So in writing news, great advancements on To Slice The Sky's rewrites and proofreads. Granted I realized I had to completely scrap a chapter and change how it goes since I wrote it mostly in an insomnia haze and it shows. I've begun completely changing the opening chapter as well. I've grown desensitized to the initial shock of the opening, so I've decided to go for something more substantial. That and the original opening is kinda dense and boring. I hope that I've grown out of dense and boring.
I first dreamed the idea for TSTS back in 2009. I finished the first outline in 2011 and the first draft in 2014. So two years past my style has changed a lot and I really wanted to pull away from long Tolkien/Stephensonesque didactic passages. Showing your homework in fiction is just public masturbation, which is a crime everywhere you go. You're supposed to talk about what you learned from your homework. Sometimes it's nice to drop a little hard science in the background, like public masturbation, but no need for it to overpower the scene. I'm not into computer science (and my understanding of most scientific disciplines is general college level anyway), so writing in depth would make me look like an idiot. I don't need that kind of business in my life, so I stick to things I have experience with.
I'm closing in on the last four chapters for proof reading. So far I have about 3 major changes, and I've split up a lot more chapters into smaller chunks. On the rewrite front, most of my effort has been put into continuity and restructuring. Combining both of those aspects created today's offering of 2nd draft writing. This week is Chapter 4, Decker and Trip reunited. I think so far it's the strongest chapter, and I definitely put a lot of work into chopping it up and splicing it together into this new monster.
Before we get to that, started playing Resident Evil Revelations 2 in co-op with my friend. Pretty damn fun so far. Since I'm playing it co-op, I decided to jump ahead into Devil May Cry turf. So I've played through DmC: Devil May Cry and I'm in the back half of Devil May Cry 3: Dante's Awakening. Devil May Cry is a game series that openly hates its fans and wants them to experience as much soul pain as possible. And the abused lovers we are keep coming back for more. Damn you Dante, you SSStylish demon bastard.
Okay, that's enough about games. Here's your weekly dog picture:
"I dream of your blood's warmth."
Here's chapter 4 of To Slice The Sky in its current form.
C:\>04_Joined_@_the_Clip
"For frags sake, can you relax already?" The Surgeon struggled with docking the Roplaxive Synthetics graybox into Decker's open skull case.
Decker's head bobbed with each thrust, "I am relaxed. You keep on pushing on my fragging head. Are you sure you're a RoPhar licensed practitioner?"
The Surgeon gave one last push of Decker's face into the headrest. She handed the new graybox to her assistant as she examined the housing compartment. She turned her worklight away for a moment, flashing across Decker's face.
Blinded by the light, pain revved up times two in Decker's eyes. He blinked and squinted at retinal afterimages. On his neck, the operation seat's neuroclamp prevented him from rubbing his lids. "Ugh, are my eyes supposed to hurt this much?"
"Here's the problem," The Surgeon motioned to her assistant with the light. "Get me my iron, wire and cutters." The Assistant moved to the tool caddy. "Damn archaic WSC slag—You said something about your eyes?" The Surgeon leaned over and flashed her light into Decker's pupils, "What do they feel like?" He attempted to twist his head away but she pressed it back into the padding, "Hold still please."
Decker said, "They like, uuuh, ache inside themselves, or something." The Assistant finished arranging tools on a stainless steel tray and handed cutters to The Surgeon. "I'm not really sure how to articulate it." He could tell something tiny was turning in a part of his skull. Following that was a slow creep of something being removed. "You didn't hit anything back there that's causing a stroke, did you?" Percussive snips came from above his left ear.
"I'm fairly certain you're not having a stroke." The Assistant scanned Decker's brain activity on a floating holodisplay. The Surgeon handed her a brick of black plastic and copper. She handed back a slick oval of white plastic and platinum.
"I need an adaptor," The Surgeon said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You're simply not used to using your optic nerves without the aid of an enhancement," Sizzles accompanied by curls of smoke wafted from her medical soldering iron. "They're straining from picking up ambient visual data on their own accord." The last wire sizzled into place. The surgeon switched on the power.
Roplaxive's start up chime bonged in Decker's head as a blast of start up diagnostics ran across his field of vision. He fantasized about diving into The Raw for real with his new hardware once he got a chance to tinker with it. Activity reflected on the displays.
The Assistant said, "What are you thinking of?"
"Stuff." Decker mumbled.
"Well cut it out," Sizzling sounds as The Surgeon melted his skin back together with a violet laser. Light smells of cooking meat wafted through the air.
"Now that that's over, the muscle, bone and skin reinforcement growths are going to take five to seven days to complete," The Surgeon resterilized and changed gloves. "You will need to up your diet to around 4100 calories to propel the growth period. You may experience stiff, awkward movements while your body and the nanomachines manufacture the weave.
"Be sure to take the adaptation traits exactly as directed on the package." She smeared cool medgel on the surgery incision. "This will seal it and aid with scarring. Supplement with vitamin E as well. Do you meditate?"
"No," Decker said. The surgeon flipped the operation seat into a position that gave her access to his bare chest. Decker blushed, hyper-aware of his untoned, emaciated body. "Should I be?"
"It would come in handy right about now."
Decker closed his eyes against the ceiling LED's. "Handy with what?"
A four gauge needle was inserted through his navel, pulling a wince from Decker. The neuroclamp blocked out sensation below his neck, except the feeling of pressure as it slid along the abdominal wall. The surgeon gave one last twist before thumbing it into the entry point.
"Meditation, coupled with binaural beats, will aid the Neural Disc Drive acclimation. It's also particularly helpful with reducing stress. Since we had to change your docking port, expect the healing process to be similar to your first install." The Surgeon dabbed some more medgel on the needle entrance. Decker could feel the solid rod of nanomachines melt beneath his skin.
She took Decker by the face in both hands and examined the near black circles under his closed eyes. The Surgeon clucked her tongue, "You don't sleep much do you?"
"Bad dreams." Decker supplied his automatic answer.
"Fix that ASAP. And get plenty of fluids. You don't want to overtax your box and melt through the housing. Napalm on the brain is a bad way to go."
Light ceased coloring his eyelids as Decker was shifted upright. He opened his eyes to see The Assistant's face centimeters away from his nose. "You look a lot like the receptionist. Are you two sisters?"
The Surgeon groaned as she queued a galaxy of post-procedure meds on the MR. She looked over her shoulder at Decker, "You really aren't from Ocean City, are you?"
*
Decker slumped into the ergonomic massage chair. He was half disrobed by the time he cleared the door. He'd been in the OC for a week and today was full of zipping about Foundation Island in driverless taxis getting affairs in order.
Dealing with TMZSQR and the crowded suspended trains between plates was the worst. The massage chair worked its magic on the tension knot Decker gained from his mistake of interacting with a commuter who appeared normal. Hollywood had its crazies peppered in with the everyday folk; In Ocean City, all the everyday folks were stuffed with crazy pills.
Decker thumbed the oscillation controls to work the next knot in his back. He felt rushed and unsure if he was going to adjust to the city's pace. Deep down he knew that humans could adapt to most living conditions, he just didn't want to.
B.Trix transferred Decker into the the busiest SBUX in the nation, TMZSQR Station. Running the show was the biggest prick possible for a General Manager, Chaz "Just-Chaz", who reminded Decker of a potato in a black hat and apron. The location laid in the shadow of Roplaxive HQ tower, a hop skip and a jump away from the above plate entrance. Decker was thankful he at least only had to ride one train to work.
His entire day was spent matriculating into corporate servitude. At Roplaxive, the conditions for his contract were finalized and next weeks assignments were handed out in a sealed plastic envelope. He had to go through far more biometric rigamarole for his transfer at SBUX than to become a contractor for New America's leading Pharmaceuticals company.
Trip would be home soon with a squad of drunk grade schoolers. The two of them were back together, but there had been a severe lack of time to let it sink in. Trip continually pressured Decker about the details of his trek to Ocean City. Trip could only take, "It was something and it sucked," so many times before accepting it as the answer. Decker was keen on forgetting the entire thing happened.
**
Trevor came home to find Decker lolled out in the massage chair without a shirt. Allan and Alan peeked in through the doorway and laughed with each other at his state.
Decker peeked an eye open, "What up, sell outs?"
"Decker," Trevor groaned. He tossed cans of high gravity single malt liquor to the buds as they entered, "You tired? Too tired to pass out in your bed?"
"The massage chair isn't in my room… unless."
"You're not moving the chair into your room." Decker gave a full body sigh. Trevor nodded his can towards Double L & 1L. They shotgunned their finely crafted swill in tandem. Belches followed.
"Frag yeah, bud!" Alan said as part of his post work ritual.
"How do you guys stand that skag?" Decker scoffed, "It's like a more expensive version of Slagpit." Decker's moments with the buds were an antagonism hurricane that could only be tempered by one side leaving the room.
Allan chimed in, "Ugh, why would we drink Slagpit? Hollywood swill trying to revel in its own awfulness."
"Whatever." Decker slouched off towards his room, "Have fun chugging piss and circle jerking about stupid headwear," he winked over his shoulder, "sell outs."
"Okay, we will, thank you Mr. Ames." Trevor sent off his antagonistic friend. After the bedroom door slid closed, he said, "Sorry guys, you know how he gets."
"We understand. He's too used to being clonecaste," Allan had picked up a habit of talking with his hands that hadn't quite stuck. "Or whatever the word is over in Hollywood."
"Who cares?" Alan belched, "Let's do it up, limpricks! It's already past six. Why aren't we already fragged up and cruising on some high class slit?"
"I don't know what to tell you, chief." Trevor called to the room to produce him a glass of Quebecer Whisky. A panel moved in the wall and a robot butler whizzed out with a tray.
The Al(l)ans struck up a conversation between themselves about some nightclub/bar/artist haven called The Cathedral they wanted to hit up. Their chatter faded into white noise as Trevor crossed the sitting area to his room. The buds didn't notice him exit. Alan commlinked to Gerald and Dillon, telling them "The plan is set and pre-gaming has commenced".
Trevor fell onto his bed, spilling synthetic booze in the process. His nerves stung with each sip. Instead of being relieved to have a familiar friend, contempt for Decker's so-called charms sprung in place. His resistance to Trevor's adopted lifestyle had made things hostile from the moment he met the buds. The living room was the battlefield for their metacoldwar of silence and snide remarks.
Dillon and Gerald checked in on the other side of the bedroom door. No one asked where Trevor was, they just decided to, 'Pick this party up and leave'. Trevor hoped The Cathedral was full of clones to piss off that limprick Gerald.
Silence grew in tandem with the night. Trevor, long finished with his whisky, juggled the last bit of an ice cube on his tongue as he stared at the walls. In the far corner, by the hotel suite style desk, sat his few worldly possessions. He never took the time to unpack because he never spent enough time in his room. Not until Decker came to stay.
Trevor got out of bed and fished around in the contents of his past. He pulled out an old Happy Bark t-shirt he loved back in high school. It used to be Decker's, but Trevor told him the graphic blew his mind. Decker took his shirt off and gave it to Trevor right in the middle of class. He finished the rest of the school day with no shirt. Trevor hadn't even heard a note of Happy Bark's bizarre retro J-Pop Punk before that day. They spent the rest of the night at Trevor's parent's house streaming tracks, talking about old movies and moving to Vietnam to start a band.
Trevor disrobed from his wrap necked suit and tried to dress up like his old self again. The shirt felt too tight. He tried on some pants that were obviously tailored for a stick-figure. He struggled and struggled, but couldn't fit into a stupid old pair of jeans. Excess gained in his gut and ass kept them from sliding up past his thighs. Trevor jumped and tugged until a sharp rip sounded and he was staring at the floor through a denim crotch.
He collapsed, kicked the jeans off, balled them up and threw them as hard he could manage. It knocked over his storage container containing his pharmschool kit. Plastic phials filled with an array of chemical components spilled onto the carpet. Trevor sprang from the floor and kicked at the containers of his unpacked belongings. Each blow made a dent only to reshape itself to a pre-damage state.
Defeated by modern technology, Trevor stormed into the living room eyes wild, wearing a tight shirt with a huge-eyed dog robot licking a swirled lollipop, but no pants. Decker was in the center of the kitchen, still shirtless, standing with his arms outstretched and eyes closed.
Trevor fell into the couch and fumed. He clutched his knees and rocked back and forth. The HV turned on and shuffled channel displays around the living room at various shifting volumes. Trevor glared at Decker as various automated amenities came to life around the apartment. The robot butlers weaved rigid patterns around each other in a mechanical square dance.
Something about the whole scene made Trevor livid. He felt as if the natural order of things had come unglued. Try though he might, Trevor couldn't grasp what had changed in his life that made everything that was supposed to be normal become fragging nuts. His quirky yet reclusive friend, that was an awesome handyman and tekhed, had devolved into a directionless prick. Decker was mum about their time apart and was taking his sweet time reporting in at Roplaxive. The job Trevor got for him so they could be together, like old times but better. And now he was screwing around with the benefits while being a selfish douchenozzle.
The lighting in the house fluctuated. Trevor thought nothing of it at first since such a thing would be the norm to a Southern Hollywood resident. Appliances in the kitchen revved and whirred in time with the lighting. The rhythm sounded like the intro to 'Everybody Hates You And Thinks You're A Cunt' by GeitSan.
Trevor croaked out, "Decker." It barely registered over the chugs and beeps of the dishwasher and microwave. "Decker." Trevor rose from the couch and put his face inches from Decker's serene visage, "DECKER!"
Decker was shocked back to Base Plane Reality from playing with the home VI system. The unit's effects made an abrupt stop and Decker dropped into a defensive stance.
"What the frag are you doing? Stop fragging with the dadfragging house! Frag!" Trevor marched back to the couch.
"Oooookay. Was this cause I called you guys sell outs again? Does that really bug you that much?" Decker's expression showed genuine curiosity.
"No, well, yeah, not really," Trevor attempted composure, "It does bother the other buds to be constantly mocked."
"Dude, frag those frags. I'm talking about you and me. Does it bother you, or does it bother you because it bothers them?"
"It bothers me to be called a sell out by someone who's supposed to be my best friend." Trevor stared straight ahead at the wall, not making any indication of his feelings on the matter, "Especially since he works for the same company as the sellouts he's mocking."
"I didn't sell out, I bought in," Decker planted himself in the kitchen, far out of damage range.
"It bothers me that my dreams are worth skag to you. That I can't have you and friends here at the same time. That-"
Decker slapped both palms on the kitchen island counter, "Whoa, now you're calling those no brained fashion clones 'friends'?"
"And what if I am? Who are you, my fragging supervisor? Talk about clones, Decker, who's the fragging genius that simultaneously earned six online university degrees to work fragging clone jobs?
"What next, are you gonna start pit fighting? I would suggest house cleaning, but I feel the interview process would be a too rough for you." Trip made a grab for Decker's crumpled shirt on the floor but fell short by a meter.
Decker waved off Trip. "Whoa–whoa–whoa, where did all of this come from? What, you moved away from home and it's time to play dress up with your personality? I moved to this city, for you. Joined in your corporate sing-a-long gang, for you. Up till a couple weeks ago I was totally content in Hollywood doing the exact same crap I am in Ocean City. I stepped outta my comfort zone all to watch my 'best friend' turn into something he doesn't recognize anymore, man."
"You were stagnating in a pit of slack and you know it. And now you're using me to rationalize reneging on a corporate contract?" Trip's posture opened towards Decker, "You haven't even come into the office."
"I had to heal after that hacker installed their slagbox. Besides, I fraggin' went in today to fill out my papers. Get off my back, 'pops'."
"You look like an idiot when you do finger quotes. Do you think having an invasive tool, the corporation we work for paid to put in you, makes you the next stage of the human fragging genome?"
"Well, yeah. I am a cyborg, trad."
Decker tossed the word flippantly but it hit Trevor like a bullet through the lungs. A pejorative from a friend was still a pejorative no matter how much he dressed it like a jest. Trevor always harbored a gut feeling Decker saw himself as superior because he was augmented. With one word it was made true.
"Can you leave? I just really don't want to deal with you." Trevor couldn't even look Decker in the face.
"Wait, cause I called you a 'trad'?" Decker scoffed.
"Well, at least you know what you said."
"Fine. If you're gonna get all butthurt about your obstinate need to prove something by remaining baseline–"
"That's *enough*," Trip rose to his feet with the intensity of his voice. After a beat, he regained a modicum of composure. "I feel that now is a good time to celebrate our unique qualities apart from each other." Trips ears burned hot. He could hear his heart banging against his ribcage.
Decker stomped to his room in silence. The house VI's sexy contralto was replaced by a male tone, inflected to mimic Decker's speaking voice, "How corporate, buddy."
"Out." Trevor thrust his index finger towards the entrance. "I'll call you when I'm ready to talk."
Decker left the apartminum in silence with his head held low. Trevor was left to himself, sitting on the couch, watching ice melt into another glass of fake whisky. After he got over the numbness of being empty and alone, Trevor pounded his drink and pitched the glass behind him. It broke on the synthetic diamond floor to ceiling windows, prompting a robot butler to spring to life. Trevor ordered another drink from the house MR. He paced and fumed around the unit, feeling like a stupid, basic, human.
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