Transmetropolitan
By thobey
Transmetropolitan
Author: thobey@gmail.com
The bus coughed its way into what was once the Transbay Terminal, now a skeletal framework draped with bioluminescent moss. Rick Jerusalem, his beard a tangled brown mess rivaling the rats that scurried underfoot, stepped onto the cracked pavement. Five years in the mountains hadn't prepared him for this. San Francisco had been swallowed by a tide of chrome and neon, the air thick with the metallic tang of ozone and something vaguely floral, like overripe lilies. He ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair, feeling the grit of the city already clinging to him.
His ancient communicator buzzed – a relic he’d almost forgotten. "Jerusalem," a gruff voice crackled, "about time. Still got two books on that contract, remember? Get your ass in gear." It was Decker, his publisher. Rick sighed, the weight of the past and the future pressing down on him. He needed a drink. And then, he supposed, he needed to find a story in this neon-drenched nightmare.
Rick grunted, shoving the communicator into his pocket. Decker's deadlines felt like a phantom limb, always aching. He scanned the terminal, or what was left of it, a monument to forgotten schedules. Rows of defunct monitors blinked with static, casting flickering shadows that danced with the bioluminescent moss. As his gaze swept across the grimy landscape, he noticed something – a faint, ethereal glow emanating from a nearby alley. Curiosity, or perhaps a desperate need to escape Decker's nagging, propelled him forward. He decided to follow the light, hoping it might lead to some hidden clue, some spark of humanity amidst the city's alien transformation.
The metallic tang of the air led him towards a pulsating neon sign that screamed "The Chrome Cathedral." Rick figured any place with a name that ridiculous probably served something strong. Two figures, easily seven feet tall, blocked the entrance. Their skin shimmered with an oily, iridescent sheen, cybernetic implants glinting under the neon. Transients, definitely.
"ID," one rumbled, his voice a digitized growl. Rick bristled. He didn't have time for this. He had a feeling, a gut-deep certainty, that Zrebin, his old fence, was inside.
"Don't have one," Rick said, trying to push past. The bouncer shoved him back. "Then you ain't coming in, chrome-dome."
Something snapped. Years of pent-up frustration, the mountain solitude shattered, Decker’s constant nagging - it all coalesced into a blinding rage. Rick roared, a primal sound lost in the city's din. He launched himself at the nearest bouncer, a fist connecting with the soft spot where metal met flesh. The Transient crumpled. The other turned, surprised, but Rick was already on him, a whirlwind of fury. He went down hard.
Rick shouldered his way deeper into the Chrome Cathedral, the air thick with the metallic tang of modded blood and the thrum of bass-heavy synth music. The LED-streaked alley seemed almost welcoming compared to this. He spotted Zrebin, the chrome-scaled giant, perched on a repurposed server rack, his violet eyes fixed on a bank of flickering monitors. **Zrebin raises his hand, signaling someone.** One monitor displayed a grainy image of the bar's entrance. **Another transient, Decker, appears from the shadows, blocking Rick's path.** Decker was wiry, all exposed wires and patched skin, a predatory grin splitting his face. "Looking for something, flatliner?" Decker snarled.
Inside the Chrome Cathedral's cramped security booth, Zrebin, a scrawny transient with bio-luminescent tattoos tracing circuits under his scalp, watched the monitors. His augmented eye flickered, catching the feed from the bar's entrance. Two hulking bouncers, their faces scarred with chrome implants, suddenly crumpled as if marionettes with cut strings. Zrebin’s breath hitched. He slammed a greasy hand onto the club's public address system. "Code violation! Code violation! Security breach at the front entrance! All units, respond!" His voice, amplified and distorted by the cheap speakers, echoed through the thrumming bass of the Cathedral.
Rick navigated the terminal's ruins, the scent of synthetic lilies growing stronger, leading him toward an alley shimmering with LED graffiti. The Chrome Cathedral bar beckoned, its entrance guarded by two hulking bouncers whose chrome implants glinted under the flickering neon. As Rick approached, a panicked whinny pierced the air. A cybernetically augmented horse, pulling a rickshaw, reared up, its metal-plated hooves striking sparks against the pavement. The driver wrestled with the reins, but the horse, eyes wide with digital terror, was beyond control, a chaotic whirlwind of flesh and steel.
Rick stepped over the two almost-lifeless transients sprawled before the entrance; collateral damage. Inside, a cacophony of sound and light assaulted him. A wall of transients, chrome gleaming under flickering neon, blocked his path. Before Rick could even think, a brawl erupted. Fists flew, augmented limbs crunched, and the air filled with the metallic tang of blood. Above the din, a familiar voice boomed, amplified tenfold. Zrebin's voice, laced with static, cut through the chaos. "HOLD! CEASE FIRE! That’s Jerusalem! Rick Jerusalem! Leave him be, you half-breed morons!"
He navigated the LED-streaked alley towards the Chrome Cathedral, its entrance flanked by two hulking bouncers whose chrome implants glinted under the flickering neon. Inside, the air thrummed with bass and the scent of synthetic pheromones. As Rick shouldered his way through the crowd, a figure detached itself from the shadows. It was Zrebin. Rick squinted, not immediately recognizing the man with the iridescent scales subtly shifting beneath his skin - a subtle nod to the alien life. "Rick? Rick Jerusalem?" Zrebin shouted over the music, a wide grin splitting his face. He rushed forward, engulfing Rick in a bear hug. "I saw you on the security cams but didn't believe it!" He pulled back, grabbing Rick's arm. "Come on, we gotta do a shot." He led Rick to the bar, slammed down two neon-green liquors, and they tossed them back. Then, Zrebin steers Rick towards the back. "Let's hit the green room, catch up properly."
Story Content
The bus coughed its way into what was once the Transbay Terminal, now a skeletal framework draped with bioluminescent moss. Rick Jerusalem, his beard a tangled brown mess rivaling the rats that scurried underfoot, stepped onto the cracked pavement. Five years in the mountains hadn't prepared him for this. San Francisco had been swallowed by a tide of chrome and neon, the air thick with the metallic tang of ozone and something vaguely floral, like overripe lilies. He ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair, feeling the grit of the city already clinging to him.
His ancient communicator buzzed – a relic he’d almost forgotten. "Jerusalem," a gruff voice crackled, "about time. Still got two books on that contract, remember? Get your ass in gear." It was Decker, his publisher. Rick sighed, the weight of the past and the future pressing down on him. He needed a drink. And then, he supposed, he needed to find a story in this neon-drenched nightmare.
Rick grunted, shoving the communicator into his pocket. Decker's deadlines felt like a phantom limb, always aching. He scanned the terminal, or what was left of it, a monument to forgotten schedules. Rows of defunct monitors blinked with static, casting flickering shadows that danced with the bioluminescent moss. As his gaze swept across the grimy landscape, he noticed something – a faint, ethereal glow emanating from a nearby alley. Curiosity, or perhaps a desperate need to escape Decker's nagging, propelled him forward. He decided to follow the light, hoping it might lead to some hidden clue, some spark of humanity amidst the city's alien transformation.
The metallic tang of the air led him towards a pulsating neon sign that screamed "The Chrome Cathedral." Rick figured any place with a name that ridiculous probably served something strong. Two figures, easily seven feet tall, blocked the entrance. Their skin shimmered with an oily, iridescent sheen, cybernetic implants glinting under the neon. Transients, definitely.
"ID," one rumbled, his voice a digitized growl. Rick bristled. He didn't have time for this. He had a feeling, a gut-deep certainty, that Zrebin, his old fence, was inside.
"Don't have one," Rick said, trying to push past. The bouncer shoved him back. "Then you ain't coming in, chrome-dome."
Something snapped. Years of pent-up frustration, the mountain solitude shattered, Decker’s constant nagging - it all coalesced into a blinding rage. Rick roared, a primal sound lost in the city's din. He launched himself at the nearest bouncer, a fist connecting with the soft spot where metal met flesh. The Transient crumpled. The other turned, surprised, but Rick was already on him, a whirlwind of fury. He went down hard.
Inside the Chrome Cathedral's cramped security booth, Zrebin, a scrawny transient with bio-luminescent tattoos tracing circuits under his scalp, watched the monitors. His augmented eye flickered, catching the feed from the bar's entrance. Two hulking bouncers, their faces scarred with chrome implants, suddenly crumpled as if marionettes with cut strings. Zrebin’s breath hitched. He slammed a greasy hand onto the club's public address system. "Code violation! Code violation! Security breach at the front entrance! All units, respond!" His voice, amplified and distorted by the cheap speakers, echoed through the thrumming bass of the Cathedral.
Rick stepped over the two almost-lifeless transients sprawled before the entrance; collateral damage. Inside, a cacophony of sound and light assaulted him. A wall of transients, chrome gleaming under flickering neon, blocked his path. Before Rick could even think, a brawl erupted. Fists flew, augmented limbs crunched, and the air filled with the metallic tang of blood. Above the din, a familiar voice boomed, amplified tenfold. Zrebin's voice, laced with static, cut through the chaos. "HOLD! CEASE FIRE! That’s Jerusalem! Rick Jerusalem! Leave him be, you half-breed morons!"
He navigated the LED-streaked alley towards the Chrome Cathedral, its entrance flanked by two hulking bouncers whose chrome implants glinted under the flickering neon. Inside, the air thrummed with bass and the scent of synthetic pheromones. As Rick shouldered his way through the crowd, a figure detached itself from the shadows. It was Zrebin. Rick squinted, not immediately recognizing the man with the iridescent scales subtly shifting beneath his skin - a subtle nod to the alien life. "Rick? Rick Jerusalem?" Zrebin shouted over the music, a wide grin splitting his face. He rushed forward, engulfing Rick in a bear hug. "I saw you on the security cams but didn't believe it!" He pulled back, grabbing Rick's arm. "Come on, we gotta do a shot." He led Rick to the bar, slammed down two neon-green liquors, and they tossed them back. Then, Zrebin steers Rick towards the back. "Let's hit the green room, catch up properly."
Synopsis
Rick Jerusalem, a disheveled writer, returns to a transformed San Francisco now ruled by transients. Amidst chrome and neon, his publisher's call for new books sends him searching for stories in this alien-infused cyberpunk landscape. The city's gritty, bioluminescent underbelly promises danger, intrigue, and unexpected allies.
