From: fjohnson@gandalf.rutgers.edu (Ronin)
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo
Subject: Another post in the tales of the Black Cyborg
Date: 20 Nov 92 03:20:24 GMT
Organization: Rutgers Univ., New Brunswick, N.J.


	A week or two back, I posted a fight sequence that galled a
lot of people for misrepresenting telekinesis. I'm considering
changing Kate's application of psi/ki so that scattered
debris comes at adversaries as if driven by a typhoon.
	However it turns out, the _Carrie_-esque attack saps her
strength. Darrin, you may recall, also got the crap kicked out of him.
This sequence picks it up from there, covering their retreat, and
exposing some of the particulars on the cyborg.
	Given the fact that Darrin is a machine, it should only follow
that his mind can fully function as his body "regenerates". Therefore,
it is legitimate that he be a lucid dreamer.   
*******************************************************************************
	Darrin looked into her tearful, red-rimmed eyes. "You don't
look very well." 
	She shook her head slowly. "I need to lie down."
	He got to his feet, pulling her up with him. His infrared and
NMR scans of the area showed that the coast was clear, so they
shuffled out of the building, his arm under her shoulder.  
	The bike's engine started with its reassuring buzz. Darrin was
troubled about her apparent physical lapse, his concern eased only by
the beating of Kate's heart against his back.   
	"Does anyone know you can do that?" he asked over his shoulder
	<Until now, I didn't.>
	It didn't take much for him to realize that she was too sapped to talk.
	<When I thought they killed you, I just focused on the effect
of putting a flying side through everything in front of me. I
felt...charged...kind of like a laser. Now I feel like I've been
through an earthquake.>   
	The rest of the trip was uneventful. He helped her dismount
from the machine, then walked her to his front porch. When it became
apparent that she would have trouble on the stairs, he picked up and
carried her. She snickered as they crossed the threshold, and it took
him a little while to get the joke.    
	He placed her on the couch, finding that she was still
clinging to his arm.  
	"Stay close to me", she whispered.
	Although the auto-repair system had halfway healed the
injuries he'd taken, there were still fourteen slugs in his body that
were interfering with the job. "Just give me a moment; I need to get a
few things out."   
	She smiled, apparently getting it as he glided into the
bathroom. <Damn>, he thought,< I should mount a first-aid kit in the
saddlebag.>  
	He sized himself up in the mirror. There was dried blood on
his forehead, as well as a small hole. He fished a pair of tweezers
out of the medicine cabinet, and inserted them into the wound. The
bullet came out easily, but it was nonetheless irritating to him.    
	<There's thirteen more to tend to>, he told himself, working
on one of the slugs in his solar plexus. <On top of that, they're in
five different places. If that wasn't cheesy sharpshooting, I don't
know what is.>   
	In about ten minutes, it was done. On the vinyl-tiled floor
were fourteen dented 9mm rounds, each with dark-red marks. Satisfied,
Darrin washed his face and returned to the living room. He threw his
jacket over a chair as he surveyed her.   
	Kate was curled up somewhat, almost as if making room for him.
She was still very much awake, and her eyes met his. 
	"Hold me."
	With that, he settled near her. He took her into his arms, and
she soon drifted off into sleep, her head upon his sturdy chest. He
stroked her soft, dark hair, marveling at her beauty and warmth.
Darrin soon succumbed to his own need for recuperation, as well as the
aura of calm she seemed to be projecting, and joined his lover in sleep.    

	He was at a grand piano in a small, carpeted room, playing
something soft and relaxing. The song was a composition of his own,
based on several jazz pieces he had heard on the radio. Atop the piano
was a poinsettia very much like the one hanging in his living room.
She was on the bench with him, watching the graceful movements of his
hands in an almost catlike manner.       
	"Is this the kind of thing you dream of?" she asked him, a
subtle smile crossing her face. 
	He turned, still going at the selection."You could say that.
Sometimes, I try to solve problems; other times, I get creative. I was
thinking about you, and how I feel about you-". He paused for a
glissando. "-and that's what led to this dream about jazz piano. I'll
admit it isn't exactly Vince Guaraldi-"    
	"But it's pretty, anyway."
	His hands stopped as a sudden realization came over him.
	"Did I conjure your image, or are you linking to me in reality?"
	"Sorta both. You thought about me, you'd said, and I kind of
picked up on it. You know I can lucid-dream too, don't you?" 
	"In short, we *are* dreaming the same dream?"
	She dovetailed her hands under her chin. "You got it. But
please, 'Play Misty For Me'." 
	With a sweet smile, he let his fingers do the talking, gazing
into her lustrous eyes. 
*******************************************************************************
Damn, where's a pair of Nomex shorts when you need 'em?