By Davis Doersam
Okay, a little explaining before the story proper. I wrote this story in two fifteen minute bursts, the second storyburst a good day or two after the first. I didn't plan out what I was going to write out beforehand, or read what I'd written afterwards. As a matter of fact, I haven't even read this story in its entirety yet, but I'm fairly certain that I don't like it, because while I am madly in love with the plethora of cool ideas that magically sprout from me like some sort of concept-weeds, I despise them with a mad passion after they've been used. So, with that behind us, let's get to it.
Oh, and I didn't give the story a title, because titles are LAME. If you really need to label this, let's go with... "Surf Dogs II: Trouble in Paradise". Or how about... "Black Make-Up Leaves Stains".
The blinkgun writhes in Williams' coat pocket, trying to worm its way out of his grip. Waking it had been a mistake, and now it will continue to struggle until he uses it. Williams squeezes the grip and hopes that the blinkgun can hold on for a couple more minutes without going off. He will most likely need the blinkgun later on.
Williams shouldn't remember his name, but does. Anti-psi hardening should have erased all traces of self from him while sealing off any thinkdoors, but Williams has somehow escaped the the process with his surname. He operates under the codename S66, but the name feels cold and sterile to him, and he clings to the last vestige of his old life like a shipwrecked man to floating debris. It is all he has.
Williams has been following Alan Perker for the last seven hours. Alan Perker is a suspected unman, and Williams has been sent to shadow him and confirm the fact, and eliminate Perker. Perker and Williams are now seated in a fast food franchise, Perker drinking a coffee and reading this morning's newspaper, with Williams seated two tables away from him. Williams inspects Perker for telltale unman signs, such as fractal blinking patterns or shifting eye colors. Williams has seen none of these yet, but is patient, and will wait until he either positively identifies Perker as an unman and terminates him, or his cover is blown and he dies screaming with his flesh melting off his bones.
Perker's pupils slide from a dull grey to an electric blue for a fraction of a second, but Williams has been trained to percieve even the most inconsequential change in the metaphysiology of his targets. He pushes an obese customer out of his way as he stands, pulling the dancing blinkgun out of his coat pocket and leveling it at Perker's head. The obese man drops his tray of food and begins to complain vocally, but is stunned into silence by the sight of a Mark 4 Blender-Think Bio-Armament held up before him. He wets himself and falls to his knees whimpering for his God/mother/father/other figure of comfort, and the rest of the once-bustling biomass co-inhabiting the structure follow suit as they realise what's gong to take place, and what will most likely happen to them in the process.
Perker looks up from his morning paper, calm as a summer breeze, cool as a block of dry ice. He sips at his cheap, flavorless coffee as he stares down Williams with a dull look in his eyes. Williams realises something is wrong now, because he should have pulled the trigger on the blinkgun about ten seconds ago. Perker clears his throat and straightens out in his seat.
"You know, you don't have to do this. You think you do, but you don't. Just drop the gun and we'll both walk away from this." Perker talks like he has all the time in the world, he slow, lazy drawl of a man who is sure of himself and of his place in the world. He sits back and lets what he has just said sink in.
"I... do... have to," is all that Williams can come up with. A weak retort, but Williams is the one with the weapon of mass destruction here. He composes himself and prepares to fi-
The floor turns to liquid beneath his feet and slides to the left, as purple invades his field of view.
Through the haze of violet, Williams can see the mocking grin on Perker's face. Perker? Or was it... Percer? Perkins? Shit, thinks Williams, he's found a thinkdoor and broke through. In moments my brain will be scrambled eggs and I'll live the rest of my life as a drooling moron. Someone is crying my name and I don't know what to do about the feeling in my legs and it's all slipping away-
Williams remembers the anti-personnel weapon worming around in his hands and squeezes the trigger, for lack of anything better to do. It screams as it tears apart any grey matter in a 75 foot radius, and the last comprehensible thought Agent S66 has is of a dog he had when he was 6, Macy. Everyone in the fast food outlet dies a quick and painful death, clawing at the floor in unimaginable agony as their brains self-destruct.
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