<span class="mu-r"><span class="mu-i">For a man all flesh and blood and bone and beating heart he's fast on the draw, this little hunter. He was, by all accounts, retired. Too old for the game. Used up, burnt up, spent, out in the cold, perhaps even settled down in some peculiar mammalian mating ritual with some sort of partner - you know the story, yes? A man, a house, a wife, a dog, a happy little bless *life* and then, of course, out of the dark comes the old haunting ghosts of the past.
One last job.
One last favour.
Another day.
A suit he swore to never put on again.
Well. Here we are.
One last job and he gets to walk away a free man, and then nevermind the job is a mean one for a cold soul who will likely betray him for the doing.
There are, to some people, still such a thing as old-fashioned honour.
He doesn't deal so much in these new-fangled tools, tricks, traits, all clicker-clank brains and artificial brains. He's an . . . oldschool ... kind of man. Prefers the personal touch.
Maybe that's why he misses, that first shot of the twelve? Had he but compensators and nerve acclimatizers and optimisers and the all the reglia of war, well, perhaps when he had to move, and duck, and dodge, and draw his guns and throat-strike a man with windpipe crushing precision, well, he might not have missed. I would not have missed.
That hulking brute in the bio-artifice pretending to be a steelsoul with a beating of heart of flesh tries to interfere. Little security peasants draw their guns. One of them die, one of them will, one of them sinks to the floor with a gasp for air. So slow. Why do these people always externalise their unmet security needs, as if other little faulty hearts could shelter theirs?
I never feel insecure anymore.
Weakness is an engineering problem.
There are two of your precious Agents nearby, and they're quite fast and keen and certainly charming, but one must roll to avoid death by three shots to the brain and the other stumbles as a dying security trooper slumps through the curtains into . . . some sort of pop.. idol... congregation? I lost the touch for popular culture a while.
I prefer... different... entertainment.
Look, little new fangled... hmhm.
Friends is so... companionable.
Actors?
Yes.
Let's say I'm the stage director and you are ... actors.
I've provided some notes, directions, if you will.
It's a party.
These things must be entertaining, yes?
--
Near the stage, the riot foam dispeners activate. More of the soft little insecurity rolls in, drones activate, and a very motivated fan with a great big dream and hope and beating heart finds a shotgun
How peculiar
who would go and drop such a thing? On a stage turned rioting grounds, no less?
Someone could . . .
Why
Someone might <span class="mu-s">get hurt</span>
( which would, of course, be all according to the plans of the memorial tour already scheduled for later... And they say I don't have a heart. I'd never harm an artist. I have standards.)
>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IsWiDf8aTc4</span></span>; 