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It was almost midnight and Mack walked home alone through the thick cloud of blinding darkness that permeated Sector C after sunset. At times, it seemed he could almost grab the dark and hold on to it, or rip it apart. The only things that broke the illusion were the occasional flashlights of unwise human visitors who were still there so late, or the blinking lights of cyborg security patrol cars. Every cyborg prisoner had to shut down at night in Sector C, it was the only way to preserve their already depleted batteries, the only way to wake up again.
Mack followed his memorized path and confidently stepped through the night with his vision turned off, knowing that this deep into Sector C there won’t be anyone on the streets except him. No one was so foolish to waste their power at this hour, and especially not for such foolish reasons.
Sector C was no place for hope. The ones who dared, quickly drained their batteries and sooner or later they all joined the red rusty sand that everyone walked on. Mack was not like everyone, but even he knew there was no escape from the gravity like laws of energy and rust.
He reached his destination and turned on his vision. Sadly, over the years, the long and lonely walk home became his most traveled path, one that he learned by heart, and some local cyborgs even felt that the days when Mack wasn’t at “the drain”, the square wasn’t quite living up to its name.
Mack got inside the tiny cargo trailer he called home and closed the metal door behind. He sat on a metal chair and looked at the rose he had been holding for what seemed like an eternity. His palms were red from the rose’s rust and he tried to shake it off, but it was hard to tell which rust was from the rose and which was his.
He opened a toolbox and took out a hammer and a nail and kneeled in front of the left side wall, down low on the right side, in front of the last few remaining empty wall spots in the trailer. Mack held the rose against the wall with the nail and hammered it in with a few very precise but slow movements. He put the hammer back in the toolbox and sat on the chair facing the wall of roses.
There were too many to observe, but not too many to forget, because he remembered the sting from every rose that returned home. For Mack, the wall had become the most beautiful thing he made with his hands, but also the most painful to look at.
A beep woke him up from his sorrowful trance, a reminder of something he couldn’t escape. Mack opened a panel in his chest and a faint red light flashed at him. Hope was draining his battery faster than he could recharge it, and soon he was going to face the inevitable. He wondered many times where it would happen and hoped his heart would stop on top of the world. It was the only place he could imagine, the only thing that kept him moving, that kept him alive.
Mack slid open a metal pane on the right side wall of the trailer and opened a tiny window. From far away, on top of the highest skyscraper in Sector A, the green “Light of Freedom” was still visible as it shined brightly in the sky. It was everyone’s beacon of hope, a beacon that Mack built and cared for a long time ago, long before his hands began to rust.
He remembered the long sunny days on top of the tower, giving tours of the green light and its mechanism to families, children, couples on dates. Everyone was always sharing the experience with someone, something he never did and was hoping to experience one day.
His final assignment was one he gave himself, to take someone on a tour of the “Light of Freedom”, to see it one last time with someone who liked him for who he was, and once again feel like he’s on top of the world.
