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I'll be reading whatever you put out, so 
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Feb 13, 2020 12:01
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sheep-dodger posted:I'll be reading whatever you put out, so Not emptyquoting. Tbh if you feel like you need to grip the reins to ensure the story goes where it needs to go I'm not going to hold that against you, nor am I going to stop reading. You've built up a loyal readership that's invested in the story and the characters. I'm sure I'm not overstepping by saying that collectively we signed on for the long haul and will ride this bitch into the sunset with you any day.
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Feb 14, 2020 03:41
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RabidWeasel posted:Logically speaking at some point it makes sense for us to have less or no input anyway since the characters become more and more defined by their previous decisions and actions.
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Feb 14, 2020 15:54
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Team HUNGER always lurks, waiting for a moment of weakness///
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Feb 14, 2020 16:25
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Marie and W.D. Winslow - Monday, August 19th, 2075 – Midnight –Austin, Texas, Confederated States of America Marie strode away from the helipad with a suitcase in her hand, a gun on her hip and violence on her mind. Alone she strode into the unguarded halls of power. Halls she had once believed in, given her life to, was betrayed, betrayed in turn and now she was seeking to pull them down. Here she stood at the top level of the Lone Star Security Services Arcology having avoided hundreds of levels of layers of security through the security weakness of one highly placed idiot. She strode through elegant double doors which hissed open as she strode forward. After a short entryway, she passed a security checkpoint, currently unmanned. More doors opened before her without even needing to be touched with the barest hiss. The automated physical security simply let her pass. In fact, she'd find no people on this floor at all. The matters being spoken of behind closed doors must have been deemed too important to be discussed with anyone close by. This she knew was standard operating procedure to maintain the utmost secrecy in the direst of circumstances. She would make sure that this was a mistake or die in the attempt. What was inside did not take her breath away, but only because of her low resolution goggles. Still, even in low res, it was impressive. The opulence and decadence of the room were only matched by its faux rustic Texas style. The high vaulted ceiling going up and up and up all the way to the spire of the arcology. But the centerpiece was what caught her attention most. It was a cross between a chandelier and a slowly revolving piece of art that looked like a glittering dust devil. Under her keen observation, she noticed that it wasn’t moved by science, but by a bound wind spirit. “Security as art,” she scoffed. Security as art was the new corporate fashion and it had stuck for longer than normal. The visible, bound spirit could only been seen in low resolution and she could feel its attention on her for an instant before it looked away. Marie wore the star and so she was safe, at least for now. So she wended her way around it, doing her best not to pay attention to the room even though it was tempting. Not to bask in it as an art piece, but to drive her rage. The expense of opulence meant less resources for policing, which was supposedly the job of Lone Star Security services, which held over half of the police contracts in North America. She wanted to look, to bask, to hate this waste, but she didn't have time. Instead she passed by that wealth, stuffed with tasteful rarities, adorned by artifacts of a time long gone that gave that impression that these were the inheritors of the old Texas rangers. A declaration of who they were, not earned she knew now, but bought. Not an inheritance, but a thief wearing the clothing of their betters. She passed under a steer skull that hung from the wall overhead, from tip to tip some twenty feet wide, horns curled. Though it was white and unimpressive from the low resolution, its size could be nothing less than amazing. No doubt taken from one of the new, awakened animals that had emerged since magic came back. It loomed over her like some dark omen. That skull reminded her of her business and so she refocused on it. Dark double doors opened for her as she passed under the skull and then it was gone. She entered a hallway adorned with more artifacts, more art, all of it speaking of Texas. Not screaming, but an undercurrent. A declaration. A lie. Part of her wanted to continue the facade, to distance herself from the grim job she'd tasked herself with. Marie had killed before, but did not view herself as a killer. She was an infiltrator, a spy, a saboteur, but killing had always been a last resort when all else had failed. Killing was messy. Killing wore on you and she could not bring herself to give this to one of her personas. No, this was her task. Hers and her Troupe's. No, she decided, she would do this thing. She would not waver. The only role she would adopt would be one that was a part of herself. What she had always been, a cop, a police officer, an enforcer of the law. So she pulled the security badge from her lapel and fixed it right above her heart. A sheriff's star, yes. This would do. This was her. It affixed neatly to her armor jacket as if by magic. "Lapel stars be damned," she said, voice even and cold, "They already have a place." Contented with her old role as law-bringer and embracing the new role of destroyer, she focused her eyes on the door at the end of the hall. She approached and it grew larger, her goal. This was the board room. To the right of the door only a single desk sat, currently empty. No secretaries, no metahuman security, nothing save for tech and spirits, which had proved useless so far. Emblazoned upon tall, faux oaken doors in faux faded style in faux faded lettering was a star. The stolen glory of the Texas rangers emblazoned upon it. Under that star were the words and she said them out loud. “Lone Star Security Services,” she spat. Marie didn’t worry that the door might not open. She merely strode through, confident that it would. If not from the star then by sheer hate and willpower alone. There would be no resistance and there was none. It opened slowly and she could hear a man screaming the moment it cracked. “We’re down a full half a percent!” screamed W.D Winslow, CEO of Lone Star Security Services, “Billions wiped out because some shitlick on a backwater barrens bomb squad decided it was fun to sell bombs to terrorists! I’m getting...” The doors were opening slowly and Marie waited, her face grim. So she pulled her gun from her holster and thumbed back the hammer. “Lindstrom!” roared the CEO, “I told you to get your worthless rear end out of here! The adults are talking!” There was some nervous laughter from around a long, rectangular table where men in suits sat. Marie knew Winslow’s look, market tested Southern gentleman with silvery, slicked back hair, an immaculately styled beard and a grandfatherly face. The kind of look that had presence and Marie could feel it rolling off him. That pressure of someone who was in charge, in command and understood that he would be obeyed. However, his looked had been reduced. His beard and hair was comprised primarily of triangles, his face a square. In that moment, she laughed at him. It was liberating to laugh at the powerful. To laugh at the man who had killed so many and betrayed her after she'd given up so much. “My name is Marie Dominique LeBlanc!” she shouted, “And I am here because of what you did to me!" There was a stunned silence and the low resolution CEO cocked his head ever so slightly, sending the triangles and squares jostling oddly. “Who?!” he snapped, “I don’t give a poo poo who you are, get the gently caress out! I thought this was a closed session! Someone call security right now!” Before they could call for reinforcements, Marie strode forward, kicked the closest man off his fine, high-backed chair and sent him sprawling. These men, so unused to violence being done to them, gasped or stood still in shock. But a few were backing away, noting the pistol in her hand. To drive the point home she raised it to the sky and pulled the trigger. The gunshot sent well dressed men scrambling under the table. The CEO did stay upright, maintaining his poise save for a nervous lick of his lips, the tiniest flicker of a triangle, as Marie trained her weapon on him. He stood still as Marie sent a wireless command to her suitcase to unlock. "Ah...Marie..." he said slowly, as he attempted to hold onto his authority, "H-How could I forget you? Yes, of course I know who you are. We all..." Marie’s heart hammered as she slammed her suitcase on the table and flung it open. As men mumbled in confusion by the sudden, violent motion, they shouted in outrage or hid behind fancy chairs, Marie popped open the top of her suitcase, grabbed Kenji’s brick with her gloved hand and raised it into the air as pop turrets descended from the ceiling. Weapons pointed at her, readying to fire. Spirits materialized from the astral, ancient and powerful, most likely with her death in mind. However, one by one, the gaze of these powerful men was drawn up to the brick, as if hooked. “Do..." he finished, that one word brimming with sudden desire. Marie had to act, but she couldn't help herself. The actress in her had her final line in mind. "Gentlemen, this is a hostile takeover." Ice Phisherman fucked around with this message at 02:50 on Mar 13, 2020 |
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Mar 12, 2020 11:23
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Sorry about the long wait. I got caught up in depression, then job stuff, then activism and then spent weeks recovering from said activism. I'll be resuming the story now. Apologies that it took so long.
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Mar 12, 2020 11:24
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It was worth the wait
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Mar 12, 2020 11:32
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Awesome! Much less jarring than the first run. I think you meant to describe Winslow but called him Lindstrom during that paragraph.
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Mar 12, 2020 12:41
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Welcome back!
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Mar 12, 2020 13:09
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Totally worth the wait. Welcome back from the depth, brother.
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Mar 12, 2020 14:36
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Hell yah, I'm glad to be here for this.
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Mar 12, 2020 23:14
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Well now.
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Mar 13, 2020 02:11
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She's an anarchist throwing a literal brick through a board room. Beautiful.
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Mar 13, 2020 06:03
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Very happy to see this continuing and I hope that you're feeling refreshed, Ice 
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Mar 14, 2020 13:33
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Is it possible for Deus himself to make a move here, or have not enough fragments been collected yet? A new SCIRE lockdown of all Lone Star assets worldwide, complete with Deus sending counterfeit orders to all personnel to assist him with the takeover, would be a pretty good endgame here.
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Mar 14, 2020 14:21
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Oh my god, the brick being pulled out for this is so delicious. My curiousity is whether or not the spirits are also affected by it.
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Mar 16, 2020 05:27
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Butt Discussin posted:Is it possible for Deus himself to make a move here, or have not enough fragments been collected yet? A new SCIRE lockdown of all Lone Star assets worldwide, complete with Deus sending counterfeit orders to all personnel to assist him with the takeover, would be a pretty good endgame here. It's totally possible. In fact, I think it's reasonable to assume that the allusion earlier to Marie's faulty memory and her dismissal of it might be as much to do with exposure to that brick as spiritual editing, based on how the gang reacted to the dust. That says, I get the impression that the brick with its aura masking and fragmentary nature is something with more intent than intelligence - a fragment of a very incomplete being, with Deus's massive and alien intelligence being vaguely Lovecraftian. I wouldn't be surprised if there's not enough there to really being back Deus, so much as compel people in a way that puts pieces into circulation in the hope that they eventually coalesce.
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Mar 16, 2020 14:58
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Kenji and Sasha - Monday, August 19th, 2075 – Midnight – Blake Island "Think Julie will be okay?" asked Sasha. Kenji leaned on Sasha. More for emotional support than physical, though his sinuses still felt like they were on fire. "She's just tired," he said, "Too much too fast. She'll sleep it off." After making sure that Julie was safe in bed, they walked away from her cabin and back towards his. The night was just like any other this time of the year. Cool for being near the ocean, but warmth was still trapped in the foliage of the temperate rain forest as well as the ground. It was comfortable in a way that Kenji had never expected it to be. Even the insects that flitted about didn't bother him. He'd lived in the ACHE for most of his life so they weren't strangers to him at all. A few midges and moths were nothing compared to what his old home had lurking in every dark corner and scavenged couch. Kenji realized that Sasha was saying something and not for the first time. He'd drifted off in thought. "What's that?" he asked. Sasha flashed him an annoyed, but worried look. "I said, are you sure you don't need to go to a doctor?" asked Sasha. "I'm seeing one tomorrow," he answered, plainly. "I meant now," she said, "I can hit you with the heal spell, but that doesn't solve everything. In fact, it doesn't solve most things unless you're bleeding or your bones are broken. I want you to be sure. You lost a lot of blood." She motioned down to his jeans, which were splattered with the stuff. His shirt was covered with a towel as that had even more. Not soaked, which would have been bad, but definitely covered in the stuff. After consideration, he looked up at her and spoke. "I've been hurt a lot worse than that and been fine," he said. "That's...Not comforting," she said, haltingly. "Sorry, it's what I got for you." However, he felt a wrongness in him. That this wasn't what he needed to be doing, but the task was so massive in scope that it was taking time to process. This was just what he was doing now. Not by choice, but because it was difficult to imagine what he had to do next. Sasha allowed herself to be leaned on, which Kenji appreciated. He was a head taller than her and probably weighed enough to be uncomfortable. Still, she bore it. "Are you okay?" she asked, her tone gentle and open. "Am I that bad that you're using kid gloves on me?" he joked. Kenji felt her eyes on him. Now devoid of the dust that hid his damaged soul, Sasha could view him with ease with her astral sight which as far as he understood was always on. The fact that she could see into someone's emotional state had never been a priority for him. The dust had protected him from that, even if it is was killing him. Now that he was laid bare before her, he found that he didn't mind, though he thought he might have once. Sasha was pack and if she wanted to look he wouldn't stop her. There was a pregnant pause in the conversation as she tried and failed to look anywhere but at him. "Not hearing a no," he continued. "If you want to talk about it..." He thought about it. Then he shook his head. "I really don't want to." Sasha looked down, but continued to let herself be leaned on. As consolation, he wrapped an arm around her shoulder and this seemed to resolve some of the tension. If it got bad, he promised, he'd talk with her, but he wanted to not talk for a while. They continued through the dark and soon, approached his cabin and Kenji fumbled in his pockets for his keys. With his enhanced sense of smell, which was on for some reason, he could smell the blood on his clothes that had emptied out of his sinuses and Sasha's fear. He felt guilty for making her worry. Funny, because he so rarely felt guilty for anything unless something bad happened to someone he cared about. For everything that he'd done in his life, making her worry seemed like it should be such a small thing, but it wasn't. Not to him. Then he paused, keys outstretched to the door and he came to the sudden realization that something was terribly, terribly wrong. That the night wasn't over yet. That he still had more to do. His keys dropped and hit the steps. "Oh, you dropped..." Kenji whirled and placed his hands on Sasha's shoulders. He was on the top step, so he was much taller than her at the moment. She looked up at him, uncomprehending, about to lower herself to reach for those keys but halted. "Sasha, do you trust me?" he asked, quietly. "Uh...Yeah? Why?" she asked. "I need to do something important," he said, "More important than anything I've ever done." "Uh...Okay?" She looked nervous, pained even. Her body language was an open book to him. Pain. She was hurting and he realized belatedly it was because his fingers were digging into her shoulders. Before she could speak, he released her, hands up, head bowed in shame. "Sorry, just...Run with me," he said. "Uh...Where?" "Your place." "But..." Before she could ask why, because explanations would take all night and still be inadequate, he'd jumped down the steps to his cabin. He hit the trail and began to run, checking only briefly to make sure Sasha was following. She'd was lagging behind, thrusting his keys into her pocket, but she followed. He lingered only long enough to keep her in sight and then took off down the trail. Dark as it was, his eyes were one of the few points about being an elf that really made a difference. He could see as if it was twilight despite the darkness. Only in total darkness would he not be able to see. And as he ran, he felt this urge to move faster, that before him was his goal. There was an urgency in his step and those steps ate the ground with each stride. And then he turned sharply, into the woods and directly towards the junior row through thick foliage, pushing branches out of the way. But Sasha was lagging behind. Her eyesight was still human normal and he had to go back even though his goal was forward. He needed her and so he doubled back, pulling her on, guiding her through the darkness between the rows of cabins. "What's happening?" she asked. "Need your help." "For?" "I need to send a message." "But..." "Please just trust me," he pleaded. With a wave of his hand he pushed a branch away from her face and held it, pushing her on. Sasha continued on, full of questions but willing to help. And when they emerged from the forest back onto the next row of cabins, Kenji found her cabin and urged her forward. Without being prompted, she opened the door to her cabin and he swept inside, pulling out his commlink. Then he panicked. Did he even have the number anymore? Would it even work? Desperately, he thumbed through his list of contacts until he found it. All the way back from Christmas, back when he only knew Marie LeBlanc as Christine, he found it. The number she'd given to contact him to cure Octo. He'd never used it. It was a thin thread to contact her, but it was all that he had. She'd taken the dust, the brick even. It was a thing that he could only describe as evil and made people forget. She was embroiling in schemes and planning and she had something of pure, concentrated evil. A piece of Deus, that mad AI, in her possession. He found it, her old comm number and began to type. It would seem like a ramble, something truly insane and impossible, but he typed out his message on his commlink as he pointed briefly with his finger to Sasha's terminal, that supercomputer that took up far too much of her room. Sasha turned it on and it booted up as Kenji continued to type, covered in old blood, typing frantically and looking both determined and terrified. Later on, he wouldn't remember what he typed and did not dare to look at this plea spurned of fear, but when he was done, he connected his commlink to Sasha's computer, the only working access to the matrix that he had access to without getting on a boat and sent it. He stared at his commlink, hoping for a response, but nothing came in response. Somehow he'd hoped there would be some immediate response, but no. "Kenji?" asked Sasha, quietly. His head whipped around and Sasha took a step back, but then cautiously, she stepped forward again. "Are you okay?" she asked once again, as gentle as she could. He wanted to tell her everything. Absolutely everything. He wanted to bare his soul, damaged as it was to her and just unload about everything he'd done in life. A confession of sorts. That's what he wanted. It was what he wanted more desperately and dearly than anything he'd ever wanted before save for friends, but perhaps more than his own freedom. To unload. He hurt. Not just his sinuses, but it was as if his very being hurt all over. He opened his mouth, as if to try to share, but surprisingly, words failed him. The words could simply not contain what he felt, his fears, his anxiety and again, Sasha stepped forward. "Shhhh..." she whispered. It was the same sound she might make to a scared or wounded animal. She extended her hand, tentatively and her touch on his cheek was feather light. Then she circled her arm around his head and he was dragged into her embrace, head against her shoulder. Kenji let out a choked sob. "Everything is going to be all right," she whispered. This ugly part of Kenji tried to revolt. She didn't know. She didn't know anything. This ugly, horrible thing might be coming and she didn't know a drat thing. He wanted to yell it. Wanted to scream. Wanted to tell everyone who would listen that something bad might be on the horizon. But she shushed him, gentle as could be, cooing to him, patting him, embracing him despite the dried blood. He opened his mouth to rage, but all that could come out was a choked sob. "Everything is going to be all right," she whispered again, "Just let it out. You don't have to say anything." Kenji broke apart. Normally this would be when he felt apart completely, becoming Edward. That part of him was sealed away though. That old him. Kenji didn't have the luxury of falling away and wondered if this was the first time that he'd ever hurt this much. That he'd been this scared. Everything hurt. Nothing made sense. Nothing but Sasha's touch and her gentleness in the face of his pain. Hot tears streaked his face, began to pour. His nose began to run and he could smell a little new blood as his sinuses lit on fire. But that was a small pain before what he had inside of him. "Everything is going to be all right," she kept repeating. And for the first time, Kenji allowed himself, really allowed himself, to fall apart without falling away.
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Mar 30, 2020 03:13
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Fuzzy - Monday, August 19th, 2075 – Early Morning – Blake Island The alarm clock app on Fuzzy's commlink blared. From her bed, Fuzzy groaned. She looked at the time, knew that she was supposed to do something, but then turned off her alarm, rolled over and went back to sleep. It wasn't the first time she'd missed a hunt, but it was a rarity. It had been a very long night and she needed the rest. Ice Phisherman fucked around with this message at 23:53 on Mar 30, 2020 |
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Mar 30, 2020 03:17
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And we're back with the gang! This is making me eager to see what happens in the ritual.
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Mar 30, 2020 15:13
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I have two more scenes written. I just need to do some editing. Pretty sure I'm over the hump as to how to proceed.
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Mar 30, 2020 15:16
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Ice Phisherman posted:I have two more scenes written. I just need to do some editing. Pretty sure I'm over the hump as to how to proceed. That's great news!!!
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Mar 30, 2020 16:57
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Kenji can't stop this, all he can do is try to help his pack survive.
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Mar 30, 2020 17:37
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Yay more Kenji that's awesome! Thanks again for sharing your story with us.
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Mar 30, 2020 20:53
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Julie, Kenji, Oli and Chip - Monday, August 19th, 2075 – Morning – Blake Island “So why aren’t you in the hospital yet?” asked Julie, wearily. Julie laid bonelessly in a scavenged lawn chair in Oli’s cabin facing a folding table where Kenji, Oli and Chip sat on their own mismatched chairs. Oli had the stock furniture that went along with her cabin, but not enough for visitors, which always made a student cabin feel cramped. Lending to the cramped feeling of the room was Oli's painting corner, with a white tarp on the ground, canvas erect, painting covered. The room had this odd smell of recently aired out paint and recently cooked food. “I didn’t want to worry anyone,” said Kenji, "I'm heading out on the boat." Kenji looked languid after the meal that he prepared as it had been his turn to supply the food for the weekly meal in which everyone met to discuss the business of Oli's art. A day late, yes, but it wasn't bad. It was a piece of normalcy and that suited Julie just fine. While Kenji had cooked, Oli had been allowed to help instead of fret over doing nothing and this pleased Chip to no end because he could actually taste Oli's food due to her magic, though surprisingly, he could faintly taste Kenji's food as well. The resident artist was slightly hunched over, eyes downcast as she sat in her chair. Chip sat up straight, eyes bright, the only one who looked like he'd gotten any sleep last night, though he didn't actually sleep. He was slowly savoring bite after bite of the leftovers. It was hard for Julie not to envy him as her brain felt like it was filled with sand and as far as she could tell, he could eat anything he wanted and never gain a single pound. Julie's mind kept focusing on how tired she was though. The foul-up with one of her spells last night had caused a lot of magical drain, which was a fancy way of saying fatigue, headache, blurred vision and everything that came with weakness all the way to passing out. One of the drawbacks of magic was that nothing but rest could heal magical drain. The effects could be suppressed though, at least temporarily. The stim patch had given her a rush of nervous energy, like she’d drank a tall cup of soykaf. The drawback was that it left her feeling doubly exhausted in the morning. Julie wondered if this was what a hangover felt like. “I was looking after him,” said Oli, quietly, “It’s okay.” “I was too,” said Chip, “Since I don’t have to sleep. Even though Oli didn’t sleep. We talked a lot when Kenji went to sleep though.” Oli smiled at Chip, cheeks warming and Chip smiled back, not noticing. Julie knew this because she and Chip were connected through their emotional link, but she didn’t need to have one to know the look that Oli gave him, bashfully looking first away, waiting a moment, then back again and then away. “You’re really good company,” said Oli, bashfully. “You didn’t sleep?” asked Julie. “Uhhh…” said Oli, waffling slightly, “I mean, I got asked to watch over Kenji and so I did. I tried to offer my bed but Kenji just slept on the couch." "Used to it," said Kenji, who cracked a yawn. “I’m working on being good company,” he said, puffing out his chest, “I practice a lot since I’m a tourist attraction. I sit down, I talk with people, I answer questions and eat the food they give me.” Julie rolled her eyes. “Of course you do.” “Hey,” said Kenji, “If I could get paid to eat food with people, I would.” “I could take you as my apprentice,” teased Chip, "Ah yes, hello family of four. I am Chip, resident spirit and eater of food. This is my food eating apprentice, Kenji." Oli giggled loudly and looked to Chip, then quickly away. “Yeah, that'd go over well,” said Kenji, shrugging, “I talk to people all the time and I'm usually the one paying for meals. Most people have never actually talked with a spirit or if they have, they’re not uh...So personable, you know?” Chip nodded sagely. “Julie made me that way,” he explained, simply. “You know, I always wondered about that,” said Kenji. Everyone’s eyes turned to Julie. Suddenly put on the spot, she shrugged, too tired to feel anything approaching panic. “I wanted him to be more…” she said, rolling her hand inarticulately, as if summoning a word and just went with what had been said, “Yeah, personable. I read up on people who summon spirit allies. Most want more power. I uh...Well, I wanted a buddy.” Chip leaned his head against Julie’s shoulder and she patted him affectionately on the shoulder, which turned into a side hug, which came precariously close to Chip tipping over in his chair before the hug broke and he righted himself. It was a close thing though as he wobbled, before going right back to taking another slow bite of this morning's cooking. Since no one said anything, he continued. “Not used to the new body yet,” he said, “Lots of extra weight.” “You can have mine if you want,” snarked Julie. “Can you really do that?” asked Chip. “No." "Why can we share emotions, but not weight?" asked Chip. "One of life's little mysteries," she said, irratibly. "You look fine, Julie," said Kenji. Julie was just tired enough to let some truth slip out. "I mean, all of the other girls on the island or thin or fit," she said, "I got...You know...Extra." "Some people like extra." Before Julie could deal with that from Kenji's mouth, he continued speaking. "Most of the girls here have designer dietware in their bodies, weekend fitness trainers, calorie counting commlink apps and ultra processed low calorie snacks that speed up metabolism," he said, "The dietware alone should do it. The rest is overkill. Their bodies might as well be designer." "Maybe I should buy some fitness app," she said, "I was going to go walking today but pfffft." "Greasy food, soykaf and some rest will get you in gear in an hour or two. You'll be fine. Then you can do your walking and beach combing thing." "Too greasy." "You loved it," he said, with a wink. She had and she quietly hated him for it while also secretly adoring him. Then she felt immediately bad because he'd had such a rough night and he was also seeing someone now, which further complicated her feelings about him. In order to tear her mind away from him, she took a look at Oli who was once again sneaking glances at an unsuspecting Chip. When Julie had changed Chip’s cosmetic age at his request from roughly ten to sixteen to try experiencing life as a teenager, she hadn’t seen the harm in it. In retrospect she wished he’d stayed younger just a little longer so he could enjoy being a child. She missed younger Chip. Technically she could put him back as he was if she performed the ritual again, but she didn’t think it would be the same as before. It made her feel somewhat melancholy, as if she’d lost something she never knew she’d had. One of the unintended side effects she hadn’t considered were the looks he’d get from girls in Touristville and now here. Probably also guys, though she hadn’t caught that happening yet. It made Julie distinctively uncomfortable. She could understand if someone that they’d never met before paid attention to him, but Oli paying attention to him after seeing him sprout from ten to sixteen overnight bothered Julie in a way she couldn't fully articulate and her hope was that her obvious crush would go away. That clinical part of Julie’s mind reminded her that pheromones were a large part of physical attraction and Chip, being a creature of pure magic, had as many pheromones as your average teddy bear. Still, she’d probably have to give chip “The Talk” at some point and she was not looking forward to that. Julie turned her mind away from the subject, but still felt grumpy. There were only so many things she could turn away from before she was turning back to another problem. All she had the energy for were small problems today. “I should’ve called Mother Bear,” groused Julie, switching the subject. Kenji raised his hands in a calming gesture. “It’s fine,” soothed Kenji, “I’m going after breakfast with Chip. I already talked to Julian and said that I need a checkup so he’s going to meet with me, which is going to be its own thing. You checked me over and it’s nothing too major.” Julie opened her mouth to object, as there was serious scarring in his sinuses, but remembered that Oli was here and didn’t trust herself to speak up. Though she did focus on him. He looked cool, calm and collected. Unflappable even, like he hadn’t just spent an hour on the floor of Fuzzy’s bathroom, covered in his own blood just last night. “It’s fine, really,” he said. If this were a year ago, she would have assumed that it hadn’t bothered him or at least that he was over it. Now she could see that calm that he donned like a mask, as if practiced in front of a mirror over and over again. It was too good and that was the problem. If this were six months ago, she would have felt like she was being managed. Now, knowing him better, she realized that his false calm was for the sake of others as well as himself. It was something she’d seen while working in her doctor’s office in those darker moments that came part and parcel with the medical profession. Kenji’s false face was the brave face put on over a crisis for himself and for others. So reluctantly, Julie decided to accept that and talk to him later when his social mask wasn't fixed on so tightly. “Okay,” she said quietly, “You just um...It’ll be fine, yeah.” She caught him as his eyes softened. It turned out it wasn't on so tightly after all, which shocked her the most because normally he was good at this sort of thing. His face betrayed subtle sadness and worry before he papered over his feelings once more. “Just a checkup,” he said, distantly. Julie felt awful again and she groped for something, anything to say. So she turned to Oli, who’d stayed mostly silent. Julie tried a smile that she didn’t feel and only Oli seemed to believe. This was their weekly breakfast meeting after all to check on the progress of Oli’s art. It gave her something to talk about. “So now that we’ve eaten, want to talk about the art uh...Project?” she asked, deflecting again. “Can we call it something more meaningful than an art project?” asked Kenji. “I’m fine with it,” said Oli, quietly, “It’s not a big deal.” “We’ll think of something,” said Kenji, patting her lightly, “It’s okay to take some pride in your work.” Oli shrugged one shoulder and looked at her empty plate. Then Kenji stood up straighter and lifted his chin. “I talked to Joyce and squeezed some favors out of him,” said Kenji. “And booze,” said Julie, disapprovingly. Kenji shot her a knowing little smirk and continued. “And Oli is going to get a spot in an upscale art gallery,” he said, “We were going to stay away from those because the nicer the place, the bigger the cut they take, but we’ve got a few months free in a pretty prominent place. Or at least that’s what I was told. So now I don’t have to hustle to sell every single painting. I mean I still will, but this takes some pressure off.” "Really?" asked Oli, suddenly looking up, "Where?" Kenji had to grope through his thoughts to remember. Then he snapped his fingers as he did. "The Vamir Art Gallery," he said. “Oh...Where's that?” asked Julie. "Downtown." Oli gasped in comprehension and held up pudgy fists to her mouth. "Ohmygoshyougotmeintothevamirartgallery?" she said, words tripping over each other. Kenji laughed and waved his hands in her direction, as if fending her off. Oli was almost bouncing in her chair. “Slow down," he said, with a genuine smile. Oli composed herself and ratcheted down to merely vibrating with excitement. "You've got a spot. I don't know where yet. Normally the place showcases elven talent, but I got an exception. We're just not going to say anything for a bit and see what sells." Julie frowned at Kenji. "Are you having Oli pretend to be an elven artist?" asked Julie, "I'm not sure if I'm okay with that." "It's fine," he said, "Art is art, doesn't matter who makes it." "I just don't want to borrow trouble," said Julie. "I'm okay with pretending to be an elven artist," said Oli, shyly, and then she added, very quickly, "You know, if it gets me into Vamir." Julie gave Oli an odd look since she'd stressed the word "elven", but Oli suddenly found her fork very interesting as she looked down at her plate. "Which means," said Kenji, grabbing Julie's attention once again, "That we need fresh art. We'll have some prints for sale and the AR stuff in the catalogue to sell, but they want originals. I hope you have something good." Oli's smile froze. “Oli's art is always good,” said Chip, his tone thoughtful, “It’s got so many feelings in them. Layers and layers of feelings.” Unsure of how to feel about that, Oli didn’t know what to make of the praise and kept her head down, pink hair draped in front of her eyes. She seemed to be considering if she was being made fun of or not, which Julie could understand. She'd been there enough. As for Chip, Julie was reminded that Chip experienced the world in a different way than her. He didn’t see the physical world like they did. Instead he experienced the world through magic and emotion. He was like Sasha in that way, though Sasha could see the physical world normally with assistance while Chip couldn't. Julie was about to ask Chip which emotions he liked best when he opened his mouth first. “Can I eat one?” he asked. There was a stunned silence before Kenji burst into laughter. As he held his sides, that laughter turned infectious and Julie began to laugh as well. There was urgent prodding from Chip through their emotional connection to reestablish their link, like someone knocking on a door. When Julie reestablished the link, still laughing, Chip’s face lit up with joy and he burst into laughter as well, experiencing Julie’s cathartic laughter. Then came the relief, that sigh at the end that Julie desperately needed. It was like she'd slammed an entire cup of soykaf with that laugh and felt instantly better. Then a flash of guilt overtook Julie as she looked at Oli, who looked close to tears. Kenji had noticed though and patted her gently on the hand. “We’re not laughing at you,” said Julie. Julie did her best to keep from giggling again, even though she really wanted to. Oli’s already thin lips pulled thinner and tighter. “People say that,” said Oli, her throat tight. “Well I mean it,” said Kenji, “It’s fine.” Oli seemed to relax by a fraction and hesitantly looked up. “Kay,” she whispered. “Chip just wants to eat your paintings is all,” said Kenji, in mock seriousness, “And that’s a perfectly normal and reasonable thing to want.” Julie shot Kenji a look, but he covertly waved his fingers in her direction. Meanwhile, Chip nodded sagely at this as if eating paintings was the reasonable thing to do. Oli stared up at Kenji, unsure of how to feel. So trusting in her friend, Julie ran with the joke. “Kenji would know, “teased Julie, “He’s a big fan of crayons.” “A crayon connoisseur,” he said, with a wink at Julie. “A new pack is an all you can eat buffet.” Oli’s mouth made a tiny O in shock. “The reds are sweet, but I love the subtle umami texture of the yellows. Very choice. The greens are tart though. I need to cut them with the blues or I can't eat them at all." The self-deprication convinced Oli that she wasn't being made fun of and she even managed a little giggle, which set off more laughter and more jokes about crayons. Julie wiped away a tear when they were done and smiled. "I needed that," she said, sighing happily. "Mhm," agreed Kenji. Oli swayed from one side, then to the other, as if considering something. "I've um...Got some new pieces to share," she said, "I'm not sure if they're any good, but I guess I can share. Most are practice pieces though." With some prompting, she stood up and started looking through her completed pieces. Julie still didn't know anything about art, really. She'd just borrowed the money to get Oli here was all as well as hire a tutor over the summer to get Kenji's buy in to make tuition. While she knew that Oli had made money off her paintings, that had been Kenji making connections with the wealthy. So while there had been some early successes, they'd only put a dent in next year's tuition and were in no way close to making anything like a profit from this. Julie worried not for the first time that she'd bitten off far more than she could chew. Oli shared some paintings. A few nature scenes: The forest, the beach, a cabin. They were nice, but nothing lept out at her. "Like I said, just practice paintings." Nothing really leapt out at Julie and she was starting to feel worried, but then she came across a painting of a young, man wearing a toga, half of his chest exposed, holding a sword in one hand and holding up a severed head of someone who looked familiar by the hair. Julie gasped. "Uh...Okay?" she asked. "Oh, this one is mean and angry," said Chip, "I really want to eat this one." "That's loving bad rear end," said Kenji, "Hey, why is that guy so familiar?" "Uhh..." said Oli, panicking slightly, "Practice piece." Julie tilted her head at Oli. "It's violent, but it looks good I guess," she said, "Are you okay? Do you need to talk?" "It's..." began Oli. Kenji clapped his hands and laughed. "That's Kenneth loving Brackhaven, the mayor. That human first Humanis Policlub racist gently caress that's been saying Touristville is full of toxic shamans and poo poo," said Kenji, in sudden realization, "This loving rules! I want this! Put some loving pointy ears on the guy with the sword and it'll sell!" "Practice piece," groaned Oli, "It's not to sell. I copied someone." "Who?" asked Julie. Julie was relieved that this didn't spring completely from Oli's mind. "Carravagio," answered Oli. This earned her blank stares all around. "Sixteenth century painter?" she asked, "Most famous painter in Rome in his time? Outlaw painter? Basically painted with his sword?" "Nope, never heard of him," said Julie. Oli fooled around on her commlink, Julie's old commlink in fact, and sent a few files peer to peer to Julie and Kenji's commlinks. Chip frowned, unable to access the matrix as he couldn't see certain things with his astral sight and that included display on electronic devices. Kenji noticed and played the file out loud for Chip on his own commlink and they all listened for a few minutes to the life of this previously unknown person. Not the entire article, Kenji only wanted what he called "the elevator pitch" and Oli found the choicest bits, which took him a minute to. And when he liked that, he listened to a few minutes more. "Wait, so he painted religious figures with prostitutes and gangsters as the models?" "Yeah," said Oli. "For the uh...What did you call him..." said Kenji. "The Pope," supplied Julie, "He's called The Pope, Kenji." "Yeah, that guy," said Kenji, "Sounds like he didn't like it, but his paintings were too badass to ignore. I like it so far...You're selling me on this." "I can't sell it though. That's plagiarism." "He's dead though," said Kenji, "Dead for what, like five-hundred years? Who's going to complain?" "I think that the art gallery uh..." started Julie. "Curator," said Oli. "Yeah, he or she will notice." "Probably," sighed Oli. "I don't see a problem," said Kenji, "I know what I like and what I like is this. Even Chip wants to eat it." "Yeah!" he exclaimed. "But I can't use it," complained Oli. "Sure you can," said Kenji, "You don't put this in the gallery. You put this on the street. Generate a little heat for yourself. Maybe it works, maybe it doesn't. But if it does then that gets hype around your work. Do you have anything more like this? Could you make anything new?" "Maybe..." said Oil. Julie frowned heavily at Kenji. "I don't think I really approve of this," said Julie, "Even if he is a racist rear end, this is violent. It's asking for trouble." Kenji put up both hands. "Hey, look," he said, "Most likely this doesn't go anywhere. I'll take some of the older paintings in today along with anything that looks good when I stop by the art gallery after my checkup. This won't go in the gallery though. I'll run this by uh...People. And maybe it generates some heat, maybe it doesn't. If it does, we can pick it up or drop it. Totally uncredited. No risk until then and we can decide next week. But I got to say, I really like it. It rules." Julie groaned and looked to Chip, who shrugged. Despite herself, Oli puffed up with pride. "Next week then," agreed Julie, reluctantly. Mostly she was hoping that this particular kicked can would roll off the trail so she could forget about it. It was good art even if it was a practice piece, shocking to be sure. Compelling? She wasn't so sure. She didn't really follow politics, though Brackhaven was the kind of politician that her old, racist family would have crawled over broken glass to vote for. Then she turned away from the subject before it dragged up ugly feelings. The meeting was over. Everyone made their goodbyes and then Kenji walked out with Chip, talking about commlinks of all things. Julie cleaned up the dishes since she'd only eaten, not cooked like Kenji had and Oli, feeling awkward, decided to help. "Are you really okay with this?" asked Julie. Oli shrugged once. "It's just a practice painting," said Oli, glumly, "I'm more worried that I don't have anything good finished for the gallery." Julie fillied the sink with soap and water. Oli brought plates, cups and silverware from the table and handed each of them to Julie, which she dunked in the water. "You do have good stuff though." "It's the Vamir Art Gallery though," said Oli, "That's a big deal." "Is it really?" asked Julie. Oli nodded emphatically. "It's the best elven owned art gallery in Seattle," said Oli. Oli uneccessarily stressed the word "elven" again and Julie frowned slightly at that, but Oli continued. "And I'm...Just...You know...Me. Yeah I've sold some stuff, but that's only because Kenji helped." "And I'm just me and Kenji is just Kenji and Chip is just Chip," countered Julie, "I don't expect miracles, but you're good. Kenji likes your work. Chip does too." "Chip can't see paint very well, just emotions. He told me." Julie thought about this as she scrubbed and washed a plate before setting it out to dry. "I mean, isn't that what art is supposed to do?" she asked, "Convey emotions to people? If Kenji likes it and Chip likes it, maybe that's enough." At first, Julie thought that she might have said too much, that Oli had recoiled into herself once more. Minutes passed and she finished the dishes alone. When she turned around, Oli had her back to her, considering the canvass with the sheet over it. Julie strode over to stand next to her. She hadn't recoiled. In fact, she looked contemplative. "Feeling inspired?" asked Julie. Oli smiled shyly up at her and nodded. "Then I'll let you get to it," said Julie, "We'll try and do this on time next week. Think this will be done?" Oli pursed her lips in thought. "Maybe," she said, "I'm taking my time with it. I want to make something beautiful. So I only touch it when I'm in a good mood." "Yeah?" Oli beamed up at Julie. "Yeah."
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Mar 30, 2020 21:12
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Deadmeat5150 posted:Totally worth the wait. Thanks, yeah. I'm doing a lot better now. steelninja posted:Yay more Kenji that's awesome! Thanks again for sharing your story with us. Of course. I want to finish. I want to experiment and push myself and share the story we're all making together. I let perfect get in the way of good though and procrastinated. Got hung up and busy and depressed. I'm in a good place now though despite how the world is right now and I want to provide something that people can enjoy and retreat to, despite the occasional dark themes. To share that yes, bad things do happen, but to show that problems created by people are solvable by people.
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Mar 30, 2020 21:54
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Coming back strong!! A birds and the bees and spirits talk with Chip and Julie could be absolutely hilarious and/cringe worthy. Not that I expect to actually read that, just the idea of approaching that subject has me laughing.
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Mar 30, 2020 22:00
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Sasha and Puppy - Monday, August 19th, 2075 – Morning – Blake Island In the simulated space of the matrix, Sasha worked her hands through virtual sand while sitting on a plain, white chair in a dark, enclosed space. The tactile sensation was meditative, even if it didn’t feel fully real, because it wasn't. Any higher setting was both addictive and illegal and she wanted no part of either of those. This was the safe way of interacting with VR. Sensation was toned down and slightly awkward, like if she were swimming in her clothing. Since she didn't have space for a sand table inside, this was one of her ways of dealing with stress and anxiety. She didn’t want to run every day, she couldn’t do her repertoire of situps and pushups and trying and failing at pullups every day without overdoing it. Walks through nature she could do and weather permitting, did do every day. In these moments when she actively took an interest in her mental well-being she could deal with the world and when her anxiety got bad, her throat would constrict and her heart would pound just a little less. Life wasn't perfect. It was about damage control these days. She steered away from those thoughts, back to the idea of going on a walk again which she planned on doing later. Groping for something to focus on, she found something and smiled. The island’s raccoons. They were little beggars. Despite Mr. Peters’ warnings that the students not to feed them, some did anyway. They were still wild and people knew better than to touch them after being told stories about a student a few years back who his hand mauled and that racoon was allowed to live on the premise of "I told you so" and so the students stayed away. Sasha was very glad that Fuzzy didn’t hunt them, though she’d had to swat that idea down more than once. They were too cute to hunt. “Those little paws,” she cooed softly. Sasha smiled for a moment, thinking of the raccoons and their clever, begging hands, but then her mind drifted back to Fuzzy. Fuzzy...There were so many complicated feelings swirling around her, most so wonderful they hurt, but in a good way. But lately… She dug deeper into the virtual sand, tried forming little shapes from it with her mind through the neural interface of her electrode net, which read the electrical impulses of her brain. That and sheer willpower. All the tech in the world didn't matter without the will to use it. Concentrating distracted her and she formed shapes from the sand. First a two-dimensional rhombus, then an egg shaped spheroid and with several minutes of concentration, a dodecahedron came together in pieces. She placed each shape next to dozens of other shapes formed over the last few days. She had quite the collection now. No matter how much of the coarse, brown sand she took from the sandbox, the amount of sand never diminished. It was VR after all. That, among other things, meant unlimited virtual sand. “Maybe I should try origami or something,” mused Sasha. After some searching, she realized that she didn’t have the program and she couldn’t muster the energy to go look for a good one. The distraction wasn’t working. Her mind kept coming back to Fuzzy. “poo poo,” swore Sasha. Last night was supposed to be their time together and she’d hoped to sneak away with just her just before Kenji arrived. Not for anything sordid, she told herself. Fuzzy had nightmares and Sasha had been putting them to rights for the past year. That was all. “Thaaaat’s all…” drawled Sasha, “Yeeeeah.” When Sasha had picked up the dreaming spell in her freshman year it didn’t have a lot of practical application. Occasionally she’d host sleepovers and play tourguide to the dreams of whomever came over and groups of teenage girls would move from one mind to another. But now, protecting her girlfriend’s mind from the night terrors she occasionally had through guided dreaming made it not only practical, but it was often the only time Sasha got with her lately. Which is to say, when she was already asleep. It wasn't the same as being awake with her. “It’s the drat pigs,” she growled, “And now it’s deer.” She lost herself for a while, furiously kneading that virtual sand. With a thought to her computer, she increased the coarseness. Yes, that felt better. The sensation wasn’t perfect, but more distraction was better. She worked the sand with her hands with a will, enjoying the texture. “I barely see her over the summer,” she continued, “She’s hunting almost every day and she’s got death all over her and all I can feel for an entire day if I get close are things dying. It’s all pain and terror. And I need…” She bit her virtual lip, which was unsatisfying. The pain didn’t draw her attention from the emotional pain. Not like the sand. Again she increased its coarseness. Almost to the point that it hurt. “And now when I thought I’d get some time with just her and me,” she said, through gritted teeth, “That’s gone. Then when she makes time for me, Kenji walks into her cabin and just bleeds everywhere.” She felt immediately awful. Kenji couldn’t help that he’d been hurt. Instead of voicing her opinion out loud, she blamed...Well, she didn’t know who to blame and that tension built inside of her. Sasha couldn’t work her hands fast enough. It wasn’t helping. Then in a fit of rage and frustration, she dashed her hands in the sand, sending the particles flying away from her, flying into the darkness. She shut her eyes hard, pulled her legs onto the chair and grasped at her head. There, in her chest, the beating of her heart and the anxiety, the constriction of her throat, the fear and the frustration that threatened to ruin her day. She was on pills for anxiety of course, one a once day for general anxiety and one she could take if things got terrible, but it would put her straight to sleep. She'd wake up feeling amazing the next day, but it came with problems. Refilling her meds was going to be a nightmare as she’d need to contact a psychiatrist and she didn’t want to do that. It had taken all summer to get just the right dosage and finding the right dosage had been its own kind of hell on her body, mind and emotions. She had enough of the one a day pills, but she was rationing out the second, “as needed” prescription. What she appreciated was less the fact that it did stop her anxiety when it became overwhelming and more that she could stop feeling anxious, even panicked if she wanted to. It wasn’t much, but it gave her the feeling of control. But she was running low on the second. Rationally she knew she could order more, but their low number stirred ugly feelings inside of her. Ugly feelings that she was trying, struggling and failing to manage. Eventually, after running through her mental exercises to calm herself, that cognitive behavioral therapy that she was daily becoming more proficient with, she opened her eyes and stared down at her newest creation that she’d made purely by accident. It was a spiky thing, all sharp edges. It was like someone had welded together dozens of fish hooks with saw blades- Sharp and smooth here, serrated and jagged there. “Great,” sighed Sasha, bitterly, “Apparently my feelings look a lot like hell’s tumbleweed.” In a fit of pique, she pulled up a dropdown menu out of thin air, gave her newest creation mass and then summoned a virtual wind. With a few more thoughts, the VR construct became less confined and hell’s tumbleweed blew away into the darkness. “Heh. Nice. Get lost, feelings. Yeah.” Surprisingly, that actually made her feel better. She shook the sand from her hands and made the particles under her fingernails disappear. Originally the sand didn’t do that, but she’d found mods on the matrix for the purists out there, those sensates who wanted VR to feel as real as possible. Every little bit helped when it came to helping her deal. Even the annoying parts. Her anxiety virtually and perhaps literally blown away, she reset the virtual sandbox, paused and nodded to herself. “Something different then,” she said, and called out, “Harley?” Her expert program, also known as an agent, Harley, rolled into view with a roar of a motorcycle. Harley’s avatar looked like the motorcycle cop dog, one of her favorite cartoons while growing up. Though it looked silly, it was actually a pretty nice piece of expertly coded tech. It helped her code and fix her coding, search the matrix and performed as of yet barely tested forensic accounting and more recently, had assisted her with hacking that car park to keep that dumbass she’d endangered alive. “What had been his name?” she thought out loud, “The guy with the Ruger Warhawk and the cocaine? Nova coke? NoCo? Whatever? That gun was huge. I’d be surprised if he didn’t blow out his eardrums.” That had been absolutely crazy and she felt her anxiety crank up a notch, so again she pushed the thought aside. Harley had said nothing, but his tongue lolled out as he waited for commands. “Harley,” she said again. “Hey Sasha,” he said, in a happy growl, “What’s the case?” Sasha almost told him that he was too close, too loud, but the cartoon dog was a happy part of her childhood, so she put up with the intrusion. Despite the noise, Harley made her happy. “Hey Harley,” she said, her tone still frustrated, “Give me an update on idiot.” "Which idiot, Sasha?" he asked, "You have twelve files named idiot." "The newest one," she said, "Really need to label them better." The Idiot file was a list of what she was graciously calling "gangers" who had attacked peaceful protesters yesterday. All but one had used burner commlinks, but there was some stuff she could piece together with what she'd gotten. However, the last idiot had been using his real commlink instead of either using a burner or simply keeping it off. This was the thread she was following up on at the moment. "Status report on..." she began, and paused, "Harley, rename subject to Big Idiot." "Got it!" "Status report on Big Idiot." “Big Idiot moved to the Shoreline district last night at 1:13 AM and has not moved since,” said Harley, “He’s currently in a gated suburban community, address…” “Just give me a list,” said Sasha, “Protocol...Hmm...Summon touchpad.” Nothing happened. Sasha rolled her eyes at herself. She could have summoned it with a thought, but if she didn’t trust herself to do so after summoning hell’s tumbleweed. “Protocol: Summon Touchpad.” Out from the sandbox, a touchpad pad made of that same sand materialized. The screen became glass with text appearing on it moments later. It hovered in midair and Sasha kept working her hands in the sandbox as she pulled up the correct documents and read as it scrolled. Harley's avatar zoomed away minutes later, though he was still around. He was always around. Instead he kept fetching information on Big Idiot as that was his priority task as defined by her custom parameters for him. Within minutes she knew basically everything about Big Idiot and he was...Surprisingly dull. Trey Little, age twenty-four, male, brown hair, five foot six, one-hundred and eighty pounds, alphaware cybernetic eyes along with a basic suite of quality of life bioware mods, high school education, worked at his father’s car dealership, favorite food was the Nukit Burrito, no criminal convictions though he had a few recent arrests. What caught her attention was the matrix browsing data that Harley scraped from his commlink. "Always remember erase your history," she said. It took time to piece a timeline together, but it was doable. Six months ago, Trey Little had went from doing little more than playing matrix games while working at his dad’s dealership to watching fringe right wing media sources which Sasha had never heard of before, to sharing racist memes, to bouncing to even more extreme fringe media and then to explicitly fascist chat rooms of which she had tons of logs. As of just yesterday had sent one-hundred and seventy-two texts, made eighty-five matrix queries and had spent most of his time in a single AR chatroom. He didn’t seem like he’d slept at all and was in fact still going. She checked his most recent query and frowned. “What is…” she read, “Lolicon?” Sasha hadn’t slept much either, but she hesitated before opening the link. Her sense of matrix culture was keen enough to know when something was off and not to open random links. So she ran an anonymous search instead and only in text. She read the dictionary version of it instead and came away revolted. “Ugh,” she groaned, “loving...Ugh! Yeah, I’m pretty sure that this is a felony.” She ran another matrix query to cross reference all of his searches and over the last six months, she came back with thousands of matches, though many were the same matrix sites visited over and over again. There was also an enormous file that was on his commlink simply named "The Stash". “Great. Felony porn stash,” she remarked, darkly, “Or at least it straddles the line, poo poo. No way am I looking at this.” What was odd was that this was all cartoon pornography, which Harley told as he sent him so she wouldn't have to look at it. When she did a breakdown of the data, she found exactly none of the “real” stuff which made her frown in thought. Most likely at least some of this would probably send Trey to jail but she didn’t know what did and didn’t fall into a legal grey area or not and from what she knew, that tended to be a judgement call of the detective on the case. But that was rendered moot as she paused and remembered something. Something that made her heart sink. Right before the attack, the police had stepped away and into an alley. One of dozens of similar attacks that seemed coordinated, but she put that aside for now. Out of that same alley emerged the men in masks, including the big idiot known as Trey had attacked the non-violent protesters with clubs and fists. Though not many people actually got hurt, there was someone who had almost died and a few broken bones. Of all people, Krupa Patel rendered aid after the fact as Julie didn’t want to be connected with foiling the charge and stopping the attack with Chip’s help. Though Sasha didn’t know Krupa very well, there had been serious tension afterwards between the protesters and the police when the police emerged from the same alleyway as if nothing had happened. Tensions had been high after the fact and the police had rendered exactly no aid to the victims nor did they chase down the attackers. The police were not here to help. In fact, they seemed like they were there that day to break up the protests by withdrawing protection and then refusing aid. She hadn’t checked social media yet. There was just so much to do and her anxiety made her not want to look into the face of what was happening and try to parse out some kind of story. It was difficult both emotionally and mentally and so she’d wait until later. What she was staring into the face of right now though was that if she fed Trey to the police, would they do anything about him at all? Trevor was into some pretty gross and probably illegal stuff, but his family had money. Would there be any punishment? That and his family was fairly wealthy. Not megacorp rich, but they could most likely afford lawyers and throw money at the problem to make any charges go away. Even in VR, her head swam with the implications. No, Sasha had been taught from a very young age that the police were there to protect everyone else. That there was only a thin blue line between order and chaos. Even her love of Harley from her favorite show growing up had been about cops being the good guys and stopping the bad guys. It was a simple story, but seeing what she’d seen had put the lie to that and it was wildly uncomfortable. “Maybe just a few bad apples?” she asked herself. But no, from what little social media she’d seen before she’d pulled away, which was why her anxiety had flared up in the first place, protesters had been attacked. Some by gangs, but also she’d noted, by police after the fact or by police withdrawing protection strategically. Krupa’s intervention and how she was someone of note had probably kept her and the other protesters from attacks where other protesters hadn't been so lucky in other places. That and with the sudden withdrawal of the Settle Guard from the highway for some reason or another and the subsequent flooding of the highways had made for a wild and dangerous day. What Sasha was coming to grips with was this ugly sense that things were falling apart. That the norms weren’t normal anymore. The police weren’t just the good guys. They didn’t arrest only the bad guys. There were complexities that she not only didn’t grasp, but part of her desperately didn’t want to grasp them. Her family had police officers in them going back generations on both sides. And her dad… Sasha ripped herself away violently from that train of thought before it went any further. In the sandbox, her fists gripped the coarse sand until it hurt. If it were real, her hands would be raw and bleeding. Even though it wasn’t perfectly modeled in her head, even if it wasn’t real, she told herself it was real and she focused on it until the intrusive thought passed her by. Then distantly, she felt a warm weight settle on her chest. It was odd, because she was still sitting up in VR, but she was physically laying down on her bed. That weight was real in a way that the sand wasn’t and it ruined the effect. She sighed and exited the VR construct. Sasha came back to real life on her bed and Puppy was laying across her. She reached out to pet him and realized that her hands hurt. Looking down, she saw where her fingernails had broken the skin of her palms. That and her jaw hurt and it was probably from clenching her jaw. “Worried about me, huh?” asked Sasha. Puppy whined softly and she took his meaning. “You really are heavy,” she complained. Sasha didn’t move him though. He wagged his tail once in response. She pulled off her 'trode hat, which looked like a baseball cap. The net of wires that connected to her scalp to allow for VR were on the inside and pulled away from her skin easily, though hair did get in the way, making it a pain to put back on. "Need a haircut," she complained. She put it to the side and carefully, she cast a spell of healing. The pain in her hands and jaws receded, leaving only a bit of blood on her palms and under her fingernails. “If only if it were that easy for everything…” Magic wouldn’t cure her anxiety. It could suppress it for a while, but she was stuck with herself and her limitations unless she augmented her body with technology. That would have costs for her magic though and she wasn’t thrilled with the idea. Reluctantly, she heaved Puppy off her, let him outside for a few minutes and she blinked back the light of the early afternoon. She relaxed for a few minutes outside of her cabin, stretched and let him back inside. “Maybe the good apples are the ones who leave,” she said to herself. That made her stop still. Admitting that was just as an intrusive thought as thinking about...Well it hurt and it was shocking for how unexpected the pain was. Ares Knight-Errant had caused a drug epidemic that killed tens of thousands and harmed hundreds of thousands for profit. Lone Star had experimented on children, killing to her knowledge, all of them except for Kenji. Those, she could tell herself, were decisions by corporate. But she saw in her mind’s eye the police officers leaving and allowing people to do violence and then coming back like it was all a big joke. Only the credible threat of the powers behind Krupa had kept them from beating and arresting unarmed protesters like what had happened elsewhere. Realization was an ugly thing. It lacerated her very identity. Her mind reeled as everything that she’d been taught came into conflict with what she’d seen. There was this prickling feeling in her head and she put her hands up to massage her temples, expecting it was another headache or that the anxiety was taking some new, horrible form. The spell did nothing but that prickling feeling continued. Sasha came to a realization. They weren’t the good guys. Maybe they never had been. Then she thought about it and realized that she was including herself when she talked about the police, but they were a real, credible threat to her now. That piece of her identity was shorn away and she groped for something new, something to define herself, but came up empty. It was like drowning. Though she didn’t stay empty. That anxiety, no, that panic began to fill the empty places inside of her. That familiar, unwelcome tightness around her heart washed over her. It was coming and she didn’t have long to stop it. She remembered her spell, the confidence spell and before she drowned in her panic she cast it. The feeling subsided, but it didn’t go away. The prickling in her head continued, like pins and needles. It gnawed and she knew that it might overwhelm even the spell. It wasn’t perfect. Shakily, she stumbled back into her cabin, Puppy bumping her as he bounded up the steps and onto her bed, waiting for her. She didn’t notice. All she could feel was that hard, unwelcome separation of “us” into “me and them”. How had it not occurred to her before? She wasn’t a part of that world anymore. She wasn't with the police anymore. They'd severed from her and she hadn't severed in return. And now, finally, months later, those threads of connection were finally being cut. “Good,” she snarled, “gently caress the police.” She held a hand up to her mouth in shock. Months ago that would have been unthinkable to say. She’d been a part of that world. At the very top of it, or near enough anyway. Her family… That gnawing sensation intensified and again, she cast her thoughts away. She groped her way to the bathroom and pulled out the large, white pills that were “take as needed”. There were only five left and she’d been cutting them into halves, into quarters even. She took an entire pill and washed it down with a handful of water, hard swallowing. The pins and needles feeling subsided, but not due to the pill. It didn't act that fast. Not even the placebo effect acted that fast. Still, relief washed over her. Not from the pill, but because of the act. That ritual, the knowledge that relief was coming. Sweet, dreamless sleep. The relief was cathartic and she began to cry. Then she sobbed. First with great exhalations of breath, then with enormous, chest wracking heaves. That tightness in her chest did not help either. It was beyond an ugly cry. It was a hideous cry. The kind that was like throwing up, which she didn’t discount just yet. But some time later, ribs and chest aching, eyes stinging, she realized that she was on the bed and that Puppy was laying across her again. Her hands stroked his fur and she felt the artificial warmth of the chemicals and the magic bolstering of her spell, which surprisingly she hadn’t dropped despite her lack of concentration and Puppy’s real warmth and care. “The good apples are all leaving, huh?” she asked the big, brown dog. He just looked back at her, eyes concerned. Sasha wiped tears and snot and whatever else from her face as sleepiness increased. That artificial sense of ease wasn’t perfect, but it was growing inside of her belly and straightening out the knots she felt like she’d been twisted into. “So what does that mean about me if I’m kicked out? Am I good or bad?” Puppy didn’t say anything. All he did snuggle which was enough. “It’s really just hitting me now…” She scratched him behind the ear and his tail thumped against her leg a few times. “So Puppy...What do I do with a violent pedophile?” she asked, tone absent and sleepy, “Feed him to the police? Will they even do anything?” Sasha worked her mouth, as if tasting something bitter. "Or do I just roast his rear end?" Sasha contemplated this for a time, but that became harder as her anti-anxiety medicine really kicked in. Then she thought of nothing and the spell dropped. There wasn't anxiety anymore. Just peace. Just sleep.
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Mar 30, 2020 22:53
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Of course Oli, the social Murphy, has a crush on Chip. Did you roll for that? To be fair though, I also laughed at the food apprentice joke. Chip wanting to eat a painting is also legitimately funny and definitely needs to happen at some point.Ice Phisherman posted:Everyone made their goodbyes and then Kenji walked out with Chip, talking about commlinks of all things. Ritual gift foreshadowing yesss
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Mar 30, 2020 23:02
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Dr Subterfuge posted:Of course Oli, the social Murphy, has a crush on Chip. Did you roll for that? To be fair though, I also laughed at the food apprentice joke. Chip wanting to eat a painting is also legitimately funny and definitely needs to happen at some point. She can make an 8x12 for him as a snack.  I didn't have to roll for it. Oli crushes on basically any guy who gives her attention. Also, I don't know if you caught it, but I posted another update above. I have a third one coming probably later tonight. On fire at the moment.
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Mar 30, 2020 23:06
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Heh I was too interested in the new update to to edit my post and point out the new update before I went back and read it. Poor Sasha. Looks like she's going through some needed growth though. Baby steps.
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Mar 30, 2020 23:24
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Poor Sasha. She's been dodging this for a while now with avoidance, but all that means is a huge mountain to crush her sense of identity since it's now everywhere. I have a paranoia bit about Fuzzy now honestly, because the dust was expelled in her bathroom and she's completely absent from the morning after. This doesn't feel right for Fuzzy.... and Puppy seems to be in two places at once.
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Mar 30, 2020 23:46
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Keldulas posted:Poor Sasha. She's been dodging this for a while now with avoidance, but all that means is a huge mountain to crush her sense of identity since it's now everywhere. Aw crap, I need to fix that. Puppy being in two places at once is not supposed to happen. Thanks for catching that.
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Mar 30, 2020 23:52
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Sasha keeps realizing that the good ones are leaving, maybe she can make organize a few maybe be a cyber Marie Le Blanc to root out corruption but this setting being what it is corruption is the rule not the exception
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Mar 31, 2020 00:00
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Toughy posted:Sasha keeps realizing that the good ones are leaving, maybe she can make organize a few maybe be a cyber Marie Le Blanc to root out corruption but this setting being what it is corruption is the rule not the exception Yep. One of the things about Shadowrun is that its totally dominated by crony capitalism and corruption. There are good people in the system, but finding an outstretched hand to get government services is fairly normal.
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Mar 31, 2020 00:14
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Ice Phisherman posted:Aw crap, I need to fix that. Puppy being in two places at once is not supposed to happen. Thanks for catching that. The funny thing is that I read that as some sort of Dog interaction because Fuzzy's section has Dog capitalized.
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Mar 31, 2020 01:31
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Fuzzy, Jayvon, Kenji and Chip - Monday, August 19th, 2075 – Late Morning – Blake Island Sleep hadn’t come easily last night for Fuzzy. Normally when she hit the bed, she was out in minutes, but that hadn’t been the case this time. Worrying about Kenji even though she’d been assured that he would have someone to stay with him had occupied her thoughts in the dark. Sasha had told her that she was first to watch over him and then Fuzzy didn’t know. So Fuzzy spent several hours tossing and turning before she finally fell into slumber. The alarm rang out from Fuzzy’s commlink just out of reach on her nightstand. Normally she was up fast when waking up, but today she felt like she’d just fallen asleep. The blankets were soft and warm, but sadly without a dog to keep her comfortable. Due to her hunts and time training Jayvon, he was currently staying with Sasha most of the time. As the alarm continued to blare, Fuzzy wished that she could levitate things like Julie could. She could just call her commlink over to her hand, but she didn't know the spell, so she coldn't. Not without days of learning. No, she’d learned how to shapeshift instead, which didn’t help her at all with noisy commlinks. None of her spells did. Not her stun bolt, not her healing, not her illusion spell, not her invisibility spell, not her shapeshifting spell, nothing. “Dumb magic,” she grumbled, eyes shut hard, cringing against creeping consciousness. With the utmost reluctance, Fuzzy pulled back the covers which let all of the warmth out and grabbed her commlink. To stop the alarm function, she had vocab words to read out loud, which she didn’t like when she was sleepy. It was why the alarm worked. “Delicate," she growled. The alarm stopped and she was given the option to snooze for fifteen minutes. This meant more alarms and more words when she needed to go hunt. Not thinking much and not wanting to deal with the snooze alarm, she figured she could have five more minutes. Maybe ten. And soon he fell back into sleep, commlink carelessly cast on her bed. What seemed like an instant later, the alarm went off again. She looked at it to read another word so she could snooze again. Then she checked the time. Her hunt had been scheduled pre-dark and that light outside was bright. With a creeping sense of dread, she checked the time on her commlink. It was almost nine-o'clock. She was almost late for training with Jayvon. This was her second alarm one snooze alarm in. Panicking, she threw back the covers and checked her commlink for the word to make it stop. “Decoration!” she exclaimed. “Quack," said her commlink. The short, quacking noise let her know that her answer was wrong. Fuzzy had been assigned homework to write code for her commlink for her coding class for Sasha. The “wrong quack noise” was all she could manage so far without Sasha’s help. She didn’t like the default buzzer. She’d found out quickly that she’d disliked quacking too. “Stupid commlink, not now!” she groaned. “Quack,” it answered. She eyed it hard. “Declaration,” she amended. The alarm stopped and she tossed her commlink onto her bed. As she went through her normal wake-up ritual, she smelled under her arms, gagged a little and looked longingly at the bathroom. It would be five minutes to the docks, two if she sprinted and she didn’t want to face the day smelling horrible. Being clean was a luxury she enjoyed and apparently, other people expected. So she picked up her commlink and spoke to it. “Set word alarm for two minutes,” she said to her commlink. The word alarm restarted and began to count down. She rushed into the bathroom, peeled down and showered as fast as she could, alarm ringing just as she got out. Toweling off was brief and she wished that her hair was still short, because short hair dried easily but her shoulder length hair didn't. Drying it took precious seconds. The change into her new leotard took time. The process of changing into any animal didn’t account for gear and that included clothing. It was rare that anything shifted with her. So she’d spent a few extra nuyen on two leotards made from some sort of special fabric that would shift with her and back. Though she didn’t know how it worked, it was black, hugged her skin, wouldn’t be there during the change but would when she changed back. It wasn’t perfect as there were no regular clothing options and that made her feel completely uncomfortable, but it basically was a bathing suit and so that discomfort was manageable. As she changed, the alarm continued to raise in pitch. Grey sweatshirt and sweatpants went over her leotard, running shoes were laced up and she picked up the commlink. “Traction,” she said, quickly. “Quack.” “Uh, trac-tor?” she asked, and quickly decided, “Tractor.” The alarm stopped, she checked the time and balked. She only had three minutes, no, less than three and counting. Where had all of the other minutes gone? She burst from her cabin, closing the door hard, realizing too late that she'd forgotten a hair tie and none were in her pockets. Loose hair would be annoying for exercise, but she’d just have to deal as she didn’t keep good track of them and looking for one might take precious minutes. So she pulled up the grey hood on her sweatshirt and without a moment to stretch her muscles, she began to sprint down the trail. The sprint banished all other thoughts from her mind. The world passed in a blur. Luckily the ground was dry so she probably wouldn’t slip. She just focused on pumping her arms and legs, making sure her feet struck the ground perfectly. Soon she didn’t have to focus at all and the movement became rote. Loose blonde hair that hadn’t been stuffed back into her hood tickled at her face and she’d flick her head to clear it as she moved. Right at the trail junction, past the junior and senior rows, up and down the gently sloping terrain, down past the school, she saw the boat from the hill. The breakwater made from stones that kept the waves from lapping at the boats. The horn sounded and she slowed, puffing out hard breaths as Kenji and Chip watched her. “You all right?” called Kenji. Fuzzy kept upright even though she wanted to bend over and suck wind. Instead she waved. “Fine,” she panted, “You?” “No sleep, but I had a good breakfast with Julie, Oli and Chip here,” said Kenji, “Oli cooked so it was pretty great. There’s leftovers. Chip couldn't get to all of them.” "I tried!" he exclaimed, "I eat good food slow." Fuzzy’s stomach rumbled in response to the mention of food. She checked her pockets, but all she could find was Fluffy’s owl treats, which were actually bloody scraps of meat from her kills in sealed bags. They were probably already bad, not that eating them was an option. Her owl was not going to like missing their morning ritual of petting and feeding. Fluffy was a prideful bird and he didn’t tolerate sleights gracefully. “Don’t think I have time,” she said. “I got you,” said Chip. He reached into his messenger bag and drew out a protein bar from his pack. “Yes!” she exclaimed, “Throw it!” “Okay, catch!” he shouted. Chip overhanded the protein bar at her from some ten feet away. She’d been so focused on other things that as it hit her hands, instead of catching it, she bobbled it and it went right into the water. The water was clean, especially for a dock near Seattle and it was sealed, so it wasn't a loss. She still had to reach down and grab it before it before it sank which meant prostrating herself on the boards. Still, she grabbed it, sat upright, peeled the biodegradable wrapper away and greedily devoured its chocolate and peanutbuttery goodness. “Sorry,” said Chip. “Mrr…” groaned Fuzzy, as she devoured it, “Food.” “See you later, Fuzzy,” said Kenji, "Off to get poked at." “Thanks Chip,” she said, voice muffled, “Later. You okay by the way?” "Yeah, I'm okay," he said, and then to Chip, “I thought your thing was fruit." Their conversation disappeared as they boarded the school boat. “I gave it all away yesterday,” said Chip, “I need to get more offerings, but I do have emergency water and snacks. Someone is always hungry.” “Wisdom.” Fuzzy couldn’t help but agree, though she was too busy tonguing the food from her teeth to say so. They all exchanged waves and they walked up the gangplank and out of sight. Seconds later, Jayvon hobbled down the gangplank, crutches firmly under his arms. Slowly, he moved towards her and nodded once in acknowledgement. “Good to see you,” he said, gruffly, “Ready to go?” Fuzzy stood up, a head and a half taller than the dwarf and nodded back. “Ready,” she said. Jayvon stared up at her, frowning slightly and Fuzzy wondered if anything was wrong. “You’ve got something on the corner of your mouth.” Fuzzy realized belatedly that she was a chocolate stained mess and rubbed at the side of her mouth. “Other side,” said Jayvon. She rubbed the other side and he nodded. “Looks good,” he said, “Grab my bag? It’s on the boat. It was messing up my balance and I can’t swim yet if I go overboard.” Fuzzy nodded and quickly boarded the boat, finding the black and red sports bag near the entrance. Jayvon waited for her, nodded and together he hobbled and she walked up the ramp towards the short trail to the school with her behind him just in case he lost his balance. Once they made it to the top she stepped beside him. “How was your day?” asked Fuzzy. Jayvon shot her a serious look. “Lone Star got bought out by Ares,” he said, “You hear about that?” Fuzzy shook her head. “No. I didn’t.” Jayvon gesticulated with his hands. “Wild shi...Stuff,” he said, gruffly, “It’s always a big deal when one megas buys out the other. Now Ares basically owns all of the policing and security contracts for all of government. I think that NYPD is still a holdout, but they’re only a thing in New York.” “Where’s that?” she asked. “Those yankees?” he asked, and smirked, “Other side of the continent. Don’t worry about them. You know what all of this means though?” Jayvon seemed excited as they ascended the hill to the school, his hobbling pace quickening. Normally Fuzzy didn’t like speculating and making a fool of herself in front of others, but she realized that Jayvon probably wanted to gossip. Even though she was often surrounded by corporate types at school, she didn’t pay attention to their gossiping. To her, corporate gossip was even more esoteric than magic. But this was Jayvon’s time and she’d promised to train him and the small talk wasn’t too bad, so she steeled herself to put in just enough speculation for him to let him carry the conversation. “Ares is…” she began, feeling like she was being tested, “A policing corporation.” Then her face lit up as she remembered her spearknife and shield. “Oh, they make weapons too. And shields,” she said, more excited now. Jayvon’s face turned wry and Fuzzy started to panic. “So uh...They’ll get bigger?” she asked, “Right?” Jayvon nodded his head in agreement and then shook it in disbelief. “Thought you’d know more about this stuff by now,” he teased, “Being here that is. Seems like corporate politics is all people talk about.” “Uhhh...Most of the people who would talk to me about that stuff...Don’t.” “Don’t talk about corp politics?” “Don’t talk to me, period,” she said, and lifted her chin in defiance, “They fear me.” Jayvon laughed. “Don’t let them hear you say that,” he said, “You’ll get them riled up at you.” “Riled up?” “Angry.” Fuzzy stuck out her tongue in disgust. “You sound like Sasha.” “Sounds like she speaks sense then,” he said, “Well, I’ll tell you this and won’t trouble you about it after. Stay out of Seattle for a while. I mean it was already dangerous, but hostile takeovers always come with growing pains. I’m already hearing talk about a crackdown after yesterday’s fiasco. They want to show the colors.” Fuzzy nodded, as if this was sensible. “Of course they do,” she said, “Because they’re totally not a gang, right?” Jayvon barked out another laugh. “Dang, don’t let anyone hear you say that!” “You’re sounding like Sasha again,” she grumped, “That she doesn’t want to get political.” “Naw,” he said, as he finally ascended the hill, “The police are definitely a gang. A really well armed, well organized, well funded gang. Don’t let anyone tell you different.” Fuzzy stopped in her tracks, surprised, though Jayvon didn’t slow down and so she jogged a few steps to catch back up. “I almost thought they weren’t,” she said, in exasperation, “Sasha kept telling me no or that she doesn’t want to get political, but every time I learned about them, they just seemed like a gang with funny rules about catching and shooting people.” “That’s complicated, but yes, it’s very political,” he said, “If you want, I’ll talk to you about it later. I mean, you need people keeping the peace, but shoot. What we got? That's not peace.” This made Fuzzy excited despite how tired and hungry she was, which normally made her grumpy but she might actually learn something interesting that she'd been curious about. When she’d been learning about history in her push to get caught up over the summer along with English, math and science, she’d expected to learn something about the police, but never had. From first grade reading all the way to tenth grade now, she hadn’t really learned anything about them. She'd learned about tons of other stuff, but it was hard to find anything relevant. “Sounds good,” she said. “Good.” There was a pause in the conversation as they moved further up the trail, past the school and up to the proving grounds, that square patch of dirt where Coach Bolt normally trained students. “You ready to push yourself?” she asked. “Mhm,” he agreed, “Got up early in the morning to do physical therapy. It’s all VR while they tune my body like a car engine and don’t even have the decency to redline me.” Again, Fuzzy hesitated, but she asked. Jayvon didn’t mock her for not knowing slang. “Redline?” “You know, that line on the speedometer on a car or a motorcycle? The big red one that says you’re going too fast?” Fuzzy’s face lit up again. “Oh, I love that line!” she said, cheerily. Jayvon grinned big and broad. “Women and their fast cars,” teased Jayvon. “I don’t know what being a woman has to do with liking fast cars,” said Fuzzy, defensively, “Besides, I have a motorcycle and a truck. Not a car.” Jayvon shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so,” he said. Fuzzy dropped the bag on the ground as they reached the proving ground and started pulling out gear. “So they’re not making you go fast?” she asked, "That's what's bothering you." “Sort of,” he said, frustrated, “It awful. I’m waiting in VR and all I can do is...Well, exercise. But I'm only moving in VR. It's not real. Every ache and pain and drawn breath is simulated while I get revved up. Terrible.” “It’s that bad?” asked Fuzzy. A longer, more frustrated noise bubbled up from his throat. “Imagine your heart racing because someone is running a program on a machine, but that machine is your body,” he explained, sourly, “Your lungs are burning, your muscles are aching, but you’re actually sitting still. They have me work out in VR. Say it’s about acclimation. I hate it. It’s not real.” “VR makes me feel weird,” said Fuzzy, “Sasha likes it, but I’m always slipping in and out of thinking it’s real and if it’s fake. It’s…” “Jarring,” supplied Jayvon. Fuzzy nodded. “Yeah.” “I spent a year in constant VR while they made me body after body to see what would work for me,” said Jayvon, “I keep telling everyone who will listen that I don’t want it, but no one listens. They use all of these words like adaptive acclimation and neural integration. That I need to believe the VR is real or the process goes slower. Well I don’t and so it’s slow. I can’t just believe a thing on someone else’s say-so when I know it’s a lie.” Fuzzy didn’t ask about why he’d spent a year in virtual reality. From her experience in even mentioning it tangentially, Jayvon would only grow sullen and quiet. Their training was more fun when they could talk. She’d asked Kenji about how to keep that from happening and he’d told her just to agreed with him or grunt, but only if she meant it. “Don’t like it,” she grunted. “Not a bit,” he agreed. Fuzzy’s stomach suddenly growled. “You eat anything?” he asked. Fuzzy frowned as she crested the hill. “Had a protein bar,” she admitted. “That’s all?” “Yeah.” “Got food in my lunchbucket.” “I don’t want to eat your food,” she said. “I want you in good shape. Get at it.” If he was offering, she wouldn’t turn him down. Fuzzy had zero shame about turning down a meal freely offered. Jayvon waited while she went through the pack, pulled the top off the lunch bucket and took a look as they walked and talked. Inside was seared chicken, mashed potatoes and some cooked green veggies she couldn’t identify. What shocked her was just how little real food there was. The chicken looked less than two ounces, the mashed potatoes and gravy were only two scoops, maybe three but there were plenty of green vegetables. “You know,” she mused, “I never asked when we’re at the lunch table, but do you just not eat much?” “Not really,” he said, “Used to eat like a horse, but the new body is too efficient at the current setting. It leaves me with an empty stomach, but I got used to that. I got out of the habit when I was in VR.” “Of eating a lot?” “Of eating at all,” he explained, “VR food does weird things to your body. When you eat VR food your body can get tricked into thinking its eating. It does things to you which aren’t very pleasant in the biological sense, but if you don’t eat VR food at all that has all sorts of side-effects too if you're living in VR space. Add on top of that those moments when you remember that it isn’t real and you just feel weird. I have a real problem eating. They just dumped calories straight into my bloodstream in that year. It’s robbed a lot of the joy of eating. They said they’d stopped the sensation of hunger, but I could feel it. I’ve only been back on solid food for a month. Best meal I ever had was the first. Took me an hour to eat what you see before you. If I want to eat a normal sized meal, I have to not eat for a day or two.” Fuzzy was struck by the horror of not enjoying food and pulled a face. “That’s horrible.” Jayvon’s gaze grew distant. “Yeah, it really is,” he agreed, “The worst part is that I keep expecting to figure out that the food isn’t real.” “Even now?” “Yup.” As Fuzzy sat down, she put the lid back on the pail and lifted it. “This food? It’s real though.” “Yeeeeah,” he said, wistfully, “But remember, I only ate VR food only for a year and I still got out of the habit. I forgot to eat a few weeks back and that’s actually really bad for me. They loaded me up with cannabinol to restore my appetite. I’d hoped they’d give me the good kind. You know, the edibles? There are weird interactions with the neural connections to my tech though so I can’t even get high anymore. Can’t enjoy much, really.” “Wait, edibles? Like those little cookies?” There was a pause as he looked at her. Then he shook his head. Fuzzy remembered how every little movement destroyed her sense of balance and made her want to die. “I’d heard you’d went to that party,” he said, “Someone mentioned you ate a few.” “Yeah, that sucked. It really sucked. Pass on edibles forever please.” “You’re missing out.” “I think I got enough edibles to last forever.” Upon the dirt of the proving ground, Jayvon lowered himself with care to sit next to Fuzzy, who dropped into a cross-legged sitting position with ease. She grabbed the small measure of food from the pail. Despite the apparent age of the pail, the inside looked high tech and shiny and when she opened a second, nearly transparent lid, the food came out hot and ready to eat. The chicken she finished off in two bites, the mashed potatoes with gravy were finished up in three with some scraping. "What are these veggies?" she asked. "Collard greens," he said, "Soaked in chicken broth with bits of bacon, red pepper flakes and garlic." "That sounds awesome." "Acquired taste," he said, "Fair warning. Most Northerners balk at the stuff." She looked at him hard and said only one word. "Food." When the collards were eaten, to her delight, she found a rectangular, yellow cake at the bottom of the pail. “Cornbread,” said Jayvon, “Break that in half?” Fuzzy did and it crumbled. Absolutely unwilling to waste food, her hand shot out lightning fast to catch the crumbs, which went without remark from Jayvon. He was used to her enhanced reflexes. Crumbs caught, the cornbread was sweet with the taste of molasses and crumbled in her mouth, still warm. “So good,” she groaned. “Southern cooking,” he drawled, “Just like grandma makes.” “Thanks. Oh, hey. Did you go to the party?” she asked, "You mentioned that. I didn't see you there." She said it around a mouth of cornbread, but remembered Sasha’s warnings to cover her mouth while talking and chewing just in time. “Naw,” he said, “I know that y’all don’t duel out here, but going to a party unable to defend myself with nothing more than my wits makes me nervous.” “Whyzat?” she asked, between bites. Jayvon stared at her with a bemused smile on his face. “Parties in the South usually have a duel on the docket,” he explained, “No self-respecting party lacks some blood on the ground. Whether it’s a sports pre-game or some girl’s debut, in my social circles, pistols and swords getting used at parties are common.” Fuzzy struggled to swallow more greens and swept her fork from side to side in a vaguely sword-like manner. “Like anyone? Just fighting?” Fuzzy imagined the carnage of melee, tons of people waving around swords and guns. This wasn't their first conversation on the topic, but she couldn't get that scene out of her head. “It’s not just fighting and not just anyone,” he explained, “It’s a duel. Two parties have some sort of disagreement. If words get heated and people can’t agree to disagree, they may just want to beat each other on the spot, but that wouldn’t be acceptable in my social circles. There’s honor involved.” Fuzzy had asked what honor was before as the topic had come up multiple times as it was a concept that was important to Jayvon. He had given her a long lecture on what it meant, why it was important and in the end, it had just confused her. The definition her now quacking commlink fed on a previous day was that honor was “An adherence to what was right or a conventional code of conduct”. That had helped a little more, but didn’t really explain things. “If they aren’t satisfied with words,” he continued, “They’ll only be satisfied with blood. There’s a lot of form to a duel. A lot of ritual. You can’t just haul off and hit someone or cut someone or shoot someone. If my station was lower, I suppose I could if circumstances permitted, but I can’t so I don’t. There’s a right way about these things.” “Why not just do it?” Jayvon tilted his head at her in confusion, opened his mouth once, closed it and grew thoughtful. Fuzzy took the time to eat, but she did pay attention. He stayed silent for almost a minute, but then he smiled wryly. “I suppose it would spoil the show,” he said, bemusedly, “We’re a violent bunch, especially the people who pretend at nobility. In fact the more they pretend, the more violent they get. New blood leans into it you see. But where I’m from, you have to dress up your violence a bit because it's acceptable. It’s all blood, death, domination and humiliation if you ascend high enough in any society, no matter how dressed up it gets. Not everyone dies of course, in fact most people don’t. Wouldn’t be proper if you had to bury people at every party. Just enough violence and threat of death to keep people polite to your face. Sometimes it’s just enough to show up and prove you’re brave enough before mutually call it off. You know, a gut check to make sure no one is a coward, but most of the time a duel is a fight. People love to watch a grudge get settled- Expect it, even.” Fuzzy finished Jayvon’s lunch and put it and the fork back in the lunch pail. She chewed thoughtfully, swallowed and continued. “I get why some people would want to watch,” she said, thoughtfully, “Certain kinds of people want to see struggle up close. Kenji told me that if I turn the trid on to the right channel I can see blood sports like uh...Combat biking, urban brawl, people with magic and tech beating each other nearly to death. Sometimes to death.” Jayvon’s wry smile turned curious with a tilt of his head. “Told you that, did he?” “Yeah. I watched combat biking once since it’s got motorcycles,” she admitted, “It’s not for me. I’ve seen too much violence up close to be comfortable watching that stuff. It’s not a contest though. Your uh...Duels. I guess they’re fair fights?” “People like to pretend at it sometimes,” said Jayvon, with a knowing grin, "There's a whole metagame around it." Fuzzy marked that word, "Metagame for later" on her commlink, looked back up at Jayvon and continued. “Well where I’m from, no one fights fair. No form. No ritual. No rules. And it could happen at basically any time. It’s um...Raw. Puyallup isn’t forgiving. I watched combat biking just once. Too much um…Screwing around. Uh...Showboating. I think that’s the word. And then people get hurt. It’s embarrassing and sad. People getting hurt and dying for no reason. I don’t like it.” “Me neither,” he said, his tone bitter, “Used to love that stuff. Now the joy is gone.” Jayvon stared off into the middle distance and extended his fingers, not to grasp, but as if he were looking at them. The silence was awkward, but Fuzzy didn’t let it keep her down. Though she didn’t have food on her, which was a serious blunder in her opinion, she did have water. She grabbed it off her hip and took a sip to wash down the food. When she was finished she considered Jayvon, who’d given his entire meal to her, which she dearly appreciated. So she offered him her water bottle. It took him a moment to notice it. When he did he tilted his head again, realized what the gesture meant and took it. Fuzzy was almost offended, thinking that he might feel too good to drink after her. She’d been at Blake Island long enough to be snubbed before, but then realized what to say. “It’s real." That seemed to snap him out of his stare. With a nod, he took a single pull before handing it back to her. “Thanks,” he said. “Sure,” she replied, “Thanks for the food.” “Wasn’t much.” “More than a protein bar. I needed it, but I woke up late and forgot to put snack in my pockets last night.” He nodded and she put her water bottle back on her hip. Jayvon grabbed his crutches and with a grunt of effort, stood back up and pointed at the gear for today with his crutches. “We’re going to use the slip rope today,” he said, as he hobbled around the gear, “I’ve got poles to set them up. I’ll walk you through the drills. When you’re done, you’ll hopefully know enough to check my form. Keep an eye on my stance in particular.” Fuzzy nodded and minutes later, they set up the poles and stretched the ropes across the proving ground, though she had to do most of the work. The collapsible poles drove easily into the hard packed dirt via some method she didn’t understand, but it was sturdy and that was good enough for her. Tied to them was simple rope, thin and strong, but not pulled so tight that it wouldn’t budge, just at shoulder level for Fuzzy. The second set of poles was set as well, these ones lower, at shoulder height for Jayvon. Jayvon let his crutches fall to the ground and carefully, with jerky steps from his legs, moved near the raised rope that was his size. With an equally jerky motion of his arm, as if he were a puppet pulled by strings, he beckoned Fuzzy over. “Boxing is a sport won in inches,” he explained, “It’s about timing and control. That makes your speed strength count. Without timing and control, all a body is is a brute. There's a place for a brute, but a brute can be beaten with training. Even big ones." He looked down at his feet and very carefully, he set himself into an orthodox stance. The rope lined up with his shoulder, inches away from his head. Then he ducked and moved his feet ever so slightly until he was on the other side of the rope. Then he threw two simple, but clumsy straight punches before ducking back under the rope and straightening on the other side. “I’m moving as little as possible,” he explained, “You want to expend the least amount of energy for the most amount of gain.” “Sounds like hunting,” said Fuzzy. Jayvon nodded in approval. “Suppose there’s a bit of philosophical overlap there, sure. Most gained for the least expended.” Fuzzy nodded deeply in agreement. “Now when you move,” he continued, as he continued the exercise, “You want to respond as quickly as possible. You keep your movements tight and controlled so the next punch will miss you too. Then the next and so on. You set your feet, move a little and plant yourself quickly to respond. People see the power, the speed, but most miss the control. Boxing is a sport where you can fight for a long time if you’re conditioned and disciplined. If you’re wild, undisciplined and poorly conditioned you’ll wear yourself out quick. I've seen amateurs who think they can throw a punch get winded after a single exchange. Boxing has you go exchange after exchange for minutes at a time. You can tell who didn't condition themselves seriously enough after a few rounds.” Jayvon slipped under the rope again and again, moving slowly, but deliberately. Fuzzy took the lesson for what it was and paid attention to the small movements, how he moved his body as little as possible, as if rocking, how his feet always moved in the prescribed way and even with his lack of control he did a decent job of it. Over a minute, she watched him move forward, slipping under the rope, throwing two punches and then slipping back to the other side to throw two more. In this way, repeating himself, he moved forward. “This is old training,” he explained, with a slight strain to his voice, “Old even before VR training. Old and real.” “Your stance is off,” said Fuzzy. Jayvon stopped mid-stride, wobbled, nearly falling, but he caught himself. He struggled to keep his balance, but set his feet again with care in the correct way. Now Fuzzy didn’t know about how to slip a rope as this was a new drill for her, but she did understand the basics of stance and form. She'd reserved criticism of his stance and form while he was talking, but on the second pass, her critiques were quick and to the point. Jayvon was displeased each time she corrected him, but only at himself and never at her unless she was incorrect and then he would correct her. Over the course of a few minutes, moving slowly, he made his way to the end of the rope and slapped the pole when he was finished. He turned to her, perspiration visible on his dark skin and nodded to himself. Then he gestured to her own rope, somewhat higher. “Remember the number system?” he asked. Fuzzy nodded. Punches in boxing were numbered to make it easier to call them out during practice. “Keep it simple,” he said, “Show me your best slip. Slow at first. We'll pick up speed when you're ready.” Fuzzy stepped to the rope and it brushed against her shoulder. Then she settled into her fighting stance, her feet set in the orthodox style, hands up in a guard. She began to move, ducking, slipping under the rope in a rocking motion, just the one to start. Jayvon sniffed in disapproval. “Too wide,” he said, critically, “Too low. Dip your head just enough. Don’t be afraid of brushing the rope with your head. The rope will let you know if you screw up. It's just slack enough.” “I’m already fast though,” said Fuzzy. Fuzzy increased her reflexes with magic, in what she called her slowtime, and slipped under the rope, throwing punches, over and over again. She was feeling better now, she wanted to move. “See?” she asked, with a grin. “See, now you want skip ahead. We don't do that. Fundamentals are taught slow. I know about your reflexes,” drawled Jayvon, “They’re impressive to a normal person, but that’s just magic. Nearly anyone can do that with magic. I could learn it. Kenji could too. That’s the internal magic of an adept. There’s even spells that you can learn that do the same thing, though they’re a pain to sustain without the right gear. Then you could do it with tech or drugs, and the drugs aren’t very expensive if you don’t care about your body” Jayvon walked in front of her and carefully turned on his heel, this time without wobbling. “Control impresses me,” he continued, “I’ve seen duels where someone relies on all that mess I just mentioned to give them an edge. They get cocky. They think they’re better. You can even get full superhuman psychosis. Real psychos. Tthink everyone is lesser than you, think you’re in a different league than mere mortals. When they get beat, they get beat the worst. Full meltdowns, especially if their oppoent isn't as fast or strong or tough as them because they think of their opponent as less than them.” Fuzzy came to a realization. “You don’t care that I’m fast,” said Fuzzy. “Not really. Seen too much of it.” “Do you think I’m going to go...Uh...Superhero psycho?” “Superhuman psychosis,” said Jayvon, “Old term, no meta in it, but it rolls off the tongue easier. And no. I’m making you aware though. Everyone and their dog can be fast, even on a budget. That psychosis creeps up on you, especially if you have your reflexes on all the time.” “My slowtime?” she asked. “Your improved reflexes? Yeah. Haven't heard it called slowtime before.” She nodded. “It’s because time feels slowed down,” she said, with a shrug, “I don’t have it on all the time though. That’d be weird.” “Good. Don’t. It’s bad for you. Keep slipping. Slow. Controlled.” Fuzzy slipped under the rope and emerged on the other side, sure to move only just enough. “Slip, one, two,” said Jayvon. She threw a jab and a cross, then slipped again. “Slip, three, four,” he said. Slip. Lead hook, rear hook. “Slip, five, six.” Slip. Lead uppercut, rear uppercut. “Check your stance.” Fuzzy almost slipped again, but looked down at her stance, adjusted it, keeping her hands up and eyes forward. “Slip, seven, eight.” Slip. Lead hook to body, rear hook to body. “Slip, nine, ten.” Slip, jab to the body, cross to the body. Long minutes went by, Jayvon struggled to walk backwards as he coached her, but he didn’t fall. When Fuzzy reached the end of the rope, she slapped the pole just like Jayvon did, but he kept calling out numbers and occasionally multiple slips at once. She was confused at first, but began her drills once more, moving by inches over the proving ground. Jayvon mixed it up and though Fuzzy had to think about it at first, she fell into a rhythm where she reacted to the words. It made her think instead of falling into a pattern. Five minutes later, she slapped the post again. Now she was sweating and she was glad that her leotard let her breathe and her sweatshirt and pants absorbed most of the moisture. “We’ll be going backwards as well,” he said, “Face forwards, now slip backwards. Slip, five, slip, one, three.” Fuzzy was confused, because she seemed to be doing the work while Jayvon just walked. Still, she did as she was told. This was his time. He’d paid for it. So for the next half an hour he had her slipping the rope, moving backwards and forwards, throwing punches with only a brief pause to take in some water. She was glad that she’d had something to eat or this would have been miserable. What she came to realize was that Jayvon might not be able to do this yet or that maybe he’d reached his limit early. That he might have just enough strength to walk backwards and forwards while focusing on keeping his balance. Curiously, she wasn’t as tired as she figured she would be. The only stops save for the silent water break when she slapped the poles or when Jayvon stopped her fix her form. What she realized was that her conditioning was excellent, since she exercises almost every day, but she was moving in a way that conserved the maximum amount of stamina. Her arms and legs burned, her muscles were tired, but nowhere near as much as she thought they would be. After another walking drill she slapped the post and kept up her guard and this time, Jayvon pulled out his commlink. “I want you to use your improved reflexes now,” he said, “Your slowtime. I’m going to need to record you so I can critique you. My eyes don’t move that fast.” Fuzzy’s hands fidgeted self-consciously. She didn’t especially like the thought of being recorded. “Why?” she asked. “Tell you after,” he said, “Slip, one, two.” Reluctantly, Fuzzy activated her slowtime. The world didn’t crawl exactly. It did slow, but her mind worked at normal speed, like she could turn on an adrenaline rush at will without the jittery feeling or the fatigue that came afterwards other than the normal fatigue of moving. Not sure of what he was after, she listened to Jayvon anyway as she was enjoying the exercise. His instructions were simple but she challenged herself by performing them correctly as fast as possible. She slapped the post at the end, waiting for more, but no more came. After all of that exercise, moving that fast had taken more out of her than she thought. She breathed hard and chanced a look over her shoulder as Jayvon reviewed his commlink. ”That...It?” she asked, panting. Jayvon wasn’t even looking at her. Instead he stared at his commlink’s screen and beckoned her over with an awkward wave of his hand. He rewound to the beginning of the recording. It was odd to watch herself move so quickly. At least twice, maybe even three times the speed of a normal person. Jayvon paused and pointed to the screen. “Stance is off.” Fuzzy grunted from over his shoulder. Seconds later, he pointed again. “And there.” Another stop. Another. More. In fact there were dozens of mistakes that she hadn’t made while moving at normal speed. In fact she was embarrassed by the sheer number of mistakes. Every movement seemed to have a mistake and Jayvon ruthlessly pointed all of them out. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he mumbled. “Thought what?” she asked. He looked up at her and smiled slightly. “Checking against something,” he said, “We usually work at normal pace, but I saw something recently.” “Saw what?” asked Fuzzy, somewhat annoyed. “It’s been all over social media,” he explained, “Saved it. Thought you might recognize it. That fight you had?” Fuzzy frowned and tried to think of a fight. Then she remembered. The fight with the toxic fire spirit. “Oh. That one," she said, with a small gulp. “Mhm.” “I mean,” she said, awkwardly, “You watched my fight?” “Me and about a million other people,” he said, offhandedly, “You mind taking a second look? I don’t want to dredge up bad feelings. I wanted to show you something I noticed. Figured you might appreciate a fighter's outlook.” Not knowing how to feel about that, she awkwardly shrugged in assent. He backed out of the trid he’d taken of her slipping the rope and pulled up another one, this one shakier. A scene from a familiar corridor.
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Mar 31, 2020 02:19
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“Run, stupid!” shouted Fuzzy’s voice, through the commlink. "Ahhhhh!" screamed a woman. Fuzzy remembered that scream. After all, Fuzzy had kicked her out of the way with a heavy boot. It dredged up some feelings she hadn’t fully grappled with yet. Fuzzy paled as Jayvon muted it, but he had time stamps and stopped at the first. “Your stance here is terrible,” he said, “That’s no stance I’m familiar with, and I’m familiar with a lot. Too wide.” He fast forwarded to another timestamp and pointed. “Here your toes are pointed somewhat towards each other. You're lucky you didn't trip.” He fast forwarded again. “Your left foot crosses over your right. You could have tripped again. That's really bad.” And finally, the original smack of her weapon across the toxic fire spirit’s face, though he had to back up to the start for this. “Your weapon focus wasn’t even activated, or that first hit probably would have finished it off,” he said, “You’re fast, but there’s something about your magic that makes you sloppy.” Fuzzy made a sour face, but didn’t have a response. Instead she put her hands in the pockets of her sweatshirt’s front pocket to cover up their fidgeting. When he turned around at her, she looked away. “When do you usually use your uh...Slow time?” he asked. Fuzzy’s mood had taken a turn for the worst from the unasked for memories. She’d overslept, she was sweaty, sore, hungry again and she was pulled back to the moment in Pinchface’s shop. The moment where some spirit that looked like her mother had told her that her mother had sex with strangers so Fuzzy wouldn't starve while her mother did. That had told her lies about her adopted dad. The person she’d been in that moment, that had stabbed that toxic spirit in the neck in a rage, it wasn’t something she wanted to deal with. It wouldn’t break her, she’d gotten counseling and been through bad things besides, but it was still deeply uncomfortable. So all she could manage was a shrug. “Don’t know,” she said, quietly. Javon cocked his head and then raised a hand and took an awkward step back. “Too much,” he said, “Sorry.” Fuzzy didn’t respond, though she did fidget less. Javon stroked his chin and he carefully sat down on the dirt of the proving ground. “Didn’t prepare you. Apologies. I’m used to combat and used to people who are used to it. Didn’t mean to put you off.” She nodded slowly and thought about sitting down as well. This was his time, but she would stand. “Can I show you something?” he asked, “I’d like you to understand something. About me. Take a bit, but I want you to understand something.” Fuzzy’s gaze turned to him. She was steal trying to process those ugly feelings inside of her, but Jayvon seemed sincere and so reluctantly, she nodded. “It’ll be a bit gross,” he said. Fuzzy suddenly smirked. “I spend four hours a day processing deer carcasses with blood up to my elbows,” she said, “Sometimes more. Gross doesn’t phase me.” “You sure?” he asked. “Why? Going to flash me or something?” she snarked. Jayvon grimaced and looked away. He seemed to physically swallow something bitter, though had hadn’t eaten or drank anything but water. She’d defaulted to playful but that playful had been more bitter than she'd expected. Not that she felt playful, but she still didn’t know how to talk to Jayvon sometimes. “No,” he said, simply, “I’m not going to.” Fuzzy sighed, feeling a little bad. “Sorry.” Jayvon looked down at his leg and drummed his fingers along his thigh for a few seconds before responding. “Not flashing,” he admitted, “Not a perv thing. I can’t...I’m not...Hard for me to explain- To say.” Fuzzy frowned, curiosity piqued, fidgeting momentarily halted. “To say what?” “What it looks like to lose badly,” he said, slowly. He waved the commlink in his hand by way of explanation. “You find trouble,” he said, his tone stiff and stilted, “I don’t know if you like it, but you find it, or it finds you. Me, I like trouble, even now. I’ve been told that that’s my problem. Did I tell you that my dad manages HTRT?” “I don’t know what that means.” Javon nodded once to himself, took in a deep breath, but kept looking at his leg, kept drumming his fingers across it. “They’re high threat response teams,” he said, “The medical variety. Some people are considered so valuable or some areas are so dangerous that they send more than just an ambulance. What they send instead is a team of armed experts who can heal people in dangerous situations, fight off something if it’s doing the hurting and get people the help they need. Say if someone gets shot or stabbed or blown up, like at the Grand Terrace a few weeks back, the bombing?” “I heard about it,” sighed Fuzzy, “Yeah. That was awful.” Jayvon nodded gravely. “Well that’s the kind of places we go to,” he explained, “Some people are just security. They deter threats. Even good security. HTRT are the heavies. The hitters. They eliminate threats, but we’re medical so heal with one hand and harm with the other. I got training for that.” Fuzzy looked him up and down. “You got medical training?” she asked. Jayvon shook his head and mimed a finger gun with a hand, pulling the trigger, mouthing a silent, “Bang, bang.” “A bit, but I have no patience for it,” he said, “Everyone knows a little medicine, so I did the basic classes, but that’s it. No, I was learning how to lead a squad and pull a trigger. I’m third generation HTRT. Before I came here, I was at a military academy getting my lessons. Everyone who’s anyone goes for a least a year. School culture where I come from is a bit more martial than what you’re used to up here. We start earlier than high school and most people start as early as elementary if they're from a family and want to be the best. Real young. Most people just do their year and get out, but I was on the track. I wanted to know the family business in and out, not just manage it.” Jayvon stuffed his commlink into a pocket, rolled up one of the pant legs on his shorts and applied steady pressure to his upper thigh. His dark skin seemed to stretch, then part and then with a click, his entire leg came away and revealed the chrome underneath, no blood or fluids of any kind were present, but a cold, white vapor emanated from his leg and hip. There was some awkward shuffling as he shifted to one side while sitting and set his leg standing up. Jayvon looked up at her briefly to gauge her reaction. This wasn’t the first time that Fuzzy had seen cybernetics up close, but she’d never seen someone take off their entire leg before. Jayvon didn’t look like he was in pain, so after a short pause, he continued. “I started chasing prestige than a younger age than was proper,” he said with a grunt, as he began working on his other leg, “And how you chase prestige where I come from is at the expense of others.” Click. His other leg came off and he stood it up next to his other one. More vapor, supercooled air. That caught Fuzzy’s attention. It was colder than California in winter when she’d visited with Sasha and her family and she wasn't even touching it. “I used all of those skills I learned, passed down by my dad and the schoolmasters, “he said, eyes still averted, “Guns, hand weapons, heavy weapons, hand to hand, small unit tactics and the healing arts. Someone looks at me crossways for being a dwarf, or black, because that’s still a thing where I come from if you’re old money…” “Black?” asked Fuzzy. Jayvon smirked and nodded. “Skin color,” he said, “People still judge each other for skin color where I'm from. Not most. Mostly old money or old people.” Fuzzy tried to imagine it but couldn't. Meta-prejudice was real, she’d seen it enough, but she had to really stretch her mind to think about people hating other people for the color of their skin. “That's dumb,” she said, "I don't get it." "Sure is,” he said, with a chuckle, “Don’t try. But it was and still is a thing. People where I'm from constantly test each other. They like seeing what they can get away with. Small sleights, just enough not to get challenged, but enough to offend. In fact, a lot of fathers hire young men to bully their sons until they fight back.” “What? Really?” Javon sighed and nodded at this. “Oh yeah, an entire class of men whose sole job it is to bully the rich and lose if they put up anything like a real fight but to beat them down these young sons if they're weak. Dirty little secret there. Some of them even die in these fake duels. Old men want to blood their sons. Dark business." Jayvon looked down and was quiet for a moment before continuing. "Anyway, you always have to watch out for yourself at all times. You let a backhanded compliment or two slide for long enough and people are a little louder about it. First behind your back, which is normal, but to your people, which is not. Then in the open, in public and then finally true disrepect to your face if you don't stand up for yourself. If you don't respond, you fall far from your status. Rarely happens, but I've seen it. So you always have to be ready to defend your honor.” That was when Fuzzy understood. “Wait, honor is just reputation?” she asked. “A piece of it, you’re getting it now,” he said, “Speaking of pieces...” He pulled off his other arm with a click and held onto it. Then grunted and began playing with the fingers on his detached hand, articulating them this way and that. “None of my limbs are real,” he said, his face neutral, “Normally people can’t take off a cyberlimb. Need a cyberdoc to do that, but my limbs are wireless and connect with uh...Don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of quantum locking?” “No.” “Well, you might have guessed that this isn’t normal,” he said. Fuzzy hadn’t, but she didn’t say anything. She only grunted, though not in assent. “My body rejects most cyberware unless I suck down a lot of immunosuppressants,” he said, “The amount I need for just my torso is a nightmare whenever I get sick. The limbs on top of that would probably kill me if they were fully connected. I uh...Got a condition. Very little of me is um...Me...You know. Left.” There was an awkward pause and Fuzzy genuinely didn’t know what to say. So she defaulted back to what Kenji had told her to do. She grunted once and this seemed to satisfy him, so he continued. “I was a good duelist,” he said, distantly, “Most people start around thirteen, fourteen. I started at eleven. Practice duels to be sure and practice in general, but I got dumped into that world early. An older boy had problems with race, which is to say, mine. Old family, old money, so it was skin color. I didn’t know the words he called me at first. My mom nor my dad didn’t think to teach me. Thought that was over. Smart people mostways, but they thought they could shelter my sisters and me from that. They were wrong. Thought it was just about metas now. Me being a dwarf.” Jayvon worked his mouth, as if tasting something bitter. “Thought he was better than me, that boy. We had a wrestling match. Normally wrestling is for kids or friendly matches, so no one takes them too seriously. Dueling an eleven year old with blades or pistols just isn’t done though looking back, he was the sort who was mean enough and dumb enough that he might have tried if he could. He had some choice words for me before the match and I knew what they were this time so I thrashed a guy four years older than me and much bigger. Didn’t take the loss well. Had even more words, shouted them before a crowd, it got ugly.” He clicked his tongue once as he turned his arm over, inspecting it as it emitted a steady stream of supercooled air. “Then what happened?” asked Fuzzy. “Well, he tried to put me down in front of friends and family,” said Jayvon, quietly, “Literally and figuratively. Made a real spectacle of himself, but not quite the spectacle I made of him after a rematch a week later. Some people can’t help but run their mouth when they lose.” “So you hurt him.” Jayvon puffed up his cheeks and blew out a breath. “Well, it wasn’t a friendly match,” he said, “The first one that is, but we were done and that should have settled things. Then he decided it wasn’t settled, impugned my honor and my family’s honor with some words that I shall not repeat. Then it got unfriendly and yes, I hurt him. Nothing permanent, but I made sure he felt it.” Jayvon chuckled once. “I popped every single metacarpal in his hand and he soiled himself,” he drawled, quietly, “I’d inflicted enough pain that he did so in front of God and everyone. Would’ve been a maiming wound years ago, but now with tech being what it is you can get over it. Never lived that one down, old money or not, crying and peeing yourself after you get beat up by an eleven year old during a kid’s match when you are not, in fact, a kid, is humiliating. Some people aren’t that smart. You can a wound, but you don't recover from a loss like that. Not ever.” Fuzzy nodded once. “It sounds like he had it coming.” “More than a bit, yeah. After that second duel, where I defended myself and humiliated a rival, people didn’t treat me like a kid anymore. They minded themselves around me too,” he explained, “They were unfailingly polite. Not a single snide remark about my height or my skin color. Even most of the old money wouldn’t say boo to me.” “Boo?” asked Fuzzy. “Hmm? Oh, no, you know, like boo,” he said, awkwardly, waving a detched one arm around with his still attached one, “Not even that. Wouldn’t be mean or anything.” “Oh, okay,” she said, “No boo.” “No boo at all,” he drawled, “Anyway, what I came to realize is that it was like a young girl’s debut, where she becomes a woman and is welcomed into society. You know? Fancy party, fancy dresses, tiny sandwiches.” Fuzzy thought all of that sounded boring. Especially the tiny sandwiches. “Sounds boring,” she said. “God, yeah,” groaned Jayvon, “Tasteless watercress sandwiches. Had to go to my sister’s. Avoided them after that, debuts and tiny sandwiches. But yeah, my debut was on the mat and honestly, it was a lot younger than what’s proper. Had a full on barbecue. Had my first beer. Kissed my first girl. A young man gains respect and is welcomed into society through violence. And you know, I happened to like that respect. Liked it too much.” “Sounds...Complicated,” said Fuzzy. “Oh yeah, all ways of complicated,” sighed Jayvon, wistfully, “It’s not just reputation. It’s a culture. It’s a code. It’s violence. It’s a whole...Well, it’s a whole thing. Complicated, like you said. Needlessly so, but it lets the upper crust blow off steam and gives people something to do and talk about when they weren’t working. People like me. I was a duelist. I never lost a fight, but there are right ways to lose and wrong ways to win. I never learned how to lose and in that way, I lost.” He slowly mimed thrusting a sword with his detached arm, which made him wobble, which made him grumble as he steadied himself. “I don’t understand,” said Fuzzy, her tone puzzled. Jayvon grunted. “Dueling is about more than fighting,” he explained, “I thought myself above the culture. Thought I could break the rules. I thought I was special.” He gestured with his arm to his legs and then to his body. “I was not special. I tried to buck tradition and tradition bucked me instead,” he said, quietly, “And I get sent here you see, where the culture is different, where honor is a foreign concept. When someone insults you here, all you can do is seethe and scheme. They still test you here, but how you deal with that kind of test is different. It’s all secrets and lies, the art of the backstab and the bushwhack, nothing honorable about it.” Jayvon frowned heavily. “And while they don’t say anything about my skin color here, I’ve been called a crippled stuntie more than once by my supposed peers just loud enough to hear from afar. Not just behind my back. I cannot demand satisfaction. I cannot stab or shoot these people. Can't even beat them in a ring. It’s barbaric. All I have here is my ability to mock people. It’s catty and disreputable without a fight. Nothing gets resolved. It just blows up one day.” Fuzzy frowned in thought, thinking back to Minuet. How that went so wrong despite the outcome. She wasn't sure if she agreed with Jayvon, but she didn't like how Minuet had blown up at Julie either. While she thought, Jayvon gestured to her to get her attention once again. “But they wouldn’t say that to you,” he said, “Not what’s said to me exactly, but the disrespect. They wouldn’t dare. You broke the rules. You bucked tradition and walked away smiling. In fact, you bucked it so hard that a corporate princess got her entire family fired and lost most of her teeth. Where I come from, that's punching up, way up, but it has been done. Here? They're terrified that they're next. They won't say it and neither should you, but what's unspoken is that you will beat them bloody and kick them down the social ladder so hard they they end up as like that Minuet girl I heard so much about. They still talk about it you know. One of the first things I heard when I came here." Fuzzy smiled smugly, feeling a little better after that. “I did take her teeth, but I didn’t get her fired,” said Fuzzy, “She got her family fired.” “Feels that way though,” he said, “I know it’s not that way, but it feels that way, which is important. You emptied the mouth of empty headed idiot. A flying fist, wham. But it feels more like you punched all her prestige and money out of her.” That memory lifted her spirits even further. Fuzzy smiled and nodded. “I knocked her into a punch bowl too,” she said. “Really?” Fuzzy giggled and nodded. “Oh yeah,” she said, “You don't see it in the recording, but I did. She was just covered in punch and blood and teeth fragments. Oh and Julie got a credstick from her. It’s framed in her office. Minuet was her first patient.” Jayvon barked a laugh. “Really? That’s so cold! drat!” she shouted, “Uh, pardon, darn.” “It’s fine,” said Fuzzy, “I don’t mind if you swear.” Jayvon hesitated. “I don’t swear,” he said, slowly, ”Not in front of a lady. At least I try not to. Bad habits.” Lady. Fuzzy had heard that word before. When she’d really begun to read, she kept running across words that seemed to say the same thing. Slim and slender for example, seemed similar until you figured out what other words they were associated with. So she knew, deep down, in a way that she didn’t quite understand, that while she was a woman, she didn’t want to be a lady. It was a label she didn't want. Fuzzy bent down to the ground of the proving ground and grabbed some of the hard packed dirt. At first she rubbed it into her hands, keeping an eye on Jayvon and then, deliberately, rubbed that dirt across her cheeks, her chin, her nose, her forehead and finally her sweat covered hair. The ground was dry, but her still drying sweat smeared it. Jayvon’s mouth made an O, his eyes growing wide and by the second, that mouth and his eyes opened wider and wider. To him, this was not a thing that was done. If Fuzzy was asked to define what a lady was, she’d be hard pressed to say exactly. All she knew was that she felt it didn’t suit her, that deep down, she wanted to reject it even though she couldn’t say why. “I’m not a lady,” she said, simply and then added, “I wear a tuxedo.” “You wear a...What?” he asked, dumbfounded. “And I look good in it,” she said, pointedly, gaze intense, “I don’t like skirts. They’re too flimsy. They get in the way. You know, in case I need to move.” “You could probably get one that doesn’t,” he said, quietly. “No,” said Fuzzy, dismissively, “I don’t want to.” It took Jayvon an effort of will to look away from her. He looked shaken, even stricken and Fuzzy watched him master his emotions. He grunted again and looked to his legs. “I never met someone like you before,” he said, quietly. Fuzzy grunted. Not because Kenji had told her to, but because she felt like it. Words would just get in the way. There was no reveling in making him uncomfortable like before. Only a demonstration to get her point across. Jayvon was quiet, his remaining hand picking at the dirt with thumb and forefinger. “A crutch is more honest,” he said, quietly, “Don’t you think?” “Than what?” Jayvon gestured to his limbs. To Fuzzy, they’d looked real right up until he’d taken them off. Now they were obviously fake. Limbs bled when they were removed. She knew that much. They didn’t radiate cold. No, Jayvon struck her in that moment as a once broken and mended toy, which she’d occasionally see in the hands Puyallup children. It was an unfair comparison, but it was what it was and she couldn't unthink it. She realized then that even if that wasn’t what he’d been trying to communicate to her, what he’d said, why he’d been so persistent, is because he didn’t want this for her. That word, burned, was referring to the toxic fire spirit that she’d fought not just once, but twice in quick succession, though he’d only seen the one. Fuzzy didn’t know what to think. She teetered between appreciation and offense at his repeated presumption. In offense, which she always tallied first, he’d called her a thing she wasn’t and tried to label her. He’d held back the fact that he’d watched her fight instead of just telling her what was wrong. She couldn’t say why the latter felt wrong, but it did. In the tally of his good acts, he’d been honest with her by removing those fake limbs of his. He’d made himself vulnerable before her, which was an act of trust. Most importantly, he’d shared his food with her when she was hungry and accepted her water in return. Even though she knew for a fact that she could get more food and water, it didn’t matter, he’d shared his meager portion. Being hungry, truly hungry, changes perspective around food. Water as well. Water moreso, really. She realized that she’d been staring intensely, leaning forward, quiet, even threatening in her posture. So she dialed it back with deliberate care. She made a snap decision, like most of her decisions. It was a mix of positive and negative. What Jayvon had to say, she appreciated, but she didn’t appreciate how he’d said it. “If you want to tell me something,” she said slowly, “Just say it. It’s easier.” “I was trying to be polite.” “Polite is good,” she said, “In Puyallup, minding your own business and being polite around people who aren’t family can keep you alive. That and a lot of other stuff. But not pissing people off is important if you have to talk to them.” “And where I come from too.” Fuzzy put her hands on her hips. “But you don’t have to be polite around me,” she said, “Your limbs were off, but your guard was still up. You don’t want what happened to you for me. Message received. Thanks. But politeness got in the way. I almost missed it. I don’t blame you for that. I’m not going to talk bad to your face or behind your back. Politeness is armor for both of us. You don’t need it around me. I'm not going to hurt you unless you hurt me." They stared at eachother for a long moment and then he deliberately looked away first. Then he cleared his throat and began putting his limbs back on, each with a click and a cinching of skin as it connected, the cold vapor disappearing. Then he shook his entire arm, as if trying to restore feeling back to it. Fuzzy couldn’t even tell that the limbs were fake. Jayvon cleared his throat and shakily got to his feet. “Your stance. It’s bad. You almost got burned. Maybe to death,” he said, tersely, “When you’re not using magic, you’re fine. When you do, it’s awful. Wanted to let you know. I can help you fix it if you want. If you don’t, that’s fine.” Fuzzy thought about it. Now that she was feeling better she didn’t immediately dismiss the idea. So this time when she shrugged, it was in assent. “Yeah, okay,” she said, “Couldn’t just tell me that?” Jayvon shrugged. “Slower pace of life where I come from. Even in corporate. I like to visit with people. Talk, you know?" "Okay." "Anyway, your magic. When do you normally use it?” “Hunting,” she said. “Deer?” She waved her hand in negation. “Only for a little bit,” she said, “When I’m aiming and trying to get a killshot. I’d have it on half the night when I’d hunt pigs though. The deer here aren’t that dangerous, but pigs will gore you.” “Where’d you hunt pigs?” “Rice paddies over the summer,” she said, proudly, “There were a bunch of farms in Snohomish that had some uh...What’s the word...Industrial…Industrial…” Fuzzy snapped her fingers a few times to remember the word. “Sabotage?” supplied Jayvon. “Sabotage,” said Fuzzy, "Fun word to say." “So you just sloshed through the mud for hours hunting pigs in the dark?” he asked. “Yep,” she agreed, happily, “It wasn’t all that hard. I’ve got my slow time, my danger sense, my spearknife, my bow, I can go invisible and make some illusions, night vision goggles and two hunting animals, one of them a flying magical fear owl and one of them a very good boy with sharp teeth.” Jayvon chuckled at that. “Puppy alone sounds like overkill,” drawled Jayvon, “Pigs shall know no solace before the goodest of boys.” Fuzzy nodded approvingly. She remembered solace. It had been a vocab word. “I’d just use a shotgun from the back of a pickup truck,” said Jayvon. “Really?” “Or a rifle,” he said, “Some do it from helicopters, but I like trucks. The last time I went to Texas I killed thirty hogs on a single ride. There’s no bag limit. They’re pests.” “I usually didn’t get more than four,” groused Fuzzy, “But I had to haul them and clean them.” “You processed four pigs in a night by hand?” asked Jayvon, skeptically. Fuzzy smiled sheepishly and shrugged. “If it was really late I’d leave the processing for my dad,” she said, “He does most of the work. I’d only do the minimum so they wouldn’t spoil and it'd get finished at home. Hunting, killing and hauling took it out of me. Sometimes I’d get more, but then I’d just call for a pickup and they’d take everything away.” And again, she envied Julie's levitation spell. “The one with the rat skulls?” asked Jayvon, with a grin, “The one that runs on bones?” “It runs on whatever. Not just bones.” “Bones too though.” “Mhm.” “Hand me down truck? Had that rode in look." “I bought my dad a new one, yeah,” she said, proudly, “So I got the old one.” “Daddy’s truck,” he said, “Traditional.” “Mhm.” Jayvon shook his legs to restore feeling, holding onto the rope to keep from wobbling too much. “You know, it sounds like your stance is just stuck in the mud,” he said, “Literally.” Fuzzy thought about it and frowned. “Wait...Is that really it?” “Might be. You spent a lot of your slow time running and killing in the rice paddies. That means lots of mud, right? Sucks at your boots?” Fuzzy groaned in realization. “Probably that, yeah,” she said, "Ugh." “Three months isn’t too bad. You can unlearn it. It’ll take a while, but you can unlearn it.” Fuzzy sighed explosively on top of the groan and nodded. “Yeah, I guess,” she grumbled. “Better than not fixing it and getting worse,” said Jayvon, “You catch it early and you can fix it quick. And even if the fight was sloppy, you did a good thing that others wouldn’t. Respect.” Fuzzy’s spirits soared. It was all she could do to keep from strutting. “It was good, wasn’t it?” Jayvon grunted in assent. “You know everyone is going to ask you about it when you get back, right?” said Jayvon. Fuzzy’s spirits plummeted. “Uhh…They are?” “Of course they are,” he said, as if this was obvious, “You made the news. A million hits on social media and counting. A high school girl beats a toxic spirit in a one on one fight during a terrorist attack and saves a bystander. There was even one trideo where they made it look like an old Hong Kong martial arts flick. Now the fame won’t stay, nothing does, but that’s still real. A lot of people are going to want to soak in that fame, hear you tell the story.” As Jayvon watched her, Fuzzy jammed her hands into her sweatshirt’s front pocket. Her hands fidgeted wildly and she looked away. “What if I don’t want to say anything?” she asked, quietly. “Yeah, that won’t work.” Fuzzy folded her arms in defiance and also to give her fidgeting hands something to hold on to. “Why not?” she said, through gritted teeth, “I can just tell them no. They’re used to that.” “Just won’t,” said Jayvon, “I know how the upper class work. You did something real. You’ve got fame and that fame is big enough to become prestige. They're going to want that.” Fuzzy’s brow furrowed in confusion and she leaned forward, as if not hearing correctly. “What? I don’t get it.” “They’re going to want to give money and favors to you so they can soak up your prestige.” Fuzzy’s jaw hung open. This was baffling. “How does that even work?” “They’ll try to buy your time and attention,” he explained, “And they sponge up your fame by association.” “But why? Why do they care? Why not just keep their money?” Jayvon clicked his tongue and blew out a breath through his nose. “Fuzzy, they don’t care about money,” he explained, “To most people here, money isn’t for spending. It’s for keeping score. They have so much that they’ll never need more. But there are some things that just can’t be bought of the shelf. It needs to be found and courted and cultivated. Money is how they get prestige and that’s how the wealthy compete, or at least how a lot of them do. They go about it differently where I’m from, but not that differently. Everyone wants prestige. It’s how they keep track of who’s on top and who’s not. It’s the rich man’s sport.” Fuzzy wanted to grasp her head in confusion, but her hands were fidgeting too much for her to trust herself. “No, I don’t want to,” she said, her tone firm, “If it’s a sport, then I’m just not going to play.” “Won’t work,” said Jayvon. “Why not?!” she shouted. Jayvon fixed her with a flat stare, but tore his gaze away from her. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply a few times and turned back to look at her, head tilted. “Please do not shout at me,” he said, quietly, "I am trying to be friendly." Fuzzy’s shoulders slumped and she suddenly felt guilty. “Uh...Sorry,” said Fuzzy, awkwardly, “Just...I don’t want to. I’m used to saying no and being heard now." Jayvon looked at her intensely and then nodded once, tension easing. “Fuzzy,” he said, slowly, “You don’t get it. Prestige among the wealthy is a sport, but you’re not a player in that sport.” “What?” asked Fuzzy, “How can this be sports if I’m not playing?” Jayvon shook his head and sighed. “I hate to break it to you, Fuzzy,” said Jayvon, “But you’re the ball. The gathering of prestige is one of the sports of the wealthy and they are always on the lookout for a new ball. When they find that new ball and they play with it until they get bored. They kick it up and down the field and the winner spikes it in the endzone. I’m sorry, but the ball doesn’t get a say. Not if they really want to play and I'm pretty sure that the folks here will want to do just that.” Fuzzy didn’t know what an endzone was, but she didn’t like the idea of being kicked or spiked. It conjured the image of ball being stuck on the end of said spike and waved around. So she spoke the first thing that came to her mind. “I don’t like it,” she said. “Well, you’re going to like this even less,” said Jayvon, “Again, it’s all over social media, even if things are cooling off a bit. So I’m going to ask you a question and I’d like you to extend enough trust to me to answer it.” “Why?” Jayvon licked his lips and drummed his fingers across his knee. “Because,” he said, “The more prestige on the line, the rougher the game. I don’t know you well enough to like you past what you’ve shown me, but I like you so far and I respect what you do. I don’t want to see you get…” Jayvon paused in thought, trying to find the right word. “Burned?” she supplied. Jayvon nodded seriously. Fuzzy grimaced. “So the question?” asked Jayvon. “What?” Fuzzy had already forgotten, but remembered at the prompting. “Right, what is it?” she asked. “Well, people are going to ask you about this,” said Jayvon, “And I know this because people know I’m here and employing you and I’m getting asked. Not just students, but mostly or they're asking for someone else. You’re here and you’re not leaving so no one else can talk to you.They all know you took down a toxic spirit. Now I suppose they didn’t ask you at the party because it was new and people don’t want to look too eager in front of their peers, especially if they’re trying to figure out what kind of game they’re all playing. Eager players are considered bad players. They’re curious if you took down that toxic shaman too.” Fuzzy suddenly became very still as she tried to keep her cool. The familiar feeling of an adrenaline dump flooded her system. The world became clear, sharp and her focus increased. No slowtime necessary. Her heart sped up and she licked her lips. She convinced herself that yes, she could do this, all she needed to do was say no. Prepared as she could be, she cleared her throat and spoke. “No?” she squeaked. Jayvon buried his face in his hands and began to laugh. “Holy poo poo,” he mumbled, “Uh...Holy...Stuff...Wow.” “I’m not a lady,” growled Fuzzy, uneasily, “I...I wear a tuxedo.” Jayvon didn’t even notice. His laughter wasn’t mocking. It seemed to come from a place of disbelief- A nervous release of tension. “I’m not,” she said, defensively, “I do. I don't...Know.” “Okay, sure,” he sighed, “You wear a tux. Okay, that’s uh...Wow. Yeah, you went from college to pro leagues there. Please tell me you can lie better than that.” Fuzzy didn’t say anything. She only blushed. Jayvon squinted and inclined his head forward and he blush intensified under that scrutiny. “Like at all?” he asked. “Not really,” she said, self-consciously, “I’ve never really had to.” “Lie?” “I mean, not about anything important.” “And no one told you that this was happening?” asked Jayvon, “Social media explosion?” Before Jayvon could answer, something seemed to click and he came to a realization. “Do you...Know anyone who uses social media?” he asked, “Like at all?” “I’m...Sort of learning computer stuff,” she said, awkwardly, “I uh...I have a commlink. I’m taking a class on computers.” “No...Social media? No streaming? Not even a...Um...Matrix forum? Maybe a hunting forum?” “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” Jayvon’s mouth hung open, face twisted into disbelief. “Don’t even...I live and breathe this stuff. Everyone does,” he said, “When I heard that no one gets matrix access outside of a single terminal in the lunch room I thought they were joking. Fuzzy, it’s a huge part of everyone’s life and you’re so unplugged that you don’t even seem to know what plugged in means. A million people watched that trid of yours. A million and counting.” Fuzzy tried to think about how many people a million was and so she counted up the zeroes on her fingers. She'd been working on her math after all. Ones, tens, hundreds, thousands, ten thousands. She paused, frowning, she’d already blown past a lot and couldn’t imagine that many people. Maybe a thousand, maybe. She kept going, ticking her fingers. Hundred-thousands, millions... "Oh," she said, "Oh poo poo." The only reason that Fuzzy’s hands weren’t fidgeting were because she couldn’t visualize a million people. Her normally fidgeting hands were paralyzed by doubt and fear. That many people watching didn’t seem real to her. Any fear she had was replaced by her total lack of context. She wasn’t sure about the idea that so many people had watched her- People she didn’t know, but she didn’t know how to object. So she tabled that problem for later and focused on sports that used her as the ball. “How do I stop it?” she asked, finally fearing the answer, “The...The game? How?” “You don’t, you ride it out,” said Jayvon, “You take the money and the favors and you deal with it. If you want help riding it out, I can help. I play this game too or used to I guess, but I’d rather see you as a person rather than a ball to kick around.” “Or spike me,” said Fuzzy, tensely. “No spiking.” “Good...Good...Yeah...” “If you want, we run this past your friend Kenji since he seems to know what’s what so he can confirm that you’re not getting a bad deal. Maybe we can help you pretend you’re a lower stakes ball than you are and keep this game friendly. Otherwise it’ll probably spill out past the school and cause all sorts of problems for you.” Fuzzy didn’t know what college ball meant, but she did very much want to keep this stupid game friendly if she had to play. “Wait, I thought this was just the school,” fretted Fuzzy. “It’s already past the school, but not by much” he said, “Lucky for you, fame is fleeting and they’re probably scared enough of you that they won’t won’t feel entitled to mess with you too much. At least at first. They know you went toe to toe with a toxic spirit and won. They think that you might have defeated a toxic shaman. We just have to convince them that you didn’t. With luck it’ll be over in a few weeks and they’ll be on to the next game and barely care what you did because all of that prestige will have been taken. Sucks, but I am against bucking tradition if you hadn't noticed.” This mollified Fuzzy. At least it wouldn’t be forever. She liked respect from people she knew and cared about, but didn’t like the attention from random people. “There’s really no way out of this?” sighed Fuzzy. Jayvon stroked his chin in thought. “The only way out for you is if they find a better ball. A more exciting game.” Then he shrugged. “But where would you find that?”
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Mar 31, 2020 02:19
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And I'm pooped. So I remember very well many of you telling me that I didn't focus enough on Julie as this is Julie's book and I took that to heart. We got a long talk with Fuzzy and Jayvon, but a little narrative trick I used at the end, the sport of the rich is prestige and how the poor become the ball. Well, that's not actually talking about Fuzzy. And we see a hard shift towards someone else in a new context. It's also ends in page turner after a really long chapter and I apologize for nothing. That's all I've got. I'll work on more soon. I'm feeling good and writing up a storm.
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Mar 31, 2020 02:29
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I'd completely forgotten that we're still dealing with the fallout of that video going online. Wait till Jayvon hears that Fuzzy's whole group is making a magic club. (Literally the third time I've mentioned it today but it seems relevant!) I like the mix of Jayvon here. He's knowledgable but he's not perfect. I really want to see him deck someone with a fully functional body. Ice Phisherman posted:I'll work on more soon. I'm feeling good and writing up a storm. 
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Mar 31, 2020 04:00
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