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Before heading in I unclip the tail bag and switch off the bike. I back the bike into the brush leaving it pointing towards the road in case I have to make a quick exit. The driveway sweeps up to a modern re-interpretation of a “log cabin”, as much glass as log. There’s a big double garage across from the house, hopefully inside there will be some fuel for a chainsaw or similar. As I walk towards the house ground level automatic lights flicker into life to guide my way along the path. There’s a camera above the front door so I elect to keep my helmet on, I’m sure no-one will ever watch this footage but it pays to be thorough. The lock on the door is electronic with a conventional mechanical lock for back up. I pull a tiny bundle of leather from my bag, unrolling it to reveal a small set of spring-steel picks. The lock looks extremely tough, brushed chrome over a hardened steel casing, the barrel is conventional though, all show and no go. I feed a thin fiberoptic wire into the lock channel, it’s attached to a little wireless module with a standard camera sensor inside which I can view from the pocket slate. Satisfied that there are no side-pins in the lock channel I pull the camera out and slide the tension bar into the top of the lock channel, applying a bit of pressure with my left hand before sliding the first pick in. It takes me a few tries to feel out all the pins, there’s a couple of anti-pick spools in there; Not an entirely worthless lock. I’m in no hurry however and eventually the lock yields its secrets to me and the tension bar goes slack in my fingers as the barrel rotates. Dim ambient OLED lighting embedded in the walls comes on automatically as I open the door. The main space of the cabin is open-plan with only a breakfast bar dividing the kitchen from the rest. Expensive retro-rustic furniture is dotted around alongside pictures of a couple in various holiday destinations, tanned, blond and grinning with immaculate titanium white teeth. A couple of the pictures show skiing holidays and I make a mental note to check wardrobes for some thermal underclothes. Once in I pull off my helmet and quietly close the door. The place is stone cold and there are dust sheets covering some of the furniture. Nevertheless I pause for a minute with my mouth slightly open to help me hear better. Satisfied that I’m alone I walk into the kitchen area and make a beeline for the 50’s style refrigerator, suddenly hungry. It’s been turned off and cleaned out, so I turn my attention to the cupboards. My search doesn’t net me much, three tins of some luxury brand imported sardines and some slightly stale crispbreads. A quick root through the condiments on the breakfast bar reveals the dregs of a bottle of hot sauce. Good enough. Hell, add some butter and a nice Belgian beer and we’d be away. I pop two of the tins open in the sink and hungrily stuff crackers and sardines in my mouth with the oil and hot sauce dripping down my chin. After cleaning myself up and downing a couple of glasses of water I start to explore the rest of the cabin. The first room is a walk in utility cupboard, washer, dryer, snow boots but no more food. There’s a locker in the corner with a keypad on it, probably a hunting rifle or shotgun. No good to me and not worth my time to crack it. I don’t, as a rule, carry a gun. Experience has taught me that weapons generally get you into more trouble than they’re worth in this job. Get pulled over with a bunch of obscure computer poo poo and no-one cares unless they really know their stuff. Get pulled over with a firearm and the law has a reason to dig deeper. The other rooms are just bedrooms and bathrooms. Digging through the cupboards in the main bedroom I manage to dig out an old thermal shirt, it’s a little loose but it will work well under the jacket. Hunger partially sated I slump onto a huge sofa and set my slate to wake me up in 3 hours. It’s not much but it’s better than nothing. When I wake up the sky is just starting to lighten with the promise of morning. I rub the sleep from my eyes and head over to the kitchen unit, stuffing the rest of the crispbreads and the last tin of sardines into the bag for later. I dig through the cupboards and find a three large stainless steel sports bottles and fill two with water before stuffing them in the side pockets on the bag. The third I will keep for extra fuel. I sling the bag over my shoulder and have a quick stretch, flexing my aching joints before pulling on my helmet again. The air is crisp and cold as I walk over to the double garage, tossing the empty tins deep into the bushes on the way. There’s a chunky padlock on the side door but after a few minutes it, too falls to the pick set. I open the door and fumble for a light switch. As the old fluorescent lights flicker on with a hum and a ‘ping’ I see an oddly small car in the far bay, covered with dust sheets. Something ancient judging by the shape of it, built before crumple zones and safety cages. The back wall is covered in tools, pegboard dripping with chrome vanadium baubles. Rusted antique Valvoline signs and race memorabilia decorate the joists. Garage heaven, I almost feel bad for eating the guy’s sardines. I spot what I’m looking for. There’s a rack of shelves with various fluids on the far side of the garage and as I make my way over I can’t help but take a peek under the sheets. A Lancia… Fulvia? Seventies, at a guess, done out in vintage rally garb; Roll cage, stripped interior, race seats and gold alloys in flared arches. All of it topped off with a blue and yellow livery, race numbers, a pair of spotlights on the front, the works. If you’re going to tear around the ruined roads here, there are certainly worse ways to do it. Leaving the glorious little Lancia to slumber under it’s sheets I turn to the shelving and find a couple of tins of 98 octane premium fuel “For Classic Vehicles”. Probably just normal synthetic with a lead substitute additive for old fashioned valves, it will do for the R1 just fine. I find a clean looking funnel on the bench and fill up my empty sports bottle before wiping down the outside and stashing it in my bag. Leaving the can and funnel next to the door I stroll down the drive and pull the R1 up to the garage, filling it up to the brim before putting the can back exactly where I found it. Locking the garage I sit on the R1 while the engine comes up to temperature. Now it’s cold there’s a stumble in the idle, I’ll have to check the plugs when I next get the chance. The sky is getting lighter now, the sun will be up soon. Time to go. ReelBigLizard fucked around with this message at 11:30 on Dec 20, 2015 |
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Dec 18, 2015 17:28
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y e s
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Dec 19, 2015 09:50
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best thread
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Dec 19, 2015 23:49
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Deliverator delivers.
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Dec 20, 2015 02:13
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I was about to go to bed, but I've spent the last hour or so reading this thread. This is right up my alley. Shut up, write a book and take my money already.
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Dec 20, 2015 03:14
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the poi posted:best thread Agreed 
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Dec 21, 2015 10:27
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Bookmarked and 5'd
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Dec 21, 2015 14:52
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Gunna drop another sound track: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q29bweNyGjM
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Dec 21, 2015 15:44
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Holy poo poo how have I missed this thread for so long, it's loving awesome.
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Dec 22, 2015 16:07
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Thanks for all the kind words guys.  I made a "graphic" to add to the OP because I felt like it.  With the next few days being mostly taken up with presents and family stuff I'm unlikely to start chapter three until next week, but I'll try my best.
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Dec 23, 2015 20:31
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loving RAD, man!
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Dec 23, 2015 21:56
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There are few things better than reverse-lo-fi 80's Cyberpunk. This is so rad.
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Dec 24, 2015 00:57
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This is loving awesome.
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Dec 24, 2015 11:39
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This is what I've been waiting for my entire life. Keep going, for the love of AI.
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Dec 24, 2015 12:22
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I regret that I have but one  to give
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Dec 24, 2015 17:24
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ik sticky plz Seriously though, this is amazing. You could end up publishing this stuff if you write enough, I'd buy it.
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Dec 24, 2015 21:10
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Damnit, I hate getting into these things and realizing they just started. This is brilliant and I need more. Edit: And the authenticity of the little details (like the lockpicking) really make the story, IMO. KillHour fucked around with this message at 00:53 on Jan 4, 2016 |
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Jan 4, 2016 00:45
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KillHour posted:the authenticity of the little details (like the lockpicking) really make the story, IMO. Thanks, details make a good thriller for me. I think it's getting more important to more people with the advent of the internet too, because readers have a lot more in depth knowledge about weird subjects. Before you could get away with fudging details and what are people going to do, look it up in a library? Without further ado, a small morsel. I have to get some work finished for a client this week, I'll see if I have time for some more. ========================================= 3. Clay County Sunday Morning The road is getting better now. The sun is burning the morning dew from the landscape and the R1 is punching holes through the little rivers of mist in the dips of the road. I can barely feel my thighs, it’s dead cold but at least the thermal shirt is helping under the jacket. After a while I pass a sign welcoming me to “Clay County: Home of Beaucette Fruit Farms”. It isn’t long before I start to see expanses of poly tunnel greenhouses in the fields either side of the road. The farms are extremely automated, though they still require a few humans to manage things. It isn’t long before I come upon a roadside diner, the lights are on but it looks empty. The temptation of a hot breakfast is too much. I pull the bike in around the side, mostly hidden from the road by a couple of dumpsters. Pulling off my helmet I clip it to the bike and sling the soft bag over my shoulder. The door hits a small brass bell as I push my way inside and the smell of coffee fills my nostrils as I walk in the door. The place has the feel of somewhere that has been a centre of a small community for a long time. The back wall is covered in pictures and newspaper clippings featuring the same honest, hard working faces. One of those faces greets me now, a girl in her late twenties at a guess, dark hair tied back in a ponytail. Cute, curvy and in all the right places. She’s probably the fantasy of a few of the regulars in here. The embroidery on her shirt says "Lizzy" in faux fifties cursive. “Mornin’” she beams. “Hey. Any chance of some breakfast?” “No problem but the kitchen isn’t up to heat yet, you okay to wait?” “As long as there’s coffee” I smile. “Creamer?” she asks, beaming back. “No, black for me, thanks.” I reply, bringing the mug up to my nose and inhaling deeply. “Here’s the specials” She motions to a blackboard on the counter. “We got real bacon too” Out of habit I glance up at the walls behind the counter but she stops me short. “Nah, we don’t have a cert’. One of the regulars keeps a couple of pigs, we’ve got real eggs too, same guy.” She gives me a wicked smile “The county health inspector comes here for it so it’s not like we’re getting busted any time soon. Besides, you're not going to snitch on us.” "What makes you say that?" "You came from the north, parked your bike out of sight from the road" "Very observant." I chuckle "Maybe I don't want someone stealing my bike?" "Sure." She taps her nose theatrically and heads into the back. I look over the menu. It’s been months since I had real bacon. The cultured stuff you get in the stores is pretty good these days, technically it’s made of real pork, just not from a living pig. Something about the uniformity of the synthetic stuff always disappointed me. I grew up on meat with a bit of gristle, something to chew. The cultured meats are made to the market ideal and market research apparently says the people just want uniform paste. It had been a good thing of course, now we can enjoy meat without worrying about cruelty to the animals. Commercial farms are held to a much higher standard now and you had to be certified to sell it. The unfortunate side effect is that prices for the real stuff had risen sharply. “You decided yet?” the girl calls from the kitchen. “Bacon and scrambled eggs, please” I holler back through the window. “Good choice. You want toast with that?” “Rye, please.” Halfway through my second cup of coffee I decide it’s time to see what havoc the incident in the park has wrought. I pull out my pocket slate and re-enable the network connection. It doesn’t take long to find the thread of stories. “BREAKING NEWS: Explosion in Humboldt Park, at least one dead, dozens injured.” “Police not ruling out a terrorist attack, refuse to comment further” “New Caliphate claim responsibility for park attack, experts doubtful” “POLICE detain a motorcyclist who exited the park seconds before explosion” I open up the last story. There’s a CCTV picture of me taking the package from my ex-client, face obscured by the helmet. Next to it is a mug shot of a man I don't recognise. “Police traced the motorcycle to an address in lakeshore last night. Neighbours say he was a quiet man who spent hours in his workshop working on old motorcycles and ‘god knows what else’. Police say that the man has a history of posting messages on far-right groups.” It has to be the guy I cloned the registration chip from. It should buy me enough time to get clear, but they'll work out it wasn't him soon. Eventually they'll also figure out that the chip must be cloned, and that chips even can be cloned. The others will be angry with me, it's going to dent the value of the exploit on the black market. Still, it's going to take them a long time to figure out how it's done and much longer to implement a fix for millions of vehicles. Lizzy comes out of the back and parks a generous plate of bacon and eggs in front of me. They're done to perfection and I tell her as much. I'm struggling with the last piece of toast and flipping through the news feeds on my slate when I decide to pull out the package for another look. The security tag is an RFID single use one, the antenna and bare silicon chip are integral to the loop that passes through the tabs, with a resin over-moulded casing. They're applied by specialist tools and require a very well equipped lab to remove without destroying the chip, way out of my league. "Ugh, you're going to touch one of those while you eat?" Lizzy is standing at the counter, looking disgusted. "You know what this is?" I try to sound like I do. "Bio sample, right? My Brother breeds horses and that's how he gets the... you know." ReelBigLizard fucked around with this message at 15:38 on Jan 11, 2016 |
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Jan 11, 2016 13:16
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I like the serialized story as much as I hate it. If this were a book, I'd probably read it in one sitting.
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Jan 11, 2016 15:20
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This should be stickied to become a weekly segment.
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Jan 12, 2016 03:18
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Reacon posted:This should be stickied to become a
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Jan 14, 2016 20:12
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“You’re right, not really appropriate for the table” I slip the cylinder back into the case and go back to my toast. The bell on the door rings as I’m settling the bill, heralding the arrival of more customers. Out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of a man and a woman in dark clothing and a bearing that suggests military experience. “Good morning Miss.” Formal tone, unfamiliar, not a regular. “Mornin’ folks” Lizzy beams. “Looking for breakfast?” “Just two Coffees to go, black, thanks” He’s talking to her but I feel eyes on me. Lizzy walks back up to my end of the counter and starts pouring coffee into paper cups. She looks tense. The guy is saying something in hushed tones to the woman. “So Nicky,” She says it straight to my face. “You going to see Stu and the guys before you head back home?” “Oh, yeah. I guess I could show my face” I reply, hiding my accent, playing along. “Is Stu’s mom out of the hospital?” “She’s home but she’s still not doing so great, you know.” I nod like that’s a thing and Lizzy takes the coffees back over to the till. I allow myself a slightly better look, the guy has a high and tight military haircut, the woman looks severe with her dark hair tied back neatly. They both look serious. They pay for the coffees and head out to their vehicle. I shift a little so I can see it, a dark grey double cab electric pick up. I turn back to Lizzy. “Why’d you do that?” “I dunno” She shrugs. “I didn’t like the look of them. Gave me a bad feeling” “You might be helping some sort of murderous criminal” “Nah, I’m a good judge of people” then mocking my accent ”you’re a good egg” I’m about to admonish her for her terrible rendition of BBC English, I only have half an accent really, when I catch something in the reflection of the coffee machine. As I turn to look the woman is running back towards the front door in a low tactical hunch and the guy is taking cover behind the open door of the pickup with some kind of squat, fat-barrelled gun up in his shoulder - some kind of grenade launcher with an electronic sight on top. I’m half way through leaping over the counter, shouting for Lizzy to get down when the air-bursting “smart” flashbang punches through the window and detonates. Lizzy is a deer in the headlights and catches the full force of the blast. It knocks her back against the wall and she slumps like a ragdoll behind the counter next to me. My ears are ringing and my head is pounding from the concussion. I can’t hear it but I know the female shooter will be crashing through the door right now. poo poo, I left my bag and the package on the counter. Looking under the counter top I see an old baseball bat suspended on a couple of bent nails. I’d prefer a shotgun. ReelBigLizard fucked around with this message at 12:08 on Jan 24, 2016 |
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Jan 23, 2016 17:54
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poo poo just got real 
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Jan 23, 2016 17:58
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Jan 23, 2016 18:35
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I came to post this exact emoticon. This is awesome.
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Jan 23, 2016 18:47
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Fragments of napkins, shredded by the blast, are floating down like snowflakes as I grab the bat. Looking up at the chrome of the coffee machine I see movement in the diner, the second shooter is moving towards where I had been sitting. I quickly glance around the floor beside me and find a bottle of ketchup amongst the debris. Watching the reflection again I can make out the dark shape of the shooter moving towards the counter, maybe she's seen my bag. I’m only going to get one shot at this. I fling the bottle down the length of the counter and it crashes into a shelf of crockery. At least I hope it crashes, everything sounds like I’m several feet underwater right now, burst eardrums most likely. As the bottle hits the crockery I shove myself up off the floor with all the strength I can muster, twisting and swinging the bat as wide as I can over the counter at chest height. The adrenaline is flowing hard now and the world is slow, I’m screaming. The bat connects with something, the something makes a hollow, metallic sound. As my line of sight catches up with the arc of the bat I can see it's the end of a suppressed machine pistol. It’s a solid hit, the gun would be flying across the room if it wasn’t connected to the shooter by a sling loop. It flies around her back, tangled in the sling. I try for a back-swing straight away but she’s ready for it and dodges backwards out of range. She’s good, high speed - no fumbling for the machine pistol, she goes straight for her belt and a combat knife appears in her hand. As she gets a better footing I notice the pot of coffee on the hot plate in front of me. I grab it by the handle and hurl it at her as hard as I can. She ducks, half turning, covering her face against the shower of hot coffee. It's almost enough time for me to vault the counter. Almost. As soon as my feet hit the floor she’s right on top of me with a slash at my arms. I’m grateful I kept my jacket on as the knife connects with my forearm and glances off the metal zip. I swing one handed in reaction and miss, at least it makes her step back again. It's been a long time since my training and it didn't cover use of baseball bats. We'd only been attached to the SF guys as a support unit but they put us through some fundamentals courses to make sure we could hack it if we had to tag along in the field. Watch the shoulders. That's what he told us. The shoulders tell you what they're doing, not the eyes. I get my feet to a stable position just in time. I see her right shoulder drop and she goes for a low slash to my hands again. I swing the bat low to block and keep it going right on around in an arc for an immediate counter attack. She's stepping in towards me as the bat connects with the side of her knee. I feel a shove in my side. She screams and falls to the ground clutching her leg. She doesn’t bring her hands up to her head in time to stop the next blow. There’s a sickening crack as the bat connects with her cheekbones and she flops to the floor, motionless. I feel something warm run down the left side of my chest. As I look down I see the hole in my jacket, the wet leather. There's not much pain yet. Picking up the knife from the floor, I cut the machine pistol free of the twisted sling. ReelBigLizard fucked around with this message at 02:43 on Jan 24, 2016 |
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Jan 24, 2016 02:41
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Loving this, keep it coming!
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Jan 24, 2016 03:38
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This is good.
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Jan 24, 2016 03:41
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What will become of our intrepid hero? 
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Jan 24, 2016 08:59
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Given what Americans think represents "real" bacon now, I dread what the future holds on that front.
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Jan 24, 2016 13:26
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InitialDave posted:Given what Americans think represents "real" bacon now 
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Jan 25, 2016 01:05
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Narrow, overcooked to the point of being brittle strips that have a remarkable low proportion of meat.
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Jan 25, 2016 01:53
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The author is British ex-pat, right? He's come around to bacon > rashers.
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Jan 25, 2016 02:47
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It's all airstrip one in the future.
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Jan 25, 2016 08:56
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InitialDave posted:Narrow, overcooked to the point of being brittle strips that have a remarkable low proportion of meat. That IS bacon. Otherwise it's ham. I'm loving this story. Kind of glad I neglected the thread for a while so I could read a bunch to catch up. Now I've got to wait again <sigh>.
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Jan 28, 2016 19:16
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For the record, I'm British, not an ex-pat but I've spent a lot of time stateside. My preference is thick-cut streaky bacon, smoked, fried until just the edges crisp up. ================= I check her belt. There’s a couple of extra magazines, some zip cuffs and a compact aerosol can of what I can only assume is some kind of CS spray. I grab the aerosol can and the magazines. The rounds in the magazines are small, with bottle-necked casings and tiny, high velocity bullets - designed for penetrating body armour. The little machine pistol is unfamiliar to me but it has the standard controls familiar to anyone who has used a modern tactical firearm. I check the chamber like they taught us and then the fire selector, three round burst. The suppressor took a good hit from the bat, there’s a big dent in the body. It might still work but I don’t want to take the chance of rounds hitting the internals and flying unpredictably. I find the release catch and toss it aside. My left ear is a little clearer now, maybe just the right is burst. I can just about hear the guy shouting outside. He’s going to be charging in any second. I toss the can of CS so that it lands next to the entrance and scurry to the back of the diner, taking cover behind the end of the counter. Bracing against the corner of the counter I place the bright red dot of the sight on the CS can. I can't see through the door from here but I see a shadow against the wall as the shooter reaches the doorway. The door opens a little way and the barrel of an assault carbine pokes through, mounted to the forward rail is a rugged little camera, probably feeding to glasses or a small screen. It will be calibrated to the barrel so it can be used for shooting around corners. I stay motionless and take up the slack on the trigger. The door opens a couple of inches more and as it does I start increasing the pressure on the trigger steadily. Lizzy coughs and moans behind the counter, she’s starting to wake up. The shooter shoves the door open further in reaction and the machine pistol judders in my hand. At least one round hits the CS can and it suddenly jumps and spins on the spot as a cloud of irritant spews out of the hole. I pull back around the counter just in time to dodge the return fire. The back wall erupts into tiny fragments as he fires off what must be a whole magazine. When the firing stops he’s coughing and uttering curses. This is my cue. I charge from cover towards the window, the glass is already fractured, damaged by the flash-bang, I’m glad again for the jacket as I crash through. It’s about a 6ft drop from the window and as I hit the ground the cut in my side erupts in searing pain. I roll as I land and, fighting through the pain, bring myself up into a kneeling position. As I hoped he’s backing out of the door coughing and sputtering, eyes and nose streaming. I already have the bright red dot on him by the time he realises what is happening. The machine pistol barks out another three rounds, and again, and again until he falls down. There’s a sort of sad, surprised expression on his face. Centre-mass, until they go down, just like the training. Here come the bacon and eggs, just like they said. ReelBigLizard fucked around with this message at 15:44 on Feb 5, 2016 |
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Feb 5, 2016 15:41
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Just dropping in to say that I'm still enjoying your updates.
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Feb 7, 2016 17:58
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^^ Second. This is 
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Feb 7, 2016 22:58
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 and never stop please! This is great.
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Feb 8, 2016 07:00
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Only read the first installment, but hoo boy! Keep 'em coming! Edit: OK, mainlined the rest, and that's amazing! Publish a book already! Also, I think your predictions are pretty spot-on, in parts. I wouldn't be surprised to see self-driving cars forming swarms down the highway within my lifetime. bolind fucked around with this message at 15:18 on Feb 9, 2016 |
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Feb 9, 2016 12:51
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