I've been a runner for McDonalds for six years. After the Fall of Gov'ment in 2004, McDonalds went into high gear, buying arms and establishing itself as one of the first five Corporations. They kept the name... maybe because of the news reports and all the fearwiring they'd invested... makes people never forget you, ya know?
They call me the Burglar. I think it's a reference to some former mascot.
I live in a sublet below K street and my biggest problem these days is finding cigarettes.
It's not that they're not being made. God knows Tobacco keeps its hands where everyone can see them. It's just that this is a hard neighborhood.
It's hard to find things, hard to keep them here, and harder still to make a delivery last more than the hour it takes a crew to assemble.
The liquor store is vendored by a robot.
The robot is full of holes.
But, he knows my name, and he's been programmed to like me.
As I leave my apartment and the door locks behind me automatically I can hear some shuffling by my stoop. Infra-red in my eyes; cost a bit but always worthwhile to see fleshies in the dark.
It's a hobo. He's scrabbling for something between his dirty covers. Probably money or some posession. Nobody forgets where their gun is out here.
I step out onto the main road.
The lights are almost daytime-bright except for the colors.
Red, blue, yellow: Seering neon lamps illuminate everything they shouldn't.
The street always finds a new use for the detritus of the previous generations. I can see a gang wearing bits of car metal as armor, long spears strapped to their backs.
They're across the strip and looking mean, but they're distracted and my trench covers me pretty well.
I skip across and down a manhole obviously rigged to be flipped in a hurry; there's a latch and pin assembly so all you have to do is push a foot through and it flips open.
I jump down and catch the ladder then slide, my metal-coated gloves tossing tiny sparks into the red-brick and dank vertical shaft.
It's nice having a GPS in your head. Most people who have one take them for granted, but I was born a street-urchin.
I take off down a familiar alley and soon I'm running full-tilt, silent as the noxious wind blowing through these tunnels.
A sign painted on the wall makes me pull up short.
It's bad: Territory marked by Freighters.
Freighters used to be harmless; they got a pass to roam as they pleased from the other four corporations, since their services are invaluable.
They specialize in transportation of ...well, anything.
Why a Transporter sign is here, of all places, is a mystery to me.
This is clearly McDonalds territory.
I take five more pictures with my ocular in the space of a heartbeat and then look down either direction, hoping I haven't been spotted by any hardware.
It looks clean. The usual sparkles of electromagnetic signatures are dim... most lilkely from power lines in the roads.
Could be a prank or could be a warning. With no idea which, I bank on the more dangerous of the two and move back the way I came.
It's not hard to circle around the area, and soon I'm again on track for my meetup.
My ocular records lat/long on every picture, as well as three other layers: infrared, electromagnetic and sonic.
The data's too complex to analyze without an external device and a Slip, so I mail the photos to my desk at home and send a copy off to a friend with the usual 'in case of death' form letter.
None of that matters at this moment. I'm here.
Two large thugs wearing black masks step out of the alley as I rise from the sewer hole.
They aren't obviously armed. That's bad. It means they're heavily armed.
Carefully I walk toward them, not bothering to scout. If two metal heads are here, they're the biggest threat anyway.
The one on the left is wearing black leather everything, including a trench that coudl wrap around me thrice. He pulls a package out of it and tosses it at me.
I catch it and he turns and walks back into his alley. His friend follows after glaring for the requisite two seconds. Intimidation always works on me, but the trick is not to let on.
"You gonna run that?"
Startled, I duck a little and turn toward the voice. Someone is crouched down between a dumpster and an equally lived-in apartment.
"People who ask questions about people who do things like that wind up hurt."
My voice sounds a little gruff even to me. Maybe I'm actually concerned about this mysterious and very stupid stranger.
He stands up.
"It's me. Ronald McDonald."
No fucking shit. It is him. Ronald my fucking boss McDonald. There's no mistaking that orange hair, white skin and deadly smile. For a brain-in-a-jar who's been modded to resemble a cartoon character he's incredibly scary in person.
"I'm fucking dead, aren't I?"
Ronald chuckles in his friendliest voice. "Dead? Who isn't these days." He taps his metal skull and grins.
"Don't fuck with me, man. If you want something, say it." The bravest words I've ever uttered. If it weren't for massive amounts of adrenaline and several illicit drugs I'd just queued my autodoc to hit me with I'd be shaking and squeaking like a little girl. As it is I'm merely obviously terrified.
"I like a good runner. More importantly, I like having good moles. Your friend sent me these a few minutes ago." He holds up my snaps of the Transporters territory sign. "Do you know how this got on the wall?"
I'm totally fucked. He thinks I'm a double agent. And if I live through this, I'm going to strangle Ken with my bare hands for being a mole on his own mole.
"No idea. Thought you'd like to see it, though."
"And when did you plan to send it to 'me'?"
I swallow nervously. "After this job, when I'm not in danger of taking a bullet for having it on me."
He considers and rubs his red, overgrown nose. It seems to be plastic or rubber because it wriggles around under his very expensive, articulate metal finger.
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Topic: Art^2 (Read 25989 times)