Gary Irons woke to the screech of his alarm clock once more, a mechanical cockcrow to ring in the end of the world of dreams. Seven trumpets. Seven angels. All that jazz. With a groan, Gary slammed a meaty fist down on the graying plastic stop button. He creaked his body up, stretching his muscles awake. Look alive. You're still in this fight.
The laborer reviewed his injuries as he tore the covers off his lumpy prefab bed. Left middle knuckle sore, echoing the pain of an old high school basketball injury. Right knee twinging, evidence of backstock retail work. Scalds on his thigh, a recent coffeemaking mishap. Gary ran his hand through his black, graying, thinning, damaged hair. He used to be beautiful, once, he reviewed as he stroked the stubble ranging around his jaw. Here he was, approaching his 40's with little to show for it but his life. It would have to be enough.
He plodded to his sink, trying not to spin back into delirium. Gary could feel the blood whorling through his hands, chest, neck, feet, brain. He should probably be back on statins. He hated needing statins. He tried to ween himself off of his meds; not because he believed they wouldn't help, but because he knew they did. Martyrdom by a thousand cuts. Survivor's guilt as a lost child of the revolution.
Gary wanted to eat a bullet. He wanted to devour it faster than you could say "itadakimasu". None of this was right. This was all wrong. This was all wrong. This was all wro—
Stop. Freeze. Focus. Reorient yourself. Find the door in your mind behind your emotions.
Gary breathed in and out a half dozen times. He looked at his hideous face in the mirror. He dragged his razor across his face until he looked presentable. He mopped up his shaving cuts. He tried to pretend he couldn't feel the tracking nanobots in his gums as he brushed his teeth. He put on his boilersuit, got in his self-driving car, and he went to work. Next stop, the Auto-Factory of Oscilloscope City.