# Death in 100 Kilobytes.



## papa_laz (Dec 17, 2008)

This is not your traditional story hour by any means, but is instead a narrative version of a small impromptu role playing game which has been run via email. There are no dice or character sheets involved, and the events and outcomes described here are determined purely by our own imaginings. 

* * *​
It's 2am. Me and Jagged Jimmy stand outside the doors of Vinny's Juice and GoGo Bar. We're the only ones in line and have been waiting 15 minutes for the servo droid at the counter to reboot itself and accept our 300 holocred entry fee. The ogre bouncer leaning against the metallic door frame sneers at me and adjusts his doona sized leather jacket. "They must've killed an elephant to make that thing" I think to myself. A few more minutes tick by and then the droid finally initializes. "300 holocreds please" it squawks in a hollow monotone voice. I jam my EFT card into the slot, and watch as the green LED on the droid's cpu unit flashes erratically. "Counterfeit card detected, transaction denied, entry forbidden." "I had a feeling this might happen", Jagged Jimmy mutters. The authorities would show up in an hour or two to collect the card, and its owner, if he were foolish enough to stick around. But we weren't planning on staying that long. "You 'erd the bot" says the ogre bouncer, "get movin!" I'd never been one to respect authority, especially when it's IQ was lower than its shoe size, and there was something in the club we dearly needed. I reach into my jacket pocket and run my fingers over the hard rubber flexigrip of the Glock automatic. There might be a non violent way to get into this place, but somehow I doubt it.

Glancing quickly at Jagged Jimmy, I casually pull the stubby weapon out of my pocket and wave it in the general direction of the ogre. The brute lumbers towards me and reaches out a large muscled arm. “You fooking scab, put tha’ awa..”, the ogre’s speech slurs as he drops to the ground in a heap. A pool of dark liquid spreads slowly outwards as Jagged Jimmy steps out of the shadows and wipes his teslablade on the ogre’s prone form. Stepping over the unconscious brute, we hurriedly enter the dark corridor leading to the GoGo Bar. “‘s bin ages since I was last ere’” Jagged Jimmy notes with nonchalance. We reach the seedy bar and take in our surroundings. A small, dimly lit bar serving only humans. The bartender is the only machine present. The music is loud, but not so loud that one could not have a conversation. I spot our man in a corner booth, the thermal imaging sensor in my right eye picking up his heat tag. We hasten across to greet him but as we move to sit down he jumps up abruptly. “Move, quickly” he hisses, “your arrival has not gone unnoticed.” He motions to the entrance of the bar where a Rover droid hovers silently, its scanners doing what they do. He then leads us to the back of the room, and through a curtain. Motioning to a large steel trapdoor further down the dank corridor, the stranger turns and is gone. 

We quickly remove the trapdoor and descend some way down a stable steel ladder. We reach the bottom, and another passageway opens up before us. The dull bass throb of the music pulls us further down the passage as we pass side rooms heaving with tangled masses of machine and flesh. The dull lights throw shadows of perversion across our determined faces and onward we go. 

Stepping out onto a rusted metal balcony, we survey the sight before us. Humans dance with machines who dance with humans in a cavalcade of ridiculous insanity. A biomechanoid saunters up to us, teasing in its perverted humanoid form. “Welcome to our synthetic existence” it purrs… 

* * *​
“We're here for Ulynov!" I shout, my voice barely audible above the deafening hiss of static and the booming of distorted bass kicks which fills the cavernous dance floor below. The droid's head jolts forward, and its left eye lights up, illuminating my face in a dim green glow. "Identity confirmed, follow me" it warbles, then walks seductively along the balcony and into a large plushly carpeted bar. Patrons sit and chat, and a human bartender serves synth-beer to late model biomechanoids. The droid continues through a set of red felt curtains and into what can only be described as a "pleasure lounge." Sentients of all varieties lie sprawled on couches and futons, smoking, snorting and drinking all manner of substances, while behind slatted doors at the rear of the lounge come the unmistakable sounds and smells of fornication. Through one of these doors we are led. Inside this small but beautifully decorated room three men sit on large chesterfield arm chairs playing cards on an ornate glass coffee table that sits between them. Ulynov sits on one of these seats, naked but for the towel round his waist. He puffs regally on a cigar, and glances casually at his cards. Two men in suits occupy the other chairs, while an Asian man with a moustache and sunglasses stands by the door, sub machine gun in hand. Behind Ulynov a female form lies motionless on a king sized bed. I recognise her as Charlotte, one of the new state of the art pleasure droid models. 

"F*ck it, I fold" growls Ulynov, tossing his cards onto the table. He looks up at us with weary eyes, stretches his arms behind his head, then reaches underneath his chair and pulls out a matte black briefcase. He places the case on the coffee table and opens it. Inside are four large metal canisters, cylindrical in shape, and a clear plastic envelope containing around a dozen small glass vials, each filled with white powder. "Angel, dust. Military grade." He says. Jagged Jimmy stares intently into the case, then licks his lips. "Can I..." he stammers, gesturing towards the vials. Ulynov reaches for the envelope, removes a vial, and tosses it to Jimmy, who promptly produces a small glass pipe. "Outside!" orders Ulynov, pointing towards the door. I watch as Jimmy leaves the room, then turn back to Ulynov. "God damn freaker" he spits, shaking his head, then closes the case and hands it to you. "There's five kg's in here, you know what to do with it." I nod in confirmation, then turn and leave.

I head out through the pleasure lounge, past the red felt curtains, and into the bar. Jimmy sits on a stool, casually smoking his pipe and chatting intermittently with an old model servo droid. The dull red light which illuminates the bar reflects softly off his hairless black scalp. Jimmy was a child of the projects. A bastard son of oppression and vice. He was far beyond redemption, but not beyond hope. 

"JJ!" I shout to him from across the room. "Time to roll." Jimmy holds up his right hand, his index finger extended, indicating that I should wait just one second. With his other hand he holds the pipe to his mouth, and sucks the last of the smoke from it. I watch as a small maelstrom of vaporised 'dust' swirls around the spherical glass chamber before exiting into Jimmy's mouth via the pipe stem. From here it will pass through his oesophagus, and into his lungs, where the phencyclidine molecules will be absorbed into his bloodstream via alveoli clusters. They will then attach themselves to the N-methyl-D-Aspatatev receptors in his brain, causing extreme euphoria, heightened sensory perception, increased physical strength and agility, lowered reaction time, hallucinations, irrational aggression, paranoid delusions, and ultimately psychosis. Essentially, it will calm him down. Jimmy holds the lungful of smoke in for a second, then exhales, nodding his head in satisfaction. "Grade A" he whispers hoarsely, eyes glazing over. "Grade A..." 

I worry about him sometimes.


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## papa_laz (Dec 22, 2008)

Bump for comments.


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