[Writing] NaNoWriMo Entry: G-SIDE Stories

[GrooveMan.exe]

A.K.A: HURR I IZ A WRITER LOOK AT ME

Worked on this on-and-off over last month, but didn't get as much done as I had wanted, what with falling ill and having my Laptop die on me again. Still, I'm pleased with what I've written. I'll post chapter-by-chapter so I don't have just one super-long post. I'll upload it all to my blog at the same time too.

Genre's parody sci-fi. All the chapters are stand alone, so you can read and understand one without having read the others. Since the entire thing was a word count challenge, there are a few padding features, but I've not relied on it too heavily. Aside from spell checking and a few syntax and grammar fixes, this hasn't been refined, so forgive me for that.

G-SIDE Stories

Chapters So Far:
Chapter 1: Welcome to San Sarai!
Chapter 2: Coffee Breaks and Card Keys
Chapter 3: Ancient Forbidden Techniques
Chapter 4: And Now, a Word From Our Sponsors
Chapter 5: It's an Outbreak, Innit?
Chapter 6: A Water Cooler Moment
Chapter 7: G-SIDE Stories has been Brought to you by the Following Sponsor

Chapter 1: Welcome to San Sarai!

The Governmental Society for Investigators and Data Engineers owns a skyscraper. No, scratch that; it's more like a monolith. Taking up enough property space to fit a block of houses, and so tall you can't see the tip on cloudy days; G-SIDE Tower is a gargantuan, ever-present reminder of how far modern technology has progressed, and how overly-ambitious technicians and architects can be if you give them a bit too much leeway.

San Sarai has always been a Mecca for the technical, the post-modern, and the post-modernly technical (fascinating people, but you wouldn't want to have them fix your Terminal), but it's hard to tell if the thriving interest caused the Tower to be built, or if it's the other way around. Whichever; since San Sarai's growth to a metropolis, other major tech-producing cities have struggled to keep up; earning both respect and ire everywhere, from Tokyo to San Francisco.

However, socially, the people of San Sarai don't seem to be that technically inclined. Sure, they make use of the super fast, super powerful computers. Sure, they all receive top-notch healthcare advanced enough to best the majority of last century's super viruses. But the public passion is not with machines and microchips, but in creative pursuits. High level science to produce the haute couture. It's a rather novel concept to the uninitiated; and it seems that the more proficient people are at it, the more likely they're extremely eccentric (or possibly down right nuts); but as cultural pastimes go, it's friendly and safe enough.

While the Tower is set resolutely in the centre of the metropolis, other districts of the city radiate out from it; and in a strange sense of specialisation; most are very much devoted to a common interest or facility. The Artist's Quarter and the Culinary Quarter are fascinating in themselves, but areas like the Pleasure Quarter, home to the legendary Party Mansion – an enormous estate spanning multiple acres with every hall, chamber, and alcove devoted to any kind of rave, shindig, or brouhaha imaginable – is such a tourist draw, casual visitors find themselves staying there for weeks at a time.

Up until a decade ago, the growth of the Pleasure Quarter and the rest of the South Western segment of the city was limited by the coast. Expansive beaches were nice, but the residents wanted more. So the Architect's Quarter stepped in; and a few years, several tons of steel and a couple of environmental protests later, the urban sprawl had expanded; to the depths of the ocean. A string of extortionately priced apartments, a three thousand-seat stadium, and a large shopping centre (because all refurbishment projects must include a shopping mall. It's almost a law) are now a short submersible magnet train ride away.

But with most things in life, there are a few who abuse the luxuries they have. Every so often an individual's eccentric nature takes them a step too far, supplies of hydraulic pistons and glow-in-the-dark paint come just a little bit too cheaply, and before you know it the University Quarter is overrun by a horde of Robotic Rave Spiders. Sometimes these localised hazards peter out on their own; but in the event that neon coloured Arthropods actually are a health risk, the workforce of G-SIDE step into action.

In addition to being a left wing political party and the largest research and development facility on the continent, G-SIDE also employs and mobilises what can only be described as a crack team of Problem Solvers. Not so specialised as the SWAT or MI5, G-SIDE members have skills branching every medium. Some, like the general Police and Fire-fighting departments are used regularly, others like the Grand Knitting Agency are decidedly more niche, and are broken out in only the most dire emergencies – a surprising number of situations have been rescued from the brink of oblivion by an angora sweater.

The turnover rate for employees is rather high – although you'd be hard-pressed to see G-SIDE folk die on a regular basis (which is rather surprising considering the dangerous instances some of them fling themselves into), many feel they can't handle the responsibility, or the workload, or the paperwork; and opt out for something a little more laid back. Those that do work for the long term get rather hefty work bonuses; often tailored to the likes of the individual. Some people just want to be paid in chocolate, and who are we to judge them?

As a result, the Tower has a large number of new recruits and trainees. The training program is very much in-depth; which is of course expensive – but when you're government subsidised and can have the new guys do the small boring jobs for you – it stops being such an issue. Unless the situation calls for it or the individual's particularly gifted, most trainees don't see beyond the first few floors of the Tower. Structured so that your rank and importance in the organisation is reflected in how high a floor you have access to, your average flunkie won't see beyond the 4th or 5th floor. Student accommodation starts on the 3rd floor, so many new recruits tend to be initially motivated by being allowed a place to live; an important factor if you've moved in from outside the city.

In a sense the design's somewhat impractical – with the research and development area spanning floors 42 to 50, it would be a large problem should a fire – or a firefight – occur. And of course they have; a venture into children's sport equipment that gently heated up on cold days resulted in a spectacular blaze that could be seen throughout the city. Strangely enough no one was hurt; but needless to say the project was scrapped, and pre-teens everywhere continued to bemoan PE lessons during the winter months.

It's a job with a lot of burden and toil, but at the same time offers adventure and a sense of purpose. Anyone could tell you how much of a commitment it was, but only the G-SIDErs themselves can tell you how once they joined, their lives were never the same again.

[GrooveMan.exe]

Chapter 2: Coffee Breaks and Card Keys

Okay, deep breath. No need to panic now, It's just my first day as a trainee at G-SIDE; which is perfectly ordinary and safe. Hell, my grandmother was one.

The queue leading up to the registration desk was a long one. There's always a large number of registrants during March, looking for work over the summer. Anywhere else in the world they'd be looking for jobs in cafés, or washing cars; working for chump change, but it's chump change you'd earned off your own blood, sweat and tears. We have jobs like that in San Sarai, sure, but with how high the population is, the odds of being able to serve bad coffee to grumpy strangers is sadly slim. But G-SIDE is always hiring, never completely filling up their work rota. How on earth could they pay us all?

The reception lobby was immaculate. Everything was coloured a smooth, shiny white, reminiscent of how most trendy gadgets were made in a shiny white finish back in the day; the kind that attracted dust and fingerprints like a magnet. These days, it's more fashionable to have a choice of colour scheme, thank god. Even a group of sofas and armchairs in the far corner looked uncomfortably rigid and plastic. It definitely reflected the 'modern for the sake of modern' ethos this city holds in such high regard, but it just felt cold and soulless to me. I hope the rest of the Tower isn't furnished in the same way; I'd have to invest in a pair of sunglasses to reduce the glare.

The person behind me in the queue tapped on my shoulder. It felt... squidgy. I paused the music application on my Console, removed the headphones and turned around.
“What's up?” I said. It was a man, quite a bit younger than me, probably in his early 20s. Or at least I think so – his features were rather doughy and indistinct, and he was wearing a bulky padded jacket, completely disregarding today's forecast of sunny weather. Though he was trying to get my attention, he seemed to shrink away when I replied, like a tortoise.
“Oh, uh, hi. I just wanted to ask if...” He hesitated; it seemed the pressure of casual conversation was getting to him. “If you know what we have to do for the initiation to G-SIDE? If it's something too exerting, I...”

He trailed off and looked down at his shoes. The suspense of queuing was killing him inside, just like all of us, I suppose. Queues are orderly, but never kind. Sure, there are worse ones (queues for injections or registering as a sex offender come to mind) but there's only so long you can stand still patiently until the nerves kick in. I thought it best to put him out of his misery.

“I have to be honest with you, I have no idea what we're gonna end up doing once we register here-” The chubby man suddenly looked even more crestfallen; I'm clearly not very good at consoling people. I quickly caught myself “-but! But, the people who work here are in all kinds of positions. I doubt the researchers were put through army drills, if you get what I mean.” He looked up and nodded slowly, still with a worried expression, but a bit calmer than before. He did understand what I meant.

There was a heavy pause between us as he fidgeted; obviously wanting to say something, but not knowing the right words. I stifled a chuckle, I wasn't much better when I was his age.
“So, what's your name?” I offered him my hand. “I'm Jenny, it's a pleasure to meet ya.”
“Thom. It's, um, nice to meet you too.”

Satisfied with my moment of sociable charity, I turned back round. The queue in front wasn't too long, but it felt like it would stretch for eternity.

---

Half an hour later, it was finally my turn at the front desk. The receptionist clearly lived in the Fashion Quarter – the 60's look is the 'in' thing this week, and she'd jumped on the bandwagon with great gusto; from the beehive haircut to the thick-rimmed glasses, to the way she noisily chewed bubblegum with her mouth open.
“Welcome new recruit to G-SIDE Tower, we're grateful for you interest in working for us,” Still chewing, the receptionist leapt into a well-rehearsed routine in a bored drawl of a voice before I could even say hello.
“As part of your registration process, we'd like to ask you a few personal questions to be recorded on file, is this okay?”
“Of course, uh,” I glanced at her name tag. “Of course, Shirley.”
“The name's Samantha.”
“But your name tag says -”
“First question. Can you tell me your full name?”
“Jennifer Ida Magdalene.”
“Age?”
“32”
“Favourite colour?”
I blinked in surprise. “Er, green?”
“On what day do you do you do your weekly shopping?”
“What? I don't understa-”
“Would you say that chivalry is dead?”
“I wouldn't say so, but what does this have to do with-”
“What, above all things makes you happiest in life?”
Ah, this was a question I had prepared for.
“Nothing makes me happier than helping others, and making them happy, ma'am.”
“What a naïve answer. Helping people is an arduous and thankless task. I tend to avoid it.

“At any rate, those are all the questions I need to ask you for now. If you would kindly step this way into the waiting room, we will soon issue you with an ID Card, an upgrade for your Console, and give you further instructions. Thank you for co-operating with G-SIDE.”
She waved a bracelet strewn and well-manicured hand nonchalantly to a door to the left. As with everything else in the ground floor reception, it was a thing of immaculate whiteness, set so perfectly into its frame that at a glance it looked like nothing more than a handle bolted to an empty wall.

The door slid effortlessly to the side as I pulled the handle, and I peered through to the room beyond. More white, but this room had the common sense to avoid plastic furnishings, the chairs in here were covered in what looked like leather, but the round, puffy shape of them made them look like giant marshmallows. A coffee machine was placed inconspicuously in a corner, along with a large potted plant which looked like an overgrown lettuce. As the only green object in the room (aside from us new recruits, anyway), it stuck out like a sore thumb. Someone walked over to the coffee machine, and on the way, decided to pull off a small scrap of leaf from the potted plant. To my surprise, he took a bite.
“Mmm, Iceberg.”
His curiosity – and mine – satisfied, he punched a command into the machine, was served, and sat back down. Not wanting to linger in the doorway, I found somewhere out of the way to sit down, put on my headphones, and got lost in the Neo-Thrash Jazz on my Console.

A few minutes later, Thom walked through also. I'm not sure if he looked more or less perturbed than before. He idled by the entrance looking awkward until he saw where I was sitting, and sidled over.
“Hi again Jenny. That was a whole lot less difficult than I thought but those questions were...”
“Weird? I hear you. I'm not quite sure where my favourite colour would factor in to all of this.”
“Favourite colour? She asked me if I knew how to salsa dance. She didn't ask very nicely, either.” He was right. Shirley did seem rather surly. “If you ask me, I think she was just making up the questions. So what do we do now?”

Having a conversation partner was nice, but after dealing with the mildly hostile secretary, I didn't need any more questions, especially ones that I don't know the answer to. Suddenly, the lights dimmed; gradually, like a stage performance was going to start. All the chairs and sofas were facing the back wall; just as white and clinically featureless as all the others. And then, before our eyes a hairline crack appeared in its surface, rapidly lengthening from ceiling to floor, and then widening to form a large, dark doorway. With tension filling the air, a figure stepped out from the gloom and into the room, a well-placed spotlight in the ceiling cast a vivid glow around the individual, who turned out to be a rather short and staunch man in a grey pinstripe suit. By the polite murmuring across the room, I could tell that I wasn't the only one who was mildly unimpressed.

“Welcome ladies and gentlemen,” The diminutive businessman stretched his arms out and puffed up his chest as he addressed us all. “Thank you for participating in the G-SIDE Tower Recruitment Programme! It's so thrilling to be entertaining such a wonderful audience such as yourselves tonight.” As well rehearsed as this speech was, he seemed to forget that it was three in the afternoon.

“I am your host, your charismatic boss, and CEO of the G-SIDE business sectors, Tristan Sullivan!” He paused to let the moment sink in, clearly expecting a round of rousing applause for his stylish and dramatic entrance. Nothing happened for a few seconds, until some of the politer recruits picked up on the cue, proffering him a brief smattering of applause.
“Thank you, thank you. But enough about me, the real stars of the show are you new wonderful recruits; all so willing to give your time and your bodies over to G-SIDE for the good of San Sarai. What a noble bunch you guys are. Give yourself a round of applause!” More hesitant clapping. “And now, my first port of call, the breakdown of just exactly what we do at the Government Society of Investigators. We offer a wide range of services to the people of San Sarai, from preventing terrorist attacks to helping little old ladies cross the street. When we're not extending the long arm of the law, our state-of-the-art scientists are developing new technology to benefit mankind. We're truly a technological and socio-political messiah, and if we starred in a book or a movie, we'd undeniably be the team of strong-willed protagonists.

“But that kind of multitasking mastery isn't achieved by the individual – in addition to all of us existing G-SIDE staff, fresh faces just like you oil the well-worn gears of our Society. For the next year you will be put through the extreme and frankly ridiculous rigmarole of lectures, test missions, and fiendish multiple-choice exams to prepare you for the day-to-day life as a G-SIDEr.”

With a click of his fingers, he gestured to his left and a stoic uniformed man wearing dark shades and an earpiece moved out of the shady doorway to his side. He'd be the classic example of a henchman if he wasn't carrying several plastic bags filled with cardboard boxes, along with a large rucksack, possibly filled with even more.
“Neville here is carrying your Introductory G-SIDE Kits. Inside you'll find an ID Card, some literature detailing the company policy and morals that you probably won't read, and a special gift from me, selected to fit the role in the company that we think will suit you to a 't'.”

Pulling a Console from his pocket, Mr. Sullivan pushed a few buttons and began to read off the names of the new recruits. One by one we made our way to the spotlight to receive our Welcome pack, at first a little reluctantly, and then getting into the swing of things. Thom, whose surname I then found out was Acropolis, gained his package very early on. He seemed far more relaxed and excited now the hard questioning was out of the way, and the prospect of free gifts was offered; but we had been told by Neville the henchman that the boxes were not to be opened until after the introductory talk had finished. Soon enough I had gone up to be given my introductory kit – as I took the box from Neville and shook Mr. Sullivan's hand, he gave a little “Ta-daaa” noise, as though he was less of a CEO and more of a Pleasure District stage magician. Maybe he was one before he got the job here?
Eventually all the boxes were handed out, and with a flourish from Tristan and a more enthusiastic wave of applause, the CEO left the room, kicked the lights back up and left us to open our boxes.

The boxes were just as clean and white as everything else; I didn't know you could get cardboard that shiny. Opening mine, I found items you'd expect in a welcome pack. A letter addressed to me, but with generic text given to everyone; a badge and blazer with the G-SIDE company logo on it, and your run-of-the-mill ID Card.

Compatible with any ATM, any locked door, any railway checkpoint in the city. The things have so much data on board that it might as well be a digital representation of you imprinted to plastic and shoved in your wallet. Consequently, they're also the kind of things you don't want to lose. Granted they're so tailor-made, that using someone else's card is very easy to pick up on; but if you don't like the idea of others knowing intimate details about you, you learn to be vigilant on the matter. You usually only ever need a single ID card in your lifetime unless you happen to lose it or drop it into a vat of boiling acid (it happens); So being issued a new one, instead of just having the info on my existing card updated rings a little strange.

Also thrown in was a software disc for my Console, a set of cheap and easy to break pens and pencils (also with the G-SIDE logos), a voucher for a free drink at the Party Mansion's liquor fountain, and...
“Wait, why on earth would they give me this?”
I pulled out what looked disturbingly like a handgun. Although there was something not quite right about it – for all of its sleek dangerous finish, it felt... artificial; like a toy gun or a movie prop. It came with a holster and a few clips of ammo, too. Realising I was just holding it in my hand and staring incredulously at it, I shoved the gun back into the box before anyone – least of all me – started freaking out. Inside of the holster was a note.

Ms. Magdalene,
Judging by the answers you gave during the questionnaire and an in-depth look into your background history (please give my regards to your stepmother and your ex-boyfriend, they were very helpful and informative), we have decided to give you a position with the street-level police force, should you be capable enough to complete the Training Course. The handgun we have provided will assist you in your endeavours. Just don't go and shoot anyone innocent. Who said problems couldn't be solved with violence?

Yours,
Samantha Shirlsdon

For all the questions that letter answered, I felt just as confused and out of my depth as I did to begin with. To my right, Thom let out an annoyed-sounding groan.
“This is not funny. It's like, harassment or something. Insensitive bastards.”
“What's wrong?”
He looked up, and proffered me the contents of his Welcome pack. Inside was his 'special gift'.

A box of doughnuts. To their credit, they were some damn fine looking doughnuts; perfectly glazed and sprinkled, all soft without looking greasy. Makes sense G-SIDE would have contacts in the Culinary Quarter. Along with it was a note, similar to mine.

Mr. Acropolis,
Judging by the answers you gave during the questionnaire and an in-depth look into your background history (your dietician and acquaintances from your high school were very eager to supply us with information), we have decided to give you a position as a police chief for the station in the Architects Quarter, should you be capable enough to complete the Training Course. The doughnuts we have provided will assist you in your gorging as you sit at a desk all day. Just remember to go to the gym once in a while. We who do desk jobs are the true elite.

Yours,
Samantha Shirlsdon

I tried my hardest to stifle a gasp of surprise, and utterly failed.
“I know right? It's completely rude of her.”
“Rude? You're going to be a police chief! Technically, you're gonna be my boss!”
“I... I think you're missing my point...”

The hidden door/wall opened again, but this time without the stage lights and melodramatic entrance. It was Neville.
“Thank you for your patience with our CEO. He's... a different kind of individual, but he's a hard worker, and cares a great deal about his new recruits. Now, if you're ready; kindly follow me to the Elevator Corridor, and we'll be on our way to the Residential floors. There'll be one last thing you'll need to do before that, but we'll get to that bridge when we come to it.”

And with that, we were away. Turns out the sterile white finish is just for public show; upon passing through the door into the building proper, we were welcomed with elegant wallpaper in a pleasant, relaxing green, and a short yet springy carpet. It looked more like the halls of an expensive hotel, rather than the city's most important business building. Indeed, upon reaching what was dubbed by Neville as the 'Elevator Corridor', there was a concierge waiting at a desk in the middle of the room.
“Good afternoon ladies; gentlemen. Neville. Going up?”
The room was expansive and circular, in what felt like it should be in the centre of the tower; we had walked for a good 5 minutes to get to it. Aside from the door we came through, the walls were lined with lifts, all varying in width and height. Some were obviously private use only, or service lifts. Neville wandered over to the concierge, muttered something to him quickly, and gestured over to one of the wider elevator doors.
“Well, only because the boss says so...”
“Don't be difficult, you do this every time. Don't make my job harder than it has to be.”
“Hard? All you have to do is wear sunglasses all day!”
“And all you ever do is push lift buttons and give me backtalk. Now can I lead these new recruits onwards or not?”

And with no more said, we were ushered to the imposing metal doors; the concierge swiped his ID card across its control panel, and hit the 'Up' button.
“Lift number three heading to 3rd floor, Residential; taking a midway stop on 2nd floor for your first taste of corporate and law-enforcement hell. Please mind the doors and enter in an orderly fashion.

“Enjoy your day!”

[GrooveMan.exe]

Chapter 3: Ancient Forbidden Techniques

Introducing Dexter, a reconnaissance officer working for a high-floor G-SIDE division codenamed Shinobi. Ask him about his job and he'll tell you – as he tells everyone else – that he's not a ninja.
“Ninjas are nothing but a decades-old concept made up by self-hating westerners to make the mystique of the Far East all that more appealing. Nothing but a figment of imagination made up by yesteryear's media.”
Lack of history lessons aside, because his job requires very little but running across rooftops and in and out of shadow, his uniform is a tight-fitting camouflage suit, and he has a personal preference for thrown knives over guns or stun batons; he's yet to convince anyone of the misconception over his profession.

Quite possibly the only things that don't give off the vibe of honour-bound shadow warriors is his brash, overly vocal personality; and that his camouflage suit. When Stealth Mode on his suit is deactivated, it shows up electric blue. A side effect of G-SIDE's research and development on stealth technology, the test equipment that was more effective at blending in to its surroundings was exponentially less effective at blending in when turned off. But since that meant that the technology was hard to lose, the defect remained.

Presently we find the hero of this chapter heading up from the Elevator to the 63rd floor; the headquarters, mission briefing hall and private sauna for the Shinobi Unit. Today was a Thursday, and for Dexter, Thursdays were mission days. He was never sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing – the work was interesting, and the pay was even better, but his favourite television drama aired on a Thursday; and it was always less exciting to watch a recorded episode if he ended up working overtime and missed it.
“Today, I will get home on time,” he muttered to himself as the elevator reached the 59th floor and kept going. “By hook or by crook. Whoever I'm going after today had better come quietly.” The elevator slowed down and a synthesised voice came in over the intercom.
“63rd floor reached; Shinobi Unit offices. Have a nice day.”

The offices were well furnished. The managers of departments had full control of their jurisdiction's décor, and even if you were a first-time visitor, you could tell the manager here was a gigantic fan of Asian interior decoration. The area was floored in what was a very good synthetic representation of tatami matting, and the walls looked just like silk screens; though upon touching one, you could feel the drywall or concrete behind it. In the waiting room beyond the elevator doors was a large koi pond and what could have been a large garden's worth of bamboo strung together to make mildly uncomfortable-looking chairs, benches, and coffee tables. Dexter sighed heavily. This was always an eyesore. Not all of the rooms on this floor were this bad, but his boss loves to make a heavy first impression.

Since today's mission day, Dexter headed to the briefing room; passing through rooms packed to the nines in Indian, Thai, Korean, Japanese and Chinese trinkets, chests, fans, rugs and statuettes. It was pretty clear to see what G-SIDE was paying the manager in. The briefing room – requiring some semblance of modern technology was considerably tamer than the other rooms, actually using a degree of metal and reinforced plastic to make up a large speaking podium with a Terminal attached. A large projection screen stretched across the wall beyond the podium, but the manager had clearly put his foot down in regards to the minimum level of Asian culture manifest in the room; as the projector itself was lodged inside what looked like (and quite possibly was) a large statue of Buddha made entirely of Jade.

The room being completely empty aside from himself, Dexter took a seat and waited patiently for the meeting to start. He was exactly on time, but the boss man was a punctual sort - he should have been here already. A screen door off to the side slid open, and out stepped the Shinobi Unit's manager. He was wearing nothing but a large bath towel, and was still dripping wet, steaming slightly. He seemed completely unphased by his extremely casual attire, and walked over to the podium, beginning to boot up the terminal. Dexter noted how horribly homoerotic this situation would look out of context, permitted himself another heavy sigh, and broke the now rather humid silence with conversation.
“Enjoy your sauna, Mr. Whitfield?”
“It's an onsen, Agent Myers. You keep forgetting.”
“Sorry. So what's the job for today? No one else seems to be around, so it's clearly something you want done solo.”
“Right you are,” He took a second to adjust his towel. “So shall we get to it?”

For someone who was a die-hard fan of Asian culture, Mr. Whitfield didn't demonstrate much of it from appearance alone. He was as American as they come, with sandy blond hair and a lightly tanned complexion. He had worked for the FBI in past years, and as part of their armed forced before that; and it manifested itself physically, especially in his half-naked state. His back and arms were pockmarked with small scars and wounds that hadn't healed completely. Whatever hell he went through overseas had obviously given him the resolve to take a more relaxed role in life, but his tenacious nature prevented him from completely giving up the world of law enforcement and public safety. To that end, he'd scored a pretty good deal here. No wonder there are so many applicants.

From the Buddha Projector a map of the city was splashed upon the screen. It was peppered with a series of red marks, clustering in odd formations.
“We've been receiving sightings of strange robots all over the Literary Quarter, from both the police force posted in this area and assorted residents. They're not making any effort to hide themselves, but at the same time, they don't seem to be doing anything too dangerous.”
“That sounds extremely familiar. The guy behind it, is he-” The Buddha Projector clicked to the next image, it showed a close up of a face; a rather manic middle aged man with frizzy hair dyed purple, and large leather pilot goggles. It was an extreme close up, and with the Ultra High Definition most screens these days came equipped with, every pore and imperfection was shown in excruciating detail.
“Yes, it's the Musical Machinist, Izzet Fortissimo. He's done this kind of thing before, but usually it doesn't end up this huge. All you need to do is find our guy and arrest him. We'll be able to put a stop to the robots before you know it once you manage that.”
“It's still a pretty big area to search for one man, but I'm sure I can handle it. Purple hair like that is easy to spot.”
“You wouldn't say that had he chosen the Fashion Quarter to terrorise. Now get to it, I want to soak some more.”
Briefly checking to see that he'd kept his modesty, big boss Whitfield made his way back through the screen door and back to his happy place. Dexter downloaded the mission info from the Terminal into his Console, a sexy black number that wrapped around his wrist and could hook up to his work clothes, and made his way to the equipment room.

Instead of metal lockers and ugly plastic benches, the equipment and changing rooms were lavishly furnished in lacquered wood. This room was one of the few that Dexter liked; ordinary changing rooms gave him bad flashbacks to high school. His locker/wardrobe was emblazoned with an ornate engraving of a fox, surrounded with a pattern of flowers and grim-looking katanas. It looked like something you'd see tattooed on a member of the Yakuza, and it reminded Dexter of that awful N-word.

He pulled the Camouflage Suit and a metal box from his compartment and changed. The suit fit well, hugging the skin and allowing for maximum mobility; but it kept in the warmth, and without making him look like a Lycra fetishist. Shame it had to be such a bright blue, he was more of a purple kind of guy. Inside the metal box were a set of throwing knives, all a range of different sizes and shapes, all perfectly crafted by the development teams to be extremely aerodynamic and extremely, EXTREMELY sharp. The handles of a few had a few electronic functions installed; a GPS tracer, a tazer, an Electromagnetic Pulse emitter. Sure they were a bit expensive to replace if he lost one, but they were his babies; he always went to retrieve them after his mission was over, and he hardly ever missed his targets.

Suited and prepared, he worked his way to the edge of floor 63. All rooms on the perimeter of the building had floor to ceiling windows, giving great views on the city below. For those not used to it, it could be rather vertigo-inducing. Most windows were made of extremely thick glass and couldn't be moved, the windows on this side of the building opened just enough to let someone through; like a door to thin air. Pushing a button to release the catches on the window, Dexter was caught by a cool, refreshing blast of evening air. The latent pollution of the city begins to peter out once you get this high; much to the chagrin of those trying to leave the building via the windows on floors 20 to 30.

Expertly, Dexter slid himself out of the window, gripping to the frame by his right hand. At first this was one of the most unnerving things related to this job, but after dozens of Rail Drops, it felt like nothing worse than a theme park ride. He slammed his left hand and foot into the framing of the window. The grooves in the palms and soles of the suit lined up perfectly with crevices in the framework, and the moment the connection was made, unseen locks behind the frame clamped to his hand and foot, locking him in.

Connection made, body secure, brakes active. Preparing for descent.

Dexter suddenly plummeted at dizzying rate, as the windows of the floors beneath passed as a high speed blur.
“Too fast! Too fast!” Tensing the muscles in his hand, the sensors inside the Rail Drop noted the change in pressure, and slammed on the brakes, harshly yet safely slowing the descent to an effortless stop. “Dear god, the Rails don't usually drop you like that right off the bat. Gotta have the tech guys check that out.” Loosening his grip slightly, the Rail slowly was put into motion again. Now slightly paranoid about the condition of the machine, Dexter kept the descent under constant pressure control, feeling a bit sheepish about the whole deal. Once at ordinary building height, he kicked in the Stealth mode on the suit, rendering him nothing more than a faint, distorted ripple to the naked eye. The suit even had infra-red deflectors installed, so even most cameras and robots would have a hard time tracking him down.

The Literary Quarter was West of the Tower, designed to mimic 19th Century Venice, close to the coast, a large channel had been dug inland, to which the buildings and walkways were firmly fixed to the bottom of. A hydraulic system had been set up to raise or lower the area, should a flood or drought suddenly occur. To some, artificially creating an approximation of a historic solution created out of necessity undermines the original intent somewhat, but those people are prudes, sticks in the mud, or otherwise rather dull people. The Literary Quarter was both a marvel of architecture and modern engineering; bringing in Literati and easily amused tourists from all over the world.

Getting to the Literary Quarter on ground level could be a bit of a hassle at this time of the evening; the Automotive Quarter was only a stone's throw away from it, and the rush hour traffic generated from it was rather overwhelming. Driving to his target could take hours, and going on foot would be just plain dangerous, especially since any reckless or wayward drivers wouldn't be able to even see him. Dexter looked towards the skies, not so much for a sign or divine intervention; but a route up to the roof tops. The 'Sky Road' as some of the G-SIDErs doing reconnaissance work often jokingly called it, was one of the faster routes around the city without using a vehicle. The inter-city buildings are packed like sardines, meaning jumping from roof to roof could be done with relative ease, even more so if you're athletic and doubly even more so if you're running around in a fluorescent super suit.

Dexter smiled; this part was one of the better aspects to Recon, more so than the Rail Drop. The breeze this evening was warm, but refreshing. A string of reasonably even rooftops stretched out like giant stone lily pads from the City Central to the West side. It'd be an easy run, no problem.

Taking a deep breath and a few little stretches, Dexter got into the motions at surprising speed; sprinting across the first rooftop, and springing gracefully at the edge to the next building, taunting gravity and the gaping urban abyss below. He took careful note of the state of his camouflage; the last thing G-SIDE needs is a report of a strange blue figure leaping around; and it had happened before – with employees more careless than him, of course.

The run to the West side went as perfectly as he would have hoped, but on the last jump something went awry. On his landing, his footing gave way, leading to a rather graceless skidding face plant across the top of a corporate building selling electronic bookmarks that remembered how much you read in between sessions, and nagged you if you slacked off. It was a Literary Quarter invention no doubt, but what was with the lame landing?

The impact had de-triggered the camouflage, and Dexter got to his knees in all his vivid blue glory, and looked around. On the edge of the building where he had tripped, there was something that resembled a loose cable or rope attached to a door inside the building, trailing all the way across the roof and off the edge. Wandering over to it, Dexter gave the rope an apprehensive prod. It was unpleasant, both sticky and plastic to the touch, but as solid and bulky as metal cable. Whatever it was, it didn't look natural, and definitely raised suspicions.

Following the cable to the edge of the building, Dexter tentatively peered over the stone balustrade to the city below. He was met with his own reflection, mirrored within several wide, tinted lenses; placed above cruel looking steel mandibles. Stunned, he lurched backwards, landing flat on his back. Two clumsy falls in quick succession - the operative was not on his best form. The owner of the lenses and mandibles jerkily clambered over the edge of the building. It was a large, robotic spider.
“Of course! The foreshadowing from Chapter One paid off!”
The spider was a large one; it easily reached up to Dexter's waist. In addition to the many lenses and pincers, it was supported on large, spindly legs, made entirely of pistons and gears, all connected together in an intricate pattern. The thorax was completely covered in spray painted graffiti, in garish neon colours, like a subway car in the Artists Quarter.

As he stared at the strange machination, the spider began to rattle violently as the top of the thorax swung open like the doors of a fancy car, and a large speaker slowly protruded from the innards with a faint whine. The air became tense, charged with electricity as Dexter just stared, completely lost as to how to deal with this musically-inclined robot.
Then came the Techno music. Hard and fast, it burst from the speaker as a veritable torrent of sound, forcibly pushing the very air away in all directions. Forced back down to his knees, there was nothing our hero could do except cover his ears. How the hell could such a small speaker produce such a gigantic amount of noise? Sure, the tune was catchy, and it had the kind of heart-shaking bass line that just wouldn't quit; but the robot had to be stopped – now – before he lost his hearing completely.

Wrenching his right hand off his ear and down to his utility belt – for all technologically powered suits have utility belts – he removed one of his throwing knives and without taking a moment to compose himself or aim, he took a wild guess as to direction and distance, and flung the weapon with full force. There was a loud pop as the knife went straight into the woofer of the speaker, severed some cables, and came cleanly out the other side, skittering to a stop on the shingles on the roof. Sweet silence reigned in the Evening air again.

Although not for long. Enraged by the sudden stop to its jam session, the Robotic Rave Spider swished its pincers in a frustrated manner, retracted the blown, sparking speaker, and haphazardly scuttled off the roof, jumping into the abyss. It seemed to be heading deeper into the Literary Quarter, and at an almost impossible speed, considering its thin, rattling legs. Not having any time to recover before the robot escaped completely, Dexter pulled up another knife; this one with a tracker on the hilt. Moving to the edge of the building again, he caught the spider scuttling down the side of the building, took careful aim, and expertly embedded the knife into the back of it as it fled.

A bad landing and a pre-emptive attack aside, the encounter had gone well; the Literary Quarter was one of the larger districts; and that spider looked like it was going to join its friends.
“Couldn't be any easier if they gave me a VIP invitation to their little spider tea party.”
Confidence and dignity regained, Dexter re-activated stealth mode, and leapt off the roof towards the centre of the Literary Quarter.

The pride and joy of the Literary Quarter was the Ekphrasis Library, a large, imposing structure that was built like a giant cube, plated in chemically-treated purple marble. Timeless, weather-proof, and arguably bomb-proof, it was said by the constructor that the only thing they thought it wasn't going to resist was the heat-death of the universe; but we all know how builders can exaggerate about the quality of their work from time to time. It contained a copy of every book worth noting, and a few that weren't quite so notable. In a desire to be more accessible and to try and master the impossible feat of getting teenage boys to visit libraries and read more; they also stock one of the largest archives of comic books and graphic novels in the world. It was a resounding flop with their target audience – as we all knew it would – but it was a godsend for the older generation with childish guilty pleasures.

And at this moment in time it was crawling with robotic spiders. Neon spray paint jettisoned from steel mandibles, covering the marble work in graffiti so obscene you wouldn't want to show it to your gran. The disgusting sticky cables criss-crossed across the smooth purple surface of the cube, and stretched across power lines and nearby buildings. The metal in the cables occasionally shorted the power grid, and lights in the area flashed on and off. Nearly all of the spiders had their speakers exposed, and were pumping the most extravagant and complex high-speed Happy Hardcore Dexter had ever heard. Coupled with the flashing lights, it was a gargantuan rave that spanned the entire Quarter.
The spiders themselves seemed to be in a strange kind of trance, all performing a complex and jerky swaying dance, legs in all directions, pincers swishing like an army of scissors. One had its dance pattern drift too close to Dexter, who promptly jammed one of his knives into its neck, without even so much as turning to look at it; completely transfixed on the desecration of Ekphrasis Library. There was a fizzing sound and the smell of burned plastic and solder as the head came away and clattered to the ground. The freshly decapitated spider seized up, teetered momentarily and crashed to the ground, its speaker silenced.
“How dare you do such a thing to my beautiful machines?!”

A voice that sounded like it was trying far too hard to menacing rang out from behind Dexter, but it took another 3 tries to get the Shinobi operative to actually turn away from the Library. He still had an expression of abject horror etched into his face.
“Who do you think you are, gate crashing my party of the century, and destroying my decorations!?” This time, Dexter snapped out of his stupor.
“Party? ...What?” Still bemused and dazed, our hero took a look down and spotted the detached spider head, still with his knife jutting out of it. “Er, I did that?”
“Yes you bloody well did! And don't claim you didn't, I can see you, even with that silly suit on.” At this point Dexter realised he still had the stealth mode on his suit engaged. Since the jig was up, he disabled it anyway; the electric blue fitted in well with the paint scheme administered by the spiders.
“You can still see me with the stealth mode on? But not even machines can detect this thing!”
“But your suit doesn't cover your head, does it?” He had a point there. What's more, reports of disembodied heads would be far more concerning to G-SIDE's offices than reports of people in cat suits. Dexter shook his head and tried to regain control of this rapidly deteriorating conversation.
“So then this means you're the punk that's causing all this havoc?”
“You're a slow one, aren't you? Yes it's me; Izzet Fortissimo, in the flesh. Did it really take you that long to deduce what's going on? Look what I'm riding on, for goodness' sake!”
Izzet was riding on one of his other creations, a sizeable robotic lion, strong and fierce-looking. His mane wasn't styled in the wild and ferocious look of the real thing, but resembled a bushy and finely-kept afro, made entirely from fine wire. The armour plating over the lion's feet splayed out in a shape not dissimilar to flared trousers.

“Behold! The Disco Lion!”
“You're clearly on some kind of drug. Someone's spent too much time in the Pleasure Quarter; but now you're gonna come with me, and spend a lot more time in G-SIDE's holding facility.”
“On drugs? Ha! Is that what you young fools mistake genius for these days?”
“Don't lie to me, you're higher than Balloon Boy!”
“Enough of your incessant whinnying! You have damaged my machines, and must pay the penalty!” And with that, he stuck out his right arm. It was enclosed in a large glaive, with a great many buttons and dials embedded in it, along with a screen, and a long, elegant antenna. It was his Console. He brought it to his mouth and said slowly and clearly “Rave Spiders, new target. Attack this pathetic G-SIDE dog, and bring me his head!”

All speakers stopped at once. All spiders stopped moving. There was a terrible and sudden silence that filled the air, as the robot army registered their new instruction, and turned slowly in the direction of Dexter and Izzet. Silence then gave way to vicious clicking and whirring as commands processed, the spiders began to slowly and menacingly advance on their prey.
“One man versus hundreds of robots. I quite fancy my odds.”
“Perish, fool! My beautiful machines will take over district by district, and soon we shall party like it's 1999!”
“Then you're a century too late! Bring it on!”

And 'on' they indeed did bring. A torrent of whirring metal limbs and slicing pincers came at Dexter from all sides, but the non-ninja was prepared. Knives at the ready, he easily took out the first wave, shattering lenses and speaker casings left and right; then using the now motionless husks as a stepping stone to launch himself clear of the amassing mob. He landed clear in the stylish manner he wished he'd achieved on the roof earlier. Izzet remained close by, watching atop the Disco Lion. He seemed rather frustrated that his spider army had been outwitted so quickly.
“Your arachnids are small time, Izzet. Give it up before I put the hurt on that metallic kitten you're riding too!”

In response, the lion reared up and let out a roar that sounded suspiciously like a funky bass groove, and long claws extended out of the front paws. Slowly realising that their prey had escaped, the spiders stopped thrashing about and began to head towards Dexter again. Things seemed a little less rosy, with our hero trapped between a riff and a hard place. And yet, Dexter remained calm. He knew what to do, and how to rock this party.

The Disco Lion lunged with force, the wind riffling through its claws. With no distance to dodge, Dexter had no choice but to block. Grabbing more knives between his fingers, he caught the swipe from the lion against the blades, metal grinding against metal, sparks lighting up the area. The pressure of both lion and rider bearing down on Dexter, there's no way he could parry; and if he tried to hold it any longer, he could end up crushed – or worse. He decided to feint – pushing into the lion with all his strength, then suddenly letting go. The sudden change in force sent the robot off-balance; and in that moment of respite, Dexter slid underneath the lion, out of sight and out of range of those terrible claws.
“Wh-where did you go? Show yourself!”
“I'm afraid this party's over. Time to go home.”
Coming up behind Izzet and his lion, the poor, insane engineer had no time to react. Dexter was upon him, head locking him with one arm, pulling out one last knife with the other.
“No! What are you doing! You G-SIDE dogs can't kill people! I-”
“God, do you ever shut up?”
Dexter plunged the knife into Izzet's console. The destruction wasn't particularly spectacular, the screen fractured and stopped working and the antenna broke away; but the effect it had on the machines was far more impressive.

They went nuts. The spiders began to thrash once again, harder than ever. Speakers jutted in and out like defective jack in the boxes. Fluorescent paint and sticky cable went in all directions. The Disco Lion bucked and jolted, throwing the two men to the ground, Izzet still in a solid head lock. It tottered around on its hind legs, slashing at the air randomly before finally overbalancing and crashing on its back, legs gently twitching. The party was over.

Equipment removed, arms and legs bound, and loudly swearing and protesting, Izzet lay on the pavement struggling – and failing – to get free as Dexter called his superior to tell him of his progress. He extended an earpiece from the collar of his suit, dialled the number on his console, and waited for a response.
“...Moshi moshi!”
“Uh, yeah. Mr. Whitfield? It's Agent Myers.”
“Ah, hello! I've been monitoring your progress. That was a pretty big party you crashed. I almost wish I was invited.” Dexter slowly looked around at the sticky, brightly coloured aftermath of the robot attack.
“No, not if you were on clean up duty afterwards. Permission to head back to the Tower?”
“Permission granted; and a well done on a successful mission.”
Whitfield hung up, and left Dexter with the dial tone. He was just about to re-instate stealth mode and head back home (taking care to keep his head covered this time), when he suddenly remembered something.
“I can't leave without my knives! I had better find them all.”
He was a good 10 knives down, with a pile of robots to search through. It was to be a long night.

[Vipershark]

Aside from a couple of spelling and grammar mistakes (maybe 5 at the most), this is really well written and I can't wait to read more. Is this what you were making that RPG about back in the tSR RPG thing?

[GrooveMan.exe]

Yep, it's the same universe, although the city's size and content has roughly doubled for the novel. :V
There's also some minor overlaps with Frequency and something I once wrote called 'The Day that Never Happened' (Would have been a point-n-click adventure if I ever finished it; I became unmotivated after the first chapter. =/); but that's only if I run out of ideas for character concepts or in-world lore.

What I'd really like is to turn it all into a pen and paper RPG setting. Would be some cool shit.

---

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Is anyone else reading this? D= I wonder if it would be mod abuse if I stickied the thread...

Chapter 5: It's an Outbreak, Innit?

“Your mission today will be both on a larger scale than you're used to, and a little unorthodox. In order to ensure the mission's success (and your survival), the management team have decided to have Operative Groups Three and Four work alongside Mr. Wendell, who has been drafted from PIT.” A young man with bright red hair and an indignant scowl rose from his chair suddenly.
“So you're dumping a member of the Creep Brigade on us? How on Earth do you think that'd be useful?” The young secretary merely blinked at the sudden outburst, and retorted without faltering.
“The Paranormal Investigation Team are more than just scouts for things that go bump in the night. They look into a lot of issues that most other departments are too afraid to touch – you should be honoured to work with such brave and dedicated people.”
“More like working with berserk and undead people...” The redhead grumbled and sat back down. The display coming from the room's terminal showed a slide show of photographs, taken from the Fashion Quarter, taken over the last 24 hours or so. The secretary pulled out a laser pointer and indicated to the scrolling pictures.
“These are CCTV photographs of areas in San Sarai's Fashion Quarter, taken over the last 24 hours. We can see in these pictures large crowds of people storming the streets in an organised – yet haphazard – fashion.” The slide show moved to a new picture, a teenager dressed in clothing that was as baggy as it was black and spiky, shoving a heavy platform shoe through a shop window. Expertly, the secretary waggled the laser pointer at the picture and kept talking. “Take note of his pale – almost grey – complexion and the lack of visible pupils. Couple with the wanton destruction and flash-mobbing of like minded individuals, these are some of the classic symptoms of-”
“-Classic symptoms of a zombie outbreak.”

Everyone in the briefing room turned to the doorway, where a tall, broad-shouldered man leant lazily in the doorway. A black leather trenchcoat hugged his frame, covered in pockets filled with... things. His eyes were obscured by a very large, wide-brimmed cowboy hat. Its brim was stitched in a very complex pattern in black leather string. His confident – and rather condescending – smile was framed by a thick moustache and beard. In short, he looked both badass and completely ridiculous in equal measures.
“Arthur Wendell at your service, but feel free to call me Artie. As for you,” he gestured towards the secretary. “A pretty young thing like you can call me whatever and whenever you like.” The lady blushed and looked away.
“Kindly sit down with your four team mates, and we'll continue our briefing. Operatives, please introduce yourselves to Mr. Wendell.”
“Corinne, Corrine Madison.” An athletic woman with an open expression and a rather reserved sense of clothing smiled and offered Arthur a handshake. He took the handshake, but didn't return the smile. For all the things Corrine had going for her, the paranormal investigator seemed only interested in the secretary.
“The name's Cyrano Lestat. Pleasure to meet you.” The slightly scruffy-looking black man, swept a loose dreadlock away from his eyes, put down the Console he was toying with, and waved politely. “I guess you'd call me the tech expert of this team. I look forward to working with ya.” He was met with a short grunt of acknowledgement.
“Another hardened expert, huh? I'm Rafael Berker. I normally lead, so -” He followed up with a dramatic gesture towards Mr. Wendell, “We might end up butting heads. A bit of rivalry never hurt anyone, right-”
“Kieron Cain, and I dislike you already,” said the angry young man with red hair, interrupting Rafael, as if his introduction couldn't wait any longer. “Don't let your silly getup and smug grin jeopardise our mission, got it?”
“There's no need to be so aggressive and defensive, I assure you,” said Arthur, still maintaining his smile. “I was drafted in to this Riot Control department to give you the upper hand you need, and give you the upper hand I shall.”

“So you're saying the riot in the Fashion Quarter is likely a Zombie outbreak, right Mr. Wendell?” Corrine mused, scribbling in a notepad she pulled from her jacket.
“I said you could call me Artie. Well, having all the targets as teenagers is a bit unorthodox, but apart from that all signs point to Zombie. Reports show that kids from outside the district are starting to riot too, so they have that whole 'infection' angle going for them too.”
“So we have a zombie riot, and an outsider who's telling us he can stop the spread,” said Rafael. “Ten to one he makes a critical oversight and gets one of us killed.”
“Bet it's me,” said Cyrano, not even looking up from his Console. Arthur gave a surprised and slightly worried look towards the secretary.
“Are they always this... this pessimistic?”
“Many of the riot control operatives are what we like to call 'genre savvy'. It helps to be prepared for the worst in this line of work; especially when you realise just how... how...” she faltered for the right word.
“How downright nuts the people of this city can be,” Kieron offered.
“Thank you, Mr. Cain. Not the turn of phrase I'd use, but you're right – while you may deal exclusively with the supernatural Mr. Wendell – you should not underestimate the potential of the mundane.” Arthur coughed loudly in an attempt to clear the air, and to cover up how off-guard he felt. “Right, now you're all introduced and briefed on the mission, I suggest you all suit up and head out before the riot spreads any further. Dismissed.”

---

As districts in San Sarai go, the Fashion Quarter was very much divided in its ideals. With so many subcultures and preferences to cater for, and tastes in the industry changing as often as day to day during some parts of the year, the entire area was a mash up of old and new, flashy and reserved, bourgeois and burly. A set of buildings would be under construction or renovation at any given time, and if you had the money for it, there's always something fresh and trendy to splurge your salary on.

But for tonight, there was no shopping; and the construction sites were abandoned. For the teenagers were out in full force. Hungry for chaos. Hungry for blood. Hungry for sales. The streets were completely free of non-infected punters now; the area well and truly belonged to teenagers of the night. Windows were smashed, cars were upturned, and even the odd lamppost was bent over, apparently by sheer force. It was a swathe of destruction a marvel to behold.

Down an alleyway a bright flash and a strong rush of air forced its way out into the street and faded away. Following it, the four Riot Control operatives and a very dazed-looking Arthur Wendell stepped out into the street.
“How could you possibly be unphased by that? In my day we had to get to our missions on foot.”
“We signed up for an experimental Teleportation program with the R&D,” said Cyrano, affixing a black metallic buckler to his arm. “The entire department has been using it non-stop all week. Once you work out how to avoid getting trapped inside walls or left hanging in empty air, it's a pretty efficient system.” Kieron sneered, and pulled out his own buckler.
“If that kind of thing scares you, go home right now. We don't need you.” He gestured towards the main street and looked at his comrades. “Riot Shields ready? Let's move out, people.”

From the bucklers, a large translucent screen formed in the shape of a large hexagon. It glowed an eerie shade of green, piercing the cold night air. The edges of the hexagon were fuzzy, but the rest of it looked as strong and as shiny as polished steel.
“Riot Shields operational, running at 85% strength, estimated length of use two hours,” Corrine reeled off the statistics from her Console.
“Do a resilience test for me, will ya?” Cyrano was scanning the readout on his Console too. Clearly this technology wasn't entirely perfect. Acknowledging the request, Corrine pulled the arm with the buckler to her chest, then will all her strength swung it into a wall of the alleyway. There was a loud crushing sound as the brick wall fractured around the point of impact, sending loose rubble everywhere. A good amount landed in the brim of Arthur's hat. Stunned to silence, he removed his hat, brushed off the debris, and with it clasped still in one hand, began to walk slowly onwards to the main street. The teenage zombies no longer seemed like the scariest threat. The poor things didn't have a chance.

They didn't have to travel far before coming across one of the infected. She tottered about aimlessly in a sort of daze, dressed in an elegant, frilly, and just a bit Gothic dress, which had now been soiled and torn from the riots. Completely separated from the group she seemed without direction, and before long she collapsed to her knees, breathing heavily.
“Is she really one of the Infected?” Enquired Rafael. “She looks more lost and scared, rather than scary. Since you're the expert Artie, go and take a look, won't you?”
“Are you sure? An expert I may be, but my expert instincts are telling me that we really shouldn't approach-”
“That's an order, Arthur.”

If there was any doubt in Arthur's mind that Rafael was a leader, it had been smashed to pieces now. Gingerly the paranormal expert approached the kneeling girl as she began to gently sob, still sitting in the middle of the road. The girl gave no response, even when he placed a hand on her shoulder and gave her a gentle shake.
“Are... are you ok? Were you caught in the riot?”
“How about asking a question that isn't obvious?” called out Kieron from a very safe distance away. Arthur ignored him. The girl slowly looked up towards the hulking stranger in the leather coat. Past the grime and smeared make up, the girl had a pretty face; or so Arthur thought. Weakly, the girl's lips trembled.
“Please... please help me,” the riot survivor uttered in a soft voice “I feel so weak, my purse has gone, and I think I lost a contact lens...” Breathing a heavy sigh of relief, Arthur stood up, hoisting the dainty girl to her feet by her waist. Still feeble, she slumped against him, and the man's heart couldn't help but flutter. He waved to the others with his free hand.
“She's clean! Come over here guys, and help me with her.”
As the Riot Team moved over, they took careful note of the surroundings. Detectives they weren't; but if clues to the nature of the mob could be gleaned, then it may just save their necks later on.

The damage here was surprisingly light. While most of the buildings here were residential or restaurants, they were almost entirely untouched; where the few retail outlets that were on the road were completely wrecked. Display windows had been smashed, signs had been torn, manikins, now naked and dirty, were snapped into pieces and thrown around the store. And in all of these targeted venues, there wasn't a single item left. Not a scrap of cloth or a shoelace remained. Whatever shop staff or management that the venues employed had long since fled the scene. Upon looking at the last shop on the street, a bohemian-looking one called Shoestrings 'n' Things, Corrine noticed something.
“Hey, there's still stock in this one.”
While not exactly the most dramatic revelation, everyone shuffled over too look. The Gothically dressed teenager still clung – almost a little desperately – to Arthur, head pressed against his chest; Arthur began to blush as he tried to keep her upright. Girls as young as this weren't really his type.

They all peered into the gloom. On a shelf near the back, among the crushed shoe boxes and smashed displays remained a solitary shoe. The fact that it had been left behind wasn't particularly surprising; it wasn't particularly attractive as far as footwear went. The designers had clearly thought that amalgamating lots of different designs together would produce an item of all the positives, but none of the drawbacks. Looking upon this sorry mash-up of a platform sole, a stiletto heel, zips instead of laces, a bright pink and chocolate brown colour scheme, and a small strip of lights embedded into the sole that lit up as you walked; their plan was a complete and utter failure.
“It's just a goddamn shoe!” exclaimed Kieron. “Why did you drag us all the way over here for that?”
“Shoe...” Arthur's frilly-dressed hanger on suddenly twitched, and looked a lot more alert. He looked down in surprise.
“What's that, little lady?”
“Shoes... Shoes! I gotta have the shoes! I GOTTA HAVE THE SHOES!” Getting more and more worked up by the second, she began to drool out the side of her mouth slightly as her pupils began to dilate and slowly roll backwards. She made a lunge for the inside of the store, but fearing her injury on the jagged glass left in the broken window frame, Arthur held her back. Bad move.

Shrieking in rage, the once weak and frail girl made a sudden and wicked swipe at Arthur, hands like claws, delicate lips twisted up into a feral snarl. Her eyes were now completely white, and her spittle began to froth as she raged.
“Graaah! Shoes, shoes, shoes! I'll take them all! You can't have them, they're all mi- mi- mi-” Losing even the ability to speak, she tried to take another slash at Arthur, but in a panic he pushed her away from him in a rather unchivalrous manner. In less dire circumstances such an action would get the authorities called; or at least met with a heavy bag or a can of pepper spray. She reeled backwards several steps before regaining her balance. Even her posture was now wild and beast-like. She poised herself for a second pounce -

“Ok, enough of that.”

Stepping in between the psychopathic teen and the shop front, Cyrano pulled his arm back, and activated the Riot Shield. The girl's pounce was quickly met by the Shield's rapidly expanding force field slammed in the other direction. She crashed into it face first and was flung clear, like a tennis racket hitting a ball. She skidded to a stop two meters away and lay motionless, still muttering “Shoes, shoes, shoes, shoes...” to herself, now through the whistle of a broken nose and dislodged teeth.
“Holy crap dude, that was brutal!” Kieron stared at the scene slack-jawed, his expression a mixture of horrified shock and a twisted sense of satisfied blood lust. His sadist side won over, and he caught Cyrano with a silent, awed high-five. Corinne was nowhere near as impressed.
“Why on earth did you go and to that for? It's clear that she's a civilian and that something is horribly wrong here. She may have been are only bit of info into finding out what the hell is going on here and-”
“Corinne? Corinne!” Cyrano was trying to get her attention mid-rant. She stopped, breathing heavily.
“What?”
“Have you ever seen a normal non-crazy teenage girl go so far as mauling a stranger over a solitary, ugly shoe before?”
“Well... no.”
“Then don't fault me for trying to knock some sense into her.”

Immediate danger over, Rafael took charge once again.
“I think it'll be easier if we just leave the lass where she is, and we try and see if this riot has a source. Best bet would be to keep heading towards the main square. There's a far larger density of clothing shops there, and if only the clothing venues are being attacked...”
“I see what you're getting at, but since when was running head first into the Eye of the Storm a good idea?” Recovering from his brief and clingy encounter with one of the Infected, Arthur felt it was time to lodge his foot in. Sure he didn't get off to a strong start, but now he knew what he was up against, his confidence was on the rise. That, and he didn't want Rafael to hog all the leadership limelight. “Backhanding one of them is all well and good, but just how many do you expect to be able to contend with?”
“Not to interject,” now even Corinne was getting involved. “But shouldn't you be more concerned about yourself? The equipment given to us by the R&D guys have gotten us this far, but you seem anything but well-equipped.”

Arthur was taken aback. No girl had ever insulted the competence of his equipment before. He blushed furiously.
“I'll have you know that my personal arsenal is one of the largest and strongest in my department!” He cast a lazy hand over the other men present. “Much better than any of these jokers you're working with.” Now it was their turn to look indignant.
“Y-you're bluffing! Put your money where your mouth is; whip it out and show us!” Keiron was getting a little too caught up in the moment.
“Well okay then! Brace yourselves, people.” Feeding on the moment of suspense, Arthur slowly reached inside his jacket.

He pulled out a handgun, and what a gun it was. The barrel seemed to extend forever as he slid the piece out from inside his coat. The expertly polished chrome finish caught the moonlight, making it positively sparkle. The end of the barrel – in contrast to the elegant sleekness of the rest of the weapon – was shorter and chunkier, making the gun feel both graceful and weighty. Easing his fingers around the exquisite wooden grip and over the perfectly crafted trigger, he softly span the gun's revolving cylinder. The air was filled with harmonic metallic clicks and pings, like summer rain on a glockenspiel.

A solitary tear ran down the side of Rafael's face, and dripped of his stubble covered chin.
“It's beautiful...” Arthur grinned wider than what should be physically possible.
“Oh, isn't it just? And it fires like a dream!” And as if he needed to prove it, he pointed down the road towards the main square, and without even so much as hesitating – or aiming – he fired 4 rounds into the night. The gun spat out thick, dangerous slugs with a satisfying 'BLAM', as the cylinder moved on to the next bullet chamber with a hefty 'THUNK'. Demonstration over, Arthur put on the safety, gave the gun a deft twirl, and blew away the smoke from the freshly-used barrel, lips millimetres away from its red hot surface.

It took a few seconds before anyone said anything, letting the moment sink in. Corinne looked far more worried than impressed.
“Did you just fire multiple rounds in the direction that we assume a large riot mob will be?”
No response. Arthur still had the gun to his lips.
“And what's more, you fired rounds into what may very well be lucid civilians?”
The gun slowly lowered to the investigator's side as the weight of his actions hit him like a holographic Riot Shield to the jaw. Today just wasn't his day.

In the distance, the party of 5 could hear voices. Fierce, howling voices; mixed in with the sound of breaking glass and strained and bucking metal. The rioters must have found a new target. The team could only hope it wasn't them.

Any sane man would have run for the hills then and there, but these upstanding individuals were G-SIDE employees; hand-picked from the masses to excel in helping others, saving the day, and being all-around heroes. Of course this meant throwing common sense to the wind, and pressing onwards to greet a crowd of savage fashion victims. As they left Shoestrings ‘n’ Things, Corinne turned back. Heading over to the girl, she deftly handcuffed her, wiped off some of the blood from her nose, and propped her up against the wall.
“Civilian or not, we can’t have you trying to attack us from behind.”

They didn’t have to go far before reaching Style Square, the Fashion Quarter’s largest traffic crossing and pedestrian plaza. They were greeted with largely what they were expecting; although the sheer number of Infected rioters was still a pressing matter. The plaza was packed to the nines with people, from every culture, gender, and fashion taste. Aside from all the crazed shoppers being teenage, whatever it was that drove them to such madness sure didn’t discriminate.

Like watching high school students from afar, it was easy to see that the crowd had split into smaller niches, each group having a similar - yet extremely narrow – taste in fashion. Even within the cliques themselves, they fought. Two large and burly men dressed in tracksuits and exercise gear were pulling a sports jacket between them, yelling and grunting at each other. Elsewhere, a boy and a girl dressed in baggy jeans and faux fur hoodies were squaring up over a large baseball cap. The boy made the first move, but the girl was quicker; a savage left hook sent the boy sprawling. Taking her prize, she clutched it to her chest, cackling with euphoria.

Noticing that one of them had fallen, other rioters descended on the defeated boy, tearing the clothes of his body like a bunch of fashion vultures. They left him bruised and in his underwear, as they melded back into the throng of people.

Arthur let out a low whistle behind gritted teeth.
“Damn, this is complete and utter chaos. I’m starting to think the whole ‘zombie’ diagnosis isn’t so accurate anymore.”
“Well, I dunno about that,” chimed in Rafael. “I recall there being a point a few decades ago where nearly all instances of zombies were fast running and ultra violent. Seemed to be the only kind around. We were very busy during those years.”
“Bah, a total misdiagnosis on the media’s part. There’s a pretty big divide between your garden variety zombie and a small army of angry, bad smelling ordinary guys. I’d say these guys were no better; but then again look how well-dressed they are.” As if to demonstrate, a man in a sharp violet suit (now with the left leg torn away) slammed the large jewelled cane he was carrying over another rioter’s head, snatched the frilly black lingerie they were carrying, and rushed back into the crowd.

Beyond the crowd was a shop unlike the others seen so far. It was a much smaller build than most of the other, older buildings in the Square, and it seemed to have been constructed in quite a hurry, using materials that wouldn’t be out of place for a temporary construction building. The walls were made of corrugated iron, and the windows at the shop front seemed to be made of a thick plastic. As the Infected hammered on the windows and walls they became scratched and dented, the metal creaking in protest; but everything still held firm. What was more surprising was that it still seemed to be open! There were clothes displayed in the windows, and the lights were on. It seemed like the only reasonable safe house in the area – or would be if all the rioters weren’t crowded outside of it. Arthur stretched, cracked his knuckles, and gave his patented smug smile.
“I’ve decided. We’re gonna go inside that shop.”

Rafael balked in horror.
“I’ve decided. You’re completely insane and you’re going to get us killed. I’m pulling rank here, there’s little we can do against this many people. G-SIDE screwed up in only posting 5 of us to something this huge.” Cyrano put his hand on Rafael’s shoulder and gave what he hoped was a re-assuring smile.
“We can’t leave just yet. There’s one last piece of R&D tech that we need to try out.”
He pulled out his last technological trump card. It looked exactly like a large foam bat. It was even coloured in blue and red. The response from the others was rather tepid.
“I’m not sure what to say,” Corinne sighed. “Is this the Department’s idea of a joke?”
“Quite the contrary,” said Cyrano, tossing the bat to Kieron, who caught it effortlessly by the handle and gave it a mock swing as if he were playing baseball. “Hey, be careful with it! I want you to get one of the rioters of here and bonk him with it. Think you can manage that?”
“With a children’s toy? Are you trying to get my throat torn out by rabid Scenester?”
“Trust me.”

Though aggressive and contrary, Kieron had a professional trust of his team mates, and followed through. He edged up to the perimeter of the crowd; but everyone was too busy fighting among themselves to even notice him. He hesitated in thought for a moment, and then suddenly had a wave of inspiration.
“Hey look! I found a peacoat! It’s even in tweed!”
And right on cue, a hipster burst from the crowd, slavering at the concept of owning something so twee. He sprinted towards Kieron as fast as his skinny jeans-covered legs could carry him; his ‘ironic’ graphic t-shirt torn in the struggle, exposing his chest. Readying himself, Kieron squared up to his advancing target, raised his bat into the air, and brought it down as hard as he could, getting the min in the face and chest. The bat bounced off, hardly even phasing the target, as the Infected man advanced on Kieron, furious about the lack of peacoat proffered. Keiron was about to swing at the man again, but –

The hipster froze in his tracks, as his feet had been glued to the floor. He struggled to keep advancing to no avail, and then he had to struggle to even stay upright, as his entire body gave in like a collapsing house of cards, as he collapsed ineffectually to the ground. Demonstration over – with an outcome no one seemed to suspect – Kieron walked back to the group while the scavengers returned to claim the clothes of the fallen.

“The foam on the bat is meant to contain an extremely strong muscle paralysis toxin,” Cyrano explained. “The R&D called it the Stun Baton. I have no idea how the toxin’s administered – part of me doesn’t want to know – but it’s only supposed to affect exposed skin.” Arthur smiled again.
“Meaning we have to take these rioters out, we need to... aim for the head”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“Suddenly these guys feel an awful lot like Zombies again...”

Corinne pulled out her notebook again.
“There’s also something I’ve noticed about the rioters’ behaviour,” she said. “While they seem perfectly capable of attacking each other to steal clothing – any clothing – they’ve not attacked us unless we’ve provoked them.”
“That’s a good point!” said Rafael, surprised. “So why do you think that is?”
“Well, considering that these guys will rabidly go for anything fashionable, and we’re dressed in Riot uniforms designed for function – not fashion – I suppose we don’t show up on their radar.”
“But what about me?” interjected Arthur, looking confused. “My fetching leather coat and excellent hat are my own clothes, not G-SIDE issue.”
“Then that only means one thing, Artie.” Corinne tried hard to hide her smile, and wasn’t succeeding.
“Meaning what?”
“You’re just not fashionable enough, I’m afraid!”

The Riot Control team laughed, to the chagrin of Arthur.
“Okay then, if this means you’re going to go along with my plan, let’s get to it!” He gestured towards Cyrano. “Since it’s your new toy, I want you to go in with the Stun Bat first. We’ll follow behind you with the Riot Shields.” Cyrano coughed and looked away.
“I uh, don’t know if I want to be in the front position, given the circumstances. Besides, you don’t have a Riot Shield.”
Arthur pulled out his awe-inspiring beauty of a gun and smiled once more.
“If things get bad, I have this little number. Let’s go already!”

Steeling their courage, the group dove head-first into the crowd of Infected. Cyrano lead the way with the Stun Baton, landing clean hits left and right. Bodies collapsed and were dragged away at a steady rate, clearing the path ahead. Immediately behind the others followed; Kieron, Corinne and Rafael keeping the sides and rear well protected with their Riot Shields, with Arthur in the middle, keeping a look out for any potential problems.
The plan proceeded slowly, but without a hitch. They were less than 100 meters from the shop front now, and everyone was starting to breathe easy once more – Arthur’s plan had actually succeeded. A lithe and seemingly well-fought Punk rioter emerged from the crowd. At this point it was hard to tell if the tears in his clothing were gained from the brawl or intentional. Cyrano wound up another swing, but this time the rioter saw it coming and dodged. Sent off-balance by the unexpected miss, Cyrano was a sitting duck for a counter attack. Seeing this, Arthur whirled round to the pair and pulled his gun.
“Corinne! The guy in the red Mohawk!”
Not prepared for the sudden instruction, Corrine reacted more in shock to the drawn weapon than the advancing rioter. She quickly pulled round her shield just as Arthur fired a warning shot. Firing a weapon at such a close range would be a recipe for disaster. The shield was perfectly placed – the shot ricocheted harmlessly off the green barrier into the night air; but the position was awkward, and she lost her balance. She stumbled into Kieron, supporting herself on his shoulder.

Not knowing what was going on behind him, Kieron turned round to see what the ruckus was. Losing sight of controlling his Shield, his arm moved round and bumped gently into Cyrano. That bump was all that was needed – the force feedback of the barrier kicked in, and before Cyrano knew what happened, he was face down on the floor.

And then the rioters attacked. Without a moment of respite, 4 rioters were upon him, grabbing and tearing at his clothes, the Stun Baton knocked from his hand. It was all he could do to prevent himself from being trampled, let alone retrieve his weapon. Fortunately Kieron was quick to assist. Forgoing the Baton for his own strength, he kicked the rioters off Cyrano, and pulled him – now dazed and topless – to his feet. The Stun Baton was still close by, and upon grabbing it decided to take control of the moment and issue his own orders.
“Guys! Knock your Shields to max output – we’re going to rush the store!”
Rafael pushed away a Preppy teenager and pulled an expression of annoyance.
“What is it with everyone making up stupid orders today? We’ve not tested the Shields at full strength yet!”
“Just goddamn do it!”

With the limit on power consumption released, the Riot Shields literally exploded into life. A gigantic wall of green stretched up and around, the separate barriers meeting together to form a large dome around the team. The raw force of the barrier’s growth knocked the rioters over like bowling pins, and swept them away like leaves in the wind. Even inside the barrier, the G-SIDErs could feel an immense pressure bearing down on them, like they were being squashed from all sides.
Rafael felt all his joints click at once, and he winced from the pain. He shouted to the others.
“You heard Kieron! Rush the store!”
The sprinted for the shop front as though their lives depended on it – and in a way it did. They could see two of the shop assistants – one tall and of solid frame, one more average in height with lengthy auburn hair – were staring incredulously through the plastic doors.
“Open the doors, or we’ll bust right through ‘em!” Yelled Kieron, not even slowing down.

They opened the doors.

The Shields began to blur and fade as they became overexerted, before eventually vanishing entirely. The team collapsed through the shop doors breathing heavily as the shop assistants moved behind them and locked the doors – the rioters resumed pounding on the shop windows and doors, demanding access to the precious garments.

The inside of the boutique wasn’t dissimilar to its exterior; that is to say sparse and made from industrial scrap metal. Everything, from the shelves to the clothes racks seemed to be made from recycled junk, making the establishment resemble more of a warehouse than an expensive emporium of stylish goods. That said, the clothing they had on sale wasn’t too offensive. In need of something to cover his exposed torso, Cyrano browed through the aisles. He ended up in a pinpoint oxford shirt and a brown argyle sweater, looking far more like the technologically-inclined professor he identified as, rather than the rough and official Riot Squad member he’d been employed as. One of these days he’d have to ask for a promotion.

Doors locked and secured, the shop assistants went back to staring incredulously at the strange intruders. Quietly fuming, Rafael couldn’t take it anymore.
“God damn it, Wendell!” He grabbed Arthur by his coat lapel, and pulled him in close. “I knew this was going to happen. If it wasn’t for those shields – and thank the high heavens that they work – out asses would have been beaten to a pulp. And stripped bare afterwards!”
“Not to mention I knew I’d end up getting the short end of the stick,” Added in Cyrano, now trying on a tweed jacket. Maybe he could persuade G-SIDE to give his salary this month in clothes...

Arthur put his hands up in apology.
“Hey, hey, calm down. I can see you guys aren’t used to the gung-ho approach; and to be honest neither am I. Where the rest of the Paranormal Investigators are all too willing to see what’s inside that cryogenic tank, or to see what happens when they pull that lever marked ‘Danger’; I’m usually the one hanging back and hoping we don’t end up as monster chow; but you must admit it’s worked here. None of you are even hurt – apart from maybe Cyrano, but he seems fine to me – so I’d say this plan was a success. Maybe I’m getting a little ‘genre savvy’ myself; because I swear you’re just trying to find faults to exclude me from your group.”
This accusation was met with silence. Rafael let go and looked away.
“It’s nothing personal, there’s just more dramatic tension that way...”

Arthur sighed and shook his head, then turned to the shop assistants.
“In that case, I think I’ll call the shots for now. You two have a rather nice establishment here,” he said while gesturing at the bare, metal walls. “The only clothes shop in the Quarter that isn’t a wrecked husk? And has all the rioters clustered outside it? How... peculiar.”
He drew his elegant revolver and levelled it at the tall, well-built shop assistant. She reeled back in surprise, her well-manicured hand covering her mouth to stifle a gasp.
“I think I have a complaint to take up with the manager. The opening hours are nice, but this customer service stinks. Care to take me to his office?”
The two shop assistants looked at each other, and conferred quietly. After about thirty seconds the shorter assistant with the long flowing hair rubbed the designer stubble on his chin in thought, and then nodded.
“Of course you can see our manager, sir. If you could just follow me,” at which point he glanced at the rest of the G-SIDE agents “In fact, all of you follow me. Tara, keep an eye on the doors, please. Send out another box of clothes in about half an hour.”
The female assistant nodded, and the other started to move to the back of the shop. The team followed him past the sales counter, then into a back room and hallway. The inside of the building felt much, much larger than the outside. It must have been a constructed by the Architects Quarter, no doubt.

At the very end of the corridor was a plain white door with a sign that simply read ‘Manager’ screwed to its surface. The shop assistant opened it and gestured into the room as the G-SIDE members entered. This room wasn’t much different tin style from any of the others – minimalist and industrial. Even the manager’s desk was featureless and bulky. He’d tried to liven it up with photographs, a stack of fashion literature and a small flower vase containing a solitary pink orchid; but it just made the rest of the room look even more drab by comparison. The manager himself was sitting in his chair, slumped on the desk, and holding a very large glass of scotch in his hand. He was sighing heavily, and looked generally miserable.

It took him a minute or two to actually acknowledge that he had visitors (prompted by polite coughs of the shopping assistant), but when he did his mood brightened slightly; he went from sheer despair to desperation.
“Thank the stars! We have G-SIDErs! I thought we were just going to end up dying in this metal coffin with nary a sane person to keep us company.”
Arthur put on his best Brave Dynamic Saviour voice.
“Do not fear! The ever present and ever protective force of G-SIDE is here to save you from your troubles and your fears!”
“Oh goodness me no,” the manager replied. “You’re just as likely to die in here as the rest of us. There’s no saving us from our customers now, they’ll shop and shop until there’s nothing left.”

Corinne’s jaw dropped.
“Your customers? Are you telling me that you’re responsible for the gigantic riot going on outside? Just what on earth did you do to drive them into such a state?”
“We advertised,” said the manager, managing to look morose again. “A new fashion boutique like ourselves had no hope of making a foray into the market in this city. The big companies are just so goddamn big, and the fashions change so often, we’d be drowned out and bankrupt in a month! We had to find a way to advertise our store to make its presence known. Something with far more presence than a leaflet, and most Consoles these days filter out any and all advertising if it’s not from AureliusTech.

“So I did a little research, and found out that in the early 21st century there was something called ‘Viral Marketing’. I couldn’t get much in the way of specifics, but the effects were recorded to have been massive! So I did what anyone desperate and aware of the info would have done; I found a morally loose biological research facility, paid them a lot of money, and had them design my very own ‘Marketing Virus’.”
Cyrano put his head in his hands and moaned.
“You idiot, that’s not what they meant by ‘Viral Marketing’, it’s-, “but the manager raised his hand in interruption and kept talking. At this point, he seemed way beyond caring about correction.
“The virus they came up with was perfect. Affecting only those from 16 to 24, it implanted them with subliminal messages about our store, and pumped them full of dopamine and adrenaline when they saw our products. It was even spreadable by air or contact. An advertising campaign that not only spread itself by more than just word of mouth; it even assisted towards impulse buying!

“But as with all good plans, there was a flaw. The virus was too strong; it mutated to a strain that we couldn’t control. The infected individuals were more than just eager punters – they craved clothes. Soon enough it wasn’t just clothes from us, but any clothes shops. When we saw the customers get too violent, we closed our shop, hoping they’d give up and leave. When other shops refused to sell, they took them over by force until the boutique became an empty, burned-out husk. Now, with all the other shops taken down, the infected rioters are just gathering outside , trying their hardest to get in. This building was built to be cheaply made but strong and sturdy; so we’ve been relatively safe for the time being. But it’s only a matter of time until... until...”
He sobbed, took another large gulp of scotch, and laid his head back down on the desk.

“So the rioters outside really are the Infected?” said Rafael, thinking out loud. “I was only using that title as a filler term, since saying ‘Rioters’ all the time started to get repetitive...” The others nodded in agreement; it did add variety to the description of their target.

The room lapsed into silence as the manager continued to quietly weep into his imposing metal desk. Eventually Corinne broke the heavy feeling of impending doom and forced clothes removal with a glimmer of hope.
“It seems likely that the people you contacted to make your uh, ad campaign, used an existing virus as a base and modified it. If we know what that base is, maybe we can think of a cure...”
The manager was too busy drowning despair to respond, so the shop attendant took up the duty.
“If I recall correctly, our boss keeps all of his business documents in that filing cabinet over there,” He gestured to a small metal stack of drawers in the corner of the room; they blended in so well with the grey metallic surroundings, Corinne couldn’t be entirely sure if the filing cabinet was there at all. “I wouldn’t say he’s especially organised in his filing systems, but he does horde an unnecessary amount of paperwork. If it’s not in there, I don’t know where it is.”

Corrine moved around the manager’s desk – which had now started to collect a small puddle of tears and spilt scotch – and reached for the filing cabinet, giving it a gentle tap just to check it really was there. Opening it, she could see that the shop assistant was completely correct in his assumptions – the files inside were stuffed in a completely random order. Corinne swallowed hard. She did not cope well with untidiness – her almost totalitarian attitude towards filing and organising the minutiae of life had cost her three boyfriends, her hard of hearing Auntie Flo, and a large tank of tropical fish; although thankfully not all at the same time.

She tried her best to look for the file pertaining to the viral marketing advertising campaign, but her eyes kept on being distracted by the sheer randomness and futility of it all ; not to mention how badly kept the filing cabinet was. She was about to resign completely and ask for help when she came across a large, orange envelope. It had a company logo on the front – one of those post-modern designs that couldn’t decide on whether it wanted to inform you of the company it represented, or be an interesting optical illusion. Underneath it was the company name printed in bold, black type.

Memes & Mutagens PLC
Creating unlikely illnesses since the Millennium Bug

“Bingo!” She wiped her brow in relief, and slammed the filing cabinet shut with relish. The manager twitched in response to the noise, and went promptly back to his crying marathon.
“Can I take a look at them?” Offered Cyrano. She happily obliged, and handed the wad of documents over to him. There was another awkward period of silence as Cyrano read the documents through slowly and carefully. In the distance, they could hear the thumps and scrapes of the rioting infected get louder and louder. Soon the other shop assistant came through the door. With so many people inside the none too large office, it brought a rather apt feel of claustrophobia to the proceedings.
“Jeff, we can’t keep this up much longer,” she said, looking rather sombre. “Even if we do keep supplying them with clothes, they’ll just break down the doors anyway. We either need a solution to our client infestation, or to get out of here – now.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you,” said Cyrano, having finished reading the case files. “According to all this, the root virus strain they used to create the advertising campaign is called ‘Man Flu’, something that was reported to strike a lot of individuals with heavy work routines before Labour Euphoria Implants were invented.”
“Thanks for the science lesson, but how is that gonna get us out of here?” Kieron looked agitated, almost scared. The honest potential of danger was starting to form cracks in his hardened self image.
“Have some patience, Cain. Anyway, I used my Console to look up this virus on DictionaryExMachina.com and according to them, the original virus had an uncanny knack of vanishing when something important came up.”
“So then where does that leave us?” Asked Arthur. Cyrano permitted himself a smug smile. Spending an evening with the bumbling paranormal investigator had given him one thing of value.
“That’s easy. What day of the week is it, and what time?”

Everyone seemed a little puzzled by the question, and the blond, bearded secretary looked at his watch.
“We’ve been at this for far too long. It’s approaching 6am, Monday morning.”
“Then the timing couldn’t be better. Let’s head back to the shop front, shall we?” With dangerous confidence, Cyrano squeezed past everyone to exit the office, and walked back down the hallway to the main boutique area. Not sharing quite the same enthusiasm, the others followed. Even the manager managed to rouse himself enough to tail along; although not without his booze.

The Infected had finally broken into the shop; and were busy fighting over the contents within. Some had taken the concept of layering to an extreme, and were pulling on as many items they could find; while others were just intent on rolling around in the fabrics, in throes of pleasure. Others still outside were practically climbing over the others to get in.

And then the sun rose. Peeking over the tops of the taller buildings in the Fashion Quarter, a new day had begun to dawn. Once it reached the Glass and Mirror Fashion Emporium (whose wares were extremely beautiful, but the clothing lines were often avoided – especially the underwear range), Style Square was flooded with light. Slivers edged their way through the plastic windows of the store, and on to the rioters.

It was a Mod enthusiast who first noticed. Presently wrapped almost from head to toe in scarves, he wriggled an arm free to take off his sunglasses and rub his eyes.
“Is... is it morning already? Oh crap! I have a midterm exam to do today! Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap...”
One by one the other rioters noticed the sun shining down on them, and one by one they realised they had somewhere gravely important to be.
“I have a nine o-clock meeting!”
“It’s my brother’s birthday today!”
“I have a class to teach- wait, where the hell are my clothes? Where am I?”
“I don’t remember a goddamn thing. Last might must have been awesome!”

Staggering to their feet gradually, the newly-refreshed customers shook off the remnants of their flu-induced madness and started their Monday; bruised, tired, and in various states of dress. Soon only one remained. A mousy and casual looking girl who looked entirely surprised to be in the Fashion Quarter; let alone in the middle of a ruined boutique. She tugged at her clothes, and made her way over to one of the few unbroken mirrors in the establishment, and gave a little twirl. Noticing the G-SIDErs and shop staff watching from the counter, she walked over.
“Excuse me; I’m not sure how I got here, and I’m not sure why I’m wearing clothes that aren’t mine, but...” She blushed. “I think they suit me. I’ll buy them. How much?”

The manager took another hard swig from the decanter of spirit and wiped a tear away from his eye.
“Lady, at this point I can honestly say that right now, you’re outfit is on the house. I’d tell you to come back soon...”
A light fixture came loose from the ceiling, and shattered on the floor in a shower of glass and sparks.
“...But I think we’re going to be under maintenance for a while. Have a nice day.”
The girl gave a sympathetic smile and nodded.
“Somehow, I understand. But I still think I should give you at least something.” She patted her jeans to find her wallet, realised that they quite obviously weren’t her jeans, and gave a nervous laugh.
“On second thoughts; I think I’ll just leave. Uh... Sorry for the mess.”

As she walked away into the morning air, Rafael clamped a hand on the manager’s shoulder with a face stonier than granite.
“Now that’s over and done with, there’s the matter of the arrest warrant we have for the person responsible for instigating the riot. Since none of those... customers appeared to be entirely lucid during last night’s little escapade, the only person I can turn to and blame for this right now is-“
He produced a set of handcuffs from a jacket pocket and had his own Arthur-styled smirk.
“-Guess who?”
“Of course we need to do a follow up investigation on the company that sold you that virus in the first place,” Added Corinne.
“But that’s a job for a different department. Let’s just get these three in for questioning at G-SIDE, and get some sleep. I’m exhausted.”

Arthur fidgeted a little. Now the thrill of a mission was over, he suddenly felt extremely out of place – even more so than normal.
“Guys, I have to apologise for any kind of drama I’ve put you through, I didn’t mean to make the mission more difficult, I swear.”
The apology was met with a cold silence. Cyrano and Corinne looked somewhat more accommodating, but still said nothing. Arthur sighed. He just couldn’t win.
“Can’t we all just ease up a little now the mission’s over? Get a coffee and make inappropriate jokes about the youth of today being fashion obsessed or something? Please?”

The five G-SIDE agents sat around a large table in the Drama Bean Cafe, an intimate, cosy establishment that did amateur theatre and performance art on Thursday evenings. Each had a large mug of coffee, and for the first time since their initial group meeting back at the base, they were actually enjoying each other’s company. Kieron wiped some cappuccino froth from his upper lip and banged a fist on the table.
“Got it! How about this one?
After fighting an army of fashion victims, I’ve become rather stylish myself. I’m especially a big fan of patterned clothing.
Indeed, I go crazy for paisley
Mad for plaid
And gaga for argyle
But I’m totally ‘board’ of checkers, and houndstooth gets me wound up!”
“Dear me,” said Rafael taking a sip of his 3rd cup of mocha. “You have to be the worst comedian poet I’ve ever heard.”

“But we’re still gonna do a set here on Thursday, right?”
“Haha, not even an undead outbreak will tear us away.”

[Vipershark]

uh
well, I definitely got a metrosexual vibe from that chapter
it wasn't badly written, but it felt a little TOO focused on clothes.
Almost as if the Riot Squad themselves were talking about clothes a bit too much.
Other than that, there were maybe one or two spelling/grammar mistakes that I saw.

Keep going, though.

[GrooveMan.exe]

Kind of the point I guess; what with where the chapter was set. If I was to set it in the Musicians Quarter it'd be full of music puns, yadda yadda.
Ugh, I keep missing errors, even though I've read through it. I guess that's why writers have a separate proofreader to get the typos they don't catch.

[Vipershark]

do you want me to post the errors I find so that you can fix them in the future?

[GrooveMan.exe]

If you feel so badly inclined, I don't mind. Although if you do, PM them to me instead of posting it here.

---

Chapter 6: A Water Cooler Moment

So it turns out that lightning does indeed strike twice. I really wish it didn’t, because filling out the paperwork for licenses ‘To Bring Life to Abominations of Nature and Science’ was lengthy and tedious enough to do just once a week. Those mad scientists are always trouble, in my opinion; always devising ways to break the rules – the rules that I have to spend an 80 hour week typing, filing, faxing, amending, copying, upgrading, shuffling, transferring, testing, and then finally burning so they don’t get into the wrong hands.

Take this current case for an example. Some bright spark (no pun intended, I assure you) thought it would be a good idea to rig his laboratory in the University Quarter with some kind of weather altering thingamagig. Now not only are we getting complaints from residents in a 7 block radius of the lab who are almost drowning in a near-constant torrent of rain, he’s using the lightning strikes to power a whole load of his ‘personal projects’; things far, far more pressing and downright dangerous than your average Science Fair volcano.

The worst part? Now a whole bunch of other scientists – not to mention kite fliers, gardeners, and barbecue enthusiasts – have been completely inspired by the idea, and these weather machines have been cropping up all over the city. Sure, I can see the attraction – sunny weather whenever you want is something most people wouldn’t want to pass up – but rules are rules; and that kind of technology in public circulation is all kind of illegal.

When I first complained about it to the higher ups they just laughed at me; and then proceeded to instruct me to contact their families – they’d be staying at home for their holiday this year. Doing personal calls and doing online shopping research for gaudy swimwear is definitely not part of my job description, but who can argue with one of the largest and best companies in the world?

The G-SIDE members who have to do fieldwork complain about having a hard time, but it’s us secretaries that have the short end of the stick; in my frankly honest opinion. At least with missions you get to visit the city – interact with people in a way that doesn’t involve sitting at a help desk. But no; for me and the several hundred like me, it’s nothing but office jobs and clerical work, day in, day out. Occasionally we’re assigned temporary positions – doing mission briefings when the department manager is away; doing interviews of new G-SIDE applicants; defending our research from terrorist hacking attempts with nothing but an out of date Terminal, a handful of data disks, and a large cup of extra strong coffee. But that’s all they are; proverbial sidequests in the epic fantasy adventure of paperwork, telephones, and saying “How can I help you, sir?”

Going back to the weather machine issue, once my superiors rejected the notion of investigation – they said it would be too mundane for most G-SIDE operatives to be interested in – I decided to take a little initiative, and took a trip to one of our research and development departments. Giving them a heads up to this new bit of nature-disregarding machinery (they don’t leave the labs much, the poor dears), I asked them to do a little experiment to see what would happen if two of these machines happened to get too close to each other.

Needless to say, two machines both set to produce a light rain ended up creating a wild and fierce hurricane; and with two machines set to conflicting weather types, space-time itself protested, and the entire isolated testing chamber collapsed in on itself, vanishing without a trace. The bathroom on the floor above promptly dropped onto the kitchen area on the floor below.

With this new information I went back to protesting something to be done; but by this point most of my superiors had already left for home on unplanned home holidays. The only one left was Martin.

Martin Guycott, never has there been a name (or a person) I have loathed more. While I still do believe that G-SIDE hires staff on the basis that their merits and skills will benefit both the society and the general public; I still can’t fathom what possible good traits that scum of a man might have. Yes, we’re overworked by our superiors; and yes, they may have a bad habit of goofing off during times where we need to work our hardest – but otherwise they’re still likeable people. Martin does not fall into that category.

He’s efficient, but only when it goes towards his own personal agendas. He’s polite, but only when it’ll get him something he wants. If you’re not his peer or his superior, you don’t factor into his ‘game plan’, making you totally superfluous in his eyes. To make matters worse, he dated my sister. It’s always worse when they make it personal.

Shirley Shirlsdon was an awesome sister, I couldn’t ask for better. She had all of the promise and the scope to go for something really big in G-SIDE; the motivational skills to be a manager, or the vicious tae kwon do skills to work as a bodyguard, or an agent. And yet, she chose to be a secretary; completely disregarding the role she was initially set by the company – because she always followed her passions to the fullest.

I wouldn’t be surprised if the only reason I’m a secretary now, and not just a janitor in retro glasses and a pencil skirt is probably all down to her. You can’t help but feel a little dishonest for getting a job position through who you know, and not exactly what you’re capable of; but I got to work alongside my sis for the best part of a year, making it all worthwhile... until Martin showed up in the picture.

While I wasn’t sure what it was that made Shirley fall for him (and I still don’t), she had well and truly got bitten by the love bug. Within weeks they were inseparable, and I couldn’t get a moment alone with her at work; and with time that progressed to outside work too. We live in different Quarters of the city, but I couldn’t even ask her to lunch without the reply:
“Oh, would you mind if I brought Martin along?”
And I always said I didn’t mind, like false humility would make everything better.

But things changed. I’m not sure if Martin just got bored, or had some kind of twisted plan where he used sis as a stepladder to something else; but after about six months of nauseating intimacy, he suddenly seemed to go cold; treating Shirley with a distant hand, never calling, never around. She told me that if they happened to run into each other at work, he never smiled, and walked away without saying a word. I could finally hang out with my sister again, but it didn’t feel enjoyable anymore.

Next thing I know, she’s telling me she’s skipping town – to head to some war-torn country to put her supreme diplomacy, combat, and tea-making skills to what she called “True, honest use for the community”. The goodbyes were heartfelt, but brief. The only entity more sad than myself to see her go was G-SIDE itself, supplying her with all kinds of resources for her journey and mission; with a promised automatic acceptance to her old position if she ever wanted to return.

As for me, I obviously kept my position, but everyone knew – least of all myself – how I wasn’t up to scratch compared to sis. I even look similar too her; it’s as if she left an inferior clone behind in her absence.

Martin didn’t help any. He took every opportunity to remind me that Shirley’s no longer around; coming to a point where I had suddenly found all data to me having been moved from the computer systems, and Shirley’s account was now in my name. I spent two weeks with my Name Tag Console proclaiming to everyone that I was Shirley. I’ve managed to get it fixed since, but I’m not even sure if anyone even remembers that my name’s actually Samantha.

But I’ll have them recognise me for who I am. If Shirley taught me one thing from me working with her; it’s that I can’t give up my goals in the face of a little adversity; and that’s all that Martin will ever be. I am my own person – Samantha Shirlsdon – and I’ll prove it by being the best goddamn secretary that I can be. And from there, who knows? Maybe I can get a draft into some actual fieldwork. Someone has to do something about issues like those damn weather machines; and if anyone’s going to step up to the plate, and prevent San Sarai from being torn apart by tornadoes, or just plain vanishing from existence as we know it, then It’s going to be me.

[Vipershark]

Not bad.
Just wondering, will you be coming back later to keep writing about these characters, (meaning that the first couple of chapters are sort of introductions and there will most likel be intertwining stories later) or is it a bunch of stories about new people?

[GrooveMan.exe]

Both, although not linearly.

For example, the voice of Chapter 6, Samantha Shirlsdon, is the same secretary as the one in Chapter 2. Characters may very well appear again later (it's the same world and time period, after all), but not necessarily in the same narrative role.

[Vipershark]

Ah, I thought I recognized her name somewhere, although she seems much less of a heroine-type character in chapter 2.
I doubt I would've realized it if you hadn't told me, though.
Good interaction, either way.

[GrooveMan.exe]

Note: Imagine this chapter said in a sexy, dripping voice. It helps.

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[Vipershark]

holy shit the sub zone sounds amazing