StardogChampion
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You're allowed to post whatever writing you want in the FF forum, but nobody does.
We all have books inside of us...
- Thread starter Sulkdodds
- Start date
theotherguy
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This was about as far as I got on my short story before deciding it was too boring:
A drop of sweat, glistening in the dim orange light, slowly made its pilgrimage down the professor’s nose, driven solely and mindlessly by gravity, until it rested for a short while on the very tip of his nose; it gathered its strength and then finally plunged into oblivion, splattering on the wooden table and quickly disappearing. The professor grunted in annoyance and wiped his face with filthy handkerchief. He never took his eyes off his work, and merely adjusted his glasses and continued with great precision, weaving together tiny strands of gold and copper beneath the arm of a magnifying lamp.
The soldering iron burned hot and white in the hands of the professor as he carefully melted globules of copper into perfectly straight lines over the pale green silicon wafer. He worked silently, and with great skill, yet with a good deal of annoyance.
The silence was broken suddenly by his whisper through gritted teeth, “Jesus, I have over a million CPU’s running at once and it’s the monitor that breaks!”
He etched with the soldering iron ever more precisely, making neat parallel lines between one tiny microchip to another equally as tiny one just millimeter away. The heat of the soldering iron radiated outward upon his face and caused ever more sweat to burst from his pores and migrate down his face as if his very visage were a mountain spring. Finally, after several minutes, the professor finished his grueling work.
“Ah, there we are, just perfect.” He spoke to himself, admiring his handiwork and blowing the dust off of it with his warm breath. The professor leaned back in his padded office chair, stretching his arms and taking a passing sip of his bottled water. Now was the moment he had been waiting for, the very moment he had been slaving countless months over.
Rolling himself towards the opposite end of his desk, the professor turned on his newly fixed monitor. A hissing sound erupted from the smooth glass panel, and finally it flickered on, a slightly transparent display appearing brightly before him. Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of lines of computer code appeared on the monitor, awaiting its final compilation.
A wave of excitement flooded over the professor. He never felt more empowered, more satisfied yet never did he feel so alone. He glanced around the room. Hundreds of racks containing millions of linked processors filled the room from the floor to the ceiling, leaving only a tiny alcove for his own desk and workstation. Wires of various colors and widths ran from all corners of the room and formed an incredibly huge and tangled web of rubber and plastic which blanketed the floor, the walls and even the ceiling. The only reasonably recognizable part of the room was the dull orange lamp suspended from the ceiling. The room was filled with the hum of a thousand exhaust fans, and the temperature was nearing one hundred degrees.
The professor quickly took a strange looking plastic helmet in hand which was necessary for the experiment, and placed it on his head. A thick snake of wires connected his helmet with the nearest processor, anchoring him to the entire system both electronically and physically. After taking a few breaths, a smile spread across the professor’s face, and he took the computer mouse in his hand. Confident in his own ability, the professor moved the pointer of his mouse towards a tiny blue button on the computer screen labeled “COMPILE//RUN” and, with a great rush of excitement, clicked it.
A million processors turned on at once as the room became abuzz like a great beehive, and the noise level became nearly unbearable. The temperature grew ever higher, and sweat poured from the professor’s face. Five hundred lines compiled one thousand, two thousand, five thousand, ten thousand, twenty and finally twenty-three thousand six hundred and seventeen lines of code. “COMPILATION COMPLETE: ZERO ERRORS”, a small box on the screen read, “RUNNING PROGRAM”.
The room grew ever louder, ever more unbearable, and sweat continued to pour from the professor’s face. He felt a slight tingling sensation in his head as the helmet upon it buzzed on, the electrodes inside doing a great number of sophisticated things which not even the professor understood. The computer screen went blank, and then slowly, unbearably slowly, the screen became a mirror, and the professor could see his own tired face, helmet upon his head, sweat dripping from his nose, and the room behind him in it.
“Ha! It worked!” Both the professor and his mirror exclaimed excitedly, both admiring one another, the products of the professor’s genius. Both the professor and his mirror smiled at once, and looked at one another closely through the computer screen. And then, they began to laugh, their ecstatic and happy laughter echoing through the room, drowning out the hum of the processors. The professor leaned back in his chair and with utter relief removed the uncomfortable helmet from his head and set it to the side of the computer screen, ruffling his hair and wiping his face yet again to remove the sweat. His image in the mirror did the same.
Very carefully, the professor asked, “So mirror, how does it feel?” The mirror said the same, and both sat there as if it were a rhetorical question. The mirror’s pixilated eyes glistened with the same wonder and excitement as the professor’s, and his lips quivered with the question. The professor knew something must have gone wrong. Why was it not responding to his question? Why did it mimic him constantly? Perhaps it had been a programming error. He balked at the thought of scouring those thousands of lines of code, and his smile faded into a grimace.
But then, the mirror spoke independently, its voice coming out of the stereophonic speakers on either side of the computer monitor. “Mirror,” It chirped, “answer my question won’t you? I didn’t program you to just sit there! Say something!”
The professor jerked at the mirror’s sudden outburst, and began to laugh, “No, no, you have it wrong, my mirror. I am the real one here, not you. At least I can be reasonably assured this is the case.” The professor’s reasoning apparently fell on deaf ears, for the mirror gained a skeptical look on his face, and began rummaging around for a notepad on his mirrored desk, muttering something unintelligible.
For a moment, both sat in confusion, and the professor again suspected something was wrong with the software, and he again began to sweat. Clearly his face shone out from the mirror, clearly his voice rang from the speakers. The stereoscopic cameras atop his computer monitor tracked his eye movements perfectly. Could it be…could it be that the simulation was so good as to make the mirror think that it was him? He shuddered at the thought.
“Look here, my mirror. I can prove it to you!” He said in desperation, grabbing a bottle of water from his desk and holding it up to the monitor. His mirror looked up skeptically, as he had been fiercely writing something in his notebook. “Follow this bottle with your eyes, mirror, and tell me when you cannot see it anymore. If you truly have my mind, you know that the simulation only has a visual range of 180 degrees. If I place it behind the monitor, you shall not be able to see it. However, if I am the one who is not real, my hands should not even be able to extend beyond the confines of the mirror.”
His proposal sounded reasonable enough, but the mirror looked up towards the sky and sighed, “Oh dear,” the digital voice echoed from the speakers, “my own program, testing me to see if I’m real! In all my years I’d never expected this to happen.”
The professor ignored his musings and slowly moved the bottle around the mirror. The stereoscopic cameras followed him, their electronic motors whirring as they moved. The mirror’s own digital eyes followed him with curiosity, until suddenly, as the bottle crossed behind the monitor, his eyes stopped. The mirror attempted to turn his head, but he could not. It was fixed in a forward position. The stereoscopic cameras strained to turn, their motors whirring until they began to emit a smell like that of burning rubber.
The professor watched half with curiosity, half with despair, as his mirror struggled to turn his head. The professor observed as his mirror’s face devolved from curiosity, to desperation and finally defeat as tears began to stream from his face. “No. No. No! This cannot be! There must be…there must be a mistake…this is a trick, a dream…I just…I…” His voice trailed off into hysteria, and the professor moved his hand back until the bottle was in sight again.
A drop of sweat, glistening in the dim orange light, slowly made its pilgrimage down the professor’s nose, driven solely and mindlessly by gravity, until it rested for a short while on the very tip of his nose; it gathered its strength and then finally plunged into oblivion, splattering on the wooden table and quickly disappearing. The professor grunted in annoyance and wiped his face with filthy handkerchief. He never took his eyes off his work, and merely adjusted his glasses and continued with great precision, weaving together tiny strands of gold and copper beneath the arm of a magnifying lamp.
The soldering iron burned hot and white in the hands of the professor as he carefully melted globules of copper into perfectly straight lines over the pale green silicon wafer. He worked silently, and with great skill, yet with a good deal of annoyance.
The silence was broken suddenly by his whisper through gritted teeth, “Jesus, I have over a million CPU’s running at once and it’s the monitor that breaks!”
He etched with the soldering iron ever more precisely, making neat parallel lines between one tiny microchip to another equally as tiny one just millimeter away. The heat of the soldering iron radiated outward upon his face and caused ever more sweat to burst from his pores and migrate down his face as if his very visage were a mountain spring. Finally, after several minutes, the professor finished his grueling work.
“Ah, there we are, just perfect.” He spoke to himself, admiring his handiwork and blowing the dust off of it with his warm breath. The professor leaned back in his padded office chair, stretching his arms and taking a passing sip of his bottled water. Now was the moment he had been waiting for, the very moment he had been slaving countless months over.
Rolling himself towards the opposite end of his desk, the professor turned on his newly fixed monitor. A hissing sound erupted from the smooth glass panel, and finally it flickered on, a slightly transparent display appearing brightly before him. Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of lines of computer code appeared on the monitor, awaiting its final compilation.
A wave of excitement flooded over the professor. He never felt more empowered, more satisfied yet never did he feel so alone. He glanced around the room. Hundreds of racks containing millions of linked processors filled the room from the floor to the ceiling, leaving only a tiny alcove for his own desk and workstation. Wires of various colors and widths ran from all corners of the room and formed an incredibly huge and tangled web of rubber and plastic which blanketed the floor, the walls and even the ceiling. The only reasonably recognizable part of the room was the dull orange lamp suspended from the ceiling. The room was filled with the hum of a thousand exhaust fans, and the temperature was nearing one hundred degrees.
The professor quickly took a strange looking plastic helmet in hand which was necessary for the experiment, and placed it on his head. A thick snake of wires connected his helmet with the nearest processor, anchoring him to the entire system both electronically and physically. After taking a few breaths, a smile spread across the professor’s face, and he took the computer mouse in his hand. Confident in his own ability, the professor moved the pointer of his mouse towards a tiny blue button on the computer screen labeled “COMPILE//RUN” and, with a great rush of excitement, clicked it.
A million processors turned on at once as the room became abuzz like a great beehive, and the noise level became nearly unbearable. The temperature grew ever higher, and sweat poured from the professor’s face. Five hundred lines compiled one thousand, two thousand, five thousand, ten thousand, twenty and finally twenty-three thousand six hundred and seventeen lines of code. “COMPILATION COMPLETE: ZERO ERRORS”, a small box on the screen read, “RUNNING PROGRAM”.
The room grew ever louder, ever more unbearable, and sweat continued to pour from the professor’s face. He felt a slight tingling sensation in his head as the helmet upon it buzzed on, the electrodes inside doing a great number of sophisticated things which not even the professor understood. The computer screen went blank, and then slowly, unbearably slowly, the screen became a mirror, and the professor could see his own tired face, helmet upon his head, sweat dripping from his nose, and the room behind him in it.
“Ha! It worked!” Both the professor and his mirror exclaimed excitedly, both admiring one another, the products of the professor’s genius. Both the professor and his mirror smiled at once, and looked at one another closely through the computer screen. And then, they began to laugh, their ecstatic and happy laughter echoing through the room, drowning out the hum of the processors. The professor leaned back in his chair and with utter relief removed the uncomfortable helmet from his head and set it to the side of the computer screen, ruffling his hair and wiping his face yet again to remove the sweat. His image in the mirror did the same.
Very carefully, the professor asked, “So mirror, how does it feel?” The mirror said the same, and both sat there as if it were a rhetorical question. The mirror’s pixilated eyes glistened with the same wonder and excitement as the professor’s, and his lips quivered with the question. The professor knew something must have gone wrong. Why was it not responding to his question? Why did it mimic him constantly? Perhaps it had been a programming error. He balked at the thought of scouring those thousands of lines of code, and his smile faded into a grimace.
But then, the mirror spoke independently, its voice coming out of the stereophonic speakers on either side of the computer monitor. “Mirror,” It chirped, “answer my question won’t you? I didn’t program you to just sit there! Say something!”
The professor jerked at the mirror’s sudden outburst, and began to laugh, “No, no, you have it wrong, my mirror. I am the real one here, not you. At least I can be reasonably assured this is the case.” The professor’s reasoning apparently fell on deaf ears, for the mirror gained a skeptical look on his face, and began rummaging around for a notepad on his mirrored desk, muttering something unintelligible.
For a moment, both sat in confusion, and the professor again suspected something was wrong with the software, and he again began to sweat. Clearly his face shone out from the mirror, clearly his voice rang from the speakers. The stereoscopic cameras atop his computer monitor tracked his eye movements perfectly. Could it be…could it be that the simulation was so good as to make the mirror think that it was him? He shuddered at the thought.
“Look here, my mirror. I can prove it to you!” He said in desperation, grabbing a bottle of water from his desk and holding it up to the monitor. His mirror looked up skeptically, as he had been fiercely writing something in his notebook. “Follow this bottle with your eyes, mirror, and tell me when you cannot see it anymore. If you truly have my mind, you know that the simulation only has a visual range of 180 degrees. If I place it behind the monitor, you shall not be able to see it. However, if I am the one who is not real, my hands should not even be able to extend beyond the confines of the mirror.”
His proposal sounded reasonable enough, but the mirror looked up towards the sky and sighed, “Oh dear,” the digital voice echoed from the speakers, “my own program, testing me to see if I’m real! In all my years I’d never expected this to happen.”
The professor ignored his musings and slowly moved the bottle around the mirror. The stereoscopic cameras followed him, their electronic motors whirring as they moved. The mirror’s own digital eyes followed him with curiosity, until suddenly, as the bottle crossed behind the monitor, his eyes stopped. The mirror attempted to turn his head, but he could not. It was fixed in a forward position. The stereoscopic cameras strained to turn, their motors whirring until they began to emit a smell like that of burning rubber.
The professor watched half with curiosity, half with despair, as his mirror struggled to turn his head. The professor observed as his mirror’s face devolved from curiosity, to desperation and finally defeat as tears began to stream from his face. “No. No. No! This cannot be! There must be…there must be a mistake…this is a trick, a dream…I just…I…” His voice trailed off into hysteria, and the professor moved his hand back until the bottle was in sight again.
15357
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Thats what I thought too, but I did write it in er, fifteen seconds or so. :E
Awesomeness.
Really. That actually kinda reminded me of all the sci-fi + horror type things I used to read, although I forget their names.
AJ Rimmer
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Right, so this is an excerpt from a futuristic detective story I was working on. I'm not quite sure I'll ever try at it again, but I'll let you peeps have a gander.
Downtown LA Police Stationhouse is a flurry of activity these days. For weeks clerks and officers fresh from the academy have been rummaging through papers, digging up files from the massive archives underneath, tracking and filing paperwork from over fifty years of law enforcement in Downtown LA. Paul made his way past the traffic of runners and squeezed past the desks and the rows of filing cabinets that were clammering the already crowded office. His office was small but it had a window, and although it was never in any particular order, it had like all offices been commendeered and used as a part storage-space for more and more stacks of paper and archive folders. He carefully made his way to behind his desk, not wanting to gather up any knocked-down stacks and sat down in the creaking chair. The hot sun fell on his sweaty back from the window behind him and the fan on his desk didn't work anymore. All the air conditioning in the entire building was on but with these many sweaty bodies inside constantly moving it felt like a sauna. He brushed aside some papers and tried to tidy up his desk, but he soon gave up, realizing he no longer could distinguish between what was important and what was going to the archives or the dumpster out back. There was nothing to do about it, so he just sweeped his arm over the desk, knocking down all the papers, pens and his stapler down on the floor. There was a small crack and he looked down on the floor. Glittering pieces of glass reflected the sunlight and he quickly dug up the broken frame with the photo of him and his wife on their second honeymoon. They'd gone to Honolulu for a week on their tenth anniversary and come back with a bad tan and weighing more than on the way there but they had felt like teenagers again the entire time. He carefully picked up the picture and put it back on the desk. Both him and her were looking at him with big smiles, a crowded beach with a beautiful blue ocean and cloud-free sky behind them, her in a bikini that she'd gone to the gym for almost half a year for and him in a hawaiian shirt that made him look like a bad TV detective. Both of them looking ten years younger than today. They both looked so happy.
The door to his office opened and the buzz and jammer from outside invaded the dull silence before it was shut again by inspector Maetz as he walked in. Well into his sixties the inspector had been brought out of retirement when the force ran out of senior officers. He had taken the job because, as he put it, ?It got him away from his boating?.
?Heard you were back.? Maetz said after he shut the door.
?Yeah.? Paul pretended looking at something important on his desk so he didn't have to meet Maetz's gaze.
?Heard you left the crimescene in a hurry.? Paul didn't answer. He felt like a kid being asked why he had pushed another kid at the swingset in kindergarten.
?Paul?? Maetz leaned it at him and forced Paul to look him in the eyes, he must have been one mean interrogator.
?I... I couldn't do it David. I just... I couldn't do it. It's too soon.? Paul looked briefly into the inspector's dull brown eyes and quickly looked down again, ashamed. ?I'm sorry Dave.? Maetz looked at him for a long time before he dropped a folder on his desk.
?What's this?? Pauled looked at the folder as if Maetz had just dropped a dead rat onto his desk.
?A case. Something more fitting for you.? He looked out the window now, it was Paul's turn to be ignored. He realized Maetz wouldn't leave him alone until he looked at the file so he pulled the folder to him and quickly read through it. It didn't take long to realize what Maetz was giving him.
?A clerk's errand?? He looked up to Maetz who was still looking out the window. ?You gotta be kidding me!?
?It's something we need taken care of.?
?A goddamn secretary can do this David!?
?Yeah well the secretaries are busy Paul. The clerks are busy, the cops on the beat sure as hell are busy, the runners are busy, I'm swamped with work, in fact Paul, the only one who hasn't got shit to do is you Paul!? Maetz was still staring out the window but he might as well have been screaming at Paul an inch from his face. Paul looked silently into empty air, not sure what to say as Maetz finally walked out of his office. He paused halfway through the door and gave Paul one last look.
?Get it done Paul. Get it done.? With that he slammed the door. Paul was left alone with the folder and feeling like he just got told by his mom.
The Lower Levels, or the Lowground Gardens as some of the residents prefer to call it, is a long stretch of the LA city landscape that has been dropped down exactly 30 feet into what used to be the subway system. It runs for almost half a mile and some of the side-streets drop down as far as 70 feet below the surface. It's always in the shade and it's relatively safe from the constant barrage of earthquake, but because of the fact that police coverage already was way down in the city, The Gardens has become a breeding ground of the sale of drugs, prostitution and thefts. It was also a hotspot for Earth Activists and political actions ranging from protests, riots and even assassinations often originated from here. The last bastillion of the true humans they called themselves.
It was a dangerous area for a cop and Paul knew it, which is why he made sure his pistol was under his west once more before he headed down the cold marble steps and the cold shadow engulfed him, he felt his back shiver and wrapped his coat around him. As he made the first turn he came face to face with The Gardens for the first time in many years. It had not improved. Crackheads at every other corner and drugdealers in between them, garbage lying on the street with bullet holes lining the caged windows of the few shady shops that were still open this time a night and each backalley smelled of urine. Above the apartment buildings were massive slabs of ugly concrete, built to last and withstand punishment and many of them were decorated with banners. ?Welcome to Hell-Frozen over? read one, another had a drawing of Earth, accompanied with the text; ?Do not abondon her!?. Higher up above police helicopters did fly-bys and in the distance gunshots echoed between walls.
Paul had to head down more flights of stairs until he got to subfloor five. Here, the streets were always lit up by streetlights and above him the rails for the old subway system still ran silently through the night. The buildings down here had the same design as the ones on the top floor but were sturdier, built to act as support pillars as well as tenements. He looked at his notepad and then headed to the crossroads ahead, then made a left until he reached the building he was looking for.
The apartment building had recently been broken into and the front door was propped open with a tennis shoe so Paul let himself in. The staircase too stank of old garbage even though these apartments were far more luxorious than most others down here, but sanitation wasn't a big priority when this place was built. Up the stairs he went, trying not to make too much noise until he reached the top floor and the top suite. Luxorious by any standards in the city it was not, but it was big and it had extra thick walls and doors. In the slum of all slums it was a magnificent estate and most people in the city if not all knew who lived here.
Downtown LA Police Stationhouse is a flurry of activity these days. For weeks clerks and officers fresh from the academy have been rummaging through papers, digging up files from the massive archives underneath, tracking and filing paperwork from over fifty years of law enforcement in Downtown LA. Paul made his way past the traffic of runners and squeezed past the desks and the rows of filing cabinets that were clammering the already crowded office. His office was small but it had a window, and although it was never in any particular order, it had like all offices been commendeered and used as a part storage-space for more and more stacks of paper and archive folders. He carefully made his way to behind his desk, not wanting to gather up any knocked-down stacks and sat down in the creaking chair. The hot sun fell on his sweaty back from the window behind him and the fan on his desk didn't work anymore. All the air conditioning in the entire building was on but with these many sweaty bodies inside constantly moving it felt like a sauna. He brushed aside some papers and tried to tidy up his desk, but he soon gave up, realizing he no longer could distinguish between what was important and what was going to the archives or the dumpster out back. There was nothing to do about it, so he just sweeped his arm over the desk, knocking down all the papers, pens and his stapler down on the floor. There was a small crack and he looked down on the floor. Glittering pieces of glass reflected the sunlight and he quickly dug up the broken frame with the photo of him and his wife on their second honeymoon. They'd gone to Honolulu for a week on their tenth anniversary and come back with a bad tan and weighing more than on the way there but they had felt like teenagers again the entire time. He carefully picked up the picture and put it back on the desk. Both him and her were looking at him with big smiles, a crowded beach with a beautiful blue ocean and cloud-free sky behind them, her in a bikini that she'd gone to the gym for almost half a year for and him in a hawaiian shirt that made him look like a bad TV detective. Both of them looking ten years younger than today. They both looked so happy.
The door to his office opened and the buzz and jammer from outside invaded the dull silence before it was shut again by inspector Maetz as he walked in. Well into his sixties the inspector had been brought out of retirement when the force ran out of senior officers. He had taken the job because, as he put it, ?It got him away from his boating?.
?Heard you were back.? Maetz said after he shut the door.
?Yeah.? Paul pretended looking at something important on his desk so he didn't have to meet Maetz's gaze.
?Heard you left the crimescene in a hurry.? Paul didn't answer. He felt like a kid being asked why he had pushed another kid at the swingset in kindergarten.
?Paul?? Maetz leaned it at him and forced Paul to look him in the eyes, he must have been one mean interrogator.
?I... I couldn't do it David. I just... I couldn't do it. It's too soon.? Paul looked briefly into the inspector's dull brown eyes and quickly looked down again, ashamed. ?I'm sorry Dave.? Maetz looked at him for a long time before he dropped a folder on his desk.
?What's this?? Pauled looked at the folder as if Maetz had just dropped a dead rat onto his desk.
?A case. Something more fitting for you.? He looked out the window now, it was Paul's turn to be ignored. He realized Maetz wouldn't leave him alone until he looked at the file so he pulled the folder to him and quickly read through it. It didn't take long to realize what Maetz was giving him.
?A clerk's errand?? He looked up to Maetz who was still looking out the window. ?You gotta be kidding me!?
?It's something we need taken care of.?
?A goddamn secretary can do this David!?
?Yeah well the secretaries are busy Paul. The clerks are busy, the cops on the beat sure as hell are busy, the runners are busy, I'm swamped with work, in fact Paul, the only one who hasn't got shit to do is you Paul!? Maetz was still staring out the window but he might as well have been screaming at Paul an inch from his face. Paul looked silently into empty air, not sure what to say as Maetz finally walked out of his office. He paused halfway through the door and gave Paul one last look.
?Get it done Paul. Get it done.? With that he slammed the door. Paul was left alone with the folder and feeling like he just got told by his mom.
The Lower Levels, or the Lowground Gardens as some of the residents prefer to call it, is a long stretch of the LA city landscape that has been dropped down exactly 30 feet into what used to be the subway system. It runs for almost half a mile and some of the side-streets drop down as far as 70 feet below the surface. It's always in the shade and it's relatively safe from the constant barrage of earthquake, but because of the fact that police coverage already was way down in the city, The Gardens has become a breeding ground of the sale of drugs, prostitution and thefts. It was also a hotspot for Earth Activists and political actions ranging from protests, riots and even assassinations often originated from here. The last bastillion of the true humans they called themselves.
It was a dangerous area for a cop and Paul knew it, which is why he made sure his pistol was under his west once more before he headed down the cold marble steps and the cold shadow engulfed him, he felt his back shiver and wrapped his coat around him. As he made the first turn he came face to face with The Gardens for the first time in many years. It had not improved. Crackheads at every other corner and drugdealers in between them, garbage lying on the street with bullet holes lining the caged windows of the few shady shops that were still open this time a night and each backalley smelled of urine. Above the apartment buildings were massive slabs of ugly concrete, built to last and withstand punishment and many of them were decorated with banners. ?Welcome to Hell-Frozen over? read one, another had a drawing of Earth, accompanied with the text; ?Do not abondon her!?. Higher up above police helicopters did fly-bys and in the distance gunshots echoed between walls.
Paul had to head down more flights of stairs until he got to subfloor five. Here, the streets were always lit up by streetlights and above him the rails for the old subway system still ran silently through the night. The buildings down here had the same design as the ones on the top floor but were sturdier, built to act as support pillars as well as tenements. He looked at his notepad and then headed to the crossroads ahead, then made a left until he reached the building he was looking for.
The apartment building had recently been broken into and the front door was propped open with a tennis shoe so Paul let himself in. The staircase too stank of old garbage even though these apartments were far more luxorious than most others down here, but sanitation wasn't a big priority when this place was built. Up the stairs he went, trying not to make too much noise until he reached the top floor and the top suite. Luxorious by any standards in the city it was not, but it was big and it had extra thick walls and doors. In the slum of all slums it was a magnificent estate and most people in the city if not all knew who lived here.
AJ Rimmer
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