From: crimson@ihz.compuserve.com (Mark Friedman)
Subject: A Dream For You 2
Date: 9 Jan 1995 14:09:58 -0500

[cue preface]

What can I say about this one?  It's kind of the second post in what
might become a series of discontinuous bits...

Phyllis shared another dream with me t'wards the end of last year, and
this one grabbed ahold of my imagination and wouldn't let go: what
follows is my extended industrial-grindcore remix of the original.
So, similar to "A Dream For You (1)", this one is dedicated to
Phyllis, and was written for her as a soft of gift in return for all
she's given me...

And if you're wondering, we're busily reloading Loki's Gun with the
depleted uranium slugs, and shall shoot a few more your way *soon*,
including a few reposts to catch some folks up to date.  We promise.

As Phyllis said in ADFY1, "on with the stories"...
							- m

============================[ cue text ]============================

Blink back to fore.  Shit.  Dozed off.  Can't afford sleep: gotta
keep you with me, keep you close, *keep* you...

36-plus hours now.  Shit.  Too fucking long.  But we're close.

Caffeine buzz.  Wired.  Or was it just the adrenaline?  When I'm
awake, I'm *awake*.  At least it's cool that ten minutes of sleep at
this point feels like an hour or so...

Back to the keyboard:

<< How's it goin', eh? >>

>> /slight pout/  Where... where did you go? <<

<< /sigh/ Sorry, I dozed off: the Kenny G Christmas album started
playing on the canned music system, and you *know* what *that* does to
me!  /grin/ >>

>> /giggle/ Well *that* I can forgive! /hugs/ Missed you... <<

<< /smile and tight, warm snugs/ Missed you too, love...>>

Cheezus fuckin' cryminee, but *how* I miss you...

Terrorist bastards just don't have a clue, do they?  Sure, yeah: take
a high-security clearance (UV, even!) field reporter hostage, break
her, brainwash her to your own will, and then use her to get close to
J. Famous Personage that she's scheduled to interview next week, and
BANG!  Sounds like a plan, doesn't it?

In my own highly-quotable words, "Wank, wank, wank: *fock* you!"  Not
if *I'm* on the fucking job, assholes: you picked the very close
friend of the *wrong* MultiMedia Production artist to piss off...

Yeah, so what if I *am* just an MMP hack?  That's what I am, and
damned proud of it: the best mix of tech and creativity any Network
could hope to have.  The *best*.  And *I'm* the one that's gonna get
you back safe and sound all the same and make those bastards pay.

36-plus hours now.  Shit.  *Way* too fucking long.  But we're close.
Damned close.  And it's too bad I can't *tell* you, cuz they could
just torture that info out of you and just relocate you and we'd lose
your trail...

Damn: fucking *torturing* you.  Got you blindfolded, tied down, naked,
screaming, and sobbing.  Urgh.  Sick fuckers: why don't they just pull
the hit on J. Famous Personage *themselves*?

Because they're too fucking *amateur*, is why.  And I *know* this for
a fucking fact because *they* didn't take out your electronics.  Yeah,
the EMP one-shot doused your cyberware but good, but not *all* of your
systems, and not *completely*.  Senstim receptors half gone, internal
broadcast array *severely* damaged, but not *gone*.

And that's their mistake.  They *thought* they could cut you off by
using a K-Mart brand EMP device to cut your bandwidth by a few orders
of magnitude.  Or so they *thought*.  I grin big just thinking about
it.  Their mistake.  Yeah, you *can't* broadcast stim or vid or audio
or even a locational beacon, but you *do* have enough to get out a
broadcast flood that bleeds out onto carrier media.

And what do we end up doing with it?

We run a modulation-demodulation scheme over the channel we *usually*
reserve for SMPTE time-code.  Haw, makes me laugh, specially since the
joke's on them.  Hell, this is just a little channel that does the
*simple* stuff like frequency-shift keying, and we turn around and
rechannel it like a 300 baud modem.  Heh.

Sound Motion-Picture and Television Engineering.  Funky acronyms from
a while back.  You don't know 'em, yourself: that's my job.  *You* get
inside and get the story.  You do all the hip and trendy stuff, you
got the moves and the style: that's who you are and what you do.  We
jack you into a broadcast-pack as a booster, usually (for on-location,
that is: studio's cake), or to a tape rig.  The end's all the same to
me: I get the raw footage and edit it together into what MMP calls
`The Real Shit'.

'Course, it's more fun when I get to `tag along' on a live feed.
That's how we really got *close* over the years, how we became a real
team.  I'd see through your eyes, feel through your skin, and all that
fun stuff.  Heh, and you'd have to put up with me yackin' in your
virtual `ear' and watch what I put up on the retinal projector.  But I
guess that's all cool, because we just *clicked* right at the very
beginning, and you love my sense of humour...which is good, cuz *boy*
can I annoy people if they don't `get' me.  Heh.

Intimacy.  That's what we got.  Not the whole sex-type thang: that's
something different.  This is `The Real Shit' in its own right.  It's
deep.  It's solid...

And it hurts like fucking hell to *know*, inside me, what these
fuckers are doing to you...

Too long to think: I'm babbling in me own head.  Back to typing:

<< Wow.  Too much Mello Yello for one night!  At least the caffeine
keeps me going... >>

>> /laughter/ I'd figure you'd have an IV of it hooked up by now... <<

<< /smirk/ I do, I do! >>

>> /giggle and cock of the head/ Y'know... <<

<< Oh, yeah, sure!  I know everything!  Or at least I *think* I do:
you told me that yourself once-- >>

>> /BAP!/ <<

<< /gigglesmirk and flutter of eyelashes/ Yeessszzz, m'dear? >>

>> /rolls eyes with a grin/ You're impossible sometimes.  Love you...
/smile/ <<

<< /big grin/ Love you too... >>

Straight text communication interface.  That's what we got.  Rigged up
your internals for packetised I/O.  We don't have the bandwidth for
any real-time transmission, but this does the job.  I strobe my text
up on the retinal projector still functioning in your left eye, and
you just *think* words at me...

That thinking-words thing was a godsend!  A `Broca Tap', they call
it, invented by this genius-cat named Gibbs as a technological aid for
mute folks: monitors the part of the brain that forms speech.  We
decided to get you one implanted so that you could make mental
annotations without having to say things aloud and interfere with
recording.  We also ended up using it for your cues to me on live
feeds, so that I could manipulate things in real time or prep for cuts
and fades.

Hell, every senstim network reporter has this kinda set up, these
days.  But we were the *first*, by golly!  Heh, and we have a slew of
industry awards (and commercial endorsements!) to prove it.  Oh well,
woulda been nice to have that technological edge all to ourselves, but
in this day and age even trade-secrets travel fast...

So, anyway...

Now we got you feeding me info on all kinds off stuff: the kind of
clothing people were wearing when they brush against you, what their
accent sounds like, what the language sounds like that they'd use in
your periphery, what you smell, when the temperature in the room
changes, what time the heat goes on, when it goes off, when it's quiet
and when it's busy...

Some of the stuff we can use.  Some is just to keep you busy.  But
*all* of it gets printed off my terminal and copied a bajillion times
and distributed to every free hand at the Network.  We're all working
on finding you, rescuing you...

Me, I'm locked up in my studio at work.  I'm your link.  It's up to me
to feed you information on what time of day it really is (they keep
lying to you, trying to screw with your perception of how long its
been), and to keep you oriented, to minimize the impact of certain...
things.

You don't tell me everything they do, but I always just kinda know
when you need...distracting.  Kinda like how I know how to <bleep!>
out your swear words in the middle of a live feed in real-time: I just
*know*.  That intimacy thing, again.  Hee-hee, like I know when to
*not* <bleep> 'em out for dramatic emphasis: after all, we have a
limit of three blue-words we're allowed before the censors get pissy
and fine us.  "Might as well use 'em all!", as we always say...

But hey: we're not being monitored now...

<< Lessee...time to do the checklist once again: shit, piss, fuck,
cunt, cock-sucker, mother-fucker, tits, fart, turd, twat...did we hit
all of those, yet? >>

>> /giggle/ Yeah, I think so... <<

<< Well, then!  I guess we'll call it a day: ready to go home yet? >>

>> /WHAP!/ OF COURSE I AM! /snarl/ <<

<< /wince/  Owie!  Okay, okay!  I'm workin' on it... >>

>> hrmph... /pout/ <<

<< /grin/ But while we're waiting...more wine? >>

>> /soft smile/ Well...alright.  Can't hurt, at least. <<

<< /chuckle/ Sure can't!  Hrmmm... /picks up bottle/ "A Washington
Chardonnay... three years old... aged in oak" /grin/ At least that's
what you requested... >>

>> /nodnod and grin/ <<

<< Heh... /refills both glasses/  A toast? >>

>> Yeah... /raises glass/ <<

<< /touch glasses: ting!/ To...your safe return: may nothing ever keep
us apart again, be it hell, high water, or dumb-ass terrorist mother-
fucke-- /slow grin/ Sorry: we already *did* `mother-fucker', didn't
we? >>

>> /giggle and nod/ Yeah: we did `mother-fucker' already... <<

<< /smirk/ Well then.  To your safe return, my love.  /drink/ >>

>> /blush and drink/ <<

<< /sets glass down/ Ummm...you had something you wanted to say
earlier when I interrupted you?  /serious tone here: you can't tell, I
know, but really! I mean it!/ >>

>> /blink/ [pause] /nod/ Yeah...I think I did... <<

<< /pulls you closer and holds you in his arms/ I'm listenin' now. >>

>> /purrrr at your warmth/ Well...it's good to have you here.  Really
it is: I don't think anyone could've done this but *you*. <<

<< /mrmmm and close, warm snugs and a smile/ >>

>> With... with what they're trying to do to me... I can't lie: I'm
frightened to death and hurting.  But they can't get all of me, because
in the back corner of my mind, there's you and I... <<

<< /nod/ >>

>> And it's a place in my head where I feel warm and safe, even when
I'm screaming on the outside.  It's... it's hard to explain... <<

<< /hand brush across one cheek, light kiss on the other/ Try.
/half-whispered/ For me? >>

>> /slow nod and deep-down shiver/ I... I can just let go of my body
and let it babble all it wants, and then I can just put all my
volition into what's happening in the back of my head and curl up in
your arms.  And that's why they can't get all of me: just knowing
someone wants to *hold* me... <<

<< /tight hug against your shivers/ I'll never let you go.  You know
that... >>

>> /tears, but a smile/  Love you, dearheart... /tight snugs/ <<

<< /whispered:/ Love you, too.  Dearly... /kiss your smile/ >>

The telephone rings.  I grumble at it...

>> /mrrmmmm and opens her mouth to yours, pulling you as tight
against herself as she can/ <<

The telephone rings again.  I glare at it...

<< /moves one hand to the back of your neck, the other around to the
small of your back.  He kisses you deeper now, sighing deeply when
you pull him close.../ >>

The telephone rings a third time.  I growl at it...and then answer it
in my radio-voice with the usual: "Hello, Tulsa: you're on the air!"

"Jesus, were you sleeping!?!?"

>> /half-whimpers, half-moans at the kiss. She wraps her arms around
you as her tongue enters your mouth, running along the ridge of your
teeth./ <<

I half-whimper myself, at the phone, my mind never having been geared
to typing and talking at the same time.  "No... ummm... heh...
sorta... making out on the couch?"

"Haw!  You're takin' this all *rather* well, don't you think?"

Grrr...  "*Fok* you, okay?  I'm just tryin' t'keep her min--"

"HEYA!  Hold up, Tex: I just called to say that we *found* where
they're keeping her..."

"NO SHIT!?!?"

<< /mmrphs and sighs at your tongue's presence.  He squeezes a bit at
the back of your neck, easing the tightness of the muscles, and
strokes the other hand up your back/ >>

"No shit, man.  Do you want to be in on this op, or do you think it'll
be too tough for a cushy console-jockey like you? /snicker/"

"Fuck yeah!  Count me in: I'm ready..."

"But what about your partner?  If she notices you're gone--"

"I've made arrangements."

"Well move yer ass then, son!  They're coming *here* to pick you up:
helipad in two, got that?  TWO!  Copy?"

"Copy, that: two minutes.  BYE!"

I slam down the phone.  I *am* ready for this, but it'll only buy you
a few minutes peace of mind...

I figured they'd let me in on the rescue, so I'd been hacking a little
program to take my place: essentially, it'll hug you and kiss you and
just take *care* of you until we get there.  Or until you notice that
it's not me on the other end.  Heh.

At that point, it *will* tell you that we're on our way.  Even if they
can get that info out of you at that point, we'll be on their fuckin'
doorstep.  Game over, man...

Yeah, I do kinda feel bad about doing it this way, but I want to be
there for you, for real, in person, like I was here for you over the
`link'.  I want to be there to hold you in my arms and just make you
feel warm and safe for *real*, like we did over the computer, even if
my arms were just an extention of your imagination of what I was
describing for you...

I cue the program and am out the door in seconds, stopping only
briefly for two things I'll need...

			*	*	*

Helicopter ride.  Wheee.  Fast fucker.  Noisy, too: can barely hear
over the engine and rotors.

The guy says to me, "Okay, we brought you in on this because you're
the hostage's partner and we might need you for psychological-type
stuff.  It *isn't* your job to pull off bullshit heroics.  Got that?"

I nodnod my best `I really respect your military attitude, by golly!'

Of *course* I have my bullshit heroics planned!  I've gone over this
scenario a *million* times in my head over the past umpteen hours,
planning for your liberation.  I've picked out all the best lines to
use, even.  Hell, we might even sell the movie rights to this when
it's all said and done: that's how fucking poetic it's gonna be.

"Good kid!  We're trained professionals, you see.  We're used to the
danger, unlike you Network talent-types."

You can just *smell* the testosterone ooze out of every pore in his
body.  I look worried enough to appease him and hug my borrowed
bulletproof vest a little closer, as if to say, `jeepers, I only
*wish* I were as confident and masculine as *you*, Mr. Jarhead!'

He grins like a Texan and <whoomps> a manly hand down on my padded
shoulder for some good clean heterosexual contact to show his pride in
how well I'm following orders as good civilians should.  And all the
while, I'm eyeing the SPAS-12 riot shotgun that's quick-release
safety-mounted on the equipment rack behind him.  Heh.

The guy goes up to the cockpit to do `important things', and I'm left
to think about you.  Shit.  This flight's gonna take almost 15
minutes, out to an abandoned factory on the edge of town.

I'm almost there, love...almost there...

Cryminee, I *know* you're gonna be safe, but the whole *idea* that
they got you in the first place, that you had to endure this *hell*.
/sigh/ You *know* that I'd trade places with you, in a second, make it
*me* that they're torturing, just to take away your pain, your *hurt*.

You don't deserve that.  Hell, *nobody* does.  But if I had the
choice, I'd rather it be me...

But you know that, I guess.  And I'm also sure that you'd just turn
around and tell me that it wouldn't do any good to switch our places,
'cuz if it were *me* in there, I wouldn't have the cyberware to make
the link, and they most likely would've pulled me under without your
support and reassuring presence.  But, heh, I *also* think you'd come
up with *another* solution, one of your own design, to resue me in a
way that I hadn't thought of with you...

Heh, and it hits me that nobody cares about about a multimedia artist
and wouldn't bother to kidnap one, anyway.  But then I think, even if
they did kidnap me, you *do* care about me, and that counts for a
hell of a lot more than some idiot asshole terrorists...

Guess that's why we're a team and why we love each other.

And suddenly I realise, as a tear falls down to the bulletproof vest,
that I'm thinking of marketing a line of Hallmark Paramilitary
Greeting Cards.  /smirk/ Sad part is, they'd probably sell decently...

Yeesh: "cryin' like a woman" again.  Better collect myself before Mr.
Jarhead looks back and labels me a pansy-ass faggot.  But I smile to
myself, just thinking how you always said that you loved me for
letting myself show my vulnerability...

I intentionally avoid focussing on the shotgun as the chopper starts
it's decent and Mr. Jarhead comes back.  <whoomp> Another manly blow
to the shoulder, "Y'ready, kid?"

I smile wryly at him in a `I'll *try* to follow your inspired example
of bravery, sir' way.  "Yeah...I think I am."  I nod hesitantly.

The chopper touches down, and I see others like it out the open door.
"Then let's get to it!  Stay close behind me, y'hear?"  He unholsters
his Glock 19, checks the action, and then jumps out the door, paying
little attention to me...

Heh.  Sucker.

I give him a few seconds to get ahead of me, grab the SPAS, confirm
the ammo-load, and jump out onto the old, cracked parking lot.  Then I
take the EM/RF interference sniffer from my belt: it's *supposed* to
be used for studio troubleshooting, to track down unshielded cables
and outlets.  But I have this one tuned to your broadcast flood.

I shuffle-skip over to the gathering of SWAT types, shotgun kinda low
by my leg, behind me.  Mr. Jarhead doesn't notice at first, while he's
talking, but after the group breaks and sprints for their entry
points, he turns to me...

"WHAT...do you think you're doing?"

I grin and hand him the sniffer, "You might want this: it'll give you
proximity readings on her broadcast gear.  Cross-ref it with the
infrared scanners that I know you have already and it'll be cake to
pinpoint which heat-signature is hers."

He blinks and takes it, then nods appreciatively and hands it to a man
to take back to the helicopter with the radio and scanning gear.  Then
he looks back at the SPAS, but I cut him off before he can start...

"My father's a career Federal agent: I grew up around guns.  I'm not
planning on using it, but I can do so quite well in a pinch and, quite
frankly, it makes me feel a bit safer to carry it."

He sighs and squints at me, "I don't have time to argu--"

"Then don't.  You have a job to do.  We *both* do."

He shrugs and decides it's not worth it: I get to keep the shotgun,
since I'm not planning on using it.

Of course, I was lying when I said that.

			*	*	*

Ooops.  So this *wasn't* a cakewalk, after all: half the SWAT guys go
down at various booby-trapped entrances.  Incindiary hell.  We luck
out and pick the right door.  External scanning and radio coordination
leads us down a level to the basement.

Seems that they don't have any guards patrolling, just the exploding
entrances.  Weird, that: spooky.  Quiet...'cept for the hum of
machinery in the distance and the clunking of ductwork on occasion...

And your voice.

I can hear your voice, distant and muffled at first, but then louder
as we head towards it, aided by our radio contact with the scanning
crew.  You're screaming... numbers.  Random numbers that they demanded
you *had* to get right, even though they were constantly changing them
as they 'taught' them to you...

Thing is that we both knew it was just an excuse.  Anything to break
you: it didn't matter the exercise, they just had to get you willing
to cooperate with them in any way you could.  The numbers were just
the beginning.  When you got 'em wrong they screamed at you in anger
and applied...hurt.

You didn't tell me what.  I didn't ask what.  I just knew that you'd
*always* made the distinction between pain and *hurt*, and you
definitely used the word `hurt' to describe this...

I'm shivering, low-level as we close in on the block that you're in.

Something clicks ahead.  Silence.  Something goes `boom'.

I crouch down and shield my eyes as little bits of SWAT officer fly
everywhere.  I'm in the back and shielded a bit, but take one frag in
the vest: not a problem.

Something clicks behind.  I don't wait.

I'm off and running, diving for the cover of a recessed doorway.
Jarhead picks up on the click at the same as I do and dives as he
warns, "Cover!"

Another `boom'.

Then...another click.

The entire *hallway* is a booby-trap: we picked the wrong one.  The
whole building must be like a *maze*, where only one path is safe, and
we're certainly not on the right path.

`Boom'.

I'm practically flash-blind by now, seeing spots everywhere.  The rest
of us that are left standing break for the final block of office space
and get there, breathing heavily.

No click.  No `boom'.

And I don't hear your voice.  But I do hear other voices, yelling in a
panic, in confusion, in a language that I don't understand but which
sounds kinda like how you described it.

We surround the block, me right behind Jarhead, and we have enough to
cover all four doors into the area.  And then I hear your voice again,
once, crying for help and then cut off like they gagged you...

Or...killed you.

I shudder at the thought: not *now*!  Not when we were almost *there*!
Just a *little* quicker and we could've saved--

Fuck it.  My rage is too great.  My sense of loss is overwhelming.  I
break for the door, full out, adrenaline already peaked and shotgun at
the ready.  Jarhead curses behind me and barks the order for the
others to move in.

At a good clip two meters from the door, I leap at it to break it wide
open.  Things don't go exactly according to plan.  I hear a
cracking-snapping sound, but it's not the door: it's my shoulder.

Flash of pain and I'm down on the floor, grasping my upper arm instead
of the shotgun.  I hear gunplay inside and truly fear for your life,
with not a thought for my own safety.  Then the door I just hit blows
*outward*: just a big hole in middle of it at chest level, and little
pieces of it all over me, some sticking in my skin...

A rather large barrel peeks out and starts firing, oblivious to my
writhing on the ground out of its line of sight and, luckily, its
firing arc.  Jarhead fires back, but takes cover around the corner
when he sees he's outgunned.

I swear you're dead by this point.  Everything's ruined.  We fucked
up.  Any terrorist worth his training would've killed you already,
seeing a hopeless situation.  But hey, they were stupid before, so
maybe, just maybe...

I swing the SPAS one-handed and stick it in the same hole as the one
with the other barrel.  Pull the trigger twice: I'm rewarded with a
continued cry of agony on the other side of the door (I *hope* I
scored a blinding, non-lethal headwound: could've, considering the
angle), as well as a wrenched wrist from the kick of the gun.  Owch.

Jarhead comes around the corner, speaking relatively calmly into his
headset, using reassuring terms like `safe' and `intact' and `secure'.
He gets to me, crouches as I manage to sit myself up against the wall,
clutching my shoulder, whimpering quietly at the pain.  "Son, what you
just did was certified stupid.  I just wanted you to know that."

I cough a bit and wheeze out, "Well, Sir," wry chuckle, "They just
don't make doors this *solid* anymore..."

He smirks, maybe at how pathetic I look, biting back the pain, or
maybe at the ironic truth in my words.  Whatever the case, he picks
the shotgun up off the floor and gives me a look that Smokey the Bear
would give to a kid with a Scripto lighter.  The door opens from the
inside, swinging inward...

And there you are.  Alive.

We both look at each other in disbelief, like we'd thought that we'd
never lay eyes on each other again.  You're wrapped in a blanket and
shivering, blood-spatter still on your face.  But you're actually
*smiling* through the tears...and I guess I am, too, both of us
focussed on each other and tuning everything else out...

You step away from your SWAT escort quickly and practically fall down
to my side, on your knees, hugging me *tight*.  I cry out softly in
pain from the broken/dislocated/whatever shoulder, and you pull back
and blink surprised at me in response.

I croak, "Ummmm...", and half-grin, half-wince, "I have something for
you..."  I reach into the vest with my good arm and pull out a single,
mostly-flattened silver rose.

Your previously darkened and sunken eyes now light up at the romantic
*absurdity* of it all.  Taking the rose, you shake your head and
smile, "That is so...so..."

"What can I say," I smirk at my sole chance to deliver a punchline in
all this mess, "I'm a fool for your love..."

You give me a sound somewhere between laughter and an admonishing
grumble, and just hug me *tight*, avoiding the shoulder that you see
I'm favouring.  I sigh long and deep and wrap my good arm around you
and hold you close, glad that you're here and alive and *real*.

We both must be thinking the same thing, as we both whisper, "Love
you," at the same time, and then fall into a half-crazed, exhausted
giggle together.

I'm in a world of pain, but at least the hurt is gone.

============================[ end text ]============================

Copyright 1995 by Markleford Friedman.  Permission granted for distribution
via the usual Usenet channels and for archival.  All other rights reserved.

--
.. Markleford F. Friedman, aka DJ Obscure, is crimson@ihz.compuserve.com ......
"XXXXX iX nXXXinX XXXXXX  "Beat poets,    "Bite me,   "My jacket! I killed
 XXXXX XinX XXiXXXn."      not children."  it's fun!"  Kennedy in this jacket!"
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