And what are you anticipating? Easter, perhaps? Or just the holidays associated with it? :)
Well, let's revisit an old friend in new circumstances today.
Anticipation According to the memory chip they implanted in my brain last August, I'm a Private Detective of some kind called MacArthur. There ought to be a first name to go with that, but everytime I try and remember it the chip heats up and I get a warning message in the corner of my eye: Try that again buster and I'll cook your brain from the inside out. I've tried pointing out that would kill both of us, but there's never a response. Only a cold silence that makes me nervous. I've pretty much given up trying to get that memory now. The streets here in North City are slick with rain; the clouds above have been there since yesterday and it's been drizzling nonstop the whole time. The rain started in earnest maybe twenty minutes ago and people ran off the streets in a hurry then. Umbrellas and mackintoshes work fine in drizzle here, but real rain pounds down like it's delivering its side of a vendetta: the raindrops are as fat as bullets and hit nearly as hard. They've not killed anyone -- percussively -- so far, but we all think it's only a matter of time. The traffic lights ahead of me, squat grey boxes on tall, black-and-white striped poles, turn from red to green without bothering with amber and the traffic, all of four cars and a white delivery can, drive off slowly. In this weather everyone takes it slow and careful. And in the back of my mind the ghost in the box, the memories on that chip, wake up. "I remember days like this," growls MacArthur, and it is a growl, not real speech. It's like a dog woke up one morning and decided to talk to me in Nu-english and got far enough that I could understand. It sounds pained in a way. "Hell, I remember these streets." I pause. I don't want to step out into the rain anyway, and here under the concrete awning of a high-rise block is dry, while not exactly comfortable. And in North City hanging around anywhere for too long is an invitation for a mugging. But there is a reason I'm wearing this implant, and a bit part of that reason is to get information that MacArthur ought to know. Historical information. Architectural information. The anticipation -- and the chip -- is slowly killing me. "Jenny was a friend of mine," he mutters. Sometimes it sounds like he's speaking while chewing a mouth full of bottle shards. I feel an urge to spit suddenly and wonder if that's from me or him. A worry. "She lived round here." I turn slowly through three-hundred and sixty degrees. "Anywhere you can see?" I ask as nonchalantly as possible. I note that there's a gang of Sixxers over by the ValueMart, but they're ignoring me so far. There's a Securicorp cyborg a little way behind them as the Sixxers are watching it instead. Good choice. "Maybe," said MacArthur, and my arms raises of its own accord. Or rather, his memories, on that chip, raise it. "That way."
Greg - lots of things, including the long weekend that... is now almost over.
Hmm, this is a fun new way to explore the world of MacArthur. I do feel quite sorry for his... host? But I'm sure Mac won't get them into any sort of trouble that can't be limped away from.
2 comments:
And what are you anticipating? Easter, perhaps? Or just the holidays associated with it? :)
Well, let's revisit an old friend in new circumstances today.
Anticipation
According to the memory chip they implanted in my brain last August, I'm a Private Detective of some kind called MacArthur. There ought to be a first name to go with that, but everytime I try and remember it the chip heats up and I get a warning message in the corner of my eye: Try that again buster and I'll cook your brain from the inside out. I've tried pointing out that would kill both of us, but there's never a response. Only a cold silence that makes me nervous. I've pretty much given up trying to get that memory now.
The streets here in North City are slick with rain; the clouds above have been there since yesterday and it's been drizzling nonstop the whole time. The rain started in earnest maybe twenty minutes ago and people ran off the streets in a hurry then. Umbrellas and mackintoshes work fine in drizzle here, but real rain pounds down like it's delivering its side of a vendetta: the raindrops are as fat as bullets and hit nearly as hard. They've not killed anyone -- percussively -- so far, but we all think it's only a matter of time.
The traffic lights ahead of me, squat grey boxes on tall, black-and-white striped poles, turn from red to green without bothering with amber and the traffic, all of four cars and a white delivery can, drive off slowly. In this weather everyone takes it slow and careful. And in the back of my mind the ghost in the box, the memories on that chip, wake up.
"I remember days like this," growls MacArthur, and it is a growl, not real speech. It's like a dog woke up one morning and decided to talk to me in Nu-english and got far enough that I could understand. It sounds pained in a way. "Hell, I remember these streets."
I pause. I don't want to step out into the rain anyway, and here under the concrete awning of a high-rise block is dry, while not exactly comfortable. And in North City hanging around anywhere for too long is an invitation for a mugging. But there is a reason I'm wearing this implant, and a bit part of that reason is to get information that MacArthur ought to know. Historical information. Architectural information. The anticipation -- and the chip -- is slowly killing me.
"Jenny was a friend of mine," he mutters. Sometimes it sounds like he's speaking while chewing a mouth full of bottle shards. I feel an urge to spit suddenly and wonder if that's from me or him. A worry.
"She lived round here."
I turn slowly through three-hundred and sixty degrees. "Anywhere you can see?" I ask as nonchalantly as possible. I note that there's a gang of Sixxers over by the ValueMart, but they're ignoring me so far. There's a Securicorp cyborg a little way behind them as the Sixxers are watching it instead. Good choice.
"Maybe," said MacArthur, and my arms raises of its own accord. Or rather, his memories, on that chip, raise it. "That way."
Greg - lots of things, including the long weekend that... is now almost over.
Hmm, this is a fun new way to explore the world of MacArthur. I do feel quite sorry for his... host? But I'm sure Mac won't get them into any sort of trouble that can't be limped away from.
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