Snapshots

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Acatalepsy
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Snapshots

Post by Acatalepsy »

This is my thread for various small "snapshot" stories of the Continuity Wars universe. Presently I have only two, following the story of one particular agent and his introduction into a world that is much larger than he realized. The next story may or may not follow him, and all of them are meant to be able to be understood separately as well as together.
Anything that can be done to a rat can be done to a human being. And we can do most anything to rats. This is a hard thing to think about, but it's the truth. It won't go away because we cover our eyes.

- Bruce Sterling
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Acatalepsy
Posts: 137
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Re: Snapshots

Post by Acatalepsy »

Possibilities


Some say dying is like a flash of white light, then falling. Those people are lying. How the fuck would they know? In my case, though, it was accurate. There was a white light, and then falling, and I'm pretty sure I died. At least, my original died in a very energetic flash of plasma and my quantum template was transmitted through space and time to end up...where the fuck was I, anyway?

Darkness. Well, they give agents like us the fanciest stealth suits for a reason. I manipulated a control on my arm and my visor's night scopes activated, showing me the world in composite display of thermal imaging, light amplification, and computer threat assessment.

I was in warehouse of some sort, at night presumably. There was a small glowing hole in a automated retrieval system's arm rack, probably caused by own entry. Moving slowly and stiffly, I rolled myself up onto my feet and began peeled what was left of my suit's ceramic shell.

It was then I became aware of the other person in the warehouse, who had previously escaped my attention because he was also wearing a stealth suit. In fact, he was wearing the exact same stealth suit I was wearing.

We noticed each other at pretty much exactly the same time, and time stopped for a heartbeat (no, not literally) as we stared at each other. Then we each did what any self-respecting and slightly paranoid time traveling covert operative would do in our respective positions – we went for our guns.

The result was, predictably, a Mexican standoff. The only reason neither of us had shot was we were both unsure who it was exactly we would be shooting at. We sized each other up, uncertain what to say. Most of the time, an operative has a good idea of what's going on an can make a snap judgment about whether to shoot, talk, or run. But suddenly thrown into the past, suddenly facing an a complete unknown? We were completely clueless, and I think both of us were only hair's width away from opting for a “kill it now, as questions later” solution. I think we would have, too, if it hadn't been for the patches that we had on our shoulders.

Each otherwise completely nullified suit had an emblem on it. This emblem was the familiar water drop and ripple insignia of ChronCom, and more significantly was the gold and red emblem that meant the person wearing it was a field agent. It was meant as a way for friendly assets to realize that the person wearing it was a friendly time traveler and thus to be treated with the utmost caution.

It wasn't something a time agent ever expected to see themselves. We were always secluded from actual time travel events – too much of a the chance involvement of someone who might go back in time would screw up all the probabilities painstakingly accounted for and tracked by the eggheads and their idiot savant machines.

I spoke first. “Who the fuck are you?” Eloquent, as always.

“That depends on your confirmation code.”

“Does Mike, Kilo, Papa, Yankee, Seven, Golf sound right?”

He paused, considering for a second. “Your code is wrong. I should probably shoot you.”

“I hope you reconsider. How about Victor, Lima, Papa, Alpha, Nine, Charlie?”

“That's the code. Why did you get it wrong at first?”

“I was checking you. If you had just taken the code and then shot me, then you'd use the wrong code and get busted.”

“Oh.”

One of the more difficult things to do for a time traveling agency is figure out who is on your side, who is from your future, and who is just faking it. For this reason we have established time traveler codes – official “believe me” codes that establish that a person is from the future and should be listened to. Of course, such things are very, very dangerous as well. If one ever got out, a fraudulent time traveler with a clever story could get almost anyone to do almost anything, simply by spinning a good yarn about the future.

“Listen, since I did go out on a limb and give away an extremely important code, I'd appreciate it if you'd put away your gun now.”

“Absolutely. As soon as you put away your gun.”

“Not fair. I gave you the time code for this period, I trusted you first. If you are a real time traveler, you know I'm a real time traveler. But I still don't know if you're a real time traveler – you could have guessed on the codes. So you lower your weapon first.”

“Hrm.” We stood in silence for another moment, each prepared to fire at the slightest twitch. “I guess you have a point.” He returned his gun to the magnetic hook on the side of his suit, and visibly relaxed. I noticed, though, that his hand was never more than a few centimeters from the weapon. I relaxed too, and lowered my weapon. There's just something about being at gunpoint that hinders any form of open communication.

“To answer your question, I'm David Neema, with ChronCom. You?”

“Charlie Newman, also ChronCom.” I replied. “Any idea how this particular FUBAR happened? I don't think that the CC would send two agents to the same time-space without telling them about each other.”

“At least, the same CC wouldn't send two agents.”

“Alternate time lines?”

“Probably.”

“Dammit, I thought that sort of shit was supposed to be close to impossible.”

“Yeah, well you know what this quantum shit does to 'impossible'. To be honest I'm always just glad to end up in something resembling my own time and not face to face with a Tyrannosaur or something.”

“So what are you here about? Probably the same thing I am.”

“Councilor Franklin.”

“Yep. My clock is synced with the local time, looks like we have fifteen hours. And while I hate to cut this sort of interview short, I'm reasonably certain that our entry caused enough of a ruckus to activate the silent alarm. I'm willing to bet that we should probably leave.”

David scoffed. “No bet. I'm already picking up police transmissions. To the safehouse?”

I nodded. “To the safehouse.”

* * *


Escaping the police was easy enough. Their gear was at least eight years out of date from the time shift, and another dozen years out of date from the budgets cuts. Nothing they had could find a stealth suit running on full null, even if they had been bothering to look for someone in a stealth suit.

The safehouse was an unused office space in an otherwise unremarkable building. David led the way – mostly just to assure my still lingering doubts about his identity.

The safehouses were another convenience for a time traveling agent. Each was locked with a code that was only given out after it had expired. In order to get in, one would need to either guess a ridiculously long binary string on the first try, or be a time traveler who already knew what that string was.

In this particular case, the the safehouse itself was an armored room at the center of an unused floor in an office building. Once the correct code was transmitted, in the vicinity of the safehouse, the otherwise normal looking steel and titanium door swung open and let us into the house. The safehouse looked nothing like the high-tech super-secret deal we had to go through so much trouble to get to. Instead it looked more or less like an office space that had been converted into a bedroom. It had all of the comforts of home, three beds, water, food, a television and a computer with heavily filtered internet access. The only real anomaly was the cabinet at the far end that was stocked with more ordinance than you could shake a stick at. And even then, you wouldn't have guess that just by looking at it. It looked like dresser that you might buy at a discount furniture store.

I flopped down on one of the beds, not even bothering to remove the stealth suit. I was still sorting through the implications of David's presence. “Alternate time lines. I mean, that's what we're here to do, right? Mess with the past, make the present better and all. Still fucking crazy to actually meet someone from another time line.”

To David, though, it was just another job. “Not so crazy. Our time lines must be similar for us to have arrived at the same place in the same time, with the same mission. Just throw in a butterfly's wings, and then you have a billion different but so very very similar time lines, each of which could have sent someone back in time. We just happen to be from the two that did.”

I decided not to think about it too much. People far smarter than I had gone damned near crazy thinking about it, and I generally consider myself to by on the far side of the bell curve, intellectually speaking. I decided to get back to the task at hand.

“So. Councilor Franklin”

In my time, the councilor was going to be shot in another fourteen hours. But I wasn't here to save him exactly. The councilor had gotten killed because his popular but ultimately stupid ideas could well have reignited a series of brushfire wars the Council had just barely gotten under control in the last decade or so. I was here to make sure he stayed dead. A lot of people had been upset when he died, and if he had lived in any significantly possible time line, then he might send someone back to make sure he lived. ChronCom wasn't generally in the business of assassinating public figures, but what can you do? We like our time line the way it is.

“Right.” David is at the computer, reading a series of detailed reports on where security is going to be at the the event Franklin is speaking at. “Some assassin takes a shot at him, he barely lives, goes on to be the best damned High Councilor we ever had. The eggheads say that there's a good chance someone in another alt might want him dead. Hence, us.”

That complicated things. David was looking away, and my gun was still attached to my side. I could take him. “Huh.” I heard myself say as I sat up and pulled out my gun. “That makes this sort of awkward.” He had removed his suit's mask, and I could see his eyes going wide at the sight of my gun barrel. I shot him in the head three times before his body hit the ground. Then I filed a backpack full of weapons and supplies, and set the room to self-immolate. I took one good look at what was left of David's face, and then left.

* * *


The speech Franklin was giving was practically an invitation to assassination. Public area, huge crowd lots of high buildings all around, the works. Probably why the original assassin choose here. I had the benefit of hindsight, of course, and it was easy to evade even the relatively tight police coverage. I picked a vantage point separate from the original assassin, to assure there would be no interference.

The speech started, and the clock started to tick down. T minus five minutes.

I assembled a weapon from the safehouse – a high power rail rifle, perfect for killing small vehicles. Or making absolutely sure a target stays dead.

At T minus one four minutes, I started making a check of the things that I know happen from my hindsight data, making sure that things are still on track. The crowd cheered at T minus three fifty seven. A SWAT officer decided to go to the bathroom at T minus three forty six. So far, the butterfly's wings didn't seem to be beating that hard. Then at T minus two twenty seven something went wrong. A car barely makes it through an intersection that in another time, they had to stop at. And at T minus one minute and ten seconds, David Neema and a small army of police officers busted through the door.

They saw me and my rifle and started shooting immediately. The good news was, the stealth suits are very close to bullet proof. The bad new was, it still hurts like hell. I dived out the window and on the the balcony below. That hurt too, by the way.

I winced in pain and staggered into the room from the balcony. I whipped my rifle around to shoot David, if he had followed. For my trouble I received a kick to the face from David, followed by some more gunfire. Apparently he was faster than he looked, and he looked pretty fast to begin with.

So I sat there, collapsed on what was left of a probably very expensive table, feebly sputtering “...but...you...you're dead...” I wheezed between gasps for air and spitting out some blood. The more rational part of me was screaming about how much of an idiot I had been, assuming that only two time travelers had shown up. The fact that two time travelers had shown up in the same place at the same time ought to have tipped me off to the fact that this moment, one way or another was very important, and more agents from my time and David's time – apparently even an alternate version of David! - could appear. The less rational part of me was busy trying to figure out a way to fight or flee, but wasn't having much luck.

David grabbed my railgun and leveled it at me. I don't imagine there was any more pity on his face about to shoot me then there was on my face about to shoot him. The only thing that kept me alive past that point was something I still don't understand.

Something exploded to the my left like a small grenade and my suit's electronics went dead for a moment. Then I saw a huge, bulky person – power armor, I realized – stalk into the room. The newcomer's suit looked like someone had taken some medieval plate armor and stuffed it full of hydraulics and electronics. David turned the railgun on this new threat, but as he pulled the trigger there was a “shrooooom” sort of sound and the power armor disappeared right as the wall behind it exploded.

David turned, confused. I tried to reach for my sidearm but was still too disoriented to do much but move my fingers around uselessly. Then there was the “shroooooom” sound again and all of a sudden David had a sword sticking out of him, held by the power armored newcomer who had materialized behind him. Then there was a light popping sound, and David simply evaporated. No burst of flames, no mess, just one second he was there and the next second he was ash and vapor.

I had been anxious and mildly scared before. But this guy scared the shit out of me. The rational part of my brain was busy trying to point out that death by disintegration sword was no worse than death by railcannon, but the rest of me was not listening. He turned his slit-like visor on me and I just froze – I stopped even trying to get anywhere. I felt sort of like a deer in the headlights. But then the armored man turned around and with a final “shrooooom”, disappeared for good. My only clue as to the identity of my savior was the symbol on his back – a stylized emblem of a cross, a branch, and a sword.

* * *


I escaped, of course. The police got to the room a few seconds later, but by then training had kicked in and I was gone. Lost in the confusion, the original assassin had somehow managed to elude the police and shoot the councilor, who died on the way to the hospital. For me, I guess that makes this mission accomplished.

Really though, it's the assassin that I feel sorry for the most. You can try and try to change the world, but in the end any time you really do make a difference time travelers come out of the woodwork to do things their way. Franklin didn't deserve to die, not really. And at the end of the day I can't condemn the assassin for doing what I was going to do – being from the future is hardly an excuse for murder.

I didn't report in the ChronCom. Call me crazy, but I don't particularly want to put my life in the hands of a time travel agency that might have a reason to want me dead in eight years. Besides, if there's another David or one of his buddies out there, that's the first place they'd look for me.

Once I got used to the idea of possibly being a hunted man, the freedom felt good. A time traveler has lots of options. Even now that my code is no longer valid or safe, I still have resources I can draw on. I debated contacting my past self, and finding some way to steer myself towards – or away from – a career that leads to ChronCom. Or even simply helping from afar, letting myself avoid more personal mistakes. But no, this other version of me is not me. It would be pointless, and perhaps not a winning move at all. At first I thought that, my mission complete, I was no longer a higher order term in the equation we call reality. But if I was not important, why was I spared? Why did the power armored man save me? I am convinced now that he was there to save me, or at least to kill David. I must be important, somehow. I could be deluding myself. But the chance that am important and can make a difference, no matter how small that chance is, I have to take it.

So now I have a new mission. Find the power armored man. The symbol on his back didn't belong to any current organization, it belonged to an ancient defunct one. The future, it seems, ain't what it used to be. Or the past for that matter. I need to find out what part I play in it.

It looks like the only time travel I'll be doing is the old fashioned kind. Still, it works.

Look out future, here I come!
Last edited by Acatalepsy on Sun Jan 24, 2010 10:37 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Anything that can be done to a rat can be done to a human being. And we can do most anything to rats. This is a hard thing to think about, but it's the truth. It won't go away because we cover our eyes.

- Bruce Sterling
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Acatalepsy
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Re: Snapshots

Post by Acatalepsy »

Consequences


History is fucked up, man.

It should be obvious to everyone. Just one tiny adjustment this way or a that way, and the whole thing just goes poof. People talk about the weight of history – bah! Anthropomorphizing, at best. As if a serious of points in configuration space could have a plan. As if the same intuitive, seductive but ultimately flawed cognitive algorithms that worked for surviving on a savannah could be of any use at all to predict something as complicated as the future or explain everything about the past.

But its not obvious. Part of the reason is that we're so good at what we do. No evidence, no mess. But people like the idea that there's a plan behind history, and that they can predict and control it. And in fairness, there is a plan. It's just nothing like the one they thought of.

Those of us that are actually in on the plan, though, still have a rough time of it. See, we don't know the future. We know a future, or more accurately we know several possible futures. Which one will come true? None of them, not if we have any say in it. And there is where things get complicated. To make it work, we need more information on more possible futures. How do you get that sort of information?

Simple. You kidnap time travelers.

“Gavin! Chen and Bill are here, time for you to tell us what is we're after.” Zola is the leader of our little cell of miscreants. She's tall, dark skinned and very muscular – but then, her body is also made out of carbo-ceramic plating. Even naked she's practically bulletproof. With armor, she's next to unstoppable. I've seen her work with knives in close quarters. It's anything but pretty.

Chen was already sprawled across the coach when I walked into the front room. The hotel we were staying at was good for two things – discretion and luxury. While Zola had picked it for the former Chen was more than happy about the latter. He was guzzling some very expensive wine like it was a soda. I wasn't sure what exactly it was doing to his modified biochemistry – Chen didn't even particularly need to breath – and I suspect he just wanted to consume something expensive because it was expensive.

Bill and I were the plain old normal humans of the group. Still, even he was a time traveler. He'd come from sort of war that was actually touched off by the development of time travel. When the whole thing got retroactively aborted, he joined up with our cause. He was more interested in having a cause worth fighting for than anything else, and we could give that to him.

“Right. Take a look here...” I threw a small holography disk on the coffee table. The simple helper AI started pulling up data as I mentioned it, putting it into a concept web that grew and shifted in space as I talked.

“About a month ago, we had a high profile assassination of a major politico, with a three-point-three spike in traveler activity” A few news headlines scrolled across the air, accompanied by a graph of time traveler activity. “The assassin was a local, no real value from him. We had forewarning about two travelers from about T-plus eight years, and another from T-plus ten, so we caught them before they even made it to the event.” Images and profiles connected themselves to the assassination. “We didn't know about two more of them, and they made it back to this time's time agency, ChronCom. We aren't authorized to move against them.” ChronCom's emblem materialized, the quietly shuffled itself off to the side. “We thought that was everyone on that particular event. But there are still some unanswered questions as to what actually went on. Some people think there may have been an additional traveler, or even additional travelers. And I think I found him or them.”

The glowing web of connections shrunk to nothing, and then a new bubble of data appeared. This one was a map, showing a colored series of points. A path.

“Each point represents a place where a particular series of stock trades took place. At each location, someone signed up for a more or less anonymous stock trading account, managed to increase their initial investment by at least two hundred percent, then withdraw all money and then abandon the account. What's particularly interesting is that looking at what trades were made, the number of incorrect or non-optimal trades made is increasing with time.” A serious of diagrams of trades made and some complex statistical analysis appeared in the hologram. I'd have thought Chen was studying it intently if I didn't know he could turn his eyes off.

“Interesting. Definitely a time traveler?” Zola was probably the only one who could actually get half of the data, but even she didn't particularly care. That was my job.

“Yep. Or at least, someone who got his hands on a time traveler's data.”

“Eh.” Chen sat up and rubbed his eyes – yep, he'd turned them off - “If they guy has any smarts he's having a proxy do it. Still, I suppose that still means we get to bag'em.”

“Yes.” Zola gestured for me to continue.

“More information. The locations are all fairly private locations, and there's no one on any of the tapes that was in all or even most of the locations. So no picture. But we do have a clue to the name – all of the names for the hotels and whatnot contain at least one name with the initials C. N. That's weird enough to consider. I think Mr. C-N is our guy. Now, I've narrowed down the places he's likely to stay in to these six hotels - ” The hologram adjusts to mark them on the map “ - and of those, only one has the privacy our guy is careful about having. We just stand by and wait for him to do his money thing, and then we nab him. As long as we don't manage to get into a running gun battle -” If Zola could shoot lasers from her eyes, Bill would have died right about then. Then again, as far as I know she might actually be able to shoot lasers from her eyes. “- then we should manage to avoid any sort of detection.

“Sounds good.” Bill commented, oblivious. “What are we waiting for?”

* * *


Not much, actually. Chen was visibly annoyed at having had to leave the hotel, but he dealt with it. In the back of our unmarked van we loaded up. As always Chen and Zola were to go in first, followed by Billy and then me. In the past I'd often pointed out that there was little point in having the two of us follow closely behind them – if they ran into something they couldn't handle, it was unlikely we'd be able to do anything about it. Still, she insisted that no one should go into a situation without some kind of back up, and it was her show, not mine. Besides, as a glorified adding machine it was nice to sometimes see the fruits of my calculations come together.

Which at about 0920 that morning, they did. “Got it!” I cried, somewhere between triumphant and coffee-high. “He's on the second floor of that motel. Room....Two-Five-Three.”

“Give me video” Zola snapped.

There were no video cameras around that area, which is why, of course, we had planted some. I called up the recall of the one facing the target room. The screen was filled with nothing but static. “Fuck. He's using a dazzler or something.”

“That's fine.” Zola was in go mode now – it was time to get going. “Chen, ghost in.” Before the words were all the way out of her mouth Chen had disappeared – literally vanished, undetectable by anything but an AI assisted LIDAR search - and booked it out the back of the van. “Gavin, you're clean up. Bill, watch Gavin and back me up when we breach.”

Zola was in light street clothing, but Bill and I wore heavier clothing that concealed our armored vests. There are some times that being made entirely of meat sucked. All of us had rapid fire shredder pistols, and stunners.

While it was morning, this motel wasn't exactly busy. It made things easier. Besides, it we did it right we'd be in and out, even if we were seen its not like they cops can actually track us or anything.

By the time we had gotten to the door Chen had already managed to climb up to the window on the other side of the motel and started feeding me a video from an optical cord. The target was sitting at the desk facing away from the cable. He was a white male, youngish and in good condition. Tallish, probably, but we couldn't see all the way. But he didn't seem to be aware of us.

Zola handled the actual take down. Bill and I waited and watched the entrance while sounds of a mercifully brief struggle occurred inside. It was merciful for the target, of course. With Zola, if you don't go down the easy way you get to go down the hard way. Then Bill and I moved in and scanned the area for hidden goodies. Finding nothing besides the man's suitcase, we left as quickly as we had entered, leaving no evidence of our passing besides a door that needed a new lock.

* * *


The hard part done, Bill and I got to handle the interrogation. Me because I knew the most about the data we needed and the situations that this guy could have come from; Bill because he'd been in this guy's position before.

The place we'd picked for the interview was a shack in the middle of nowhere. It wasn't the clean, relatively sterile and unimposing environment I would have preferred. When he came to, bound to a chair in a dark, dank shack lit only by an off-color portable lamp it was very little surprise he flipped a little. It took about ten second for him to realize that yes, he was well and truly bound, and no, we weren't going to attack him immediately. It was funny though, to watch him try and flounder around while stuck to a chair. He ended up knocking himself over into a position he couldn't get up from.

Having resigned himself to being stuck, he sat there without talking while we tried not to snicker for the next few seconds. After a little more time had passed he gave up.

“Uh, guys? Think you could gimme a hand here? I appreciate you've gone through all this trouble to tie me to this chair, and its such a shame that the chair is not upright.”

Bill and I smiled and then righted his chair, then sat back down in our chairs. We all stared at each other for a little while longer, sort of daring each other to speak. This was sort of our game. This was less interrogation and more elaborate job interview, but we also need to get some basic facts worked out about the traveler himself. So no big, showy threats. No overt weapons, no outright intimidation. In order to make it work we needed to set up the situation so that the target had to admit, to himself at least, that we were superior and should be listened to. From there it was just mostly overawing him with our capabilities and information, followed by rational argument, letting our dominant position fill in the gaps where any doubt might fill in.

We sat there for a while, and then, he blinked. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Actually he coughed a bunch, and then looked at us and asked us who we were and why he was tied to the chair.

“Let's see.” I began, as if sort of disinterested. “Mr. Charles Newman, ChronCom operative. When are you from, Mr. Newman?

“When?” He tried to put on a look of confusion, and I might have even bought it for a second if I hadn't just finished running an analysis on his obviously future-tech gear.

“You're a time traveler. When are you from.”

He sighed. “I suppose you already know. Eight years, give or take a month.” We already knew that, of course. “So, how did you get my name? I know it wasn't on an of my gear.”

It was Billy's turn. He was here to do the persuading. “DNA and fingerprint, naturally. Tracked to a young private just getting out of boot camp. Easy enough to draw conclusions. So, let's get to why you are here. More specifically, why you're here and not at ChronCom.”

Charles stared blankly off into space. I think he was trying to figure out who we were so as to give an answer that wouldn't get him killed. To be fair, from his point of view it would seem like we were ChronCom agents. “I don't suppose there's any good answer for that, is there? I met some other travelers, also ChronCom. We had...different mission objectives. I wasn't sure how this timeline would develop, or whether these other agents had gotten there first. So, I decided to stay back.”

“That's alright, son.” It's hard to be comforting to someone you've just kidnapped, but Bill was trying anyway. “We're not with ChronCom. We're here for two things. Your data and gear we have. But we can also offer you a job.”

“That's....unexpected. Who are you people?”

“Time travelers. Like you, but from different timelines.”

“Except for me.” I added. “But then, my parents were time travelers. I suppose I count in a loose sense.”

“We're here to do things no native time travel agency could do.” Bill continued. “Not just protecting some particular past, but making all of the past...better. We recruit almost exclusively from time travelers, so this is a fairly unique job opportunity here. If you say no, well, we can't have you running around. But we'd just need to freeze you for eight years or so, and then you're free to go.”

“You wouldn't be worried about me telling ChronCom about you?”

“You could. But it wouldn't be a good idea. We'd probably know, and its not like you have any great loyalty to them in the first place, right?”

“Right.”

“So, how about it? It's more spy work than soldiering, but the pay ain't bad and the perks are pretty nice.”

“I'll think about it. I could probably think about it better if I wasn't tied to a chair.”
Anything that can be done to a rat can be done to a human being. And we can do most anything to rats. This is a hard thing to think about, but it's the truth. It won't go away because we cover our eyes.

- Bruce Sterling
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Re: Snapshots

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

Oh man! INTERLOCKING STORYLINES! Oh man, that's bloody genius! :D

God, utterly SUCKS for Charlie. The guy from the first story, all cool and first person narrating, ends up getting his ass kicked AGAIN and NOW it's the other guys doing the first person narrating. And yet, despite the development of the whole storyline, this only makes us ask MOAR questions and doesn't answer anything AT ALL! The Inquisition is still fucking around. These bozos, whatever they're here for, aren't even clued into that and are still investigating. Still, their operation seems cool.

It seems like instead of "LOOKOUT FUTURE HERE I COME!" Charlie ended up going to ground and, like, staying and becoming all cautious. Poor BackStep agent. We don't even know if it's the same Charlie at all. And, man, it's completely odd that there's a younger him in this realty.

I sure hope you continue this into an arc, mangoes. Cause you better!
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"Sometimes Shroomy I wonder if your imagination actually counts as some sort of war crime." - FROD
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