ITT: Agora Road Writes a Cyberpunk Story

[Machine]

Here are the rules:
Each post can either contribute or comment on the story so far - if you are making a comment, signify so with a ## at the beginning of each line, as if making a comment in code post.

As for contributions, we'll do it like so- every post can have up to three paragraphs that they add to the story- and may not contradict posts already made. Each post must make sure to be consistent, and carry directly on from the post before it. Try to keep to the subject, but if you stray along to experiment, that's alright!

Include chapter transitions in bold text, and make sure to, "Format your dialogue correctly."

CONTRIBUTING:
If you're writing a few paragraphs to contribute, or even just a little sentence- first make a post in the thread stating that you're about to do so.
If your piece of writing hasn't been posted within a few hours or so after that, we'll just skip it, in order to stop the thread from stagnating.

Here will be our starter post:

Neo-Miami, 2013

The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel. Rain hammered down on the sprawling, steel-and-tin slum of Neo-Miami, as an Atlantic Hurricane cast the temperatures into a deep cold, and whipped the palm trees across the beach line. The Port Authority, usually bustling with aggressive, beastly megaships, transferring containers full of servos, microchips, and, often times, all manner of stolen and smuggled goods, was silent, today- even the night market, usually bustling with the sound of Triad gangsters threatening shoptenders, stall-owners shouting for passers-by to purchase their boot-legged nanotapes, or chop-doctors, slinging unregistered, un-traced cybernetic implants- was silent. The only sound being the violent whip of wind mashing against neon, hazy signs- and yet nothing tore away, even as the pounding rain its damn best. Man had long surpassed nature.

 

[Machine]

##bump

 

[№56]

The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel. Rain hammered down on the sprawling, steel-and-tin slum of Neo-Miami, as an Atlantic Hurricane cast the temperatures into a deep cold, and whipped the palm trees across the beach line.

Montgomery Sneed, freelance insurance adjuster, stared through the windshield of his 20X6 Quontiac Trans-Siberia with a blank expression and contemplated the chaos from a strategically-placed parking spot on the highway shoulder. Hurricane landfall meant property damage, and property damage meant work. The claim-wire had been keeping its mouth shut for the past couple weeks, long enough for Mondo (a nickname he grudgingly accepted) to seriously consider changing careers. He had narrowed down the options to a choice between part-time stripper and full-time codeine addict when the storm staggered in from the gulf and made his choice for him. Nothing would change, at least for the time being. There would be a flash on the Trans-Siberia's dash console - <<SERIOUS STRUCTURAL FAILURE, SERVER FARM, 9856 N CALHOUN, BOUNTY 48K>> - and he would settle into the old routine again. More broken machinery, more sob stories from some pasty-faced androgyne in a clown suit, more paperwork, more money in the account, more money for cough syrup and vintage anime rentals. The worst part was that he knew he would be okay with it. Mondo took another long look outside and turned the internet radio on.

 

[ghermann]

The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel. Rain hammered down on the sprawling, steel-and-tin slum of Neo-Miami, as an Atlantic Hurricane cast the temperatures into a deep cold, and whipped the palm trees across the beach line. The Port Authority, usually bustling with aggressive, beastly megaships, transferring containers full of servos, microchips, and, often times, all manner of stolen and smuggled goods, was silent, today- even the night market, usually bustling with the sound of Triad gangsters threatening shoptenders, stall-owners shouting for passers-by to purchase their boot-legged nanotapes, or chop-doctors, slinging unregistered, un-traced cybernetic implants- was silent. The only sound being the violent whip of wind mashing against neon, hazy signs- and yet nothing tore away, even as the pounding rain its damn best. Man had long surpassed nature.

But somewhere, in the mass of slums and abandonded buildings, three men sat -- waiting. The only sound that could be heard above the ghostly howling of the wind slamming itself against the old, dilapated warehouse they sat in was the whimpering of a corporate spy, tied to a plastic chair. He was breathing heavily, wheezing, sweat dripping down his plump face, fidgeting uselessly against the steel cords that bound his hands and feet. One of the men, slumped against the wall, lazily loaded bullets into his Mateba. Water dripped from a small hole in the roof.

The other man was sat in the shadows, his corneal implants glowing through the dark. He sat near the door, his rifle positioned over his lap. He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and took out a crumpled cigarette.

"Hey, you," He said, "Got a light?"

 

[ghermann]

## Didn't realize someone else had already posted. SRY!

 

[Machine]

##I'll sew those last two posts together

## Didn't realize someone else had already posted. SRY!

 

[№56]

##The next contributors should make a post announcing they're writing something, and then edit it to replace that message with what they wrote.

 

[Machine]

##The next contributors should make a post announcing they're writing something, and then edit it to replace that message with what they wrote.

##Added that to the OP. For now, I'll stitch these two ideas together- Writing an additional post now.

 

[Machine]

Montgomery Sneed, freelance insurance adjuster, stared through the windshield of his 20X6 Quontiac Trans-Siberia with a blank expression and contemplated the chaos from a strategically-placed parking spot on the highway shoulder. Hurricane landfall meant property damage, and property damage meant work. The claim-wire had been keeping its mouth shut for the past couple weeks, long enough for Mondo (a nickname he grudgingly accepted) to seriously consider changing careers. He had narrowed down the options to a choice between part-time stripper and full-time codeine addict when the storm staggered in from the gulf and made his choice for him. Nothing would change, at least for the time being. There would be a flash on the Trans-Siberia's dash console - <<SERIOUS STRUCTURAL FAILURE, SERVER FARM, 9856 N CALHOUN, BOUNTY 48K>> - and he would settle into the old routine again. More broken machinery, more sob stories from some pasty-faced androgyne in a clown suit, more paperwork, more money in the account, more money for cough syrup and vintage anime rentals. The worst part was that he knew he would be okay with it. Mondo took another long look outside and turned the internet radio on.

His Model-2011 internet radio sputtered to life, as his wirey fingers twisted its nob. As it clicked into place, the small terminal screen on the front of his radio lit up with an orange hue, and black (or, rather, much darker orange), text, scrolled across the LCD screen, reading out the resolved DNS name for the IP he had selected from the nob. It was a quiet, well-tempered jazz station, with thoughtful brass bellows overlaid by the gentle voice of Chet Baker, proclaiming that he fell in love far too easily, and far too terribly hard. It was different- almost jarringly different- from the violent hammering of the hurricane's landfall outside. His tires, were it not for the road-assurance package he had smartly purchased from the dealership, would be slipping and sliding over the wet asphalt of the highway overpass he found himself on, as he turned off towards the Great American Slum- the Port of Miami.

But somewhere, in the mass of slums and abandonded buildings, three men sat -- waiting. The only sound that could be heard above the ghostly howling of the wind slamming itself against the old, dilapated warehouse they sat in was the whimpering of a corporate spy, tied to a plastic chair. He was breathing heavily, wheezing, sweat dripping down his plump face, fidgeting uselessly against the steel cords that bound his hands and feet. One of the men, slumped against the wall, lazily loaded bullets into his Mateba. Water dripped from a small hole in the roof.

The other man was sat in the shadows, his corneal implants glowing through the dark. He sat near the door, his rifle positioned over his lap. He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and took out a crumpled cigarette.

"Hey, you," He said, "Got a light?"

As the old Trans-Siberian, carrying its lackey passenger, rumbled under the highway overpass it had just been over, and into the city, the hairs on the back of Mondo's neck stood on edge- even if he couldn't put his own finger on it. He knew exactly what this part of the city was, so did everybody else who had even spent a lick of time in this part of the country. Gangland. His eyes rather instinctively drifted over the felt paneling on the inside of his vehicle's door- specifically, to the orange diagnostic lights, that, when powered on, signified the car doors to be locked.

They were on.
The flash of a lighter, inside of of the second-story window of a building that was marked, in faded, stamped lettering 'Ping Network Solutions', and, doubly-marked, 'condemned', was likely the cause of Mondo being set on edge. Behind that window, one of the neo-cowboy gun thugs of this city, calling himself 'Iguana', stowed away a zippo lighter, after letting a burn on his compatriot's cigarette.

"I say we let him loose," Iguana said, in a gruff smoker's voice, as he pushed over the chair that the whimpering corporate lackey was tied to, leaving the man face first on the ground, at the mercy of his captors, "After all, the insurance claim on that data plant on Calhoun he sabotaged? It's more than enough to pay for his debt. Too bad he was a fucking dumbass about it."

"You don't file the claim before the damage is done, ya frickin' newbie," The other man spoke, between puffs of a cowboy killer, "That's what the claims agents are for. He runs a sweep on the network system, finds out that you jacked in, took out the halon suppressors- well what's that look like to him? Arson. Guess what insurance companies don't like paying for?"

After a tense few minutes of the rookie corporate saboteur blithering and whimpering, a few words were choked out, as a small stream of hurricane water, having leaked in from the condemned tin sheeting on the building, filled his nose.

"You don't get it, m-man," The younger fellow stammered out, coughing up water, "I can audit those logs, remotely- but you need me, man! I've still got the credentials for it- I can SSH right in. It'll be like those Halon systems were never off at all- just water and fire damage, to an underused server farm, with decades old equipment- fuck, man, and Nine-Fingers Chao can still buy up that real estate- and whatever virtual estate is put up in its place!"

 

[Machine]

##bump

 

[Machine]

##bump

 

[Punp]

##TL;DR: Protagonist is called Montgomery "Mondo" Sneed, an insurance adjustment agent. There's a false insurance claim afoot as some gangland thugs are trying to erase ownership of some files by causing (or rather, failing to stop) a fire. Summary of all posts follows:

Neo-Miami, 2013

The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel. Rain hammered down on the sprawling, steel-and-tin slum of Neo-Miami, as an Atlantic Hurricane cast the temperatures into a deep cold, and whipped the palm trees across the beach line. The Port Authority, usually bustling with aggressive, beastly megaships, transferring containers full of servos, microchips, and, often times, all manner of stolen and smuggled goods, was silent, today- even the night market, usually bustling with the sound of Triad gangsters threatening shoptenders, stall-owners shouting for passers-by to purchase their boot-legged nanotapes, or chop-doctors, slinging unregistered, un-traced cybernetic implants- was silent. The only sound being the violent whip of wind mashing against neon, hazy signs- and yet nothing tore away, even as the pounding rain its damn best. Man had long surpassed nature.

Montgomery Sneed, freelance insurance adjuster, stared through the windshield of his 20X6 Quontiac Trans-Siberia with a blank expression and contemplated the chaos from a strategically-placed parking spot on the highway shoulder. Hurricane landfall meant property damage, and property damage meant work. The claim-wire had been keeping its mouth shut for the past couple weeks, long enough for Mondo (a nickname he grudgingly accepted) to seriously consider changing careers. He had narrowed down the options to a choice between part-time stripper and full-time codeine addict when the storm staggered in from the gulf and made his choice for him. Nothing would change, at least for the time being. There would be a flash on the Trans-Siberia's dash console - <<SERIOUS STRUCTURAL FAILURE, SERVER FARM, 9856 N CALHOUN, BOUNTY 48K>> - and he would settle into the old routine again. More broken machinery, more sob stories from some pasty-faced androgyne in a clown suit, more paperwork, more money in the account, more money for cough syrup and vintage anime rentals. The worst part was that he knew he would be okay with it. Mondo took another long look outside and turned the internet radio on.

His Model-2011 internet radio sputtered to life, as his wirey fingers twisted its nob. As it clicked into place, the small terminal screen on the front of his radio lit up with an orange hue, and black (or, rather, much darker orange), text, scrolled across the LCD screen, reading out the resolved DNS name for the IP he had selected from the nob. It was a quiet, well-tempered jazz station, with thoughtful brass bellows overlaid by the gentle voice of Chet Baker, proclaiming that he fell in love far too easily, and far too terribly hard. It was different- almost jarringly different- from the violent hammering of the hurricane's landfall outside. His tires, were it not for the road-assurance package he had smartly purchased from the dealership, would be slipping and sliding over the wet asphalt of the highway overpass he found himself on, as he turned off towards the Great American Slum- the Port of Miami.

As the old Trans-Siberian, carrying its lackey passenger, rumbled under the highway overpass it had just been over, and into the city, the hairs on the back of Mondo's neck stood on edge- even if he couldn't put his own finger on it. He knew exactly what this part of the city was, so did everybody else who had even spent a lick of time in this part of the country. Gangland. His eyes rather instinctively drifted over the felt paneling on the inside of his vehicle's door- specifically, to the orange diagnostic lights, that, when powered on, signified the car doors to be locked.

They were on.
The flash of a lighter, inside of of the second-story window of a building that was marked, in faded, stamped lettering 'Ping Network Solutions', and, doubly-marked, 'condemned', was likely the cause of Mondo being set on edge. Behind that window, one of the neo-cowboy gun thugs of this city, calling himself 'Iguana', stowed away a zippo lighter, after letting a burn on his compatriot's cigarette.

"I say we let him loose," Iguana said, in a gruff smoker's voice, as he pushed over the chair that the whimpering corporate lackey was tied to, leaving the man face first on the ground, at the mercy of his captors, "After all, the insurance claim on that data plant on Calhoun he sabotaged? It's more than enough to pay for his debt. Too bad he was a fucking dumbass about it."

"You don't file the claim before the damage is done, ya frickin' newbie," The other man spoke, between puffs of a cowboy killer, "That's what the claims agents are for. He runs a sweep on the network system, finds out that you jacked in, took out the halon suppressors- well what's that look like to him? Arson. Guess what insurance companies don't like paying for?"

After a tense few minutes of the rookie corporate saboteur blithering and whimpering, a few words were choked out, as a small stream of hurricane water, having leaked in from the condemned tin sheeting on the building, filled his nose.

"You don't get it, m-man," The younger fellow stammered out, coughing up water, "I can audit those logs, remotely- but you need me, man! I've still got the credentials for it- I can SSH right in. It'll be like those Halon systems were never off at all- just water and fire damage, to an underused server farm, with decades old equipment- fuck, man, and Nine-Fingers Chao can still buy up that real estate- and whatever virtual estate is put up in its place!"

 

[Punp]

Iguana thumbed the filter of his cigarette in thought. On one hand, he could shut down this problem with a bullet and some premixed cement down on the bottom floor of the condemned factory. On the other, not having the collective insurance companies up his ass for the next two decades would be really pleasant. Plus this clerk was just a kid who thought he could play with the big fish but ended up with the sharks. Underneath the tear-stained cheeks and blood-smeared philtrum there was a frightened scriptkiddie clawing at the walls in an attempt to make his bullies relent. Maybe he could work the logs, and in good time before the insurance creeps tapped in to take a look around. Iguana definitely didn't have the skills to do it. He could barely operate a vending machine without it swindling him.

On the other side of the room, the opposite was happening. Luxury Bueno, his eyes only visible for their neon-glowing implants as he sat in the shadows, was trying to calculate the best angle to execute their prisoner for maximum fear factor while keeping his suit clean. He'd only just downloaded it that morning and his printLas was almost out of nylon. His hands rested on the barrel of the rifle - a movement which didn't go unnoticed by Iguana.

Outside, Mondo pulled up at the chainlink gates, rain hammering down heavily on the cheap pannelling of his Quontiac and the near-tropical winds trying to peel them off. He looked outside, a routine exhaustion settling onto his features with the weight of too many sleepless nights on anti-socialmedia. This was clearly a fraud case. It had all the tell-tale signs of one. An accidental fire in gangland destroying servers containing data that might be useful to someone - and as usual there were no backups kept. This would be an open and shut case. Just go in, read down the building diagnostic from the security systems if they were still in one piece, and then get back to the car. He looked out at the smear of rainbow-tainted water streaming down his windscreen and sneered. The storm would be uncomfortable, and the condemned building probably even more so. "Come on, you piece of shit" he muttered to himself, lurching forward and reaching for a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters on the passenger seat and hurling himself unwillingly into the rain.

 

[Some_porcupine]

The storm would be uncomfortable, and the condemned building probably even more so. "Come on, you piece of shit" he muttered to himself, lurching forward and reaching for a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters on the passenger seat and hurling himself unwillingly into the rain.

##bump
(You can post this where ever it is good)
- well well who we have here, said voice behind him
- no shit, main character rolled his eyes and spat on ground, - me and GPS, isn't it. Or was it cameras, phone, poles tracking, all of those no!?
- No (chuckle), - you are just so predictable, really really, really, so damn goofy. We are sorry, mister Rogek, but what you are into to do, is against our services, but as I am aware, you and your punks are all into that, isn't that right. So let me put this straight: (both rolled their eyes) Remember the *thing* you bought once while back, when you were feeble , well you guys call it, I think, "normie"? So, you remember *it*, do you! We can, and our partners and stakeholders so, ban you ... No, that is incorrect word. Enable, you from use of *it*! What do you say about that, mister Rogek?!?
- shit you not, you want to threaten me, make me do something against my will or morale, so simple, I disabled *it* whiiiile back, you , mister moron with all your stakeholders! (Pretends to bow down with his hat he don't have, in funky and ironic manner)
- no. You see, I am in the known, there has been so many of yours types around , so very readable. We got you profiled, I even know what you gonna do. People gave up privacy willingly, they got no mind of their own it seems. So, stakeholders, you see - (makes pause)
- I gonna guess. There IS cabal - and by this tempo, all money and land there will be yours in 250 years or so. We got human rights - or is that against marketers? (Smirk)
- no free will, you forgot this. What is free will, to predictable behaviour, to milk cow but then giving it all it needs - well, Stalin and chicken allegory, if you had ever heard it. But it is more similar to what I just said, MILKING a freaking cow OUT! (Chuckle)
*Gunshots*
(From distance) - that is impossible! Well no shit we live in hell isn't that, my gun don't work! Those bastards... *Throws gun like boomerang away*
- stop, said Rogek, - even if we killed them all, what gives, how to assure it will not go in circles, so only way to stop it from so, is something way worse, like infinite revolutions series, worse to what we have even now...
- laughable (said partner and Master, (being shot ) mister both accidentally simultaneously), - (partner) heat me out, are you serious, what can be worse than this!? What, tell me! Those people down there, those who got no luck, those who are in need of all these pay-for wonders, just mere cash machines to those on top, the Cow for , to them, with no other options left!
- nothing lasts forever. And here Mister made me think - (partner stops him)
- stupido! No. I heard you before shots, he was trying to exploit your unhidden, glass-like sense of purpose and hope! That is why I like you, even love you, if that makes sense!
- yeah. Remember how we made out? But you say still, you are not homo... (Dreamy, unconvinced eyes, tststs-s away)
- it is not like that, we are - bros? Is that the right word? It is like when sportsmen ...
- aw, shut up. Let's make this happen...
- sex?
- yeeeeeah, suuuure! (Sarcastic tone) no!! You idiot, you made us as invisible as cat vomit on carpet!
- some carpets...
- NO-TIME-FOR-FUCKING-WORDPLAY-NOW!!! (Whispery scream)

(Here my comedic duo part ends, you can link it where it is fit)