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The What Are You Wearing Today (WAYWT) Discussion Thread, Part II - Page 1676post #25126 of 266219/5/16 at 7:01pmpost #25127 of 266219/5/16 at 7:02pmpost #25128 of 266219/5/16 at 7:20pm
@Kaplan Yes. I like it a lot. It's hard wearing and holds a lot of stuff for it's size due to the width. The interior storage compartments are well thought out and I can do a good deal of organisation for my computer, camera, electronics, business cards, stationary, etc without needing separate pouches inside. It can convert to a backpack as well, but I never use it like that. The handles are well made and can take decent weight too and has never lost any stitches. It does not look very refined but it is a good everyday bag if you typically wear casual outfits.post #25129 of 266219/5/16 at 10:41pmpost #25130 of 266219/5/16 at 11:14pmQuote:Originally Posted by Rais
Yes. I like it a lot. It's hard wearing and holds a lot of stuff for it's size due to the width. The interior storage compartments are well thought out and I can do a good deal of organisation for my computer, camera, electronics, business cards, stationary, etc without needing separate pouches inside. It can convert to a backpack as well, but I never use it like that. The handles are well made and can take decent weight too and has never lost any stitches. It does not look very refined but it is a good everyday bag if you typically wear casual outfits.
I've been looking at one of those for a while and it sounds quite good.
So you have the 3-way version? Thinking because it can also be worn as a backpack.post #25131 of 266219/5/16 at 11:21pmpost #25132 of 266219/6/16 at 1:43ampost #25133 of 266219/6/16 at 7:41am
Been way ahead of you for a while now....(this will never be finished)
The woman smiles up at me from the floor. Her eyes are open, but they don’t see anything.
I call the number scribbled on the pad in my pocket. The client answers.
“She’s dead,” I say, and I wonder if I should force some emotion into my voice. “I’ve called the cops.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. And then, clipped: “Keep the package, please. We’ll be in touch.”
I hang up. I wait for the police. They print me, take my statement. I tell them that I’m a delivery boy, that I don’t know anything, that the door was wide open for anyone to see. The woman in charge of the others tells me that she’ll be in touch.
A muscle behind my right eye twitches. I rub it. I apologize to the woman questioning me, tell her I have not been sleeping well. She shrugs. Things like this happen in the Outers, she says. She doesn’t seem to find the body as strange as I do.
It feels heavy in my palm; the weight of it, the shape of it. As heavy as a life. More than one, I think. I know that I am dreaming.
A door swings open, and a woman smiles at me from the floor. Smiles, lips parted in a whisper. I can’t hear what she’s saying.
I wake to the sound of rain.
The man is old, older than death maybe, and his eyes look through me.
He operates a tiny shop that sells illegal robotics in the Outers. Heads. Eyes. Not all of them are deactivated. There are other things here, too. Hard-to-find things.
He takes the drive, plugs it into a blocky old machine with a gaping maw, taps an old analog arrow until the picture defuzzes.
The dead woman’s face looks at me, blinks once, and smiles. She looks sad.
The old man is quiet. I’m quiet.
The dead woman says something, but the image blurs and the sound is indistinct.
“Replay that,” I say. The old man taps a button, taps another a few seconds later. The woman blinks, smiles, and speaks again.
“What does she mean?” I ask. I don’t expect an answer, and I don’t get one. The man shuffles to the machine, pulls out the drive, hands it to me without a word.
Rule one: do not ask questions. Rule two: do not ask questions. Rule three: do not ask questions.
Your job is to deliver packages. You do not ask questions.
My eye twitches.
The client calls the next day to arrange a drop off. I take a long time carefully re-packaging the tape. I keep the copy, the copy the old man made, with me.
I wonder who the dead woman is smiling at.
The police call me the next day. They tell me that they have more questions, ask if they can visit. Ask me where I’ll be.
Ten minutes later, I let them into my cubicle. The same woman is with them. She pulls out a small box, sets it on my tiny prefab kitchen table. In it is a gun.
“Do you recognize this weapon?” she asks.
I shake my head no, but I do: I dreamed it the night before.
She watches me very carefully. Removes one sheet of paper from an old cardboard folder, shows me a series of large whorls.
“Fingerprints,” she says. “Yours.”
Taps the gun.
“Fingerprints,” she says again.
I don’t respond.
“Yours,” she says.
“You think I killed her.”
Not a question. My eye twitches. I press it with the palm of my hand until I see tiny constellations.
The woman raises her eyebrows. “Did you?”
I shake my head. “Why would I call the police on myself?”
“That’s what I wonder.”
“I’m a courier, not a murderer.”
“What were you delivering?”
I shrug. Couriers don’t look. And it was dropped off this morning, with a street vendor. I didn’t ask his name.
“Who was it from?”
I shrug again.
I’ve been here before. I know what happens next.
“We found the gun half a block away. In the gutter. Only prints on it are yours.”
“I’m a courier,” I say.
“Not a murderer. Yeah.”
She looks at me again, then. Does something with one of her hands under that table.
My eye won’t stop twitching. There are three more officers, behind her. When she does the thing with her hand under the table, one of them begins to move very slowly.
I move faster.
I am out of the kitchen window before they shout, glass shattering behind me, eye twitching, head throbbing.
I land in a roll. Turn right on the landing. There’s a drainpipe on the corner. Grab it, swing out over traffic ten stories below, hit the wall -
I am seated at the table. The woman stares at me.
“You OK?” she asks. Her hands are on the table. Both of them.
I swallow once and nod. Look through the wall, towards where the drainpipe is.
I’ve never seen it. But I know it’s there.
She asks me where I was, what I was doing, whether anyone can vouch for me. Asks me how my fingerprints might have found their way onto a murder weapon. I give her answers. She looks disappointed.
“We’ll be in touch,” she says. “Don’t go anywhere.”
The cops leave. I lock the door behind them, sit at the kitchen table, stare through the wall at the drainpipe.
The dream-door opens on her body, lying on the floor. The city doesn’t notice. The world turns. I look down at the gun in my hand.
The picture fuzzes. Zooms in on the woman’s face. Pause. Blink. Smile. And then she whispers a name.
The phone rings, and I’m awake.
“Did you watch it?” the client asks.
I hang up.
I leave the cubicle with a small bag. Tools. I wheel my cycle into the elevator, take it down to the first street level. Then lower. And then one lower. I power the cycle on, slip the bag over my shoulders, and leave.
I hum through traffic toward the Outers. I live on the edge, and it doesn’t take long. Leaving the Inners is easy; it’s getting back inside that’s tough. I don’t know what kind of restrictions the police have put on my pass, but you don’t need a pass to leave. Who would leave?
The old man is not at his shop when I arrive. The door is locked and I ask around about him, but no one knows where he is.
I park my cycle behind his shack. Take a short metal cable from the bag, place it on the door. No one bothers to watch.
The lock hisses, and the door swings open. Some of the merchandise is still standing. Most of it is on the floor, in pieces. Some of it is still activated, still twitching. An eye finds me, blinks madly. A bust of a woman lies smashed beneath the window, its clockwork innards slowly winding down. On its face is a smile.
The machine that played the drive is destroyed; a collection of small springs and black plastic. Dead history.
I find the man in the small room he used for an office. His eyes are closed. His throat is open. The flies have only just discovered him.
The phone rings. I don’t answer.
The cycle takes me through the ugly neighborhoods in the first ring of Outers, where the non-citizens live in filth. I don’t know what I’m looking for. A door, maybe, like the one from my dreams. Something that will play the drive for me. Someone.
I ask questions where I think I’ll get answers. People see the cycle and assume something bad - drugs, lives, expensive fetishes maybe - but I don’t have enough of the Inners on me to scare them away. Most of them walk past, shoulders shrugged against the rain. Some take the time to tell me they can’t help. A few offer names.
I follow up, check the names off a mental list. One of them has a machine that will play the drive.
“Issa tape,” he growls when I hand it to him. “Not a drive.” I shrug. He places it in a machine similar to the one that’s lying in pieces on the old man’s floor.
The woman blinks. Smiles. Says my name.
Something that I didn’t notice the first time.
“How old is this?” I ask. “This…tape?”
The man adjusts his glasses. “Stopped making ‘em a hundred years ago,” he says.
I gesture at the woman on the screen. “Why does she have a Citizen’s pass?” He doesn’t answer.
“Play it again,” I say.
The tape plays again. And again. And again.
I know that she is talking to me.
I don’t return to the cubicle. I pay cash for a stained room in a building reserved for runners and prostitutes. I sleep for a few hours. I dream of the woman, dead now, alive a hundred years ago and saying my name.post #25134 of 266219/6/16 at 9:37ampost #25135 of 266219/6/16 at 9:43ampost #25136 of 266219/6/16 at 10:44ampost #25137 of 266219/6/16 at 1:46pmpost #25138 of 266219/6/16 at 1:53pmpost #25139 of 266219/6/16 at 1:57pmpost #25140 of 266219/6/16 at 2:23pm
thanks man. It's much better than my pictures let it look
that bag is great, @Rais. When I was in Japan I bought one of the three-way Tankers for a friend. Super well made and great shape. Always liked the green color but I have enough bags I guess. Sneakers look great too.
Inaisce linen shirt and hermit pants
Paul Harnden shoes
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