Bright Blue Bliss (95 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 2 on 2 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Impassive-Digressive (View user info) at 2006-11-07 08:58:10 EST
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
Karen stared listlessly at the polished metal elevator walls as she continued her rapid descent to the arcology's sub-levels. Above the door, the orange display announced her progress. The Residential and Commercial Levels flew by without incident. As she hit the Industrial Sector, she felt the elevator slow, before it came to rest on IL-24.
With a muted click the doors slid open and a pair of men in maintenance uniforms stepped in. They turned their back to Karen and stood near the door. From the back corner, through force of habit more than anything else, she performed a quick assessment on the two.
The taller of the two was clearly from a Pacific Island family; likely descended from the multitudes of climate refugees who sought refuge in Australia as their homelands sank beneath the rising seas or were annihilated by the increasingly frequent megastorms.
The shorter man, a Caucasian, was most likely North American. Most of the Western Europeans were too proud to work in maintenance, and most of the Eastern Europeans were too poor, or their countries lacked the necessary treaties to gain refugee status and escape the nuclear winter that was strangling the Northern Hemisphere.
Judging from the tools that hung on their belts, the pair were 'window-washers' - the term affectionately given to the teams responsible for maintaining the huge geodesic dome that protected the arcology from the punishing weather outside
Assuming that their harnesses held, and that the American hadn't been overly exposed to the radiation, these two fit thirty-somethings would likely live to see their hundredth birthdays. Thanks to her family's wealth, nanotech implants and several generations of gene manipulation, Karen stood a good chance of pushing one-fifty - although the prospect of another hundred and seventeen years in the Katoomba Arcology was not one that excited her.
The elevator sped on through the remainder of the Industrial Sector, stopping briefly on one of the service levels for the two Maintenance Officers to disembark before coming to a halt on Sublevel 1. Her boots clicking on the concrete floor, Karen walked briskly to the shuttle station.
With a beep of acceptance, she swiped her wristband over the scanner at the turnstile and stepped onto the deserted platform. Very few who were privileged enough to live in the North Quadrant of the arcology would have any reason to travel to the lower West at any time - let alone three in the morning. Since she became a Sentinel sixteen years ago, Karen had made the trip many times.
Just as the police force served the government of the Pacific Bloc, the Sentinels served the real powerbrokers - the ruling plutocracy. As rising seas and raging storms pushed the majority of the population into the relative protection of the arcologies, it became increasingly difficult for the Bloc government to effectively manage the internal goings-on of each isolated city.
Such power voids rarely last, and frequently it was the wealthy and powerful members of society who would fill the vacuum. As such, many arcologies adhered to the Golden Rule - 'He who has the gold makes the rules'. Barring the few examples where excessive plutocracy devolved into blatant kleptocracy and fell into anarchy, the system worked well. Helped in no small part by the Sentinels - elite, highly trained and well equipped individuals who were usually commissioned to maintain an eye on the population and perform tasks that the police wouldn't, couldn't or shouldn't.
With a gust of stale air, the sleek silver shuttle slid up to the platform. Karen took a seat at the back and examined the only other occupant, a young male. His singlet showed off an almost impressive array of implants. Much of his arms and torso gleamed silver, usually a sign that his musculature had been replaced with a cybernetic equivalent. Tougher, stronger and practically tireless, the upgrades were common amongst soldiers and security workers.
This boy however, was neither. The modifications were purely cosmetic - albeit good ones. Few people would be able to tell the difference.
"Whatcha lookin' at luv?" The question was posed with just a hint of menace.
"I like your cosmetics."
"Nah mate." He rapped silver knuckles on his chest "These are the real deal."
Karen smiled broadly.
"Ten bucks says I can beat you in an arm wrestle."
He snorted, and pulled down the tray table in his seat.
"No chance."
Karen sat down beside him and put her arm up on the table. She felt his hand close around her glove and tensed her muscles. Beneath her skin, bands of real alloy implants locked into place. She let him strain against her unmoving arm for a few moments before effortlessly pushing his arm down. He looked at her, stunned. Chances are he had never lost an arm-wrestle to a thirty-seven year old woman before.
Karen pulled back the sleeve of her jacket, revealing her wristband.
"Pay up."
A few taps on his wristband and he swiped it over hers, shunting ten dollars into her account. As the shuttle pulled into her station, Karen stood and made her way to the door, the young man still silent.
"Don't feel too bad kiddo, even if your implants were real I would've probably still beaten you."
As the shuttle shot off to the next station, Karen made her way to the bank of elevators at in the station foyer. The floor here was filthy, some stains were just dirt, others blood, and it smelt like someone had been pissing in the corner. As much as they tried, the plutocrats simply couldn't keep proper control over the Western Quadrant. Consisting of government housing, slums and home to much of the arcology's criminal activity, the Sentinels did what they could to keep the undesirable elements to a minimum, but there was only so much that could be done.
Taking a grimy elevator up to the lower Commercial Levels, Karen stepped out into a rich burst of colour. The holographic signs flashed up and down the entire strip. A few people were visible in the glow, stumbling between seedy clubs, and several girls called from the doorway of a nearby hostess bar. Nicknamed the Flea Market, CL-09 was generally considered to be the place where anything could be bought, traded or sold. Drugs, tech, weapons, people, and lives - everything had a street value here.
Striding quickly down the strip, head down and avoiding the locals, Karen made her way to a non-descript grey door, one of very few without a huge hologram announcing its presence. She pressed the buzzer beside the door.
"'Ello?"
"Emanuelle, it's Karen." She ran her wristband over the small wall-mounted scanner to confirm her ID.
"Très bien! Do come in."
Emanuelle sat, as usual in the half-light at the small reception desk. Behind her, the word 'Memoirtheque' glowed red on the black wall. A small incense burner stood on the corner of the desk, a plume of fragrant smoke curling towards the ceiling. A Parisian refugee, Emanuelle had found herself a profitable niche in the Flea Market as an Eidolon dealer.
Originally designed as an experimental didactic tool, the idea behind the Eidola was to record information, lessons and experiences in the form of a chemical/nanotech hybrid device. When ingested or implanted, the Eidola would release its contents, passing the information directly to the brain of the user. In short, condensing years of education and training into something as simple as a pill or an injection.
Alas, the science never graduated to the stage where the Eidola became effective. Complex information was simply too difficult to store and transfer - a pill was not enough to teach someone trigonometry. Base experiences however - things like fear, pain, adrenaline rushes and orgasms were far simpler to replicate.
Abandoned by the major pharmaceutical companies, production went underground and trading and consumption followed. Emanuelle tapped at her wristband and held out her arm. Karen swiped hers across, nodding in acknowledgment as the funds entered her account. Emanuelle had contacts in the North Quadrant who were happy enough to see her stay in business - for a fee.
The transaction complete, Emanuelle opened a drawer and removed a small jar of blue pills.
"Want one?" She raised a dark eyebrow. "Zis new batch is supercool."
Karen eyed the jar warily.
"Supercool?" Karen mimicked Emanuelle's strong French accent.
"Oui. Like losing your virginity all over again. Lust, pain, pleasure. Supercool."
Emanuelle placed a single pill on the counter, and watched expectantly.
Pill in hand; Karen pushed aside the beaded curtain between the reception and into Memoirtheque's darkened interior. Based on a nineteenth century East Asian opium den, red paper lanterns hung low over long velvet couches. Incense swirled around her and the prone occupants of the couches. The near-silence occasionally punctuated by moans and whimpers of pleasure.
Karen placed the pill in her mouth, swallowing as she unfurled her body on an empty couch. Her eyelids fluttering as the ecstasy began.
User Reviews
Submitted by HateMudkips (user info) at 2008-08-22 22:06:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
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Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2007-06-05 12:19:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2