The mountains are the same. The stretch of old highway Saturday's memory took place on is like any other American highway, except for the mountains looming north, east, and south. He might recognize Mt. Rainier, or what remains of it after the blast. But the forests are gone, at least in Redmond. Rainier killed them. They're growing back - volcanic ash makes great fertilizer - but it's nothing like what it used to be. Or so Saturday's heard, and seen in a few old pictures and movies. And now, in Dan's memory.
"Never heard of a sovereign citizen but if you're talking about getting stomped by the cops, yeah, that happens." A cigarette appears in her hand, and she takes a drag. "Every once in a blue moon a tourist gets jumped over on the Strip, or some bright spark decides they're gonna clean up Redmond once and for all, so out comes KE's finest. Never lasts long, but it makes a godawful mess."
She was enjoying the landscape, so she curses mildly when it shifts. Redmond again - not the outskirts they were in, somewhere deeper, cluttered and rusting and neon. A mass of metahumanity - the memory of a mob - surges around and away from a tank rolling very slowly down the narrow street, not caring about the street stalls and carts crushed under its treads. Mostly people are running from it. In a moment Dan will see why.
A molotov flies out from a crumbling upper window. The tank's gun swivels, locks on, shoots. Smoke pours out. Inside, they can see dark figures running, panicking. One of them makes it to the fire escape, sliding down the stuck ladder. The tank fires again. The round takes him in the head: he spins and falls, unconscious. There's blood on his face.
"That was technically non-lethal ordinance, or supposed to be," Saturday observes mildly, watching the unconscious ork's friends as they watch a squad five Knight Errant guards - so heavily armored that they no longer appear human - pick up their friend and drag him away. "They're never gonna see him again, so who knows if it really was."
She exhales, the cigarette's smoke mingling with the steam of her breath. The air in this memory is cold, though Saturday doesn't really remember what time of the year it was. Maybe it was just that she'd felt cold, watching.
"We are still UCAS, technically. It's just that Seattle metroplex proper is mostly corps, yeah? Extraterritoriality - so it's not really UCAS in practice, you follow? Though maybe they don't have that shit where you are. Which is why the NAN didn't take it, after the Ghost Dance War - that's a few too many corps for comfort, especially when a country's just getting started."
She shifts.
"Sorry these memories are kinda shitty. My 'plane's got some great people in it, things are just... sorta messed up."
no subject
"Never heard of a sovereign citizen but if you're talking about getting stomped by the cops, yeah, that happens." A cigarette appears in her hand, and she takes a drag. "Every once in a blue moon a tourist gets jumped over on the Strip, or some bright spark decides they're gonna clean up Redmond once and for all, so out comes KE's finest. Never lasts long, but it makes a godawful mess."
She was enjoying the landscape, so she curses mildly when it shifts. Redmond again - not the outskirts they were in, somewhere deeper, cluttered and rusting and neon. A mass of metahumanity - the memory of a mob - surges around and away from a tank rolling very slowly down the narrow street, not caring about the street stalls and carts crushed under its treads. Mostly people are running from it. In a moment Dan will see why.
A molotov flies out from a crumbling upper window. The tank's gun swivels, locks on, shoots. Smoke pours out. Inside, they can see dark figures running, panicking. One of them makes it to the fire escape, sliding down the stuck ladder. The tank fires again. The round takes him in the head: he spins and falls, unconscious. There's blood on his face.
"That was technically non-lethal ordinance, or supposed to be," Saturday observes mildly, watching the unconscious ork's friends as they watch a squad five Knight Errant guards - so heavily armored that they no longer appear human - pick up their friend and drag him away. "They're never gonna see him again, so who knows if it really was."
She exhales, the cigarette's smoke mingling with the steam of her breath. The air in this memory is cold, though Saturday doesn't really remember what time of the year it was. Maybe it was just that she'd felt cold, watching.
"We are still UCAS, technically. It's just that Seattle metroplex proper is mostly corps, yeah? Extraterritoriality - so it's not really UCAS in practice, you follow? Though maybe they don't have that shit where you are. Which is why the NAN didn't take it, after the Ghost Dance War - that's a few too many corps for comfort, especially when a country's just getting started."
She shifts.
"Sorry these memories are kinda shitty. My 'plane's got some great people in it, things are just... sorta messed up."