Sunday 15:41
Maybe I should have supper here, Ark considers for a moment, before dismissing the idea. Home-cooked food was the best, but with Fuzzy, it was better to be early than on time, and besides, big meals hurt if you had to do heavy work. I’ve got enough cred to eat on the way, or at Matchsticks if I feel like it. . . Ark assures himself. Ready to go, Ark pulls his cellphone out, dials a number and tells the automated message system "Four days". In a host somewhere out in the Matrix, the computer set a timer for a data dump. If Ark didn't check in again in four days, the system would send his electronic journal, will, and explanation to his mother. Although he tried to keep himself out of dangerous jobs, this last backup plan he had setup a few years ago; just so he would never miss the opportunity to have the last word.
15:43
Ark exits his apartment and pulls the door shut behind him. The muted cream colored walls of the hallway matched the utilitarian grey carpet; clean but mild. Ark touches the red lock button on the security pad next to the door, which beeped, signaling the active alarm. Satisfied, Ark moves down the hall past dozens of other apartments (cozy, but never as big as the brochure promised, it seemed), rounding the corner to the little atrium which held the elevators nestled between some faux-tropical ferns and some vending machines. The skylight which normally brightened up this small speck of architectural aesthetic drummed thickly with the rain and left the room in gloomy murk, broken by the shaded incandescent bulbs. It was enough to see by, sure, but depressing instead of uplifting.
With the measured stride of routine, Ark keys the elevator to the garage level, and steps into the external elevator. Once, perhaps, the plastisteel cab must have shown a great view, but there wasn’t much to see tonight, besides the three neighboring apartment towers.
15:48
In the underground garage, Ark moves to his Ford Americar, forest green, with only two major scratches. It had been frelling hard to get that car, but of course that was before he got his SIN authenticated. Ark unlocks the door, gets behind the wheel and warms the car up. Then, he waits for a while for the other garage traffic to become sparse for a few moments. Once he’s relatively in the clear, he gets out of his car and goes to his garage locker, every resident’s personal toolbox out of the apartment. Casually, he opens the combination and pushes aside a few quarts of oil, a mini-fire extinguisher and assorted rags and car-parts. He pulls out a four foot cloth-wrapped bundle, which he puts in his trunk followed by a small red lunchbox. With his two guns (plus shells) in the car, and the locker closed he gets back in his car and drives through the lot to the exit gate. Swiping his credstick at the booth he gets onto the road, beginning the easy but traffic ridden drive out of Renton north into deeper Seattle.
Ark was once again reminded of his soft-spoken but persistent wish to get a datajack autopilot setup in his car, so that the car can handle the traffic leaving him to work on other projects, but the thought does pass the time on the drive. . .
