>From: tigrover@uokmax.ecn.uoknor.edu (Thomas I Grover)
Subject: A Night on the Town (1)
Summary: Kyle enters, in trouble
Date: 14 Feb 91 16:13:23 GMT
Kyle ran down the street, not even bothering to look over his shoulder.
He ran down familiar streets, oblivious to their quirks, and just ran, turning
blindly, not caring where he went so long as it was away from those men behind
him. They smelled like terror, felt like death, and he knew that they were
directed at him for some unknown reason. He had a vague idea that he was
headed south, toward the "safer" sections of town, where he kept his apartment.
It may not have been the best places, but at least it was home. Home. The
thought sparked something in him. If these people knew enough about him to be
able to stop him outside of where he was currently working, they must
definitely know where home was! He stopped his thoughts suddenly, and his body
almost followed suit. He can't go home; it's not safe! So he made a sharp
turn, to his right, and ran toward the Down Side. It was a move of pure
desperation, but at least there he had a fighting chance.
He ran through the maze of semi-abandoned, run-down buildings, spread as
they were amongst the burned-out shells, remnants of the gang wars of nearly a
century. He felt like a rat, trapped, who only wished to survive, having no
idea where he went, or how he'd knoe it when he got there. There was no cheese
at the end of this one - it was for life. A sound like panting behind him
charged his enhanced adrenal glands, already working overtime, into even more
action, and lent speed to his flight. He wished he could calm down a little,
and use his psi abilities to try to get his way out of this, but there was no
stopping until he was safe, and that could be many miles down the road. His
only consolation was that his assailants were tiring as well as he was, and
this fact kept them about even. When finally exhaustion came, it would hit
both equally.
He turned sharply again, and ran down a small alley, across to a main
street. He leaped over the denizens of this small hell, and they seemed
unruffled by his intrusion. He dove through piles of filth, leftovers from
some forgotten or unknown people who didn't care where their garbage went, and
found himself on a section of street he didn't recognize. He expected it,
this was way out of his turf to begin with. He glanced frantically up and down
the street, looking for signs of life, and couldn't find anything reasonably
safe. There weren't even the crowds typical of streets in any city any time of
day or night. The street was naked, and left him nowhere to hide. A crash
behind him told him that those that chased him were entering the alley, and
would be here any minute. He turned to run, and suddenly a small neon sign
caught his eye. "Chatsubo's" was the name, and it was his last hope. It
could have said "Motel Hell" for all he cared; he just wanted someplace off the
street. He slipped through the door as quickly and quietly as possible, and
closed it behind him. He breathed a sigh of relief, then looked to see where
he was.
He was stunned when he saw all eyes in the Chat turned on him. Must be
a really shaky place, this, he thought to himself wryly. Anything was better than where he was less than a minute ago, and he walked across the room to the
bar, and had a seat. The barkeeper came over, and summed Kyle up.
"I don't know what you're runnin' from, kid, but I know that you're as
safe here as you could ever be. Now, what'll it be?" Ratz asked, in that
reassuring tone he seems to use on all the newcomers.
"Just a tequila sunrise, easy on the tequila. I don't think my bod' could
take it."
"Just a sec."
Ratz brought over the drink, and Kyle sipped at it. Then he stopped, set
the drink down, and closed his eyes, using a relaxation trick he'd known since
he was a kid. When he was calm enough to concentrate, he reached out with his
mind, and felt the contours of the Chat. It was a harsh, sharp place, but
there was a familiar feel to it, almost as though he, or many just like him,
had come here. He reached out and brushed every mind in the place, taking care
that they didn't notice him. Then he began a mental "whisper," so quiet that
only other psid could hear it, and laid all his cards on the table.
"I don't know if any of you can hear me, and I don't even know if you'll
care, but this is my last hope, and, if nothing else, you'll hear a pretty
good story. Well, here it goes."
"The trouble started about three or four weeks ago, when a couple of
strange men came to a small gang, the Coatis, asking some questions. They
gathered that these man were looking to hire a corporate psi, maybe for
training, and declined. Being a psi gang, they were comfortable with each
other, and could use their powers together, and learn together. They didn't
want some corp to come in and tear it all up."
"Well, about a week later, members started disappearing. This went
unnoticed for almost a week, then their best clairs and precogs looked into it.
Surprisingly enough, for a team with their gift, they couldn't find anything
out. So they dig up some old rumors, and found me, asking if I'd help them out
of their little problem. You see, I did a little bit of freelance psi work,
a sort of troubleshooter, for a few years before I went into contracting, and
they thought I was the best one for the job. I did a little bit of checking,
but I couldn't find anything beyond the vaguest speculations. Unfortunately,
someone out there thought those speculations were too much, and they began to
rough me up. First the threats, then the unexpected audit, and then, just
today, a murder attempt. They caught me enough off guard so that I couldn't
defend myself, and then I ran, and ended up here, to tell this story. Now, I
ask, can someone help me? I can pay, even though it's not very much."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Anuone interested in this thread would be greatly appreciated, as well
as any comments or criticisms. More will be forthcoming on Kyle, the Coatis,
and their mutual problem later, after there are some other participants. In
case my .sig doesn't appear (Our mail server likes to eat the dumb things) my
e-mail address is: tigrover@uokmax.ecn.uoknor.edu. Thanks in advance, and
enjoy!
--
+-------------------------------+---------------------------------------------+
| Tom Grover | "Too many words have been spoken, |
| e-mail: tigrover@uokmax.ecn | "So many people divine, |
| .uoknor.edu | "Too many questions arise in my heart, |
From: tigrover@uokmax.ecn.uoknor.edu (Thomas I Grover)
Subject: A Night on the Town (2a)
Date: 6 Apr 91 02:08:57 GMT
Note: If you have seen this already, don't worry. There was
a mistake!
-------------------------------------------------------------
Boomer sat, drinking in the sounds and the scents of his
favorite dive, the Chat. The feel of the hard plastic seats,
the drug laden, smoke filled air, and feeling of ever-present
tension were old friends to him, and he had grown to find
them comforting in an odd sort of way. He sipped at his
drink, and watched the people move about in an age old dance
of despair.
Idly he lit up a cigarette, and thought about the job he
was supposed to go on tonight. He brushed his hand absently
over the case on the floor beside him, and thought about the
price should this be dropped, or hit with a bullet, or even a
taser. Inside, he had meticulously packed almost five kilos
of high-yield explosive, but he knew that it wasn't perfect,
and the entire place could go up like an old Roman candle.
He had been contacted by someone named Steele, who wanted him
to come here to give a demonstration of what he could do. He
assumed it would be a simple little blow-up-the-old-
abandoned-building job, and the letter sounded like there was
something big planned, with a big payoff. He smiled as he
thought of what he'd spend this one on.
He puffed for a while, and sipped some at his drink, and
then a woman walked in. She was obviously the dangerous
type, and she knew it, that much could be told just by how
she acted. Boomer looked her up and down with an expert eye,
noting her body-sculpted curves and tightly fitted bodysuit.
The suit, he noted, was some kind of armor, and the belt she
carried had at least four different weapons: a needler, a
small, high-impact pistol, a laser sharpened katana, and a
monofilament whip. He glanced up at her face, and saw the
distinctive gleam of professionally tailored eyes, and a
feral glance of someone teetering on the edge. He guessed
that she had at least artificial muscles, probably hyped
reflexes and maybe even some custom kidneys to inject "battle
juice," a mixture of drugs and hormones designed to increase
efficiency and reaction speed, into her blood. He hadn't
seen her around here before, and thought that maybe she was
visiting, or looking for a job.
He watched her as she strode across the floor, and
walked directly over to him. He looked up from his drink,
trying to put on a look of indifference, as she reached him.
He waved his hand indifferently to the chair opposite him,
and she took the seat without acknowledgment.
"So, what brings you to the Chat?" he asked her, almost
nonchalantly, but with enough interest to entice an answer.
"I'm supposed to talk to you, Boomer, about a small job
I have for you. In case you couldn't tell, I'm Steele. But
first, I need to see what you can do. I assume you have a
suitable demonstration set up...?"
"But of course. If you'll step outside, I can show
you..."
He escorted her outside, and they walked about a block
down the street, and he pointed out a rather tall building
that, until recently, had housed a secret ARES training lab.
The structure was strong, and it would take some expert
demolitions to bring it down. He gave her a small box, that
looked like a 20th century walkie talkie, and told her to
push the button. He knew it was a corny thing to do, but it
always seemed to impress possible clients.
He braced himself for the impending shockwave, since he
had set enough explosions to totally vaporize the building,
and sat back to watch the show. He had been doing this for
over ten years, and still every explosion was like a new
experience, and he loved it. He waited anxiously to see what
this one would look like.
She hit the button, and silence seemed to settle across
the city for just a fraction of a second. A huge fireball
rose high into the sky, and lit everything in flickers of
reds, oranges, and yellows, like a vision of Dante's Inferno
under LSD. The concussion hit, and blew them backwards into
the wall while the intense heat washed over them. He knew
the explosion was going to pack a punch, and was prepared for
it, but this was more than he had expected. He laughed,
barely on the edge of sanity, and admired his work.
Definitely a good job, and he was impressed. The question
was, was she impressed, too, or would it all have been for
naught?
"I'm impressed by the effect, but how long did you take
to set that up, and how much did you use, in C4 equivalent?"
"I took less than an hour and used a little less than
100 kilos C4 equivalent. About what I carry with me." He
motioned briefly to his case, then continued. "I can do the
same faster, but without as much accuracy, as can be
expected. I like to think that there's nothing I can't blow
up."
"I think you're competent for what I need...Let's return
to that bar so we can talk about what you're expected to do."
They went back in and began to discuss his "terms of
employment," as she put them. He felt like he was
negotiating a contract with a corp agent instead of talking
to a dangerous street warrior. Then their conversation was
broken by a weasely little man, who leaned stiffly against
their table. He gazed at Steele, his eyes glazed over, and
wheezed "Your contract has been...terminated." With that he
slumped forward, a small metal quarrel, like that from a
small hand-held crossbow, protruding from his back. No doubt
poisoned, Boomer mused to himself as the man shuddered, and
collapsed.
"Damn!" Steele screamed in an almost inhuman voice, her
rage a cold, dangerous thing that lashed at all ears and
threatened to rip sanity from the hapless listeners. Boomer
felt a chill deep in his soul, and he knew that she was close
to losing her humanity entirely, and becoming one of those
renegade killing machines the tri-d liked to talk about. He
decided to leave, cut his losses before it was too late, but
just before he reached the door, someone charged through,
obviously scared of something. He felt that he should stay
for a while, to find out what this guy was in trouble with.
He leaned against the wall, and the man walked over to the
bar, a hunted look on his face, and sipped on a drink. Then
he did something totally bizarre. He turned to face the bar,
and closed his eyes. Somewhere in his head, Boomer heard
that this man was named Kyle, and that he was being chased
for reasons he didn't know, and that it had something to do
with some friends of his. He offered to pay as much as he
could, which was more than Boomer was getting right now.
Boomer walked over to Steele, and told her about what
had just happened. She was so distraught he thought that she
wouldn't listen, or, worse yet, lash out in anger at him, but
instead she looked calmly at him, and nodded her head. They
stood up, and walked toward the bar, to talk to the strange
man named Kyle.
"This sure has been an interesting day," Boomer said to
no one in particular.
A voice in his head replied "It may be just about to get
a lot worse."
* * * * * * * *
This is a followup to a story I posted a while back. If
anyone would be interested in joining this thread, I would
greatly appreciate it. I plan on reposting the original
article soon, so the entire story can be seen. And, if
anyone knows how to get in touch with Kathryn Anderson,
kat@bacchus.esa.oz.au, it would be greatly appreciated. Thanks!
-Tom
--
+-------------------------------+---------------------------------------------+
| Tom Grover | "Too many words have been spoken, |
| e-mail: tigrover@uokmax.ecn | "So many people divine, |
| .uoknor.edu | "Too many questions arise in my heart, |
>From: tigrover@uokmax.ecn.uoknor.edu (Thomas I Grover)
Subject: A night on the Town-A Pause
Date: 24 Apr 91 21:02:03 GMT
Kyle wheeled around to see the people come over to him, and began to read
them to see what their intent was. They check as positive by the blue glow in
their auras. Well, he thought, this gamble may have worked. A brief smile
came to his face as he realized that these two were well-trained at what they
do. He relaxed, his back to the bar, and then the astonishing happened.
A brisk wind sprung up, inside the bar, and began to blow things around,
buffetting first the small paper and plastic items, then the furniture, and
eventually even the patrons. This was followed by a flash of light that
blinded optical sensors and enhanced eyes. A region of blackness opened in
front of Kyle, a strange, almost tangible, palpable darkness that seemed to
reach out and chill everyone who looked at it.
Then an image formed, a valley, filled with trees, a small stream running
at its base. Pastures lined the valley floor, and wispy white clouds swirled
overhead. Birds sang in the trees, and butterflies flew all around, chased by
a jet black, fluffy Persian cat. The wind in the bar changed, and began to
force Kyle in towards it.
"Frag it! Summertime already!" he cursed as he was pulled in toward the
place someone called home, and regretted his loss of high-technology contact.
He waved goodbye to everyone who offered to help him, and promised that he'd
be back as soon as he could, probably in three months, but probably earlier.
A gleam flashed in his eye as he remembered a friend with a modem, and he can
get in touch, but only temporarilly, and without mail.
Just before he disappeared, he looked out at a young girl, Sarai was her
name, and blew her a kiss. He wished he could have heard more from her, but
his little backwater corner of the net doesn't totally recognize her
continent, or so it seems.
Kyle stepped wistfully into the void, and turned around, waving to all.
"I'll be back," he promised as the landscape began to waver. He kneeled and
petted the cat thoughtfully, and suddenly all was gone except for a little
static in the air, which soon disappeared. That, and a memory, and a lingering
promise to return.
* * * * * * *
It's that time of year again; summertime. School is out, and many of us
lose our net connections, me included. Anyone who wants to contact me can do
so for the next two and a half weeks at my normal e-mail address: tigrover@
uokmax.ecn.uoknor.edu, and anyone still interested in working on this storyline
can mail me with a snail-mail address, so we can continue to work even without
my net connection. Also, anyone still interested in getting in on the
storyline can still do so, by posting an introduction in the bar.
P.S. I got your letter, Katherine, and I'm still interested in your character
(I think my statement above said it all), but my mailer keeps telling me it
doesn't know your address. I'll try to get something to you, but I can't make
any promises. Sorry :(
-Tom/Kyle/Theodrinus
+-------------------------------+---------------------------------------------+
| Tom Grover | "Too many words have been spoken, |
| e-mail: tigrover@uokmax.ecn | "So many people divine, |
| .uoknor.edu | "Too many questions arise in my heart, |
| Disclaimer-All these opinions | "Answers I may never find..." |
| are all mine! | -Don Dokken, "Crash and Burn" |
+-------------------------------+---------------------------------------------+
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