LJ Idol Week 24 - Cupertino effect
Oct. 8th, 2014 12:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jexiaChaz gritted her teeth around her E-Cig3000TM, and toyed idly with the glass in front of her. It didn't matter how the ads bleated "Just like the real thing!", an e-cig just wasn't the same as sucking down a soothing mouthful of smoke. There wasn't much choice, since cigarettes had been outlawed in the Nestlé Health Reform Act of 2031, but today, of all days, she missed them.
She took another disparaging sip of the whisky-flavoured SynthacolTM in her glass, single malt being another victim of the NHRA. A grim chuckle escaped her lips as she contemplated the lack of legal options for a self-loathing police detective. Another chuckle escaped, even grimmer this time, as she contemplated the fact that she'd have to start phrasing it as "A self-loathing ex-police detective." She drained her glass.
Tom, well-accustomed to the moods of his best customer, slid her another drink. She came here mostly because of Tom- the quiet, reliable, humanness of him. Most bars used robots these days. Oh, they were good at the job: accurate, fast, and gave counselling and advice just like the best bartenders used to... but she could never quite quell the sneaky feeling that the conversations were filed away and reported on.
"Rough day?" he asked, his busy hands wiping and stacking glasses.
Chaz grunted sardonically and gestured with her head towards the wall, where the state-mandated screens flashed their frantic images, though thankfully silenced. Gruesome scenes of an explosion looped, sandwiched between advertising for SynthacolTM, ChatterBotsTM and Friend in a BoxTM. The crowded stadium exploded and collapsed again and again, now in slow-motion, now in high-def, now zoomed in on some detail better left to the imagination. Presumably some newscaster was adding breathless commentary, maybe heaping scorn on the incompetence of the police department.
On her incompetence.
"The Edenmatic Stadium? You were involved in that?" he asked.
Chaz nodded.
Tom set a glass heavily on the bar. "It's... awful."
She nodded again, and downed a large swallow of "whisky". Tom opened his mouth as if to speak, but a pack of student-types rolled in the door, blathering about how charming and quaint it was to see a real live bartender. "Hamsters" or something, they called themselves. Tom hurried to serve them.
It's not like she could talk about it, anyway. There'd be an investigation, of course. All her stellar work (and it had been the best, hardest, most intense case in her career), wasted by one mistake. And the people... oh, the people.
Chaz emptied her glass, and brooded over the last, painstaking, 14 months. An informant had overheard a careless remark in an automated McDunkFryHutTM kiosk, and from there, meticulous undercover work had got her an intro to the terrorist network.
She'd done things she didn't quite like to contemplate in order to prove herself, with grudging approval from her police superiors. Eventually she'd earned their respect enough to be granted one of the communication devices she recognised from her childhood, an IPH1-6. Apparently the leader believed in "security via obscurity"; enough comm-hubs around the city supported the obsolete protocol that it worked, though occasionally you had to go for a bit of a wander.
They didn't completely trust her - they didn't completely trust anyone - and the cell structure of the group had kept her fairly restricted, but her knack for piecing things together had kept her on the trail to the top. Something big was going to happen, and it was going to be soon.
The trail had led to the 364th floor of the ExxonMobilSaatchi enviro-habitat, and a dingy room where the leader stared at his IPH1. She'd burst in the door, her back-up behind her, and stunned him. The device had chimed as he dropped it to the floor, and she'd scooped it up and read the screen. "ED-STAD G2G, ETA 1 MIN" it read, labelled with the codename of someone she knew had been purchasing very suspicious equipment. "R WE ON?"
With shaking hands she'd holstered her weapon. Her sweaty fingers had skittered across the screen, and it took a couple of attempts to hit the right keys and hit "Send". As the "Checking... Sending..." message blinked, she'd suddenly realised what the message now read. She'd collapsed to the floor in horror, a mere moment before an enormous flash and bang lit the room from outside.
"NO." "ON." So close. So wrong.
She took another disparaging sip of the whisky-flavoured SynthacolTM in her glass, single malt being another victim of the NHRA. A grim chuckle escaped her lips as she contemplated the lack of legal options for a self-loathing police detective. Another chuckle escaped, even grimmer this time, as she contemplated the fact that she'd have to start phrasing it as "A self-loathing ex-police detective." She drained her glass.
Tom, well-accustomed to the moods of his best customer, slid her another drink. She came here mostly because of Tom- the quiet, reliable, humanness of him. Most bars used robots these days. Oh, they were good at the job: accurate, fast, and gave counselling and advice just like the best bartenders used to... but she could never quite quell the sneaky feeling that the conversations were filed away and reported on.
"Rough day?" he asked, his busy hands wiping and stacking glasses.
Chaz grunted sardonically and gestured with her head towards the wall, where the state-mandated screens flashed their frantic images, though thankfully silenced. Gruesome scenes of an explosion looped, sandwiched between advertising for SynthacolTM, ChatterBotsTM and Friend in a BoxTM. The crowded stadium exploded and collapsed again and again, now in slow-motion, now in high-def, now zoomed in on some detail better left to the imagination. Presumably some newscaster was adding breathless commentary, maybe heaping scorn on the incompetence of the police department.
On her incompetence.
"The Edenmatic Stadium? You were involved in that?" he asked.
Chaz nodded.
Tom set a glass heavily on the bar. "It's... awful."
She nodded again, and downed a large swallow of "whisky". Tom opened his mouth as if to speak, but a pack of student-types rolled in the door, blathering about how charming and quaint it was to see a real live bartender. "Hamsters" or something, they called themselves. Tom hurried to serve them.
It's not like she could talk about it, anyway. There'd be an investigation, of course. All her stellar work (and it had been the best, hardest, most intense case in her career), wasted by one mistake. And the people... oh, the people.
Chaz emptied her glass, and brooded over the last, painstaking, 14 months. An informant had overheard a careless remark in an automated McDunkFryHutTM kiosk, and from there, meticulous undercover work had got her an intro to the terrorist network.
She'd done things she didn't quite like to contemplate in order to prove herself, with grudging approval from her police superiors. Eventually she'd earned their respect enough to be granted one of the communication devices she recognised from her childhood, an IPH1-6. Apparently the leader believed in "security via obscurity"; enough comm-hubs around the city supported the obsolete protocol that it worked, though occasionally you had to go for a bit of a wander.
They didn't completely trust her - they didn't completely trust anyone - and the cell structure of the group had kept her fairly restricted, but her knack for piecing things together had kept her on the trail to the top. Something big was going to happen, and it was going to be soon.
The trail had led to the 364th floor of the ExxonMobilSaatchi enviro-habitat, and a dingy room where the leader stared at his IPH1. She'd burst in the door, her back-up behind her, and stunned him. The device had chimed as he dropped it to the floor, and she'd scooped it up and read the screen. "ED-STAD G2G, ETA 1 MIN" it read, labelled with the codename of someone she knew had been purchasing very suspicious equipment. "R WE ON?"
With shaking hands she'd holstered her weapon. Her sweaty fingers had skittered across the screen, and it took a couple of attempts to hit the right keys and hit "Send". As the "Checking... Sending..." message blinked, she'd suddenly realised what the message now read. She'd collapsed to the floor in horror, a mere moment before an enormous flash and bang lit the room from outside.
"NO." "ON." So close. So wrong.