cyberpunkdreams
Well-Known Member
I know this is on the long side, but the complete short story just fit within the post limit. I've not put anything up here for a while, but I'd be very interested to hear what you think. This is from the same world as everything else I've put up here. It's a short vignette into the world of the super rich.
SLUMMING IT
Lucy looked out at the city, a hundred floors below. Cincinnati. Sprawling, chaotic. A patchwork of dark and light. This was her empire. Her weakness. Her perversion.
Rain pattered lightly against the glass. She liked it like that. It blurred, made indistinct. She could see her reflection, just about, overlaying her domain. A sleek Chanel dress, black and custom made. She was fifty years old, but she looked not a day over thirty. She’d retained just enough of her age to keep her face interesting; just enough to let people know that they weren’t dealing with a child. She slipped the dress off her shoulders. It puddled around her feet, smart seams sliding open. As far as age was concerned, her body was another matter. Not a day over twenty. She breathed, watched herself, shimmering, running in the rain. Everything was a mask, a deceit, a deception. She could turn on the static field and have a clear view in a second. Instead, her reflection mingled with the lights below. She felt rotten to the core. She liked it like that.
Her outfit for the night was laid out on the expanse of bed behind her. She never knew what she’d be before she walked in here. The clothes, the accessories, each and every one neatly and precisely prepared. A single sheet of instructions, in her stylist’s meticulous script, telling her where to go and who to be. Once per week. Once every week. That was how often she allowed this for herself. Just once, every week.
Ashley always chose. They never conferred. That was part of the deal, part of the thrill. The not knowing. She trailed a fingertip over faded leather. Jeans, with a frayed canvas belt, slim copper buckle. Black halter top, washed down to grey. Boots. Black denim jacket. Even the underwear was carefully selected.
Anyone could be a tourist. Anyone could spend a night in the slums, get ripped, live it fast and loose. Maybe even take a real risk or two. Lucy’s kick was different. Every week she was someone new, someone unique. Every week she was someone real. Twenty million people in the slums and the Projects, and she’d become one of them, be one of them, just for a night. Ashley would give her everything she needed – the clothes, the story, the background. A neural spike containing everything she’d need to know to survive, to make herself who she needed to be. Because she did need this. She’d go out there alone. Almost alone – a security detail followed her every move, but they were just shadows that she could forget. They were the only ones who knew what she did. Ashley and they.
She liked how things could change, so quickly. How the mind adapted to the now, whatever that now was. One half of an hour ago, she’d been playing politics with her guests. Hardball games at the top of the hierarchy. Some of the best and brightest SensPerience executives, preening and posturing for her benefit, as well as for each others’. Showing off their designer clothing. Their designer spouses. She’d looked each of them in the eye, knowing that in an hour, she’d be down in the streets. She looked each of them in the eye, wondering what their own kinks were. They all had them. All of them. She could find out at the click of her fingers, but she never did. It was more fun this way. More fun not to know. It lent another edge to the game.
She picked up her instructions. She kept the air in her private rooms too cold for comfort. The delicate hair on her forearms stood on end. She liked it like that. She liked delaying this moment for as long as she could, chill air caressing her skin. Finding out how extreme her role for the night was going to be. What Ashley was going to put her through. She knew she couldn’t die out there, but she could come close. Very, very close.
Ashley wasn’t only the best personal stylist money and connections could find. Ashley had imagination. Ashley… understood. Lucy had been many things, over the years she’d been doing this. Just one night to be someone new.
She’d been a cheap whore, run ragged by the enforcers chasing her. She’d been hired to do a hit, and carried it through, hot blood spurting over her hand as she cut the mark’s throat. She’d been a big time dealer, arranging a deal on a brick of heroin. She’d been a punk. A player. She’d been a blood rag reporter, freelance, covering the the most brutal killings she could find. Photographs of blood and gore in lavish detail. She’d been f***ed up the ass in a filthy alley and sat in a teleconference with Jakarta’s research head the next day. She’d allowed a knife slide in inch into her neck before letting her security intervene.
Tonight… she laid down the paper, letting the moment draw out. She was desperate to leave, to be down there, to be part of the casual violence and squalor and dirty thrills. But she was more desperate to let the moment last. She picked up the shorts. Cheap fabric, slightly worn. The bra didn’t fit quite right, because something true to the streets never should. Ashley didn’t tell her where she found these clothes. Were they cleverly faked, or were they the real thing? Had the identity she was about to adopt belonged to someone real? Someone lying dead in the gutter just because she wanted to play? She didn’t know, but she hoped so. She felt rotten to the core.
The top next, pulled over her head. Slightly stained; snug around her perfect torso. She wanted to believe that these were the real thing, bought or stolen on the streets. The very idea that these had been worn before, by another body, was another kind of sick thrill for someone like her. Her own clothes would never be worn twice. The dress she’d discarded by the window would be thrown away by the time she returned. A small fortune turned into trash.
She rubbed a small bag of grime into her hair – authentic grime. Not enough to look dirty, but enough to add a certain level of veracity. Nanites to split the ends and roughen it up, just a little. There would be another vial in the morning, to make her perfect again.
Lucy wondered who she’d be tonight. She picked up the brief and put it down again, unread. Not every night was pain and violence and drugs and horror. She pulled on the jeans, leather too tight around her thighs and crotch. So definitely not a bike courier, not this time. She smiled to herself. She never recorded her outings – each one had to remain unique, existing in her memory alone. She’d been a courier once before, so never again. But that had been a good night.
Jacket next, and cheap jewelry, just studs in her upper ears and a black cord around her neck. Armour ring and a black elastic hairband, almost worn to breaking. She pulled her hair up into a high, tight ponytail. Scrunched her toes into the thick, grey carpet before pulling on the boots. Knee high and more leather. No socks but thick, chunky soles. She buckled them up as tight as she could, feeling her excitement build as the clothes increased their constraint. Ashley knew what she wanted. What she needed. The jacket had a switchblade in its pocket, wickedly sharp. She cut herself with it, just a little. Just to test it, she told herself. She wondered if she’d have to kill someone tonight. She hoped so. Money in the jeans, crushed up Ohio dollar bills. They were real, for sure, but not many of them.
Last were two smooth white tablets, resting on an antique Japanese lacquer tray, perfectly parallel, perfectly centred. She swallowed them with a sip of French spring water. They were designer amphetamines; the only thing not authentic to her performance. They’d keep her going all night, give her the edge she needed. Leave her fresh in the morning, ready for another day of global corporate politics.
She picked up her instructions, her new identity, finally. The neural spike, everything fresh from the streets. The door of her personal elevator slid open noiselessly, black Chanel left discarded by the window.
SLUMMING IT
Lucy looked out at the city, a hundred floors below. Cincinnati. Sprawling, chaotic. A patchwork of dark and light. This was her empire. Her weakness. Her perversion.
Rain pattered lightly against the glass. She liked it like that. It blurred, made indistinct. She could see her reflection, just about, overlaying her domain. A sleek Chanel dress, black and custom made. She was fifty years old, but she looked not a day over thirty. She’d retained just enough of her age to keep her face interesting; just enough to let people know that they weren’t dealing with a child. She slipped the dress off her shoulders. It puddled around her feet, smart seams sliding open. As far as age was concerned, her body was another matter. Not a day over twenty. She breathed, watched herself, shimmering, running in the rain. Everything was a mask, a deceit, a deception. She could turn on the static field and have a clear view in a second. Instead, her reflection mingled with the lights below. She felt rotten to the core. She liked it like that.
Her outfit for the night was laid out on the expanse of bed behind her. She never knew what she’d be before she walked in here. The clothes, the accessories, each and every one neatly and precisely prepared. A single sheet of instructions, in her stylist’s meticulous script, telling her where to go and who to be. Once per week. Once every week. That was how often she allowed this for herself. Just once, every week.
Ashley always chose. They never conferred. That was part of the deal, part of the thrill. The not knowing. She trailed a fingertip over faded leather. Jeans, with a frayed canvas belt, slim copper buckle. Black halter top, washed down to grey. Boots. Black denim jacket. Even the underwear was carefully selected.
Anyone could be a tourist. Anyone could spend a night in the slums, get ripped, live it fast and loose. Maybe even take a real risk or two. Lucy’s kick was different. Every week she was someone new, someone unique. Every week she was someone real. Twenty million people in the slums and the Projects, and she’d become one of them, be one of them, just for a night. Ashley would give her everything she needed – the clothes, the story, the background. A neural spike containing everything she’d need to know to survive, to make herself who she needed to be. Because she did need this. She’d go out there alone. Almost alone – a security detail followed her every move, but they were just shadows that she could forget. They were the only ones who knew what she did. Ashley and they.
She liked how things could change, so quickly. How the mind adapted to the now, whatever that now was. One half of an hour ago, she’d been playing politics with her guests. Hardball games at the top of the hierarchy. Some of the best and brightest SensPerience executives, preening and posturing for her benefit, as well as for each others’. Showing off their designer clothing. Their designer spouses. She’d looked each of them in the eye, knowing that in an hour, she’d be down in the streets. She looked each of them in the eye, wondering what their own kinks were. They all had them. All of them. She could find out at the click of her fingers, but she never did. It was more fun this way. More fun not to know. It lent another edge to the game.
She picked up her instructions. She kept the air in her private rooms too cold for comfort. The delicate hair on her forearms stood on end. She liked it like that. She liked delaying this moment for as long as she could, chill air caressing her skin. Finding out how extreme her role for the night was going to be. What Ashley was going to put her through. She knew she couldn’t die out there, but she could come close. Very, very close.
Ashley wasn’t only the best personal stylist money and connections could find. Ashley had imagination. Ashley… understood. Lucy had been many things, over the years she’d been doing this. Just one night to be someone new.
She’d been a cheap whore, run ragged by the enforcers chasing her. She’d been hired to do a hit, and carried it through, hot blood spurting over her hand as she cut the mark’s throat. She’d been a big time dealer, arranging a deal on a brick of heroin. She’d been a punk. A player. She’d been a blood rag reporter, freelance, covering the the most brutal killings she could find. Photographs of blood and gore in lavish detail. She’d been f***ed up the ass in a filthy alley and sat in a teleconference with Jakarta’s research head the next day. She’d allowed a knife slide in inch into her neck before letting her security intervene.
Tonight… she laid down the paper, letting the moment draw out. She was desperate to leave, to be down there, to be part of the casual violence and squalor and dirty thrills. But she was more desperate to let the moment last. She picked up the shorts. Cheap fabric, slightly worn. The bra didn’t fit quite right, because something true to the streets never should. Ashley didn’t tell her where she found these clothes. Were they cleverly faked, or were they the real thing? Had the identity she was about to adopt belonged to someone real? Someone lying dead in the gutter just because she wanted to play? She didn’t know, but she hoped so. She felt rotten to the core.
The top next, pulled over her head. Slightly stained; snug around her perfect torso. She wanted to believe that these were the real thing, bought or stolen on the streets. The very idea that these had been worn before, by another body, was another kind of sick thrill for someone like her. Her own clothes would never be worn twice. The dress she’d discarded by the window would be thrown away by the time she returned. A small fortune turned into trash.
She rubbed a small bag of grime into her hair – authentic grime. Not enough to look dirty, but enough to add a certain level of veracity. Nanites to split the ends and roughen it up, just a little. There would be another vial in the morning, to make her perfect again.
Lucy wondered who she’d be tonight. She picked up the brief and put it down again, unread. Not every night was pain and violence and drugs and horror. She pulled on the jeans, leather too tight around her thighs and crotch. So definitely not a bike courier, not this time. She smiled to herself. She never recorded her outings – each one had to remain unique, existing in her memory alone. She’d been a courier once before, so never again. But that had been a good night.
Jacket next, and cheap jewelry, just studs in her upper ears and a black cord around her neck. Armour ring and a black elastic hairband, almost worn to breaking. She pulled her hair up into a high, tight ponytail. Scrunched her toes into the thick, grey carpet before pulling on the boots. Knee high and more leather. No socks but thick, chunky soles. She buckled them up as tight as she could, feeling her excitement build as the clothes increased their constraint. Ashley knew what she wanted. What she needed. The jacket had a switchblade in its pocket, wickedly sharp. She cut herself with it, just a little. Just to test it, she told herself. She wondered if she’d have to kill someone tonight. She hoped so. Money in the jeans, crushed up Ohio dollar bills. They were real, for sure, but not many of them.
Last were two smooth white tablets, resting on an antique Japanese lacquer tray, perfectly parallel, perfectly centred. She swallowed them with a sip of French spring water. They were designer amphetamines; the only thing not authentic to her performance. They’d keep her going all night, give her the edge she needed. Leave her fresh in the morning, ready for another day of global corporate politics.
She picked up her instructions, her new identity, finally. The neural spike, everything fresh from the streets. The door of her personal elevator slid open noiselessly, black Chanel left discarded by the window.
