SRU Form Follows Function
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So Night Follows DayChapter 4 free porn video
“I’ll serve your ass like John McEnroe.
If your girl steps up I’m smackin’ the ho.
Word to your moms, I came to drop bombs.
I got more rhymes than the Bible’s got Psalms.
And just like the Prodigal Son, I’ve returned.
Anyone steppin’ to me, you’ll get burned.
Cause I got lyrics, and you ain’t got none.
If you come to battle, bring a shotgun.”
-House of Pain, “Jump Around“
“What is the best war?”
The man in the video now playing from Julie’s laptop onto the screen of the Equals’ darkened-living room television asked the question of a non-existent studio audience. He walked around a black stage, wearing a black turtleneck; addressing them as if either giving a TED Talk, or unveiling the latest Apple product. Everyone recognized him; a famous technology billionaire who’d died a few months back. Below him a graphic on the screen read “Presentation Rehearsal #8: Internal Use Only.”
“According to that great sage, Bart Simpson, ‘There are no good wars, with the following exceptions: The American Revolution, World War II, and the Star Wars trilogy.’”
He paused for pre-recorded polite laughter.
“But which is the best war? The obvious answer is ‘the one where you win,’ but there’s an even better one than that.”
He stepped back as the giant monitor above the stage lit up with a number of technology companies’ logos merging into a giant S-shape that looked to be made out of a spring.
“The BEST war, ladies and gentlemen ... is the one where you win ... without ever having to fight it.”
The video changed to a shot of Sean Connery in “Thunderball,” flying a jetpack. Troy was about to say something when Julie mouthed “We know” at him and looked back at the screen. The phony audience oohed and ahh-ed.
“The jetpack,” The speaker continued. “Which of us hasn’t always wanted one? The technology exists, the US Army worked for years to perfect it; some general’s dream of a platoon of jet-pack-wearing Buck Rogers soldiers, soaring over enemy lines to rain down death upon their foes. But there’s a problem. They used to call it ‘the 30-second barrier.’ The problem is that it’s impossible to create a jetpack that can hold the weight of the occupant, the weight of the fuel, and the weight of the pack itself, and attain more than 30 seconds of flight. I believe now it’s been pushed to 34 seconds. Not much of an improvement since Double-0 Seven here flew one, and not practical for military use.”
Troy started humming Tom Jones’ “Theme from Thunderball.” Helen gently whacked him on the shoulder and pointed at the screen.
“So we decided to go back to basic principles.”
The image changed to clips of Olympic athletes performing high jumps and long jumps.
“Man may not have been meant to fly, but he was certainly meant to jump. Since rockets weren’t the answer, we thought ‘What about springs?’”
The image changed to a computer graphic of a pair of large metal boots. It circled around them, then the image changed again to an x-ray view of the boots. It zoomed in on the soles, under which, multiple coiled springs were located. The non-audience oohed.
“What about nanocarbon springs, and state-of-the-art breakthroughs in Inertial Damping technology? Breakthroughs that, when applied as we have, absorb the kinetic energy of impact, and temporarily stores it for higher and longer jumps? Absurd, right?”
The graphic backed away to show the original image of the boots. Vector graphics then filled in a suit of black, metal armor and helmet.
“Iron Man?” Julie said to no one. Various half-giggled shushes came from the room.
“For YEARS,” The speaker continued. “It was said that a man could not run a mile in four minutes! It was absurd to consider! Then, in 1954, Sir Roger Bannister did it. He just ... trained hard until he ‘did it.’ By point six seconds, but he pulled it off. And now, athletes break his record often. An idea is only absurd ... until someone does it.”
The computer graphics faded away to show a real suit of armor underneath.
“I’ve got to admit, Helen,” Susan whispered. “When you said we were going to watch a video, I thought you mean the other one.”
“Shh,” Helen snickered. “That one’s on the drive, too. You remember the deal.”
“What you are about to see ... or, should I say, NOT see ... is the future of modern warfare.”
“Ain’t ‘at what they say at the beginnin’ of every movie where technology fucks up an’ starts killin’ everyone?” He faked a Texan accent. “Gennelmen, what y’all’re seein’ here, is the future of modern warfare.”
Everyone but Helen laughed.
The video-within-the-video switched to a desert scene with a helicopter flying about 50 feet over the ground. It zoomed in on the person wearing the Springheel suit and helmet, then panned out as they jumped out of the helicopter. The pilot immediately pulled away as Springheel hit the ground feet first, then bounced back up into the air. High enough that if the pilot hadn’t moved the chopper, the wearer might have been caught up in the rotating blades. He landed again, and began making shorter, smaller jumps, until he stopped entirely.
The fake audience oohed, then cheered.
“‘How did he do that,’ you may ask.” The speaker said when it died down.
“Why thank you, sir.” Troy said, in a stuffy British accent. “I may just ask how, indeed.” This time, everyone laughed.
The image switched to a camera inside the suit. An isomorphic view of the surrounding landscape was pictured in a window in the corner. Then a little dotted line appeared in the wearer’s field of vision as the window showed a series of dotted lines, corresponding to the pattern in which the suit jumped before.
“It’s Missile Command!” Mander blurted out. The room exploded with laughter.
“No, no.” Troy said through his howls. “It’s more like Family Circus, when Mommy tells Billy ‘Time for dinner,’ and Billy takes the twisted dotted-line path through the neighborhood to get home.” The laughs continued.
“With satellite data, internal sensors that constantly sweep the surrounding area, and GPS information fed directly to the wearer, Springheel’s trajectory-plotting can be done in an instant. We’re not to the point of ‘leap tall buildings in a single bound’ yet, but we’ll get there in time. That would be enough for some people. But we didn’t stop there.”
“But wait, there’s more!” Julie called out. Everyone but Helen laughed again; she stared intently at the screen.
The video cut to the helicopter’s view of Springheel in the desert, zooming in on it. The person in the suit touched their left forearm, causing a panel to slide away and reveal a small keyboard. Springheel vanished before their eyes. The camera panned back, and little clouds of kicked-up dust could be seen when the suit continued jumping.
“Active camouflage, transmitting data in real time to Springheel and adjusting to provide 360-degree stealth capabilities. And as I said, we can’t leap that far, but we can certainly climb. Climbing lines and pitons concealed in the wrists...”
As he spoke, from out of nothing, a line fired and latched into the side of a rock formation. The line became taught and seemed to disappear until all that was left of it were a couple of feet sticking out of the piton embedded in the rock and leading to nothing. Springheel faded back into sight, and it was clinging to the side of the bare rock, held by the piton, until the wearer bent his knees, pushed off from the side of the rock formation, and the piton retracted back into the suit as the wearer engaged the camouflage and was gone again.
Susan began humming the “Spider-Man“ theme as they watched.
“With concealed blades housed in the forearms...” Springheel became visible again, and a long blade came out it’s right wrist before it vanished. “Your enemies won’t know what hit them.”
The scene changed to a night-time view, bathed in the green of a night-vision camera up in a tree outside of a walled-in compound; guards patrolling the perimeter. A caption on the screen read “Not Actors. Home of known drug cartel boss.” A pair of armed guards patrolled the outside. The camera zoomed in on them.
“Stately Wayne...” Troy started to say, before trailing off, noticing now that Contessa Helena de San Finzione had stopped laughing, and was intently staring at the screen. He paid attention.
“Two coming from the East.” Said the spotter with the camera. He zoomed in on the two as one suddenly found himself hoisted into the air, blood coming from his mouth and chest, as if impaled on something. He fell to the ground as his companion looked about in confusion and terror. The other man started to run, when a piton shot out of nothing and speared him in the back. The guard cried out as the piton dragged him backwards, retracted back into nothingness, and a slit in his throat appeared; causing him to collapse, clutching his neck.
Watching, Helen unconsciously touched the tiny scar on her own throat.
Springheel became visible as the blade retracted into the suit, then jumped over the wall before more guards approached the scene. The camera followed it as it leapt up onto a second-story balcony and the wearer hit more buttons on the wrist, turning invisible again. The sliding glass door opened. There was screaming, a gunshot, and a hole appeared in the door. The screams were quieter after the door closed again, but continued.
The guards looked back to the house and began running toward it. When they were gone, a small cloud of dust was kicked up where Springheel landed in the dirt road outside the wall. It became visible, gave a thumbs-up to the cameraman, then leaped away from the compound before disappearing again.
The canned applause returned as the camera panned down to the speaker.
“Infiltration, espionage, assassination.” The speaker resumed. “Springheel can do it all! Why send your soldiers out to die? Your problem isn’t with the other side’s soldiers, it’s the leaders in charge of them! Springheel can get to them, wherever they might be, and, heh ... cut to the heart of your problem.” He continued through the recorded scattered chuckling. “No more leaders, no more war. And isn’t that the best kind of war? The kind you win before you have to fight it? With Springheel on your side, you’ll WIN The Best War!”
Artificial applause played. The video cut to black, and captions in a different font than earlier appeared on the screen.
“The day after this recording, the speaker was found dead of a drug overdose. A fire destroyed the facility with all notes and data on Springheel. The prototype was also presumed destroyed.”
An image of the Springheel suit appeared in a spotlight, the camera slowly rotating around it.
“We have it now. One of a kind, and it can be yours. Lot 15: opening at $100,000,000. Details to follow.”
The video ended and Troy turned the lights back on as Helena went back to the patio. Everyone followed.
“That’s a Wile E. Coyote design, isn’t it?” Julie asked her when they were all seated and Helena had her cigarette lit.
“A suit that makes you Invisible Spider-Man?” Susan asked. “I could see that being worth a hundred million.”
“That’s just the opening bid.” Helena responded. “And there are plenty of governments and criminal organizations who’d be happy to pay it.”
She took a deep drag before continuing.
“I’ve been to that compound. Mander has, too. For different reasons, and we have an understanding about that.” Mander stood behind her and nodded.
“You’re ‘er mates, so I’ll be up front wit’cha: Before meetin’ ‘Er Countessness, doin’ rotten things because some ‘orrible tosser says to were my entire CV.”
“We guessed.” Everyone else but Helena said simultaneously.
“That was the former home of Esteban Lopez. Yes, the one from the news about four months ago. The coke lord brutally murdered in his bedroom, in front of his five mistresses, ‘by a ghost.’ A hit so surgical, yet brutal, that even his former allies are claiming credit.”
Troy took a seat next to Helen, took in what she said, and faced her before speaking.
“Ok, it said Lot 15. Is that a location?”
“No.” Helena replied. “All right, you know how in movies, someone steals the plans for the missile, or the formula for the new rocket fuel, or the list of all our undercover agents; and they say they’re going to ‘sell it to the highest bidder?’”
“Yeah.” Troy said suspiciously.
“Ok, those auctions really happen. They’ve been going on for a long time, and the people who put them on are called The Auctioneers. Lot 15 is an item number. And I’m on the invite list. Unfortunately, I have no way to get a copy of the list and see who else is on it. The Auctioneers like to stay anonymous and on the move. When they get enough items together to hold an auction, they tell us where about a month in advance.”
“Been to one.” Mander said. “Bodyguardin’ one of the attendees. The Auctioneers don’t tolerate funny business at the auction itself. Or after. They’ve a sorta ‘lack of reputation’ to uphold. But before that, anythin’ goes. They figure ‘ow we do each other over before ain’t their problem; they can just pull the plug til next time if they ‘ave to. During an’ after, they’re at risk; so there’s consequences. Not bein’ invited anymore might not sound like much of a punishment, but if you’re no longer welcome an’ the other guy is; an’ somethin’ like this comes on the block...”
Troy nodded his understanding before talking next.
“I’m guessing, then, the next one’s sometime this week in Seattle? The same time as STRANGERS? Aren’t you needed there?”
“STRANGERS is bullshit, Troilus.” Helena answered. “Granted, those are all important topics, worthy of serious discussion. And San Finzione would be happy to host a real conference on any one of them. But no. When they call an auction, we get the notice so we can cook up something like STRANGERS; to give us all an excuse to be in the same city. They give it a name that’s sure to draw crowds of protesters; someone went overboard this time. Some of the delegates DO think it’s a real conference, so maybe a dialogue or two might happen, hopefully. Then, when they tell the rest of us the exact time and location, everyone can slip out a back way, put on a disguise and grab a protest sign; find a way to sneak out and go to the auction. Rita’s mine. I’m not even going to the summit.”
“So,” Susan asked. “You’re putting her in danger?”
“Never.” Helena said, folding her arms. “The ‘summit’ is too public for Yorkshire to make a move. If anything he says can be believed, he’s some kind of conflict profiteer. Selling the bullets to one side, then selling the bandages to the other; that kind of thing. A stray shot there, and he loses a customer.
“Ultimados have Rita under 24-hour watch. If she has to go out, more pose as a film crew for a new reality show that’ll never happen, so if he plays by my ‘no bystanders’ rule, she’s perfectly safe. That’s the other reason the Green Family Reunion is happening; you may see some of the faces across the street come and go as the week goes by to relieve her detail. Rita’s staying in the La Contessa Suite at a Società Finzione hotel downtown, I get to be your guys’ neighbor for the week. That’s the other reason that your neighborhood is ‘The Safest Place in The World Right Now.’
“If you want, you can come with me to take a stroll around the neighborhood later; let the neighbors know that they’re ok with it all, to go inside and take cover and not panic if anything SHOULD happen, and to just keep an eye out and let us know about anything unusual. Besides the Well-Built Hot People Convention over there, I mean. And we’ll be cooking enough to feed them, too. Help me out, and they’ll just remember that their nice neighbors invited them to a pretty good barbecue.”
Helena watched as Maisson and Velasquez went off for a “stroll” themselves. Velasquez tried to take his hand. Maisson hesitated, then did so. Helen smiled, turned back to Troy, and continued.
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