Questions. Endless fucking questions. Don’t let the shirts and ties fool you, for Senti’s sake don’t let them suck you in. You know who I am, you’ve seen a few bytes of footage at least. No shows had a blackout policy on me back when I started.
Killjoy, contract killer. You know, black coat and fedora hat with a FEN 666 Viper by my side? Yeah, that’s me, the one who was too good for the streets. That’s what the ads say anyway. Most unlikely to succeed was my original label, too soft on the competition. Well I’ve gone far haven’t I?
Everyone I talked to from Meny couldn’t believe it. ‘That fat loser with the undercut? Oh yeah, I remember him. He’s doing what? Get out of here! But he was always such a try hard, how’d he get on the uptown circuit?”
I’ve heard it a million times. Hiding out at clubs, going incognito. Losing half my weight certainly helped and a better hairstylist goes a long way. The few real friends I had would run the gambit for me. Don’t know why I can’t get over it, why I can’t stop giving a shit about these cliquey assholes. I guess I’m just dying to know their expectations, what it is that people think of me.
All the time the one opinion that counted got ignored. What’s your opinion now Ma? How do I look, sitting here in this damp and stinking room, waiting for the start of yet another death match? Are you turning in your grave, deep in some shit pond past the wall or served back in disguise to the ignorant masses downtown? Your son’s a killer and he ain’t no good. Do you still look at the heights of Central through eyeless sockets? Does it leave as bitter a taste on your mind and in your mouth as it does to mine?
It started out good enough. Fight the good fight, take it to the subversive. See other worlds and the bizarre and wondrous inhabitants. Blow their brains over the landscape to make way for the mining vessels. That’s right, I trained to be an operative. Man, was that a wake up call. The more they taught the more I wanted to know. Eventually I started learning for myself, out in the field. When you’re a Slop you make a habit of sleeping with you’re eyes open. Holy shit, was that a mistake. Looking here looking there. Seeing this then seeing THAT. Some things are like an eye magnet and you just can’t peel your peepers away. You’re conscience won’t stop replaying it either. Like a downtown raytube it keeps playing on and on and on, burning the backs of your eyes.
Anyway, like I was saying, questions. So many questions from that incident I had to run away where they don’t ask you to answer questions. They just issue orders for you to kill people. That’s something I thought I could deal with. That’s right the good old contract circuit, kill or be killed. But it’s never that simple a game. Turns out, the questions don’t go away, they just change places with new ones. Is he wounded? Do I have a tactical advantage? Did he shoot six times or only five? How much time is left on the clock? Does he feign to the right or the left when he does his sig move?
It’s amazing how much I really do suck at this. Don’t get me wrong, I have a few good kills under my belt and I give as good as I take. But the mind game, that’s the one I lose. All the old doubts, all the old mistakes and all the old cares. I always have so many answers and hardly ever pick the right one. I suppose it doesn’t matter. There’s always LAD. All the martial training in the world don’t count for spit when you blast their leetle grey cells with leetle steel jackets. Not too good for the cameras but at least you can finish with your nose clean.
So that’s me. Contract Killer. Killjoy, the rapture of murder. That’s what my logo says. No, I didn’t choose it. It doesn’t even suit me, I spare lives for Senti’s sake! Yeah, you thought I sucked or didn’t have the balls huh? No way, I make the choice not to take all my kills. It’s the only luxury I allow myself, the only expectation that comes from my heart and mine alone. Some people are not worth the effort. Some are worth more than my glory.
My sponsor hates it. The stuffed suited assholes even drafted my sister to teach me a lesson for sparing Sour Blood once. She’d spent all her time running around suburbia and uptown on a cushy I&I ticket. She lasted about a week.
“I promise you, I’ll only do the non-lethal matches”.
“Yes.” No, not a naïve response, a cowardly one.
“Its OK isn’t it? You don’t mind?”
“…No” Lying through my teeth there.
“Look, a couple months and I’ll leave with lots of money. There’s lots of money in it, right?”
“Yes.” What a load of Wraith shit!
See, I can do a BBTD (that’s my signature move, body blow take down. No, it doesn’t sound too flash does it) in a millisecond but couldn’t save my sister from her own delusions. My sponsor practically had a gun to both our backs then, but it’s a shallow excuse now. I sold her life and my soul down the sewer. Cheurrin was in her first match. Need I say more?
I always tell them my mercy code comes with the package and it’s even specified in the style guidelines of the contract. Not that it matters, a corporate will always do whatever they want to those beneath them. Quick buck or not, they do shitty things to people only because they can.
I don’t know anyone higher than my managing agent, which is why I’m doing a Tynes gig I guess. That and the fact I let ‘Face Taker Farrah’ survive last month, there is no honour in slaughter in my code. Face Taker is too stupid to play this game and it ain’t no secret.
My stay at Tynes started with one Skins match, a free for all. Yeah Skins, no armour allowed. Anyway, I won. After that I was contractually obligated to play the ladder as far as I could. Fuck me, I can’t believe I kept winning. My stupid professional pride kept getting in the way, I really have to stop living up to other peoples expectations. I checked the guest list for the big event tonight, the usual mix of colourful and deadly whack jobs. Sour Blood is in too, just what I need, another fucking distraction.
But there is some small consolation, Bloody Valentine is in the fight. Now that’s what I call professional. I’ll be honest, she’s become my poster girl. She is so fast, so deadly, so confident and a total babe to boot. I see a brutal kind of honesty in her style. She never does the tough talk unless she’s really going for the kill. Sure, she’s got a mouth that’d make a Frother blush, make no mistake about that. But that’s not the point, shes… shes… shes the perfect woman. Others say ‘bug fuck nuts bitch’ but that’s ok, you’ve got to make your mark somehow.
I just hope I get to fight her. Will she be impressed? Will she like me? Will I be able to kill her? Shit, questions again. Always with the questions.
“Live from the Tynes complex downtown, it’s Sunday Skins and Splatter! I’m your host Ken Ukliff bringing you the best in huntin, shootin, slashin and killin on the Contract Circuit. I’m joined here in the studio tonight by Messiah Hack, “The Hackmeister”. Winner of the 894, 895 and 896 Tynes Skins Championship Trophy.”
“Hey.”
“Feeling good about tonight’s big event Messiah?”
“Just Peachy.”
“That’s Terrific! Well tonight promises more spills and thrills than the last four weeks of qualifiers combined. For those of you not familiar with Sunday Skins and Splatter, it’s a no holds barred slaughter fest between some of the toughest contenders the circuit has to offer. The only rules, no armour allowed in the arena. Bouts of sudden gory death and drawn out pain and suffering are sure to ensue, right Messiah?”
“Yup.”
“…. OK then. Lets go through the list of tonight’s players. At the top of the ladder we have Sour Blood, the man with no fear. Weighing in at a whopping 210 kilos, the Bloodster looks to take all comers tonight.
“Yeah, all ‘comers’ is about right!”
“He hasn’t been fighting quite the same since a huge knowledge fine was handed down to him over the SLAmas break. Speculation is rife over a Hunter Sheet off world involving a Darknight serial killer with a lot to say about SLA.”
“Probably laughing his face off at Sour bitch more like.”
“Moving right along, Bloody Valentine. Ex-serial killer and the current Skins Championship Trophy holder. Emerging from the serial killer scene of downtown, Bloody Valentine is something of a mystery surrounded by rumour and innuendo. With Tynes, Bloody Valentine has chocked up a huge body count rivalling the likes of Ultra Violet and Delia the Destroyer.”
“Anything that brings more bouncing to the Circuit is a good thing.”
“The Hackmeister got a soft spot for the ladies eh?”
“No Ken, not soft at all.”
“Next on the ladder is Mr’dth. As we all know, Shaktar rarely join the circuit. In this case, Mr’dth lost his parents and more recently his brother Gr’kth to Bloody Valentine’s claws.”
“Now that was a real loss.”
“Mr’dth has publicly announced his grudge against Bloody Valentine on several occasions. Valentine is yet to respond to his challenges, guess this one will just have to play out in the arena.”
“Something worth coming out of retirement for.”
“At number four we have The Quaker. A huge ex-Dante bruiser, pure muscle with an attitude to boot. His implants are so oversized he needs a titanium exo skeleton just to stand up. The controversial March 900 judgment of the Syndicated Mort Circuit Referees and Players Guild says it isn’t classed as armour. Combined with the old horse of Dante, the Warmonger, the Quaker has the advantage here tonight.”
“So what? His periphery is shot to hell and his implants just get in the way.”
“But what do you think of him as a player?”
“You want me to be honest, or tactful?”
“Ah, tactful I think.”
“Just another shell-shocked nutcase ratfucker. He won’t last long.”
Next we have Killjoy. A dark horse contender slumming it from the uptown circuit. All that people really know about him is his impressive time scores from the killzone arenas. A professional and a gentleman as well, so the rumours go.”
“Gentleman my arse. He’s got this weird ‘mercy code’ which he uses to choose his kills. One day he’ll meet someone who will ice him in the back for it, no mistake.”
“Well, his September proposition to Burn didn’t get him very far, apart from far down the street from an ebb blast!”
“Exactly, he need to play with more balls and brains if he wants to survive.”
“Well you ought to be the judge of that! The sixth and last contender in tonight’s competition is Macarbe Mim. This buzzsaw queen chews through her opponents in no time, a big favourite tonight and a Sunday Skins and Splatter regular.”
“Nice bouncing, shame she is a complete moron.”
“Well, you certainly proved that 5 years ago eh?”
“Exactly, once her ammo dries up she runs. All those black clothes and deathly perky goth chic don’t count for squat. And the Hackster dares anyone, AND I MEAN ANYONE, to prove him wrong!!”
“Well, she’s certainly a hit with the kids. Her cute morbid style and wit have netted some lucrative Indie fashion sponsors.”
“An Ultra Violet wannabe, that’s all. A coward and a poser.”
“So that’s the line up of champions tonight for the 901 Sunday Skins and Splatter. We cross live to the floor now with Janice Vice!”
The lights come on and the door opens. Question time is up, quest time begins. I check my kit once more. Custom FEN Fury with BLA spiral clips Fenoptic laser scope and Sigerson decals. Crap, total crap. But it sells like hotcakes apparently, an oversized toy for some dumb rich kids. The only saving grace is the laser scope. It can pick out a suit of armour on it’s own, it uses some sort of thermal magnetic imaging techniques. I don’t even need to look down the sights, it uses force feedback on your trigger finger. Balky and experimental, but in this cold weather it should be fine.
But all is not lost on trademark chasing impracticality. I check the power level on my FEN Hellchyons. Two wide bladed short swords, powered of course. Heavy and tricky to use, but they can lop off a chagrins leg in one strike. All it takes is a little practice. I’ve always got the Fury, but I always use the Hellchyons.
No cheering crowd, it’s a closed arena. I step up to the entry, the breeze chills me through and the rain pours down as ever. Funny, you’d think after living on Mort all my life I wouldn’t notice the rain anymore.
Did I mention I’m not wearing armour? That’s a skins match for you, no armour. Lots of gore ensues but the pay is good.
Did I also mention I’m now freezing my balls off? The rain soaks through my Krosswear black vest and Sharpe black business shirt. I hate skins matches.
Oh shit, all this downtown rain will make the laser scope useless. Guess I’m stuffed then. But I tell you what, it’ll be one fuck of a good fight all the same!
So, lets check the scene. My arena entry has good cover. Good, no preliminary sniping. I take a few steps out, keeping low. There’s usually about half a minute of deploy time to head for cover, a cease fire period. It’s reliable. If you break it you’ll get kicked out of Tynes. Thrown to the wolves at the gates basically.
Enough musing, time to go to work. The arena is a group of tenements surrounded by a concrete wall, plenty of cover here there and everywhere. I'd guess by this stretch of the wall that it covers at least six blocks. The rain is too heavy to see beyond the six tenements scattered in front of me. I’m about five storeys high, on a bank of rubble that leads to the street below. Burnt out cars, concrete rubble and other wreckage form a thick maze of debris at street level. At my level, walkways stretch between the buildings. There’s so many, they almost form another street level.
I reckon I’ll start with bullets up high, then hand to hand in the maze. That’s how this will be won. My usual silent stalking will be ruined by the spot bees humming into step with me.
I draw the Fury and move out low. I take the high road, sliding along in a caged walkway.
I can’t see any other contenders and start to shiver. Cold and that doomed feeling make such effective bedfellows. Advantages take time, patience Killjoy.
Courage Killjoy….
Macarbe Mim hits the ground running. Too eager for a kill, too scared to stand still. She huffs as the Buzzsaw in her hands strains her. Her spot bees whine as they try to keep up.
“Well it looks like Macarbe Mim is out for fun. Just look at her go!”
“Too fast and noisy. Good, bouncy footage though.”
“Macarbe Mim is brought to you by FEN and Black Widow Studios, Choose the future, choose FEN.
Mr’dth strides out. Claymore drawn, he moves with predatory certainty, straight for the debris maze. Where else would Bloody Valentine be lurking?
“Not much action from Mr’dth. He seems to be having a lovely stroll, Messiah?”
“It’s called warrior’s confidence.”
“Mr’dth is brought to you by Fat Jack’s Shack of Shaktar, We got your shack right here!”
Bloody Valentine, however, is nowhere to be seen. Right after exit she vanishes into the maze, her spot bees losing track of her very quickly.
“The usual form from Bloody Valentine. Wether we get a repeat of last years bloodbath is yet to be seen.”
“If so, lets hope Mr’dth makes a tap fitting out of her.”
“Bloody Valentine has no sponsors tonight. Her spot bee crew is sponsored by Third Eye News, Insight beyond the Third Dimension!”
The Quaker stands for a time, grinning. Not until he hears the first bursts of gunfire does he move. Not until there is a fight to find does he stir. His maniacal laugh spills forth as his Warmonger lights up, hungry for slaughter. He leaps into a dead run.
“It looks like some of our contenders have already met. The Quaker finally makes his move, just look at that mad bastard go!”
“I hope he gets whacked very soon!”
“The Quaker brought to you by Power Projects, Harnass the Power!”
Killjoy enters the arena with caution, staying low and scoping out the terrain. He pulls a weapon and moves quickly for the high ground. He sticks to shadow like carrien sticks to flesh.
“This is Killjoy’s first Tynes bout. Lets see if he can handle the pace of a real downtown slaughter fest!”
“Look at him, he needs to get the operative training manual out of his head. He may win the arena war but he’ll never win the ratings war.”
“Killjoy is bought to you by FEN, Choose the future, Choose FEN!”
Sour Blood is posing. He has a high point picked out and all his spot bees are circling in unison. His usual pre-match banter ensues, picking out his marks and prophesying glory to come. He too strides off, uncaring of what may lay ahead.
“There goes the champion for the evening. The man with no fear. Personally I’d bet my Grandmother to the Trade that he will be tonight’s big winner.”
“….. you’re a fuckwit Ken.”
“..Ah, S-Sour Blood brought to you tonight by Nuke, When you absolutely, positively have to win the fight first blow, Nuke Tendon!”
Bullets fly like pelting rain.
On the edge of the maze, Mr’dth slouches and trots. The rotten remains of girders and walkways are being pulverised by Mim’s onslaught. The Shaktar is quickly covered in rusty dust. Along the rain he begins to resemble a manchine nightmare.
pingpingpingpingpingpingping
“No amount of clip burning can save you from your own stupidity girl”
The game monitor patchs Mr’dths’ derision to Mim’s MEchip.
CRdddddddddddddddd CRddddd CRddddddddd CRddd CRd CRd CRd
“I am death and I come for you. You skull will look good holding a black candle!”
pingpingpingpingpingpingping
“Your load is as small as your brain Ape!”
Mr’dth is unconcerned with Mim’s boisterous attacks. From the squashed lead and flakes of rust falling around him, he can tell she is still moving. He ducks lower, listening intently. The din of powder burn and richochet increases, she is homing in on him. He hears footsteps, casings pattering to the wet concrete. She is getting closer.
pingpingpingpingpingpingping
jinglejingle jingle jinglejinglejingle
“Come closer loud mouth. Right were I want you!”
CRdddd CRd
“All you will want is your soul. I will own you!”
THUD
Mr’dth is pleased. Mim has hit the wall between them, thinking she has cover. No doubt the Buzzsaw is tracking his position right now, waiting to eat through rust and find him naked to assault. She doesn’t even hear how loud her own breathing is.
hhhhZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
The Shaktar smiles as his claymore moves, “You are mine!”
“Good night beast.” Mim brings the buzzsaw to bear.
CRdddddddd
ZZZZZhTHUCKzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Mim’s finger goes slack on the trigger. Her eyes slowly track down, all she can see is three feet of blurred, reddened titanium sticking from her breast. The smell of singeing flesh reaches her nostrils, a curious thought about Mr’dths’ weapon enters her mind before she realises she has lost.
A sound of frustration and regret falls from her throat before her heart gives out.
“…nn….”
“And the unworthy falls!”
Mr’dth is troubled. Not for the lack of glory in Mim’s death, but for the claymore now wedged in the steel. He is too occupied with freeing it when he feels the tap on his shoulder.
I keep to the shadows as ever, my Fury steadfast at my side. I’m trying to work myself self up to being pissed off but its hard when you’re nads feel like ice cubes. I might as well draw my coat closed. Sure, the chicks may dig the whole muscular man with billowing coat and machine gun thing. Sure, I need to work on my ratings right now. But damn, it’s just too fucking cold out here!
Then the gunfire starts, towards the maze. I flip off the safety and close in. I edge up to the last corner, high up on a walkway. I look out, its an open street. Just right for catching people in the open. Guess I’d better stay away from there.
Peering around, I can see Mim. She matches her bio shot, right down to the last skanky black dreadlock. Oh, except for the bloodied rod protruding from her chest. Her buzzsaw dangles from slack fingers.
“One down.”
I hear the click of the Game Monitor patching my comment to someone’s MEchip. I hate these things. Some advertising executive came up with a bright idea to increase the dialogue in games. Anything you say gets picked up by a subdermal chip and relayed to the nearest killer. ME stands for middle ear. Dissolves after twenty four hours and feels like a carrien is trying to fuck your earhole.
I get some talkback. “…………….you moron scrotum licker! Lots more to come fuckstick!”
Oh Bugger! I know that voice. Bloody Valentine is near, I haven’t even set up my play with her yet. I look around desperately, trying to find the slightest movement. She won’t be wearing her Silverback, she’ll have her old Serial Killer costume on. Billowing black and red Grimcloak with her trademark teeth stitching.
I see a flash of red in the building across the walkway. I break into a dead sprint, I’m crossing in full view of the street but I think it’s lesser of two evils. Sparks start flying off the wall where I was. She’s loaded nickel jackets, they look good for the cameras. Sparks follow me along the walkway till I break her line of sight.
A quick glance over my shoulder and I get a shiver. Plaster and brick work crumbles off the walls at shin height.
Looks like she wants to play with wounded prey. Fuck me, she is just too cool.
I had better double time it to the street.
Behind him, far off down the street, he could see The Quaker. The amber lights glinting off the madmans chromed exo-skeleton. The rain blurring his silhouette.
Before him, Sour Blood clambers deftly over the debris. The lump he put on the Shaktars face is still swelling.
The Shaktar had spun low to take his surpriser by surprise. Sour Blood had been too fast. A stunning blow to the Shaktars head and a superbly executed Rocket Throw and sent the massive alien sailing out of the maze.
Being defeated by Sour Blood would not do. He could not, would not, die to this one.
Or the Quaker, who was scant moments away. Time to manoeuvre Sour Blood into place.
“So Sour Blood, you favour a strike from behind. Perhaps the rumours are true after all?”
Sour Blood grimaces. “The King is gonna bury this size fifteen shoe up your ass you hissy bitch!”
“You would like that wouldn’t you? I’d say the rumours are definitely true then!”
“Mother Fucker! Sour Blood ball breaker!”
Sour Blood sweeps his foot up for a low strike. Mr’dth, blocks with ease. Sour Blood’s moves are too well telegraphed. The two juggernauts move in and grapple\, attempting to knock each other off balance.
Blood’s legs Wraith Lock on Mr’dths’ knees. Mr’dth Snake Strikes into a lock on Blood’s elbow. They pound each other with their free hands, locked in a battle of strength. Though Mr’dth is strong and pure, Sour Blood is crafted by state-of-the-art whip ass. Mr’dth needs another advantage.
He presses it. “KtDisjointment!” *SCHPOP*
The Shaktar’s strength is sufficient, the elbow pops under the Shaktar’s subtle scaly manipulation. Sour Blood’s grimace turns to one of pain.
The Quaker says, “Poppity Popsicles”. The Warmonger says, “wwwWWAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU”.
It’s scream reverberates up and down the street. Tar and concrete rains upwards, chewed away under the onslaught. Sour Blood falls away from the Shaktar, clutching his displaced joint and wailing. A bullet passes through his shoulder. Dirt and water clouds around and over the two. Mr’dth runs for all he’s worth towards the maze and dives. A bullet clips his thigh, but he makes it too cover.
I have a new position, another high walkway. Bloody Valentine hasn’t followed me. At least, I hope she hasn’t. I lay down to keep a low profile. This walkway overlooks the street as well as the maze, if I stand up The Quaker might see me.
Looking into the street, I can see him. I can hear his Warmonger from up here, shit that thing is huge! Shit, he’s huge as well. The bio didn’t do him justice, he’s wider than a three-one-three. That exo-skeleton webs all over his body, how the hell did he get it approved?
I can’t see Mr’dth from here, but I can see what’s left of Sour Blood. The poor bastard is riddled with bullets. Or should I say, getting even more riddled with bullets.
Pity, cause I was looking forward to a shot at kicking his ass.
The Quaker doesn’t care about his kill obviously. I can see his mouth babbling as he empties his clip into Blood’s…. well, into the puddle of blood that was Blood.
Watching, I see something take the Quakers attention. He moves the Warmonger impossibly as he starts bombarding the maze. Sour Blood forgotten, he is advancing with speed. I swear, that exoskeleton rig of his has got some serious non-SMC approved hardware. I watch as he runs along, tracking something in the maze. I can’t make out his power source, I have enough trouble making out his skin from this distance, that rig is fucked up!.
That’s it! Whatever happens, I have to kill this bozo permanently. How’s an honest-to-SLA Contract Killer supposed to hold up against that sort of cheating?
A glimpse of red jolts me from my musing, the Shaktar is moving my way fast. He can’t get me from down there, but that’s the plan. I pull one of the Hellchyons, it’s Karma leather effect handle tacky from the filthy drizzle. Another quick look over the edge and I drop the weapon point down. Hopefully my guess is right and Mr’dth will come across it shortly.
“Well look at this generous shit sucking dirt clad mother fucker right here!”
That wasn’t the MEchip, unfortunately. The warble of video drones reminds me, keeping a low profile only works when your not out in the open.
I roll and flip my legs up and over my head just in time. I can hear vibro claws sizzling across the concrete where my hip was. I’ve dodged her first attack, not that it matters of course. Because I’ve flipped right off the walkway.
“Well its ten minutes into the game and what a super fight its been! Recapping for those that have just tuned in, Macabre Mim is the first down to Mr’dths’ slick Shakkie moves. After a quick brawl with Sour Blood Mr’dth has run off into the maze leaving Sour Blood to The Quaker.
“Pool of Blood more like.”
“We’re broadcasting live from Tynes and the match isn’t over yet! I’m your host Ken Ukliff and here with me is Messiah Hack. So, how about that bad ass Shaktar Hackmeister?”
“Well, he is surviving so far but he’ll never make the big leagues. Oh, if he finds out that you said he ‘ran off’ instead of ‘took cover’ he’ll probably kill you.”
“Hows that Messiah?”
“….well, firstly, he moves to fast. He’s too eager to make the kill. He doesn’t draw out the fight. He doesn’t let the crowd have a good show. Secondly, Shaktar don’t run from battle, they make tactical manoeuvres.”
“So you think more blood and guts is needed. A bit more of the old splatter splatter eh?”
“Yep”
“…. Ok, well how about Bloody Valentine and her game of Cat and Mouse with Killjoy?”
“He’s an idiot. I saw him out there, he’s not even paying attention. Now he’s flipped right off that walkway, serves the dopey bastard right!”
“So you reckon you’d do better against the Cut-em-up Queen eh Messiah? I think she’d make chop suey of you in no time big fella!”
“….. you’re a fuckwit Ken”
I fall. I’m just getting my bearings to try and roll on impact when I hit something soft. Well mostly soft. Its actually quite hard but it crumples. Just as well my fall was broken and not my neck. Whatever it is, its big. No time to think unfortunately. I recover in time to hear the sound of inevitability.
wwwWWAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!
Debris and thunder is showering me, time to move on. I roll onto my hands and knees, staying low. Shit! I fell on that dopey Shaktar bastard. Double shit, he’s getting up. I catch a look at his eyes as his head swivels about, he’s pretty pissed but also a little groggy.
I get an idea. Actually, I kind of planned this differently, but what the hell! It’s not like war has the courtesy to stick to everyone’s schedule.
wwwWWAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!
Our cover is wasting as fast as my time. I draw my second Hellchyon and put it in the Shaktars hand. His expression changes in an instant. It’s not a look of relief, it’s more like suspicion. At least its not murderous rage. He nods and crawls off in the opposite direction, keeping his head down.
A quick look around and I notice my other Hellchyon, point down in a mud puddle. Time to do my dry cleaner a favour. I belly crawl into the puddle and wrench the thick blade free, just as I see a mountain of flesh and chrome appear over a pile of debris.
Quick as a wink I submerge. The filthy water closes over, hopefully he didn’t see me. Even more so, I hope he moves on before I need to breath. The water stings my nostrils. Looks like a few days in detox after this.
Somewhere, faintly, I can hear a killcopter. Looks like Sour Blood will survive.
That’s more than I can say for me, because the Quaker has just planted a meaty foot right next to me.
“Ken Ukliff here with Messiah Hack for Sunday Skins and Splatter. We’ll be right back after a message from our sponsors.”
……..
“Ken?”
“Yes Messiah?”
“Do you think you could try not to contradict me so much? I do know what I’m talking about you know.”
“Eh? What was that? Look Hackoff, if you think I’m going to back down on MY commentary, especially when you call me things like ‘fuckwit’, then you’re sorely mistaken!”
“I know you have obligations but we need a bit more cred in our…”
“Cred schmed schmacklehead! We’re here to push the sponsors agenda, OK? If we don’t then maybe you ought to start think of which part of the sewers you’ll be taking a nap in tonight!”
“But I’m calling the plays right, you keep predicting the kills wrong.”
“Look here you worn out old bastard, the bloodletting we can’t control, BUT, we can control peoples opinions. We say what they want them to gamble. So forget this veterans analysis bullshit and stick to the betting sheet. We have to push the odds up on The Quaker now that Sour Blood’s dead. I tell you, that man is so unreliable!”
“Ok Ken. Do you think I could have another hit now?”
“No, and if you don’t lift you’re game you won’t get the rest of your supply, got it?”
“… yes Ken.”
“Now, are you ready to talk up The Quaker?”
… yes Ken.”
“Right, we’re back in three, two, one….”
………..
“It Sunday Skins and Splatter live from Tynes, things are tense now folks. By a sheer stroke of luck for the audience, all remaining contenders are now within thirty metres of each other.”
“That should put the Quaker at an advantage. In close quarters they can’t compete with the Warmonger.”
“That’s right Hackster. Sour Blood got splattered and I think I can see…... yes, that the LAD copter is landing right now. We can look forward to Sour Blood returning to the circuit within a week I’d say.”
“Lets hope he learns something from this.”
“Alright, Bloody Valentine is about to close on the Quaker. Lets cut back to the arena with Janet Vice for more splatter action.”
…….
“Ken?”
“What!!”
“Was that better? Can I have a hit?”
“Well, alright. But no more until we get betting on the Quaker up to sixty percent you hear? We can’t let our margins slip can we? I want three bays full of Quaker punters if he makes it too the end right?”
“…yes Ken, no Ken, three bays full Ken.”
“Good, now. Here’s your dose.
“*ksssssss* Ahhhh…yes Ken. Thank you Ken.”
The Quaker tracks for a target. Back and forth, sweep left and sweep right. The Quaker drools, slip and slop, bubble and drool. His erection presses hard against the steel ‘Circuit Box’ under the exoskeleton. Like his squad commander always said, “Balls and brains boys. Balls and brains, the rest we can stich back on”.
The nanotech sensors within his exoskeleton ping the debris for power sources. Even low voltage vibro weapons should show up, especially if they’re moving.
The puddle he stands in grounds the static from the sensor sweep. The voltages playing on his rig would set off any referee modules listening for game banned tech. Only his sensors can pick up his own signature on the water before it dissipates.
He knew they’d watching him, they were always watching him. Ever since he left Dante, they observed him, keenly seeking out any sign of subversion. He had proven his loyalty time and again and he realised the truth. They were the subversives all along. But he was planning. With no plan there is no attack. With no attack there is no victory. Their lies would be laid bare, THEY would be revealed as the subversives. He would truly rejoice the day Mr Monger kissed them down, all down, dead dead dead dead. Poppity pop go the bodies, schlockity schlock goes the blood. La de da de da bang bang bang bang with his Monger. Mr Monger shining red. Red red red red….
“Red red red red red, oh lookie, Poppity Popsicles time!!”
His sensors alerted him to an energy signature, moving in fast. The Quaker broke his mad reverie and swung the Warmonger.
wwwWWWAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU
A pile of broken bricks and rusted girders began collapsing in on itself. The rain, spinning debris and bullets blurred the scene into red static. From the collapsing womb of decay was birthed a flying black dervish, spinning up and up, away from the Warmongers favours.
Down it now streaked, racing faster than the Quakers reactions. It arrived inside his fire arc, slipping a vibro claw in between the exoskeletal web and deep into the madman’s flesh.
“Fuck you fat cunt!”
The claws plunged and sliced neatly at exposed flesh. Tendons detached, the Warmonger dropped to the ground from fingers gone limp.
The Quaker bellowed, rasing his face to the sky. His one good fist clenched and unclenched as the pain ran through him. Deep inside his veins, nanobots also ran through him. They reset bone, sewed ruptured bloodcells, wove new muscle fibres and gathered in chains to guide tendons back along their grooves. But try as they might, they could not stem the tide of damage.
Her hands wielded their many blades with absolute precision. Then the blood inspired her, Bloody Valentine abandoned herself to the old anger, “I’ll finger fuck you, finger fuck you finger FUCK you, finger FUCK YOU, FINGER FUuu…”
The Quaker, Mr Monger forgotten, roared again through bleeding gums and shredded lip. The speed of his arm as he struck was impossible. It was easily as heavy as Bloody Valentine herself. Her claws were stuck in flesh, her feet were slipping on his wet and blubbery chest. Bloody Valentine could not avoid him. He struck, something cracked and Valentine flew away from him with speed.
The Quaker turned, ready to stomp the bitch. I was about now that he also felt cold steel press into his groin.
“Don’t you fucking touch her!!”
I try to push my head above the water, but it’s no use. That bulging Gunfucker is standing on my coat. My lungs are protesting now. I won’t last much longer if this bastard doesn’t move.
Just another stupid move in a long chain, great one Killjoy. You’re a useless ass. Every time I start getting ahead I’ve gotta fuck it up.
Then the Quaker moves.
Just enough, I stretch my neck back and take a breath. Ahhhh, sweet stinky air that you can really taste. Never thought I’d be glad to breath it!
I can just make out screaming and shouting above me. Its garbled but I can tell its full of anger. I had better get out of this mess before my head gets trampled.
My right arm is free, so I use it to free something else. My Fury. I could probably open my eyes and get this bastard real good, but there is a problem. My eyes are covered in watery muck. Open up and I could blind myself for life. Or at least until I sign the piece of paper for Karma finance.
Whatever. Too much thinking, not enough acting. I wave the Fury around, above me. It must look funny on the cameras. Must look pretty fucking pathetic actually. Oh well, it’s my only hope to survive this fat bastard.
My trigger finger feels that good feeling. A pulsed vibration from the trigger that comes in sets of three. It means my laser sight has detected magnetic and ultra-frequency detection coupled with a biological heat signature. Otherwise known as ‘a ripper of a shot!’
It’s about this time I hear a crack and a screech. I recognise that voice now, it’s Bloody Valentine. He hit her! This whackjob asshole just hit her! Now I really do get pissed off!
“Don’t you fucking touch her.”
I trigger lock and his weight shifts. I must have dumped at least ten rounds in him. At last, I’m free! I stand and wipe desperately at my eyes. I face the sky and let the lesser of two evils wash the muck clear. I can see again and what I see pleases me.
The Quaker is curled up like a flabby great ball of pig shit on the ground. Blood spurts from his shattered cock despite his attempts to stem the flow. He probably left his balls in the puddle, guess we won’t be seeing them again. Out of curiousity, I look down. A large, squarish metal box sticks out of the puddle. A circuit box, no wonder I heard rattling when I shot him. Ouch!
I look over my shoulder, Bloody Valentine is also curled up in a ball.
“No!”
I desperately run to her side. I check the surrounds for blood or body parts. She doesn’t react to my presence, it looks bad. I try to gently prise her open, but she won’t budge. Poor girl, she must be in so much pain.
I pull a vial of Kickstart solo and give her a hit with feverish hands. She seems to relax a little and her hands are trembling. Its working.
I take time to see her mask now. I can’t make out her face underneath it. In all the time she has been operating, no one has ever seen her face. Some say she’s just another unstoppable killing machine, a uni a dozen in downtown. I know different. I always admired her style and grace, the purity of her rage and skill. She never backs down, never loses, never takes a kill calmly and never fucks up. God how I admire her.
My hand moves slowly up and stretches out. I touch the coarse black material of her mask and rest my fingers there for a moment. She opens a single eye. Her languid doped stare catches my gaze. Time seems to slow and I find myself daring to pull the mask aside. I pause, then pull my hand away and smile at her.
“Not till you say so, that’s how it should be eh?”
“mmmnnggghhh?”
“You need to wake up. Wake up!”
She closes her eye again and squirms, trying to loosen her limbs. I can’t believe this is happening to me, I can’t believe it’s all working so well.
She turns her head and fixes me with another stare. This one is more hostile. I feel a shiver run down my spine. I had better not forget who I’m dealing with.
“Don’t fear, I am helping you. I gave you a drug, give it time to heal you.”
Her eyes change and take on that famous expression. The one I have seen too often, that squinting hateful look. Before I can react, she has a vibro blade to my throat. Slayer save me, she moves so fast.
“wwwWhat…y..ou want?”
She has such a sweet voice with just a touch of an orientan accent. I never noticed it before, until just now.
“I want to.. to... love…. Look, don’t go there.”
“..wWha?” She pauses, closing her eyes. She must be either very doped or in serious pain. She continues, “Big mistake.”
“I know, I let you get to me I guess.”
I smile. She smiles.
“No. I.. I .. meant. Behind you.”
The blade is gone from my throat. Amazing, I took the risk and she understood me. This girl isn’t insane at all, just misunderstood. I just survived a near death experience with Bloody Valentine. One of the most vicious serial killers on Mort has chosen to spare me. I’m really euphoric, I don’t think I can ever top this feeling. How can someone ever feel this happy on such a shitty planet? For once I’ve gotten something right.
Or not. Did she just say behind me?
“ggggGGGRRRAWWWWWW. Pop Pop Poppity POP! Red you be, red red red.!!”
Oh shit, that bastard Quaker isn’t dead. I spin to face him. Double shit, he’s not even bleeding, he’s getting up. At least Bloody Valentine is ok now, she can help me beat him. Together there can’t be a single killer on the planet who can stop us.
Then my MEchip buzzes into life.
“Killjoy, this is Derek Scmartz.”
That’s my agent. How the hell is he using this MElink, non-combatants are strictly banned from using the channel. How much money has he spun on this little stunt?
“Killjoy, it is imperative that you do not engage the Quaker. Repeat, do not engage. Withdraw from the arena immediately.”
“No chance Martzy. This ones going where LAD cannot tread.”
“Killjoy, obey!”
I must protect my lady, at all costs. “Can’t do that mate. You know I have my code and it tells me what to do first. You know it comes with the package. It says, this one must die!”
“Killjoy, you will be cut off, do you hear? I won’t cover your ass anymore!”
Triple shit! You know what that means don’t you. He’ll sever my sponsorship.
“Killjoy? Dammit Killjoy! You’ll lose all the gear, all the sponsorship. Back to nothing, an easy target. Dammit, you won’t be able to scrape shit for soup in a sewer, you hear?”
I sigh, just as the Quaker locks me with a crazy, resolved look. Damn, he’s easily six times my size. I’ve picked a fight I won’t win.
I hear the softest sound behind me and look, she is gone. She has abandoned me. Spared for my dispensability and not my generosity. A great weight settles on my shoulders.
Thunder strikes above me, lighting the grim vista with electric shadows. Once again, I have played the part of the fool. With no sponsor, no support and no chance of beating my opponent, what is a Contract Killer to do?
But Kill!
The Quaker charges, but so does Killjoy. The Quaker is too enraged to be surprised. Killjoy is too scared to have a better plan. The two combatants close quickly over the slippery brick debris. One too heavy to slip, the other too skilful.
As Killjoy closes he leaps and strikes. The Quaker can see that he will tackle the smaller man anyway and it pleases him. In a calmer frame of insanity, he would note that any wound would be healed by the nanite wonders in his blood. He is, however, not in a calmer frame of insanity and can only think of the red he will shed for Slayer.
The two men clash, Killjoy bringing his Hellchyon down hard on the Quakers shoulder, the Quaker sweeping his arms in for a crushing bear hug. But without even slowing, Killjoy keeps soaring upwards, as if bourne on wings. Up and up, past the Quakers head. With wraithlike grace he tumbles in mid-air, releasing the Hellchyon and landing in a crouch. Each arm lies either side of his body, having not even touched the ground on the impact.
The Quaker is not so unscathed. His enormous arms come together over the wide blade of the Hellchyon, pushing it up and deeper, cutting into his neck.
Killjoy stands and turns, fists clenched in nervous anger. He knows the Quaker has taken must have taken a lot of damage. But he has gotten back up at least once, why wouldn’t he do it again? Using the Hellchyon as a counterweight to hoist himself over the lumbering metal giant was a good idea. But now he had no weapon.
Then the Quaker also turns and Killjoy sees just what he has achieved. A lead weight hits the bottom of his stomach followed by a cold dread. The Hellchyon juts from the Quakers shoulder, spanning it and entering the bulgy neck. It holds his massive head to one side, wrenched against exoskeletal fronds. Blood flows like a waterfall down a blubbery breast, glinting silvery in the pallid rain drenched light. The arm itself dangles by a thread of chromed metal, also leaking silvery red fluid. The Quakers strength has severed and twisted the exoskeletal supports, they stick out on tensioned coils, framing the wrecked flesh.
But its the eyes that Killjoy fears. The silvery bloodshot eyes flickering in their sockets. They still hold life and madness. Their intention is clear, find Killjoy and take joy in killing him.
The Quaker speaks. His voice is shrill and buzzing.
“Kiiiiiiicrrrccllllll. Target atttcccrrrrcrrained. Killiiiiiiiiiiiiii. Poooooop Pop…. Poppity popciscles!”
With his one good arm stretching forward and the fingers seeking, the Quaker stumbles forward. it is only flesh he seeks, only slaughter. Oblivious to the vibro blade still slicing and sizzling into his neck with every step, the madman advances.
Killjoy takes one step back, planning his next charge. His foot comes down in the puddle on an uneven surface. He plants his weight upon it for the charge and time slows as his eyes comprehend what happens before him.
Rising from the filthy water, seemingly birthed from the industrial refuse itself, is a gun. Not a normal gun, but a weapon with a business easily thrice as thick as a mans arm. It rises still, water sluicing smoothly off its all-purpose grips and stocks and draining from the war world engineered mechanism. The light fails to catch it in all its dull grey glory.
The old horse of Dante, the Warmonger
Killjoy’s flagging hopes chorus in his ears and he reaches into the puddle. The Quakers shrill babbling joins with Killjoy’s songful hope as he draws the heavy weapon up and up. The choir’s tone rises when the gun clears the muck. The rain fades back to a soft drizzle spreading a quieter static over the grim scene.
The Warmonger sights on its former master. Time returns to normal, spot bees swoop in, the choir is silenced and a frown spreads over Killjoys face.
"Fuck it," Killjoy says in disgust. "I can't think of anything cool to say, I'm just going to have to kill you.
wwwWWWAUUUUUUUUUUUUU
The Quakers stomach shreds and still he comes.
AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU
His blood streaks out behind him like a hundred silvery red comet tails, and still he comes.
AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU
Flying flesh, steel and bone crowd out the rain and still he comes.
AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU
Killjoy is forced to his knees by the power he wields, yet still he comes.
AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU
Blood and brains spatter forth and bathe Killjoy, and still he comes.
AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU
“Die damn you, DIE!! You insane fuck, DIE!!”
The Quaker finally falters. His body realises the brain is gone and falls. A meaty protrusion clips Killjoy as he tries to back away. Trapped by the slippery terrain and the Quakers weight, Killjoy falls as well.
The Quaker lies still at last. Deep inside his reptilian mind, spread out over the ground, blackness is like a welcome pillow to him.
I wake. It feels like the world is upon me but I wake. The last thing I remember is sound and sensation of crunching bone, around about the leg region. I’m cold and wet. I can’t feel my legs.
Oh Slayer. My head!. I feel like… like my head…. oh Slayer it stings like a bastard! Where am I. I try to raise my head but its no good. My neck feels like its being held together by a million needles. My senses are clearing though and my concentrations definitely improving. So much so that I can feel the size of this fucking lump on my head!
Now the pain is really hitting me. Remember that leg region I mentioned? Now its like pins and needles. Big fucking pins and needles. But I can feel my arms, no pain.
Good! At least I don’t have a broken neck then. I lever my torso up to see what’s happening at my legs.
Ah ha! A large, dead mound of crazy asshole is pinning me down. Thank Slayer I can’t feel my legs then. I wonder why I’m feeling so calm about all this? I have to admit, I won’t be seeing the next cloud rise at this rate.
Now my skin has a tingly feeling, what the hell? I look down over the shreds of my cloths. That silvery blood is totally covering me. What the hell is in it, what the hell is it doing to me! I can feel it now, like sports rub, its sinking into my skin. Shit, what does this stuff do. I’d ask Gunfucker but I think I left his tongue in a hundred pieces all over the arena.
Double shit, that’s Bloody-fucking-Valentine over there!
She’s just standing there, watching me. My eyes are too blurry to make out her face, but that teeth stitching is unmistakably hers. She still isn’t moving, still just standing there, watching me.
Strength, along with pain, is flooding my body now. I get the distinct feeling I’m waking up to a really bad dream. Scratch that, I actually am waking up to a really bad dream.
I push at the Quakers mass, a futile action but I already knew that. But I’m not one to give up that easily, this I’ve learned about myself today. It’s a dickbrained way to be, this I have also learned.
Now she’s moving over to me. At last, she’s coming to finish me. The rain is quietening again, in respect for her. Step by step she strolls over, her vibro claws clacking and humming by her sides. She lifts one hand to frame her face as she draws into focus. She allows her cloak to fall to one side, revealing her leg. A final gesture to me before the kill, her way of paying me back before she butchers me.
Oh her skin! I want to lick it, run my tongue along its smooth brown perfection. What a gift she has given me, such a realisation of desire. It distracts me from the pain. Mind you, it could have just been a breath of wind that parted her cloak… nah, my version is more fun.
The vibro claw abandons her face and floats upwards. With a final wink and a nod, the claws come down.
Up, down. Up, down. Flesh parts and blood flows. It spatters my face, a sensation that eases the pain somehow. She is blessing me, truly blessing me. I am baptised in blood purified through contact with her hands. Those perfect implements of death
She is almost done. One final strike, and the body is cleft in two.
The two haves slide apart under their own enormous weight, releasing my trapped legs. Now I can see them, they are mangled. Intruders Balls, they are almost completely fucking flat! I swear, this blubbery bastard got it too good!
“Now we’re even blue eyes!”
With that she lithely flits away. My heart jumps.
“Wait! Come back! Don’t be..”
She stops and turns to me. “Oh, and, fuck you! You fucking cuntwit!” Then she is gone again.
“… afraid of me.”
Your watching Sunday Skins and Splatter. I’m your host Ken Ukliff. No longer with me is Messiah Hack. The good old Hackmeister has lost it ladies and gentlemen, he’s back in business! Yes, just moments ago he declared the end of his retirement and stormed out of the announcers booth!
Why is that? Well, to fill you in on tonight’s big match, Bloody Valentine and Mr’dth are the final contestants with Killjoy out of the contest and all other combatants sprayed across the arena for your entertainment pleasure!
So, back to the Hackmeister. In a storm of rage he vowed the end of Bloody Valentine and Killjoy, who he has accused of collusion and cheating. Even now he is heading for the arena. This should be a match not to miss, the Unstoppable Force meets the Immovable Object. Stay tuned, cause things are really going to heat up arena side in no time.
Now its back to Janet Vice for the rest of the action!”
“And were out. Thanks Ken.”
“Roger?”
“Uhh…. yes Ken?”
“When I say clean this up, I mean clean up this stinking puddle of guts right NOW!”
“Yeah, uhh… I called the maintenance crew Ken, they’re on their way now.”
“Wait? Are you saying I have to wait Roger? I’m Ken Ukliff, Mr Sexy Eyes. Did you know I command over seventy three percent of the Tynes circuit audience? And you think I should WAIT for what I want?”
“Ken. Please. In case you didn’t notice, that was Messiah Hack you just shot. He was pretty highly placed uptown…”
“Well is it my fault he sucks at doing what he’s told? Now the Quaker is dead and we’ve lost the bulk of the audience betting. You know that once they peak they drop off for the rest of the match. It was all his fucking fault!”
“I’m sure your right Ken. It’s OK, just calm down. Why don’t you put down the snubber and….”
“Are you telling me what to do Roger? ARE YOU FUCKING ORDERING ME AROUND?”
“Look, the cleanup crew will make it ok, we won’t have to wear this, just wait for them and…”
“I DON’T HAVE TO WAIT FOR NO STINKING JANITOR!! You get down here yourself and start licking it up stage scum!”
“Come on Ken, just calm down, the crew’ll have it gone before your next spot.”
*clik* “Guess I’ll have to give em a job worth hauling their donut stuffed asses down here for.”
“Ken, no!”
*BLAM*
“You! Camera monkey. Go get a mop, NOW!”
“Y.y.yes Mr Ukliff.”
“Call me Ken dammit, call me Ken.”
The street is empty save a few circling spot bees and a perfect form. Then hate joins it and fills the void. Stepping from the debris, the Shaktar sizes up his true target. Bloody Valentine stands, exposed, waiting. On sighting the Shaktar she slides into fighting stance, almost imperceptibly. One naked leg slips out of the cloak, exposed to the wet. A handful of vibro claws rises, beckoning the enemy closer.
Mr’dth feels a sobering rage settle over him, he draws his Moonfist. A circular, seven spined blade that fits snug over his fingers. A weapon that his sponsor, Ft’jk, mnufactures, exclusively for Mort Shaktar. Bloody Valentine stops moving for a moment, sizing up her fellow contender.
“So, it is down to you and it is down to me”, Mr’dth says. “I must say, it has been an interesting and somewhat puzzling match.”
The sound of the borrowed Hellchyon powering up punctuates his words. Both weapons sit leisurely in his hands, waiting for the storm to drive them forward and home. Overhead, the clouds open up with a renewed deluge.
“Are you ready for the final conflict then? Are you ready for our long awaited show down you honourless bitch?”
She smiles wide from under the grimcloak. “Yes you simpering dickhead!”
Mr’dth grimaces, “Are you ready too die as well?”
She pulls her Gunhead from under the grimcloak. “No you moron assjacker!”
For the last time that night, bullets fly through the rain.
ptptptptptpt
The Shaktar’s scales cannot stop the onslaught.
ptptptptptpt
Sparks fly as bullets ricochet from his weapons.
ptptptptptpt
The Shaktar falls, undone by his own pride.
ptptclikclikclik
He crashes to the tarmac still alive. Blood bubbles from his lungs as he writhes feebly. He focuses, blocks out the pain, but it is not enough. His body will not move. The rags of his flesh seem to melt out onto the roadway and mingle with the rain. Slowly his senses start to fade, his mind along with them.
“I’m not a fucking Shaktar you idiot! Maybe your little sister will be smarter, if she has the grits to come for me. You fucking scaleass bullbuggerers are all the same!”
A last breath wheezes out from between his teeth. A hand twitches, looking for steel to wield. Then finally, mercifully, he heeds his ancestors call. The soft hum of spot bees stand guard over his cold bones.
Bloody Valentine is already gone, heading for a brightly lit sign that reads ‘EXIT’.
“Well, there’s a surprise ending folks. Bloody Valentine has forfeited her sure fire win and left the arena voluntarily. I can’t confirm anything at this point but apparently Messiah Hack has found her outside the arena. We’ll bring you an update of that skirmish in next weeks show.
But we do have a winner! Killjoy, surviving his titanic face off with the Quaker, has won tonight’s match. You can see him in next weeks match, same time same channel.
I’m Ken Ukliff, stay tuned for ‘Meckler and Wreck Shit Shooting’ for a wrap of the week in Tynes, brought to you by General Armaments. And its goodbye for now!”
I play the data recording again. Its been like this all night, over and over. The announcers voice is lost in the images on screen. The images I am yet to decipher. Bloody Valentine leaving the arena is my favourite scene. I didn’t expect it, but I understand it. I think.
What puzzles me is the cleanup afterward. I see a med team carting me off on a stretcher, for the usual fee of course. But in the background I see another crew, all dressed in dark green, some with white lab coats. The Quakers corpse is loaded into a killcopter, not a LAD logo too be seen, and then all are gone.
Now I’m freaked out and I only have a tacky gold leaf plastic trophy too show for it. The match payout went straight to my sponsor, who dumped me shortly afterwards. I knew they dumped me because Derek Scmartz, my agent, was waiting by the exit ramp with a heavily armed Operative squad by his side. Fortunately, the Tynes guards carry amnesty forms in their packs and pens in their pockets. I wonder why that is?
Oh, maybe its worth mentioning that I found this dataslug I’m watching in my, and I use the term loosely, bed earlier this evening. Just after I got this pad I step out for a meal and come back to an open door. Someone wanted me to get this edit, cause it sure as shit didn’t look this way when they broadcast it on TeeVee.
That’s what you get for having a Trang landlord I suppose.
And that’s what I get for not following orders, for having a will of my own. A permanent stay face up in Tynes or face down in the sewers. Looking back, It wasn’t worth it. But that’s just me, I can’t help myself, I gotta do things my own way.
And Soon. Soon, I’ll work my way back up. Soon, I’ll meet her again. I play the ideal scene over and over in mind before I go too sleep every night.
I wake up to vibro claws at my throat and a soft voice whispering in my ear.
“Wake up, don’t fear. I let you get too me.”
I speak, “So what now?”
She replies, “Something warm, but soft inside.”
And she isn’t talking about stabbing me. Oh no. Quite the opposite way around actually.
Soon!