[ Spoiler ]
Now to cover my tracks. Walk four blocks away from Renraku Seattle, hail a taxi, go inside the bar, magically mask myself as an orc punk, walk out the back door into the ally, cross to the other side of the block, hail another taxi, go to the subways, take it to the other side of town, go to the bathroom and mask myself as a businessman, hail another taxi, get off after 3 blocks of random driving, get off, go to an alley, mask myself as a deathhead girl, hail another taxi...
After 3 aliases, I start to lose track of who I've been and where I've been, which is probably a good sign. Somehow, I make my way to the Redmond Barrens, the slums of Seattle. It's a good thing I don't spend money; what I paid to all the taxi drivers adds up to around 1000 nuyen.
I hate having anything in common with the seething mass of the species I like to call commercio sapien but I've had on-again, off-again fantasies of running away to the Redmond Barrens and becoming a shadowrunner, having endless parties and brawls in between high-paying, high-pressure jobs against corporations, but somehow, between not wanting my throat slit in the middle of the night and not actually caring about brawls and parties, I lost interest. What I'm seeing only tells me that I was right.
The Barrens is a strange mixture of life and death. There's the loud music blaring from the rooftops, the constant sound of quarreling coming down from the apartments, and the colorful, spirited, utterly racist graffiti sprayed all over the walls and the unpoliced streets, juxtaposed with the decaying buildings, the decaying hobos, and the terrible knowledge that somewhere, somebody's being murdered. The driver guns his engine and does a mad u-turn in the middle of the empty street, leaving me alone with the crumbling brick facades and the street graffiti that the city planners had long since given up on cleaning.
Welcome to life without cops, without corps. I've gone this far, now what the fuck do I do? The movies say that you're supposed to find a fixer and give him money for an apartment and...
Is that the sound of motorcyclers approaching? Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck... the one in front's seen me. He's... he's got a molotov. He's going to burn me with it... c'mon, physicalbarrierphysicalbarrierphys...
And the barrier goes up, and the molotov explodes against it in the fucker's face, and his arm's set ablaze. He manages to go about 4 feet before toppling off his bike like a mannequin with its joints melted. The biker just lies there, his mold-green jacket and synthleather jeans turning black with the flames. Not that he's gonna miss them; I'm pretty sure the fall snapped his neck.
Okay, the dead biker was a stray, going ahead of the group and, more importantly, the leader. Screw dignity in the face of death, I'm cowering, perhaps going into the fetal position. Okay, burning rubber, check. The sound of engines surrounding me, check. Crunching pain followed by a white light? Hmm... missing somewhat.
Time to look up. Let's see... wow. There's a ring of bikers around me, all of them dressed in the same moldy green outfits as their wayward dead comrade. And without really thinking about it, I know which one the leader is. Flaming orange eye shadow, flaming orange hair, flaming orange contacts to match his gaze...
This is one of the most awkward silences of my life. Let's distract ourselves by counting it, won't we? One... two... three... four... fi
“THIS... IS... A... SIGN!!!!”
“A SIGN!!!”
“HE WILL BURN A WAY THROUGH THESE BLASTED HALLS TO VICTORY!!!!!”
“TO VICTORY!!!”
Okay... don't interrupt the charismatic crazy man.. let him finish... He's raising his fist in the air, and he's yelling... but not at me... that's good, right? And the militant, most likely pyromaniacal goons raising their fists and yelling after everything he says... that's probably also good...
“BEFORE OUR PATH, ALL SHALL BE WASTE, AND CHAOS, AND PEEEEAAAACE.”
“AMEN!”
He's in the center of the circle, so the rest of the bikers make a way out for him. He's riding slower than he has to... maybe he wants me to get on? Yeah, you know what? Fuck it. Fuck what I know, fuck corp life, fuck everything. I lost my job and my legal status trying to save a unicorn, I might as well become some chaos death messiah. If I'm going to run, it's probably safest running with the craziest, most destructive fraggers on the edge of the modern world.
I try not to fall off and break my skull on the pavement as he revs up the oversized, chrome-plated bike.
************************************************************************************
The elven soldiers patrolling the borders of the unicorn's forest were thin and lethal; I couldn't judge their strength because of all their armor, but from the way they moved, I could tell that strength wouldn't help you if you got into a fight with them. My only real hope is an illegal fireball spell that I learned for shits and giggles while in Rernraku University Seattle; back then, I could still enjoy shits and giggles. Even that isn't foolproof in the least; if any of the four mil-spec toting guardsmen is a mage, he'll counter the spell, assense my location, and call down spirits know how many fraggers like them.
So that's my choice. Either give up and go back to helping the Cutters lay claim to still more blocks of Barrens territory, living the rest of my life tormented by dreams of an idyll that I can never have, or risk imprisonment and execution in a fascist pro-elven police state.
I put my binoculars down and rub my eyes. Frag... choices... choices... what's that in the corner of my eye? He's looking right at me, and he's an elf. Frag frag frag frag frag.... Okay, judge the situation objectively. Tall, thin, elven. Dressed in all black biker's leather, except for a Charles Manson t-shirt peeking out from his unzipped Toyota-Harley jacket. Doesn't look like he's going to call the soldiers, unless the Tir army forgot to give this guy a uniform. And his face; it's painted like a... clown, a royal clown. What's the term? Fool? Jester?...
“Harlequin.”
...he couldn't be reading my mind; every mind reading spell ever invented clues its victim in to its use, whether it's a sudden presence in the back of your head or outright pain. The corporations and the CIA would love to have a spell like this, but it doesn't exist. He couldn't...
“You seem to have a choice you need to make. There's a voice telling you to jump into the void, assuring you that this time, for certain, you'll fly, fly away. But you dare not make the leap. Of course, it's always easier to choose a path when one opens into hell, isn't it?”
And before I can say anything, protest, ask for clarification, he makes a perfect 90 degree left turn and strides toward the soldiers. I watch him approach them because there's nothing else I can do. I can't outrun a chopper if they call one down, and I don't want to chance catching Harlequin in a fireball directed at the soldiers. Even if he shrugs it off, which he'll do if he's half as powerful and skilled as I think he is, he won't forgive me. I can just tell that the man, for all his strangeness and supposed informality, has a sense of etiquette all his own, harsh and unforgiving of missteps.
The four soldiers yell at him to turn away in 5 different languages, and when he's close enough to punch one of them, he punches him. It's a bar-brawler's punch, but perfectly delivered; he throws just enough weight to knock out the soldier. His friends pull out their guns and start shooting at Harlequin, some with their rifles and others with their pistols, but he just stands there, his hands spread out like on some antique collector's plate of Jesus, the bullets going spirits-know-where. He waits until the commander calls in reinforcements on his commlink to knock them all out with a blinding blast of mana centered on himself.
He levitates a small black-and-red object that I can't make out at this distance and then disappears, his image splitting as if viewed through a prism and then vanishing in 5 different directions that don't exist in 3-space. It's clear what he intends me to do; if I run away from the forest, they'll catch me, whether it's with a chopper or an astrally projecting mage with spirits backing him up. If I run into the forest, they won't chase me, since it's so fragging sacred to them. I make sure to snatch the souvenir out of the air on my way to the woods.
My only real thought is sheer terror, if that can be called a thought. Maybe they'll find a way to snipe me from outside the forest, or maybe they'll strafe me from a chopper overhead. Maybe one of their mages is some holy man who can come here without the army shooting him full of holes. I run for 5, 6 minutes until I have to catch my breath and finally get a good look at the place.
The forest is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen; whatever light that filters its way through the leaves becomes tinted the most perfect shade of green no matter what the time of day or night. And it's always and never the same green. And the wood... everybody knows from the news that these woods are 11 years old, having been regrown with magic that nobody else knows, but judging from the thickness of the trunks and the mane-like moss growing on them, you'd think that the trees have stood here since the beginning of time, an eternal symbol of life.
But I know it's not for me, and it'll never be for me. It's not as if the wood'll burn me if I touch it, it's just that I know I'll never be... worthy. I can feel very clearly that I don't belong, that no matter what I do, these woods will never be mine, never be anybody's. I'm aware of every bad deed, every stray thought, everything that has led to my being unclean, impure, whatever it is that makes me want to just decompose on the spot and finally become joined with the forest.
After a few minutes of clenching my eyelids and slowly regaining control of myself, I look at Harlequin's little gift. It's a plastic... thing in the shape of a deck of cards, and it's painted like some cheaply customized Toyota-Harley Camry. At least he spared my sense of humor and avoided putting a joker symbol on it.
It's not until I accidentally pull apart the box and realize that the two halves of the box dovetail together to perfectly match the flame design that I learn not to underestimate him. It's a work of craftsmanship, and the jagged flame design and its complementary dark other half are sharp enough to puncture skin. No corp would sell this; too many openings for lawsuits. He must've crafted it himself.
I have about half a second to admire this before I hear the sound of something falling at my feet. Apparently the box had something in it: a perfectly smooth, pitch-black credstick. When I press the button on the end, it hacks my commlink and displays one number: $150,000.
Fragfragfragfragfragfragfragfragfragfragfragfragfrag...
Not that I expected this day to be anywhere near normal, but this... For a moment, I have the urge to spend it all on myself, possibly run away to the Cayman Confederacy, but then I think about Harlequin and the fact he is probably reading my mind from a distance right this moment, and the urge just mysteriously goes away. There's no doubt in my mind that every cent of this will be spent on rescuing the unicorn.
Just now, I realize that I have no idea where the frag I am, how the frag I'm going to get out of the forest, and what the frag I'm trying to find.
Then I see a glowing floating dot. It doesn't float into my vision so much as materialize into it, as if it didn't really exist before I saw it. And it might not have.
It leads me unerringly to a pond before disappearing gracefully. The pond
would be as beautiful as the rest of the forest if it weren't for the melted-rainbow oil slick covering it. It's not the destruction of something sacred that gets to me so much as its... its infiltration, its taint. It's like watching a person slowly but surely grow dark lines of infection all over his body, but worse. I would have rather seen the trees around it burn, or for the pond to get swallowed into the earth.
I SENSE YOU DO NOT COME WITHOUT RECOMMENDATION JOHN CARTER
Frag! What was that? It just boomed from within my head somehow. Time to Look onto the astral plane.
And now I wish I hadn't. The spirit's astral form is that of a tall, burly elven knight; if the armor he's wearing existed in the “real” world, it would offer more protection and flexibility than any medieval armor ever did; the knight wearing it would just have to be able to lift and carry 500 pounds without sweating. He glows like nothing I've ever seen, physical or astral. Even knowing that I can't burn out my retinas by looking at strong astral light, I shield my eyes for a moment.
“A unicorn was brought to... to the domain of man. I was unable to save her, and she told me in my dreams to come here.” I leave out the stuff about my time with the Cutters; if he's tasked with protecting the unicorn and this grove the way I think he is, he probably won't appreciate the fact that I waited a month before coming here. The shit about the “domain of man” was just because I don't think a spirit would really get the idea of a research lab, or a city, for that matter. For all their proven ability to solve problems faster than a hundred mathematicians on typewriters, spirits' understanding is surprisingly narrow and alien. With fire spirits, it's burn this, rejuvenate that. With water spirits, it's flow through this, crush that within a bajillion tons of pressure. You get the idea.
YES I WAS MADE AWARE OF YOUR IMPENDING ARRIVAL
And from what I could make of what he said in capitalized guardian-spirit speak, five Red Samurai came here and poured sludge on the pond to force the unicorn to come out of hiding and purify the water with her horn. Only the spirit didn't get to see all this; he tried possessing one of them in order to kill all the others, but the one being possessed reacted quickly and stabbed himself in the heart mid-possession, disrupting the spirit and allowing his four comrades to continue with their work.
Possession takes about 2 seconds to accomplish, with the victim being able to act for an average of .625 of those seconds. Which means the Red Samurai recognized the feeling of being possessed, drew his sword and killed himself in less than a second. I almost admire them for their tenacity, their ingenuity, their lack of hesitation... frag it, I DO admire them. I just hate them too.
I WILL NOT BE FREE UNTIL YOU CLEANSE THIS PLACE FOR I AM BOUND FOR MY FAILURE TO PROTECT IT
“You mean... you want me to burn it?”
YES
“Okay... but just the pond.”
I do exactly that, and I walk away. I think I'll take back what I said about preferring to see the place burn.
There's more of a contrast between the light in the forest and the light outside of it than I thought. I have to shield my eyes before they adjust. There aren't any soldiers around me, so Harlequin must've done a good job of keeping them off my trail. Good. Now to get back to the chopper.
I WILL AID YOU MY SPEED IS INCONSIDERABLE
“How about you limit yourself to verbal communication from now on? I'm kinda tired of having my mind read.”
MY APOLOGIES
“Accepted. Okay. You have my permission to possess me and fly me, float me, or do whatever it is you do to get me to my chopper.”
It turns out I'm not ready for this and OH SPIRITS I'M FLYING WITH THE GRACE OF AN ANGEL AND THE POWER OF A DEMON AND it's over in about five seconds. I'm pretty sure I don't need the chopper anymore, but what keeps me from asking her leave are my newfound fear of possession and the fact that the pilot will probably take it as an insult to her professionalism.
After 3 aliases, I start to lose track of who I've been and where I've been, which is probably a good sign. Somehow, I make my way to the Redmond Barrens, the slums of Seattle. It's a good thing I don't spend money; what I paid to all the taxi drivers adds up to around 1000 nuyen.
I hate having anything in common with the seething mass of the species I like to call commercio sapien but I've had on-again, off-again fantasies of running away to the Redmond Barrens and becoming a shadowrunner, having endless parties and brawls in between high-paying, high-pressure jobs against corporations, but somehow, between not wanting my throat slit in the middle of the night and not actually caring about brawls and parties, I lost interest. What I'm seeing only tells me that I was right.
The Barrens is a strange mixture of life and death. There's the loud music blaring from the rooftops, the constant sound of quarreling coming down from the apartments, and the colorful, spirited, utterly racist graffiti sprayed all over the walls and the unpoliced streets, juxtaposed with the decaying buildings, the decaying hobos, and the terrible knowledge that somewhere, somebody's being murdered. The driver guns his engine and does a mad u-turn in the middle of the empty street, leaving me alone with the crumbling brick facades and the street graffiti that the city planners had long since given up on cleaning.
Welcome to life without cops, without corps. I've gone this far, now what the fuck do I do? The movies say that you're supposed to find a fixer and give him money for an apartment and...
Is that the sound of motorcyclers approaching? Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck... the one in front's seen me. He's... he's got a molotov. He's going to burn me with it... c'mon, physicalbarrierphysicalbarrierphys...
And the barrier goes up, and the molotov explodes against it in the fucker's face, and his arm's set ablaze. He manages to go about 4 feet before toppling off his bike like a mannequin with its joints melted. The biker just lies there, his mold-green jacket and synthleather jeans turning black with the flames. Not that he's gonna miss them; I'm pretty sure the fall snapped his neck.
Okay, the dead biker was a stray, going ahead of the group and, more importantly, the leader. Screw dignity in the face of death, I'm cowering, perhaps going into the fetal position. Okay, burning rubber, check. The sound of engines surrounding me, check. Crunching pain followed by a white light? Hmm... missing somewhat.
Time to look up. Let's see... wow. There's a ring of bikers around me, all of them dressed in the same moldy green outfits as their wayward dead comrade. And without really thinking about it, I know which one the leader is. Flaming orange eye shadow, flaming orange hair, flaming orange contacts to match his gaze...
This is one of the most awkward silences of my life. Let's distract ourselves by counting it, won't we? One... two... three... four... fi
“THIS... IS... A... SIGN!!!!”
“A SIGN!!!”
“HE WILL BURN A WAY THROUGH THESE BLASTED HALLS TO VICTORY!!!!!”
“TO VICTORY!!!”
Okay... don't interrupt the charismatic crazy man.. let him finish... He's raising his fist in the air, and he's yelling... but not at me... that's good, right? And the militant, most likely pyromaniacal goons raising their fists and yelling after everything he says... that's probably also good...
“BEFORE OUR PATH, ALL SHALL BE WASTE, AND CHAOS, AND PEEEEAAAACE.”
“AMEN!”
He's in the center of the circle, so the rest of the bikers make a way out for him. He's riding slower than he has to... maybe he wants me to get on? Yeah, you know what? Fuck it. Fuck what I know, fuck corp life, fuck everything. I lost my job and my legal status trying to save a unicorn, I might as well become some chaos death messiah. If I'm going to run, it's probably safest running with the craziest, most destructive fraggers on the edge of the modern world.
I try not to fall off and break my skull on the pavement as he revs up the oversized, chrome-plated bike.
************************************************************************************
The elven soldiers patrolling the borders of the unicorn's forest were thin and lethal; I couldn't judge their strength because of all their armor, but from the way they moved, I could tell that strength wouldn't help you if you got into a fight with them. My only real hope is an illegal fireball spell that I learned for shits and giggles while in Rernraku University Seattle; back then, I could still enjoy shits and giggles. Even that isn't foolproof in the least; if any of the four mil-spec toting guardsmen is a mage, he'll counter the spell, assense my location, and call down spirits know how many fraggers like them.
So that's my choice. Either give up and go back to helping the Cutters lay claim to still more blocks of Barrens territory, living the rest of my life tormented by dreams of an idyll that I can never have, or risk imprisonment and execution in a fascist pro-elven police state.
I put my binoculars down and rub my eyes. Frag... choices... choices... what's that in the corner of my eye? He's looking right at me, and he's an elf. Frag frag frag frag frag.... Okay, judge the situation objectively. Tall, thin, elven. Dressed in all black biker's leather, except for a Charles Manson t-shirt peeking out from his unzipped Toyota-Harley jacket. Doesn't look like he's going to call the soldiers, unless the Tir army forgot to give this guy a uniform. And his face; it's painted like a... clown, a royal clown. What's the term? Fool? Jester?...
“Harlequin.”
...he couldn't be reading my mind; every mind reading spell ever invented clues its victim in to its use, whether it's a sudden presence in the back of your head or outright pain. The corporations and the CIA would love to have a spell like this, but it doesn't exist. He couldn't...
“You seem to have a choice you need to make. There's a voice telling you to jump into the void, assuring you that this time, for certain, you'll fly, fly away. But you dare not make the leap. Of course, it's always easier to choose a path when one opens into hell, isn't it?”
And before I can say anything, protest, ask for clarification, he makes a perfect 90 degree left turn and strides toward the soldiers. I watch him approach them because there's nothing else I can do. I can't outrun a chopper if they call one down, and I don't want to chance catching Harlequin in a fireball directed at the soldiers. Even if he shrugs it off, which he'll do if he's half as powerful and skilled as I think he is, he won't forgive me. I can just tell that the man, for all his strangeness and supposed informality, has a sense of etiquette all his own, harsh and unforgiving of missteps.
The four soldiers yell at him to turn away in 5 different languages, and when he's close enough to punch one of them, he punches him. It's a bar-brawler's punch, but perfectly delivered; he throws just enough weight to knock out the soldier. His friends pull out their guns and start shooting at Harlequin, some with their rifles and others with their pistols, but he just stands there, his hands spread out like on some antique collector's plate of Jesus, the bullets going spirits-know-where. He waits until the commander calls in reinforcements on his commlink to knock them all out with a blinding blast of mana centered on himself.
He levitates a small black-and-red object that I can't make out at this distance and then disappears, his image splitting as if viewed through a prism and then vanishing in 5 different directions that don't exist in 3-space. It's clear what he intends me to do; if I run away from the forest, they'll catch me, whether it's with a chopper or an astrally projecting mage with spirits backing him up. If I run into the forest, they won't chase me, since it's so fragging sacred to them. I make sure to snatch the souvenir out of the air on my way to the woods.
My only real thought is sheer terror, if that can be called a thought. Maybe they'll find a way to snipe me from outside the forest, or maybe they'll strafe me from a chopper overhead. Maybe one of their mages is some holy man who can come here without the army shooting him full of holes. I run for 5, 6 minutes until I have to catch my breath and finally get a good look at the place.
The forest is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen; whatever light that filters its way through the leaves becomes tinted the most perfect shade of green no matter what the time of day or night. And it's always and never the same green. And the wood... everybody knows from the news that these woods are 11 years old, having been regrown with magic that nobody else knows, but judging from the thickness of the trunks and the mane-like moss growing on them, you'd think that the trees have stood here since the beginning of time, an eternal symbol of life.
But I know it's not for me, and it'll never be for me. It's not as if the wood'll burn me if I touch it, it's just that I know I'll never be... worthy. I can feel very clearly that I don't belong, that no matter what I do, these woods will never be mine, never be anybody's. I'm aware of every bad deed, every stray thought, everything that has led to my being unclean, impure, whatever it is that makes me want to just decompose on the spot and finally become joined with the forest.
After a few minutes of clenching my eyelids and slowly regaining control of myself, I look at Harlequin's little gift. It's a plastic... thing in the shape of a deck of cards, and it's painted like some cheaply customized Toyota-Harley Camry. At least he spared my sense of humor and avoided putting a joker symbol on it.
It's not until I accidentally pull apart the box and realize that the two halves of the box dovetail together to perfectly match the flame design that I learn not to underestimate him. It's a work of craftsmanship, and the jagged flame design and its complementary dark other half are sharp enough to puncture skin. No corp would sell this; too many openings for lawsuits. He must've crafted it himself.
I have about half a second to admire this before I hear the sound of something falling at my feet. Apparently the box had something in it: a perfectly smooth, pitch-black credstick. When I press the button on the end, it hacks my commlink and displays one number: $150,000.
Fragfragfragfragfragfragfragfragfragfragfragfragfrag...
Not that I expected this day to be anywhere near normal, but this... For a moment, I have the urge to spend it all on myself, possibly run away to the Cayman Confederacy, but then I think about Harlequin and the fact he is probably reading my mind from a distance right this moment, and the urge just mysteriously goes away. There's no doubt in my mind that every cent of this will be spent on rescuing the unicorn.
Just now, I realize that I have no idea where the frag I am, how the frag I'm going to get out of the forest, and what the frag I'm trying to find.
Then I see a glowing floating dot. It doesn't float into my vision so much as materialize into it, as if it didn't really exist before I saw it. And it might not have.
It leads me unerringly to a pond before disappearing gracefully. The pond
would be as beautiful as the rest of the forest if it weren't for the melted-rainbow oil slick covering it. It's not the destruction of something sacred that gets to me so much as its... its infiltration, its taint. It's like watching a person slowly but surely grow dark lines of infection all over his body, but worse. I would have rather seen the trees around it burn, or for the pond to get swallowed into the earth.
I SENSE YOU DO NOT COME WITHOUT RECOMMENDATION JOHN CARTER
Frag! What was that? It just boomed from within my head somehow. Time to Look onto the astral plane.
And now I wish I hadn't. The spirit's astral form is that of a tall, burly elven knight; if the armor he's wearing existed in the “real” world, it would offer more protection and flexibility than any medieval armor ever did; the knight wearing it would just have to be able to lift and carry 500 pounds without sweating. He glows like nothing I've ever seen, physical or astral. Even knowing that I can't burn out my retinas by looking at strong astral light, I shield my eyes for a moment.
“A unicorn was brought to... to the domain of man. I was unable to save her, and she told me in my dreams to come here.” I leave out the stuff about my time with the Cutters; if he's tasked with protecting the unicorn and this grove the way I think he is, he probably won't appreciate the fact that I waited a month before coming here. The shit about the “domain of man” was just because I don't think a spirit would really get the idea of a research lab, or a city, for that matter. For all their proven ability to solve problems faster than a hundred mathematicians on typewriters, spirits' understanding is surprisingly narrow and alien. With fire spirits, it's burn this, rejuvenate that. With water spirits, it's flow through this, crush that within a bajillion tons of pressure. You get the idea.
YES I WAS MADE AWARE OF YOUR IMPENDING ARRIVAL
And from what I could make of what he said in capitalized guardian-spirit speak, five Red Samurai came here and poured sludge on the pond to force the unicorn to come out of hiding and purify the water with her horn. Only the spirit didn't get to see all this; he tried possessing one of them in order to kill all the others, but the one being possessed reacted quickly and stabbed himself in the heart mid-possession, disrupting the spirit and allowing his four comrades to continue with their work.
Possession takes about 2 seconds to accomplish, with the victim being able to act for an average of .625 of those seconds. Which means the Red Samurai recognized the feeling of being possessed, drew his sword and killed himself in less than a second. I almost admire them for their tenacity, their ingenuity, their lack of hesitation... frag it, I DO admire them. I just hate them too.
I WILL NOT BE FREE UNTIL YOU CLEANSE THIS PLACE FOR I AM BOUND FOR MY FAILURE TO PROTECT IT
“You mean... you want me to burn it?”
YES
“Okay... but just the pond.”
I do exactly that, and I walk away. I think I'll take back what I said about preferring to see the place burn.
There's more of a contrast between the light in the forest and the light outside of it than I thought. I have to shield my eyes before they adjust. There aren't any soldiers around me, so Harlequin must've done a good job of keeping them off my trail. Good. Now to get back to the chopper.
I WILL AID YOU MY SPEED IS INCONSIDERABLE
“How about you limit yourself to verbal communication from now on? I'm kinda tired of having my mind read.”
MY APOLOGIES
“Accepted. Okay. You have my permission to possess me and fly me, float me, or do whatever it is you do to get me to my chopper.”
It turns out I'm not ready for this and OH SPIRITS I'M FLYING WITH THE GRACE OF AN ANGEL AND THE POWER OF A DEMON AND it's over in about five seconds. I'm pretty sure I don't need the chopper anymore, but what keeps me from asking her leave are my newfound fear of possession and the fact that the pilot will probably take it as an insult to her professionalism.
And here's the original draft of maybe 8 out of the hopefully 30 pages that I'm setting up for your appraisal.
[ Spoiler ]
Now to cover my tracks. Walk four blocks away from Renraku Seattle, hail a taxi, go inside the bar, magically mask myself as an orc punk, walk out the back door into the ally, cross to the other side of the block, hail another taxi, go to the subways, take it to the other side of town, go to the bathroom and mask myself as a businessman, hail another taxi, get off after 3 blocks of random driving, get off, go to an alley, mask myself as a deathhead girl, hail another taxi...
After 3 aliases, I start to lose track of who I've been and where I've been, which is probably a good sign. Somehow, I make my way to the Redmond Barrens, the slums of Seattle. It's a good thing I don't spend money; what I paid to all the taxi drivers adds up to around 1000 nuyen.
I hate having anything in common with the seething mass of the species I like to call commercio sapien but I've had on-again, off-again fantasies of running away to the Redmond Barrens and becoming a shadowrunner, having endless parties and brawls in between high-paying, high-pressure jobs against corporations, but somehow, between not wanting my throat slit in the middle of the night and not actually caring about brawls and parties, I lost interest. What I'm seeing only tells me that I was right.
The Barrens is a strange mixture of life and death. There's the loud music blaring from the rooftops, the constant sound of quarreling coming down from the apartments, and the colorful, spirited, utterly racist graffiti sprayed all over the walls and the unpoliced streets, juxtaposed with the decaying buildings, the decaying hobos, and the terrible knowledge that somewhere, somebody's being murdered. The driver guns his engine and does a mad u-turn in the middle of the empty street, leaving me alone with the crumbling brick facades and the street graffiti that the city planners had long since given up on cleaning.
Welcome to life without cops, without corps. I've gone this far, now what the fuck do I do? The movies say that you're supposed to find a fixer and give him money for an apartment and...
Is that the sound of motorcyclers approaching? Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck... the one in front's seen me. He's... he's got a molotov. He's going to burn me with it... c'mon, physicalbarrierphysicalbarrierphys...
And the barrier goes up, and the molotov explodes against it in the fucker's face, and his arm's set ablaze. He manages to go about 4 feet before toppling off his bike like a mannequin with its joints melted. The biker just lies there, his mold-green jacket and synthleather jeans turning black with the flames. Not that he's gonna miss them; I'm pretty sure the fall snapped his neck.
Okay, the dead biker was a stray, going ahead of the group and, more importantly, the leader. Screw dignity in the face of death, I'm cowering, perhaps going into the fetal position. Okay, burning rubber, check. The sound of engines surrounding me, check. Crunching pain followed by a white light? Hmm... missing somewhat.
Time to look up. Let's see... wow. There's a ring of bikers around me, all of them dressed in the same moldy green outfits as their wayward dead comrade. And without really thinking about it, I know which one the leader is. Flaming orange eye shadow, flaming orange hair, flaming orange contacts to match his gaze...
This is one of the most awkward silences of my life. Let's distract ourselves by counting it, won't we? One... two... three... four... fi
“THIS... IS... A... SIGN!!!!”
“A SIGN!!!”
“HE WILL BURN A WAY THROUGH THESE BLASTED HALLS TO VICTORY!!!!!”
“TO VICTORY!!!”
Okay... don't interrupt the charismatic crazy man.. let him finish... He's raising his fist in the air, and he's yelling... but not at me... that's good, right? And the militant, most likely pyromaniacal goons raising their fists and yelling after everything he says... that's probably also good...
“BEFORE OUR PATH, ALL SHALL BE WASTE, AND CHAOS, AND PEEEEAAAACE.”
“AMEN!”
He's in the center of the circle, so the rest of the bikers make a way out for him. He's riding slower than he has to... maybe he wants me to get on? Yeah, you know what? Fuck it. Fuck what I know, fuck corp life, fuck everything. I lost my job and my legal status trying to save a unicorn, I might as well become some chaos death messiah. If I'm going to run, it's probably safest running with the craziest, most destructive fraggers on the edge of the modern world.
I try not to fall off and break my skull on the pavement as he revs up the oversized, chrome-plated bike.
************************************************************************************
The elven soldiers patrolling the borders of the unicorn's forest were thin and lethal; I couldn't judge their strength because of all their armor, but from the way they moved, I could tell that strength wouldn't help you if you got into a fight with them. My only real hope is an illegal fireball spell that I learned for shits and giggles while in Rernraku University Seattle; back then, I could still enjoy shits and giggles. Even that isn't foolproof in the least; if any of the four mil-spec toting guardsmen is a mage, he'll counter the spell, assense my location, and call down spirits know how many fraggers like them.
So that's my choice. Either give up and go back to helping the Cutters lay claim to still more blocks of Barrens territory, living the rest of my life tormented by dreams of an idyll that I can never have, or risk imprisonment and execution in a fascist pro-elven police state.
I put my binoculars down and rub my eyes. Frag... choices... choices... what's that in the corner of my eye? He's looking right at me, and he's an elf. Frag frag frag frag frag.... Okay, judge the situation objectively. Tall, thin, elven. Dressed in all black biker's leather, except for a Charles Manson t-shirt peeking out from his unzipped Toyota-Harley jacket. Doesn't look like he's going to call the soldiers, unless the Tir army forgot to give this guy a uniform. And his face; it's painted like a... clown, a royal clown. What's the term? Fool? Jester?...
“Harlequin.”
...he couldn't be reading my mind; every mind reading spell ever invented clues its victim in to its use, whether it's a sudden presence in the back of your head or outright pain. The corporations and the CIA would love to have a spell like this, but it doesn't exist. He couldn't...
“You seem to have a choice you need to make. There's a voice telling you to jump into the void, assuring you that this time, for certain, you'll fly, fly away. But you dare not make the leap. Of course, it's always easier to choose a path when one opens into hell, isn't it?”
And before I can say anything, protest, ask for clarification, he makes a perfect 90 degree left turn and strides toward the soldiers. I watch him approach them because there's nothing else I can do. I can't outrun a chopper if they call one down, and I don't want to chance catching Harlequin in a fireball directed at the soldiers. Even if he shrugs it off, which he'll do if he's half as powerful and skilled as I think he is, he won't forgive me. I can just tell that the man, for all his strangeness and supposed informality, has a sense of etiquette all his own, harsh and unforgiving of missteps.
The four soldiers yell at him to turn away in 5 different languages, and when he's close enough to punch one of them, he punches him. It's a bar-brawler's punch, but perfectly delivered; he throws just enough weight to knock out the soldier. His friends pull out their guns and start shooting at Harlequin, some with their rifles and others with their pistols, but he just stands there, his hands spread out like on some antique collector's plate of Jesus, the bullets going spirits-know-where. He waits until the commander calls in reinforcements on his commlink to knock them all out with a blinding blast of mana centered on himself.
He levitates a small black-and-red object that I can't make out at this distance and then disappears, his image splitting as if viewed through a prism and then vanishing in 5 different directions that don't exist in 3-space. It's clear what he intends me to do; if I run away from the forest, they'll catch me, whether it's with a chopper or an astrally projecting mage with spirits backing him up. If I run into the forest, they won't chase me, since it's so fragging sacred to them. I make sure to snatch the souvenir out of the air on my way to the woods.
My only real thought is sheer terror, if that can be called a thought. Maybe they'll find a way to snipe me from outside the forest, or maybe they'll strafe me from a chopper overhead. Maybe one of their mages is some holy man who can come here without the army shooting him full of holes. I run for 5, 6 minutes until I have to catch my breath and finally get a good look at the place.
The forest is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen; whatever light that filters its way through the leaves becomes tinted the most perfect shade of green no matter what the time of day or night. And it's always and never the same green. And the wood... everybody knows from the news that these woods are 11 years old, having been regrown with magic that nobody else knows, but judging from the thickness of the trunks and the mane-like moss growing on them, you'd think that the trees have stood here since the beginning of time, an eternal symbol of life.
But I know it's not for me, and it'll never be for me. It's not as if the wood'll burn me if I touch it, it's just that I know I'll never be... worthy. I can feel very clearly that I don't belong, that no matter what I do, these woods will never be mine, never be anybody's. I'm aware of every bad deed, every stray thought, everything that has led to my being unclean, impure, whatever it is that makes me want to just decompose on the spot and finally become joined with the forest.
After a few minutes of clenching my eyelids and slowly regaining control of myself, I look at Harlequin's little gift. It's a plastic... thing in the shape of a deck of cards, and it's painted like some cheaply customized Toyota-Harley Camry. At least he spared my sense of humor and avoided putting a joker symbol on it.
It's not until I accidentally pull apart the box and realize that the two halves of the box dovetail together to perfectly match the flame design that I learn not to underestimate him. It's a work of craftsmanship, and the jagged flame design and its complementary dark other half are sharp enough to puncture skin. No corp would sell this; too many openings for lawsuits. He must've crafted it himself.
I have about half a second to admire this before I hear the sound of something falling at my feet. Apparently the box had something in it: a perfectly smooth, pitch-black credstick. When I press the button on the end, it hacks my commlink and displays one number: $150,000.
Fragfragfragfragfragfragfragfragfragfragfragfragfrag...
Not that I expected this day to be anywhere near normal, but this... For a moment, I have the urge to spend it all on myself, possibly run away to the Cayman Confederacy, but then I think about Harlequin and the fact he is probably reading my mind from a distance right this moment, and the urge just mysteriously goes away. There's no doubt in my mind that every cent of this will be spent on rescuing the unicorn.
Just now, I realize that I have no idea where the frag I am, how the frag I'm going to get out of the forest, and what the frag I'm trying to find.
Then I see a glowing floating dot. It doesn't float into my vision so much as materialize into it, as if it didn't really exist before I saw it. And it might not have.
It leads me unerringly to a pond before disappearing gracefully. The pond
would be as beautiful as the rest of the forest if it weren't for the melted-rainbow oil slick covering it. It's not the destruction of something sacred that gets to me so much as its... its infiltration, its taint. It's like watching a person slowly but surely grow dark lines of infection all over his body, but worse. I would have rather seen the trees around it burn, or for the pond to get swallowed into the earth.
I SENSE YOU DO NOT COME WITHOUT RECOMMENDATION JOHN CARTER
Frag! What was that? It just boomed from within my head somehow. Time to Look onto the astral plane.
And now I wish I hadn't. The spirit's astral form is that of a tall, burly elven knight; if the armor he's wearing existed in the “real” world, it would offer more protection and flexibility than any medieval armor ever did; the knight wearing it would just have to be able to lift and carry 500 pounds without sweating. He glows like nothing I've ever seen, physical or astral. Even knowing that I can't burn out my retinas by looking at strong astral light, I shield my eyes for a moment.
“A unicorn was brought to... to the domain of man. I was unable to save her, and she told me in my dreams to come here.” I leave out the stuff about my time with the Cutters; if he's tasked with protecting the unicorn and this grove the way I think he is, he probably won't appreciate the fact that I waited a month before coming here. The shit about the “domain of man” was just because I don't think a spirit would really get the idea of a research lab, or a city, for that matter. For all their proven ability to solve problems faster than a hundred mathematicians on typewriters, spirits' understanding is surprisingly narrow and alien. With fire spirits, it's burn this, rejuvenate that. With water spirits, it's flow through this, crush that within a bajillion tons of pressure. You get the idea.
YES I WAS MADE AWARE OF YOUR IMPENDING ARRIVAL
And from what I could make of what he said in capitalized guardian-spirit speak, five Red Samurai came here and poured sludge on the pond to force the unicorn to come out of hiding and purify the water with her horn. Only the spirit didn't get to see all this; he tried possessing one of them in order to kill all the others, but the one being possessed reacted quickly and stabbed himself in the heart mid-possession, disrupting the spirit and allowing his four comrades to continue with their work.
Possession takes about 2 seconds to accomplish, with the victim being able to act for an average of .625 of those seconds. Which means the Red Samurai recognized the feeling of being possessed, drew his sword and killed himself in less than a second. I almost admire them for their tenacity, their ingenuity, their lack of hesitation... frag it, I DO admire them. I just hate them too.
I WILL NOT BE FREE UNTIL YOU CLEANSE THIS PLACE FOR I AM BOUND FOR MY FAILURE TO PROTECT IT
“You mean... you want me to burn it?”
YES
“Okay... but just the pond.”
I do exactly that, and I walk away. I think I'll take back what I said about preferring to see the place burn.
There's more of a contrast between the light in the forest and the light outside of it than I thought. I have to shield my eyes before they adjust. There aren't any soldiers around me, so Harlequin must've done a good job of keeping them off my trail. Good. Now to get back to the chopper.
I WILL AID YOU MY SPEED IS INCONSIDERABLE
“How about you limit yourself to verbal communication from now on? I'm kinda tired of having my mind read.”
MY APOLOGIES
“Accepted. Okay. You have my permission to possess me and fly me, float me, or do whatever it is you do to get me to my chopper.”
It turns out I'm not ready for this and OH SPIRITS I'M FLYING WITH THE GRACE OF AN ANGEL AND THE POWER OF A DEMON AND it's over in about five seconds. I'm pretty sure I don't need the chopper anymore, but what keeps me from asking her leave are my newfound fear of possession and the fact that the pilot will probably take it as an insult to her professionalism.
After 3 aliases, I start to lose track of who I've been and where I've been, which is probably a good sign. Somehow, I make my way to the Redmond Barrens, the slums of Seattle. It's a good thing I don't spend money; what I paid to all the taxi drivers adds up to around 1000 nuyen.
I hate having anything in common with the seething mass of the species I like to call commercio sapien but I've had on-again, off-again fantasies of running away to the Redmond Barrens and becoming a shadowrunner, having endless parties and brawls in between high-paying, high-pressure jobs against corporations, but somehow, between not wanting my throat slit in the middle of the night and not actually caring about brawls and parties, I lost interest. What I'm seeing only tells me that I was right.
The Barrens is a strange mixture of life and death. There's the loud music blaring from the rooftops, the constant sound of quarreling coming down from the apartments, and the colorful, spirited, utterly racist graffiti sprayed all over the walls and the unpoliced streets, juxtaposed with the decaying buildings, the decaying hobos, and the terrible knowledge that somewhere, somebody's being murdered. The driver guns his engine and does a mad u-turn in the middle of the empty street, leaving me alone with the crumbling brick facades and the street graffiti that the city planners had long since given up on cleaning.
Welcome to life without cops, without corps. I've gone this far, now what the fuck do I do? The movies say that you're supposed to find a fixer and give him money for an apartment and...
Is that the sound of motorcyclers approaching? Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck... the one in front's seen me. He's... he's got a molotov. He's going to burn me with it... c'mon, physicalbarrierphysicalbarrierphys...
And the barrier goes up, and the molotov explodes against it in the fucker's face, and his arm's set ablaze. He manages to go about 4 feet before toppling off his bike like a mannequin with its joints melted. The biker just lies there, his mold-green jacket and synthleather jeans turning black with the flames. Not that he's gonna miss them; I'm pretty sure the fall snapped his neck.
Okay, the dead biker was a stray, going ahead of the group and, more importantly, the leader. Screw dignity in the face of death, I'm cowering, perhaps going into the fetal position. Okay, burning rubber, check. The sound of engines surrounding me, check. Crunching pain followed by a white light? Hmm... missing somewhat.
Time to look up. Let's see... wow. There's a ring of bikers around me, all of them dressed in the same moldy green outfits as their wayward dead comrade. And without really thinking about it, I know which one the leader is. Flaming orange eye shadow, flaming orange hair, flaming orange contacts to match his gaze...
This is one of the most awkward silences of my life. Let's distract ourselves by counting it, won't we? One... two... three... four... fi
“THIS... IS... A... SIGN!!!!”
“A SIGN!!!”
“HE WILL BURN A WAY THROUGH THESE BLASTED HALLS TO VICTORY!!!!!”
“TO VICTORY!!!”
Okay... don't interrupt the charismatic crazy man.. let him finish... He's raising his fist in the air, and he's yelling... but not at me... that's good, right? And the militant, most likely pyromaniacal goons raising their fists and yelling after everything he says... that's probably also good...
“BEFORE OUR PATH, ALL SHALL BE WASTE, AND CHAOS, AND PEEEEAAAACE.”
“AMEN!”
He's in the center of the circle, so the rest of the bikers make a way out for him. He's riding slower than he has to... maybe he wants me to get on? Yeah, you know what? Fuck it. Fuck what I know, fuck corp life, fuck everything. I lost my job and my legal status trying to save a unicorn, I might as well become some chaos death messiah. If I'm going to run, it's probably safest running with the craziest, most destructive fraggers on the edge of the modern world.
I try not to fall off and break my skull on the pavement as he revs up the oversized, chrome-plated bike.
************************************************************************************
The elven soldiers patrolling the borders of the unicorn's forest were thin and lethal; I couldn't judge their strength because of all their armor, but from the way they moved, I could tell that strength wouldn't help you if you got into a fight with them. My only real hope is an illegal fireball spell that I learned for shits and giggles while in Rernraku University Seattle; back then, I could still enjoy shits and giggles. Even that isn't foolproof in the least; if any of the four mil-spec toting guardsmen is a mage, he'll counter the spell, assense my location, and call down spirits know how many fraggers like them.
So that's my choice. Either give up and go back to helping the Cutters lay claim to still more blocks of Barrens territory, living the rest of my life tormented by dreams of an idyll that I can never have, or risk imprisonment and execution in a fascist pro-elven police state.
I put my binoculars down and rub my eyes. Frag... choices... choices... what's that in the corner of my eye? He's looking right at me, and he's an elf. Frag frag frag frag frag.... Okay, judge the situation objectively. Tall, thin, elven. Dressed in all black biker's leather, except for a Charles Manson t-shirt peeking out from his unzipped Toyota-Harley jacket. Doesn't look like he's going to call the soldiers, unless the Tir army forgot to give this guy a uniform. And his face; it's painted like a... clown, a royal clown. What's the term? Fool? Jester?...
“Harlequin.”
...he couldn't be reading my mind; every mind reading spell ever invented clues its victim in to its use, whether it's a sudden presence in the back of your head or outright pain. The corporations and the CIA would love to have a spell like this, but it doesn't exist. He couldn't...
“You seem to have a choice you need to make. There's a voice telling you to jump into the void, assuring you that this time, for certain, you'll fly, fly away. But you dare not make the leap. Of course, it's always easier to choose a path when one opens into hell, isn't it?”
And before I can say anything, protest, ask for clarification, he makes a perfect 90 degree left turn and strides toward the soldiers. I watch him approach them because there's nothing else I can do. I can't outrun a chopper if they call one down, and I don't want to chance catching Harlequin in a fireball directed at the soldiers. Even if he shrugs it off, which he'll do if he's half as powerful and skilled as I think he is, he won't forgive me. I can just tell that the man, for all his strangeness and supposed informality, has a sense of etiquette all his own, harsh and unforgiving of missteps.
The four soldiers yell at him to turn away in 5 different languages, and when he's close enough to punch one of them, he punches him. It's a bar-brawler's punch, but perfectly delivered; he throws just enough weight to knock out the soldier. His friends pull out their guns and start shooting at Harlequin, some with their rifles and others with their pistols, but he just stands there, his hands spread out like on some antique collector's plate of Jesus, the bullets going spirits-know-where. He waits until the commander calls in reinforcements on his commlink to knock them all out with a blinding blast of mana centered on himself.
He levitates a small black-and-red object that I can't make out at this distance and then disappears, his image splitting as if viewed through a prism and then vanishing in 5 different directions that don't exist in 3-space. It's clear what he intends me to do; if I run away from the forest, they'll catch me, whether it's with a chopper or an astrally projecting mage with spirits backing him up. If I run into the forest, they won't chase me, since it's so fragging sacred to them. I make sure to snatch the souvenir out of the air on my way to the woods.
My only real thought is sheer terror, if that can be called a thought. Maybe they'll find a way to snipe me from outside the forest, or maybe they'll strafe me from a chopper overhead. Maybe one of their mages is some holy man who can come here without the army shooting him full of holes. I run for 5, 6 minutes until I have to catch my breath and finally get a good look at the place.
The forest is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen; whatever light that filters its way through the leaves becomes tinted the most perfect shade of green no matter what the time of day or night. And it's always and never the same green. And the wood... everybody knows from the news that these woods are 11 years old, having been regrown with magic that nobody else knows, but judging from the thickness of the trunks and the mane-like moss growing on them, you'd think that the trees have stood here since the beginning of time, an eternal symbol of life.
But I know it's not for me, and it'll never be for me. It's not as if the wood'll burn me if I touch it, it's just that I know I'll never be... worthy. I can feel very clearly that I don't belong, that no matter what I do, these woods will never be mine, never be anybody's. I'm aware of every bad deed, every stray thought, everything that has led to my being unclean, impure, whatever it is that makes me want to just decompose on the spot and finally become joined with the forest.
After a few minutes of clenching my eyelids and slowly regaining control of myself, I look at Harlequin's little gift. It's a plastic... thing in the shape of a deck of cards, and it's painted like some cheaply customized Toyota-Harley Camry. At least he spared my sense of humor and avoided putting a joker symbol on it.
It's not until I accidentally pull apart the box and realize that the two halves of the box dovetail together to perfectly match the flame design that I learn not to underestimate him. It's a work of craftsmanship, and the jagged flame design and its complementary dark other half are sharp enough to puncture skin. No corp would sell this; too many openings for lawsuits. He must've crafted it himself.
I have about half a second to admire this before I hear the sound of something falling at my feet. Apparently the box had something in it: a perfectly smooth, pitch-black credstick. When I press the button on the end, it hacks my commlink and displays one number: $150,000.
Fragfragfragfragfragfragfragfragfragfragfragfragfrag...
Not that I expected this day to be anywhere near normal, but this... For a moment, I have the urge to spend it all on myself, possibly run away to the Cayman Confederacy, but then I think about Harlequin and the fact he is probably reading my mind from a distance right this moment, and the urge just mysteriously goes away. There's no doubt in my mind that every cent of this will be spent on rescuing the unicorn.
Just now, I realize that I have no idea where the frag I am, how the frag I'm going to get out of the forest, and what the frag I'm trying to find.
Then I see a glowing floating dot. It doesn't float into my vision so much as materialize into it, as if it didn't really exist before I saw it. And it might not have.
It leads me unerringly to a pond before disappearing gracefully. The pond
would be as beautiful as the rest of the forest if it weren't for the melted-rainbow oil slick covering it. It's not the destruction of something sacred that gets to me so much as its... its infiltration, its taint. It's like watching a person slowly but surely grow dark lines of infection all over his body, but worse. I would have rather seen the trees around it burn, or for the pond to get swallowed into the earth.
I SENSE YOU DO NOT COME WITHOUT RECOMMENDATION JOHN CARTER
Frag! What was that? It just boomed from within my head somehow. Time to Look onto the astral plane.
And now I wish I hadn't. The spirit's astral form is that of a tall, burly elven knight; if the armor he's wearing existed in the “real” world, it would offer more protection and flexibility than any medieval armor ever did; the knight wearing it would just have to be able to lift and carry 500 pounds without sweating. He glows like nothing I've ever seen, physical or astral. Even knowing that I can't burn out my retinas by looking at strong astral light, I shield my eyes for a moment.
“A unicorn was brought to... to the domain of man. I was unable to save her, and she told me in my dreams to come here.” I leave out the stuff about my time with the Cutters; if he's tasked with protecting the unicorn and this grove the way I think he is, he probably won't appreciate the fact that I waited a month before coming here. The shit about the “domain of man” was just because I don't think a spirit would really get the idea of a research lab, or a city, for that matter. For all their proven ability to solve problems faster than a hundred mathematicians on typewriters, spirits' understanding is surprisingly narrow and alien. With fire spirits, it's burn this, rejuvenate that. With water spirits, it's flow through this, crush that within a bajillion tons of pressure. You get the idea.
YES I WAS MADE AWARE OF YOUR IMPENDING ARRIVAL
And from what I could make of what he said in capitalized guardian-spirit speak, five Red Samurai came here and poured sludge on the pond to force the unicorn to come out of hiding and purify the water with her horn. Only the spirit didn't get to see all this; he tried possessing one of them in order to kill all the others, but the one being possessed reacted quickly and stabbed himself in the heart mid-possession, disrupting the spirit and allowing his four comrades to continue with their work.
Possession takes about 2 seconds to accomplish, with the victim being able to act for an average of .625 of those seconds. Which means the Red Samurai recognized the feeling of being possessed, drew his sword and killed himself in less than a second. I almost admire them for their tenacity, their ingenuity, their lack of hesitation... frag it, I DO admire them. I just hate them too.
I WILL NOT BE FREE UNTIL YOU CLEANSE THIS PLACE FOR I AM BOUND FOR MY FAILURE TO PROTECT IT
“You mean... you want me to burn it?”
YES
“Okay... but just the pond.”
I do exactly that, and I walk away. I think I'll take back what I said about preferring to see the place burn.
There's more of a contrast between the light in the forest and the light outside of it than I thought. I have to shield my eyes before they adjust. There aren't any soldiers around me, so Harlequin must've done a good job of keeping them off my trail. Good. Now to get back to the chopper.
I WILL AID YOU MY SPEED IS INCONSIDERABLE
“How about you limit yourself to verbal communication from now on? I'm kinda tired of having my mind read.”
MY APOLOGIES
“Accepted. Okay. You have my permission to possess me and fly me, float me, or do whatever it is you do to get me to my chopper.”
It turns out I'm not ready for this and OH SPIRITS I'M FLYING WITH THE GRACE OF AN ANGEL AND THE POWER OF A DEMON AND it's over in about five seconds. I'm pretty sure I don't need the chopper anymore, but what keeps me from asking her leave are my newfound fear of possession and the fact that the pilot will probably take it as an insult to her professionalism.