Wednesday at the Metro
If New Tokyo was the glossy surface of Miranda and Siam the seedy underbelly, the Underground was the pulsing heart of the planet. A constant flow of trains, of people, of life, the Metro never slept. Sitting on one of the old benches lining the whitewashed walls, under a flat screen advertisement looping through ads for dermal implants and virtual reality dermal chips and expensive perfume, you might watch every single person living planetside walk past if you waited long enough.
The rushing breeze of traffic down the tubes whips over the platforms, bringing the heavy scent of fuel and electricity, of smoke and sweat and heat. There was a constant roar of voices and footsteps, struggling to be heard over the hum of the train engines. It didn't matter if it was early morning or late at night, there was no stop in the rush.
Everyone's got places to go.
[Tag away, kids. And check out the challenged posed here in memez_in_space.]
The rushing breeze of traffic down the tubes whips over the platforms, bringing the heavy scent of fuel and electricity, of smoke and sweat and heat. There was a constant roar of voices and footsteps, struggling to be heard over the hum of the train engines. It didn't matter if it was early morning or late at night, there was no stop in the rush.
Everyone's got places to go.
[Tag away, kids. And check out the challenged posed here in memez_in_space.]