Bubblegum Crisis Fan Fiction ❯ Yours Truly 2032 ❯ Mignight Express ( Chapter 2 )
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: Dartz_IRL 
MegaTokyo was huge.
A seemingly endless mass skyscrapers, warehouses, apartment blocks, concrete overpasses and grimy back alleys receded into an afternoon's dust and smog. It was the apotheosis of urbanisation, a technological God among cities.
Anime/Manga: Bubblegum Crisis Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Action / Cyberpunk / Mecha / Sci-fi | Type: Self Insertion | Uploaded On: 06.25.2009 | Pages: 34 | Words: 36.5K | Visits: 821 | Status: Work In Progress
MegaTokyo was huge.
A seemingly endless mass skyscrapers, warehouses, apartment blocks, concrete overpasses and grimy back alleys receded into an afternoon's dust and smog. It was the apotheosis of urbanisation, a technological God among cities.
Anime/Manga: Bubblegum Crisis Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Action / Cyberpunk / Mecha / Sci-fi | Type: Self Insertion | Uploaded On: 06.25.2009 | Pages: 34 | Words: 36.5K | Visits: 821 | Status: Work In Progress
Yours Truly, 2032
Yet another BubbleGum Crisis SI, in the traditional form
Bubblegum Crisis....(c) Artmic/Youmix.
I'm just borrowing this for a while, for some Fair Deal fun.
Mmmkay?
2: Midnight Express
----->>
The Maglev wasn't too crowded, and for that I was thankful. 12:27:45 on a Friday afternoon was empty-time for any form of public transport, anywhere on Earth. Some things just didn't change, did they? The smell of ozone and sweat drifted through the carriage, the roar of the air pinned between the carriage walls and the tunnel beating against the ears.
Well, here I was.
Some old lady was staring at me from across the carriage, probably wondering where her youth had gone, and how long ago it had gone there. No delays, no hold ups, no complication. The Maglev sped me towards my new home.
To think, I actually got to meet the Knight Sabers... how awesome was that? I'd probably never see them again, outside of a newspaper or wherever they showed up, but it was still kind of cool. The idea that such larger than life people could exist....even if it was in an entirely different universe. Well, I wouldn't be one of them.
The old woman got off about three stops before I had to, giving me the dirtiest look imaginable before she did. It was like I'd eaten her baby or something. What was her problem? I wondered to myself. Could she tell what I was? No, definitely not, I reassured myself. You're just being paranoid. Really. There were only two ways to detect me as a Boomer, and not just a cyberised human being. And none of them could be performed without special equipment. I was safe, so long as I didn't attract too much attention.
Perfectly safe.
Even if the pheromones I was giving off told the entire world that I was ready and willing to copulate. Even if I could sense the burning hormonal attraction between two teenagers, the chilled desires of a single old man, or that the stone-faced businessman who sat down opposite me just wasn't giving the right signals for a male at all.
The information was there if I wanted it. I could tell who'd gotten some last night, and who hadn't for the last month. Who'd had a date with Rosie palms, or who was so stressed they couldn't even get started. It was a sixth sense. Humans do have it, but aren't conscious of it the way I was, so describing it is like describing colour to a blind man. Passion was hot, and loneliness cold and wet. Desperation burned and stress flared at a high pitch, fear frigid and almost ferrous. And I could control my own signals enough to project whatever aura I wanted. I just couldn't turn it off. The default minimum was relaxed, and available for sex.
Off the train and what seemed like the right stop… the symbols matched anyway….I filtered through the milling crowds, noticing that the railway police never even glanced at me, not once. Boomers themselves, I wondered? Possibly, it was hard to tell for sure. I didn't want to stick around and find out for certain. Knowing what side of the law I was on if discovered, the less excuse I gave anyone in uniform to ask a question the better. Even if the closest I'd ever been to being an actual fugitive from the law had been that Harrison Ford film.
I left the station, stopping for a sugar filled coffee on the way, before stepping out into the midday sun. My God this was a hot city, the concrete and glass reflecting and radiating heat into the streets. In the still air it was a dead heat, leeching energy from the body in litres of sweat. Dust and diesel smog clung to the ground, pressed down like everything else in town by the same oppressive heat.
I slogged on, following the path marked on the navigator.
The crowds in Yokohama were thinner, the roads quieter. Everyone and their mother was probably somewhere in the city centre, working. And the majority of them lot were probably servants of the Dark Tower itself, still looming behind me, kilometres away. I wonder what Mason was making of his death?
I tried to put it, and the passing stares of strangers, out of my mind.
Eventually, I made it out to my new home, one of a hundred or so identikit grey apartment blocks laid out in a gridiron. A little red dot on the map marked the spot to within about 4 inches. I took a deep breath, and pushed open what should've been an automatic gate. The whole lot was a post-quake construction originally intended to house some of the millions of displaced persons whose homes had been destroyed. Now, with cheap rent and supposedly decent facilities, they'd become the first home of many of MT's newest arrivals, which now included myself,
Alright, I have to find the landlords office. Landlords office?.... Where's the Landlords office. There was a sign bolted to the building wall.
Welcome to Taro Residential Apartments.
Building 214k numbers 0001 through 1100
Comfort Type-1.
TIEC Block A.
Sponsored by MT Economic Development Council
Which I'd learn, was pretty much a synonym for GENOM. Not that it mattered really. People migrating to the world's most prosperous city had to live somewhere, and better a decent set of decently maintained apartments, than a Mumbai-style slum. I found the office, after a few minutes chasing my tail between bilingual signs, reversed signs and missing signs, through the same grey concrete alleyways between and through the buildings. They seemed clean enough, well maintained enough, there weren't any obvious signs of drug-taking or anything like that. No discarded needles or heroin wraps, no smell of piss near the lifts, no rubbish left lying around, little or no graffiti even except for someone named Bango Skank; compared to most government housing schemes worldwide, this place actually seemed reasonably well maintained.
Mrs Saotome Akane, an old pot-bellied woman who barely reached my shoulder, was already waiting for me in her office. She harrumphed at the amount of foreigners moving in with not a single word of Japanese, then started complaining about how they were bludgeoning the natives into non-existence, before rambling on about her own childhood in old Tokyo.
“I remember when I was young once,” she kept saying, as she led me up the concrete stairs to my new life. “Had a body much like yours too. Fit, young, healthy….. I loved martial arts. Do you practice?”
“Nope,” I answered completely uncaring
“You have a body like you do,” she said, “I remember when I was that young…”
She led me to a steel door, number 847, up on the eighth floor of ten, about halfway along an open-air walkway that looked across a concrete basketball court onto the opposite building, number 213k.
“Well here we are.” Akane said sighing, and fair play to her despite her age the climb up the stairs barely seemed to have bothered her. “Rent is on Thursdays, burnable rubbish Tuesdays, recyclable rubbish Wednesdays. Electricity is read monthly. No boomers allowed of any sort…” well, that made me feel better, “and one more thing, Try running a brothel, and I'll have the police in here in a shot,”
I blinked through a flash of anger,
“I'm not a prostitute,” I stated, glaring daggers at her.
The poor old lady blushed with shame,
“I apologise,” she bowed, “But it's happened before. Young lady just like yourself,”
I just groaned. The worst part of being a sexaroid, was the `sex' part. I'd been walking out in public for all of two goddamned hours, and I'd figured it out. Nobody touched me, not a single hand was laid on my body, but they didn't have to. Their eyes said it all…..
“You know where the office is if you have any trouble. Welcome to Taro,”
She forced a smile as she dropped the keys into my hand.
I answered with a sour “Arigato,”
“Well, at least that's more Japanese than most residents here know,” Akane remarked as she left.
So there was the door, and here I had the keys. The lock was stiff, the hinges stiffer, a blast of heat rushing out to welcome me home. I stepped inside a little shocked at the silence that greeted me, before pulling the door shut with a hard metallic clang. Like a prison cell…. I nearly tripped over a low step just past the threshold. It was still achingly quiet.
“Well, here I am,”
I was answered by the solitary fridge motor clicking on. I glanced down at it. GENOM Household Appliances, printed in friendly black letters across the top of the door. The same with the cooker, with the dishwasher and sink, and the simple CRT-look-alike TV in the living area; all were manufactured by GENOM. I could even see the Tower out the window, if I looked. It was about 20 miles away. GENOM was omnipresent. It was on the train, in my apartment, in my head even.
At least the apartment itself was half decent. Just inside the door, there was a small kitchenette, with cooker, microwave, fridge-freezer and dishwasher, along with some cheap and basic chipboard cupboards dressed up in a veneer that actually made them look more cheap and tacky than they would've been otherwise. The floor was a polished hardwood, or at least that's what it looked like. It was probably just a cheap chipboard knockoff hiding behind another printed veneer. To the left, just past the kitchen, another door slid open to reveal a small shower/WC. Beside that, what I thought was a bedroom was actually just a hot-press, with a hot water tank, heating and air-con controls, and space for some towels.
The living area was a little bit larger than my old bedroom, but not by much. It had space for a television, another worktop, some bare shelving and a couch, which I quickly guessed was hiding a fold-out bed in the wall behind.
6-mat apartment alright.
You couldn't swing a kitten in here, let alone a bloody cat. But, it was home for the foreseeable future. Yup…. Home….On my own. Without even my dog for company any more.
I sighed, walked up to the window, watching my reflection draw near. The Tower loomed between the reflections of my hazel eyes, a few strands of rusty hair hanging across my brow. I stared hard into my eyes for a moment; looking for something….I wasn't sure what exactly. I blinked, calling the staring contest with my reflection a draw for now.
“Frakkin' Cylon,” I snarled, drawing my best impression of Colonel Tigh.
For some reason, that was funny as hell.
----->>
MegaTokyo was huge.
A seemingly endless mass skyscrapers, warehouses, apartment blocks, concrete overpasses and grimy back alleys receded into an afternoon's dust and smog. Glass, steel, concrete and tarmac, flickering neon lights and cold blue streetlamps, mixed with crumbling 20th century towers, overcrowded and in bad need of repair, standing alongside the forgotten skeletons of half-finished tomorrows, left gaunt and rusting as whatever flame of initiative propelled their construction guttered and died, smothered by accelerating progress and planned obsolescence. It was the apotheosis of urbanisation, a technological God among cities.
I spent the Saturday browsing through the city, trying and failing miserably to get halfway used to it all. It was oppressively overwhelming. The press of hurrying crowds dragging me along streets, the summer heat sucking the energy out of my body. 6 million people a day passed through Shibuya maglev station alone, if I read the statistics right. That was more than the total amount of people living in my home country. The sheer scale of the city, it was mind-boggling. If you stopped long enough to think about it, your brain would melt and run out your ears trying to comprehend it all, or you'd get trampled under the heel of surging crowds of hurried salarymen too concerned with getting work on time to notice they were crushing someone underfoot.
It was intense, it was thrilling, it was terrifying. Daytime Akihabara was a riot of pulsing electronica, neon, noise and cybernetic style, afternoon sun glinting off of polished chrome implants. There was a shop called Ghost in the Shop… they named it after the manga… selling high grade cybernetic repair parts. Holy fucking Christ... these people knew they were living in a sci-fi world, and had enough sense to hang a lampshade on the fact. Yesterday's sci-fi was tomorrows retail, was next-Thursdays obsolete heap of junk. Anything and everything was for sale, it was only a matter of how much you wanted to pay for.
The only way to get through it all was to focus on your destination, proceed directly towards your goal, with the exclusion of all else, before the city's sirens lured you to your starving doom among labyrinthine backstreets of arcades, comic-cafés, `special interest' doujin sellers, and budget electronics. I thought I even saw Knight Saber garage kits somewhere.
And in the middle of it all, surrounded by a million people surging forward and back in one chaotic rabbling mass, I was alone. I never felt smaller, or more insignificant. Just one isolated grain of black volcanic sand in a shifting white coral beach a mile long. I picked up some `Japanese for idiots' language tapes from somewhere, along with the basics of living such as food, clothes, a decent HGD player, and what looked like a half decent history book telling the story of the last thirty years or so.
I'd expected clothes shopping to be a hilariously nightmarish tangle of psychosexual conflicts and staring eyes, but it wasn't. I wandered in to some budget department store, a thousand eyes following me the whole way. I picked out some budget underwear, which I knew was my size, without even blushing, followed by a few pairs of jeans, some conservative t-shirts then another jacket or two. I tried them on in the dressing rooms, giving the figure in the full length mirror a gentle smile while I did so.
At least I could understand why people were staring. I wasn't over-endowed, to the point of being top heavy across the chest, or pear shaped about the hips. I wasn't toned to the point where my body's curves had been burned off, and neither was I so out of proportion that I looked like a cheap piece of fanservice with a stick-like waist. I was 'just right'.
In physics and engineering, there's the concept of an `ideal' system, the perfect system. It was a system on paper which could never exist in the real world, use to demonstrate the pure mathematical concepts of what that system should be. I had an `ideal' body, one that no real flesh and blood woman would ever have. I demonstrated the pure, idealised concept of what the perfect woman's body should be. Every single curve was mathematically precise to the smallest fraction of a radian. I was neatly balanced, exactly in proportion and honed to scientifically verifiable sexual perfection.
In isolation, on my own… standing in a harsh white little cubicle making sure a hip-hugging pair of no-brand jeans didn't hug too tightly, it was almost thrilling. It felt great to be fit, to be able to sprint the length of a city block, rattle off over a hundred push-ups without running out of breath, or wake up in the morning without any cramps in my knees.
And when I stepped outside my apartment, everyone was staring at me, snatching glimpses as I walked past. My confidence melted away like an ice cube in an oven. It was a curse, it really was. If you saw me, you'd remember me, you'd remember my eyes, my face, even the way I walked. Despite trying to be as anonymous as inhumanely possible, I stood out in a crowd like a Trekkie at a Star Wars convention, and I'll be damned if I didn't feel the same way as that hypothetical redshirt. I felt like I was the whole world's target, everyone was gunning for me, searching for me. I was conscious of everything I was doing, how I walked, how I moved, how my hips swayed with each stride, how if maybe I made the briefest eye contact with someone, they might think I was trying to talk to them, ask them out, or that I wanted to be dragged into some back alley and used as the manufacturer intended.
And that did terrify me. Because I knew I'd do it, then walk away completely unbothered by the fact. It'd be no different to breathing. I mean, who'd want a sex toy which got depressed each time you used it? It was disturbing, some of what I knew I was capable of. If I gave it too much thought, I could feel bile rising up the back of my throat. And the more I tried to push it to the back of my mind, the more it was dragged forward again by some otherwise innocent passer-by catching a quick glance at my backside, or some bastard on the train that slipped a hand up between my legs. I screamed, drawing dark looks from an entire carriage, because there's one thing the locals hate, and that's somebody who makes an unnecessary fuss.
God damn it if I didn't want to just find a nice quite dark place to hide for the rest of my life, a nice little black hole of solitude to swallow me up. It was infuriating, it was frustrating, holy Christ I was nearly crying over it. I didn't come out of that changing room until somebody knocked on the door. I dreaded the journey back to the apartment on a crowded evening train, but I couldn't exactly stay in the city overnight, could I?
It was something I'd have to get used to.
I can deal with this…. I can live with it. I can put my own t-shirt back on, walk out that door, pay for this stuff, then get back to Taro. And maybe find a way to work this to my advantage, and get a couple of yen off of the price of a decent pair of boots.
Yes! I steeled myself, stepping into the world once more from my changing room prison.
A few women piped up, complaining about being left waiting maybe, commenting on how I was so much fitter than they were, or how I was a complete and total slut. Or probably all three at the same time. I shot an angry glare back at them, fixing the tallest one, a taut brunette with more clothes under her arms than cash in her purse probably, with a withering gaze. Our eyes locked momentarily, and I knew exactly what I was going to do, before I'd even thought I could do it. I felt a strange static charge rushed through my body, and watched her shudder and cross her legs, a shameful blush slowly forming across her cheeks as she crossed her legs, right before her eyes glazed over and she dropped limply to the ground, folding up on herself like an empty sack of spuds.
“Naoko!” the stockier of the women shrieked, catching her friend before her skull cracked open on the hard wearing carpet.
Mind darting between smug satisfaction, and the absolute terror that somebody might realised that I'd done it, I suppressed the overwhelming urge to drop into a fit of giggles instead, quietly slinking over to another side of the shop, hiding from the growing commotion over by the dressing rooms as shop security tried to figure out what to do about the fainted woman, while everyone else just crowded around for a closer look.
Was anyone looking at me? I wondered, a nervous paranoia taking over.
Security cameras?
None that I could see.
Guards?
More concerned with the unconscious brunette.
Shoppers?
Well... no more than they normally did.
I stood there, trying to pick nonchalantly through a rack of sunglasses, fear-fuelled adrenaline sending shivers through my body. It'd only take one person paying close attention to notice what I'd done, one person to shout. There'd be gunfire, there'd be police and there'd be a note in the paper tomorrow about rogue sex-boomers 'hiding amongst us regular people'. Of course, I wouldn't be alive to read it by that stage, the local constabulary would see to that. I snatched a yellow-tinted pair of sunglasses off the rack, quickly concluding that it would be best if I just paid for this stuff, got out of the shop and did my best to merge with the crowds on the way home. Whispers of fear circled me as I stood in the queue.
Where they talking about me?
I really couldn't tell. They might've been. They might've been complaining about the price of silk panties for all I knew. Maybe if I spoke Japanese, it'd be better. At least I'd know what they were saying about me. They could just be complementing my figure, or they could be waiting for the best time to call security. I groaned inwardly, cursing under my breath as the unconscious brunette was carried into the back of the store on a stretcher. I wonder if she realised what I did before she dropped.
I swallowed my fears as the 'woman' behind the checkout called up for the next customer.
She was a boomer... a cheap one...red eyes vapid and glassy like a cheap doll, the same empty eyes as the mannequins that had scared me half to death the day before Her voice was soft, polite, and disturbingly computerised with an electronic echo, her skin pallid and porcelain-like, her hair black with an almost plastic sheen. She fixed me with her blank, dead eyes the entire time, smiling an empty, senseless smile. The boomers lips were pursed and small, formed into a demure pout, her hands working automatically as she scanned item after item in. And what was it really that differentiated me from this plainly obvious 'thing', squatting right in the depths of the uncanny valley? I questioned privately.
What exactly was inside that steel skull of hers, and just how different was it compared to the wetware between my ears?
She kept smiling as the cash register ran up the total, announcing it in the same inhuman monotone as I'd announced my system specs that first night. Chillingly, it made me wonder if the two of us were closer together than I thought. The number of red LED zeroes on the cash register snapped me back to the present. I baulked at the total for a moment, before realising that, of course, the total was in Yen. I hated that. I hated that poxy plastic robot behind the bloody desk too... still staring at me, patiently waiting.
No, I am nothing like you.
I still gave a polite smile as I handed what I thought was my bank card over to her. She scanned it.... scanned it again when it didn't work, checked something on her keyboard, all with that same impassively happy visage, before the payment ran through with a happy digital chirp from the till.
“Arigato,” it intoned, handing my card back to me, before efficiently and neatly packing everything away. She said something else, still smiling stupidly after me, probably a “Thank you, come again,” but I didn't care, I was halfway out the front door and praying the metal parts inside didn't somehow set the door alarms off. I didn't, thankfully.
Out into the hot street again, I swallowed my fears and tried to merge with the heaving crowds. This would've been a great deal easier if everyone didn't stop to take a bloody glance at me. I had to get away from the crowds somehow... get to the apartment, duck out into a side-street, maybe try a reasonably empty restaurant and get a quick meal. Yeah, I'll feel better with a bit of food in me. A quiet café seemed to fit the bill alright. It was small, pretty empty, and otherwise unremarkable inside, except for the mouth-watering smell of freshly baked bread.
The only customer, an Office Lady, glanced up from her laptop at me as I walked past her, before I quietly took a seat in a dim corner beneath a painting of old Tokyo Tower, remembering Wild Bill Hickok. Nobody was going to sneak up behind me now, and I could see the whole café. A boomer waitress, almost the same model as before, took my order. A little unsteady on her feet perhaps thanks to a stabiliser problem, but she had that same plastic visage, that same happy monotone. She had a simple English language pack installed, so I could understand her, but I still hated her so much nonetheless. She wore a simple, loose fitting t-shirt and skirt, the same as the other two boomers running the place. There was one, the exact same model except for her platinum blonde hair, standing bolt upright behind the cash register. Another one was quietly mopping the floor just outside the kitchen door.
My hand was shaking as I ate, but I still loved that surge of energy through the body after eating. Starchy foods like rice were best, but any sort of carbohydrate would do for basic power and energy, with proteins and metallic elements keeping me in good physical condition. My body couldn't store fats like a normal human, and I knew I had to keep an eye on the electrolytic qualities of my blood, since it didn't just transport oxygen, but also electric power to some electro-mechanical subsystems.
Compared to the waitresses, whose only biological parts were probably a few biochips inside their heads, I was maybe a hundred times more complex. I was a full feature Core2Duo, compared to the basic i486 running the till.
Yeah, I thought bitterly, I was some piece of work alright.
I'd starve to death in about four days if I wasn't careful, while the machine behind the till would just power down when its batteries ran out, and stay that way until somebody recharged it. An electric shock would play havoc with my internal systems, but would just ground itself out through her metal chassis. And that's not even talking about that unique design flaw common to all 33-s, how the auto-repair system depends on the circulation systems to do it's job, and vice-versa. Lose too much blood, and I lose the ability to recover what I've lost. PFC's aren't that easy to synthesise. The machine behind the counter, could carry on with both arms missing and litres of vital fluids spraying across the floor, a regular human even, like the Office Lady politely paying for her meal, could lose about a litre of blood before it started to affect her. My problems would be getting serious at that point.
That and it was bloody annoying when grains of rice got stuck in my hollow canines. They were a stop-gap kludge of a system for an emergency Dracula-style refill but instead they always ended up getting gummed up with whatever I happened to be eating at the time. It was such a pain in the teeth to pick things out of there after a meal.
Funny that. I could heal a broken leg in under a day, but still be floored by certain kinds of injuries the Mark 1 Homo Sapiens would shrug off. On the other hand, I could repair wounds in a day that would have a person in recovery for a week, given power and materials.
Well, I had to take the good with the bad, I guess. At least coffee still tasted half-decent, even if the cookbot lurking in the kitchen burnt it by pouring boiling water into the pot on top of the coffee, instead of just warm water, but some weird people liked it that way I guess. At least when the Office Lady had left, it was just myself and the other boomers, quietly and efficiently running through their tasks while I ate. The food wasn't anything special, just a chicken curry that was a little underspiced, but it filled a hole, and gave me time to settle my head.
One good thing about the brainless basic models, they didn't stare at me.
I stood up, walked to the till, and paid. They smiled, they gazed, but they didn't stare. There wasn't any feeling of them actively looking at you, and comprehending what you were, beyond a customer to be served. If it had any inkling about whether I was a boomer or not, it didn't care. The silver-haired one behind the till took my money with artificial gratitude, before politely asking that I come back soon.
I still hated her, and I wondered why as I left.
All jokes about frakking toasters aside, there was something extremely disturbing about those mannequin types, and it wasn't just the uncanny valley. It nestled inside my head. And it wasn't that they reminded me about what I was.
As much as I didn't really want to be, I was okay with that. Even on my own, I knew perfectly well what I was.
Maybe, it was that these dolls... Well... Was I really that different from them? Just what where the differences in the brains ticking inside their skulls and mine? Why was I able to think? Why did I have my own self-identity, and they weren't anything more than automatons.
Could it be? That their very existence suggested that I was the same? Just an automaton?
I tried to shake it off... tried to tell myself that it was the most goddamned clichéd and stupid thing to be worried about. I mean, the mere fact that I'm able to be worried about being nothing more than a programmed machine acting out subroutine dictated responses proved I wasn't, right?
I'm no philosopher.... and I didn't want to be. It seemed too much like a headache. But something about those mannequins still bothered me. They were only programs, nothing more. Was I nothing more than a more complicated program?
Fuck that.
I stood outside the café, and I wanted nothing more than to march right back in there, and scream “I am nothing fucking like you!” in the face of the unfortunate android behind the till. And then just get even more pissed off at the confused stare it would probably give me, as it tried to figure out just why I was shouting at it. Funny thing was, even I wasn't quite sure of that
A pair of coppers brushed past me, chatting away to themselves; faces hidden by their visors. I watched them walk right passed the till-boomer, who welcomed them with the same artificial warmth, while they sat themselves down at a table by the window, waiting for the waitress to take their orders.
Well, I thought ruefully, there was one thing I had in common with it, or her, or whatever... and that was the response from the police if I broke any laws.
The crowds outside where staring at me... as usual.
“Just fuck off!” I screamed at them.
A few seemed shocked at the idea of one so beautiful, having a mouth so foul, gawping like idiots for a moment, as if somebody swearing at you in English was some sort of cardinal sin, before joining the rest in hurrying along away from the pissed off redhead.
Man that felt good.
I glanced over my shoulder at the cops sitting in the café, another clench of fear tightening in my stomach. They were looking at me. Stupid things like that will get you shot! My mind chastised. Well, it didn't matter how stupid it was, it felt good. It felt strong, it felt powerful.
Even if I hurried off away from the police, just in case.
15:24:35, according to my internal clock.
Best get back to the apartment before the evening rush. It was bad enough having a train full of people snatching glances at me. If it got crowded enough that they started touching off me, then they might start touching me.
MegaTokyo's maglev trains were smooth, fast and efficient and reeked of ozone, sweat and disinfectant. They weren't really different to the trains I knew at home, the parts above the magnetic motors anyway. The seats were always full, and the hand-bars always seemed greasy, despite the trains being meticulously clean, and they lurched horribly going around corners. Unlike the trains I knew, MegaTokyo's metro system was punctual to the second. The metro map itself was so complicated, it looked more like a child had been let loose with a box of crayons and they'd built the system to match, but I could figure it out.
It took me an hour to get to Taro, changing twice on the way.
An hours journey by train, and I was still in the city. An hour's journey back home would bring you halfway across the country, and it the trains wouldn't be travelling that much faster. I marched up the same concrete stairs as the day before, taking the same left on the 8th floor. On the building across, I watched some kids chasing each other with plastic toy lasers, screaming at each other in two languages.
Apartment 847, home again. With that same heavy door, that same oil-starved squeak from the hinges and a rush of heat as the door opened.
“I'm home,” I announced.
Silence answered.
I sighed... What else was I expecting? Honestly? My dog to come running again, the same way he always did?
Suddenly feeling impossibly exhausted, I dropped my shopping bags on the floor, the HGD player flopping over in its box. I reached up, and pulled down the fold-out bed before throwing myself onto it. The springs squeaked as my breasts bounced a little sorely, and I stared up at the concrete ceiling for a few short seconds.
Home...
Well, I guess this was it for the rest of my life. My real home was probably long demolished. My parents might still be alive, and I should've been in my early 40's. My dog was probably dead. And maybe, none of this mattered a god-damned bit, since they might not even have ever existed here in the first. I glanced out the window, at a small patch of blue sky.
Yeah, here I am.
My bra was itching, so I scratched myself and then turned on the TV. Later I'd have a shower, then get something to eat, but right then, I wanted nothing more than to just lie there and rest on the bedsheets.
That's it, I'm staying in tomorrow.
“This is the BBC World Service. News on the Hour....” began the television.
It was the only decent English language TV service in the city. Funny, they were still talking about the recriminations and reparations after a USSD particle laser blew Aqua City sky high a month ago, but nobody was mentioning the second blast I knew had to have happened three nights ago, when I first crashed into town.
That was how Born to Kill ended, right?
Did it even happen?
Well, that's not my problem anymore.
----->>
I spent Sunday lounging around in nothing more than a loose fitting t-shirt and panties.
It was a good day, my favourite so far.
And my yellow sunglasses made me look a little like Yoko Littner, with shorter hair, and a healthier waistline. That, I didn't mind at all. I just needed a flamed bikini, shorts shorter than a pair of boycuts, knee-high boots and a sniper rifle longer than I was tall. That and four times as much hair.
----->>
Monday was work day.
sleep 28800 && cat vmlinuz > /dev/audio
One command which turned my laptop computer in to a perfectly acceptable, if slightly terrifying alarm clock. The shrieks of the damned themselves burning in hell would certainly wake somebody up, and the infernal machinations of the Linux kernel blasting from a laptop speaker certainly did a good impression of hell itself.
And I felt a good deal better about using that instead of my own internal alarm.
I couldn't ctrl-c that as easily and roll over for another hour's snooze for one thing. Sleep was good, sleep let me forget the world outside and drift off in dreamland. Sleep gave my internal systems time to recover after a days hard use.
8:20:27
I had to be at work by 14:00 dead.
It took an hour to get to the city centre, so I had to be out of here by 12:30, at the latest. Plenty of time. It wasn't like I was in a rush to get outside again, was I? Lying here in my underwear, sandwiched between hot bedsheets, curled up into myself with my chin resting against my breasts, it was bliss.
I blinked.
The time was now 10:47:12
Shit.
The only thing that changed in 2 hours was the position of the sun. No... I am not getting up!. I am not going outside! I will not be stared at! I had money... I could stay here safe from the world and it's perversions behind my four walls. Being a sexaroid for four days was a brilliant way to start developing agoraphobia.
But, I'd spent three quarters of Sylia's kickstart cash on Saturday... and that was just on the essentials. Alright, I needed to get money. And that meant working. And that meant going outside. There was no way I could earn money lying in this bed now, was there?
Yes, there was, another voice reminded. I did have other 'marketable skills', didn't I?
Squicked by the thoughts of it, I crawled out of bed, not bothering to even push it back up into the wall. If I wanted to eat, I had to work. If I had to work, I had to go outside. Maybe I will get used to it in time. A hot shower beckoned, followed by a basic cereal breakfast, and then something to fill the next hour or so before I had to go.
Hot water and body shampoo did wonders for the spirit. So did spending careful minutes properly massaging and lathering every nook and cranny, making sure they were spotlessly clean. So did working out every little tangle in my hair with a fine toothed come. Clean, clear, dripping wet, and naked as that day I left the factory, with nobody to watch me, I felt free.
I lounged around in my underwear while getting something to eat first, before finally resigning myself to the fact that I had to put some clothes on at least. As comfortable as it was to lay back on my bed wearing only a t-shirt and panties, watching TV with a cereal bowl between my crossed legs, I couldn't exactly get on the train in my underwear, could I?
I spent the last half hour of my solitary freedom figuring out the laces on my new workboots, with proper steel toe. It's impossible to overstate just how much I fucking hate trainers. Boots are made for walking, boots are made for wearing for hours on end, boots had better ankle support and they were a great deal more comfortable. That, and they added a bit of force to my stride, a bit of confidence. The yellow-tint sunglasses completed the effect.
Jeans, jacket, T-shirt, money, backpack with 20 year old laptop and the front door keys, 12:22:53 according to the clock in my head.... alright, here we go.
Funny... either I was starting get acclimatised to the fact that the world and it's mother was staring at me, or less people were taking an interest. A lot of people still did, but most times it was nothing more than a passing glance, a mere acknowledgement of my presence before they moved on. Maybe it was the Monday morning blues hanging over everyone's head?
The train was pretty empty mind.
Or, I wondered, remembering a little tidbit of advice Sylia had given me, was it the sunglasses? How in the name of God could it be the sunglasses, they didn't cover my butt, did they? I took them off for a moment, looking at my gold-tinted reflection looking back at me.
I put them back on, pushing the up on the bridge of my nose, before checking my reflection in the window to my left.
With a denim jacket, yellow sunglasses, rusty hair and a wry smile, Meg Deckard was a very 'interesting' looking person. If I'd met her a week or so ago, I'd've ached for her, before quietly leaving without ever saying a word about it. I flicked the shades up to my forehead for a moment, giving myself a playful wink... just because.... Somehow, it did wonders for my self confidence.
I picked my way out of some back-end station in District 3, hauling myself up to the surface and into the sun once more. My confidence was running high, people were paying less attention to me, the city was still hot and the traffic was still hell... I had my navigator, I had my destination. I can do this.
It was the sunglasses God knows how exactly, but it really was. It was like they came with some sort of personal forcefield, trapping me in my own private out-of-phase universe. Nobody really saw me, and somehow, I wasn't as bothered by those that did. The numbers fell beneath the magic threshold line that separated tolerable from irritating as fuck. Until somebody in a blacked out saloon thought it a bloody good idea to beep me and cheer as I walked passed.
“Idiot,” I muttered, cracks forming in my good mood.
Some ADP took a glance at me as I walked past, before carrying on to whatever the Japanese police equivalent of a doughnut shop was. A nervous thrill ran up my spine, but I ignored it.
Two right turns and a left, and I found my place of employment at 13:37:42, right where it had been marked on the map.
Sylia had offered a choice of three places, either near where the Sabers worked, or somewhere they went often enough. There was a secretarial job at Phoebe's gym, a position as a waitress at a café not far from ADP headquarters, and one final job, the only one I actually had personal experience in doing.
My navigator lead me down a side-street, under a rusting fire-escape, to the front door of the Hot Legs. The sign outside was off, The bricks were dirty, and the poster outside announced that tonight's band was some zebra-trousered crowd called Electric Sheep.
Nice one.
I knocked on the metal door. The sign said 'closed' but it pushed open anyway.
Inside, was red-lit and dark, daunting, strangely cold and smelling of stale cigarettes and beer. There was a short corridor, lined with dimly lit posters. Priss was there, THE Priss, wailing like a banshee in a blonde wig big enough to be a small tree. Galaxy Ranger. … Predictably wore over the top helmets coupled with what looked like western gear. Metronome on the other hand, were pretty ordinary, 3 guys, 1 girl, 2 guitars 1 synth, 1 stack of drums.
I took off my sunglasses, folding them and hanging them off my breast pocket.
“Hello!” I called, passing a lone wooden stool and table, empty but normally the place where one of the doormen would sit. I glanced up at a surveillance camera, red LED eye staring monotonically back at me
Another door, this one cushioned and buttoned in dark velour. Something about it reminded me of a horrible strip-club back home, and a night during rag-week 2006 that I'd thought I'd long drowned in alcohol. I pushed it open and stepped into the bar area. The lights were up, almost uncomfortably bright. Dazzled for a second, I blinked a few times to clear my eyes. On my left, a short varnished bar running along a brown painted wall, glasses and spirit bottles sparkling and glinting in the harsh white light. I watched my distorted reflections walk past in the polished brasswork of the beer taps.
The air was clear and cool, the bar empty for the afternoon. The ventilation system worked in here well enough alright. A few tables were scattered up against a painted steel railing, chairs stored inverted on top, a little red lamp marking the centre of the circle. The bar area itself was up on a mezzanine just below the level of the stage lights. I looked out across, at the empty wood-panelled stage, curtains open with equipment stashed and stored haphazardly behind. The dance floor, 20 feet below had a hard plastic sheen to it, I could see my distorted shadow looking back up at me when I leaned over the railing.
“Anyone!” I called out, my voice coming back fractions of a second later with a power that surprised me.
A voice shouted back from somewhere backstage. It sounded annoyed.
“Deckard!” I shouted my name “Meg Deckard!”
Silence.
“English?” the reply came back. “You speak English?”
“Yeah!”
“ New bar Girl?”
“Yeah!” I said again, “Start today I was told,”
More silence, shattered suddenly by the crash of something metal hitting a concrete floor hard. It send a shock through my spine as the metallic ring died in the air. I fidgeted with my backpack straps, they were rubbing annoyingly against my boobs.
Had somebody just been murdered?
“Don't be daft,” I told myself, as a head popped up over the back of the stage.
I heard a voice barking orders at someone unseen, a voice that sounded like a Kamikaze pilot ordering his enemies to die. The Japanese language was unique that way.
Well, this was going to be interesting alright, I thought watching my future boss cross the floor, and climb the stairs.
“Gaijin,” he addressed me gruffly. “Don't normally hire them without any language experience, but a certain lady insisted, and you never say no to your landlord, Nakamura Kentaro , but everyone calls me Ken,”
Ken, was on the greyer side of 70, about 5 foot 2 and falling, with thin arctic hair, and thin, leatherlike skin drawn across sharp cheekbones bone. He was an old man, who might once have been a razor in his youth, but despite having dulled somewhat with age, there was still a hard sharpness behind those grey eyes.Why did he remind me of Clint Eastwood? I could sense his coolness, his maturity and it reassured me no end.
“Meg Deckard,” I offered him my right hand.
A look of surprise passed across the old man's features, and he took my hand limply in his own. I watched his eyes run the length of my body, and I just sighed internally. He was inspecting me, the way a butcher inspects a piece of meat before the chop
“She said you were something special, and baby, she wasn't lying was she?”
Baby?... Bloody brilliant. And why did he speak English like he was from Texas?
“I try,” I demurred.
No, I didn't try at... but it paid to be polite to the person who's going to be paying your wages.
“Anyway, no time for pleasantries. I'll give you the tour then we have to get the place ready to open by 4 o'clock,”
Straight to the point, like a bullet. What was the old Chinese curse again? May you live in interesting times? This job was going to be very interesting alright...
The first place he led me was the backstage area, which was actually right under the stage, built out of an old subway tunnel that had been broken into. There were dressing rooms for the bands, for the singers, for the staff and for The PRISS. The brass sign hung at an awkward slant, one of the bolts having fallen out.
“That'll be gone shortly,” he commented, rapping on the door. “Blowing off shows on short notice whenever she feels like it, leaving me in the lurch with hundreds of angry customers, demanding their money back,” he rolled his eyes to the heavens, before cutting right back to me fixing me with his eyes again, “Say, you got any other useful skills, Deckard?”
“No!” I screeched, “I won't do sex!”
My voice rang off of painted concrete walls, while the old man hit the roof with fright. Hands glued to hips, I tried to stare down the old man. Disgusting....disgusting.... I won't be your prostitute.
“Not that!” he barked, recovering himself. “I ain't no Yakuza scum who sells gaijin girls like yourself for profit, what the hell gave you that idea?”
His face was red as a boiled lobster, his eyes fixing me with that Siberian stare. I wasn't sure if he was more annoyed, or more embarrassed.
“Sorry,” I muttered, a gentle shame welling up, “But,”...excuses... “I guess I'm just nervous is all. First job in a dangerous city,”
I scratched the back of my head, and he snorted .
“Can't be too careful I s'pose,” Nakamura nodded, cooling “I won't begrudge a young woman that. Anyway where was I?” finger on his lips while he thought, and I thanked God for getting away with something, I wasn't sure what exactly. “ You can sing, and dance, can't you?”
“Probably,” I shrugged.
Well, I didn't know for sure, but I guessed I could.
“Learn how,” he ordered “I can tell you have a voice practically built for it, and the house-band can and will play just about anything, Steinman especially. I don't want to have to do another open-mike night. That damned ADP police inspector thinking he was William Shatner,” Nakamura's eyes narrowed in anger, “He nearly ruined me that one night with his Danger Zone cover dedicated to Priss,”
I snorted, trying to stifle a laugh. I hadn't met Leon McNichol yet, but the mental image of his animated counterpart slaughtering Kenny Logins in true Shatner style was just too bloody funny to ignore.
Highway.....to..... thedanger....zone.
Myway.....to.....thedanger....zone.
“I didn't think it was so funny when they started asking for their money back,” he snarled bitterly, “And don't think you'll be getting paid extra neither if you have to step up,”
“What if I'm popular?” I asked, trying to be as neutral as possible.
A singing career wouldn't exactly be the low profile Sylia had wanted…. Too many people would ask questions I couldn't answer.
“I'm pretty sure you will be, with your talent.” The eyes told me just what talent he was on about. “And that talent will be best used to make day-to-day money behind bar,”
I gave a low groan, staring darkly down towards the end of the white painted corridor, to a steel door marked Private. Where the other bar staff were quietly murdered, hacked to pieces, then turned into mince pie? Or maybe whole roasted? Leg or breast? Well, there was plenty of breast to go around anyway. Nice, soft and tender, fresh off the bone. And sore thanks to my backpack.
Heh....
“What's so funny?”
“Nothing at all,”
“Anyway, back to important things,” he said, leading me into a dark room, smelling of stale beer and steel, “Get to know how all this stuff works, you might have to change out a keg or something by yourself, and I don't want a floor flooded by expensive beer again.”
I already knew how to use the equipment in the cellar, coolers, kegs and beer-taps hadn't changed much in twenty years or so, even if some stuff had been electronicised with bolt-on microcontrollers to the point of sheer bloody minded intransigence. That put me in the old man's good-books alright. It was also the reason I'd taken this particular job after all. I had some idea how to do it.
Afterwards, I helped ready the bar, setting up chairs, ashtrays, changing lightbulbs... basic stuff. It made me wonder how the old man did it himself, before he hired me.
Eventually, he left me at the bar, with a price-list under the table, and explicit instructions to tell our favourite red-eyed young brunette with the world's largest cow-lick that she would never work again in this entire town for dropping out of last night's concert on `short as a hens-dick' notice. .
Sabers must've been busy, I told to myself. I'll admit, a small part of me was a little disappointed I wasn't fighting with them.... having my own hardsuit, that'd be kinda awesome really. Maybe less people would stare at me walking around in figure hugging power armour. Somehow, that idea was related to me humming the theme tune to M.A.S.K., that old 1980's cartoon, while trying to figure out just why Mr. Nakamura had such a strong Texan accent.
Come see the laser-rays, by the way
At 16:17:44 in the afternoon, the bar was empty as a paupers bank account, except for a singular old git quietly reading a paper on the mezzanine, occasionally looking down onto the stage and dance-floor. The lights were bright up gleaming off of the dancefloor below, and highlighting three labour-boomers who were busying themselves hanging the buntings for tonight's act. I kept as far away from them as I could.
The bar was quiet enough anyway that I set some music running off my laptop, placing it beside the till. Not too loud, and nothing too heavy. It might've been 20 years out of date, but it still worked quite happily. It sat there, running away as it always did, completely unconcerned about the fact that the date had been reset to May 2032. It couldn't connect to the wireless network, 802.11 was obsolete, and it wondered where twenty years worth of updates where, but otherwise carried on as it always had.
Maybe I could do the same? Just carry on with life.
I sighed, setting the laptop playing another track, before scanning over the brainless boomers still labouring below. More mindless, mechanical automata. Same as the waitresses, they'd run for about 12 hours, then they had to be shut-down and recharged. I got about the same out of a decent sized meal.
I muttered curses to myself about the limitations of an artificial digestive system and bioreactor, while stashing a 6-pack of energy drinks under the counter in case I needed them. If I was to be working until 2am like I was told, I probably would. I flexed my wrist, adjusted my jacket to show less figure, checked the till was working properly, made sure the optics were fine, and got ready to face a long couple of hours with nobody else but newspaper-man and the boomers down below for company.
I had a feeling this was going to be a lonely life.
Oh well, better than no life.
Hearing a pair of bodies creak onto the barstools behind me, I tried to lock myself into a customer friendly smile... be nice, try ask how they are. Remember, the man behind the bar is the customers best friend. The air was twinged with a draft of tightly screwed sexual frustration, mingling with another persons bored dissatisfaction. Those where the sort of details I just didn't want to know about peoples lives, so I closed that mind's eye and focused on just doing my job.
Whatever words were rising in my throat, died when I saw who those two women sitting there, smiling at me. The first on the left, blue eyes, black hair, tall and athletic with a lop siding parting, held over to one side by a golden yellow headband. The second on the right was shorter, a little stockier, a little paler, and a good deal cuter. Green eyed with a candyfloss of what was somehow natural pink hair hanging loose to her shoulders. She smiled brightly, her eyes having an impish spark to them.
Nené Romanova, and once more Linna Yamazaki.
Sylia's warnings rang loud and clear in my head. “Do not contact any member of this group” she'd told me. They were grinning death at me. How long before a white hardsuit appeared with a knife in the neural circuits?
“Konnichi Wa!” the pair beamed.
“ah.....ah.... “ I gaped, “Konnichi Wa,”
I stuttered the words out phonetically.
“Drinks Ladies?” I offered. Polite, just do my job. I don't know them.
“Meg, isn't it?” asked the pink Saber, “Nené Romanova. I speak English well enough,”
“Linna Yamazaki, yarrushkunay,” she nodded.
I copied the word as best I could, before shrinking forwards against the hardwood counter
“I was told..... I don't know yous,” I whispered.
“That's our rule too.... but we just sort of 'met' each other anyway,” Nené answered, smiling at Linna. Linna giggled. “And we thought we'd drop by and say Hi,”
“Well...thanks...I guess,” I answered, awkwardly expecting a blade to appear out of thin air.
“You don't have to be nervous,” reassured Nené, “We know your secret as much as you know ours. Sylia told us,” she bubbled.
I slumped against the bar, relief lifting off of my shoulders. Though just why Sylia would tell them herself, while explicitly telling me not to say a single word under pain of death, I didn't know, and frankly didn't really care about.
Linna announced something to the entire mezzanine, hugging herself across the chest, drawing a bubbling giggle from her pink-haired friend. I stood there, bewildered by it, newspaper man looking over at me and giving a gruff huff, before burying his head in bad news.
“It's nothing to be ashamed of anyway,” continued Nené, “It's perfectly normal these days,”
Perfectly normal to be a boomer built solely for sexual pleasure? Or to arrive out of an alternate universe where this is all just a TV show. Oh sure, that's very common, happens every day in Megatokyo....
That was the first inkling I had that Sylia had told them something entirely different.
“What did she tell you?” I enquired, my voice hushed,
“Just that you were injured by a boomer, and had to get a complete cybernetic replacement, nothing else,”
So she told them “The Truth”, as opposed to The Truth, then?
“Why, is there something else you're hiding?” needled Nené, her eyes sparking mischievously.
“No, nothing at all,” I smiled back nervously.
The two women shared a hideously mischievous giggle between themselves, leaving me hanging like the last leaf on an autumn tree... cold, alone and oblivious to what fun all the other leaves were having together. Well, they can rot in their fun.
“Drinks, ladies?” I offered, remembering I was a working girl now, with a job to do.
I suddenly wanted to smash whatever synapse came up with that phrase across the counter in front of me... hard... repeatedly.
Linna answered by shaking her head, while adopting the 10-2 position with both hands on an imaginary steering wheel. She said something that sounded like “Coke deh gozzoimashta”, or something... that's what I picked out.
“Coca-Cola,” I confirmed, and she nodded.
“One for me too,” Nené chimed in.
Linna chipped in with an fruitful jibe, tugging at the skin under her arms.
“USA!” Nené screamed...or at least that's what it sounded like anyway...her face flushing the same shade of pink as her hair, before she launched into a rapid-fire tirade of fury. The old git sitting by himself looked up from his paper and harrumphed at the interruption to his solitude, while I struggled to hold a laugh down in my belly. I really shouldn't laugh at customers... really... I smirked, a few titters tickling my lips.
The fitness instructor made one final statement, pinching the ADP officer hard on the stomach, taking a fold of white t-shirt with her. Nené made a face like she'd sat on live a spark plug.
“Diet Coke,” she said to me, her voice as timid as a church mouse.
I couldn't keep it in... I detonated laughing, Linna finally exploding a second later on a delayed fuse. Free laughter, echoing across the cavernous dance floor. Nené ducked and covered under her hands, looking for all the world as if she hoped the table would swallow here.
“Well, us cyborgs don't get fat,” I stated with absolute conviction, giving my hips a good pendulum swing for good measure. I was surprised at how good that felt to do, and I didn't dare spoil it by wondering why.
“I wish I was a cyborg,” sighed Nené, casting her eyes down at the reflection in the counter, “Strong, fast, fit and with a body to die for,”
I busied myself trying to find the soft drinks before I said something stupid. According to the story Sylia had prepared, I had died for this body. Now where were these things? Right, beside the till under the pint glasses.
2 small glasses of ice, one bottle of regular Coke, one bottle of Diet, and somehow I carried the whole lot in both hands at once to the counter.
“820 yen,” I read off the pricelist. I made that out to be about 8 quid, which was expensive for a soft drink in any decade.
Nené groaned at her reflection, Linna sighed, and paid for both.
I clicked over to a different album on my laptop, using a nifty little remote control I had. Nené perked up immediately, inspecting the old Dell as best she could.
“How old is that computer, can I ask?”
She twirled a loose strand of hair as she spoke with deliberate politeness.
“Ship date is May 1st , 2008,” I told her, oddly proud of it, “2.5Ghz Core2Duo processor. 4 Gigabytes of RAM, 320 Gigabyte Harddisk. Nvidia GPU, DVD drive and best of all, Xubuntu 9.04 Linux.”
24 years old now, but serious hot shit for a laptop when I got it.
“Only 320 Gigabytes! I have single video files three times the size of that!” shouted Nené “Rotating magnetic harddisk?” I nodded, “And you're still using it day to day?”
I nodded again. By this stage, Linna looked like she was near ready to ask for something from the spirit rack, her eyes having glassed over the moment Nené slipped into geek mode.
“Can I see it,” she pleaded, eyes sparkly like a starving puppy begging for food, “My parents used to have one just like it when I was a kid and I kept it right until the motherboard finally blew. It was the first computer I ever played with,”
'Played with'. That alone was reason enough to say no, I guess... but there was no real chance of her actually damaging it.
“Be my guest,” I answered, giving a welcoming flourish. “Just please be careful,”
“Of course!” she chirped sunnily. “Trust me, I know what I'm doing,”
There was something about the way she said that. Famous last words, I thought. Oh well, another one of Sylia's rules broken. Bugger it.
Linna signalled for another coke, and I was glad to oblige, while Nené tried hard to keep herself from vaulting over the top of the bar, instead giddily pottering around the other end. I'd never seen such a manic look of glee on a persons face.... not outside the pages of Black Lagoon anyway. If it was possible to dive through the screen, I think she would've. It'd been a while since I'd seen a full blown geekgasm. Finding system files older than herself was apparently enough to finally tip Nené over the edge and into digital bliss.
Linna passed a quiet comment about cyberpunks, before sighing quietly to herself, and I suddenly felt strangely at ease, now that I was with real human beings. I just nodded, despite not knowing exactly what she'd said, I still sort of understood it. I tried to figure out what horrors she was inflicting on on my poor PC, watching her fingers fly across the keyboard like a caffeinated spider having a fit. The were something mesmerising about it... even if the screen had gone black, and she was working with only a wall of white terminal text while humming something that sounded like Asu e Touchdown. I had the a sinking feeling deep in my gut that sudo had provided as much protection for my system files from her as a Bible did against a machinegun.
Linna had lost herself in thought, while I tried to find something I could talk to her about. She took a few small sips from her glass, looking like she was wishing there was more than just sugar, caffeine and vegetable extracts in there for a moment.
“Um...” she tried.
She spoke to me, directly, in a polite tone of voice. It twisted my stomach with shame not to be able to understand her, because she was saying something important to me. Her eyes were kind, she was trying to hold me with her gaze, but I just didn't feel able to meet her. “Irene” and “Arigato deh gozzaimashta”... I picked those words out, and knew what she was trying to say.
And I felt horrible because of it, the lingering shame of failure hanging heavily on my shoulders. It should've been obvious the car was going to turn, right? I should've given her my jacket or something...or... Cotton t-shirts and tearing tarmac....Fuckit. She's still alive, and that's the important thing, and I'll keep telling myself that until it feels like the truth.
“You're welcome,” I answered, but it didn't really sound like I meant it. I took a long draw of breath. “How is she anyway?” I asked.
Nené's hyperactive typing filled the air, mixed with some music that seemed way too happy.
Linna answered with a gentle smile, and a single thumbs up.
“Good,” I said softly, exhaling gently. Both of us recognised how futile it would be to try go any further on the subject. As long as Irene was alive, she could recover. All wounds heal eventually. Even if Priss would've pulled it off without breaking a sweat...
Bugger. The worst part about working in a bar was being surrounded by gallons of alcohol, and not being able to drink a drop. The second worst thing about being a boomer was alcohols weren't absorbed into my bloodstream, so no matter how much I wanted to, it was impossible to get drunk anyway. Not even a desiccated lizard in the middle of the Sahara desert could be as desperately thirsty for a drink as I was right then.
The first of my energy drinks would have to do.
“Yatta!” Nené whooped triumphantly. “I am So Leet!”
She danced a giddy jig while the two other women in the bar blinked and the man behind the newspaper harrumphed, nursing a glass of whiskey. It'd been a while since I'd heard anyone say 'Leet' out loud, and probably the only time where there wasn't a single hint of irony.
“What?” I questioned.
I was almost afraid to ask.
“Wireless Internet on old 802.11n card,” she announced, “Sure it's limited to only about 50 megabytes a second, but it works,”
50 megabytes a second. Wow.
“How?”
I had tried.... but I couldn't even pick up networks I knew existed.
“Most networks have 802.11bc compatibility mode still, and that's not too different to the original n. The only difference was WEP3 software encryption, and that was easy to add,”
Wow.... My own computer abilities stopped at being able to find the error, Google up a solution, then copypasta that into the terminal and pray. I could also whack code with pointless addons, but that was it.
“Awesome...” I grinned. Imagine what I could download at 50MB/sec. “Free coke?”
“Diet please,” she requested, giving Linna the evil eye,
“No problem,”
And out of my own pocket too, since I was a new employee, and the cash register had to add up. Oh well, it was the least I could do.
The three of us talked for a little long, well as best we could anyway, poking vainly at the language barrier, or trying to peek over the top. At times, going back and forth through Nené, who was the only person with a fluent grasp of both languages, got frustrating for all three of us, her especially, but it was also kind of fun, especially when the pair of them conspired to tie me up in an almighty honorific knot.
I swore off those irritating suffixes right then and there.
As afternoon began to give way to early evening, the bar started to slowly fill with post-work, pre-drunk salarymen and the odd gaggle of girls getting in to hold a table for tonight's show. As much as I enjoyed talking with the two Sabers, I had a job to do. Whistles had to be whetted, phone numbers requested and hopeless hopefuls brusquely rebuffed.
“The curse of us beautiful people,” Nené lamented, teasing me.
“As if you'd know,” I cut back, without even thinking.
It didn't take three guesses to work out that Linna had snarked back with the exact same thing.
“Humph,” Nené pouted, sticking her tongue out at the pair of us. She was answered by a pair of girlish giggles. She was so cute when she pouted, almost childish.
Things got busier, things got louder as the evening deepened. The band began their sound checks as the labour-boomers donned black suits and shaded. Strong enough to lift 200 kilo's of steel, strong enough to manhandle troublemakers out the door, that was Nakamura's thinking behind it. That and they were cheaper than regular door-staff since they only required a charging socket and an overhaul every six months. Smarter too, with more imagination, which considering they were only a step up from Saturday's waitress in the sense department, said a lot about the doormen I'd encountered in my life. I wasn't the only `flesh and blood' member of the staff mind, but I was the only one who worked behind the bar.
Eventually, Linna and Nené left. They had a meeting to go to, they told me. I could guess what sort of meeting that was, but I kept my mouth shut. We exchanged phone numbers as a matter of course. Heh, best way to get a woman's phone number was to be another woman it seemed.
6:24:15… I finished my first energy drink, allowing the sugar rush to surge through me. It gave a kick like a shot of nitrous oxide into a petrol engine, and just as fleeting. I was getting tired. It had only been 4 hours since I started and I was already beginning to feel like the alternate bunny in an Energiser ad, slowing down just as things got hairy. Just 8 more to go I sighed; didn't I have the right to a break?
The band started at 9 o'clock on the dot, or near enough to it, by which time I was being run off my feet, the language barrier rearing it's ugly head once more as I tried to figure out whether some drunken salaryman wanted 2 whiskeys, or a double-whiskey, or 2 double whiskeys or God knows fucking what. And there was one thing everyone wanted. The prize for the night was my phone number, or the door to my underwear. Every third drink, someone made a half-arsed pass at me…. And not just men either. It didn't matter; it was exhausting as hell either way.
“2 pints of lager, 1000 Yen, Yes I can make change, Yes I'm single, No I'm not in the market. I won't ever be on the market. Yes, I'm going to be become a nun if you don't stop bothering me. No, I won't go out with your girlfriend either,” … now kindly fuck off and let me deal with other customers, of course I can't say that. “I have other people to deal with, stop bothering me!. Yes, now what can I get for you now sir?”
Repeat every minute or two, for 8 hours. Drunks, dancers, a hen party of all things and a bunch of bikers who thought my undivided attention was their God-given right.
At least the music was good, in a Lisa Lougheed fashion.
So were chips from a place down the street. Starch and salt, exactly what I needed to keep the batteries charged.
The band stopped at about 23:30, with last orders shortly afterwards. Hot Legs was first and foremost a concert venue, the bar was almost secondary. That didn't stop it being busy, mind you. A lot of people left when the band left the stage, but a few hangers on enjoyed the ambience around the bar….or the girl serving drinks in a slightly sweat-dampened t-shirt and hip-hugging jeans. Some drunkards started a fight, and were carried out the door by the boomer bouncers.
Now that was impressive, one hanging under each arm, squealing like a pig being led to the slaughter as they were taken outside.
The last stragglers left by half past midnight, and the place closed. The band had a few drinks, while I helped one of the boomers, and a couple of the girls clean up the glasses, wipe down the tables and generally get things ready for tomorrow. The bouncers had traded their suits for overalls, and were now mindlessly taking down the same decorations they'd set up ten hours earlier.
I finished at 01:30, officially… left twenty minutes after that, and finally staggered in through my front door at 02:51:22.
Mentally I was frazzled, but physically, my batteries were practically empty. I could barely hold myself upright, my legs leaden beneath me. My body screamed for more power, and that meant something to eat before resting my mind with sleep. In the end, belly full and simmering with some cheap cereal, I finally dropped into bed, still wearing my clothes.
Lather, rinse and repeat six days a week, every week, before I got paid on Saturday. Thank God I had Sunday to rest.
----->>
Priss and The Replicants played on Friday. By then, I was beginning to slot into the daily grind. Having learned my lesson, I stashed some fuel reserves for use when I could steal the chance. The afternoon buzz was beginning, when a young brunette woman with eyes that almost matched her red jacket stood up to the bar, brushing her fringe out of her eyes
“Can I get 2 bottles of Coke, a bucket of ice, and a bottle of Bacardi downstairs after the show?” she requested, her voice flat, and coolly polite.
Her eyes though, fixed me with a cold, distrustful glare.
“Yeah, no problemo” I nodded, wondering just what her problem was, while trying not to hide behind the bar to escape that chilling gaze.
She was gone before I'd even finished speaking, leaving nothing but an arctic draft to mark her presence.
What was her issue?
----->>
I gave up trying to learn Japanese the old fashioned way, about the same time I'd heard that Boomers can install and run multiple language packs at once. So naturally, the first place I turned was the internet, scanning through for something I could use.
G-search: BU-33 series Japanese language pack Install.
Result:
Official GENOM product. BU-30 through 35 series models. All variants. Japanese language additional pack. Direct Download FileSize. 40.2TB. Installs both locally and via Bu-series patented iLink® technology. Download price,…More than I'd make in a month.
Alright then, lets try this a different way.
G-search: BU-33 series Japanese language pack Install pirate crack warez
Result:
This website has been blocked by your ISP for your benefit. This website is involved in illegal activity that may harm your computer…. Yatta yatta yatta bullshit explanation.
The changeover IPv6 and the signed persistent personal access certificates needed to even get online had finally ended the golden age of the internet. It was fast as hell, about 100GB/sec after filtering and scanning and reporting back to Big Brother, but it was such a bloody pain to use. Security authentication, content filtering and analysis, persistent monitoring of downloads and uploads. Everything done online now was traceable, not just to an IP address, but to the certificate attached to the static IP address, and therefore, the person attached to the certificate. If that IP and it's certificate were found to be doing something illegal, the certificate and hence, net access, was suspended, and a fine sent out by the ISP to be paid to reactivate the connection. While it's debatable if there was ever such thing as anonymity and privacy on the web, I'd never used social networking sites because I saw them as the digital equivalent of streaking bollock-naked across the pitch on cup-final day, but the internet of 2032 was pretty much just one giant distributed telescreen watching right back at you, unless you were someone who really knew their onions.
I didn't.
Bugger them anyway. It was back to tape, headphones and that book I'd bought on my first day in town. The old fashioned way still worked, albeit slowly. After a week, each day on the way too and from work, I could just about hold a rudimentary conversation. Being dumped in the middle of a language was always the best way to learn…. Even if it was like throwing a kid in the harbour and telling him to swim; either he did, or he drowned.
I could just about keep my head above the water…
----->>
I lived quite happily for about four weeks, unbothered by boomer rampages or any near-death experiences.
Eventually, I stopped expecting my dog to come running to the door each time I came back to the apartment. I came to relish the solitude and silence, even if I'd learned to tolerate the constant passes and love propositions, my apartment had become a wonderful refuge from the world at large. Quiet…. Solitary…
Even if I couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing each time I came home.
It wasn't my family, not as much as I'd expected anyway. I'd been old enough and mature enough to deal with being separated from my parents. Hell, I'd practically separated myself from them anyway before this happened… I spent more time on the internet, alone in my bedroom, or away at college, rather than with them. I used to be up and out the door in the mornings before they even woke up and came home late enough that they were either gone to work themselves, or in bed. What times we were in the same house, I spent browsing the web. I was well used to not having them around.
My Dog on the other hand….
Archie, a little black furred Jack Russell Terrier, with more bursting energy than a good sized bomb. He'd see me off in the morning, standing at the window with his ears pricked up, staring with his brown eyes as I left. He graduated to barking madly at the BMW whenever I fired it up… it must've been the whine of the fuel-pump the bugged him. And sure enough, every evening as I came home, Archie would be there, standing in the window, stubby tail flicking wildly from side to side. My dog always ran out to meet me when I parked the bike up. My dog was always glad when I came home…. Unbridled, unconditional terrier joy that the food-giver was back.
Poor bugger… he probably sat there wondering where I was all night….waiting. He probably curled up on my empty bed… night after night…. Waiting…. Could a dog live to 24 years? Probably not.
And that thought never failed to bring tears to my eyes.
I know it sounds stupid, but of all the people I had known, I missed my dog most of all. I'd almost laugh myself, if I didn't tear up because of it. I set that as my goal in life. To get enough cash together to go home and find out what happened to my dog. It sounded silly, but that was what I most wanted to do. Not be a power armoured cyber vigilante, or some sort of licensed Blade Runner gunning down BTO's
Considering how poorly paid I actually was, that was going to take some time. Budgeting for rent, food, utilities, clothes, consumables like train fare, and a new computer left me very little spare money day to day. Enough that I wasn't in the poorhouse mind, but not a lot.
It was Wednesday, mid-June. The rainy season had well and truly arrived, with local news reporting flooding down in the fault, with homes and businesses drowning under the run-off from the city above, pouring through still broken sewer mains and tunnels. Traffic ground to a halt as the streets turned to rivers, drivers sitting for long hours without moving a single inch. This meant the maglevs were jam-packed, even in the early afternoon which of course meant the trains were stifling hot, overcrowded to the point where not even a gnat could breath, and being prowled by that dastardly fiend of the Japanese subway system… the chickan.
Which was why I was trying desperately not to rub a sore nipple in public as I traipsed to work through the rain, wet hair weighing down on my head. Umbrellas were useless against rain that went sideways in the wind. Denim jackets were useless against anything remotely resembling moisture. And the worst thing, the absolutely worst thing was that when I had shrieked in pain when that perverts hand grabbed sensitive flesh, everyone in the carriage looked at me as if I was the disruptive one, as if it was the height of shame dishonour to be startled by a pervert and be unable to bear a quiet fondling in stoic silence. And the worst part… the absolute worst part… when he `fainted' a few second after I caught him, they held the train up for ten minutes to give time for an ambulance to pick the pervert up. Irish Rail would've dropped him at a station and carried on regardless.
I was in a foul mood, and that was putting it mildly. Cold, soaked to the bone, and with 12 hours hard labour ahead for a pittance of pay.
Such was life in the big city.
I stole a towel to dry off from one of the dressing rooms downstairs, stashed some food away for later, made sure I wasn't going to be entered in any sort of wet t-shirt competition and stepped up to my duty station behind the bar. The newspaper man was there, same as always, same whiskey. Priss and The Replicants were playing again tonight, so it was going to get busy. Priss was popular alright, and not just among the denizens of the megalopolis. There were 2 suit wearing gentlemen in the far corner, hiding in a dark spot where one of the lights had blown. They'd been there since Monday, all day everyday, from as soon as the place opened, to as soon as the band finished.
Record company talent scouts looking for a new signing, was Nakamura's opinion on them. I just wondered what would happen if they found out that 90% of the music I was playing off of my laptop was pirate. Probably nothing, but I felt like such a rebel nonetheless.
I was finally heating up when Priss showed up, sucking the heat out right out of the room. I didn't want to even say a word to her, in case her voice somehow worked magic to turn me into a block of ice, but I swallowed that and waved her over,
“Ken wants to see you,” I told her in slow, deliberate Japanese.
“Thank you,” she waved me off semi-politely as she drafted past, making a beeline through the building crowd for the dressing rooms, before stopping and turning to face. My spirit sank. “About what?” she questioned.
I shrugged honestly,
“I do not know.” I stated, then remembered the suits, “Maybe, talent scouts over there,” I pointed to the two gentlemen.
She glanced over at the two grey-suited gentlemen I was pointing too. For a moment, I thought I saw a chill run through her body, an excited shiver. There was a new spark in her eyes, a confident gleam, and for the first time, she actually smiled at me, before darting downstairs to get ready. Well, tonight was going to be an interesting night anyway. If Priss gets a record deal and leaves the Sabers…. There would be an open position…..
No… definitely not the job for me, I reminded myself. No sir. To much danger… to much getting shot at. Wasn't Priss supposed to die in Red Eyes originally? Except for fan power she would've been replaced by Reika. Somehow, I don't think there'd be enough fan power to save the unpopular replacement. As if to remind me that this wasn't an animé, I dropped the glass I'd been drying on my foot. It was the sound and shock of it shattering against steel-capped leather rather than any sort of pain that dragged me back to the real world.
This wasn't a dumb TV show. I could die quite easily if I wasn't careful.
Yeah, I didn't want to be Knight Saber... not one bit... not at all... standing safely behind this bar all day every day for the next 34 years, that's the life I wanted. Safe, predictable, until I finally wore out like an old car.
I wouldn't age...not visibly anyway... but I'd still wear out. Like any machine, 90% of lifetime wear and tear would happen in the last ten minutes before everything juddered to a halt. Onboard SMART predicted that date as being April 10th 2066, barring any overhaul.
How Depressing... Well, at least I'll live to see Cochrane's flight.
“So, beautiful, how's the entertainment tonight?”
I cringed, and nearly dropped a second glass. Oh no.... not that voice. I didn't want to turn around.
“No backstage,” I stated flatly.
“Not even for a police Inspector?” the voice queried, with all the sickening smoothness of curdled cream.
Broad shouldered and wearing a maverick leather jacket with oversized shades like he was Top Gun himself, everyone's favourite chocolate-haired ADP inspector was smiling his lady-killing smile at me. I thought about fainting him, a nice little FU considering how bad my mood was, but I wasn't an idiot. A trained ADP officer would know exactly what I'd done, and how I'd done it. That bulge in his jeans wasn't because he enjoyed the view in front of him that was for sure.
“Without warrant?” I questioned, “Besides, I thought you preferred redheads, not brunettes” I had to keep him out of backstage. Ken hated people going back there, especially people who had police badges, or could do William Shatner impressions. I'd never hear the end of it.
Daley Wong looked up from his cocktail, picked at a few stands of ginger hair on his pastel suit, and blinked for a moment, “Don't worry, I'm not the jealous type,” he purred, his eyes giving me the strangest, softest look. He wasn't the only one here with red hair.
“Well, I can stay here and talk with you if you like?” Smooth alright.... smooth and practised. I sensed it hadn't worked in a long time. Pheromones again. I wanted to bury my head in my hands to get away from that idea.
“Um...” I swallowed, trying to get back on my feet. “I thought you two is partners?”
“And we're cops too, but I try to keep Leon-poo here on a short leash,” Daley cut in, giving me the smallest of winks. My hero.... thank you so very much.
“Aww Daley, can't I play just this one time,” whined Leon playfully, throwing his arms up to the heavens.
“You can play when we get home,” Daley slid into the role of the stern parent.
“Awwww but I wanna,” the ADP inspector continued, before glancing back to me with an unsettling gleam in his eyes. I was almost tempted to give him the key to Priss' dressing room, if it would just get him away from me. “At least let me get her phone number,” he pleaded childishly.
“No Phone!” I stated, crossing my arms, trying to stare him down. I felt that same stunning charge start to build, but I clamped down hard. No matter how much I wanted to, I couldn't do it to a Police officer.... not one that would recognise what happened anyway.
“Boy's, can't take them anywhere,” Lamented the pastel suited partner, rolling his eyes to the heavens.
I giggled quietly, smiling back a 'thank you'. I could almost have kissed him for it.... almost.
“Talk later!” Leon called over, waving at me. Like all good police inspectors, he latched onto a lead and never gave up until he reached the bottom of the case. Well, at least he was off my case anyway. I watched the odd couple argue for a few minutes, taking up a seat at a table overlooking the dance floor.
Heh, anybody who didn't know them would think they were partners.... and not in cop sense. There was something about the way the pair of them bickered between themselves... only close friends and couples bickered like that.
“Meg” another voice clamoured for my attention. This person I wanted to talk to, but what I wanted didn't matter. I had another customer to deal with
“One second,” I acknowledged with a hand, the other busy manipulating a bottle of whiskey. Multitasking was so much easier when you were a machine. For one thing, making change, finagling prices and differential calculus were all made a great deal easier by computerised subprocessor controls. God bless technology. I never got my figures wrong, not once. Thank the customer; give a smile, then move on.
Linna Yamazaki had taken her favourite seat at the end of the bar, the same way she did every Wednesday. I was amazed at how I was still a little bit nervous when starting conversations with other women, even though I was able to talk to myself all day when I was on my own.
“Afternoon Linna,” I tried casually, my voice still sounding strangely strangled to my ear.
Which was funny, considering what I was and what abilities I had built in.
“Meg,” she smiled back, “How's things,”
Linna was just about the only person to call me Meg, on a day to day basis. Nearly everyone else called me Deckard, or something that sounded more like Dekkahdo. What I understood about Japanese firstname/lastname differences was just that it was different to the European way of doing it somehow, and since I never really got the European way of doing it either, I didn't really care. Fact was, I preferred Deckard…. I thought it sounded better. Harder, sharper, it matched the reflection in the mirror, even if it didn't match the slightly Meggish personality.
“New day…. Same life,” I said with a Gallic shrug. “I hear music tonight is be good though,” I grinned. “Might want you stick around?”
Xian Pu speech…. Such was 4 weeks in Japan.
“Priss's always good,” Linna said, looking out towards the stage. The equipment was ready and sound-checks were about to begin. “But Sylia hates it when we drink. I think being drunk in control of a hardsuit is a crime,”
She giggled, I laughed.
“One light drink not drunk,” I pointed out.
“Well, maybe a teeny-weeny drop,” she relented.
Teeny was the distance between her thumb and index finger, and weeny was the mischievous glint I could see in her eye through it. Teeny-weeny in the same way I used to go out for a teeny-weeny drop and then wake-up in the morning with a teeny-weeny headache not remembering how I driven home….maybe…
“Bacardi and Coke?” I suggested.
“Ick no,” she cringed. “What wines do you have here again?”
“Uh…Red and white?”
Linna gave a cartoonish roll of her eyes. “Red then, I guess,”
I had a feeling both were a mixture of anti-freeze, tap-water and concentrate grape drink anyway, so it made little difference. Turns out, there were actually 4 varieties of each. Linna chuckled, and I blushed trying to figure out which one was a Cabernet Sauvignon that wasn't too expensive. Normally, I'd just pull a red one or a white one and never give it a second thought about what was actually there. I knew how to set the gear in the cellar up. I knew how the computer systems propping up and accounting for everything sort of worked…..or at least how to read a man page anyway. I didn't know shite-all about wine.
“So, how is Irene?” I asked, same as always, dropping some of my own cash into the till… same as always. Never offer a friend a drink, then expect them to pay, even where you're the one behind the bar.
“Getting better,” said Linna, “but....Oh Wait that reminds me!” light flashed behind her eyes as she remembered something, “Sylia's looking for you!” Her voice rang off the glassware behind me.
I winced, and not just because the entire bar was watching us. The fitness instructor blushed, giggling nervously while hiding under her hands.
“Sorry,” she whispered, pulling me close, “Sylia has something she wants to talk to you about,”
“What is it?” I questioned, with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man asking 'when?' The unasked question I hoped would be 'She's not going to kill me now, is she?' Not when I've just gotten halfway settled here.
“Uh...,” she took a nervous look around, took a generous sip from her wine glass, then took a breath, “I don't actually know, but she told me to tell you anyway,”
“Well,” I sighed. “She know where I live.”
And work. And probably what I have for breakfast each day. And how many times I've run a 'self diagnostic' in the shower in the morning after a long day's work, and a shite night's sleep.
“Taro, isn't it?”
I nodded, rattling off my address, “Apartment 847, Building 214k, Block A, Taro Residential District, Yokohama,”
“I used to live there…. They get real hot don't they?”
I nodded again. I was about to say something else, when a familiar voice piped up above the conversation
“Hey, Deckard!, We'll talk again sometime! Tell Priss I'm sorry I can't see her show”
McNichol was waving at me, giving me a cheeseater grin as he pushed his way to the door. I could see Daley just rolling his eyes. They were gone out the door so fast, I swore they knew the building was on fire and they'd decided not to share that fact with everyone else.
“I wonder what that was about,” I remarked out loud.
“Huh?”
Oh right…. Japanese.
“Leon McNichol Daley Wong just leave in hurry,”
“Maybe they just got an emergency call or something,” Linna suggested with a shrug. “They're police,”
“I really do not know,” I commented. “Seemed very rushed,”
“Perhaps Leon ran out of hair gel again,” giggled the dancer, taking another sip from her glass, “And anyway…”
She stopped dead cold, the words dying in her throat as her watch alarm began to cheep, a little green light, a little green light flickering in time with the watch's canary chirps. Linna's face went white as snow.
“What?” I asked, but I already knew.
“Where is Priss' changing room?” she asked, her voice straining taught as a tightrope as she glanced first to the door the two coppers had bolted through, then down at the empty stage. The boomers were still busy with the lighting rigs, being bossed around by The Replicant's lead guitarist.
“Downstairs, right exit, then door on left,”
The air around her chilled with cold, steel fear for a moment, before her confidence reasserted itself.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly, “We'll talk later,”
“Good Luck,” I wished, knowing exactly where she was going, and what she was about to do
She gave me a wonderful, sparkling smile for a moment, before diving through the crowd, hurrying quickly down the stairs and through the door.
Nope, I definitely didn't want to be a Knight Saber. Not at all....
“Excuse me, Miss, can we get a drink,” somebody cut in.
Oh well, back to reality, back to work. Linna's drink stood alone at the bar, barely even touched. A little mini-bottle of wine, barely enough for a standard glass... I thought about it, but it'd look bad for a staffer to be scarfing the dregs.
“Deckard!” another voice barked.
Nakamura was bolting through the crowd, radiating fury. He pushed his way behind the bar, some half jarred bint glaring at him as he brushed against her.
“Yes?” I questioned dumbly, in my own language. “I'm sorta busy here?”
“Priss just bailed out on me,” he barked above the crowd, “Some family thing. My God I swear this is the last time I let her get away with this crap,”
Anger burned hot.
“So we cancelling?”
Please no... that would get bloody,
“Hell no!. You remember I had you rehearse with the band two weeks ago?”
He had a malicious gleam in his eyes. Oh hell.... I answered with nothing but a limp nod.
“It'll be rough as hell,” he drawled, “and that stuff you like's a bit old, but it'll be better than karaoke or some shit like that.”
I frowned... it wasn't that old. I tried to force the sick fear building in my gut back down to some little place deep under my feet. I'd rather be taking on that Terminatrix single handed, than get on that stage. At least getting stabbed through the chest would've been a quick death, rather than being booed and bottled.
“If you can do an hour, that'll be enough.”
“Do I have a I choice?”
“Yeah, do you want to get paid on Saturday, or not?”
“Fine,” I rolled my eyes, resigning myself to a slow, painful death.
“Good. Get ready, get squared away with the band, and break a leg, You got two hours to prepare”
Oh hell....
I skulled away the last of Linna's drink in one quick shot. Then suddenly felt a hell of a lot worse when I remembered my systems would just filter it out before it got anywhere near my brain.
----->>
I stood up for my public execution, baking like Christmas cake in a heavy black leather jacket, pink tank-top, ankle-breaker stilettos, fishnets and a dark skirt that thankfully went all the way to my knees. Use your sexuality, I'd been told, be confident, bring the audience onto the stage... but not really... and don't be afraid to move about.
I forgot everything anyone had said to me when I saw the crowd. It seemed twice the size as it was from up at the bar. The blonde Barbie doll, Isildore waved down at me from my natural post, and I fucking hated her for it. I could hear them out there muttering, wondering who this new redhead was, and where Priss had gone.
Priss-fans.... they were almost as picky as Asuka Sorhyu fans.
Alright then... there's the mic... standing like a solitary gibbet on which to hang myself. Introduce yourself, say where Priss has gone, beg their forgiveness and then get started on my funeral dirge.
The lights glared down, burning like the sun.
Just be confident. Own the stage. And don't worry about it. That's easy for the man in the bloody cellar to say. I took a breath, looked at my right, Batty the bassist grinned back at me, and gave me a nod. On my left, Batty's brother with something called rhythm guitar, doing the drums right behind us all, was Polikov.
Three guesses where the name came from. Oh well, wasn't it a fan-theory that Deckard was a replicant and didn't realise it?
Alright, I haven't seen any C-beams or Tannhauser gates, but here we go. Deep breath. Time... to die.
“Alright,” I started, my voice echoing through the mic, followed by a sharp guitar twang, “Priss can not be tonight. Personal emergency. I am Deckard, from the bar. I will try make good show,” I laughed nervously, “but...em...I not never replace Priss. Please enjoy.”
Silence. My heart was thundering forward, my body burning hot beneath the lights. I was sweating up a storm, driving my onboard pheromones as hard as they would. I was standing bolt still, yet my body was revving its head off like a car in neutral with the throttle nailed down. Warnings in my mind told me I was burning through my reserves faster than they could recharge off of my dinner.
At least I had the power to run for the exits if I had to
“Alright, this is old....” I continued. Over 50 years at a guess, “But it is still good,”
I gave another quick glance around. Lead Batty brother nodded at me. Ready to go? That was the telepathic question. I didn't want to nod, but I did.
Polikov started on the drums, thumping out the beating intro alone. A few seconds later both Batty's came in with their guitars. Okay, I know how this song is supposed to go. Any second now I was supposed to go.
Deep breath... don't fuck this up... don't throw up when you open your mouth...confidence....4....3...2...1..lead in...
“Just sixteen, a pick up truck
Out of money out of luck”
Out of money out of luck”
The first few chords went out. They weren't cheering, if anything, they looked surprised. At least they weren't throwing bottles.
“I've got no place to call my own
Hit the gas and here I go
I'm running free yeah, I'm running free
I'm running free yeah, I'm running free”
I'm running free yeah, I'm running free”
I don't think I had Priss' power, or her stagecraft and charisma... my sexaroid effects were only bothering the first few rows. A few whooped up as they recognised the tune... glad to see some Maiden fans survived well into the new century. Alright, only another hour of this two go. Oh hell, it was only forever. I'll never begrudge anyone standing up on stage again....
Outside, away in the big city, a brace of rogue combat boomers were tearing through the residential districts in Ota ward.
----->>
Thursday morning and I didn't want to get up.
My ankle still ached after I'd twisted it last night.... bloody stilettos. I was starving hungry, my body demanding it's daily fuel. I felt like I was hung over.... it was that same sick-mouthed, slow-brained and jelly-bellied feeling I knew so well from a previous life. I got through the show alright, blazing through my energy reserves so fast, my digestive system just couldn't keep up. Staggering from the stage, half oblivious to what was going on around me, or why everyone was cheering, I put one foot on the stairs down backstage, before my ankle buckled, my legs melted under me, and I fell flat on my face.
I didn't even have enough power to stand up, until someone gave me a can of energy-drink.
Ken drove me home, fair play to him, filling me up with starchy rice on the way. I could barely talk...I felt almost drunk. My electrolytes had gone to hell and I couldn't walk without being helped. Anyone watching would've gotten the wrong idea alright. Well, I'll never wear fishnets again. Or a skirt. I'll never stand on a stage again, or drain my batteries to the point where I have to be carried home. I'll never begrudge Priss getting a full days pay for 2 hours on stage.
At least they cheered.
Maybe they were just being polite, but they cheered.
I tugged my t-shirt close to my body, and locked my systems into a diagnostic. Best make sure I hadn't broken anything. If I had, there was no way I could fix it anyway, but it'd be worth knowing. Letting that run as a background process in my subconscious, I rolled over in bed, and tried desperately to build up the will to do anything other than lay their under warm sheets.
09:28:23 according my clock.
All along the Watchtower.
That's how the show was closed. The only person in the room who got the true joke was me, and I was too busy trying to remember the words, and trying not to collapse from exhaustion to laugh at it.
I was built for about an hours endurance at full performance....do you really need anything more from a sexaroid? I might be able to beat the average human being with that, in a sprint...but I'd never run a marathon.
Just because I looked human on the surface, just because the only way to tell I was anything but was to cut me apart and analyse the internal circuitry and molecular make-up, didn't mean I was human. Even if an x-ray would only show a person with a high level of cybernetics.
But internally, emotionally, I was different. I knew the wetware between my ears was capable of experiencing the full range of the human emotional response...but it wasn't really allowed to. There were gaps, deliberate and brutal walls and fencing keeping things within certain defined parameters. I could sense them hiding there, but if I tried to grab at them, if I tried to explore those walls and press against the fencing, it would recede into the distance. It was like trying to catch the wind in your hands. You couldn't see it, you couldn't hold it, but you still knew it was there, tantalisingly close.
There was one wall I could see clear as day, I saw it every time I looked in the mirror and Meg Deckard was staring back at me. Or at least, I used to see it.... It kept me sane and stable, while my mind...or soul...or spirit...or subconscious...or Imaged AI imprint, or whatever 'me' was, adapted itself to its new container.
These walls were necessary, that's the thing. Some people would say that's the hell of being a machine, that your mind can't go to the extremes. But for a high-level AI boomer, these blocks are the only thing keeping them sane. They could do their jobs, the same repetitive, monotonous tasks day in and day out, jobs that for a human being would be soul grinding, the sort of work that would drain a persons spirit, without even being bothered by it. The walls were what allowed the boomers to do their jobs in peace. When a boomer failed, and went buggo it was usually because some emotional pointer had smashed through the limits, leading to one almighty overrun screw within the boomers cerebellum.
But that was for high-grade type-11's like myself, with high organic neuron fractions and poor memory protection. Low grades, type-7 and below, were just computers with a few biochips added in. They failed in different ways.
As a sexaroid, I knew that I would accept most sexual acts comfortably, but I'd never be able to develop an emotional bond through it. For humans, both women and, contrary to what a lot of women would like to think, men too, the act of sex can form some of the strongest emotional bonds possible between two people. For two hearts to beat in what is for an instant, one body... It was an absolute physical connection, deeper than the touch of a kiss.
To actually have another person inside your body....or be inside another person....
For me, that would mean nothing at all, no different than masturbation. Feels great to do but makes a bit of a mess of the sheets. That didn't stop a lot of what I was programmed to do from disgusting me... it made me sick sometimes to just think about... but I don't think I'd bat an eyelid if I ever actually did any of it.
I wasn't sure whether that was the deepest of hells or the highest of heavens. Sex without the emotional consequences? Without the pain and crippling jealousy of an angry breakup? Or without the comfort and support of a partner who loves me enough to share themselves with me?
I didn't know. I didn't really want to find out for sure. I didn't want to be a Misato Katsuragi....somebody hiding their crippling loneliness by jumping from bed to bed but never really solving the problem, searching for but never experiencing any form of companionship. Of course, I wasn't lonely, I was just a little homesick...but still, I didn't want to live like that. I didn't know if I'd hate myself or not for it, but I didn't ever want to take the chance of finding out. Sex...It was a black Pandora's Box for me, which led to what seemed like a dark and seedy life, and a place in my psyche I just didn't want to go.
But God, I hoped could at least be able to hate myself if I did.
How depressing.
09:54:22.
Still in bed... staring at my navel like an idiot but nothing better to do than engage in pointless introspection. All this Blade Runner self-analysis stuff usually ended up depressing me, and really changed nothing about who and what I was. The funny thing was, I stopped writing Neon Genesis Evangelion fanfiction for a while because of exactly this sort of thing. I got bored with all the navel gazing, psychotic contortionism and more mental screw-ups than a good season of Doctor Phil. And there I was, playing it for real.
“I'm in the wrong series,” I said allowed, forcing a dry, humourless cackle
Well, I'll have to cut down then, I promised myself.
I had friends, at least. Linna was a friend, Nené too...I talked with her on line. There was Isildore, the ditz from Hot Legs and I think Ken Nakamura liked me. And then, that was it. It was just me in here, in this apartment. Fuck it, I have to get up for work anyway.... might aswell get up now. Always feel better with a shower and food anyway. Wash the tiredness away and watch it drain down the sink. A shower is the jetwash of life. It even worked for us machines.
“You're wondering who I am,” I sang a capella, as I fixed breakfast in my nightwear, “Machine or mannequin?” Television on, morning news time “With parts made in Japan,” Air-con finally decided to kick in, lovely and cool
“I am the modern man !”
A solitary bluebottle buzzed lazily into the window, unappreciative of my talents.
“Domo Arigato Miss Sexaroido,” I laughed.
The fly bobbed stupidly against the window. Funny that, according to Megatokyo law, that fly had more rights than I did. Pulling the wings off of a fly was technically animal cruelty, a recordable criminal offence. Pulling the legs off of even a high-grade boomer like myself, was petty vandalism....not even a fine if the owner was compensated for the damage. Never mind of course, that nobody actually cared about a fly, and anybody pulling the legs of an expensive 33-S is going bankrupt at the very least.....
Damn, I needed to get out more....to more places than work.
I'd go buggo if I stayed here on my own much longer. I needed a hobby. But not right now... now it was time for breakfast in bed and morning TV. Hobbies were expensive for one thing...TV was free once you remembered that unlike the TV license inspectors back home, the NHK man couldn't actually force his way into your apartment, even if he could be a total arse about it.
“In entertainment news this morning,” the television continued, the female newscaster seeming more rigid and plastic than even a mannequin boomer, beneath what seemed to be a plastic covering of Technicolor makeup, “Our main story is the shock announcement by pop Artist vision that the remainder of her Fire.Inc tour will be cancelled immediately. A spokesman for the singer, who was due to play a concert at Madison Square Gardens later today in New York, has stated that the cancellation was for ' unstated personal reasons' and that 'Vision expresses her deepest apologies to her disappointed fans, and assures that any ticket sales will be refunded without quibble'. Promoters MCD, and GENOM record holdings have indicated they intend to sue for damages,”
Heh... I wondered if I'll get a case of double vision sometime in the future.
“In memoriam of the late rocker, environmental activist and former EU president Paul Hewson, Dublin city authorities have renamed one of the cities oldest thoroughfares to 'Bono Street'....”
Next channel. I hated him with a passion. TNN time, even if it was in Japanese
“....leading to the deaths of 3 ADP officers in the line of duty,” a stone-faced man with a grey suit that somehow seemed to match his hair colour carried on where the human doll had been cut off, “Families of the deceased have been notified. The economic costs of the rampage are estimated at over a billion yen in lost property values and business revenues. The damage was limited to low income residential districts in Ota ward...”
Ota ward.... I wonder if that means certain things are about to blow up...
Well if they were, it's not ever going to be my problem. Nope, that's a job for the Knight Sabers....not a bartender. Speaking of the Sabers, what did Linna say about Sylia yesterday?
The answer to that question was three sharp, resonating knocks against my steel door. Hollow, like death knocking at the door. I tried to hide behind a bowl of cereal, before realising how stupidly futile that was. Besides, if it was the police, or anyone who wanted to harm me, they could just have smashed the door down, couldn't they? I swallowed my fears, padding across the floor through life's debris
“Gimme a minute,” I shouted out.
I was still in my underwear, but no time to get dressed. Whoever they were, they were going to get a pleasant surprise. A mischievous thrill of excitement ran up through my body, there was something terrifically funny about bothering single people in isolation.
I never used to be this mischievous...
Maybe Toren Smiths changes to my mind hadn't just been limited to keeping me from going insane when I saw myself in a mirror. He might have changed my personality too.
Or it could just be boredom?
Then I remembered the last time I'd been bored as hell, and how I'd managed to knock out the electricity to my whole neighbourhood by thinking I could use the three phase electric supply straight off of an ESB junction box to power a shed-built coilgun. It worked for about a half second...
When I got bored, I was positively dangerous.
Stunning innocent randomers with my artificial beauty was almost harmless by comparison, a bit of a double standard when held alongside my opinion on sex.... but oddly fun nonetheless. I really didn't understand my head sometimes...
I pulled the door open, gleefully expecting staring eyes and a sudden blush. Instead, I was faced with my own surprised reflection staring back at me from a pair of obsidian sunglasses bisected by a curl of well kept blue hair.
“Oh, Sylia... Hi,” I half-muttered, taken aback for a moment.
Well, I'd been expecting her, hadn't I? Sort of.
“Hello, Meg,” she said coolly, calmly taking her sunglasses off and placing them in the breast pocket of a classy Italian red jacket. I didn't dare tell her that she looked twice her age... pearls, earrings, hairstyle, they were all far more 'mature' than the person wearing them. She radiated self-confidence, self-reliance and cool calculating determination you'd expect of the model modern businesswoman. There wasn't any scent of hostility, but she might've been able to hide it. With a better handle on myself and my own senses and abilities than our first meeting a month ago, I could tell something was different about her, but not what it was.
“Well..um... come in I guess,” I offered... not quite sure what to do from here.
I'd never entertained guests before.
“Thank you, she nodded, following me in.
The door slammed shut under its own power, thanks to a set of carefully maladjusted hinges.
“Sorry about the mess,” I rambled, while she left a pair of shoes in the porch that cost more than I'd made in the last month. “I don't have much to sit on; I normally use my bed,”
“It's no problem,” demurred Sylia, “I only have a few minutes to talk myself anyway,”
Relief... I tried the button to retract the bed up until the wall... no joy... before pushing the whole lot back up the old fashioned way with a grunt.
“I can coffee if you'd like. And I think the couch is working, not much else here does,”
“Thank you,” she nodded, “Two sugars please and milk please,”
I heard her sit down behind me, and felt a mild wave of unfamiliar discomfort wash through the room, before quickly being clamped down on. The kettle was heating up, it really was about the only thing here that was working, and I had some cheap instant coffee kicking around
“The secret to good coffee is to stop the kettle from boiling,” I explained, switching it off, “Add the milk, coffee and sugar first to the cup, then the hot water. Anything else burns the coffee and ruins the flavour,”
Especially with instant… boiling water reacted with the binging agent or something… I didn't know what exactly.
“Really?
She didn't sound too convinced, but one sip of my wondrous elixir would change her mind. Definitely. Even if it was just cheap instant, it was the best damn cheap instant in all of MegaTokyo.
“So, how are you doing anyway?”, she asked, “I see you've made this place your home.”
“Fine, thanks. And sorry about the mess,”
I felt oddly ashamed of it.
“I've seen a lot worse,” she reassured me, “It gets hard to keep up with the cleaning when you're busy and single,”
I nodded, stirring both cups.
“Yeah, work is long and doesn't pay well,” I said, handing one cup to her.
She held it as if it she was having tea with the King of England. I left mine on the windowsill beside the computer, while trying to find where I'd dumped my jeans yesterday.
“In technology news,” interrupted the TV, “Zone Corporation announced commencement of work on what it calls a second gen...”
Glaring at it, I killed it dead with on stab of the little red power button. And Sylia looked so out of place on the cheap fabric couch...a little like a younger Hyacinth Bucket, but without the snobbery.
“Well, if money is an issue,” said Sylia, taking a quick sip from the cup, before looking into it like it was cyanide laced diarrhoea. What did she expect, it was instant. “I might have an offer to interest you,”
I wasn't sure whether to be excited by that or terrified, my mind just went into a spinlock wheeling it over and over again while it tried to figure out just how I should feel about that. Money more important than potential screaming death?
“What....” a little composure, “What sort of job?”
“Irene's family,”, she chose that word very carefully even though we both knew what she was talking about, “will need help getting her out of the city and away from GENOM's prying eyes. We could do this without you, but I feel that we would have a better chance of success with your help,”
“You want me to be a Saber?”
Her words in the bedroom a month ago ran through my memory. Had Toren Smith gotten into her head somehow? What lengths did he go to, to finagle that out of her?
“No,” Sylia shook her head, to my disappointed relief, “But, GENOM knows you have information about our organisation, whether or not anybody within the company believes those disks show the future or not is anybody's guess. There will be enough confirmable information to lead GENOM to suspect you have a source within the company. Then there's the DvD titles themselves, `The story of the Knight Sabers', altogether that makes you very interesting to certain persons in the company. They might even begin to suspect you are a member of our organisation.”
“You told me that a month ago. It's why you kept the wrecked bike, wasn't it?”
I swallowed a mouthful from my own cup. I didn't see what her problem with the coffee was, it tasted fine for cheap-ass instant.
She nodded again. “There aren't many 50-year old EU registered motorcycles in this city,”
“So,” I composed the question as carefully as I could in my head, trying not to sound as if I'd already decided, “What is it, exactly, you want me to do?”
“I can't tell you that here. If you want to take the job, you have to go in a little blind,”
Which I took to mean 'You'd probably refuse if I told you.'. This would get me in over my head alright. The fact she wouldn't tell me what the job was, that was good enough reason not to take it. I was too sensible...too normal for that sort of life anyway. Then again, this might be one of those false choices so beloved of Mr. Smith.... I couldn't shake the feeling he'd set this up somehow, but I didn't want to push it, not too hard anyway.
“So, can I actually say no?” I enquired. Or was it really just another illusory Hobsons choice where the consequences of refusing where so bad, it was best to just go along with it.
“Of course,” answered Sylia, smiling softly at me, “I know you've said you don't want to be a hero, and understand if you don't want to stick your neck out again,” mild disappointment flashed across her features, but she clamped down on it, “99 percent of people living in this city are busy just trying to live, taking the safest path to ensure they have food on the table each morning and a roof over their head. We don't begrudge anyone making that choice; they have the right not to risk themselves, or their loved ones. And, it would be more dangerous to have unwilling help, than to have no help whatsoever”
I agreed completely. I had the right not to put myself in another situation where I could get killed, especially after the first time I'd tried to do the heroic thing, I'd nearly gotten myself and the damsel in distress killed. It still stung to think about it.
“If you agree, we'll pay you a fair share for the work, minus the costs of any equipment. We can do it without you, though it would make it much easier to have you onboard for this,”
“Thanks,” I smiled, and Sylia gave me a look as if she wasn't quite sure what I was thanking her for, “It's nice to have the choice,” I gave a sigh, looking down at my own arm for a moment, as if the answer would be written there for some reason. “What the Knight Sabers do... it...um,” how do I put this? “It's dangerous, and it's the sort of life and death danger I'm not sure I can really handle. I mean, I nearly got Irene killed. I was scared as hell outrunning that boomer and...” I swallowed a lump, “...Well.. it didn't really end too well, or you wouldn't have to be here,”
“It ended better than it might have,”
“Yeah,” I sighed again, resting back against the concrete wall. “I really need to think about this, I really do. And I have to get ready for work in a couple of hours...and”
How many people have jumped at the call to adventure, only to jump off a cliff?
“You don't need to give me an answer right now,” she reassured, “I'm holding a briefing tomorrow evening in my apartment at 7 O'clock, if you want to take part, just show up. If I don't see you there, I'll know your choice. Just head into the store, and let Mackie know that you're looking for a million-yen nightgown, he'll know what you mean,”
I admit to laughing softly at that, maybe because I was still in my nightwear, or maybe because I half expected a nightgown that expensive to actually be available for sale.
“I think I need something better to wear than a sweaty t-shirt alright,” I remarked, “But my bank manager, he say no,”
“The dress makes the lady,” commented Sylia with a saleswoman's gleam in her eye, “But the underwear makes the woman,”
The factory made me....I went to put my hands in my pockets, but found only soft flesh instead, and a cheap pair of cotton panties.
“I honestly don't know, and silk is a little out of my budget,”
Which was a far more tactful thing than wondering aloud what underwear Sylia was wearing under such a conservative ensemble.
“We don't just sell silk you know, there's a full range for every occasion,”
I just smiled and shook my head slowly. I could watch her staring down at the cup in her hands, longing for another sip of liquid, but wondering if she could stomach another shot of cheap instant.
10:17:38 according to my clock
“I should probably start getting ready for work soon enough in anyways. I'll think about this overnight, I really think I need to take time over this.” wait... speaking of work, “How much time will I have to take off work to do this?”
If Ken's reaction to Priss taking a night off was anything to go by, my decision had already been made for me anyway
“You'll need at least until Monday; all things going well,” Sylia told me, “Though Ken can be quite accommodating provided you give him fair notice. Just let him know who's called in the favour,”
“I suppose I'll have tell you tomorrow then,” I spoke into my cup.
My conscience pushed one way while my head pulled in the other.
“I'll see you tomorrow then,” she smiled, scanning around for somewhere proper to place her cup. The floor itself would have to do, it seemed. “Though, there is one more thing. GENOM maintains publicly accessible service records of all boomers they've sold, to combat fencing of spare parts. We've found yours, Meg.”
She reached into a leather handbag, placing a piece of fax-paper on the couch beside herself as she stood up,
“I think you should take note of who your first registered owner was. “
“Who?”
“It's on the paper; I won't spoil the surprise,”
I frowned playfully. She just shrugged lightly.
“Goodbye, Meg. I'll see you tomorrow,”
Wait...
“Maybe,” I corrected, “I don't know yet,”
See gave me a knowing smile, her eyes sparking as she seemed to read thoughts in myself I didn't know I was having. “See you...”
And then she left, the steel door slamming shut again behind her and leaving me alone.
I stood by the window for a moment; listening to her stiletto'd footsteps as they receded into the background noise of the city. The fax still lingered on my couch. What was so surprising Sylia thought it would be fun to find out for myself?
Could my previous owner have been none other than Brian J. Mason himself? That'd be a wonderful mind-screwing irony, wouldn't it? Would I really want to know that for sure? Yes, actually.... A wave of insatiable curiosity washed over me... I had to know and I had to know now. Picking the paper up, I noted it had been translated into clean English.
I read it.
----->>
GENOM® Official HPI Report:
Issue Date: 26/06/32
Model number: BU-33-S
Chassis number: 33DB--26DH--30WF--42KZ--10D9--7X49--AKRD--108.
Chassis type: ACSX-MEG-DECKARD
AI-type: 11 MMX-NEXUS.
Rating: Level 7A
Manufacture date: 10/02/2029
Place of Manufacture
Original customer order: Tet Corporation LLC.
Customer number: 19099ak421375a
Delivery date: 19/02/2029
Delivery Address: 2 Hammarskjöld Plaza, Manhattan, New York City, New York State, United States of America.
Most recent registered owner: Tet Corporation LLC as of February 2032.
Most recent service at authorised GENOM® dealer: 22/02/2032
Condition most recent service: Excellent.
Current registered owner: None:(In transit)
Notes:
Unit declared exempt from BTO A33S-801 by reason of academic research.
(Remember, use only genuine new GENOM parts to ensure the safe and reliable operation of your boomer)
----->>
Well... I could see why Sylia wanted that to be a surprise. It'd probably never have an affect on my day to day life, but there was something dreadfully unsettling about this sudden reappearance of Tet. I'd heard nothing from them since that letter in Sylia's apartment, and for that I'd been thankful. And worse...I was used....
What happened to me...or this body...before I arrived?
I couldn't answer that question; it just lingered in the air. There were no scars, no marks and no signs of three years wear and tear anywhere
Another question nagged.
Why was Sylia treating me like I was human?
If anybody else knew who or what I was, I'd be treated as no different from a bloody toaster. Just what was going on behind those eyes? She had a definite reason; I didn't think she was just being polite...
Best not to look a gift horse in the mouth, I decided.
As if to illustrate how much of a machine I was, the diagnostic I started rang up complete.
Some blood contamination, but well within tolerances.
A slight electrolyte imbalance, but that was liveable.
And the estimated repair time for my twisted ankle was going to remain infinite unless I got off my feet for a few hours and let it repair itself.
Otherwise, I was in fine fettle.
I had to go to work. And regardless of what choice I made in the end, I was going to have to ask for that time off tonight.
What should I do?
Follow my conscience, my gut instinct that says helping Irene is the right thing to do, regardless of money?
Or take the sensible, safe path? Protect my job, project my body and protect the life I was just settling in to?
And then... a million yen? Okay, Sylia hadn't outright said it, but that was the low hanging fruit. That's certainly make life easier. It'd be more than enough for a flight home.
But then, I can't exactly go home if I get myself killed, can I?
And I still wasn't looking forward to asking for that time off.
----->>
A nightmare
I waited. The lights above me blinked and sparked out of the air. There were Boomers in the base. I didn't see them, but had expected them now for days. My warnings to Sylivia Stingrey were not listenend to and now it was too late. Far too late for now, anyway.
I was a Night Sabre for fourteen days. When I was young I watched the animé and I said to dad "I want to be on the anime daddy."
Dad said "No! You will BE KILL BY BOOMERS"
There was a time when I believed him. Then as I got oldered he stopped. But now in the space station base of the SDPC he knew there were boomers.
"This is Stingrey" the radio crackered. "You must fight the boomers!"
So I gotted my hurdsait and blew up the wall.
"IT GOING TO KILL US" said the boomers
"I will shoot at it" said the cyberdroid and he fired the rocket missiles. I plasmaed at him and tried to blew him up. But then the ceiling fell and they were trapped and not able to kill.
"No! I must kill the boomers" I shouted
The radio said "No, Meg. You are the boomers"
And then…
I was a Night Sabre for fourteen days. When I was young I watched the animé and I said to dad "I want to be on the anime daddy."
Dad said "No! You will BE KILL BY BOOMERS"
There was a time when I believed him. Then as I got oldered he stopped. But now in the space station base of the SDPC he knew there were boomers.
"This is Stingrey" the radio crackered. "You must fight the boomers!"
So I gotted my hurdsait and blew up the wall.
"IT GOING TO KILL US" said the boomers
"I will shoot at it" said the cyberdroid and he fired the rocket missiles. I plasmaed at him and tried to blew him up. But then the ceiling fell and they were trapped and not able to kill.
"No! I must kill the boomers" I shouted
The radio said "No, Meg. You are the boomers"
And then…
…my alarm clock went off. It was going to be a long Friday
----->>
Firstly, Midnight Express is a song by and Irish Band called The Saw Doctors. It might be on Youtube or pirated somewhere; you'd never find a disk of it in the States, or anywhere else in the world for that matter.
Second: Typo's are the devil.
Third: I did build a coilgun. It did sort of disappear in a blazing arc of electric fire… I wasn't holding it at the time, and I didn't plug it into a junction box, I used the 3-phase supply in the shed. The theory behind it was sound, I was trying to build a linear induction motor sort of thing… but my maths was off. There some wafflings on it in the thread at The_fanfiction_forum. I post snippets there if anybody wants to see them… under animé previews.
Fourth: Yes that is the same Tet corporation. Don't spoiler it for those here who don't know. And feel free to correct the address.
Fifth: I did this around an almighty HDD failure…. Backups and the stuff on TFF let me recover the most of my work. Remember, always backup.
Sixth: I'm having character/space encoding issues thanks to MS Word, which I tried for the lulz in Wine for a bit. Bloody Microsoft.
Seventh: I am trying my goddamndest to bring something new to the table….
Finally: Hope ye're enjoying it. You can contact me the usual way. Now off to holidays
-Dartz