Mr Salty into the Future

 

In a world similar close to our own, we follow Mr. Salty and his special branch of detectives in smashing terror and human trafficking crimes 

🇮🇪 Chapter 1 – Mr. Salty Awakens

The air was thick with heat, even at dawn. Mr. Salty blinked against the piercing sunlight slicing through the cracked blinds of his micro-apartment. He lay still for a moment, feeling the vibration of the city humming beneath him – the AI buses starting their routes, the construction drones clattering down the tower’s façade, and the endless mechanical whir of Dublin’s offshore wind turbines echoing faintly from the coast.

His sleep pod released its lock with a hiss. The stale recycled air stung his nostrils. He swung his legs out, feet meeting the cold plastic floor tiles. June 14th, 2035, glowed in bright blue letters on the pod interface.

Salty ran a hand over his greying beard, feeling each wiry strand. He stood and stretched his broad shoulders, bones cracking from hours confined in the tight capsule bed. His chest still bore the faded tattoos of his younger days – a seagull, an anchor, and a phrase in Irish he could no longer remember the meaning of.

The micro-apartment was barely bigger than a prison cell: two metres wide, four long. One tiny window showed a sliver of sky crowded with drone traffic. Below, rows of identical apartments stacked up like honeycomb, each holding a solitary tenant living on Universal Basic Income. Salty had been among the first to sign up when the government rolled it out in 2030. At first, it felt like freedom – no more soul-crushing security work at the Port Tunnel or warehouse night shifts. But five years later, he felt trapped in this digital prison of minimal existence.

He flicked the coffee machine on. The AI assistant’s smooth voice spoke from the ceiling speaker:

 “Good morning, Mr. Salty. Weather today is projected at 29 degrees Celsius with UV warnings after midday. Your UBI balance is €73.46 for the week. You have one notification: Water rationing begins at noon. Shower time remaining today is three minutes.”

He grunted. Three minutes. He considered skipping it, but the stale sweat smell clinging to his sheets convinced him otherwise. He stepped into the pod-shower, letting the lukewarm recycled water dribble down his broad back and chest. It was hardly refreshing, but it washed away the sleep.

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Wrapped in a thin towel, Salty sat by the window, sipping synthetic coffee. He watched the city wake up. The neon AI grocery signs flickered on. Garda drones hummed through the skies, scanning the streets for early loiterers, homeless encampments, or undocumented migrants moving before the sun rose fully.

Down below, a queue was forming at the direct provision integration centre. He saw women with young children, men with worn boots and plastic bags stuffed with everything they owned. Some had arrived in Ireland legally, others not, but most shared the same look: hope drained by bureaucracy.

He sighed deeply, thinking back to his youth. Ireland had felt freer then, rougher around the edges but full of promise. Now, every movement felt monitored, every opportunity rationed. Still, as he sipped the bitter coffee, he felt something stir inside. A flicker of rebellion, of purpose.

Today, he decided, he would not waste in this cell. He would venture out into the city’s steaming streets. Maybe find work with the old port gangs, or a cause worth fighting for. Maybe even track down Ciara, his long-lost flame from Cork, if she hadn’t emigrated to Canada like so many others.

He dressed in black cargo trousers and a faded navy tee. His heavy boots clomped against the plastic floor. He checked the cracked mirror one last time, smoothing his hair back.

“Rightyy then,” he muttered to himself, eyes hard with determination. “Time to see what this broken country still has to offer.”

As he stepped out into the humid morning corridor, his apartment door slid shut behind him with a sterile electronic beep – locking away what little security he still had.