Thread: To the Last Syllable (Mr. M & Bathos)

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time listu The deli clerk yawned as he waited for the automat to spit out the customer goods. As they came off the conveyor belt, he read them off in a bored tone. Two slabs Kosher vatbeef, one pound cheesefood, one package puri-drops, one head lettuce, two loaves multi-soy bread. The items dropped into the bag on their own, and the clerk jiggled the bag until they settled. Anything else, sir? The person across the counter was one of those Phobas, all cloaked in a full-face filter mask, big-brimmed droopy hat, long overcoat, and thick gloves. The gas-mask-like plates of smoked glass over the eyes just reflected the clerk's own sweaty face back at him, and the breathing filters hissed gently, badly in need of replacement. Silently, the Phoba reached out and plucked a stick of vacuum-sealed jerky out of the container by the register and dropped it into the bag. The store's computer ratcheted up the total another few decicredits, and read out the total while the clerk idly wiped his nose. The Phoba drew from its pocket a handful of plastic credit chits and credsticks with just a few ticks still left in them. The clerk sighed and started slotting them into the register, one at a time, each one clicking down the amount due total bit by bit, until it finally read zero. The Phoba nodded, collected what was left along with the bag, and glided out the door into the gloom of the street. It was high afternoon, but down on the actual surface road, it was dim and shadowed, and the patter of condensation dripping off the megascrapers that blotted out the sky in all directions rang as loudly as the whir of the hovercars in the travel lanes far overhead and the growling of surface bikes and the occasional truck that prowled between the piles of trash and shuffling transients that littered the whole area. It was the valley floor between the mountain peaks of the city, and as everyone knows, shit rolls downhill. The Phoba stepped lightly, his bag clutched tight in his glove. His place was several blocks away, but when blocks could be up to a mile long, it was a significant walk. The spaces near him, the bases of the megascrapers, had the solid central core that provided the strength to lift the mighty structures, and pumped up the water and baseblock feeds and pumped away the sewage. But ringing those industrial centers of the city blocks were the forgotten facades and fronts, the first few layers of buildings that the upper floors forgot entirely. Even the second-tier walkways and balcony struts were rusting and, in many cases, dangerously unsafe. But it was cheap and anonymous, and that's what many wanted. And no matter the quality and popularity of the buildings above, on the lower levels, pretty much anywhere below the start of the traffic pattern, the population and safety of each block varied widely. And suddenly. As the Phoba crossed one street, the block ahead was markedly darker, with fewer open businesses, more burnt-out storefronts, and several large piles of garbage and wreckage of cars obscuring the clear view down the street. The Phoba paused, considering, and then began to walk more slowly, down the darkened block. The rain pattered all the more loudly without other street noises to drown it out, but even beneath that, he could hear movement as he rounded one of the piles, and left the small circle of illumination cast by the barred windows of the liquor store. He heard footsteps, the creaking of leather, and even inside the mask, he could catch glimpses of movement. Young men, a couple of young women, in gang clothing, whatever outrageous they could steal or create, anything to identify themselves as different. He hurried a little, drawing away deeper into the dimness, but there were people ahead of him, too, cutting off his escape, encircling him. Hey-hey-hey, came a mocking voice to the side. Looks like a Phoba, huh? Phoba all scared of germs? Phoba sneaking around in our territory! Gots to pay the toll, Phoba-na-na! The apparent leader of the gang came strutting over, hair teased up and frozen in classic punk liberty spikes, but flattened and spread to look like little more than a ridiculous cocatou display of some sort. The Phoba turned, circling to see his assailants. He carefully lowered the bag as his feet and faced the leader, who was coming up to him slowly, buoyed by the confidence that comes with outnumbering your opponent fifteen to one. The leader was tall, and barely more than sixteen they got tough young in the lower levels. The Phoba was shorter, but stood straighter as the leader kid comes closer. The leader grinned and flicked open his shiv, thumbing the molecular motor that made it hum and vibrate, the kind of weapon that could cut flesh like butter. His head tilting just a little, the Phoba made a sound. It was soft, at first, almost drowned out by the hiss of the breathing filters, but it grew. It was... laughter. A deep-voiced, booming, full-belly laugh. The leader's face grew confused, at first, then angry. He flicked his knife hand at the fucker's face... and was blocked. The Phoba's gloved hand gripped his wrist, immovable as a wall. Then the Phoba's other hand moved, pain exploded in his chest, and the leader went flying backward onto the roof of a wrecked car, where he moaned and clutched at his chest. Pathetic, laughed the Phoba, his voice only slightly muffled. He glanced around, moving a lot less hesitantly now. If you were smart, you'd flee like little rabbits. I can't chase all of you. But of course, they were not smart. They fought like savages, milling in and swinging wildly. They did more damage to each other at first than he did to them. His purpose wasn't to kill one didn't kill children if one could help it. But he wanted to send as many of them to the autodoc booths as he could. Knees, ribs, arms all were fair game. And all shattered so nicely the screams carried a particular flavor of terror when he scored a particularly solid strike. A lucky swing with a pipe caught the edge of his mask, ripping it and the hat off. He grabbed a thug and used him to block the next blow his improvised shield had a moment to catch sight of his face, the feral yellow slitted eyes, the canine teeth, the general hairiness and pronounced mouth, a start of a muzzle, and he screamed Throwback! It's a throwback! A throwback! he snarled. I'm THE throwback! And he hurled the boy into a knot of his compatriots. Once his face was revealed, the fight was over quickly, and his time was now limited as those that fled in terror of his sub-human ferocity would likely bring back a lynch mob of well-meaning citizens intent on cleansing his taint from the gene-pool. And he wasn't really ready for that quite yet. He leapt from groaning body to suffering form, quickly rifling pockets for credit chits or credsticks. They didn't have much, but together, they had enough. Enough to keep him in groceries for the rest of the week, at least. Snatching up his bag and retrieving his hat and mask, he chuckled at them all again. Thank you for your contribution, children, he said. And try and be nicer, hm? He was sure that was it for this block, so he scampered up a pile of trash and took to the walkways. Brachiating along the underside of a rotting catwalk was dangerous, but he was almost safer than if he'd been running on the walk itself. That was it for this area for a few months, but next time he had to go out for provisions, he could probably use a store closer to his home again enough time had passed, and he'd changed out hats, the local gangs wouldn't recognize him any longer from the last beating he gave them. The few who still were there turnover was high, as people moved, kids grew into the gangs and grew out of them. If not, if they still remembered him... well, his hunting grounds might have to migrate. It isn't much of a life , he thought yet again as he traversed into another, better lit block and sought out a good place to descend, fix his disguise, and resume his walk, but it beats dying .