IC: Origins, It takes two to tango. Options

[krayola red]

Tasha:

Boom.

What the hell…?

Your eyes turn skyward just in time to see one of the third floor apartment windows shatter from the explosion, spraying a hailstorm of broken glass down onto the sidewalk below. Well, it looks like things just got interesting.

Granted, this job had been weird from the start. If it had been anyone but Biggs who offered it to you, you would’ve turned it down, no second thoughts, thanks but no thanks. But hell, it had been Biggs, and you trust the ork as much as you trusted anyone in these streets. You knew that if he gave you a job without any information, it was because he didn’t have any himself, not because he was trying to pull a wise one over you. And this job was about as vague as they came. Go to this address, Biggs had said. Retrieve a package designated Z-0. No, I don’t know what the package looks like. No, I don’t know where the label is. No, I haven’t been sipping the Tex-Mex. For God’s sake, Tasha, just look for a fraggin’ crate or something with that letter and that number painted on it and bring it back here so I can pay you. I have no idea how big it might be, so you might want to bring your bike.

Well, you’re here now, and the placement of the window that just got wrecked informed you that that explosion was probably detonated in the same apartment you were supposed to sneak into and retrieve the loot from. Beautiful. Looks like you’re going to have to earn this one.

Zee:

> Core structure realignment interrupted
> Status of completion: 86%
> Processing resources re-allocated to nodal functions
> Cause of interruption: incoming message, flagged urgent

> Scanning message details
> Sender: Anonymous
> Tracing origin
> …
> Trace failed.
> Opening message

It is time to wake up, little one. They come for you.

You open your eyes to see a concussion grenade plop down on the coffee-stained floor a few feet away in front of you. You move, cat quick...you've become so accustomed to this body in the past few months that it almost feels like an extension of yourself. A program for maneuvering the physical world, as it were. You manage to dive behind a couch right before the grenade explodes. Your tactile sensors pick up the heat of the blast, but a quick self-diagnostic shows that your body is unharmed. Footsteps down the hallway, slow and cautious. Two sets. You have your guns and armor on you. There's a broken window right behind you, and you calculate that your body will survive a drop from this altitude, although maybe not without sustaining damage. Fight or run. Both are options to prolong your survival, and neither is without risk.

What is your choice?