A Future We'd Like to See 1.62 - Red and White Night
By Stefan "Twoflower" Gagne (Copyright 1994)

     Liberation is accepting that you're nothing but shit.

     That's what I am; excrement.  Evil in nature and deed just
because it's the only thing I'm good at.  Society, on the whole,
would be better off without me, but I'm not gonna go kill myself. 
That would be too easy.  If society is going to cut away the
cancer, it has to do it itself.  I am a cancer; I've accepted
everything I am, all the bile, the gristle and the dirt.  It's a
relief to have all the problems in your life cured in one fell
swoop, that glorious tone of acceptance to the fears that you've
had for years.

     I consider myself well adjusted, even if most psychiatric
opinion would claim I'm insane beyond insane.  I guess on their
metersticks I am, but by the Generik Evil stick I'm actually
quite tame.  Some stuff the higher-ups in the chain of anarchy do
make my stomach turn.

     The red and white lights of the ambulance flashing away into
the night made my stomach turn.  Always the aftermath, not the
act; the act is pretty quick and relatively boring, but knowing
what you've done and seeing what results is sickening.  I usually
just go home after a night on the town, but tonight I wanted to
know.  Never leave a job unfinished.

     She was only eighteen.  If I had known... well, I probably
would have done it anyway, just because that's what I am.  I
don't have a choice in the matter because I'm don't resist it. 
It's my nature.

     The crowd gathered, because all the world loves a good
spectacle, around the police tape lines.  Police.  What a joking
term.  C'atel's police barely could handle cats stuck up in
trees.  They usually contracted out to the Not-So-Secret-Agent
Corporation when they had specialty problems, since cops're only
good at filling out forms.

     The emergency staff, however, has more training and had
arrived at the alley before the cops did.  Crack guys, those
people.  Biotech's a boon to lifesaving.  I figured she should be
okay, which isn't that good, because it meant I was going easy on
her.  It meant being merciful, which wasn't me.

     Well, this can be handled, I thought, fingering the hard
object in my coat pocket.  The medics, neatly clad in their red
and white coats, wheeled her stained and shredded form out,
whistling away, the cheery little bastards, thinking they'd have
a chance.

     I pulled the pin and threw the frag grenade in a nice arc
towards the stretcher, then walked away.  I didn't need to look
back; I had done what I set out to do.

     "Not bad," my contact said, pulling me into a nearby alley. 
I was expecting him; he always was nearby, when I went around at
night.  Kind of a demonic fairy godmother.

     "Hurrah," I said.

     "Cheer up!" the contact said.  "That little number you
pulled on her ass, coupled with the finishing kaboom is worth a
lot of points."

     "I don't care about points," I said.

     "I swear, you've got no team spirit," he grumbled, folding
his arms.  "What good is Generik Evil if you can't tell how evil
you are in a measured manner?"

     "I know I'm bad," I replied.  "I don't need some lame-ass
'points' system to remind me I'm nothing but crap."

     "Remember what you were before I found you?" my contact
warned.  "Shiftless?  Aimless?  Pointless?  A benign tumor on
society.  I make you malign, man.  You were just a small timer
then, a few muggings to keep yourself alive, theft.  You're big
time now.  A real menace, racking 'em up.  Your points count
towards my total as your manager, thankfully.  Now.  Do you want
to know your points or not?"

     "No."

     "Five hundred and seventy two," he said.  "You rank third in
the city.  If you'd consider doing some fake occult slayings--"

     "No," I said.  "No point.  I don't want fake trimmings. 
It's not me."

     "Suit yourself.  Goes against the Generik concept, though."

     "I don't care," I said, leaving the alley.  Not much of a
note to end on, but it was true; I didn't care.

                              *

     I'd been a bad boy since real young.  I'd love to imagine
taking all the people who I thought had fucked up my life and
roasting 'em in acid, filling 'em up with arrows, whatever. 
Pain.  Not-nice stuff.  Sometimes even people who I had no real
anger against, just people I saw on the street.

     I choked these impulses back, though, since society told me
they were evil and I wanted to be good.  I wanted to be somebody,
maybe have a wife, some kids, grow 'em up somewhere nice and safe
where they wouldn't have to worry about life the way I had. 
Didn't turn out that way.  Dropped out, flunked out, shifted out
of the economic loop and had to struggle to live.

     Then the contact showed up and promised he could get me out
of all that.  I didn't mind; I thought I was a good person, and
would only do what I needed to survive.  Looks like I wasn't good
at all.  No way to go back now without denying the truth.

     If that's what I'm supposed to be, though, so be it.  I'll
kill and maim and generally run amuck if that's what I'm supposed
to do, and keep it up until I'm stopped.  There's nothing else I
can do.

                              *

     I ought to be getting home, I thought, watching her from
across the table as I sipped my coffee.  They're going to be
looking for the guy who blasted the tar out of a crime scene, two
doctors, and several innocent bystanders.  I ought to be getting
home, and I ought to be getting while the getting's good.

     I couldn't help it, though.  She even came to me, for crying
out loud.  Singled me out in the entire bar of hormone-injected
pricks to chat with.  I like conversation, really, and always
welcomed another opportunity to do stuff to someone, but I was in
a rush.

     "Hey, don't drink that stuff so quickly," she warned,
lowering my coffee cup.  "Gives you heartburn."

     "I've felt worse," I said.  "It's just coffee, anyway."

     "Around here, that's not a constant," she joked.  "Never
know what they put in that stuff.  Good to the last drop, at
least, until you get the shakes and need to come back for another
drop."

     "That's nasty," I said.

     "Isn't it?  I don't trust any bar around here.  That's why I
drink bottled," she said, flashing her shoulder-strapped thermos
at me.  "You never know who to trust."

     "Yeah," I agreed, finishing off the coffee.  "I've really
gotta get moving, though.  Thanks for the idle chatter."

     "Hey, stick around awhile," she protested.  "I've just
started to get to know you.  You seem nice enough."

     "You don't know me, lady," I said.

     "We can correct that," she said.  "Come on, let's go to my
apartment.  My coffee can be trusted."

     I protested with myself.  Not tonight, we've already called
out the red and whites once.  Just walk away and ignore her.  Of
course, it wasn't going to be.  That just wasn't possible.

     "Okay," I said.  "My apartment, though.  And I promise that
I have the finest 100% pure Columbian java in existence."

     "Yum," she said.  "You lead the way."

                              *

     I ought to turn a corner and lose her, so I could go home
and get some rest.  She was too groupie-like, just looking for a
nice guy to bang and then go home in the morning, like quite a
few others I've dealt with over the years.  They all ended up the
same though, with the happy little medics swarming over them,
usually not able to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.  Then
it was time to file the forms and that would be that, I'd move
on.

     This one was so willing it hurt to look at her.  Very
blatant in her desires, the twentieth sentence out of her lips
suggesting a quick trip behind closed doors.  It was sad.  Some
people only live for one thing.  Well, I do, but not that thing.

     "So what do you do for a living?" she asked, sipping out of
her thermos.

     "This and that," I said.  "Odd jobs.  Kind of random, just
whatever happens to walk my way.  And you?"

     "That and this," she said.  "Kind of the same deal.  It's
fun, isn't it, being aimless?  Always on the go, always with a
different job.  Different stuff to do.  Occupies the days and
keeps you active."

     "Yeah," I agreed.  "Active."

     "Of course, it's been getting trickier to play that aimless
game," she continued.  "What with these psycho killers roaming
the streets.  C'atel's really had a problem with the Generik Evil
lately."

     "Uh-huh.  I read about it in the papers," I said.  "Tonight
they managed to kill someone who was just bringing groceries
home."

     "How horrible."

     "My sentiments exactly.  Cut her up, raped, mutilated.  If
that wasn't enough, when the medics wheeled her away, someone
threw a bomb and killed a few people."

     "What's this city coming to?" she asked.  "Remember when it
was just a collection of slackers, most of them with guitars,
trying to eke out a living in the rain?  You could walk the
streets at night then without worries."

     "I know.  Bad people at night now.  Louts, remorseless
devils.  I hate them."

     "Well, I've got you along tonight.  You look strong enough
to take on some Generik," she said, leaning on my shoulder.

     I was going to do it, of course, but this wasn't making me
feel any better.  Why do they have to be so eager?  They know I
usually pounce the eager ones first, the ones that are
defenseless and clueless.  That's what the paper said.  More
people should read the papers and understand the world around
them.

     "I've always wanted to join Generik Silly," I pondered
aloud.  "Not Evil.  Silly seems... nice.  Happy.  Zany.  Liked by
people, even if they do get into a scrape with the media
sometimes.  That's what I would have liked to have been, if it
was possible..."

     "Why not try out for them?" she asked.  "I hear they're not
very strict about applicants."

     I winced.  "I... I don't think I'd have the time to, with my
jobs and all.  You know how it is, work piles up, gets in the way
of what you wish you were doing."

     "Ain't it the truth," she said.  "I've been in and out of
C'atel over the last few weeks.  Odd jobs.  Go here, do this, do
that.  It's annoying.  I'm glad to be home, though.  At least one
night of fun before they could possibly ship me out again."

     Night of fun.  Oh, the irony.  Already I was trying to
decide what I was going to do when I got home... I had a lot of
possibilities, given my stocks of the tools of the trade.  I
wanted this clean, though, as clean as a senseless act of evil
could possibly be.  I wanted to go to sleep, not stay up all
night working on my fucking points.  I was in it this far; I'd
finish it, but quickly and quietly.  None of the contraptions,
none of the blades, just the basics.  Maybe one blade.  I still
had the one I cut up the girl from earlier this night handy,
still wet with her blood.

     "Here we are," I said, tapping the code into my keypad.  We 
proceeded up the stairs, to my archaic but soundproofed
apartment.  She followed, like a lamb to the slaughter.

     "Say, I was wondering," she asked, climbing ahead of me up
the stairs, rear end swaying back and forth in front of me.  "You
said you read about another of those murders tonight.  I thought
the Times didn't have an evening edition."

     "I didn't say I read about it, I said I saw it," I said. 
"Remember?  Ugh, what a sight.  I can't get it out of my head."

     "Don't worry, I'll help you remove that nasty image," she
grinned impishly.  Ugh.  I was going to be sick.  "Which one is
your apartment?"

     "12.."

     "G," she finished, finding the door and tapping the keypad. 
Hadn't I locked the door?  "After you," she gestured.

     I walked in, quickly examining the place to make sure none
of my tools were lying out in the open.  I didn't want her
freaking and running, because it would mean screwing up the path
I was committed to for the evening.  She walked in, and shut the
door.

     "So, what do you do for fun around here?" she asked,
adjusting her shoulder strap.

     "This and that," I said, my stock phrase when asked a tricky
question.  "Wait right here, I've got something I need to get
from my bedroom..."

     "I don't think so," she said, blaster muzzle jammed into my
back.  "Hello.  Not-So-Secret-Agent.  You were disgustingly easy
to track, Generik."

     I brightened up immediately.  Wow!  Here I was thinking the
world didn't give a shit about me anymore, and someone took the
time and the effort to hire an agent to come and kill me.  I was
hated, recognized for what I was.  It felt wonderful.  I was
going to die the only way I could.

     "Over to the chair," she said, physically pushing me over to
one of my kitchen chairs.  She pulled her thermos on a strap off
and over her head, securing it behind the chair.  The strap
automatically tightened, lashing me to the chair, arms pointing
downward.

     "Neat," I admitted.

     "Thanks.  One of the many toys we get to use," she said,
walking around to my front, blaster still pointed at me, rock
steady.  She tugged at her ear, and twisted her mouth to try to
talk into it.  "Agent 7659.  Target acquired.  Pickup."

     "Pick up?" I asked.  "What, you're not going to kill me?"

     "No.  You're going up the river, pal, for what you've done,"
she said.  "Nice and legal, just like the old days of courts and
law.  On NSSAC's jail, of course, since there isn't much of a
court system anymore."

     "What, you're putting me away?  Why?  What's the point?  I'm
a killer, a murderer and rapist of all people.  I'm supposed to
DIE, not live."

     "Rehabilitation.  NSSAC doesn't believe in pointless
violence, unlike you," she said.  "We're going to make you a
fully functional member of society."

     "I was one once.  It wasn't very enjoyable.  The pain of
never knowing what you were, always in self doubt.  I don't doubt
myself anymore; I know I'm scum.  It's a warm feeling, in a way. 
I don't want to be brainwashed into that state again."

     "I'm not here to kill you," she said.  "You could be a nice
guy if you wanted to be.  A Silly, if that's what you wanted to
be.  Just go with us quietly, and you won't have to die."

     I considered this.  It was a way out, a way to fit back in
and not have to perform on the public again.  What would I be,
though, after?  Happy?  I have no talents, no skills, no goals
other than to kill.  I'd be less than nothing.  I'd be nice, not-
self.  No; I had to get out of this, or die trying.

     She was sloppy.  Didn't even notice the knife in my back
pocket, trusting her silly thermos to do all the work for her. 
Some agent.  Society would have to do better than that if it
wanted to take me down.  I was what I was and nobody could take
that away from me.  I may hate myself, I may curse my existence
on earth, but I would NEVER claim to be something I'm not.

     I sliced the strap -- with all that tension, it cut easily. 
I jumped forward, just under the gun barrel, and drove the knife
home.

     She yelped, advanced NSSA biotech keeping a reign on her
pain.  The blaster, however, dropped out of her hands.  Luckily,
she happened to be right next to my toy cabinet.  I opened it,
grabbed the nearest item (a nice rakelike device) and slashed up
her back.

     She grunted, as the rotating pizza blades sliced open her
thin shirt and made gashes.  She groped around the floor for her
gun.  The gashes weren't very deep... the shirt must have had
some kind of armor in the fabric--

     ZAPPIE! went the blaster, in some cheesy cartoon sound
effect as the orange blob of energy zipped across the room,
burning directly through the arm that held my multi-knife.  The
hand and knife dropped to the ground, burnt socket cauterized in
some places and openly bleeding in other.

     "Shit!" she yelled.  "I thought I had the stun setting on...
relax, I'm calling 911 for both of us," she said, tugging at her
earlobe again.  "911, emergency."

     "Good job," I sputtered, coughing up blood as I felt the
gory remains of my arm.  "Not good enough, though."

     I took another item from the box, a short sword.  Very
medieval.  I advanced on her, bleeding and dizzy.

     "Are you nuts?" she said, sliding backwards, despite the
back wounds.  NSSAs always had an admirable ability to soak up
punishment.  "Put down the knife or I'll shoot!"

     "I'm not going to jail," I warned her, getting ready to
behead her.  "You want me stopped, you stop me.  Not this, not
this half-assed attempt to be nice.  That's just not sane for
something like me.  Now shoot or die."

     At first, I thought she wasn't going to shoot.  She just
looked on, horrified at me, like the others.  This was going to
be too easy.  She stormed into the apartment to rob me, I used my
ancient weapons collection to fend her off, and eventually
managed to kill her.  Self defense.  The red and whites could
reattach the arm and I'd be back to my old tricks in days.

     Then she shot, blaster setting unchanged as the bolt burned
through my ribs.  I fell backwards, most of me escaping through
the new gap.  Much better; if you're going to do a job, you do it
all or none of it.  I died knowing who I was, the happy little
sirens of the medics pulling up to my apartment building in
standard quick-response fashion, red and white lights flashing
away into the night sky.