Just when you thought ads couldn't get any worse! In the 22nd century New York subway, they can spontaneously materialize in the air above you at any point! Ugh.
The subway of New York was a marvel of engineering. Where once the subway had only contained a small handful of subterranean levels, now it possessed dozens, tunneling so deep into the lithosphere that it nearly reached the earth’s mantle. Waiting platforms, layered in countless floors, were suspended by anti-gravity fields that made them seem as if they floated in mid air.
“Dude, it’s like I’m on Coruscant,” Hopper muttered, impressed.
Holographic signs flickered as he and Lyra passed them, displaying departure times in a dizzying array of languages. Hopper frowned as he realized that some weren’t even real languages, just made-up ones popularized by fantasy television: Elvish, Dothraki, Klingon, and a handful of others he’d never heard of.
“Alright, when did the nerds take over the subway?” Hopper asked under his breath.
“Right, because they’re the ones who just compared the subway to Star Wars,” Lyra retorted, a playful smirk dashing across her lips.
Hopper flushed, then hesitated. “Wait. You got the reference?”
Lyra rolled her eyes. “Girls like Star Wars too, dude. Haven’t you ever heard of Rey Skywalker?”
Hopper shrugged. “Never saw it. Hard to get access to movies back home. Most of the time when you try all you get is bad fan reviews from YouTube, never the actual movie. How was it?”
This time it was Lyra who shrugged. “Forgettable. Doesn’t really matter, though. The movie could have been twenty out of ten and it probably still would have gotten review bombed. Early twenty first century had a lot of guys who hated seeing women and people of color as movie leads for some reason. They had this nonsensical buzzword, ‘woke,’ I think, that they used to criticize anything that wasn’t nostalgia bait.”
Hopper perked up. “Oh, those guys! The ragebait grifters. Yeah, we’ve got a lot of those in Hell. That’s actually how I managed to watch the sequel trilogy. We’ve got them watching it on loop for decades. Every time we get back to Last Jedi, we make sure to play the blue milk scene twice.”
They arrived at their platform. The air was filled with the electric buzz of conversation, the whir of drones flitting overhead delivering messages and snacks to waiting passengers, and the occasional whine of a malfunctioning service robot apologizing profusely for its inadequacy.
To Hopper’s dismay, the ticketing machine didn’t accept credit cards either, only cryptocurrency. “I don’t get it!” he exclaimed. “Why doesn’t anybody use fucking money?! Why is everything privatized and digital?! Did capitalism win or lose?!”
Lyra chuckled. “Come on,” she said, grabbing his hand and tugging him along. Suddenly Hopper was acutely aware of how clammy his hand was, blushing anew. Fortunately, Lyra didn’t seem to notice, and scanned them past the gate using her handprint.
Together they stepped onto the platform. The ground beneath their feet hummed softly, the platform's surface composed of millions of tiny LED lights that projected arrows directing passengers to their boarding lines.
The train glided in a couple of minutes later, silent as the most scandalous hours of night. It was a sleek design, silver, almost tube shaped. Its polished surface reflected the multicolored lights of the platform like a mirror. The doors were seamless, blending so perfectly with the walls of the train that they were almost invisible until they slid open with a soft pneumatic hiss.
Hopper and Lyra boarded and took their seats. Immediately, Hopper’s seat began to automatically adjust in an attempt to contort into the optimal position for his body. Unfortunately, the mechanism couldn’t seem to figure it out, flitting between various shapes each more uncomfortable than the last before finally settling into a form that only vaguely resembled a chair. Lyra’s seat, on the other hand, decided she was a child and shrunk, leaving her knees comically close to her chin. Hopper snickered.
Lyra gave him a pointed look. “Don’t say anything, demon boy.”
His grin widened. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
The train lurched into motion, disembodied AI voice announcing their departure and next station with the soothing tones of a late-night radio host. “This is Times Square, 42nd Street Station, Subterranean Level Minus 42! We are on the Vertical Line. Our next stop is Times Square, 42nd Street Station, Level Plus 17.” The AI voice glitched after the announcement, uttering a slew of cacophonous stutters before adding, “Did you know that the rings of Saturn are composed of billions of ice particles, just like the refreshing taste of Cosmic Cola? Order a Cosmic Cola now by flagging any of our Autonomous Attendants!”
Hopper leaned forward. “Can this contact of yours really help us out?”
Lyra cocked her head to one side. “Do you know where Elysium Prime is?” He shook his head. “And do you have any other ideas for how to find it?”
“Well, no,” Hopper admitted.
“Okay then,” Lyra said. “Then you’re just going to have to trust me, demon boy. I want to succeed on this quest too, you know. My angelhood is kind of riding on it.”
“Okay, okay,” Hopper said, showing his palms in a placating gesture. They rode for another few minutes before he asked, “Why do you want to be an angel so badly anyway?” Lyra raised an eyebrow at him. “No offense,” Hopper continued, “it just seems kind of crappy. I mean, just look at Raphael. Dude is literally the angel of healing, but they just use him as a glorified concierge. Kind of sucks, don’t you think?”
Again, Lyra cocked her head to the side. “This coming from a corporate pencil pusher?”
Hopper winced. “Point taken.”
She studied him a moment, meeting his eyes with that captivating, amethyst gaze. He was struck by the depth of her eyes, like staring into a fine crystal. Just ignore it, Hopper. You only have a crush on her because of movie logic.
Finally, Lyra sighed. “Truth is, I always wanted to be an angel,” she admitted. “Even before I died. My mom used to tell me bedtime stories about saints and angels. I thought that if I became one of them, I could help the other refugees in camp. That maybe I could help make the nightmares go away for all the other kids.”
“You were a climate refugee,” Hopper realized. Lyra nodded. His stomach turned. Working as Head of Torturous Conditions, Hopper routinely saw the worst of humanity. He’d tormented street thugs, politicians and CEOs, and even ancient kings. Anyone whose cruelty had left the earth a worse place. He knew of the senseless greed and selfishness of humanity’s most powerful. He knew their destructive hoarding of resources was what had ultimately led to the climate disasters that had claimed billions of lives halfway through the twenty first century. Even knowing, however, he seldom saw their victims. To come face to face with one now, especially someone as compassionate and kind as Lyra, filled his soul with a sense of despair. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.
Lyra shook her head. “It was decades ago. I’ve had the chance to heal the trauma in my soul already.”
Hopper raised an eyebrow. “With those massages?”
She giggled. “No, no, I got it done before they implemented that. I had the chance to talk it out in therapy.” She paused, then added, “Anyway, that’s why I want to be an angel. Even today, greed is everywhere and there are still wars and genocide. If I become an angel, maybe I can offer some semblance of hope to some of the people who are disaffected by events like that.”
“I get it,” Hopper said. “You want to make the world a better place. I admire that. What you’re trying to do is justice. Real justice.” He averted his gaze. “All I accomplish is revenge.”
She reached out, gently resting her hand on his. “Hey. You’re more than that. Look at where you are now. What you’re doing is going to make things better for a lot of people. You’re a good person, Hopper.”
“Maybe.”
In Hopper’s experience it wasn’t as simple as being a “good” or “bad” person. Everyone had some of both, and oftentimes it was circumstances that determined which side would dominate a person’s soul. In many ways it spoke to the greater contradiction that was God. Supposedly He had a plan for everything, but at the same time people had free will and could end up in Hell. Did that mean cruelty, and people ending up in Hell, was part of His plan?
As the subway car hummed through the tunnels of New York, Hopper found himself lost in thought, contemplating Lyra's words. Her aspirations, her dreams of being an angel to bring light into the darkest corners of existence, struck a chord within him. He had spent what felt like eons entrenched in the bureaucratic quagmire of Hell's administration, a cog in the infernal machine, yet what had he truly accomplished? His existence was a testament to efficiency and order, but at what cost? The souls he processed, the tortures he oversaw—were they just numbers in a ledger, or did each mark a failure, a life that could have been steered onto a different path?
Moreover, what did all of these thoughts mean for him? Was he really content to return to his role in Hell after this? What change could he possibly hope to effect in a system designed for eternal punishment? And yet, what alternative did he have? What purpose could he serve outside the confines of the underworld?
The train's dig brought him back from his reverie. Lyra was already standing, her hand extended to help him up. "We're here.”
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