| From: | "Frank Pelletier (Trinity)" <jeanpell@****.QC.CA> |
|---|---|
| Subject: | A night in the city |
| Date: | Thu, 4 Jun 1998 15:08:10 -0400 |
>>>>>[
+++++Include Cybersenses recording (Merged)
+++++Include Cybercomm thought track
That smell...
Something akin to the bitter, metallic aroma of blood. Cordite.
Something.... the heavy stench of gunmetal oil, the dim neon lights bathing
it all in a heavy glow, a tense atmosphere only disturbed by the incessant
noises from outside, thoughts drowned by the constant movement, a hectic
race on the streets outside the window.
It keeps me alive. As long as there's someone out there. As long as
there's someone important... Death will always be the final solution, a
small price to pay for power. The price on my soul is heavy, but Hell can
wait... I'll buy fifty years of luxury for a thousand years of pain.
The fluorescent tubes flicker for a second, a hesitant light casting deep,
black shadows where its sickly glow can't reach. Water pearling, trickling
down my back, flowing on my naked body, alone faced with a warm, humid wind.
An oppressive cloak heavy with the latent stench of sweat, a small breeze
flowing through the window, a weak relief from a hot, humid urban zoo, the
human sea breathing at once the soiled atmosphere, a million poor souls
sharing a personal nightmare. The sounds of the lost are only underlined by
a deep, bass groove, the cello strings beating a familiar tune, the small
plucks of the wires adding a soulful soundtrack to this ocean of lambs,
notes and sounds flying, lost in the heavy smog.
The lights flicker again, casting a small glitter on the arsenal layed on
the flat obsidian table. Tools of my trade. The Breathstealer. My hands
carress the silencer of my Hammerli Sniper Pistol. Custom-gripped to
embrace my hand. Light. Silent. Almost an object of desire. The warm
kiss of a woman is nothing compared to the rush of killing.
I walk towards the window, pressing my forehead on the cool glass, looking
down. The street is filled with drones, barely considered thinking beings.
The Jazz player is still sitting near the corner, trying to carve out a
slice of life for himself, hoping that by uplifting the spirits of the
walking dead, he will make it better for himself. I respect him. But he
barely has enough coinage inside his case to buy himself a soycaf. People
look down, afraid to face an image they know too well. Afraid to see for
themselves what they have become. Nothing more than cattle, to be butchered
by the powerful. But he keeps playing. Despite his mastery of the upright
bass, despite his genial harmonies, the weak pass him by, without even a
glance, stealing his notes without retribution, taking the music from his
heart without even a thankful glance, a simple smile. Car horns choke out
his music, covering his sounds with their shreaking, angry cries. Shouts,
scournful gestures, Hate rules these streets. The music man is nothing but
one of the few rays of light, crushed by the wave of indifference.
That's why Hell is not an issue. The Lord turned a blind eye on us. We're
already damned.
So why not make the most of it?
A small, barely audible click. Metal against metal. The clip gently
squeezes in.
+++++Close Archive (Misc-234-0-A)]<<<<<
-- Haze <22:04:28/06-04-59>
