Sound effect neurilonk sycs with tv turning on, buzzing thats fades to high resolution-
Newscasters-
Male Boom: Lillon 51H
Woman Boom: Lillon 51 H
Male talent: The backwater penal colony turned planet-
Male whiny: Look democracy is democracy. Just be glad its not armeggedon here. They are the descendants of prisoners after all. I don't gives rats back what happens so long as its not here.
Female Proper: Experts warn of nucleare forecast as tensions escelate
Male old Scholar: An off ramp is whats needed. Nothing in this universe happens in a vaccum. And with the Membolites Bacteriums so vital to the genomics and bio fields it would be prudent for a negotian to be had.
Female Proper: All credit is given to the Emmisary Charlene the Twelth for successfully negotiaing a peace deal with a twelve mile DMZ-
Male talent: What? Like in the actual what? We've tried this. And every time it has failed. You know why? Because DMZ doesn't stand for Demilitarized zone but Destined Military Zone. What. I'm. Saying. Is. This is a band aid-
Male Boom: Belive what you want about Lillon 51H, but the facts are the facts.
Female Boom- While some pundits believe we should have supported Firthland on account of shared values, nucleare war, at least for a time rests at a stand still.
Male Old Scholar: Radiating the DMZ so that no life form, that we are aware of, can survive much more
than a few hours within it. Manned by drone husktakers, programmed to destroy enything inorganic, and laid out at 20,000 feet it is a near impentrble line to cross-
Male talent: making it the perfect place for the Cartel to run its disgusting, devious little plots. But I forget our political and better class is in bed the Amigo's Three. Think I'm crazy? Well don't take from me. Why don't you watch and listen to this bit of footage caught of opertation run over the DMZ. (Sound effect of the ship being shot down) Thats right chrome heads, a class s stealth runner, taken down by Piper Ordinnaces. Let me tell you, only three entites could be running a ship like that and its either the government, big corp, or the Cartel. Given the method for formulating ehyeh. I know where my money is, my money is (the last sentence fades to a more digital "tv" like sound)
My vision focus back in on the present as his thugs take away the ARC on which they had given their presentation. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust. The garden is so vibrant, filled with yellow plumes of smoke, wafting off the ancient cigar in the boss-man's mouth. His fingers taps the grill both eyes, replaced and now cold robotic lenses peer out at me. With every tap of his fingers I can't help but wince. Tap, click, click, tapatap. Swarthy, with oily hair and wearing a suit that looks like it'll rip under the bulge of his muscled form, Emog the Second of the Amigo's tilts his head, and attends the grill. Had we not entered marble estatres I would have thought us in lost somewhere in the wilderness. It is a dreamscape land, emerald, babbling with the blurb of a happy brook, and starling song. Just like the Red Widow his hand is marked by the same prostethics that mark him out as a member of the Cartel. It's only then that I realize I havn't tried any of the scotch offered to me. Hastily, I make to take a sip, almost knocking it over in my worry. Both seemed like good reasons to be nerfed, rudeness or clumsiness, take your pick.
"So—" I wince, feeling the pointed tap of the Red Widow's hands on my shoulder. A not so friendly reminder, as Sandra's pointer finger becomes razor sharp, pricking my skin. Not freindly but a comparbly gentle warning. I swallow.
"Your Eminnece," I say, feeling her hand retract. "This is why you bought me? To retrieve something from the crash?"
"Not just anything," Emog say's, puffing on the cigar, swallowing each and every inhale. "Ehyeh, the miracle drug, the only substance that can unplug someone completly from the grid. Blessed bliss." He exhales like a dragon into my face, throwing me into a fit of coughs. My eyes water and my nose immediatly begins to run. It takes me several minutes to regain my compuser. He patiently waits.
"I get why you want me," I cough. "Not many others can take the alitude or even that level of radiation, but I'm sorry, I'm still flesh and blood. This isn't possible." Red Widow cuts me again, this time deeper, pulling a seethig sharp hiss from my lips. Can't was one of those words she had briefed me not to use. I prepare for the worst. To be nerfed for my honesty. It's either here or there, right? To my suprise Emog takes it in stride, raising the dark streak of an eyebrow only slightly. "We have means for that."
I want to ask what but I know better than to push my luck.
"And the Husktakers?" I ask.
"What about them? They only recognize emg pulses. No one expects any lifeform to survive in that wasteland. Your all natural, perfectly invisible. . . so long as you keep out of sight."
"Right," I say, clenching my fingers and relaxing them. "But say I don't bro, what then? I don't know the first thing about fighting."
Emog laughs, " Then you better run, bro!"
My smile is brittle and my limbs stiff. Sitting through his laghter sets my teeth on edge. Finally, once his amusment has died, the Second Amigo fixes me with a deadly glare.
"Shit doesn't get left to chance with me. We checked your genetic code. You were grown open source—"
Now this suprises me and I can't keep the look from my face.
"Did you really thinl those Corprate Chromes would do it anyother way. What? You actually think your special? Born with a champions racing IQ. Come again, bro. But this does mean years worth of fighting technique can be downloaded directly into that chrome of yours," he say's tapping me on the forhead.
I shiver.
"So are you in?"
I shiver again.
"No need to decide right this moment. I'll give you until lunch is done. God, broooo! I love grilling. Was raised on it. Did I tell you this meal is dedicated to the last person who was useless to me?"
"I. . . I think I missed that."
"Well, it is," Emog grunts, removing the foil from the meat at rest. Slicing into the meat with his fingers turned blades, red rivers run from the meat, forming a pool at the base of the platter. Only briefly stopping to remove something from the platter, chuckle and toss it into the garden greens. He is quick and it glints only briefly in the sun, but I see it for what it is—a wedding band.
I shiver again, revolted, knowing refusal, might very well see my own arm on the grill, best served rare. . .
