MiniKirk

Brief note from the author: This is just something I've been dicking with for a while, tell me what you think.




Into the Electric Castle
By Dustin Rojas




The LCD display at the intersection blinked stop, the harsh red glare illuminating the street, mixing with the unnatural orange light of the street-lamps to produce a color not dissimilar to blood. Hatter didn't notice, nor did he care, and he sped through the intersection. No worries, the City police would have a ticket in his inbox by morning. When it came to minor govno, they were impressively fast. If only they paid as much attention to the major crimes.
Before we go any further, it's best to mention that the City was at one point the high point of American life. Everyone who was anyone moved into, and lived in, the City. But, like the song says, all things must pass. Eventually the poor took over, and turned the city into a massive slum. Movie stars and musicians were replaced by slumlords and junkies. Hatter fit into this mold, sporting a five hundred New-Dollar a month CrystalHeaven habit.
CrystalHeaven was the latest designer drug to hit the streets, but really, it was no different than everything that came before. Only it was stronger. And lasted longer. Hatter found it helped him work when he's jacked into the 'net. Which is often.
He works for anyone with the money to hire him, stealing company secrets from the competitors of whoever he's working for. He never deals with the people who hire him face to face. He just emails the contractor his (or her) data, and they transfer his payment to his bank account.
Easy-easy, right? Right. Or so it was supposed to be. But this latest job, something was wrong. He was irritated as anything, as he sped along the streets. He wasn't supposed to have to deliver the data in person.
Hard copy disgusted him, it was outdated, and it felt foreign to his fingers. He'd never dealt with hardcopy before, not even in the old days, when he was still a newbie.
It wasn't even anything important. Just a chunk of a companies garbage file. Blei man, chto za huy. He could have sent it out, and gotten payed right away. But no, he has to meet the svolochs at some upscale hotel. "The New Yorker", named for the old-time magazine. Catered to Salarymen, and celebrities, people who earned two or three billion New-Dollars a year, easy. He navigated the streets quickly enough, he did it all the time, but for kicks. Or to get to the bar.
He'd heard stories of the hotel, everyone had. And he knew all the rumors, everyone did. This place was infamous. This was where they all went when they were slumming. No laws here, meant anything goes. Hell, he even has a few of the movies that came out of there. None of the snuff goyno though; he just wanted the sex videos. He parked his car in front of a bellhop, tossed him the keys, and took his ticket, without stopping.
He didn't want to go in there. After all he HAD heard the stories. But for him, it was best to just keep moving. The weight of the pistol in his jacket pocket did little to comfort him. He'd had this little job augmented to fire nano-cartridges; nasty little things that once in contact with skin, would seep in, and start devouring its target from the inside out. He tired to take comfort in that, and the low probability of getting offed, as he stepped through the doors.
The lobby was, of course packed, and the stench of affluence was heavy in the air. He wrinkled his nose slightly, and headed right for the elevator. Once inside, he took out his palmtop, and jacked into the lift's computer system, entering in the code to get to the penthouse suits. It wouldn't accept his hand print, you had to be registered to one of the suits to get to those floors. Made sure the richest of the rich had their privacy.
The lift dinged, and buzzed into life, taking up to the room. It took all of thirty seconds, and then he was there. The doors slid open, and he stepped into a short hallway. A security cam scanned him,
and told the rooms occupants that he was there. A voice, distorted digitally, told him to stay right where he was, and he would be escorted in presently. He sighed, and nodded, this wait making him a little more nervous, if that was possible.
With a hiss, the doors opened, and two cleaners stepped out. Cleaners, so named because they were supposedly routinely used by the government to 'clean up' the country. Or, to put it in other words, wipe out anyone who held a view The Powers That Be felt would encourage dissidence. That meant that these men were either Very Powerful, or Very Rich Indeed. He had figured they were rich, after all they had paid him quite a lot. Two-point-one billion New-Dollars, so Quite A Lot. He shrugged, and let them frisk him.
Of course they took his gun. He didn't like that one bit, but whatever, soon as this was over he'd have it back, and he could get the hell out of there. They didn't speak, just went about their business. He allowed them to, with an unnecessary amount of force, escort him into the suite. Where the so-called President stood.
"Chyort voz'mi!" he thought, "I'm in it now." El Presidente was rumored to be a very cruel man, but not one who usually let the blood of his...enemies stain his hands. "…Musta done something terrible." As scared as he was, he met the man's eyes.
"I can see the fear in your eyes. Behind the false bravado," The President laughed, "and I admire it. But I'd much rather you acted scared. I prefer it that way." He laughs again, flipping a switch, to reveal what looked like a miniature film studio. And a man in leather, wearing a gimp mask. Hatter wet himself, he couldn't help it. He was too scared to bother controlling his bowels. The President laughed, "Perfect! Now whimper, and cower. Oh how I love it when they cower. Boys, let him go." Once they released their grips on him, he collapsed, shaking fearfully. Though he knew there was nothing he could do about it.
Smiling evilly, El Presidente turns to face the mini-studio. "Get the camera ready!" he barks at an unseen person. Once getting the green, he turns back to the hacker. "Beg for your life." He smirks, "Maybe, if I'm moved, I'll let you live."
"P-please let me live. I have a family! Little kids even!" His hands grip the legs of the malevolent man, shaking badly. He looks down at him, like he'd just stepped in something foul. Hatter could only cry, tears and snot flowing freely.
"Not even close." El Presidente growled, kicking the other man off of his legs. The cleaners grabbed him, and threw him to the man in the gimp mask. If he'd been looking, Hatter would have seen one other man, running a mini-cam, connected to a live feed, for everyone else in the hotel. But no, he kept his eyes shut tight. Leather Gimp grabbed him, and pressed a rag to his face. He tried to fight it, but eventually he just gave in, thankful that he wouldn't feel anything.
Once out, he was placed on a table and secured. Wearing a ghoulish grin, the evil man stepped in front of the cameras. "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages!" He called out, smiling vilely "Behold! A terrorist!" He steps aside, to reveal the unconscious hacker, strapped to the table. "Make sure you get in close enough to see everything." he calls to the cameraman. "I present to you, the leader of the Free Information Union, and the man behind the assassination of the Head of Internal Affairs."
The Free Information Union, was a group of hackers that Hatter had nothing to do with. Belei, he'd never met one. They were a reclusive bunch. Their goal, was to open the countries eyes to the world, through the internet. They weren't even behind the death of the Head, the President was. Why? To rally the nation against "Terrorists", so he could gain more power.
He waited for the audience to take in the magnitude of his statement, and then nodded to Leather Gimp, who started in his work. First, he woke up the poor, poor man. He then pulled out a rather nasty looking knife, and waved it in front of his victim's nose. Hatter screamed, a loud blood-curdling noise, that lasted throughout the ordeal.
Leather Gimp started slowly hacking away at the man's fingers. Then his wrists. Then the elbows, and so on and so forth. Intermittently, IV's were attached to the man, and he was pumped with drugs, to keep him awake and aware during everything. Once fully removed, the stumps where his arms, legs, and genitals were cauterized with a soldering iron.
His already horrific scream was made even worse, when Leather Gimp slid the knife across the mutilated man's throat. It quieted to a disturbing gurgle, as he died. All told, the broadcast lasted one hour fifteen minutes. Once dead, it was ended, and was all over the 'net, both within and without the country, by the end of the week.

mastro

Damn that was really good, keep going with it

MiniKirk

Thanks! I think this might be the start of a cycle of stories detailing a dystopian future.

joebob4790

an interesting prospect. it would be a unique opening to a story that follows the so called terrorist group. more background information would be greatly appreciated and during the torture, be sure to have an antecedent to your pronouns, as it can become confusing who "he" is. all in all a very cool idea, but some more work is needed. definitely continue to delve into this topic.

ashlee lynn x0

Wow. Very interesting, I liked it

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