sufi
lala
we missed a couple of days - need another 5000 words tonight probably
cultic banter and iconisation of mr tea will do it
NaNoWriMo
- Thread starter sufi
- Start date
cultic banter and iconisation of mr tea will do it
constant escape
winter withered, warm
"Who?" Tea probes.
"The Archivist." Eden forebodes. "He can materialize and dematerialize at will. He overlooks those who seek out such abilities, but rarely intervenes in their efforts. However, the higher echelon of our pursuers apparently has a deeper collective rapport with him, being able to summon him in ways he can't always resist."
Tea takes a moment. "You would say this qualifies as an emergency, right? A once in a lifetime emergency?"
Eden nods, tentative. "It seems so."
"Then perhaps we need to call in some favors."
A non-diagetic swelling of "On the Beautiful Blue Danube" commences, pre-lapped onto...
~
...faint drops of amber liquid, descending from the swollen heavens, discretely touch down upon the sidewalk to the tune, until the melody builds up into a fine and glimmeringly continuous thread of gold, causing a series of horrified pedestrians to readjust their routes, as we trace the stream many a story up to a pair of penthouse-bound corduroy trousers, ruffled above an otherworldly ceramic-like collar strapped to the left ankle. Craner zips up his fly.
A tipsy waltz back inside, to the tune of the radio, and a retrieval of a fresh bottle of cognac, before a soft rapping on the door.
Craner smoothly raises his non-drink-holding wrist and snaps. The music stops.
Shuffling over to the door, he peers into the peephole, tilts his head in confusion, and opens up to meet Tea and Eden.
Craner, grinning, "What's the favor?"
Tea swiftly consults Eden with a glance, before responding, "We need to find Nomad."
~
In Craner's study, Tea and Eden sit opposite each other around a coffee table, as their host piles yet another bankers box onto the already lofty stack beside them.
"Long story short," Craner announces, patting the tower of files, "She's been relentlessly mimed by a coterie of imposters, which I suspect she has hired to throw off her suitors, some of whom have unknowingly built a life with such catfish."
He sits down, eyes sharp, "But I saw through it. I can see her at her level. And she knows it. That's why she paid me off, with this luxurious abode, to keep silent. The ankle bracelet is added security. Couldn't tell you what it does. But I've had enough, sweetheart! I know you can hear me! No supply of prestigiously accredited liqueur can keep me away!"
Eden, a bit taken aback, "So you're willing to help us?"
"Anything to break the monotony."
Craner dutifully blows the dust from the lid of the top box, and lifts it.
"The Archivist." Eden forebodes. "He can materialize and dematerialize at will. He overlooks those who seek out such abilities, but rarely intervenes in their efforts. However, the higher echelon of our pursuers apparently has a deeper collective rapport with him, being able to summon him in ways he can't always resist."
Tea takes a moment. "You would say this qualifies as an emergency, right? A once in a lifetime emergency?"
Eden nods, tentative. "It seems so."
"Then perhaps we need to call in some favors."
A non-diagetic swelling of "On the Beautiful Blue Danube" commences, pre-lapped onto...
~
...faint drops of amber liquid, descending from the swollen heavens, discretely touch down upon the sidewalk to the tune, until the melody builds up into a fine and glimmeringly continuous thread of gold, causing a series of horrified pedestrians to readjust their routes, as we trace the stream many a story up to a pair of penthouse-bound corduroy trousers, ruffled above an otherworldly ceramic-like collar strapped to the left ankle. Craner zips up his fly.
A tipsy waltz back inside, to the tune of the radio, and a retrieval of a fresh bottle of cognac, before a soft rapping on the door.
Craner smoothly raises his non-drink-holding wrist and snaps. The music stops.
Shuffling over to the door, he peers into the peephole, tilts his head in confusion, and opens up to meet Tea and Eden.
Craner, grinning, "What's the favor?"
Tea swiftly consults Eden with a glance, before responding, "We need to find Nomad."
~
In Craner's study, Tea and Eden sit opposite each other around a coffee table, as their host piles yet another bankers box onto the already lofty stack beside them.
"Long story short," Craner announces, patting the tower of files, "She's been relentlessly mimed by a coterie of imposters, which I suspect she has hired to throw off her suitors, some of whom have unknowingly built a life with such catfish."
He sits down, eyes sharp, "But I saw through it. I can see her at her level. And she knows it. That's why she paid me off, with this luxurious abode, to keep silent. The ankle bracelet is added security. Couldn't tell you what it does. But I've had enough, sweetheart! I know you can hear me! No supply of prestigiously accredited liqueur can keep me away!"
Eden, a bit taken aback, "So you're willing to help us?"
"Anything to break the monotony."
Craner dutifully blows the dust from the lid of the top box, and lifts it.
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sus
Moderator
We need @sadmanbarty to come copy-paste his dissensus space opera and save this effort
constant escape
winter withered, warm
sufi
lala
ca ne va pas, it has to be written during the month of Nov.
i don't see why we can't quote anything anybody writes here though?
mind you i havent read the rules that closely
we do need some barty though
constant escape
winter withered, warm
Yeah the novel will just be the whole conversation about the novel. Interesting...
constant escape
winter withered, warm
Mr. Tea
Let's Talk About Ceps
MOAR MOAR MOAR!
sufi
lala
In the box was a photograph. They all knew very well its provenance, the subject matter and the meaning in this precise context, Tea blushed.
The photo was old and brown, it was about 2inches high, and an inch wide, it appeared to have been developed by hand, a long time ago. It was not possible to tell whether it had orginally been a colour image, now the hues had gone the black had faded so it looked like sepia. That made it hard to tell at a glance how old it was, it's proportions and colours looked like something from an old box of Victoriana under a table, among postcards and stiff portraits.
It was only by scrutinising the picture that one could judge its age. The image was clear and focused, it seemed to have been taken with an old fashioned camera, no pixels or digital artifacts were evident, exposure and depth of field seemed carefully judged to maximise the amount of light falling into the lens, it was well composed. It showed an interior scene containing two standing figures either side of what appeared to be an altar. Upon the altar, and one would have to use a magnifying glass or some other optical aid, the emulsion of the print was smooth and the details were crisp as a pin, was as follows:
The altar was tall and really crowded with items stacked upon one another, some of which might have grown in place, coral like structures, cascading ectoplasms, frozen in the tan natural light, candlewax dropped over wood and bone, like grotty icicles, and everywhere fungi, great crests of mould, mushrooms and lichens and mosses binding the structures, extruding from between objects, oozing through gaps.
The top of the altar was arrayed with a thicket of sharp looking objects, sticks, blades, an umbrella, sporting and gardening implements, poking upwards, making the whole thing a bit taller than teh dark figures to the sides. They were attached together in a bundle around a hatstand, above an old blazer with epaulets and a row of costume medals, upon which a variety of headgear, caps, helmets, masks and other millinery hung, a fake specs nose and moustache, despite all it's anatomical familiarity it looked as ungainly and inhuman a scarecrow or a guy fawkes doll,
bottles, jars gourds, skulls, coconuts and plush toys made up the bulk of the sculpture, yet nothing personal or branded, no words or trademarks were in evidence to contextualise in time or place.
Pinned to a sporran like thing, with a couple of grouse feathers sticking out merrily from behind it, near the peak of the whole assemblage was a receipt, handwritten and distinct, in an ebulliant calligraphic hand with thick descenders, extravagant curlicues and accents, it read, "3 tubs best only, £3 4s 2p" with "Collected 8/8/8/88" in a smaller hand across it, the paper was headed "S Sherbet & Siblings, Among the Finest Fish and Game in the West Country" - the ampersand was printed stylishly backwards, and the Ss interconnected like brambles. The bottom corner was folded over, but a phone number had been there, and the last couple of digits could still be made out. It seemed archaic. but looking down further, the superstructure of the altar was constructed from plastic milk bottle crates, labelled "Express Dairies" and it was not difficult to make out bottles in the distinctive shapes of the early to mid nineteen nineties.
IN th every centre of the composition was a timepiece, it was the exact same same elaborate chronometer, dials and springs and jewels and rotors on display in a configuration that was unmistakable, no two much devices could possibly exist. The watch's body was dull brass, cast thickly and rivetted, with glassy portals showing its innards, quite similar to an old fashioned divers' helmet, with too a long chain coming off it like an air tube. On the inside, amongst the intricate and exquisitely machined closckwork, that seemed to be floating in a gelatinous goo, a thick wd40 that might conceal tiny wispy nymphs or sprites flitting between the cogs and rotors, as if pulled up from thousands of leagues below the trbulaent and sargasso pea green soupy sea. The workings were so fine and so artfully assembled, so delicately and nimbly turning and interconnecting, pinging and clicking that it seemed as if an entire galaxy was rotating and revolving around the gem like core, where a glittering and precious heart lay at the very centre of this mesmerising and magical clock.
Peering at the photo in the box, the unworldly clock on the strange altar, the tiny golden heart behind the window showing the inside of that mystical orary, a tiny minute screen displaying in ancient but stylish but primitively digital glyphs 23:23 and etched indelibly into its body the unearthly power word: CASIO.
The photo was old and brown, it was about 2inches high, and an inch wide, it appeared to have been developed by hand, a long time ago. It was not possible to tell whether it had orginally been a colour image, now the hues had gone the black had faded so it looked like sepia. That made it hard to tell at a glance how old it was, it's proportions and colours looked like something from an old box of Victoriana under a table, among postcards and stiff portraits.
It was only by scrutinising the picture that one could judge its age. The image was clear and focused, it seemed to have been taken with an old fashioned camera, no pixels or digital artifacts were evident, exposure and depth of field seemed carefully judged to maximise the amount of light falling into the lens, it was well composed. It showed an interior scene containing two standing figures either side of what appeared to be an altar. Upon the altar, and one would have to use a magnifying glass or some other optical aid, the emulsion of the print was smooth and the details were crisp as a pin, was as follows:
The altar was tall and really crowded with items stacked upon one another, some of which might have grown in place, coral like structures, cascading ectoplasms, frozen in the tan natural light, candlewax dropped over wood and bone, like grotty icicles, and everywhere fungi, great crests of mould, mushrooms and lichens and mosses binding the structures, extruding from between objects, oozing through gaps.
The top of the altar was arrayed with a thicket of sharp looking objects, sticks, blades, an umbrella, sporting and gardening implements, poking upwards, making the whole thing a bit taller than teh dark figures to the sides. They were attached together in a bundle around a hatstand, above an old blazer with epaulets and a row of costume medals, upon which a variety of headgear, caps, helmets, masks and other millinery hung, a fake specs nose and moustache, despite all it's anatomical familiarity it looked as ungainly and inhuman a scarecrow or a guy fawkes doll,
bottles, jars gourds, skulls, coconuts and plush toys made up the bulk of the sculpture, yet nothing personal or branded, no words or trademarks were in evidence to contextualise in time or place.
Pinned to a sporran like thing, with a couple of grouse feathers sticking out merrily from behind it, near the peak of the whole assemblage was a receipt, handwritten and distinct, in an ebulliant calligraphic hand with thick descenders, extravagant curlicues and accents, it read, "3 tubs best only, £3 4s 2p" with "Collected 8/8/8/88" in a smaller hand across it, the paper was headed "S Sherbet & Siblings, Among the Finest Fish and Game in the West Country" - the ampersand was printed stylishly backwards, and the Ss interconnected like brambles. The bottom corner was folded over, but a phone number had been there, and the last couple of digits could still be made out. It seemed archaic. but looking down further, the superstructure of the altar was constructed from plastic milk bottle crates, labelled "Express Dairies" and it was not difficult to make out bottles in the distinctive shapes of the early to mid nineteen nineties.
IN th every centre of the composition was a timepiece, it was the exact same same elaborate chronometer, dials and springs and jewels and rotors on display in a configuration that was unmistakable, no two much devices could possibly exist. The watch's body was dull brass, cast thickly and rivetted, with glassy portals showing its innards, quite similar to an old fashioned divers' helmet, with too a long chain coming off it like an air tube. On the inside, amongst the intricate and exquisitely machined closckwork, that seemed to be floating in a gelatinous goo, a thick wd40 that might conceal tiny wispy nymphs or sprites flitting between the cogs and rotors, as if pulled up from thousands of leagues below the trbulaent and sargasso pea green soupy sea. The workings were so fine and so artfully assembled, so delicately and nimbly turning and interconnecting, pinging and clicking that it seemed as if an entire galaxy was rotating and revolving around the gem like core, where a glittering and precious heart lay at the very centre of this mesmerising and magical clock.
Peering at the photo in the box, the unworldly clock on the strange altar, the tiny golden heart behind the window showing the inside of that mystical orary, a tiny minute screen displaying in ancient but stylish but primitively digital glyphs 23:23 and etched indelibly into its body the unearthly power word: CASIO.
Mr. Tea
Let's Talk About Ceps
Craner reached into the box and delicately picked up the photograph between finger and thumb, exercising all the reverence due to the relicts of a saint, and placed it carefully on the reproduction Louis-XIV drinks table, next to a three-quarters empty bottle of Chateau d'Yquem 1937.
"I can see Tea knows all about this. He can tell you about it in a moment, Eden. But for the task at hand, the other object is of more immediate importance."
He reached into the box and withdrew a 2-gigabyte Seagate harddrive.
"In order to find Nomad, you will need to understand who she really is, and to understand that, you need to understand what she is. This" - he held up the harddrive in front of Tea's and Eden's faces - "is Nomad."
These latter two exchanged a puzzled look. Craner's humour was acerbic, catty, smutty, sure - but never absurdist.
"The woman you know as 'Nomad' was the product of a long-running, beyond-top-secret American research programme, funded and directed by the CIA, that was initiated after MKUltra crashed and burned amid multiple scandals and a total failure to find a reliable method for mind-control in humans. The CIA's top brass had realized, even at that early date, that the future of warfare lay not in 'meat-space' but in cyberspace. To this end, they recruited the cream of the world's top geneticists and put them to work engineering a superior being of immense powers - a human superweapon. This human, once its latent abilities were activated through an accelerated hot-house education at a series of elite schools, would use its colossal intelligence and immense erudition to inflict withering verbal burns on any conceivable online opponent, while affecting absolute nonchalance at any comeback. And the beauty of the concept was that this Olympic-level eye-roller would be fulfilling a key part of the USA's long-term strategy for cultural supremacy in the noosphere, as new global enemies arose following the collapse of Soviet communism, while remaining convinced of its own fundamental opposition to American hegemony!
The DNA, of which the only extant digital copy is on this disk, was synthesized, injected into an egg and implanted into a surrogate mother - the wife of the Agency's then director, as it happens, who volunteered for the role. The child was born and placed with a foster-family, so that her true origins could be concealed from her has she grew up, since this would obviously interfere with the uses her creators had intended for her."
"I can see Tea knows all about this. He can tell you about it in a moment, Eden. But for the task at hand, the other object is of more immediate importance."
He reached into the box and withdrew a 2-gigabyte Seagate harddrive.
"In order to find Nomad, you will need to understand who she really is, and to understand that, you need to understand what she is. This" - he held up the harddrive in front of Tea's and Eden's faces - "is Nomad."
These latter two exchanged a puzzled look. Craner's humour was acerbic, catty, smutty, sure - but never absurdist.
"The woman you know as 'Nomad' was the product of a long-running, beyond-top-secret American research programme, funded and directed by the CIA, that was initiated after MKUltra crashed and burned amid multiple scandals and a total failure to find a reliable method for mind-control in humans. The CIA's top brass had realized, even at that early date, that the future of warfare lay not in 'meat-space' but in cyberspace. To this end, they recruited the cream of the world's top geneticists and put them to work engineering a superior being of immense powers - a human superweapon. This human, once its latent abilities were activated through an accelerated hot-house education at a series of elite schools, would use its colossal intelligence and immense erudition to inflict withering verbal burns on any conceivable online opponent, while affecting absolute nonchalance at any comeback. And the beauty of the concept was that this Olympic-level eye-roller would be fulfilling a key part of the USA's long-term strategy for cultural supremacy in the noosphere, as new global enemies arose following the collapse of Soviet communism, while remaining convinced of its own fundamental opposition to American hegemony!
The DNA, of which the only extant digital copy is on this disk, was synthesized, injected into an egg and implanted into a surrogate mother - the wife of the Agency's then director, as it happens, who volunteered for the role. The child was born and placed with a foster-family, so that her true origins could be concealed from her has she grew up, since this would obviously interfere with the uses her creators had intended for her."
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constant escape
winter withered, warm
"We know that her school of catfish follows a program, but we don't know the details." Craner explains, "And we know her suitors have established a reddit, convinced that she has the ability to proliferate in all her realness, and that they have collectively been blessed. Their belief is predicated upon the consistency of their partners' behaviors. We are in a rare position, having insight into both sides like this."
Tea jiggles his head awake, "Are you suggesting we topple this operation? Is that the only way to get to her?"
Craner nods, seemingly addressing himself, "It'll be glorious. She'll finally have to acknowledge me again."
Eden, now perked up, "So what's the plan?"
Craner smirks, "In a nutshell, mass homewrecking. The catfish report annually to a location of Deleuzo-Guattarian significance, in order to receive their divine mandate, which is essentially just a list of opinions to adopt, regarding trending conversation topics and other such prescience, opinions that convey an intellectual grandeur and an incisive wit."
Eden, hasty, "Where? When?"
"I know my girl Nomad. I know what makes her tick. She can't resist crafting an elegant pattern. It's built into her. I've confirmed the previous few locations, albeit behind the curve. And I think I can predict the next meeting location."
Craner glides to the bulletin board, detaches a few papers, revealing a map of Europe. Several thumbtacks designate key locations.
"She's a scorpio, naturally. Which gives me confidence in my estimation that her next location will be here," placing his now clammy index finger on Cour-Cheverny, France, marking the tail-end of the scorpio constellation, "at La Borde clinic, where Guattari led an experimental commune of schizophrenics. And wouldn't you know: Their summer play is slotted for tomorrow evening. Could be a vehicle for her transmission. Or it could be a red herring."
Tea, agape, "And?"
"Nomad's catfish, being low resolution simulacra of her, in all likelihood are already en route to La Borde, leaving their lovers under this or that pretense, to complete their pilgrimage. We just need to stir the reddit pot, convince a few of her sated suitors to pursue their assigned imposters to the clinic. Which should be easy, considering how stewed in paranoia and envy they all are. Their convergence and shared revelation will surely be enough to provoke the real, incarnate Nomad out of hiding, to clean up the mess and confront yours truly."
Tea rises, irked. "The whole point is to get her to help us, Craner. The last thing we want is to piss her off as well. And didn't you say she can hear us?"
"Leave that to me." Craner assures with a confident stretch. "I have a way with her. And don't worry, something tells me she wants me to pull her out of the woodwork, and back into my arms." Looking to Eden, "So can you get us to Cour-Cheverny?"
Eden lets out a sigh, "Yes. I can get us to Cour-Cheverny. What about that anklet of yours?"
"Think you can get that off as well?"
"I don't recognize the technology," Close on the anklet, as its minute green light discreetly switches off, unbeknownst to our connivers. "But I can send it into another permutation of the cosmos, which should buy us some time."
"Give it a shot." Craner suggests, straightening up, bracing.
Dr. Eden rigidly cups his hands, as if holding a heavy grapefruit-sized orb, and steadily expands the radius of said orb, until he appears to be holding an invisible beach ball, and suddenly claps, teleporting Craner's ankle tracker into a different universe.
Through a monocular POV, we watch from outside the wall-height penthouse windows as Craner celebratorily proceeds to do the stanky leg, before sitting down at his laptop.
The scope is lowered, revealing the glistening pathos of Corpsey's countenance, oozing with guilt.
Standing at the edge of a skeletal half-built hotel, overlooking the empty streets dozens of floors below, Corpsey glances over his shoulder and utters into the shadows behind him, "There, you six foot cunt. I found 'em."
Tea jiggles his head awake, "Are you suggesting we topple this operation? Is that the only way to get to her?"
Craner nods, seemingly addressing himself, "It'll be glorious. She'll finally have to acknowledge me again."
Eden, now perked up, "So what's the plan?"
Craner smirks, "In a nutshell, mass homewrecking. The catfish report annually to a location of Deleuzo-Guattarian significance, in order to receive their divine mandate, which is essentially just a list of opinions to adopt, regarding trending conversation topics and other such prescience, opinions that convey an intellectual grandeur and an incisive wit."
Eden, hasty, "Where? When?"
"I know my girl Nomad. I know what makes her tick. She can't resist crafting an elegant pattern. It's built into her. I've confirmed the previous few locations, albeit behind the curve. And I think I can predict the next meeting location."
Craner glides to the bulletin board, detaches a few papers, revealing a map of Europe. Several thumbtacks designate key locations.
"She's a scorpio, naturally. Which gives me confidence in my estimation that her next location will be here," placing his now clammy index finger on Cour-Cheverny, France, marking the tail-end of the scorpio constellation, "at La Borde clinic, where Guattari led an experimental commune of schizophrenics. And wouldn't you know: Their summer play is slotted for tomorrow evening. Could be a vehicle for her transmission. Or it could be a red herring."
Tea, agape, "And?"
"Nomad's catfish, being low resolution simulacra of her, in all likelihood are already en route to La Borde, leaving their lovers under this or that pretense, to complete their pilgrimage. We just need to stir the reddit pot, convince a few of her sated suitors to pursue their assigned imposters to the clinic. Which should be easy, considering how stewed in paranoia and envy they all are. Their convergence and shared revelation will surely be enough to provoke the real, incarnate Nomad out of hiding, to clean up the mess and confront yours truly."
Tea rises, irked. "The whole point is to get her to help us, Craner. The last thing we want is to piss her off as well. And didn't you say she can hear us?"
"Leave that to me." Craner assures with a confident stretch. "I have a way with her. And don't worry, something tells me she wants me to pull her out of the woodwork, and back into my arms." Looking to Eden, "So can you get us to Cour-Cheverny?"
Eden lets out a sigh, "Yes. I can get us to Cour-Cheverny. What about that anklet of yours?"
"Think you can get that off as well?"
"I don't recognize the technology," Close on the anklet, as its minute green light discreetly switches off, unbeknownst to our connivers. "But I can send it into another permutation of the cosmos, which should buy us some time."
"Give it a shot." Craner suggests, straightening up, bracing.
Dr. Eden rigidly cups his hands, as if holding a heavy grapefruit-sized orb, and steadily expands the radius of said orb, until he appears to be holding an invisible beach ball, and suddenly claps, teleporting Craner's ankle tracker into a different universe.
Through a monocular POV, we watch from outside the wall-height penthouse windows as Craner celebratorily proceeds to do the stanky leg, before sitting down at his laptop.
The scope is lowered, revealing the glistening pathos of Corpsey's countenance, oozing with guilt.
Standing at the edge of a skeletal half-built hotel, overlooking the empty streets dozens of floors below, Corpsey glances over his shoulder and utters into the shadows behind him, "There, you six foot cunt. I found 'em."
constant escape
winter withered, warm
Had to revise that a couple times, following the two latest entries, but it should be coherent.
sufi
lala
Tea accelerated down towards the huddling mass of zombies. he tapped his mobile and his hoverboard started flashing multi-coloured disco lights and blasting out Russian big beat at a deafening volume. They scattered, this was not part of the plan!
It had all started so well, it had been great to be back in the smoke again after all this time, of course a lot had changed but overall the same high ratio of arseholes to human beings as always in the big city. The squad was in the dirty zone at Walthamstow, this was an off the record job, plausible deniabilty with a healthy cut and no penalties. Overall the strategy had been excellent. Infiltration had gone very well. working at night they bypassed the checkpoints, and got themselves nicely set up in an abandoned movie theatre, great lines of sight, single point of entry/egress, munchies.
The winger was at street level with a whistle and a walky talky, their job was easy and it had gone well, the infected had channeled down towards the supermarket, and the spotters confirmed that the shutters were going up and the doors were open. The weekly shop was on, the zombies chuntered and muttered, their disgusting slobbering groans were really unpleasant, they seemed to follow their deep instincts, wandering in search of nourishment or stimulus, they carried on as before, mindlessly consuming, vapid but content.
Down at the checkpoint, the militia didn't notice a new drone floating up there like another midge in the cloud, its 6G signal did show up among the feeds in the shipping container where they did their back end monitoring - no actual paramilitaries or paramedics, just a couple of zero hours goons with some sort of NHS knockoff google specs, but they were too distracted by the usual template craic to notice that their QR code was no longer logging face-scans or tagging the un-immunised, antibody analysis was recording high normals all around so no alarms were triggered by the unusual activity on the corner by the old Percy Ingle
The risk was always there of course, they just hadn't expected that the cost could be so high. No one wanted to get infected, and the best way to be safe was to eliminate exposure - just stay in the safe zone, and even then you never know, although the rural areas were a lot more prone to sudden outbursts despite the stringent layers of quarantine. The sun was beginning to set on that autumn day and the sky was a deep bright blue.
Tea masked up, goggles on, his trenchcoat tails fluttering in the breeze photogenically, and surveyed the scene below from the Cinema roof, cutting a fine dash up there, aloft the tall blank brick wall on which a few letters remained vertically spelling "DEON". The walky talky on his lapel squawked into activity "Avocado Toast, with extra black pepper, pronto please"
The stench of the musty zombies was gross, the way they elbowed one another and groped at the produce was anachronistic and deeply unhygienic, so manual, spluttering and sniveling all over the place, really. but he was on amission, a mission of mycological importance, or revolutionary fungal significance. If it wasn't for that overall plan, the story arc, the strategy, he'd have preferred to be in a nice hole like a llittle hobbit all cosy like, but here he was, looking out over London, a light drizzle starting up.
It was definitely a better ride of the board since he'd put on a bit of spare tire, the lower centre of gravity did actually help with tight maneuvers, but they were weak on tactics and the checklist had come off the rails quite fast when the action started. The zombies below surged and murmurated, a clip round the earhole shattered the peaceful reverie,
"Oy Ninnie get this down yer"
It had all started so well, it had been great to be back in the smoke again after all this time, of course a lot had changed but overall the same high ratio of arseholes to human beings as always in the big city. The squad was in the dirty zone at Walthamstow, this was an off the record job, plausible deniabilty with a healthy cut and no penalties. Overall the strategy had been excellent. Infiltration had gone very well. working at night they bypassed the checkpoints, and got themselves nicely set up in an abandoned movie theatre, great lines of sight, single point of entry/egress, munchies.
The winger was at street level with a whistle and a walky talky, their job was easy and it had gone well, the infected had channeled down towards the supermarket, and the spotters confirmed that the shutters were going up and the doors were open. The weekly shop was on, the zombies chuntered and muttered, their disgusting slobbering groans were really unpleasant, they seemed to follow their deep instincts, wandering in search of nourishment or stimulus, they carried on as before, mindlessly consuming, vapid but content.
Down at the checkpoint, the militia didn't notice a new drone floating up there like another midge in the cloud, its 6G signal did show up among the feeds in the shipping container where they did their back end monitoring - no actual paramilitaries or paramedics, just a couple of zero hours goons with some sort of NHS knockoff google specs, but they were too distracted by the usual template craic to notice that their QR code was no longer logging face-scans or tagging the un-immunised, antibody analysis was recording high normals all around so no alarms were triggered by the unusual activity on the corner by the old Percy Ingle
The risk was always there of course, they just hadn't expected that the cost could be so high. No one wanted to get infected, and the best way to be safe was to eliminate exposure - just stay in the safe zone, and even then you never know, although the rural areas were a lot more prone to sudden outbursts despite the stringent layers of quarantine. The sun was beginning to set on that autumn day and the sky was a deep bright blue.
Tea masked up, goggles on, his trenchcoat tails fluttering in the breeze photogenically, and surveyed the scene below from the Cinema roof, cutting a fine dash up there, aloft the tall blank brick wall on which a few letters remained vertically spelling "DEON". The walky talky on his lapel squawked into activity "Avocado Toast, with extra black pepper, pronto please"
The stench of the musty zombies was gross, the way they elbowed one another and groped at the produce was anachronistic and deeply unhygienic, so manual, spluttering and sniveling all over the place, really. but he was on amission, a mission of mycological importance, or revolutionary fungal significance. If it wasn't for that overall plan, the story arc, the strategy, he'd have preferred to be in a nice hole like a llittle hobbit all cosy like, but here he was, looking out over London, a light drizzle starting up.
It was definitely a better ride of the board since he'd put on a bit of spare tire, the lower centre of gravity did actually help with tight maneuvers, but they were weak on tactics and the checklist had come off the rails quite fast when the action started. The zombies below surged and murmurated, a clip round the earhole shattered the peaceful reverie,
"Oy Ninnie get this down yer"
Tea was merrily gliding along, surveying his new domain when he saw a beautiful plumage swoop past him. He turned, bent down, eager to catch a better glimpse of the bird, but alas he fell.
Dropping through the air, time slowed down a little and for some reason, the refrain from thd film 'la haine' came to his mind:
"Jusqu'ici tu vas bien..."
He landed with a thud, but was pleasantly surprised to find that a mulch of leaves on some kind of mound had cushioned his fall.
He was in some kind of walled off wasteland. He could hear the moans of the zombies beyond the walls, but none of them were visible.
And indeed, he was also invisible.
He examined the dead leaves, wondered how many there were.
Suddenly found himself drawn to piling them up, scrunching them, eventually found himself eating them.
Such a deliciousness he had never experienced. The dead leaves tasted of thd sweetest nectar.
And sure enough, soon, after consuming several mouthfuls, he found the reality around him begin to transform...
Dropping through the air, time slowed down a little and for some reason, the refrain from thd film 'la haine' came to his mind:
"Jusqu'ici tu vas bien..."
He landed with a thud, but was pleasantly surprised to find that a mulch of leaves on some kind of mound had cushioned his fall.
He was in some kind of walled off wasteland. He could hear the moans of the zombies beyond the walls, but none of them were visible.
And indeed, he was also invisible.
He examined the dead leaves, wondered how many there were.
Suddenly found himself drawn to piling them up, scrunching them, eventually found himself eating them.
Such a deliciousness he had never experienced. The dead leaves tasted of thd sweetest nectar.
And sure enough, soon, after consuming several mouthfuls, he found the reality around him begin to transform...