wealthy sole owner of the
Quad-Gal’s most prestigious and technologically advanced technology company,
but he could kick ass as well.
~ * ~
Slick
Guinness was tall, powerful and fit. His broad shoulders tapered to a
narrow waist. He was the epitome of the natural athlete. He wore his gold-blond
hair to his shoulders, a delicate fan of subtle hues, an olfactory treat of
hinted-at perfumery. Slick’s face was oval, strong-jawed, perfectly symmetrical
and unblemished in tone. His nose was straight, a natural addendum to the
precision of Slick’s masculine, yet rugged beauty. When he smiled he lit up
like a pinball machine on a $10,000 payout.
Slick was a beautiful man. A heroic man. It could be imagined they would carve statues of him in the future.
Here was a man who oozed pheromones and had crowds of women flocking to catch a
hint of that deep musical voice, to share a moment of connection with
those profoundly philosophical turquoise eyes, to share an intimate moment of
humour from his deeply witty repertoire. And to ride him senseless.
However.
Here, and now, Slick was in a world of pain.
He sat, naked, strapped to an
alloy chair, his Adonis features crushed, his fabulously rich pelt matted with
blood, his lightly tanned skin crusted with saliva, snot and vomit. Six large
men stood around him in a tight semi-circle, panting and wearing shawls of
sweat under the glow of the simple energy saving bulb on its coil of
elasticised cable dangling limp and solitary from a high vaulted ceiling veiled
in shadow.
Slick coughed, leaning to one
side and hawking up phlegm mixed with swirling crimson. He coughed again, then
rocked back on the chair and blinked, trying to clear his pounding, thundering
head. His ears were ringing from heavy blows. His vision had become worryingly
blurred.
“Enough,” he managed to spit, and
manoeuvred a broken sliver of tooth to his lips. He pushed it out with his
tongue, but no longer had saliva enough to eject the piece of bone shrapnel. “What...”
he coughed again, then forced himself to breathe deeply, carefully, smoothly. “What...
have I done? What... do you want?”
Five of the grim men took several
steps back, fading into shadows, as one was foregrounded. Slick’s vision
cleared and he deciphered a stocky bull of a man wearing a frighteningly
expensive New-Italian suit and with close-cropped black hair. His eyes were
intelligent, his face lined with the early contours of middle-age. His tan
denoted wealth, for only in the Upper Reaches could a tan be freely
obtained—either via sunshine, or with biomod vanity upgrades. Both routes to the
pleasures of the sun were incredibly expensive...
Whereas here —
Here? Slick gazed around the damp
cellar, the moss-riddled stones, the greasy, blood-slick floor with its history
of violence and vermin. He breathed deep the sickly sweet stink of putrefying
dead rats and piss, and an eternity of human detritus.
Here could only be one place.
The Dregs. Down-side. Low-Tek.
Sub-City SubC. The hunting playground for criminals, the diseased, the whores,
the biomod pirates and hackers and B-grade pushers. The final resting place of
all the Non-Credits. The home of the Poor.
Slick breathed deep. Mentally, he
retraced his steps...
A beautiful woman, swaying atop
him, writhing and groaning as nipples brushed his questing lips and he thrust
harder and harder, buried himself deep and drowned in her ambrosia nectar
depths. His tapered fingers slid down her writhing sweat-streaked flanks
as—shit, as she was smashed aside with a helve and men swarmed the room
and blows came raining, crashing down; pounding Slick Guinness into an
immediate mine-field of glittering unconsciousness...
Slick’s eyes opened. He did not
recognise the men, but by his stance the lead ‘gangster’—for that was all he
could be—expected recognition. Craved it? Slick smiled. That meant he
was small fry
Quad-Gal’s most prestigious and technologically advanced technology company,
but he could kick ass as well.
~ * ~
Slick
Guinness was tall, powerful and fit. His broad shoulders tapered to a
narrow waist. He was the epitome of the natural athlete. He wore his gold-blond
hair to his shoulders, a delicate fan of subtle hues, an olfactory treat of
hinted-at perfumery. Slick’s face was oval, strong-jawed, perfectly symmetrical
and unblemished in tone. His nose was straight, a natural addendum to the
precision of Slick’s masculine, yet rugged beauty. When he smiled he lit up
like a pinball machine on a $10,000 payout.
Slick was a beautiful man. A heroic man. It could be imagined they would carve statues of him in the future.
Here was a man who oozed pheromones and had crowds of women flocking to catch a
hint of that deep musical voice, to share a moment of connection with
those profoundly philosophical turquoise eyes, to share an intimate moment of
humour from his deeply witty repertoire. And to ride him senseless.
However.
Here, and now, Slick was in a world of pain.
He sat, naked, strapped to an
alloy chair, his Adonis features crushed, his fabulously rich pelt matted with
blood, his lightly tanned skin crusted with saliva, snot and vomit. Six large
men stood around him in a tight semi-circle, panting and wearing shawls of
sweat under the glow of the simple energy saving bulb on its coil of
elasticised cable dangling limp and solitary from a high vaulted ceiling veiled
in shadow.
Slick coughed, leaning to one
side and hawking up phlegm mixed with swirling crimson. He coughed again, then
rocked back on the chair and blinked, trying to clear his pounding, thundering
head. His ears were ringing from heavy blows. His vision had become worryingly
blurred.
“Enough,” he managed to spit, and
manoeuvred a broken sliver of tooth to his lips. He pushed it out with his
tongue, but no longer had saliva enough to eject the piece of bone shrapnel. “What...”
he coughed again, then forced himself to breathe deeply, carefully, smoothly. “What...
have I done? What... do you want?”
Five of the grim men took several
steps back, fading into shadows, as one was foregrounded. Slick’s vision
cleared and he deciphered a stocky bull of a man wearing a frighteningly
expensive New-Italian suit and with close-cropped black hair. His eyes were
intelligent, his face lined with the early contours of middle-age. His tan
denoted wealth, for only in the Upper Reaches could a tan be freely
obtained—either via sunshine, or with biomod vanity upgrades. Both routes to the
pleasures of the sun were incredibly expensive...
Whereas here —
Here? Slick gazed around the damp
cellar, the moss-riddled stones, the greasy, blood-slick floor with its history
of violence and vermin. He breathed deep the sickly sweet stink of putrefying
dead rats and piss, and an eternity of human detritus.
Here could only be one place.
The Dregs. Down-side. Low-Tek.
Sub-City SubC. The hunting playground for criminals, the diseased, the whores,
the biomod pirates and hackers and B-grade pushers. The final resting place of
all the Non-Credits. The home of the Poor.
Slick breathed deep. Mentally, he
retraced his steps...
A beautiful woman, swaying atop
him, writhing and groaning as nipples brushed his questing lips and he thrust
harder and harder, buried himself deep and drowned in her ambrosia nectar
depths. His tapered fingers slid down her writhing sweat-streaked flanks
as—shit, as she was smashed aside with a helve and men swarmed the room
and blows came raining, crashing down; pounding Slick Guinness into an
immediate mine-field of glittering unconsciousness...
Slick’s eyes opened. He did not
recognise the men, but by his stance the lead ‘gangster’—for that was all he
could be—expected recognition. Craved it? Slick smiled. That meant he
was small fry
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