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A Teaser from Chapter 2... - Bob Schroeck - 04-22-2016 As Eimi flew all but one of her aerial drones back to the Birdhouse, I stashed the crawlers in a pannier, then hopped on my bike and made my way to the Bronze. I'd been ignoring it all this time, preferring to hunt the hunters in the downtown area. But I really did need to scope it out, and frankly it was overdue. I went vertical from the clearing, then shot arrow-straight across first the spaghetti twistings of the outlying residential zones, over the (mostly) regular grid of downtown, and then into the industrial district, where the faux-underground club made a none-too-successful show of lurking "disreputably" in a warehouse that was very clearly well-kept and managed solely to house it. Gods. Save me from poseurs. It was almost an hour after sunset, so I didn't have to worry about anyone spotting me dropping out of the sky into an alley (unoccupied by anyone living or dead) between two *real* working warehouses. I cut off the engine noise suppression and shot out into the street. One right turn and I was at the entrance to the Bronze's parking lot. So I parked. Stashing my helmet in a pannier, I pulled TunePlug r.11 out of my pocket, stuck it in my ear, and subvocalized "Test, test" as my body heat fed the thermocouple that powered its circuitry and it began to play a stream of synthesized music. "Reading you loud and clear, Doug." Eimi's voice was a couple decibels louder than the music. The plug was a necessary tool for the times I needed to work discreetly in an environment where I was likely to run into songs that might trigger my gift. The music it generated "confused" my metatalent and kept it from activating if I should come upon a song that normally gave me a power. I'd built a lot of different versions of it over the years, and a radio link to Eimi had been part of it since revision 8. The link was the only reason I was using it now -- with my metatalent in burnout, I didn't need to block it. "I'm looking for a back way into the club now." "You little sneak," I chuckled. "Well, it's not like I can carry the cash for a cover charge in one of these things," she mock-huffed. "They don't exactly have pockets." "That's what we need to add to the next generation design, then," I murmured. "I'll see you inside." "Right!" Speaking of cover charges, the bouncers at the door were clearly for show -- there was no line waiting to get in, and everyone got past them. All they did was check the occasional ID and collect the cover. And given some of the clientèle that got past them with the barest flash of a driver's license, it was pretty obvious that the ID-checking was a token effort at best. They didn't even bother when I walked up to the door -- they just took my five bucks and waved me through. "I've found an open window," Eimi whispered in my ear just before the muted music from the dance floor hit me. "Whoa. Way to save on the interior decorating budget, guys -- love the 'early warehouse' decor." "They didn't," I subvocalized as I pushed my way through the mob of teens and early-post-teens thronging the crudely redressed "front office" area which served as a foyer and coat room for the club. "They did," she giggled. "They had either a very minimalist aesthetic or a very minimalist budget when they set this place up. Stage, bar, and a kind of mezzanine which is basically a few support columns, a floor and a railing. Oh, and a couple catwalks, among which I am lurking. That's it." As she described it, I finally pushed past the loiterers at the inner door and hit the club floor proper. Recorded music was currently blasting over the sound system, but the instruments and amps on the small stage promised a live performance was in the offing. It was noticeably warmer than room temperature, as the club's air conditioning struggled, not entirely successfully, against the accumulated body heat of the two hundred-plus club-goers dancing, flirting and schmoozing in the irregularly-lit industrial space. (Not exactly the most comfortable environment in which to be wearing all leather, but hey, I've coped with worse.) The average age of the patrons confirmed my guess that any and all ID checking was token at best -- easily half the club-goers were obvious high-schoolers. Most of the other half were college age. And of course there was me, the world's youngest living centenarian. I made my way to the bar and ordered a beer -- a local craft brew that they had on tap. My metabolism would burn through the alcohol faster than I could drink it -- beer is essentially malt- and hops-flavored sparkling water as far as my system is concerned. (Well, as long as I didn't down a six-pack in as many minutes, at least -- and even then I'd get only a mild, short- lived buzz.) I took my frosty mug and made my way to one of those small, tall tables that are pretty much good only for drinking and snacking and stood there, slowly sipping and surveying the crowd. "Anything?" Eimi asked. "Nope," I mumbled into my beer. "You?" "I'm tracking a humanoid on the mezzanine with a fashion sense and a body temperature both in the mid-seventies," she replied. I raised an eyebrow. "Male or female?" "Female," Eimi said, a little giggle in her voice. "Are you going to..." "Yup." I unbuckled my jacket enough to bare my neck, then splashed a little beer on myself. Thank gods for wash-and-wear body armor. "Guide me in, Mission Control." "Roger that, Hunter One." This time Eimi giggled outright. A couple minutes later, I came up on the target from behind. Brunette, Farrah-cut hairdo, wearing a datedly-Mod avocado pantsuit. I took another swig of my beer, then began my final approach. I added a little sway-and-stumble to my walk, and staggered through the thinner crowd on the mezzanine until I could "accidentally" fall into her and send her drink -- something radioactive green with a slice of citrus and a little paper umbrella -- flying. "Ah, geeze, I'm sorry," I slurred lightly at her as she turned to glare at me. For a moment I saw a flash of gold color her eyes, then they were some dark shade unidentifiable in the low light. Just as quickly her expression flickered from annoyed to assessing. "Lemme buy you 'nother." She studied me a moment, her nostrils flaring. "It's cool. Wasn't what I was really interested in drinking." *I'll bet, lady.* "'m Quinn. So, whatcha want, then?" She smiled predatorially. "Charlotte." She slid her arm through mine. "Let's talk about it." After one outrageously-expensive mixed drink, about ten minutes of dancing, and a whole lot of snarky commentary from Eimi, Charlotte finally led me out a side door into a narrow alley between the club and a tall concrete fence. "Oh, this is nice and private," she said, turning back to look at me as her face shifted from human to bestial. "For..." "This," I finished calmly as I drove the stake from my sleeve into her chest. She had just enough time to look surprised before she exploded into ash -- seventies clothing and all. "I'm *never* gonna get used to that," I said, coughing and waving the dust away. "Just look at it this way," Eimi said, her drone dropping out of the night sky to hover before my face. "At least you're not leaving a trail of corpses behind you. That would be kind of hard for the cops to ignore, after all." The drone waggled insouciantly. "No one notices piles of dust, though." I nodded. "True, that." I opened the door back into the Bronze. "Shall we go back to hunting?" "Yes," Eimi replied. "Let's." The microcopter shot through the door and I followed. -- Bob --------- Then the horns kicked in... ...and my shoes began to squeak. - Matrix Dragon - 04-23-2016 Dougs metatalent's in burnout? Did I miss a bit in Chapter 1, or is that new? Also, love the summary of the Bronze. - Black Aeronaut - 04-23-2016 His talent is always burned out for a week or so after a jump. And yeah, I think he's basically nailed the look-feel on the head. - Matrix Dragon - 04-23-2016 Huh, I completely forgot that little detail. Although now I'm imagining he also uses the opportunity to listen to music that'd normally make trouble. - Cobalt Greywalker - 04-23-2016 Black Aeronaut Wrote:His talent is always burned out for a week or so after a jump. I'd also point out the teaser for Walk S, where due to temporal shenanigans Doug finds the portal song in 24 hours. If it was impossible for that to happen it wouldn't have, but who knows with that level of power involved. - DHBirr - 04-23-2016 Quote:Cobalt Greywalker wrote:And Chapter 1 of DW 2: Doug "felt the power flow" when he tried to gate out of MegaTokyo within 24 hours of arrival. It failed because that wasn't the proper gate-out-of-MegaTokyo song, not because of power burnout. I think he must have tried to force an effect -- that's the only thing I recall being specified as causing burnout.Quote:Black Aeronaut wrote: ----- Big Brother is watching you. And damn, you are so bloody BORING. |