6:30. Time to go home. Judy looked away from the terminal, up at the ceiling, and stretched her neck luxuriously. It had been a long day, and the old man had been even more of a pain in the ass than usual, spitting teeth over the Preceptor's latest speech on Channel 1. _Someone_ would be hiding a new black eye under her blonde hair again, tomorrow morning. Serve the gold-digging little madam right, though. FangFace _had_ been offensive, to be fair -- called the department monstrous, and insinuated that the old man was some sort of vampire. Ha! He wasn't one to talk, the drooling green freak.
It had been a good day, though. Judy smiled to herself as she crossed the room to grab her coat. She'd finally tracked down the mailing list that Max was running, and set up a filter to cross-check it for cool gossip. When you had an SCL of 2F.9 -- even if it was just for research purposes -- getting access to the private communications of the Great and the Good wasn't the problem, finding the bloody things in the first place was. Something like half a million new lists flickered into life every day, which had made tracking the slimy bastard down a bit of a problem. On the plus side, it had been months since she'd even _seen_ a D-Notice.
For a wonder, no-one dumped any more work on her on her way out. She called a nervous "Good night, Sir" to the old man as she went passed his office -- risky, but less risky than not saying anything at all. Five minutes later, she was out on the street, waiting for a car. The driver had obviously been briefed; once he'd established where she was going to, he stayed resolutely silent, the intercom deactivated. Even if she burst into song, he wouldn't have heard her.
Her promotion four years ago had been something of a surprise. She was good, brilliant some said; her ability to cross-reference half-remembered threads of information and tie them together was unique. Once, a certain pattern in a lab technician's lunch records for the past six months had reminded her of a similar curve in a sheet of experimental records she'd glanced at once, and a bit of research let her pull up the reason that the GreenBelt project was repeatedly failing (a bacteria in a certain chicken paste). Even so, she'd never expected to rise so fast.
The reality of the situation didn't hit her until a couple of weeks
later.
She'd been testing the limits of her effective SCL, browsing old files when
she stumbled over some memos about the whole Carrien project. She was up
from her desk and across the room, heading towards Strand's office in
outrage, before it sank in -- the knowledge could kill her at any time.
There would be no further promotion, no retirement, no movement from the
post. Vayde, or whoever, would assume she knew everything. Strand, Slayer,
they already knew. She spent the rest of the day stockpiling infobombs,
hiding them around the networks and keying them to filters talking about
her death; back home, she spent the night doing more, stole an oyster to
set a few more with. Cloak would never be able to be sure they had them all
-- but they'd expected that too, and a comfy Mexican standoff quickly
settled into routine obedience. Still, the pay was good, and there were
perks, and if she couldn't talk about her work, she did get free rein to
satisfy her curiosity.
The car pulled up to her block and let her out, the driver gone almost before she closed the door. As she ambled up to the entrance, a figure stepped out from besides the doorman, and stood in her way. "Miss Deakin," he stated flatly. The man was young, barely out of his twenties, and underneath his coat, his clothes were trendy, this week's fashion.
"Go away," she muttered.
"Miss Deakin, please," he said, moving to block her way again.
"I said go away, you bloody idiot."
"I saw your pictures in Karma. I'm your biggest fan."
"For the last time, go away!"
"I only want your autograph. Please, Judy." His eyes begged at her.
"Don't do this. Go away. Please."
He shook his head, moving again to stay between her and the door. "I
can't. I must have your autograph."
"You're only making it worse. Leave. Now."
"No." He shook his head again, rebelliously. "I won't leave until I
have
your autograph." He thrust a promotional still at her, and a pen.
Judy paused for a moment, weighed her options, and slumped, defeated
and
depressed. She grabbed the pen, scrawled a quick signature, and thrust it
back at him. "There you are. Now fuck off, quickly."
He started to thank
her, but something in her eyes finally got through to him, and he finally,
finally moved off. 'Too late, fool,' her mind screamed at him. 'Too late.'
"Judy, honey, are you there?" The voice crackled over the sub-dermal
headset she'd been given.
"Of course," she sighed.
"Who was that, Judy?"
"No-one," she said. "Just an autograph hunter. Some rich kid."
"Ah," said the voice. "Of course. Good night."
"Good night," she replied dully, and entered her housing block past
her
resolutely silent doorman. As the door closed, she heard the shots ring
out, and glancing over her shoulder, saw the kid collapse in a shower of
blood. Four years. Four years, going on life. She sighed again, and went on
up to her luxurious isolation.
(c)2000 Tim Dedopulos and Nightfall Games Limited
Imagine there are two of you. Which one would win?
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