From: tracker@wpi.WPI.EDU (William L Schongar)
Subject: Brit off more than 'e could chew.. (intro)
Date: 2 Jul 92 15:56:00 GMT
Keywwords: Boredom creates writers..

(Just because I can....)

------


London, England. 23.5 20:14

 Petrol mists and static hums from the Underground comprised the rain
and the thunder, the stealthy caress of tires on some distant cousin
of asphalt gave the wind a tune, as if through high grass.
Pedestrians, few and far between, stood writhing on the street, their
arms outstretched for a black cab to notice if they chose. Most chose
not to. The huddled figures stayed, unsure, consulting their watches
and their maps, infrequent and unwilling participants in the maze of
rush hour.

--

 The May rains had long since given way to an overcast and impotent
sky, posessing only the facade of a storm. Buildings, once with a
diffident air proclaiming themselves separate from heritage, had been
forced from that preposessed self-importance into complacence and
compliance with the historical preservation act of 2015. Gradually the
neo-gothic replaced the near-tragic, providing a more unified setting;
the London of yesteryear, with cold glimpses of steel in its bright
eyes. The modernist locales exist as contrast, a symbol that there is
more to a society than just its past.


--

 The courier took the corner hard, almost too much on the lean. High
friction rabbit-start tires kept her up, backing the force of the
cycle with a steel grip of their own. Pedestrians were still obliged
to yield right-of-way to the city traffic, and she took the advantage
every time she could get it. The Mercury Communications Plc logo stood
out like a headlight behind her, a fleeting reminder of her back to
the cars she passed.

 Picadilly and Leicester were closed off, subject to a security alert
on the Underground. "Some old biddy's bag gets left behind, some suit
drops his case, and I'm going to lose time because of it...", the
helmet shakes, dislodging the light beads on the visor. ".. damn
terrorist paranoia, it is." South on Haymarket and Cockspur, past the
crowds waiting to see the Andrew Lloyd Webber's latest (written by god
only knows who, but licensed to use his name to sell tickets) at Her
Majesty's. Around Bonnie Charlie, up the Strand at 85 klicks. Dropping
the throttle at the roundabout, and barely pulling the turn off
Aldwych to Drury Lane. Half a klick, drops to a full brake to the
discomfort of several eardrums, and kickstands the bike.

 Casually, she steps off the bike, drops the helmet over the lockdown
and shakes down her hair. The Mercury jacket finds itself in the
wheelbox, and the casual jacket comes out to take its place. With a
large smile, she walks over to the head-shaking young man near the
front door.

--

 Looking at his friend pulling a squealling stop in front of the New
London theatre, Nigel just laughs, hiding his chuckles in his hand as
the stolid theatre-goers line up for the evening performance, casting
huff glances at his smile.

 "Brilliant, Den, really. I'd sign you up for the Monaco's if we
weren't late already." With some slight fumbling, two tickets slide out
of the tanned wallet. "I got them a while ago off a tout.. pretty good
seats, I'm told."

 "You should know better than that, Nige... what if you're taken for
it? You'll never see the bloke again. You're too trusting." The black
hair holds the light, like a cat's eyes, and the smile holds a wry
grin behind it.

 "The devil take me if I'll be conned!" The young man grins. "I told
the bastard that if I don't get in, I'll bloody well shoot 'im! I even
showed him the gun!" With a swirl of his Burberry's trench, the cold
steel glints off the oily street. "But, my dear Denise, we aren't here
to celebrate the joys of consumerism in this age of theatre..."

 "Yes, Yes.." With a start, taking his arm. "It's your last night
before your trip, and you had no one else to call, so here I am."

 "Oh! You wound me deeply with such a wit! Here you are, my good
man.." The tickets change hands, pass the scan, and the doors open to
the dress circle. "... see, no problems!... to think that I would put
you at the bottom of some list.. a last resort..."

 Denise smiled. "Oh, really? What about Katy? I thought it was her
turn, after the Denmark outing..."

 Nigel's face lost expression, leaving the shine of his eyes to the
gloom of the street in undesired generosity. "No.. she....won't be
around for a while."

 "Oh no! I'm sorry Nige.. I didn't know anything had happened..  When
was it?"

 "Saturday." Facing the street, looking for a reflection of more than
his face, and finding it absent. "She'll be okay.. two hits in the
lung. 'Occupational Hazard' she said when I saw her..."

 "Maybe it's time for a new occupation, Nige."

 The wry grin trading places, his face lit. "Ah, but no, my sweet! For
she said to me 'If you skip out, you lazy bastard, just because of
this.. I will indeed castrate you with a ball bearing.'"

 "She always knows how to motivate, doesn't she?" With a laugh. "So,
where is it you're going tomorrow, anyway? Let me see... horse?
stirrup? saddle?"

 Nigel poked her as she settled into her seat. "Ninny... _Seattle_. See
if I get _you_ any souveniers...."

 "You could always bring me back a new cycle for my birthday.. no,
no.. I take that back. You just might, if I left it open.."

 "What's this you've been leaving open?" Chuckles her companion. "Do
the neighbors know? Oh, the ignominy of it all..."

 Turning to Nigel, caught up too much in his own joke, Denise wrapped
her arm around his head to muffle the chuckles.

 "Hey," Nigel complained laughingly, "That's not very lady-like.."

 "And you, sir, haven't even had the gentleman-like courtesy to tell
me whom you're meeting, " with a false huff of annoyance, "in case
something goes wrong."

 Nigel turned his head slightly and grinned. "Funny, that.
Everything's so codswallop that I don't even know for sure, myself.
I'm just meeting someone in a small bar called the Chadsuto, or
something like that. Sounds like a men's store... the person who
contacted me told me neither what they wanted, nor who they were. But
the plane ticket's arrived, and the Hotel's booked, so freer than a
farthing, I'm off from Central tomorrow."

 Denise arched an eyebrow, warily. "Seriously Nige, take care of
yourself when you arrive.. I don't like the sound of it. The states
can be unusual.. and I certainly hope you find whoever it is contacted
you.."

 "Me too." Nigel winked. "Now, let's just watch the show, eh?"

---------------

---------------

 Nigel, Denise, and my sanity are all figments of my imagination.
Brought to you by the 'Diversity of new characters to play with' act
of 1992. Feel free to use them, so long as you don't abuse them
terribly without asking... abusing them minorly without asking is
fine. :)


-Tracker


From: tracker@wpi.WPI.EDU (William L Schongar)
Subject: Brit off more than he could chew (placement)
Date: 10 Jul 92 14:10:12 GMT


Don't mind me, just adding another character to the fray...

---

 The 12:15 left, as expected, around 1:05. It wasn't as bad a delay as
expected, the CRCD hadn't pulled any of their recent bomb threats, the
CID wasn't going over passports with thread scanners, the MOD wasn't
running any air-response tests... "Acronyms' day off", as the
stewardess has quaintly phrased it. The only problem thus far had been
the slightly over-insistent baggage handler-wannabe at Victoria, near
the Gatwick Express docking. Maybe next time he'd try taking a bag
that someone wasn't holding onto. But Nigel wasn't going to make any
bets on it.

 4 hours to the other side of the Atlantic, 2 from the Winchell 'port
to LAX-Northern. The commuter flight was more like a garment bag than
a flight, packed full of suits and dresses, too many of them corcerned
with their own small wrinkles, while the outside world went unwashed.

 Nigel grabbed a cab, or more to the point it grabbed him..
competition among the independents was pretty fierce in the states,
he'd read, and it certainly seemed to be true.

"Driver? Take me to a bar called the Chatsubo."

 The limp faceturned from the front seat, looked Nigel over and laughed. "Good
joke, Limey boy. I'll take ya to one'a the nice suit bars, where ya's
can talk about the rain over a cup of tea ina china cup." Greasy hairs
flop over his eyes as the head shakes. "You wouldn't last a few minutes
in the place you want to go.. you'd piss someone off somehow, and then
you'd just make more cleanup work."

 "I like to live dangerously." It was a lie, really. He'd heard the line
in a movie he saw during an extremely late night up, thought it was just
enough of a cliche to get by with. Dangerously. Indeed. The last time
his gun had been loaded had been when, three months back? At least. "I
know what I'm doing. Just drive." The lines were coming in handy, he'd
have to rent some films while he was here and get some extra lines
for the return trip. It would be a laugh at parties.

 Chuckling, the driver moved the cab. The engine, too, laughed as it
went, puttering out in a humor down Whittley Street, down the alleys
and wrong-ways on one way streets. Sinking back into the seat, and
promptly thinking better of that same action, Nigel began to wonder
what he was getting himself into.

 The bar, as it stood, was set in the middle of a country boy's
nightmare. Drak alleys stretched like fingers from a crusted hand,
reaching out to take away the things kept inside your heart and mind,
to cruelly rip them apart while you watched. The silent grey buildings,
mottled with a cancer of pollution and disrepair, reflected the neon
stutters from signs above doors, half-broken. Nigel thought it looked
a lot like lower Soho after improvement. "What could be so bad about
a place like this?" he muttered to himself as he paid the cabbie.

 The minicab shot off, in more of a hurry than its driver to leave.
With the absence of the bright lights of the cab, the alley settled
into a low growling sleep. Deciding that perhaps there was validity to
the normally unbelieved statement that London was still one of the
safest cities in the world to walk around in, Nigel quickly entered
the bar through the too-often repaird door.

 No one took notice of him as he walked in, at least not obviously.
There was nothing remarkable about the way he carried himself, and
the air of danger that most people took for granted as their cloak
was far removed from his acoutrements. He passed one or two people
in conversation nearer to the bar, but they were to involved in what
they discussed to notice whatever ripples he may have made in his
passing.

 Removing himself to the bar at the far end, he resigned himself to
a cup of Earl Grey, hopefully. He looked around and wondered where in
the mess that called itself a bar he was supposed to find the person
he was looking for. "Well," he mused, "I suppose they'll be 'round
eventually." He settled into the stool, waiting.

-------------

-------------


 (No, I have no idea who he's waiting for either. Maybe you. You never know.)

	(-Tracker)



From: tracker@yoyodyne.WPI.EDU (The Renegade Ranger)
Subject: Brit off more then 'e could chew (2)
Date: 16 Sep 92 13:11:05 GMT


 Scary thought... there's been lots of writing here recently. S'good
though, keeps us all busy reading.

 I've been delinquent, but since I get paid to sit and do very little,
next to a computer terminal, I thought I'd change that.

 So, for your perusal, part two. I apologize for the often-rusty
style, it's been a while.

 Oh yeah, a warning, it's a bit long...

------------
------------

 Nigel stretched slowly, the lack of movement having affected his
mobility over such a long period of time. The tea was cold, but it
happily lacked the filmy covering that occurred when London water was
the medium of presentation. Bracing himself slightly, he swallowed the
drink, shivering a bit at the consistency. "And these people drink
'Iced' tea? The world is mad.."

 The stool creaked as he turned, more a complaint of neglect than
indication of poor condition. No one had disturbed him as he slept,
apparently, since he was obviously still in the bar called the
Chatsubo, and still breathing. He checked his outer wallet and
amended the thought that he hadn't been disturbed, adding the modifier
'much'. Fortunately a survey of the inner wallet proved to be more
rewarding, the heat-sensitive polymer having conformed to his skin
enough to pass undetected.

 "Well," he thought with a wry smile, "What the bloody hell do I do
now?"

 A slight cough turned his attention to the right, where a man in a
casual Saville imitation suit nursed, albeit a large nurse, a glass of
some unidentifiable green liquid. "Well, well. He awakes. Very nice to
see you, Mr. Felston. I trust your flight was pleasant?"

 Somewhat off-balance, it took Nigel a moment to realize that this
gentleman was the one who had sent him the ticket. "Umm, yes,
actually. Thank you for asking."

 "Quite welcome, I assure you. Now, while I don't mean to rush you,
shall we take a walk? I believe we have a business proposition to
discuss." Smiling, he scanned a credit stick across the reader, paying
for both drinks. Without another word, he rose from the stool and
headed for the door.

 With all the grace of a half-asleep behemoth on ice, Nigel removed
himself from his seat and followed, mentally taking notes as he went.
His benefactor was about 1.83m tall, weighing in somewhere near 70kg.
The clothes marked him as reasonably well off, though not
ostentatious. He didn't seem that different from any other suited
individual, except that he didn't appear to be carrying weaponry or
posess any type of bodyguard. Unusual for this kind of an area, he
thought.

 The air outside was unchanged, and would probably stay that way for
several hundred years. Smog, man's formaldyhyde. His contact was a
distance away, moving with a rapidity of step that seemed almost paced
to put Nigel at a short run. Resigning to find a health center in the
area, Nigel threw back his coat and started into a quick jog.

--

 The park lights shone through a light mist, an effervesence of light
with the hissing carbonation of passing steps through wet grass and
over pavement. Not too many people partook of the night libations,
preferring the dry tang of their comfortable homes, and the sober
realizations of safety to the revelry of uncertainity.

 Nigel's new acquaintance moved with speed and silence, drinking in
the darkness and the shadows as one accustomed to them. Nigel, on the
other hand, was a tad nervous. The shadows of the tree held quite a
number of those psychotic axe-murderers he read about all the time, he
supposed. Were there any former school teachers on rampages with
shotguns? Or maybe this week it was a failed presidential candidate..

 "This is good." The contact slowed to a stop near a public alert
station. Nigel was amused; the man hadn't been getting as far as he
could from other people, he'd strategically placed them equidistant
from the police outposts in the park. Far enough to be unobserved,
close enough to be within quick response distance. Nigel's favorite
type of place.

 "I'll be brief. You weren't flown here for a pleasure trip, Mr.
Felston. From our information you were a reasonably competent outside
source for the talent we need."

 "*Reasonably competent?*  Such compliments, and I hardly know you...
Mr.."

 The contact didn't smile. "My name is, as is typical in the business,
unimportant to you."

 "Hmm, so it is. At the moment. I'll just call you Randolph. I've got
a fondness for the name.. do you mind?"

 Pondering for a minute, the suit shook his head. "If it makes it
easier, certainly. Why that name? A relative? Close friend?"

 Nigel smiled. "Jack Russell terrier."

 Scowling with the inclination of a fading light, Randolph removed a
packet from his inner pocket. "We need you to increase our knowledge
of what's in this packet. We know who and where, we want to know why,
how much, and what. It's of great concern to us. Don't open the
package here, open it when you get to your hotel. I'll contact you
later to haggle over price and make arrangements, but we're willing to
pay any reasonable fee."

 "Don't open it here? It doesn't tick, does it?"

 "No."

 "Oh, astounding." He turned the package over in his hands, carefully,
weighing it. "So, you'll get in touch with me? I'll be looking forward
to it."

 "I'm sure." The suit pivoted nervously to follow the path of a group
of joggers on a nearby path. "I'll also give you the remainder of the
details then. Can't tell you everything at once."

 Nigel let a slow chuckle issue from his throat. "Oh, I'm sure.. I
wonder though, do..."

 The sentence, cut short by the blast of an automatic weapon, fell to
the ground unfinished, on equal terms with its speaker. Nigel spun
over to look at his contact, thankful that they'd both apparently been
wearing at least minimal armor protection. Unfortunately the suit's
looked more minimal than his own, as witnessed by one or two bloody
holes.

 Drawing his pistol, Nigel fired off several rounds in the direction
the shots had come from, only to have them returned with interest from
that position and two others. Rolling on the bruised side of his back
towards some low cover he heard the other shots as he saw the suit,
in stuttered frames, torn to pieces by the automatic fire.

 He dropped into a low spot behind a bench, trying to get some sort of
a defensive position, like he'd learned at the 3-week school for
personal defense. As the bullets chipped the paint over his head, he
realized it just wasn't working. Firing off several more rounds in the
hope of random chance lending a hand, his pistol hammer knocked on
empty.

 "Uh-oh! All outta buwwets, doc..." The voice came from somewhere in
front of him, loudly and with confidence. Not really wanting to see if
the person might want to chat, Nigel pulled the pin on his defensive
flare, tossed it, and ran the other way when it torched.

 "This," he said between rough breaths, "is _really_ not much fun
anymore..."


----------
----------

 Disclaimers, datclaimers, demclaimers. Not.

 Comments, suggestions, books on "101 uses for a dead 'Randolph'"
welcome.

-Tracker


From: tracker@wpi.WPI.EDU (William L Schongar)
Subject: Brit off more than 'e could chew.. (3)
Date: 23 Sep 92 12:50:32 GMT


 Yet another installment...

----------
----------

 Trees and sidewalks, an urban maze lacking none of the complexity of
a Greek nightmare. Lakes and fences form walls, darkness follows suit
for those with fears of what waits within. Open space surrenders
itself to shadows of fear, mobile spectres of imagination tangible
enough to be realized but never dispersed. Predators called it home,
outsiders called it the Park.

--

  Street lamps gave hazed halos of misted light reflected a heaven
above, with hell only a few meters below. The peaceful vision of
nealry motionless stars, contrasted starkly with the sounds of running
feet and occasional gunfire from below.

--

 Nigel tried to get breath as he ran, but his lungs refused to
recognize that the air actually had oxygen in it. Somewhere. The heavy
panting of his own movement rendered it impossible to determine where
his pursuers were, making it necessary to determine that fact by the
occasional muzzle flash.

 From what he'd been able to deduce, there were three of them, all
armed with much better weaponry than himself. Which, at the moment,
wasn't that difficult, since he was out of bullets. He had hoped to
remain by the emergency boxes, counting on the Park Police to pick up
the gunfire and respond. Unfortunately his attackers were well aware
of that tactic, and had herded him farther and farther away from
the areas marked off as well-patrolled.

 "... just a small tank, really... that's all I want. I'd even settle
for a small armored car, or maybe a taxi...." Huffing as he ran, Nigel
was starting to lose hope and energy. "Hell, I've already lost all my
bullets and my sense of direction.. and no insurance on either.
Typical."

 Scrambling over some brush, he tumbled into a small ditch near a park
bench. Some 50 meters away, through the middle of a well-lit open
field, was a police emergency box. "Brilliant. Just when I want one,
it has to be the one made for people afraid of the dark." Somewhere
close behind him he heard the crushing of some underbrush, but no
voices. Searching frantically through his coat for anything of use, he
clamped onto a small metal object in his right breast pocket. Pulling
it out quizically, Nigel almost burst out laughing. Between his thumb
and his forefinger was a 9mm armor-piercing bullet. The salesman had
given it to him as a gift, the remnant of his target range practice
with the Kushian 4 weeks ago. It was his reminder to himself to go out
and buy more ammunition.

 Brush broke under footsteps, much closer. Desperately, Nigel loaded
the AP round into the chamber. He counted three shadows, roughly
outlined by the hazed lights. If he was lucky, he might be able to get
it in the general vicinity of one of them. "Not good.. not good... one
bullet, three annoying men with smgs, one very distant call box, two..
call box?!? Hmmm, maybe..." Nigel dropped down farther, reversing his
position and settling into a target shooting position. While he'd only
had two weeks of training with the gun, he'd done a good amount of
range shooting at 50m. Squeezing the trigger lightly, his arm jerked
back as the gun fired, sending the AP slug screaming into the front
panel of the emergency box's signal panel. The safety door slammed
shut as the tamper siren went wild, sending a wailing cry over the
night noises.

--

 Jorath winced at the noise, guessing whose fault it was without a
moment's hesitation. Subvocalizing, he switched on the mike. "Waste
the guy quick, we're going to have company." Fellan and Wing opened up
on full auto, cutting new paths in the dirt around the spot where the
English guy had fired from. Sighting in thermo, he fired a few shots
at what appeared to be the suit's back, subvocalizing a scatter
command as he saw the patrol lights coming from the south and
northeast. Without another sound, they broke in different directions,
knowing their employer wasn't going to be happy that they'd only
gotten Klein, and not the package.

--

 The rough poking in his ribs tore through his unconsciousness. Nigel
opened one eye and rolled over to find the source, only to be rewarded
by this effort by shooting pains in several places. He looked down and
saw the tattered overlayer of what used to be his armor jacket, along
with a few new bodily orifi he'd just been given claimancy over.

 "You want to explain what the hell you're doin', bud?" The voice
emanated from a rather portly police officer, standing over him in a
suit of operation grays. The front fastening seemed to be having a
difficult time compensating for the stomach area, but the assault
shotgun pointed in his general direction was enough deterrent to
refrain from comment.

 "Actually, I'd love to tell you what's going on." With a groan, Nigel
tried to sit up, failing miserably. "Unfortunately, I haven't a clue."

 Two younger officers, also in grays and armed heavily, marched over
to the area of discussion. The older one turned to them, scrutinizing,
and grunted something that sounded vaguely like a request for
information.

 "Sir, there appear to have been two or three assailants. Each was
armed with an SMG, and each averaged about 40 shots. Most of them were
in the man unit 3 found on the east side. Also there was firing from a
9mm handgun, approximately 9 shots fired. Something also scorched a
good quantity of flowerbed next to the memorial plot." Flipping shut
the datapad, the officer waited for his next order.

 "Well, I think that about does it." The man turned to Nigel, looking
him over. "To be a bit trite and cliche, let's all go downtown."

--

 Two hours, and several cubic feet of medical foam, later, Nigel
exited the Duncan Street precinct. "I can't believe this. I get shot,
a man gets murdered, and I get to pay a day's earnings for the
privilege of being there?" He looked down at the violation notices.
Discharging a firearm in a public place. Destruction of public
property, 2 counts. Unauthorized and improper use of a police call
booth. Failure to stay right. "Failure to stay...?!?!" He sighed, it
would do no good to complain about it, they certainly wouldn't reduce
his charges any. Looking around resignedly, Nigel began the long trek
back to his hotel.

--

 "There." Fellan pointed as Nigel exited the station. "That's him."

 The figure in the back seat followed the extended finger, taking note
of the slightly limping figure on the other end of it. "I would like
to know who he is, what he knows, and why he shouldn't be dead by this
time tomorrow. Is that too difficult?"

 "No. No problem."

----------------
----------------

 Coming soon.. Cyberman vs. Godzilla... Yeah, right.

Comments, criticisms, communal cornucopi, calibrated calypsoes and
campaigning cajuns crusading curtailed cactii welcome...

-Tracker