typeracer

The entertainment district was a canyon of dead glass and hollow laughter, where the pavement was paved with a carpet of shattered neon tubes. Massive, three-dimensional screens that once projected celebrities now flickered with the jagged, rhythmic spasms of a dying brain, casting strobing violet light over the husks of luxury cruisers. A breeze snaked through the open doorways of high-end boutiques, stirring the silk clothes on headless mannequins that stood like a silent, well-dressed audience watching the end of the world. In the center of the street, a holographic street performer continued to loop a three-second violin solo, the sound distorted into a low, metallic rasp by a damaged speaker. The air tasted of copper and old electricity, a dry, synthetic dryness that prickled the throat. Shadows pooled in the alcoves of the mega-theaters, heavy and thick enough to feel physical, while the smell of scorched plastic lingered as a permanent ghost of the city's final, frantic hours.