Two feet stepped into the bathroom. The same boy, now older, stared at his reflection in the rust-stained mirror above the sink. Time had passed; he was no longer a child. A teenager standing on the edge of adulthood.
His face had sharpened, his hair spiked into something stylish. The old sling bag he'd carried since he was little was even more tattered than before, a faded red eagle sticker clinging stubbornly to the back. His style was halfway between a grease-monkey mechanic and a throwback rock singer from the '50s.
Outside, the city had changed. Towers stretched higher, neon lights stabbing through the smog like knives of colored glass. Cars mostly floated now - P.H.V.s, Personal Hover Vehicles - but here and there, the old wheeled models still rolled through.
"America," he muttered, voice deeper than before, "the land of the free, built from every culture under the sun. Los Angeles, the wild, messy, industrial circus where everyone's chasing their shot. People here are living slicker than they did a few years back. Teenagers ride free hoverboards now; no money down, just pick one up and go."
His tone shifted as he lifted a phone-sized recorder, speaking into it with that half-serious edge of a late teen.
"Of course, not everyone's riding high. A bunch of the homeless are out here with neon signs, yelling about the government's new policies. ARCI makes their speeches sound pretty, but it's not always that simple. Dad used to say never get mixed up in politics. If I were any other kid, I'd call all this crap nonsense… but me?" He gave a dry laugh. "In this world? Anything's possible."
Brian clicked off the recorder. Outside, chants echoed up the street:
"We have the right to protect our home!" Neon protest boards flared against the night.
Back inside, he pulled on a black tank top, ripped jeans, and dark sneakers. Once dressed, he grabbed a brown leather jacket from the closet, a vintage rocker look that suited him, and shrugged it on.
He stepped out of his room, bottle of milk in hand, gulping it as he passed the two-person dining table that hadn't moved in years. The apartment looked almost the same, down to the black acoustic guitar still hanging on the wall.
Brian picked up his sleek new phone. The thing projected a full 3D hologram when making calls, avatars flickering in and out like ghosts in high definition. He pulled up a contact.
Caitlyn Charon Stewart.
At this point, yeah, he could call her his lover. No shame in that anymore. His message went through, lighting up the chat between them.