Cato Fett
Character
[Denon]
[Seven Corners]
[48th Floor Highrise – Baker’s Row]
Mind of No Mind.
Cato exhaled wafts of fogged breath, disguised by shadow in the lee of a two-man-tall air-con unit. Behind him, giant polymer synthsteel fan blades oscillated slowly on a rod axle. Overworked compressor machinery hummed, compressor coils rattling discordantly in their casing. Before him, the breadth of luminous Seven Corners and jagged city-spires biting up from the murky horizon beyond, infant coronal belches of fire-light venting from industrial refinery fields operating at peak output. The twilight static sky had swollen and purpled to black, now deluging. Cato wiped beads of rainwater and salty perspire off his brow, then fixed on his T-visor helm.
Mind of No Mind. He exhaled breath, exhaled intrusive thoughts, reducing his attention to the immediate present with razor-sharp focus. His armour and armament were accounted for, thrice-checked over and repaired and readied. It’d taken weeks for the casement’s weight to become familiar but now, he could move as quickly and easily if he were dressed in jacket and hakama. Cato stepped to the edge of the landing, peering down. Bright lanes of blistering speeder traffic criss-crossed about the high-rise. The noise was a drone note, engine howls melding with holo-neon advert voices and product jingle-tones, with whip-crack wind sheer smashing over the face of the high-rise and the deeper, groaning notes of passing air roiling through artificial canyons. What held his attention was a light-swamped balcony on the eight floor, forty levels below. A semi-fashionable party was raging in full-swing.
Rain water pattered off his helm and pauldrons. Forty floors, he thought. Cato held out a hand, manually gauging wind-speed and direction. An ocular command awoke spectrum suites in his visor glass. The world became overlaid in AR information feeds. He cycled off all but the most pertinent and readied. Reinforced tabi-soles toed over the landing’s edge, then clenched down. Cato leapt forward and out into empty air. And fell.
And fell.
[Seven Corners]
[48th Floor Highrise – Baker’s Row]
“The sky above the port was the colour of television, tuned to a dead channel.”
-William Gibson
~Opening~
-William Gibson
~Opening~
Mind of No Mind.
Cato exhaled wafts of fogged breath, disguised by shadow in the lee of a two-man-tall air-con unit. Behind him, giant polymer synthsteel fan blades oscillated slowly on a rod axle. Overworked compressor machinery hummed, compressor coils rattling discordantly in their casing. Before him, the breadth of luminous Seven Corners and jagged city-spires biting up from the murky horizon beyond, infant coronal belches of fire-light venting from industrial refinery fields operating at peak output. The twilight static sky had swollen and purpled to black, now deluging. Cato wiped beads of rainwater and salty perspire off his brow, then fixed on his T-visor helm.
Mind of No Mind. He exhaled breath, exhaled intrusive thoughts, reducing his attention to the immediate present with razor-sharp focus. His armour and armament were accounted for, thrice-checked over and repaired and readied. It’d taken weeks for the casement’s weight to become familiar but now, he could move as quickly and easily if he were dressed in jacket and hakama. Cato stepped to the edge of the landing, peering down. Bright lanes of blistering speeder traffic criss-crossed about the high-rise. The noise was a drone note, engine howls melding with holo-neon advert voices and product jingle-tones, with whip-crack wind sheer smashing over the face of the high-rise and the deeper, groaning notes of passing air roiling through artificial canyons. What held his attention was a light-swamped balcony on the eight floor, forty levels below. A semi-fashionable party was raging in full-swing.
Rain water pattered off his helm and pauldrons. Forty floors, he thought. Cato held out a hand, manually gauging wind-speed and direction. An ocular command awoke spectrum suites in his visor glass. The world became overlaid in AR information feeds. He cycled off all but the most pertinent and readied. Reinforced tabi-soles toed over the landing’s edge, then clenched down. Cato leapt forward and out into empty air. And fell.
And fell.
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