Gerard keeps dreaming about robot mice. He wakes up with hand cramps from gripping a phantom controller, visions of shining metal and video displays reeling in his brain.
He tells himself it's nothing. He he has a lot of fucked up dreams - they've been consistent since he quit the BL/ind mood stabilisers and fucked off into the zones - but something about these particular dreams feels tangible. Real.
It's probably nothing. He's lacking sleep, undernourished, and his brain's in overdrive from too many days on the run.
He straps on his thigh holster and shrugs into his jacket. They have work to do.
*
Mikey said they shouldn't take this job. He has a point - it's not what they usually do. The Killjoys don't do stealth, they're more a blow-it-up-in-your-face demolition team. But the prize of meds. food and fuel is too much to turn down after they've been shafted for trade a couple of times in a row.
On the surface it's simple enough. It takes Ray less than an hour to write the virus and they'll use Peppers to deliver it to the target. (Gerard still thinks it's weird that Frank modeled his first droid on his old dog, but he'd never say that to Frank's face.)
It isn't until they get into the arena full of screaming fans and overtuned dub-step - the clock already counting down - that Gerard realises they should have listened to Mikey.
Because there, towering above the teeming crowd, are two giant robot mice.
"Oh shit," Gerard swears, stumbling over his own feet.
"Poison?" Ray hisses, catching Gerard around the shoulder and dodging them behind an arena support structure, mostly out of sight, "You okay?"
Gerard shakes his head, peering around the metal strut to get a better look and no, he wasn't mistaken. It's the same fucking robot mouse from his dream. "I've seen that droid before," he tells Ray, trying to think of how, or why he would know this fucking robot over any other. He couldn't have just dreamed it up.
"You probably saw it on a broadcast or a billboard, they've been pimping this match for weeks on the tubes," Ray says.
It's a good explanation, but it doesn't quell the roil in Gerard's stomach. It's too late to do anything about it though, they're in it to their necks. Deadmau5 doesn't take IOUs. If they fuck this up they'll have better luck surviving a swarm of dracs in the centre of batt city than staying another day in the zones. They have to follow through.
Despite all Gerard's internal drama - or perhaps to spite it - the job goes off without a hitch. Gerard signals Frank across the arena, and gets Frank's answering handflash. No one spots Peppers on the studio floor, and the little droid is well out of the way by the time the virus takes effect. Gerard's view of the controller's stage is blocked by crowd, but he can see the bots well enough, towering above everything and everyone. When one of them goes dead still, it's motor processors tied up with lines of Ray's beautiful code - victory for Deadmau5 is guaranteed.
Gerard sends Frank the exit signal so they can get the fuck out of there.
They're nearly out the doors when all hell breaks loose. Gerard turns around in time to see one of the giant mice crash to the ground, sparks and metal flying in every direction, tearing down the arena dome and sending fires flaring up all around the stage. Fuck.
He grabs for Ray and races for the doors, but the panicked crowd of zit-heads and popper-tarts get in the way, separating them. He swears, trying to keep eyes on where Ray is, trying to find an exit, but the press of people is too much. Smoke blocks his view and makes his eyes water, and he's coughing, trapped in the crush as it gets hotter and smokier.
He drops low, shoving a bandanna over his mouth to cut the fumes. He burrows through legs until he finds an opening in the arena wall, tucking his body into it, away from kicking feet and flames, screams of the crowd echoing through the metal at his back.
The bandanna cuts the smoke a little but it isn't enough, nowhere near. He stays conscious for as long as he can, but in the end the fumes win out. They always do.
no subject
Gerard keeps dreaming about robot mice. He wakes up with hand cramps from gripping a phantom controller, visions of shining metal and video displays reeling in his brain.
He tells himself it's nothing. He he has a lot of fucked up dreams - they've been consistent since he quit the BL/ind mood stabilisers and fucked off into the zones - but something about these particular dreams feels tangible. Real.
It's probably nothing. He's lacking sleep, undernourished, and his brain's in overdrive from too many days on the run.
He straps on his thigh holster and shrugs into his jacket. They have work to do.
*
Mikey said they shouldn't take this job. He has a point - it's not what they usually do. The Killjoys don't do stealth, they're more a blow-it-up-in-your-face demolition team. But the prize of meds. food and fuel is too much to turn down after they've been shafted for trade a couple of times in a row.
On the surface it's simple enough. It takes Ray less than an hour to write the virus and they'll use Peppers to deliver it to the target. (Gerard still thinks it's weird that Frank modeled his first droid on his old dog, but he'd never say that to Frank's face.)
It isn't until they get into the arena full of screaming fans and overtuned dub-step - the clock already counting down - that Gerard realises they should have listened to Mikey.
Because there, towering above the teeming crowd, are two giant robot mice.
"Oh shit," Gerard swears, stumbling over his own feet.
"Poison?" Ray hisses, catching Gerard around the shoulder and dodging them behind an arena support structure, mostly out of sight, "You okay?"
Gerard shakes his head, peering around the metal strut to get a better look and no, he wasn't mistaken. It's the same fucking robot mouse from his dream. "I've seen that droid before," he tells Ray, trying to think of how, or why he would know this fucking robot over any other. He couldn't have just dreamed it up.
"You probably saw it on a broadcast or a billboard, they've been pimping this match for weeks on the tubes," Ray says.
It's a good explanation, but it doesn't quell the roil in Gerard's stomach. It's too late to do anything about it though, they're in it to their necks. Deadmau5 doesn't take IOUs. If they fuck this up they'll have better luck surviving a swarm of dracs in the centre of batt city than staying another day in the zones. They have to follow through.
Despite all Gerard's internal drama - or perhaps to spite it - the job goes off without a hitch. Gerard signals Frank across the arena, and gets Frank's answering handflash. No one spots Peppers on the studio floor, and the little droid is well out of the way by the time the virus takes effect. Gerard's view of the controller's stage is blocked by crowd, but he can see the bots well enough, towering above everything and everyone. When one of them goes dead still, it's motor processors tied up with lines of Ray's beautiful code - victory for Deadmau5 is guaranteed.
Gerard sends Frank the exit signal so they can get the fuck out of there.
They're nearly out the doors when all hell breaks loose. Gerard turns around in time to see one of the giant mice crash to the ground, sparks and metal flying in every direction, tearing down the arena dome and sending fires flaring up all around the stage. Fuck.
He grabs for Ray and races for the doors, but the panicked crowd of zit-heads and popper-tarts get in the way, separating them. He swears, trying to keep eyes on where Ray is, trying to find an exit, but the press of people is too much. Smoke blocks his view and makes his eyes water, and he's coughing, trapped in the crush as it gets hotter and smokier.
He drops low, shoving a bandanna over his mouth to cut the fumes. He burrows through legs until he finds an opening in the arena wall, tucking his body into it, away from kicking feet and flames, screams of the crowd echoing through the metal at his back.
The bandanna cuts the smoke a little but it isn't enough, nowhere near. He stays conscious for as long as he can, but in the end the fumes win out. They always do.
(cont)