When the first man's lung lobe ceased contracting inside the glass display case, the pawnbroker calibrated the tax meter with his dying breath.
"Final breath valued at 0.3 seconds," the hourglass on the skeletal scales reversed, "47% oxygen tax backlog due..."
New Divine Code, Article 44: All life activities are subject to taxation. Nano-counters embedded in Luna's alveoli projected her tax arrears onto her retina with every breath. The pawnshop's walls were built from frozen lung lobes, each bronchial end connected to tax conduits feeding collected oxygen to VIP clients.
"I wish to redeem the dusk of August 14, 2007." She sliced open her chest, revealing real-time data from her quantum lungs. "I pledge fifty years of future pain revenue as collateral."
The pawnbroker's e-cigarette suddenly spewed a memory mist, exploding into a holographic projection: Sixteen-year-old Luna in a convenience store warehouse, Cole pressing her head into a box filled with tax receipts. A surveillance feed at the edge of the scene showed her mother adjusting the chamber's oxygen concentration, her badge engraved with "Chief Respiratory Tax Designer."
"Code 45 amendment!" The pawnbroker's dentures popped out, revealing a tax chip embedded in his gums. "Native time incurs a 900% late payment penalty."
A riot brewed in the carbon dioxide.
As the first customer suffocated from unpaid taxes, his bursting lung lobes formed protest codes in the air. Other taxpayers began synchronized breath-holding, their oxygen deprivation causing the tax system to overflow with error data. Luna's quantum lungs suddenly became transparent, revealing a struggling clock embryo within—a time parasite bearing the CEO's face, etching tax algorithms onto the alveoli with its umbilical cord.
"Article 46!" she declared, inserting the tax conduit into the boss's carotid artery. "When breathing becomes a luxury, turn the pawnshop into a grave!"
An EMP storm swept through the pawnshop, sparking all tax meters. The clones' breath reversed into a vortex, etching the formula for freedom onto the shop floor. Luna leapt toward the vault amid plummeting oxygen levels, discovering the frozen infant lungs sustaining the time economy—her own excised original organ, engraved with "Civilization Breathing Module 1.0."
"Dear taxpayer..." Jax's holographic projection rose from the blood pool, "...with every act of resistance..." His mechanical lungs ejected miniature pawnshop models, "... ...headquarters' tax revenue multiplies tenfold."
Luna crushed the infant lung's cryogenic chamber. A temporal storm engulfed the globe. All clocks reversed, the wealthy's time deposits vaporizing into quantum foam. Amidst the spacetime rift, she caught a drifting tax bill. Ultraviolet light revealed her father's handwritten annotation:
"When respiratory tax reaches 48%, initiate Civilization Time Reset Protocol."
Amidst the ruins, a new holographic pawnshop reassembled. Clones chanted in tax uniforms as neon slogans flickered through spacetime:
"Tax Reform! Buy one Breath Tax, get one free—plus a complimentary cosmic time formatting experience voucher!"