The Pill and the Patsy – Part 5

I went walking today.  Granted, that’s not the most unusual thing: I go walking every day.  However, today I went walking.  It’s not a very long walk, something like ten minutes twice a day, then twenty to thirty minutes every afternoon during lunch.  I don’t walk extremely fast, nor do I usually take long, muscle punishing strides.  I do work up a sweat during them, especially during the lunch walk.  It’s actually very enjoyable.  It’s something I look forward to each day, the chance to get up from my desk and amble about at an invigorating pace.  I even call these my “constitutionals”, because I live in my own reality which is perpetually Victorian England.  These walks give me fresh air, help me center my emotions, give me a chance to think, and also allow me fantasize about how amazing my career will be once it takes off.  That last bit is probably not a good idea, but I can no more stop my brain from doing it than I can stop gravity from working.  It’s just a thing I do.  

The walk is relevant, because it’s something that I need to do every day.  It’s not something that is optional, because I want to both make it to and make it pastmy forties.  I’ve had a heart attack already, and I need to continue taking care of myself.  I hurt today, I’m not going to lie.  The necessities of the walk didn’t care, nor did my heart care.  The universe didn’t care, my boss didn’t care, even I didn’t care.  I just got up, and did it anyway, because if I am ever to keep the weight I’ve lost off, if I’m ever to avoid another trip to the hospital, it just has to be a thing that is done.  So I went walking today, even though it hurt, even though it was difficult.  Even though I felt like literally doing anything else, even just staring vacuously into space.  It’s just a thing I do.

Writing is becoming the same way.  Today, I felt like doing literally anything other than writing.  I’m tired, my brain is fuzzy, I’m sore as all get out, and I still have to go to idiotic, pointless meetings with my direct supervisor that serve no purpose but to try and make her look good to her superiors.  I have a drive home which I am not looking forward to, and a technological glitch which might cost me the opportunity to go Trick-or-Treating with my son on Monday.  Even though I have the vacation time, I might not be able to use it because of “reasons”.  All of that weighs on my mind.  Along with the standard issues which weigh on the mind of practically every author:  Is my work good enough?  Am I good enough?  Will I ever scale the peaks bested by my predecessors?  Will I climb even higher?  Will I ever get recognition for my work?  Will I ever be highly successful with it?  The list of self-doubting questions feels endless at times.  But none of that was important, none of it mattered.  I had to write.  Writing has to be a thing that I do every day, regardless of my mood, regardless of my personal dejection or claims by my fears and doubts that I am wasting my time and will never amount to anything.  I simply have to keep going, one foot in front of the other, one word in front of the other.  One of two things will happen: I will achieve success with my one-word-at-a-time attitude, or I will die.  Either way my problem will be solved.  So I wrote today.  It’s just a thing I do.

With further things I do,

The Pill and the Patsy – Part 5

Patsy sat behind the flimsy shelter of an empty office desk, gasping for breath, as dart after dart landed about her.  The attacker from the stairwell had been joined by another member of their squad, and it wouldn’t be long before the last pair arrived.  I can’t stay here she thought deliberately I have to take one of them out or run for all I’m worth.  The latter option was sounding like the best play, but gods above did she hate being shot at.  Her attackers worked as a seamless pair too, leaving her no opening.  As soon as one was dry on either darts or comp-gas, the other would resume fire until they could reload.  It was only a matter of time, pinned down like she was.  Outside, a flash of lightning lit the darkened interior of the office building, followed quickly by a clap of thunder which shook the furniture.  Her nanos were scouting for all they were worth, but information was currently very useless.  Or is it? One of her attackers would need to duck behind a pillar to keep up their current angle of attack.  It wasn’t a huge opening, but it was an opening.  If she got struck by their partner while she dashed to the blind side of the pillar, it was all over.  But if she did nothing it was over anyway.  She pulled out the graphene blade once more, and hauled herself towards the pillar for all she was worth.  Darts zinged around her as she made herself into more of a target.  More than one tug on the straps indicated that her pack had saved her from a flechette or three.  She made the pillar, and using the bare handful of seconds to her utmost advantage she rounded the corner, teeth bared, knife already coming upwards in a killing stroke.  Her assailant was good, clearly a seasoned veteran with the benefit of insanely bolstered reflexes.  With hardly a moments hesitation, they had instantly jumped backwards from the new parameters.  But in a war of implants, moments might as well have been a lifetime.  Instead of gutting her target from stem to sternum, she had to settle for her upward slice merely taking out his neck and lower jaw.  Blood poured over her hand, gushing in deep crimson spurts from the ruined face and neck of the Andro.  Three down, three to go.

Her momentary success was shattered when she felt a stabbing pain in her lower thigh.  Working on the speed an insight of her implants, she managed to pull the barb free with inhuman speed.  The small metal dart was coated with her blood, and it had only been in her system for a few seconds, but the damage had been done.  Her internal nanos, those lovely helpers that refused to allow her to get so much as a hangnail, were reporting that a dose of replo had made it into her bloodstream.  She had twenty minutes, maybe less, before the replo would shut down all of her nerve function, lasting for a few days.  Not even her internal servants could beat back the replo.  True to it’s name, it had already quadrupled in size, the viral bots replicating as fast as they could and making towards their targets in her joints and brain.  Instantly, an internal timer was brought up in her field of vision, informing her of how much time she had until her brain function was compromised.  The remaining assailant had drawn back, giving Patsy time to gather herself, but also meaning that she would have to entangle herself in a chase while their backup arrived.  Maybe it’s time they got a dose of their own medicine.  Patsy quickly snatched the gas gun and several packs of ammo and comp-gas.  Without missing a beat, she brought the pistol up in a shooters grip, and began a salvo of huffs meant to drive the Andro out from his cover.  They were too seasoned for the tactic to actually work, which was just fine with Patsy, as what she really needed to do was escape.  The pistol allowed her to make her way quickly towards the still open window which had given away her presence.  If she could make it out into the alley, she could lose her tail in no time.  This is my city Patsy thought with heat.  Her leg was beginning to go numb, tingling as the internal battle between nanos and replos waged on in sync with the external battle.

Dartfully,
Justin