Kenobe waited at the stop light and wondered why they still existed. You’d think such a threat to safety would be shamed into oblivion by now. Must be a nostalgia thing. He braced his vintage fabricated scooter with his left foot, feeling the heat of the road through his steel toed boots. The rubberized asphalt acted like a giant conductor releasing the stored-up energy from the day to even out the nighttime temperature. ‘This was the future’ he thought, ‘hidden but all around him.’ Our invisible master. Like a picture that was photoshopped to look like a painting, can’t even tell the difference anymore. The fake is better than the real thing. Not the future he ever imagined, but at least we had flying cars.

A honk from an SDV interrupted his philosophical nonsense and ‘politely’ informed him the light was green, so get the fuck on with it. A freaking robot honking at him! “We made you!” he yelled, then accelerated at the absolute slowest rate possible to not stall the engine, just to goad the self-driving-vehicle into another outburst. Then again, it wasn’t like drones had feelings.

His ‘delivery’ was jammed under his right armpit, wrapped in organic artisan burlap -so not to draw any extra attention from mipsters. He couldn’t help but think about the set of bungees he forgot sitting by the front door. Would have been a lot easier to just strap the package to the back of his ride. It’s funny how a single broken cog in a well-oiled machine can mess up an entire plan. Its why smart people like brevity, and the military types always scream about KISS. His ‘Keep it Simple Stupid’ would be to install a permanent basket to the back of his scooter when he got back to his loft.

The SDV swerved past him, he imagined an invisible driver flipping him off. Least of his worries at this moment, he had one package left before he could call it a night. One more dropoff before his mission was a success.

“Okay Conci,” he mumbled, “set to auto.” The scooter’s interface recognized his voice and switched to auto pilot, a mode Kenobe hated – mostly because it was a better driver than he was. He reached for his deck and pulled up the coordinates. The AI determined his intentions before he even realized he needed to open up the maps app. An Ay-Ar surrounded his body and encased his bike in an imaginary bubble which displayed the best possible route to his final destination.

“618 West Adam’s Street,” Kenobe whispered to no one in particular, “well shit.” Adam’s was in the University District, a place where people of his kind were most definitely not welcome. You see, Kenobe delivered fresh vegetables for a living.

He backed his ride into the curb and wondered why he took these risks. What was he trying to prove? A delivery eits could do the job better and easier, but no, he had to do everything himself. He loved the idea of delivering fresh produce by means of a fabricated scooter. He remembered seeing it in a movie once, except it was Chinese food and a bicycle; something about it just seemed so authentic. Best to go on foot, no need to draw extra attention by driving himself.

He walked passed boarded up retail stores and out of business coffee shops. It was happening to caffeine drinkers, it could happen to him. He could be ostracized by that nexus outrage mob, his reputation destroyed, everything he ever had, gone in an instant.

A shortcut through the old farmers market which was now inhabited by artisans building crap that no one bought, and over a little hill full of bronze androgynes sculptures that conveyed no sense of emotion or meaning.

Was anything legal on campus anymore? Legal, what a joke, he thought. That great lesson of the 21st century. No need to ban something when you can just annoy it out of existence. A world where creators are in constant fear of being harassed into oblivion by people who never do much of anything, but think they are doing everything. No need to outrun the tiger, just outrun the slowest person in the group.

He approached 618 Adams, it was student housing. The dorms looked like something you might see in the Greenwich Village district of the old New York City but only carbon dated back to 2093. Kenobe recognized the instarchitect filter. ‘The Dylan’ a favorite setting among intelligentsia and students.

He climbed the three granite steps up to a red splintering wooden door which swung open as soon as he approached. “Hello?” a college kid appeared from inside, his shirt read ‘You are a Slave to Caffeine’ “You the produce guy huh?”

Yeah, I’m the produce guy,” Kenobe wanted to punch him in the face.

“You grow that stuff yourself?” The student asked.

“I do,” Kenobe’s replied.

“Why not fabricate it?”

Kenobe didn’t have an answer so he said what we all say when confronted with a complex economic question that would take hours to explain, “Supply and demand I guess.” Truth was, he didn’t know why anyone bought his vegetables. It didn’t make any sense. His customers didn’t even know what they were getting. It was a sort of weekly subscription consisting of three pounds of whatever was in season, he couldn’t let people pick and choose because the unpopular vegetables would rot. Maybe that’s why people bought from him, they liked the mystery of it all, they liked the excitement of not knowing what would come next.

“Good for you,” the student grabbed the package and unwrapped the artisan burlap, revealing three pounds of dead plants. “Who kills these plants?” He asked.

Kenobe had to be calculating in his answer, the whole thing was probably streaming live over the nexus. “After I harvest the plants,” he explained, “I compost the unused scraps to create the nutrients for the new seedlings. We use hydroponics techniques that reabsorb every milligram of water, leaving no refuse. Our environmental degradation footprint is nonexistent and ten percent of our profits go to building solar wells in the Sub-Saharan Africa desert.”

The student waited silently for Kenobe to shut up, then yelled back in a condescending tone that should just be named the college student accent, “Just cause they can’t speak doesn’t mean they don’t feel pain. I’ve read the studies, they do, they vibrate this weird way when you cut them. It’s science.”

Why did gardening have to be so complex, when did everything become so complicated. Couldn’t they just leave him alone? He remembered the first seed he planted; that feeling of it sprouting, coming to life; the smiles on his friend’s faces as they ate his homemade salad. But this dumbass student was right, that was the problem with it all, it was logical. Plants did feel pain, Kenobe read the studies too, he just chose to ignore them. He had been thinking of himself this entire time, his needs, his wants, his dreams. He was a plant killer; breeding life just so he could destroy it.

“Why can’t you just leave me alone,” Kenobi asked.

“See, you guys never have an argument,” The student said, “you never even learned what it means to be accountable to your actions.”

“Just because you win an argument, doesn’t make you right,” Kenobe replied, “don’t you get that?”

“Old people like you ruined society, look what you left us? This shithole of a city.” Then the student added, “Well, at least I’ll be remembered. “He lifted his shirt to reveal a bomb strapped to his chest. The entire time he had been holding a little trigger in his hand and Kenobe didn’t even notice, funny the things we miss.

“Well shit,” Kenobe said, he wasn’t referring to the bomb, but to his own choices in life. You see, he was carrying a gun. He grabbed it right before he left for his house. Forgot the bungee cord strap for the back of his bike but remembered to bring a lethal device that he would never actually use. The thought of killing someone was unbearable to him. The only reason he carried it, was because it made him feel… God it was so stupid, he thought, it made him feel like a man.

He was a fraud, a plant killing, emasculated little boy of a man who wanted to live in a bygone era that probably never existed. He knew the rules, he just never thought they would apply to him; they were both armed. The city would not take notice. The eits would not swoop down to protect him. No one would care.

The trigger button was pressed, and the bomb blew up. But just before the force of the explosion reached Kenobe, he had one last thought, ‘at least this kid took initiative.’