From: li@Data-IO.COM (Phyllis Rostykus)
Subject: Lily White: Re-Intro
Keywords: White Crystal
Organization: Data I/O Corporation
Date: Fri, 4 Sep 1992 17:50:40 GMT

An experiment if you will, and a re-introduction of an *old* storyline
that was never quite finished.  It was begun in the spring of 1991... :)
Kevin Flynn and I are in the process of finishing it.  This particular
section is an intro and an experiment.  Please tell me what you think of
it.  I'd appreciate it.

Phyllis Rostykus
---- 

	Hard, clear plastic with a picture below the surface.  The chip
distibutor companies had insisted that they be the same size as the
ancient CD packages, so that shoplifters couldn't hide them easily as they
walked from the shops.  Senstim chips weren't cheap.

	The picture is that of a white lily and a butterfly hovering by
it's stalk.  There is a sticker on the back of the package.  In bold
letters on the sticker are the following words:

   ATTENTION!!  Use of the senstim program on the enclosed media is 
   subject to the terms of the Hollywood Senstim License and Safety
   Agreement printed on a flyer in this package, in the user's guide, 
   and on the packaging.  Opening this package indicates that you 
   acknowledge and accept the terms of the Hollywood Senstim License 
   and Safety agreement accompanying this package.

There is a huge block of text on the back of the package, and the print is
terribly small, and the language not particularly interesting.  Besides,
this particular little piece had taken six months to arrive.  The sticker
comes apart easily, and the chip holder slides out of the packaging.

	It slides into the player.  The solid thunk of the plug into the
socket at the hairline is always slightly intimidating; but the images are
slow and steady as you close your eyes and start to focus in.

-----

	The initial image goes from mist to a replication of the cover.  A 
white lily with a butterfly.  But both are still, and the lily's stalk
feels just a touch too wide, and definitely too heavy for the stalk of a
single flower.  A closer look.  The petals shine, gleam like cut edges of
glass.  Yet a closer look and the lily is made of shattered crystal.  At
this vantage point, the butterfly comes into focus as well.  The wings are
intricate, silver dusted microscopic feathers of black lining small
windows of brown.  The wings are mounted on the shoulders of the figure of
a tiny woman.  The woman is pinned with a black, glass headed pin to the
stalk of the lily.

	Laughter.  Laughter touches everything, and gives it body.  The
body feels... different.  Lower center of gravity, and it is energized.
Each muscle in perfect play with every other muscle.  Every movement
synchornized, graceful, balanced like dancing but it's true even while
standing still and holding a false flower.

	A slender hand reaches up and strokes the thick stem of the flower,
up to the startling hardness of what looks like soft petal.  The sharp
sting of a cut along a finger, and an edge turns pink.  The finger moves
to a soft mouth that licks and then kisses away some of the hurt, but the
afteredge of it is like that of a forgotten memory.  The flower is placed
in a cut crystal vase on a glass topped brass table.  Strong arms hug firm
breasts to the body and a voice, deeper with the echo within your head
says, "Ready?"  It waits for two of the heartbeats that you share, and
then laughs and says, "Then here we go..."

-----

        You unplug the set for a moment, just to prove that you can.  A
deep breath, and there is the livingroom, the AVR system is just as you
left it.  A single shiver at the wierd image of the flower and butterfly.
Your body feels just like it used to.  Why not?  For a moment, there is
only reassurance, then curiosity.  The plug thunks in once, again, and you
step again into the world of White Crystal.

-----

	Walking a walk unlike any other walk.  Firm muscle and utterly
confident balance on four inch heels.  The metal mesh shirt is a blend of
soft and hard, cold and warmth, and has a rhythm matching the movement of
the entire figure.  The leather skirt is a warm clasp, all along the waist,
hips, and just the tops of the thighs.  The lace stockings, silk and air,
are a floating sensation over each leg movement.  The gloves are a caress
all up and down the arms.  Music, music flows in like the heartbeat, soft
and falling through the air like water in time to the steps.  The small
touch of what should be ear channel earphones doesn't exist, the music is
being piped directly through her ears.  The music is a metallic
instrumental, sharp and energetic and it almost feels like it is moving her
instead of the other way around.

	The staccato rap of the heels is on concrete.  A city.  A raining
city, and water falls with the music out of the air and sky.  A look to
the right, a look to the left, and there is a growing-green giant and an
indigo blue killer with a smile full of scars.  A sequence of steps that
would trip a person to think of them, and the scarlet woman and the
black-touched silver are revealed, walking behind.  The red woman laughs
and moves forward.

	Step by step, it is a dance with her.  She reaches forward and her
fingers are slender, soft.  They caress your cheek, touch your throat, even
as you both walk.  She somehow moves closer, so that the rhythm of the walk
has your bodies moving with each other, against each other.  Her breasts
press close, the tiny sounds of the mesh playing against the fabric of her
shirt evident over the music.  The kiss is in perfect unison to the walk,
perfect unison to the song that is playing amid the rain, and it is warm
and deep and tastes of wild cherries.

        Three steps and she disappears, a smile and warmth at the back.  

------

        Pause.  A deep breath, and then a slender hand against a heavy
door.  The door swings open.  Chrome and smoke, conversations held at a
level too low to comprehend.  Scores of eyes all flick in the direction of
the door for the critical second needed to react in an unnoticed moment of
silence.  Many of the conversations die at the look.

        An entrance.  Stalking into a den of lions with nothing but an
attitude.  A thought crosses the mind,




                       "Attitude is Everything
                        Style over Substance
                        Life on the Edge
                        The Future is Disposable"
                                        - Carl Rigney


Or was that a flash of text too fast to see?  Does it matter?  They are
watching.  All of them.  We just keep walking into the den.

        A harsh voice at the back says, "This be slab-stupid, sis'.  Ain't
jus' flash for huntin', there's heat too."  A pause, "Stone cold plat.
Wagon 'tract'."  A smile forms, and with it a touch of relaxation.

        A laugh as bright as a sunny morning, there are a number of rusty
smiles and some turn back towards their deals.  A soft voice, and the words
bely the cheerfulness of the tone, "What amusement in a hunt with none of
the hunters' blood at stake?"

        A slow stalk through the jungle towards the barely raised stage.  A
man is slumped over a table near the stage.  The approach is that of a cat
towards prey until a patron looks over, chrome lensed eyes flashing in the
stage light.  The stalking eases, as does the nervousness of the patron.  A
stroke of the hand against wavy, strong, dark hair.  It is slightly oily to
the touch, but resiliant, heavy.  The man moves, slowly, to look up,
through a curtain of dark hair.  A faintly trembling hand rises to push the
hair to the right.  The hand is long and well defined.  Two dark eyes look
up, red rimmed, bloodshot, with irises so dark they are indistinquishable
from the pupil.  The bright reflection of a light off the chrome datajack
flashs into existance as the right side of his face came into view.  The
face would have been handsome if it weren't so abused, the jaw line was
strong, angular, but covered with several days growth of stubble.  A smile,
and the handsomeness is brought out in sharp relief to his condition as he
reflects the smile back.

        Bending close, the man's odor is a rich musk, slightly acrid with
alcohol.  A soft whisper into the waiting ear, "Blackjack, may we borrow
your equipement?"

	He sighs, the smile quirks up at a corner, and he waves in the
vague direction of a bag of equipement.  His head goes back down to the
table.  Another lingering stroke of the long hair, and then taking those
steps back to the stage.

	Two men are there, watching the exchange quietly.  A white hand
reaches forward.  The red head starts the conclusion of the gesture, and
then gives a shrug as his hand moves through yours.  His grin is wide and
as careless as that of a child, and the bright blue eyes are as innocent in
seeming as they give a wide wink over chubby, freckled cheeks, under hair
as bright red as a copper tube.

	A smile touches mouth and eyes, "Heya, Danny."  

	"Heya, Pretty Lady." There is no sign of recognition, merely
interest in a woman.

	"Wanna play?" A gesture including the pile of equipement in the
corner.  The straw haired man sitting at a drum set blinks at the gesture. 
Floyd doesn't quite look like he's all there; but the suggestion seems to
bring something to life and he smiles a slow, sweet smile at the words.

	The redhead's smile deepens and reaches his eyes.  "Jam?"

	"Hei."

	The wide grin is all the answer there is, and all the answer there
needs to be.

	Two steps and the bag is a heavy canvas, rough and heavy to the
touch.  The mouth gaps open, and there are contacts, plugs, and earphones.
A tangled mass of light-wire and wireless.  The small, white hands sort
through the mass carefully, but more quickly, sometimes, than the eye wants
to follow.  And five sets of equipment are untangled and handed out.

	The earphones uncurl amid the warmth of the ears that hold them.
The microphone is caressed on a soft throat.  A harness of pressure
contacts move against the skin of the arms and hands.  "Lucifer." says the
soft voice as the silver lady plugs three jacks into the side of her
head.  "Saraquael" and the beautiful, small red lady smiles warmly as the
sound system links to her body and onto her hands.  "Gabriel." your voice
says when the blue man comes forward, his head bowed as the white hands
put the equipment on him.  Finally, "Michael", and a shadow looms above,
tall, dark and as green as an old growth tree.  The bone spurs and
callouses make the placement of the contacts difficult.

	A turn, and there is a little box sitting on a table.  It seems
silly to speak to a box, but, nonetheless, she does it.  "Joe," she says
pleasently, "would you please give us another drum set, bass in inigo and
white, a six string in green, and keyboards for the elf?"  

	The instruments appear.  The bass is a smooth, sleek weight on the
hands, against the belly, on the contact points.  The wires indent the
fingers, just right, and the neck feels hard and solid, where the contacts
are, soon, the gaps simply don't exist anymore...

	And the music begins...

------
Copyright 1992 by Phyllis Rostykus

White Crystal and her four Angels are mine. 

Hmmm... no, I'm not going to go over the whole White Crystal Lily saga in
senstim.  Just the beginning and the end, once Kevin and I get our act
together again.  If you want what happens after this particular section of
the senstim, check out the ftp site on acm.rpi.edu, under pub/chatsubo,
all the story parts are labelled crystal.XX where XX is the number of the
part.  I'll probably be putting out something of the ending after this
weekend... damnit, I'd *better* have the time for it.  Finally, this is a
tape, so apologizes for anyone that wants to get in on it, it's already
'done'...
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo