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SECURITY CLASSIFICATION: RELEASED TO PUBLIC | DATE OF REVIEW: 14.08.2098 |
AUTHORITY: WIPO | AUTHOR: A SULLIVAN |
DOCUMENT STATUS: FINAL VERSION | VERSION: 1.0 |
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I've snuff and tobaccy, and excellent jacky,
I've scissors, and watches, and knives;
I've ribbons and laces to set off the faces
Of pretty young sweethearts and wives.
I've treacle and toffee, I've tea and I've coffee,
Soft tommy and succulent chops;
I've chickens and conies, and pretty polonies,
And excellent peppermint drops.
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SECURITY CLASSIFICATION: RESTRICTED| DATE OF REVIEW: 11 06 2011 |
AUTHORITY: NETWORK | AUTHOR: NETWORK COMPLIANCE COMMISSION
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DOCUMENT STATUS: FINAL VERSION | VERSION: 1.0 |
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to: sgodard@secop.network.cc
from: akobayashi@hr.network.cc
subject: Re.: Re.: Re.: Proj. Lucky Dog / Monroe
Ms. Godard -
The investigation taskforce has determined Monroe Diaz's (CS-SH-08954) transition to customer service, and Michael Monroe's subsequent promotion and transition to camera operations, to be one of human error. Please be assured that we are taking appropriate actions to prevent such a thing from happening again. Additionally, we have expedited the review and termination process for those directly involved. We will promptly forward the deliverables from those meetings to you as we complete them.
For sake of team confidence, however, it is the official recommendation of Human Resources that we take no further public action on this matter. If, as you expressed in your first e-mail, you have continuing doubts about Mr. M. Monroe's qualifications, we would be happy to assist in his termination. Please find enclosed a report on his extranetwork activities and typical whereabouts, along with several proposed plans of action.
Best,
Aaron Kobayashi
Senior Director of Human Resources
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SECURITY CLASSIFICATION: RESTRICTED| DATE OF REVIEW: 11 06 2011 |
AUTHORITY: NETWORK | AUTHOR: NETWORK COMPLIANCE COMMISSION
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DOCUMENT STATUS: FINAL VERSION | VERSION: 1.0 |
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Gannet is working overtime alone in the booth. He's taken the time to meticulously clear out their trash (constantly overflowing with wrappers), scrub down the desk, and fetch two energy drinks. He doesn't like the taste, but it will keep him awake and it's free. Shockolate is a Network sponsor.
Cracking open a can, he leans over his notes. They're compiled from memory and careful review of both recent and more antiquated footage. He likes what happens to both of the girls when they're in low Improbability zones. He likes what they can do as Improbabilists. Drama and good television by turns. By chance, he stumbled across footage of Ebenezer as a Joker — the Network's favorite accountant turns into a blackhole when he's gone Joker, neutralizing, normalizing, and draining everything around him.
Give me one sinkhole and one showman, he thinks. He takes a sip of his drink, winces at the taste, then swivels to begin a careful keyword search of the Network's contestant files. Somewhere in here, he figures, he'll find two people who fit the description and have some camera presence. The numbers are on his side.
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SECURITY CLASSIFICATION: RESTRICTED| DATE OF REVIEW: 11 06 2011 |
AUTHORITY: NETWORK | AUTHOR: NETWORK COMPLIANCE COMMISSION
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DOCUMENT STATUS: FINAL VERSION | VERSION: 1.0 |
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Somewhere in Shepparton, a man sits behind a desk. It looks like every other desk crowding the room, except the one in front of him whose owner elected to move a foot to the left to avoid his fixed gaze. Now he has a lovely view of the smog outside the window.
“Yes, sir,” he says into the phone. “I understand, sir. No, sir, if you would - -“
He pauses to let the burst of angry chatter from the receiver die off, staring out at the indistinct grey. “Yes, sir, of course,” he says as the tirade ends, “but as I have told you before, the 'Extreme Jungle Battle' programming block is not, in fact, included with the 'Rank XXX' channel package.”
Another blast of outrage howls through.
”..sir, will you please hold for one moment?” he says, and sets the phone down without waiting for a response. Out comes his mobile. He punches a few buttons and waits. The reply comes back quick. He sends two more texts, then waits again. The receiver buzzes impotently on his desk as he stares out the window, then his mobile begins to rumble. He flips it opens and scans over the blurry text.
He picks the phone back up.
“Sir- .. sir, yes, hello. I apologize for the wait. Sir- Mr. Maynard, sir-.. sir, please-.. sir, what did you tell your wife?” There is a howl of disbelief and outrage, which doesn't let up until he cuts it off.
“When you hit your daughter, sir. Did you tell your wife that the bruises came from daycare?”
He studies the middle distance until the phone squeaks a reply.
“Yes, sir, we do.” This suffices for another long pause, then, “Of course, sir. Thank you for understanding. Your bill will be in the mail. Yes, sir. Goodbye.”
At his desk, surrounded by the buzz of conversation from his coworkers, former veteran camera operative Monroe Diaz' face suddenly cracks into a smile. He has never had so much fun.
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SECURITY CLASSIFICATION: UNCLASSIFIED| DATE OF REVIEW: N/A |
AUTHORITY: N/A | AUTHOR: UNKNOWN
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DOCUMENT STATUS: FINAL VERSION | VERSION: 1.0 |
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Haccadine is scooping handfuls of fresh-made cheesy pasta into his mouth with his hands. It's not elegant and it's not particularly hygienic, but he figures that if he was going to catch something nasty he'd have caught it by now. “Fifteen in the clan, mh?” He counts. “Met Z. Met Dex. N'you three. So that leaves ten- - no, nine.”
He's in the kitchen with Liebs, Ebenezer and Tyr. They're fresh off an accountant-led tour of the clan hall, and he can feel Liebs sneaking glances at him. She's trying not to stare. Swallowing with some effort, she asks, “Is Dex mean? Eben says she is, but I haven't actually met her yet.”
He stops mid-scoop to consider. “Well. She did nearly cut my throat with a knife, but I think it was a misunderstanding.”
“Oh,” Liebs says quietly and takes another, smaller bite.
“She did-did-did she did what!”
Tyr coughs abruptly, thumping his breastbone with his fist. “I wouldn't say she's mean,” he manages. “She just. Ah. Has a vibrant personality? She likes to tease. Test your boundaries. And she almost filleted me once, too, but I don't think that necessarily means it's a habit.”
Haccadine leans away from Ebenezer as the scrawnier man rounds on him. “To be fair,” he starts, holding his bowl protectively to his chest, “she did buy me a drink afterwards. Just seemed a bit jumpy, is all.” Ebenezer hmphs.
“Well,” Liebs struggles to sound diplomatic. “That doesn't sound mean exactly.”
Nabbing the pot, Tyr spoons more macaroni into Haccadine's bowl. “And what were you doing at the time?”
“We were just talking in the pub. She seemed kinda interested when I said where I was from, and then got more and more twitchy until she pulled a knife on me.”
Tyr and Ebenezer exchange a look. “Maybe I need to have a talk with her.”
“May-maybe I need to have a talk-a talk with her.” He hmphs again.
“Care to join forces, and use our powers for good?”
Haccadine eyes the pair of them. Tyr's grinning. “Whoa, steady. Not on my account; like I said, we settled things. Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned it.” Ebenezer gives a sharp sniff. The kettle whistles and he abandons his bowl to see to it. Tyr mms and looks away, but shrugs.
“All right. If it's settled.”
“What sor-sort of tea, then?” Eben is loud, high-pitched. “Earl Grey? Assam? Or-orange pekoe? Darjeeling?”
Tyr leans back and smiles. “You know what I like.”
Ebenezer glances around at the other two, “Earl, then?” He does know.
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SECURITY CLASSIFICATION: RESTRICTED| DATE OF REVIEW: 11 06 2011 |
AUTHORITY: NETWORK | AUTHOR: NETWORK COMPLIANCE COMMISSION
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DOCUMENT STATUS: FINAL VERSION | VERSION: 1.0 |
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“He won't ignore it,” Jules comments, frowning. She turns her head to look at the white-haired woman beside her. “I know Tyr won't let this go.”
“Oh-ho! I hope not,” Terry cackles. “This'll be good!” A long fingernail, plum-painted today, jabs towards Jules' nose. “It's a bit of confrontation. Drama. People eat that up, Jinx, and what's more, our boys'll stand together to face it!” She leans closer and Jules leans away. “Shoulder to shoulder, love.”
Shaking her head, Jules can only say, “Pass the crisps.”
Terry does, grinning like a crescent moon. “And who wouldn't like to see our gents get a little bit angry? That's passion, Jinx.” She elbows at her partner and gives her a wink. “Oh, it'll be fun.”
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SECURITY CLASSIFICATION: UNCLASSIFIED| DATE OF REVIEW: N/A |
AUTHORITY: N/A | AUTHOR: UNKNOWN
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DOCUMENT STATUS: FINAL VERSION | VERSION: 1.0 |
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Dex shoves a chopstick down the inside of her cast, and it feels so fuckin' good she practically drums one of her feet like a dog in joyous scratching relief when she notices Z's ears turned toward the saucepan's ominous bubbling. “Shitshitshit,” she hisses, leaving the chopstick stuck in her cast as she dives to turn off the stove. The day-old cheesy pasta that Tyr made is perfectly blistering, so she moves it to a trivet she's set out on the table and coats it with a layer of tobasco. Rummaging a spare set of chopsticks, she waves them at Z.
Z flicks her ear grudgingly and sits up to reach for them, but it makes Dex jerk her hand back. “What. You wanna fork?”
“If you have big lines in your arm when Elias takes off your armguard it is not my fault.”
“Why would it be your fault? Want some or not?”
“Spose'a protectify you. Yeh, gimme.” She flexes her fingers a few times, then fumbles with the sticks. Z tries to mimic her technique, loses her patience, and quickly resorts to a skewer-and-stab strategy.
“Eben was on my ass about us meeting at the Warehouse. He's all uptight about balancing his accounts or some shit.” She rubs behind one of her ears — their pre-arranged lying cue. “I'll leave a note on his door to go tomorrow afternoon, yeh?”
Zolotisty glances up only briefly, preoccupied with food. She finally gets one, and jams it into her mouth before it can fall off. “Mhn,” she nods, eyes watering. “Augh, Spandex, what - -” Kaff. Dex watches with creased-eyed pleasure as her girl struggles with the heat, then tucks in herself.
“You better get practice,” she says as she clears her bowl. “My nachos are full of jalapenos and it's not fair to eat around them so they all pile in the bottom like.. uh..” Z's expression has shifted into a below the belt 'i am sad and alone in a cardboard box in the rain the coldest rain on the darkest and most desolate corner' SPCA poster face. She stabs half-heartedly at another piece. “Like bottom of the river tires or someshit. What's wrong?”
“I have no more tastes; you killed them all.” Z swipes her wrist across her eyes and makes an awful half-yawnish face at the ceiling before scrubbing her tongue furiously against her teeth and the roof of her mouth. Oh god it'll never stop burning. “Also my nose is bigger.”
Dex reaches across the table for Z's arm. “Com'on we'll stick your tongue in snow or on a frozen robot.”
A moment later, Zolotisty steps into CyberCity 404 with Dex on her arm. They pull apart quickly - - Z shakes off and veers for a bank of snow to scoop a handful; Dex's attention whips toward a benign clank. Relaxing, she slowly cases the joint before making a series of two-handed gestures- - two ears over her head, pointing to Z then to the ground, then to herself and towards the Warehouse.
Cheeks stuffed with snow, Z nods then pauses a half-second later, eyebrows crunkling. She gestures expansively, snaps her fingers and juts a thumb at her self, then snaps them again as she points at Dex. A headshake. Dex just lifts three fingers before fading out, and Z grunts churlishly. She lingers in place, arm hairs prickling, until ten minutes later when Dex fades in close to the northern gate.
“Let's go make a snowman,” she says, tickling behind Z's ear. It looks like an apology.
“Snowman,” Z says, tugging Dex off. It looks like a concession.
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SECURITY CLASSIFICATION: RESTRICTED| DATE OF REVIEW: 11 06 2011 |
AUTHORITY: NETWORK | AUTHOR: NETWORK COMPLIANCE COMMISSION
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DOCUMENT STATUS: FINAL VERSION | VERSION: 1.0 |
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“Just like a married couple sometimes, Jinx! More and more every day, even! I mean, did you see the look in your lad's eyes when - -“
Terry stops mid-jabber, eyes on her screens. Tromping through the snow, approaching the Warehouse door: Spandex and Zolotisty.
”Toffee,” she says. A pause, then she lets out a shrill laugh. “No, I wasn't talking to you, Jinx dear! I've got to go! Something's come up!”
Clk.
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SECURITY CLASSIFICATION: UNCLASSIFIED| DATE OF REVIEW: N/A |
AUTHORITY: N/A | AUTHOR: UNKNOWN
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DOCUMENT STATUS: FINAL VERSION | VERSION: 1.0 |
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Ebenezer is sweeping.
There's a knock at the door. He freezes and pivots toward the sound. “It-it's open!” Thick with defensive reinforcement and insulators, it's heavy and quiet on its hinges as it opens — - he takes care to keep it well-oiled. Dex and Z pile in, stamping snow from their boots and trouser cuffs respectively. Surprise freezes Ebenezer's expression into one of awkward discomfort for just a moment, then he recovers. He owes Dex a serious talking-to, concerning a certain knife at a certain man's throat, but not now. Not when she's come, light-hearted, with Zolotisty. Not when he's without Tyr to back him. “Ma-make sure that door-d-door's closed well! You'll-you'll let the heat out!”
Dex hovers by the door. She's happy to watch the two act out their own predictable sitcom as Z goes tearing across the warehouse, tracking snow and melt and tail hairs everywhere. “Hallo Eben,” she calls, not moving from her post.
“No-no-no-no, don't touch, no! Hello-ello, Dex. No!” He rushes at Z with his broom, batting her away from his desk. Flashback-driven, Z flees to Dex, who squeezes her waist and looks over her shoulder with a polite smile.
“Eben, please don't hit Zolotisty. I'm overprotective. Also,” she smiles and adds in the nice We Regret to Inform You tone, “This model of Zolotisty is equipped to rip your throat out with her teeth.”
The broom clatters to the floor as Ebenezer uses both hands to tidy his desk. He doesn't look up as he retorts, “Yes-y-yes-yes. And I'm ov-overprot-tec-tective of my desk.”
Z wheels in place. “Gimme your broom,” she says, jutting her chin at it.
Flinching, Ebenezer grabs it up and pulls it close to himself like a mother guarding a child. “Why. Is-is that the thing you want?” A pause. “You-you have come to get your-your thing, yes? And t-toff-offee?”
“Aye we came for a thing and toffees. You are being a terrible host.” She dips her chin and leaves Dex to approach Eben like a broom-seeking missile. “Give it - -” He doesn't duck away as he offers the broom sharply at arm's length. The handle is perfectly vertical. His spine is rigid-straight to match.
Z snatches it from him, hopskips two steps toward the desk as she wields it like a baseball bat, then whacks violently at it. Ebenezer cringes bodily. A few bristles shed from the broom as she sourly offers it back to him. This time he shrinks away, flinching as he reaches to take it from her.
“What kind of things do you have,” Z asks.
“Aw com'on!” Dex calls, ringside. “Wrassle!”
“I d-don-don't wrassle,” he says, sneering at Spandex. Then, “Oh. Erm. All s-sort-sorts of things-of things. Lots.” When Z merely looks expectant, he shifts his weight from left foot to right. “Erm. Well, it's t-too-too long to list,” he assures, reaching to fuss with his spectacles. “Did-didn't you say-you say you had a thing in m-mind?”
“Earplugs!” Dex blurts, moving closer. “Uhh.. for when Z's trying to sleep?” And to stop those MI-5 ears from listening in on her in the mornings.
Z looks disdainful. “What kind of music things do you have.
“What,” Dex asks, happy with Z's expression. “Orrr.. uhhh.. sextoys? You have some of those? Or wedding dresses? In black latex with holes cut out..” She's making circles in front of her chest. “Nevermind.”
Ebenezer opens his mouth to answer Z, but because of Dex's request, he can only emit a gravelly gurgle-noise. She gestures for him to explain when Z cocks her head. Taking a slow breath, Ebenezer tries to will the blood out of his ears. “Well- -” His hands twist at the broom handle. Quick, he blurts, “R-records. Gram-am-amophone. M-music box. Trans-script paper. Harmon-onica. T-t-tambourine..”
“An enema kit and two nurse outfits?”
Alarmed, he carries on, “Cow bell! Erm. C-cu-cuckoo clock! Erm. What-what else. What else musical. Erm. Glass! You-you know, that can be musical? Oh! Chimes! W-wind chimes!”
Zolotisty looks back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match as Eben grows louder and louder in an attempt to drown Dex out. “Strap on harness in a nice dark leather?” Dex's eyes glint merrily. “You know what I mean.”
“Reeds!” Ebenezer's hit a new pitch. “Th-they're not in a flute, but you could-could make one, maybe. Whistle! Erm! Erm! Kettle! S-some of the kettles whistle too. Th-that's almost music? Mn. B-bottles! Jugs!”
She finds herself distracted from teasing. “An electric guitar or bass?” Dex tries, seriously.
“Hmph! Oh, wait-wait-what?” He squints, eyes drifting towards a patch of ceiling to his left. “Elec-elec-lectric. M-maybe one of the records? I'm-I'm not sure. I'm not sure.” Sucking in a gasp as he notices Z edging toward his desk again, he cuts her off. “I-I think- -! There m-might be something in the records! Lot-a lot of old music in there! I've n-not got in-instruments, like. Not many. N-not electric, for sure.”
Ebenezer jabs at Dex's knees then retreats behind his desk to tak-tak at his tablet. There are busy noises behind the crate walls: wood grinding on wood. Thumping as crates are re-shuffled by the hard-working bots. He puts the tablet down and side-steps towards a new opening in the crate-wall, too small to be a doorway. A robotic arm shffs a crate out through the opening. A crate full of vinyls, of course. The top's already been popped; it's ready to be nosed through.
“Woah! You're like some evil overlord of things and robots, Ebsy,” Dex says following close behind him.
“Yes.” He lifts his chin. “Th-that-that's right-that's right. W-want to fight with me, hrm? I'll, erm. I'll send a ro-robot army after you, that's what!” His shoulders twitch like he's got a kink that needs working out.
It takes ages to pick out records. Every cardboard case in the box is battered and faded. Some are near-illegible. There are also a number of records without cases. Some are cracked or chipped or even missing wedges. It's a mix of quality and genre, and despite Dex's nostalgic curiosity, she lets Z look and pick.
Eventually, Zolotisty pulls out three that have been tied together with twine. It's old twine, and it's loose - - the middle of the stack lurches toward the floor. She and Dex reflexively grab for it, rescuing it from a crack with an inch to spare. Returning it to its case, Z studies the topmost LP. Woman on a stoop, burning paper behind her. Zolotisty peeks at the second in the stack. Collage with people looking angry and waving signs. Mn. Collecting them all together, she eyes Eben. “Thesethis.”
“How the hell is he fencin' all this stuff?” Dex says, as if noticing the ceiling-high stacks of crates and boxes for the first time.
“I'm-I'm right here, Dex.”
“Yeh, but you lie.” Dex bumps close to Z, eyeing her choices with amusement. “How we going to play 'em?”
“Ionno, what we need to do to get a gramawhatsit.
“Don't talk about-about me like I'm not here when I'm-when I'm right here.” Ebenezer swipes at his nose with the back of his hand and answers Z a bit too-sharp, “You-you can give me a song-a song for one.” She disappears.
Dex lifts her eyes to the ceiling, considering. “What song you goin'ta request? How 'bout a sad lonesome cowboy song. About losing your horse and dog and wife and robot and all that.” He swats at her and she snatches his hand to lace her fingers in his.
“No. That's silly. I'm-I'm not being silly.”
“What's silly about losing your wife Ebsy?”
Tugging his shoulders up to his ears, he sucks in a sharp breath. “Erm.”
Zolotisty comes back, armed and dangerous with her viola. She cocks her head at their hands. “Eben it is actually nice, don't act like it is poison.” Dex swings Eben's hand merrily. Flopping onto a seat made of Improbability, Z kicks her heels as she checks her tuning. “Almost as good as kisses,” she adds, and Dex turns to face him, a-puckered and ready.
Ebenezer enghs and recoils from Dex, elbows and fingers bent like the legs of a dead, dry spider. “Bleugh! No. No!” He shakes out his whole arm. “Marriage,” he says, rounding on Z. “Song-a song about marriage.”
Z observes the pair of them, twisting another peg. Chord, peg, chord. Ebenezer doesn't reply and Dex lets it drop, making a wide, comfortable cushion of air. “Com'on Ebsy,” she says, squirming aboard and patting a spot next to her. “S'good for watching the show. You got nachos?” But he just folds his arms tightly across his chest and shakes his head, just as she figured he would.
Zolotisty doesn't know what to play that's honest but a field of stars. She studies the viola in her lap for a while after she's happy with the tuning. “Mnn.” Swiping her tail impatiently, she tries to remember, then squirms. Getting up, she edges toward Eben's desk, waving her hands at him when he tenses.
“It is fine,” she says. Takking her claws gently against things on the desk, she ignores the ledgers in favor of the fountain pens and the ink pot. Its stopper is removed. Z runs her claw around the inside of it, then thieves it, returning to her spot.
She sets it at working height. Ebenezer looks miserable. “It is fine!” she insists. Zolotisty is fortunate that she knows the only accountant on the Island who owns a crystal ink pot. Licking the pad of her pinky finger, she runs it 'round the inside edge of the pot 'til it sings.
Zolotisty hooks her hand 'round the ringing, wrapping it several times as she reaches at the same time for the microphones of all the cameras she can sense in the building. She jerks sharply. The audio feeds go dead as the tone splits into stuttered pieces and Z works quickly to duplicate them, to layer them up up down down up, warp some and compress others and dampen these and amplify those until she has an effect like a stilted electric piano all thrumthrough with reverb. Taking chunks from the larger whole to staggerstack them, too, she rebuilds and rebreaks them over and over until the soundscape is undeniably coherent but only comprehensible in snatches. Make-you-small sound.
Then and only then, the purr of the viola to make sense of it all.
Two songs, here, interplayed - - one an upward drive staccato with sweeter downward lulls, countered by a patient match-the-pace running progression that breaks for barking frenetic energy and curve close chords. See-you-first-time song.
Dex swipes at her eyes before turning to look at Eben, her face still a collusion of pride and humility. “It's there even if you can't see it, just like my chair,” she whispers before falling back on her invisible cushions with her arms and smile wide, feeling as if she's in a spring field with sudden sunshowers. The Warehouse warms like being cozied up in blankets together while watching the moon sail up over the horizon.
Zolotisty lets go of the lot of it, careful not to drop herself or the ink pot. She cocks her head to the side with one ear flopping as she peers at Dex. Watching her girl, she wishes she'd killed the cams entirely — not just the mics. She has to force her attention to Ebenezer to keep from aching for want of cuddling. “Can I have a gramawhatsit now.”
He's quiet and only nods his head. Excusing himself, he vanishes away through a door in the crate wall into the Warehouse Proper. He's gone a few minutes, then he shoulders the door open again, arms full of gramawhatsit. Approaching Dex, he gives a “Hmn?” and attempts to set the machine down on the air beside her.
Zolotisty hops up, tucking her viola and bow under her arm as she brings the ink pot back to Ebenezer's desk. She stoppers it and goes to investigate the gramophone, jamming her face in the horn. Ouh.
“Holyshit you had one?!” Dex jolts to sit upright and hop off her seat to smooch Eben's cheek with a loud wet smack and subsequent protesting squawk. “Well, play it! Make it go!” The girls orbit him insistently as he rubs Dex's kiss away with his shoulder.
“Blegh. M-must I? Don't you-you know how to work one of these?” Not trusting the Improbability-made shelves the girls made, he puts the gramophone down on his desk instead, elbowing his ledgers out of the way. He turns to pick slowly through the records, looking for something suitable. It takes ages and Z gets toddler-squirmy, though Dex tries hard to keep her distracted by explaining how she thinks the gramophone works. After he picks a record (H.M.S. Pinafore), Z tries to steal the lot of the records. There's a lot of yelling and Ebenezer tries to take Dex hostage before Z's chastened into returning the box. He stutters through a demand that she ask to borrow it, if she's going to take it, and they agree that she'll bring the crate back after having a listen.
The wind picks up outside, making the roof rattle, Dex vanish, and Ebenezer flinch. “G-gone again,” he tells himself. “F-f-forgot the tof-toffee, too.”
Z shuffles in place before she hefts the crate. Dex reappears at the door. “Thank you for the music,” she says genuinely, if a little breathless. “S'fuckin' unbelievable, really. Thanks.”
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SECURITY CLASSIFICATION: RESTRICTED| DATE OF REVIEW: 11 06 2011 |
AUTHORITY: NETWORK | AUTHOR: NETWORK COMPLIANCE COMMISSION
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DOCUMENT STATUS: FINAL VERSION | VERSION: 1.0 |
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Seems like years have gone by since their meeting with Ogilvy and they've only found three prospects to track so far. To Gannet's relief, the fanboy's hyperactivity has slowly dwindled down from infuriating to irritating. He doesn't know whether that's because Monroe's genuinely settling down or whether it's because he's become attenuated to the trail of sugar and empty cans Monroe leaves behind.
“Gannet! What about him!” Monroe claps Gannet's shoulder, tapping one of the screens. “He's g'd from the feet up, could duppy and gwank some coyote 'n punk gash, amiright?” He leans down to look at Gannet's face. “Bareknuckles 'n shanks, 'im. I'm already rock imaginin' the gagas sweatin' it out against 'im. Punch-out in the IC-corral, alie!”
”Takashi Miike, gentlemen,” he echoes, monotone. “Look at the knives on his belt. We will not be going the route of gore-and-more, whereby I mean gwanking any gash.”
“But knives! Fwooar! We'd get us the best knife fight. Do you know Spandex's packin' eight of KK's jet-black steel throwing knives - - two in 'er boots where her rosewood balisong is sometimes, two in thigh sheaths, four around her torso, 'course her tanto's- -”
“Unacceptable.” Gannet interrupts, shaking his head again. “Read his shoulders, if you are literate in body language. Hunched, defensive, the sort of man who would - - given the opportunity - - write his own failings on someone else in a fit of cowardice. I expect Ogilvy would like something to film after this arc's completed. You want to cut those reels, you can get over to the sawboys and produce for the shock channels. You've got the talent for it. And thank you, I was aware, even before you'd told me.” Eight fucking times. So much for irritating.
“Oh! Oh! I've got the perfect.. lemme see if I can find 'er. Usually watch her in Ace or north'a there.” Monroe toggles through cameras. The process is painful to watch; he still has no clue, and he's jumping from Squat Hole to a remote south beach to a pool in the Bingo Hall and back again to the Island's Bordello. Finally, he finds his mark. “Her! This'a one!” He rubs his palms on his trousers. “War machine, this bitch, can fly'n all. Bites the heads off little animals. Fuck, she's unstoppable like a.. like a titan, nahmean, 'bout the same size too. Look'it that ass for island, I'd hit it. Com'on G-boy, girl-on-girl, even you and Big O Sauce would get moist for it. Y'think she's into bitches?”
Gannet's been drafting emails to Ogilvy in his head. ..roundly disturbed by his unprofessional conduct, anti-feminist principles, and extreme technical incompet- - “What.” He sits straighter, curling his lip. “Are you out your fucking head. She's an opped contestant, is what she is.”
“Oh,” he says, clicking back to the Bordello. “Don't see you making any suggestions.”
“Give me those fucking controls, you cock-up. Go home. Class is out early today.”
“Don't have to be a screwface, c'mon now.” He gets up and snatches his II-embroidered jacket off the back of his chair. “I'm about due off, anyway. I'll watch from home.”
“I bet you will,” Gannet mutters.