Megablock 8 looms against the bruised purple sky as I approach, an enormous slab of concrete and steel that houses hundreds of people stacked like cargo. Home sweet home. It's nearly 4 AM by the time I reach the building. The biometric scanner on the lobby door glows faintly. I press my thumb to it and it stutters before unlocking – the thing's so ancient, I'm always half-afraid it'll malfunction and trap me outside. Wouldn't that be the cherry on my night.
The elevator is out of order again (flashing a pathetic ERROR 21 on the panel), so I take the stairs up eight flights. By the time I reach my floor, I'm winded and sore, cursing under my breath. The narrow hallway lights flicker as I trudge to unit 805. The whole block smells like mildew, cheap takeout, and misery.
I palm open the door to my apartment and step inside to darkness. "Lights, dim," I mumble, and the overheads flicker to life at half-strength, casting a dull yellow glow. Tiny doesn't begin to describe my flat – it's basically a closet with delusions of grandeur. Bed, kitchenette, a folding screen for a bathroom. But it's mine, for what that's worth.
I lock the door behind me, sliding three separate bolts shut. Only then do I peel off my boots and sink down onto the edge of my creaky bed. What a night. My muscles scream, and my mind is a swarm of unwanted thoughts: Rhea's tear-streaked glare, Gold Tie's ominous smirk, Jim's limp hand on the floor, and those words on the door – a chaotic collage of the life I'm barely holding together.
I'm about to bury my face in my hands when a sharp ping makes me jump. The harsh digital tone echoes in my silent room. I glance up and see a red notification blinking on the wall panel by the kitchenette – the building's central system has a message for me. They always send these in the dead of night, when they think you're too tired to fight back.
Dread pools in my stomach as I cross the few steps to the panel. A biometric scan confirms my ID and the message expands in cold, bright text:
NOTICE: Effective next month (20/06), your monthly housing fee will increase by 22%. This adjustment is in accordance with CityZone Housing Ordinance A-14 and reflects current market value. We appreciate your cooperation. Please ensure your account has sufficient funds to avoid penalties.
I read it twice, my vision blurring at "22%". Twenty-two percent.
"No, no, no…" I whisper, voice trembling. I scroll to see if there's more. There is – a breakdown of the new charges, the date this goes into effect (barely two weeks from now), and a cheery note about payment plans. My new rent is an impossibility. It might as well say bend over and die.
I sink back against the wall, sliding down until I'm sitting on the floor, the cold from the concrete seeping through my leggings. A 22% hike... That's hundreds more credits a month. I can hardly scrape by as it is. Where do they think I'll conjure that money from? I stare blankly at the notice, a heavy numbness spreading through me. After everything tonight, this feels like the final kick in the teeth – life piling on just to see if I'll break.
For a minute I just sit there, breathing shallow, eyes unfocused. An unwelcome wetness pricks at the corners of my eyes. Don't cry, I scold myself, clenching my fists. You knew this was coming, one way or another. The landlords of these megablocks always find a way to squeeze more out of us. Maybe I had hoped it wouldn't be so soon, or so much... stupid hope.
Anger bubbles up from beneath the despair – a scalding, desperate anger. I get up abruptly, swiping away the tears that escaped. My heart is pounding again, but this time it's not from fear or sadness. It's anger, pure and simple, laced with panic. They think they can just do this and we'll roll over? They think they own me, own us all. That graffiti flashes in my memory: YOU DON'T OWN ME.
Damn right. Damn them all.
I storm over to my cramped little desk where my holo-tab lies buried under a pile of club flyers and yesterday's clothes. It's a cheap model I modded myself – cracked screen, custom OS I jury-rigged from hacker forums. I've been teaching myself some tricks here and there when I can, baby steps into a world of bits and cracks. I'm no netrunner, not by a long shot, but I can't just sit here and take it.
I boot up the holo-tab, and it hums to life, projecting a faint holographic interface above the device. My fingers fly across the virtual keyboard, pulling up the Megablock's resident portal. There's got to be a way... some exploit, some loophole. Maybe I can rollback the update, or flag my unit as under maintenance, anything to dodge this hike for a little while.