This one is a response to Chuck Wendig's challenge "A Game of Aspects"
I didn't do the random number generator thing as I wanted at least a chance of doing a complete entry by the deadline date.
Anyway, coming in at 1053 words, this is a story which incorporates Dystopian/Serial Killer/Fated to Die (not super original, but I love these tropes).
I hope you enjoy the entry - after my ramblings about punk this week, I'm backing myself to not look like a fool. Comments are more than welcome.
The Last Street Samurai
Glancing up through his
sun-roof at the looming mirrored glass monolith, Poke shuddered and
pulled his coat tight, the oppressive monsoon heat an increasingly
distant sensation. The Blaze neurostim was kicking in as the precious
seconds crawled past.
In the glare of night
time city lights, the sharp profile of the ChrysTech building looked
ominous as usual, poised to fall on city like the sword of Damocles.
From the stuff in the files he had put together, this wasn't too far
from the truth.
With shaking hands, he
pulled out a baccstick, and put it to his lips Mixing drugs be
damned, he needed to be sharp.
It
was difficult to resist slamming the gas pedal down and powering
away. They were running late and it was a slow torture to have to sit
and wait; each heartbeat was a moment they weren't making distance,
getting a lead.
The
tension was shattered by a headless body fired through a fifth storey
window in a shower of glass and blood. A second, similar figure was
thrown out after the first and followed by a vision of menace in gold
and carbon fibre. There was a vivid slash of glittering orange
against the black night sky.
A
spray of gore, five stories up and falling, signified end of mission
phase one.
/////
A
parked FlightLimo four spaces ahead erupted into a fountain of blood,
metal and glass as the falling trio slammed into it at speed.
Swallowing,
coughing on nicotine smoke, Poke kicked the accelerator and his ride
snaked it's way out of the parking bay. He pulled up to the impact
site with a screech of rubber and listened to the rain of vehicle
parts pinging off his new paint job.
Rolling
down the window he saw the two ChrysTech security corpses were
twisted in a gory confusion of car and flesh, a slender figure in a
tattered haori and hakama straightening up amidst all of this and
turning to face him, cybernetic limbs still shining beneath the
layers of grime and ichor.
“You
get the cores, Serial?” Poke asked.
His
partner nodded and calmly made his way over to the car, stepping out
of the wreckage and replying, “Acquired.”
There
was a pause before Serial added, “We lost Honey to hostile action.”
/////
Poke
cursed and threw away his baccstick, eyes watering with a
Blaze-enhanced rush of emotion that threatened to break him. He
barely registered as Serial handed him a small bag full of military
grade cores, the roughly excised jacks of their unfortunate operators
attached, often still with a ragged ring of gelid, cooling flesh left
on.
Poke
held down his gorge and concentrated on getting the valuable cargo
into the shockpod he'd had installed in the back seat, squeamishly
prodding all the trailing leads into the container and getting it
secure. He shot a dark glance at his partner, Serial Killer, as the
hermetic seal hissed and beeped as the lock engaged.
All
of the cybered set new that no-one did counter-intel like Serial, but
few realised how apt this guy's name really was sometimes. He
wondered what Honey's loss would do to the cyborg.
Sighing,
Poke pressed another button and the passenger door hissed open, but
Serial made no move to get in the vehicle. He seemed detached as he
flicked the blade, the flakes of scorched blood fluttering out into
the air; he seemed to be waiting. Poke wished he knew what this guy
was thinking, but the ocular implants obliterated his expression and
even the part of his face showing offered no clues.
Impassive
and deadly, Serial looked every inch the grey operative, the tech
mercenary, the hitman...
The
swordsman.
/////
“Get
in, you crazy bastard!” Serial gave a little hissing grunt at
Poke's wired, panicked tone, “We've got to get these out before
they can get mercs of their own on the case!”
The
swordsman paused then, suddenly poised like a hunter, and pointed to
the comms scanner he wore, “Armoured reinforcements,” he offered
casually.
“Come
on!” Poke wailed, moving to open his door and remonstrate with
Serial, “We've got to-”
He
was cut off as a cold, metal hand forced the door shut against all
his efforts. Serial was looking down at him, that creepily direct
stare of someone looking through artificial optics. The swordsman
seemed to almost hum with suppressed emotion, but turned away to look
down the road, letting the sword rest by his side, ready.
“You
will go, Poke. I have finished my part of the contract,” Serial
seemed to weigh his sword in his hand for a second, before lifting
his chin, “I must now seek to satisfy the demands of my honour.”
“Honey
left something with you, I believe.” Serial said, not turning to
face his partner.
Poke
was white, sweating and at a total loss as he activated a hidden
compartment, the pocket within holding only a tanto blade, sheathed
in ebony and mother of pearl. He turned awkwardly and presented the
weapon to Serial through the window.
His
partner took it with a nod and a small, sad smile. Far down the road
the lights and growling engines of the ChrysTech rapid response team
began to stain the surreal quiet of this moment. To Poke, the smile
was the most terrible thing he had ever seen on a mission; it was
alien and strange on the usually impassive face of his partner.
“I
shall buy you some time,” Serial said finally, sliding the tanto
into his obi, tucking it beneath the mounting of his katana, making
them both, again, a matched pair.
/////
In
Poke's rear view mirror, he could see the dwindling figure of Serial
Killer silhouetted against the bright halogens of the pursuit
vehicles. He watched the street samurai walk away from him and into
legend, until he couldn't bear to watch any longer.
In
his imagination, the roar of the engine sounded mournful as the car
ate up the night, flying through the sleeping streets and open roads.
It was a long, lonely journey to the rendezvous and the coming dawn,
but he didn't hear the sounds of pursuit.
No
one but Poke had made it down that road.