Khendon Sevon
Nov 30th, 2006, 01:49:57 PM
The chamber cycled with an audible hiss and click as another round was slammed down the barrel with the full force of a speeding bullet. There was an ear bleeding BLAM followed by the clatter of disorganized limbs smacking into the cold ground. The single overhead light flickered uneasily and cast a sallow tube of hazy illumination on the sprawled corpse and the growing puddle of dark crimson fluid that leaked profusely from where a fist-sized chunk of flesh should have been.
A thin wisp of bluish-gray smoke rolled from the snub-nosed weapon. A puff of noxious fume escaped the killer’s lips. He took a deep draw then threw the cigarette onto the stained concrete.
There was a BMW idling in one of the parking spots in the garage. It was night in a bad part of the city. There were few taken wedges of marked off turf. Still, that didn’t mean there weren’t Hoboes around. They infested everything in the Outers. Everything.
The Agent pulled a plastic cylinder from within the folds of his black, tailored suit and activated the device. It hummed to life in his hand and spewed a thin mist of blue particles that floated in a swarm around the exhaust port. They swirled then came together in a menu driven operating system.
He touched a circle and it stuck to his finger as he dragged it along the projected screen. Lines linked, momentarily turned amber, and then faded. A flash lit the cold, dark parking garage for a moment before it died out. The hum increased momentarily and the Agent smacked the cylinder. They were always giving him junk that overheated. New technology wasn’t for the field, he had told them. He didn’t care if it took an extra nanosecond to process, he wanted stability and ruggedness.
The mist of particles realigned in a full body representation of the very, very dead body.
His thumb triggered a control and a number pad appeared. Nimble fingers keyed in the proper digits and a voice spat out the tiny speaker on the handheld, “You have reached the Langley Agent Services Terminal, to hear a menu—“
“—Control, Identify Vocal Sampling: Phoenix,” he grumbled with a voice sweetly sour.
The computerized response chimed happily, “identified. Hello FDR Agent J—“
“—Execute: Citizen Database Query. Parameters: Single Localized SRD File.” He sighed heavily and dragged a finger over the image. It resized and became a thumbnail that he dropped on a telephone-like icon.
“Please provide fil,” it paused momentarily as it analyzed the incoming packets. “Thank you, FDR Agent—“
“Email me, okay? Buh bye, LAST."
“Thank you and—“ He stabbed the icon and it burst like a bubble. The field was sucked back into the cylinder and he tucked it away securely.
He hated having to call Langley. Their AI was too pleasant for a bunch of Federal assassins. The Agent would’ve much rather preferred a visual menu like the FBI’s system. Still, the CIA had the most complete database of Citizens.
His dress shoe nudged the corpse.
It had definitely been a Citizen.
The gloves went on. The Agent knelt down, holstered his piece, and began searching the assailant’s person. Hopefully there would be some bit of information that would clear up the details for him.
Then he’d leave the body to the Incinerator Squad.
A thin wisp of bluish-gray smoke rolled from the snub-nosed weapon. A puff of noxious fume escaped the killer’s lips. He took a deep draw then threw the cigarette onto the stained concrete.
There was a BMW idling in one of the parking spots in the garage. It was night in a bad part of the city. There were few taken wedges of marked off turf. Still, that didn’t mean there weren’t Hoboes around. They infested everything in the Outers. Everything.
The Agent pulled a plastic cylinder from within the folds of his black, tailored suit and activated the device. It hummed to life in his hand and spewed a thin mist of blue particles that floated in a swarm around the exhaust port. They swirled then came together in a menu driven operating system.
He touched a circle and it stuck to his finger as he dragged it along the projected screen. Lines linked, momentarily turned amber, and then faded. A flash lit the cold, dark parking garage for a moment before it died out. The hum increased momentarily and the Agent smacked the cylinder. They were always giving him junk that overheated. New technology wasn’t for the field, he had told them. He didn’t care if it took an extra nanosecond to process, he wanted stability and ruggedness.
The mist of particles realigned in a full body representation of the very, very dead body.
His thumb triggered a control and a number pad appeared. Nimble fingers keyed in the proper digits and a voice spat out the tiny speaker on the handheld, “You have reached the Langley Agent Services Terminal, to hear a menu—“
“—Control, Identify Vocal Sampling: Phoenix,” he grumbled with a voice sweetly sour.
The computerized response chimed happily, “identified. Hello FDR Agent J—“
“—Execute: Citizen Database Query. Parameters: Single Localized SRD File.” He sighed heavily and dragged a finger over the image. It resized and became a thumbnail that he dropped on a telephone-like icon.
“Please provide fil,” it paused momentarily as it analyzed the incoming packets. “Thank you, FDR Agent—“
“Email me, okay? Buh bye, LAST."
“Thank you and—“ He stabbed the icon and it burst like a bubble. The field was sucked back into the cylinder and he tucked it away securely.
He hated having to call Langley. Their AI was too pleasant for a bunch of Federal assassins. The Agent would’ve much rather preferred a visual menu like the FBI’s system. Still, the CIA had the most complete database of Citizens.
His dress shoe nudged the corpse.
It had definitely been a Citizen.
The gloves went on. The Agent knelt down, holstered his piece, and began searching the assailant’s person. Hopefully there would be some bit of information that would clear up the details for him.
Then he’d leave the body to the Incinerator Squad.