... dead? No. I won't be. I can't be.
Too much to do. I hardly got enough time to live. No way I got enough time to die.
Come on. Think. Reach out. The answers there, somewhere. Let it come, !@#$ you.
Remember...
West 19th
11:30 AM
10/6/11
"Target acquired," said the spotter, voice muffled, scrambled, and transmitted by a complicated thing that looked not unlike a rebreather. He was across the street at a small cafe, reading a paper and looking out for a certain person who'd taken to taking walks at this time of day.
"Yeah, I don't know what I'm going to do about him..." said the distraction, mincing around the corner and heading right for that certain person. Young, slim, and Asian, with tight pants unbuckled at the waist and a shirt that could have been painted on. Making a non-linear path down the sidewalk, waiting for the right moment to be seen, make eye contact, and then do something very... distracting.
The point man said nothing. He fell into lockstep with the target, hands at his sides. The hands were gloved. Special gloves. The kind you have to invent, and then only if you're a pyromaniac who has a thing for watching people flare up like magnesium and melt like candles.
The spotter watched as the distraction got closer, and closer still. This would be the moment of truth. Either it worked and he stopped, or he kept going and they'd have to go to plan B.
And plan B was going to be !@#$ nasty.
The distraction happened: a wink so forceful the spotter could feel it across the road. Target stopped.
"Sorry," mumbled the point man as he purposefully bumped into the target. Hands open. Palms flat across the shoulderblades of the man.
Just a split second, but that's more than enough time. All the time in the world.
The target looked around, sensing something off. The distractor walked on, no longer interested.
"Hey..." the target said to the point man, "You got a !@#$ problem?"
The point man continued on, not turning around. Confident in the tech. Distractor kept walking and talking to the spotter, pretending to complain about the nonexistent boyfriend and his unclipped toenails.
The spotter alone stayed put. He watched as the target reached for a gun. Any second now.
Then the target suddenly stiffened, gasped, and burst into fire. People screamed and ran as the man screamed and clawed the air, his gun suddenly massively useless.
The spotter smirked. Who says you can't kill a man in broad daylight and have no one see a thing?
...
... oh yeah, that. I remember that. That !@#$ hurt.
But how can I remember that, too? If I was dead at Senor Coconut's, and dead on the patio, how could I be dead there, too?
How many times did I die, today?
...
An illicit afternoon rendezvous at the other other meat market. SPYGOD pulls up in the latest, flashy piece of junk The COMPANY's loaned him until they can get him a new flying car. At taxpayer's expense, of course.
Not a bad job, really. It's equipped with limited hover capabilities and some offensive weapons. But the shields are really touch and go; especially when he rolls down the window and asks the cute, new one with the killer butt what hir name is.
S/he prefers to let the guns built into her mouth do the talking for her, and shoots his skull to pieces in seconds with incendiary rounds. The shell casings eject out behind her ears on both sides. He's a dead, smoke-skulled S.O.B. before they all hit the ground.
No afternoon nookie for SPYGOD today.
...
Late evening at the Bangkok Eight. Time for the usual pickup. SPYGOD walks in, smiling.
The crazy guy behind the counter is not smiling. He weakly gestures to the waiting room, where something in a black trenchcoat and long, black hat is sitting.
"Two choices, buddy," the thing says, not even looking up: "You let it happen, or I flare up and take out the whole building. Lots of kids upstairs, you know. You want that on your conscience?"
SPYGOD sighs. Mouths an apology to the crazy guy behind the counter. The old, Asian man shrugs. Just life in Neo York City.
"I'm just here for the Tom Yam Goong, !@#$hole," he says, pulling out a gun: "You should have had a bowl before I got here. Now you'll never know."
"I can't stand Thai food," the thing replies, and the hat brim goes up. Something is wrong with the eyes beneath it. SPYGOD has enough time to recognize him as a wanted pyrokinetic before everything goes white hot and spindly...
...
And on and on it goes. Fire swords in an alleyway. Exploding hookers. A truck full of semtex running him down.
Death after death. Trap after trap. Scenarios strobe across his memories like something from a nightmare.
How many deaths? How many days? How long has this been going on?
How can any of it be real?
...
It isn't. It can't be.
No, I know what death feels like. I've died before. This isn't it.
This is limbo.
I feel disconnected from the world. My eye isn't picking anything up. That would take some major !@#$ work to do, too, so I must be dealing with someone really high up on the "!@#$n With SPYGOD" list, too.
Bastards. Rat !@#$ bastards must be running me through some kind of VR program to break down my mental defenses. One death too many and my mind'll crack open like an egg, and they can eat it for !@#$ breakfast.
Well, we'll show them, won't we? I've been through worse than this. SQUASH had me reliving my !@#$ birth trauma for a whole week, once.
I just have to find the flaws and force my way awake. Sounds worse than it really is.
Oh you are so !@#$ dead when I get out of here. There's violation and then there's this. And I know how to return the favor.
Boy do I !@#$ ever...
(SPYGOD is listening to Mouth to Mouth (The Glove) and wishing for some Sam Adams Black Lager)
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