General IC [2075: Game World], Persistent World [SR5] IC Thread Options

[Aria]

*This thread is intended for anyone playing in the 2075 Persistent World to post in (that is outside a specific sub-thread). Karma and cash awards are cumulative with any sub-threads. Anyone can act as GM here but there isn’t a requirement to have one in order to post*

[Thursday July 18th, 2075; SEAѤ67-∑2: The Citadel Virtual Game Host, Seattle Local Grid]

Aria traced her fingers through the verdant vines that draped the impossible treescape in her throne room at the pinnacle of the Citadel, glorying in the scents that assailed her. Vivid birdsong erupted above her as she knelt, her diminutive naked form reflected in the metallic pool at her feet. As her hair cascaded into the liquid the view changed to reflect the Gathering Hall at the base of the gothic spire…

Here a multitude of personas flitted about around the great planar orrery and Aria watched their bustle, the host subroutines automatically cataloguing which game world was the most popular and how many gamers were inside. She was amazed that this creation of hers, with her master’s acknowledged significant aid, had stood the trials of the last few years when so many other virtual phenomenon had been and gone. No doubt the appeal lay in its ever changing structures and fantastic escape from the grinding reality of the sixth world…

Summer appeared in the node, rising from one of the limpid pools like the veritable Lady in the Lake. Beside the unchanging persona of Aria’s, Summer’s Alice had matured with her, aging more with the tide of grief and the burden of her visions than with the mere span of years. She was accompanied as ever by the Old One and despite recent advances his persona still flickered with static as it struggled with the unusual interface that he was using.

“Aria, I have seen it again, it plagues my thoughts”

“I have told you child, metahumanity is always lurching from one disaster to the next. This nebulous thing that you fear will no doubt be one of those, cataclysmic to those that experience it first hand, but in the end just another event.”

“Yes, I know you say that but I also can hear the doubt in your words”

“Peace” the Old One interjected “The things we have set in motion will counter this and other such disasters. They represent a new way for us all, my kind as well as metahumanity…”

“My master would be pleased to hear you link yourselves so to mere metahumans” Aria quipped with a mischievous smile

“Enough Aria, willfull sprite, we are in this together whatever the others believe” his tone is affectionate

[adamu]

[Thursday July 18, 2075; Dirty Dick's Fine Food & Spirits, on the water just off Alaskan Way]


“Listen, toots. You look like you kin handle a stick. Why not take ol’ Al fer a test drive?”

The girl moved off through the smokey bar without a shade of response, a clutch of brews artfully balanced on her tray.

“Don’t know whatcher missin’, hon. I can really drive a bed,” the ragged little man shouted at her back, before the strain sent him into a fit of coughing. He produced a generous wad of something not quite green and deposited it in a plastic beer stein, which had somehow emptied itself far too quickly. Five years now, curse his damned lungs, curse Ghede, and all Chinese sailors everywhere.

He felt a bit sorrowful about the last part. They’d been good boys, they had. Come to a bad end ‘at wuz none o’ their deservin’.

The thought made Al thirsty. Who knew when the waitress would be back, and he wasn’t one to wait.

He pulled himself up from the rickety synthwood chair and made his way across the cement floor of the basement watering hole. Arriving at the bar, he signaled the fat man working behind it. Knew he was the proprietor of the place, but couldn’t never recall the feller’s rightful name. Knew it wasn’t Dick. The name of the place was Dirty Dick’s. Actually, Dirty Dick’s Fine Food & Spirits, to be precise. But they didn’t have neither. And the guy who owned it, his name wasn’t Dick.

“What’ll it be, Al?” asked not-Dick. His jowls sagged off his skull and pulled on the corners of his eyes in a way that made him look like he was always crying.

“Ya got anything but piss-tastin’ beer?” Al had to almost jump to get onto the bar stool, and his tobacco-ravaged voice sounded like a corpse being dragged through a gravel pit.

“Nope.”

“Then I’ll have a piss-tastin’ beer.”

The man waddled over from the tap and set the stein in front of Al with a careless slosh. “Onna house.”

“I’ll pay.”

“Come on, man. Reggie’s laid up. I gotta have someone.”

“Been on the ‘lift fer back ta back shifts. Plumb tuckered out.” Hoping to double his usual fee.

Always-crying not-Dick put on a pained expression, feigning hesitance before relenting. “Okay man...three beers.”

Triple! Al silently congratulated himself on his amazing haggling skills. Ma Guthrie didn’t raise no fools. He grinned, and it was a feral thing - lips pulled back in a rictus from yellow teeth, a filterless Lucky Strke clamped in the very center. “Well I ain’t sittin’ by that door agin’. Too damn drafty.” He zipped his ancient brown leather jacket a little further up toward his unshaven chin, as if to emphasize the point. “Not doin’ none ‘o that other crap neither.” Picked up the first of his three free beers. His hand looked like it was melting - a great mass of burn scars. “Be sittin’ inna back over there. Somethin’ catches yer craw, ya jist let ol’ Al know.”

Settling back into the warmest corner of the basement dive, perched so he could see the whole room, he started in on the beer. It wasn’t exactly the contemplative evening he’d been set on, but hell, that was what a man did. A man worked for his keep. Or he weren’t no man at all.

[adamu]

[Thursday July18, 2075; Dirty Dick’s Fine Food & Spirits, on the water just off Alaskan Way]

Nursing his beer, eyeballin’ folk.

Place had filled up real good with the end of the swing shift. Always did. Tired longshoreman could buy himself a big load of forget on the cheap at Dirty Dick’s.

Sorry Thorin Oakenshield-lookin’ halfer picking all befuddled-like at the chunks of soy-supper he’d just launched into his beard, before falling off his chair.

Skinny crane operator from the MCT terminal getting dragged off home by the ear, courtesy of his old lady.

Two of the street girls, going table to table, looking for anyone drunk enough.

Some trolls walked in. Black watch caps, Seattle Screamers T’s, all from different seasons, work boots. Trio of sturdy ingents such as that fetch good coin on some of the unregistered, less automated yards. The sort where Al generally worked, though he’d not yet had the pleasure with these three.

A thunk into one of the dart boards. They had real ones in here. None of that newfangled AR crap. Something changed hands.

Applause and whistles as the bar girl from before was helped up onto first a chair, then one of the tables. Little man smiled. Then the crappy little Meta Link started vibrating like a Bangkok pleasure treasure. Al ignored it as the girl started to dance, but the danged thing wouldn’t quit, and out of the corner of his eye he saw not-Dick tapping insistently at his ear.
Sweat o’ yer brow, jist like it sez inna Good Book, he thought as he fished the offending trinket from a deep jacket pocket.

Put it to his ear. Nothing. Then he recollected - for the thousandth time - that folk didn’t much do that no more, and he looked at the screen. The three trolls. Al looked over and gave a shrug, a quizzical look - they ain’t done nothin’...Not-Dick spoke into his device - and a text appeared. Go figure. They’re the reason Reg is laid up. They’’re 86ed.

Under his breath, Al started his chant. He’d need all the help he could get against the Three Trollsketeers.

[adamu]

[Thursday July 18, 2075; Dirty Dick’s Fine Food & Spirits, on the water just off Alaskan Way]

Al kept his glossolalic muttering up until he was in earshot of the trolls, which wasn’t far considering the clapping and whistling for the girl, and the piped in pop-crap she was gyrating to.

“Evening chummers,” he croaked. Voice was like someone trying to put a car into gear with a stripped clutch. He stood by their table, hands flat on the surface.

“Back at ya, breeder,” replied the biggest one, with an almost congenial nod. One gnarled horn wound its way up at an odd angle through a convenient hole in his watch cap. The one on Al’s left asked, “What’s wrong with your paws, omae? You a damned leper or somethin’?”

The little man smiled,, scratched his ear, and reached into the pocket of his jeans for a big silver Zippo, to light a cigarette that hadn’t been in his mouth a moment earlier. “Only skin deep, muh friend, an’ not catchin’. Had me a little disagreement with somethin’ that didn’t belong here.” Pocketing the lighter, he held up the burn-mottled hands and wiggled all the fingers. “See, workin’ jist fine.”

“Didn’t belong where?”

“Whut?”

“You said you had a disagreement with something that didn’t belong here.”

“Oh. God’s green earth, I reckon.” You probably had to be paying attention to notice, but things were starting to get quieter in the bar. “Lot like the predickimint we got ourselves here.”

“What the hell do you mean by that, smoothie?”

“Well, like I done sad, y'all don' belong here. As a reppersenative o’ the managemint o’ this here esteemed establismint, I’s gonna hafta ask you gents to vacate said premises.” He pinched the filterless cigarette between thumb and forefinger and drew deeply. “Besides, ol’ Reg may’ve been a damned fool, but we’d shared smokes.”

The three huge men stood, and the gradual silencing of the room became complete. Al’s face was roughly level with the leader’s navel. “Or maybe we just bust this crappy dive up and then use your sorry face to wipe up the broken glass.”

The wolflike grin straight up at the horned behemoth, teeth gripping the Lucky Strike. “Well that dog shore will not hunt.”

“What?”

Sometimes when talking with trolls, Al liked to look for patterns or shapes in the warts on their misshapen faces, kind of like with clouds on a lazy summer afternoon. This feller seemed to have a vine of blossoms making its way up his left cheek. Magnolias. Al congratulated himself on his ability to find beauty anywhere. He shrugged. “I said, your world, kemo sabe, your world. I wuz jist makin’ conversayshun.” And he backed away, hands held up in a gesture of peace.

The trolls sat back down, hurling a few dismissive epithets. Busy with their beers and their talk, the three relative newcomers didn’t notice that the noisy hubbub of the place had in no way resumed.

[adamu]

[Thursday July 18, 2075; Dirty Dick’s Fine Food & Spirits, on the water just off Alaskan Way]

A minute or two later, Magnolia heard the muttering behind him, the train wreck of a voice unmistakeable. “What? Are you gonna cast a spell on me or somethin’ ya little runt?” He turned his head just in time to see the heavy synthwood chair careen across a wide arc directly into his face.

Blood from his crushed nose sprayed across the room as the chair splintered into a hundred and one pieces. But instead of falling, the monster stood slowly up from his chair, eyes burning with rage.

Joseph an’ Mary in the manger, all I done wuz wound the grizzly, Al thought. And all he had left of the chair was one leg.

But it had a nail poking out of it.

The troll buckled over and dropped to his knees, face contorted in agony and both gigantic hands clutching his crotch, a widening dark spot spreading in every direction across his groin.

A sledgehammer fist from the second swished toward the human, but he sidestepped that and the next three blows lazily. Choosing his moment, he reached up and caressed the offending arm, which broke with a sickening SNAP. There was a bellow of pain and Al jumped on a chair to grab a horn in one hand and insert a thumb securely in one eye socket. Just the right amount of suggestive pressure there, and the eight-foot dockworker kept hollering but meekly stopped moving.

The last troll looked uncertain. Same as always. Al’s sandpaper voice was calm and reasonable. “I know ya think ya owes yer mates somethin’. I kin respeck that very much indeed. But like it sez inna Good Book, if’n yer knee’s busted, how’s ya gon’ get ‘em to a doc?”

When he sat back down, wheezing and hacking, trying to catch his breath, all he could think was, next time, he’d insist on four beers.

[adamu]

[Friday July 19, 2075; downtown waterfront]

Eight raucous but uneventful hours later, the only remaining patrons were either curled up beneath tables or nodding in their chairs. Al sat tilted back precariously in his seat, aging Docs on the ring-stained tabletop, idly prying the grime from beneath his nails with a huge knife while watching the two skells clearing away empty plastic beer mugs. Smoke meandered up from his cigarette, only to be sucked away by the venting fans once it neared the cobwebbed ceiling.

An acne-ridden ork kid worked the room with a mop.

He lifted his feet, let the front legs of the chair hit the floor with a thunk, followed by his boots. Got up and shared a congenial nod with not-Dick before breaking out into the night air of the waterfront. He could immediately smell the salt, even though the actual water was a few blocks yonder, other side of Alaska Way.

He took a long piss against a wall, his small form occasionally silhouetted by the headlights of passing cars. He shivered as the heat left him, and once he’d buttoned up he was hit by a long spasm of coughs as the crisp summer night air worked itself through the dark, hidden places of his ravaged lungs.

He headed south, catching occasional glimpses of Elliott Bay on his right between gaps in the various industrial facilities that lined the water here. South. Keep walking long enough, he’d get there. Hollywood. Danged injuns owned it now, but that didn’t make no matter nohow. Any day now. But after twenty-five years on that road, few more days wouldn’t hurt. Just as soon as he got his health back. Shouldn’t be much longer now.

Nope. City of Angels too far for tonight. But home was close, and Marge’s half again as near. Hun would be there getting some breakfast after the graveyard shift, give him a ride the rest of the way.

[adamu]

Friday July 19, 2075; Marge's

A long, slim, low-slung slug-silver semi-cylinder sat astride a disused siding at the sullen outskirts of the railyard that served the downtown docks.

Marge’s.

Weeds grew up around the plywood skirting that housed the wheels, and approaching on foot, the most prominent sound was the parched hum of the portable generator locked in a steel cage out back.

No streets led to the classic railcar diner, but it was easy enough to navigate a car or truck the hundred meters or so from the nearest access road. The intervening space was pocked with deep mud pits and festooned with browning tussocks of razor grass. But a little skill could get a set of wheels to the fringe of coarse gravel that surrounded the place. Hun had done it, because his primer-gray ’66 Americar sat in its usual spot off to the side.

Without even thinking about it, Al veered closer to the jalopy on his way into the diner to get a whiff of her. Most of the punks these days, with their ARO diagnostics and DNI interfaces, hadn’t the faintest clue how much you could tell about an engine by her smell, especially if you’d done as much work on her as Al had this baby.

Satisfied with her health for the moment, he entered the brightly lit converted dining car and was glad for the warmth. Hun was slouched into a corner, face behind a menu even though his soybrek was already on the table in front of him, plus he was the sort that always ordered off the ARO specials board. If Al didn’t know better, he’d say the Cambodian was trying to avoid him. Hun Sen had a medium build, which made him big for his Delta tribe, and taller than Al. A careful moustache - well grown in, but nothing past the corners of his mouth. And he was the only dockworker Al had ever met that wore a tie to work. Always puttin’ on airs with the damned tie. But he had his uses.

Al made straight for the booth, but the Asian held onto hope to the last possible moment, not coming out from behind the menu until he was certain the unshaven little redneck had seen him. With a sigh of resignation he looked up and forced something like a smile as the impish cretin plopped down opposite and used his grimy yellowing fingers to fish a soysage off the half-finished plate that sat on the table. So much for breakfast. The old man was mannerless and insufferable. And never shut up. But he had his uses.

[adamu]

Friday July 19, 2075; Marge’s

“Black coffee, toots,” Al rasped around his mouthful of soysage. The waitress had stubble on her legs and a smile that had been faked too many times for too few tips. She popped her gum in acknowledgement and walked away wondering how the freshly lit Lucky had suddenly found its way into the little man’s mouth.

“How’s tricks, boss?”

“Excuse me one more time please.”

*How are ya?”

“Yes, very fine, thank you. And you?”

“Can’t complain. Any trouble with the Eye-Ties tonight?”

“I am sorry. One more time?”

“The Gianellis. Any problem tonight”

“No, nothing.”

“And the two new halfers on the crew?”

“What?”

Al gave up and spoke in Khmer. “The two new dwarves.” Promised he’d help with the English, but took a damn mule’s years to get past a how d’ya do.

“Ah, no problem.” Impatient clod. I was doing just fine. Impossible language anyway, English.

“Okay, how about the other thing?” Damned ugly lingo, but at least Hun had the basic decency to smooth out his Krom accent, speak the Central that Al was more comfortable with.

“The other thing takes time. Not easy to find on short notice.” Why didn’t he just spring for a chip? The bumpkin’s honorifics were nonexistent at best, offensive at worst. But he is so much smarter than he acts. Is he truly just unschooled in the proper forms of respect, or feigning ignorance to insult me to my face?

“Short notice? I have been asking for two months. I do not need to get into the Pyramid, just around town without being bothered.” Why didn’t this cheapskate just spring for a chip?

“All right then, how much you got?” But the day he bought a chip was the day he would be giving up on learning this land’s insanely complicated language, and he was here to stay. Think long term. Don’t be who you are, be who you want to be.

“Just get me the best you can, and I will pay what it is worth. I have some money saved.” Little bastard’s holding back, figures I get a number I won’t have to work on his crappy unlicensed dock.

“I am doing my best, of course. But I need funding to make enquiries.” And enough money to compensate for the loss of your services, since I know you will go to a union job once I get you the ID.

“We have been over this. The getting is your job. I pay on delivery.” Greedy thief.

“Well I can only do my best.” And I can’t string him along much longer. Need to get him the SIN soon or I will lose the deal and his custom altogether.

The coffee came. “What sorta talk is that?” the waitress smiled.

Hun’s face reddened. How humiliating. How she must see him as some ignorant Third World yokel. He would learn English.

“Aw, we’s jist a’practicin’ our Latin, hon. Nothin’ to it.”

“Latin? Like in the Bible? Say something else.”

“Oo-yay uper-say exy-say, oney-hay.”

She giggled. “Sooo clever. What’s it mean?”

He pulled a crumpled twenty-nuyen note out of his pocket, laid it on the table. “Means its high time to finish our business,” he said with a smile to her, but a look at Hun.

[adamu]

Friday July 19, 2075; International District

The ride south to the International District with Hun hadn’t taken long, though the way the sluggish Americar crawled along the road on GridGuide made Al crazy. What a piece of crap.

The first rays of a glaring Seattle summer dawn were hitting the grimy brick walls of the District’s seamier side when the car pulled up in front of the tenement that housed Hun’s own little piece of Cambodia. No one was around outside at this hour, with the exception of some stray mongrels rooting around the garbage. Al looked for the black one he thought of as Spike - he’d had his eye on that big alpha since its first appearance about a week ago - but no sign this morning. The two men went inside.

Through the foyer hung with laundry, and then without a word Hun headed up the stairs and Al opened the maglock on the service door that led to the basement. Concrete steps ended in a barely-lit maze of utility rooms, boilers, and makeshift three-sided cinderblock storage areas with sheets of chainlink padlocked across the fourth sides. In the corner farthest from the stairs were a few more steps descending into a foot or so of standing, brackish water. Al sat down on an ancient chair at the top of those steps and removed his Doc Marten’s work boots, swapping them for a pair of rubber rain boots from under the chair. Then he went down and pushed the door at the bottom steadily through the water - there was no lock - and he was home.

He flipped on the light - he’d rewired the unused room to bring everything with voltage above the waterline - and threw his heavy brown leather jacket onto a hook. There was a fridge and hot plate up on some boards laid across stacks of bricks. There was a broken-down trid he’d resurrected enough that he could watch a pirated feed from a handful of less encrypted channels, also on a wobbly platform, as was the plywood-on-plastic-crates beer table, which sat between the trid and a rat-infested sofa. He sat down on the latter for about thirty seconds, time enough to realize he was dead tired. Tired enough that maybe he could sleep a little.

Sloshed his way over to the bed he had bolted up on one wall. There he took off his yellowing white T-shirt and ripped button-flys, put them on a shelf. Peeled off his socks and skivvies, and set them to soak in a small sink filled with fresh cold water and some powdered detergent. Dropped his still-burning Lucky into the water below him and pulled himself into the bed. It felt good.

Closed his eyes and thought of girls with hair the color of root beer, praying for sleep. Sleep and good dreams.

[shonen_mask]

Friday July 19th 2075 District of Renton

Nom percieves the stream of characters and his Avatar nods in agreement......
The Host Operator of Fenris_Sonen, rather his Avatar then waves a hand signal stopping the stream of data. "We can really use this" "True enough but it will take some work."

The progress on the program code is impressive.... "So this is what Hinsu's been working on. An Agent."
"I'll make up routines myself to help out. but I'm getting one when It's finished." His Avatar makes laughing gestures. "Of course"
Both Avatars turn away, Nom's leaves fenris_shonen for the Local Grid.

Completely Jacked out Nom take a look around. The windowless cafe is still mostly empty. Not wasting anytime he then leaves the building. But not before nodding the slightest of acknowledgements to apparently nobody.

[adamu]

Friday July 19, 2075; International District

When Al woke up, there were two people with him. Both were Chinese and both were dead.

Feeling a little uneasy, he put a fresh Lucky Strike to his lips. His lungs felt like they were half full of fluid. He reached for his big Zippo but in his hands were only a couple of torn plastic packets. Sterile wrappers for slap patches.

The steel walls were bare except for one big poster of a naked Japanese girl, a real Akita beauty. Her coquettish smile looked vaguely reproachful.

The Chinese man with bloody holes for eyes started groping around. The room was very small.

Al really needed to light his Lucky, but he couldn’t move. Pretty soon the Chinese man with bloody holes for eyes would find what he was looking for. The room was very small. His friend the Chinese man on the floor started talking to him, directing him.

The steel walls were bare except for one big poster of a naked Japanese dog, a real beautiful Akita. Its wolfish grin looked vaguely reproachful.

The fingers of the Chinese man with bloody holes for eyes brushed his leg. He tried to pull himself further into the corner with his Lucky, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t go anywhere. It was a very small room.

The Chinese man on the floor reached for a thin bamboo cane. Al was glad he had his boots on.

The steel walls were bare except for hundreds of pictures of naked Japanese dogs, real beautiful Akitas. Their wolfish grins looked vaguely reproachful.

The Chinese man with bloody holes for eyes was hugging Al, and the Chinese man on the floor was striking at the soles of his bare feet with a thin bamboo cane.

The steel walls were bare except for Al woke up and checked his MetaLink. He’d been sleeping for twenty-seven minutes.

[adamu]

Friday July 19, 2075; International District

He tried to go back to sleep, but it just wasn’t going to happen. So he waded over to the sofa and sat his bare ass down on the moldy fabric. Something rustled deep down inside the rotten piece of furniture, but he’d long since taught the rats he shared space with to leave him well enough alone.

On the beer table, along with an assortment of empties, were a couple of decks of cards. Cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, Al resumed his endless practice of The Invisible Flight. He had the top change down cold, but could never finesse the palm change to his satisfaction.

He worked at it until late in the morning, until the racket outside drove him to distraction. Hammering and jabbering. Going on three weeks now. He got dressed and went outside. He needed the book.

Outside, Hun was berating several sweating Cambodian workers outside the near-complete shell of a capacious annex to the brick tenement they shared. “Tell me again what you’re building here,” Al asked in Khmer.

“Told you a dozen times - garages for people’s cars.”

Except no one that lived here had any cars.

“Looks almost finished.” Stamped out his cigarette. “Any takers yet?”

“If I build it, they will come,” proclaimed the Mekong refugee in English.

Al gave him a good luck salute and wandered around the corner of the building. They were there, the whole motley pack, and there was Spike, big and mangy and beautiful, holding court like the King of Siam.

They scattered as the little dockworker approached - all but Spike. The two men - one on two legs, one on four - stared into each other’s eyes as the distance was closed. But Al was no cheap date. Once he was crouched face to face with the beast, all he did was rasp a few words in Tamasheq: “Spike. You’re a good boy, Spike. Spike.” Then he walked away.

Always leave them wanting more.

[adamu]

Friday July 19, 2075; Capitol Hill

Once Al had finessed his SIN-free self onto a northbound bus, he realized he’d gone the whole morning without coughing up any more parts of his lungs. Smiled to himself - couldn’t last long, but hope springs eternal.

And then the automated voice announcing Capitol Hill woke him up. Instinctively checking his pockets to confirm his forty winks hadn’t cost him anything, he hopped off the bus on 10th Avenue East, just north of Aloha.

He headed straight off of 10th, ducking west into an alley lined with small businesses. This was his favorite part of Seattle - he loved watching all the hippies, keebs, devil-worshippers, and other degenerates - but the Man would still give a working joe a hard time out on the main drag. Besides, all the quaint indy lore shops and coffee houses lining 10th, Roy, Broadway and so forth were just fronts - big corp outlets festooned in local flavor so the glass & steel types could feel earthy, forget they’d sold their souls.

No, the back streets of the Hill were where the real color was. Injun trinkets, real homespun telesma, street food to take your taste buds around the world. Just the smells sent him back to Cairo, Chiang Mai, Colombo. Hand-woven carpets and tapestries, incense, every kind of non-traditional medicine you could think of (he’d tried most in the last five years). And of course antique books, his target for the day.

[adamu]

Friday July 19, 2075; Capitol Hill

“Lookin’ fer Erdnase.” That was how he started each visit. All the joints had that musty old book smell he loved, and none employed anyone stupid enough to suggest he buy a download. And on the fourth stop, the response was promising.

“The Bible?” confirmed the slight proprietor of One Hundred Books (a gross understatement). He must have been about seventy-three, with long spidery fingers tipped by immaculately manicured nails. He had a receding hairline that left a slight widow’s peak in its wake, but otherwise even, unremarkable features. He wore a maroon wool sweater beneath a houndstooth blazer. Al was the only customer in the place, and before he could answer, the older man asked him to name a card.

“Seven hearts.” To which the bookseller responded by pulling a pack of cards from his jacket pocket and revealing the top card. It was the seven of hearts. “Tie me up an’ toss me to the gators, that there’s Dai Vernon’s first trick!” Al croaked.

“Actually, no, though that is a well-established piece of apocrypha from his youth. The Professor had memorized - and I do mean memorized - The Expert at the Card Table by the age of thirteen, and well into his nineties was still quoting it by page number.”

“Anyone ever figure out who ol’ Erdnase was?” Like a cast-iron stove skidding across asphalt.

“Thankfully, no. It would seem almost sacrilegious at this point. And of course over the last few decades there have been a number of ritual attempts to divine his identity.”

“Damn devil worshippers,” Al spat.

The bookseller raised his eyebrows slightly, but made no comment.

“So you got a copy?”

“Sadly, no. But I have a wide network. Are you a collector, or simply one who appreciates tactility?”

“Nothin’ like that, I jist like ta hold it, feel the weight while readin’ the thing.”

“Well, if ever there was a tome to be held in the fingers... Let me make some calls. Please have a look at this while you wait. It was written by a student of Vernon’s.” He handed Al a frayed copy of Learned Pigs & Fireproof Women before retreating to an office. Al skimmed the book with interest, but ultimately despaired of finding any card tricks.

The proprietor returned. “I can have a copy here for you tomorrow, or mailed to you. It is a 2037 printing, and well worn. But of course that also makes it quite a bargain at fifty nuyen.”

“Deal,” said Al, reminding himself not to spit into his hand before offering it to the man to seal the bargain. A thumb on his MetaLink flashed the address of the tenement. “Care of Al Guthrie.”

“It was a pleasure having met you, Mr. Guthrie.” The man gazed at Al for a moment, and then decided something. “Forgive my presumption, but can I ask if, like cards, you are also a connoisseur of the tattooist’s art?”

[adamu]

Friday July 19, 2075; Capitol Hill/International District

Mission du jour accomplished nicely, Al wandered a bit. Grabbed some street food. Ducked into a friendly-looking lore shop, but they didn’t have anything useful to him. Seattle was all injun animism and math magic - just different sides of the Adversary’s dark coin. Waxing nostalgic for the Big Easy, he scrutinized some of the masks, sniffed at a few open pots. Poked around the baubles and trinkets for a bit, feeling the frizzy-haired shopgirl’s witch eyes on his back. Let her get an eyeful - once they did, they never minded how long he hung around. But all their Sight showed them was his juice, not the Source from which it sprang.

Leaving the shop, he wove through the gathering early Friday evening crowd, fingering the embossed business card the bookseller had given him. A referral to an artist who did things “the right way.” No question Al had been turning another piece around in his head for a bit, but he hadn’t had no ink showing, and he’d be damned if that old shopkeeper had any at all. So why offer the card?

Al congratulated himself on having the sort of winning personality that made everyone instantly love and trust him.

Then he was outside a pet supply shop nearer the main street. He pulled deeply on his Lucky until the smoldering tip nipped at his fingers, stamped it out on the street, then went in and bought a cheap bag of Scooby Snacks.

When he got home, Hun was sitting in front soaking up the last of the sunlight. Shirt white, tie cinched up, and eyes twitching back and forth. He must be reading something - doubtless another one of those damned self-help, get-rich-quick downloads. All that godless humanism couldn’t start to stack up against a good five minutes in heartfelt prayer, but there was no telling that to Hun. Still, he’d done pretty well for himself, all things considered. And as Al approached, the Asian man stood up, came close.

Offering an altogether uncharacteristic hug, he whispered in his language, “It is done.”

Some people’s lives were way too boring, but Al would play along. “What’s done?” he said, almost inaudibly, looking for no reason whatsoever up at the sky.

“What you asked for his morning...” The “...you moronic bumpkin” went unsaid, but Al could still hear it loud and clear in his landlord’s voice. He wondered what that would have come out as in Khmer. He was pretty sure he didn’t know the word for bumpkin.

Hun glanced pointedly at the pocket where he knew Al kept his commlink. “Check it.”

“Later. I trust you.”

“Well, you can trust me eleven thousand six hundred nuyen. I got you the good stuff. Memorize the legend.”

“Right, so when’s my next shift?”

Now it was Hun’s turn to be surprised. “What?”

“I know you thought I’d stop taking work from you once I had a number.” Al stopped. There was no use trying to explain himself to this guy, might as well try to teach flower arranging to a mule. And he was getting tired of speaking Khmer. Passing a fat credstick to the man, he simply said, “Here’s your cred. Now I need two things from you. Shifts, and a Remington 950 plus a box of ammo.”

[shonen_mask]

Thursday July 19th District of Renton

Nom Adjusts his position in his chair. Through the Haze of deepweed smoke he looks out into the 'world' and sees the subtle hues, shapes of thing change and respond to the slightest of stimuli....
Even the Smoke itself seems thick and animated. sometimes looking to turn on itself, then suddenly changing to appear as living things moving effortlessly around some unseen focus.

He grooves to the electronic music some more and switches his attention to a couple of patrons talking excitedly in a shadow. He can't hear them and can barely see them but he percieves the couple as clear as if they were in the bright sunlight. The couple's auras are getting more agitated, turning dark and stormy.
Then suddenly a flash of movement and one is struck by the other.... "With a bit of luck he could of avoided that sting to his pride." He laughs inwardly....

"'Luck' is what we will need to get this thing up and running not just geometric logic...."

[shonen_mask]

Thrusday July 19 District of Redmond

Rimbur Has been standing in the access tunnel for just a few minutes but his instincts tell it's already too long.

The Grid Access Point sits in its place almost hidden among the service pipes. No power, no working indication of useability...."Just plain old luck one of these is just sitting down here."He dares not touch or linger down here any longer. He wishes to avoid Sec Security or Local Police notice or worse. It is not good to be caught in places like this. "Don't want stir up the mind police do I..."

Leaving the access tunnel through a door in the side of a concrete lined drainage branch, he climbes the ladder taking care to look for spies to his actions. Seeing none he leaves the area quickly. Back on the Main streets, he reviews mentally his find. The possible model of the unit and the most likely owner or installer. He decideds he knows both pieces of information from previous experience. "If they don't replace it I may yank it out myself..." He smiles.

[shonen_mask]

Thursday July 19 Home, District of Renton


Nom is laying comfortablely on his couch after casting. An hour has past and he beginning to feel himself again. He is pleased with his sucess and is sustaing the spell without effort....

He figures in about another hour or two he will be back up to strength. While resting, total sleep eludes him, the task before him and the rest of fenris dominates his time.
Images of the living smoke witnessed under deepweed begin to take the form of raw code in his mind....

[adamu]

Saturday July 20, 2075; International District

The horn on Hun’s crap Americar blared insistently. Al finished the last of his chili. Soyburger, and not a drop of milk in the cheese, but real kidney beans, and fresh onions on top.

He’d spent the better part of the morning memorizing the backstory on the fake SIN Hun had scored him, before double-checking that his ‘link was not broadcasting it in his PAN. This thing had to be used with a modicum of judiciousness, or it would soon be worthless. No point in tossing it out there like a three-nuyen whore anytime he didn’t need it for something.

Around mid-day he’d gone out and tossed some Scooby Snacks at the local pack, throwing them high enough that Spike got about eighty percent of them. A real pleasure seeing that boy jump. Then he’d gone back inside, feeling the dog’s eyes on his back.

And then in the early afternoon one of the kids that lived in the building brought him a parcel with his Erdnase in it, and it was a good afternoon. Of course he’d already read it several times, but holding it while practicing his one-handed shuffle, or leaving it open on the table while he worked through a trick, that was how it was meant to be. It was the first time in a while he was annoyed when it came time to get ready for work.

Sweat of your brow. Just like the Good Book said.

Al congratulated himself for being so pious in this world of trouble and sorrow.

[adamu]

Saturday July 20, 2075; Terminal 46

Five short minutes later and there she was, Port of Seattle’s Terminal 46 - eighty-two acres of fun. Even before they entered, Al could see a big Yang Ming tramper sitting low in the water, just waiting for a particular motley bunch of underpaid and unregistered workers to relieve her of her burden.

The primer-gray Americar pulled through the gates without a glance from the rent-a-cops, all suddenly very very busy with critical administrative chores inside their little shack. Damned security nightmare, but everyone was getting their piece. Well, almost everyone.

Terminal 46 was one of the jewels in the Port’s crown, so of course it was all sewn up tight. Operated by an uneasy consortium of megas under license from the Metroplex government, and all under strict UCAS oversight. No way the Feds could keep their hands off their one point of access to the Pacific. And naturally a place like that was a union shop.

But with that many pencil-pushers and bean-counters in the mix, there were always cracks. Especially since everyone wanted the cracks to be there. They didn’t get taxed, nor pay union dues, but working at a base rate around a sixth of what the SINners got and, more important, with no bennies or health & safety regs, crews like Hun’s could be mighty attractive to middle-managers trying to shave a few hundred k off their COGS quarterlies.

But it wasn’t just the managers that came out all gumdrop candy mountain. Everyone had their finger in the pie one way or another. Every hour - every minute - in the berth cost the shipper money, cost the cargo owner, cost the port, cost the next ship sitting out in the Sound. So if a gray crew could work through safety slowdowns and union-mandated breaks, the port, the ‘plex, the shippers, they were all fat and happy. The Gianellis, who really ran the unions, got paid to keep everyone’s mouths shut, and the mob in turn made sure to buy flash rides and disease-free girls for the union bosses. And if the whole thing was a tacit threat to the union rank and file about how easily they could be replaced, or if they lost a little of their precious time-and-a-half, everyone knew they were getting paid twice what they were worth just so they could be the poster children of the suits’ CSR portfolios. They knew which side their bread was buttered on, and if they forgot, the wise guys reminded them.

Whole thing ran like clockwork, giving honest working men from the wrong side of the tracks a chance to keep their families above water. Until, that is, some genius would come along every so often and try to streamline things in his favor. And this time around, that genius was Hun Sen.

For Hun, all the players brought some sort of value to the table. All, that is, but the mob. They didn’t work, they didn’t provide capital, they didn’t provide security except from themselves, they weren’t consumers. They were leeches. And he wouldn’t pay.

[shonen_mask]

Saturday July 20, Home; District of Renton



Nombu rubs his hands and stretches in his chair. The light from the lamp barely casting enough light for the work area illuminates a sheet of parchment coverd with characters and symbols.
He rests the parchment on the work area and gets up..."I've put this off for so long but now, I'm ready..." He picks up the parchment and sets fire to it.
Half singing half chanting in an old tounge he drops the burning notes into a waste basket and turns away."I will finish my Lodge..."

[adamu]

Saturday July 20, 2075; Terminal 46

“Well, can you fix it?” growled the ork in the Timber Wolves cap. His name was Buntha and he was Hun’s number two. They were from the same tribe, supposedly, but the ork was third generation Seattle and spoke almost no Khmer. One of Al’s pleasures in life was mistranslating their conversations.

“Well ‘course I kin fix it. Who ya think yer talkin’ to?”

There had been a problem with one of the logistics outfits and now they were having to split all the pallets from three containers into different warehouses to await the newly arranged pick-ups. They were twenty-two minutes behind schedule and standing beside a broken down Raymond electric forklift, a reach truck rated at 2,000 kilos with an upward reach of 8 meters.

“So how long?”

Al’s broken glass voice sounded even more grating - if that was possible - from inside the engine compartment. “Bad news is it ain’t the engine.” He emerged with oil smudges on his face, which Buntha noticed was looking less pinched and weary than usual. The little guy still had bags under his eyes and a frighteningly sallow complexion. Sort of like he was still dying, but maybe not of starvation anymore. Moving around to examine the vehicle’s carriage apparatus, Al pointed out the problem: “Cracked yer starboard tilt cylinder. Safety cutouts shut the whole beast down.”

“So just override the cutouts. We got work to do.”

“Set those cutouts muhself last week - we’s already operatin’ way past safety regs an’ on into thrill-seeker country. You lift anythin' heavier’n a barrel o’ Jack on this baby, you’ll lose the whole goldurned mast, be a lot further behind schedule than now, if not down a man or two.”

“So how long?”

Al grinned around the Lucky that had inexplicably appeared between his teeth. “Thirty minutes after you get me a new tilt cylinder from the facilities hut.”

The ork cursed and spat. In the delicate balance between the competing interests on the terminal, the union had the 1,468-square-meter maintenance facility locked down tight with a strong argument about unrated workers posing a threat to its millions of nuyen in sophisticated equipment. Al had gotten in once, for a few minutes, and thought he’d shuffled off this mortal coil and flown on angel wings through the Pearly Gates. That place was a grease monkey’s Nirvana. And there was no way Buntha was getting anything out of it without a 24-hour requisition process.

After a minute watching the foreman squirm, Al put an end to his suffering. “Keep yer panties on. I kin patch it with some polysilicate epoxy, keep ‘er goin’ least till the job’s done. Have to drive ‘er muhself, though, sweet talk ‘er through it.”

[adamu]

Saturday July 20, 2075; Terminal 46

Pallets reconfigured and all that hustle for nothing, since the Yang Ming vessel had developed a fault in its crankshaft-screw coupling. Al tsked to himself - common enough problem with two-stroke crossheads, but avoided easily enough by a machinist that knew his head from a maple stump. Looked like an hour until she could pull out and let the waiting Kawasaki Kisen dry bulker into her berth.

And that meant beer break.

Stepping out of the warehouse and sucking in the chill air, Al coughed - once, twice, three times. That was it. "Well what inna name ‘o Santa Claus an’ the Easter Bunny you layabouts starin’ at?" he demanded of the men around him, who had indeed turned and looked, startled by the brevity of the fit. "Shouldn’t come as hardly no surprise ta no one, ol’ Al reclaimin’ a bit of his usual robust institution.”

Leaving them behind, Al moseyed out the south side access gate, where a public access lane ran along the edge of the giant pier just outside the fence line. It was no more than five hundred meters from there to the disused neighboring jetty, the very tip of which was host to Humpty’s Dump. Little more than four walls and a roof of ill-fitted and corroded plastic sidings, it suited Al just fine.

Walking up on the place, Al immediately recognized the sleek black Nocturne parked out front. He stepped right up to it and peered in, his face no more than two inches from the bulletproof glass, but he couldn’t see anything through the car’s black-as-night windows. He knew they were in there, though - Arturo Gianelli hated the Dump.

Al shrugged and went inside. There was music. It was loud and it was crap, but they’d long since banned him from calling up decent tunes, so there was nothing for it if he wanted his cold one. Aside from the one waitress, Darla - half grown-in mustache and three kids by as many fathers - there were no womenfolk here, just working stiffs on their breaks. A bank of old microwaves hummed behind the bar, heating the instant soy delicacies that were all the place had besides beer and hard liquor, and also behind the bar was Mordecai Sparks. Al climbed up onto a stool and Sparks put a longneck on the counter. He was real tall, wore a tattered Concrete Dreams T-shirt, and gray muttonchop sideburns crawled down his face from a thin head of salt-n-pepper hair. He was missing more than one tooth in front, and who knew how many in back. A good Southern boy that had hit the Emerald City back in ’56 as a roadie for some no-name opening act. Band had folded and he’d stayed.

Wind blew in through the cracks between sidings. The smell of salt wafted up through knot-holes in the raw planks of the jetty that was all there was for flooring. Sparks struck a match and proffered it in a cupped hand to Al as the little man pulled out a Lucky. Sharp eyes.

“They’re here fer you, ya know. Come in ‘bout an hour ago askin’ after ya.”

[shonen_mask]

Satudray July 20; District of Redmond


Rimbur, finished with his search and discover tactics for a while makes a stop before making the cross into Renton and back home, maybe....

A locked gate to a old powerstation serves a chair back while a slab of concrete serves a chair cushion.

He lights his Erika MCD in wireless-off mode and opens his editor. "traffic linkage......., Respose codes......, Wireless cutover......, Non rated traffic......, Time to response......,"

Reference after reference leaps to his fingers.
Names and numbers that will represent raw code. Long the experimental lab of sorts for the Matrix, Redmond still possesses much potential for discovery.
Mostly written off by the general population, yet the entire infrastructure is mostly serviceable and still supported though low on that priority.
An expolitable oversite not missed by Rimbur. An id number, model code, a shell color even is all he needs and a logical map of the surounding matrix begins to form in his mind......

"Bypass speeds......, Overflow data......, Message lines...., Termitation numbers......,"

[adamu]

Saturday July 20, 2075; Humpty’s Dump

Al hawked something up and sent it expertly through one of the knotholes in the floor. “Well, comin’ straight in after me’d jist be too uncool fer school. These hombres always gotta feel like they’s doin’ things on they own sweet time.” He took a long pull on his beer and then replaced the cigarette in his mouth. “Reckon we got, say, twenny minutes.”

And that was how long he sat there and drank before two men in suits entered the dive. “Shore as shootin’,” Al winked at Mordecai, and they shared a high-five before the taller man directed himself to serving some orks their instant burritos. The newcomers were clearly nonplussed - it was not the sort of reaction their appearance usually elicited.

They were both young, though a scar here and a bit of uneven cartilage there told Al they’d seen at least a few scraps. Messenger boys. Probably spent more than they could afford on the threads. Hadn’t gone too far wrong - not effeminate, but still a bit dandy for Al’s tastes. He idly scratched a knobby yellow-white knee poking through the huge hole in his jeans. Wondered how much the matching magenta silk ties had set them back, and whether they were real or clip-on. Yep. Half a millimeter of color below one wise-guy’s collar confirmed real. Idiots. He filed the information away.

“Mr. Guthrie,” one man shouted over the music from about a half-meter away, “We are sorry to disturb you. But our boss wishes to have a word.”

Al motioned to the stool beside him. Pitching his voice to be heard: “Have him come in, I’ll buy ‘im a drink.”

“I am certain he would be honored,” and the veneer of obsequiousness cracked for a moment as the man glanced about at the squalid surroundings, “but...” eyes gestured vaguely around at the music-laden air, “...you understand...he would like a quiet conversation.”

Al shrugged, grabbed his beer in a burn-scarred hand, and jumped down from his seat. Stepping outside he saw two more men - one was Arturo Gianelli. The car had been around from time to time since Hun had started making trouble with these guys, and Al had caught occasional glimpses of this particular mobster, though he seldom emerged from his beloved GMC Cadillac Nocturne. He was standing beside it right now.

So Al walked the other way.

Ended up perched on an old packing crate, forcing the low-level boss to cross the dozen meters to him. There was nowhere else to sit, so the man stood. Al could already see him straining to maintain his patience. But he had clearly chosen to lead with honey, so why not milk it? The mobster put out his hand to shake. Al removed his right hand from his pocket as if to accept the offer, but at the last second diverted it up to run his fingers through his hair. Fake!

Al congratulated himself on his sophisticated sense of humor.