From: rtbrown@nyx.cs.du.edu (Russell T. Brown)
Subject: Charater Intro: Hart
Date: Fri, 27 Aug 93 22:03:52 GMT


	Hart stopped under the flickering streetlight and peered at his
surroundings through the pouring rain.  The lamp a circle of dim light on
the small shops and vendor's stalls that lined the street, all closed up
for the night.  He was slightly amazed that the light was unbroken,
considering the type of neighborhood he was in.  This was the only working
light he has seen in blocks.  The rain seemed to have driven most of the
nightlife indoors. That was good, the last thing Hart needed right now was
a run in with a bunch of gangboys.
	Now where was that bar?  The pilot had told him that he could find
what he was looking for there.  Off to the right, Hart spotted the flicker
of a neon sign about half a block away. Hart limped off towards the neon
sign, his left leg still hadn't healed completely.
	Suddenly, his communications implant jumped frequencies and he
started recieving the audio for some Japanese gameshow.  Cursing, Hart
started tapping the side of his head in a furious attempt to shut the damn
thing off.  But he quickly stopped when the nightvision on his remaining
cybereye blinked off momentarily.  Deciding that he needed to see more
than to turn the radio off, Hart tried to ignore the annoying sounds.  In
the last few weeks, that damn radio had been driving him nuts, it was like
have voices in your head, literally.
	Hart stopped across the street from the neon.  It said 'Chatsubo'
in english, whatever the hell that meant.  This was the place.  As Hart
pulled up the collar on his cheap plastic duster, his cyberarm emitted a
loud whine punctuated by a sharp clicking noise.  It felt like his whole
body was falling apart, the last few weeks that it took him to get here
had been pure hell.  But he was here now and would only have to put up
with it for a while longer.  Chiba and the Chatsubo would hold his
salvation.
	Hart wished his bud Sims was here.  Sims could always make him
laugh, but Sims was lying dead in a stinking Central American jungle.  So
was the rest of his Miltron commando team for that matter.  That last run
had really fragged things up.  The suits wanted them to hit Aztechnology
for some reason or other, it didn't really matter. So they suited up and
went to war.  The copter had dropped them a couple of klicks north of the
Aztechnology compound they were supposed to hit, but the Azzies where
waiting for them.  Halfway there, a mortar shell landed in the middle of
his guys. It turned out to be some kinda eletromagnetic scrambler, at
least that's what the Miltron labcoats told him later.  All he knew at the
time was that his boosted reflexes had slowed to a snail's pace and all
his other bodyware was going haywire.  Nothing had worked right since.
Then the Azzies were among them. It was a slaughter, Hart could
barely keep his eyes on them, much less hit them. Was that what it was like
for a norm, to go up against reflex-boosted opponents?  Hart was the only
survivor, managing to crawl broken and bloody back to the extraction point.
	Back at Miltron HQ, in Cal Free, the labcoats poked and prodded
him to see what they could do.  In the end, the suits decided it wasn't
cost effective to replace all his tech.  So they just sewed up most of the
holes in him and kicked him loose, without even a pension.  So much for 12
years faithful service in the Miltron Corporate Guard.  Hart knew that if
the boys at Miltron couldn't fix him up, no street doc in Cal Free could
either. So he came here, seeking the fabled black clinics of Chiba.
	Light flooded into the street as the door to the bar was opened.
Hart watched as a young kid with a shaved head exited the bar.  The kid
donned shades and a black leather jacket, then took off down the street.
Hart reached up to make sure the eyepatch he wore covered the empty
socket, and gingerly fingered the mass of new scar tissue that covered
most of the left side of his face.  Then he limped across the street and
entered the bar.
	Inside, the bar matched the neighborhood, run down and shabby.
Hart spotted three professionals at one table, two men and a woman, all
bearing a good amount of chrome.  Hart gave them a wide berth on his way
to the bar.  The grizzled bartender had an ancient plastic cyberarm that
made almost as much noise as Hart's, but seemed to be in good working
order.  Hart ordered vodka and the old guy went to get it.  It was warm in
the bar so Hart removed the plastic duster and set it beside him on the
bar.  This left him wearing a soiled paper jumpsuit, the disposable kind
you wear for a day or two then toss.  Unfortuanately Hart had been wearing
this one for almost two weeks.  The hilt of a knife protruded from Hart's
boot and his trusty Glock 25 smartgun rested in a shoulder holster.
	The bartender returned with the vodka, but after seeing Hart's
attire demanded payment up front. Hart complied.  The old guy perked up at
seeing the balance on Hart's credchip.  "Name's Ratz" he said, "This is my
place.  Anything I can do for ya?"
	"Maybe," Hart replied, "I'm lookin' for a docshop, one that really
knows cyberware.  You know anyone who can point me in the right direction?"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Hart is my creation, but feel free to talk to him, he's a lonely kind
of guy.
Copyright August 1993 by Russell Brown
Date: 08/27/93

--
**********************************************************************
*    Russell T. Brown    *    E-MAIL: rtbrown@nyx.cs.du.edu          *
**********************************************************************
Ididn'tdoitnobodysawmedoityoucan'tproveanything - The Immortal Bart


From: rtbrown@nyx.cs.du.edu (Russell T. Brown)
Subject: Character Intro: Hart
Date: Fri, 27 Aug 93 22:09:00 GMT


	Hart stopped under the flickering streetlight and peered at his
surroundings through the pouring rain.  The lamp a circle of dim light on
the small shops and vendor's stalls that lined the street, all closed up
for the night.  He was slightly amazed that the light was unbroken,
considering the type of neighborhood he was in.  This was the only working
light he has seen in blocks.  The rain seemed to have driven most of the
nightlife indoors. That was good, the last thing Hart needed right now was
a run in with a bunch of gangboys.
	Now where was that bar?  The pilot had told him that he could find
what he was looking for there.  Off to the right, Hart spotted the flicker
of a neon sign about half a block away. Hart limped off towards the neon
sign, his left leg still hadn't healed completely.
	Suddenly, his communications implant jumped frequencies and he
started recieving the audio for some Japanese gameshow.  Cursing, Hart
started tapping the side of his head in a furious attempt to shut the damn
thing off.  But he quickly stopped when the nightvision on his remaining
cybereye blinked off momentarily.  Deciding that he needed to see more
than to turn the radio off, Hart tried to ignore the annoying sounds.  In
the last few weeks, that damn radio had been driving him nuts, it was like
have voices in your head, literally.
	Hart stopped across the street from the neon.  It said 'Chatsubo'
in english, whatever the hell that meant.  This was the place.  As Hart
pulled up the collar on his cheap plastic duster, his cyberarm emitted a
loud whine punctuated by a sharp clicking noise.  It felt like his whole
body was falling apart, the last few weeks that it took him to get here
had been pure hell.  But he was here now and would only have to put up
with it for a while longer.  Chiba and the Chatsubo would hold his
salvation.
	Hart wished his bud Sims was here.  Sims could always make him
laugh, but Sims was lying dead in a stinking Central American jungle.  So
was the rest of his Miltron commando team for that matter.  That last run
had really fragged things up.  The suits wanted them to hit Aztechnology
for some reason or other, it didn't really matter. So they suited up and
went to war.  The copter had dropped them a couple of klicks north of the
Aztechnology compound they were supposed to hit, but the Azzies where
waiting for them.  Halfway there, a mortar shell landed in the middle of
his guys. It turned out to be some kinda eletromagnetic scrambler, at
least that's what the Miltron labcoats told him later.  All he knew at the
time was that his boosted reflexes had slowed to a snail's pace and all
his other bodyware was going haywire.  Nothing had worked right since.
Then the Azzies were among them. It was a slaughter, Hart could
barely keep his eyes on them, much less hit them. Was that what it was like
for a norm, to go up against reflex-boosted opponents?  Hart was the only
survivor, managing to crawl broken and bloody back to the extraction point.
	Back at Miltron HQ, in Cal Free, the labcoats poked and prodded
him to see what they could do.  In the end, the suits decided it wasn't
cost effective to replace all his tech.  So they just sewed up most of the
holes in him and kicked him loose, without even a pension.  So much for 12
years faithful service in the Miltron Corporate Guard.  Hart knew that if
the boys at Miltron couldn't fix him up, no street doc in Cal Free could
either. So he came here, seeking the fabled black clinics of Chiba.
	Light flooded into the street as the door to the bar was opened.
Hart watched as a young kid with a shaved head exited the bar.  The kid
donned shades and a black leather jacket, then took off down the street.
Hart reached up to make sure the eyepatch he wore covered the empty
socket, and gingerly fingered the mass of new scar tissue that covered
most of the left side of his face.  Then he limped across the street and
entered the bar.
	Inside, the bar matched the neighborhood, run down and shabby.
Hart spotted three professionals at one table, two men and a woman, all
bearing a good amount of chrome.  Hart gave them a wide berth on his way
to the bar.  The grizzled bartender had an ancient plastic cyberarm that
made almost as much noise as Hart's, but seemed to be in good working
order.  Hart ordered vodka and the old guy went to get it.  It was warm in
the bar so Hart removed the plastic duster and set it beside him on the
bar.  This left him wearing a soiled paper jumpsuit, the disposable kind
you wear for a day or two then toss.  Unfortuanately Hart had been wearing
this one for almost two weeks.  The hilt of a knife protruded from Hart's
boot and his trusty Glock 25 smartgun rested in a shoulder holster.
	The bartender returned with the vodka, but after seeing Hart's
attire demanded payment up front. Hart complied.  The old guy perked up at
seeing the balance on Hart's credchip.  "Name's Ratz" he said, "This is my
place.  Anything I can do for ya?"
	"Maybe," Hart replied, "I'm lookin' for a docshop, one that really
knows cyberware.  You know anyone who can point me in the right direction?"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Hart is my creation, but feel free to talk to him, he's a lonely kind
of guy.
Copyright August 1993 by Russell Brown
Date: 08/27/93

--
**********************************************************************
*    Russell T. Brown    *    E-MAIL: rtbrown@nyx.cs.du.edu          *
**********************************************************************
Ididn'tdoitnobodysawmedoityoucan'tproveanything - The Immortal Bart