Her hat turns first, a worn heel, then the rest of her delicate frame, a threadbare tailcoat twisting backward before a gloved hand pulls it inward against a growing wind. She leans heavily on the raven umbrella in her left hand as she steps, her hedonistic physique balancing on its acute tip. The girl approaches a telephone booth; men and women dressed in dark suits and expensive ties walk past callously, but a handful of miscreants wearing tight leather and unnecessary sunglasses loiter near the Plexiglas cubicle.
A man nods stoically at her, and she replies with a grin just too wide for her face, her impish nose curling upward slightly. One eye, the right, opens broadly as she extends a humble, leather hand to meet his; the left stares bored at him, its glazed over appearance granting the girl a history. She can't be over twenty. The man meets her grasp with a firm handshake, feeling each finger collide with the next, though relieved to no longer hear the subdued, wet crunch of used bandage.
"I heard you've left your employers, Miss Yazin," he smiles, tilting his head down toward the girl. His coal black sunglasses hold double reflections of her ivory white fedora.
"It'd seem that whatever synapse obstructions our benefactors'd constructed previously've since deteriorated. It'd be foolish not t'take this opportunity, yes?" she rasps childishly, her voice a non-confrontational, bastardized Anglican English.
He nods, inwardly doubting her psychological normalcy. "How," he pauses, puzzled, "are you broadcasting a signal? I would have expected them to have confiscated your hovercraft following your resignation."
Her sheepish grin exposes an ample amount, no, too many gleaming white teeth. "I took it," her right eye glances timidly up at him, reading how much justification she has to give. "It's my ship, after all. Th'Equinox was registered t'Fara Kerrigan Yazin, variable case three-four-one-one-oh-two," her right eye squints, taking on a manic posture, "It's my ship."
"Be that as it may," he mutters, glancing at himself in the sunglasses of those around the two, "I don't know how wise of an idea it was to steal machine property, Miss Yazin. I'm sure that Zero One is aching for a reason to make you disappear, and you've certainly given them one in doing this." His gaze lands temporarily on the fluttering skirt of a young businesswoman walking by, placing an ungraceful interlude in the speech. "You are going to need t'find a way to make your existence up to our benefactors, a big way," he clears his throat, reestablishing visual contact with the girl's bleached hat. "Moreover, you're going to need a crew; I won't doubt your...vocational prowess, but you certainly can't expect to get anything done on your own."
"That's why I cuh-ahntacted you," she states matter-of-factly, brushing a stray nacarat curl from her vision, "I'll need help getting this idea mobile."
"Idea?"
"Privateerism."
"You're kidding, of course," he chuckles apprehensively. "You of all people should know how difficult it can be to get Zero-"
"I've already contacted those necessary, and am doing e'rything I can t'become sanctioned." She shifts her weight off of the umbrella's painstakingly ordinary handle, smiling at the sunrise's blinding reflection in the thin stretch of water isolating Richland. "Th'Equinox'll be th'first, but it won't stop there," she walks past the man, gently resting a fragile leather hand on the chain-link of a fence. "Too many people have aligned themselves wit'his simulation's dinosaurs. They're archaic political establishments suited only for a prior generation's cold war. This is what needs t'be done."
Her hat turns first, a worn heel, then the rest of her delicate frame, a threadbare tailcoat twisting backward before a gloved hand pulls it inward against an ebbing wind. She checks the time hastily on a broken silver wristwatch before confidently drifting into a polished sedan. In her place lies a scribbled name and telephone number.
Eleutherophobia
305-XXXX
A man nods stoically at her, and she replies with a grin just too wide for her face, her impish nose curling upward slightly. One eye, the right, opens broadly as she extends a humble, leather hand to meet his; the left stares bored at him, its glazed over appearance granting the girl a history. She can't be over twenty. The man meets her grasp with a firm handshake, feeling each finger collide with the next, though relieved to no longer hear the subdued, wet crunch of used bandage.
"I heard you've left your employers, Miss Yazin," he smiles, tilting his head down toward the girl. His coal black sunglasses hold double reflections of her ivory white fedora.
"It'd seem that whatever synapse obstructions our benefactors'd constructed previously've since deteriorated. It'd be foolish not t'take this opportunity, yes?" she rasps childishly, her voice a non-confrontational, bastardized Anglican English.
He nods, inwardly doubting her psychological normalcy. "How," he pauses, puzzled, "are you broadcasting a signal? I would have expected them to have confiscated your hovercraft following your resignation."
Her sheepish grin exposes an ample amount, no, too many gleaming white teeth. "I took it," her right eye glances timidly up at him, reading how much justification she has to give. "It's my ship, after all. Th'Equinox was registered t'Fara Kerrigan Yazin, variable case three-four-one-one-oh-two," her right eye squints, taking on a manic posture, "It's my ship."
"Be that as it may," he mutters, glancing at himself in the sunglasses of those around the two, "I don't know how wise of an idea it was to steal machine property, Miss Yazin. I'm sure that Zero One is aching for a reason to make you disappear, and you've certainly given them one in doing this." His gaze lands temporarily on the fluttering skirt of a young businesswoman walking by, placing an ungraceful interlude in the speech. "You are going to need t'find a way to make your existence up to our benefactors, a big way," he clears his throat, reestablishing visual contact with the girl's bleached hat. "Moreover, you're going to need a crew; I won't doubt your...vocational prowess, but you certainly can't expect to get anything done on your own."
"That's why I cuh-ahntacted you," she states matter-of-factly, brushing a stray nacarat curl from her vision, "I'll need help getting this idea mobile."
"Idea?"
"Privateerism."
"You're kidding, of course," he chuckles apprehensively. "You of all people should know how difficult it can be to get Zero-"
"I've already contacted those necessary, and am doing e'rything I can t'become sanctioned." She shifts her weight off of the umbrella's painstakingly ordinary handle, smiling at the sunrise's blinding reflection in the thin stretch of water isolating Richland. "Th'Equinox'll be th'first, but it won't stop there," she walks past the man, gently resting a fragile leather hand on the chain-link of a fence. "Too many people have aligned themselves wit'his simulation's dinosaurs. They're archaic political establishments suited only for a prior generation's cold war. This is what needs t'be done."
Her hat turns first, a worn heel, then the rest of her delicate frame, a threadbare tailcoat twisting backward before a gloved hand pulls it inward against an ebbing wind. She checks the time hastily on a broken silver wristwatch before confidently drifting into a polished sedan. In her place lies a scribbled name and telephone number.
Eleutherophobia
305-XXXX
))
By the way, writing this scene made me realize how long it had been since I had attempted an action sequence.)
" /> For continuity's sake, this post takes place immediately after my last. Oh well, there's a companion piece from the future 
