Paranoir: Blood on the Dance Floor

Ashjyr's Journal, October 24 2009, Saturday

Loud music bangs on the walls of my eardrums. Smell of cheap booze assails my nostrils. Bodies entwine in an orchestra of artificial high and primal desire.

Human decadence at its finest.

No flying solo for this one. Today we are a squad. We take our positions by one of the tables.

Suspicious characters approach the table beside ours. Mere agents of the enemy. More pawns to the slaughter.

We will make the infidels pay in blood.

But it appears the enemies are not to be taken lightly. We size each other up. Like caged lions fighting for scraps of meat to the amusement of decadent nobles.

“That girl is checking you out.”

Damn. We've been marked. I expect a dagger to my spine any moment.

We are drawing too much attention to ourselves. I shift to the dance floor. Ada is my cover.

“I'm telling you. That girl is checking you out.”

Damn it. Focus, people.

We need to focus on the mission. We should trail them to see where their base of operations is located. I wonder how we can track them.

“Go ask her for her number.”

And I'm sure this extremely elaborate plan is going to work because...

No. There is much at stake. The mission will not be jeopardized on a whim.

“50 dollars.”

Hmm. That changes everything... No wait. What the fuck? No.

The One, finally speaks. His advise to follow protocol will forever be burned into my brain.

“When in doubt, follow the One-hand Rule.”

Paranoir: The Ambush

Ashjyr's Journal, October 19 2009, Monday

Blistering heat. Open space. No shelter. Perfect place to spend the day.

Perfect place for an ambush.

I focus on the task ahead. Time to earn my pay.

“Last year this time we were at Taiwan.”

My associate. Level-headed. Cool. Composed. One of the few people I'd jump into a foxhole with.

Martial arts is a given in our line of work, but not many people I know can bludgeon you to death with logic.

“I wonder where we were.”

Must be a “woman thing”. Most men try to leave their past behind. I tell her I don't remember.

“Ahh. We were at Fen Qi Hu.”

That place brings back poignant memories. That place is no more.

How does she remember these things? Memory training? Cybernetic implants? Or is it just a “woman thing”?

I don't remember pleasant memories. I don't remember unpleasant memories. I don't remember anything. She remembers everything.

What did those bastards do to me?

“It's a 'woman thing'.”

I swear someone up there has a sense of humor.

“Women are better at remembering events. Wait. Did I lock my car?”

Did I mention this is the perfect place for an ambush?

Gunfire. Heavy artillery. Sniper cover. Wave after wave of bombardment.

But nothing hits quite as hard as Irony.

Paranoir

Ashjyr's Journal, October 3 2009, Saturday

The place looks familiar. Smells familiar. Aye, I have been here before.

Greying hair and wrinkled hands show me the way, no doubt agents planted to mislead me from uncovering the truth. With crystal clarity, I can see their malicious intent hidden behind a veil of forced smiles.

No. I must be inconspicuous. I must vanish from plain sight. Then, as if to read my mind, one of the cronies makes a passing comment on my attire.

'Next time cannot wear. Boss not happy.'

I have been marked. Damn.

So much for blending in. This assignment will not be easy. I will have to earn my keep this time.

With eager hands, I reach out for the manifest, casually left discarded on a table. As I begin reading, I realize this is no ordinary document. It has been deviously coded in a language I cannot understand.

What is this? Le French? Ze German?

No matter. My excellent memory will prevail. I was given this assignment for a reason, after all. Reaching into the deepest recesses of my mind, I unearth vivid mental images connecting all the dots in this kaleidoscope of misinformation.

Number 38.

Yes. That's the one. Entree Number 38. The rest is irrelevant. Accomplices. Decoys.

I must have struck gold. The agent that appears shortly after calling their bluff is suspiciously younger. Demure, yet seductive. Long hair, pleasing smile.

The enemy knows my weakness. Damn.

But I can see right through her. I mean her guise. Not her clothes. It is fairly dark and I forgot my xray glasses.

See, few people in this country will tell you that you are welcome when you thank them. She always remembered. Her training has given her away. Like how you can tell a hardened killer by the calluses on his hands.

Then, as if to cement my suspicions, I hear a query from just within earshot.

'Baked Alaska?'

The voice sounds like it came from a lesbian trapped in male body.

It appears there are others like me.

I mean about coming for the Baked Alaska. Not about being a Girly Man.

The reply is reassuring.

'1.5 hours.'

It appears The Master is in today. This will not be a wasted trip.