Mister Juan - Dexter Pope
Tanegar - Arthur "Merlin" Garrett
Aria - Susanna "Silk" Waters

[21:37 17 August 2072; Silk's Apartment, University District, Seattle]

Silk reengaged the maglock and ensured that the trembler switch was active against the apartment door. The house node spoke in its reassuringly deep tones as the AR wall feeds lit up in a display of the Seattle skyline at dusk, the sun dipping behind the looming bulk of the Arc.

“Welcome home Ana. There have been no security alerts. You have no new messages. You have twelve news items flagged for your attention.”

“Thank you”

She could still smell the coffee in her nostrils, at least they used the good stuff rather than the bitter soy substitutes. It had been a good shift but she was glad to be back home so that she could get on with some of the important things she had scheduled for the evening. She threw her jacket down onto the futon and slipped the taser out of her purse and put it down on the kitchen counter where she could reach it easily.

The apartment was small and spartan, two rooms and a cubby hole bathroom unit, and it was only the AR feeds beamed directly to her visual cortex that prevented the place feeling claustrophobic. A faint waft of scent drifted from the air con unit that kept the stale city air at bay.

Leaving her uniform strewn across the bed she slipped into the shower and let the tepid water wash away her day self and bring out Silk, ready to face the night and the tasks ahead. With a gesture she brought up a representation of her call log and with the water cascading through the rippling imagery marvelled at how common place such beautiful things had become.

Once finished her ablutions she dressed herself in a loose tee shirt and jeans and then reverently slipped her newest acquisition from its hiding place in her bedroom wall. A custom Caliban, worth more than a year’s rent on this place and far more than she should be able to afford as a student, the casing seemed to absorb the dim led lighting without a reflection.

The skinlink interfaced more smoothly than anything she had ever used before and she was already browsing the ‘trix feeds as she slid down onto the futon. Dimly she wondered about eating something but then dismissed the thought...that could wait.

The matrix unfurled before her virtual vision...a wild landscape that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the heath lands of Brittany. Outcroppings of weather-beaten granite dotted the steep grass strewn hillsides, windblown trees outlined against an unnatural silvery sky.

She made her way down towards the dell, her silken dress flowing out behind her makes an audible swish against the grass. The pool is calm and still, at first reflecting back only the sky and the engraved standing stone portal on its shore. Silk knelt, gestured, and the pool changed to show the tagged news articles in its deep waters. Mercenary movements, AI rumours, the latest gadgets, an eclectic mix of data for her to peruse.

At last, satisfied that there was nothing here related to her real search, she stood and moved to the portal: a representation of the Caliban’s access to the net. Tracing the Celtic knot work she watched as it unravelled under her fingers and flowed outwards as far as her eye could see. Satisfied that any trace programs would have a hard time tracking her back here she stepped into the centre of the maze and flew out into the matrix proper.

She was standing on an outcropping overlooking a violent sea, her skirts snapping in the sudden gusts. She sent out a siren call that she knew her friend would hear...

<<@Aria: Do you want to come and play?>>

She came flashing out of the digital sea like a comet. Resolving into a little girl with impossibly long bright hair spinning before her gaze.

"I have a spare moment or two, where would you like to go? Not on your quest though, you need to rest for a bit..."

"So you say" Silk couldn’t keep the smile out of her voice "Let’s explore the Redmond periphery, see how far the web extends today? The wild lands on the edge are always interesting!"
So saying she dove from the cliff top towards the churning waves...

Silk and Aria spent fifteen to twenty minutes skirting the edges of the wifi mesh in Redmond, an eternity in the speed of thought rates of the VR world. Silk leading, they dipped into the poorly protected systems to scope the system architectures...never stopping for paydata, that wasn’t the purpose; although the systems were sparse there was an element of free expression here in the sculpting that the corps often couldn’t match.

One group in particular caught their attention, a hacker gang calling themselves frEdom...who seemed to be keen to establish their influence on this part of the grid. Given the lack of tech in this part of the barrens it was likely that they had at least one ‘mancer with them to create such high level iconography. Their intuitive manipulation of the ‘trix rendered the deck heads like Silk obsolete in many ways...thankfully she had her other Gifts to offset their mastery of the digital world.

Silk briefly considered heading out to the Stillwater grid, their node was intoxicating, but the thought of running a satellite didn’t appeal at the moment. Perhaps she would head out there in person in a few days, braving the dangers of the barrens for a taste of that pure UV.

Sensing that Aria had other concerns for this night’s exploits Silk waved goodbye to her friend...

“Thanks! I needed to get out of the house for a while. I’m going to head down to the south and check on that back door while my Fetch continues its scans”

Aria smiled at her, her grin mischievous but her words of caution anything but

“Be careful, they may not have found it yet but it won’t last forever!”

“I’m always careful but something is telling me I need to be there tonight...there’s always a chance that the data will float to the surface eventually...I need to know who hired those bastards...it’s a long shot after so much time but if it’s anywhere surely it’ll be in there?”

Engaging her reality filter once more Silk stepped back onto the wind blasted heath. At the cost of some additional speed she routed her signal through an additional anonymizer server...the back door facilitated ease of access and she would have to rely on stealth to avoid detection, but this was an extra precaution that seemed prudent given the number of times she had penetrated this particular node. She didn’t class herself among the great hackers of this world but with a little help there was much she could achieve...

A gleaming white horse came at her beckon and, hair streaming behind her, she raced the wind towards the Fort Lewis grid and the Deep Watch servers. Hopefully the hidden access that Aria had installed for her was intact...

Ares Seattle HQ, Magical Research Division
17 August 2072, 2008 hrs
Arthur Garrett, Chief Training Officer of Ares Seattle's Magical Research division, sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. After long hours of tracking the flow of money through dozens of blind cutouts and confidential transactions, he was finally closing in on his quarry. Close to half a million nuyen had inexplicably vanished from MR's working accounts, and Garrett wasn't going to rest until he found it.

He stood up and walked over to the coffee pot on the side table and poured himself a cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain with two creams and two sugars. Arthur had never understood people who took their coffee black; vile stuff. He made his way slowly over to the floor-to-ceiling windows of his corner office and stood looking out over Seattle, feeling every minute of his sixty years. As usual, it was raining. Storming, really, a real gully washer. He allowed himself a heavy sigh before returning his thoughts to the apparent embezzlement, anger sharpening his attention. In the distance, lightning flashed, and he sensed the fury of his patron in the chaos of the storm. Straightening, he turned back toward his desk; this theft was an affront, not just to Ares but to him, personally, and Thunderbird would not allow that kind of thing to stand.

Seated on the edge of the desk was a young woman who hadn't been there when Arthur got up. He hadn't heard her arrive, but then he never did. She smiled at him, the kind of smile to turn a younger man's head. She was heart-stoppingly beautiful, with flawless porcelain skin, almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, cupid's-bow lips, a pointed chin, and shiny blue-black hair. Her eyes were bright gold, but that wasn't remarkable in the era of cybereyes and cosmetic bioware. Most people didn't know that this woman's eyes weren't modified, though. Most people couldn't see that she wasn't actually the human she appeared to be. Arthur had long since admitted to himself that it was sheer vanity on his part, making her as lovely as she was. He took no little satisfaction in the envious glances, the jealous whispers that accompanied her presence on his arm.

"Corvina," he said with evident pleasure, returning her smile. "How lovely to see you."

Corvina got up from the desk and strode across to him, lithe and graceful as a dancer. "I thought I'd look in on you, Arthur. What troubles you?"

Arthur chuckled. "I can't hide anything from you, can I, my little stormcrow?"

She cocked her head as her smile took on a tinge of sadness. "No, you can't. You ought to know that, you forged the bond yourself." She brought her hand up to ruffle his silver hair in a tender gesture. "Tell me what's bothering you."

"Someone's stolen quite a lot of money from the division, Corvina. I can't let that go unanswered."

"I see. You always did see this place as your own domain. I wonder if all old wizards are so territorial," she teased him.

"Heh. All the ones I know, at any rate." He reached up to brush his fingertips across her perfect cheek; she leaned into his touch, a strangely feline mannerism for a spirit whose native form was a raven.

Arthur moved past Corvina to resume his seat; she perched herself on the edge of the desk again, facing him. With the peculiar blind spot of her kind, she couldn't see the data scrolling past on his terminal, so she watched Arthur instead. His concentration was nearly absolute as he scanned purchase orders, ledgers, and a host of other financial documents... suddenly his jaw dropped, his eyes went wide, and his skin turned a worrying shade of gray.

Corvina suddenly sat up straight. "Arthur? Arthur, what is it?" He didn't answer, didn't even seem to have heard her. She reached across the bond that linked them and borrowed his mortal sight... and instantly blocked it out again. She felt... sick? Was this what people called feeling sick? Horrified, agonized, consumed with fear and rage; if she could have vomited, she would have. Outside, the clouds swirled like an inverted whirlpool in response to her distress. The things she'd seen in that instant, the things the surgeons had been doing to that man, the way he'd died...

"Arthur!" she almost shouted. "What does it mean? Why were they doing those things? Answer me, Arthur!"

"Monstrous..." he muttered dazedly. "Monstrous. Can't let that stand. Can't let them go on." He stood shakily, taking a cane from where it leaned against the desk and supporting himself with it as he almost staggered toward the door. Corvina darted across the room to take Arthur by the arm. "Lean on me, Arthur. We'll go together." Collecting himself at last, Arthur gives her a fond look, full of gratitude. "Thank you, my little stormcrow. What would I do without you?"

Corvina's answering look is uncertain, fear evident in her gaze. "I don't know, Arthur. I don't like to think about that."

Reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear, Arthur replies, "I'm old, child, you know that. You'll be free sooner than you think."

"I don't want to be free of you, Arthur. Don't leave me." Corvina's golden eyes filled with fear and sorrow at the thought of her master's death.

"Not for a while yet, I hope. Come along now, we have matters that require our attention." So saying, he turned and made his way out of the office and down the hall, Corvina supporting him on the left as he leaned with his right arm on his cane. It was well after business hours, and they met no one on their way to the elevators. Arthur punched the button for the executive VP's penthouse office, then leaned against the elevator wall and sighed again.

"We can't let this go, Corvina. What they've done, what they're still doing to those people, it isn't right. It's got to stop."

"It will stop. We'll stop it, Arthur." Her voice was hard, flinty. Through their bond he could taste her anger, like copper, like blood. He hadn't made her to be a warrior, but there was something in her that loved a good scrap. It was a trait they shared, and he wondered if he had instilled it in her subconsciously.

The elevator doors opened. Two men stood there, hulking slabs of muscle in slightly ill-fitting dark suits. One of them spoke up, "Mister Garrett? I wonder if we might have a word with you." The other reached for something under his jacket.

"Corvina..." Arthur said warningly.

"I see it," she replied, her voice colored with a terrible eagerness. She flexed her free hand like a claw, and arcs of electricity danced between her fingers.

Ares Seattle HQ, Magical Research Division
17 August 2072, 2008 hrs
Arthur Garrett.

This is not your floor. The men, their faces are obscured, one in three lights are lit this late, but the cameras see in IR. Their voices, you know them, passed them in the halls, the suits are the same as you get at your tailor, the one the head of security recommended. You've seen security RFID's and their comms log as security access, not that you've ever seen them guard anything. They've been company men a few years, not before the crash. Transfer? Merger?

You're shaking. In the elevator. You laughed yesterday, it wasn't raining yesterday, rain rushing down the glass of the elevator back. It was sunny, and the secretary from sixth, she said "this place is bigger than my apartment". Corvina wasn't manifest, but you could picture her face, dry smile, golden eyes cold. She stopped manifesting in the elevator a while back, out of respect for your standing. She was nowhere to be seen now, either. You had turned to the doors, but she was gone.

The one who spoke, he takes a step forward, hands out, open palms, placating. Same suit, different cut. Loose. Something hidden. Another step. You take one back, On the left, one steps into the elevator. Your back presses against the elevator wall. Nearly 70 floors up, you can feel the rain pounding the soundproofed plexiglass, the tingle of the storm, if not a sound. The other man is in the doorway, reaching into his coat, you make eye-contact.
"Don't you fucking look at me, worm. Eyes on the ground, Now.", he growls a term you haven't heard in years as he reaches for his lapel with his free hand, and you see the straps, the hand tightening over a grip. You see his fear, and he'll kill you for it.

[21:56 17 August 2072; Silk's Apartment, University District, Seattle]
Silk

The horse under your thighs moves like a maglev, broad curves at a rollicking speed, impossible for the horse and the almost melodic sound of hooves across the grassy fields. You pass a tree, a grand oak, on a hill, and crest into woodland, sparse at first until you can barely see the sky under the blackened branches, each tree signifying decreasing distance from your desired node. It's a long journey from your second re-router on the cairo grid. Despite the perceived time, the process is truly negligible in real time, despite the slight performance lag you notice from the router.

Suddenly it's night, your horse breaches the forest, revealing a sphere of water, emitting a sound of waves lapping against a shore. It's the size of a stadium maybe, in a large clearing. You reach up, as your horse trots beneath it's great curve, to touch it's undulating service, and feel a tickle? not in your hand, wet and cold, but in your armpit, like a giggling child, neck rolling uncontrollably, at the mercy of benevolent hands. You find yourself release a giggle.

<<Password Accepted.>>

You're falling, feet first, like a pin, through a churning sky, grey clouds, lightning lashing past you, booming in your ears. You see the violent sea below, impossibly black in the night storm, no moon in sight, a wave rises up to your left and heaves it's dark mass to catch you.

<<Security Status Granted. Be Careful.>>

The ocean is calm, you can hear the wind. It laps at your feet, but does not pull you in. The sun is high and warming, and you see a man in the distance, floating on a truck tire, clad in overalls and a gas mask, shaded by a parasol. Something wet touches your foot, and you look down, a fish tail, cut clean down the middle, red blooming in the calm sea, and then you see the rest, rising from the sea, thousands of fish, severed, useless. then the red ocean opens up beneath you.

Pox, thought Corvina. Time for plan B. The man with the gun was already keyed up. She could taste the rich blend of fear and anger simmering just beneath the surface. It would be so trivial to redirect that flow... so she did. She reached out and plucked the threads of his will¹: Shoot your partner.²

Worm?!, thought Arthur. Rage boiled up inside him³ at the gun-toting little peon's feeble attempt at a threat. He called up his Gift and lashed out with it⁴.

[21:56 17 August 2072; Deep Watch Matrix Node]

Silk shuddered at the bloody scene before her...the drawbacks of running hot were that everything was more visceral and intense and when sculptors were determined to shock then it could be unsettling. Her reality filters were struggling to override the imagery (falling leaves would have been a lot easier on the eye) but it seemed that she was stuck with this for now...

It looked like the place was being taken apart and shredded...Ares were obviously coming in to clean the house! She had been here several times in the last few months and sifted through the archives until it was dangerous to stay but this shakeup perhaps represented her best chance of finally getting some solid intel.

Ensuring that her cloaking program was intact she set her browse routine to search for Stillwater, Mother or Balefire and cast the net out into the sea, specifically targeting the dead fish and deleted file logs for now...making sure she didn’t snag Swordfish - she had no intention of tangling with any IC or that user’s icon. Her account wasn’t registered so hopefully if she didn’t stir any waves she would be ignored...

Silk also made a mental note to scan any data she stirred from the depths for viruses or data bombs – just because Ares were throwing it out, didn’t mean that there wouldn’t be protection on the sensitive data that they had acquired...

[20:37 17 August 2072; a crummy room, Caracas]

It’s a lousy night, in a lousy part of town. In all honesty, the only thing lousier than this night is the mood I’m in. I’ve had to crank way the hell up the volume on the little makeshift radio I bought from this kid on the sidewalk. The grid is so damn spotty I can’t even rely on it for music anymore. Some guy’s got a sort of FM repeater on his roof, I can see it from here. Odds are, what I’m getting on waves is what he’s bouncing. Luckily enough for me, all I get is a mix of static and Russian pop music. 

Over my bunk, the fan spins lazily. Probably about as tired as me. Probably about as old as me by the looks of it to. It’s got that dirty beige retro color to it. The sort of shitty colors they used to make everything that was plastic coated back in the days. Shitty techno beige. Hey, could be worst. They could’ve made it shitty techno fake wood. With the radio and the sound of the crowded street below, it’s just enough to cover up that damn ruckus from next door. Paper thin walls, broken windows, patchy plaster work, dirty golden retriever yellow carpet, flickering lights and water I wouldn’t drink it if you paid me. And I’m the sort of guy you pay to waste someone. Kinda tells you about my state of mind, don’t it. Yep. Prime real fuckin’ estate this little shit hole. 

Did I mention the fuckin’ noise from next door are the grunts and moans of dirty, oil slicked Pacos? Greasy blue collars with tiny mustaches that come at all hours of the day and night to get their groove on, with tired and bag eyed meat puppets. I swear; some of them girls look about as old as my own daughters. Physically, I mean. You can see the pain in their glazed eyes. Like they’re dead inside. I keep telling myself it’s probably the ware they stuff ‘em with that makes ‘em like that. Memory locks. Sensory cut out shit. Stuff to make ‘em forget what the hell is really going on. At least, that’s what I keep hoping. Odds are, what’s really going on has a bit less “class”. They probably just cram ‘em full of dope and chems. 

Yea. I talk big like I’m some kind of high and mighty knight, full of honour and ethics. I ain’t. Haven’t been for quite some time. 

There was a time where I would have stood for something. A time when I tried to make a real difference. I don’t anymore. When you have to put a subsonic 9mil in the head of a child who’s walked on your OP, part of you dies. It isn’t the act of pulling the trigger that does it. It’s the aftermath. It’s the moment when you realize you didn’t hesitate to pull that trigger.

I’ve gone to bed with hookers who look twice as tired as those. But then again, that was back then and this is right now, with the fan spinning lazily over my head. It’s just like the world. It’s tired but it keeps on spinning. 

It’s so fuckin’ hot in this joint, I feel like I’m back in the jungle again. Sometimes, I’ll wake up at night, with fits and cold sweats. I can feel that piece of shrapnel stuck in my lower back. I know it’s there and I feel it. Doc says it’s just in my head, and he’s probably right. After all, he’s got a degree from some school for that shit, and I don’t. People like myself don’t know much about whatever. We know where to go to make it hurt, and we know from which end the bullet comes out of. Just enough to do our job. We go where were told, do what were paid to. Nothing else.

Not that I do a whole lot of work these days. Haven’t heard shit from Morris in over two months. Either means they've finally written me off the books, or they're running out of people for me to bag. I’m out of cred, and out of time. Had to sell my pickup to pay the rent. And what loose cred I had left, I either drank or lost by betting on those rigged pit fights. Fuck me. I’ve got that thing creeping back, in the corner of my brain, tugging at my eye balls. That thing that’s been waiting for the right moment to kill me. It knows I’m at the end of my roll. I know it to. Somehow, it doesn’t want to take me right here and now. I’ve been waiting to die for the past five years. 

Some day, my number is going to come up, and I’ll have to answer for all the shit I’ve done. The trick for us career soldiers to live to an old age was to outrun that bullet long enough. Cause out there, in the jungle, there’s a bullet for every one of us. There’s a bullet with our name stamped on it, and it’s just waiting. My body is starting to give up on me. My reflexes are half as sharp as they used to be, and I’m getting careless. I cut corners more and more. I go on the gambling streak more and more. And I’m getting old. Too old for this shit. Too old to stay on top. Like this fan over my head, getting tired of spinning. I’m getting tired, and I’m getting slow. 

There ain’t no way in hell I can outrun that bullet anymore. It’s going to catch up to me, sooner rather than later. I don’t mind it too much, come to think of it. I’ve had a long life. Longer than anyone I knew. Everyone’s dead actually. Everyone. All there’s left is me, and not everything is there anymore. Lost some pieces along the way. I’ve got blown apart and put back together so many times, I ain’t surprised if I ever find out they color coded my bones. Matter of fact, I’m still surprised my dick hasn’t been sown back on my elbow by now. Last time I got shot up good, the guy who patched me up ran an underground clinic for sick paranormal pets. I shit you not. He didn’t do half of a bad job either. 

When I came in, the world was pretty fucked up. When the kids came along, I decided I wanted to leave this place a little better than I found it. Outside my window, I can hear some guy getting stabbed. Well, fuck ‘em. He probably deserved it. By the looks of it, I won’t be leaving this world better than I found it. At least, not this shit hole. 

Sometimes, when the booze gets heavy enough on my mind, I start seeing shadows. Shadows and faces. People I lost. People I killed. People I left behind to die. Never leave a man behind… What a fuckload of shit. Mission First, People Always? Yea right. Does pretty well for the PR and recruiting adds. But out there, in the bush, when you’re sneaking around in someone else backyard, doing shit you ain’t supposed to be doing, everyone’s expendable. Everyone. You get bagged, you’re on your own. 

The Shadows of this hell hole are the closest thing to the jungle I’ve ever found. In the jungle, everything’s out to kill you. In Caracas, it’s the same thing. I’m sure there’s a dozen other places that are real hairy on this planet. I don’t doubt it. But trust me, there’s no living jungle like Caracas. 

If the bullets don’t get ya, this fuckin’ heat will. 

But hey, come to think of it, the food ain’t half bad.

I guess that counts for something, right?

There are days like this where I don't do much. Ain't really got a reason to do anything unless Morris calls anyways. So I lay there, feeling used springs poking into my bareback. I roll the stale taste of my own breath around my mouth and try to forget where I am. But that ain't always easy. When you don't really have to sleep, you quickly find that your nightmares tend to happen wide awake. I can feel ghosts, just out the corner of my eye; not quite out of sight, but not there either. Today, I know real too well who's stoped by to say hello. He's as small as the day I lost him. He usually just sits in the corner, rocking himself and not saying much. Actually, he don't ever say nothing. He just sits there. Sometimes, when I'm out in the bush, getting eating alive by bugs the size of my fist, caked in mudd, I'll spot him between the tree, watching me. Tonight, I do my very best to ignore him. I roll on my side, the bed's frame groaning like a tired prostitute. I fish around the rough purple carpet for a taste of Jack, but all I come up with are empty cans and spare ammo.

Slowly, I sit up. The carpet feels like sandpaper under my bare feet, and I can feel beads of sweat rolling between my shoulder blades. I breath heavy, like there's a ton on my chest. Behind me, I can feel him looking at me, acusingly.

I can't cry. I haven't cried ever since they completely took my eyes away, almost 20 years ago. So I don't cry. I do the best thing I can. I curse, grunt and squeeze my fists until my knuckles are white and my nails draw blood. When I'm done breaking down, I turn round toward the window and he's gone. I feel like I should say something, but I ain't got any words.

I rummage through the two rooms I call home for anythin to calm me down. Pills, booze, BTLs. Anything. I come up empty handed. For a moment, I look at the Remington and wonder how it would feel to have the barrel under my chin. I wonder if I got it. My meat hand, moving on its own, goes for it. It shakes and I can barely hold the shotgun. The more I think about it, the more it seems like a good idea... but I ain't got the guts. Jack. Maybe lots of Jack would help send me on my way.

I grab my Colt, tug it inside my waistband, slip under some kevlar and I'm off.

I got myself a purpose tonight; a mission.
Got to kill myself.

[20:50 17 August 2072; Hotel Nuevo Dorado, the edge of La Rinconada, Caracas]

The sticky air is stagnantly still on the second floor balcony. The night air is motionless, but never quiet. Sporadic cracks of autofire in the distance, the sound of synthetic crap over latin beats from car stereos. The bugs are incessant in their buzzing, congregating under the few working streetlights across the street, illuminating the liquor store. The shopfront is mostly boarded up, with only one lucky window intact. The gangs inhabiting the flats above and beside the liquor store, running guns, munecas and beetles, have a deal with Caracas' Palco to keep the local businesses on this strip safe from the favela gangs two miles down the street in La Rinconada. The sprawl of hovels and drug dens has exploded with violence in recent months as the David Cartel muscles in, buying gangs to disrupt the Olaya's monopoly on the drug trade.

BAD's. Tempo. One of the last things Morris said to you, in a leafy skyrise bar in central Caracas that he favoured for the irish whiskey,
"Stay the fuck away from it. It's my backyard, and if you happen to hear anything, let me know, but don't go near Tempo. The cartel's will feed you to the dirt. Especially keep clear of any-one working for the Davids, the DSI has scary intel, any drekhole could be a cover for Azzie ops. Otontin could be anywhere and we have confirmation a drug lab in El Zamural went down last night, hard, courtesy of a Shorn One death squad. Willie-Peat rockets through the windows, and anyone who got out in time took a high caliber bullet from a way a-ways, we're still figuring the firing position, but I'm not wasting any assets in a favela, when the bullet tells me it was an Aztech Corp Intelligence pipeline it came through."
He paused, taking a drag on his half cigarette, and put two fingers in the air for more drinks. Exhaling deeply he continued.
"This clusterfuck with the Azzies and Amazonia was bad enough before they got involved with the cartels.", he said as the bed-table sized drone arrived with two fresh tumblers, "Don't take that shit either, Pope. Tempo, I mean. You and me, we're old school, right? As long as we've got single malt, and they don't stop shipping it down here, leaving us with synthetic shit, we'll be sittin' pretty, til our dying day."
You returned your empties to the drone and it trundled off, and he leaned in. "Remember my DIA chummer? Did MAGINT down here, on a little 'UCAS outreach program' I've been running out of the local shop. He's taken a powder, won't even zip down through the astral, manifest and say thanks for all the good times. Lost his nerve, maybe. Closest I have is DEA wizworms on my turf, and they're tugging on Interpol's skirts for info, trying to stem the tide of Tempo up into the UCAS. The FBI, and the IDEA are good shops, but they want no part of the special brand of business you and I specialize in, so you just sit tight, and me and mine will keep eyes on. Drink up."

Thinking about that Jamesons gets your feet moving, across the landing and down the stairs, where your thirteen year old landlord sits, sprawled on a wooden pallet. A bloody hunting knife juts from one of the planks, and the FN Praetor shifts in his lap as he pulls a crumpled soft pack, revealing unfiltered, white cigarettes. Pulling one with his teeth you see the fresh blood-slick on the back of his hand before he offers you your pick of the pack, tired eyes never leaving the gate for more than a moment. You wonder what the unlucky john did to disrespect the little pimp or his girl. No matter, the strangler fig out back, growing from the dirt and trash accumulated in the hotel's empty pool can absorb a body in a day. The local street shamans stay the hell away from it, some superstitious local shit.
"Fuego!", he calls to the puta by the gate of the hotel's outer wall, hip cocked, signposting sex. Wearing nothing but some ripped thigh high stockings and an oversized collared shirt, open more than halfway down, she's only a year or two older than the boy, by your reckoning. You've never had the heart to ask. At least he keeps her off Tempo, in his words, the stuff has made some of the hardest flesh workers go "loco" on the job.
"Si, Hermano", She sighs as turns from watching a dragonfly with a wingspan the size of your fore-arm, pulling a plastic lighter from her brassiere and lazily tossing it to her brother. By this time of night she's already had a hit or two of bliss and she smiles at you, lighter than air, "Hola, Senor Pope. Looking a little shaky, maybe we lie down, si?"

Ares Seattle HQ, Magical Research Division
17 August 2072, 2009 hrs
Arthur Garrett.

The would-be hitman eases a moment, confident that the old man is afraid of him. He's got the gun. As your eyes flick up, locking to his, he spooks like a horse to a gunshot, both men do, flinching. His eyes plead, he fumbles for the gun, like everything will be fine once it fills his palm. Ripples course through the air, tearing a deep furrow in the wall beside him as he drops sideways onto one knee unscathed, and in one smooth motion he pulls the Ares Crusader and aims.

"H-hey, Hey!", his partner protests, following the path of the weapon. A hiss escapes through his teeth, too late to form another word as the gun erupts. The grouping catches the man in the stomach, doubling over, wincing, his eyes screaming confusion and betrayal. His fore-arm is soaked in blood, trying to hold his stomach in.
"Please, no.", A plea for mercy escapes from the shooter, not the dying man. Corvina is at his back, head peeking over his shoulder, eyes growing wider with every flare from the gun barrel. She smiles, cold and without sympathy, and his twitching trigger finger squeezes down again. You look away, the ringing in your ears from the gunfire subsides with the wet thud of a head hitting the floor.

Ares Seattle HQ, Magical Research Division
17 August 2072, 2009 hrs

Well, that worked rather better than I expected, thought Corvina as she surveyed the red ruin that had been a man. She winked roguishly at the man with the machine pistol and told him, "Well done, sport!" in a tone of hearty congratulation. Before he could rouse himself from the horror of what he'd done, Corvina exerted her will again, this time fogging the man's mind with uncertainty and forgetfulness¹. Satisfied with hindering his ability to pursue them, she reached out and tapped the button marked "L." As the elevator doors closed, she brought her right hand up to her eye and looked at him through the circle of her thumb and forefinger, saying, "Be seeing you."

"Good lord, Corvina, what did you do?" exclaimed Arthur.

"Probably saved your life, Arthur. That man was going to shoot you; I could see it in his aura," the spirit replied. "I must admit, I wasn't expecting him to kill his partner outright. I mean, honestly, who walks around with a machine pistol set to burst-fire? Seems like overkill to me. Still, no use crying over spilled blood. We need to get out of here."

"Um... yes," Arthur admitted, his expression still troubled. "I suppose I should have anticipated this; this Bloodstar thing would be extraordinarily damaging to the company if it came to light. But damnit, I can't let it go. I can't just let them carry on like that!"

"Arthur, it will do no one any good, least of all those poor bastards in that lab, if you stick around and let Ares kill you. You might very well end up as one of their experimental subjects yourself. We have to get out, beyond the company's reach. Besides, it'll be a long, cold day in hell before I let you throw your life away." Corvina glared at him from beneath lowered brows; the elevator filled with the smell of ozone, and Arthur looked down to see sparks falling from her clenched fists. He realized with a start that she was perfectly capable of knocking him unconscious, throwing him over her shoulder and carrying him bodily out of the building.

"I don't remember making you quite this pugnacious, Corvina. I'm not sure I like this side of you," Arthur said archly.

"It's been ten years, Arthur. I've... what's your quaint mortal expression? 'Grown as a person.' We're getting out of here. We're going someplace... well, I don't imagine there is a place where Ares absolutely can't reach, but we're going to find a place where finding us is more trouble than it's worth. The Redmond Barrens seems like a good starting place."

"The Barrens? You must be joking. Look, I have quite a bit of money put away, we'll go someplace more congenial. I hear the Caribbean League is quite nice this time of year, and they do take their privacy laws quite seriously. Failing that, there's Switzerland - I always did like Berne - or..."

"Arthur, I hate to interrupt your fantasizing, but I suspect that by now you don't have any money at all. You did your banking with Centurion, right? The bank that Ares owns?"

"Yes, of course, why? ...Oh." Arthur hurriedly punched up his account balance on his commlink, only to receive a flashing red notice: ACCOUNT FROZEN. "Damn."

"Damn, indeed. Your SIN is probably also flagged; you couldn't leave the country if you tried. We need to disappear, we can't leave Seattle, and we don't have any money. The Barrens is pretty much our only choice."

"How the hell do you know so much about... this sort of thing?" Arthur asked her sharply.

Corvina grinned impishly. "All those hours I whiled away reading bad adventure novels. I really appreciated you setting up that account for me at the printers', Arthur."

"Too bad your taste in literature is so appalling," he grumbled.

"Take heart: my bad taste is probably going to save us both."

Suddenly, the elevator lurched to a stop. The numbers over the keypad read 20.

"Damn, I know I hit the lobby button," said Corvina. At that moment, the lights went out. Fortunately, the elevator was a glass-walled affair running up the outside of the building, so the occasional flashes of lightning gave some illumination.

"Bugger," said Arthur with feeling. "Now what?"

They had hardly begun investigating the floor and ceiling for a way out when Arthur noticed movement outside. Two rotodrones were circling the building, alternately scanning the ground with searchlights and shining them into the building.

"I think they're looking for us, Corvina."

"I think you're right, Arthur." She pointed up at the sky, where two black helicopters were rapidly approaching the rooftop helipad. "And I think they called in reinforcements."

Palms to the glass, you stare as the choppers crest the building's roof and disappear. Your gaze snaps to another elevator, on the central column only a few feet from your elevator wall. You start to feel the vibration through your feet and hands as it descends. It is dark inside, you can barely make out a single hulking figure, bearing the long silhouette of a combat rifle, and a duffel bag slung across his back. As the elevator levels out, coming to a smooth stop on your floor, two pin-pricks of sky blue reveal the man's cyber-eyes, and a flash of lightning illuminates a square jaw and the dazzling reflection of twin chrome cyber-arms.

William Schrader, Ontario farm boy. "Captain UCAS", they call him around the building. A former Firewatch commando of some kind. Highly decorated, he received the position of Chief of Security as a retirement gift from Damien Knight, for services rendered and injuries sustained in operations against the Universal Brotherhood, and a few extended tours of duty in Chicago before the wall went down. You have an amiable relationship, but a shallow one; His interest in magic is solely in killing things that pierce the veil, and you don’t count yourself as conversant in the ways of the Weapons World catalogue, the Desert Wars or the latest upgrades for the Ares Humvee Civic. He has two of them.
With the duffel bag unslung, he crouches over it, fiddling with something in the darkness before slapping a piece of paper against the plexiglass. Your old eyes can't decipher it until another fork of lightning streaks past.

Corvina took in Schrader's message, then said worriedly, "I'm not sure that's an especially good idea, Arthur. He might want you to reboot so the security spiders can install some kind of spyware on your 'link."

"I don't know. He's got us dead to rights here: all he has to do is shoot through the glass. I don't think it's bulletproof."

"You've got line-of-sight. You could hit him with a spell preemptively."

"Pick a fight with Captain UCAS?" Arthur said, astounded. "I'd prefer to avoid that if at all possible. I'm rebooting my 'link."

Corvina didn't say anything, but gave him a worried look.

Arthur took his commlink out of his jacket and pushed the reset button on the side of the little slab of electronics. The screen flashed white, then blue, then displayed the POST sequence. Arthur held the device up to the glass so Schrader could see it was rebooting.

[21:56 17 August 2072; Deep Watch Matrix Node]

Engaging the Browse program, you slip beneath the waves, further from the simulated sun's genuine warmth, skirts trailing over your head as you sink further into the node, past fish corpses and the haze of red into dark waters, chill, but you still catch movement, the glitter of scales. Paydirt. You kick against the water, darting closer, and taste… iron? Blood. And see the telltale cuts and tiny clouded spurts cascading into the water. There is a pattern here, a corruption, caused by an algorithm, perhaps in the IC darting about in the depths, but you see an intent, perhaps an instruction to corrupt certain files, or parts of files, as quickly as possible. The Swordfish Program is advanced, corrupting this massive codebank so efficiently, but you couldn't tell exactly how advanced or what the instruction set was without analyzing the IC specifically. But your Stealth program's integrity is solid for now, and this is your last chance to probe this node for answers.

Altering your parameters, a web, certain fish glow in the darkness, and despite partial corruption, should still prove useful. Unfortunately, transferring to readable format, the first file you find is not exactly full of paydata.


... and it continues like that for quite a time. Not Deleted, per se, but corrupted. It bears the access ID of the Swordfish program's utilities. This file was targeted, overridden with blanks. But one word pops out from the fragments you piece together. Butterfly.

Nothing useful. Nothing you didn't know except vagaries and obscure codenames. You need to collect whatever they have on Mother before the IC tears it into something even Aria couldn't recover.



Of course, opening the back door for you, Aria had served her interests and preserved her secrecy. It seems the internal link to Balefire is intact, you follow the thread to another file.



On a hunch you follow Mermaid one's data-trail, and there is one log-reference intact, an audio file buried in the cache. At 20:09, moments before most programs unloaded and all personas logged off.