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In, and ready to be propelled into actually working by the fear of disappointing others.
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Jul 14, 2016 16:29
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| # ¿ Apr 26, 2024 12:17 |
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City/Rescue! Flesh Sellars, 1,099 words The air smells like spice and cordite, intermingling unpleasantly; around her feet, formerly domesticated guns edge towards her, then away, skittish and awkward. One of the merits of a well-bred gun is its independence and killing instinct — helpful for getting revenge on the off-chance that your brain is destroyed in a firefight — but these are the grubby mutts of Macellarian gutters, poorly-made and press-ganged by local rent-a-thugs, and “loyalty” is foreign to them. Anne tosses a few scraps of bread to the curb for them, and they begin picking at it like ungainly, lethal pigeons, glinting in the half-light of sunset. “Is now really the time?” comes the artificial voice from behind her back — this connected to the brain of Floria von Hitte, living “calculator" and backseat driver. “I mean, I’m glad you’re comfortable enough with our situation to feed stray firearms, but judging by the men who assaulted us, they are no longer holding to my creator's will vis-a-vis taking me alive —" “Ma’am,” Anne interrupts, “with respect, I was given to understand you’re worth more than eight fools with street pistols.” Ms. von Hitte sputters, which is an impressive sound on a vocoder, but she presses on — “And you can’t be blamed for not knowing, but we’re walking into a trap." “How so?" “Been moving towards Ames Street Station all this time. Fastest route out of Macellar. Any competent goon’d point us towards a dead end.” Anne slips a hand to her holster, feels Old Reliable nestle into her hand and flick open his eye-sights. "I don’t trust happy coincidences." “So you’ll leave us sitting ducks?" “Better to make the trap come to you, ma’am.” Besides, she doesn’t say — partially because Ms. von Hitte, given any ground, will argue a point to death — it’s all alleys and fire escapes down here, and there’s entrances to the foundation tunnels. Bright open spaces would be like wrapping Ms. von Hitte’s jar in a bright red bow and attaching a tasteful thank-you card for snipers. Better the alleys, the non-threats of unmanned guns and children’s toys and distant howling dogs. A rare sound, in Macellar; meat on a dog is meat not being used. “…fine. I’ll defer to your superior tactical experience, then.” A brain in a jar and a voice without inflection shouldn’t be able to sound slighted, but this one manages. “Our next move?" “Pinpoint escape routes. Cover our flanks. Let ‘em sniff around for us here while we’re on the move.” There’s a tunnel entrance in a side alley, as luck would have it, installed around new buildings so workers can sharpen the mandibles and clean the drills. The lock is new, but broken — someone else down there? Doesn’t matter either way, Anne figures, flipping it open with a foot. No way forward, no way back, but she won’t go out in a corner with an empty chamber, and neither will Floria spend the rest of her life as a tool for the underworld; at least they won’t die like dogs. Dogs. The baying is louder, no longer muffled, and she realizes it hasn’t stopped since she first heard it. Too long for any real dog to howl — with its original lungs, at least. As it emerges she has already stepped backwards, jammed her back to the too-close wall, ignored the toneless gasp of the vocoder and fired two shots, in such quick succession that Old Reliable's hammer-dewclaw rings like a fleshy bell — all this before she sees the face of the thing she’s plugged. There’s a dog in it, at least, a German Shepherd, but one choking, like its throat is being forced into a different shape every second, and its canine muzzle is emerging from a human torso, fat, the color of uncooked dough, and completely naked. What a waste of a good animal, is the first perverse thought that pops into Anne’s head, even as the bullet disappears into rolls of meat. von Hitte is murmuring something, but it’s drowned out by a sudden eruption of sound from the dog's throat. Her aim is better this time, and she lands a shot directly between its eyes, but it keeps screaming — no, talking, albeit in a horrible tortured voice — in a way that apparently has nothing to do with the brain. “RETURN THE CALCULATOR & YOU WILL BE SPARED & PAID A FINDER’S FEE." “She’s with me, friend, so I suggest you step back.” Anne checks the backdrop and escape routes — nada, really — and enters a mental region of total focus, a sort of cultivated murder-trance; her senses besides sight and hearing seem narrow, everything non-essential on hold to make room for hyperaware tunnel vision. Only Ms. von Hitte’s monotone still cutting through the shroud. “Escape. Escape.” Don’t you think I would if I could? “BE REASONABLE & RETURN OUR PROPERTY. IT IS WORTHLESS TO YOU.” Idly, she blows another hole in its torso, testing the waters. Not so much as a flinch. "AND STOP THAT." Old Reliable clicks his tongue; she knows he’s used to the satisfaction of a clean kill, and wants to stop wasting ammunition, besides. They’re conservative, are well-bred guns. Three rounds left. Still, von Hitte’s litany. “Escape. Escape. Fire escape.” Oh. Oh. “Put it on my tab.” She jams Old Reliable into the flesh of the building behind her — thank god it’s old and missing bricks — and fires. There’s a horrible seizure-sound, the scream of old metal and bone, as the structure warps and contorts, and in self-defense a metal lattice swings for her like a hammer; luckily, the building is old and slow, and she establishes a grip on the contorted stairway as it pulls back up for another blow, rushes upwards three steps at a time, holds the railing with her left while Old Reliable squeezes off automatic potshots in her right. Two more beast-men, a Rottweiler and a chocolate Lab, emerge from the tunnel-door, making a strangled three-part harmony as they climb after her, but their movements are clumsy and they rip apart metal with every pull on the rungs. At the summit, she pauses (and isn't immediately gunned down, so that’s a good sign) and surveys her surroundings. The buildings are jammed together here, close enough to jump, and the express train, twitching with exertion and exhilaration, is just reaching the station. A few blocks, give or take. Then the streets, and more dogs. Plus the ones behind her. “What are we doing?” asks von Hitte. Anne starts running.
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Jul 17, 2016 21:55
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