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Originally posted as part of a scene opener for a Dystopian Future plot, enjoy!
"Fuck this city sucks..." Harland Crane, 2818, New Bridgeport
That was the thought that crossed Harland 'Hurc' Crane's mind as he dredged down the dimly lit sidewalk lit by the constant presence of flickering neon ever present on the ground level of Bridgeport - or to be more propper 'New' Bridgeport, apparently there was an old one back in the way that got fucked up with some kind of bomb or something, but that was ancient history around here and there were people on the ground district, that is to say, the slum district, who couldn't remember if they'd eaten this week. Truth be told, the ground level was shit, and it changed its tone the higher you got, the mid section, and then the top tier, all separated by none other than how many fucking credits you could pour out to make yourself seem more important, of course that was the catch, wasn't it, you didn't get credits without starting with creds... and once you hit the ground, you didn't get back to the top, plain and simple.
Harland strode quickly but with the sort of nonchalant posture that said 'fuck off' without so much as a glance in passing. His 6'1 frame was broad enough, but it might have had something to do with the fact that he had a pair of immaculate bio-steel cybernetic arms that threatened to rip throug the constraints of his V-neck t-shirt and thermatek insulate vest that said that too. He'd gotten the call about three days ago, word dropped down the line via a skiptrace direct toward Harland's holo-cell, the small phone chip he'd had jacked into the cyberwear that protruded from the side of his shaved head, all save for the length of raven black hair down the middle, which was good, because Harland needed some fuckin' work, he'd been dry for awhile now and he was really jonesin' for the one thing that really got his body going anymore. A fight.
Then he found it, the entrance to the 'Neon Parrot' - it was a shitty dive bar and the only sign to the entrance had burned out most of the neon tubes long ago and instead just flickered with a random presence of 'Ne' and 'ot' with what used to be an animated flapping parrot to one side was now just a series of tape wrapped around some broken and shattered tubes, trying to hold them in place, it was always a surefire way to find the new fish to the scene, as they always tried to call it the 'Neot' like it was some kinda fixer slang. Nobody called it that.
As he stepped inside, he lowered the shimmery cowl of his blue hood that was attached to his vest and shook his head, the long central locks of his hair shaking astray across his moistened face and sticking in place - he didn't bother to move them and it made him look something akin to a rave junkie halfway through a bad LSD trip, but what the fuck did he have to prove to anyone, as if his fucking chrome arms didn't give him away already. He headed toward the back, the bartender, who was arguably more machine than man at this point, that is, literally, as it had broken out a barroom brawl about a month ago when it came up after a few too many death sticks and rotguts, gave Harland a familiar nod of approval and muttered a simple "Sup' Hurc" in passing.
Upon getting into the back room, Harland ushered the once velvety veil to one side with the sound of a metallic scraping and stepped in, it featured a long mostly steel table lined with a neon trim so you could see where the hell to put your drink in the darkness of the bar, smack dab in the middle of the room and about eight feet long, clearly meant for the brunt of a meeting surface, and a few standing stools, chairs, and one or two strewn around tables to go sit at if you got kicked out from the popular kids table in the middle.
A few people were there, but not a ton, and Harland took it upon himself to look around slowly before taking a seat at one of the tables for the non-cool kids, he wasn't cool, and he didn't try to be, but he did raise a metallic hand to brush back the hair on his head and scratch his stubble kissed face, he was pretty sure he'd slept sometime in the last four days, but he couldn't remember for certain.
What he did remember, is that he hadn't had a smoke in awhile, and pulled out a black cylinder about four inches long and slapped it against the metallic side of his head with a soft crack, and the tip began to glow a subtle blue hue, the opposite of which he place between his lips and inhaled the deep, sweet feel of carcinogens into his lungs, which, last he recalled, he still hadn't had replaced yet.
"Fuck this city sucks..." Harland Crane, 2818, New Bridgeport
That was the thought that crossed Harland 'Hurc' Crane's mind as he dredged down the dimly lit sidewalk lit by the constant presence of flickering neon ever present on the ground level of Bridgeport - or to be more propper 'New' Bridgeport, apparently there was an old one back in the way that got fucked up with some kind of bomb or something, but that was ancient history around here and there were people on the ground district, that is to say, the slum district, who couldn't remember if they'd eaten this week. Truth be told, the ground level was shit, and it changed its tone the higher you got, the mid section, and then the top tier, all separated by none other than how many fucking credits you could pour out to make yourself seem more important, of course that was the catch, wasn't it, you didn't get credits without starting with creds... and once you hit the ground, you didn't get back to the top, plain and simple.
Harland strode quickly but with the sort of nonchalant posture that said 'fuck off' without so much as a glance in passing. His 6'1 frame was broad enough, but it might have had something to do with the fact that he had a pair of immaculate bio-steel cybernetic arms that threatened to rip throug the constraints of his V-neck t-shirt and thermatek insulate vest that said that too. He'd gotten the call about three days ago, word dropped down the line via a skiptrace direct toward Harland's holo-cell, the small phone chip he'd had jacked into the cyberwear that protruded from the side of his shaved head, all save for the length of raven black hair down the middle, which was good, because Harland needed some fuckin' work, he'd been dry for awhile now and he was really jonesin' for the one thing that really got his body going anymore. A fight.
Then he found it, the entrance to the 'Neon Parrot' - it was a shitty dive bar and the only sign to the entrance had burned out most of the neon tubes long ago and instead just flickered with a random presence of 'Ne' and 'ot' with what used to be an animated flapping parrot to one side was now just a series of tape wrapped around some broken and shattered tubes, trying to hold them in place, it was always a surefire way to find the new fish to the scene, as they always tried to call it the 'Neot' like it was some kinda fixer slang. Nobody called it that.
As he stepped inside, he lowered the shimmery cowl of his blue hood that was attached to his vest and shook his head, the long central locks of his hair shaking astray across his moistened face and sticking in place - he didn't bother to move them and it made him look something akin to a rave junkie halfway through a bad LSD trip, but what the fuck did he have to prove to anyone, as if his fucking chrome arms didn't give him away already. He headed toward the back, the bartender, who was arguably more machine than man at this point, that is, literally, as it had broken out a barroom brawl about a month ago when it came up after a few too many death sticks and rotguts, gave Harland a familiar nod of approval and muttered a simple "Sup' Hurc" in passing.
Upon getting into the back room, Harland ushered the once velvety veil to one side with the sound of a metallic scraping and stepped in, it featured a long mostly steel table lined with a neon trim so you could see where the hell to put your drink in the darkness of the bar, smack dab in the middle of the room and about eight feet long, clearly meant for the brunt of a meeting surface, and a few standing stools, chairs, and one or two strewn around tables to go sit at if you got kicked out from the popular kids table in the middle.
A few people were there, but not a ton, and Harland took it upon himself to look around slowly before taking a seat at one of the tables for the non-cool kids, he wasn't cool, and he didn't try to be, but he did raise a metallic hand to brush back the hair on his head and scratch his stubble kissed face, he was pretty sure he'd slept sometime in the last four days, but he couldn't remember for certain.
What he did remember, is that he hadn't had a smoke in awhile, and pulled out a black cylinder about four inches long and slapped it against the metallic side of his head with a soft crack, and the tip began to glow a subtle blue hue, the opposite of which he place between his lips and inhaled the deep, sweet feel of carcinogens into his lungs, which, last he recalled, he still hadn't had replaced yet.