Ketek-2, Cyberpunk

A girl with deep violet fading to white hair stands at the very summit of a cacophony of metal. She'd finally managed to make it to Seventh Circle Circuit where the Chosen battle with only the best meatware. The boy before her twitched as she executed the move that had won her every fight in Second Circle. She didn't know what debt the poor kid was paying off, but he was perfect. Enough brain activity left to react immediately, but far enough gone that he wouldn't put up a fight. 'Course there was always the chance he was one of the Volunteers; that small sect that prided themselves on providing the ideal battleground, totally pliant to any Chosen's needs. But probably he'd just run up one too many Supply debts and this was the only way he could get at the stuff. And Seveth Circle's ketek was smooth, probably the purest she'd ever come across. Marsh could feel its quicksilver shiver go right through her, shaking out into moves even she didn't know she could perform. She could definitely get used to this. This was why she fought, why all of the truly great fought. The chance to hit that perfect moment, the ability to see where one had to go and be already there, and do whatever it took to bring their opponent down.

The fight was over before Marsh even really found her pace, her opponent barely managing a block before she, literally, tore the ground out from under him. But it was fine, if the next one was as easy she'd add cherry blossoms to their fall. She knew that there were at least two more opponents lined up, and the night thrummed with the music of the underworld. Seventh Circle knew how to treat the crowd that clustered around the chance and destruction of the Circuit and poison green drinks clustered abandoned tables as the disenchanted youth of the city sweated out their sins on the dance floor, or negotiated new ones in the darkened alcoves. Above them a battle few of them could truly appreciate flitted across the waves, dancing around the code until one of them left the field with a nose bleed or twitching eye. No one took any notice of the Vics that went out the back door; used up. Marsh could hardly wait until they handed her one of her very own, start to finish. Lucas had one; he'd been hiding code in Maria for over six months, and the way he could pull a move out of that series of synapses still amazed her.

Casually Marsh unplugged herself. She'd never admit it, but the skulljacks still chaffed, a sense of foreign even amidst the Ketex high that connected her to everything. Every nerve sang a new song, alive and burning, but she still felt it most of all in her nose, same as alcohol. Surely she could convince someone to fetch her a water bottle between sets. A girl couldn't live on Ketek alone, although by the Coders she wished she could.

As she searched the floor for a waitress she saw it along the edge of her vision. Crawling, the spiders were consuming the club, coming for her. God they were DISGUSTING, and multiplying in shattered edges. Each tendril reached forward, swaying to the still throbbing beat that ran through her. Where were they coming from? How had they found her? Frantically Marsh scanned the crowd, colours bled far into nightmare blue and silver. There! The heart of them seemed to ooze from the source just to her left. She'd stop them, like she'd always known she would.

With casual purpose Marsh stalked towards the Source. In her hand was a lethal spike still coated slick (behind her a Vic went into convulsions, her connection abruptly severed). About her the crowds parted like water, flowing gently away from as she drove her weapon into the heart of the arachnids. But they were still everywhere, reaching for her, screaming at a frequency she wasn't even sure she could hear. Again and again she stabbed the mass; she had to make it stop. They were searching, seeking, and she couldn't let them find it.

With a jolt Marsh felt hands on her shoulders, dragging her away. There was red everywhere, and at her feet a blond male, barely twenty, lay unmoving, the multiple holes that littered his torso still oozing liquid that looked curiously like cherry cough syrup.

male voice: You have to leave.

Marsh twisted, trying to see the man that was hustling her out of the club, but he kept a firm grip on her arms, dragging her along as the murmurs behind her rose in volume. Who did he think he was? Hadn't he seen the spiders?

male: Leave and don't look back. You're a smart girl, start over. The police will look for you. Don't let them find you. Run.

The elevator that led to the club was already rising, the doors sliding out onto the main level. Marsh stumbled out into the brightly lit night. She knew the make-up of every neon light that grinned down at her, promising eternal youth or temporary happiness, her fingers twitched to redesign entire worlds, but she had no idea what had just happened. In her hands she still held the metal spike, stained red, wires trailing forlornly like a multi-coloured whip long deprived victims.

--------three months later-------------------

Marsh manoeuvred around the noon drunks easily, roller-blades facile amongst the garbage that cluttered the Lower City. Her hair now hung a demure brown, but in her left boot hide a metal wire that could sheer through bone. She really needed the escalators to be working. She knew that if she'd just jack-in, she'd have been guaranteed a clear path, but ever since Seventh she hadn't made a single Supply Run. Sure she still had a dose or two hidden in her bracelets, but she wasn't going to let it have her again. It wasn't worth it.

Her case wasn't on the Big Screen anymore, but she knew they were still looking for her. You didn't need Ketek to read the police minds, and Seventh Severance still came up more than she was comfortable. But if she didn't get the package to Lower Apple Base before 12 hundred it didn't matter, because she wouldn't be able to afford her apartment, piece of shit that it was. And without it she was going to be out on the street, prey to anyone looking for meatware and there was no way she was falling that far that fast.

Marsh had taken the courier job because it kept her in touch with the World even while she carefully kept her head down. She'd never have believed that incident in the club would have caused such a stir, deaths happened on the Circuit all the time and nobody ever took any notice, but by the time she had wound her way back to her apartment after a prolonged stint at the local spa (the red would NOT COME OFF. Somedays she swore she could still see it. ) her street had already been filled with Suits.

It'd been a matter of hours to write herself a new name and resume, and within days she'd been ferrying the various packages that you couldn't trust to the airwaves through some of the most unsavoury portions of the Lower City. There were always vacancies at couriers, as the employees fell prey to the gangs or collectors. Reputation here, like most places, was everything, and Marsh had been careful to pick a fight with a local tough within her first week. She still felt the call of the Circuit whenever she passed the subtle signs that signalled a fight, but she couldn't risk it. Not if it meant another night of innocent blood and faces she couldn't remember. She'd just have to be satisfied with slap of wind against her face and sharp corners.

With a sigh Marsh skidded to an easy stop in front of yet another dilapidated building and found the buzzer, her wheels smoothly folding into the heavy black boots she still favoured. She never got the posh hotel deliveries. Whatever. All she knew was that if this bastard didn't tip her there was going to be some serious conversations taking place.

This post has been edited by EvilBunny on Apr 30 2006, 02:40 AM

3:58:17am In less than five minutes the desolate streets would be bustling with noise and youth. Already several neon signs had flickered to life and now stood watch over the NutriCart as it creaked and squeaked its way towards the warehouse district and the ravenous youths of the circuit clubs. “Phantasms hovering in the mist, guarding pilgrims in search of salvation” thought Dr. Cyril Matsu as she subconsciously double checked all of her sensors. The air tonight was heavy with ammonia, blowing in from the polluted and cramped harbor that framed two sides of the club district. That scent always reminded her of her first, overwhelming, interface with a machine. It had been a simple laparoscope with only 2 sensors; yet keeping track of those had nearly sent her into cardiac arrest. The appearance of a security-bot 10 feet in front of the cart brought her quickly out of her nostalgic reverie. Wind speed, temperature, GPS data, police data channel scanners, all came to her instantly through the 2 banks of sensors built into the cart.

Currently, Cyril was the Nutri-Cart, and she had sensors on EVERYTHING. One entire bank was devoted to the cart’s inventory. One sensor monitored the quantity and temperature of the chicken soup (47 servings, 37.5 degrees), while another kept track of how many times the vegan fried rice had been stirred (112), yet another was responsible for the inventory of protein/power bars (20 soy-ginger 10 soy-chocolate 10-apple-grain 10-ginseng-caffiene), but most of the 128 sensors in the bank were responsible for monitoring the state of the Ketek-2 which was being sold this morning under the slightly tongue in cheek street name “Apple Cobbler.”

Armed with data from her external sensors, Cyril altered her course as jerkily as she could manage, with out loosing inventory and headed for the black and white robot (NutriCarts were among the oldest and most rudimentary of AI vehicles in the city). When she had closed to less than five feet (4 feet, 8.2, inches) away, her signs lit up and she began sales pitch 001. As her neon lights flashed and a young female voice extolled the wonders of hot soup on such a cold rainy night the security-bot sent a short, simple, 8-bit code statement identifying itself as a machine (and not interested in buying anything), before floating down the street in the direction from which the Nutri-Cart had come. Satisfied that her ruse had worked, Cyril fluidly adjusted course and cruised into the vacant lot across from the 7th circuit at 3:59:44.

Cyril used her 16 seconds to look around. She liked this lot; for several months it had been a rival club, but now only the twisted metal rising from charred cinders like Art Deco statuary gave any clue about the property’s sordid past.

At 4:00:00 every door on the street opened simultaneously as every DJ faded out the night’s last tune and the club kids poured out into the streets. Today there were only a couple hundred, not many Suits either, but then again, it was also a Wednesday. As the pale, sweaty, adolescents exited their playrealms a dozen other nutricarts began hawking their wares. Cyril’s cart certainly wasn’t newest or flashiest mobile vending machine, but it wasn’t the oldest and darkest either. While most of the ravers headed for either the closest or brightest car, two loyal individuals sought out Cyril.

As they approached she scanned each one. The first was a tall dark skinned young man known online as CorTeZone. He was followed as usual by a short thin caucasian who used the alias “blacktop.” CorTeZone ordered his usual two “servings” of “Apple Cobbler” and entered the correct code for the day and stood back, waiting for blacktop to complete his own transaction. In the past, black top had always ordered a single dose. Today, however, he ordered seven (exactly enough to be busted for “Intent to Distribute” instead of “Possession”) and he ordered “Cherry Cobbler”. Even if he had entered the code properly she probably would have fried him, but with the situation he had put her in, she really had no choice. As he reached into the compartment for pastry in which the drugs where usually concealed, the outer door dropped, trapping his hand against the cold metal of the interior. His vitals flew across her vision (BP: 190/110 Pulse: 122 Weight: 130 lbs) and hovered in the upper right hand corner, wherever she looked, while she completed her calculations. One quick prick underneath his right fingernail and both pulse and blood pressure went through the roof. A second prick in the same place delivered the drug which would stop his heart forever and then a 5 gallon jug of soup dropped on his hand, crushing the finger through which the drugs had been administered. She opened the door and released his arm. By the time he was dead (less than a minute later) she was halfway down the street. “I think I need a new hobby” she thought to herself as she unplugged herself from the machine and settled down into a deep sleep.

This post has been edited by RebelOwl on Apr 29 2006, 04:41 AM

Looking out the doorway of the club, Jez sighed as she watched black top drop to the ground. Cyril got another. She shook her head, and turned her attention back to watching the ravers stumble or float out the doors of her club as their individual personalities and chemical makeups dictated. She kept a wary eye open for any like to cause trouble that might bring the authorities into her corner of the Circuit.

Few looked likely to cause much trouble, though she kept an eye on a few young males that had had her concerned since they entered a few hours earlier. They bore the distinctive tattoos of the gang Ice Demon, a succession of blood-tipped icicles poking out from under shirtsleeves or ringing their necks. All had had some form of meatware and the subtle wrinkles in the skin of forehead or forearm that indicated implanted weapons. Cy-Blasts had started among some of the smaller, more vicious cobbler gangs, but had begun to spread. All Cy-Blasts that entered through Jez’s doorways were immediately disabled, but few patrons had yet discovered that fact, due to the presence of heavy visible security that cowed most into pacifism. Still, Jez had had a bad feeling that the Icers were going to get too hyped up and attempt to try out their hardware on other ravers; she hadn’t looked forward to their reaction to the nasty shock when they discovered that their weaponry was non-functional. Nothing had happened, and now that they’d left their equipment was fully functional again, but she still kept a sharp lookout on them until they passed out of sight.

Sighing, Jezebel raked her fingers through her hair. At twenty-three years of age and with her pixy features, she was often mistaken by those not in the know as one of the patrons of the club Abyssal, not its sole owner and manager. She wore her spiky dark purple hair in twists and braids, with blinking LEDs dangling from the ends. She had a small silver hoop through her left nostril, and a blue, glow-in-the-dark barbell through her right eyebrow. She wore a black mesh shirt over a t-shirt of a grinning skull and dark green pants that seemed more hole than cloth. Her lips were bright red and her fingernails were black. No one knew much about Jez’s past, though there were rumors that she was the child of Mike Cheng, famed as one of the innovators of neural/cybernetic combination matrices, but Jez had never commented. Rumors, though, tended to flock to Jez, some concerning her past, some the source of the money with which she had seemingly created Abyssal out of nothing, and some concerning the backroom dealings that she supposedly engaged in. No one knew anything for sure, which only fed the rumor craze the more.

The last of her customers left and Jez was left staring at a barren street, contemplating the Icers from this evening and the spread of Cy-Blasts. She was going to need to sit and reprogram her security. As the Blasts became more common, the software protecting them from her security would become more sophisticated and she would have to keep up. It was a shame that…

“Jez. I’ve got the numbers for tonight. Quite a tidy sum.” As she turned to deal with Dante, her assistant, she set thoughts of security and programming to the back of her mind, to be dealt with later.

This post has been edited by Wyvern on Apr 30 2006, 03:48 PM

11:58:32
The door buzzer's screaching woke Cyril with a start. With eyes bleary and pain lancing through her entire skull she tried to stand from the chair in which she had slept. Gingerly one foot touched the floor then the second. Nausea welled up in her stomach and caused her knees to buckle as soon as weight was applied to them. After dryheaving on the polished concrete of the floor she managed to croak to her tormentor behind the door.

Cyril: I'd have opened it already if you would just stop pressing that button!

Lifting herself gingerly, and carefully gripping her work tables as she circumnavigated the room (Mechanics table for the NutriCart, Experimental Mechanics Table, Chemistry Table, and lastly the dormant Surgery Table). From the last table it was only a matter of a few steps to get to the sturdy steel door frame that connected her basement apartment to the outside world. Sighing, she tried to fix her matted hair and sweat stained kimono into some semblance of repectibility before remembering exactly who and where she was now.

The peephole computer told her that a young girl with a package was outside. Her system was clean from drugs, but with slight traces Ketek in her eyeleashes and fingernails, either her hair was fake or it had been detoxed by somone who really knew what they were doing. Wearly she flipped the manual overide switch and shoved open the door. Dazed by the light she stood, stunned, breathing deeply of the fresh air that came swirling in and pushing out the swirling haze of Ketek, Somatek, and engine grease which Cyril had forgotten she resided in.

This post has been edited by RebelOwl on May 1 2006, 04:35 AM

Marsh was basically leaning on the buzzer at this point. She hadn't been slapped with a "Failed to Deliver" yet, and she wasn't starting now. She could hear whoever it was shuffling around inside, and yelling inarticulately as they took their own sweet time. Finally the bastard worked out how to open the damn door and it slid open with a soft wheeze and a delicate cloud of dust.

Marsh: 9:42 AM, sixth day of seventh cycle. Your package is officially delivered and we disavow all legal...

Marsh was halfway through her spiel and already handing the clipboard and the conveniently slim package over to the shadowy figure in the doorway before she noticed it. The air practically swam with the sharp tang of drug and metal. Nights and days of detox, sweating, and vomiting the cursed stuff out, and her body still greeted it like an old and beloved friend, as if the nerves could stretch out of her skin and snatch the Ketek out of the air. Every subtle flavour was here, every purchasable promise from the Circuit, the fights, and the crisp surety thought.

And there, just inside the door, Marsh could see all the equipment you could need, all the stuff she'd had to leave behind. Sure she'd have to jury-rig a few of the connections, and obviously this wasn't set up to for proper playing, but it was all there. She drifted inside, letting her hand linger along the sleek edges of the repair table nearest to the door. There was a row of jacks along the wall, hung neatly by size. Already her mind was clearing, she'd be jacked in and away within moments, and there was this new move she'd thought of while going through that alley two weeks ago...

The sound of ripping plastic and raspy curses brought her back to the darkened apartment with a jolt, fingers still skating along the surfaces she'd been hiding from. Shit, the recipient was opening the package. If there was one thing Marsh knew, it was that in this job you NEVER wanted to know what you were ferrying around. That way lay nightmares, police reports and unmarked graves. Not to mention she had to get out of here before she plugged in to some complete strangers hardware and got herself fried or worse.

With a rush of Marsh grabbed her clipboard and darted back into the weak sunlight, snapping her wheels out with a smooth stamp and glide. The Ketek still seemed to sing around her, the taste seeming to blossom under her tongue whenever she took a breath, and she bit hard on the side of her cheek to drown it out with copper.

It wasn't until two blocks later that Marsh looked down at her tightly clenched fist and realized she was holding something, cradling it protectively against her body. Slowly she uncurled her fingers, drifting to stop in the never quite deserted street. There in her palm was a small vial filled with the iridescent flakes of the very drug she was trying to run from, the pink sheen, a mark of the highest quality, making it seem to glow.

This post has been edited by EvilBunny on May 4 2006, 04:13 AM

Cyril was barely aware of the delivery girl as she opened the package. Holding the thin strips of metal up to her eyes she quickly checked the quality of the new wafer boards in the sun. The first one had a slight flaw on one end, but she could place a mounting bracket there, the second was flawless, and probably worth twice what she had paid for it in Ketek. By the time she had finished examining the new hardware Marsh had been gone for 5 minutes. Sniffing one last time at the strangely scented, and so called "fresh", air she closed the door and hurried to her experimental mechtable.

She delicately hooked the two new boards into the spectromagnagraph for a thorough and complete analysis. She knew the basics already; the new material was of high quality and evenly distributed over the nanocarbon mesh. The SMG would tell her the exact tolerances.

While the SMG was doing its thing, she carefully removed the sheet that had been obfuscating the dome of dingy metal underneath. A couple of screws later the dome came free. Mechanically she set it aside and looked at the doughnut shaped interior. Before working on anything new, she methodically checked yesterdays work: The three ferro-titanium struts leading from the inner ring to where the engine would eventually be built seemed secure and the "hard points" she had built into the frame for future mounting of weapons and other systems certainly seemed strong enough to hold all but the heaviest of grenade launchers. Today she had planned on working on the power and cooling systems, but now that the SMG had confirmed she was in possession of two wafer boards of the highest quality (256 alternating layers of ceramics and Zero-G alloys compressed on a nanocarbon frame to less than a quarter millimetre in width) with which she could begin working on the new drone's "brain".

Despite being on the cutting edge with Ketek, when it came to her bots Cyril was old school. Most riggers these days did as much with software as they could. While it was true that today’s general processors were fast enough that you could, with enough system resources, run anything with one, Cyril preferred a dedicated piece of hardware built specifically for the task at hand. “Hardware can’t be hacked like software” was something she had once heard a street vendor hawking warez that were over a decade old. His point was horribly flawed, but the sentiment had stuck with her even now. Jacking into her mini-network she called up the plans for the four previous flying drones she had designed. Six hours later she was happy with the new specs and told the mechtable to begin building the brain. She jacked out and watched it work for a moment. The six tiny arms moved faster than she could see and it seemed that microprocessors, memory chips and other tiny bits just appeared in a flash of solder and a puff of smoke.

While the table worked, she wandered over to the chemtable to check the progress of this weeks batch of Ketek. Cyril’s heart almost stopped: A vial was missing. The room spun and her head swam as she rewound the previous eight hours in her still hung over mind. Then it hit her: She had to find that courier.

This post has been edited by RebelOwl on May 7 2006, 06:04 AM

The alley behind Marsh's apartment gleamed with oil, sickly rainbows swirling around her wheels as she paced nervously, the quick swish of her blades making short work of small distance. At one end a clump of human debris lay, the occasional sounds of harsh breathing the only indication that life still stubbornly clung the pile of rages. Above her hulked the dark monstrosity of a fire escape, her usual means of entrance and exit.

But she really didn't think she should go in there. She'd managed to make it through the rest of her deliveries, the drugs resting heavily on the necklace around her neck. Luke had bought it for her, so that'd she always have a dose near her heart. It'd been empty for three months, and she'd forgotten how familiar the weight was. But she couldn't keep it, she couldn't. Already she was mapping out where her mortar and pestle were, if she still had the right tools. She knew most of the scene injected it right into the blood, but Marsh loved the burn in her nose and the clarity in her lungs. Not to mention, it didn't matter how many years later, she was still afraid of needles.

But she couldn't take the drug upstairs. She couldn't resist it, she couldn't even remember TAKING it for hell's sake. And once she took it she knew it was only a matter of minutes before she'd acquired the means, by any methods, to get back into the system. But she didn't know what she'd find there, waiting for her. And she didn't know what she'd find once she came back down.

She had to get rid of it. But she couldn't just DUMP it. Sure she couldn't use it, the risks weren't worth it, but this deserved someone who could appreciate it.

With a determined tilt to her chin, Marsh trekked out of the alley. The clubs would just be opening by the time she hit The Sprawl.

Above her yet another advertisement scrolled across the sky, extolling the virtues of the Lower City's hottest clubs and smoothest DJs.
--------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------------

Marsh didn't have any difficulty slipping into the club without gaining undue attention. Abyssal was already starting to fill, the music crawling into your skin until you had to dance to get it out and she, despite her best efforts, she still fit the crowd to perfection. Marsh kept her face turned from the dancefloor and made a beeline to the bar. The chances she'd run into someone who recognized her were slim, but she didn't want to run the risk.

As she reached the outskirts of the bartender's territory, drinks and pheromones poured and mixed under his careful hands, she took a moment to school her features and with a breathless skip leaned over to get his attention.

"Hey" she exclaimed breathlessly, her hands scrabbling against the smooth metal of the bar hopefully "could you do me a favour?" Bat your eyes, but not too much. Mouth open just a little, wide-star struck eyes. and... now, after you've got his attention but before he has time to tell you he won't buy you a drink "could you make sure the DJ gets this after his next set?" Marsh swiftly debated between the blush or the leer, finally settling on a rueful smirk "He's AMAZING."

Quickly she slid the nondescript brown envelope over the table, smiling all the while. With a sigh the barkeep picked it up, throwing it under a collection of bubbling beakers. Good, she was glad to see that fans were still leaving the occasional gift and proposition; made her life a whole lot easier.

With one last flirtatious glance Marsh slipped away. She didn't drop the coquette act until she was two blocks gone, snapping her wheels back out and glaring at the two boys across the street. She'd successfully resisted temptation once again, but her hands still twitched the whole run home.

This post has been edited by EvilBunny on Jun 9 2006, 02:27 AM

::sigh:: In and out, in and out. Jez watched the flow of humanity through the doors of her club. Admittedly, at this time of the evening, there was much more in than out, but still, there were a lot of people to keep track of.

However, there hadn't been any real problems yet to speak of, so it was time to go out and work the rooms. Affecting a bounce to her step and a happy air, she started in the Red Room and worked her way through. She was in the Farenheit Room when Dante tracked her down.

"Anything of note?"

He shrugged. "Nothing much, but the waves caught some Ketek entering the building."

Jez raised a pierced eyebrow, waiting. Ketek came through her doors with almost three-quarters of her customers. Most who didn't have it on their persons had it in their blood. The nice thing about Ketek was that it was a lot simpler to pick up on the scanners that some other contraband, due to its cybernetic powers. Jez normally didn't do anything about it, though she tried to monitor any concentrated amounts. Too much dealing inside the club could bring attention she didn't want and outside influences she didn't need. For Dante to find her and tell her about it, there must be something unusual about this particular find.

"Well," he said, "First of all, it was concentrated, definitely carried, and the girl holding it didn't have more than trace elements herself. So we kept an eye on her. She went to the bar, and told Jack that it was 'for the DJ'."

"He's not supposed to be getting drop-offs deliver to Abbyssal employees."

"I know. And there was something else."

"What?"

Dante looked hesitant, so Jez prompted him again. "What? What else? She have some for you, too?"

"The Ketek seemed ... weird. And really potent. It showed up oddly on our scanners. I think it may be custom."

Well. This bore looking into. Why was the DJ getting custom Ketek delivered to himself at the club, and not directly to him?

"Well, I'll have to sit down and have a chat with him after the show. Meanwhile, what can you tell me about the girl?"

"Not much. First of all, she looked like a runner..."

This post has been edited by Wyvern on May 8 2006, 02:40 AM

--The speaker-static sound of a light drizzle quickly transits into a stacato hard rain tanging soundly off metal signs and thumping solidly on rooftops. The almost chaotic alternation and combination of the torrential downpour's frenetic percussion keeping time for the muted bass murmerings and ethereal keen of music from a nearby club.
--The rough and dull city, now smoothed by the rain, gleams in sleek, dark uneven tones. Streetlamps and lights streak into the streets as tall neon pillars.
--Vehicles and people blurr as they weave seamlessly around each other.
--A sliver of silver races through the night.
--Now, to a soft chorus of chimes, an invisible rain pelts the sheet of liquid obsidian, each splash sparkling and twinkling in the myriad colors of nearby neon.
BANG
--A bright flash and the droplets hover in midair as the city rotates around the viewer before fading into a miasma of dancers in a dim flickering room.

"BANG!"
"Oh, Bastet's left tit, what's so frellish important, he feels it necessary to interrupt a set like that? " Concerned, Bang cast a quick paranoid glance around and tried to remember if there was something in the trance kit Jez might have a problem with, but couldn't think of anything serious enough to justify Dante's tone just now....

One hand fingering the toggles on his shoulder port, pops it out, the other hand rapidly tapping out a few commands on the illusionary keyboard in front of him..

"BANG!"
"TWO MICROS!" Without looking up, Bang holds up two fingers, before making a brief obscene gesture.

Bang hit a few more keys before locking up the kit, scanned the sea of thrashing bodies, shouted a warning (barely audible over the aural pulse of electronica) and vaulted over the short bar in front of the DJ console and into the throng. He stood there a moment adjusting some of the hardware attached in odd places to the dark irridescent-green kevlon one-piece that hugged his thick muscular frame, and then glared menacingly at the stocky "trancer" eyeing his gear up in the box. The hand on his shoulder almost made him jump three feet. Bang spun around.

"Vahren-doch ein! If it's about my bar credits, Dante, I told Jez she can just deduct it from my take..."

This post has been edited by ichigumi on May 12 2006, 04:20 AM

Dante eyeballed Bang for a moment before replying.

Bang started watching a dancer with full joint 'plants dislocate her shoulders and hips as she danced. Her movement was jarring, yet smoothly so. She looked rather young to have had the transplants for long and some of the minor hardware was new, but most of the actual gearing was *old*; a style and make from about, oh 8...9 years ago maybe, or even older and she was obviously long familiar with it to be able make it work like that.

Dante shouted over the din "No, Jez knows you'll pay it in a reasonable time....although..."

Bang cupped his hand over his left ear "Yeah?" [something was obviously bothering Dante, but apparently not as urgent as he'd expected ... Bang figured he'd get around to it eventually if he just gave him time... still staring at the dancer, he wondered what had happened to her that she would have such extensive replacements... maybe she didn't need them... got them specifically *for* dancing? .... no, no one would do that.. as difficult as the proccess can be sometimes... at least she doesn't *look* that hardcore... her hair's covering her face, can't see if she's scarred... maybe if.."]

"HEY! Are you even listening to me??!?"

Bang came back to the conversation suddenly, realizing that, whatever it was, he had just made it worse. [better diffuse things a bit....] "Sorry, hey look, I was just trying to work out the mid rhythm for the lower ambient, it doesn't quite sound right does it? "

".....How many times do I have to tell you I have no idea what you're talking about, Why can't you...."

"Soooo... why don't we go into the corridor and away from the main rooms so I can hear what you've got to say without being distracted, ne? " Smiling, Bang, already through the nearest door, turns around again "Well?"

"Yeah alright, but try listening this time, ok?"


The discussion did not go well...A twenty minute lecture from Dante on how much the club means to Jez, followed immediately by a line of questioning that would have been less insulting had it not been from someone he had know for several years, which turned into an argument about respect and *that* degenerated into a bunch of shouting. No, the discussion did not go well at all....

["Yes! I use Katek. That's a given. It just isn't possible to get the same interface or the same *feel* without it. It's something those few who never actually *experienced* the stuff can never understand. But, it's one of those things that went unspoken. She *knows* I do it, and doesn't say anything because she *also* knows she can't find a DJ half as good that doesn't. *I* know she doesn't exactly approve so I bring it in with my kit and I have it built to inject it as part of my port connection so it's not obvious. I don't deal it, I don't share it, and I don't mention it. Frell YES I respect her, it's her rep' that brought me here. She's got a d*mn good business sense *and* a lot of common sense (which a lot of owners around here *don't* have). Without the stability and support of her club *and* her, I wouldn't haven't become near as popular as I am. Granted, my increasing skills, in turn raises her club's status and also allows her to expand it, but the fact is that we've got a good thing going here. What the FReLL makes you think I'm gonna frag it? ]

Fuming all the way down the "corridor" to Jez's "office" Bang almost slammed into an employee going the other way carrying a stack of small boxes. Startled, the guy stepped back against the wall abruptly, dropping one of the boxes. Bang, without even noticing, was already around the corner.

[Yes! it's custom. So what? A lot of people "reconfigure" it. I'm *not* dealing it, it's *mine* and I'm d*mn protective of it. Delivered?? Why the *frell* would I have it delivered? And here? Frag that! She doesn't come in here with it, and I wouldn't ask her to. And Dante wasn't telling me everything...in fact... he was being a lot more circumspect about the whole thing...even for him...What the Frell was going on here.]

Bang turned another corner and quickly crossed the last few meters to Jez's "office"

[...now maybe I'll get some answers...]

This post has been edited by ichigumi on Jun 3 2006, 07:51 AM

Amidst the towers of broken wires and salvaged monitors two children stand facing each other, their faces solemn. The fingers of their hands twitch in the dance of the circuits, their eyes are open and staring, flicking to follow the scenes that halo them in invisible waves. With an angry shout the girl, her hair a static cloud, jerks backwards. Breathing harshly the two suddenly appear to return to the room, sinking back from their playground. With a cocky grin the boy poses for the adoring crowds that won't appear for another five years before turning back to Marsh.

"You shouldn't let your guard down." The sandy blond hair falls into his eyes, and he flips it back in a motion that still makes Marsh's toes curl and her cheeks burn.

With a cheerful grimace Marsh glares back: "I'm not the one they keep sending to fancy classes. But you won't be able to win with that move again!" She had already worked out what he'd done, and really... it wouldn't be hard to counter...

Before she could initiate a rematch she felt a drop of rain hit the back of her hand. Above her the ceiling roiled with clouds and a torrent poured down, running in rivulets down her face. As flowers begin to bloom along the decrepit floorboards Marsh's look of confusion changes to joyful disbelief.

"Dash? Where are you? How did you DO that?"

A shimmer in the corner reveals an even skinnier girl with ragged brown hair. With a smile she looks at the two and holds her secret closer.

"I can't believe you duplicated the whole ROOM. I mean.. I didn't even realize we hadn't logged out, how did you route us back in? and look! the rain is even wet! You're going to be the most amazing...."

Behind her the door closes and the boy is gone. In his place two men stand in suits, one shabby and brown, the other crisp and black.

"Time for school," they state as the spiders begin to spill through the room, trailing red behind them. Outside a police scanner screams by, searching for her, searching...

The sound of the siren jolts Marsh out of bed, her hands going for the sharp wires stashed under her pillow. The blackened window lets in little light, but already it's obvious that this is merely a routine pass, nothing to do with her.

Sighing Marsh turns to the coffee machine, performing her morning ritual hours earlier than usual, her mind the careful blank so familiar from the dawn of every one of her storms. Something had to change. The nightmares had started digging up the past, she couldn't even remember stealing the drugs she'd just passed off to someone she used to call a friend, and even the barest hint of the police sent her into a blind panic. Hiding obviously wasn't working out as well as she'd hoped.

The mug steaming in her hands Marsh adjusted the window to one-way, watching the muddy sunshine begin to filter down between the buildings. Now should have been when she finally crawled into bed, the last of the ketek's sweet burn beginning to fade, her winnings heavy in her hand. She'd given up her whole life running from that night. Perhaps it was time to discover what it was she was runnin from.

This post has been edited by EvilBunny on May 24 2006, 04:46 AM

"Bang."

"Yeah?" Bang's tone was defensive and insolent. And Jez wasn't going to stand for it. Not this time.

"Do you want to explain to me why this" and she dropped a small bag full of sparkling yellow powder onto the beat-up metal desk in front of her, "bag of custom Ketek was delivered to you? Here?"

"Hey," Bang answered, "You knew I used Ketek. You knew I used custom. I don't know why it was dropped at the bar, but when I find out which runner dropped it, I'll talk to my dealer about reminding them to bring it by my personal rooms."

"Oh, fine then." Jez's face stayed happy and innocent for a moment, before the disapproval and sarcasm reappeared. "Except, of course, that I doubt your dealer sends you Cyril's custom Ketek. I would bet that because I know she doesn't sell it. And I'd hate to be the dealer that stole it from her and tried to sell it. Now, do you feel like a bit more of an explanation?"

Bang's face registered shock as he looked from the bag of Ketek to his boss's face and back. "Cyril's?"

"Mmmmhmmm."

"Are- Are you sure?"

"Well, Dante ran a scan of it, and from what I'm seeing..." Jez brought up a hologram over her desk of the chemical outlay of the Ketek. "There's only about four people in the world that could have made this. Only one lives in this city. I think I'd be more concerned if it wasn't Cyril's than if it is."

"Jez, I swear, man, I wouldn't be mixed up in nicking Cyril's stuff. Neither would my dealer. Swear."

"I'm sure you wouldn't. So, what do you propose we do about this and about finding out who tried to set you and I up with it?"

This post has been edited by Wyvern on May 29 2006, 03:44 PM

23:02:33

Cyril's eyes were on fire and her neck ached. In the past two hours she had tried (and failed spectacularly) to hack the systems of half a dozen courier companies. Despite the hangover throbbing through her entire body, she had to smile at the irony: Her paranoia of being found, now made it impossible for her to find that damn girl!

Frustrated and annoyed with herself, she brought up a new window in the lower right hand corner of her vision. "Trackers, Crackers, and Hackers" she spoke the words then waited as her retina was scanned and a random childhood memory pulled and checked. As the three second test finished a list of almost 50 names of current and former aquaintences appeared on the screen. After sorting out relevant factors (deceased, incarcerated, addicted, brainfried) she was left with a list of five names, none of which she new well.

With a slight hesitation she sent out 5 pings all variations the theme: "Hi, I'm looking for somone and X said you were the best."

Within an hour Cyril had two messages sliding along the lower edges of her vision. With a couple of clicks she opened them, placing the windows side by side.

One contained the elaborate dance of the professional, interest but no promises, secrecy, decorum, and ruthlessness buried in every curling line of text. The signature seemed to flow with a code all its own.

The other was a simple message:

"I'm bored. What have you got?"

-Countdown

This post has been edited by EvilBunny on May 29 2006, 06:45 PM

Cursing herself as a sentimental fool, Cyil sent a short message to the second respondant describing the girl and the situation. She didn't mention what the girl had delivered to her because it didn't matter. She didn't mention what was stolen because any hacker worth their speed could figure that out on their own.

Feeling grumpy, she jacked into the Nutri-Cart to begin it's nightly run.

Soft golden light bathes a room of warm angles and curving sophistication. The large windows show scenes of impossible beauty: a frothing ocean in glittering colours, a spiralling nebula from deepest space. Far from the grit and scuffle of Lower City, the secure compound of the Staff family whirred in expensive isolation.

In the centre of the room rose a sleek shrine to technology. Every curl of wire and silver of monitor combined into art, and the haze of money hovered about the entire mass and its single occupant like a demented halo.

On the desk, surrounded by next year's screens, rested a head of tousled blond curls. The eyes shine with that peculiar blankness of the most exclusive drugs, and the skin glows with those taken from the very earliest moments to delay aging. The small legs swing back and forth from the cushioned chair, not yet able to reach the ground.

Between his small fingers, just in view of his limpid blue eyes, coils the wire thin cord that runs into his mass of hair, then out to the banks of busily working machinery.

Flick.

Flick.

The only movement in the room is that of a fingernail against the delicate cord.

Flick.

The problem with being the long-awaited and engineered heir of one of the longest living families on the globe was that, until someone died, there was literally nothing to do.

Flick.

And even then he wasn't sure Father wouldn't continue to work.

Flick.

With an intelligence instantly bored with childish things, and kept carefully protected from experiences that might give him goals, he could have been sitting here for hours.

Flick.

Days.

Flick.

It is so hard being so brilliant.

Flick.

He bet if he ever actually WENT to Lower City, wherever that was ( Family Geography was the important thing. He was still a little hazy on where the Family was compared to the masses.) he could have some fun. But really,

Flick.

it wasn't worth the effort.

Flick.

The reply from Cyril slid in from the net, the harsh edges of the message softened by the spinning ball to his left until the data poured like butter through his brain. Not even a blink signalled the activity. Sweet Freeze he was bored.

Flick.

The girl shouldn't be hard to find, no one ever was. But he hadn't tried tracing the bright cord of one of the specialist delivery services. Carrying goods that didn't exist, they might prove some type of challenge. It would be something to pass the time.

FLICK

Dorian stared steadily at the guy sitting in the chair in front of him. The man didn't look like he could afford the services he was asking Dorian about, but then again, looks have a way of being deceiving. IT was something he was very well acquanited with.

"…So you see, I need you to…" the man was saying.

Dorian interrupted, "You want me to fix the deck so it'll run better than it already does."

The man's eye twitched nervously, he nodded.

"I don't need to know the why's of it, just that you can afford it…upfront."

A grimy hand slid brand new plastic across the table. Dorian smiled as he picked the card up, flipping it through his thin fingers. He already knew it was legit and the cash was there the moment the card hit the table. One of the few perks of being able to tinker with things is that you get to make them do what you want. Being able to scan and read data from any chip that landed on his desk was one of the many small adjustments he had made...then again the technology he had at his availability didn't need any real adjustments, the majority being prototypes slated for the market two years from now if they functioned the way "someone" wanted. That "someone" worked in a very narrow mindset. So Dorian tinkered for fun.

Dorian tossed the card back witha flick of his wrist. The plastic made it halfway across the desk before being caught, telling him more than his client really wanted to be known.

"Pick it up tomorrow." he said.

"Isn't it going to take..."

"Tomorrow morning. Go. Now."

Once Bang climbed back into the DJ box and re-submeged under layers of circuits, wires and lights, all else was forgotten, pushed out of the way by the surge of music pumping into into his veins with every beat.

After the last strain of music had long faded, and with the last pieces of his kit packed away, Bang headed out the door. With one step outside the club and into the muted cacophany of humanity, thoughts that earlier had been ignored came flooding back into memory.


[Interesting...
Frell, downright fascinating if I didn't have to do an info net-run now....on top of everything else...
So Cyril's back to making *custom* Ketek again....
I thought she'd sworn off after...
Well, not that it matters anyway...there's no reason she can't do as she likes...
Although it would've been nice to know...
I could've...
She could've...
*sigh*]

His "dealer" these days was little more than a glorified babysitter. She monitored it, added things to the mix and tweaked the controls occasionally, but that was about it. She couldn't deal the stuff; she wasn't nearly clever enough for that. For *that* at least, Bang was thankful...the recipe, as old as it was, was exclusively his.

But Cyril had been his "dealer" originally; she had been the one who had actually designed the stuff in the first place, with Bang helping from time to time-mostly with the menial stuff.

In the beginning, it had all been exciting. Trying new mixtures, testing the batches, a dozen or so experiments (for various potential clients) all going at once. Bang remembered the mad gleam in Cyril's eye when she thought up some new idea, and how intense her concentration when working on a particularly tricky batch. Her fervor was infectious.

But it wasn't long before Bang realized that Cyril's talent for this went far beyond his and he was never, ever, going to catch up.

After that, the whole process eventually became tedious. Without being able to keep up with the innovation end, he became only involved in production. The precise measurements that were required, not to mention the sheer repitition of it all sapped any enthiusiasm he had left.

At least he had learned fully how to duplicate the Cortichrom and it's variants (they had been designed specifically for him after all) but Bastet, how tiring! It had to be almost *contantly* monitored at one stage; while the sensors and automation took care of most of the adjustments, some of the color changes (that, inexplicably, were *not* observable by sensor and that indicated...oh, only the coders knew what...) had to be dealt with manually.

Bang couldn't count how many times he had concurrently praised and cursed Cyril for these fiddly concoctions.

Especially after she had sworn off making custom Ketek and stopped creating new varients of the Cortichrom for him.

[And now she's making *custom* Ketek again ?!?....
What was it Jez said? One of only four that can make this level? Bastet's ear!... No wonder she didn't tell me... probably couldn't afford her custom stuff now... ]

Bang realized he'd been just standing there in front of the club staring off down the street.

[...]

Bang stretched a bit

[Guess I better get home... ]

The streets of Lower City were the line where day met night. From the last of the speciality houses and clubs staggered the remnants of revelry, only to be confronted by twilight dawn and the first of the daytime denizens. The two groups alternately glowered or ignored each other. Unlike the shared hours of late afternoon and evening, this was a time both felt to be their rightful property, and viewed the others as unwelcome intruders into a hallowed space.

Marsh wished her dreams were more conveniently timed. An extra couple of hours would have made this attempt much simpler, but she simply wasn't willing to wait until the cycle started over. Three months was long enough, and her skin told her the hour was now. Lucas had always wanted her to wait, to be patient, to plan. But that wasn't how her world worked, and he wasn't here. Once the thunderstorm of decisions hit, that was when you had to move. If you waited, the opportunity would pass and the castle would collapse. Instinct, luck, and knowing your territory. Those were the things you needed. Unless you knew all the variables, plans were useless. Marsh knew this; had seen enough plans shattered into weapons to be used against their creators to fear them. She even had a few scars to remind her if she ever forgot. The moment was everything, and the future a celluloid bubble that others would use against you.

Marsh knew that she had barely an hour before the last of the dives closed their doors and the streets would crawl with the eyes of the day. This needed to be quick and easy, a featherlight touch that would fade in the light.

The Supine Cat had already closed its doors to business by the time she made it to the Hollows, and a quick glance in Mourning Marble revealed a crowd too sparse for her to avoid notice. But the games at Six Fingers were just starting to wind down. The crowd hovered at the ideal level of debauchery and comatose, slobbering gently on themselves.

Marsh staggered into the back room and slid bonelessly onto the bench next to the young kid with the long brown braid who lay halfway draped across the simple console embedded in the table. Woven in amidst the strands were the dull rust colours of his allegiance, but all she needed to see was the forest of software embedded along with a dirty jack just behind his ear. Not only was he deep in pleasure drugs, he was running any number of experience enhancers as he avidly watched the end of the strip fight that it flowed across the room. These fights were little more than elaborate and choreographed porn, but they had an avid fan base and a gambling system Marsh had yet to understand.

Glancing away from the fate she had so successfully avoided, Marsh made a show of looking at the night's line-up and let out a load groan.

"Oh man, I missed her fight. She's gonna kill me. Buddy, hey buddy, how'd the last fight end? What move'd she use?"

The guy, his eyes heavy-lidded from a night of vids and vicarious sex, finally turned to focus on her. Marsh let fly a conspiratorial smile and leaned in, giving him an eye-full of skin as she started to weave her story.

"The winner's my girlfriend, and if I can't congratulate her properly on her brilliant performance, details and all, I'm not getting an encore, if you know what I mean."

The dirty smile he gave her in reply showed her he knew what she meant just fine. Nothing like giving him a real-life connection to a petty sex star to occupy the few brain cells he had left. This should flow like water.

With a hopeful wave of her hand, which included the console, the dirty jack, and everything else Marsh asked "You mind if I access it?"

She didn't even wait for his nod, and had her own shard in his head, the fight pulled up on the table within moments. As the buxom blond and red-headed whippet battled it out she kept it interesting with a series of close-ups and intimate secrets. Beneath it she threw out the search program that she'd cobbled together before setting out. It was simple, but as it ran through its parameters and downloaded the information on that night in Seventh Circle, and any mention of her name or similar events, Marsh itched to pull the filthy connection right out of his skull and flow back in. Working through fingertips was like speaking underwater; garbled, imprecise and too similar to drowning. Seemed her old link into the police archives had finally closed up, and instead of easily punching through she just had to abandon that route, and carry on to the next sub-routine. She was trapped in the spiderweb of her own flesh, but she wasn't going to stay trapped forever.

As the last file saved she grinned, saved the fight to the top of the shard, plucked it out of his dirty brain and gave the guy a squeeze on the thigh. With a throaty laugh she left him at his table, eyes still mostly unfocused. He'd have nothing but good memories of the night, if he remembered any of it at all.

This post has been edited by EvilBunny on Jun 8 2006, 02:31 PM

Multi-colored pathways littered with black doors. Shades of what could be lingering in the peripheral. Ghosts of programs long deleted leaving vapor trails to mark where they’d once been. Nothing is ever gone in a deck, everything leaves traces; it’s a matter of what you want to leave behind.
Dorian opened one of the doors and stepped in. Things shifted as the decks program adapting to his presence. No longer a rainbow of colors. It was more of a hazy lilac. He looked ‘round and found the green line he needed. Coaxing it out of its sleep mode he tested the strength. Would it be strong enough to hold the new code? Had the line been tapped before? Answers flowed back into him. The line was good. He proceeded with the next step, loading the code. Colors began to shift marking his progress. Dorian waited until things went grey and he stood in a seemingly barren location. The green line was no longer green. Liquid chrome moved under his fingers instead. This was his mark. This is what he left behind. Dropping the line, Dorian left the way he entered back onto the multi-colored pathways.

Dorian blinked slowly, his eyes readapting themselves to the glow of the monitor. Feeling returned rapidly after he pulled the neural jack. Sound invaded his ears. He’d left something playing, music…ah that’s right. Zoe. His current favorite ‘old school’ artist, Zoe Keating was a genius when it came to playing the cello. The looping and playback, the way she composed her pieces was very organic in nature. It was something Dorian really appreciated. The thought reminded him that he should really give Bang a buzz and see if he needed any adjustments to his kit made.

Dorian stood, stretching his 6 ft frame. He’d been working for 5 hours inside the deck. The modifications he made to it made the deck operate at streamline levels his client could never imagine and would never understand. It was solid work. The holographic clock on the table told him it was just a little after 1 a.m. Plenty of time to run another quick diagnostic, check the morning data, and get some sleep. He wandered into the kitchen to get himself a drink before diving back into work.

Countdown gave a couple of blinks as the world reformed around him. A singsong chuckle echoing in his head. She wasn't who she claimed to be at all.

The delivery companies were boring. They weren't difficult to track at all, and getting their information hadn't been any fun. It was never a challenge. He didn't even know why people bothered with security when barely six hours of patience would open all their secrets.

Once he'd realized that most of the companies were owned by a central matrix, which was actually owned by one of Father's puppets, it had been simple. Another six hours later he could follow every thread down through their walls and up into their living rooms. If he wanted the client info it would take another day or two to open the doors, but it wasn't like there was anything else to do.

Anyway, Cyril knew the exact time she'd placed the order, and the time stamps were under barely three levels of encryption. And the girl they sent out was turning out to be very interesting.

Well actually... "Jules Hansbury" wasn't interesting at all. She had the fake address everyone in Lower City seemed to revert back to, an average education, mildly crummy credit and references that both checked out. Whoever she'd paid for this new identity was good, and she must have paid a LOT. Usually they just handed you someone else's history with the edges shaved clean, but this one was built from scratch, all the flaws and history lovingly built in. But he could taste that it was too fresh, too new. This Jules didn't exist.

And what was most interesting was that she didn't exist in the nets either. There were no registered handles, no links or addresses, no trace of her flying bright through the glittering wonderland. She even picked up her jobs in person. It was like she had never jacked in at all. Which, if she was stealing Ketek, was a blatant lie.

But... she did deliver.How convenient that his lastest present was ready for pickup.

A message uncoiled from his brain and skittered out onto the net in a single line of thought:

Tinker-

I'll be sending a girl to pick up the package. And I want it dusted in the nano-trackers. Twice your usual price.

-Countdown

This post has been edited by EvilBunny on Jun 9 2006, 04:05 AM

The message from Countdown pinged just as Dorian was about to retreat from the rainbow realm of net. He'd been channel surfing after finishing work and had spent the last two hours in conversation with eve-ten. It wasn't often that she searched him out. And he most certainly never looked her up. If their paths crossed too many times, things tended to get real sticky real fast. It was just the nature of their relationship.

Dorian scanned the data. Messenger. tomorrow. female. No problem. He sent a quick reply back down the wire.

Done.


With that sent, Dorian removed himself from the leather chair and headed to the bathroom to take a shower. After that he need to get some food as he certainly wasn't getting any sleep until much later.

This post has been edited by Firefly on Jun 9 2006, 04:04 AM

Marsh really needed these secretive hermits to give her a break. She'd been back and forth over some of the nastiest parts of town all yesterday, and today was looking to be no better. Going through the information she'd downloaded the day before was going much slower than she'd expected. How did people DO this without the burn and shiver of Ketek, the rush of knowing? And she wasn't going to have the patience or the energy to tackle it again tonight if she had to sever fingers off another would be mugger (sure he'd just get them regrown, but he'd think twice before messing with her again).

This next one wasn't even just a delivery but also a pick up then off to some ritzy drop-off box in an area where she'd stick out like a sore thumb.

With a disgruntled hip-check Marsh pushed open the door to an unassuming shop off the cluttered street, not bothering to retract her wheels. The point was to make this quick.

The old fashioned chime jingled as the door opened. Dorian glanced up from the deck he was taking apart behind the long counter. A girl with tousled brown hair wheeled into the store on blades that had seen better days. She wore an outfit that screamed messenger service at him. And she didn’t look to pleased to be there.

“Yes?” Dorian asked as he continued to dismantle the hardware.

The girl stopped just short of ramming into the counter and pulled out a data pad.

“A pick up was requested.” She said holding out the pad, not looking at it.

Dorian nodded. “Sure, just a second.” He pulled the last of the chips out of the deck, placed them in a container then went to retrieve Countdown’s package.

In the meantime, tired of holding the data pad, the girl placed it on the counter and peered curiously around.

“Here you go.” He handed her a non-descript brown box, a perfect cube. She took it and placed it into her bag without a look.

“Sign here, please.” her fingers beat an impatient staccato on the counter as she waited for his signature stating that she had indeed picked up the requested package.

Initialing the data pad, Dorian slid it back to her, “Anything else?” he asked.
The girl shook her head and started to wheel her way to the door again with so much as a backward glance.

With another jingle to announce her leaving Dorian went back to his task at hand. Sifting through the information his scanners had picked up as he worked. Something about it tasted familiar. So familiar in fact that he actually replayed the scan to see if he could have been mistaken. He looked at the now silent door.

“This can’t be good.”

Dorian always did deliver. One of these days the Family was going to have to bring him in. His talent was wasted on those outsiders. Not to mention it'd be much easier to get his presents if he didn't need to send to the outside.

A swoop of vertigo struck him as she went round another corner. 10 clicks an hour, North by Northwest, roughly twenty meters sublevel. He wished they gave him visual, but the flow of information was like a rollercoaster, a constant change of motion, of speed and direction.

Left turn, another ten meters down, speed increase to 11 clicks, and the constant back and forth oscillation that must be like what they mean when they talk about the ocean. Dorian's present always were the best. He even knew when she reached out her hands for a better angle on her turns.

He'd sent the link to the basic feed to the contractor already, along with her assumed name and the picture he'd snapped when she'd dropped off the package at one of the many hotel security deposits.

She was pretty enough, rolling to a stop, has she reached home already? but nothing special. The picture revolved on his desk as he sent the subroutines searching for her likeness out in the net as she started movement back up. Must have been a stoplight. He was going to have to see if he could integrate it into one of the map systems so he'd have a better idea of where she was. Someone had gone to a lot of effort to hide her, and he wanted to know who.

Lower City, Seventh Circuit Fight Club ‘Dead Man’s Doorway’

-- The Morning After --

Stepping over the threshold, the team of corporate security men entered a world far-removed from the sterile steel and glass buildings where they worked. The club was a mess, and stank to high heaven. The police had been on scene for several hours now, and the forensic teams were going about their business, gathering what evidence they could. One of the suits smirked. The place would have been so confused afterwards that any clear tracks were so muddied as to be entirely useless. This was good. This gave them time to put down their own tracks.

The lead suit nodded, and two men broke away, moving through the police like ghosts. They would be done putting down false trails soon enough, and the cops wouldn’t notice. They never did. The bloodhounds were more than happy to close a pain-in-the-ass case like this one, even if all it involved was tagging another corpse in another part of the Lower City (generously provided by a homeless drunk and another corporate security team). Waving a hand, he dismissed the fourth suit, and stepped up to meet the officer on the scene. Judging by his age and obvious unease, he was new to the force. ‘Poor misguided idealist,’ the lead suit thought as he peered over the rim of his sunglasses at him. ‘Still believes in law and order.’

“S-sir?” the cop stuttered as he took in the imposing figure. “What can I do for you?”

“What you can do is get the fuck out of my way and let a competent team at this mess,” the suit snarled, and was pleased to see the young officer jump. That routine still worked on the new recruits. “You’ve done enough damage to my corporation’s interests already, and you’re only going to make things worse if you keep staggering through this area like a raging drunk. DON’T TOUCH THAT!” he yelled as he pointed at a forensic examiner who was about to bag one of the bloodstained objects near the corpse. The forensic examiner hesitated, and then, as if responding to an unseen cue, continued her work.

“I SAID DON’T YOU FU-” the suit was cut off as a firm hand gripped his shoulder. He whirled, about to continue his tirade, but was met with a stream of choking cigarette smoke. Instead of laying into this new character, he found himself coughing mildly. The hand on his shoulder dropped away.

“Is there a problem here?” the question was not addressed at the suit, but at the rookie cop.

“Apparently we’ve stepped into some corporate action, lieutenant,” the officer replied, still obviously uneasy about the suit standing between them.

“We did, did we?” the lieutenant took another long drag on his cigarette. He then turned his attention to the suit. “You got the documentation to back up that claim, or are you just another punk high on Ketek and ego?”

The suit snarled, but reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of pages of legal paper. The lieutenant picked them up and glanced at them. “Classified, classified, classified. You want us gone, then you’ve gotta do better than that.”

The suit smiled. The cops always did this. Put on a bold front, but in the end they always ended up following the easiest trail. In this case, that trail had been laid down fresh nearly thirty seconds ago. It was time to wrap up.

“The proper documents will be forwarded to you, lieutenant…”

“If you’ve got nothing else, get the hell away from my crime scene,” the lieutenant said flatly. “Your precious Corporation won’t care if you have an accident here in the Lower City. You’ll just go into the ‘Loss’ column on their monthly balance sheet. What are you suits worth, about twenty thousand when all your training is finished? Pocket change.” The lieutenant blew another stream of cigarette smoke into the suit’s face. “Now. Get. Out.”

The suit’s left without another word, though the team leader gave the lieutenant a dirty look as he left.

Seventeenth Precinct, Second District, Lower City, Two Days Later

Taptaptap. Through the still blackness of unconsciousness a noise filtered through. Taptaptaptap. There it was again. Whatever was going on, it was getting louder and more persistent. Bang. Louder. BANG. Much louder. The noise became a ferocious pounding on a wooden surface. BANGBANGBANGBANGBA-

“It’s open,” there was the click of a latch, and the soft fall of footsteps. The dull thump as a file folder landed on the already crowded desk.

“We’ve something unusual,” the faint creak of a chair as the speaker sat. “There was a murder at a dance-club. Twenty-something, we’re still waiting on a positive ID.” The listener did not stir. Lack of a positive ID was nothing. A kid at a club probably had half-a-dozen well-crafted false names, with their whole life story burned into some part of the brain.

A murder at a club wasn’t unusual either. Kids got killed at the clubs all the time. Fight over a girl, fight over booze, fight over drugs – these kids needed to fight. Damned if he could figure why, but that was the way it ran. The speaker went on, ignoring the disinterest of the still figure before him. “Here’s the unusual part. The kid couldn’t have been cold more than a few hours when we got a visit from our corporate shadows.” Ears perked up, and the still figure sat up in his chair. There were several possibilities: first, the kid was right in line for the director’s chair; second, the kid was a close blood relative of the director or another senior corporate officer. The listening figure ticked those off immediately. Death didn’t mean a lot if you were a corporate brat. There was probably a copy on ice somewhere just waiting for a complete download. That meant that either the kid was rolled up in some Corporate dealings in the Lower City, or…or what? The chair creaked as he leaned back, waiting.

The officer sitting in the chair in front of him leaned forward, as if imploring a stone idol. “We need you to take a look at this. Your instincts are good, and you haven’t steered wrong in the past.” Well, he had, but he reckoned this wasn’t the time to point it out. “These suits were called out by the lieutenant, and we have some evidence that they tampered with the crime scene. We can’t be sure, but something smells real rotten.”

The silent figure finally leaned forward and picked up the file folder, gently removing the first off-white sheet of paper. The officer stood, and gave a sloppy salute. “I’ll leave you to the investigation, detective.”

Detective Samuel Cain glanced up from the sheet of paper he held in his hands, and nodded. “Route all subsequent findings to my office, and mine alone. I want electronic, hard-copies, and data-disks for each update. If the Corporations are mixed up in this, I don’t want my leads going south on me.”

“Of course,” the officer turned and left, shutting the door quietly behind him. The detective kept reading, wondering why he hadn’t dreamed this time.

-- Three Days Later --

Stepping into the now silent establishment, Samuel Cain took a long look around. The floor was pitted and scarred by the pass of countless pairs of unusual footwear, and the unusual colouring was the result of years of spilled drinks, vomit, and blood. The fresh stains were contemporaries to the murder he was now investigating, and he briefly wondered how many others had died that night – only to be picked up and ‘disappeared’ by circuit organizers, black market profiteers, Corporate suits, or a sick John looking for a fix far outside the mainstream. Threading his way through tables, Sam found himself standing over the spot where one young man had died. The black stains he had left to mark his passing were already fading into the patchwork pattern created by years of abuse from generations of patrons.

Kneeling next to the bloodstains, Sam pulled a pair of glasses from his pocket. Putting them on, he found himself staring at a 3-dimensional recreation of the crime scene at the time emergency personnel had first arrived on scene. The puncture wounds on the victim’s torso were deep, but the points of entry weren’t particularly large. There had been no murder weapon recovered from the scene, and it was doubtful that even the most thorough combing of the area would turn it up. The detective filed that away as something to determine: what weapon was used in the killing.

The scene did indicate several things about the killer’s state of mind at the time of the attack. The number and violence of the puncture wounds indicated extreme agitation. A professional would have used one of three different blows with a pointed weapon, and it would have been much less obvious – probably in a dark corner, instead of in the middle of the club’s floor. The fact that the wounds were spaced almost randomly across the torso meant that the attacker had been reacting instinctively, instead of thinking the blows through. Unfortunately, this meant that the motive behind the attack was murky at best. Staring intently at the scene, letting the images roll over in his mind, a suspicion began to form. Before he could act on it, his comm-unit buzzed. “This is Sam, go ahead.”

“Detective, we just had a full team swoop down on Precinct. They grabbed John Doe before we could put a positive ID on him, and seized all the physical evidence we gathered at the scene.”

“What about the copies?” he immediately asked.

“They’re all safe and sound in your office. Good call,” the lieutenant sounded both pleased and angry. “I want you to follow this all the way through. I don’t like suits messing around in the Lower City, and I especially don’t like it when they’re messing around in my jurisdiction.” He lowered his voice. “Find who killed this kid, and if you can, find out what was so blasted important about him.”

“I’ll do my best,” Sam ended the call, took one last look around the club, and stepped out into the murky daylight of the Lower City.

-- Day Five of the Investigation --

Sam looked up from his reading as an imposing figure entered the room. “Afternoon Lieutenant. What can I do for you?”

“Have you looked at the screens lately?”

“No. Why?” The detective thought he knew, but it wasn’t wise to steal the lieutenant’s thunder.

“They’re calling it the Seventh Severance,” he threw down a news report. “Your case is now primetime fodder. Act like it.”

With those words, the lieutenant spun on his heel and left, leaving Sam to his work. Two days of relentless work, and the detective was starting to build a picture of what had happened in the moments leading up to the murder. In the words of the first officer on the scene:

“The victim was still fresh, and the few remaining patrons indicated in passing that there had been no real motive for the killing. One of the Circuit fighters – female, according to witnesses – had simply walked up to the individual and stabbed him repeatedly, before being dragged away by onlookers…”

Cain had then spent twelve hours checking old files for similar incidents. Not many had popped up, but he had now collected half a dozen similar cases, some dating back nearly a decade. In each instance, a fighter on the higher levels of the Circuit had gone berserk and killed an innocent bystander. No one had ever figured out why that one person out of so many had been targeted, especially in a crowded club environment. Previous investigators had just chalked it up to a Ketek high and real bad luck.

Still, this provided a useful grounding for the current investigation. He knew who he was looking for – a Circuit fighter. He knew the day, time, location, and probable gender. Now it was just a matter of checking the listings. There were hundreds of individuals and domains dedicated entirely to the circuits, and most of them had comprehensive listings of the fights, and the fighters. The Precinct kept several paid accounts on the premium listing sites, in part because it was useful for monitoring the underground culture which was closely tied to Circuit fights.

He narrowed the search parameters to weed out the usual promotional crap. After an hour of refinement, the detective found himself with a short-list of possible suspects. All of them were high-level female Circuit fighters, some of them with high profiles and large entourages, some up-and-comers, and some in between the two stages. Out of these fighters, which one had stabbed a young man to death?

-- Day Seven of the Investigation --

It had been two days of intense biographical research on the part of Detective Cain, interrupted only to deliver the heavily encrypted security recordings from the club to the Cyber-Crimes division. Cain now had a fair picture of every one of the fighters on his short-list. The older and more successful fighters he was prepared to drop from the short-list, as their entourages would be certain to keep them out of trouble.

‘Seventh Severance’ was getting huge play on the ‘screens. The news networks were having a field day obsessively covering every bit of information – known, rumoured, unproven – not to mention the investigative reporters (Corp sanctioned, evidently) who were now crawling through the Lower City hoping to turn up a big story. The lieutenant had managed to keep the reporters off and away from Cain for the past few days, but he knew his luck would run out eventually.

Pulling up another page, he paused. Now that was odd...

-- Day 96 of the Investigation --

He’d seen it before. Never unfolding before his eyes, mind, but he’d put the pieces together after it was all over. To see it crawl forward, hour by hour and day by day, was an odd thing, to say the least. The last 89 days had been spent well, the detective thought: watching as his investigation gradually and inevitably lead to one Circuit fighter, whose name now floated gently on the screen in front of him.

“So tell me something,” he said to the screen. “Why’d you go and kill a man just when you’d made it big?” Tapping gently, he brought up a series of pages from his reports on the investigation. He scrolled down and stopped on one section of plain text:

“The clearest indication yet of the suspect’s involvement in the Seventh Severance is the slowly fading trail she blazed through the online landscape. Aliases, affiliations, upcoming events: all have been cancelled, deleted, or left to fade without explanation into archives. This death has taken almost three months, and now, short of what information remains in police databanks, it is as though this person never existed.”

She had killed him. This young woman, for whatever reason, had stabbed a man to death. Now she was hiding from it, trying to avoid the consequences. He knew the impulse well, and had often been tempted to take the easy path. He had learned from hard experience though, that trying to hide from consequences lead to other, unforeseen consequences.

“Sorry kid,” he murmured. “But you just can’t hide from the past. It has a nasty way of catching up to you at the worst times.”

Going back to the name, he clicked it again, and followed a different branch. There, glowing on the screen was an address. Cain figured there wouldn’t be much left, but it was worth checking out. Grabbing his coat and sidearm, he stepped out of the office, jogged down the stairs and out into the streets of the Lower City.