Duality, part the first.
I've been slack in getting this up, but finally, here it is:
1
Footsteps.
Rain. Or more to the point, drizzle. It never really seems to rain there, as if the atmosphere above the city has through some obstinate osmosis, absorbed and reflected the rank of the dank streets, shedding woeful hydropsy.
Footsteps running, splashing through puddles.
A maze of alleys in this, one of the oldest enclaves, built upon, time and time again in some perverted parody to Greek mythology
He slides around the corner, as a combination of momentum and slick grimy concrete refuses to grip the soles of his shoes. Bouncing off the wall, pin-balling himself down the next alleyway, he looks up and has to grab the edge of a dumpster to come to a full halt. Something is up ahead, yet unmoving. A sub-vocalised murmur from his throat kicks in his low-light optics as a slight mechanical whir resonates softly, comforting acoustics in his skull.
As rushing pulse and heaving breaths that dominate his hearing slowly subsides, the optical HUD outlines a figure standing motionless 20 meters away in a brazen silhouette.
It is a shadowed figure head slightly bowed, beyond reflex to keep drizzle from its face, the only real movement coming from rivulets of greasy water dripping from an old fashioned-looking overcoat. The hands are empty.
There is a moment's impasse; the only sound is a rusted overworked drainpipe sluicing heavy-metal-infused slick, like refuse, onto a long forgotten PT hardcopy. Its half-meter long page shredded from the constant downpour, now only a chaotic mélange of its original shape. The darkened figure speaks:
"It's over Needleboy. Don't make me hurt you." The voice intones, wearily.
Needleboy half-crouches and slides his hand into his jacket. Having hoped for a brief respite to catch somewhat of a ragged breath, his pulse-rate only quickens. Unconsciously, Needleboy's cerebellum releases a mixture of adrenalin and endorphins. He's realised that this' the showdown he’d always experienced in his favorite stimvids - he’s no need to order the release of the Bacchanal cocktail artificially.
"Don't-" This time the voice isn’t issuing a warning, but an exasperated sigh, as if berating a child for its continual misdemeanours.
Needleboy knows that in this quasi-twilight, the figure can see not only his HUD glowing under his cornea, evaluating him, including the red crosshairs as the Smartchip initiates a kind of warm-up sequence between the Colt 2k, through his arm, to the reticule fixated on the dark figure.
Needleboy can no longer feel the slimy damp that invaded his saturated clothes a long time ago, the cold sweat that now sheens his body. He can only feel the slight shake in his limbs as chemistry plays its part. An artificial breeze from an ancient fan tousles his hair. Needleboy can almost see the chaps, the 10 gallon hats, hear the barren desert wind. This is it, he thinks.
His hand is a blur as the Colt whips up automatically to the point the now green reticule is aimed at. His second last thought as his finger instinctively squeezes the trigger is oh no, he's got that shake, that vibration. Damn, adrenal boosters...
Two gunshots ring out over the block in a tribal call and response cadence. The city takes a breath, and exhales. Soon it is forgotten over the clatter of the street ecology, muffled by other gunshots answering like howling dogs in the night.
His last thought: No one leaves this city, except in a body bag......
* * *
From his vantage point, crammed into a corner, back against the rotten dumpster underneath a piled cluster of wretched PT hardcopies, Steve watched in abject horror at the few minutes that spelt the end of the shootout.
“The blood… oh dog, the blood…” was all he could utter as his mind reeled upon itself, attempting to reject the sensation of bits of skull, gore, blood that sprayed on him when the head was eviscerated. The sight of seeing a head open like an orchid to the sun, three petals opening with the passing of a trio of black demons; he threw up on himself. Once his stomach was empty, he refused to move lest the reaper see him too.
He thought enough time had passed to make it safe enough to move again, the one in the trench coat started moving again! Steve froze, not knowing what would happen next. In his state of catatonic fear he could swear that as Trench Coat stood, he looked directly at Steve. He could not take his eyes off this Immortal Angel of Death as he looked into an abyss of pain and agony. A cough issued from the Slayer, as it turned and went to its opponent. He’d seen deathly grace like this before, just like the reaper of old, as it pointed its stygian finger. No, this wasn’t a hood - He was a stone cold killer, no remorse.
To his surprise, he went completely unnoticed. He silently thanked as many omniscient benevolent beings he could think of that saved his ass, adding a few agnostic religions in for good measure. The Hunter took his prey with him, dragging its catch towards the noise and light, everything Steve hated, but he had to stay still, lest he be the next on the menu.
Ten minutes later the adrenalin had worn off, and he could feel his calf and right butt cheek cramping up. Throwing caution to the wind, he decided to move and get his poor circulatory system up and kicking again. In a sitting position, Steve stretched his legs and sighed. It felt so good to feel his legs unknot, even the sting of the tingling that promised pain with the return of sensation.
Before I get up, I'll have a drink first he decided and reached across for his best friend, the bottle wrapped in a ubiquitous brown paper uniform, he raised it to his lips only to find it empty. Again.
"Shit" he hoarsely whispered to himself, resting his eyelids. Oh well, he decided so much for liquid motivator and rallied what will power he had left into willing himself upright.
Opening his eyes, Steve found himself shrouded in the shadow of a figure standing over him. Immediately cowering, taking the most offensive stance he knew. He drew the fibrous hardcopies around foetal position had assumed - the Angel of Death had come to reclaim him.
Nothing happened. Steve opened his eyes again. The shadow was still eclipsed him. Slowly looking up, in the way only a cornered animal knows, some base instinct warned him not to even show teeth, let alone bare them. Still the shadow didn't move, and he dared open his mouth.
"Wh-whaddywan'?" He managed through a constricted windpipe. Nothing. Finally it spoke.
"Do you wish to slake that insatiable nature of yours?" It asked.
"H... h’d ya know…?" was all Steve could manage. He swore he could hear a condescending snigger.
"Why, by the luteous scotoma that adorns you. That much should be obvious." Another pause. This time, the voice was gentler.
"Come with me, and you'll not hunger for food, and you may drink as you please."
"Oh yeh!" Steve tried to yell, which came out as a squeak from soured vocal chords. He rose unsteadily and followed his Angel of Death down the alley.
1
Footsteps.
Rain. Or more to the point, drizzle. It never really seems to rain there, as if the atmosphere above the city has through some obstinate osmosis, absorbed and reflected the rank of the dank streets, shedding woeful hydropsy.
Footsteps running, splashing through puddles.
A maze of alleys in this, one of the oldest enclaves, built upon, time and time again in some perverted parody to Greek mythology
He slides around the corner, as a combination of momentum and slick grimy concrete refuses to grip the soles of his shoes. Bouncing off the wall, pin-balling himself down the next alleyway, he looks up and has to grab the edge of a dumpster to come to a full halt. Something is up ahead, yet unmoving. A sub-vocalised murmur from his throat kicks in his low-light optics as a slight mechanical whir resonates softly, comforting acoustics in his skull.
As rushing pulse and heaving breaths that dominate his hearing slowly subsides, the optical HUD outlines a figure standing motionless 20 meters away in a brazen silhouette.
It is a shadowed figure head slightly bowed, beyond reflex to keep drizzle from its face, the only real movement coming from rivulets of greasy water dripping from an old fashioned-looking overcoat. The hands are empty.
There is a moment's impasse; the only sound is a rusted overworked drainpipe sluicing heavy-metal-infused slick, like refuse, onto a long forgotten PT hardcopy. Its half-meter long page shredded from the constant downpour, now only a chaotic mélange of its original shape. The darkened figure speaks:
"It's over Needleboy. Don't make me hurt you." The voice intones, wearily.
Needleboy half-crouches and slides his hand into his jacket. Having hoped for a brief respite to catch somewhat of a ragged breath, his pulse-rate only quickens. Unconsciously, Needleboy's cerebellum releases a mixture of adrenalin and endorphins. He's realised that this' the showdown he’d always experienced in his favorite stimvids - he’s no need to order the release of the Bacchanal cocktail artificially.
"Don't-" This time the voice isn’t issuing a warning, but an exasperated sigh, as if berating a child for its continual misdemeanours.
Needleboy knows that in this quasi-twilight, the figure can see not only his HUD glowing under his cornea, evaluating him, including the red crosshairs as the Smartchip initiates a kind of warm-up sequence between the Colt 2k, through his arm, to the reticule fixated on the dark figure.
Needleboy can no longer feel the slimy damp that invaded his saturated clothes a long time ago, the cold sweat that now sheens his body. He can only feel the slight shake in his limbs as chemistry plays its part. An artificial breeze from an ancient fan tousles his hair. Needleboy can almost see the chaps, the 10 gallon hats, hear the barren desert wind. This is it, he thinks.
His hand is a blur as the Colt whips up automatically to the point the now green reticule is aimed at. His second last thought as his finger instinctively squeezes the trigger is oh no, he's got that shake, that vibration. Damn, adrenal boosters...
Two gunshots ring out over the block in a tribal call and response cadence. The city takes a breath, and exhales. Soon it is forgotten over the clatter of the street ecology, muffled by other gunshots answering like howling dogs in the night.
His last thought: No one leaves this city, except in a body bag......
* * *
From his vantage point, crammed into a corner, back against the rotten dumpster underneath a piled cluster of wretched PT hardcopies, Steve watched in abject horror at the few minutes that spelt the end of the shootout.
“The blood… oh dog, the blood…” was all he could utter as his mind reeled upon itself, attempting to reject the sensation of bits of skull, gore, blood that sprayed on him when the head was eviscerated. The sight of seeing a head open like an orchid to the sun, three petals opening with the passing of a trio of black demons; he threw up on himself. Once his stomach was empty, he refused to move lest the reaper see him too.
He thought enough time had passed to make it safe enough to move again, the one in the trench coat started moving again! Steve froze, not knowing what would happen next. In his state of catatonic fear he could swear that as Trench Coat stood, he looked directly at Steve. He could not take his eyes off this Immortal Angel of Death as he looked into an abyss of pain and agony. A cough issued from the Slayer, as it turned and went to its opponent. He’d seen deathly grace like this before, just like the reaper of old, as it pointed its stygian finger. No, this wasn’t a hood - He was a stone cold killer, no remorse.
To his surprise, he went completely unnoticed. He silently thanked as many omniscient benevolent beings he could think of that saved his ass, adding a few agnostic religions in for good measure. The Hunter took his prey with him, dragging its catch towards the noise and light, everything Steve hated, but he had to stay still, lest he be the next on the menu.
Ten minutes later the adrenalin had worn off, and he could feel his calf and right butt cheek cramping up. Throwing caution to the wind, he decided to move and get his poor circulatory system up and kicking again. In a sitting position, Steve stretched his legs and sighed. It felt so good to feel his legs unknot, even the sting of the tingling that promised pain with the return of sensation.
Before I get up, I'll have a drink first he decided and reached across for his best friend, the bottle wrapped in a ubiquitous brown paper uniform, he raised it to his lips only to find it empty. Again.
"Shit" he hoarsely whispered to himself, resting his eyelids. Oh well, he decided so much for liquid motivator and rallied what will power he had left into willing himself upright.
Opening his eyes, Steve found himself shrouded in the shadow of a figure standing over him. Immediately cowering, taking the most offensive stance he knew. He drew the fibrous hardcopies around foetal position had assumed - the Angel of Death had come to reclaim him.
Nothing happened. Steve opened his eyes again. The shadow was still eclipsed him. Slowly looking up, in the way only a cornered animal knows, some base instinct warned him not to even show teeth, let alone bare them. Still the shadow didn't move, and he dared open his mouth.
"Wh-whaddywan'?" He managed through a constricted windpipe. Nothing. Finally it spoke.
"Do you wish to slake that insatiable nature of yours?" It asked.
"H... h’d ya know…?" was all Steve could manage. He swore he could hear a condescending snigger.
"Why, by the luteous scotoma that adorns you. That much should be obvious." Another pause. This time, the voice was gentler.
"Come with me, and you'll not hunger for food, and you may drink as you please."
"Oh yeh!" Steve tried to yell, which came out as a squeak from soured vocal chords. He rose unsteadily and followed his Angel of Death down the alley.