04-23-2011, 06:02 AM
Nik sits on a bench in downtown Nagoya, his face an expression of genuine passivity. The buzz of his surroundings create the effect of tinnitus. The crowded sidewalk full of sprawl sounds; street vendors peddling various goods, the drone of a hundred simultaneous conversations in a dozen different languages, the shouting of an argument down the street, about to end with one or more participants in the hospital. Neon lights in Mandarin, Japanese, and English flicker promises of shiro wares, coffee, sex and other reptilian needs. He shuts it out. Takes a drag of his nearly finished cigarette, drops it on the ground. His shoe, the size of a house from the perspective of the still burning butt, extinguishes the embers. The isolation smoking provides is a more powerful addiction than nicotine.

A middle aged man wearing a duster takes a seat at the other end of the bench. Nik glances at him. The man doesn't take note of Nik, and Nik subsequently stops taking taking notice of him.

Nik is a proxy. Takes kuro cracks and narcotics from small time suppliers, sells them to small time dealers.

The man at the other end of the bench sets a small black satchel between himself and Nik. Gets up. Leaves, disappearing quickly into the crowd. Nik takes it, begrudgingly, without even looking at it. Opens it. A glance inside, a few dozen grams of cocaine and two discs. He folds the pouch, keeps it in his hand, rests it on his knee. Nik stays in his seat, his face still an expression of languid passivity. Downtown Nagoya still humming in his ears. A train rumbles past, drowning out the buzz of the city, replacing it with a louder screech.

It's a job, Nik tells himself. High tech, low life.

The walls and everything else in Niks apartment have a yellow discolouration. A combination of the polluted air in Nagoya, and decades of nicotine. A netwerk in the corner displays images of various acts of crime and violence in the city, followed by a woman next to a graph detailing what people consider to be the biggest problem facing Nagoya. His blinds, half drawn, allow enough light in so he can see his surroundings, but not see outside. Nothing to see on the street below.

A knock on his door.

Nik is expecting it. Grabs a machete from a table behind the door, holds the flat against the door with his palm. Opens it. Behind the gap in the door, his hand on a machete, in front, he's resting his hand. A bald head with blonde stubble greets him.

�Konichiwa�, says a thick Scandinavian accent with a smile. Not an expatriate. Expats get tired of hearing 'konichiwa' the day they arrive. New in town, or visiting. Nik stares back, expressionless, at what he assumes is a Swedish visitor. The maybe Swedes eyes remain emotionless, doesn't know how to fake a smile. �How can I be of service?� the accent asks, coated with fake cheer.

New client. Never trust a new client.

Nik stares at the Scandinavian, �What do you need?�

�I heard you have two kuros for me?�, asks the Scandinavian, his fake enthusiam starting to wane.

Kuro cracks, black cracks. Illegal electronic stimulation. Shiros wares, legal electronic stimulation. The typical Shiro will put you on a serene beach, a golf course, in a nice car. Or in an orgy, or in the Colosseum with any weapons you desire, or in a P-51 during World War II. They're official, and licensed.

Kuro cracks are not official, nor licensed. Some are pirated and hacked versions of shiro cracks, others are meant to infiltrate your nervous system, and give you an electronic high. Stimulate your personal electronics. Pirated cracks can contain viruses and malicious tweaks. The least they'll do is turn your simulation with an 18 year old vixen, mid coitus, into an orgy with a few dozen 300 pound Siberians, and the worst they'll do is give you permanent nerve damage. Both of these are given to people intentionally.

From a table behind the door, Nik grabs the satchel left by the man in the duster. Careful not to let the Swede in, or let him see more of his apartment than he needs to. Hands it to him.

�You've been paid?� the Scandinavian asks, his head tilting down a bit, eyes showing interest now that money's involved.

Nik's expression remains passive, �Yep�, no emotion in his voice, his blank face stares back at the possible Swede.

�Well�, the visitor says, raising his eyebrows, a new smile on his face, sinister, sincere. �I'll be off�, his voice back to fake cheer. Nik stares back. The maybe Swede leaves toward the stairs, hears the apartment door close behind him.


Dunno where to go with it. I like Nik, a downtrodden beat up drug proxy working in a neon lit Nagoya in THE FUTURRRRRRRRRRRRRRE, but I don't know where to take Nik, or his story. I don't know if he used to write Shiros, started providing pirated copies on the side to make some extra cash, got caught, subsequently fired, and started writing Kuro cracks. After writing Kuro cracks, got burnt out, and ended up in the drug trade. If that is who Nik is, how interesting would his story be? I like the idea of the character, and the idea of this Nagoya, but I don't know what to do with it.