Anonymous asked:
Thx, but isn’t that a fanfic site?
So technically, couldn’t only fanfics of Whiteout, rather than Whiteout itself, get posted there?
Anonymous asked:
This is interesting, since it means that people without Tumblr accounts are either following my blog or being referred to Whiteout, and I have no way to gauge the number of them.
I’ll keep that ranking site in mind, Anon.
Anonymous asked:
I’m considering what I want to do with it later, whether I want to publish in other locations or on a website of my own, and so on. Aside from the fact that I’ll be starting a new part-time job soon, I’ve set it to update once per week so that I have time to mull over this decision.
[ Enjoying Whiteout? Future posts will be on the @whiteoutstory blog, with chapter 8 released next Thursday. Follow whiteoutstory for continued updates! ]
[ Missed a post? The previous posts can be found here. ]
Beneath the Department of Immigration & Customs building was a vast database, known as the Ancestral Name Directory. Its name was a deliberate misnomer. The Directory didn’t store the names of ancestors, or rather, this wasn’t its primary goal. It stored the original identities of the living members of the city. Local slang called it the “Ghost Bucket.”
The Directory was air-gapped, cut off from the Internet. It had to be accessed in person, physically. Any wide-scale breach of the Directory could result in potential political disaster, and disrupt the careful peace the iron hand of the Pacific Metropolitan Collective had constructed.
“So what’s the condition on our suspect, then?” I asked, as we walked through the hall towards the back of the judicial holding area of the hospital.
“Not good. She appears to be suffering some kind of immune system rejection related to a viral infection.”
“Whatever,” I said. “Just give me a feed.”
The hazard-suited man looked back at me, then continued walking forward. I was granted temporary access to a handful of camera’s on the hospital’s network, and their feeds appeared before me as AR windows.
< Our perp is bleeding out of her eyes, > I said.
< Well that’s not good, > said Charlie.
< Do you think this could be a case of biologically-induced ideological terrorism? > Asked Huan.
< Nah, every one of those so far has been a hoax, > I said.
< What about that one in Shandong? > Charlie asked.
< That one was a hoax, too. But it might be possible to introduce mental illness and then prey on that. > Said Huan. < Induce paranoia and a disconnection from reality in order to speed radicalization. We can use gene editing to gradually remove mental illnesses, so why not use it to cause them? >
< That’s never been proven, > I said.
Huan was solemn. He might be right.
We arrived at a room full of diagnostic booths, at the end of the hall. There were four men, all in those same white hazard suits. I was waved into the diagnostic booth first.
Each booth was a miracle of modern medical technology, with all the finest sensors money could buy integrated into one compact package, fed through a network of diagnostic AIs. I tossed off my clothes in the enclosed changing area right in front of the booth, then walked in and assumed the T-pose.
A radiant line of red light ran down my body, then side-to-side, like in those movies when I was a kid. “Please hold still. Scanning,” said a robotic voice.
After a minute, the scanning was complete, and I put my thumb on the pad at the front of the booth for the blood test. The robotic voice did its little thank you routine, and I put on my clothes and sunglasses and returned to the holding room.
“So what can you tell me about this virus?” I asked.
“It’s a strange one,” said one of the men in hazard suits. I noted down his AR ID, in case I needed to contact him later. Dr. Zhang Cheng. “It’s targetting specific genes to overwrite, but nothing that’s essential for survival. Unfortunately, the immune system appears to get caught up in the process and begins to attack the uninfected cells - at least, that’s what we think so far.”
I let that sit for a moment. Maybe a mutation of one of the older generations of genetic modification delivery viruses, that got loose somehow? But every one of us in Outer Hong Kong, the citizens at least, should be resistant against that. It was way too much of a coincidence to be happening now.
Then a dark memory came over me.
“Dr. Zhang,” I asked, “what kind of non-essential genes is this virus changing?”
“A number of them are for appearance,” said Zhang. “We haven’t run a simulation yet on what someone would look like after the viral modifications, but it couldn’t be too different seeing as our patient has a fully-grown adult body.”
“I have some stuff to take care of,” I said. “When will I be cleared to go?”
“Oh, you’re already clear, Officer Fang. The scan found no signs of viral contamination.”
I adjusted my jacket.
< Charlie, Huan, > I said. < I need to go check out some things on my own. I’ll meet up with you later. >
The brightness of the optical camouflage shimmered in the light, as the dark hallway gave way to a chaos of orange and white construction scaffolding. The figure dodged and weaved through towards the light outside, their black clothing showing through as their cheap active camo suit flexed and folded. I followed.
“Stop,” I yelled, “in the name of the law!”
The light of day burst through as the figure reached the edge of the scaffolding, where the orange plating gave way to the air outside. Beyond was the old Ivory Rose building, the first to be condemned in Outer Hong Kong. Its demolition had been tied up for legal red tape for years as it slowly degraded.
The combat software in my head spurred up, sensing my direction as the figure leapt. I watched as the guidance path unfolded before me, carefully matching the trajectory, and I pushed off after them.
Hey, you only live once, right? Or maybe twice, in my case.
The chasm to the street below us whipped past in what seemed like only a fraction of a second, and then I tumbled and rolled through one of the broken windows on the other side, a chunk of debris nudging into my back.
The figure stumbled, then got up and ran. “Hey!” I shouted, “You can’t just torch a crime scene like that! Stop right fuckin’ now and maybe we’ll go easy on you!” It was a lie, of course. Whoever torched it was probably the murderer, and IntSec wasn’t going to go easy on someone who capped a double platinum.
My ears buzzed. It was Charlie. < They torched this right, Vic. You cap ‘em yet? >
< You put the fires out yet? >
< Well, no, but - >
We dodged down a flight of stairs in the dim light, lit only by the red glow of emergency lighting expected to have long since failed. The building was a mess. Debris everywhere, garbage, bottles and drug injectors.
< Then shut off your mouth and get to it. >
A surface projection appeared in my eyes, overlaying the darkness, a green grid wrapping around the shapes in the hallway, like in movies that were already old when I was a kid. The figure stumbled again as they ran. Maybe they couldn’t see in this light. Big mistake. Now I had the advantage.
A section of the grid was red up ahead, and the figure rushed forwards, tripped, and fell into it. There was a loud, feminine cry accompanying a thud and a crash about a floor below.
“Surrender now!” I shouted as I approached the hole in the floor. A gunshot rang out and a bullet whizzed by my head. I jumped back.
“Alright then,” I said, as I reached into my jacket and withdrew a canister. “We’ll do this the hard way.”
Combat software didn’t control your movements. Not directly, anyway. Instead, you sort of leaned in to it, as a learned habit. It put tiny pressures on your arms and legs and other muscles, and you just had to follow those pressures. Canister in hand, the combat software sensed my microgesture intent, and projected a path before my eyes.
With one smooth motion, the canister went flying, then rebounded off the wall. The suspect’s second shot missed it as it came back down and burst open.
There was a yelp and a jolt. The things could disable anything that wasn’t paramilitary grade, at least temporarily. “I told you we could’ve done this the easy way,” I said.
I leaned over and looked into the hole. The cheap active camo had shorted out. Now I could get a good look at the face and other identifiers.
I could feel my sweat as I started to cool off.
Rain Bailey Biyu, age 34, sex F3. Resident status nickel. Previous offenses…
< HQ really dropped the ball on this one. It’s the fucking hooker. >
< You’re kidding… > Said Charlie.
I sent Charlie a live snapshot. I was definitely not kidding.
< Ah, geez, > said Charlie. < Why do the pleasureboats always cause so much trouble? >
Huan’s tone was measured. < Careful, Charles. I don’t want our investigation getting disrupted over accusations about slurs. >
Charlie acknowledged.
“Double platinum,” said Huan, flicking through the victim’s information.
The dim orange light of the interface lit his virtual face, his expression grim. “Second one in two weeks,” he said. Details of man’s life flickered before him, dynamically summarized, as he gestured through them in his mind.
Robert Cang Bai, age 52. Senior Engineering Manager, Prescott & Associates. No known enemies. One prior conviction, for a parking ticket, twelve years ago. Double Platinum citizenship status, registered with the city of Outer Hong Kong. NeoHan, though that part was unremarkable.
“You seeing a pattern here?” Asked Charlie, standing next to him. Their dark suits and dark gloves, immaculately clean, were the uniform of the city’s homicide unit. “Two double platinums, two weeks, both high-ranking engineering managers, both in OHK.”
“Yeah,” replied Huan, “but that guy was killed by a hooker over a deal gone bad. This guy is clean as a whistle.”
I crouched over the body, examining the victim’s head. A single gunshot wound penetrated his skull, past all the barriers woven into his skull. Probably high-velocity ammo. Simple, but effective.
“It’s possible,” I said. “Go after the leader, and he may be replaced with the second in command. Wipe out the senior staff, and you can really damage the organization. I learned that from Trump.”
“Woah, decorated PacMet Officer Victor Fang was a MAGAtoon?” Teased Charlie. “I find that one hard to believe.”
It was quiet for a moment as Huan read through more information about the victim, before Huan added “why does a MAGAtoon immigrate to PacMet anyway?”
I was tempted to tell Charlie that I had been a lot worse than that during the Maelstrom. Instead I chose the sensible option.
“There is a plan,” I said. “It may not be a perfect plan, it may not be the best plan, but people follow the plan.” I gestured at the body. “Usually.”
Huan nodded knowingly, while Charlie looked on for a moment in disbelief.
“Besides,” I added, “the past is the past. That’s the promise of-” My eyes caught a distortion in the drone recording. A shimmering, translucent figure opened its hand, withdrawing a canister, and then a distorting brightness overtook the room.
“I think we gotta get over there,” I said.
“Yeah, we gotta get over there,” Huan said.
The broken-looking figure of Rain Bailey had propped herself up in a chair, out of the bed. Her black hair was a mess, and mostly covered her eyes. She looked at the floor, tiredly. Then, she looked up.
“So, the cops of this Hell world are here to interrogate me, huh. Little demons of order trying to keep the peace in a den of debauchery and sin. Or is it devils? I never could keep the two straight. Fuck you.”
I paused for a moment. “Why did you kill Daniel Blake?” I asked.
“These bodies we have,” she said, “they’re abominations. My body is an abomination. It shouldn’t exist. It makes me sick. So fucking sick, doing these twisted things. The pleasure of sin is an illusion. It hollows out your soul. When he decided not to pay me, I finally realized it was just too much. Seemed like as good a place to start as any. To start ridding this world of filth.”
Charlie gritted his teeth, then couldn’t hold his tongue back. “If you hate this shit so much, why did you buy an F3 body? Hell, if you hate it so much, why not just get a regular job?”
“I bought into the bullshit of this city. The philosphy of it. ‘We’re not degenerates’, they said, 'we have rules.’ But this city is rotten to the core with filth. The rules just make it better at hiding it. It’s sick with perversion. Look at you, pretending to be 'NeoHan’. NeoHan isn’t even a real thing. It’s a warped, funhouse mirror copy of the Chinese, who aren’t even that great anyway. A fake ethnicity. Were you Chinese? Were you ever even Chinese?”
Charlie gritted his teeth again. I looked at her.
“Did you kill Robert Cang?” I asked.
< She’s clearly delusional, > Huan’s voice said through the cybercomms in my head. < I don’t know if any of this will even be admissible as evidence. >
< Fucking pleasureboats. > Said Charlie. < Never trust an F3. >
“Yeah, I guess.” She said.
“Why?”
“I dunno. Looked at me funny.”
She was lying and she knew it, but why? A drop of blood ran down from her nostril, and she licked it. Then she coughed.
“Waaaaiit a minute,” she said with a half-smile. “Those reports on the forums weren’t bullshit after all.” She looked at me. “'Victor Fang’, huh? Jack, why are you pretending to be Chinese? Haha. Hahahaha. Hahahaha! The irony of it! The irony of it all! Camille sends her regards!”
The laughter quickly turned into a vicious coughing fit, and the cloud of AR health indicators around her began to turn red. The door soon opened and the nurse rushed in. I and the others moved out of the way.
“What happened?” Demanded the nurse as he rushed to her side.
“I don’t know,” I said. “She was laughing and then she went into a coughing fit.”
“Help me get her into the bed!” Said the nurse. She resisted, but we soon lifted her and pushed her back onto the bed.
The nurse gestured for me to get out of the way, and the bed took off out of the room and down the hallway at a fast walking pace, the nurse following along.
“'the fuck? I’ve never seen a Buster grenade do that.” Said Charlie.
“…Jack?” Said Huan.
I have another three segments of Whiteout queued, and it’s both kind of annoying and exciting since I want to show them to you right now, but if I do that then there won’t be any more queued, so we all have to wait.
Anyhow, if you’re enjoying the Whiteout story, make sure to like the posts so I know how popular it is.
One more Whiteout post is queued for tomorrow, then I need to decide what I want to do with future releases on it. (I’m already up to chapter 13 already written, starting in on 14.)
May end up registering a sideblog for it and scheduling it once a week.
SAN FRANCISCO—In an effort to reduce the number of unprovoked hostile communications on the social media platform, Twitter announced Monday that it had added a red X-mark feature verifying users who are in fact perfectly okay to harass. “This new verification system offers users a simple, efficient way to determine which accounts belong to total pieces of shit whom you should have no qualms about tormenting to your heart’s desire,” said spokesperson Elizabeth James, adding that the small red symbol signifies that Twitter has officially confirmed the identity of a loathsome person who deserves the worst abuse imaginable and who will deliberately have their Mute, Block, and Report options disabled. “When a user sees this symbol, they know they’re dealing with a real asshole who has richly earned whatever mistreatment they receive, including profanity, body-shaming, leaking of personal information, and relentless goading to commit suicide. It’s really just a helpful way of saying to our users, ‘This fuck has it coming, so do your worst with a clear conscience and without fear of having your account suspended.’” At press time, Twitter reassuredly clarified that the red X was just a suggestion and that all users could still be bullied with as little recourse as they are now.
