Aceasta poveste apartine unei prietene. Este o poveste inca in progres. Nu, nu se numeste "Unnamed story", doar ca nu i-a gasit un titlu potrivit inca. 18+ Yaoi inseamna ca va contine situatii sexuale explicite intre doi barbati asa ca daca nu agreati genul, opriti-va aici.

Rezumat: Nu este inca disponibil, deoarece povestea mai trebuie lucrata. Va pot spune ca are la baza un anume joc (nu stiu care, spre rusinea mea) si este o poveste cu elemente science-fiction

Personajele sunt fictionale si orice asemanare cu realitatea / poveste / anime / manga este pur accidentala.

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Instincts were useful, Roy Carthage knew, but only if you followed them, and he usually made a point of doing so.

It had backfired on him before, though, trusting his gut in one of those do-or-die, split second decisions. And he hadn’t been wrong, either.

Sometimes being right didn’t help.

Roy’s instincts told him that he had no business being downtown at this time of night.

Not in a place where bodies were found in overfull trash bins on the occasion, not when someone might recognize him, not dressed in a suit and tie, not in a neighborhood where pale round eyes and paler skin made him stand out like a gene-modded catboy at a Greenpeace convention.

The downtown industrial district was a ghost town of concrete monoliths left behind by technology before Roy was born. Only homeless and transients lived here now, half of them probably borg mods who had never transitioned back into normal society after the war, all adrenal-sprung reflexes and unicoded morality buried under half-formatted reconditioning that could fail at any given moment. There were stories about the monsters who lived there, collecting bodies in the basements of old factories and all that.

The only people who worked downtown were pushers and dealers, whores and brokers and the occasional unlicensed street doctor. And one never knew, maybe a few shaman-types flying under corporate satellite too.

But somewhere between necessity is the mother of invention and those urban legends about tourists whose cars broke down in the worst part of town after a wrong turn, Roy had decided that this might possibly be a good idea.

Actually, it wasn’t so much as good idea as it was his only idea.

So maybe, he told himself, instinct was nothing more than misfires in the hypersensitive nanotech he’d paid too much for giving him a shot of adrenaline every five minutes and overclocking his reaction times. Damn the twinge between his shoulder blades and the impulse to continually glance back at shadowy streets, then; it was just all in his wetware.

Or maybe he was right, and he was a bigger fool for coming here anyway.

Cars with tinted-dark windows drove by, too slowly to have much business other than trouble, and the sound of grinding, mechanical coughing echoed from a shadowy stairwell to his right. Roy managed to keep from flinching and tapped a ley line, just to reassure himself. It felt thready and distant. Several miles away, perhaps, but he drew the power to him and kept it coiled, nonetheless.

Up ahead, joyboys were strung in front of the old recycling center like damaged pearls, flashing the goods at passing cars: pale rippled bellies and round little asses barely covered by low-riding, skin-snug vat-leather pants. Most of them were running low-grade nanotech, their eyes flashing greenly in the headlights, reflections of lensflare and dull pain.

“Hey, kawaii, how ‘bout it?” one called out to Roy, and with a shake of his hips ran up to him, smelling of cologne and cheap Russian cigarettes. Roy hurriedly dampened his olfactory nerve as the boy pushed into Roy’s personal space. The kid flicked out a pierced tongue between orange-painted lips.

Roy took a deliberate step back. “Er, no. But maybe you can help me anyway. I’m looking for someone.”

“Aren’t we all?” The boy’s voice shaded from flippant to merely weary. Roy looked more closely at the kid: pretty and thin-faced, Japanese, spiked hair and a belly-shirt; typical street hustler type, save for the flint in his eyes and the near-invisible scars just behind his ears. Cut and gene-modded to look like a teenager for the rest of his decidedly unnatural life, then. Roy wondered how old the boy really was, but then decided he didn’t really want to know.

“Someone specific.” Roy reached out a hand and flashed his sig, which, after a moment, the boy opened his personal network to accept. Roy pulled up the file, scrolling thumbnails across his field of vision until he found the one he was looking for. It was the best shot he had, a grainy patina over the low-res image of a man mid-leap from rooftop to fire escape, shot from an awkward angle on ground below. Still, the image looked like something from a tri-dee action flick caught on digital in all of its Loch Ness tabloid glory.

He relayed it to the boy, who went still.

Roy watched his face. The boy’s gaze turned unfocused, eyes flicking back and forth, lips fluttering with subvocalized words, tell-tale signs of a surreptitious wireless conversation. A warning to someone, perhaps the man he was after; Roy could only hope.

A moment later, every boy in front of the recycling center turned his head, and looked directly at Roy, green-limned gazes sparking like faerie fire.

Instinct, or perhaps just twitchy nanotech, told him maybe he’d been right, after all.

Fight-or-flight adrenaline surged through him, but Roy held his ground, watching the boys as they started to move forward. They spread out as they drew closer, surrounding him like whip-thin pack animals culling out their prey.

The boy who’d propositioned him continued to subvocalize over wireless, seemingly oblivious to the tableau, but Roy, who’d parked his bike blocks away, who’d come unarmed save for his spells, who was now outnumbered, found himself thinking that this had been a very bad idea, after all.

A couple of the kids had tiny flash guns, he saw, and one flicked open a butterfly knife with a twist of his hand and a flash of metal.

The good news—if anything about this could be considered good—was that he must be on the right track in order to draw this much of a response.

They bristled at him, moving closer with predatory steps. One abruptly stopped short, though, and doubled-taked him before pointing. “Hey! It’s that guy!”

If Roy had a cred for every time he’d heard those words in the gym, across a crowded restaurant, in an airport, he’d be platinum; as it was, he was just notorious, though ten years had caused his name to fade from the collective public memory, and now he was just that guy, you know, the one who—

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Continuarea capitolului ca si celelalte capitole scrise pana acum le puteti gasi in acest link:
http://irrion.livejournal.com/tag/the+pact

Eventualele comentarii va rog sa le faceti in engleza, pentru ca dupa cum vedeti autoarea este de origine straina. Parerile le puteti lasa in acest topic su pe link direct, la capitolul respectiv.

Enjoy!