1. If you do respond with your own story, Please do not kill off anybody elses char's. The people that have responded obviously taken their time and creative energy to do so. If the char in your story -would- kill somebody off, please talk with that person and work it out so that it tells a good story.
2. Read, Enjoy, Have Fun!
3.I didn't want to use Rig's in my story as the main char. This doesn't mean you can't, but, if you are planning something BIG in the IC world, try not to give it away here.
4.Please do not use IC events in this OOC fiction. This fiction has nothing to do with the IC world aside from the backdrop for all of our stories.
5.Please do not use other people char's as the starring role in your piece.
6. Enjoy!
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Psymon sat against the far wall of his coffin at the new rose. The light flickered on and off with a constant buzz. A small, black messenger bag was perched firmly under his arm. �The smell of stale urine flooded his nostrils, as he checked the time on his watch. 00:15:45, they were late. �He tried to drink as much liquid courage as possible as he waited for the call.
Psymon had been in the Dome for a little over 2 months, and had done fairly well for himself considering the circumstances. �He hustled pills and whatever else he could get his hands on for the close to 100,000 Chyen he had saved up. �He checked the time again, 00:16:02�03�04, he counted quietly to himself. His phone rang. A raspy voice answered, �You got the Chyen?� Psymon took another drink from his flask, �Yeah, 100k right?� The voice on the other end of the phone continued, �Good. You know the park on Sinn St. right? One o�clock, don�t be late.� �The phone went silent.
100k was a lot of Chyen for some nobody to have. �Psymon�s head was filled with the what-ifs tonight. What if they killed me, took the Chyen? I�d be out of 100 grand. What if their product was bunk? Well at least I�d be alive. Psymon checked his watch again, 00:43:21. �Time to suit up.� Psymon quietly chuckled to himself. �
� � � � � � � �Psymon slung his synth-leather jacket across his back, grabbed his messenger bag, and headed for the door. Outside his coffin, Psymon could hear the sounds of his neighbor and yet another prostitute. A few vagrants that couldn�t afford the rent of New Rose slept scattered in the hallway and on the stairs as he made his way out onto the streets of Trash Town. A bitter wind swept used condoms and a multitude of dissuaded papers down the street as he pulled his jacket closer, trying to close out the wind.
� � � � � � � �Pimps and hookers stood on dark doorsteps, selling their goods. Gun shots, rang out as Psymon passed the open market, a boy no older than six or seven walked up to Psymon. �Hey Psy. You looking to score tonight?� Psymon looked down at the boy, �Not right now, give me a few ok?� The boy looked down at the ground, �Aww, ok man�but if you need anything, all you have to do is ask.� Psymon smiled at the boy and continued on into the intersection.
� � � � � � � �Psymon pushed his way between gangers, pimps, and the occasional tough guy, as he headed past the Westinghaus apartments. Fights in the streets broke out at random all around him. He liked it down here. The Mix was it�s own, living, breathing, moving all around him. The lights of Trash Town shimmered off of puddles created by the constant dripping of sewage from the sewer system suspended above.
� � � � � � � �00:59:41. Psymon stood at the gates to the park as he glanced down at his watch. Two figures closed in behind him as another hopped over the gate with a smile�
(Edited by DaveK at 10:42 am on Feb. 6, 2002)
(Edited by DaveK at 1:12 pm on Feb. 6, 2002)
