Hyper-Reality - Session 007

A GURPS cyberpunk solo Actual Play

Apologies for the lack of posts. I was writing Session 013 for like two months, told myself I wouldn’t post till I got my writing process in order.

Well, now that’s done and done. I’ll be writing every day. And to celebrate, I’ll release the remaining Eps of this AP daily. If you wanna skip ahead, check out my personal site. As usual, you can always read this session there. ^~^

- Sophie

High above Chicago, near Skyway 317; Late Night

High above Chicago, near Skyway 317; Late Night

“No matter where you go, everyone’s connected.”

Velvet often wondered where she’d heard that age-old aphorism. The vaguest snippets of memory placed it in the voice of her father, but she figured that was creative inference or wishful thinking. For all she knew, it might as well have been a dream, as with everything else from her last life.

These days, Velvet had to know things. People depended on her. From wannabe rockerboys down in Gary to infobrokers linked to Corpos, almost everyone had an incentive to keep tabs on the competition. Sure it was risky, but all involved knew shooting one rat would cause the rest to scatter. The powers that be really didn’t like losing a good eye.

And Velvet’s eyes were damn good. Genuine Zeiss telescopic optics, mounted in a ball turret under her drone. Autostabilized, sensitive from IR to X-rays. From five-thousand feet she could spot a fly on a pinhead, assuming it held still. Her neural coprocessor always needed a few seconds to adjust the zoom.

Tonight’s weather sure didn’t help. The rain poured in sheets, while gusting winds battered her thin, light camera drone. While viewing its optics on the monitors arrayed around her desk, she kept its telemetry overlaid in hyperreality, just in case she lost control.

Her client was an unusual one. A last-minute job, at that. Just as Velvet had hoped to end the night with some unremarkable stills for the local gangs, she’d get a call through the Hypernet. Some dame in half-drunk panic, begging to follow her boyfriend home. Naturally, Velvet agreed. A few dozen cryptos to keep a tail was enough for three days’ food. A week, if she felt like dropping weight. One could do a whole lot worse.

As she pulled into place to intercept, the glittering blue ribbon of Skyway 317 stretched in a wide arc across her vision. Naturally, an AV could travel anywhere and everywhere, but outside emergencies and local traffic, every cut-rate pilot stuck to the airborne superhighways streaking ‘cross the sky. That included her latest mark: A hotshot racer with a souped-up ride.

Velvet watched him trace the Skyway’s wide, descending arc off the 17, out towards the crowded highrises of Delton. Its wind-cheating shape resembled a door wedge crossed with a hypersonic missle - easily verging on 400 miles per hour down the long, straight stretch of skyway. Velvet reckoned him a madman. Or perhaps, a man on the run.

Velvet Grader
Observation: 10 - Failure.

Her first indication was a burst of microwave emission behind the car. Telltale sign of an image-curtain. The drone’s cross-spectrum cameras were left dazzled, forcing her onto the direct optical. As the picture slowly came into focus, Velvet spotted a second pair of headlights racing after the car, followed by the flickering burst of autocannon fire. Her eyes went wide as the racer’s ride blew apart midair, sending its smoldering bulk careening into some packed apartments.

Velvet Grader
Observation: 10 - Success

Another burst of microwaves. She smoothly swung the camera a few degrees topside, catching a glimpse of the car. Its blocky, broad shape pulled up off she skyway, where it faded into the rain.

Drawn by equal parts curiosity and contract, she swung her drone down towards the crash site. It was easy to hide among the growing swarm of media drones, alongside other hobbyists like her.

The car had come down in a densely-populated area. Velvet grit her teeth at the burning building, and bodies crushed under the rear repulsors. Despite it all, she took a photo of the racer’s remains, including his novelty license plate.

Not long after, she heard the thud of her apartment’s door. Amber walked in, disheveled and soaked.

She’d pick the last bits of glass out of Amber’s hair, and hold her tight to her chest.

Afterglow, Mandell Towers Level 3; Evening

The rusting doors of the rickety elevator slid aside to reveal a narrow hallway lit by dimmed neon. The silhouette of a ratlike man started beside an apartment’s keypad, scurrying away as Dutch approached.

Dutch Hopkins
Perception: 10 - Failure.

Dutch kicked aside the disassembled circuit board the thief had left behind. Nothin’ to see here. Live and let live. Whatever the hell that even meant anymore.

His zippo flickered in the darkness. Soon enough, his menthol cigs left a wispy trail of smoke as he sailed down the corridor. As always, they calmed him. Made every shouting couple, distant gunfight, and patter of rain sound a little bit less like footsteps behind his back. Even the kinetic thump of EDM was a welcome treat, as he approached Riley’s rendezvous.

Strip clubs weren’t Dutch’s thing. Why pay to look, when a good sensie let you grab, shove, and even taste? But some were still the old fashioned type. Corpos and other mercs ate that shit up. On the bright side, that made Afterglow a fine place for a face-to-face. Turns out when the guy next door can fold their colon like a pretzel, people tend to behave.

A heady mix of smokes wafted around Dutch as he walked in, smelling like hickory and gasoline. The place was popular, but the crowd was subdued tonight, mostly interested in their drug of choice. Beside him, few Mafia passed a giggling Azteca gal between their laps. Meanwhile a coarse lake sailor groaned as one of the floozies worked between his legs. As usual, the Corpos were here for the main event. Clad in suits besides pairs of bodyguards, grinning junior execs flicked holographic Cryptos at strippers’ feet like shimmering playing cards.

Riley flagged him from near the far wall, away from the stage. Fewer folks to listen in. Even fewer who could break an encrypted neuroline.

“It’s been a while”, Riley transmitted, passing Dutch a drink. The latter inspected it for a moment, before downing half of it in one gulp. “How long’s it been?”

“Since what?” Dutch replied, his lips remaining still.

“Since we last saw each other.”

“Couple years, eez. But you ain’t here to shoot the breeze.”

Riley snickered in realspace. He peered up at Dutch in a familiar way, someplace between respect and contempt. “You know me all too well, Commander Hopkins.”

Dutch reluctantly smiled.

Late Night

As the two caught up, the crowd finally began to thin. Most Corpos left early, or sat in the alcoves tripping on Red. Meanwhile, the showgals were gradually replaced by designer Bioroids. A cheaper solution for a good time, but a cop-out to a rich man. Their perfect bodies - real flesh and blood - were maintained by legions of microscopic nanomachines, marshalled by cutting-edge cybercortex. The glowing ring around their irises indicated autonomous control, running subroutines from chips in their neuroports.

By then, Dutch was starting to enjoy himself. Turns out Riley was looking for work, and who else to give it besides his old “handler”. But that could wait till later. Right now, he was high on life, laced with just a pinch of Red Sand.

Dutch Hopkins
Perception: 15 - Failure.

Turns out some of the servergals were bioroids as well. He watched an attendant swing by with a steel pitcher, and felt a little better about hollering her way. His only hint was the unsteadiness in her gait, before a grenade plunked into his glass.

Dutch Hopkins
Dexterity: 10 - Success

Riley was quick. Dutch quicker. While the boy leapt to his feet and ran like hell, Dutch blindly hurled his glass into the fog. He watched it land besides some poor bastards on the infrared, before fire and shrapnel rended flesh.

“Fuckin’ bitch!” Dutch cried, grabbing the servergal by the throat, “The fuck you tryin’ to pull?!”

A harrowing, unnatural shriek was all the bioroid replied with. He tightened his grip, before noticing something strange. Her arms and legs were limp.

On a hunch, he let the bioroid go. When Riley arrived back on the scene, he found his comrade standing over the broken doll, watching it twitch mewl like a dying animal. Then Dutch flipped it over, took out his knife, and pried open its neuroport. The very moment he touched a chip, a surge of electricity tore through his hand, sent him flying back against tables and chairs.

As the doll cooked itself inside-out, Dutch rubbed his singed digits, and shot a thought to Riley.

“Y’know what this mean, right?”

“Yeah... Somebody talked.”