” she chuckled. “This is a toast to a long and prosperous relationship!” She turned around from the liquor cabinet and walked over to join him with two glasses in her hands. “Just in case you change your mind,” she said with a smirk as she set one down in front of Kei before sitting down opposite him.
As she lifted the glass to her lips, her eyes shot up from the table and refocused on him. While the ocular implants were striking in the bright lights of the lounge, they were mesmerizing in the dimness of her parlor. The irises constantly readjusted as she looked him over, their subtle backlighting drawing his attention from the world around them.
“It doesn’t bother me too much if you stare,” she teased, “but it would help if you made conversation.”
Kei blushed and broke eye contact to look down at the table in embarrassment. “Sorry m’am…not used to vanity mods. Not something you’d see a lot of out in zone 6.”
“It’s a shame,” she said into her drink, “they were my best feature by far. There was a time I could get any man or woman I wanted with just a look. I could have you wrapped around my finger in an instant. Of course that was too much for a certain envious little bitch. One thing led to another and she felt the need to pluck them out. Incredibly painful, mind you, but the miracles of technology will have to do.”
Her tone had grown intensely bitter, her grip visibly tightening on the glass. After a moment of awkward silence, she cleared her throat and settled back into her smile.
“What’s in the past is in the past, and there’s always a silver lining to these things. That’s the reason why I started singing, why this haven came to be and why we’re sitting here together now. So it’s not so bad in the end, is it?” She set her drink on the table, leaning in slightly closer to Kei. “But that’s more than enough about that. Tell me, what did you think of the music I arranged for tonight?”
Kei’s posture loosened as he reminisced about the night’s performance. “In a word, beautiful. I’ve never heard anything like it. I practiced and practiced over the last weeks, but hearing it on stage…hearing it with your voice was something else entirely. We don’t typically play songs like those, it’s usually more upbeat and showy. But tonight, it was…”
“Sad? Remorseful?” The bravado in her voice was gone, completely replaced by a gentle warmth. This was not the glitzy singer who commanded the attention of an audience. “These things we try to hide behind the noise, did you hear them too?”
Not fully thinking about it, Kei reached for his glass and took a long sip. It was far sweeter than he expected, much more smooth than anything he would be able to afford. “I think I did,” he said. “That’s why I want to play, why I took this job. Everywhere else, the music is just repetitive garbage or a distraction at most. Tonight though, I felt something different. We all did.”
“Darling I was hoping you would say that,” she said with a sigh of relief. “I’ve worked with lots of musicians; some were talented, sure, but nobody else got it. The world is quite thoroughly fucked as I’m sure you can tell. Most people spend their lives running from the pain or trying to bury it, but not us. We know that we have to bear the weight if we are to help them. Here, I’d like to show you something.”
She stood up and walked over to a locked cabinet besides the bed. In addition to the normal chip reader, there was a biometric scanner and an input panel on its side: absolute overkill for anything outside of a bank or a Compliance compound. “It took quite a lot of digging,” she called back as she fiddled with the panel. “Finding tabs for long-lost songs, I had to call in a few favors. As much as we build and progress, there is so much we forget in return.”
The panel chirped and the cabinet’s door swung open, revealing a shelf that was entirely empty save for a lone jewelry box about a foot in length. She picked it up and brought it to the table, facing it towards Kei. It was elegant, jet black except for delicate violet trimming around its edges. With a few deft motions, she opened its clasps and lifted the lid.
Kei reflexively stiffened in his chair and choked down the drink he had been savoring. Resting inside the box on plush velvet was something equally familiar and surreal. Despite never encountering one directly, he had seen enough outlandish sims about rogue collection agents or gang lords to know what an extractor looked like. In reality, they were so tightly controlled that anyone outside of collections would never see one until their last payment defaulted. The device sitting in the box had their defining features – the three sharpened prongs, the stocky containment unit, the padded handle – but looked completely different otherwise. While the extractors he had seen were blocky and functional, this looked more like a hand-crafted antique than a machined weapon: brass filigree covered its sleek surface and a gleaming transparent jewel stood in for the typical display panel.
“Do you know what this is, Mister Ilgard?” She carefully lifted it from the box, cradling it in her hands like a precious treasure. It was slightly smaller than what Kei remembered from the sims, its slim handle lacking the blocky output port he expected.
“Fuck fuck fuck,” he stammered. “I don’t know how you got that, and I don’t want to. I’ve steered clear of Compliance, never got in any trouble, and the last thing I want is to be caught with an extractor. Do you know how long they’d put you away for having this?”
Lifting it up to her face, she directed his focus back to her eyes. “This masterpiece is the first of its kind,” she mused, “and nothing like those primitive soul-suckers.” Her glowing irises longingly scanned along its length before shooting up. Kei’s attention was torn away from the strange device, her words distantly registering in his mind as he looked deeper. “The extractors you know are pale imitations. The collection agents have butchers’ cleavers, but this is more like a surgeon’s scalpel. They rip and take so brutally while I gently excise what is willingly surrendered. Think of this as a refined instrument, one that only I can play. You can understand that, can’t you?”
Kei felt a hand on his shoulder as he realized that the chair across from him was now empty. “This is how I help them,” she whispered into his ear. Her words were slow and melodic, alluring in their tone while terrifying in their meaning. As she spoke, her fingers lightly traced up to his neck until their skin touched. “The ones that come to me, they only want relief from their troubles. Sometimes it’s a bad memory, sometimes it’s their desire or ambition, and sometimes…it’s everything.” Just above the warmth of her fingers, Kei felt the cold, sharp metal prongs of the extractor firmly press against his skin. A flurry of thoughts rushed through his mind as the metal dug deeper. He desperately wanted to run, but his body refused to comply. His limbs felt pleasantly numb and the padded chair was far too comfortable. A thin trickle of blood rolled down his neck as he leaned towards her.
She chuckled and let off the pressure before leaning over him to pick up his empty glass. “Relax dear, this isn’t for you. I need you at your peak, I need you to feel all of it.” She walked over to the liquor cabinet, holding the extractor nonchalantly at her side. “Another drink?”
Kei glanced over at the door, but only for a moment. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked. “What do you want from me?”
“It gets rather lonely,” she pouted, “doing this on my own for so long. I bring them comfort, but who is there to comfort me?” Returning back to the table, she set the refilled glass in front of Kei and gently rested the extractor in front of her. Her fingers idly traced over its trigger.
“What I want is simple. You play for me, and only me. Use that beautiful talent of yours to herd these wayward souls. Soften up the walls they build around themselves, so to speak. Maybe a private session now and then, but we’ll get to that when the time comes. In return, I have a little chat with my friends in the Consortium and ask them to turn a blind eye to your bills. The credits will be good and collections will leave you alone. Not forever, of course, but they owe me a hefty set of favors.”
Against his better judgment, Kei reached over and took a sip from the glass. It was even sweeter than the last one, cloyingly so, and the bite of alcohol was more distant. “The extractors were designed long before the city was built,” he noted. “Even the zone mayors don’t have a direct line to the Consortium, but you’re saying that you can call them up. How…how long have you been at this?”
A genuine laugh escaped her lips. “You can’t just ask a lady her age! It’s simply unbecoming!” Just as Kei began to awkwardly follow along, she abruptly stopped and stared straight into his eyes. The implants were emotionless and analyzing as they looked right through him. “Poor thing, I can’t expect you to understand the depths of it all. If only you could know them like I do. For as long as I can remember, they have always etched their pain onto their fragile little hearts. It used to be war and strife…ah, those were much simpler times. These days they suffer from excess and vacuity, but the song is still the same. They yearn for release, they beg for an escape. While they still cry out for someone to ease their burdens, I will be there to oblige them. And you, my little star, can play a part in my work. What do you say?”
His words came more out of reflex than conscious thought. It was only natural to agree, too difficult to question. “I’ll do it. Whatever you ask. I just want to hear that music again, the rest doesn’t matter.” There was an extractor resting on the table inches away from him, and yet he could not look away from her. That delicate machine was the only symbol of finality within an unending march of cycles. Wasn’t that fear he felt earlier?
“Marvelous, Mister Ilgard.” She was standing at the reinforced cabinet and returning the closed jewelry box to its shelf. “We can handle all of the details later, tonight is a celebration of our success.” She looked over her shoulder, a wry smile forming on her face as the cabinet locked and chirped. “Oh my, it’s gotten so late. You’re a few drinks in and I should patch you up a little. Why not stay the night and get to know your partner better?”
*******************************************************************************
Kei walked underneath the blinding lights and took his spot on stage. It was a quartet tonight, and he was playing the trumpet. It was going to be an easy set, one he could play in his sleep. Looking up to the balcony, he could see the owner of the Broken Record chatting up her guest for tonight: some big shot corporate as far as he could tell. It was hard to see from this distance, but every now and then it looked like her attention flickered down to the stage. He never thought to ask for her name.
The clock on the wall struck the hour. Showtime. He struggled to lift the trumpet to his lips. Tonight, it felt
heavy.