Keeping It Real with Sable Gentry S1:E5
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Originally Published on December 7th, 2490
A Free Media Production
Your comms beep with an alert. When accessed hard-core, raw, street edge music plays while a series of color-hued video imagery flash rapidly across your viewer. Each scene depicts some action or the aftermath of action in various locales throughout the system: Earth, the floating cities, orbital colonies, Luna, Mars, the Belt; they are all presented within a short thirty-second block. Each hue adds to the feeling of the imagery, blues, yellows, reds; combined with the music it is quite stimulating. The final scene of the video fades away at the end of the thirty-seconds revealing a single still portrait with the animated title superimposed over the top. A mechanized voice, highly augmented through editing software, urgently whispers, Keeping It Real with Sable Gentry.
“No one is at the scene, choombattas.”
Sable’s tempo is a little slower today as her rich, throaty words tickle your audio receptors.
“Not a single person seems to give a damn.”
The beautiful media is shrouded in darkness, her location indiscernible. No lights but that from her recording drone barely illuminating her Nubian skin.
| “What I’m doing is bringing attention to the unattended, the amped-out, the buttonheads. Those individuals who are ghosts in the system, numbers in the books, lost souls. They mill about seeking some semblance of life and what do they find? Most find death, gato. That’s what they find.
Have you ever come across the remains of Harvesters at work? You do your best to be chill when all you want to do is charf. They are the Devil’s minions and there’s no one at the scene but damnable Cocoon cleaning synths. Who was it that fell prey to the hunger, to the lure, to the spice that kills? Whose name will no longer be spoken as their memory fades? Who was the soup that the synths are wiping from the floor? We’ll never know because there’s no one at the scene, choomba. Is that the scene that’s being painted for your life? Ask yourself, are you doomed to end up on Boot Hill with your parts adorning another person’s body? Are you destined to become a statistic on the Kill Boards? Will anyone remember? Will you be drank up by the cleaning synths and deposited in waste canisters? No one is at the scene. No police, no detectives, no mourners, and certainly no corpo. No one is at the scene. You work away your best years, give away your soul for the credits to exist, and the organization to which you’ve sacrificed everything doesn’t even recognize when you disappear. Yet, you keep working for them. You keep giving to them. You keep feeding the very beast that is devouring your body and soul day after day like some masochistic lunatic. When you seek out that stimulant, that escape from your horrible reality, and you wind up prey to the predators of the Streets. No one is at the scene. Why do it? Why continue to feed the beast? Why not demand more? Why not rise up? Why not…? No one is at the scene. That’s why. Not even you.” |
A small chime sounds.
"Evil only wins when good people do nothing, gato. When good people do nothing. Be at the scene. Keep it real. I'm out."