Page 17 of GlitchBorn Heart

My main priority is to find tonight’s DarkMarket and have my DreamBand looked at. I cross the street to my favorite LoFiCafe. I can already feel the warmth of its golden glow, smell the coffee steam wafting out onto the street, drawing me in.

I love this place. Dim, warm lighting with a mix of paper lanterns that flicker softly with retro holograms. I’ve read about places like this in Eli’s ebooks, cafés that look like a glitch in time, part-1920s speakeasy, part-2020s tech den. Old-school vinyl players sit next to streaming decks, the music always a mix of mellow lo-fi beats with occasional corporate news overlays drifting through static. Patrons sip neon-tinted coffees and glowing herbal teas that display little ads in the steam until magic laden U21 baristas wipe them clean.

People come here to trade information, rumors, and coordinates for places like the DarkMarket or unauthorized gatherings, and it always smells like coffee and rebellion.

Inside feels cozy and safe. My boots drip rainwater on the cracked tile floor as I walk up to the barista to order something warm just to feel my hands again.

I pull back my hood and shove the sleeve of my jacket up to show my DreamNet band, cold and quiet on my wrist. It’s a sort of U21 greeting to the cute girl behind the counter. She’s all tattoos and piercings and half-smiles, wearing a corporate-issued apron like a joke. The VikkCorp logo crossed out with an overlaying anarchy sign. Her digital nametag reads “DIA” though the letters flicker as if they don’t want to stay in place.

“What’ll it be?” She glances at the band then back up to me, scanning me, analyzing me, sizing up the risk.

“Something hot. A dark blend with lots of caffeine.” I fish out my personal chipped food card from my jacket pocket, the kind the underground establishments take, so your credits don’t leave a trail. She immediately understands the subtle code-word reference.

While Dia brews, the wall screens shift and blur like my nerves are warping the signals. The paper-thin holo-screens on the lanterns sway overhead, each cycling through slow, dreamlike watercolors: a storm breaking over dark mountain peaks, rain soaking pink cherry blossoms, sunlight splintering through fog, a black dragon flying through clouds.

The realization hits me immediately. The images aren’t random. They’re pulsing in time with my nervous heartbeat.

No...not again. Exactly what I need, an entire room reacting to my anxiety.

Of course I’m nervous. It’s not every day you willingly walk into a café to get directions to an underground market packed with smugglers, hackers, and the kind of people who won’t hesitate to beat you senseless when a deal goes sideways. The kind of people who look at someone like me and smell desperation and profit.

I’m clearly emotional and extremely angry that my DreamNet band has once again failed me.

Blink slowly...breathe deeply. The projected mountain images briefly catch fire before a calm breeze soothes the angry flames.

I scan the room, no one else seems to notice.

Dia slides the steaming paper cup across the counter. The drink’s surface glimmers with a tiny holographic ad for some corporate energy drink, standard programming, but Dia casually stirs it with a sparkling spoon and the image vanishes.

Her eyes dart left to right and she leans in. “You’re looking for something, right?”

My breath catches. “Maybe?” My voice cracks. I jiggle the DreamBand casually while laying down a vintage coin, the imprint scratched off and scuffed, a silent U21 request for information.

Dia smiles knowingly and clutches my wrist. “What a beautiful bracelet!” she covers loudly, followed by a low whisper, “DarkMarket?”

I only nod and stare blankly.

“Follow the broken sidewalk. Two alleys down. Knock twice on the metal gate that looks like the alley is a dead end.” She nonchalantly moves to the customer in back of me leaving the directions hanging like smoke in the air.

I take a slow sip of today’s special: TurboTea, a scalding and sweet, chemically enhanced shot of energy and herbs.

Something small flutters in my peripheral vision as I lower the cup. A single cherry blossom petal drifts down from the top of the cup’s lid, landing weightlessly on the black leather of my glove.

I still.

A blossom? Here?

Impossible. There hasn’t been a real tree inside Oneiro City in years. Nothing grows under this much neon and metal. Nothing survives long enough to drop delicate pink petals onto anyone’s fingers. Especially ones that appeared in your dreams the night before.

A bad omen?

I shove my hood back up, warmth from the tea fading as I step back out into the rain and toward the nightly market.

I follow the barista’s directions exactly, until I end up in a rain-slicked alley where half-dim streetlights buzz like dying fireflies.

I knock twice.

The sound echoes off the wet steel, my fingerless glove sliding down the condensation, as I scan the alley. A massive U21 tag glows fluorescent green across the wall, glow-paint still dripping. Rebellion sigils scatter the ground, painted in strokes of silver metallic paint. The rebellion always uses sigils instead of words. Rumor is they’re alive in some way, charged by the magic of a single underground leader who can use them to pull power through them.