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[Inventrix]

I have finally registered solely for the purpose of entering this contest.  Bwahahahahaaaa!  *gets to work*

[Inventrix]

Steampunk.  Entry #01 of potentially many.

    Sweat trickled down David's forehead as he stared at the scene before him.  Flames licked hungrily at dry timbers and crumbling slate roofs.  Bloody, charred corpses littered the streets; armed and unarmed, men and women... and children.  Amongst the wreckage strolled twelve-foot-tall iron suits of armor with heavy guns held ready, steam hissing from heavy boilers bolted to their backs.  Those mechanical soldiers, unaffected by the townspeople's  defenses, had brought about this destruction.  One of them was him.  They had been sent here by the Lord General himself with one objective: destroy it.
    "It is a base of spies, of dangerous enemies to our nation.  We must not allow them to continue undermining our country!  They must be destroyed, at all costs.  All persons are suspect, release no one and take no prisoners."  The Commander had emphasized the last command.
    But this was no criminal base, no hotbed of enemy plotting.  Deep down, David realized it just an innocent small town.  They were not enemies, and they were not dangerous rebels.  They were normal people - the very people he had sworn to protect.  Raising his foot, he lifted the propulsion control lever and slowed the suit's relentless march.  The body of a young woman lay across his path, her fear and desperation evident even in death, even through the metal grating across the front of the suit's helm.  Had he been the one to shoot her?  With the chaos of the charge, there was no way to know.
    The radio crackled into life. "Remember, no prisoners.  Shoot anything that moves."  David looked around once again, seeing fellow soldiers stop to scan for any signs of life.  A sudden shot rang out, followed by the dying shriek of a cat.  A sick, twisting feeling started in the pit of David's gut at the sound.  He started to push his foot back down on the lever, but hesitated.  He looked back down at the woman.  It wasn't right, leaving her lying there like that.  A sheet of canvas caught his eye, and he reached his hand towards the left.  The bracing around his arm moved smoothly, directing the iron arm outside to echo his movements.  Carefully lifting the canvas, he draped it over the young woman's corpse.  Probably the only burial she'll ever get.
    Bitterly, he pressed his foot down on the lever, and the suit responded with a sudden surge forward.  He strode down the street, trying to ignoring the littered corpses and burning buildings.  A quiet sob from a nearby alleyway, barely audible over his own loud tread, caught his attention.  Sliding his foot to the right, he turned the machine towards the sound to investigate.  The suit barely fit between the brick walls, but fit it did, and he only had to go a short distance down the alley.  A small child, probably six years old, stood clutching a torn and stained stuffed bear.
    The boy and the machine stared at each other silently, motionlessly.  A second shot rang out across the town.  This time, there was no scream.  A drop of sweat trickled into David's eye, stinging sharply.
    The people I've sworn to protect.
    Take no prisoners.
    The memory of the dead woman rose again in his minds eye.  If this is how it's going to be, I'll have no part in it.  He pressed down ever so slightly with his foot, and the suit took one small step forwards.  The boy clutched his bear even more tightly and stood still.
    David slid his left arm out of the control brace, reaching for a lever next to his seat and pulling it once, twice.  The suit helm unlatched and then lifted halfway, and man and child looked each other straight in the eye.
    "I'm going to help you."
    The boy stared, wide-eyed, before nodding silently.  David smiled back, then closed the helm again before sliding his arm back into the brace.  Reaching forward, he held out one giant armored gauntlet to the small boy, who crept over and sat gingerly on the palm.  David carefully lifted the child, holding him close against the chest plate.  Pressing a second lever now, he backed out of the narrow alleyway.  He noted with relief that none of the other soldiers were within sight.  He started towards the edge of town, hoping he would stay unnoticed.
    A soldier appeared from an intersecting street, and David cursed as both suits stopped dead.  The other aimed his gun at the small boy, then hesitated.  That was all David needed.  Slamming his foot down as hard as he could, the suit lunged forward at a full run.  He heard a gun fire behind him, felt the bullet ricochet off the cast iron boiler, and kept running.  There were trees outside of town.  If he could reach the trees, the boy could escape to safety on his own.
    Another gunshot, another ricochet.  He only needed to keep the machine together for a few dozen more meters, and then it didn't matter what happened to him.  A brief doubt flickered in his mind.  He was disobeying direct orders.  Was one child's life really worth his own?
    Sworn to protect.
    He could feel the legs starting to give way as he rounded the last corner.  The trees were straight ahead now, though.  Another gunshot - two, three.  He lost count as bullets rained against him.
    Finally he reached the trees.  The suit ran another few meters before the left knee gave out, forcing him to stop.  Placing the boy on the ground, David raised the helm one last time.
    "Run away, quickly!"
    The boy turned and fled, vanishing into the woods.  The stampede of iron feet was racing towards.  He'd disobeyed orders from the Lord General himself.  There would be no trial - and he wasn't going to wait for the firing squad.  Slowly, David drew his pistol and cocked it.
    He closed his eyes, pictured a small boy with a stuffed bear, and smiled.

[William Broom]

can they be part of an existing work ?

I have novella Im working on, the first 2 sections are already online, so I could write the third for this if it's acceptable.

That's fine, but the story must stand alone - you can't expect anyone to read the first two parts.

[Cymon]

Alright, edited my entry. By my count, excluding the title, it is exactly 1000 words now.

Got to the point there where I was shaving single words at a time.

[bigpants]

Quadruple Pound Punk
by Jim McGinley
Edited by Peter Luyt

Chapter I

He suddenly realized he only had 6 legs.
"Who took my arms?" he wondered, the words not echoing because he thought them.
His best friend, continents away, did not realize what was going on.
"I'm on my own", he spoke, this time speaking.
Did his wife know? Maybe. IF he had a wife.

Crawling on all sixes, he grabbed today's can.
It looked and tasted like beef Jello,
which made it the best breakfast he had eaten in years.
Or would have eaten... if he had possessed arms.
The anger grew like a bean plant... slowly, overnight, in a green pod.
A cybernetic wolf howled right next to him, his owner long since eaten.

"What if", he thought.
"What if... no... why would they?"
Exactly.

What he really wanted was a coffee - outlawed long before he was born.
Needless really, since the ingredients for coffee no longer existed.
Most people drank "Sunny D" - a combination of rust and corpses.
On a good day, you got more corpse than rust.

Chapter II

José Electric jerked his fourth double corpse espresso.
They don't format the place like they used to, but it pays the googles.
Ned, a gigantic steam powered electric zombie who was not introduced until just now,
barked his order: "2 Sunnys, no worms, make it snappy"
Jose's OS froze - thank god his heart was virtual.
José switched, rebooted, then spoke: "How can I help you, Sir!"
"2 SUNNYS AND NO GODDAMN WORMS!!!"

Even if José remembered, he couldn't make it snappy - his hardware was completely outdated.
The software required to manipulate his hands consumed most of his internal resources.
The finger threads alone took such high priority, he went blind when he used them.
Luckily, José had learned to pour with his cybernetic elbows -
take that Windows Ultra Mega XP Vista 2132.

Ned: "I'm looking for a man with no arms and 6 legs."
A lady with child bearing hips responded "Aren't we all!"
The bar patrons (3 heterosexual terminators, 2 chinese wookies, and the last surviving human being) laughed.
José: "Only person even remotely fits that description..."
José collapses into a contorted heap (speaking was a higher priority than standing)
"... has 9 legs and 3 arms."

"You sure about that?"
Their tentacles met, José's buttocks clenched... he screamed "OF COURSE!!!!"
Satisfied, Ned retracted his extrusion, and noticed his order remain unfulfilled.
Ned's temper flared, "WHERE'S MY GODDAMN NIGGLENITS!"
José: "How can I help you, Sir!"

Chapter III

Today's can lay open, its contents digested by Jimmy 88.8.
His best friend, continents away, was always impressed by Jimmy's ability to digest pretty much anything.

FLASHBACK
Jimmy: "You gonna eat that?"
Best Friend: "Jimmy... it's concrete..."
Rising to the challenge, Jimmy devours it instantly.
Best Friend: "... and it's my bed."

PRESENT (soliloquy)
Jimmy: "It's the year 2149, and my name is Jimmy 88.8.
My friends call me {1171A62F-05D2-11D1-83FC-00A0C9089C5A}.
About 100 years ago, the earth stopped rotating.
At least that's what the robots tell us.
The seas turned hot, and their steam (their lovely steam) powers everything.
They say that the steam is running out,
but the scientists assure us global warming will fix it.
What no-one knows is, I am a robot... baseball player."

(dramatic pause)

Sitting beside Jimmy was now the largest steam powered electric zombie José had ever seen.
Unimpressed, Jimmy 88.8 spoke "Hello Ned. Got my arms have you?"
Without missing a beat, zombie Ned replied "... and your legs."
"I guess that makes it a fair fight SHORYUKEN!!!!"
Ned's zombie bandages were lit by the passing fireball.
Frantically trying to extinguish the flames, Ned wondered aloud "BUT YOU HAVE NO AR"
But he was greeted by 18 kicks to the face (Jimmy having retrieved and attached his missing legs)

Chapter Infinity

"ARRÊTEZ!!!"
In the distance, high atop keyboard mountain, magnetic cyborg punk wizard Gandalf stood.
That was bad, very bad. Ned was crying dry, electric zombie tears. Jimmy: "Ned, you're my only hope."
Ned was wide eyed, like a child, as Jimmy stuffed him with explosives
(tying the whole package neatly together with Ned's zombie tentacle).
Magnetic cyborg Gandalf was now airborne, and lightning was shooting from his pants
[Pants were declared illegal during the Facebook wars].
Ned, reduced to a giant crying fiery zombie ball of explosives, was too heavy too lift. All hope seemed lost...
José's smiling, idiotic face inexplicably appeared from underneath the mass of Ned,
"Need some help {1171A62F-05D2-11D1-83FC-00A0C9089C5A}?"

This wasn't going to be easy. While José was useless, he had an adamantium skeleton
(all the rage in 2100, but nowadays considered tacky).
Jimmy slung José over his back like a sack of future potatoes.
Gandalf was 400 feet away, and flying straight at them.
"Perfect", Jimmy thought, but José somehow heard.

In Jimmy's robotic baseball hands, José made the perfect cyberpunk bat.
Jimmy swung and connected with Ned perfectly, snapping José in two.
"ZOOM!" screamed Ned, as he hurled toward flaming pants Gandalf.
"Amazing hit!" José would have said, if he hadn't been dead.
"no...", naked Gandalf whispered, as the realization that his pants burned off dawned on him.
Plus, he was going to die.

Jimmy and dead José watched triumphantly, as the apocalyptic explosion engulfed the horizon,
killing Jimmy's best friend - who had been visiting his mom in the aforementioned floating mega city.
Can you believe it!?


Epilogue
500 years later...
Robot baseball player Jimmy lay on the cyborg hillside,
his 3 arms folded behind his head,
wondering how he got that can open.


Appendix A
I.  NiggleNits is future for Drinks.
II. Pockets were also outlawed.

[Xion]

[Cymon]

I... I'm in awe. I think I'm going to need to read it over 1.61803399... more times before I can say I understand it all.

[Pit]

Cyberpunk

Ginkgos Gone, Gynoids Come

Project Quietus. A rumour about a state-run attack that spread silently through the network. Thirteen weeks ago, Sarah first heard of it. Two more seconds and the operation will get launched. Two more seconds and she will know what it is about. Thirteen weeks ago, her husband died. She didn't leave her computer more than thrice a day since then. Only shortly for necessities. She doesn't drink much, she doesn't like to flush the toilet. She has to hear it all the day, water, falling down the pipe. In a skyscraper you're never alone. Cheap insulation. Shabby. The room looks shabby. Wired. Dark. She turns her head, her long blond hair strokes her face. A longing look on the picture of her husband. One more second.

An obliging and honest man. Found a grave security gap in the servers of the National Cyberspace Forces. Went to the police department to report from it. Blundered into an assault of rebels. Was shot by a police officer. The report said, his head was in the way. Sarah knew, it were his ears. She doesn't know what corruption scandal it was about. There are simply too many. Probably censorship, probably the network barrier, probably a failed delivery, probably the so-called elections. Doesn't matter. The rebels got killed. The certain police officer got two of them. The certain police officer got a promotion. A look on the screen, longing for vengeance, no more seconds, sabotage.

Operation deciduation. Target: The Ginkgo shrine. Time remaining: Four minutes. "A damned tree". These are all her thoughts. "A damned tree". With anger she strikes on the table. A thud. Somewhere a book must have fallen from the desk. She stands up, looks behind it and there it is, an old photo album. She didn't even know it existed. The page shows a picture with a familiar person, her grandmother, Anna Crusis. In the background, her orchard. Suddenly she remembers her childhood. Nature. Hastily she leafs through the book and remembers more and awakes and realizes and sees another familiar person. It's him. Beneath a cherry tree. Blossoming. The place where they first met. Time remaining: Three minutes.

In the next second the echoes of hundred pressed keys resound in the room. Using the security gap her husband found, she enters the network. Time to act. Her blue eyes are gliding faster than electrons over the screen. The ginkgo shrine. Home of the last remaining tree. The only one that survived the evolution. Pilgrimage site for those who didn't let the state thieve their remembrances of a brighter world. Sarah wasn't part of them. Till now. Floppies are flying through the room. Time remaining: Two and a half minutes.

With her shaking hands she inserts the disks, with her insubordinate fingers she types the commands, with her tear-filled eyes she follows the chaos on the network. The ginkgo shrine, illuminated by four floodlights. The only source of light the tree has in his dungeon, probably the most secure in the world. The system controlling the light switch, probably the most secure in the world. Set up by the best hackers the network has ever seen. Anarchists, who didn't abandon themselves to the state. Fought the authority during their whole life. During their short life. A gunshot! She looks out the window. Breaking glass in the opposite building. Most probably a hacker's  apartment. Never let them backtrack you. Sarah startles up. She forgot to take the precautions. Time remaining: Two minutes. Never mind. Too late. Lights remaining: Two. Already two cracked...

The data rate, decreasing. Never before did the wires reach such temperatures. A deluge-like flow of bytes shattering each other. Two fronts clashing after years of accumulating hate. Sarah, not in the middle of it. One of the few who managed to enter the servers of the National Cyberspace Forces, managed to approach the enemy's heart, managed to be hope. Cattech. This name showed up multiple times. Where does she know it from? Cattech. An idle glance over her desk. The newspaper from thirteen weeks ago. The advertisings. Cattech. A corporation arising by the fusion of the three largest technology giants on December 22.  That's today. Their product: Wooldress. "The first gynoid that can't be distinguished from true women. The fabricators are under strict surveillance from the state." The beauty in Sarah's eyes has gone, what stays is nothing but fear. No, the state doesn't supervise the fabricators. The fabricators are the state. This whole operation's nothing more than a marketing strategy. Wiping out the last remnant of naturism. Another gunshot. Time remaining: One minute. Her pistol lays on the desk, pointing to the window, loaded, safety catch off. Lights remaining: One.

In a world where electrons are the only bridge of communication, where alienation's as abundant as skyscrapers, where everything's connected but still isolated, where freshly bred children can be delivered home, where cybernetic upgrades make the man, an old tree's the last link to everyone's root. If he's gone, the gynoids will take his place, will form a network supposed to hold together a fragile society and strengthen the power of their creator. The market, money, might. It's all about the wet dreams of a few power-hungry maniacs. Our DNA makes us individual, unprogrammable. They can't expect everybody to accept their rules, they can't strive a global network. Because everything became far too large. It's simply a too large scale. Another gunshot. Very close. Sarah grins at the thought what they might look at in her bedroom. A kick against the door. It partly breaks. A blast of air goes through the room. A memo flies against her face. "Look up cradle". She remembers, she wanted a child. Hectically she fights her way through the desk and finds an unopened pregnancy test. Ten steps to the frontdoor. To her dream. Another kick. Ten seconds remaining. Still one light. There's hope. Not for her, not for her dream, but nonetheless worth typing.

[dEnamed]

I too signed up for the writing competition.
So here it is, my entry for cyberpunk:

Payday | Cyberpunk

The pitch black obsidian sky was littered with the carbon-black towers of the corporations and their artificial advertisement lightning. Heavy rain draped a blurry veil over the urban sprawl's ugly picketfence. John sighed and tilted his head back.

"No can do, buddy", he said. The handle of the high caliber pistol felt cold in his hands. The connection of the wire leading to his head, cold. The touch of the toxic rain on his skin, cold. John flicked up the collar of his jacket and looked at his former friends. The Thermal Vision Implant painted them in funny red and orange warm colors. Against the cold blue background noise, they looked like parasites, intruders. They were shivering, shaking, their heartbeat thumping violently, Amateurs trying to outsync, outlive and outsmart the city.
"I told you, you're not cut out for this", John tossed himself a cigarette, the hand holding the gun wasn't even moving. He inhaled a sharp breath, the self igniting cigarette sparked into life. After the first cough, John chuckled.
"Look John, we jus' want ze money. We want ze better live, ja? We want out of here!", one of his former friends said. Now he was just another lifeless shape holding a sawn off shotgun.
"You can have your money. But I want mine", John started playing with the gun's safety switch, idly twiddling his thumb over it. It felt cold. The metal cock making clicking alien noises that blended into the cities soundscape of whining and buzzing engines, mixing with the distorted voices of some random Video Suit Anchormen repeating the latest bullshit.
An acoustic warning, directly fed back into his brain caught John's attention again. Two at the front and one goddamn lousy punkhead sneaking up from behind, he interpreted the feedback. Several thoughts passed his mind, none of them centered on the current situation and most of them where of explicit nature. Man, you're a sick puppy, he thought. The cold touch of reality's door slamming his behind through the means of a shouted "Now!" brought him back to his consciousness.
Something glowing hot carved its way through his right shoulder, pieces of flesh and metal flew past his eyes, loose wire stuck from the wound. He sighed, the pain editor nullified the wound immediately while Father Adrenaline pumped up his system.
"Come on! Give me a break, do you have any bloody frickin' idea just how expensive implants are?", John shouted. He was shaking. Damnit, he thought, calm down. The smile creeped back onto his face, pale argon light from a nearby "phallic enhancement device" advertisement tainted his head into a ghostly light. It was cold.

Inhale. Let's get things started then. Breathe. Cuddle the trigger, sweet baby. Count to three. Ah fuck that, just shoot already. Exhale. Listen to the music. John smirked and tilted his head. A wail of agony was coming from behind him. Pictures of a derelict opera house flooded his head, memories, dancing corporation marionettes - figures of soulless slaves, he had pinned them up on electrically charged bolts during one particular job and watched them do the dance macabre. In his memory, they smiled. The drugs he gave them made sure of that. He smiled too. No drugs though.

"Your finest card just died", John said, not without a certain tone of amusement in his voice. A little spark jumped from the wire hanging from his shoulder. Rain poured into the wound and left it again, crimson red water. His blood formed a sharp contrast to the black and blue background. He flicked his Thermal Vision back on. Dear gummybears, he thought, their hearts were about to burst. The two shapes were scared stiff. They had seen the bullet pass through his shoulders, without effect, they had seen the insane smile on his lips. They saw the blur of his arm as he shot their friend dead without even looking. John was way out of their league. The wrong punk to piss off. You're a sick puppy, John.
"Well John. Considering it, forget it. I'd rather take ze 10.000 Credits and leave, ja? I mean its your money!", one of the shapes said.
"Sure thing, buddy. Can't blame you for trying", John put up another smile, it was a cold one. He knelt down and grabbed the cold handle of the suitcase. He flicked it open and picked up exactly 20.000 Credits, one bundle for each of them. He casually tossed it in their direction and as they ran for it, they smiled. He smiled too. Two silenced gunsnaps, his finger had squeezed the trigger twice.
"I just can't stand greedy people", he explained, looking at their bodies. The rain already cooled them down. Following a twisted urge, he knelt down and spread their arms. "Beautiful, you two look like angels. God will pick up his angels anytime", he said and moved over towards the Ledge, glancing a look down "And angels oughta fly, don't you think?".

John raised his head and looked upwards into the night. The sound of their bodies falling down several hundred meters had been entertaining, partly because they were still somewhat alive.
A heavily armored Mitsukimaki Gunship was flying patrol duty, it too had been bombarded with advertisements, leaving a rainbow colored smeary shade in the clouds. With another sigh, he reached into his pockets and pulled out his mobile phone.

"Hey, Janine!"
...
"Is that really you?"
...
"Good to hear your voice again"
...
"True, I'm fine"
...
"No, really? Cool"
...
"Something else, lovely"
...
"Well listen, I know you're down low on money"
...
"I'm not blind?"
...
"Okay, okay damnit, calm the fuck down"
...
"That's better"
...
"Listen up sister, you want on my team?"
...
"New positions are open as of now!"
...
"You're in"
...
"No clue where they're now"
...
"We divided our money and parted ways"
...
"What? Oh, didn't know that"
...
"Yeah they wanted to get away from their lives here"
...
"Haha. Well I reckon they succeeded"
...
"So you in sis'? Great, kisses. See you".

[McAndrews]

In future robot soviet Russia, baseball plays you! 
I'm so sorry. 

[MekanikDestructiwKommando]

And if you need some reference..
http://project.cyberpunk.ru/lib/

[agj]

Man, an awesome bunch of works. I'm embarrassed to present you...


Lies

The head contraption used to connect to the Network put pressure on my temples. The few seconds immediately after I activated the switch on the machine were as if my mind's link to my body had been severed, ending with an almost painful return of all the senses at once. Although I still recognized the connection shop when I glanced around, it looked ethereal now, with a plastic-like quality to everything, and no one else remained in the place. I had no idea what to do, as this was my first time connecting.

Father had kept us both away from technology. In our house, which used to lay in the outskirts of town, we didn't need to worry too much about anything other than the city's waste contamination and humbly working the land. My sister hated Father, though, and the day he died she fled, leaving Mother and I to ourselves. We didn't hear from her in those two years, until Mother died of the disease as well. A neighbor pressured to buy the land after that; there was nothing left for me there anymore, and I was already grown enough to leave, so I accepted the greedy offer. I departed in search of the only person I still had left.

What I discovered when I arrived in the city, though, was that she was also dead. It took me some time to find her, because she had changed her last name, but I could confirm what I had been told once I saw the dried blood atop the table she had her computer on, her face with sunken eyes, and smelled the pungent stench that would not leave my nostrils for days. She had been dead for a week, but the motel owners never took care of the body, claiming that it was the responsibility of the police. It had been suicide.

I tentatively removed the device from my head and, confirming that I was still connected, walked toward the door of the connection shop. Outside, it was similarly devoid of life, and there was no wind, or any sort of motion. Bright, blinking advertisements were now unlit, and even the sound of my footsteps seemed to have become quieter.

I walked through the city for several hours, though nothing reflected this, not even the dim, unmoving sun. I found the motel and climbed the four flights of stairs that led me to my sister's room. Inside, it was just as it had been the first time I visited, with her laying motionless, her face turned to the window opposite the door, one hand on the table. The only difference was that there was no blood this time, no smell. I approached her, and kneeled. Lifting her hand I felt a faint warmth, and a soft pulse; I clutched it with my own. Softly brushing her hair, I sensed a reaction in my palm. Slowly, she turned her head to me. She found my eyes, and she smiled.

As soon as I got to the city and learned of the rumors regarding the Network, I knew that she had never really hated Father. And I knew just why so many people abandon their quiet place to come live in the city that Father despised so much. I was no better, no stonger than them. Outside, there are so many people without hope, people that have nothing left to live for. There are so many other people that don't mind the lies.

[Drakkar]

HAHAHAHAH I TAKE IT BACK.
Rewriting the entire thing in a more coherent mood.

[TooMuchSpareTime]

I might give this a go, just for the sake of coming up with some new kind of "-punk" genre that takes the mickey out of something near & dear to me. 

[MekanikDestructiwKommando]

Er, well, I don't know if this is proper "punk".. maybe streetpunk? I have been reading a lot of William Gibson lately.. well, I wrote this today, not intended for the competition and then I saw tigsource again and decided to post it. Hope you enjoy! (p.s. I didn't plan for the ending to turn out like that until about a paragraph before!!)
   

Arthur

Arthur was the kind of man who, if you asked him how he was, might say "Fine, and you?" with the sort of politeness that indicates he neither approves of or is concious of his response. His response is the result of 31 years of social conditioning, finely tuned through the complex systems of family, strangers, friends and co-workers. Complex the system may be, the results generally fall within one area on a politeness graph: "Automatic indifference and respect".
Today another man, who's social conditioning result falls into the 1% range  of social conditioning which develops the same chemicals and responses in a section of the graph at the Steinmar-Renard Institute for Human Social Psychology as "Psychotic", asked Arthur how he was, and Arthur's
conditioning prevented him from detecting the edge of violence in his voice.

"Fine, and you?" Arthur's mouth formed the words automatically. A full two seconds slipped by as his conciousness became aware of what his cerebral cortex had known for a while: This man had wielded a pistol, and he was smiling calmly.

"Just dandy. Why don't you come have a walk with me?"

Arthur's memory conjured projections of pain and discomfort as he explained to his associates why he was late and why his wallet with all of its credit cards and dollar bills no longer existed inside his pockets. Another part of his memory flashed images of a gravestone with "Arthur" printed on it in with unflinching accuracy. This projection of the future reached Arthur's conciousness as an overwhelming feeling to not worry so much about being late to his meeting and shift his weight and his focus to the smiling stranger with the strangely silent metal object in one hand.

"Ah, ok".

Arthur's motor cortex propelled him towards the alley while the new stranger (who was now the focus of his world, consuming his virtual reality) persists in broadcasting a calm, unafraid smile, grinning at the world and the facets of its strange reality. Something inside Arthur's grey matter clicks, and he attempts to gain knowledge so that, even if he is a sheep being led to a slaughter, he will at least know where he will be killed. "Where are we going?" his mouth asks, with sincerity and astonishing politeness.

His captor's smile dissipates for enough milliseconds for Arthur's brain to become aware that his question sparked nervousness and uncertianity. Arthur's mind, after jumping from several theories, ended at the conclusion that questing for more certianity might paradoxically raise the level of uncertianity in his situation. Flipping a coin when standing at gunpoint to determine if your captor will shoot you or not is a terrible position to be in, and Arthur processed that his survival chances would be higher if the coin is never flipped again by never giving this stranger a chance to decide if he wished to shoot Arthur by not giving any uncertianity to the stranger's situation by asking questions.

The stranger's smile was corrected well before Arthur arrived at this conclusion, giving him a moment to reflect that maybe he hadn't really said anything at all, or that the stranger was indifferent to questions. Arthur's mind began wandering even more, asking questions to himself such as "Has this stranger done this before? How did he get a gun in the city? Who did he work for?".

Arthur continued walking towards the stranger and his questions ceased being asked when the stranger pulled the trigger.