Scientology research paper

Doug McCracken

EN245

Dr. Sarracino

4 May 2006

Comic Delusions and Torture: L. Ron Hubbard and Scientology

What is scientology? Is it a religion? A cult? A philosophy? Examining the origins of this religious organization provides some illuminating insights. Scientology began as Dianetics, a controversial psychology method developed by L. Ron Hubbard. The organization has steadily remained in the spotlight almost continuously for its entire life. It claims to have over a million followers all over the world, in practically every nation, but it does not release any of its records. It has been tax-exempt, officially recognized as a religion in the United States, since 1993. Popular celebrities speak of it in interviews, promoting weird ideas and causing many conversations, most of them mocking. The point remains that Scientology is something that many people are aware but few actually know what it is. It is a cult. Not a harmless religion, or a “way for rich people to give their money that don’t really deserve away to whackos” as a friend of mine puts it. Scientology is a cult with a history of violence and secrecy. To understand the cult, it is important to understand its founder.

“LRH”

A controversial public figure, Hubbard was first known as a science fiction writer in the years before World War Two. He was relatively popular in the pulp fiction market, despite some controversy over the legitimacy of his education. It appears that he was a habitual liar and a fraud. Research and investigative journalism by writers such as George Malko and Paulette Cooper call almost all of Hubbard’s life into question. He claimed to be well learned in the fields of physics and thermodynamics, although his actual grades, Ds, Es and Fs, indicate otherwise (Cooper, ch. 20) Hubbard claimed a Ph. D. from a Sequoia University, although no such university was ever found.

An investigation into the university revealed it was a so-called degree mill, an operation that takes money and without testing or classes, grants degrees to its customers. Hubbard would later “resign” his degree, allegedly over what “doctors” were plotting with nuclear weapons. Apparently Hubbard didn’t think that people with doctorates should be designing weaponry, or perhaps that doctors should be concerned with the well being of humans.

Hubbard joined the military at the start of the Second World War. Scientology texts exalt him as a hero, and Hubbard told stories of himself being wounded in combat. The truth of the matter is that his superiors gave him very negative reviews, dismissing him from overseas service. Hubbard was sent to Boston and assigned command of a harbor patrol boat before quarrels with his superiors led him to being sent to Florida and trained in anti-submarine tactics. After this, Hubbard was ordered to sail a new anti-sub boat to San Diego. At the mouth of the Columbia River, Hubbard apparently mistook a magnetic deposit for a Japanese submarine armada and bombed the seabed vigorously with perhaps dozens of depth charges. Post-war investigation of the area revealed no submarines of any sort, despite his claims of conflict. Near San Diego, Hubbard ordered his crew to practice their gunnery on an island in the Coronado Archipelago, believing the island to be uninhabited and US territory. He was wrong on both accounts and was relieved of command, to be mustered out in 1945.

Scientology exalts his war time service with fake records claiming he was in combat, that he was in command of many vessels and that he received scores of rewards and medals. False on all accounts, according to the Navy, as seen at: http://www.holysmoke.org/sdhok/war-rec.htm The Navy uses a form known as the DD214. The Navy’s official copy is very different from the one circulated by Scientology and the officer who signed the Scientology version of this form does not even exist as a person in the United States, much less as an officer in the Navy. Many of the medals Scientology claims its founder was awarded do not even exist. Hubbard also claimed disability from the Navy for a variety of ailments, long after his science of Dianetics claims to have found solutions to these problems.

Another note of interest that Cooper draws attention to concerns Dianetics. Introduced in the May 1950 book Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health, it is described as a means of self-improvement. The concept of “auditing”, were one person bombards another with painful, emotionally disturbing personal questions, appears in Scientology as well. In the time frame that Hubbard claims he was doing experiments with 270 people, he was churning out pulp fiction at a remarkable rate, along with allegedly practicing black magic with occult figure Aleister Crowley. Hubbard made claims to research dating back more than 30 years at the time he revealed Dianetics—the date at the time would mean that he started his research of the human mind before he attended elementary school. (Cooper) Dianetics information first appeared in the magazine Astounding Science Fiction, for which Hubbard was a voluminous writer. He was also friends with John W. Campbell, science fiction writer and editor and a border-line popular novelist named A. E. van Vogt. These men supported him, with Campbell becoming his treasurer and van Vogt agreeing to the first Dianetics center in Los Angles. Several science fiction writers, such as Isaac Asimov and Jack Williamson immediately became skeptics. The book sold very well, but came under scrutiny by the American Psychological Association (perhaps this is one of the causes for Scientologists’ hatred of psychology). A number of offices for the Hubbard Dianetic Research Foundation were opened, but most closed within a year.

Hubbard renamed Dianetics to Scientology in the early 1950s and opened the first Church of Scientology in Camden, New Jersey in December of 1953. At this time, he moved to England, buying a large manor which became Scientology’s world headquarters. He claimed to have spent many years studying human existence and this was the period when he began using new words to describe things. He developed a list of axioms for his followers, and began calling the human spirit the Thetan. He introduced a biofeedback device to the auditing process, naming it the Hubbard Electropsychometer or E-meter for short. Similar to a lie-detector, it was invented by a Dianetics follower. It became known that this “religion” was charging people for practically everything: meetings, lessons and auditing sessions among other things, often with very high prices and a number of governments began to investigate Scientology as a harmful cult and a scam.

These investigations, largely by nations of the United Kingdom (Australia, New Zealand, Canada) and Britain itself, compelled Hubbard to leave England. He traveled the world for a brief time before resigning his Scientology post of executive director in 1967. He then formed the Sea Organization, a militaristic sub-cult, complete with ranks and uniforms, operating on a fleet of ships in the Mediterranean and dubbed himself “Commodore”. This group became the management of the Church. Hubbard returned to the US some time in the 1970s. The FBI raided Scientology offices on both coasts of the US in 1977 under evidence that Scientology was infiltrating government positions and running its own illegal espionage organization. Facing severe federal and media scrutiny, along with several subpoenas, Hubbard went into hiding. In 1978, the French government convicted him of felony fraud and sentenced him to a prison term and a heavy fine. Hubbard remained hidden.

During the 1980s, Hubbard retuned to publishing science fiction. There were reports of many wealthy Scientologists buying dozens of copies of each book, in an aim to make the book a best-seller. Despite being officially resigned from Scientology, Hubbard continued to receive large sums of money from the group. Forbes magazine estimated his 1982 income exceeded forty million dollars. L. Ron Hubbard died on the 24^th of January, 1986. The Church of Scientology sought to have his body immediately cremated, but they were blocked by the San Luis Obispo County medical examiner, who examined the body and ruled the cause of death to be a stroke. High levels of the anti-histamine drug Hydroxyzine, which also has psychoactive effects, were found in his blood stream. This casts a considerable amount of doubt on his following the religious philosophy he espoused, since any kind of drug use is forbidden under Scientology axioms.

Scientology’s methods

Much of the controversy around Scientology seems to arise from the fact that is supposedly both a method of science and a faith/religion. These two elements of society are frequently at odds; perhaps they always will be in the American popular culture. Scientology began as Dianetics, so some discussion of Dianetics is important. Even in those early days, Hubbard was saying things that cast a lot of doubt on the intentions behind his philosophies. The following quote is just one of many.

It was 1950, in the early, heady days of Dianetics, soon after L. Ron Hubbard opened the doors of his first organization to the clamoring crowd. Up until then, Hubbard was known only to readers of pulp science fiction, but now he had an instant best-seller with a book that promised to solver every problem of the human mind, and the cash was pouring in. Hubbard found it easy to create schemes to part is new following from their money. One of the first tasks was to arrange “grades” of membership, offering supposedly greater rewards, at increasingly high prices. Over thirty years later, an associate wryly remembered Hubbard turning to him and confiding, no doubt with a smile, “Let’s sell these people a piece of the blue sky.” (Atack iv)

Dianetics, originally marketed as a mental self help methodology, supposedly has its origins in Hubbard observing and experimenting with many people. Despite its claims to being a science, there was no mention of any kind of control group. He used his connections in the publishing industry to generate interest and curiosity. One of the first converts to this new philosophy was Hubbard’s former co-worker and friend, John Campbell. To another new convert, Joseph Winter, M.D. he wrote:

With cooperation from some institutions, some psychiatrists, he has worked on all types of cases. Institutionalized schizophrenics, apathies, manics, depressives, perverts, stuttering, neuroses— in all nearly 1,000 cases… He doesn’t have proper statistics… (emphasis mine) He has cured every patient he worked… (Atack, 106)

Originally announced via a science fiction magazine, Hubbard published an article on Dianetics in the spring of 1950, in The Explorers Club Journal. In this article, he explained Dianetics as a “tool for the expedition commander and doctor who are faced with choosing personnel and maintaining that personnel in good health.” (Atack 105-6) What exactly this quote is saying is difficult to decipher. From the quote, it seems he was trying to sell his method to scientists and science fans, perhaps members of the military. Hubbard seems to have always seen himself as some kind of military-scientist hero, despite the damning evidence against his being either.

What can be gathered is that Dianetics and later Scientology believe all illness and disease to be psychosomatic—that is, caused by the mind alone. Everything from arthritis to drug addictions and ulcers are viewed as psychosomatic problems caused by the repression of painful memories. One scientist remarked it was “Freudian psychology for lunatics”. (FIND AGAIN) In order to cure these… maladies, a question and answer session system called auditing was promoted. In this session, which can cost more than $1000, and may last for hours, the auditor asks hundreds of questions to the subject, who is hooked to the E-meter, an electrical appliance similar to a lie-detector but even more unproven. The E-meter itself was said by Dianetics/Scientology officials to have therapeutic properties. With enough auditing, an individual’s “tone level” could be raised to a level known as “Enthusiasm” (Atack, 123) An Enthusiastic person will be almost immune to disease and have some kind of divine understanding of reality, while a person with a low tone level will be confused and sickly. Bizarre charts and tables with dozens of categories were produced by Hubbard to chart an individual’s progress.

The questions asked in these sessions are found on a number of lists called “Security Checks.” (Liberal use of seemingly Random Capitalization seems to have been a Hobby to Hubbard.)The first of them, produced by Hubbard himself is over 100 questions in length, beginning with nonsense questions (such as “Am I an ostrich?”) to “calibrate the E-meter.” Another is over 400 questions long. All of the lists are apparently to be completed in one session. These lists ask questions ranging from homophobic and racist, such as “Have you ever practiced Homosexuality?” and “Have you ever slept with a member of a race of another color?” to bizarre political questions (the patriot/soldier/scientist angle again) such as “Do you feel Communism has some good points?” (yes being a bad thing), to the paranoid—“Have you ever had unkind thoughts about LRH (Hubbard’s moniker in Scientology)?” to the laughably absurd—“Have you ever destroyed a culture?” Have you ever blanketed bodies for the sensation kick (I can’t figure out what this even means) to some harkening back to his pulp sci-fi days—“Did you come to Earth for evil purposes? ‘Have you ever zapped anyone?” “Have you ever eaten a human body?” ” (Atack, 150-152) An important question, perhaps one of the most important of all—if one answers yes to this question they will be removed from Scientology ASAP is this one—“Have you ever been a journalist?”. Auditees are never allowed to view their own file of results from these readers, leading to a constant paranoia of being discovered unworthy and completely shunned by their fellow Scientologists.

Things get stranger. Hubbard began talking of past lives, going back billions of years and referring to almost everyone as pre-clears. The pre-clear label refers to people who have not cleaned their minds and Thetans. Eventually, it would be revealed that Hubbard believed the human soul to be an immortal being called a Thetan, which was imprisoned in a humanoid body by an evil being known as Xenu. Massive space craft with shocking similarities to giant sized modern aircraft are involved in bombing planets, planting Thetans in bodies themselves embedded in volcanoes, among other things.

Hubbard began feuding with is board of directors, largely made up friends and family, at this time. He went on to call them traitors and change his philosophy’s name to Scientology. Several of the higher ups who split from Scientology in this time—the 1960s, went on to form their own crack pot cults. Hubbard and others of the original Scientology faith pursued and harassed many of these splinter groups. They may have even killed one of their leaders.

Scientology’s reputation and status

A number of deaths have been attributed to Scientology. The first one is the death of Susan Meister. A college-age member of Scientology, she joined in 1970. She wrote her parents and family frequently, always encouraging them to try Scientology. Within a year, she had joined the Sea Org. A month after that, she was on the Flagship Apollo. Slightly more than a month later, her parents were informed of her death. What happened next made her parents and others very suspicious of Scientology. Her father received a phone call from Guardian’s Office Public Relations man Artie Maren (Atack 198) and met him the next day. Maren presented him with a fact sheet regarding his daughter’s death. Meister told Maren that he wanted the body flown back to the US for a burial. He then received a letter from Bob Thomas at the Church of Scientology in Los Angeles. The letter explained that the “Panamanian (the “Flagship” was registered in Panama, probably for run-around methods such as this) owners of the boat were bound to give information to the Church of Scientology. Oddly, Norman Starkey, captain of the Apollo, offered to pay for a Christian burial in Morocco, but lacked the funds to have the body shipped to the US.

Confused and angry, Meister went to Morocco to see his daughter’s body and investigate her death. He first met with more Scientology people and the US vice-counsel. A policeman showed him a picture of Susan. She was lying on a bunk, with a bullet hole in her forehead, wearing a dress her mother had made for her. A revolver with a long barrel was on her chest. No powder burns were visible on her skin and the revolver’s barrel seemed too long for Susan to have shot herself. Meister again asked to see his daughter’s body. He was told that an autopsy had been performed. A Scientology person told him they suspected she had drug problems. Her body could not be found, Meister was not allowed by officials to see the police reports.

“LRH”, who was with Sea Org at the time, refused to see him. Meister shot a lot of film while he was there. It was missing when he left. Then, the Scientology people tried to bride him. Outraged, he went to the airport to leave the country when a large man in a suit confronted him and told him he was being watched. Upon return to the US, it was discovered that his daughter had been buried in burlap bag in Morocco, before he had even arrived there.

He made arrangements for the body to be exhumed and shipped home, but was told she had probably died of cholera and it would not be possible to send her body home. (Atack 201). Scientologist continued to harass him for six years, saying that had enough evidence to smear both him and his daughter, claiming they had proof she was a pornographer and a drug addict. They also launched a campaign to discredit the US Vice-counsel, stating that he had made plans to have the CIA sink Apollo, among other fallacious charges. The harassment continued until a FBI raid was conducted at the Guardian’s Offices.

This behavior raises many questions about the honesty and legitimacy of the entire organization. Why was Susan’s father given the run-around? Why was he denied access to her body? Why was the body buried before he left and why did Scientologists lie to him? How could she kill herself with a revolver and not have powder burns on the still bloody entry point? Why would someone who wrote such positive letters commit suicide within days of writing them? Why was Meister harassed for six years? Why would an honest organization with a benevolent mission of enlightening the planet behave so duplicitously? Perhaps the letters were fabrications intended to promote a positive image to the outside world with the hope of attracting more customers.

Sea Org defectors tell stories that would make something like that seem plausible. While LRH was with the Org, he adopted and experimented with a variety of punishments to those that were unproductive or disruptive. Members were sleep deprived (a common LRH punishment), or forced to spend days in the ship’s filthy, rat-infested, tiny chain lockers with no room to sit down. Members were even thrown overboard as punishment, forced to wear filthy chains around their arms. This kind of behavior persisted for several years, at least through the year 1976. (Atack, 196) Perhaps poor Susan, naïve idealist, was subjected to such torture and humiliation. Maybe she really did have a drug problem and the Scientology cures of auditing and E-metering were ineffective. Was she killed to prevent her from breaking the bubble of lies?

Furthermore, why would a benevolent organization infiltrate the US government? The Guardian’s Office, was formed in March of 1966 to “help LRH enforce and issue policy, to safeguard scientology orgs, scientologists and scientology and to engage in long term promotion” (Atack 217) Hubbard’s wife, Mary Sue was appointed as the Controller (there goes the capitalization of nouns again) for life by her husband. It was headquartered in England, with continental offices all of Hubbard’s continents, which are different than everyone else’s concept of continents. The GO was deliberately made a competitor to the Sea Org, for unknown reasons. It was promoted within Scientology as the way to deal with external threats. The GO would react to bad press, usually charging harassment or liberal or talking of hidden anti-religion controllers of all governments. GO was also placed in charge of various good will programs, such as the controversial “Narconon” drug rehabilitation program. GO even produced its own newsletter, “reminiscent of Fascist and Communist propaganda with its overblown language” (Atack 218. Following LRH’s ridiculous military science hero philosophy, the GO was not a defense organization, but an offense organization for attacking ruthlessly and relentlessly. Files were maintained on every Scientologist; records of everything Scientology were collected and guarded. This was where the war with modern scientific psychology began. It was blamed for all manner of troubles befalling the organization. Hubbard placed GO and Sea Org as opponents to some fictitious organization known as smersh. (Yes, that SMERSH, from Ian Fleming’s James Bond) GO also kept one of Hubbard’s children from a previous marriage from contacting him by sending agents to read her a letter explaining things to her and telling ridiculous lies about her mother and the divorce. A smear campaign was begun against the city of Clearwater, Florida. LRH had made Clearwater a target because he wanted to control the town and make it into a headquarters. Obviously, that goal was reached. Clearwater is now overrun with Scientologists.

Along with these campaigns, Scientologists in GO launched a plot against Paulette Cooper, who wrote one the first books against Scientology, exposing it as a harmful, vaguely fascist, dangerous cult. She was indicted for making a bomb threat against the Church of Scientology, sued for libel and was the target of a plot to have her arrested as a terrorist. The Operation was titled Operation Freakout and was aimed at destroying and discrediting her for good. The plot was eventually foiled, but not for a considerable amount of time. GO’s downfall began when an agent who infiltrated the IRS was caught. The Internal Revenue service was not the only government agency infiltrated, the Coast Guard and others were also targets for GO infiltration. (Atack 224). The man who was caught, that brought the whole thing crashing down, was Michael Meisner, a long time Scientologist. He climbed up through GO very quickly and was placed in charge of the operation to infiltrate the IRS, presumably to remove anything suspicious about LRH’s and Scientology’s finances. Also, it was hoped that the man on the inside could tip his fellow followers before federal action occurred. Files were stolen and illegally copied. Offices were broken in to and searched. Eventually, the odds caught up with the reckless Meisner, and he was placed on a wanted list for burglary. He was placed in hiding by Scientologists and went through many auditing sessions. Eventually, he came to realize that a “religion” that calls for one of its most loyal followers to attack his own nation’s government, harass reporters and legitimate scientists and commit numerous crimes is probably not worth going to jail for. He confessed again, this time to federal agents. As a result, eleven GO leaders were arrested, including Mary Sue Hubbard.

A large purge of Scientology occurred after the arrests and public trial. Mary Sue, once the co-leader of the group, was gradually disconnected from all things Scientology. Scientology did manage to make Clearwater its headquarters. Large numbers of young people, the children of the original generation and new recruits, were being indoctrinated in the group. LRH went further and further into seclusion. His health was failing. He needed help with practically everything. He concocted a scheme to not only continue getting household service of all sorts for free (followers had been serving as butlers, janitors, etc for decades), but to bring a new generation to his cause—the Commodore’s Messengers Org was formed. The CMO members were trained with the rigid discipline and ethics of the Sea Org. Members were subjected to sleep deprivation and long periods of cruel and unusual punishments for minor infractions. The CMO would serve LRH and be trained at the same time. Joining this Org was another, dubbed Cine Org. The Cine Org was formed to assist Hubbard in making movies of all types, under ridiculous conditions in the desert. They were frequently lied to, told they were headed to the new facilities in Clearwater, when in fact they ended up in the deserts of Nevada at a filthy, vermin infested “camp.” Film students were sought, as LRH was making a wide range of motion pictures, many about the alleged history of the faith. Others were wild propaganda piece aimed keep Scientologists afraid of the rest of the world, especially the FBI and psychology. Inductees were forced to lie to their friends and families so Hubbard’s location would remain secret. (Atack 249). The largely youth Orgs were completely cut off from the rest of the world. Hubbard’s behavior became increasingly bizarre and cruel. He threw tantrums, issued ridiculous demands constantly and reportedly struck several of the youths in the face. (Atack, 251) Anyone that slipped was placed in tortuous conditions. Those that left the secret Nevada compound were harassed by the remnants of GO for years. Eventually, the film project fell apart after producing many films and Hubbard changed locations. Much of the youth Orgs followed him, advancing further in to the group.

LRH died in 1986, but Scientology lived on. His successors have kept Scientology in the spot-light, good or bad, almost steadily for more than 20 years. Its attacks against the individual due surface, but for every such thing, there is undoubtedly a smiling celebrity preaching LRH’s words. Three of the most popular actors in Hollywood in the past decades—John Travolta, Kristie Alley and always in forefront Tom Cruise—are very public Scientologists. How can a religion which so horribly brutalizes large groups of its members, who subjects them to all manners of misery, remain in the forefront? How has the organization not collapsed under federal scrutiny and public opinion? The closed nature of the faith is a large factor.

Reporters are viewed as being in league with the government and psychologists. In this way, opponents are demonized and not to be trusted. Scientologists are told they are little more than con-artists, looking to make money as quickly as possible. Such views are promoted by leaders and spread through the seemingly endless ranks, “A chief complaint is that reporters, eager for a story, take the words of lapsed members as gospel. Davis (A Scientology leader at the new Gold facility in California) says Scientology gets little credit for the success of its social-betterment programs…” (Reitman, Rolling Stone Feb 23 2006). Furthermore, members who do speak to the press or the government are completely cut-off from Scientology. In many cases, this is everyone they know. Reitman, who wrote the cover story on Scientology for “Rolling Stone”, spoke to a number of youths in the group, all under pseudonyms. One girl told it all, the seclusion, bizarre punishments, brainwashing-like education sessions, and the vaguely fascist distrust of everything not Scientology. She wrote a letter to the journalist, confessing her stories as lies. She had been threatened with Disconnection, or complete shunning from Scientology, which includes all of her family, if she did not recant her statements. (Reitman, “Rolling Stone”)

There are a number of factors helping Scientology. Its believers are drawn into a money-devouring religion that promises to make them better than other people. Radical solutions are proposed to their problems. Curious people are lured in with questionarres and offers of free audits. Auditing sounds relatively logical, it corresponds with the popular idea of psychology, at least at the onset. After one is hooked with an introductory audit, problems which did not exist are found in their lives and only Scientology has the means to treat these problems—for a fee. To repay their debt, Scientologists can work for Scientology. First, they must be educated—which costs a lot of money and indebts them to the group. They are slowly yet surely separated and secluded from the rest of society. Scientology turns them against modern medicine and psychology—which speaks against such cults. Soon, their faith and their fellow believers are all they have. Brain-washing probably helps ease this transition from curious skeptic to devoted follower. Only knowledge can prevent more people from being sucked into the cult. Tom Cruise’s antics might help too.

Works Cited

Abgrall, Jean-Marie. Soul Snatchers: The Mechanics of Cults. Trans. Alice Seberry. New York: Algora Publishing, 2000.

Atack, Jon. A Piece of Blue Sky: Scientology, Dianetics and L. Ron Hubbard Exposed. New York: Carol Publishing Group, 1990

Cooper, Paulette. The Scandal of Scientology. New York: Tower, 1971. Clambake. 28 November 1997. Clamback.org 30 April 2006. <http://www.clambake.org/archive/books/tsos/sos-20.html>.

Lattin, Don. “Scientology Founder’s Family Life Far From What He Preached.” San Francisco Chronicle 21 February 2001.

Martin, Walter Ralston. The Kingdom of the Cults. Minneapolis: Bethany House Publishers, 1985.

Owen, Chris. Ron the “War Hero:” L. Ron Hubbard and the United States Navy. 1999. 30 April 2006. <http://www.spaink.net/cos/warhero/medals.htm>.

Reitman, Janet. “Inside Scientology.” Rolling Stone. 23 February 2006. <http://www.rollingstone.com/politics/story/9363363/inside_scientology?rnd=1146433725882&has-player=unknown>.

FIGHT!

"Situation Critical! Assist ASAP!"

Guy leaps off a roof. The smoky clear visor snaps over his face from either side. "ETA 100 sec"

The Phantom Ranger Night Terror rolls smoothly as he lands on a rubberized rooftop. He is on his feet, skating rapidly over the smooth surface, the red scarf following and flowing in the breeze like a banner. He leaps from the roof, flashes high over the street, grabs a flag-staff, flips up to the top of alley, dashing on the rails of the balconies. Forward and upward. "D, sit-rep."

An image appears in his mind almost instantly. "Muchas gracias, D."

He keeps skating, on roofs and wires and rails, as his mind analyzes the image. Layer one is about 100 meters in front of him. It is composed of at least one squad of Thinker's Space Brigade "peace-keeping" police cyborgs, no doubt in level three armor and heavily armed. Another ring of "cops" within that ring, with at least twice the number of goons. Inside that layer is the perimeter the UltraRangers have established as they battle Fatala and a bunch of her doomtroopers. This final ring is a force field of some kind to keep the bad guys in and the public out. Right in the middle of the city plaza. Crazy Bitch McTraitor appeared in the plaza about 20 minutes ago with what has been verified as a black hole "bomb". A suitcase sized portal to an enormous unstable void.

"Entering outer layer." Guy speaks (transmits is a better word-- his mind says it directly to the radio). Five cops are waiting for him, directly in front of him on the roof. As he continues skate-running on the roof, he feels/hears five more de-cloak behind him. When he picked this route 5 minutes ago, back before he took the port to this city, way out in space on the Challenger, he knew this would happen. He realized this route, the easiest and most direct, and therefore the quickest, is the most heavily guarded. Someone in the UltraRanger organization, probably UltraRanger Orange, the Kisass Looking for a Promotion, is a mole to the Peacekeepers.

Guy jumps at every opportunity to fight the Peacekeepers, for they are an instrument of Thinker, his old ally and the man who brainwashed him. The man who took his wife from him. Spook, the six-armed love of his life, was gone thanks to the machinations of Thinker, *his* wife Dawn and their endless legion of followers.

So not only does Guy get to fight Fatala and serve the UltraRangers, have some positive impact on the galaxy, but he also gets to beat the shit out of a bunch of fascists. Today might be a good day.

The fascists before him are arranged in an intercept pattern. Guy could name the pattern as it appears in their manual, one of the few good things he took away after escaping his slavery, but he does not have the time. Two of the goons in the blue glowing armor are "wingmen" on either side of the intercept group-- a man in the middle with his shock-baton and badge/shield braced and ready, with two goons at his sides. A five meter square no-friction pad is placed just before the intercept squad. A tricky formation to penetrate. Unless you have been a Peacekeeper in a past life.

The badge man (usually a sergeant, in this case most of the goons on this duty are probably sarges from varying precincts, so this particular goon is probably an officer of some sort) is getting tense. Guy is not even pretending to slow down. His arms and legs are furiously gracefully pumping, moving him faster and faster. The roof is long and wide, but he is approaching the intercept point. The "catcher" badge man begins to read Guy his rights. The inner men at his sides have their shock batons ready. Guy can feel the electricity waiting in them. The wingmen have their fingers on the triggers of their snotguns, loaded with electro-shock rapid expansion entanglement/immobilization foam. The goons behind him have their guns unlocked and aimed at his back as they play catch-up.

Closer. Closer. The goons are very nervous now. The Phantom Ranger, The Night Terror, broadcasts a cloud of viral static, keyed to their specific frequency. Several of them shout. Guy dives feet first onto the pad. Shuriken fly from his hands. The men shoot over him. 97% of all mobile perps will jump when they see a pad. The wingmen and the men behind him (the broom) were all counting on that 97%. The three around the pad, who were supposed to guard against that 3%, are unprepared. The men on her sides suddenly are screaming, shuriken buried in their faces, the "catcher" finds herself facing the assault alone. Her shield is leveled at chest height. She does not even swing the baton in the prescribed high right to low left arc, such is her shock. Guy slides past. He cuts off the catcher's leg. The snot rounds do not find any target.

Night Terror is off of the roof, in the air between the buildings. He sheathes the sword, because flipping through the air and dashing on wires, poles, rails and roofs is dangerous enough without a mono-edge blade to take into consideration. "Outer layer clear, in middle layer."

Ahead of him, more cops await at the far end of the roof, this time in a larger version of the same formation, with three catchers and an actual net across the roof's end. The entire roof is the intercept this time. Wingmen, these wearing actual boost/hover packs, are scarcely 10 meters in front of him and closing, with snotguns in one hand and shock batons in the other. Guy reaches for his belt, grabbing three shuriken in each hand.

He throws the right handful into the first man's face and grabs a hold of him. Guy wraps one arm around the man's neck and grabs the man's chest harness with the other. The jump pack is surprised at the new weight. Guy and his new ride dip in the air, weaving erratically as the wingman struggles to defend himself from the Night Terror. Guy flicks the second handful into the face of the man's team mate. The goons on the roof do not know how to react.

Guy punches and claws at the stunned cop, punching him again and again in his helmet-covered head. The weapons are dropped as the goon tries to protect his face. They spiral wildly in the air. Guy unleashes a barrage of virii into the Peacekeeper's helmet and head butts the man. Success! The Phantom Ranger hacks into the helmet based control of the jump pack, burning out the man's interface and very likely giving him a stroke. He has twenty of the original 100 seconds left to reach the plaza.

Blue comes over the radio, Zen ice, but just a hint of fear. "Blue to Phantom. Situation urgent. What is your location? Over."

Guy gives the jump pack full throttle, being careful to keep his legs out of the exhaust. Not the most aerodynamic profile, but it will work. A slight upward thrust adjustment... "I am 200m out, west. ETA 15 sec" He blasts over the roof and the stunned cops, between to midsize hover-cruisers. Below and before him, the fight beckons. He releases the unconscious wingman, draws the wide blade of the mono-sword from his back.

Things are looking desperate. Fatala is in the middle of the plaza, with UltraRangers Blue and Red engaging her. The black hole bomb is to her back. Her shiny Doomtroopers, stolen and reprogrammed super soldier cyborg drones in black and purple power armor, are engaged with the other three UltraRangers. Orange is on the ground, not moving. Silver and Green are both obviously wounded and operating at maybe 70% against a wall of Doomtroopers.

Guy clears the bubble. He has selected his target. "D, prepare for plan X-1."

Fatala is obviously winning. Captain Red and UltraRanger Blue are slowly losing to her double whip-swords. Blue shouts "Now!" to Red and steps into the arc of one of the swords, sacrificing her sword-arm in a desperate bid to create an opening. Red raises his sword as Blue falls to the ground, the virii from the whip-blade freezing her body. Fatala curses and screams and cackles. Red swings poorly and she blocks it, forcing him back on to the defense.

A second later, Guy is behind and above Fatala. He brings the mono-blade down through the Bitch's left shoulder as he lands. She screams horribly, amplified by her helmet into a ear-ringing screech. He pulls the blade back, blocking the whip=sword as it comes back towards her on its way to the ground.

Red takes this opportunity to speak. "Nina, surrender and we will sort this out. You are possessed. We will--"

She is having none of the soft talk. I'll kill every one of you! I'll drink your blood! Her right sword is swinging around Phantom and Red. They both block it. She shrieks with the pain of her missing arm as her armor crackles with electricity.

Guy dodges another swing of the whip-sword, Red blocks it with his armored forearm.

"Phantom, assist--" Captain Red begins.

Guy over rules. "Silver needs your help, Captain." Guy feels the glare, even though Captain Red's entire face is covered by the visor of his helmet. Separating Red from his old lover is vital. Insubordination be damned. "Cut-off their left arms, UltraRangers!"

Fatala realizes what is happening. She shrieks-- her left arm is on the ground. She can not fight, arm the bomb and escape, not with one hand. She whips the sword viciously in a loop about him, as a flame erupts from her throat. Guy steps back and left, dodges the white hot flame. The whip-sword nearly strikes him, cutting the tassels from his scarf and grazing his left calf. He brings his sword between himself and her blade, blocking it as it closes the loop.

D's voice is in his mind. "Ready."

Guy shouts to the team. "Prepare for X-1 in 2 sec!"

He leaps over the blade as it snakes along the ground, falling backwards to avoid the flame-gun. A bright light comes from the ground and then Guy is

falling.

---

Guy rolls to his back, the room is still spinning. He expects his scarf, wrapped around his lower face and neck, to be soaked with vomit. The ninja calls a sit-rep from the ship on the results of their kidnap/transport. Dammit. His mind tells his scent and taste regions that it smells and tastes bile. Obviously impossible, with Guy being a full-body cyborg, or an android with a squishy CPU or something. Still, an unpleasant feeling holds him to the floor. He squirms against the feeling. Toes, ankles, , knees, hips... fingers elbows shoulders neck.. His limbs and other systems are responsive. Good. Survived another one. He forces himself to pay attention to his radar, which is telling him he is stationary, that the room is stationary.

Eventually, he is able to cast it off like an old tarp. He moves into a crouch, putting his sword into the floor to steady himself. Around him, he hears grunts and moans, and three pairs of feet moving about.

He rises and sheathes the sword across his back. Guy stands with the rest of the UltraRangers, in a loose circle around their Captain. Blue and Yellow are in their human forms, Blue is in an attractive British/Korean woman body, wearing a gi and a pair of sneakers; Yellow is a Germanic looking male, wearing a yellow dress shirt and tan pants. Their android UltraRanger bodies, severely damaged in the fight with Fatala, were apparently taken to the repair room before everyone was conscious. The sudden teleportation surprise left everyone out cold or very queasy and disoriented for several moments. A punkish young female in gray overalls is standing with the group as well. Obviously of mixed heritage, her hair is blue and fashioned into a wide spike-Mohawk affair best described as ri-damn-diculous. She looks proud, a little smug, and a little nervous. Her heart is racing, Guy notices with his ears.

Stupid hothead Captain Red, crouching to regain his equilibrium... Guy notes that his shell is somewhat battered. Fatala nearly beat him. The sleek, muscular humanoid rises, hands balled into fists. Here it comes...

"That does it! That's the last straw and it is BROKEN!" UltraRanger Red is irate. He turns to face the group, the face of his helmet opening as he does so. (goggles slide up into helmet, lower mask splits and half goes to either side The personal natural form relay display screen within (basically, a TV screen/display is inside of the helmet instead of a face. The UltraRangers are robot drones, rather than people in sleek power armor) broadcasts Red's furious visage to all. His multi-racial features are distorted into a mask of anger and exasperation. He has been patient with his cycloptic comrade, but that patience is nearly evaporated. He points a shaking finger at Phantom Ranger Night Terror.

Guy calmly removes his shiny black helmet, tucks it under one arm, while the other loosens and lowers the red scarf. The ninja does his best to remain calm, readjusting the eye-patch over his destroyed right eye in an effort to do something besides beating the shit out of Red and then Yellow. This is the second time the UltraRangers have seen his scarred face. Most, if not all, of them have no doubt forgotten that he is blind in his right eye, so good are his other skills and his radar-sense. At least one of them is wondering why he has not had it replaced. He is a total body cyborg, after all. Perhaps he will share the reasons some day.

"Do you REALIZE the cost of that transport! Do you REALIZE the dangers of short notice TRANSPORTS? DOES THE PHRASE SPATIAL FUCKING INTERFERENCE MEAN ANYTHING TO YOU PEOPLE?! WHATABOUT MOLECULAR FUCKING SCRAMBLE YOU DAMN MAGGOT EATING MORONS!? DO YOU KNOW THE COST OF TRANSPORTING AN AREA THREE METERS HIGH, FORTY METERS LONG AND FORTY METERS WIDE? FOUR THOUSAND EIGHT HUNDRED SQUARE FUCKING METERS! SHIT!" Spit is hitting the projector that Captain Red is speaking in to. Veins are sprouting all over his café con latte skin.

Blue, her Zen calm utterly icy, speaks to their leader. "Your tirade is solving nothing, comrade."

Yellow takes a chance to play kissass. "The cost is estimated at 1.8 billion doras, or 500 trill--"

Guy looks at Yellow. "Can it, pipsqueak." The ninja restrains his anger, putting it deep inside for now. He turns his mono-gaze to the Captain. "What about the results, Captain?"

The blue-haired girl edges into the conversation. "We captured 10 of Fatala's doomtroopers, along with her black hole bomb, although That Bitch managed to counter-transport somehow." She shoots a look to Guy. D is the one who arranged the transport. A tech-punk on the rise. Very possibly into a probation period.

"SHE ESCAPED? TWO HUNDRED FIFTY PERCENT OVER BUDGET FOR THE NEXT FOUR MONTHS AND THE PRIMARY TARGET FUCKING COUNTER TRANSPORT ESCAPED? ILL HAVE YOUR PAY DOCKED, TECHNICIAN MORON! ILL HAVE YOU DEMOTED! THIS WAS NOT A TRAINING EXERCISE! THIS WAS NOT ONE OF THOSE DAMN MASSIVE MULTIPLAYER ONLINE FUCKING ROLE PLAYING SIMULATION! ILL HAVE YOU FUCKING JAILED! ILL EXECUTE YOU MYSLEF, YOU DAMN MORONIC DWEEB!"

Captain Red turns to Guy. "SHE DID THIS UNDER YOUR FUCKING ORDERS, YOU SHADOW JUMPING BACK STABBING ROLLER SKATING RED SCARF WEARING LOOSE CANNON BASTARD! WHO THE HELL USES A REVOLVER IN THIS DAY AND AGE? YOU ARE A GODDAMN IDIOT! A FUCKING LIABILITY! TO THE WELFARE OF MY TEAM AND THE ENTIRE FUCKING GALAXY! I SHOULD CUT YOUR NUTS OFF AND SHOVE THEM IN YOUR NOSTRILS! YOU ARE SOME FUCKING COMRADE, YOU CYCLOPTIC SHIT!

Guy imagines taking a deep breath, holding it whilst counting from one to ten. For a moment, he thinks of drawing his blade, cutting Captain Red down and then filleting his little sonofabtich kissass UltraRanger Yellow. And then finding Red's actual body, and punching the head right off of his shoulders. He imagines exhaling that imaginary breath. Guy does his best to keep his face calm and looks Captain Red in the face.. the screen.

"Let me see if I have this correct, Captain. I was back on Earth, in the middle of personal business best described as very important (Guy was at a grave, honoring Spook and brooding). This little watch/phone/computer/teleporter thing starts flashing. I drop what I am doing and respond. I teleport here, put on some more armor, teleport again, this time to Vega-Moon 3. I fight my way through twenty of Thinker's intergalactic police, who were stationed there because they somehow know I am a part of this organization, despite promises to the contrary. I leap into your battle with Fatala, cut her down, save your ass, and through D following orders, save the entire team and capture her bomb and 10 of her doomtroopers. Is that correct, Captain?"

The UltraRangers stand in silence. No one has ever spoken back to a Captain in such a manner, especially after issuing unapproved orders to a technician. For a procedure as risky and expensive as that. On the other hand, Guy did save their ass, along with the entire moon and possibly the entire planet.

Captain Red points his silver-gloved finger right back at Guy. He takes a deep breath. "Do you understand the concepts of chain of command, unity and team work? Do you have any idea how much over budget we are? Not only did your trick cost us who knows how many fucking dollars, but you used the entire reserve power supply. Lastly, you were insubordinate in public. Do you understand what you have done?"

Guy practically explodes, but imagines taking deep breaths. "I took the spot light away from you. That's all I did. I saved your ass, laid one hell of a shredding on the traitor. I saved the entire team. I saved that entire fucking system." Phantom Ranger looks at the UltraRangers around him, ignoring the Captain who so desperately deserves an asswhopping most severe "Would the Captain like my resignation? Is that what he is so humbly hinting at?"

The Night Terror turns and walks away. He beams coordinates to the transport screen. Blue and Green are silent. Yellow, of course, runs his mouth. "while we are all most grateful for your response, what you have done only added more strife and stress to the situation and could have killed all of us. You shou--"

"I should kick your asskissing face right off of your skull. That's what I should do, you little mole. Fuck this noise. I'm out."

Guy steps into the glowing screen

red rumble, set up

So I am writing again at last. Not sure how long this will go on for. This not complete, just posting what I have written in the last day or so.

Red Rumble!

Why does this always happen? Guy wonders, ducking under a punch. He kicks aggressor in the chest, pushing him away. It's a shame we can't put aside the differences and form some kind of cohesive alliance. His eyes glow orange-white behind the transparent visor, scanning the other hero. His opponent, an ornately armored biker, is shielded from X-ray and thermally neutral. So many things in common with himself-- expert martial artist, proabably a cyborg, hi-tech power enhancing armor, vengeance bound against a massive secret society...

The red biker lands, rolls to right himself. Guy takes a defensive stance amidst the wreckage. He and Guy had both been fighting the same foe-- a mass of terrorist robots in bizarre yellow suits, without knowing the other was there.
+++

Nice night for a run. Guy rolls his shoulders and coasts, his skates carrying him across the city. A bizzare figure in the night, with his black combat clothes, visor and scarf like a streamer, flitting from here to there, unnoticed by all. Certainly a contrast to the typical skater-- no corporate coat of arms or logos, no courier pack, nor blaring music... Just a man in black clothes, a red scarf and a pair of skates.

The wheels attached to his boots roll smoothly over the rooftop. He leaps from the edge, not thinking about anything in particular, his mind empty, yet in a hundred places at once. A flip, just for fun, before landing on the wire. The wheels on his right boot, the foot making contact with the wire, change their shape on his command, the wheel growing thinner and extending itself to the sides, like roller coaster wheels. Neon signs everywhere, massive buidlings, a transport lane so densely packed as to be a river in the air.

His skin crawls at the thought. He is glad for the wires. The Koumori and other clans had placed them decades ago, to facilitate rapid secret transport of ninja units. Guy uses his Periscope to quickly hack the cameras in the sky, meshes it together with the GPS maps, and sees how lonely he is on the lines. Aside from the occassional courier or deliverator, the lines are home to pigeons and not much else.

He leaps from the wire, grinds across an old fire escape railing. Leaps from that to a flagpole, swings around it enough to build up momentum. Releases, tucks into a ball, flies high and far into the night. Flits from wire to roof to rail to wire. At last, he reaches the bridge. He skates up the cable support to the very top and takes a seat on the cold iron alloy. An island of solitude amidst the hustle. Far below, the river flows, carrying transports of all sizes towards the ocean 12 km distant.

Raiden!

Great skunk apes! Raiden utterly shreds and rules in the new Metal Gear Solid 4 trailer. Much is up in the air yet, but Raiden is the new ninja. That much was obvious from MGS2. The new game is going to be crazy, awesome and tragic all at once. Snake's final mission, bipedial mecha with synthetic musculature legs, Raiden as a mecha-ninja shredding Metal Gears, a new Foxhound, and much more. Ray and Rex had children, they are called Gekkou, either a japanisation of gecko lizard or the phrase for moonlight.

More later. Does anyone even read this?

YABDAG

I had the worst night at work the other night. I work at the college quickstore We have the same kind of crap you would find in a gas station, except we do not have the gasoline. Junk food, deli, mediocre baked goods, pop, juice, etc. Also, we have a grill. Prices are outrageous. The price of convience is VERY high.

Anyways, I was the floater on Thursday. I do what needs doing. The cashier just walked away from the register, perhaps to communicate something to the grill, perhaps a special order of some sort. So I was working the register.

This bitch ass yuppie dweeb asshole guy who is really rude and never holds the door to let me into the dorm we both live in even when i am 2 meters behind him is wandering around the store like a bitch ass yuppie dweeb asshole. He apparently only has so much money. He waits in line for 10 minutes. Some kind of mini concert or something has just let out. There are a ton of people. We are talking like a 15 minute wait here. For whatever reason, the manager always closes the second register at 5 or something. Student managers are then only supposed to use it when the line is extremely long, so much so that it blocks the bottled beverage area, or in the even the first register malfunctions.

So, he spends a long time in line. A always, the new register is a piece of junk. Its inkless reciept printer is taking forever, the error checking programs are slowing the whole machine down. The BAYDAG is finally at the front of the line.

I ring up his item, some kind of ice cream type treat. It turns out to be really overpriced. Something like 3 dollars for this treat. What a fricking surprise. He doesnt have enough money or something. He yells in his little bitch ass yuppie dweeb asshole sphincter for a mouth voice to his girlfriend that he doesnt have enough money. She mutters something from perhaps 20 feet away. I do not want this, he says. Put it back, I say.

He complies, procedes to resume wandering around the story. I continue going through the line. 15 minutes later, the BAYDAG is back. He has found something he can afford, he says in his self-sure yet still bitchy voice. Expecting some kind of kinship in the fact that this place is so expensive. Denied. I glare at him for a minute, then I smile, despite wanting to punch him in the eyes really hard.

That's great, I say. Two dollars and twenty-nine cents, please.

The asshole produces a pill bottle from his plaid ugly ass yuppie bitch guy shorts. It stylishly clashes with his two polo shirts which has layered and popped both collars. He is wearing fucking deck shoes, I just know it. Not deck as in the hipster word for cool, but actual fucking deck shoes for wearing on yuppie asshole yachts.

A pill bottle full of nickels. Motherfucker. He shakes some out, hands them to me. "I think that is enough", he whimpers.

I give him a look that could kill a man if I wished it so. Instead I merely wished to shame him. For the span of perhaps 10 seconds, I seriously contemplate throwing the nickels in his face and quitting my job right there.

I count out 2.30 in motherfucking nickels, realize that he has given 2.35 in motherfucking nickels. It takes a long time. I throw the money in the drawer. I place a penny on the counter as I continue the glare. He keeps glancing at me with his scared little timid bitch eyes. I think about slapping the penny off the counter just as he reaches for it.

But, this is my senior year and I need some good reccomendations to put on my resume and job applications. So I just glare at him, and then loudly talk about what a bitch asshole he is to my friend who was behind him in line. I really wish I had done what I wanted.

revision and more

Receiving"
The city tastes awful-- a mixture of coarse sand and synthetic rubber radiating from the concrete walls of the buildings below. It is very cheap to make, cheap to put together because of its lightness and cheap to maintain. It is also touted as being noise-absorbing, but that is a lie. It feels like a rubber glove, covered in sand, grabbing you by the throat.

Hanzo smells burning death. Burning buildings, burning food, burning bodies, burning tobacco, burning trash. He smells anger and fear, but mostly fear. These smells are very familiar to him, but he doesn’t enjoy them. The people of this city are angry, but they are also afraid. Their anger is an ineffectual camouflage. The smells mix with the dusty, rubbery taste of the city. Hanzo imagine this is what a rat cooked over garbage, and then dropped into an ashtray, tastes like. It is not pleasant. Worse even than the cyborg nano-materia food, which tastes like pencil lead and Gatorade.

The city is not silent. A cacophony assaults his ears. The sound of whooshing air cars, their stereos blasting a crazy concert of news, all flavors of propaganda, country, hip hop and rock, endless advertisements. There is the sound of a baby screaming, a wife yelling at her husband, a husband yelling at his husband, children fighting. People laughing, crying and dieing.

Hanzo opens his eyes. There is much to see. He is hundreds of feet above the roof of the tallest building in the dirty city, standing on the safety rail on the edge of a zeppelin tether platform. His smart goggles are relaying all manner of information to his eyes from the small sensors located over his person. It is 0216 local time, 84% humidity, 4*, with an 80% chance of freezing rain within the next hour. The wind, coming from the southwest, to his back, is pushing against him lightly, almost urging him to take the jump. He will, but not just yet. He is still taking the city in.

This city is much rougher than any he has seen in a long time. He has seen a lot of nasty cities, but this is the worst. It has the highest crime rate in the inner system, the highest ambient noise level, one of the least comfortable climates. More repeat violent offenders live in this city than in many countries. The rooftops are relatively peaceful, at least from here. The roof tops are usually the first thing you see when you come into a city, so everyone does their damndest to keep them clean. The closer to ground level you get, the uglier it gets. The buildings are packed too closely together to see anything on the ground level from this height. The buildings are just too damn close together. There is no room. Everyone is in everyone’s space; the walls are the walls of a prison no one notices exists. It is time for a closer look.


What a shame. Hanzo thinks, swallowing the last of the whisky. A man couldn’t even sit down for a drink in this damn town. The muscular man lays a dirty twenty-dollar bill on the bar, grabs his black straw hat and looks at the bar tender.

“Keep the change.” He says in rough English. The bar tender was unusually polite, to the point were Hanzo scanned the man, suspecting a synthetic mind in an organic body. It was hard to tell for certain, as nearly everyone had some kind of electronics installed on their person, even on Earth, were things happened slower. The bar tender, however, doesn’t not have any tech worth mentioning, aside from the expected discount-priced synthetic eyes with mid-grade x-ray hardware. The man doesn’t even have a computer in his skull. Excepting the possibility of a programmed brain, which is too expensive to be wasted on a bar tender, the man is just really polite. Hanzo feels a touch of pity for him and what was about to happen in his bar. He pulls the goggles down off of his forehead and places them in front of his cold black eyes.

The wanderer rises from the barstool, setting the hat on his scarred head. The hat’s sweatband is lined with nano-claws. The claw slowly extend, holding onto his head. Signal fills the air, but does not enter his skull. He is protected from any attempts at forced communication by a system of illegal external micro-computers residing in his belt, which contains many other illegal things as well. This signal makes it through the first two layers of counter measures. It instantly sampled and compared to the database carried in one of the little machines, and identified instantly. Hanzo recognizes it like a horse recognizes a fly that won’t leave him alone; an annoying persistent pest that you just can’t seem to get away from. He already knows who it is. The bar now contains three bulky males in power-suits. Hanzo’s tactile radar feels the outline of these intruders. Time for a fight.

By the time the mostly Japanese man turns around, every patron in the bar is standing, facing him. A trio of blue-uniformed Sentinels of the Public stands with shock-batons at the ready in the back of the crowded, smoky room. They are in full combat gear, with translucent face-screens in place. A recorded message begins to sound from the Sentinels. Hanzo knows why everyone was standing and looking at him. Standard procedure when one the most popular men in the whole of human civilization was before you. Things are about to get violent. A test is ready to be taken.

“Hattori Yagyuu Shoshiro, former citizen of Nippon, former citizen of the Confederated States of America, known aliases including--“

Hanzo had heard the recording nearly a dozens times in the last three months. It was very long, obviously computer-generated and it ended with “surrender yourself to the Public and face the punishments for your gross crimes against the Public Society.’ He has no intention of ever surrendering, much less listening to that whole damn speech again. He listens just long enough to hear which aliases are now useless: Jack Smithfield, Itto Adams and John Squallfist. No big loss. As he is listening to these names, he is already moving. He leaps over a table of blank-faced patrons and lands in a ready stance, with his legs spread and arms raised to fight. He manages to get about halfway across the room before it happens.

They are moving the patrons and waiters as quick as they can move. The Sentinels work very closely with the Public. The Public, in this case nearly three dozen mostly flat-lines in varying stages of drunkenness, are gathering, like the ocean before they will surge like a wave of stench and heat towards The Offender. Since the people aren’t really under their own control, Hanzo opts for disabling strikes instead of more lethal (or at least body destroying) ones. He makes the door, and the droid-tended weapons case beside it, his objective. Hanzo relinquished some important pieces of metal there in order to be admitted. Their retrieval is crucial to his honor and beneficial to his well-being. The mass of green, yellow and orange surges towards him. The wave hits. He is ready for the wave and slices through it like the prow of a clipper. He is a hurricane, his hands are steel.

Limbs are suddenly dislocated and teeth fall to the wooden floor. Hanzo is pushing through the crowd in fast-forward, moving at what he guesses to be five times the speed of a peak human. Most of these people are nowhere near peak physical status. There are a few manual laborers who could crush him in their hands. But their hands will never be near him, for the ninja is too fast. They stand no chance. The Sentinels know this. This infuriates the ninja tremendously. There are fat chain-smoking mothers of five turning their hands into claws, flailing desperately at a figure they can barely see. Cab-drivers with third rate hearts, mediocre eyes and cheap renter limbs (The top of the line bod-mods they wear while they drive the cab stay with the cab.) throwing sloppy punches at a man that isn’t standing in front of them by the time their swing is swung. Old winos with one lung, one kidney and half a liver, who sold everything to get more booze, swinging shivs in vain, turned into some kind of human obstacle course. Later, these men will be fined for possessing a weapon while under the influence, their minds shut off as they are turned into community service drones for a few weeks.

The wanted man is using his radar-sense to subconsciously keep track of the mob as he attacks and evades simultaneously, holding back the rage that is nearly making him shake. He takes this rage and uses it as a fuel. Not for fuel to maim and destroy, but fuel to move. He is dodging, throwing and tripping instead of turning their skulls into shattered shells. Hanzo freezes some of them, poking them on pressure points, temporarily shorting out their bodies wiring. They will be fine in a few moments, just a temporary short-circuit. He is a salmon in a river, swimming upstream. In another life time, he learned the art of meditation, how to restrain, how to focus, how to be. Be the moment, be the typhoon, be the battle, and so on. Zen Sophist Buddhism or whatever the technical term for it is. Hanzo doesn’t know what other people call it. He calls it many things, but he usually calls it The Way.

As he dodging and blocking and poking, his engineered eyes scan right through the Public to the Blue boys beyond. They are trying to mask their movement with the Public, apparently unaware of their suspect’s heavily enhanced vision. Hanzo punches, trips and throws the blacked-out patrons at the Blue boys, turning their tactic against them. One of them attempts to circle him. The wanderer allows the man to get within striking distance, and then he attacks, stepping through the arc of a readied baton.

The shock-baton whooshes past his head in slow-motion, glancing off the shoulder of a portly man in a flower-print shirt. The stout man collapses, twitching and foaming at the mouth. Hanzo sidesteps and kicks the Sentinel in the knee. His old boots impact with a sickly wet sound. The man in the blue power-suit drops the silvery baton and a whimper escapes his lips. The damaged knee takes the man’s weight as he falls into a crouch. Beneath the translucent visor, the man’s twice broken jaw is clenched in agony. Hanzo catches the baton out of the air and spins it around, striking the man hard on the back of the neck. Then the L-shaped baton blocks a strike from behind, coming from the second Sentinel.

Hanzo blocks the man’s swing by striking his arm with the charged side of the baton. The man in the battered hat ducks and dodges a sloppy punch from a drunken patron. A gentle kick to the chest sends the patron into a chair. Sentinel number two is twitching violently, for the charged end of the baton is still pressing against a nerve on his arm. The baton is removed, and the second peace-keeper goes down in a heap. Hanzo is disgusted. Fascism and incompetence. Not his favorite things by any measure.

The third is apparently receiving some kind of bad feedback from one of the patrons, standing off to the side in a stupor. The ninja pulls a shuriken from one of the pouch on his black cargo belt. With a flick of his wrist, the synthetic shuriken is across the room. It hits the man in the soft spot under his ear, injecting a vicious poison into his brainpan. Before the Sentinel realizes he has a shuriken sticking out of his neck, the poison takes him. Hanzo holds his hand out, and the shuriken is pulled out of the man’s neck and back to its owner’s hand. He replaces the shuriken and dodges a barrage of blows from an overweight man with an external respirator. The ninja-cowboy curses to himself.

The man’s death should have released the Public from the clutches of “Civil Service” or whatever the procedure is called here, but they are still trying to attack him. Their face are blank, their eyes unblinking. Folks trying to relax with a few drinks and some mediocre food and they get turned into zombies by the thugs with badges. The crowd control Sentinel must have written some kind of objective based program. He is nearly at the weapons-locker, and almost to the door. Hanzo uses the less-lethal baton with precision, quickly making a path to the door. His ears pick up the sounds of hover-cars closing in. The baton is discarded.

He activates the electromagnetic recall devices in his hands and a trio of weapons moves from the rack. He first catches his vibro-blade by its composite saya, and all of the memories it brings with it. A beautiful six-armed woman dances across his mind and a lump rises in his throat. The lump is swallowed. His eyes would be moist now with tears, if it were possible. The blade is quickly secured on his back and his hands catch a pair of matched custom pistols, one an automatic and the other a revolver, both finished with dark walnut grips and gunmetal gray super-coating on the metal. He places the revolver into a well-worn holster, switches the automatic to his right hand, and draws the sword-- its sheath opening on command. He steps into the dusty street.

recieving

"Recieving"


The city tastes awful. It tastes of concrete, coarse sand grating on tastebuds and grinding on teeth. An alien rubber taste is mixed with this sandy taste. He knows it is the buildings that make this peculiar taste. Their walls are composed out of a misture of sand and rubber particles. Many buildings are now built from it. It is very cheap to make, cheap to put together because of its lightness and cheap to maintain. It is also touted as being noise-absorbing, but that is a lie. Maybe it does absorb some noise, but it doesnt absorb most of the noise.

Hanzo the cyborg smells burning death. Burning buildings, burning food, burning bodies, burning tobacco, burning trash. He smells anger and fear, but mostly fear. The people of this city are angry, but they are also afraid. Their anger is an ineffectual camouflage. The smells mix with the dusty, rubbery taste of the city. Hanzo imagine this is what a rat cooked over garbage, then dropped into an ashtray, tastes like. It is not pleasant. Worse even than the cyborg nano-materia food, which tastes like pencil lead and gatorade.

The city is not silent. A cacophony assaults his ears. The sound of whooshing aircars, their stereos blasting a crazy concert of news, all flavors of propaganda, country, hip hop and rock, endless advertisements. There is the sound of a baby screaming, a wife yelling at her husband, a husband yelling at his husband, children fighting. People laughing, crying and dieing.

Hanzo opens his eyes. There is much to see. He is hundreds of feet above the roof of the tallest building in the dirty city, standing on the safetey rail on the edge of a zepplin tether platform. His smart goggles are relaying all manner of information to his eyes from the small sensors located over his person. It is 0216 local time, 84% humidity, 4*, with a 80% chance of freezing rain within the next hour. The wind, coming from the southwest, to his back, is pushing against him lightly, almost urging him to take the jump. He will, but not just yet. He is still taking the city in.

This city is much rougher than any he has seen in a long time. He has seen a lot of nasty cities, but this is the worst. The highest crime rate in the inner system, the highest ambient noise level, one of the least comfortable climates. More repeat violent offenders live in this city than in many countries.

The lenses on his goggles are the color of a sunset, his face is a stony mask of Afro-Japanese origin. He is wearing the latest techno-Spartan combat gear, a black skinsuit with the sleeves removed, black pants, battered black cowboy hat and the finest black boots in the galaxy. Over his black ensemble, he is wearing a black web harness containing an odd mixture of modern and ancient weaponry.

BEHOLD

So here is my blog. I plan to use this mostly for the posting of my prose. I might try to write a novel in one month. There is some kind of contest I read about on the Penny Arcade forums. The contest can be found at http://www.nanowrimo.org/

I hope to eventually be a published author and write comics. I used to write a lot, back when I had time. Classes and work and other things are putting a big damper on my writing time as of late. I have also had writers block for quite some time. I figure this contest is a good way to kick start my writing.

We will see what happens.