Gallows City: Meet Mister Sardonicus
Mar. 8th, 2006 06:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonGallows City is getting gentrified. Shit, it's taken nearly four blocks for the local talent to figure out that one - i'm not 5-0 and two - that i'm not packing heat. I watch a dust gray NOVA screach to a stop a few yards away from me. Four Wire-Boys step out of the car all flexing hyperbole and trying to front hard on the dumb white boy walking these streets with anything short of a small police battalion for back up.
"You lost or somethin'?" The alpha male hisses through the speaker implant in his throat. The result is that he sounds like someone taught Robby the Robot ebonics.
I keep walking right up on them, making like i'm not looking for trouble and knowing exactly that trouble is where this is going.
"I don't think he heard ya cuz" One of them barks.
"Yeah, Big-9, maybe he wassun lissen'... he looks like he be in a rush."
Well Big-9 ain't having none of that now is he? He steps right in front of me. His wigga posse steps up behind him all sneers and second hand wi-fi 'plants sticking out of them.
"Hold up there little man" Big-9 says exactly the way he heard it in the movie he's referencing "... maybe you don't know..."
"I know plenty." I interupt. I hit the button on my BlackBox transmitter. The little one in the back with the antenna mohawk hears it first. He cups his ears and drops to the ground whining like a sick dog in heat. The others are scrunching up their faces and trying to fiddle with their implants. Big-9's eyes go wide. This cats got more than 'roid mass and combat 'tude, he's got a little of what us old timers used to call 'Balls'. He lunges towards me reaching for the BlackBox transmitter. I step back and pump up the dial. He stops a few inches away from me, the blood trickling out of his eyes and the various bioware piercings that decorate his face.
The others are howling with molten pain bursting out of their throats. It only takes five or six seconds for the Blackbox to fuck 'em up. Flooding every nerve ending jacked to a piece of bioware with it's own minature Hiroshima. Like I said a few seconds can be a living hell. I leave it on a full minute. Satisfied with the scream music i'm making them sing, I take a step back and hit the button off. As planned Big-9's the only one still conscious.
"Alright there tough guy?" I ask him.
He spits blood and metal between his teeth into the gutter. Where i'm from that's alright enough.
"Fuckin' frequency junkies, always playin' the hard man when they got the numbers. Numbers though aren't the same as facts."
Big-9 is trying to nail hate on my skin with his stare. Good. It means he's paying attention.
"The facts are my friend i'm pumping you with 5,000 psyches of raw feed a second and all that second hand bioware you're frontin' is flooding your skull hard. No buffer tech installed.... why?" I let the question hang a few delicious seconds "'Cause you're just another Frequency Junkie blowin' his stash on black market receivers...."
Big-9, much to my surprise, gets back up on his feet, shaky sure, but back on his feet never-the-less. He makes another lunge for me but I side step and turn the Blackbox back on. He starts bellowing for mercy through that speaker box throat of his. I click it off and while he's panting I explain the sit-rep to him one time.
"You got full spectrum Ocular lens right?"
Big-9 looks at me confused.
"Pan-Sony EyeJacks?" I say using the proper Logo-lingo.
"Yeah man, yeah." He mutters through the static.
"Good, then i'm not wasting my time. Here's the deal. I need you to keep them EyeJacks peeled on frequency 0.93..."
"That's a dead scan man... ain't nothing but ghosts signaling on that current!"
"Exactly. So I need you to keep an eye out for this ghost." I Qwik-link him a jpeg straight to his memory chip. A trickle of blood down the nostril tells me that the message was received.
"Word on the ether is he's holding up in Gallows. I need you to keep an open scan and if you register him follow the Qwik-link return feed and D/L me his location."
"Yeah, why the fuck should I?" Big-9 snaps at me adjusting the volume knob on the back of his neck.
I smile and the two slits i've cut in my cheeks reveals my sardonicus grin.
"Because Big-9, i've only turned the volume up to five." I finger the dial playfully. "Now you wanna feel what that shit sounds like doubled?"
Big-9 says nothing. Which is the same as saying that he's my bitch right now. Good. I got a lot of work to do and right now I don't have time to be playing hide and seek with a ghost in Gallows City all night. But I will tell you this for nothing: Dead man or not, though, that mother fucker thinks he can get away without paying my ass then he best think again.
"You lost or somethin'?" The alpha male hisses through the speaker implant in his throat. The result is that he sounds like someone taught Robby the Robot ebonics.
I keep walking right up on them, making like i'm not looking for trouble and knowing exactly that trouble is where this is going.
"I don't think he heard ya cuz" One of them barks.
"Yeah, Big-9, maybe he wassun lissen'... he looks like he be in a rush."
Well Big-9 ain't having none of that now is he? He steps right in front of me. His wigga posse steps up behind him all sneers and second hand wi-fi 'plants sticking out of them.
"Hold up there little man" Big-9 says exactly the way he heard it in the movie he's referencing "... maybe you don't know..."
"I know plenty." I interupt. I hit the button on my BlackBox transmitter. The little one in the back with the antenna mohawk hears it first. He cups his ears and drops to the ground whining like a sick dog in heat. The others are scrunching up their faces and trying to fiddle with their implants. Big-9's eyes go wide. This cats got more than 'roid mass and combat 'tude, he's got a little of what us old timers used to call 'Balls'. He lunges towards me reaching for the BlackBox transmitter. I step back and pump up the dial. He stops a few inches away from me, the blood trickling out of his eyes and the various bioware piercings that decorate his face.
The others are howling with molten pain bursting out of their throats. It only takes five or six seconds for the Blackbox to fuck 'em up. Flooding every nerve ending jacked to a piece of bioware with it's own minature Hiroshima. Like I said a few seconds can be a living hell. I leave it on a full minute. Satisfied with the scream music i'm making them sing, I take a step back and hit the button off. As planned Big-9's the only one still conscious.
"Alright there tough guy?" I ask him.
He spits blood and metal between his teeth into the gutter. Where i'm from that's alright enough.
"Fuckin' frequency junkies, always playin' the hard man when they got the numbers. Numbers though aren't the same as facts."
Big-9 is trying to nail hate on my skin with his stare. Good. It means he's paying attention.
"The facts are my friend i'm pumping you with 5,000 psyches of raw feed a second and all that second hand bioware you're frontin' is flooding your skull hard. No buffer tech installed.... why?" I let the question hang a few delicious seconds "'Cause you're just another Frequency Junkie blowin' his stash on black market receivers...."
Big-9, much to my surprise, gets back up on his feet, shaky sure, but back on his feet never-the-less. He makes another lunge for me but I side step and turn the Blackbox back on. He starts bellowing for mercy through that speaker box throat of his. I click it off and while he's panting I explain the sit-rep to him one time.
"You got full spectrum Ocular lens right?"
Big-9 looks at me confused.
"Pan-Sony EyeJacks?" I say using the proper Logo-lingo.
"Yeah man, yeah." He mutters through the static.
"Good, then i'm not wasting my time. Here's the deal. I need you to keep them EyeJacks peeled on frequency 0.93..."
"That's a dead scan man... ain't nothing but ghosts signaling on that current!"
"Exactly. So I need you to keep an eye out for this ghost." I Qwik-link him a jpeg straight to his memory chip. A trickle of blood down the nostril tells me that the message was received.
"Word on the ether is he's holding up in Gallows. I need you to keep an open scan and if you register him follow the Qwik-link return feed and D/L me his location."
"Yeah, why the fuck should I?" Big-9 snaps at me adjusting the volume knob on the back of his neck.
I smile and the two slits i've cut in my cheeks reveals my sardonicus grin.
"Because Big-9, i've only turned the volume up to five." I finger the dial playfully. "Now you wanna feel what that shit sounds like doubled?"
Big-9 says nothing. Which is the same as saying that he's my bitch right now. Good. I got a lot of work to do and right now I don't have time to be playing hide and seek with a ghost in Gallows City all night. But I will tell you this for nothing: Dead man or not, though, that mother fucker thinks he can get away without paying my ass then he best think again.
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no subject
on 2006-03-09 01:17 am (UTC)i don't think i blinked until i finished reading... ;-)
no subject
on 2006-03-09 05:46 pm (UTC)