Hunter Madison

"Room 300"

The afternoon sun beat hard through the dusty, cracked windshield of the Hapcellion z280 hypercar; the holographic dashboard read August 8th, 2086, 15:52. The only comfort from the heat was the cool metal of the hand-me-down revolver resting in the small of his back, hidden under the baggy shirt, and the heart-shaped locket that sat on his collar bone, the thin silver chain clasped to the back of his sunburnt neck. He sat in the driver’s seat, nervously fiddling with the locket clasp. Each time the locket creaked open, a red light projected out the words: HAL ARMIS DOB:12/20/2047 BLOOD TYPE: A +. The unlit cigarette sitting between his cracked lips. Hundreds of years of medical research can’t beat mega-corporation marketing; he thought to himself as he lit the tobacco. He finally pushed the creaky door open and stepped into the dilapidated Brooklyn street.