26 October 2010

Night Terrors 12 - Infiltrate, Destroy, Rebuild.

Night Terrors 12 - Infiltrate, Destroy, Rebuild.

Castor drives in his sharp car and sporting mind toward the city of death, seeking a paradise lost and dreaming as horizons end. His commotion is a streamline, swiftly traversing stolidly cursing what could and might have been of his wrecked ship and uncouth decadence of this planet of which he rides. The emitter plays a favorite song, one he has heard many times echoing the voids of space and the wind blows his hair and cools his face. Near the boundaries of the city, he finalizes his list and checks it twice as he make the radio loud as possible, folds the seat back and away from the steering-wheel, and begins to ride the car like a board on a water wave.

Castor: "Reinitialize the location transponder on the vehicle."
Pollux: "Consider it done."

With a glance of the eyes, followed by a simple gest wave of his hand the deadened control panel illumines with new life as the vehicle careens toward gridlock traffic, Castor's eyes narrow and focus on the heavy sunset haze.

Pollux: "Do you see it?"
Castor: "I do."
Pollux: "Good, I think I'm bored."
Pollux still no more than a subroutine in proxy in their current condition, spoke of the endless city.

The car crashes the back of another unsuspecting driver, who was humming an annoying adult-rendition of a nursery song, sung by someone with repetitive rhyming disorder, a collision causing a near decapitation and a concussion in three cars beyond it. During the impact the abrupt force and momentum throws Castor in a streak over the cars and toward a light-post at the side of the bridge. He grabs the post with one hand as he effortlessly arches before vaulting over the edge, spinning about it once with heavy momentum, and in spiraling once slides down the pole and over the ledge of the lengthy overpass, landing out of sight and beyond mind into the shrouded divine masses wandering under the accident of the far further streets.

Castor roams the street, walking against the throng taller than they are by eye level as they pass him effortlessly and oblivious. He wanders the streets until he sees what he is searching, an obvious currency machine located further along the sidewalk, he approaches the line and waits his turn.

Police Radio: "More units to the St. Matthew bridge at the Oceanic Street dock."

Two walking patrol officers at the end of the block hear the announcement and assay to pass through the busy thoroughfare to the accident location. Castor waits in line to use the ATM and when it is his turn, he approaches the machine, places both of his palms on the screen, and hangs his head low as if exhausted, beginning to access the network as the person next in line becomes impatient, hollering obscenities of the rube sort.

Next in line: "Hey fucker, move it, it's not a hotel!"

Castor turns and looks at the unruly person while his eyes are full of mechanical nanotechnology silver ink, startling the next in line into silence. The ATM prints a receipt as long as his forearm covered in an indecipherable alien language and dispenses a stack of money in large denomination as the entire machine slowly dims and disconnects its connection with the main network and electrical grid. Castor takes the money, turns, and punches the bystander hardly in his stomach causing him to instantly keel over and fold in half on the ground, but before falling to the walk Castor also takes the unprepared victim’s wallet.

The two cops down the street witness the assault, and chase him from the scene, daft and dash he eludes through the multitude and into traffic with both constables in ready pursuit. They follow him with a nearing ease, as they are sentinels of the city, born and bred to extinguish the crimes of civilization, large and following him with formidable speed. Castor leans forward in his escape and as the excursion trails out into between the lanes of traffic at near halt near a traffic signal, he reaches into the passenger window and pulls an innocent through a partially opened vehicle window, throwing the unsuspecting person into the path of the closest chasing police officer.

The second officer is close to encounter, only one lane the side and eager to don demise against Castor steps onto a vehicle in traffic and lunges, only to crash into the glass too thick to break of another vehicle in trivial pursuit. Castor had grabbed him midst air and thrown him in a spiraling vault, himself falling to the ground and early to rise. Pollux's voice, the compatriot of cartography and hidden counterpart, spoke genuinely somber in his mind.

Pollux: "We’ve attained surveillance brother."

Castor pivots his step without hesitation, dashing in a new direction. A camera has begun to witness the course of events, surely the first of a fleet, to avoid too much evidence he darts into a storefront. The flatfoot keen to follow, fully fomenting anger with Castor's evasion, follows through plight as pursuant, but obstruction unavoidable as broken aftermath causes janitorial droids to not only clean a mess but also inhibit any further following of Castor and Pollux. Automaton machines defending a digital deity as Castor kicks open a rear door to an employee area.

A dispirited Castor in desperate haste tears the pipes casing electrical conduit, grabs the wires and screams as a torrent while his eyes turn silver and begin to glow with conductive heat, the silver springs course into his eyes and soon the power to the building dies. He glows slightly, burning forever endless, as would any in darkness but soon remits to cold circuitry and referred corruption, the weighted hanging doors fall like castle gates. In the eve of sunset he slips the confines of the building with only electrical authorization, the windows shattered, the walls tattered, and the establishment's security tapes scattered, into the violence of passive future whilst the voices of shadows converse highly intrigued with the cybernetic trespasser.