Snippet #2812213

Blaring horns shot from the surround-sound speakers of the room, soon followed by a funky beat. Cannonade's right eye peeled open, their left eye and indeed the rest of the face buried too deeply in the mess of white hotel pillows to react to the sudden noise. "Computer, stop..." They said out of the muffled mouth as James Brown's voice began to blare over the beat. "Jesus Christ, computer... COMPUTER." No response.

Cannonade propped their torso out of the cocoon of sheets, briefly blinded by the day-light that shun through the gargantuan windows surrounding the California King they slept in. "Good morning Atlas City! I'm Ron Clark, and this is your morning news! To start us off on a good note, we're listening to Living in America by James Brown-" A voice began to pipe in over the music.

An automated alarm clock? It was the year 2045, not 2001. "Radio off! Computer- radio off! COMPUTER. SILENCE!" Cannonade screamed. No response, instead the American news anchor kept rambling on like a gigantic asshole as the unrelenting wall of sound that was James Brown played.

Cannonade slumped their legs over the side of their bed, defeated as the music blared around them. Out the windows surrounding their bed was the skyline of Atlas City, golden morning rays shining down onto the metropolis. "Computer, hotel computer," Cannonade said in defeat. "Please... shut the fuck up."

"You may not be looking for the promised land! But you might find it anyway! Under one of those old familiar names, like: New Orleans! Dallas! Detroit City! Pittsburgh, P.A.! New Orleans! Dallas! Detroit City! Pittsburgh, P.A.! Atlas City!"

Cannonade had risen, reluctantly, as the listing of American towns continued. They pulled the massive t-shirt they slept in from their body and threw it across the room before stumbling forward in the nude. From an accent table they grabbed a half full cup of water, downing the liquid before dropping the cup to the ground. Down the hall from the branched off bedroom they entered the living area of the suite- couches, a full kitchen, and entertainment systems setup in the carpeted space. And of course, overhead speakers- which, like in the bedroom, continued to play the radio at full volume.

It was a massive hotel room, and even though Cannonade was the only occupant they had already managed to make it a mess in their short time there. Pizza boxes and cans lined the couch, and the floor of was covered in clothes thrown aside from Cannonade's suitcase.

"Living in America," Cannonade murmured in a nasally tone that sounded nothing like James Brown but was still, for some reason, the impersonation they chose to go with. From the ground they'd pulled a familiarly on brand red-shirt and pair of black jean shorts. Then they took a quick hit of a half smoked blunt before ashing it out on the kitchen island.

Cannonade shambled to the balcony, lifting their helmet openhandedly and placing it on their head- a sweaty palm-print left on the glass where they had grabbed it. They did a small skip forward and their feet rose off the ground, hovering over the jacuzzi and then over the rails of their balcony. The radio echoed further and further away from the open doors of their 25th floor suite as the sound of the city below came into focus. Downtown Atlas city: buildings surrounding them, curving highways below, stretching over and criss-crossing along riverbanks and tiny peninsulas to the bay. Atlanta mixed with Miami mixed with New York- a real bastard of the last hundred years.

In the air Cannonade rotated in their descent, facing the hotel behind them. Floor after floor passed- their helmeted eyes peering into each. Families, couples, old men with much younger partners. The usual. No one of interest. No one that looked to be their mystery competitor in tonight's match- the reason they had travelled all the way to Atlas city, after all.

***

Cannonade touched down beside a fountain outside the hotel to the surprise of the streets passerbys and the hotel lobby on-lookers. Those in the in the hotel cafe lowered their papers to spot the unusual occurrence. Not that unusual, mind you, it was Atlas City. There were many supers about- most just weren't so public about it.

The rotating doors spun open and Cannonade marched bare-footed toward the reception desk. They smelt of slept in sweat and marijuana. "Excuse me, pardon me," They called from under their mask to a red-haired, slightly too slick for her uniform young woman behind the desk. "The... the fucking radio station... started five minutes ago, how do you turn it off? The speech control wasn't working," The helmeted figure explained in exhaustion.