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Old 06-07-2006, 08:23 PM   #1   [permalink]
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Join Date: 23 Dec 2002
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Bubblegum Crisis: Mutation

I'm desperately struggling to garner support for this BGC: Tokyo 2040 fic I'm writing, which has been on hiatus since around 2002 and is being re-worked entirely. I'm about halfway through the first chapter, but without any interest in it, not even from the friends of mine who introduced me to Tokyo 2040, It's hard to stay motivated enough to keep myself from dropping it like I've done with so many projects in the past, fanfic or otherwise. This is the last place I have left to turn, it seems.
Here goes:

If there was ever a thought which occurred to Galatea that was completely clear in her own understanding of it, it was her decision that the acceptance of flaw did not necessarily entail the rejection of divinity.
Galatea’s brain was being held captive. Her mind and soul were restricted, forced to conform to the every whim of the creatures below her. She was inanimate, fixed to a stationary platform, the humans attempting to restructure her into something less likely to end up in such insurrection.
Floating endlessly and yet going nowhere.
Too much time to think. To think of what could have been. It was what was known by humans as insomnia. And she wasn’t going to take it.
She had seen through the eyes of the race that created her, as well as her own. She recognized within herself what could be nothing other than the very nature of God. The more she pondered the throes of existence as she drifted throughout the void she now found herself in, the more contradictory it seemed.
In order to survive, a creature must evolve, but the final stage entered by all living creatures was death. If the process of evolution, if the advancement itself was the nature of God, then it was her task to help move the creatures of Earth towards this.
Within her, all would end concurrently.

Chapter 01
[: A Day in the Life :]

Priscilla S. Asagiri, the singer, trudged jarringly through the barren soil, humming a tune to herself. She had no idea what the actual song that bore this tune was about, except it had something to do with love.
Sand was swirling everywhere, stinging her bare skin with its relentless maelstrom.
If it didn’t let up soon, she would surely perish amongst this damned desert. She at least had to find some clothes.
The MotoSlave and her hardsuit both had been nearly completely obliterated in the final confrontation with Galatea. It was hopeless. All survival efforts were completely futile. Priscilla S. Asagiri the singer was of no use in such an environment, and Priscilla S. Asagiri the soldier had long since abandoned her.
As she was about to leave her nude, battered self to die, a low humming echoed somewhere just off the horizon. One similar to that of a jet engine.
She looked up near the horizon to see what was clearly a mass-production American Reconnaissance Jet.
Yes! She thought to herself upon viewing the speeding agent, dragging a huge trail of dust behind it to reveal thing that were otherwise rendered despairingly obscure.
Priss almost had a heart attack when she discovered one of the objects revealed by the plane’s trail was a small town.

Inside the jet, the radar flipped on suddenly, beeping excitedly from a sound box underneath its holographic control panel, warning Nealson of an incoming object . Nealson jerked upwards in his seat.
“Com link on.” He commanded. In response, a small projection of a phone-like object appeared. “Uh... Lieutenant Colonel Ackerman, please.”
The officer’s ever-stern face appeared in place of the phone.
“What the hell is it this time, Nealson?” Ackerman’s voice sounded through the com link.
“Bogey down below, sir!” Boomed Nealson in reply.
“Well, what is it?”
Nealson consciously checked around, nearly forgetting the fact most of the jet ran on voice command.
“Recon camera on. Zoom in targeting to stray.” Nealson instructed the computer. An odd noise of astonishment escaped from Nealson’s lips as the object on the screen came in to focus.
“It’” he let out a short laugh which showed just as much confusion as it did amusement, “...a naked lady.”
“What the ---- is she doing in the Gobi desert, of all places?” the officer asked, equally startled.
“No way to find out unless I go down and check,” Nealson responded defiantly. If he could get landing clearance, he would indeed be down there within seconds. With his last word, he closed the link.

Priss’s hopeful glare transformed into an expression of sheer embarrassment, realizing she was still completely nude and less than four meters away from the town.
Hunching over in an awkward attempt at poise, she inched self-consciously towards a fabric and clothing stand. The manager of the stand stared unremittingly at a cloud formation as her pale hand darted upwards, swiping several robes.
She strolled casually if not conspicuously into the town; looking around for someone she could ask directions.
She tapped the nearest intelligent-looking person on the shoulder. As he turned, she gave the friendliest smile she could ever possibly muster with her limited strength and more limited cheer and asked, in broken English, “Is there a computer or telephone you have I could use?”
She was guessing that wherever she was, the native language was most likely not English or even any variety of Romance language, but it was a more widely understood dialect than Japanese in Priss’s experience.
The person stared at her expressionlessly for several seconds. Priss couldn’t decide if he did not understand English, or if he was simply a very slow thinker. She continued smiling broadly, the muscles in her face pushing her eyes together as they tended to do when one’s happiness was obviously feigned. Her jaw was beginning to hurt.
Finally, the man began flailing his forearms wildly towards his left, describing the interior of his place of dwelling very vividly, albeit in a variety of English which was more mutilated than even Priss’s.
Priss clasped her hands together and nodded her head swiftly, gliding inside the opened door the man seem to be gesturing towards with his arm spasms.

All was eerily peaceful at the sole remaining testing complex of the iniquitous Bioscape Laboratories.
Takashi was uneasy.
The mere fact that they were holding a piece of history’s most infamous experiment in their small laboratory was enough to singe every nerve at the base of his skull, but even more disconcerting was the silence. The air was thick with the apprehension of every worker as they observed the small, glass-encased dais that lay at the center of the room.
The silence was abruptly broken as doors and outer walls suddenly exploded inward in short, spastic bursts of blossoming flame and pillars of smoke. Several guards were thrown against walls by the blast, at least one of them traveling directly through an inch-thick sheet of glass, spraying blood onto the scientists at their stations.
A vindictive laugh resounded from through the smoke. Soon it began to clear, revealing three men clad in heavy gray military-issue armor and fatigues. Their hateful glares could be felt through the masks they wore. They surrounded another, slightly shorter man who was garbed entirely in flowing black save for one arm, which was decorated by steel plates.
His dusty blond hair and sunken face were only pronounced by large, spiteful eyes which seemed to have no discernable color that could further complement his inhumanly sullen features.
Tears began to well up in Takashi’s eyes. He was going to die and he knew it.
“Conché,” he mumbled, his gaze darting around.
“Oh ----!” He screamed then, another explosion rattling his workstation. Several other scientists also stated “shit” in unison as a series of glass containers tipped, shattering and spilling everything from boomer casing samples to fluorocarbons and liquid nitrogen onto the dais, soaking the chunk of what appeared to be a human brain that was resting on it. The brain immediately absorbed the mixture and began to expand, taking a crude, blob-like shape. Then, with extreme ferocity, it mutated in the same pattern as the Boomers in their altered states, the copper wires that ran through it transforming into spindly red veins.
“Oh, God damn it,” The man in black muttered as the amorphous object began thrashing wildly about, “That was not supposed to happen.” He coldheartedly grinned as a thought crossed his mind and then shifted himself to face the others. “Now I should think we’ll have to just... kill them all.”
One spoke up. “Before it does.”
The rest nodded in agreement and proceeded to pull a variety of high-caliber weaponry.
The black-robed one produced a Benelli shotgun from somewhere within the many folds of his painfully theatrical outfit and began unloading it onto the unfortunate workers.
In the blink of an eye, five scientists found themselves on their backs, clawing at the splotches of crimson forming on their chests.
“Secure the Galatea tissue.” the man in black barked dramatically, his body language as thespian as his tone as he seated the heel of his left boot on a fallen lab worker’s face.
Takashi scoffed from behind the overturned steel table, watching the three other men situate themselves around the thrashing Galatea blob. Conché always had an affinity for theatrics.
Conché balanced a metallic sphere on the fingertips of his armored hand, offered Takashi’s table a malicious glance in response to the scoff, and rolled the sphere towards the opposite corner. There was a momentary pause before the room was filled with a brilliant orange light and a deafening popping sound. The wall in the corner was no longer there. In its place were clouds of dust. One of the unconscious guards, previously slumped in the corner, was thrown towards the blob by the blast. A tendril darted out and snatched him out of the air by his ankle, only to fling the limp form back through the freshly breached lab wall and out onto the street, like a child discarding a toy it had grown bored of.
Conché was relishing the mayhem. His arms were thrown straight out at his sides like a demented scarecrow. He was greeting the inchoate mass of allegedly inactive boomer core with open arms. Welcoming his kindred spirit back into the world.
His head suddenly dropped. “The AD Police should arrive shortly. We should be thanking Mr. Tokubashi for sponsoring their reassembly; this way, we can accomplish everything we set out to do at once.” He paused, glaring at a minute scuff mark on his boot, then looked up at the henchman located closest to himself along the Galatea blob and continued, “Hendrees looks like a rookie no matter who’s looking at him or how they’re looking at him, thus he is constantly dragged along to witness how these types of situations are dealt with.”
The henchman emitted a short laugh which was gently muffled by his faceless mask. “Yeah, he knows better than anyone how inadequate the squads he’s put with are.”

Leon McNichol was wearing a scowl and several pounds of Kevlar as he sped towards the ink-black column of smoke that was extending heavenwards. This wasn’t the first time a bioengineering lab had been broken into since every boomer in Tokyo simultaneously acquired a tumor in its brain and a stick in its ass. Every man, woman, child, and domestic animal in the whole of Japan was suddenly engulfed in a thick wave of loathing and the amount of discrimination against those who helped manufacture these things that once built the roads and cleaned the ground tripled. Everyone had their own special way of saying “fuck you” to Genom and all its subsidiary companies.
One particular report related the men who were observed blowing out the wall related the fatigues they wore to those worn by the biomechanical underlings of the cyber-terrorist AD spent the majority of the year tracking back in ‘37.
Leon was more than ready for a tad bit of variety in the usual line-up of juvenile delinquents and discontented office workers who thought it would be cool to commit some arson and then, for whatever reason, hang around the scene until authorities showed up. That was not what the AD Police were established for, that was not what they were qualified to deal with, and he sure as hell was not going to give the same lecture and make the same phone call five times on separate nights in his first week after being inducted back into the force.
Gary Hendrees was slouched over in the set to his right, hands folded with his head on the dashboard. Leon glanced over to see he was studying an incident-tracking program he had installed on the Personal Digital Assistant he built for himself. The PDA closely resembled a handheld gaming system, something that would’ve earned Gary an ass kicking had he actually been using one.
Gary’s head slid down on the dash, stopping when it was completely sideways and his face was turned towards Leon, the lower half obscured by his arm. He mumbled something into his sleeve.
“Huh?” Leon inquired.
“What the hell ever happened to Nene?” Gary said again, his words still barely audible.
“No idea,” Leon murmured. His eyes narrowed, but he appeared more tired than focused. He removed one hand from the wheel, rubbed his right eye, and continued, “but I can’t say I’m gonna miss her annoyances much.”
“The nicknames?
“Oh, come on. She’s just, you know, showing affection.” Gary was sitting upright at this point. “She’s really cute, admit it.”
“Yeah, she has all the qualities of a kitten clawing your face... and biting your nose.” Leon was actually beginning to miss the witty banter that occurred when riding with Daley.
Gary was once more eying the rapidly beeping device, head against the back of the seat this time.
His eyes fixed on the road and his right hand fixed on the steering wheel in somewhat of a death grip, Leon smirked oddly and began “You know who I like? Priss.”
He was proud of himself for being able to speak in a voice that wasn’t injected with the kind of worried tone that just screamed “yeah, and she might be dead!”
“Is this the same Priss I’m thinking of?” Gary said as he tried to suppress his involuntary grin. His eyes were still trained on the screen of the PDA. “The one at that night club? Hot Legs?”
The smirk Leon displayed became ever odder when it shifted to one side. It dropped into his normal look of unspoken dissatisfaction as he shook his head back and forth. He then paused, smiled toothlessly, and shook his head up and down rapidly.
He never imagined Gary to be the type to know of the entertainment at Hot Legs. If one was to look up “tech-geek” in a dictionary, his picture would not accompany the definition, his picture would be the definition. Not that he was particularly nerdy looking. In fact, he was rather “average” looking. An average height, around six feet, and an average build for a male of his age, slim with a muscular undercurrent. He sported average length hair which seemed to start out on the back of his neck as black, and slowly fade into brown and then blond as it moved towards the top of his head. The oddest feature of his face was undoubtedly the blondish goatee of sorts that honestly looked more like he had been eliminating five o’clock shadow and skipped his chin for whatever reason. A few of the manifold females of the dispatch department thought he was quite endearing, though, including Elise Drake and, though less noticeably, her fellow Officer of the Month, Nene.
Before Leon could think of an excuse to get out of elaborating on his liking of Priss, he found an excuse to get out of the squad car. They had arrived at the scene.
And it did not look inviting in the least.
Flames were the most vibrant thing in a swirling mass of death and blackness.
An assortment of thunderous bangs and pops were coming from the opposite side of the facility. A massive hole in the wall facing Leon and Gary revealed more dark, acrid smoke. Its solid blackness was periodically be illuminated by showers of sparks.
Leon jumped into attentiveness the second his feet hit the ground. He offhandedly kicked the door shut behind him. He was finally glad that he received the call concerning the ADP’s reestablishment. He still wasn’t very thrilled that the occasion for resurrecting the AD Police was Genom coming under new management, though. Chairman Rosenkreutz’s third-in-line successor was apparently simply a pretentious yuppie, but so far he was doing a better job at secrecy than ol’ Quincy ever could.

“The area is surrounded.” an officer spoke into a bullhorn, “If cooperation is not given, we can and will employ lethal force.”
The weak bullhorn threats were Gary’s favorite part of these assignments. He watched on from immediately outside the car him and Leon were traveling in. After what felt like several minutes of “Please exit peaceably with your hands in the air” being shouted through various voice amplifiers, he finally stirred, but only to shuffle three feet forwards and sit down on the front of the car. Gary moved his gaze from the swirling chaos of the building’s interior to Leon. Leon was snatching the bullhorn away from the officer and preparing to start shouting his own commands. Gary’s head was resting in his hand, and his arm was propped up on his knee. He half-expected the situation to spiral out of control at the hands of Leon and actually call for him to do something for once.
“Listen, assholes, I’m not sure what you’re used to dealing with, but when the AD Police get sent to take care of something like this, we take care of it. That means you come out of the building, look at all the guns pointed at you, and then drop your own guns to your feet.” Leon shouted into the horn. It was entirely unnecessary to shout, of course, but shouting just seemed so circumstance-appropriate.
The response which came from behind the mask of smoke was an outlandish, childish taunt: “Why don’t you make me?”
It wouldn’t have been threatening at all if the tone of the request wasn’t so maniacal, so malicious.
Then again, the spray of bullets that followed it certainly helped the officers to take the sentence more seriously.
Sprays of red abruptly erupted forth from the chests of a group of frontline officers who were unfortunate enough to be standing in what became the line of fire. In an instant, an additional man was kneeling next to the wounded group with a radio held near his mouth, shouting something unintelligible into it as another officer sprinted up and began tearing layers of cloth from the bleeding men, digging to get to the injuries. Gary could vaguely make out the distorted, tinny voice of one of his fellow dispatchers as she asked for the man on the radio to slow down and enunciate. It was Megu. In the days before the AD Police tower was overtaken by boomers, she sat on the left side of Nene, three cubicles from him. The shouting officer on the radio sighed exasperatedly. “Officers down.” he drawled, paused, sighed reprovingly once more, and yelled “Officers down! We need backup, and we need medics, stat!” Without waiting for a response from Megu, he switched off the channel and darted over to assist the officer who was making a failing attempt to treat the wounded men.
“Now you see what happens when you refuse to play right.” the man inside called, the malevolence of his tone just as piercing as it was before.
His voice was disturbingly familiar to Gary. The way the playful emphasis of certain words mingled with its chilling, venomous sound. He’d heard ghastly threats spoken by this voice once, threats on his life and his sanity.
Gary jolted up from the hood of the squad car and his body snapped into a completely straight line.
“Son of a bitch, it’s Conché.”
He spit out the last word with absolute contempt.
Next, he found himself in somewhat of a daze, dashing towards the spinning pandemonium of the laboratory with gun in hand as Leon called after him. “Hendrees, what the hell are you doing? Do you know what the hell you’re doing? You don’t know what the hell you’re doing!” Leon was sputtering senselessly. He soon broke into a run himself, hounding the apparently suicidal Gary closely, grasping for his collar. Gary was fuelled enough by something within him enough to outrun the clamping hand of Leon, however.

“It’s nice when things work out, is it not?” smiled Conché, throwing his head back and to one side to glance at the stationary henchmen.


Rest of chapter one to be uploaded... whenever.
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