Johnny awaited orders from the Pirate Queen as she started to spill off about the speech, the broadcast and everything in between. Of course he'd do his job but there wasn't really any legal means that could take off her broadcasting - duh. Anyone who was going to try and take the broadcast offline was bound to be a hacker but they had a OG Hackerwoman with them. He opened his pubmail to see what was the speech the pirate queen had sent to him, he opened it to see it was only a big heart sent to him. Some speech it was, in any case she was going to wing it or - just speak from her heart!? What could be more dangerous?
Who knew but the woman had a way with words, when she looked over at him he almost felt her devilish presence grace his body as he looked over the show. It was a mess but the queen excelled in chaos, in any case Johnny made himself busy as he pretended to do lawyer things while the PQ took over the show with her charm. He sends out a few messages on his KillPhone (not related to killing itself) as she did her thing occasionally shooting a glance towards the tower of a guard holding the flag and looking menacing with the Jolly Roger. Once the show was over and the PQ rolled away with her chair and weird exit, Johnny let out a sigh of relief nothing bad had happened yet.
He took out a Devil's Nail (a name of a cool ass cigarette) and lit it up in the room with his shitty Zip-po-po-POW lighter (Scrapteam style). He exhaled a few red puffs of smoke as his mind turned to Lott and her mischievous and evil plots that were perhaps forming in his mind in that big brain of hers. Could she be trusted, that smile for sure could be - damn. Moments back in reality he saw he already burned through the damn thing he flicked the filter to the ground as he looked over to the No-Touchy Hackerwoman, smoke exhaling from his nostrils. "Find anything?" He said somewhat interested. . .?
Despite it being such a clear liquid, Lott and vodka had a colorful history. It had become her prefered liquor of choice after the rest had betrayed her and left her alone in the shower curled up in the fetal position with her brain beating against her skull like a subwoofer. However, itβs unquestionable loyalty wasnβt the only thing her old comrade vodka had going for it. Once, an APEX sales rep had taught Lott that his go to trick when trying to seduce business partners over drinks was to keep ordering vodka tonics. As the night wore on, heβd swap to straight seltzers while keeping the booze flowing for his financial prey to loosen their inhibitions and their purse strings. Lott took his tip and reversed it: sheβd drink vodka while everyone else sobered up on water.
The bartenderβnot the Ultrabartender but the Ultraforgettable bartender of nondescript appearance and lackluster styleβhad been trained to stand there and make sure nobody completely raided the open bar. It was a typical Central Party party move, rationing their liquor like the thirsty political coat-tailers were in a soupline, but Lottβs boss paid their wages. He didnβt even blink at all as the publicist filled her glass to be one stray cigarette flick away from turning into a molotov. Even without it being a firebomb, it was enough to burn her throat in a painfully delightful way as she drained it at an alarming rate. A tap on the table rang the bell for round two, and she drifted from the table. Didnβt want to look unprofessional and chug her second βseltzerβ right away, especially with some geek breathing down her neck. Lott moved, but was close enough to hear the outburst: βBesidesβ Gatch and his goons are too easy these days. Iβm a ghost, Samsara. A spooky ghost.β
Lott froze and half-turned towards the woman at the mention of Samsara. She tried her best to not appear interested, which wasnβt a difficult task for the human cog, as she gave the woman a once over. Lott couldnβt be sure if the other woman was or was not a ghost, but she was certainly ghastly. Perhaps it was an unfair assessment from a woman who also looked like the living dead, but at the very least Lott dressed like she was going to be buried in it. On the other hand, the disorderly woman dressed in clothes that shouldβve been banned, burned, and buried. Yet somehow the fashion criminal wasnβt just talking about Samsaraβthey were talking to him.
For a moment, Lott was certain that her brain had imploded in on itself, or perhaps her eyes had malfunctioned and was still rolling playback that she was going to save for later. But no, despite the toxins raging inside of her what she perceived was, in fact, reality. Samsara was there, in the flesh. In fact, he was nearly in arms reach. In fact, he was reaching out. To her? Lott held her breath. No, it was to her, the pile of dirty laundry hiding under a cheap, convenience store dyejob. He couldnβt keep his hands off of her as he fondled underneath her jacket. To anyone else, the sight shouldβve been disturbing. To Lott, it was disturbing for the wrong reasons. Samsara Washington liked women like that? No, this mustβve been a game. Nobody could ever be attracted to anyone in a jacket like that. He was trying to make her jealous, that was it, he was just trying to make Lott jealous.
It worked.
βArenβt the Reclaim people done with him yet? I am. Send him my way. Iβll rip off his other arm. The flesh one. Am I right?β
It was that point in the night where Lott could no longer feel her face, but she hid whatever horrified look she certainly gave the woman by draining her drink. If anyone caught it, perhaps theyβd mistaken the look for a loyal subordinate in shock. In reality, it was the look of a woman hazily calculating if she could get away with ripping off the loud girlβs armβassuming, of course, she could rip off an arm in the first place. Lott disengaged and retreated to the bar. There was nothing more she wanted in the world right now than to see Samsaraβs young floozy girlfriend (no, she couldnβt be, could she?) live up to her word and become an actual ghost, but Lott could settle to just slowly die from yet another drink.
As Lott swished the poison around in her mouth and waited for it to kill her or, at the very least, kill her worries, she watched in a quiet fury as the loudmouth continued her soliloquy. For a moment Lott felt like she was the only one suffocating, except she quickly became aware that all of the air had been sucked out of the room. The bitβLott swallowed the thought, for even in anger she would never think such a thingβthe punk in the jacket was now hoarding all of their oxygen, using it to fuel her incendiary comments. Someone should stop the woman before she incited a riot. Lott, honestly, shouldβve stopped the woman, if only in the name of good press for the Mayor, but she saw the looks the Neo-Ludds were tossing at one another. It wasnβt her fight, and the way Samsara stepped back was enough to let her know he wouldnβt be waiting too long before moving on if something happened to his girl. In the end, Lott could spin whatever happened to benefit Gatch.
But then the rent-a-cop moved in to diffuse the situation and blow up all of Lottβs hopes and dreams in one fell swoop. Lott chugged her drink and slammed it on the table hard, causing the Ultranobody behind the table to jump. The peacekeeper had given the troublemaker a warning. A warning! Would she put her in timeout next and have her face the wall? Take away her toys and make her go to her room? What a farce. Lott approached the pair, the fire in her belly fueling her to stand up to the familiar-looking enforcer. Even with her heels, Lott had to look up so she could stare down the security woman.
βExcuse me, but a warning?β Lottβs voice didnβt even hint at her previously felt frustrations. She spoke in a hushed tone with the pacing and programmed pattern of a convincing robocall. βIn less than five minutes this woman has threatened the well-being of one candidateβs health, drunkeningly wrestled with another candidate, and attempted to provoke some kind of violent reaction from known volatiles. Not to mention, she is clearly hiding something under her jacket, which is already criminal enough in its own rights even if it isnβt smuggling contraband.β
βI have read through the safety protocols outlined in the contract with Knight Enterprise. Twice.β Something about the legalese in contracts made the former auditor hot under the collar. Like a derringer springing out of a sleeve, Lottβs phone practically materialized in her hand and it moved up to her face. βContact Knight Enterprise.β
An actual automated voice seeped through the speaker, impossible to clearly make out to anyone but Lott. Lott covered the mouthpiece with her hand and stared at the peacekeeper, βSituations like these must be treated seriously for the safety of the candidates and those in their parties. The proper procedure is to detain any potential security issues and remove them from the room for later questioning and proper threat assessment.β To the phone, βOption three. Extension Six-Two-Five.β Back to the hired goon, βYour handler is slow to answer. Perhaps by the time they pick up youβll have reconsidered and properly perform your responsibility when it comes to public safety. If not,β Lott gave an attempt at a sincere smile, βI truly hope they only give you a warning.β
Ohhhh no. Not again. Hustle sister, shit is rough. Itβs dangerous. Cumbersome. Another oneβ Another thunderous moment is coming up. Run.
Iβve seen it before. I wasnβt one of those that wept. I saw it, inflicted with a twisted, different, wicked curiosity. You see it as a speckβa seedβa little piece of the void peeking into this reality with its threats. Itβs like an embryo of chaos. I call it The Vortex.
Spiralling. Spiralling. That sort of thing, itβs infectious, relegating any safe environment instead to a place of dangerous intent. Alsoβitβs odd. Itβs odd how often you find that the loss of total controlβthe spiralβemerges from this worldβs most ordered elements. Itβs like finding death at the site of a resurrection. I saw it first hidden in infrastructure, coming forth, evoked from the crumbling crevices. Even in space, there is decay. You canβt avoid The Vortex. Everyone has their day.
I didnβt think Iβd find it in my safest place. Right there in the walls. I thought I was safe, that I could escape the chaos. Nay. It came. But instead of fleeing, I embraced it, And there was never again a place where it could get the jump on me.
S A V E Y O U R B R A I N πΈ π π π π π π πΈ π πΌ
βNonono! Do not touch the console yet. We barely use it unless bossman gives us the go ahead to go full entropy-mode during parties. The type of events where he gets enough money to redo the entire joint.β
βWhat does it do?β
βOh sweetieβ¦ Letβs wait for tonight. Trust me.β
βItβs the ventilation unit, Stell. Ever think about that?β He stumbled forward, both hands pressing desperately into the counter. His world was turning in circles, but he was glued to the floor. His expanding pupils were concealed behind mirrorshades, but Stella could still see themβstare into their depthsβsomehow. βItβs a biosphereβ¦ βBiosphereβ. Closed system and all that. All recycled.β
The world tilted 45 degrees. He was leaning no longer on the counter, hands instead pressed against the lip of the open ventilation shaft. Like a dragon spitting flames, he exhaled long and loud into the mystery shaft. βA biosphere. All the microbes, germs, viruses, grime, and infectious particles. All of them, all the time, dispersed and shared by everyone lost in Limbo.β
βLike communismβ¦β
βCommunist Bio-warfareβ¦β
The vent teleported to Stella, or she teleported to the vent. Her colleagues' eyes watched on in amazement. They saw it too. They wereβ
βLike a collective...β
She smiled, or her face was a mask showing teeth. She levitated her wrist to the vent, bent the wrist back. They watched. They couldnβt stop her. Time itself stopped. Who commands the magic of passing seconds save for chaosβMister Vortex? The way she cocked her wrist, it sounded like a shotgun. Then, Dust. It puffed forth, fluttering unto the mystery tube aloft into the ether, or wherever any such God of Chaos might send it offβ¦
She forgot to stop. Didnβt. Not until both her chambers were empty. Her new Mixologist friends were amazed, mouths agape.
Reality skipped. Everyone came back. He started rushing out towards the dance floor. Stella was frozen. There was a beat, then the conversation played in reverse.
βLike a collective...β βCommunist Bio-warfareβ¦β βOhhhhhβ Itβs a celebration.β
The air was an amorphous aqueous purple sludge, she might have thought, but she didnβt have thoughts. The only places that were safe were occupied by tightly-packed people with bank accounts that looked like fake numbers. The Bohemians. People who shouldnβt exist, but because they did, they knew they were the only ones that mattered. A mass of πΎπ£πππ₯ intellect, πΎπ£πππ₯ power, but now they were just amoeba, worming their way through a place that didnβt exist. A place in Limbo, and it was full of purple sludge.
Calculate.
Maybe thatβs what she was thinking, but she knew that wasnβt true. That was automatic, a reaction of the eyes and arms and heart and soul. The real calculations were in the back, each Mixologist inputted their planned commands before the air, the Limbo took hold. From there, what happened was like magic. It was out of their control. They were programmed, only expecting a thousand bugs and interruptions based on the wills of their loyal customers. Bohemia. Bohemians. Welcome to Limbo. A place where the air itself sparkles with magic.
βHold upββ He could hardly get a word in. βI think my legββ His dancing partner, a Korean idol magnate that had been controlling the game for at least half a century had him pressed against the wall. He wasnβt complaining. After all, she didnβt look a day older than her manufacture date. It wasnβt love, but something ravenous, the actions of an animal in captivity freed only in the land of Bohemia. He couldnβt resist either way. The 13th Saudi Hyperprince had jammed a sword through his calf earlier. It was still there, lodged in place. He didnβt really feel it.
Calculate. No. That wasnβt it. It wasnβt calculations thatβd save the day. Let the programmed commands guide the way. She just had to ride the wave.
It was damn near levitation the way she surfed across the dancefloor. The ceiling mounted vodka dispenser was on full blast, angled 15 degrees from its perpendicular point with the ground and sailing across the ceiling on its own programmed line. It blasted a stream powerful enough to form its own small river, formed approximately 41 milliseconds behind Stellaβs surfing tray that sailed her across the dancefloor. She dismounted at her exact destination, spread her arms wide with a glass in each hand. Another two dispensers fired off a full pour of pre-mixed cocktails just on target. One for each of the twin heads of the family that own the Japan Rail zaibatsu.
She rode the Vortexβor maybe succumbed to it was a better word. She couldnβt know. She couldnβt think. She could just spin and spin, a human spider serving sickly smooth spirits to the shadow demons. She gathered a tray and several glasses, somehow unbroken, and the game began again. Vodka and absinthe falling from the ceiling in torrents. The kickback of her wrist shot flames this time to ignite the trace poisons in the air while the second layer settled nicely into the glass for a very aesthetically pleasing, Bohemian cocktail.
It wasnβt long after the esoteric stone statue was wheeled into the center of the dancefloor before it was toppled over and cracked in half. Stellaβs colleagues were uncannily reunited as the idol nearly took a hit. From atop the statue and pressed against the wall, two red-strings were reunited by none other than fate in the Vortex. They knew it probably wouldnβt happen again before Bohemia ended.
βYou have a sword in your leg.β
βThat explains a lot.β He slumped down onto an upturned table that had somehow been ripped from its bolts and thrown into the wall. She joined him. βIf I leave it there, and he forgets about it, I probably get to keep it.β
βHow do you think Stellaβs doing at her first Bohemia?β She tossed her glasses off and into the Vortex, looking towards their newest partner. βSheβs a machine.β
βSheβs definitely enjoying herself. Still working, right in the center of the horde, unscathed, dangerous, dusted. Thatβs bad.β
βSheβs got the make of an Ultrabartender for sure.β
In the Vortex, a dangerous place accepted as little more than fateβthatβs when you see its meaning in the game, and thatβs what she learned that day. When youβre in the midst of the maelstrom, you engage it. Lost in the chaos, pop off.
Sheβd seen into the spirals, and once youβve looked within, it never leaves you. Youβre just left, lying dormant untilβ
βit came back, and she acted like magic. Two objectives solidified in Stellaβs head, and then she was readied, prepped, calculated, awaiting to begin the πΎπππ. She didnβt think of her plan. It kind of just appeared in her head what felt like seconds before her shit got rocked. After the catalyst, it was all immediate action.
Oh god, she thought. The guy was fighting himself. One sushi-driver slammed the otherβs head into the bar with the force only found in some mutant cybernetic hand. The table rattled and their drinks jumped a few millimeters into the air. Stella watched the lemonade mixture tilt and tap the counter, teetering too farβjust a tad. Then it was in the air, heading to the floor fast.
Ultrabartender senses sounded the alarms with a series of synaptic zaps at the moment of the impact. That was the call to action! The Vortex suddenly attacked, Timed to the rhythm of the beat of the
[[[π½ππ£π€π₯
ππππ₯π₯ππ£ππ
πΎπππ€π€β¦]]]
Then came the crash. Stellaβs optics took note of the pressure changes, the first bottles flung from the wall, the shockwave before she could even see what happened. She knew the wave was coming. It was the same feeling as Bohemiaβjust behind her, and it was time to ride the wave.
Her legs were like springs and her hands were the needles there to guide the thread. Stella threw herself into a somersault over the bar catching sight of her beautiful, beautiful stock, for just a moment cascading across the air in the cacophony. All of the pristine bottles lostβ¦ Or maybe not. Her optics crossed, each tracking a bottle on the side of their opposite. A handle of overproof rum and a handle of classic Jack Daniels, so perfect. She couldnβt let them die, she thought, not even if all of π½Duatπ½ dropped. When she landed, her cybernetics acted without her, and the bottles joined her hands.
The car busted straight through the bar and the counterβs contents became a mosaic of sharp shards carried by the wave over any and all patrons. It plowed straight into Goon #2 and flattened one of the dancefloorβs zombies in the process. Goon #1 drew his concealed handgun the moment he recovered from the blastback. Stella didnβt know why he aimed it at her, but it didnβt matter. Goon #2 was the competent one. What was one more shatter in the massive mess?
A handle of Jack Daniels had the sort of shape that made her wonder if the manufacturers had expected it to be the bar-breakerβs weapon of choice. It was a heavy bludgeon long enough to shatter into a shiv, so that was just what Stella did. She smashed the bottle through the Goonβs gun and sent his shot rocketing off into the ether. The splash of whiskey was inevitable, and it seared his eyes. Stella was used to the smell, the taste, the feeling. In Bohemia, in the Vortex, to the Ultrabartender, the sting of whiskey was indistinguishable from pure oxygen.
Stella had plenty of adversaries. No enemies. An enemy implied that they could ruffle you, or something like that. She was un-ruffleable, but the adversary that came closest was the car, and whoever or whatever was operating it. There was something she couldnβt escape, though. Was that what fear was? Some unescapable bubbling sense of π½π¦π₯ππππ₯πͺ, inevitability, anxiety that wrenched at your internal organs with an eight-fingered hand, which you look down to see, despite the pain, and it turns out to be your own hand?
Kelvin didnβt even try to run out. Most of π½Duatπ½βs patrons hadnβt bothered. They made it, but their βurgencyβ was more of a zombie-shuffle to the skipping music, now accompanied by the orchestra of the Vortex, but his bum leg made him slow to escape. Stella grabbed his hand and dragged him towards the front exit, but she wasnβt quite done. She had to keep her focus split on all the adversaries invading her bar and ruining its long-term-cultivated chill vibe.
One of the clones stepped inside the car. Stella stared him down with dead π½Duatπ½ eyes. After she gave him and his other self a free drink, this was what happened. She took a few steps over the dancefloor, calculating, but her eyes were locked on the helmeted soulless disaster behind his tinted windshield. Each step cracked and crinkled with broken glass. Two free drinks, and where did the clone drones go with them? The four-thousandth shattered glass, she thought. What was two more?
It took a lot of time to hang a neon-infused, glowing, golden disco ballβnot long to take it down. It was a well-placed half-handle of Jack. Thatβs all it takes. Her aim never wavered, but one on-target shot wasnβt enough. She spoke up, watching the bottles cascade through the air. She knew the arc was perfect, so she didnβt stay to watch.
βOne more drink on the house. Overproof Rumβ for the road.β
The disco ball cracked, sent sparks streaming out of it like fireworks as gravity took the wheel. It met the rum right on target. The ball of flame flared up right over the driverβs windshield. The Land of the Dead became a momentary fireball.
Stella glanced back only once, letting her optics bathe in the light of the flash and her hair ruffle in the wave of the bang. A sliver of glass clipped her temple and left a blood gash that spread a swathe of red down the side of her face. She held a metallic briefcase in her hand.
Youβve been served.β Any last sight of Stella from the interior would catch a glimpse of one of π½π»π¦ππ₯π½βs eye-like signs crashing down and igniting yet another fire. The sign still glimmered as it sparked up another fire.
Swathe Street Commons Reclaim Zone, South City Sprawl April 1, 2065
Iβm too sober for this shit, was Theresaβs first reaction.
It wasnβt as if Theresa were a stranger to bars - sorry, refreshment stands. Could any college student be a stranger to a bar? But the reek of alcohol stood out - this wasnβt an elegant place serving finely-mixed cocktails to discerning, high-class palates. This was a place where people drowned things - internal things. It even needed a security guard towards the middle of the room just to keep order. Now, why on earth had that guy said Ms. Ramana would be hereβ¦? For that matter, why would anyone be here?
Ahead of her, a walking crime against fashion squared off against both the security guard and - and Ms. Ramana herself, she noted with surprise. βExcuse me, but a warning?β she was saying, in a cool and professional manner. βIn less than five minutes this woman has threatened the well-being of one candidateβs health, drunkeningly wrestled with another candidate, and attempted to provoke some kind of violent reaction from known volatiles. Not to mention, she is clearly hiding something under her jacket, which is already criminal enough in its own rights even if it isnβt smuggling contraband. βI have read through the safety protocols outlined in the contract with Knight Enterprise. Twice.β
Theresa watched from the entrance, transfixed, as Ms. Ramana cooly handled what looked like a drunken confrontation, chiding a security guard into doing something before it escalated. Someone asked her if she wanted a drink; she asked for a strawberry daiquiri without looking away. She hadnβt realized how much hard work it must be, being part of the Mayorβs upper staff. Managing Gatchβs public image must be a full-time job as it is, but on top of that, having to maintain order at public events like this? But it made sense, she supposed - the mayor would look bad if bar fights broke out at campaign events.
As she watched, Ms. Ramanaβs phone materialized in her hand, as if summoned by a magic spell. She spoke into the phone without taking her eyes off of the security guard. βSituations like these must be treated seriously for the safety of the candidates and those in their parties. The proper procedure is to detain any potential security issues and remove them from the room for later questioning and proper threat assessment.β
The ability to stay calm under pressure was something Theresa admired in people. Far too many people gave into emotions and panic when stressed - but if she was ever gonna be a space pilot, Theresa couldnβt afford that. Sheβd have to be like her father - always able to be clearheaded and rational, no matter what. On that note, she tore her gaze away long enough to watch her daiquiri be mixed, poured, and brought over - this definitely wasnβt a place to turn your back on your drink...
βYour handler is slow to answer. Perhaps by the time they pick up youβll have reconsidered and properly perform your responsibility when it comes to public safety. If not,β Lott gave a professional smile, polite and reserved. βI truly hope they only give you a warning.β
Theresa had to smile at that. That was how a professional delivered a threat, surely - formally, evenly, not reliant on sound and fury. She sipped her daiquiri, but wrinkled her nose in distaste - way too much alcohol! A mixed drink was supposed to be balanced; this felt like she wouldnβt be legal to drive if she so much as sniffed it...
All eyes on her, Delilah was used to it. What she was not used to was being unable to fire off strings of 3-dimensional countermeasures to send any onlookers into a frenzy of blind, mind-wracking Flux panic. She took stock of the horde of bourgeoisie corpos staring back at her. Her eyes fluttered in and out of red-and-blue focus. Delilah could have almost sworn that the damned paper glasses were busted. She kept seeing glitches where everything appeared 2-D.
A series of taps made the Shaman blink a few times. Was she receiving a message?
Delilah half-jumped, half-stumbled back when the security guard entered her field of view, leaving her glasses a bit skewed on her face. She equipped two karate-chop formations on her hands.
βA panic?β Delilah repeated. βDisturbing of the peace?β She threw her arms up in defeat, or at least, she tried to. Her right arm got tangled up in her deckβs rigging and the cords ensnared her so she could hardly raise her hand above her head. βWoman, the Reclaim Zone is full of shadowy assassins and thereβs a mysterious hacker leaving art everywhere that only I can see because of my immense power.β
Delilah commenced battle with herself, attempting toβhowever dangerously, considering the whirring fans that signified her concealed kit was clearly runningβuntangle herself with aid of her teeth. Delilahβs new drinking partner took it upon herself to approach the situation, and Delilah inferred, help her battle the security woman. How wrong she was. The Anprims were busy cackling amongst themselves. Delilah could only figure that they were talking about vaccines or something. She didnβt care much. It took too much focus to try and maintain a deathly scowl on her face while she stared at Lott. It may have looked a bit more like she was having a stroke, but Delilah couldnβt see her own face. Not always.
βExcuse me, shill,β Delilah glared harder at Lott, and pointed a gun at her. Index and middle fingers extended, and thumb raised, Delilahβs threat was no idle threat. She meant business. βBut Iβve only been here for four minutes and twenty seconds, and if Councilman Samsara and I had actually been drunkenly wrestling, Iβd have killed him by now.β Delilah cleared her throat, gagged, and added, ββwith my bare hands.β
Samsara, who had been staring directly into the wall, trying to count the grains of degrading brick, turned back around when he heard his name. He couldnβt help but brush his shoulders off, straighten his posture, and wear that smirk that just screams βHustlerβ when he heard Delilah call him Councilman. He stepped back towards the room when he heard the mention of contraband but stopped in his tracks when he noticed Delilahβs βgunβ. He was either trying above all else to hold in a laugh or trying above all else not to shoot himself right there.
βAnd itβs not contraband unless you count all of the custom mods inside. Itβs very serious equipment. Iβm packing heat.β She really was. She could feel the overheating fans desperately whining with all their motors against her body. Delilahβs arm tensed and started shaking when she saw Lott wasnβt taking her threat seriously. Already, her newfound enemy was reading off a list of rules or something. βIβll show you.β
She dropped the gun and dramatically flicked her arms back to flutter her jacket in her best display of majesty. Suddenly, the idea came to her. The idea. Her greatest one yet, she was convinced. She grabbed a fistful of cords, tossing some aside and she tried to sort them with grandiose and unnecessary gestures while getting a running start towards the NTP candidate.
βSamsara,β she exclaimed. βCatch me. Iβm going in.β With that, Delilah stabbed the end of a jack into her neck, missing the first time but hitting her target on the second go. Immediately, Delilahβs entire body went limp, tangled in cords and heading for the floor. Samsara lunged forward and wrapped his arms around the flopping Delilah, if only to keep her jacket closed and cover the stencil of spray paint along the side of her now exposed cyberdeck that clearly read πΈ π πΈ π πΎ πΈ.
Delilahβs senses awakened and she was still in the room, but all her senses were damp. Few features of the suites were even left, leaving in their stead the black and white emptiness of the Labyrinth doing its best to simulate the environment while her deck strained to probe for more data to complete the picture. Delilah wormed around in the darkness. Something wasnβt quite right. She shouldnβt beβ¦ Feeling. Not here. There are no Feπliπππ€ in the Labyrinth. Particularly not an
π
π
πΌ
β
π
π
πΈ
π»
β πΈ β β π β πΌ π π
ππ ππππβ¦
And she felt invincible. Immediately jumping back to that day, lost in the Labyrinth. Happy. For the first time since the incident, she could remember it. It played back in her mind, every synapse repeating its exact duty to recreate the memory. She was working overseer stuff for Dexter Campbellβs Reclaim Zone Mayor campaign. She was talking to the Overdriver. She was managing the cameras. She was monitoring Campbellβs dialogue. She was everywhere at once, consciously-split, ripping at the seams, barely on the brink of breaking into a quadrillion pieces.
She was triangulating the street samuraiβs location. Overdriver lost his partner. Her brain was at its limits. Her overclocked deck was smoking back on the outside, burning hot against her thighs. Black lines started to cross each of her visions, like cracks in glass. Everything was splintering. Everything was in pain. Everything felt great. She was the queen of the high-speed digital seas. She was a beast. She wasnβt one of the many, she was the many. She pushed again and again. Another perspective exploded across the cracks. Another channel of perception. She couldnβt keep track of any of them, the cracks expanded. She was overcome with blackness, but not before she caught sight of that last zone of split-consciousness, in some strange, foreign place in the Labyrinth. She saw the tag, half-complete. Then something saw her. Her heart stopped.
Then the cartridge wore off. The bootleg juice was already millimeters from empty when Delilah jammed it in her neck. She was doing it again. Delilah found herself connected four perspectives. She couldnβt have been there more than a few seconds before the crash happened. She pulled back, feeling the heart palpitations even without any connection to her senses.
Outside the Labyrinthβback in that dreaded worldβthe population of the Central Square suites saw the four CCTV cameras mounted in the corners of the lobby spazz out, whirring and spinning around in circles like there was some sort of electronic earthquake. They were looking at nothing, just struggling to exist as they were viciously attacked by some evil cyber-witch, poor machines. After a few seconds, the cameras stopped. Samsara struggled to pulled Delilah up to a semi-upright position. Already, her face was flush red and feverish.
But she wasnβt quite finished. She still had vengeance to enact on the mean shill that didnβt even flinch when Delilah menaced her with a gun.
Lottβs phone was menaced next. Any Knights Enterprise code was suddenly replaced with a graphic that overtook all of the device's function. Its depiction was simple, bearing a sprite of red and blue glasses over a pink heart backdrop. Crossing the heart was a series of three converging heart monitor readouts. Each of them flatlined upon meeting one another. To menace her even further, the device started uncontrollably vibrating, like the something bad is definitely happening sort of vibrating. And then it all stopped.
Delilahβs eyes shot open and she clawed a weak arm up at her neck, content to let Samsara worry about holding her weight up.
βSamsara.β She gave a dramatic, but weak cough. βIβm having a heart attack.β Samsara tried his best to drop her, but she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down. All her battle-ready energy had left her unfortunately. She curled up against her bossβs leg.
βCall the police.β βWait no. Not them.β βCall someone. Not the police. Maybe the army.β βA foreign army.β βA foreign impartial army.β "Or the navy."
Swathe Street Commons Reclaim Zone, South City Sprawl April 1, 2065
Fsssssh!
Whrrrrrrr!
Bzzt!
With a visible spark, the Engitech CyberEye 071X security camera finally stopped its erratic movements, slumping downwards in place like a patient with a powerful sedative in an IV line.
It was almost too good to be true. Technology was, of course, never reliable or safe, but what were the odds of the cameras going out here, and now? It was almost too perfect. Suspiciously perfect. He had a much more elaborate plan in mind, to trick the nearest convenient twenty-something intern into planting it for him. But the more elaborate a plan, the more likely something to go wrong. The best actions were usually the simplest.
A quick glance around the room confirmed the other cameras in the room had done likewise. For some reason, security was, for the moment, blind. Howland dispassionately ran through the possibilities in his head.
Could it be a stroke of luck? Coincidence? Unlikely. Canβt be ruled out.
Could it be fate? Donβt be ridiculous.
Could it be an unknown benefactor? Someone trying to aid him? Unlikely. Not impossible. A benefactor would probably have directly or indirectly come to him. No. If finding a kindred spirit were likely, I wouldnβt have to do what I do.
Could it be a trap? By the police? By security? No, they wouldnβt allow a bomb to really be set up in public just to gather evidence. By a third party? Political intrigue is pretty likely in a place like this. But not that likely.
Does anyone stand to gain from helping me in this manner? Any of the five parties? No. Criminal action? Plausible. But that would require a criminal to know about me and for some reason not say anything nor act on it before. Not plausible, then.
Does anyone stand to gain from disabling the cameras? Plausible. It would allow all manner of criminal opportunities. In the Reclaim there could be any number of thieves or cons.
Most likely answer? Someone else wants the cameras disabled for some other reason.
A lucky coincidence, then.
Resolved.
Howland nodded to himself. The plan proceeds. Still - he would have to be as careful as he could. Some extra precautions wouldnβt hurt anything. Perhaps it would be worth it to make sure he was seen elsewhere at the time the bomb went off. Wasnβt there a reporter out interviewing people outside? Ordinarily, it was best to stand out as little as possible - but being seen elsewhere would be a good idea in this case. And besides, representing the Committee was his actual job.
He orbited the outside of the Central Squareβs central plaza with a lazy prowl, watching carefully for those around him with portable devices. These days, nearly anything could have a camera. The last thing he needed was to be in the background of some teenagerβs selfie, planting a bomb. Of course, he couldnβt keep his eyes on everyone at once - his only realistic option was to limit the angles at which it could be seen.
Up ahead, an unoccupied bench would serve nicely. Everyone was busy looking the other way, towards the candidates and the media. He walked past, carefully ducking slightly to set the briefcase down, dropping his cargo without breaking stride or altering his pace. He continued on, not heading directly for the exit at a rush, but rather taking the pace of an unhurried and uncaring bureaucrat.
Right. It was time to head back, change his appearance back to normal, and have Dr. Parker Howland, M.D., return to the event. Maybe heβd even end up on TV. He smiled to himself as he ducked into an unoccupied bathroom.
...did the drunk lady just give herself a heart attack?
Theresa blinked, baffled by the events as they transpired. But this poorly-dressed woman was clearly intoxicated and probably dangerous - it was best to let security handle it. With all eyes on the womanβs dramatic diving cyberdecking, Theresa quietly made her way across the room, taking a somewhat circuitous route until she ended up next to her newfound employer. βAh, Ms. Ramana?β she began. βPerhaps we should leave her for the authorities.β
Glory took a deep breath to center herself as she felt someone jab verbal nails into her spine. Turning to look at the new voice she was surprised to see that Lott, of all people, was the person verbally raking Glory over the coals. Wasnβt she supposed to be busy with Mayor Gatchβs campaign? Why was she here drinking? Glory could easily smell the alcohol on Lottβs breath from this distance. Steeling herself, Glory began to respond. βItβs generally been advised that we issue warnings before detaining people in this specific instance, as us detaining certain people could be seen as-β
Glory was then interrupted in her explanation by the woman she had been talking to before beginning to act up once again. If people were paying attention, they might notice the shift in stance that Glory took. Her feet were placed a bit further apart than normal, and her legs began to visibly tense as she prepared for hand to hand combat due to Della raising dual karate-chops against Glory. However, when Della began to dig about in her coat, Glory began to become quite concerned with what exactly that square object was. Previously it hadnβt been considered a threat, but now that it was actively being reached for Glory was immensely concerned about what it might be.
It wasnβt until Glory heard the fans running that she was able to make an accurate guess: A deck. Most people with laptops didnβt leave them running all the time, but Netrunners were a bit different, at least as far as Glory heard. A few of them shut their decks off on a regular basis to allow the parts to cool down, but some others didnβt. They ran the devices constantly, and often to critical temperatures. A few liked to claim that the times when they were at the edge of emergency shutdown from the heat were the times where their deck performed best.
This new piece of information changed the situation drastically. What didnβt help was that, as if on cue, Samsara also stepped into the room shortly after his name was mentioned. The look on his face told Glory that the two did, in fact, know one another. What happened afterward set several alarm bells off in Gloryβs head as Della began to run towards Samsara. Now yelling, Glory barked a harsh order at Della the moment she began to run. βFreeze and put your hands in the air away from the cyberdeck!β
Too little, too late. Not like Della wouldβve obeyed anyway. She was already limp by the time Glory was able to move. βFuck. Thatβs not good.β rolled through Gloryβs mind. It was against protocol to yank cables out of people since there could potentially be harmful feedback from disrupting the connection. Instead, Glory began to reach for her handcuffs as she approached the now-limp Netrunner. Tapping her security badge, Glory gave an order to Samsara. βMr. Washington, Iβm going to have to ask that you step away. Her actions warrant detaining and questioning. Do not attempt to retrieve anything from her person, as it is all now considered evidence. You will also most likely need to come in for questioning, so please donβt go far.β
With that said, Glory knelt down next to Della and grabbed one of her wrists. With a flick, she opened one of the cuffs and was about to slap it closed around Dellaβs wrist when a distinct mechanical whirring caught her attention. Glory looked up as she delayed putting the cuff on Della for now. It took her a few moments to trace the sound, but she eventually saw it: The security cameras were going haywire. Glory was able to quickly put two and two together, and one wonderful word rolled through her head. βFuck.β
It was then that she heard a distinct vibrating coming from Lottβs phone. The kind of vibrating the phones donβt normally produce. Glory could only assume that Lottβs phone was also being assaulted, which further complicated the situation. Standing up again, Glory turned to Lott briefly and stated an unfortunate fact. βThat phone is also now considered evidence, it will be examined by our technical staff for details about what exactly has happened and then returned to you when the investigation is concluded.β
With that said, Glory sensed more motion from the Netrunner behind her. Spinning around, Glory watched as she pulled the plug from her neck and then whispered something extremely alarming: βIβm having a heart attack.β
This sent Glory into an entirely new set of actions. Pressing two fingers to her earpiece, Glory activated her microphone and began to speak quickly. βThis is Glory, Code 2, 11-41 at the refreshments area. Subject claims heart attack. Additional, Code 2, Code 8. Subject has caused security camera failure and we need additional physical presence. Iβm going to be accessing the speaker system briefly. Glory out.β
Lowering her fingers from her ear, Glory twisted the tuning knob on her radio and the overhead announcement speakers crackled for a moment as they activated. Raising her fingers to her ear again, Glory began to speak once more. βThis is a member of the security team. We have a situation in the refreshments area and a medical team is on the way. Iβm going to need everyone in the refreshments area to calmly leave in an orderly fashion. Additionally, Iβm going to request that everyone in any area between the main entrance and the refreshments area please move out of the way as well so that medical can get in quickly. Thank you for your cooperation.β
With that said, Glory lowered her fingers from her ear yet again and turned back to Lott, who was surprisingly being spoken to by the woman she had given a card to earlier. With no time for idle chatter, Glory issued the both of them a polite yet stern command. βThat meant the both of you, too. Iβm required to stay here as security, but you two are not, and are thus required to leave. Also, Lott, I'll be taking your phone as evidence. Sorry.β
Glory raised a hand towards Lott and spoke one final time. βAfter you've given me your phone so I can submit it to evidence, please be sure to exit in a calm and orderly fashion. Iβll handle things from here. Thank you for your cooperation.β
Lott wouldβve shuddered at that word if her body was capable of such convulsion, turning from the low performing cop to the over performing gnat. Instead of a shudder the ever microscopic narrowing of the eyes would do the job as it showed her disgust at being called a shill. She was no shill: she was an active representative, she was a face, she was a somebody, oh God, what idiot made her a somebody? There was no time for such anxiety inducing questions; she stored it away for later, something to cry about in the shower while she washed her mask of cool uncaring away. Besides, she had to deal with something more important. Way, way, way more important. In fact, it was a matter of life or death.
Delilah had just drawn on her.
Lott stared down the barrel of the business gun. In the hands of an expert it was the most dangerous weapon known to man, money grubbing gunslingers shooting down kindhearted idiots in boardrooms across the nation for the sake of a few more dollars. This woman was no such cowboy. The form was all wrong, the flourish was too much, and, Lott huffed, the safety was still on. Lott didnβt even blink, a secret smile line forming at the corner of her glazed eyes. Delilah hadnβt even realized that sheβd already lost the duel. Lottβs one hand was busy holding the phone up like a ticking time bomb, but her other hand was where the magic was happening. The moment Delilah had even started to press her fingers together it was already over. The moment Delilah even began developing fingers in the womb it was already over. The moment a fish crawled out of the ocean and its fins developed into tiny, little, useless hands it was already over.
βMake that two counts of threatening a candidateβs life,β said Lott.
Not that it mattered. There was no way to arrest the woman, because Delilah was already dead, blown away by the cocked thumb and smoking forefinger that had shot through the pocket of Lottβs suit jacket. She wouldnβt even have to argue that the murder was in self-defense. Drawing a business gun on a professional office drone like Lott was an act of suicide.
The shots hit, why else would the womanβs jacket blow open like that as she pulled out her last line of defense? Lott took a reflexive step back, the animal inside of her still capable of keeping itself alive even if the woman wasnβt, and watched with an inner horror at the sight of Delilah jacking in. No, actually, the horror came when Samsara dived to stop the other woman from falling. He should be falling for Lott, not falling for these pedestrian theatrics. Lottβs phone started buzzing. Like, it really started to buzz. It was going to blow, the metaphorical timebomb turning into a real one. Lott let it drop from her hand, a monthβs paycheck ruined as the phone cracked on the ground, and it didnβt even explode. What an uncool way to destroy one of the most important things in her life.
What was even more uncool was faking a heart attack to get out of a losing battle, but not as infinitely uncool as wrapping around the leg of Samsara Washington who, clearly, was so desperately trying to get away. Thankfully, even the copβand cops were inherently uncoolβ was aware of how uncool the other woman was being. As Glory moved to put a bullet in a rabid dog, Lott gave one more double tap and then holstered her finger gun. Stone cold. Totally cool. Cooler than Antarctica or whatever that fictional place was called. She should say something smart, something thatβd make Delilah have a real heart attack, but she couldnβt think of a thing. Fortunately, her trusted crony appeared beside her, sensing that she was in need of some assistance.
βAh, Ms. Ramana?β said Theresa. βPerhaps we should leave her for the authorities.β
Lott reminded herself to give the girl a gold star. First, the girl would have to go buy some gold stars. It was a beautiful assist, a wonderful setup that Lott was about to spike down with something cool like I am the Law before the cop turned and said something that made Lott speechless.
βThat phone is also now considered evidence, it will be examined by our technical staff for details about what exactly has happened and then returned to you when the investigation is concluded.β
The color wouldβve drained from Lottβs face if there was any. Instead, she settled for swallowing. Confiscate her phone? It should be given a proper pharaohβs burial, complete with the sacrifice of all the other phones in the area, or at the very least taken into the shop for some cheap repairs until she could afford a new one. Surely it mustβve been the drinks settling in and she had misheard Glory.
She went to speak, and was cut dead once again: ββIβm going to request that everyone in any area between the main entrance and the refreshments area please move out of the way as well so that medical can get in quickly. Thank you for your cooperation. That meant the both of you, too. Iβm required to stay here as security, but you two are not, and are thus required to leave. Also, Lott, I'll be taking your phone as evidence. Sorry.β
She had turned the rules on her. It was a beautiful parry and counterthrust, and one Lott had to respect even if the blow had struck her in the kidney. She slid her phone over to Glory with her foot, saying a silent prayer for her fallen comrade while clutching her gut. How the woman knew her name Lott had no idea, but her recording was running. Sheβd scan her face later. Find answers, find her phone. For now, she had to respect her demands. With one longing look at Samsara, she turned to the bar, snatched a bottle of vodka and a glass(it wasnβt stealing if her people had funded the event), and handed the bottle to Theresa (it definitely wasnβt stealing if it wasnβt in her hands).
βCome, dear Theresa. We should leave her to the authorities,β said Lott, echoing her intern intentionally. It was a lesson. All good ideas came from above, never below. Rule one of business. She picked an invisible piece of lint off of her lapel and headed for the exit, certain that Theresa would be on her tail.
Outside, the plaza buzzed with activity. Lott reached for her phone, her heart aching as she realized it was no longer of this earth, and unleashed her tablet instead. She clutched the old tech to her chest like a newborn babe and powered it on. Maybe Gatch needed her. Even better, maybe Gatch didnβt need her and she could go somewhere a bit more lively. She could use another drink. Speaking of which...she flicked the glass in the air with a flourish like the way Stella did, catching it in a much stiffer, definitely-almost-nearly dropped it kind of manner, and held it out expectantly to Theresa. It was time to see how long this intern would last.
βAnd Hackerwoman! Iβm sure our collective enemies donβt want the masses to hear the manifesto of the Pirates, but someoneββ her voice wavered a bit, as though she were actually getting emotional. βSomeone must address them. It must be me.β Kay's eyes rolled almost into the back of her head. It was all pointless. No one wants to change, not really. All this politicking would be for nothing and things would be just as shitty as they were yesterday and as they always would be. No amount of theatrics could change that so Kay was content to remind herself she was getting a salary for dealing with Petrukov's shenanigans. Apparently the chaotic, unpredictable nature of the Pirate Queen was part of her charm and public appeal. Kay didn't see it, but she wasn't paid to either. As for the stream, it went off without a hitch. A number of breaches were attempted, but nothing too serious. The firewalls held and her encryption were rock solid as always. Still, her eyes never left her monitor until the sound of a chair scraping against the hard floor assaulted her ears. The hacker glanced up and sighed audibly, massaging her temples as she watched the "dramatic" exit. βThe money, Kay. Think about the money,β she muttered to herself as she checked up on the related social media pages and forums. Everything was absolutely buzzing with activity, as to be expected, mostly with appreciation and some people mocking the Pirate Queen's lackluster exit. Seemed her speech was well received. Now came the easy part. So easy in fact, she actually took a moment and replied when Shaman messaged her.
She dismissed the chat window with a keystroke and frowned as the acrid smell of tobacco slapped her across the nose. What kind of absolute savage smokes indoors? Never mind in an unventilated room. She looked up to find the source of the offending odor and was not at all surprised to see it was one of the meat heads. And of course he threw the remains onto the carpet like an animal. She was so caught up in her duties that she jumped slightly when he spoke. "Find anything?" βFound a cigarette butt on the floor over there, β she relied curtly. "Uneventful, that sounds good then?" Johnny merely replied to his hackerwoman counterpart. There was a lengthy silence as Kay waited for him to pick up the remains of his cigarette but she figured he must be as dense as his pecs if he hadnβt gotten it by then; no point in continuing. βActually, it was very eventful, just no events worth mentioning, not yet anyway.β "Iβm sure you have it handled Kay, you seem like the most capable person here.β he said daring to drag out yet another cigarette, a Lucky 7 Special White!?!? He flashed a smile at her before putting the cigarette onto his left ear. "Did my smoking bother you..? I apologize if thatβs the case." She gave him a stone face worthy of Mount Rushmore, completely ignoring his compliment. "If I said yes would you stop?" "I wasnβt planning on continuing, sorry if I caused you any distress." He said warmly smiling at her again. "The broadcast got a bit too boring for me I suppose." That smile, unfortunately, fell on a rather frigid disposition. βTech isnβt everyoneβs cup of coffee.β "You got that right."
There was a pause only broken up by a few keystrokes from Kay clacking away at her monolithic laptop. She could feel him still looking at her. What was he after? Most people didn't talk to her this long unless they wanted something from her. βDo you need something?β "Let me know if you need anything, Kay.β" He said checking his holocaller - no new calls. He went to turn to walk away. She gave a thumbs up but didn't watch him leave, being too engrossed in monitoring the servers.
Swathe Street Commons Reclaim Zone, South City Sprawl April 1, 2065
The staff radio network came alive with activity all at once, catching Howlandβs attention as he changed back into his own outfit and fixed his hair color and style back to normal. An urgent call for medical assistance. The reporter would have to wait, it seemed. That wasnβt a problem - indeed, the bomb going off while Howland was rendering first aid would actually be more convenient. Medical emergencies always drew curious onlookers, for some reason, which meant lots of witnesses to affirm he was elsewhere. Good.
Even better, that call explained the cameras, too. That suggested coincidence after all. And if it wasnβt, he had an innocuous reason to scope out who it was. Even better. He keyed his radio. βThis is Dr. Howland. Iβm on my way. Have the subject sit down!β At that, he dashed off, first-aid bag in hand.
Running wasnβt strictly necessary. The refreshments area couldnβt be more than two minutes away. But anyone heeding the also-unnecessary speaker broadcast asking them to leave would be moving in the opposite direction. People wouldnβt move aside for someone walking in the opposite direction - but someone running in the opposite direction naturally had the right of way.
He took a deep breath as he began to move into the crowd. Speaking from the diaphragm, he projected his voice authoritatively. Screaming just made people panic - a commanding tone induced compliance more rapidly in a confused event like a crowd. βMake way! Medical emergency!β
He made his way into the refreshments stand, where an armed event security contractor was standing. Samsara Washington, one of the candidates, was there too, to Howlandβs surprise. And on the floor, a messy woman with garishly-dyed hair was curled around the candidateβs leg, in obvious distress. βIβm a doctor. Let me see our patient.β
He quickly assessed the situation, scanning the room and thinking over the other two standing there. He didnβt need some corrupt politician worrying about his image right now, so he turned to the security contractor. She might even have basic first-aid training. βIβll need your assistance, miss.β Howland kept his tone calm, and his words short, direct, and to-the-point. Now wasnβt the time to be vague or verbose. He looked down at the garish woman, already reaching to take her wrist to check for a pulse. βAnd you, maβam, are you alright?β He didnβt really stop to listen to the answer - if she answered at all, it would confirm her airway and breathing were clear.
βCome, dear Theresa. We should leave her to the authorities,β Ms. Ramana was saying. Theresa nodded, following her new employer outside. Theresa caught the implied rebuke - it didnβt look good to have an assistant order their boss around. Stupid. Surely sheβd forgive a few minor slips on her first hour of the job, thoughβ¦?
βYes, maβam!β Theresa replied, as though it had been Ms. Ramanaβs idea. The acknowledgement came quick with two years of SFROTC having drilled the instinct into her. Someone was shouting on the other side of the crowd - wait, was that her dad? It sure sounded like it.
As they made their way through the din of activity outside, Ms. Ramana flipped the glass in the air, scrambling to catch it. An odd thought suddenly occurred to her. Was Ms. Ramana intoxicated?
Theresa blinked, distracted. No way - this woman was a professional, this wasnβt a social event for her, this was her at work. And no way could she have handled that drunk lady so cooly and professionally if she werenβt sober! But...the more Theresa thought about it, the more it started to explain a few things. Ms. Ramana seemed flushed, distracted, and she barely caught that glass. And she took the bottle of vodka Theresa now held in her arms from the bar - that meant it was hers, so she brought her own. A woman of discerning tastes, to be sure, and that meant sheβd intended to drink at the bar, maybe with work contacts. But the bottle was unopened, so she mustβve been served at the bar-
Remembering her daiquiri, things clicked into place. The bartender had poured a much stronger drink than Theresa had expected, so maybe he over-poured Ms. Ramanaβs drink, too. That wasnβt good - she might have underestimated how much sheβd had to drink, and Theresa was sure a professional like her would want to keep her faculties intact at a political event. But now she held out her glass with an expectant look. Theresa couldnβt defy her boss now, not after having shown her up just a moment earlier in the bar, right?
But just a moment ago she had quoted regulations and managed that confrontation so fluently. Maybe appearing slightly off her game was an act - meant to make political rivals drop their guard, or something. Yeah, that made sense. Theresa smiled, twisting off the cap on the bottle of vodka and giving a perfect, practiced, precision pour. βYou won that argument so hard that poorly-dressed lady went into cardiac arrest,β she joked. βWell done, maβam!β
Now if only Ms. Ramana had grabbed two glasses, they could celebrate her victory together.
Even the clouds mustβve felt the energy emanating from the Reclaim, as they had almost entirely cleared from the sky, bathing the Zone in a radiant sunshine that it wasnβt used to seeing. Even the gloomy muted browns and greens seemed bright and energetic as hundreds of people flooded Central Square, all clamoring to get a look at the mayoral candidates all arriving ahead of the debates. The whole ordeal seemed to be draped in an edge of nervousness, a strange unsettledness that permeated the crowd, including Oleksandr. With a rigid face and observant eyes, the usually laid back courier was shuffling past various attendees, far from the Debate Stage on the other side of the Square. While his mind was occupied on the run in with the Tinmen, his eyes were busy scanning the crowd, himself also curious to get a view of the candidates.
The imposing crowd posed little more than a tightly packed sea of anxiety and frustration, as the quickest way to Reinaβs Brothel was through Central Square, but before he knew it, Olex had been swept into the dense mass of wannabe pundits and outspoken radicals. Extremities made of tungsten and superalloys made shouldering your way through a crowd much easier, as most people would rather clear the way rather than get a hard elbow in the side. That being said, the sore spot in Olexβs torso still thudded in dull pain with every stray bump.
A potent mixture of dread, solar heat, and the stuffiness of a large and densely packed crowd made whatever skin Olex still had began to sweat, soaking into his clothing and making for a thoroughly uncomfortable walk through the crowd. Even though his better senses told him he probably had little to worry about, he couldnβt help but give everyone he passed a hard look up and down. Just like he had in the streets before he was ambushed, he scanned for gleaming arms and legs, or large elaborate emblems, anything that would signal an approaching danger. The voice in one side of his head told him that the people who hunted them knew better than to make anything so obvious, but the opposing voice insisted that no chances be taken. Half measures led to full failures, no one knew that better than Olex. So, he continued to survey everything he could, even gazing up at the rooftops from time to time.
The sea of people finally split, Olex finally found the perfect spot to take a rest. Right next to a rusty and dilapidated food cart still in use, was a small plastic lawn chair. The small blue throne sat right in the path of the smoke wafting away from the open grill, and itβs previous owner seemed to have just vacated it to follow their friends away to a different part of the Square. The spot was shady, but it was still crowded, with an overwhelming aura of grease, body odor, and smoke, the trifecta of olfactory heaven. Before another other bum could claim the seat, Olex plopped himself down, forcing his nose into his sleeve in a vain attempt to take a breath without taking in a lung full of the foul smoke that was drifting right by his head.
Ugh, the food was so much better in Vegas. I mean, Vegas was better than most places, but this place blows at an even higher echelon.
---
Like a crowd of peasants before medieval nobility, the citizens in the square split and made way for the dark black luxury car that slowly coasted as close to the main building in the square as it could, before itβs brakes creaked to a stop. Chewing on his fresh hotdog from the nearby cart, Olex watched as his target slid out of the car, the very first in what would become a line of them, one after the other. Gatch stepped out of his car, casting a glance over the crowd that didnβt land on any of them, as it went right through everyone. With a fraudulent smile, and a tug to straighten his lavish suit, his stare was eventually cast upon the building that was to hold the rest of the candidates once they arrived. The courierβs eyes were glued on Gatch as he sauntered through the rabble, ignoring the various jeers and insults from the crowd, his bodyguards giving their own mean scowls at the audience members that dared to speak up.
Dao Chen arrived next, splitting the crowd with his own presence and the group of subdued monks that clung closely around him. Instead of Chenβs surroundings, Olexβs gaze was focused on the monkβs augments, which looked much more advanced and cutting edge than most that Olexβd ever seen. His arms possessed a luster that rivaled the shiniest limbs amongst the Tinmen that Olex had served with. Stoic and hard to read in the face, with stern and measured movements as he walked through the crowd, it seemed otherworldly. If Gatch represented the iron-fisted corporate presence in the Reclaim, Dao represented one of the cityβs most peculiar and enigmatic orders.
Faren followed, but Olex couldnβt keep a good bead on him, on account of his eyes rolling upwards so hard he could almost see the inside of his skull.
Serena Petrukov, the face of the Pirate Party, was the only remaining candidate that caught his attention, with her confident stride and column of equally confident representatives behind her. Something about their attendance felt illicit, taboo even. Youβd never catch people having face to face conversations about their support of the Pirate Party, but to Olex, it felt like almost an underground uprising. Something that no one had to speak about, but everyone felt. At least, thatβs what he hoped, inwardly.
Olexβs eyes followed her as she entered the hotel, with her Party behind her, and after Samsara, it was over. Introductions were over, and it was going to be a bit before the debates actually began. As the crowd began to die down, their appetite sated by trying to get a look at whatever candidate theyβd traveled out to the Square for, Olex found himself stuck to his seat.
Olex paid less attention to the crowd around him, and finally took the time to look over his arms. He realized he hadnβt checked them for damage, and was dismayed to find that the sleeves of his shirt had been shredded. He felt a sting in his stomach, and quickly pulled up his sleeves to find that they had, in fact, gotten scratched in the scuffle. Rolling his eyes and letting back a heaving sign, he began to wipe away some of the shredded fabric from his left arm, revealing deep scratches that revealed a silver luster under his gunmetal black finish. Part of him wanted to cry, even though he knew to get so emotional over such frivolities was foolish.
The damage to his arms had completely gotten his attention, so much so that when a stranger approached him and began speaking, it was almost as if heβd woken up from a deep dream. He reflexively reached for his gun, but upon realizing the person in front of his was not a threat, he tried his best to calm down before anyone got scared.
"Hello! I am S'venia, a journalist with the South City Blues. How's your day going?"
Olex simply stared at her for a moment, dumbfounded at the sudden question. The most obvious thing of her appearance was the bright blue hair that she put much effort in. Going down, he next noticed the intense orange glow of her eyes, and the set of hexagons along the side of her face. Nothing unique stood out about her clothing, but Olex quickly averted her eyes from her figure, not wanting to give a bad first impression.
S'venia paused her approach as the man reached for something before composing himself. A weapon? Perhaps, she thought as she shifted her weight onto her back leg, the reclaim was a place where the ne'er-do-wells of society came together in some despicable mess. He could have enemies. She did, and so did ninety percent of the people packed into this square. She shifted her focus seconds after the man's eyes lowered. The impeccable metal arms bore numerous gouges, ornate, and stylish as they were. For a second, she admired the designs, but soon realized they were not perfect. Her eyes spotted a few gorges that were not alike. Scratches. S'venia pondered the sight for a second before she returned her gaze to the man. A fight was had recently. For a brief moment, she considered the story itself but dragged herself back to reality as she remembered the nature of her world. While the sleeves were tattered, so were the people. She briefly wondered what could do that to metal but paused.
As the man returned his gaze upward, so too did S'venia return hers.
βUh, itβs certainly been quite the day so far, how about yourself?β
"Quite the day indeed," S'venia paused as she flashed another trademark smile. "I've been recording the candidates and their supporters all day and needless to say it's been," she paused as she lowered her head, shaking it as she did. "Needless to say, it's been an adventure." She paused as she raised her focus back to the man in front of her. "Come now, Enigma," she paused as she pointed towards her drone, "care for an interview?" She paused as she smiled once more as she spread her arms out wide. "Promise, easy questions."
Olex had been locked in eye contact, barely registering what the woman in front of him was saying, until she pointed up towards something. He broke his stare, eyes darting up to catch a glimpse of a small hovering drone, camera pointed clearly at him. His brow furrowed, and his heart nearly jumped out of his chest.
βUh, are you broadcasting on the news or something?β He followed his words with a chuckle and contorted his face in the most haphazardly normal smirk he could muster, regretting ever deciding to sit down and take a lunch break.
"We're not live if that's what your asking," she paused as a notification signaled its existence with a beep. "One second," S'venia responded as she pulled out her device. It was a text from Del. She hadn't spoken to her in a few days, so she figured she was reaching out to say hey. When she read the message, her eyes shot open for a few seconds before they squinted, and she brought her device close to her face.
On the one hand, S'venia believed the text to be accurate. Her breathing became more rapid, her pupils dilated and her hand started a quick but noticeable shake. On the other hand, S'venia remembered who she was speaking to, and her flair for the dramatic. Her breathing shallowed, and her hand lost its shake. S'venia pondered her next course of action before she responded.
S'venia pondered the message before she sent it back. If she were dying, then S'venia wouldn't have gotten the message. On the one hand, Delilah liked to run rough and maybe in trouble. On the other, she was still Delilah. "Sorry," she finally returned her focus to the man, "a friend may be in trouble," she paused as she lowered her glasses back down from her forehead, "raincheck on the interview?"
Olexβs smirk had slowly faded as the woman in front of him seemed to be distracted and she broke her gaze from him. Of course, the rush of adrenaline that had sent a shock through his stomach had subsided, but he still felt unease. The small camera drone was still pointed at him. He was still surrounded by a large and difficult to read crowd. There were at least two unsavory characters in the Reclaim that he didnβt really want to run across again.
βUh, sure, yeah! Iβll do that interview later! One hundred percent. I hope your friend is alright, I have to get going now.β Through a smile, Olex made his best attempt to end the conversation and began standing up from the bench, ready to start the speediest fast walk of his life away from the strange woman.
S'venia waved as the enigma walked at a sprinters pace to get away from the area. This enigma only further piqued her curiosity. He looked uncomfortable before, but his desire to get away confirmed a suspicion. He had a story to tell and one that he did not want to share. He did not want to be seen. As he filtered into the crowd, S'venia flashed another smile. "Be seeing you, Enigma."
"Join the party," S'venia spoke, and her drone listened. Her drone rose at a rapid pace joining the chorus of drones above the square. "Track gait," she paused, "keep tracking until he walks normal and track gait again." She would need to find him again, and her drone would be a most useful tool for that.
The burning. That was the only thing which kept Keahβs senses alive. Without the internal atmospheric scrubbers in his helmet, the smog would have been choking, blinding. The acrid smell of flaming spirits was palpable in the air, the inferno in the Duat turning the temperature up from cold to hot fast.
β Come on, Demon! Donβt you feel at home here?β
Monica came tumbling out, a chariot wreathed in flame. The car went through the Duat. Heβd still have to be insane to drive around. But the OverDriver was no ordinary driver. Even with half of his windshield being aflame, the King of the Detroit Stacks manuevered his way through the nightclub with surgical precision. Keah was forced to slide out of the way again just as Mackwell made another pass at him.
Alright. Playing roadkill was getting tired fast. He wasnβt just some rogue turbo-blazer who knew how to turn the wheel. He didnβt get through the Death Derby through just instinct but with knowledge. He didnβt spend ten months in an auto-garage for nothing. The inner workings of Daedalus may have been blackboxed from the public eye but even great artists had to steal from somewhere else, right? He took a moment to hide underneath a bar, the Victoryβs eth-cooled hybrid engine growling in the background, while he took a moment to think.
The Jury-Riggβs far awayβ¦..I attempt to call anyone, all theyβd have a conversation with is a corpseβ¦...Even if I had a gat, Iβd get run over before I popped himβ¦..If I run out of the Duat, heβll just chase me downβ¦..
He heard the growling getting closer. He just managed to avoid getting crushed as the bar turned into splinters, the front hood ramming through the extinct mahogany, more bottles clattering on the floor. Front hood lodged in the wall, the wheels spun in the opposite direction silently -
No noise. Thatβs strange.
The answer then clicked. Motorised mag-suspension. Mag-wheels. Of course. Every auto-train on the west coast used the same principles on a larger scale. Only a few manufacturers in the world ever tried mag-lev and only Daedalus managed to perfect and miniaturise the tech. The results spoke for itself. Frictionless acceleration that allowed any chassis to achieve 0 to 60 in a blink of an eye.
However, there was a reason why mag-suspension wasnβt widespread amongst racers, even in the black markets. The biggest problems were that no one could get it to work When it did work, there were few racers who could handle the dizzying speeds without extensive illegal booster-ware modifications to compensate for the increase in acceleration. The OverDriverβs unmatched success in the past Death Derbies suddenly made sense. Who else but him could master the hurdles that mag-wheels required?
Of course, there were weaknesses. Keah picked up a bottle of Angel Absinthe rolling absent-mindedly on the floor with his flesh hand. It wasnβt his throwing hand but you didnβt need aim to hit it. Popping off the cork, he took one of the bar napkins left strewn on the shag carpeted floor and stuffed it into the neck. The soaked rag lit when he moved it near to the sparkling end of a broken neon sign-board. Tires reaming across the littered floor, Monicaβs headlights glared back at him. Locked into first gear. Waiting.
Well, getting run over by a Daedalus prototype wasnβt the worst way to die in this world. He lifted up his left prosthetic, making a come-hither motion. The message was clear.
Come get me. The Victoryβs engine gives out one final blood-curdling roar of burning ethyl before gunning forward, building up speed, tattooing tracks onto the dance floor.
60 mph.
His breathing quickens.
120 mph
His knees quaver.
180 mph
The bumperβs almost kissing him.
210 mph
Now!
He lobs the bottle in an uncoordinated throw before ducking, Monica clipping his left ankle. The molotov lands inside the groove of the left upper chassis, its contents spilling around the disc-like wheels. The Daedalus prototype begins swerving, slowing down to a trudging crawl, weight concentrated on its left side. The upper left wheel detaches itself and the entire chassis tips over, front bumper grinding on the Duatβs intricately paved floors until it comes to a halt.
Keah gimps over towards the wreck, his ankle anchoring him to the ground. Surprising that the OverDriver hasnβt escaped yet. Good. Bringing him to the Ark alive is his first priority. His fingers clasp the front door, pulling it open slowly, preparing for the worst -
Empty.
Before the shock could set in, the stereo bursts in a crackle of static.
β You may want to look to your right.β
He turns and sees the OverDriver standing at the entrance. Unharmed. Unblemished. The only damage on him is a long jagged crack on his Prism.
β That was fun, wasnβt it?β The OverDriver tapped the side of his helmet playfully. β Telepathingβs the new rage these days. Youβll figure it out soon. In the meantime, enjoy a little gift from me.β
The Victory began to shake erratically before it exploded. Keahβs world went tumbling up, down, left and right. His body was bending in ways it shouldnβt have and feeling. The last thing that he felt along the skin-searing heat that he felt was his back colliding with hardness, a starburst of pain lancing out, then darkness.
β thereβs only one path for us, Drift Demon. we either reach a quick dream or a quick death. iβm not sure how theyβre different.β
β Nice ride, tailgater. Whereβcha get it? From some corpo expo?β
The windows slowly rolled up, the jeers and laughs of mockery outside quickly deafening to mute mumbles. He signed, keeping one eye on the digital homing display on his helm and on the cramped road. Hopefully. he's not too late. Donβt stop moving, Keah. Never look back.
Maybe, he should have stopped moving now. He felt like a mouse walking along the feet of giants. The recyc-centres in Seattle were mere puddles in the water compared to the roiling sea of scrap that towered, enclosed on him on every side. The Detroit Stacks lived up to their name after all, poking through the foggy clouds as if they were supporting the sky itself. As soon as he turned the wheel around a corner down past a jammed overpass, flashlights turn on, illuminating the silhouettes of a dozen barrels pointed at him.
A heavily armored figure steps towards his car, his lower jaw replaced with an affixed respirator. He taps twice. Keah lowers down his window. His glowing blue pupils stare him, not lost in thought, but analyzing, communicating through the invisible web of the Labyrinth. After what seems like eternity, he nods.
β Go through and meet with your pit crew. Race is in ten.β
Keah gives a short nod. The gate opens and he drives through, the crowd of guards parting ways. It wasnβt the prim or proper assembly areas of the Death Derby. It was impromptu, unofficial and ramshackle. He had to bash his wheel several times to horn idling passerbys out of the way. There was a jolt as his wheels transitioned from smooth syn-crete to granulated plastic. The pit assembly area was a collection of tents, smoke streaming out of them. He turned left into a checkboxed tent, sparsely occupied compared to the others next to it. Hanging by one string from the rafters was a sign β THE SEATTLE STREET SURFERS.β
There's clear signs of an argument happening as he rolls into the center of the tent, grimy ashen-faced gear jockeys being scolded at by a person more metal than man. The exo-suit he was using to support his ematicated body screamed Scrapteam.
" WHERE THE FUCK IS OUR REPLACEMENT DRIVER? I SWEAR TO GOD, I'LL FUCKING RIP HIS - "
He paused in the middle of his rant, looking straight at Keah's car with a stare that makes his insides squirm. The other members of the crew look at him with a mixture of relief and revulsion just as his dingy little car halts, chassis lurching back and forth. He hits the handbrake into neutral and lowers down the polarized window. " I'm here." Keah coughs awkwardly. " I heard that there's a Cranks I'm supposed to meet?"
β Shit, dude." One member of the pit-crew, chomping down a elec-cig, examines his vehicle closely with a scrutinizing scowl. " Weβve got an EngiTech Downstreamer? Doubt it even has a V8 - β
β V10, actually.β He pipes out. β Nitro-charged. Made it myself - β
"That would be me." Cranks stomps over, hydraulic whining issuing from his exo-suit with every step and shooes the pit-crew member away. β I've heard from the Car Czar that heβs a devil on the turns. This is the guy that beat him in the Stateboard." Whispers of disbelief begin to spread before a single glare shuts down the gossiping. " Doesnβt matter βbout the car. What matters is the driver." Cranks looks pointedly You can handle this. Right?β
β Y-yeah,β Keah stammers. Heβs got this. He reviewed the course twenty times last night. Of course, heβs got this. β Yeah. Letβs get this show on the road.β
β Remember, youβve got 20 minutes to make it back here. And no bumping, got it? This ainβt the Death Derby.β He pats the hood. " All right, we've got 7 minutes. Let's do a final check up before we get him out there."
Keah sighs. He finds it all unnecessary as the pit-crew goes into formation, checking the vitals of his car. Knowing the insides and outs of his car was a job every racer except him seem to take fore granted. As soon as they're done, he drives out onto the gravel road towards the start line. There were twenty cars, all of various shapes and sizes, besides him. He can feel them all gazing on him. The lonely newcomer. Sizing him up. He takes pole at his starting position, stuck in between two ginormous FuryTech Skyskippers. A broken down traffic light, repurposed as a timer, lights up.
Donβt stop. 3. Foot on the throttle.
Wonβt stop.
2. Shift to first gear.
Canβt stop.
1. Breathe.
To stop is to surrender.
0.
The air boils with the sound of cheers, keys turns, engine roar, tires spin, combustion chambers popping and electric motors whirring in a cacophany of chrome and all Keah can do is drown himself in the thrill of eternity, slamming down the pedal to chase down the horizon.
We, the people be the tools of entropy. Thatβs it. We are the pawn pieces. It all came crashing into the damn E-Brain that day. He was the βπππππ£. I was the πΈππ§ππ.
Back then, I thought I was lucky to even see him strike. To enter it all and have a chance to be integral to the wavesβthat vast array of information. My eyes staring into the cameraβ¦ He invaded like a parasitic thought, didnβt even have to open the door and face the old monoblade persuasionβ¦
>>>πΌπ€πππ‘π... >>>πππππ... >>>ππ π¦... >>>βππβ¦ At least I got the information. Just a IV drip of intrigueβof what was hidden. He was already a conduit, surfing the digital landscapes. He was a pest, really. Pragmatic parasite, thinking that information could save him. He was weak. Even before I ever saw him, I could see, just as he could see the weakness in me.
Partnersβ¦ I never thought Iβd have one, but in the face of something πΎπ£πππ₯, thereβs no choice but to huddle in hives or stand subject to Mother Fate. That was the beginning of something. A unity of lost souls against some esoteric βEntropyβ entity that ran like live current through all of us. We were just tools, observers, seekers, naive, weak, baseless beasts intruding from a land of mediocrity. The βπππππ£ and πΈππ§ππ, but we werenβt yet complete. We couldnβt compete.
Nobody really noticed the final flash of orange until he was out the door. The moment panic wove its way into the suites, the monk was on his way. Anyone who might have spotted him must have wondered what the straggler was doing after his procession had already gone off to do things that were certainly esoteric and probably a little creepy.
Samsara had taken to kicking Delilah every few beats of the music that played regularly in his head. It was rock music. Super cool stuff. Behind those hi-tech corpo glasses, though, he was having one of those staring deathmatches with Faren. Some of the NLP roadies had already lost interest in the scene, though most were focused on the show, considering it was blocking their way to the drinks. Faren had started smoking inside. Ironic.
Samsara held a dataslate in his hand. It went off, buzzing, though no one could really be sure if that wasnβt the effect of a well placed finger or an actual call. βThe looming overlords call, D.β He fished into his pocket, but the show had already taken off before he could wrangle it.
Delilah had already started to drag herself up to her feet with handfuls of Samsaraβs jacket when another one of the elite had infiltrated the domain of the bourgeoisie. She didnβt notice the βdoctorβ at first, focusing her eyes instead into the ether. All too often, shitposting in response to Citizen K took precedence over any job, any Councilman Washington, or any wild west gun standoff, but the doctor came straight for her. It was way too suspicious. Medical emergency? she thought. He definitely wasnβt the navy.
Two completely conspicuous sorts approached Faren and his horde from either staircase that led further into the suites. You could tell they were with the NLP because of their hipster glasses and black turtlenecks.
βEverything we needed?β The candidate asked. Both of his goons nodded, and a good portion of the NLP crowd started to disperse, finally intent on doing something useful besides warming up the room by standing together like a bunch of bees. Faren and a few others stayed, sizing up Samsara.
βMaβam?β Delilah almost audibly scoffed, but opted for a sick hair-flip, devious-laugh combo instead. He was definitely a cop. She pushed herself off of Samsara and adjusted her glasses, trying to decipher whether he was red or blue or what. βAlright?β
Samsara shook his head. The moment his companion had finished using him as a support crutch, he stepped back, nudging Delilah with an elbow and pointing to his dataslate. An infallible excuse. βOn to more important things.β He extended his hand and between his two fingers was a nondescript drive of black plastic. βLet me know when you get back to being useful.β Delilah begrudgingly accepted the drive, but her eyes never left Howland.
βWhatβs with all these questions?β Delilah leaned back, and tried to get a read on the guy. βWhatβre you a cop? Iβll be asking the questions here.β She was rather light on her feet with a bit of a sway to her step, but Delilah had always been a timebomb waiting to explode in motionβ¦ At least, if she had her snack that day.
Glory had resolved to keep herself occupied by maintaining a perimeter while she waited for the medical team to arrive after picking up Lottβs left-behind phone and pocketing it. It was a part of the unit tactics that she had been trained in for use on deployments: If you werenβt relevant for the task at hand, you kept an eye out for the people who were relevant. Fortunately, assistance arrived faster than Glory anticipated. It had only been a few moments when her ear perked up as she heard a voice begin speaking from within the crowd that had formed as people departed.
Gloryβs eyes flicked over to Howland as he arrived on scene. Dr. Parker Howland, member of the health oversight committee and quite possibly the best person to arrive on scene at that moment. Glory blinked, but nodded. Her first-aid training was superficial at best, but if needed she could at least reliably perform CPR. βYes sir. My training in first-aid is limited, but I will assist you to the best of my ability on request.β
Due to her attention being on Howlandβs arrival, Glory missed the black plastic drive that Samsara passed Delilah. Though if she had seen it, Glory wouldnβt be able to do anything about it. Delilah was most likely going to be arrested and brought in for interrogation, but Glory couldnβt just declare everything she touched as evidence.
As Howland began to assess Delilah, Glory placed herself nearby. She still needed to provide overwatch, but was ready to respond if Howland presented a request.
Well, her airway and breathing were clear - and she was clearly intoxicated, too. Howland shook his head, gently placing two fingers on her neck. "I'm a doctor, ma'am. Did you say you suspected a heart attack?"
That man is more interested in the ridiculous glasses on his face than the woman in front of him, Howland observed. He consciously kept a sour expression from his face. Pulse elevated, but consistent. Pupils dilated - she was probably on drugs. As he spoke, he tried to guide her to a seat - sitting would be easier on her heart than standing.
A doctor, Delilah thought. It was a clever disguise, but she was always prepared with a clever-er reaction. Always stay strapped. Thatβs what the Crocodiles used to say. She jerked back a bit as his hand met her neck. Her left hand slipped up to grab his hand. βHeart attack? Iβve seen Death, cop, and the flatline doesnβt scare me anymore. Iβm too powerful.β
Her other hand rose this time, she formed her gat once more, placing it just beneath his chin and tried to perform a dramatic pass-through to switch places with Howland, as if she were pushing him up against a wall. βNow where were you on November 8th, 2064 at approximately 1900 hours?β
"At the dinner table with my wife, at my home," Howland answered unexcitedly. He shifted his weight, using his greater size to absorb Delilahβs momentum as she pushed into him for some reason. He didnβt think this was a heart attack - this was most likely nothing more than the security guard overreacting to an even-greater idiotβs drunken rambling. All the same, this woman was wasted - she probably needed medical attention. His tone of voice didnβt change at all. "You do seem quite powerful, maβam. Please donβt shoot me." He glanced over to the security guard, catching her eye and throwing a meaningful look towards the intoxicated woman.
Delilahβs flustered expression was evident the moment Howland resisted her slick moves, though it could have just been her body betraying her to the dehydration and heat exhaustion. The Shaman didnβt bother herself with worldly matters. βLikely storyβ¦ Everyone in the Reclaim was busy that day. I bet you donβt even have a wife, cop. Whatβs your wifeβs maiden name?β
She was always quite adamant about her positional advantage, and Delilah knew not to give any cop the upper hand. After a few steps, she planted her feet firmly, dropping her grip on Howlands wrist and exchanging it for another gun. βIβm very powerful. Magic as fuck, in fact, but donβt worry.β She turned her wrist as if to show him her weapon. βThe safety was on.βUntil she clicked it off, the menace.
Glory caught sight of Howlandβs glance between her and Delilah and responded with a blink. The signal mightβve gone unnoticed, but it was indeed a signal. Most of the security team was aware of the idea that one blink was a confirmation, and two blinks was a denial. Moving subtly, Glory shifted a hand to one of her belt pouches. Popping it open, she retrieved one of the two pairs of handcuffs she kept on hand. Her motions would have to be swift.
Gloryβs primary concern was the βgunβ that Delilah had pressed to Howlandβs chin, so it would be the first thing she dealt with. Unlocking both ends of the handcuffs, Glory mentally planned out her actions for a moment, and then executed them swiftly. With a single step and one swift arm motion, Glory moved behind Delilah and attempted to slap one end of the now-open handcuffs around Delilahβs βgunβ hand...
One cop was bad enough. Two cops was a whole ordealβthe sort where the Shaman and her cronies began the reeeaaall hustle. Delilah knew that much from her circuit in Neo Orleans with the Crocodiles. She lost all interest in Howland when the security officer clearly started approaching with silent intent. Everyone wanted to dance with her, it seemed. Things always seemed to work out that way.
As Glory reached for Delilahβs main firearm, handcuffs already in hands, Delilah knew she was coming for some of that sweet heat. Her gun hand merely twisted, gripped the center of the handcuffs and Delilah spun into Glory so the two were face-to-face. Of course, she lost her suave Samsara coat in the process, but the expression on her face read stone-cold smooth.
βCareful what youβre doing there, miss,β the Shaman said. βSβvenia always said it was dangerous to mess with a wizard.β There was a clear click from behind her back of handcuffs clinching shut and Delilah jingled her wrist a bit before letting all of her weight slump backwards. If Glory wanted to maintain control of the βcriminalβ magician, sheβd have to stumble with Delilah as she went to the ground or drop the cuffs.
βIβm the worst kind, too.β Delilah winked shut her eye on the blue side, because she saw only red. βAnd only I get to arrest me...β
Glory was genuinely caught by surprise as Delilah managed to twist her hand into position to grab at the oncoming cuff. βDamn. For someone that genuinely looked to be on deathβs door a few moments ago she sure does recover fast.β flicked through Gloryβs mind as Delilah spun into her. Glory glared angrily at Delilah as she spoke, though she happily retained her height advantage at this distance. As Glory heard the clicking of cuffs behind Delilahβs back her mind began to race with possibilities. βDid she cuff herself? Did she just close them? Did she try to cuff me?β
All of these thoughts were pushed aside as Delilah pushed herself backwards and began to fall. Glory had a few scenarios play through her head. In scenario one, she released her grip on the handcuffs and allowed Delilah to fall before attempting to restrain her again. However, this presented the possibility of Delilah utilizing the same swiftness she had made use of to grab the handcuffs in the first place to scamper away, and losing a piece of kit as abusable as handcuffs would come with a sharp penalty.
On the other hand, if Glory allowed herself to fall with Delilah, that allowed her to keep hold of the handcuffs and would most likely allow for her to prevent Delilah from scampering away. But it presented an uncomfortable amount of contact between the two of them and Della could try to pull some other trick. It would be incredibly bad if Delilah had a syringe filled with unknown chemicals at her disposal. However, Glory also reasoned that with Howland present and the coat she had been previously wearing discarded on the floor, anything she had on hand wouldβve likely been inaccessible and would likely be easy to diagnose and fix. Glory mentally nodded as she made her decision, and deliberately allowed Delilah to pull her down with her.
This deliberate motion allowed Glory to avoid falling harshly as she ended up largely on top of Delilah. Glory wasnβt happy being there, but it was needed to avoid her escaping. Glowering at Delilah, Glory used her free hand to push herself up and attempted to plant her left knee on the base of Delilahβs sternum as she shifted to the right to largely remove herself from being in contact with Delilah. Looking up at Howland, Glory motioned to the presumably now-pinned Delilah and spoke quickly. βDoctor, if youβd like to continue your examination, sheβll probably not be able to do much else.β
Delilah sputtered in the face of her captor as she fell. The metallic arm clasped within the cuff became visible only as she stifled her fall, but Delilah shunted her prosthesis beneath her deck soon after, the bulky console nearly covering Delilahβs entire torso. Netrunners were always a strange sort, and even the Shaman herself felt the taxing effects of her Amalgaβs weight everywhere she went. That didnβt much matter. She was always fully strapped.
βOh, poor decision, miss.β Delilah looked all too content in her prone position, and the numerous wires enwrapping her form were plugged so haphazardly it was hard to tell what equipment was running and what she was actively operating.
βWow, I came for a drink now I got girl on girl?β Johnny said finally walking over, Manhattan in hand. His other hand gripped onto his phone as he pulled it from his jacket and started recording the two flailing about.
Howland rubbed his forehead. He'd just wanted help holding the drunk still, and now all ofβ¦ this. "Ah, thank you, miss." He stepped back, opening his medical case and pulling out that most advanced of pharmacological wonders - a tablet of aspirin. "That's all we can do here - she should be examined at the hospital. Here, get her to chew this, please. Aspirin can protect the heart from further clotting." He thought a moment, then held the bottle out where Delilah could see it. There was nothing more to do than wait for an ambulance. Howland was pretty certain she didn't need it, but he rather wanted to see the drunken woman admitted anyway. A toxicology report would, he guessed, make for interesting readingβ¦
The Amalga Deck seemed almost to be a conduit for Delilahβs feelings, as much of a silly cyberjockey metaphor as that was. Nonetheless, the moment Howland stepped forward, the bulky gunmetal box whirred to life. While the Machine raged with life, however, Delilah appeared quite the opposite. Sheβd zoned out entirely, lost in the maze of cords and connections.
Howland lowered the bottle as it became clear the woman was no longer paying attention. "...Maβam?" Howland prompted. He did his best to ignore the camera and act professional. His job was first aid - let the security officer worry about the laws.
As Della revealed the prosthetic arm, Glory raised an eyebrow in disbelief. Delilah had, in fact, cuffed herself. What was this mad-womanβs end goal? Glory was about to reply to Howland when someone spoke behind her. Taking a moment to look over her shoulder, Glory scowled at Johnny and gave him a curt reminder. βAll non-essential personnel are supposed to be out of this area. This includes you. Please vacate the area promptly, thank you.β
βYouβre mistaken miss, Iβm essential as legal counsel. Thank youββ Lovecraft said professionally as he continued to record her.
Glory grumbled at Johnnyβs answer, however she really couldnβt do anything as he was pretty much correct. At least in this scenario anyway. Turning her attention back to Delilah, Glory was surprised to see that she was totally zoned out, having apparently plugged herself into the cyberdeck that had whirred to life beneath her knee. Looking to Howland, Glory asked an important question. βDoctor Howland, Iβve heard through word of mouth that pulling the plug out of someone thatβs jacked into a cyberdeck can have some nasty biofeedback issues. Is that true? I ask because of the fact that every moment sheβs plugged into that deck sheβs potentially attacking some other electronic device and if I can put a stop to that possibility Iβd like to.β
βAs a security contractor you have no police powers or a Deck-warrant to stop her from decking even if she is blowing up the entire building. You need to call and report her to the police otherwise you would be violating her right to privacy on the net.ββ Johnny said almost quoting the law itself.
Delilah smiled at the words of the lawman or whatever they called themselves these days. Her deck wasnβt quite the usual FuryTech hardware. Glory must have already been feeling the heat emanate from Delilahβs web of cables. βOh, donβt want to mess with a Netrunnerβs deck. This one especially. Thatβs the quickest way to get a curse cast upon you by a vile magician of the net.β
"And it can stress the heart - not a good idea if any cardiac symptoms are suspected." Howland shook his head - he was putting it mildly. The insidious connections an e-brain held could have serious effects if it were active enough. "Leave her be; the paramedics will have equipment for safely disconnecting without causing a feedback or power surge."
Sβveniaβs smile faded as she read the message, a smile made late by her desire to track a story. S'venia had thoughts about leaving this alone. Delilah was capable enough in her mind. If Gatch had hired someone to protect him, then they must have been the lowest common denominator. At the same time this text was unlike anything Del had sent before. Curious. Delilah was much more durable than others gave her credit. From her wacky mannerisms to her off putting nature, she always had a way to rub the wrong persons the wrong way. S'venia once again had thoughts of leaving the matter to its eventuality. The Truth of the matter, a friend was in need, and this was new. She needed to be sure.
βLions den Deli,β Sβvenia thought as she turned her head towards the doors of the hotel. What could have compelled her to go back into that horror show? Her eyes shifted as she unrolled her computer once more and tapped on two icons, one with the name R1 and the other R2. Soon her computer was alive with various bits of data. βAlright RRβs,β Sβvenia spoke as she began to type various commands into the screen, βtime to join the party,β she finished as she rolled her computer backup and started towards the front door. βLead me in,β she commanded.
Glory nodded to Howlandβs information. Unfortunately, that meant that she couldnβt stop Delilah from accessing her deck. However, that problem was rendered secondary by the problem of Johnny attempting to give her grief for doing her job. Glory was naturally less than pleased at his assertion that she was doing her job incorrectly, and thus her limit was finally reached as she looked over her shoulder once again to confront Johnny on his incessant disturbances. βFirstly, deliberately hacking into security systems qualifies as a major cybercrime and a public offense. Secondly, a citizen has the capability to arrest if a public offense has been committed in his or her presence. Thirdly, I have authority to detain anyone in this building for questioning should circumstances arise that place them as a viable suspect in blackmail, cybercrime, bribery, espionage, or theft. I know what I am doing, and what Iβm doing is in accordance with the authority I have been granted.β
Giving an exhausted sigh, Glory returned her attention to Delilah. The cords that her leg was partially resting on were getting quite warm, but that didnβt dissuade Glory from keeping her knee planted on the bottom of Delilahβs sternum. More than anything, Glory wanted no more tricks out of the woman with infinite surprises.
βYou have no idea what sheβs doing in their decking, you arenβt plugged in like a data-cop would so you canβt even touch her in the real. For all you know she could be playing pong in the Labyrinth. The worst she has done was molest that guy, if you do anything to her sheβll sue the socks off you or maybe cast a spell. ββ Within a flash Johnny threw a business card on Delβs jacked in corpse.
βIf youβre going to detain someone maybe you should follow the procedural rules of fed-law and inform her sheβs being detained all you did was handcuff her and then touch her when she was jacked in. You could be sued civilly for violating her while she was jacked in, see Fairview Clearwater Sec vs. T. Thunderlane, 2034.ββ Johnny finished his Manhattan finally, tasted like Buka backwater. He tossed the plastic martini-weeny drink holder-gadget away towards the βbarβ as it fell into obscurity.
βYouβre young, beautiful but inexperienced miss. Youβre doing too much, especially for a corpo party like this.ββ
Delilah snapped her free hand up and caught the business card between her fingers, and pulled it in front of her glasses, reading through it a good few times in her prone and immobile condition. βLovecraft the Lawyermanβ¦ Solid choice. You will be remembered in the ether, when my magic consumes the rest of them.β She pocketed the card, stowing it in Samsaraβs fallen coat. βAnd itβs no party anymore, Lawyerman. Strictly business.β
βMaybe you can buy me a drink at the Duat sometime and weβll make it a party?ββ He said looking at his dwindling sad-boy stash of cigarettes, the carton was in a No-Americana language which reminded him of how long he had had such an awesome & stoic pack of cigs.
Sβvenia had now found herself in the hallway adjacent to where the common areas used to be, guided by her reporter drone through the hallways and away from any crowded sections that remained. Her drone allowed her to see which way the cameras faced on her way to the area. The front door really was wide open. The place was practically a ghost town at this point without a hint of the campaigns present. She unrolled her computer, before raising her glasses upward, once again and looked over the streams of data, namely their locations, of her two other drones. Both were where they were supposed to be, hidden thick amid the actual reporter drones. Perfect. She typed a few more commands into her console, and soon, two separate video feeds appeared on the device. While the quality was not excellent, she was able to see what they saw.
"Well you're in a pickle," S'venia thought as she saw the goon on top of Delilah, and another off to the side. There was another figure, she couldnβt make out who they were but an educated guess meant he was there to help in some capacity. She used her hand to motion for her drone to come closer. Once it was in range, she smiled as she began to whisper. "Paparazzi mode, full video," she paused as various cameras, cameras with flashes, and actual flash devices erupted outward. "Quarter second bursts, full flash," she paused once again as she lowered her glasses. The video feed from the drone lit up her vision. She taped a few more commands into her computer, and the RR's now saw the two goons highlighted in red. "Targets identified, shift focus each burst." The drone shifted its front back towards the door. "On my command, execute."
She then entered a command called "Fly-by" to the two drones outside, and tagged the command to the phrase "two".
Glory thought about what the surprisingly well versed merc behind her had mentioned. The case he had specifically mentioned was indeed quite relevant. As were the other things that he had mentioned before. Now that her haze of justice and righteousness was broken, things were beginning to click into place. Why had she seized Lottβs phone? She didnβt know if it had actually been assaulted by the person pinned under her knee. She didnβt even know for sure if the person pinned under her knee was in fact responsible for the earlier cyberattack. What if she had been defending against it? What had even led to this course of events? Glory had called for medical assistance since she had mentioned a heart attack, and then Howland had asked for assistance when she was interrogating him, but was going for her handcuffs really the right idea?
βI screwed up. I screwed up. Oh shit. I screwed up. My first ever job where itβs not just βstand here and look toughβ and I screwed up. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fu-β Gloryβs mental fortress began to collapse as the chain of realizations hit her as to how badly she had overreacted. Her eyes glazed over as she felt a massive wave of anxiety roll over her as her mind went back to the same desperate state that had landed her this job in the first place. Delilah would probably notice that the pressure being applied to the base of her sternum was rapidly decreasing at this point. Glory gave a small yet visible shudder as her self confidence shattered like a pane of glass. Her eyes darted about the room, first to Delilah, then to Howland, then to the crowd. Her mind raced as she struggled to think of a way out of this situation.
Gloryβs head began to spin. Details began to blur together as she felt a strong rushing sensation overtake her as her anxiety reached critical levels. Moments before she went limp, Glory managed to utter one word. βNoβ¦β After that, Glory went limp and collapsed harshly onto where Delilahβs legs would be. Out cold.
βWow, what the drig did I just witness.ββ He said taking out an ancient 427 Lucky cigarette and dropping it on Gloryβs body for future smoking or sentimental value. Seeing that the big goon was down and a future client has his number he turned to walk out of the suites. βCall me if you want to take me out for drinks Wire Girl.β He said putting a Red Devil cigarette in his mouth, he lit it with a match from The Departed. Exhaling smoke he walked towards the exit, maybe to find Lott for once.
As she said the command the two drones reacted. In an instant fury, they flew themselves towards the windows of the lobby. Accelerating at a pace allowed by their repulsorlifts, they found themselves closer, and closer, and even closer still to crashing through the windows of the lobby. Suddenly, and as soon as they reached the predetermined metrics of their command, they flipped. Instead of crashing through the windows they floored their engines in an attempt to reverse their chosen path. The increased powerload from their engines roared against the glass of the lobby, causing the glass to react violently. The noise was loud. Those in the lobby would hear the sound of a machine of war reacting violently to a stress it was not designed to endure.
>>> "πππ." Sβvenia made one fast motion with her hand, the sign of a gun, and her drone went through the door.
Delilah, taking note of the slack of Gloryβs hold and whatever chaos The Truth was busy stirring, threw all of her weight to the side to roll from the security guardβs pin. Her deck input was momentarily ignored, leading her βcode phraseβ to turn instead into the interconnected cyberdeck equivalent of a pressed-down key.. Delilah started to press herself up to her knees, taking the deck in both hands. Anyone who managed to keep their eyes on the wild shaman would have noticed the handcuff merely fall off of her hand, as though by magic. βAnarchy!β the vile shaman yelled as her battlecry.
Howland had only just started to react to the security guardβs sudden collapse when noise and light flooded the refreshments area. He reeled back in surprise as Delilah shot upwards, shouting for some reason. He reflexively threw out his hands as a loud noise emanated from the windows. He was unarmed, and whatever this drunken hacker had just done, he wanted no part of it!
S'venia watched through her glasses as her drone entered the room. "Shit," she thought as she turned her head as one of the goons had gone missing. Her drone, however, still executed her command. The drone began to send bright lights toward goon #1 and the man with his hands up. S'venia took a second to realize the situation, "freeze," she commanded, and her drone obeyed. She rotated her hand, and her drone shifted its focus towards Delilah. With a raise, and then soon followed by a lowering of her hand, her drone responded. It went up, then down as it caught the sight of the anarchy.
"Where did goon two go," she asked as she shifted her attention down the hallway.
Delilah stumbled. Despite her miraculous handcuff escape, the cords of her Amalga rigging was a trap in and of itself. She flinched as she rose to her feet, grabbing the handle-side of her deck in one hand and bringing her gun-hand back level with the cop doctor. The nausea was already starting to take hold, but the flashing lights only made it worse.
βCome in, ally. Iβve neutralized the situation and the cops are on the backfoot.β
Sβvenia, upon hearing the all clear, issued a new command to her drone. βCover me.β As her drone slid back towards the door Sβvenia made her way towards it. A few steps later she turned the corner, entered the room, with most of her face more or less blocked by the drone. While it hid the full frame, it still left enough to be seen. Her head still shifted from the sudden transition, eventually it settled on the backside of the drone.
Howland backed away, keeping an eye on the drone and blinking to clear spots from his vision. "Excuse me..." he started, keeping his voice even and unexcited. He wasnβt sure who this woman was or why she had burst onto the scene - clearly the drunk woman had backup of some kind. "Iβm a doctor. Iβm trying to bring this woman to medical attention."
βYouβre excused,β Sβvenia paused for a brief second, head shifting out of position ever so, βhi Delilah.β She gave a small half wave as she returned her focus back to the rear of the drone. βMade a friend,β Sβvenia asked as she took another step into the room. βA doctor even? Look at you, trading up,β she finished as she stared down the βDoctorβ through her glasses.
"...Yes, quite." Howland lowered his hands. What more was there to say? "Although with her level of activity, I donβt think the cardiac problem I was summoned here for is a pressing issue, I still think she should be checked out in an emergency department."
βDonβt listen to him, Sβvenia. Heβs undercoverβa doctor, but also a cop. A Cop-Doctor. I think he might even have been the assassin that killed Dex. Heβs got no alibi.β Delilah squared off with Howland, weapons at the ready as she closed the distance between herself and The Truth. βHospitals are a scam anyways. Use black clinics, you cop.β
With the drunk woman moving away, Howland slowly walked over and knelt next to the fallen security guard. The woman seemed intent on pointing her fingers at him, for some reason, but he wasnβt about to let a drunken attempt at a threat come before his duty as a medical professional. "Iβm also not sure why this woman fainted - Iβm just going to check and see that sheβs alright." With practiced ease, Howland checked her vitals. Pulse steady. Airway unobstructed. She was breathing. "My name is Dr. Parker Howland - I work with the Twin Cities Health Department." Between that, a private practice, and his other activism, he didnβt exactly have time for a career in law enforcement anyway. Perhaps this newcomer could talk some sense into the woman.
Sβvenia smile faded for a brief second before it resumed in full. The mention of the assassin had forced her hand up to adjust her glasses in a quick fashion. She took a few seconds and waited with baited breath as she examined the face of the cop-doctor. βOh heβs,β she paused for a second as a quick chuckle came out, βheβs not the assassin, Delilah.β She shifted her head towards the Shaman, noticing her moving towards her. βHis eyes are all wrong.β She took a step backwards and soon found herself leaning her back against the door frame, her drone still following her movements. βI doubt our new friend knows much about that creature, do ya mister...β she paused as she let the question hang in the air.
Howlandβs voice remained flat. "Iβm afraid no assassins rank among my professional contacts." He gently rolled the unconscious security guard on her back.
βAs expected,β Sβvenia responded as she shifted along the frame until she was almost out the door. βIn that case itβs been a pleasure to meet you Dr. Parker Howland.β After a short pause, his name started to tingle in the back of her mind. She knew it somehow but at the same time did not know from where. A curiosity. She had met an enigma earlier and now she has met a curiosity. Sβvenia wanted to probe further but the thought of the second goon was still on her mind. βDelilah,β Sβvenia spoke as she motioned towards the door.
The netrunner steadied her lopsided deck, still dangerously close to hanging herself in the cords. βSecurity neutralized,β she said, stepping around Howland and his newfound patient. βI would say theyβd need more for the debate, but Iβm sure Gatch has plenty of plans.β
As Delilah reached the door, she glanced back to the cop-doctor. The Reclaim was full of odd sorts, but it was their place. In the midst of the frying pan, the burning lunatics did well to survive together, even if that survival was wrought with chaos and deception. Delilah didnβt appreciate the sort who didnβt know the status-quo, but then again, she wasnβt a Reclaim-native either. She stepped through the door. Maybe they were all outsiders. Maybe that was the point.
βIβve found something, Sβvenia. About the debate. About art...β
Welcome to this place, The Hellscape! Shitβs dangerous, But here we are still grinding. Still stepping in time. Still somehow unified?
Sister, get woke to the fancy games everyone is playing. Itβs amazing, how chaos is still reigning, but we keep on blasting back against that strange force that keeps us all down. Without whatever psychokinetic connection goes beyond gravity and attracts the companionship of biotic life, the Alexandria would have dumped us generations back. Be active. This is an extropian realm, here in space, and weβve got to stay intact! Soβ
βWake up, sister!β His Mixologistsβ cybernetics alternated slapping either side of her face in rapid succession. Her eyes rolled back. Limboβs tables were drenched in velvet red, but took their toll on any patron or player that didnβt make it back to the exits. The whole bar was on fire. He was on fire. She was on fire. βGet ready. That was only night one. The Mixologists are mounting a siege on Casino Dorado.β
βJustβ¦β she started, βLeave me. Iβll justβ¦β Stella squirmed on the table, doing her best to curl into a ball. Her muscles hardly reacted to commands. βIβll stay here and let death take me.β
βNot an option sister.β He turned into a demon, tripled his size, and grew deadly sharp spikes. He jammed one of the spikes into her arm. The pain receded. The fire receded. As if having rested for a few infinities, she sat right up. βNo one gets left behind. Canβt let the world win, Stell. Extropy. Itβs just a bunch of humans, but itβs all futile unless weβre bunched up. Does that make sense?β
She didnβt respond, but he started backstepping, waving his hands as he went. Little clouds of sparkling blues and purples hung in the air, fired from his wrists to entice his old friend.
βNo Mixologist left behind! Thatβs one of the only keys! Itβs time for Dorraaaaaaaddddooooo!β
Stella sequenced a series of commands, Mixologistβs forearm slapping against the bottle in her grip with just the precision to graze its cap. The little glass top spun, slid off, and clinked against the helmet she had safely tucked next to the pair in the open street. Vodkaβcheap vodkaβwas all she had to do the job of the medics. She started waterboarding him, just like the movies, until the bottle was empty.
βWake up and drive another day. Death is waiting in the wings and itβs up to you to fight it off.β Stella thought the rain might have played a part in his refusal to awaken at her commands. The aesthetic though, backed by the blaze that still raged in spite of any fireteam calls, was just lovely. The fallen driverβs head was propped up on the pristine briefcase. The perfect hiding place, she figured. The Goons hadnβt emerged from the fires. She hadnβt seen them escape, at least. Goons had one of those dark, faustian pacts with resilience, though.
βWake up,β she said. βCombat Entropy.β
As if his day couldnβt get any more aberrant, Olexβs mostly calm walk to the Duat was interrupted by a ground-shaking explosion that almost knocked him off his feet. The explosion he heard walking away from the Square could easily be shoved to the back of his mind and ignored, but this one was much too close and loud to do the same. As he gathered his bearings, and began scanning the surrounding street as a few of the other citizens scattered, he thought he saw something. Some lucky patron had managed to exit the bar at the exact moment it exploded, but now that Olex looked around, he was nowhere near the street. It was as if heβd vanished into thin air.
Shoving yet another thought to the back of his head, Olex bounded across the street, pulling open one of the doors with his left, as he right reached inside and pulled his handgun from itβs holster, weary of what further surprises lay inside.
The onyx black handle on the door was hot, absurdly so, and Olex instinctively yanked his arm away before simply turning his armβs sensors off. The heat was further exacerbated when he fully opened the door, a wave of warmth washing over his chest and face, causing him to recoil for a moment. The usual multicolored neon lights were accompanied by an unfamiliar orange glow, the light of multiple open flames and a-
Giant flaming car?
Dead center of the Duat sat the burning carcass of what seemed to have been a nice car, and beyond it a similarly sized hole in the side of the bar. The entire club was absolutely destroyed, patrons still stuck in booths covered in rubble. A few people here and there crawled from under tables or sat on the floor trying to either mend their friendsβ wounds, or to shake them awake. Though, many looked like they werenβt going to get up any time soon.
Silhouetted amongst the chaos were two figures on the floor, not a far distance directly in front of Olex. The familiar face, albeit covered in soot, of Stella, emptying a bottle of alcohol over the face of a man who looked to be nearly dead. Olexβs breathing stood still, as the image almost drew a laugh. A cold, rather emotional woman very hastily emptying an entire bottle of vodka over a still, lifeless body. The cherry on the large, burning cake that he stood in front of. From the doorway, he spoke up.
βStella! What the fuck happened in here? Did you guys get attacked by a terrorist or something?β
Loadingβ¦β¦.Drift_Demon v1.23.exe
Drowning. Torn asunder by a dying world. Going onboard a capsized ship. Drowning again. Rising to the fire. The burning. The heat -
The foul odor of spirits opened Keahβs eyes, making him sputter. He pulled himself up, gasping and retching for sweet oxygen. Everything before seemed like one of those shitty matrix interrogation programs, designed to psych you out. He wasnβt 10 years old. He wasnβt in Hawaii. He was too busy wandering in the Reclaim Zone.
βHelmet, need - β His gloves pawed the clammy skin of his cheeks. Ignoring the UltraBartender, he grabbed his helmet, his breathing slowing down to a calm pace in the disinfected, pressurised safety of EngiTechβs oly-laminate headgear. The indistinct boundaries and borders of the Reclaim Zone, muddled all the more by the rain, became sharper through the helmet. Made thinking easier.
OverDriver was linked with Samsara. Samsara was linked with the missing Islanders. The Ark. The Pirate Party. Him. The election. Shortcuts and roads between all of them he couldnβt make out. Deciphering them now was useless. He clenched his fist in anger, OverDriverβs last words mocking him.
β Amalgmationβ He hissed out, clenching his gloved fist. β Itβs always been Amalgmationβ¦..β Amalgmation who ferried them away. Amalgmation who set up homes for them. Amalgmation who experimented on them. Kidnapped them. Used them.
Keah turned to look at the burning remains of the Duat and signed. The bar was currently smouldering, a bonfire of burnt dreams and excess going up in smoke. So much for a simple delivery job. What Keah now feared more than conspiracies and the games of giants was having to explain to the Iron Itamae about his unsuccessful delivery. Hopefully, the Jury Rigg was unscathed throughout the whole incident.
β You could say something like that.β he spoke to the figure in the doorway. He then glanced upwards at the porcelain expression of the UltraBartender β Sorry about your bar.β
He began to pull himself up from the ground, but pain pulled him back down. The adrenaline from his encounter with the OverDriver wore off, revealing the fragilities of his body. Broken ribs. Shards of glass stuck in his ankle. Burns on the side of his neck. He coughed, a splatter of red coating the inside of his Iconoclast.
β I...need repairs. Quick.β
Stella let the bottle fall from her hand as the driver sputtered to life. Heβd reached for his helmet just in time for the glass to clunk off of its metal and split in two on the wet asphalt. She dusted the fragments around with her foot as Olex approached.
βI got attacked by a car,β she said. βAnd a clone of this sorry state.β Stella leaned in over the Drift Demon. His ramblings werenβt that of a madman. Rather, the sort of a mad man. It almost angered Stella. The destruction almost angered her. Almost. Alas, staying unphased was too easy. Wasnβt her bar. Wasnβt her enemy. She got the briefcase. Her habit-haven was sustained, if only for the foreseeable future. Addicts had a practice of not looking too far ahead.
βItβs always megacorps that you Earth-folk blame for your problems. Maybe itβs an issue with perspective. Amalgamation hasnβt ever heard of you, Car Guy. Just like the bar.β She stepped back from the near-corpse and stared into the fallen eye of π½π»π¦ππ₯π½. That was a perk of her optics. She could gaze into the neon, let the light-stimuli overwhelm her, ignite a series of sensors that signified pain, but there was no pain. βItβs not mine. Iβm not from here. The Mixologist is a distant, eldritch creature.β
βShould have dodged that car, too,β she added.
β Try it yourself, ultrabartender β Keah grunted, not even bothering to correct her misinterpretation of his situation. Though it was hard to admit, her ramblings had a speck of truth in them. His word enough wouldnβt be enough to take down Amalgmation. Luckily, the OverDriver was stupid enough to show him photographic evidence.. All he needed to do was get it to the Pirate Party and -
Wait. Something was off. The evidence. He craned his head slowly to look at the smouldering inferno of the Duat. The evidence which was currently burning along with everything else in there.
β Fuck!β He punched the pavement out of frustration. Then, again. And again. He continued until a spider web of cracks began forming in the syncrete. It was only until his arm began to ache that he stopped. Nothing. That was all he got from the Duat. Everyone by now had scattered from the Duat. They were alone, but not for long. He could hear sirens in the distance, noise coming their way, eyes that saw more than they should. Causing such a ruckus brought unnecessary attention. He needed to leave the scene.
β Return,β he whispered out, hoping that his helmetβs internal uplink to the Jury Rigg was still functioning. His car remained still, unmoving. He would have to drag his broken body across the wet pavements just to unlock it. He tried to stand up again, falling back down again this time hissing as his left arm hung limp by his side. Broken wrist. Great. He would have to drive with one hand. He then stared at both of them before settling his gaze again on the UltraBartender.
β Thanks for waking me up, but Iβm didnβt come here to be lectured by you.β For the third time, he stood up, partially succeeding as his knees quivered. β If both of you donβt want to help me out, then stay out of my way.β
Nothing more had exploded, and the fires continued to burn, some already turning into smoldering piles of ash. Olexβs initial apprehension eased and he finally entered the Duat, taking the surrounding destruction in completely. The bar was nearly unrecognizable. Even the disco ball heβd spent many a night staring at as he drank was gone. In its place, just a burnt, crispy set of metal wiring, errant sparks flickering out every now and again.
The entire bar was in a state of complete ruination, few bottles had been spared in the mayhem. Underneath his boots, the floor was slick with a variety of spirits, a small dash of blood entering the mix here and there. The smell of exhaust and burnt rubber permeated every nook and cranny, slowly bringing water to Olexβs eyes. He finally holstered his pistol, and helped the struggling man nearby get steady on his feet. Wrapping an arm around the manβs back, Olex held him steady, giving Stella a closer look up and down.
The man Olex currently had his arm wrapped around was clearly injured, motors whirred quietly trying to maintain a steady by gentle grip. Stella had seen better days, but didnβt look as badly injured as biker helmet. Soot, glass dust, dirt and liquor. A coat of paint Olex was familiar with, but not used to seeing on Stella. Olex sighed before he spoke.
βIβm sorry about the bar, Stell. Only place in town that had shit better than that swill they serve everywhere else.β More than a formality, there was genuine sadness in Olexβs now soft, quiet voice. Feeling nostalgic was strange, considering Olex hadnβt even been in the Reclaim for any sort of considerable time yet, but he couldnβt find any other way to describe the emotion that had washed over him.
A change of scenery was nothing new. Heβd moved from region to region, town to town, many times over. Being somewhere new with no friends and no home was a familiar experience, one that heβd welcomed and thrived off of. But the Duat was something different. A small spot of luxury and intrigue nestled in the middle of another seedy hellhole, just like the one heβd left almost two decades ago.
Same as the luxurious mansion, fitted with polished doorknobs and a heated pool, the Duat felt like a small slice of home in the middle of ever present squalor. An ephemeral return to the luxury heβd shunned so far back in the past but had embarrassingly come to miss, even if only the slightest bit. A bit of familiar comfort in a life that had grown so accustomed to feeling strange and out of place. He could only hope this only meant the beginning of a new chapter and not the end of the book for his favorite slice of the highlife in the middle of Shittown.
Finally bringing his gaze back down to the people in front of him, he spoke again.
βI can tell you donβt seem eager to stick around for the lawmen, Biker Helmet. You got your own ride? βCause if you donβt, you better get to limping away pretty quick. And what about you, Stella? Anything you need me to do?β
Stella smirked. She was tempted to say she did dodge the car. It was a more roundabout way of not getting targeted in the first place, the sort of thing the odd Reclaim street samurai would babble about when drunk, but she thought it applied. Earth, she thought. It had the strangest sorts. Everyone with a complex story, a vendetta, something to gain, something to lose. Someone to kill. This was Earth.
Olex was eager to help the downed demon driver. Stella was hesitant, content for the moment to wistfully stare at her fallen place of work and then back to the broken man, wondering if this was really what the rest of her time on the planet would be like. She did help the struggling pair. They definitely needed it. While Olex did most of the heavy lifting, Stella leaned over with that immaculate posture and offered her hand for the dying driver to take. The stability in her grip was unwavering, but a single hand was all she could offer. The other was occupied by that briefcase and its ever-alluring, mysterious contents. She was sure to keep it back from the two men, concealed behind her body as best as she could.
βDuat was just another name, Olex. Just a place for congregation for the people speaking in dirges. Another church. Another Land of the Dead.β She met the gaze of Duatβs fallen sign one last time, letting that glow overload her optics and overpower even the dulling blazes. That hazy glow pervaded even through the thickening smoke. It watched them walk away as it did. Like an eyeβ¦
βYou won that argument so hard that poorly-dressed lady went into cardiac arrest,β said Theresa jokingly. βWell done, maβam!β
βNonsense, dear. I would say that itβs arguable that there was even an argument, seeing as how I hardly bothered to acknowledge her presence myself, instead simply offering my assistance to the proper party present so they could preferably prevent any further perversions of the peace. Delegation,β said Lott with a nod, as if there was something profound about it. βAlthough you are quite right about her dreadful outfit.β
Lottβs eyes glimmered as Theresa filled her cup with the perfect pour. At this rate, her young intern wasnβt just deserving of a simple gold star made out of cheap foil and weak glueβshe was a star, deserving to be rocketed up into the sky where all could imagine to see her if not for the light pollution. The Space Force was a fitting aspiration for the intern after all assuming, of course, if she could hang. In the blink of her eye, which was more like a few seconds, Lott swapped her glass with the bottle of vodka and filled what was now Theresaβs glass to within a few millimeters of the brim. She clinked the bottle against the glass with the calculated expertise of a proper lush, for not even a single droplet splashed over the rim, and then pressed her lips to the bottle and drank deeply.
βAnway, forget that woman,β said Lott with a gasp for air. βYou have most impressed me, Ms. Theresa, and I cannot wait to hear how things went with Mr. Faren.β
Naturally, if the girl had come back to her to share a victory drink then she mustβve completed her first assignment. Otherwise, sheβd be drinking on the job and thatβd be properly irresponsible. Lott took another sip of pure fire and looked around at the Swathe Street Square. It was still dense and busy with hanger-ons even though none of the candidates were shaking babies or kissing hands, but not busy enough that they were completely hidden in the crowd. She deftly tore the label off of the vodka with a practiced yank and pocketed the evidence, leaving just the hint of residue on the bottle of spring water. Extra fancy spring water, hence why it was a glass bottle and not something less prone to shattering into a hundred million pieces. Probably had a french name.
βSo dear, doβ¦β Lottβs eyes narrowed as she saw a familiar blur make its way through the crowd towards her. βDo make yourself scarce, actually, or you might be eaten by a shark.β
She tapped Theresa on the shoulder as she walked away from her intern. Lott imagined herself a hero sergeant diving on a live grenade to save her squadron as she moved to block Theresa from the harmful aura of poison that radiated off of any lawyer, regardless of their intentions.
"My dearest Ms. Lott Ramana how are you doing?ββ Johnny said approaching her like a law goon would. A mysterious cigarette was in his mouth as he took a drag, exhaling fumes of life onto the bleak existence that was the reclaim zone. "You caused a poor security guard to faint and almost caused a fight, I never took you an evil genius mastermind. I guess I was wrong in the end.β He said exhaling smoke away from her.
"Mr. Lovecraft, I thought youβre type still peddled the whole βinnocent until provenβ nonsense,β said Lott, her voice its usual level of deadness. She wasnβt wholly unhappy to see the lawyer, which for a lawyer was saying a lot, although his accusation for her being evil, genius, or a mastermind were all wrong. Sheβd happily work for one, excel even, but she was the puppet, not the string puller.
"Anyway, I have never been better,β she said. Her body hurt, her eyes burned, whatever good her meds were doing were taken two steps back by the uppers and downers coursing through her veins. She wanted nothing more than to sit down and cry, but she had an intern to impress. Instead, she took a swig of that unmarked bottle. Just fancy water; it was the electrolytes that made her eyes squint. "Do you believe itβs wise to be seen consulting the enemy, considering your employerβs...spirited eccentricities?"
"You thought wrong, Iβm just a law aficionado who can make or break cases with a flick of my wrist,β he said as he killed the synthetic tobacco with another breath causing the cigarette to wither and wiggle in his grasp as if it was trying to escape but to no avail. "The Pirate Queen did not include a fraternization clause in my contract, I can talk to or flirt with whom Iβd like to. Speaking of drinks,β he said eyeing that saucy little unmarked bottle thing in her hand.
"I was going to buy you one but you ran scampered away so fast like a hit and run drone. Maybe I could get you one later?β he said, smiling at her before he dropped the cigarette ashing it under his heel. Snuffing itβs poor tobacco ridden life from existence within the reclaim, sending it to the king size pack in the sky.
"A generous offer considering itβs an open bar that happens to be stocked by my employer. Technically, weβd be buying you a drink to give me. Besides, Iβm currently hydrating,ββ she said as she waved the bottle in front of Johnnyβs face, uncertain if thereβd be any fumes just like she was uncertain about what he meant by later. "Donβt think Iβd be done with this for a while.β
Johnnyβs face just deadpanned, maybe it wasn't painfully obvious but Lott may have been drinking a Lott tonight. βNo, not at that sad excuse of a party. Perhaps the Duat where things are much more cyro, the music can take you into the edgezone and the patrons have a story to tell.β Did Johnny just quote Duatβs tagline, who knows?
"Stop being a sad little publicist for a moment and live on the edge or fall into futility.ββ
Lott stared past the man with a vacant look. There wasnβt anything little about her sadness. She wouldβve very much like to go to Duat and let a little of that sadness out, maybe sashay her way up to the mic and let her anxieties spill out in the form of a slowed down cover of what was once a cheerful song. Yet, something else Johnny said cut her to the bone. Fall into futility? It was a funny thought. Futility was home to her. Sheβd been born there, raised there, learned how to drive there and how to drunkenly wrap a car around a post there. It was a warm, fuzzy blanket with a familiar smell she just wanted to wrap around herself.
"I canβtβ¦β because she was working. She couldnβt because she didnβt know Johnny that well, which was probably the whole point of him asking her. She couldnβt because he could be spying for his boss. She couldnβt because she didnβt want to be recognized at Duat and have him spread word to his work buddies about how she got drunk, dressed up like an idiot, and sang power ballads. She couldnβt because this was obviously a trick, a prank, or some kind of joke, since nobody in their right mind would want to buy her a drink. Lottβs lip sucked in. It was the biggest sign of anger she could ever manage to muster.
βI canβt believe you. I might not be the brightest piece in the game, but Iβm not utterly clueless to how itβs played. Did Petrukov put you up to this? Keep Gatchβs publicist busy while we run some kind of smear campaign, or did your gravediggers hit the bedrock and you went after some new dirt to dig up?β said Lott, crossing her arms.
"I asked because youβre a cute saucy little thing, but your old lady vibe is cramping my generosity for a drink,β he said, frowning as he went to look up to the night sky, his face illuminated by Neon Lights from a advertisement nearby the light looked for some skin to dance upon and it happened to be Johnnyβs. "Besides, my wage slaves do all the work and Iβm off the clock. All I do is look pretty, give orders and talk to pretty ladies.β Johnny rolled out a shrug with his big shoulders.
Lott looked down at the smeared, ashy remains of Johnnyβs slow death. If the Pirate paralegal was interested in talking to pretty ladies, then Lott couldnβt begin to fathom why he was even wasting his breath on her. She gave him the once over. His suit, to the untrained eye, was fine, but she knew a knock-off when she saw a knock-off, and his haircut was more aggro than appealing. The scars, sheβd give him this, werenβt bad, but he just wasnβt her type. Not enough cash spent on chrome or cashmere. More importantly, she knew that she wasnβt his type, or at least for his sake she hoped she wasnβt. She only ever attracted sad, pathetic losers.
Most importantly, she was still on the clockβdrunk, yes, but getting paid to get drunk. This was toeing the line of unprofessionalism. Beyond it, really.
"Then if I see any pretty ladies Iβll be sure to send them your way, Mr. Lovecraft,β said Lott. "Now, unless there was something else, this old lady actually does have a job to do that is a bit more involved than just speaking to pretty faces.β
"Youβre no fun, maybe you can send your new attache over. She seems more fun,β he said huffing in fleshbag defeat. She was just playing hard to get, theyβd have a drink day. "When the pirate queen wins this little election, Iβll host a party at the Duat and you can come. The only condition is youβll have to leave your sass at the door.β
"Speaking of winning, I got a video of a Gatch goon beating up a poor decker at that function. That will be on the labyrinth soon, face it Lott, Gatch doesn't have a Lott of time left. You should come join the Pirate Queenβs team, sheβs not touchy feely like the men you serve,β he said as he looked at the video still-image on his phone, damn this was so slick.
And there it was: the real reason one of the Pirateβs maties was hounding her down. Lott had seen through the cloak, so Johnny had sprung the dagger. She caught a glimpse of the image on his phone and her pointer finger subconsciously extended.
βEven if the Mayor was capable of losing the election, itβd never be to some fading influencer grasping at one final attempt to remain in the limelight before sequestering themselves off to a lifetime of singing and dancing competitions mass produced for reality TV. I know you enjoy working for such a pretty face, but perhaps you should reconsider the position youβre in, Mr. Lovecraft. Youβre more capable of a lawyer than you let people believe, and surely are smart enough to know that most pretty faces are just heavy makeup, good lighting, and beauty augs.β
βLikewise, we both know what you have there is nothing,β said Lott, gesturing with the bottle towards his phone. βYour people say itβs one of Gatchβs rentals knocking down an innocent computer geek, we say itβs an independent contractor acting on their own accord hired who roughly handled a situation involving a potential security threat. Itβs all hearsay. So donβt act like your full house of nines and tens is any good when weβre playing Euchre. Save yourself the time, throw in your hand, and just delete the video.
"The Pirate Queen is hot thatβs a fact, you know if she wins you wonβt be able to yell at those kids hosting loud parties anymore. You should consider this a fact of life now, your old lady ways are coming to a quick real-death. Itβs known that security are contractors, duh but you guys still hired them. They represented the parties name, now when Wire Girl sues the city youβll be tearing your hair out and looking for the last of the Shirley Temples at hand.β
He put his phone away in his Lovecraft pants. "Itβs not a full house youβre right, but it's a wave to rock the ship so to speak. Besides you donβt care about this campaign, Iβve seen your look before. You canβt keep your eyes off Samsara, youβd wish you could sit in his lap but Gatch is all you could get. Not that you like Gatch like you do the Labryinth techno-god, but if thatβs the case I guess a chumbag like me never had a chance with a cred-chasing minx like you after all.β Johnny removed another Kill-gore cigarette lighting it up with a sad Zippo before puffing out blue smoke. "I guess I was foolish to like you like that after all.β Johnny felt a little sad but in the end the woman of the Reclaim Center always have non-Johnny friendly motives after all.
Lottβs eyes narrowed. An actual look of annoyance, or a natural reaction to the puff of smoke? Johnny was a lot of talk, but his shotgun approach to speaking meant he sometimes hit the truth even when he was spitting out slander. He was right about her not caring about the campaign, but he was way off if he thought she didnβt care about her job. He wasnβt even in the same universe if he thought the reason why Lott idolized Samsara had anything to do with capital. Some cool could be bought, but not Samsaraβs. That was natural. He wasnβt cool because he was rich, he was rich because he was cool.
"Johnny, let me tell you something,β said Lott. No more Mr. Lovecraft nonsense. Her voice was cool, but in the cold way, not the sunglasses way. It was ice. It threatened to give him frostbite. She stepped so close to him that he would be able to feel the chill on his neck. "You lost all chances with me the minute you turned your gun in for a lawbook. Thereβs no bite to your bark. Anyone can buy me a drink. Heck, Stella often gives me them for free. You know what I could really go for?β
There was something else Samsara had on Johnny (and frankly everyone) beside coolness, and it was the real reason Lott couldnβt look at anyone else.
βI want to be terrified,β she said, her voice almost an animalistic growl. Samsara? He could destroy the whole damn world if he wanted. The thought excited her. βAnd has-beens like you donβt scare me.β
"I think youβre sick Lott, the only thing that will terrify you is that youβll die alone,β he said backing away from her before turning around and walking away from the PR Witch - damn she really was a bad one.
Lott huffed as the lawyer walked away and a sneer cracked through the porcelain on her face. She had turned out to be Johnny Lawβs type after all. How disappointing. Heβd probably never even was a Scrapper, probably never even killed someone. And how could she possibly be scared of dying alone? APEX had already beaten the life out of her years ago. Her body just hadnβt noticed. She took another swig of the bottle. Itβd catch on one of these days. Until then, she had an intern to corrupt into a model task rabbit.
The security guard never understood that strange power she had. No matter what was going on, no matter how tired or frustrated or overworked or endangered heβd been in a day, she could make it all go away with a radiant smile. βOnly a couple more hours until you can go home, my love!β Her green eyes were bright; she looked forward to another night together.
βAnd one more campaign with Knight Enterprises before I can afford to retire, Kamiko-tan.β Joe Blair smiled back at her. βThough Iβd probably get fired if my employer thought I was hanging out with my girlfriend while Iβm on the clock.β
βYeah...β The thought was enough to lighten his mood even at work, carrying his thoughts far away from the corruption and scheming around him. Warmth spread from his chest as his heart raced. Yes, soon heβd have nothing more to do than live out his life alongside this wonderful woman. She giggled at his dazed smile, leaned forward, and kissed him on the cheek.
He reluctantly stepped away from her, turning to walk another patrol around the Commons, walking slowly so Kamiko-tan could keep pace next to him. He scanned the passersby, names and ID numbers appearing as opaque blocks of information over everyoneβs heads. It was a peculiar feature of his APEX Hardlight-series cybereye implants. Most users preferred AR overlays to be semi-transparent, so as to not block out the sight of the real world and be visually distinguishable from reality. But the intraocular holographic projectors of this series were special, and the advanced visual signal processing of his E-Brain implant was custom-modified to suit their inputs. For Joe, reality itself could be edited in real-time. The ultimate cost of the system and the implant surgeries together had come out to more than three yearsβ worth of his salary. Only now, a decade later, was he approaching the last of his loan payments.
βAre these events always so busy, Joe?β Kamiko-tan looked around as she spoke, her wide-eyed innocent gaze distracting him from the people he should be watching over. She hurriedly stepped out of the way as some self-absorbed jerk walked past, face buried in their cell phone. There must be a hundred people out on the street...β
Joe smiled. She was innocent, unworldly, in a way few from the Reclaim could ever hope to be. βBusy? Everyoneβs already left, more or less.β He looks around again - except for a few drunks at the bar, a few people talking, and other security guards, there were few people still around. It was getting late - the candidates had scattered, and with them went their attendants and the media. A journalist with a small crowd of drones had hurried past a few minutes ago, but the display hovering over her head had identified her as authorized, so he paid her no mind as he stepped out into the square.
βItβs almost time to go home. What are you thinking for dinner?β Joe turned to answer her, but was interrupted as a young woman in a teal dress slipped past through a blind-spot, muttering a hasty βoh, excuse meβ over the rim of a cocktail glass. Joe blinked as she unknowingly passed right through Kamiko-tan, her back disappearing through the front of Kamiko-tanβs elegant yukata. It was a sight his eyes reported faithfully but his brain reported as impossible, an error his E-Brain took a moment to resolve. A moment that stretched on far too long.
Joe frowned. Sure, he knew in his head Kamiko-tan wasnβt really there in person. But he didnβt appreciate the reminder that her company was only virtual. βWhatβs wrong? Is everything alright?β Kamiko-tan looked concerned. She reached out a hand, which Joe gratefully took in his.
βEverythingβs fine.β At her touch, all such worldly concerns and disconnects faded. She was right here, of course, and that was all that mattered. βI love you.β
She smiled like he had recited some great praise. Joe always liked that about her. He wasnβt the most smooth-talking charmer around. Even if he was, a thousand bards couldnβt compose poetry great enough to summarize what he felt about her. But she was always content with his words anyway, no matter how painfully insufficient. βI love you too, Joe.β
Joe just stood, smiling at her for a few moments before moving on. βMaybe that frozen pizza. Could you schedule the oven to preheat when my shift ends?β The FuryTech X-02A 512T Wyvern-series server that powered his smarthome was vastly overkill for such a minor task as turning the oven on with a timer. But thatβs where Kamiko-tan was waiting for him, and for her to be present with him in real-time without noticeable lag required more advanced hardware than a typical smarthome could manage. It, too, had taken years to pay off.
βSure. Iβll be back in a minute, dear!β Kamiko-tanβs image faded as she went off to handle the kitchen. Joe took the moment to look around - might as well do his job while he was here.
Ahead of him, Joe saw a briefcase abandoned next to a bench. That was odd - who would leave a briefcase laying out, in the Reclaim of all places? That was just asking for it to be stolen. The procession of candidates had come through here just an hour ago - if it was left by someone on a campaign team, it could contain something important. Joe hurried over and sat on the bench, picking up the oddly-heavy briefcase and setting it in his lap.
By protocol, he should report a suspicious package to be inspected by a drone, just in case it contained something dangerous. But heβd already heard one of his coworkers call in an unnecessary, if by-the-book, alarm tonight. He really didnβt want to be number two. Besides, heβd spend all night filling out paperwork, instead of spending the night eating a freshly-made pizza and watching a movie with Kamiko-tan. If it belonged to a campaign staffer, he could just drop it off at that campaignβs office and not think twice about it. Or, if it contained something sensitive, he could probably get a bonus check if he gave it to Mayor Gatchβs office, instead. That would be nice, too.
βWhat do you think...β Joe started, trailing off when he realized Kamiko-tan wasnβt there. He was alone. He didnβt have to be, of course - he had programmed her to act in real-time, to occasionally brb, as though she were a physical presence. But while she could operate every electric device in his house instantly, taking her time gave her a sense of verisimilitude. It wasnβt as though he were in love with some piece of software, after all.
Oh well. Sometimes realism was the worst. Heβd be home soon, at any rate, and whatβs the worst that could happen with a simple briefcase? Joe popped open the latch. A strange noise snapped inside, like a spring released from tension-
βScarcely a news report would escape. Scarcely a journo would go unscathed. Welcome to N0 Manβs Land. The Reclaim is a dangerous place, where careful πΎππππ€ are therein played...β
βππ£π₯ πππππ βπ ππππ πππ£ππ₯π ππ¨ππ βππ₯πͺ ππ‘π£ππ¨π >>> β¦ βUnrest seems to be stirring in front of APEX Industries R&D complex and offices on the edge of the underpopulated Reclaim Zone. Headquarters of Reclaim mayor and South City Sprawl council candidate Joshua Gatch, many wonder the implications for tomorrowβs debate.β
βThe crowd seems to have gathered from nowhere. The cracks in the dead zone. Silenceβ¦ Then the two armed APEX door guards were surrounded. Currently the crowd is swelling and we can hardly see whatβs become of the doormen. Itβs anyoneβs guessββ¦β
No Manβs Land wasnβt the place you roam without a strict, specific goal in mind and a will to see it through by any means. On municipal maps, the outer mess of Reclaim streets was the richest district. It was true. Gatch willed it so when the empty blocks of derelict property were turned into opposing strongholds. There wasnβt much sign that the corps were there. Rather, they were like ghosts embedded in the empty streets of those empty seas. Occasionally, the purpose-filled walker would catch a glimpseβbright fluorescent lights illuminating the debris-dotted streets. They might hear the buzzing of thick power cables drawing environmentally-castrating volumes of volts just beneath the asphalt.
Stella thought it was a strange place for the services of such a specialist.
A tumbleweed of some official paper report rolled by in the dust and she knew it had been a long time since anyone had cleaned up. Stella thought about reaching to pick it up, but it skittered away and fell into a small crater in the road, blackened by what she could only imagine was an airborne dose of burning plasma.
APEX, of course, had the biggest complex of all in the corporate warzone. It probably spanned a block or something ridiculous. No one could really tell from the outside what any of the buildings in No Manβs Land were. It helped the companies keep their cover from ill-intentioned actors, the Mixologist supposed. That was also the general reason the homeless droves of the zone tended to linger closer to the Central Square. Over there, you may get hassled, but thereβs a significantly lower chance of entering what looks like an abandoned factory only to get zapped.
The place was marked out front by degraded metal letters. A-P-E-X. To find it, she just followed the distant sounds of dissent. It was like a chorus of voices youβd hear in a loud auditorium, but mottled by the doppler. You would have missed them if there hadnβt been two men strapped in Exo-suits out front. Their strangely bulky rifles were trained on the gathering mass of protestors, whose shouts grew louder as the bartender neared. Either way, she couldnβt really make out what they were saying, but they were angry, and their numbers were growing. Occasionally, a few of the protestors would step towards the stairs, stare down the barrel of the blaster, and dare to hassle the mercs.
βCome out planet killers!β
βWhereβs Gatch?β
βStop hoarding the power!β
βGreen energy for the populace!β
It wasnβt that the Mixologist wasnβt used to rowdy customers, but it definitely wasnβt her usual crowd. In fact, she could really get further from the sort that frequented Alexandria unless they went underground, which may have in fact been their intention. Thankfully, all the rocks, bottles, and other projectiles were directed towards the building, which looked pretty impenetrable save for the door. Those that had solid enough aim to hit near the exo-geeks were rewarded by getting pistol whipped until skin, bones, or skulls split. Stella was lucky enough to set up down-range.
Outsiders were never safe in the Reclaimβs No Manβs Land. When outsiders were the ones who flooded the district and did their best to take control of No Manβs Land, other outsiders were even more at risk it seemed. There were plenty of protestors who bathed more in the chaos than in any moral objective behind it. Unlucky journos or counter-protestors were jostled around, prevented from leavingβ¦ or worse by the sort that werenβt too keen on facing down uber-strapped mercs. A few burly hounds even bothered the Mixologist while she was setting up.
βWelcome to the Reclaim. You donβt belong here.β The man let his bat drag along the ground for additional horror-villain effect. She saw straight through his green bandana, into his soft soul. She was good at that.
βNo Iβm not.β Stella pointed to the sign. Emblazoned upon the two-wheeled cart was a clear 3-lettered neon sign running on some unknown source. The whole thing looked like it was rigged up out of one of Central Squareβs old street-food carts, but repurposed for just the UltraB - A - Rtenderβs style.
βIβm the bartender.β
βFor theβ¦β
β. . .β
βFor the riot?β
Joshua Gatch had that executive habit of being surrounded by the sort of people who read too many self-help books. Not just that, but the sort who followed through on the guruβs advice. The sort that would share life tips with you at cocktail parties. He was the kind of guy that went to cocktail parties, so he was also the kind of guy that dealt with stress by taking a deep breath and exhaling as slowly and obnoxiously as possible for all the room to hear.
The APEX megacenter was a maze that even the mayor didnβt brave. The maze of factory blocks had become only a greater mess when higher-ups moved in all sorts of disjointed operations. Some of them employed the denizens of the Reclaim, but a majority were defense-oriented. At least, thatβs what he was told. An unregulated, underwatched area in the middle of South City was the perfect place for APEX to jam all sorts of metal into magic boxes and that sort of thing. Gatch didnβt mind. His penthouse was atop the highest levelsβthe offices for APEX officials, management, and on-site scientists. He tried to interact with as few of them as possible, but in the βsituation roomβ he couldnβt help but deal with the concerned sort that got big heads about their projects. He managed to narrow the lot down to those that deemed themselves βmost importantβ in their individual departments.
They surround the complex one time and suddenly everyone starts to take those classic APEX βexpendabilityβ rumors seriously. This wasnβt the time.
βIf this botched shit gets brought up tomorrow and our projects get cancelledβ¦β
βAre you kidding? Your project is going to get cancelled if they bust open the doors and fucking trash the lower blocks.β
βWhat about us? I donβt see any of those promised mercs that are getting a portion of the quarterlyβ¦β
βLook at where you are. Gatch gestured to the surprisingly furnished room. A few screens along the wall were lit up with views of the growing crowd. βAPEXβs presence in the Reclaim Zone is as volatile as it was before I showed up. Weβre in a bunch of empty factories.β
βJust donβt step outside, they tell usβ¦ Fantasticβ¦β
βTheyβve got more guards around the alleyways than we do...β
βWhat do they want, Gatch? You?β
The mob amassed via a number of approaching groups, many staggered in their arrivals, but when his entourage showed up on the scene, the crowd seemed to double. Perhaps, though, it was not the number of the protestors that changed the streets, but their purpose. They were masked, and for good reason, but anyone beyond his immediate circle could hardly tell. Any good journalistβs view was blocked by the close conglomerate of operators that surrounded them and whatever improvised and jaggedly sharp tools they opted to lash out with.
He didnβt need a megaphone, just a transmitter mic blasting to the crowd from an unseen source.
βThe people of the Reclaim have shouldered the burden of power rerouting for far too long. APEX is a scourge, Gatch, and you are but their puppet. These men and women dare to say itβs time we change whoβs pulling the strings.
And that served as a great signal for the first cocktail thrown. Gatchβs cameras were blinded by the light of flames erupting over the door guards. They braced. One raised his rifle towards the source.
βWait, man! Wait. We just gotta hold out.β
βTheyβre going to hitββ
βThink about what theyβll doβ¦ If you fire without supportβ¦β
The Mixologist instinctively shifted the cart back a bit as the fire bottle blew. One loss to the vortex was enough already, but she was already posted up on the opposite sidewalk, fending off the cowardly sorts with cocktails. It wasnβt her first time around this sort of crowdβthe angry sort, she meant. They were never quite so unruly and unmannered.
But that was the job. The crowd stole the show from the B - A - R when other projectiles were prepped. She palmed the console the goons had given her just as it started vibrating. Its indicator light flickered on and off for a few moments before one of the internal chambers opened and a vial slipped into her hand. The time to serve, it seemed, grew ever closerβ¦
βYou wouldnβt believe the dangerβthe sort that doesnβt even bother hiding. Wolf in uniform. Wolf in body armor. Wolf in respirator. Wolfβ¦ Wolf with riot shotgun...β
βππ£π₯ πππππ βπ ππππ πππ£ππ₯π ππ¨ππ βππ₯πͺ ππ‘π£ππ¨π >>> β¦ βTensionsβ¦ In South City. Many eyes have been set upon Phoenetek and their worldwide operation of clinics as well as the production of the popular βsuper-drugβ Neurosynthase, said not only to reverse the symptoms of neural degeneration from cyberware integration, but completely reversing decay of neuron pathways. Many denizens of South Cityβ¦ Of the western seaboard have been affected by recent shortages. Silence from Phoenetek. In their last press conference, held three weeks ago, shipments were supposedly en route to arrive on the first of April, but no South City clinics have yet reported receiving shipments publically. The cause of this shortage is not yet known to Hart Media or the public...
And the shortages have affected more than just Phoenetek consumers it seems. The registration of Augmented Persons has skyrocketed in the past month, leaving some cyberware users to face jail time in order to acquire Neurosynth through legal, safe, and available channels. Of course, with the fear of neurodegeneration looming, many augged citizens have turned to more alternative methodsβ¦β
βEnter Baolei.β the monk said. There were many passers-by, but he didnβt seem to address any in particular. The Reclaim HyperHumans always seemed to have that distant-but-fixed gaze. Maybe it was a strange show of some sort of clairvoyance or omnipotence. They hardly needed to look at their surroundings. All in their presence were already observed. Others considered it a side-effect. If not of the βunity-with-the-machineβ, then of the lack of abundant care for the cyborg sort, or of perhaps a more sinister aspect of indoctrination.
βAll those who seek care may find it within the temple, man or machine.β He gestured with a dark steel arm with hydraulics big enough to question how the thin man was even holding it up, reached out towards a passerby, spoke again: βChen Dao offers help. We offer help. The time is dire and those who harmonize with the machine will find themselves afflicted. This is not an accident. Thisββ
The downtrodden denizen of the Reclaim near-collapsed onto the monkβs arm. The monk hardly shifted his weight until those same desperate hands clawed up around his neck for support. Whispers eked out from his mouthβpleas for help. The monk stayed steady, and looked to the other orange-clad man flanking the temple gate. A simple gesture was all it took. Silence, eye contact, and somewhere in the void, a signal was understood. With the struggling augged man hanging on his shoulders, the first monk headed through the gate with as much a bow as he could manage. The other took his place.
βMy friends,β he began. βThereβs nothing to fear. In these trying times, forces beyond our control reveal their prejudice against the Machine. Care, clinical, technical, or otherwise is greedily guarded. At the Temple of Baolei, all might find themselves safe. All can find a home. All can find peaceβ¦β
The Reclaimβs wayward sort was always watching. Everywhere. Baolei was no exception, and with the culmination of eventsβboth in the Reclaim and beyondβthat seemed to claw at the back of everyoneβs throats, Baolei drew a particular crowd. They watched the monk. Some murmured replies, dissatisfactions, questions, conspiracies. Few dared to approach the monk, even those whose mechanical bodies were taking their toll.
βThe Reclaimβ¦ It is a sickly population, but the Machine is here to repair. To uplift.β
>>> πβππ½π ...
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>>> πΌ ...
>>> πΈ ...
>>> π ...
>>> π ...
>>> π ...
>>> π ...
The Temple was built with classical chinese architectural technique. It stood out like a backyard in the Detroit Stacksβpillars bearing all the load, and ambient lights of orange and yellow almost mimicking primitive lanterns. The mats throughout each room were, for the most part, immaculately clean beyond the front rooms where the clinicβs patients had overflowed and crowded their newfound shelter. Youβd think the paper-thin walls accentuated the simplicity of the place, but beyond the groups of Reclaimers stuck in withdraw woes and death throes, Baolei Clinic seems to absorbs sound, leaving it eerie quiet.
βThis way,β he said, βCome. Learn of Mekanedo...β
Dao always attempted to live on its periphery, but even with a step as light as air, it was difficult for the abbot to evade attention of every member in his presence. He guided the benefactor towards another pair of monks. They always seemed to be waiting in the wings, ready for the abbotβs commands, as though watching.
βThe people of Baolei shall care for you. Allow them to show you our mission, our reach, our access.β Dao smiled a warm smile, gently squeezed his benefactorβs hands with a pair of refined metallic hands. The South City clerk couldnβt help but feel a tinge of unease run through him. There was something that he carriedβthe omnipresence of wiresβthe subtle wave functions they emitted or the quiet whir of their servos. Somethingβ¦ There was something about Chen Dao.
The gesture seemed to hold the clerk's presence long enough that he hardly noticed the trio of monks step by and into the bowels of Baolei. They carried a box, the three of them. Heavy, but their steps made no indication of such.
The Reclaim came and went in passing splashes. Fading glimpses of its derelict corners and alleyways blurred into malformed images of streaking gray and intersected with the black of shadows. Familiar locations flickered by but donβt quite register. The burning ghosts of neon lights lingered in her eyes.
The sweat clung to her skin, chilled her, but her insides were boiling a boiling red mess. She could see, somehow, the constricted veins within. It didnβt quite matter. She managed to escape the memory chasms, and was sure of her destination. A soft hand contacted her and tried to enwrap her jacket, but she just walked past. He spoke after her.
The soft light was nice on her eyes. She could track things more easily, differentiate the maze splayed before her via various doorways. She could accurately choose and move to the one which would take her to her destination. No doors, just the frames. She nearly hit one in her investigation of each passageway. She would have moved on, too, but she saw them. Unified. Divine formation, movements harmonized. Each robed figure stood rank and file in the dojo. Every stroke of movement flowed like water, but they carried the force of ceaseless electrons. Powerful servos, grinding motors, and sparking steel held a sort of hypnotic power unlike any other. Human and industry had combined.
Someone grabbed her shoulder. Instinctively, her hand cut around and threw his grip from her body. The colors were too warm. They melted together and her senses betrayed her, but she still had signals. πΈ π πΈ π πΎ πΈ guided her way.
Blindness?
Death in this world?
Or resurrection in the next?
Guided by firing signals and wires...
She did find him.
β
β
πΈ
π
πΌ
>>> πβππ½π ...
>>> β ...
>>> πΌ β¦
>>> πΈ ...
>>> π ...
>>> π ...
>>> π ...
>>> π ...
βWhat are youββ
Trying to ππ€πππ‘π the coming onslaught.
Metal πππ€π₯
put through paper wall.
Blurred shape. Colored πΉππ¦π and βππ.
>>> πβππ½π β¦
Dao hardly turned when he heard the wall tear. He saw. The trio of monks present that werenβt hauling the payload let their bodies flow into a graceful, readied stance. A Way. A combination of liquid formlessness and machine rigid structure...
β
β
πΈ
π
πΌ
Seeing βππβ¦
βπππt the hell are you doing here, Shade?β
Delilah paused. The injured runner before her was stumbling and fumbling over his response. She was somewhere. She came for a reason, but everything only came back to her piece by piece.
βShaman, Iββ
βYouβre a fiend. Hunting another fix. Clinics abandon you. Scam your friends, then go ontoββ She looked around. More details. More gaps filled in. βThisβ½β
βWhat did you expect me to do? Iβm dying. Weβre all dying. Look around!β
They had drawn plenty of eyes by thenβthose patients and staff who were up to the task of sitting up, directing their eyes towards the commotion at least.
βYou owe me.β Delilahβs brow was half-drenched in sweat. She didnβt wipe it away. Maybe she didnβt notice, just another detail whisked as a wisp into infinite forgetfulness...
βAnother favor.β
βFor your tab? I just ran that job withββ
βAre you really gonna talk about that here?β
βFuck, Shade. I lent you the last of what I had. You said you could get more. Where are your βconnections to the city?β β
βShaman,β he said and coughed. The force of his breath seemed to cause an explosion of sparks from his chest that trailed along his dirty sweatshirt. βThe city ruins everythingβ¦
βMiss? One of the monks almost made the gamble of reaching towards the netrunnerβs shoulder to calm her. His hand froze in air and he reconsidered. βYour friend is in a dire condition. He may need treatment now.β
>>> πβππ½π β¦ >>> β¦ >>> β¦
βCome one, come allβ¦ βEnter Baoleiβ¦β βAll those who seek care may find it within the temple, man or machine.β
