2020.11.22 11:33 MickeyMona A little cyberpunk tale I wrote years ago, found it on the old harddrive. It's called Building Skies
Just another night. Just a little bit more change in a pocket.submitted by MickeyMona to Cyberpunk [link] [comments]
(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TbeNCLnyh84 Denise Rabe - Sunday Blues (Rrose Remix) [ARTSCOLLECTIVE005] )
Nearby alley wasn’t silent. Hushy howls, quiet mutes of the struggle-bubble. Sobbing, swearing. All that jazz, and sammy-to-sammy was playing it over and over again. On the right, someone was getting mugged. Left -- there’s a rape happening, and not of a nice date rape kind. And straight from the middles of concrete backspace labyrinthum a wheezie weathered old geezer voice is screaming, echoing for help, somethun’ ‘bout cardiac arrest yummi business. HelP! HELP! Help help.
Оз smirked with indifference, but, for the sake of a joke listened a tidy bit more carefully, letting his ears get a grip on details of situation. Abruptly, the situation went shush. Oldie didn’t jackpot the “death from almost natural causes” point in life after all. But hey, close.
Continuing the venture.
“Happy Alleys” sector poised behind him now, smokey and smelly, full on augmented with bugs rodents of all human kinds. Web of wires, that weaved over nearly every brick here, started to get thicker and at the same time more hide’n’seek, no strip tease. One step yet, one step out, out from the embracive home surroundings. And the main mean streets hustle-dustle begins.
“Open Roads” are target friendly. First warptagged car that appeared in view had a driver with “dait look” in his eyes. Look didn’t lie. The “wheeler” threw a “smiley” under the feet of some nervous pedestrians, before riding off wild into event horizon afar. Driver’s laughter was still belling in Oз’s ears when that small bombica black ball ornamented with a funny grin face on its surface hit da ground, whistling hilariously. He’s got only one-half of a moment to tighten his hood.
He used the moment right, tightening it, tight.
And heavy rain of entrails and other red type insides stuff washed over him. It was the true “eww” second, but as if a touching refund nearby landed a jacket, almost un-licked by the explosion. New groove seemed worn-out yet expensive, not a bum type styl-o. Groping an X-mas present on the subject of expectations landed Bingo. Now there’s not only a change in his pocket. He threw away splodged with organics ex-pensive piece of clothes and moved onward, turtle walk.
Noize of the “sirens”. Oз produced a discontent stare at sky’s account. Sky is so used-up, mucho more than organics covered jacket under it. Colors are bleak and unsanitary. Clouds had certain creature-features of a smoke that bursts outa cancer patient’s lungs when he puffs a nervous “one last one more” in the closet. And in the moment, in heavens upstairs, as alarm karaoked its deafening “spider-sense”, there appeared small, hard-on-notice flickering shadows. If the attack won’t take a rain check, night is spoiled for all good sports.
And screams again, and night crowd is pushing and thrusting through each other again, trying to squeeze their scorched bodies into the most unexpected slots if promise those a good hideout. Some wacko stood right in the middle of the wide open street, showing off his umbrella. First “rock” bomb, as ordered, started the show by softly squashing him. Alarm seized shouting, but air and ears were filled up with others, no less intrusive sounds. Oз just took a sit on the edge of a road curbing, close to the first spot that cashed ai ka-boom. A worthwhile place for duck-n-cover was kind of far, and in some random building he has not a tip much more chances than here. So since it’s all about chances, let’s take our chances, the smooth way.
And hacko did lucky.
Then out of a sudden, someone turned the electricity on. Mortegrad, a second ago lighten only by scrooge fires of explosions, sinks in the shining of neon. Wasn’t it was like several days already this pleasant bleakness ruled the city? This night is downright stuffed with unnecessary surprises, for sure. Oh, well.
He puked some dust and ash the insides were drowning in, shook off the same yuck from a shabby coat and jeans. After giving today’s wearings something of a presentable form, Oз decided to done on the strong no-distractions attitude for the rest of this, already too prolonged, odyssey.
Grad City, in the meantime, was going through the painful metamorphosis. Looking with each moment less and less like a dried out walking-crawling corpse, at the same rate getting closer in appearance to an image of a dying, twitching in convulsions under the kicks of “shockers” patient whom drunken doctors resurrecting so clam-clumsily.
Fed by the scanty lunar energy “autonomki” were ubiquitously shutting down with a pleasant happy sonorous buzz; and milliards of wires, freshened by a nearly forgotten feeling of a “blue blood” flow in their veins, found their start on, pumping into a decrepit heart of megapolis, with excitement. One last silent clickity clack-clack amongst the nano-cogs of eternally ghasted underground mechanisms, and twilight night submitted the throne to synthetic day.
A day where unhealthy bright lights from myriads of holographic advertisements serve as sunbeams. Old-fashioned billboards and used age comercia hi-tek devices plastered over every least capable for such purposes constructs. It didn’t matter be that a mumbled by bombing skyscraper or oblique Victorian mansion, dusk-deep in uncountable layers of moss. An echo lost in times, Hear it roar as techno-parasites of current epoch sting their tendrils into its concrete flesh.
“SikKo: Touch my TV again ‘n’ I’ll stoke ya”. Slogan is short, descriptive, ironic, delivering. Makes no sense. SikKo was a company specializing in the last frontier left for humanity after the promised strange adventures in an infinity space turned out to be just a name of a derelict Dos computer game.
It climbed on the scorched pedestal when the whole world was tearing apart its torn parts and said: “LISTEN”. Their first slogan ever, The Giant, rainbow coloured LISTEN on a pitch black background. And the crowd got silent for a moment, and gave attention to the Upwards. It was a mute sound of an old dream dying, and the birth of an original sin.
Founded by an artist-scientist gone dwanky the company was offering travel, vacations, and even permanent relocations,
Part of ours inner cosmos responsible for the desire to escape waking up in the morning.
Discovering the way for bringing man’s conscious into depths of itself could have brought wonders. In theory. In reality, “the way” became another successful product that helps getting as far away from the reality as possible. And as there are no limits in going further, as is no limit on going downer.
Founding godfather Isaac Montanegue was selling the ladder to limbo by reasonable prices like the cost of your own priceless soul and final loose on any touch with “out-of-facades” world. And because of such populist approach he soon came to be the owner and 51% stockholder of the most successful mega corporation in the known game that quickly annexed any other adversaries out there, ascending as an ABSOLUTE, SUPREME AND UNCHALLENGED SHADoW ADVISOR OF DIRTBALL! Well, not really, there’s still the cubby and daring Parton Conglomerate in Eastern “Transistor Wilds” of Asia, and the impudent Thando Incorporated which broadens its grasp over most of Afrika and “Australia Shores”. And some rebellion here and there from those commoners who still don’t accept the prosperity of been indifferent twerks the domination tit-bit, but all-in-all it’s all about SikKo -- if not the leader, then a certain “first man to spit on the moon” in current affairs.
Providing as side attraction their best newly invented bio, nano, and old-fashioned nukey weaponry to the governments that are too involved in playing Warm War DnD session; producing in the cyber-fashion, so popular amongst the higher castes, a new kik every day; and finally solving the Peasant Question by giving them a chance to completely turn off from agenda of any kind with Scapezone hub-pubs on every corner; so rose the true Dues Ex Machina, ironically still operated by humans.
Can streets be merciful? In a world were artificial edens belong to the devils, down under is vacant for the taking; crown me teh dwarf king, I’ll show you how you can crawl without ever kneeling.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZpkXhJPooXs (Monster Magnet – Silver Future)
“Love me tender, Love me sweet, never let me go” whistle in cheer tune speakers of the newspaper store Oз pass by. Surroundings didn’t eye dirty anymore which meant he was getting closer to “Da Spoiler Spot”, a part of Mortegrad where the better kind of humanity, rich people, lived, partied, and, occasionally, worked.
In the middle of Crossing, symbolical ground in-betweens. Here, everyday of the commoners playfully spits on sand castles of “clubsters”.
Sweet-voiced drone delivers a polite “halt” order. Scan-check on criminal records is somewhat painy to eyes, but that’s the only way to get into dSS. None who had stolen even a tomato and got caught gets an okay from the robotic security. It’s not like anyone ever gets caught in anything anyway, but kind of helps keeping the worst mannered thugs shy.
Robbie-be-good life policy left him clean ina face of what represented law’n’order and drone wished him all good, clearing out’ the way its big badaboomies. Two more scan-checks on other invisible block posts for just in case and grim urban jungle drastically fades under pressure from oasis of golden calfs. Behind him, only a shrink back, are screams of those who have no mouth, no past, no future, and fuck if that something they have you can call the present. In front of him -- are happy faces and romantic aromas sweating the tender commercialism paradise. Funny, and all you had to do is cross da street.
Past him walked a neo-gypsy in appearance bab-yaga. She had so much jewelry on her, hangin’ from the most inappropriate places. Her dark-skin face hardly felt human anymore, after all those countless “fashion” operations she went through. Still goes through, every week.
She didn’t even bother try avoiding the “humangoo”. Didn’t have to, the moment her dress felt there’s a threat ahead to her fanciness it throttled out some cannibalistic nanoz. Cute bot-bugies were so hungry to appease they have cleaned on one-two. If only his ex was as resourceful. Heard these little cookies could be reprogrammed by a rightfully minded hacker to serve as glorified pussy-lickers. By the way, judging how satisfied the glimpse in that ugly meatbag’s eyes was, Oз would bet a dolla suckie-suckie they were already reloaded with a “dilding” matrix.
Above him –- unnatural selection of all sorts top freaky. Spires of Mortregrad’s dSS are not like any others. Luxury projects and skyscraping ziggurats were children sold from the mind of Glamir Ancelatti, a world-class architect demiurge known for that special gothic punk touch in his priesthood. Which meant gargoyles on every impossible spot, unnecessary sharpness in forms, and that certain Burton Fink “fuck you” poured over its spirit’s nizms.
All in all,
Was a sight.
While “last train to Nashville” squeals wheels somewhere underground, giving tremors to constructions of outworld, he enters.
Oз stood on the first floor of Ghost Mechanics, -- final destination of his today’s scenic green mile. There was supposed to be a cookie. No? Okay. Fancy black’n’white reds were coloring and furnishing the hall, elevator music filling the air. Smiling plastic girl behind the receptionist’s desk, asking how she can be of any service. Oh, there were some services Oз could have made her provide him. If a room was an alley, and a lamp was dark, but, wasn’t the case or course. So he smiled back and said that he has an appointment with mista Smortkin. That meant a ride to the highest point of this building.
Ghost Mechanics was a subservient of SikKo, carrying the load of controlling “dreamzone” hubs in this city’s megastate. Supervising and giving casual or emergency maintenance, looking after all those lost souls connected, wired to the program.. Very ungrateful job, but somebody had to do it.
Elevator beeped, announcing the passenger’s cue on exit. Several office doors and there he was, in the “cabinet” of Jonathan Smortkin. A fast handshake, then Oз had to bite his own tooth, allowing the lethal gas capsule hidden in it let her smelly smells out. He pushed the body out of the way and got on with the central computer. Time is short, and task is humongous. A small datadrive appeared in his palm and quickly engaged itself with the system. Two more clicks, and tens of millions die, but those millions never lived. And now they are finally awaken, to realize that they are dead. Disconnected from the matherchine, pieces of meat who had no mouth but must have screamed. Should have.
Several other magic tricks of a hacker, and viruses are all over the System, bringing the fires it plagued reality with, back to the fire starters. The city is aflame, though aflame Is at last Not its Flesh but the soul, dragged out from a virtual hole it comfortably hid in before the judging sun.
Door to Smortkin’s place blasts in a burn, bullets are massaging Oз’s body. The work is done, so no shame now in quiet ground fall. All over the globe, a coordinated attack of the Herostratu group brought down Scapezone into the certain demise. Amongst a couple of other things.
Every hacker-kamikaze had also the task of leaving a dying breath message, whatever they thought was important to deliver. Here, in Mortegrad, billboards, in a sudden unison, promoted,
Skies. With tiles from hell”.
Then the skies got tingled with white noise, stalking fragments of images from lost TV shows, a standard glitch when session is over. Oz opened his eyes. Vision entered the picture soon after. Fat, greasy scapehub mastah is pulling off the tube strings from brains and nerve system, not very gently. One stucks, so he even has to use a drill to finally let the person inside the capsule go.. free. It was an old machine, full on malfunctions, but place and wires like this were all Oз could have afforded. Work as a janitor in a small corporate sub-sub-firm paid only for such cheapest evening ventures and some “soylent green” on his table.
He took the coat off the chair. Scape-master was waiting in the corner of the room, drumming his disgusting belly with salami fingers, sweating impatience. Well, at least he wore a T-Shirt this time.
He’s an endwise guy to leave the building. Even though hubs were working like twentyfour’hour party people, usually this late time and hour are short on customers. Unless people like Oз, who would come in not too late evening, and exit in deep night. Such peeps are a quick count; time rate of a typical travel session would be no longer than five-to-ten minutes. Yet in form of unknown and annoying bugger-bummer in program exist few those whose mind will take a fair share before fastening on full speed. Corporate eggheads weren’t quite able to explain it. The only thing they had noticed is people like this were more prompt to the phenomenon they nicknamed “awakening”: when, one day, without any memo left on a fridge, the brain can become absolutely immune to any attempts on tampering with its wilds. Such people are never able to use hubs anymore; even the most recent, exclusive technology lacks capability of making them reconnected.
“Hey, kid. Just in case, a reminder: All dreamzone experiences are recorded, top-check. So. Those things you have in your head. Leave ‘em there. And get some sleep, for Christ’s sake.”
Fatman shut the door behind him fast. He was having a snack break. It seemed like stomach is the head in that pile of beef.
Oз captured some air in the lungs. And coughed out the shit he just sacked. The air here shared a rule with a blowjob, don’t swallow and you won’t choke.
Gave one final stare to the skies. For a moment he could have sworn they had blue in them but the moment’s gone. Might be a simple leftover buzz in his scapechip, tempering with colors.
Clear view was spoiled anyway. All the upwards were “painted” in blocks and blocks and blocks of city’s highpoint constructions. One of them wasn’t too monumental, but immediately stole the focus of his sight.
Ghost Mechanics was trying so hard sell an impression of absolute third core unimportance with all their... There’s a thought. And a feeling, in the legs. Attention slides down the feet, and that old skinhead song “These Boots Are Made For Stomping” starts playing, courtesy of in-head sammy-to-sammy.
He turns, eyes on the ground. And slowly walks away, opposite where his legs want to lead him.
Why change the world, when you can just dream through it :)
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