Rather a Lot O' the Fiction, the communal notebook Options

[Kagetenshi]

As you're no doubt aware, there has recently been a discussion on the topic of how to write Shadowrun fiction, and one suggestion, applicable to writing in general, was to just write something each day. Now, obviously, some things we would never like to see the light of day.

Then again, what fun is that?

Thus, I give you this thread. This thread is dedicated to snippets of writing from the Shadowrun world, from full stories to paragraphs all the way down to single lines or the merest snatch of conversation. Just make something up and run with it. Good, bad, it's all the same here.

Guidelines:

No commentary. I'd like this to be the only non-fiction reply in the thread. Comments are the lifeblood of writing in many ways, but take them to PMs or another thread (but by all means convey them! Just do it elsewhere). This space is consecrated to Apocryphos, god of Fiction.

If you're going to make multiple posts that have continuity, be aware that unless you're prepared to post them in quick succession there may (if this thread is successful) be any number of other snippets between the two parts. If it's a full story and you think it's worth telling and telling right, feel free to take it to another thread or elsewhere.

Minimal edits. If you left out a word, misspelled something, want to make some minor phrasing tweaks, or absolutely have to insert something, go for it, but if you want to add wholesale, make a new post on the thread. People probably won't read back through all of the entries, and it'll get lost.

No prefacing your fiction with comments about how bad it is, or how you were in a hurry, or anything like that! All appropriately self-deprecating statements are assumed to have been made at the beginning of the thread :P (Incidentally, same goes for saying how much you rock and are better than anyone else here ;) )

Anyway. If any more guidelines need writing, I'll edit this post. Other than that, time to get this ball rolling. Don't be shy, this is a place for writing, not for good writing :)

~J

[Kagetenshi]

"He's still out there, you know."
"Yeah, I know."
"You don't have to be a hero. Backup will be here in a few minutes, and they'll have the equipment to deal with him. The armor. Especially the armor."
He glanced down, his gaze going to the unnatural skin on his left forearm. "Hey Charlie, did I ever tell you how I lost my arm?" He didn't wait for a response. "I was pulling guard duty at a compound, compound just like this one. It got hit by a team. One of the guys on the squad tried to confront them, and he got cut to pieces. I was hiding behind one of the doors, but someone hit it with a grenade. Lost this arm, and it mangled the nerves so bad they had to put in a syntharm. This syntharm. Well, I guess most of the parts've gotten replaced since then.
"I guess what I'm saying is, sometimes hiding works and sometimes it doesn't. It didn't work out for me last time. You know, I still feel my own arm. It aches. It aches every fucking day.
"I figure it's time I finally paid the bastards back, and this psycho is giving me my chance."
"He'll kill you, you know. He's fucking armed to the teeth. Maybe even some kind of machine gun."
Rick lifted his plastic hand, looking at it intently. "Maybe he will."
Silence fell, broken only by the snapping of a magazine into a pistol and the chattering of automatic gunfire somewhere beyond the door. Rick stood to leave.
"Hey, man…"
"What?"
"Goodbye. And… good luck."
He smiled with a warmth Charlie had never seen in him. "Thanks. Dinner later? It's on me."

He stepped through the doorway.

[Kagetenshi]

They came for us, not with the night like such things are supposed to do, but with the dawn, those walking dead.

First we thought they were mercenaries, lost and confused. Then we thought they were raiders, come to steal what we have carried with us through the sands since time before memory. It was not until Munavar broke one's face open with a stone and it kept staggering towards him, dragging him down and filling the air with his screams, that we knew the true horror that beset us.

As his body struggled to rise and pursue us, we fled. I am not ashamed to admit this; there comes a time in the life of every man when he is faced with something so terrible that to face it is not bravery but foolishness, suicide and a sin in the eyes of God. For me, this was that time.

We fled through the sands towards a well we often stopped at. When finally we reached it, our sufi left his body to see what became of our attackers. The sun burned above us, lighting, or so we thought, our path. We sat down to wait.

Not fifteen minutes had gone by when we heard a loud crash. I scrambled to the source only to find that our sufi had broken his staff over Noor's head. His eyes, blank and senseless, met mine, and I knew that he had been taken by one of the devils…

[DrJest]

In the cold pre-dawn, everything is etched from steel. The building rises out of the morning mist, a looming iceberg in some arctic ocean, silent and massive, while the formless grey light slowly picks out details like an artist feeling his way through a new painting whose image is not yet clear in his mind; here a fire escape, the steps stained with the copper of rust, there an aerial rising stark and black against the cold grey sky, somehow alien in the charcoal landscape of roofs and gutters. My breath is a pale cloud, blending with the drifting tendrils of mist to make a seamless whole, invisible within a heartbeat.

Overhead, gulls wheel idly beneath a steel sky, restless travellers many miles from their ocean homes. Their cries echo from the silent walls like a child’s ball; bounce, bounce, the momentum fading only to be renewed as another bird yaws overhead.

Even the sun is a pale, featureless disc, glimpsed in passing between two buildings only to pass almost immediately from view, a shy virgin slipping away from the eyes of a stranger peering through her bedroom window.

The dew has soaked into my clothes; I am cold, cold as the metal landscape where brick and stone melt into featureless iron, a generic cityscape. I could be anywhere.

I am here.

The gun is also cold, but then guns always are. Don’t listen to the talk of warmth and affection, of the gun as friend. The gun is never your friend, no matter which end of it you are on. In the chill light I wonder if perhaps the man on the other end has it easier than the one who pulls the trigger. At least he will never lie awake in the night counting off the endless list of names and faces.

It is time. A light goes on in the building, a glaring eye staring accusingly out at me. The building knows, its eaves drawn up in disapproval like an elderly matron moving her skirts away from filth on the floor. Let it disapprove; I just want to be done and away from here, to be warm again on the outside if not within. I raise the gun, the sight clicking into focus. Inside the lighted room a door opens. Breath in, hold it; let the sights drift on to the subject’s head (never the man, never think of them as people). Breathe out, caress the trigger, watch the silent puff of red like scarlet confetti as the subject falls out of sight. Let the gun drop as well, it is no more my friend than it is the subject’s.

Walk away.

[DrJest]

The sky is grey like the flesh of a dead man, casting a dull, directionless light under the formless, shapeless clouds that blanket the sky without break. In this noontime twilight, everything is etched in grey steel; the buildings, the cars, the man leaving the building, his eyes masked by circular mirrorshades that are somehow the brightest thing on the street. The Rig Junkies hanging out by the alley leave off throwing bricks at the stray cats and drift towards him, their simglasses bouncing carelessly at their belts. But the half-hearted confrontation dies early; the man’s reflective gaze sweeps across them and dismisses them as unimportant, and the junkies back off as scavengers will before a predator. Tropical jungle or urban, the rules are the same; and this, they can tell, is no hyena’s meat.

The man, whose name is none of anyone’s business but who is called Skinner by anyone who deals with him, is content to let the junkies depart unmolested. He has no need to find fights to augment his rep, and besides he has a contract to fulfil. Skinner abhors waste of any kind, and most of all waste of his time (if you were fortunate enough that Skinner would allow you to employ him at his hourly rate it would only cost you about six dollars to have him kill the rig junkies, but it is the principle that matters).

Skinner gets into his car and starts the engine, the sound loud in the oppressive silence – here in Downtown where the corporations rule like silent priests behind the thrones of kings, nothing moves that they do not wish to – and slips the antique black machine into gear.

It is time to work.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Thumping electro-Gothic music makes the walls vibrate as Skinner walks into the club. His eyes dilate automatically as he hits the darkness inside, maximising what little light is available. Cyberware is more common, but Skinner prefers the biological edge; faster, smoother, warmer inside.

Skinner cuts through the crowd with the cold purpose of a shark homing in on one fish in a school. His target is a man of such mixed ancestry that identifying a racial type would be impossible; which is the way he likes it, since Johnny Backup makes his living selling, trading and transporting information, and being forgettable is a marketable resource in that line of business. He gets his name from the impressive amount of internal storage memory that he carries to facilitate his business; without it, he would be far less valuable to the people who employ him. Skinner, of course, knows this. Skinner also knows where Johnny keeps his internal memory. As he approaches Johnny’s table, Skinner lets the spur in his right forearm slide out like a sword hissing from its scabbard; when Skinner shoves Johnny’s shoulder back against the chair to open him up the point tickles the broker just under his ribcage.

‘Skinner,’ Johnny says in a friendly tone that is belied by the roll of his eyes. ‘Good to see you again, very good in fact, and you’re looking so well…’

‘You stiffed me on the Fledermaus data,’ Skinner says. His voice is like silk being cut by a razor, slicing through the noise of the club. ‘Tell me why I shouldn’t... press the point.’

Johnny swallows hard, squeezing his eyes shut as the tip of the blade that lies along the outside of Skinner’s arm nicks the surface of his skin. ‘Skinner, hey, I swear I bought that data in good faith. Since you have been so inconvenienced, allow me to provide you with one on the house.’

Skinner’s lips curved into a smile made somehow sinister by the round mirrors over his eyes. ‘I knew you could be persuaded to see reason,’ he said, letting the bladed arm drop back to his side. ‘Tell me about the Silver Road.’

When Johnny bolts, Skinner is ready. The blade cuts deep into the side of the booth, and Johnny skids to a halt too slow to avoid a long, if shallow, cut across his belly. ‘You can’t be jackin’ serious, man. I don’t mess with that political gigo.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Skinner says calmly. ‘Then I’ll take my payback in hardware.’
‘Christ, Skinner!’ Johnny moans. ‘I’m serious, I roll on the Road, I’m jacked.’
‘You don’t, you’re jacked here and now,’ Skinner points out in a reasonable tone of voice.’
‘Holy Gibson, Skinner,’ Johnny says miserably. ‘What the hell you want with the Road anyway?’
So Skinner tells him.

[Kanada Ten]

It's only a moment of time between now and die. Run run run.
Sometimes you think about it, sometimes you don't. Like a sunset.
I wonder if my evil twin will take up my work when I'm gone.
Raptured into anarchy.

You wake with a snarl, a sneer and jeer to the morning ordeal. Stiffness in body and sleep in mind, you stretch, scratch and yawn (snapping, cracking, popping sounds). Draw a shuttered breath and curl back into the sheets, smell the sweat and skin, but tightly close those eyes and beckon back the slipping thoughts, those dreams so better than this.

Frustration; futile, feeble, forgetful attempts to remember. You have to pee, hunger sets in, too much noise outside, nextdoor, within. Growling, gritting, getting up, you set a course for the shit hole guided in the dark by instinct. Shuffle, stumble, sideways through the mess, make your way as everyday. Massage your head, rub your chin, search out itches, crinkled skin set right again.

Sleep is fading, dreams are lost, you clear the towels making the bathroom their home by kicking them, sighing, pushing them, achingly picking them up and tossing them more to the pile of increasingly urgently needing to be washed clothing. It's something of a relief to forget this all as you release, relieve, return your processed ingested, and fully devested you clean. Scrubbing suds sprayed head to hell, and back again; rinse; repeat as needed. Popping pills that foam and freak, your mouth is minty flavored clean.

Rushing, racing, rampaging through the mess, looking for those clothes afflicted less, tossed in the wash while you select the coffee that fits you best. Pouring piping hot into a nearly clean cup; drinking, dressing, cursing you are ready. Leaving, locking, lost to the world, the day begins.

[Kagetenshi]

I was twelve when they took my father. They came in the middle of the night, broke down the door. I remember how big their guns were. Machine guns. I was up, going to the bathroom, when there was this bright light and the front door blew in. I saw the hallway beyond, and some people in black clothing with masks. One of them held a gun to my head while the others went to my parents' bedroom. They came back with my father, went out the door, and I never saw them again.

Mother said they were shadowrunners, and that father had been kidnapped… "extracted", they call it. Years later I heard rumors, though, rumors that my father had been a shadowrunner himself, that it had been our very own corporation coming to take him away that night. I didn't know, I still don't know, but it was enough for me to decide that there was nothing left for me there. I took what I could steal and ran, trusting to the streets to be my salvation…

[CirclMastr]

"What have we got?"
"Three here, one more upstairs. Start processing the troll, I'll work on the other two."
"Oh that's real fair."
"Yeah yeah, just get to it. If you're lucky he'll be vanilla. The chica here looks wired to hell."
"I thought there were six contacts, where are the other two bodies?"
"See the bag there marked 'Miscellaneous'?"
"Yeah?"
"There you go."
"Ugh, no thanks, you can process that yourself."

"Damnit!"
"What happened?"
"Goddamn kink bomb. So much for salvaging the headware."
"Serves you right for not doing the MAD scan first."
"I did do it, the scan didn't show it."
"Huh. Make a note of it and send it upstairs."
"How are they doing with that one anyway?"
"Heard they managed to save the eye vidcam. Might get something from that."
"Why did I get the troll again?"
"Because I bought lunch, now hurry up."

[Guest_Crimsondude 2.0_*]

Sonia slots the credstick she already had waiting in her hand as she rested it on the counter. The description of the Creme Your Pants intrigued her. Once the machine beeps, she pockets the stick and grabs her Big Mofo'n Creme Your Pants and walks away from the counter. She makes a beeline to one of the tall tables in the center of the dining area, sitting at a table facing Jay. She looks over at him, imagining that he'd notice given his obsessive scanning of the room. Old habits died hard. She could appreciate that. She set her bag on a chair to her right and removed her jacket and placed it over the same chair. She takes a sip of her coffee abomination before pulling a PDA from her bag, and starts to fiddle with icons and text on the screen. Were someone sitting behind her actively scanning her--especially in the lighting of Damn Good Coffee, at dusk--they might see very slight discolorationsbehind her ears peeking out above her red turtleneck sweater. After fiddling with the gadget another minute, she takes a sip of her drink and looks up at Jay again.

[Critias]

Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name...

Rory took his time lacing up his boots. They were shiny black leather, bought two years ago from a Matrix-order catalogue, claiming to be the same the Sioux Wildcats wore. He didn't know or care if it was true, what counted was that they were light enough to run in, thick-soled enough to sneak in, and tough enough to barely show the wear and tear he'd put them through, in near-on thirty months of dodging patrols, other para's, and plain old cops. He'd run on rooftops in them, kicked men's teeth out with them, stomped in a skull or two, and crushed glass underfoot as he did his damnedest to dodge bullets. They were good boots. They deserved to be tied right. It was raining -- Christ, when wasn't it raining in Belfast?

Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done...

He was careful to tuck the bottom of his cargo pants into the tops of the boots just right. They were drab grey things, extra loose and baggy, with pockets that would soon be weighted down by more than the handful of slap patches he always kept on him. He bloused the ankles. He'd read something, once, about how only the best of the best over in one of the US's militaries got to do it. He wasn't in the military, despite them calling themselves the Irish Republican Army, but he was the best of the best. He'd been at it too long, the game had been running too fast, for him to be anything else. Once he'd discovered he was an Adept, of course, he'd grabbed that fact by the neck and never let go. It made him the best the IRA had at what he did. Faster, stronger, tougher, you name it. Adept. It was almost his only edge.

...on Earth, as it is in Heaven.

The vest strapped into place over his dark t-shirt, covering up the logos and wrapping his torso in a comfortably tight coccoon that would stop most anything up to a .45 round. The trauma plates made it heavier, but Rory knew he'd need them that night. He fumbled for a few seconds with the straps to his shoulder rig, having forgotten to adjust it for his armored bulk ahead of time; then a pair of Brownings were slid into holsters, one under each arm. Bloody right. Good enough for the old SAS boys, good enough for him. Filled magazines and loose, leftover, bullets started going into cargo pocket pants, making him thankfull for the belt he'd been careful to tighten extra securely. They were oily things, caseless rounds, that left his hands slick and smelling of death-to-come, but you could never have too many of them.

Give us this day our daily bread.

The athletic elf let out a sigh, turning to the table next to him. The C-6 was already in place, a block of it that would fill a shoebox, thumped unceremoniously into the bottom of this plasti-nylon bookbag. He knew it was safe. He knew how stable it was. He knew that without the pencil inserted -- pencils kept in ziplock baggies on the external pockets of the backpack -- he could manhandle it as much as he wanted; swing the bag like a club, let it slap loose at the small of his back as he ran, drop it, throw it, hit someone in the face with a brick of it, even burn it, if he had to. He knew that, on a rational level. But all the same, he sometimes thought he could feel the energy of it. The potential. The explosion, like a caged tiger, waiting to be released. It scared him, that so much death could fit in so small a backpack. It scared him more that so much death could come from him. He zipped the bag shut, adjusted the shoulder strap, hefted it, once, for balance.

Forgive us our trespasses...

They had Stephen McMasters. They had him, and they were torturing him right now, and Rory and everyone Rory knew was going to be in trouble. They'd caught him, the Tir nA nOg bastards, and hit him with some spell that kept him from fighting or running or ducking or even putting his gun to his own head, and then they'd just put him in a van and driven away. That was their problem, Rory's and his friends. Magic. It was what they needed. He was the closest they had. He wasn't their leader, not by a long shot, but he was their best. He had to stop Stephen from talking. He knew where they'd taken his friend. He knew he had to quiet him. He knew what had to be done, and that he was the only one that could do it.

...as we forgive those who trespass against us.

Rory hated his ears, and his features, and his quickness, and his God-damed cat's eyes. He wished he could be rid of them. He wished he didn't need them so. They didn't call his home Ireland any more. People with faces and ears and eyes like his had taken it over, killed or kicked out anyone who disagreed too loudly, renamed it after millenia. It had happened before, to this green island. God knows, it had happened before. And Rory, and those like him, would do what had been done in those past ages, those decades or centuries or generations ago. They were Irish. They were of Ulster. They were fighters. Rory shrugged into his jacket, rolling his shoulders a few times, bending and straightening experimentally. He'd worn the jacket, of course, and the vest, and the shoulder rig all before. But never all at once. He felt allright, though. He felt fast. Loose. Ready. Eager. The jacket didn't slow him down, the vest, the pistol harness. Ireland, and his belief in it, kept him quick and smooth. Hatred kept his movements fluid.

And lead us not into temptation...

They'd taken her from him. He hadn't cared one way or the other what name was on the maps of his country, before then. He hadn't minded his elven ears, his night sight, his grace and fluidity. He hadn't hated, really hated, until he'd seen her dead. He'd loved her and she'd painted slogans they didn't like and they'd killed her. So he'd found hatred, and found a gun, and found his Magic, and found his will to use it. He'd gone to Libya and trained with the men that had trained generations of angry young terrorists. He'd learned to harness his power, his will to kill, his anger and his youth. He'd been taught how to do the things he was about to do. He'd come home, then, not an angry boy but a focused man. Beneath his sunburn and the new hardness in his eyes was a core of rage and concentration in equal parts, and Rory honestly didn't know how many men he'd killed in the years since. He didn't count. He knew Seamus, and Michael, and the others did. He knew they whispered about him, knew why they bought him drinks and stepped out of his way and asked him to do the things they couldn't or wouldn't -- but he didn't count. God did.

...but deliver us from evil.

He pulled the mask out of his jacket pocket, tugged it onto the top of his head, flatrolled it just so; it didn't look bad. Pants like his were common. The battered old bomber jacket hid its trauma plates well and could belong to anyone. The vest didn't show as anything more than some undescribable black top. The boots were comfortable, the hat to keep off the chill, the bag could hold anything, slung as it would be over one shoulder. He was just another factory or dock worker going home. He gritted his teeth and readjusted his hat; shifted it, tugged and shoved a bit, making sure his ears showed. Being an elf would make the cops more likely to leave him alone as he walked to where Seamus had left the car. In the back seat of the car was a Kalishnikov and several full clips, in the glove box an old paper map with instructions drawn on it, a small bottle of Bushmill's and a credstick for when the job was done. He had to make it to that car, and drive the twenty minutes to the Seventeeth Street police station. He'd unroll the ski mask once he got there.

For thine is the Kingdom...

He looked himself over, one last time, in the cracked mirror that was bolted to the inside of his flat's door. He looked fine. He looked casual, and comfortable, and warm against the rain that would turn to snow by morning. You couldn't see the guns, or the ammunition, or the bomb that was in his knapsack. You couldn't see the blood on his hands, or the death in his sparkling blue eyes. He flashed a smile, hoping for a moment to see the boy she'd known while she lived.

...and the Power...

A killer looked back at him from the mirror. The killer smiled. It was elf-perfect and charming, white toothed and flawless... but feral, all the same. The smile didn't reach his eyes. They didn't sparkle quite right, any more. They burned with something, some energy from inside him, but that wasn't the same. He wondered what she'd say, today, if he'd met her in a Philosophy 101 class at Trinity, asked her for coffee, smiled at her like this, had this bag over his shoulder.

...and the Glory. Forever and ever.

The killer stopped smiling. The killer knew the answer. The killer knew he wouldn't go to Trinity College ever again, and would do his best to drink and kill and burn away the memories of those philosophy classes and the sunday school lessons and the prayers and the love and the family. The killer knew he didn't deserve to think about her smile ever again, or the nights they'd had, or the shared hangovers the next day, and the laughter, and the doing it all over again. The killer knew where the car was, and the route he'd take to get to it, and the route he'd take to get to the station. He knew the window closest to the interrogation cells, knew he'd creep up to it and snap a thirty second pencil into the absurdly large block of C-6. He knew he'd empty a magazine through it, throw the bag, then empty a second, and then a third, and then while everyone was ducking and cursing and praying and bleeding, he'd run. He'd run back to the car, and watch the explosion that killed his friend Stephen in the rear view mirrors as he sped away, and then he'd drink the Bushmill's and use the credstick to buy more, and he'd drink until he forgot the screams and the smell of gunpowder and the secrets Stephen would never get the chance to share.

Amen.

Another little piece of Rory Caolain died as he walked out into the night, collar turned up against the cold rain, and tugged the door to his flat shut right behind him. He knew she wouldn't forgive him for the things he was doing, the things he'd done. He knew she was a painter of slogans, a debate student, a talker and a lover and a passionate believer... but not a killer.

He knew she'd be afraid of him, and feel sad for what he'd become.

He knew he was, too.

He knew God counted.

[Guest_Crimsondude 2.0_*]

Wow.

[Guest_Crimsondude 2.0_*]

Oooh, oooh. My turn again.
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Jay returns to the apartment complex shortly after leaving the Point. He had to make a brief stop to transfer the funds from the cretified credstick to his account, since he was going to be damned if he was going to carry that thing home. He didn't know if it was bugged, tracked, or contained a small bomb. Not that he hadn't seen all of those things and more in his time--back when he was legit, and gave a damn about the law. But he was just covering his own ass before he tossed the credstick in an empty lot and drove off.

Once he was back at his apartment, he made a list of things to do: First, of course, was to get the hell out of the city. He wasn't going to stick around after getting shot and being chased through downtown by the cops, and having the Mafia a hair's breadth away from gunning him down and dumping his body in the Sound. As he worked, he began to appreciate what had happened between himself and Sam, but he wasn't about to apologize for what he did. It was for the best, no matter what she thought.

He checked his weapons, and cleaned them. He checked the Sigs, made sure everything was in working order from the other day, and then put them away. After that, he checked his computer and considered what had gone on in the world. He thought about going back to California, where at least he wouldn't be hunted by the same people he used to work along side. Around dawn, he woke up and decided that he was going to go back to Cal. With all of his stuff packed, he opened the door and started to carry his stuff out the back to the parking lot. He walked downstairs, and made his way across the courtyard. He passed a couple of orks who were also heading to their truck to get to work. They talked about the day, and Jay told them that he hoped they had a good day.

Once in the parking lot, he dropped off a bag. He also put the large briefcase containing his G38 into the trunk of the car along with the grenades, the H&K 227S, and all of his other gear. He just had the M-23, the UMP40 and some miscellaneous clothes and his iPod still in the apartment.

Robert's people had been looking for Jay since he ditched the credstick. He had feelers out in the city looking for Jay's Americar. They got in touch with friendly Lone Star officers who might have seen it when they were patrolling or if it had been tagged at a parking meter somewhere. They reached out to their contacts--friendly gangs, chipheads, pretty much everyone. Finally, someone got a lead from a local bum that he'd seen Jay near the Silver Oaks. They hadn't had much of a relationship with the Trece 80s, the local gang in this neighborhood. They dabbled in drugs and chips, but they were more friendly with the Vory or independent dealers, and hadn't been very genial to the Mafia. Frankly, the Mafia didn't really give a shit. But someone found him. It's not really that surprising. Any car built in the last ten years was a rarity around here, and then there was the older, but not very old, Americar that they could see in the parking lot.

Robert and the three other Italian men who accompanied him to the Point got out of his car, which was parked across the street from the entrance to the Silver Oaks. It was just after dawn, and most of the people had either left for work or were on their way out the door to do menial housework or construction work, or worse. The gang generally took it easy during the day since the only people there were women and children--and the women were mostly the grandmothers who weren't a problem. It was mostly to keep other gangs from fucking with them or their turf.

Robert looks around, and sees a couple of gangers walking down the street from the corner to intercept them. Before they can get to the Italians, Robert produces a couple of certified credsticks.

"Good morning."

Not mincing any words, one of the gangers--a large ork-- looks Robert and the others up and down as they reach the car.

"What the fuck are you doing here? You know this is our turf, breeder."

Robert looks at him, rolling the credsticks in his, left hand, which is near his face.

"Indeed. We have business with one of the people in the Oaks, but we wouldn't dare do anything without your permission."

The ork looks at him quizzically, trying to consider whether it's worth it. He looks back to the other two gangers--an ork and a human.

"These are out people, 'ese. If you're visiting, we can deal. But you don't look like you're stopping in for a soykaf. You don't look like you're a customer, either."

"No, we're not. We're a different kind of customer." He tosses the sticks at the ork, who catches them in mid-air. "We're meeting with a runner. You probably know him, because he'd stick out like, well, a white human in this neighborhood."

The ork sees the Jackrabbit knockoff drive by. Nothing odd, other than he'd never seen it before. But that happens. As Testino speaks to him, he looks at the readout on the sticks, and adds them up in his head... slowly. It's ¥1,000 on them.

"Yeah, I know him. He's a good guy."

"Really?" he says was a curious look on his face. "That's good to know." He looks over at the other men and they smile and laugh to each other. "So, we're gonna meet him, and if you could keep an eye on the car, that'd be great."

"Yeah. Hey, Sergio, take these guys to go see the Gringo."

The human looks up, and just nods. "Let's go," he says as he starts walking towards the Complex.

Jay walks west along the rear of Building 5 as he heads around the building to his building. It's cold, and so he figures there's no reason not to jog back to his apartment. Besides, there is no reason not to get the hell out of Dodge as fast as possible, so he runs back to his building as quickly as he can, and reaching the door to the stairs in a few seconds. He stops for a few seconds, and holds his side as he catches his breath. Okay, he thinks. Maybe that wasn't a good idea. He then starts climbing the stairs to his apartment on the second floor.

The four Italians walk towards the gates as quickly as possible, following the young ork to the gate. They stop, and he yells something in Spanish to another ork on the other side of the gate which even the most rudimentary Italian they know is familiar enough that they all recognize as something like, "Open up!" As the gate opens, Robert is through almost before it opens. He is a bit twitchy, and looks around the complex, scanning the scenery. He notes the presence of urban decay reflected in the state of the courtyard and surrounding buildings. He also notes several people, mostly ork and mostly dark, like the gangers, in work clothes heading away from them towards what appears to be a parking lot at the rear of the complex. Most of them are running, and seem to be late. Robert figures they are mostly day laborers, and given that the sun is starting to come up in the distance, many of them are probably going to be late for all the good jobs--so to speak. He scans the few humans, hoping to see if any of them look like Jay--perhaps if he was in diguise. However, none of them came even close, and so he turned and waited for the ork and his men to catch up.

"He's over there," the ork says as he points a fat brown finger at Building 3. "Come on."

"How about you just tell us which apartment he's in, and we go on in."

The ork stops and looks at Robert. "Sorry, 'omes. It don't work that way. Anyone who ain't from here gets an escort. You got a problem with that, take it up with the 'eses in the main building--although I wouldn't want to be the one waking any of 'em up." He stands his ground, acting as tough as he can against the Mafia captain and a trio of soldiers.

"I will pay you one-thousand nuyen right now," he says as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out two certified credsticks that read "¥500" on them, "if you just give us his number and get out of our way." He waves them in front of the young ork, steeling his will upon the ganger.

"I...." He pauses for a long time, and stares at the two sticks in Robert's gloved hand. Fuck, it's cold. Goddamn guinee trash. "I can't 'omes. Anyone finds out, and they will fuck me up. Me and my fam, man. I can't." He pauses, hoping the Italian will believe him. "Come on." He quickly turns around and starts walking quickly along the ferrocrete sidewalk in front of Building 1 towards Building 3.

"Fine," he says as he pockets the credsticks. "Lead the way." With both of his hands back in the pockets of his black long coat, he shrugs to the others before nodding to the soldier bringing up the rear--a tall human wearing shades, and the only one who doesn't have his longcoat buttoned up. His coat instead is content to flap in the breeze as he seems to glide across the sidewalk. If one was so inclined, they would also notice his suit jacket is unbuttoned, and one might even notice a sheathed knife if they really tried to notice, along with a nylon strap around his chest.

Jay finally makes it to the top of the stairs, and heads to the end of the hall, where his apartment is. It's near the north stairwell, and he crosses the distance rather quickly. He opens the door--he left it unlocked for convenience, and because his neighbors know better than to fuck with his stuff. The gangers have been paid off, as have most of the neighbors. As far as they are concerned, he doesn't exist.


The five men finally reach building three, and they walk inside the entrance and head towards the stairs. There was an elevator... once. Now the residents are lucky to get grey water and infrequent electricity, and the stairwell which used to be used infrequently back in the 'teens now sees all of the business of the building. The metal door which used to sit at the bottom of the stairwell long since disappeared. No one really knows what happened to it, although the general impression is that someone stole it to sell for scrap or something.

Sergio starts walking up the stairs before looking back at the Italians. "Second floor. Follow me." He then proceeds to clomp up the stairs, the remaining metal railings ringing hollow as he slaps them walking up the stairs. Once they get to the second floor landing, Sergio opens the door--they didn't take this one for some reason--with a loud squeak, and walks into the long hallway. His footfalls are heavy in the cheaply built floor, and the four men following him don't exactly make it more quiet.

Jay walks into his apartment, closing the door behind him. He left the rest of his gear in a duffle bag in the living room, with the UMP sitting on top. He loves that thing, and won't dare let it go. But he does a quick scan of the apartment to ensure that he didn't leave anything behind that he might need in Cal. It was a pretty sparse apartment before he packed, and now it looks like the world's neatest squatter may have spent a few days there--if that

As Jay walks back into the living room, his cybernetic hearing amplification perks up, and he hears something coming from outside. His spatial recognizer clarifies the sound, focusing in on the direction of the north stairwell. It sounds like several people walking in, and a couple are doing so almost in unison. This can't be good. One sounds heavy, like perhaps an ork. But the rest sound like they are about his size, guaging his familiarity walking down the hallway. Shit! He looks at the door, and then runs over to the couch and grabs the UMP40. He picks it up, feeling it activate in his left hand as he crouches behind the couch. Weapon ready, he waits.

As they walk down the hall, Robert's hearing amplification notes something as he hears increased movement in the building. Damn, did we get made?. He grabs the ork by the shoulder, stopping him. He then makes a "quiet" motion, putting a finger to his lips. He looks back at the others, waiting. He listens intently, focusing on the sounds being made in the building. He can hear kids yelling, and a woman screaming at them in Spanish, as well as something from one of the apartments down the hall--213. Someone's in there. He can hear them breathing, a bit heavily.

Jay tries to remain quiet, but his wound is making it hard for him to catch his breath, and he can hear himself breathing more loudly than he'd prefer. But he still manages to hear breathing outside, even though the footfalls stopped. He can hear three people breathing in the hall clearly, but assumes there are more out there besides them. He doesn't hear the heavy one--assuming it was an ork. All he hears are humans, or elves. He doesn't hear the distinctive breathing pattern of metahumans with tusks, which is also a bit disconcerting.

Robert makes an executive decision. It's too risky. There may be a pissed-off runner behind the apartment door, wounded and probably knowing that they are here, and were coming after him. If they walked away without making much noise, then they could try to ambush him later. But as it stood, they might not make it past the door. After all, he took out a combat decker and his two bodyguards with merely a scratch. He was relatively outgunned compared to Mac, but Robert was going to be damned if he got jammed up because they got made on their own ambush. He turns and looks at the tall human, pointing to him and one of the other soldiers. He motions for them to go to the other end of the hall. He then taps Sergio on the shoulder, and points towards an apartment at the far end of the building, and makes a knocking motion. He then points to the third soldier, and points back at the stairwell.

Each man begins to walk down the hallway as quietly as they can. Sergio, the tall man, and the other soldier (Goon 2) walk to the end of the hall while Robert and the remaining soldier (Goon 1) make their way down the hall back to the stairs. They begin to walk down the stairs as the others continue to walk down the hall. As they do, the soldier walking with Robert hears something. He notes they sound like faint shuffling from one of the apartments. Bastard's probably just moving behind cover or something.

As he continues to listen, Jay hears four sets of footsteps walking throughout the hall. He hears the heavy footsteps again walking down the hallway past his apartment. It definitely sounds like an ork from what he can hear, as the breath rasps through his tusks. He hears the sounds of two average humans or elves walking down the hall behind him. He also hears one set of footsteps walking back towards the north stairwell, and heading down the stairs. He could've sworn he heard a fifth person.... Oh, well. Four people acting strangely is enough, as he continues to train the German submachine gun towards his front door as he hears them walking down the hall. He decides that he can't go down the hallway. He can't go down the stairs. He needs to get out... immediately. He thinks of the window in the bedroom. it's only a 4 meter drop. He could make it...

Making his way to the bedroom, he opens the window and peers over the ledge after punching out the screen. There's a patch of dirt and ash and weeds below the window where there probably had once been grass or flowers, right by the wall, which only partially obstructed his view at this height. He slings everything over his shoulder and climbs out of the window. Holding onto the ledge by his fingers, his feet dangle in front of the bedroom window of the family he lived above. He lets go, and hopes that he can fall softly onto the dirt without hurting himself.

Landing on his feet, he falls into a crouch as his ankles absorb the shock of the landing. Luckily, his training and bioware, and some good old-fashioned luck happened to pay off. He brushes himself off, and takes off running.

The tall man and the soldier he was with (G2) continue to walk down the hall, oblivious to what has been going on in Apartment 213/outside. They walk quietly to the end of the hall and then run down the stairs and exit outside the building.

Meanwhile, Robert and the other soldier continue to do so on the north stairwell.

Jay runs as fast as he can, and manages to get to the south end of the building in a few short seconds thanks to his wires and a determination not to get murdered by a bunch of pissed-off Mafioso. He focuses in on himself and gets a short burst of speed as he passes the south exit and heads to the south wall of Building 5, and hopefully cover from anyone who might be headed that way.

As he bursts out of the stairwell, well ahead of the other soldier, the tall man sees movement--someone running-- and he has a pretty good idea who it is, and runs after the man, who has already passed behind Building 5. He managed to turn on the speed, and makes his way around the corner before anyone else even knows what is going on.... Except Jay.

As he approaches his car, duffle bag and UMP bouncing around his back, he hears something very, very well--the sound of a man running towards him. He reaches the car and spins around to see who it is. Not taking any chances, he stops and draws both of his Sigs. The Smartlinks feel warm in his hands, but he focuses on his dominant left hand for whoever is coming around the corner.

He had trained so thoroughly with his Sigs, especially this one, that is has become an extension of him. He sees the man running around the corner, and does not care who he is. He is a hostile, and Jay reacts. He squeezes the trigger on his Sig, as he has done hundreds or thousands of times on this pistols or ones just like it. It comes as instinct, borne from intensive training at FLETC and Beltsville, combined with constant practice and qualifying tests, and furthered with the training KE provided to him, and which was tested more than once against shadowrunners, and then again against Imperial Marines and Japanacorp security personnel acting on Saito's orders. He doesn't even think as his arm trains the gun on the man's head and a single .357 SIG round is expelled from the barrel towards the man. The bullet flies straight and true.

And it connects, exactly where Jay intended right between the man's eyes. His body continues its rapid forward momentum for an instant as his head recoils back from the impact of the round, followed by the accompanying ejection of the projectile out the back of his head, causing a spray of blood, brain matter, and skull fragments as a hole nature never intended is created in the man's skull. His body stop, and he falls forward. Jay doesn't even notice the specifics of the exit wound. He doesn't need to, because he knows that he just killed the man.

Instead, what he does is train his pistol back towards the corner as he sticks his other Sig in its holster and then grabs his keys and opens the unlocked car door. He jumps in, keeping his pistol trained on the corner.

The soldier didn't catch up to the tall man before he ran off. Instead, he runs out of the building in time to hear the single shot fired by Jay's .357 Sig Sauer. He hears the shot and recognizes the sound immediately as gunfire. A gunshot to a Mafia soldier is one of the most recognizable sounds they know, and his first reaction is to duck. He looks around, and has no idea where the sound came from. The courtyard is surrounded by ferrocrete towers, and the echo completely confuses any sense of direction as to where the gunshot came from.

On the north side, the other soldier has the same reaction. They had been standing at the entrance to Building 3, and when he heard the gunshot his first reaction was to flinch, not knowing where it might have come from. However, he quickly regains his composure. After all, he's in front of the boss, and the last thing he wants is for Testino to think that he's some sort of wimp.

Testino, meanwhile, never loses his cool. He hears the shot and his cyberware amplifies the sound--within the limits that his dampeners will allow--in order for him to recognize the type of gun. Not that he would be surprised, but he recognizes it as a single .357 SIG round, and can only imagine who could have fired that shot. However, his cyber also focused the sound, and he recognizes that it came from far away. He figures that it must have come from the south. One of his men was probably down, and he quickly sprints towards the south entrance of Building 3 through the courtyard.

Jay takes the time to start his car and close the door behind him, the gear digging into his side as he doesn't actually move it, because frankly he has more important things to worry about.

Robert continues to haul ass through the courtyard, heading towards the south entrance, which he reaches in record time. He stops, seeing one of his soldiers, but not the tall man. "What's going on?"

The soldier who was standing with Robert is left in his dust, and after realizing what's going on he sprints after his boss around the corner, heading south at a far slower pace than the cybernetically-enhanced Mafia captain.

Meanwhile, back at the south entrance of Building 3, the second soldier looks around, and notices something, although he can't put his finger on it in all the chaos and confusion? "Do you hear something?" he asks his boss

Robert stops and listens, but the sound of his heart beating and attempts to gulp down oxygen pretty much make any attempt to notice anything futile. He can't hear anything except his own body feeling the fatigue from his 54m dash. "No. Nothing."

Hitting the gas, Jay speeds out of his parking spot and through the parking lot as quickly as possible. He reaches the gate in a matter of seconds, and hopes that it is still open from whoever last went through.

Robert looks around for another moment, and then says to the soldier two words, "Parking lot." he then dashes off again around the corner to the parking lot, stopping when he comes upon the dead body of the tall man.

Jay reaches the gate, and notices that there isn't anyone around. He also notices that the gate is still open, and without even thinking continues to drive on out through the gate and east away from the scene of the crime.

The two soldiers run as fast and as hard as they can. The first soldier still hasn't gotten to the south end of Building 3 when he spots Testino running towards the parking lot, and he decides to cut across the courtyard and head to the lot through the gap between Buildings 5 and 6. Meanwhile, the soldier who was talking to Testino follows him as well as he can under the circumstances, but he's no match for the cyber-Mafioso.

Robert looks down at the body, and around for any sign of what happened. But for some reason, he freezes. He looks, but he doesn't really see or hear or sense anything. He's in a mild state of shock and surprise and anger by seeing the dead body of one of his soldiers lying face down on the pavement with a gaping exit wound in the back of his head. He doesn't even notice as Jay drives his blue Ford Americar eastbound down the street as quickly as he can to get away from the scene.

However, after he gathers his senses and thoughts, he scans over the area again and starts to put things together. He sees the open south gate and the skid marks from when Jay or someone recently peeled out. He figures the shot came from south-southeast of where he was standing, and that Jay had probably been lying in wait for him. He also noted that the tall man had been sprinting forward when his head was blown back by the impact. The worst part, Robert thinks to himself, is that the tall man was a physad. He was expensive, and the Finnegan Family had expended a great deal of resources training him and focusing his abilities and skills for their purposes--but a single bullet was all it took to piss it all away. He looks around, and can no longer contain his anger and frustration.

"MOTHERF*CKER!"

[Kanada Ten]

They repossessed my body, they took it straight away
It's pampered in a padded box, while my head just rolls astray

They repossessed my body, the men they came today
All dressed in white with surgical knifes, professionals they say

They repossessed my body, because I couldn't pay
I lost my job and now my limbs, what a crummy day

[Kagetenshi]

Once, you know, once I was happy. Once I had a woman I loved, and she loved me too. We were happy together; we never got married, but we might as well have been. We were at a Stuffer Shack (on our anniversary, of all times; it was four years ago today), and this gang busts the place up, tells us all to get down on the ground. I had a gun in my pocket, you can never be too careful, but I looked at them, looked at their weapons, and decided it just wasn't worth it; I didn't really believe in violence anyway. I was about to get down on the ground when out of nowhere this one ganger's head explodes. Turns out five of the people in there with us were armed to the teeth. They cut the gang to pieces, but when they get done they go through the place and kill everyone. I'd gotten caught in a splash of blood from one of the gangers, so I think they assumed I was dead.

I didn't realize until after they were gone that they'd killed her.

She was so beautiful, lying there, as long as you didn't look at the left side of her face.

I think something died in me that night, looking at her smiling up at me with that broken face, something that's only now come to life again. I've found them, after all these years. It looks like they're living the quiet life.

I agonized over my decision all the time while I was looking, and I think I finally know what she wants me to do. Even now, I feel her smile; I keep thinking I'm going to turn around and she's going to be there, urging me on, waiting for me to come back.

I've got the guns, I've got the explosives. I spent the years learning how to use them, and now I'm going to. I finally know what she wanted, and I'm going to give it to her.

I love you, Dana. Happy anniversary.

[Fresno Bob]

Feeling the bones in my face crack wasn't the best of feelings. And this hadn't been the best of days, either. Not to say that it was the worst day I'd ever had. Not by a long shot. But as far as my days went, this one was well below the average, which was pretty low in of itself, but thats beside the point.

Deimos seemed angry about something. I'm sure I could have remembered what he wanted after a bit of thinking, but the sporadic press of his boot against my face was more than a little distracting.

"Where's the money, Nick? Where's the fucking money?", he growled. His buddy pulled my hair harder and shifted more of his weight onto the boot on my back.

Ah, so thats what was on his mind. The fact that he thought I had his money angered me a little. If he bothered thinking about it, all the signs pointed to the fact that Tokyo Joe took it. So I don't know why he felt the need to break his boot in on my face.

"You...ever entertain the possibility that I don't have it?", I groaned around a mouthful of blood. I made a mental note to get back at Deimos. I liked that blood.

"Yeah, whatever, you prick. You're gonna die!", Deimos shouted, and pointed his gun at me.

Ah, well...at least no more bad days. I braced myself for the shots. The two shots came with no further announcement. I noticed, however, that I was still alive. So I opened my eyes, only to see Deimos slumped against my radiator with a large hole in his gut. And I noticed the pressure was off my back. I rolled over, and spotted my friend Weasel, holding a smoking shotgun

"Got here just in time, it would seem.", he said, smiling down at me.

I wondered what tomorrow was going to be like.

[Kanada Ten]

Another thousand logs compressed, sent to the oblivion of obscurity. I suppressed a digital sigh as the machine encrypted and locked my work, more than four hours of data management. The little dancing bear that monitored the progress hopped from his ball and bowed before fading out. Glancing at the omnipresent clock, which hovered a span behind all hourly workers, I noted my remaining twenty minutes and had to rush to create the new log handler before the time glowed angry red, indicating overtime pay. I'd had my fill of nasty memobots from the bosses, and I imagined they had too. So I hurried, shoving commands and applications together almost by instinct. No less than fifteen dancing bears were rolling about the node when the clock pinged once, and I could see the blazing yellow light reflected in the bears' eyes. Come on, come on, I thought. One by one they began to bow and fade, until only one still bounced and twirled. I risked another look at the clock and saw thirty seconds to go, but something else as well. Intruder alert! Intruder alert! I screamed the command, but too late, the node was dissolving, pain cascading into my mind.

"Intruder alert!" The words poured out of my mouth the second I awoke. But the white walls and clinical bed told me what happened. The intruder poisoned my feed; knocked me unconscious. Oh no! Was I fired? Those were my first thoughts, and they must have painted my face with panic for the nurse told me to relax. Strolling in a moment later, one of the bosses, McMillan I think, spoke to the nurse and with her nodding came over to me.

"Good work, Kyle," He said to my astonishment. I could hardly stutter out, "W- Wha- What happened?" He smiled an oily smile and replied, "The decker, the one that attack you, tried to hack the logs. But he couldn't. Turns out your encryption lock works pretty good; excellent even. Nice to finally have it tested."

I bit back the response, 'But I had tested it,' and let the praise wash over me. "We'll overlook that you didn't log out when your timer went off and not sanction you this time," his greasy smile widened, "But you'll have to cover the medical treatment, since you should have logged off before the attack happened." Nodding dully, almost all I could do, I asked, "How much... ?"

"Don't worry; you'll be able to pay it with your new wages," His smile threatened to burst into a mouth of pointy teeth. My chin had dropped as he continued, "That's right; you got a promotion. You'll start in the Intrusion Countermeasures Department tomorrow..." He leaned close, his smile suddenly meaningful, "provided they don't trace that decker back to you." He left, his smile still lingering. The nurse handed me an e'paper to sign with the bill on it, and I wondered what my new hourly rate would be if I was ever to pay it off.

[Kanada Ten]

I've come from the future to warn you:
Conserve the Cheetos; you'll need them.

[Sandoval Smith]

Monkeys love a prologue.

“I’m going to need more monkeys.”

That was the thought that kept me going, kept me putting one foot in front of the other as I staggered down the hall towards the extraction point, towards the promised land. The run had been rotten from the start, tattled out by a turncoat. Which meant that the extraction would be completely fragged up too. No way that chopper was getting in if the Azzies knew it was coming. I might get lucky though. The extraction team, they might be pure, they might be good, they might be there, and I could let myself drift off as the steady beat of rotors carried me away into the sky.

“I’m going to need more monkeys.” I wish I knew what the frag that was supposed to mean.

It’s always the last one you’d suspect, but then that’s the problem with it. If you fragged every runner you ran with who had that shiny gleam of innocence, it still wouldn’t do you any good.. It doesn’t even cross your mind that maybe that angel has gotten dirty. You don’t think that she would have been the hidden cutter hive, waiting to tear the team apart from the inside out.

I’m staring at the ground, watching a pool of red spreading across the tile. It takes me a while to realize that I’ve fallen, and that’s my blood I’m staring at. It’s hard to see anything. There are so many overlays and info feeds crowding for space against the insides of my eyes that I can barely see the blood against all the red icons shouting for my attention. I should’ve programmed the monitors to flash ‘You’re fragged!’ in big block letters if I ever reached this state. It’d be just as useful.

I’m not sure the others even knew that the run had turned to drek. Bookwrack’d just jacked in to the secure line to upload the program, and I started gluing shut the gash the security drone had ripped in his arm. My face was right by his when his eyes gave a sudden twitch, and suddenly he was looking out into the real world again. His eyes met mine, and with a single glance he was able to convey to me the absolute depths to which we were fragged, and then I saw his mind, along with all the telltales on his deck, wink out.

Bastion had been dropped back about a hundred meters to keep our escape route clear, and then she started screaming like something was trying to open up her skull, I guess it succeeded because there was a crack, and then she weren’t screaming no more.

I’d turned, started to stand, heard a series of pops, and then it was like I’d just stepped into the ketchup factory. Everything was just red, red, red, my teammates melting to the floor, save for one radiant angel, standing there untouched except for the bloody tears cutting tracks down her face.

I have to give bonus points for creativity. It certainly never crossed my mind to check in case our armor gel packs had been laced with plastique. Very original too. Gel covers a lot of the vulnerable chinks. Just give the charge a little inward shaping, and then let shockwaves bouncing off the inside of the plates do the rest. I had enough luck, and metal mixed into my meat to keep all my insides from being turned out. The others, apparently, didn’t.

I got real fuzzy just about then. I remember her raising her Alpha, and it kicking me in the gut again and again. Reflexes made me squeeze my trigger, but the world was spinning too hard for me to know if it did any good. The next time I could focus, I was staggering down the hall calling for simian reinforcements, so it certainly didn’t make things any worse.

I force myself back to sitting, and suddenly my vision is clear, all the icons gone. I’d be happy for the respite, except that means something in my head just blew out. The only display still functioning is my retinal clock. It’s flashing 12:00, giving my head that much more in common with the TriCR back at my doss.

I don’t want to move the hand I have pressing on my gut. In my gut, if you want to be technical. My fingers were holding onto something slick, ropey, keeping it from spilling out. My pants are wet all the way down. I have enough dignity left to hope that it’s only blood. My platlet factory must be about ready to go on strike. She’s coming down the hall, walking slow. I taught her better than this and raise my gun. It isn’t until my trigger finger is clenching around empty air that I realized I’m not holding it anymore. I’ve got a Colt strapped to my thigh, and even though my hand falls practically on top of it, it still seems miles out of reach. I try to force myself up and moving again, but I can’t find the focus. I’d let my monkeys slip away.

She respects me enough to stop well out of reach. Not disguising her approach had been sloppy, but I couldn’t really blame her, not with the state I was in. I had to give credit where it was due. “Good job neutralizing the team. I think everyone was dead before they realized we’d been crossed.”

“Never leave a cross alive enough that they have a chance to geek you. You taught me that.”

“I thought I also taught you to never roll your chummers. Why couldn’t that have been the lesson you took to heart?” That was supposed to be funny. I try and laugh but my chest feel like a sack full of nails and broken glass.

At least she has the good graces to look ashamed.

“So how much did the Azzies have to pay you, to make my angel fall?”

“They’re letting me live,” she whispered, and she knew that was drek, but she was holding onto the pathetic glimmer that maybe they actually would. They’d caught my angel and pulled her down, and when they gave her a choice to keep her wings she took it, because the only alternative was no choice at all.

Money is hardly the only, or most effective way that you can own someone. I couldn’t blame her. I didn’t feel better for it. Understanding doesn’t put the blood back in.

I’m watching her over the barrel of her gun, realizing that even now she’s still radiant. Radiant and tragic. “I’m sorry, papa,” she says, and I hear a distant roar of beating wings and they carry me away

[UpSyndrome]

>>>>>[This was taken from a private forum that’s mostly used by a small community of runners who do a lot of their work in and around Redmond’s industrial complexes. We usually don’t air out this sort of dirty laundry, but I’ve made this thread public at the request of one of the injured parties, who happens to be a friend of mine. As always, try to keep the flame to a minimum.]
—Captain Chaos 08:22:01/12-19-63


>>>>>[It’s been awhile since you’ve seen me here, and I’m afraid that it’s business that brings me back, as usual. I need any information I can get on a guy who goes by the name of Sliver. He’s UCAS stock, of Japanese descent. He has beady eyes, small, slightly spaced teeth, and as far as I can tell, completely lacks hair of any sort (makes your skin crawl just to look at him, which is why we started calling him “Slither” when he wasn’t around). He claims to be an adept, but he has enough implants in him to make me think that if he ever had an awakened metagene in his entire body, it’s gone now. Anyway, he scans as mundane, so if he’s an adept, then Coyote is a billy goat. Any data on this creep will be greatly appreciated (and heavily rewarded).
—Mackky 23:19:19/11-28-63

>>>>>[What’s the deal, Mac? Does this have something to do with that SK chemplant job?]
—Archangler 04:40:56/11-29-63

>>>>>[I guess it doesn’t hurt to talk about this (I doubt Lofwyr’s going to track us down just to present a bill for ammunition). Last week my team was hired to break into a Volvox Industrial Chemicals facility and play around with the sludge in one of their giant holding tanks. We were picked out because Digger used to be a chemical engineer before he went shadowside, and the rest of us have had experience with this kind of thing before (I’m getting pretty good at working my mojo in areas with mild to moderate background count, a fact that scares me a bit but I’ll worry about that later). Since DS got geeked last month in a personal dispute (with a magician named Munkar, I believe—the two have always had bad blood between them), we needed to pick up another strong, silent type to reduce the perimeter presence at the site.

>>>>>[Sliver came highly recommended from an associate of mine as a man who can avoid notice and subdue hostiles with brutal and ruthless alacrity. The truth of this was more than I bargained for, and said associate would do well to scramble to regain my favor if he is reading this.]
—Digger 13:01:27/11-29-63

Once we got in contact with Slither, we only had one day to prepare for the run on Volvox. We opted for a straightforward approach. Slither would escort Lana into the compound, clearing security personnel for her and standing guard until she could find a jackpoint, deck the offline system, and take control of the automated measures (cameras, sentry guns, etc). Once the red carpet was rolled out, Digger and I would move in to do the dirty work. Sliver and Lana would hang back to provide cover in case we needed to withdraw from the interior of the site. As always, The Gentile would remain offsite, monitoring the team’s movements and securing our getaway in his Black Mariah. It was a simple plan that should have worked, but none of us counted on a senseless, psychopathic double-cross.
I should have known something was wrong when Gent didn’t call in a status check during the first phase of the mission. It’s my job as team leader to signal the abort if things aren’t going right, but we had had radio trouble in this area before, and Gent’s role wasn’t critical until the very end. The real shock came during the second phase, as Digger and I were playing science with the giant vat of goop. Whatever operations Lana was suppressing were suddenly resumed, and the place went kicked-anthill on us. Guards came from every which way, and though I managed to fry as many as I could, Digger took a bullet in the torso before we could make it out. I could barely hear myself shouting into my radio (it has subvocals, but I was somewhat angry at that point) over the sound of the alarms as we looked for the van. There’s no way Gent could have missed all that commotion…unless he was dead.

>>>>>[Gent’s body had been hacked to pieces. I’m fairly familiar with the amount of damage that needs to be done to the human body before it ceases functioning, and this went well beyond that. The wounds looked to have been made by a long, curved blade, of the sort that our missing companion had slung over his shoulder.]
—Digger 13:11:42/11-29-63

When we finally found the Mariah, with Gent’s mutilated body inside of it, we tried one last time to contact Lana, but we knew that we wouldn’t get a response. For that lunatic to kill Gent, he would have had to do it after we left the set up point, prior to escorting Lana into the site. Which means that we sent her to her death, hand in hand with her murderer.
Digger is pretty much patched up at this point, but we’re not done with this psycho. If you’re reading this Sliver, listen up: We’re going to find you, and you are going to pay.]
—Mackky 11:05:39/11-29-63

>>>>>[First of all, you had better call off your dogs, Mackky; some have already been stung. Secondly, you don’t know what you’re talking about. You think that just because someone cut up your friend, that I did it? Am I the only blade in the ‘plex with a katana? You said it yourself: it wouldn’t make any sense for me to murder two teammates in the middle of a run. Why did I not show up at the van? Because I was too busy trying to drag your friend Lana out of the mess in which you left her, and getting injured myself in the process. I do not claim to know exactly what happened at Volvox, but if you don’t stop gunning for me, I swear you’ll get as bad as Gent got. On a final note, I like your adaptation of my old handle. I believe I’ll use it from now on.]
—Slither 16:17:24/12-1-63

>>>>>[Mackky: We have information that pertains to the subject of your search. We seek him as well. We will be in touch.]
—Amaya 00:14:50/12-3-63

>>>>>[Friends of yours, Slither?]
—Archangler 03:59:12/12-03-63

>>>>>[Slither?]
—Archangler 04:11:38/12-15-63

[Kanada Ten]

Green grass, trees, sugar and sky. Love and loving. Forgetting, changing, accepting not knowing. Thinking without cliches. Escaping just for a day, a weekend alone. Marvelling, wonder, maybe joy or what it stood for. Possibilities, individuality, originality for once. Fear. Surreal. Prayer.

Lost, or rather, saved to chip. And in this wasteland, this empty future, this overdone world, we start again, everyday. Lost to the world, the day begins. It's too easy to die these days. Slot a chip, make it all go away. Choose your death, your defeat in vein.

Rambling is the new communication. Sound bites built into doctrine. Democracy reduced to the present. Nations run on indecision. The writing on the wall doesn't even make sense anymore; no one knows what to protest or cares enough to dig beyond their shell. They call it connection, but it's really dissection. Holed into our little worlds, safe, apart from those other idiots a node down. Humanity obsesses over its own works, its fiction and buildings, lost to the worlds of its making.

[Kanada Ten]

I once read a quote from what industrialists consider a philosopher that went, "The ideal factory is a man and a dog. The man's job is to feed the dog, and the dog's job is to make sure the man doesn't touch the machines." I am that dog. I make no bones about it, nor try to inflate my ego with titles such as Security Consultant or Investment Insurance Agent, as my comrades do. No, Guard Dog suits me fine.

Ironically, we mostly guard against each other. Only the rare man comes to this fortress of plastic and steel, but when he does come two accompany and monitor him. I could not with certainty say what this factory produces - not that it matters. We don't talk about it, or really even look at it, as we wander the halls making small talk about our wives, sex, and trid.

Occasionally, someone trys to covet the goods so precisely stamped and folded, pressed and packed here. I'd call it foolish to raid a trap so laden with hungry dogs, but that would be generous. We don't show compassion; we don't hold back. Years of training kick in and you attack or you freeze and die. Most of those are weeded out in simulation, though I've seen some die in the field. It only makes us harder.

At home, shedding this skin, this armor, I am not a dog anymore. Maybe something less than a man, but not a dog. My life is warm and content, like my wife, sex, and trid.

[Teulisch]

When i woke up this morning, i had a cyberskull.

I didnt have one before. and its not really morning, so much as 3:42 in the AM. at least according to my cybereyes. I know its dark and quiet, but i dont know if the clock is right. I imagine it minght have reset itself at some point during the operation. I dont know.

The last thing i can clearly remember, i was on duty. Another night like any other, 3rd shift security gaurd. They put all of us orks on the late shift. guess they dont want to look at us. the humans get the day shift when all the people are around. I used to be human, once. I wonder what my new face looks like? ive had two before it. whats one more?

And where did they put my datajack? i know it must still be there, but... my entire head feels funny. different. either way, im plugged into something. may as well see what it is.

lets see... telecom. well, thats nice of em, i can watch TV on my cybereyes. not that anything is ever on at this hour... yeah, my clocks right. and ive got a few messages.... huh. okay. i suppose temporary amnesia is to be expected. a shotgun to the head? right. well, that would explain why i have a cyberskull now.

I'm glad that i went for the good medical package. good thing i was on duty when it happened. maybe thats why im still here. i wonder who shot me? dosent say. just some drek about shadowrunners.

guess ill just watch reruns for a while.

[Kanada Ten]

I can't hear her anymore. The silence slices my flesh. I recoil, withdraw, and cower. Frantic thoughts rushing in, crashing down, lying blame and inducing shame before there's proof of what I've done.

Check and recheck, flip the switch, oh please let me hear that calloused soul speak, a ragged breath, or fucking heartbeat. Silence, static. Bitting back tears, chewing my lip, banging the equipment in a fit. No, no, oh my god no. Please god, please! Not her, not her.

Beeping warnings, flashing signals, moment of indecision begins. Flee, escape, live to debate. Search and seek, hope and pray, clear my conscious or pay. Why did it have to be this way? No time, sand runs out, closed eyes, heart racing, too late.

Mistake.

[Kanada Ten]

"You know the economy's bad when you have to pickle the shotguns," the knobby old dwarf growled as we walked back through the cramped shop. He shook his head as he continued, "Not like the old days. Business picked up for a bit with all that surge nonsense a while back, but you'd think people'd know to pack something heavier than a pistol with those shedim things about." He sighed and hopped on a stool behind the counter, punching the keys on his antique cash register. "The feds think this thing's just for injuns, so they don't count the money really good."

I shook my head at that, "Still playing the informant?" I wasn't worried: Jimmy Two Timer and I went way back. He shrugged and ringed up the total for my piece. "Anything else?" He barked, glancing meaningfully at the oil barrel stuffed with shotguns. "Nah, I'm ok," I replied, counting my cash. Looking sour at that he said, "Sioux money's down ten percent." But he took it back when I narrowed my eyes at him. "Not that I keep track," he grumbled on after that, taking my cash and depositing the gun in a black plastic bag.

[Kanada Ten]

"My friends bought me this jealous girlfriend telecom chip for my birthday as a bit of a gag. Not really that funny I have to admit. Like, I'll be at the electronics store and my phone will ring.

'Hello?'

'I know where you are.'

'Hey now, I'm just looking at simplayers.'

'You're looking at porn. Admit it. I triangulated your position and asked the store directory. What I give you isn't good enough?'

'Look, it's for a friend -'

'None of your friends have birthdays or celebrations planned.'

'It's a friend you don't know.'

'So now you're keeping things from me?'

"I can hear her weeping; people in the store start staring at me. 'It's just my telecom...'

'So now I'm just a telecom.'

'But you are just a telecom.'

"Then she hangs up on me. I come home later and she's like, 'Take out the garbage.'

'Have the butlerbot do it.'

'You need the exercise.'

'That's it I'm having you replaced!'

"She starts throwing a fit, crying and carrying on. The dishwasher starts throwing plates and knives at me. I can barely get out the door with my head attached. I go to buy a replacement chip and find out she reported my credstick stolen! So I went over to my friends and stole his chip - submissive mistress - and sneak back home. I come in and the place smells like apple pie.

'Here, I made you so nice homemade pie. Have a slice.'

'I thought you said I was overweight...'

'Your health is important to me, but you can start the diet next week. Take a seat, relax.'

'Yeah, ok.'

"I try to nonchalantly insert the chip into the reader when this blast of electricity hits me. Turns out the bitch had a security system installed while I was out!

"And after all that, she left me... took half my stuff, too. Yeah, laugh now, but I know what Sandy Claws is getting you for Xmas."