02A - Much Earlier...
#3 of Daylight
So, it might be a surprise to some people, but I do actually cut out a lot of stuff in my work. This little story is something related to the plot of Surrogates and Soviets that I didn't want to use in the main story for two reasons. First, I want the main Daylight action to revolve around Dreb'n. He's our eyes and ears on the city, and this story takes place way, way out of his reach. Secondly, I want the stories to stand alone. This is a nice little addition to S&S, but you can safely ignore everything in it without losing out. If it was added to the end then it would just spoil that final beat, which I was happy with, and included anywhere else it would pad out the story and take the edge off that final, ranting confrontation.
Daylight had places that nobody every went. That, ironically, never saw daylight. These were the great, grinding bowels of the city. Places that ran on automatic. No technicians would actually enter them due to toxicity or inaccessibility. Instead remote drones and robotic helpers would be used to carry out repairs if they were ever needed. And these places tend to be so solid, so dependable that they never needed repair.
Take this drainage tank, for instance.
It is only ever used should a massive storm or cloud-seeded skyburst overflow the gutters. The storm drains and sluices would channel the chemical swill of the lower city down into the tank. Once full of water, or more accurately, chemical slurry, it and hundreds like it would be emptied into mile after mile of purification system before being added back into either the main drinking supply or dumped as waste water.
The canine chained to the wall by magnetic clamps is the only life form for miles, discounting the vermin and insects and crawling, eyeless worms that thrived in the thudding, mechanical darkness. The chemical glowstick taped onto the wall opposite is the only illumination that this tank has seen in nearly a century.
His fur is white, grubby in places from being in contact with this pace and it's environs. It is bloody around the mouth and nose, and one of his eyes has swollen shut after receiving a hammering blow to restrain him. A thick muzzle of leather is tied around his handsome but battered face. The chemicals that have rendered him unconscious are beginning to wear off. They are actually running late. The damage done to his body threw off the carefully-planned dosage by about half an hour. He was supposed to have spent some time agonising over his fate. That has not gone to plan.
He stirs. Expensive, tailored nanomachines in his blood are beginning to scrub it clean. Mental routines and subtle neural augmentics bring him to full wakefulness more rapidly than a normal man. He looks left and right. The muzzle restrains his initial cry of alarm. Tugging yanks on his chains do not do anything other than make him wince in pain.
The glowstick begins to fade. He looks over in panic. Taped above it in the faltering green light is a photograph. A small bundle of blankets around a tiny, white-furred rabbit. The baby is so still, so calm, it might almost be sleeping. He knows its face like he knows his own. He knows where he is and why. From above comes a growing, inevitable rumble of flowing liquid.
The light goes out. The canine's screams are trapped by the muzzle as the tank begins to fill.