Dream: Brutal Vengeance of the United Parcel Service
Monday morning:
I worked in a second-floor office suite of an old brick building, along with beltramgregor. Its luckier siblings in the Warehouse District gleamed with restrained glass entryways and scrollwork crowns, old men whose eyes shone with experience from beneath the tipped brims of cleanly blocked hats. A casualty of low-budget resuscitation, our faceless building had only sides and backs, and it stared blankly away from everyone. Sleepiness and masonry had shut its eyes (but for the few propped open by over-caffeinated would-be web developers). Scars of unusual brickwork traced the outlines of a gangrenous limb, amputated years ago to clear the wide alley we used as a rear lot. A faded emblem tattooed its flank, the forgotten name suggesting vital parts of outmoded machinery.
beltramgregor and I both knew the Girl in the next office. She was almost our age, pert, pleasant, casually beautiful. We joked when we passed each other in the common hallways, and sometimes shared lunch hours to gripe on the rear balcony. beltramgregor frequently engaged her on her opinions of the latest Victoria's Secret offerings, many of whose deepest mysteries she pressed into service as elaborate outer wear. We had no idea what business they were in next door, but it seemed to have the same foibles as our own unremarkable employment.
The ruckus we heard from outside was unusual, so beltramgregor and I investigated from the balcony. The Girl paced angrily across the narrow parking lot, a box under one arm. She'd called UPS for a pick up, but they'd refused her package. By the time we'd hurried down the stairs into the lot, the Girl was in her plum-colored hard-top convertible, trying to pull into the street. (It looked like the offspring of a Chrysler 300C and a Plymouth Prowler.)
A sandy-haired, athletic man in uniform drove the truck in the parking lane. Born of the new Batmobile and Napoleon of New Dominion Tank Police, it looked like a rolling road block. The cerulean stripes across the armor plating made it clear he worked for UPS. The Girl's car feinted between lanes, trying to escape the parking lot, but the battle wagon leapt forward and blocked her again.
"You think you can deliver that!?" the driver shouted. "I AM the law!" As we rushed into my car, I noticed his bumper sticker read, "Proud To Be Texan."
We pulled into traffic, trying to catch up with the Girl and the UPS man. Everyone wove and honked, but the street was slow. The dangerous end of the battle wagon drew a bead on the Girl's bumper, only to see it buck and detach. The UPS man was halfway into an aggressive taunt, beltramgregor and I waving frantically, when her cab jumped out of the frame. Half the chassis came with it, the roof and trunk splitting cleanly down the middle. They unfolded into glider wings as thrusters kicked her out of a UPS targeting reticle. She did a flip as she sailed higher, angling her rocket pods at the wagon's juicy engine. She cursed him and his brethren for interfering, but her words were lost in the whine of air-to-surface ordinance and the subsequent clamor. Safely two cars back in my Gran Prix, we cheered and gawked. Is that a Cobra Devil Ray?
Workers from the huge place on the first floor milled by the doors, waiting for us to get back. They asked what'd just happened, and we tried to sound nonchalant when we explained everything. They let us walk through to the interior stairs. I'd never been in their space before, and I hadn't missed anything. It'd never been remodeled. As far as I could tell, they were running some sort of non-profit social service; people were moving school surplus chairs and tables around, getting ready for evening support groups.
The rest of my day breezed by in the glow of the afternoon's excitement. Somewhere in the back of my mind, behind all the synapses fawning over the Girl, a suspicious thought wondered what was in the package, and why she could protect it so well. What are they doing next door? They don't look like drug dealers.
She swooped through my mind over and over that night, her flyer distorted into cybernetic wings (like Archangel). I fantasized about helping her when she forgot her wings. I'd grab her around the waist and we'd leap from a window into the narrow alley to slow pursuit. I'd bank around the curve of a culvert to absorb our fall, then shoot out across the still waters of the flooded back streets, gliding on skate blades of luminous force. That seemed like a good idea; maybe I could develop psychic powers and learn to force skateovernightif I slept just right.
Driving to work the next day was tricky, but it was always tricky in my jeep. I'm not used to driving jeeps; they tip more easily than most cars I've driven. Traffic was stalled downtown, and a Hummer had gotten stuck on some urban rubble (ahem, gnfnrf) trying to get around the congestion. I sighed and eased the jeep onto the rubble, then onto the back of the Hummer. I drove it straight over the roof and down the hood, but the people inside waved their arms so much they tilted the car, and my jeep practically slid sideways off the pile into a snarled intersection. beltramgregor yipped, I hit the gas, and we got clear of the rubble without rolling. Just like yesterday, I thought.
Calmer now, I wondered how habitual jeep drivers managed this every day. A couple in their 40's parked an early model Cherokee in a nearby alley. The mandenim jacket, curly beard going graylocked the door as they walked away with their child. He said something about the quirks of his wife's jeep, and she jogged back to collect something from the back seat.
The full sun left little room for shadows outside; maybe I'd arrived late, or maybe I was bringing lunch back from somewhere. I entered the building by a side door so that I could walk past the Girl's office. I rounded the corner and saw a treaded assault robot creeping down the hall. Its four arms windmilled forwards, readying its battery of 20mm autocannons. It was almost at her door; any moment now its guns would peek around the frame and shatter everything inside. I raced to the UPS dreadnought and jumped aboard from behind. Climbing its arms like crumbling steps, I ratcheted them back and confused its motivators, the servos momentarily jammed.
The female voice of a UPS assault copter boomed from behind as I ran into her office, its ultimatum bent by the megaphone and muffled by the brickwork. I found the Girl walking with papers in one hand and hurried her to the window. She moved easily in blue jeans and a robin's egg flyaway mesh babydoll that... but we're running. I expected some kind of protest as I wrapped an arm around her bare waist and hurled us both out the window, but all she gave me was a surprised smile.
The dreadnought's muzzles came into view as we fell away. Glancing at the Girl, I noticed her transparent babydoll was meant to go over a matching bra, which she'd omitted entirely. If she stood very still and it fell exactly right, the embroidery curving down from the neckline might just cover her nipples. This seemed unusual, even for her, and I wanted to remark that the straw-tan demi-cup (with the viney chasings) she'd worn yesterday would look great with that, but we were just passing the window ledge, and I really needed to get on with the plan.
In a split second of terrifying vertigo, I realized that A) I had taken us out the front by the broad parkway, where anyone following would have a clear shot; B) this somehow put us on the 12th floor, not the second; C) I hadn't learned how to make force skates in my sleep; D) there was no culvert on which I could bank even if I had skates; and E) I'd never imagined a safe way to descend even a single story unharmed, I'd merely forgotten that was a problem.
My hand brushed a round wooden knob and closed fast, my shoulder yanking suddenly as our bodies swung. I'd grabbed a handle for a dresser drawer, one of two on that level. That entire side of the building was covered with giant wooden drawers. I was still marveling at this when I noticed the Girl had jumped sideways to the next column over, landing in the stacked clothes of an open drawer one floor down. My sore shoulder complained, and I tumbled into a dozen shirts beside her.
I worked in a second-floor office suite of an old brick building, along with beltramgregor. Its luckier siblings in the Warehouse District gleamed with restrained glass entryways and scrollwork crowns, old men whose eyes shone with experience from beneath the tipped brims of cleanly blocked hats. A casualty of low-budget resuscitation, our faceless building had only sides and backs, and it stared blankly away from everyone. Sleepiness and masonry had shut its eyes (but for the few propped open by over-caffeinated would-be web developers). Scars of unusual brickwork traced the outlines of a gangrenous limb, amputated years ago to clear the wide alley we used as a rear lot. A faded emblem tattooed its flank, the forgotten name suggesting vital parts of outmoded machinery.
beltramgregor and I both knew the Girl in the next office. She was almost our age, pert, pleasant, casually beautiful. We joked when we passed each other in the common hallways, and sometimes shared lunch hours to gripe on the rear balcony. beltramgregor frequently engaged her on her opinions of the latest Victoria's Secret offerings, many of whose deepest mysteries she pressed into service as elaborate outer wear. We had no idea what business they were in next door, but it seemed to have the same foibles as our own unremarkable employment.
The ruckus we heard from outside was unusual, so beltramgregor and I investigated from the balcony. The Girl paced angrily across the narrow parking lot, a box under one arm. She'd called UPS for a pick up, but they'd refused her package. By the time we'd hurried down the stairs into the lot, the Girl was in her plum-colored hard-top convertible, trying to pull into the street. (It looked like the offspring of a Chrysler 300C and a Plymouth Prowler.)
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A sandy-haired, athletic man in uniform drove the truck in the parking lane. Born of the new Batmobile and Napoleon of New Dominion Tank Police, it looked like a rolling road block. The cerulean stripes across the armor plating made it clear he worked for UPS. The Girl's car feinted between lanes, trying to escape the parking lot, but the battle wagon leapt forward and blocked her again.
"You think you can deliver that!?" the driver shouted. "I AM the law!" As we rushed into my car, I noticed his bumper sticker read, "Proud To Be Texan."
We pulled into traffic, trying to catch up with the Girl and the UPS man. Everyone wove and honked, but the street was slow. The dangerous end of the battle wagon drew a bead on the Girl's bumper, only to see it buck and detach. The UPS man was halfway into an aggressive taunt, beltramgregor and I waving frantically, when her cab jumped out of the frame. Half the chassis came with it, the roof and trunk splitting cleanly down the middle. They unfolded into glider wings as thrusters kicked her out of a UPS targeting reticle. She did a flip as she sailed higher, angling her rocket pods at the wagon's juicy engine. She cursed him and his brethren for interfering, but her words were lost in the whine of air-to-surface ordinance and the subsequent clamor. Safely two cars back in my Gran Prix, we cheered and gawked. Is that a Cobra Devil Ray?
Workers from the huge place on the first floor milled by the doors, waiting for us to get back. They asked what'd just happened, and we tried to sound nonchalant when we explained everything. They let us walk through to the interior stairs. I'd never been in their space before, and I hadn't missed anything. It'd never been remodeled. As far as I could tell, they were running some sort of non-profit social service; people were moving school surplus chairs and tables around, getting ready for evening support groups.
The rest of my day breezed by in the glow of the afternoon's excitement. Somewhere in the back of my mind, behind all the synapses fawning over the Girl, a suspicious thought wondered what was in the package, and why she could protect it so well. What are they doing next door? They don't look like drug dealers.
She swooped through my mind over and over that night, her flyer distorted into cybernetic wings (like Archangel). I fantasized about helping her when she forgot her wings. I'd grab her around the waist and we'd leap from a window into the narrow alley to slow pursuit. I'd bank around the curve of a culvert to absorb our fall, then shoot out across the still waters of the flooded back streets, gliding on skate blades of luminous force. That seemed like a good idea; maybe I could develop psychic powers and learn to force skateovernightif I slept just right.
Driving to work the next day was tricky, but it was always tricky in my jeep. I'm not used to driving jeeps; they tip more easily than most cars I've driven. Traffic was stalled downtown, and a Hummer had gotten stuck on some urban rubble (ahem, gnfnrf) trying to get around the congestion. I sighed and eased the jeep onto the rubble, then onto the back of the Hummer. I drove it straight over the roof and down the hood, but the people inside waved their arms so much they tilted the car, and my jeep practically slid sideways off the pile into a snarled intersection. beltramgregor yipped, I hit the gas, and we got clear of the rubble without rolling. Just like yesterday, I thought.
Calmer now, I wondered how habitual jeep drivers managed this every day. A couple in their 40's parked an early model Cherokee in a nearby alley. The mandenim jacket, curly beard going graylocked the door as they walked away with their child. He said something about the quirks of his wife's jeep, and she jogged back to collect something from the back seat.
The full sun left little room for shadows outside; maybe I'd arrived late, or maybe I was bringing lunch back from somewhere. I entered the building by a side door so that I could walk past the Girl's office. I rounded the corner and saw a treaded assault robot creeping down the hall. Its four arms windmilled forwards, readying its battery of 20mm autocannons. It was almost at her door; any moment now its guns would peek around the frame and shatter everything inside. I raced to the UPS dreadnought and jumped aboard from behind. Climbing its arms like crumbling steps, I ratcheted them back and confused its motivators, the servos momentarily jammed.
The female voice of a UPS assault copter boomed from behind as I ran into her office, its ultimatum bent by the megaphone and muffled by the brickwork. I found the Girl walking with papers in one hand and hurried her to the window. She moved easily in blue jeans and a robin's egg flyaway mesh babydoll that... but we're running. I expected some kind of protest as I wrapped an arm around her bare waist and hurled us both out the window, but all she gave me was a surprised smile.
The dreadnought's muzzles came into view as we fell away. Glancing at the Girl, I noticed her transparent babydoll was meant to go over a matching bra, which she'd omitted entirely. If she stood very still and it fell exactly right, the embroidery curving down from the neckline might just cover her nipples. This seemed unusual, even for her, and I wanted to remark that the straw-tan demi-cup (with the viney chasings) she'd worn yesterday would look great with that, but we were just passing the window ledge, and I really needed to get on with the plan.
In a split second of terrifying vertigo, I realized that A) I had taken us out the front by the broad parkway, where anyone following would have a clear shot; B) this somehow put us on the 12th floor, not the second; C) I hadn't learned how to make force skates in my sleep; D) there was no culvert on which I could bank even if I had skates; and E) I'd never imagined a safe way to descend even a single story unharmed, I'd merely forgotten that was a problem.
My hand brushed a round wooden knob and closed fast, my shoulder yanking suddenly as our bodies swung. I'd grabbed a handle for a dresser drawer, one of two on that level. That entire side of the building was covered with giant wooden drawers. I was still marveling at this when I noticed the Girl had jumped sideways to the next column over, landing in the stacked clothes of an open drawer one floor down. My sore shoulder complained, and I tumbled into a dozen shirts beside her.