They carted the last of the bodies out from the white-lined motel. Had been a horrible shootout, some punks sticking it to “the man.” Whole thing was white painted red, like a sea of hot wires. I was the last one there. I left with a tile in my hand. Just a little black tile, there in the room.
It was cool for a few days, just a tablet that kept me calm, gave me everything I needed. Nice music, a couple of games. It also had a camera. At first, it was a nice way to snap some shots of whatever I wanted. Then it started to show me. Showed me everything.
I saw that hound whose head got caved-in down by Comm/Ent, took an autocop right to the dome. I saw the face of that white bitch shot down in front of Empire Square. I kept seeing the dead, kept showing me. Not spirits, not reanimated, just the moment they went. All in that little piece of the motel.
