Monday July 29, 2075; Rocco’s

The door swung open easily and he found himself in a good-sized anteroom, all four walls hung with the same scarlet velvet curtains, edged with gold fringe. The fabric was remarkably effective in shutting out the din of the street. There was some 19th century furniture, a few chairs, a settee, all upholstered in the same red material. Small lamps on several glass end tables were weakly burning incandescent bulbs under oppressively heavy shades. The little light they let escape was all there was in the room. The bases of all the lamps were little gold statues of dogs, each a different breed.

There was not a single piece of flash, per se, in sight, though there were easels in the room’s four corners, each with a poster-sized, gold-framed photo of a piece of body art. A woman’s back sporting a proud husky, with fur that made Al squint to see that it was indeed ink and not some sort of photographic transfer to the skin. A bald man, face ferocious and framed as that of a great jungle cat, the effect altogether transporting him from metahumanity to gray netherspace between man and beast. A woman, supine, covered in kaleidoscopically cascading scales, her body coiled like the snake goddess she had become. The chest of a woman, apparently a breast cancer survivor, hosting an Akita with eyes that caught Al’s, questioning him. “Yes,” he answered, and the sound of his own voice broke the spell. Just a tattoo. Hell, just a picture of a tattoo.

But for the life of him he couldn’t remember what the question had been.

Some clever reworkings of Jobim were filtering in from beyond the curtains, which started to move. A woman’s shadowed form, one straight arm holding a heavy section of curtain aside, creating a black triangle.

Monday July 29, 2075; Rocco’s

“You’re quite well armed.”

“Aw, not ‘spectin’ no trouble. Jist nothin’ but muh bike ‘twixt me an’ the sky right now.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“There’s worse. Rocco around?”

“Rocco died in the fourteenth century.”

“BC or AD?”

“Can I help you with something?”

“Well, this a tattoo joint?”

“Our client list is somewhat exclusive.”

“Got this here card.”

She emerged from the shadow, accompanied by the voice of a girl who sounded as if she must be very lovely, whispering something bossanovic in Portuguese. Then the curtain swung shut and it was just the woman and Al in the room.

“Yes, Mal mentioned he’d sent someone. But that was over a week ago.”

“Din’t know it wuz a limited time offer.”

She didn’t belong in that room. She was slender, if not skinny, and tall enough that Al glanced up to confirm her ears were round. There was nothing 19th century about her loose-fit black jeans or fluffy angora sweater, which was just the right shade of gray to clash with all the red and gold. She had long, thick blond hair that fell straight down in tireless kinks, and a face that someone who cared for her and liked large noses might find inexpressibly beautiful. Since Al did neither, he just thought she looked odd.

“It’s not.” The first hint of a smile. “But I’d thought Mal must be slipping.”

“Book guy? Codger knows his cards.”

“His referrals usually cross my threshold within a day or two. Three at the most.”

Al silently congratulated himself on constantly defying expectations. “Places ta go, people ta see.”

“I’m glad we made the list. Please, let’s sit down and discuss what you’re looking for.”

“Mighty hospitable. But beggin’ yer pardon, jist come in tonight fer a look-see. Gittin’ a mite chilly out, an’ I got some friends waiting on muh bike.”

“Well I hope you’ll be back.”

A tip of the imaginary hat. “Count on it.”

And just as he turned and reached for the door: “Why not leave them with me? Just until you sort out where you’re staying. I have a box in the back that will work perfectly.”

Thursday August 1st, 2075; Zero's

From the outside, Zero's looked like a dive bar to end all dive bars. From the seat at the bar that Ali grabbed, one casual glance around the joint confirmed it. There wasn't a list of craft beer to chose from, so she asked the surly Ork behind the bar covered in as many tattoos as scars for two of whatever was coldest and set one in front of the empty stool beside her and waited for Al's arrival.

She took a pull from the bottle, grimacing slightly at the beer's distinct lack of character or flavor. The best she could say about it was that it was cold and you could get a hint of the alcohol it contained. While she waited, she zoned out watching an urban brawl match on a cracked trid behind the bar as she paid more attention to the messages being tossed back and forth between herself and a couple of others that were starting the groundwork for an upcoming job. The entire reason she was here to see Al, to pick his brain and lighten her workload.

Of the few unsavory types that were apparently the regulars of the bar, a couple of dockworkers, a woman that might pass as the neighborhood drunk, whore or both, Ali was grateful that no one said anything or even paid her much attention, and that was just the way she liked it.

Thursday August 1st, 2075; Zero's

It was far from Al's first time in Zero's, but he wouldn't call himself a regular. He preferred the company of men who worked for a living, and there were a lot more of those down by the docks than here at the edge of the Barrens.

There were a helluva lot better places to get a drink just a few hundred yards north…no reason to be down here unless you hated the pawns more than the thrillers. Or it was just a birds of a feather thing. Hell, he was here, wasn't he?

He resisted the urge to head straight for the bar, taking time for a quick look around for any wise guys. But it was pointless. Anyone in here could be their eyes and ears. But he was thirsty. And he couldn't let Peaches down.

She'd saved him a seat, and had his cold one all lined up.

"Hey there, darlin', how's yer folks?"

Thursday August 1st, 2075; Zero's

Ali's focus shifted from the image display of her contacts to the haggard, yet better-rested face of "Uncle Al." A slight smile turned up the corners of her mouth as she tilted her bottle in greeting in Al's direction.

"Folks are good. Dad's off consulting and Mom sends her best. She wants to know when you're joining us for dinner again. Haven't talked to Adam in a week, he's comms down for a while I guess." She shrugged and took a moment to take another quick glance about the bar as Al settled himself on the seat beside her.

"You're looking better than the last time I saw you. And what's with this keeping your head down business?"

Thursday 1st August, 2075; Zero's

"Well, the one's tied ta the other, I reckon. Got muhself onna wrong side o' Arty Gianelli, with the upside bein' that it gave me the…um…opportunity ta spend some time up in the woods. Mountain air done ol' Al some good, it seems."

After his day with the hippies, it was good to see her. No spinning metal eyes or crazy computer telepathy. A damned good girl, too good for this dump, but he knew she could handle herself, though it had taken him years to accept it.

"Consultin', is it? Sounds almost like yer pa done got hisself respectable."

Thursday 1st August, 2075; Zero's

Ali had to stifle a laugh at the thought of her father being legit in any definition of the word, even loosely. However, her eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of a Gianelli as they weren't a family to let slights slide easily.

"What did you do, piss on his leg and tell him it was raining?" She couldn't help but shake her head slightly, sending her dark hair swinging and baring her shoulders. Al would have a legitimate reason for being on the wrong side of a Mafia family no doubt, but it did make her sit up a little straighter and keep her eyes on the locals for anyone a little too interested in the pair.

"As for Dad, I think he does it just so he doesn't feel so old and out of touch with the tech."

Thursday 1st August, 2075; Zero's

"Well, he wuz always a smart one. Can't do no wrong keeping' abreast of the curve." Watching the kid toss her hair around reminded Al she was a pretty girl. He'd have to watch the crowd in here, make sure no one got any loco ideas. They didn't see much of her quality in a place like this.

Then again, pretty or not, she'd always had a certain way of not getting noticed.

He took a long pull on his beer. Damn if that wasn't about the best brew he'd ever had. Savored, thought, answered the first question: "Reckon I dropped his car in the ocean. Didn't take too kindly to it. But tell me, now, Peaches, you din't drag ol' Al out on a cold dark night jist to buy me a beer. What kinda mischief ya into now?"

Thursday 1st August, 2075; Zero's

"No, it wasn't just for the beer. I needed a second set of eyes and to talk through a plan to make sure before I propose my plan, I'm not going off half-cocked and missing something that's going to get us caught up in trouble of one sort or another."

She pulled out her commlink and set it on the bar top, she manipulated it into the file system and pulled up a set of building schematics, namely the internal heating and cooling systems, plumbing and the like. She sent it to the small screen on her commlink and handed it over to Al.

"I need your advice. Need a way to move about the floor once inside, bypassing as many cameras, sensors and pairs of eyes as possible. My...friends are pushing for a matrix and magic angle, and I'm thinking old school."

She paused to read Al's face as he looked at the plans she handed him.

"Am I crazy to think that through the vents would make sense?"

Thursday 1st August, 2075; Zero’s

Al liked her thinking. “Ya can’t trust that matrix crap, and magic is of the devil. Old school is the only school, Peaches. Now gimme a tick here.”

He looked at the plans, scrolling around the building on the tiny screen. No, she wasn’t crazy. Usually, he’d dismiss such a hare-brained scheme out of hand, but she’d already done her homework. Unlike most HVAC systems, the ducts in this large building were indeed big enough for a small human or elf to maneuver in, even the sections that narrowed to keep air pressure constant. And the structure had a good dust filtration system, so she wouldn’t need a separate air supply. Noise was always a huge issue with these things, but he was sure she’d already worked something out for that. Her pa would have done. So he skipped the obvious and got down to his real concerns.

“Oh, she’s doable. But’cha gotta watch out fer one thing in partickaler.” Using a jagged broken fingernail, he traced the line showing her intended route. “They haven’t spent as much as some on infrastructure security, and I’d bet muh last smoke the reason is right here. See, all roads, includin’ your planned route, go through this central junction. Now the reason fer that is all the way inna sub-basement, where the boiler is. Some places go for a distributed heating layout, where they got lots o’ smaller units spread through the structure. Less distance ta move the heat, that way, an’ ya git redundancy. But there’s any number of other reasons to do what these folks done an’ generate all yer heat through a single unit. The output starts out hot - real hot, Peaches - and it shoots straight up through that central junction before cooling to where people wants it as it diffuses through the building. Since you gotta go through that area ta git jist ‘bout anywhere in there, then you gotta be ready fer a couple hunnerd degrees fer a good part o’ yer little ol’ walkabout. Now, there’s ways around that. Easiest is ta wait. Been chilly last few days - real Seattle summer - but if’n you kin wait till it gits hot again, hot enough fer the nights to be warm, then yer problem pretty much disappears cuz they ain’t gon’ heat the place. But then ol’ Al don’t know what kinda timeline you an’ yer friends is on.”

Thursday 1st August, 2075; Zero’s

Ali nodded at his assessment, once again running things by Al had proved fruitful. She very well could have ended up burnt like toast on this run had Al not pointed out the linchpin in her plan. She accepted her commlink as Al handed it back to her and studied the schematics again, seeing now what he had pointed out and filed it away for future reference, chalking her overlooking that one major factor up to a learning experience.

"Good catch Al, that definitely warrants a second beer on me since you probably just saved my hide."

She glossed over the timeline comment however as even though she trusted Al almost like family, she always went the distance to insulate herself from any leaks of information, which included removing any identifying details of the building that she'd be traipsing around in off the blueprints themselves.

She flagged the bartender over and ordered a second round for them both and waited for him to walk away before picking up their discussion.

"Any other major red flags that you can see with their internals?"

Thursday 1st August, 2075; Zero's

Al accepted the second free beer gratefully, downing half in one pull. "Naw, seems like ya got 'er sussed. 'Sides, ol' Al's jist a workin' stiff, none o' whut passes fer fancy security know-how. Reckon you'll be fine, pervided yer friends really is friends. Yer pa used ta work alone, and fer hisself. 'Cuz he knew whut I keeps telling' ya - there ain't no honor in some perfessions. So you jist choose yer mates with care, 'cuz there's folks got yer back, but vengeance generlly comes way too late ta do the avenged a damn bit o' good."

Thursday 1st August, 2075; Zero's

Ali held up her hand and nodded, having heard the same story time and time again not only from Al but her father as well.

"I know, I know. Dad used to work alone more often than not before everything got even more cutting edge even in the lowliest of places. When all it took was a one-man-show and you could farm out the off-site stuff. Not quite the same these days, you almost have to have someone else backing your plays, or you're working for peanuts."

She frowned slightly, knowing full well that they were both right. It was a good reminder to hear leading up to the team's next planning session. However she wasn't about to be able to support herself doing one-man-jobs, which meant she needed the rest of the group to cover her ass and if necessary draw the heat off her if it came down to it. She was careful about how much anyone knew about her, giving them just enough to trust her but not enough info to hang her out to dry if it came down to it. She could if things started to turn ugly, still walk away from the group and this job if her gut started to tell her something was going sideways.

She took a long pull from her beer and let out a long, slow breath. Better to turn the attention away from her and back on to Al and his predicament before it turned into a longer lecture, one that her parents would ultimately hear about.

"So, are you settled somewhere to lay low for a while while this car in the ocean mess blows over?"

Thursday 1st August, 2075; Zero's

The unshaven little man opened his mouth to answer, but instead burst out laughing. Just the thought of what he was about to say sent him into hysterics. Shaking his head, he patted at his pockets for cigarettes but none had miraculously materialized since he'd checked five minutes earlier. "Sorry, Peaches, but it's the damnedest thing. Ol' Al's holed up in some sorta hippie commune! Kin ya jist imagine that? But I don't reckon it matters none. We all know I's headed off ta Hollywood any day now anyway. Hell, this whole cosa nostra kerfuffle might be jist the time ta kiss the Emerald City g'bye. Hey, ya got a smoke, hon?"

Thursday 1st August, 2075; Zero's

Ali shook her head with a grin on her lips as Al mentioned being holed up with today's version of hippies and quietly mused to herself who might crack first. She then wrinkled her nose at the thought of having a pack of smokes on her as she continued to shake her head.

"You know I don't touch the stuff Al, but next time I'll bring a pack just for an occasion like this." She chided slightly, knowing the cigarettes weren't doing anything of value for Al's health.

"Holing up with hippies, Dad's never going to let you hear the end of this you know..." She finished the first of her beers and slid the remaining one over to Al. "I do appreciate letting me run my thoughts past you Al, but I don't want to keep you out past your commune's curfew." She winked and tossed a couple of nu in script on the bar for the bartender. She really was a rather charming girl, once she trusted you enough to let you in.

Thursday 1st August, 2075; Zero’s

The older man laughed and shook his head, helping himself to Ali’s untouched beer as she walked out. “You jist watch yerself, Peaches,” he said under his breath by way of goodbye.

A fourth and fifth beer later, he remembered he was hungry. Talked to the bartender for a few minutes, and fifty nuyen later his bike was safely in the storeroom of the dive and he was headed north on foot. Thirty minutes and he’d be out of the Barrens and in Puyallup proper. Meridian was pretty well lit up to where the rollers stopped their patrols, and once he was back in civilization he’d keep to back streets until he found his way back to Rocco’s.

On his way, he ducked into a well-fortified bodega and payed certified cred for a couple of sandwiches, a carton of Lucky Strikes (thank Samedi!), and another beer. Eating as he walked, he thought about what sort of tattoo he’d like to get.

Of course, he shouldn’t have needed to think about it at all, since he’d decided it days ago. But he was all confused about it now. He knew it was something to do with his voodoo powers, maybe that was really as far as his thinking had gotten.

Whatever. He’d work it out by the time he got there. And by the second sandwich, he was pretty sure he had.

Thursday 1st August, 2075; Rocco’s

It was past eleven by the time he got there, but like most of the street the lights were still on and the door still unlocked. And like last time, there was no one in there but the pretty voice of the girl singing bossanova.

Everything was the same, even the odd looking blond that came out from behind the red curtain.

“Are you here for your snakes, or to talk about your piece?”

“How’re they doin’?”

“How are you doing?”

“Reckon I’ll live.”

“Then you can sit down.” And she sat.

He joined her, taking a place in a red velvet chair half facing her. Stretched his legs out in front of himself and crossed them at the ankles.

She waited.

“Reckon one ‘o the voodoo gods.”

“Do you mean a loa?”

“Aloha back.”

She licked her lips. “No, by god do you mean loa?”

“Sister, God is God, an’ there ain’t but one. Ol’ Al said god-z, pluralized, lower case.”

“Of course. It is a very important distinction. But what I meant to ask is, by gods were you referring to loa?”

“Whut?”

“Ghede, Legba, Shango...”

“Yeah, sister, them, the voodoo gods. Want one ‘o them.”

“Why?”

“Well, I’ll allow as they’s genrally ugly sons o’ bitches, but ya want the juice, ya gotta give ‘em their due.”

“i won’t argue. And which is your patron?”

“All of ‘em. Except the spider-lookin’ one. Got no truck with him.”

“Very well. Which of the others would you like for your piece?”

“Little hazy on that right at the moment.”

A smile, very slight. “That is perfectly all right. It is not a decision to rush.”

“Well, I appreciate that, though I beg yer pardon for wastin’ yer time.”

“Not at all. I find it a pleasure to talk with you. Al, did you say?”

“Oh heavens ta Betsy, where’s muh manners? Al Guthrie, at yer service.”

“It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Al Guthrie. It really is. What I think we should do is really take our time with this. You can visit me as often as you like, and we will figure out exactly what you’d like your piece to be.”

Al congratulated himself on the way women always warmed to him. “Well that is mighty hospitable,” he said, getting up. “An’ I’ll be back fer muh friends sooner ‘n later.”

“No problem,” she said, holding the door. “And by the way, just a bit of trivia for the road - did you know that all voodoo practitioners - except for you, of course - have only one patron?”

July 29th 2075


Deck Settings (Attack: 3 Sleaze: 6(7) Firewall: 5 Data Processing: 5)
Programs running: VM, Exploit, Baby Monitor, Sneak, stealth

Flying high in the matrix stream of Seattle, Revenant settled down into the node he was given as the next access point. The code he was told to use gave him access and as his persona entered he saw the change in scenery.

The inside of the node was blank slate grey walls, nothing of note whatsoever. In the "center" of the node was a simple file, with the password for the data bomb presumably synced to the code he used to access the node.

'A fragging dead-drop...' He thought to himself. A few months on the run from MCT and his past life and he was running low on cash, food and options. He had been helping at a local truck stop in the edge of Puyallup, retrofitting their archaic software and sculpting the system while also fixing up and editing all their files and archiving it. In return he had been getting 3 square meals, lodging and no questions asked. Plus all the Long Haul he could afford from his previous cred stick dispenser frauds.

His persona's body symbols lit with a white glow and a rotting hand started to emerge from the file, followed by the rest of a small zombie as his edit file started the file transfer and he sighed.

Atleast it's better than nothin. Mr. Shigari hadn't been in contact for weeks until this last message he had received this morning containing the coordinates and passcodes for this node.

The file finished crawling towards him - 0.0003617 seconds- and seemingly walked into his persona, being absorbed. Having completed it's one download the file self destructed and the node began a shut down protocol.

-2.6 seconds until complete-

Atleast he could rely on his old supervisor being thorough he thought to himself before he gracefully logged off the matrix and awoke to the dingy room before him.

Taking in the scene of the room the young man stood up and brushed his hair from his face. He knew he needed to eat and drink, to take care of himself. The surgery lines from his recent chop shop surgery were still red and raw, the earlier infection finally wearing down. He regretting having to get cheap, used ware in himself but it was a necessity, after his second attempted mugging he knew he needed the advantage to bring his rather frail body up to par with the streets he now lived on.

With little ceremony he grabbed the half eaten sandwich and ramen he had started earlier and wolfed it down with tepid water along with a pair if antibiotics from the "surgeon". His work for the manager had given him another month lodgings and good here, and he knew he needed to make good use of it or before he knew it he would be out on the streets again with nothing but what was on his back.

With a dreary head he lifted the datacable from his deck to his cranium and jacked into his decks memory banks.

Friday 2nd August, 2075; Rocco's, Puyallup City

Same red curtains, same dog lamps, same nouveau bossanova. Al had a big canvas sack in his hand.

His bike was out front, which wasn't smart. He needed new wheels and a fresh ID, which he reckoned he'd have soon, but he hadn't wanted to leave his new charges with tattoo witch a minute longer.

Like clockwork the tall skinny big-nosed kinky-haired blond moved through the curtain, only blackness behind her.

"I'm glad to see you."

"Jist come fer muh snakes."

"Let's sit down."

"Let's not."

"How old are you?"

"Old as I feel, lady. How old 'er you?"

"How old do you think I am?"

"Learned not ta step inta that bear trap afore I knew muh letters."

"Some women are sensitive. I'm not."

"A woman, or sensitive?"

"Your snakes are in the back."

"You a devil worshipper?"

"No."

"In league with Satan?"

"Not the last time I checked."

"Well jist git me muh snakes."

"I'm not picking them up."

"Well lead the way then."

"Through the curtains is only for customers. I am sensing you no longer fit that description."

"Well then you are plenny sensitive."

"Perhaps about some things."

"So what's ol' Al a'thinkin' right now?"

She gestured toward the front door with her chin. "Pull around back, and I'll let you into the storeroom that way."

Once he'd pulled around, the door was opened as promised. The storeroom was just as it had been when he'd left the snakes there a few days earlier. Opening the large wooden box, Al could see that the animals had been wall cared for - warm, watered, and one had fed. As he picked them up and worked them into the bag, he felt a lot better.

"Listen, reckon I wuz up on muh high horse a bit. Ya done took good care o' my friends here, an' I am grateful."

"You're welcome."

"That yer work in them pictures inna lobby?"

"Yes."

"Reckon I'd still like me some o' that."

"Come back again, we'll continue our chat."

"Shore." He opened the back door, but looked back. "Reckon ol' Al knows who he is. Knows what he is."

"Half right."

He opened his mouth to reply, but something stopped him. He got on his dirt bike and headed home with his new pets.

Saturday 3rd August, 2075; Rocco’s, Puyallup

They sat straight down tonight. Same seats as before.

“Have you decided which of your many patrons you’d like for your piece?”

“Don’t do that. It ain’t gon’ gitcha nowhere.”

“Sorry.”

“Ya ain’t rattlin’ me no more. Ol’ Al knows which side his bread’s a’buttered on, an’ he knows who’s doin’ the butterin’, an’ it don’t make no nevermind nohow ta you whether it’s one or a baker’s damn dozen.”

“But I’m not sure you want a baker’s dozen on your back. Eventually you’ll have to make a choice. And won’t that be significant? Won’t that be a bit like playing favorites?”

“Who said muh back wuz where I wanted it?”

“No one - that’s just usual for a major piece. And I only do major pieces.”

“Well I ain’t hardly usual, sister.”

“I know that very well.”

“An’ the back’s out.”

“What do you have there now?”

“Well, it ain’t ink.”

“Show me.”

A pure white Akita nosed its way through the red velvet curtains. She was huge. Sat on her haunches next to Al and without so much as a by-your-leave started licking the burn-melted flesh of his left hand.

“She likes you.”

“They genrally do.”

The dog looked at the blond and whined ever so slightly.

“It seems I have to go. I am truly sorry to cut this evening’s chat so short. Can you show yourself out?”

July 29th 2075, Puyallup


Revenant jacked out of his deck, returning to the meat world before him. It had only been a few moments he had been going through the deck offline, and sadly the file only contained a few small documents. The first was a chamber of commerce piece about a tribe called the "Mechanicals", while the second was a list of MCT personnel, in alphabetical order, glaringly lacking both his own name and his parents. Lastly was a word document containing two words "Fre∑dom Tribe".

'A little enigmatic...' He thought to himself, mentally going through the data. Though unsurprised by his new found lack if existence, the notion saddened him. His whole life, who he was, his family, everything gone. No trace, like he never existed.

Guessing it's time to do some research, he settles back in to a comfortable position on the bed and jacks himself back in to the 'trix

Deck Settings (Attack: 3 Sleaze: 6(7) Firewall: 5 Data Processing: 5)
Programs running: VM, Exploit, Baby Monitor, Sneak, stealth

The virtual representation of Seattle laying before him, it only takes a moment to render himself hidden and electronically transfer himself to MCTs public host. A few moments more and he was checking up the lists for enrolled students and alumni. Nothing recorded.

Not wanting to disturb anything and pry further, Revenant gives the digital equivalent of a sigh, returning to the Seattle area matrix and gets to work.

Sunday 4th August, 2075; Puyallup, Puyallup

By the time Al reached the city, all safe behind his tinted windows and airtight vehicle reg, he was sore hungry. Driving around an upper-middle-class shopping district near the municipal offices, he looked for a place that served real food but was casual. Ended up dropping a hundred nuyen on a steak dinner with all the trimmings at a bistro that catered to the evening shopping crowd.

It wasn’t exactly the soup kitchen.

The beer was expensive and imported, but aside from bringing back some decadent nights in Hamburg, it didn’t sing to him any louder than the cheap stuff he usually drank. Still, he had four.

And by the time he was done, the shadows had lengthened into night. It was time to go figure some things out.

Sunday 4th August, 2075; Puyallup, Puyallup

“I’m sorry about last night.”

“What fer?”

“I like to give my clients my undivided attention.”

“Ya don’t seem ta have many.”

“Quality over quantity.”

“Don’t exactly make fer a volume business.”

“I make it up with my prices.”

“An’ the book codger’s yer scout.”

“One.”

“So if’n I’d never ventured inta his shop...”

“My card would still have found you.”

“Still can’t decide which one I want.”

“I know.”

“Okay, reckon I’m settin’ muhself up fer another damned riddle answer, but how?”

“How are your friends?”

“They’s makin’ out jist fine. An’ I thank ya kindly once more.”

“Have you named them?”

“Hell, they’s jist reptiles.”

“Well, they must...like...you. Or something. You handled them so casually. For a moment I thought that must be our answer. But it’s not. Weren’t you afraid?”

Monday 4th August, 2042: 10 miles up a dirt track from Lynch Creek, Arkansas, CAS

“Weren’t you afraid?”

“Aw, goodness no, EmKay. It’s jist like Pa sez, if’n yore soul is right afore the Lord, then ain’t no power o’ the adversary kin act upon ya. He sez handlin’s in muh nature.”

“Well I’ve been to a whole lot of meetings, baby brother, but I dare to say I ain’t never seen the spirit fall upon anyone like it did you yesterday.”

Of all his siblings, Al loved Emily Kate the most dearly, but at fifteen she was only a year his senior, and he hated when she called him baby. “You want ta call someone baby, howzabout one o’ these two pups?”

“I ain’t no baby,” protested the two young boys in near-unison. Leroy was nine, but almost as big as Al, though that wasn’t saying too much, since Al was well on his way to being the runt of the litter. At six, Memphis hadn’t got his growth on him yet. Bright apple cheeks under a mop of cowlicked hair, he followed Leroy everywhere.

The four youngest Guthrie children were sitting in a circle on the dirt floor of the shed where Pa kept the still. It was always warm here. Memphis said, “But Al you musta been scared, handlin’ all three o’ them at once.”

“An’ them so worked up an’ all,” added Leroy.

“Once you’ve had yer witness that they cain’t harm ya none nohow, then they ain’t nothin’ ta be afeard of. Like it sez inna Book o’ Mark, chapter sixteen,’ Al began, when the dinner bell rang. The three boys stubbed out their cigarettes and all four children ran to the the small family home. Smells of fried chicken and peach pie wafted across the intervening space. They met Elmo and Cletus coming in from their work in the barn, and the younger boys charged them, only to end up being carried into the house over shoulders or suspended by their ankles. Inside, the kitchen was aswirl with activity as children and teenagers went about washing up, and Pearl helped Ma keep greedy hands from the biscuits before grace was said.

Sunday 4th August, 2075; Puyallup, Puyallup

Al smiled. “No. Not afraid.” Voice still like bones in a blender, but somehow, for a moment, there was something lighter to it. “But I thought we wuz talkin’ ‘bout muh piece.”

“We are”

“An’ how’s that?”

“Al, I don’t suppose I need to tell you I’m not exactly your average tattoo artist.”

Maybe now some answers. “Do tell.”

“I’m a really good, really really good tattoo artist.”

Tease. “Go on.”

Her hand moved expansively, its sweep taking in the photos on the easels. “Good?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“The technique is good.”

“Never seen better. Never seen anythin’ comes close.”

“But it’s not the technique that speaks to you.”

“No.”

“It’s the matching of the work with the canvas.”

“But that ain’t all.”

“The work alone is ink. But it brings something out. Something that makes it more, greater than the sum.”

“An’ if that somethin’s not already in there ta be brought out...”

“As I said, it all starts - and ends - with the matching.”

There was a new cigarette in his mouth, and he held his Zippo up in both scarred hands to light it. “Like a marriage.”

Monday 4th August, 2042: 10 miles up a dirt track from Lynch Creek, Arkansas, CAS

“...like a marriage. But o’ course they ain’t married. So they’s jist livin’ in sin.” Ada was eighteen, and jabbering about marriage quite a lot these days.

Half a wary eye on her parents, her sister Clementine ventured: “Leastways they love each other.”

There was a silence as everyone wondered what Ma would say to that, but she held her piece. Al had been paying close attention to his big sister Clem since the spring, when Pa had said to him, “She’s the one’ll go off ta college one day.” Said it like she had the cancer.

With no rebuttal forthcoming, the young woman went on, “I can’t see how the Lord Jesus would fail ta see how good Randy treats her. Or somehow curse their union while blessin’ that of Avery an’ Jolene Hicks jist cuz they wuz hitched in a particular building with a big ol’ cross out front.”

“By a man ordained with the proper authority,” Ma reminded quietly.

Pearl jumped in quickly: “Jolene had a shiner on her at meetin’ like a mule kicked her.”

“She backtalks,” Cletus explained.

“Pa,” little Memphis spoke up. A few weeks ago he’d started refusing the cushions Emily Kate would put on his chair, so his chin barely cleared the tabletop. “Ma backtalks you a blue streak, sir. Why’n’cha ever give her a big mule-kick shiner?”

Ma and Pa and their nine children all laughed. Poor Elmo had just taken a swig of milk, and he snorted it onto the green peas.

But once the mirth had subsided, Pa spoke. “Boy thinks he’s funnin’ but you young men know it’s a fair question in this here fallen world. And, Memphis, I will answer you, son. And you others listen up real good, for I speak the truth.”

Forks, knives, cups, all quietly came to rest on the table.

“A man will answer to the Lord for every last tear his good wife sheds. The Avery Hickses of this world had best learn that quick, for their eternal souls’ sake. And you boys, you learn it now. Amen.”

“Amen.”

And as they resumed eating, Pa added, “But at least Avery Hicks had the decency to marry his woman. If this Randy character really cared fer that Christian sister like he’s got y’all silly girls thinkin’ he does, he’d make an honest woman of ‘er.”

Sunday 4th August, 2075; Puyallup, Puyallup

“So you see, one of the reasons you can’t decide which of the, um, voodoo gods you want is because you are thinking in terms of preference. But it is really about what is inside of you.”

“Well now it sounds ta me like yer sayin’ ol’ Al ain’t got no choice in the thing.”

“Oh, you very much have had a choice. But it is not a choice you can make today. It is the sum total of the choices you’ve made every day of your life until now.”

“Yer soundin’ like one o’ Hun’s self-help rags.”

“Self-help hasn’t gotten you far, I’m afraid. That’s why you were brought to me.”

“Sister, you done opened maybe three separate cans o’ worms with jiist that one sentence. But since I already wrote ya off as at least half crazy, I ain’t gon’ take offense.”

“Maybe you should. It might help us get there faster.”

“Git us where?”

“To your answer.”

“Y’all seem ta think ya know that answer already, so why’n’cha jist tell ol’ Al whatcha reckon he’s got inside himself.”

The Akita came back, nosing its way through the curtains, letting just a hint of the bossanove escape, and padding over to the two humans. The dog licked Al’s hand.

Monday 4th August, 2042: 10 miles up a dirt track from Lynch Creek, Arkansas, CAS

The dog licked Al’s hand. He wasn’t supposed to be under the table, but Al loved Hannibal like one of his own brothers. He couldn’t be called dignified by any stretch of the imagination, but he was clever like a fox at getting what he wanted. And as usual, he wanted whatever was on Al’s plate.

Palming a morsel of chicken and passing it down to his friend, Al looked over at the other two in the corner. Big, brown Rex was the boss, and always carried himself like a lion. But pride of place went to old Rufus, sprawled on the mountain of old blankets that were his and his alone. He shared the same birthday as Al, they’d grown up together, and now at fourteen he was well past middle age for his breed. But he’d earned a lifetime place of honor there in the corner when he’d pulled little Memphis out of a house fire. Old woman Harper’d burned herself and her place down by falling asleep on the sofa with a lit cigarette while minding the boy, and it was a blessing that Rufus had been nearby. He still hunted with the others, even though he couldn’t really keep up any more, on account of the burns on his paws never having healed right. Rex loved the old hound, and the new alpha never minded deferring to him.

“Yo Al, comin’ huntin’ with me tomorrow?” asked Cletus.

“Hell if I’m not,” answered Al.

“Hell if you are, young man, and you well know it,” said Ma. Tuesday was the day Al and Emily Kate had their schooling.

“Well, kin I take yer dogs, then?” persisted Cletus.

“Shore. They ain’t done nothin’ ta deserve my fate,” answered Al.

Sunday 4th August, 2075; Puyallup, Puyallup

“You like dogs.”

“Better’n snakes.”

“But you don’t have one right now.”

“Workin’ on it.”

“It’s a lot like what we’re doing, isn’t it?”

“Ya gotta choose each other.”

“So you understand.”

“Lady, I understand precious little of anything yore talkin’ ‘bout.”

“Of course you do. There are the parts you understand that you won’t admit to me you do, because that’s how you like to play it. And there are the parts you understand that you won’t admit to yourself you do, because that’s the way you play yourself.”

“Ya do damned fine work, so reckon I’m willin’ ta play along if that’s where ya find yer genius at. An’ all o’ this back an’ forth is pleasant enough, leastways more stimulatin’ than late-night trid. But ya take all o’ this head-shrinkin’ too far, and there’s like ta be a spot o’ trouble in paradise.”

Monday 4th August, 2042: 10 miles up a dirt track from Lynch Creek, Arkansas, CAS

The dishes were cleared, the washing up done, and the whole family was in the sitting room, logs ablaze in the fireplace. The small space was cramped, but no one minded. Pearl and Clementine were handing around plates of peach pie, while Ada trailed behind distributing forks. Hannibal had taken up a strategic position at Al’s feet, ever hopeful. Cletus and Elmo were in a corner writing code for the antique flight simulator they were trying to salvage. Ma knitted, and Leroy played Old Maid with Memphis. Pa was reading to them all from The Iliad, the cracked leather-bound volume heavy in his strong hands.

There was a knock at the door.

Ada was closest and started toward it, but Pa stopped her with a gesture and went to the door himself. He opened it, but did not step aside. Nor did he speak first.

“Evenin’ Kermit.”

“Floyd.”

A pause.

“That Ellenora’s peach pie I smell? Wager that’d go down well with a cuppa. Whaddaya, say, Kermit? We could talk a little.”

“Got nothin’ ta say ta you, Floyd Hollister. And less to say to them. Good evening.”

But the moment he’d shut the door his wife was on him. “Kermit Guthrie, where are your Christian manners? The least of these, my brethren, Kermit. The least.”

“Well, they are that.”

“Shush, you, ya big galoot.” She stood on tiptoes to kiss him then opened the door and beckoned the callers back in, making apologetic comments.

They all knew Floyd, from the Farmers’ Aid. And they had seen two of the others. They looked ridiculous in their neatly pressed work shirts and artfully faded jeans. Suits from the S-K office in Charlotte, trying not to look like suits from the S-K office in Charlotte. They’d never seen the fourth, though. He did wear a suit, black with a very thin red necktie, and long straight black hair. The dogs growled in their throats and Al had to quiet them. The stranger stank, and a shiver came with him into the room.

He never spoke.

Or so Al heard from his mother, because with the arrival of the four men, all the children, young and grown-up alike, had been whisked upstairs. No one much minded - it was hard to follow the conversation anyway, lot of business talk that all came down to the city boys wanting to buy up all the land in these parts, and neither Pa nor any of the local brethren willing to part with an acre.

The men had been by many times, but this was the only visit that had ended with shouting and a slammed door.

Sunday 4th August, 2075; Puyallup, Puyallup

“Well, we wouldn’t want that.”

“Want whut?”

“Trouble in paradise.”

“Right.” He was distracted.

“Would you like to continue tomorrow? There’s no rush.”

“Ya ever been there? Paradise?”

“No.”

“Ol’ Al’s knowed it. An’ left it. Never seen still waters since.”

“You must regret leaving.”

“Not fer a minute. Trouble gon’ come ta every man, shore as death an’ taxes. But the last place ya want it ta come is yer paradise.”

Sunday 4th August, 2075; Seattle Center, Downtown

Al drove north for about ninety minutes in light Sunday night traffic until he got to Seattle Center. Found a hotel that looked nice and used the valet parking. Paid a cool five-kay in advance for two nights. His savings from five years on the docks wouldn’t last forever, but what the hell. He’d promised himself this when he came out of the woods, but then ended up spending three nights in the rain and then setting up digs with a bunch of techno-hippies.

So he went into his suite, plopped himself on the sofa, put his boots up on the glass coffee table, and switched on the wall-sized trid. Combat biker playoffs. Two girls in very short skirts brought the beer and tacos, offered to stay, but were shooed out when one tried to remind him it was a non-smoking room.

When he got tired of watching the trid, he reached for his cards, but they were all back at his room in the compound, and he’d decided not to go back there for a few days. The Crime Mall had been a stupid idea. They were hiding him from the Mafia for relatively cheap, and the last thing he wanted to do was bring them problems. Hardly seemed like a party, though, without magic tricks, so he pulled out his cuffs and practiced getting out of them until the sheets on that king-sized bed started looking really nice.

Monday 5th August, 2075; Seattle Center, Downtown

When Al woke up his hands hurt. Just like clockwork.

He stretched between the sheets and squinted out the window at the mid-morning sun pouring light over a breathtaking panorama of glass and steel. The once towering Space Needle looked almost comically small now. Raised his gravelly voice and said "Room service." The audio prompt took his order of black Andean coffee, Devon sausages, free-range eggs over easy, and two tall stacks of buttermilk pancakes with real maple syrup. He ordered it for an hour later, and went back to sleep in the sun.

By noon he had his boots on and he was strolling the dozen blocks to his appointment at Victor's Vintage & Venlar. He had his new ID visible on his PAN - he knew he wouldn't make it a hundred paces in this neighborhood without it.

The place was nice. Two metrosexual-looking lunks stood outside trying to look dignified. They opened the door for him. Inside was an understated showroom, with a few very well-heeled looking matrons sampling fabrics. A short balding man with a goatee approached with a rapid, eager-to-please step and extended his hand. Al shook it, and the man didn't flinch at the scars. Good sign.

"Mr. Salesco, it is a pleasure to meet you. And look what you have brought us. May I?"

Al took off his brown leather jacket. The man held it up and examined it carefully inside and out. "An authentic RAF aviator from the turn of the century. In good original condition it would be worth a fortune. But I can see it has served you well over the years."

"Got me out of more'n a few scrapes. An' my pappy afore me, an' his before him."

The man understood, and responded in reverent tones. "We will take the very best care of her for you, sir. Are you sure you would not like some modest restoration? We have new techniques that could invigorate the leather without dimming the history."

"Nah, don't reckon she needs any invigoratin'. Jist the enhancements I explained in muh message."

"Of course, sir. The ballistic work you have already had done is to an extremely high standard, and completely discreet. Might I venture…Hackett and Sons off Saville Road?"

"Damn son, you got a helluva an eye on ya."

"It is simply my profession, sir. Now, you asked for maximum flame-retardance and non-conductivity. Of course we can do that. However, to maintain the lines and weight of your item requires rather costly processes…."

"Well I din't come here lookin' fer Kong Walmart prices."

"Of course not, sir. I recall you wanted same day service, and I will do this work myself. Would you care to return at around five o'clock."

"I'll wait."

Al sat down and was pleased to see hard-copy magazines, as well as catalogs and fliers from other businesses in the area. Flipping through them, he spotted something he'd been meaning for years to look into. "Reckon I will go out fer a spell. Back in a jif," he told the door drones, and headed out onto one of the world's most expensive shopping streets in a yellowing T-shirt and ripped bluejeans.

July 30th 2075, Puyallup


Deck Settings (Attack: 3 Sleaze: 6(7) Firewall: 5 Data Processing: 5)
Programs running: VM, Exploit, Baby Monitor, Sneak, stealth

A day and a half he had been in the 'trix, riding the digital currents. He had spend hours searching and tracking down every little tidbit of info he could about the group from every source he could find legally and freely, copying the files to his hard drive. Then when he had exhausted that avenue, he started to break into systems to find any scrap of information regarding the elusive group.

Government memos, archived chat room conversations, Technomancer conspiracy theory sites, he plundered each and every one he was able to. He managed to come away with several pieces of information though, yet for the most part they were publicly not an organization. Even gangs were more public than this group.

All he had been able to find in the last of the files were some loose references and private messages that had belonged to people originating in Puyallup and that there was a connection between the matrix tribe and another group known as the Mechanicals.

Copying all the files he had, he checks his Over watch score, and as it gets closer ad closer to convergence, the 5th time today, he finishes the last of the file transfers from his deck to offline storage. He had learned long ago that emerged entities could get to files with enough persistence if they were connected online.

Jacking out, he sits up and takes stock of the room. His last dose of Long Haul was starting to wear off and he had been neglecting to eat or drink for nearly 18 hours. But first, first a damn shower. He stank like his pores were seeping drek...

Monday 5th August, 2075; Seattle Center, Downtown

The place Al was going was right across the street. The ground floor was all boutiques featuring the latest fashions and accessories, and the floors above office space. But the basement held all the things all those office workers actually needed every day. Hair stylists. Cleaners. Cheap food. Electronics repair and consulting. Brothel. Shoe shines. Florists.

And personal enhancements.

Al walked into the all white room and looked around. He wasn't completely sure he was in the right place, because the space was completely empty and devoid of any adornment of any kind. Then - for the millionth time - he remembered. He knew if he told his comm to send AR to his eyes, he'd suddenly be surrounded by waterfalls or a plush Edwardian office motif. He didn't care which, and wasn't about to lose his insanely expensive breakfast to find out.

So he just yelled.

"Hey, customer here."

The response was immediate. A tall woman in a form-fitting suit, a lab coat, and an apparent laziness regarding blouse buttons came out through a door in the featureless wall. He made sure his cred balance was showing in his PAN. Then when she asked how she could help, he showed her the flier he'd picked up featuring the DayNite package.

"Of course, sir. I can actually slip you in right now, if you like, and get you off and on your way in thirty minutes."

Al played that one back in his head a few times, but decided this wasn't the place to say anything. Then he caught himself wondering if some marketing freak in New York had come up with lines like that on purpose, and imagined corporate headquarters sending a memo requiring all staff to use them.

They had him sign some e-forms, and he checked all the boxes refusing marketing info or preference-tracking chips. He also asked all brand tags to be removed, and was assured they would be. Still, he'd break out the tag eraser as soon as he got back.

They explained the procedure, in which they would do one eye at a time so that he always retained sight. He chose to remain conscious for the duration, having been assured it was painless.

The tech was friendly enough - middle-aged guy, looked like he probably had three kids. They chatted about the weather and so on as the man worked.

"I see you've had these for over ten years."

"Yeah, but they still work good, and they din't have no warranty or nothin' anyways."

"No no, sir, these will last longer than you'll possibly need them. They are fine. It's just that we so rarely see anyone accept replacement without any of the common enhancements you're here for today."

"Aw, right. Well ol' Al'd never in a million years trade out any o' the parts the good Lord done given 'im if'n there was any choice inna matter. Naw, these we kin chalk up ta an ill-fated self-education in the fine art of industrial demolitions. An' where I wuz workin', hell, I wuz lucky they had these lyin' 'round. Beggars an' choosers, an' all that."

"Al?"

"Yeah?"

"No, you referred to an Al."

"Oh, yeah, amigo o' mine. Blew out his retinas with a dodgy blastin' cap. Way out inna jungle with no proper doc fer miles."

"Ouch. That must have been simply harrowing for him."

"Well, it warn't know picnic, I kin tell ya that…um…I mean I kin tell ya that cuz he told me that."

"All done. Anyway, your friend, I hope things worked out for him."

"They always do, baby, they always do."

Monday 5th August, 2075; Puyallup, Puyallup

Al picked up his jacket, went back to the hotel and tried to take a nap. Ended up just staring at the ceiling until he got bored. Ordered a nine-course French dinner in his room. Damned waiters just stood there watching him eat. He had to tell them to go into the bedroom and watch some trid - he'd call them if he needed them.

Then he drove down to Rocco's.

This time, she was already on the settee, like she was waiting for him. And the curtain was open a bit. Still all black behind, but they could now hear the bossanova all the time, instead of teasing snippets. Al caught himself feeling restless and annoyed. He wasn't even sure why he kept coming here.

"If you can't choose what your piece will be…"

"Done told ya, one o' the voodoo gods."

"Have you chosen which one?"

"No."

"So, if you can't choose what your piece will be, why don't we talk about where you want it?"

"Not muh ass."

"I had already ruled that out."

"Guess there ain't so many good spots left."

"You said your back was out."

"Correcto."

"But that you don't have any ink there already."

"Correcto numero two-o."

"Show me."

"Ain't pretty."

"It's not like I'm going to run from the room screaming."

Tuesday 5th August, 2042: 10 miles up a dirt track from Lynch Creek, Arkansas, CAS

Screaming. Raw and shrill, laced with fear and panic.

As usual, Emily Kate had finished her essay miles ahead of her kid brother, leaving Al to struggle through his summary paragraph while she got leave to get some air.

And she was out there somewhere, wailing in distress, the sound getting closer.

Al pulled his 12-gauge off the rack and lit out the door, slamming it behind him. Making a beeline for the sound of her voice. Halfway across the yard, he saw her break out of the woods, heading straight for him. Her right arm was gone, and her shoulder was gouting blood with each step.

She ran straight past him like he was a ghost, spraying him with crimson, and stopped at the front door of the house. She just stood there, screaming, making funny jerking motions with her body. And then Al realized she was reaching for the doorknob with a hand she didn’t have anymore.

Ma opened the door, wrapped the girl in a blanket and pulled her inside and Al turned at a new sound from the woods. Something was making its way through the brush. Something fast. And big.

Elmo sprinted in from the barn, catching the lever-action .30/30 Pa threw to him without breaking stride. Took a knee in front of Al and lined up, calm as you please, on the sound. Pa came running up, put a reassuring hand on Al’s shoulder.

“Whut is it, Pa?”

The man spit a long line of tobacco juice onto the ground. “No idea, son, but we shore ‘bout to find out.”

Tuesday 5th August, 2042; 10 miles up a dirt track from Lynch Creek, Arkansas, CAS

It exploded out of the bushes, three meters high and black like the bottom of a well. No legs, as such, or maybe dozens all tangled up. And three - or was it four - long limbs all tipped with sharp, jagged things. It had a head of sorts, a narrower spot on top with two glowing red eyes and a huge maw lined with what looked like broken glass. It oozed something blacker than its black self, and it stank like old corpses.

“Pa????”

The hand squeezed Al’s shoulder firmly, followed by a quiet voice. “Hush now, boy, yore brother got this.”

It was halfway across the yam patch and Elmo didn’t move. Finally, at five yards, he squeezed off one round, and they all saw it make a small black geyser as it struck the thing between the eyes. It staggered back, and then started forward again, only now faster.

And then everything started happening very fast indeed.

Pa joined in shooting the thing, pumping off shots from the Armalite he had from his soldiering days. Every shot hit, and every shot stalled the thing, or maybe pushed it back a few feet. But that was it. It was all the two men could do to keep it from closing on them.

Al shook himself and hefted his shotgun, and then from the corner of his eye he spotted the second one bearing down silently on them from their left, and he fired instinctively. Nailed it center mass, and that stopped it for all of two seconds before it gathered itself and kept toward him.

His eyes stayed on the thing as he fired again, but in his ears he heard his mother shout, “No, you boys stay here,” but then Leroy’s voice, cracking, “We’s here, Pa.”

“Ammo boys, go an’ git it. All of it.”

Risking a glance Al saw Leroy race back to the house, dragging little Memphis along by the hand.

With only five in his magazine, Al measured his shots, giving way step by step and firing only when he had to to keep the thing off him, praying those boys would be quick. And then there was a big box of shells at his feet and he reloaded faster than he’d thought possible. His mind was swirling with questions about what these things were, but he had to force all that down and just shoot.

Behind him the two rifles cracked away, punctuated only by alternating shouts of “Reloading.” He could tell just by the smell that their’s was closing in too. And then he smelled something new - smoke.

Tuesday 5th August, 2042; 10 miles up a dirt track from Lynch Creek, Arkansas, CAS

The younger boys came back with more boxes, and Pa asked, “What the hell?”

“House on fire, sir. The women have got it. But Emily Kate, she’s fading fast. And that’s all, sir.”

“All what?”

“All the shells, sir.” The nine-year-old’s voice was no longer cracking. The adrenaline had come on him, or he’d become a man too young, or both.

“There’s more in my room,” shouted Elmo, still calm.

“I got it!” said Memphis, and he was off like a shot.

For an endless time the three men kept firing, until their trigger fingers bled and their ammo boxes ran almost empty. But they could do no more than buy a few seconds here, a few feet there, and the creatures never weakened. Perpetually slashing with their unnatural limbs, filthy claws passing so close they could feel the wind on their faces. At one point the men knocked one over, but it merely reformed itself upright and pressed forward. They were soundless, but their burning eyes almost spoke, taunting with promises of torture and despair if only they could draw a little bit closer. Their formless black masses heaved themselves wetly across the ground.

Finally, Memphis was back. He placed another small box down, and when Al turned to offer a quick word of encouragement, he saw a huge fissure in the six-year-old’s skull, with blood running down his face and into deep gashes on his cheek. His left arm hung limp at his side. “Memphis?” But the boy simply moved over to the other two men, favoring one leg, and laid down another box for them.

“Memphis!” asked Pa, his voice distressed for the first time, but the boy didn’t answer, just limped back into the burning house. The monster closed the distance and a scythe-like claw slashed at the older man - only the old brown leather jacket he always wore saved him, and all he could do was keep shooting to hold the demon at bay, if only for another few seconds.

July 30th 2075, Puyallup


With his new lead into the Hacker tribe coming up, Revenant decided to do some data sleuthing. Nothing expressly illegal, just the basic recon work he excelled at.

Deck Settings (Attack: 3 Sleaze: 6(7) Firewall: 5 Data Processing: 5)
Programs running: VM, Exploit, Baby Monitor, Sneak, stealth

Jacking into the matrix was the rush he lived for. More supple and beautiful than any living thing could ever be.

He quickly transferred from the Seattle grid to the location of the Mechanical's host. Here he sat contently and watched the data traffic going in and out, seeing the stream of data and icons representing personas, files and other flutterings of code transfer trough the host walls.

While running hidden, he also took the extra precaution of altering his persona's icon. His usually Revenant icon was quickly changed to one of his several pre-rendered icons, this one a featureless grey samurai.

Dropping his hidden status, Revenant enters the open Mechanical Host, a digital smile hidden behind the gunmetal shell. Within minutes he is performing data searches on all open data available, taking in info about the clinic, kitchen, official classes, general tribe information, items for sale, services rendered and the like, all of the massive amounts if data being stored on his decks drive for him to plunge into with detail after he finishes his recon.

Within minutes he has taken copies of and saved all the publicly available data and stored it on his deck. Now he decides to do some more snooping. But not wanting to tip his hand, he decides a simply personal recon would suffice for now. He soon jacks out and spends the rest of the day sifting through the collected data for any tidbits useful to himself.

Tuesday 5th August, 2042; 10 miles up a dirt track from Lynch Creek, Arkansas, CAS

All alone, Al was losing his battle. He could feel the heat of the thing on him, and fired point blank just as its arms were engulfing him. It rocked back, and he slipped its grasp, but not before its blood sprayed him, and it burned. Little misty droplets, and each one bore a pinprick of pain straight through his flesh to the bone.

Then Leroy was there, tossing cold water on them and their gun barrels. “Memphis?!” asked Pa.

“‘Nother one o’ them come inna back, got hold of ‘im. But Ma warn’t havin’ it, put her best kitchen knife through its face, and it melted to nothin’.”

“The knife? Or the demon?”

“Both, sir,” and he ran back inside to help with the fire.

Fingers shaking with adrenaline, Al fumbled his last three shells into the shotgun and pumped the first one into the chamber. Fired, but the thing wasn’t giving way now. Fired again. Nothing. He tried to back up but tripped and fell. It loomed over him as he heard Elmo pronounce, “That’s it, I’m out.”

Al fired his last cartridge of buckshot straight into the thing’s maw as it leaned over him, again with no effect whatsoever. He tried scrambling back, but a new appendage shot out of the thing and gripped one shoulder, claws sinking deep. Something black that stank of feces dripped from the thing’s mouth onto his face, and he hoped for the sake of the girls that Pa and Elmo had done better than he had.

Tuesday 5th August, 2042; 10 miles up a dirt track from Lynch Creek, Arkansas, CAS

Something big and brown hurtled into the thing’s head and latched on, its weight pulling the thing off balance and down to the ground. The claw ripped out of Al’s shoulder, tearing flesh and scraping against bones. Al looked and saw the thing contorting into all manner of forms in an attempt to right itself, but Rex was latched firmly onto what passed for its head, and was savagely shaking it back and forth. Cletus had come back from hunting. The thing was flailing, and then Hannibal slammed into its neck, and the two savagely snarling dogs looked as though they would kill it. But to his horror Al saw that they were burning - their mouths were steaming as acid burned at their lips and tongues. But they held on, holding it down, pulling at its head. There was a bubbling froth eating away at Hannibal’s cheeks, but still he held on. Rex was already blind, his eyes melted away and the ichor eating at his skull. He never let go - not even when nothing but dead, locked bones clung like some macabre ornament to the thing. Hannibal only whimpered once, when the thing tore off a leg, but he too fought for as long as life lingered.

The thing shook off their carcasses and arose, eyes still on Al’s prone figure. And then Rufus came hobbling up.

And stopped. Even as the monster moved in for the kill, the old hound paused. He took in the scene. He saw what had happened to his brothers. He was an animal that knew what it was to burn. It was only a moment, a little pinprick in time when fates change course, but it was long enough for Al to know what he’d seen. All his life he would hear about mere instinct and reaction, and the ways people could think and beasts couldn’t, but that day Al saw an animal make a clear, conscious choice.

The thing’s mouth opened again, but was jerked back even as it snapped shut millimeters from Al’s face. Rufus had found purchase on the thing’s flank, burn-scarred paws scrabbling at the dirt as he tried to rein in a monster twenty times his weight. He was hurting it. Something wicked hooked out of the thing and sliced the dog the length of his gut, and entrails dropped to the ground. Disemboweled, flesh and cartilage burning away from its snout, the dog held on, and his eyes locked on Al’s. They were not angry, nor reproachful, nor confused. Neither did they plead for the youth to do something about the pain. They simply spoke love.

And then Al was on it. He never remembered getting up, or jumping atop the thing. But he did remember reaching. He was thrusting his hands straight into it, groping for a spine or a heart or whatever was in there because all he wanted was to rip it out. Deeper and deeper he slammed his hands into the depths, closed them and pulled. It threw him off but he was back at it, punching and tearing until he had ripped it apart and there was nothing left but putrid black puddles seeping into the earth.

And there was Rufus. Face half gone, viscera on the ground beside him, he was still breathing. The boy screamed and wailed and willed the pain into himself but it wouldn’t come. And the only sensible thing he could do for the dog he could not bring himself to do. Tears poured down his face and selfish though it was to will the dog to live a moment longer, he begged it to stay, and for a short while, it did. He yearned to hold it then, to stroke it. But somehow he understood that was not possible, though he couldn’t comprehend why.

Behind him a little shooting continued as Cletus brought his fresh rifle to bear, but there was another sound, Pa’s voice, mounting in a mighty, swelling tone of command. Al’s mind finally focused on the words as his father ended in a resounding “AMEN,” and the remaining creature made its first and final sound of the conflict, crying out in despair as it felt itself damned for eternity.

Then silence.

Then feet, and talk of the fire, and then “Oh my son, yer hands...”

Friday 8th August, 2042; 10 miles up a dirt track from Lynch Creek, Arkansas, CAS

Al looked down at his hands, but all that was left were bones and blackened ligaments. Half way up to his elbows there was nothing left, flesh burned clean away. He felt Pa’s hands on his head. He closed his eyes, and when he forced them open to look at his hands again, they were covered in bandages. And he was in bed.

Ma was there beside him, and there was the sound of hammering outside. “Hey there, handsome, how wuz yer three-day nap?”

“Rufus.”

“He’s got a beautiful spot under his favorite tree, honey, with Rex and Hannibal right by his side. You can lay some flowers soon as yer up and around.”

“EmKay?”

“Resting.”

“My hands.”

“Oh, they wuz burned somethin’ fierce, they wuz. Try movin’ ‘em.”

“But...they’s jist bones, Ma.”

She gave him a queer look. “That’s whut yer Pa said, but he do fancy hisself a miracle worker. An’ if you don’t have a penchant fer zaggeratin’, then I’m Betty Crocker. Oh, they wuz burned right good, shore ‘nuff, but nothin’ down ta the bone. Now try movin’ ‘em.”

“Think I’m jist gon’ go back ta sleep fer a while, ma’am.”

“The hell you will. Work now, sleep later. Now wiggle those fingers, boy. You may be a mighty demon wrassler, but backtalk yore Ma one more time and it’ll be yore funeral.”

Monday 5th August, 2075; Puyallup, Puyallup

"Yore funeral," he shrugged, dropping his jacket onto the chair and pulling his T-shirt over his head.

He stood facing her. His chest was hairy, you could almost say furry, and his faded button-flys hung low on his pale, skinny frame. A textured dome of inkwork rose up from his belt-line and over his lower abdomen.

"What is that?"

"When I know ya better."

She stood and started to walk around him. "Oh, I like that," she said, pointing at the hula girl. Al obligingly flexed his bicep, making her dance.

When the tall blond circled around behind Al, she caught her breath.

"Oh my…what…?"

"Let's jist say the Cambodian penal system ain't exactly the most enlightened form o' rehabilitation known ta man."

"But…that you even survived."

"Well, din't all happen at once," he said over his shoulder.

She reached out, her index finger tracing one of the thousands of raised scars that covered every inch of the small man's back. "I can use this," she whispered.

"Use whut?"

She returned to her seat, and he sat in his usual chair. Girl from Ipanema came on, but in Chinese.

'You have a lot of scars." She was back to her usual demeanor, warm but controlled.

"Ya reckon?"

"No, i don't mean the lashings…"

"Canings."

"I'm sorry..."

"They used canes."

"Oh."

"Go on. You wuz sayin' somethin' 'bout scars."

"Yes. You have a lot of them. I'm not a doctor, but I see several bullet wounds and more than a few blade cuts."

He lit a cigarette. "Trouble has a way o' findin' ol' Al."

"And yet you've lived to a good age for someone…living such a life."

"Chalk it up ta clean livin'."

"No, seriously."

"Lady, done already toldja. Got the voodoo gods in muh corner."

"They give you power."

"That's it."

"So…you cast spells."

"I could."

"But you haven't."

He paused. In all their sparring, it was the first time she'd seen him bleed. "Yer a smug one."

"A dog."

"A dog?"

"For your piece, I'll do a dog."

"Lady…"

"Honesty."

"Okay, Honesty, yer not listenin'…"

"Oh, I am listening, Al Guthrie. I'm the only one here who is. Why do you think you can't choose which voodoo god you want?"

"Hell, I still don't even know why I should choose one."

"Okay, forget the why. The fact is you keep coming here because you know there is something here you're looking for. Well, what I've got here is ink. Get some."

"Not a damned dog."

"Look, the loa, the voodoo gods, who says they have to be humans? One's a gorilla, another's a spider, they could take any form, they are merely archetypes realized through symbology."

"Start again?"

"These scars on your back, they're a dog. I don't know if it's been done, but I am sure I can use them to texture the image."

"So I'm a guinea pig?"

"Trust me. Let me start the base image, and as we go, we can keep thinking about your loa. Then, as the work continues I can give the dog a top hat or whatever you finally decide on and it'll be what you want, just in a canine form."

"I got a picture. That's the dog yer gon' do."

"Actually…" She stopped when she saw his face. "It'll take a few months. Send me the picture. We can start tomorrow night. Take a shower."

Monday 19th August, 2075; Mechanicals compound, Puyallup Barrens

Al entered his doss, checked to see if any of the snakes had fed, then plopped on the sofa and cracked a beer. It had been a great two weeks.

The more he drove his new truck the more he liked it. So he'd taken to spending his days scrapping through the most rugged parts of the Puyallup wastelands. Then when he got where even the Gaz wouldn't go, he unloaded the Growler from the back and went in further. He was getting to know the Barrens a hell of a lot better, and also getting a real feel for the limits of his vehicles.

Then every night he went into Puyallup proper, and chatted with the witch as she worked his back. She was still spending every night trying to steer him into talking about his voodoo powers, mostly so she could use her fancy talk to try to trip up his words. He could tell she didn't believe in his gift, but it was fun watching her try to sway him from the truth.

He was just breaking out his cards when his comm buzzed, signalling an incoming call.

August 1st 2075, Puyallup


Deck Settings (Attack: 3 Sleaze: 6(7) Firewall: 5 Data Processing: 5)
Programs running: VM, Exploit, Baby Monitor, Sneak, stealth

Having bummed a ride from a trucker at the stop in exchange for helping him check his cargo to ensure none of the off the book cargo he had was running any noticeable nodes, Revenant got out of the truck and walked across the street, nearing the Mechanical's compound.

He had spent a good long time poring over the data he had accrued from the Mechanicals host. He had designed himself a custom map using the data, starting with a basic map supplied in the host for visitors and locals, and added to it what he could discern. The areas of main interest were a clinic attached to a cafeteria or restaurant. There were also several of the more public workshops he had roughly sketched out as where they could likely be, after all, there were only so many places to fit an auto shop or the like.

He paused after crossing the street and waved to the driver in thanks for the ride, making his way across the streets, the AR overlaying his sight as he walked down towards the kitchen. He recorded everything, setting the data to intervals of 3 minutes and then it being transferred by wire to offline storage for further study. He had his PAN hidden currently, not wanting to advertise to strongly. His ties to the corporate world may still linger and effect others judgements on him before he is ready for it to.

He quickly made his way to the door leading to the kitchen, making mental notes on the map he had created for shops and services he was seeing as he passed them by.

Monday 19th August, 2075; Bellevue, vicinity of Sound Mental Health Facility

Al slowly guided his Gaz-Niki 4x4 through the brightly-lit streets of early-evening Bellevue. There was a fair amount of traffic for a ritzy residential area, as various professionals and business people returned home from their jobs. They drove a lot of late-model luxury sedans - nice rides if that was your taste - all immaculately clean. Stark contrast to Al's vehicle, which was absolutely coated in black ash-mud from two straight weeks of scrapping through the most inhospitable parts of the Puyallup wastes he'd been able to find.

He didn't look much better himself, not having bothered to shower before heading off to the "meet" he'd just attended. He had just come in from a day in the mud when he'd gotten a call for a gig he'd been determined to pass up but, for personal reasons (and they were all named Peaches), had ended up signing on for. So now a few hours later here he was casing the neighborhood. Beside him sat a young feller who called himself Overdrive. This kid was actually the driver for the bunch, but he was in the middle of some work on his main ride, so they'd brought Al's truck. Seemed all right - little, but seemed real sharp. Hair too long for anyone wearing pants, but it was the modern world now, and he didn't seem to have any girlie-man product in it or anything. Looked to have earned his stripes through some hard knocks, and had a nasty-looking old cyberarm to show for it. But he was still standing on his own two feet, and Al admired that. Obviusly knew a lot about cars, though Al would have to see for himself if the kid could really drive.

There was a lot of security around, so Al was running with one of his fake registrations on the truck's AR icon. It was the same one Gianelli's people had, but he didn't reckon there'd be many wise guys in a neighborhood like this, and he didn't want his good ID on record anywhere near the place where he'd soon be committing multiple felonies. They had started by cruising the streets around their target, physically checking for any discrepancies or surprises the public map data didn't show. They also took note of private security locations and chokepoints law enforcement was likely to use if they wanted to lock the neighborhood down. They'd given the front gates of the target a good drive-by, with Al using his cybereyes to take lots of pictures and downloading them. Then on the way out they had looked for off-road workarounds - routes they could take to get around roadblocks if the streets were sealed.

They were just wrapping up when Al saw flashing red and blue lights in his rearview. Next to him, he heard Overdrive curse.

As soon as he'd pulled over they hit his mirrors with spots. His flare comp cut the glare enough to make out that one pawn got out of the passenger side - the driver stayed behind the wheel. Loudspeaker: "Please turn off your engine and keep your hands visible at all times." Al switched off the ignition and put his scarred hands on the wheel. He hated cops and every other sort of big government henchmen.

The pawn approached the passenger side, thought he was being sneaky. Tapped on the window, and the kid rolled it down. "Mr. Jones, can I ask what is your business here this evening?" Overdrive started to answer, but didn't get a word out before the officer shouted him down: "I was addressing the driver, sir. I need you to be quiet." Asshole.

Al realized he should have made up some story in advance, but was confident his silver tongue and skills as a Thespian would soon have them on their way.

"Sir, I asked you a question."

"Uh...we's jist passin' through."

"It's not a through street, sir. We've watched you navigate through several clearly marked cul-de-sacs."

"Cul-de-whut?"

"Dead ends. Please state your business."

"Uh, we wuz comin' from work."

"Work here in this neighborhood, you mean?"

"Yup."

"And what sort of work is that?"

"...."

"Sir?"

"....uh, we's pool cleaners."

The officer glanced pointedly into the empty bed of the truck. "Where is your equipment?"

"...."

"Sir, where is your equipment?"

"....Uh...I'm jist the driver....he's the boss."

[Titus "Overdrive" Wilkinson, Monday, August 19, 2075, Bellvue, vicinity of SMHF]

It was kinda weird for him, being in the passenger seat. Sure, he couldn't have taken the Bulldog to the meet tonight - he'd gotten the engine craned out and was elbow deep in some tuning work when he'd gotten the call - but still, it was strange. Old dude in the driver's seat was another oddity - he hadn't really worked with anyone that long in the tooth in his ganging days or as a runner; Carter'd been telling him that you didn't really grow old in this business, that you either got out at the right time or it would kill you well before you got there. Then again, maybe this guy wasn't quite as old as he looked... Clearly didn't take very good care of himself, though; had that yellowish skin he'd seen on some pretty hardcore drunks in the past. Ah, hell, what was that called again? Jaundice? Some sort of liver trouble or something, ain't it? That and the tobacco stains seemed to hint at years of use and abuse, while the thinness and the way his skin seemed just a bit too big for him seemed to be saying something else. Between that and the ink, it was kinda hard to put this guy's story together... Might have to run a search based on that Proteus AG tat later...

They'd figured on setting out to get some recon done; Overdrive had brought his spy drones with him to the meet, but hadn't been able to bring along anything suited to combat. Hell, he hadn't been able to clean up properly before heading out; still had some engine grease and such in his hair and under his fingernails. All he'd really been able to do was change out of his coveralls. Still, the drones he did have were getting them some good data. He kept them running quiet-like, so that the security around here didn't pick them up; didn't want the target to get word of their recon, after all. Then he caught sight of the red and blue lights, and swore at himself for not having one of the drones watch the area around them.

Well, this just got fragged right up... Titus really didn't like cops; they'd been the enemy when he and Kylie had been stuck on the streets, they'd been the enemy when he was running with the gang, and they were the enemy now that he was a runner. If they couldn't talk their way out of this, it wouldn't just frag up the run; if they ran his fake SIN and it came back bad, he'd be going away for sure, where he wouldn't be much good to anyone - least of all his sister. He tried to say something, but the jackbooted jackass told him to shut it before he could. He could tell Al's attempts to talk their way out of this weren't exactly going well, either, especially once he decided to dump out of it and pass the back off to Overdrive.

Wait, now I'm doing the talking? Yeah, this is a great plan... He thought for a second, trying desperately to come up with an explanation for why they didn't have any equipment.

"Our equipment? It's in the van with the rest o' the crew; they took off 'fore we did." He tried his best to sell the lie, but his best was pretty damn bad. The KE goon just stared at him, incredulously.

"The rest of your... Pool cleaning crew. Just how many people does it take to clean a pool, sir?"

"Well, uh... It's pretty full service pool cleaning, ya know?"

"No, sir, I don't know. What does 'full service pool cleaning' entail, exactly?" Well, this clearly wasn't working.

"Well, you know, we like, we really clean the pool, fix the pumps, lot's o' stuff." Oh, come on, "we really clean the pool"? What the hell is that supposed to mean?!

"Then I suppose you two could step out of there, and show me the work order?" That's just great... Where am I gonna- Wait, that actually is great. Just have to stall him long enough to turn one of Carter's shop work orders into a pool cleaning work order. If only he could have sent a message to Al to let him know what the plan was.

"Right, yeah. Just gonna... Just gonna need some time to find it on the company host." He got out of the truck, coming around to the other side. The jackass stared at him, expectantly.

"Well, sir? I'm waiting." This guy's not gonna wait long enough... Ohshitohshitohshitohshit

"It's gonna just take a sec... Just a moment here..." He hastily finished the edit, and presented to ARO to the officer, who made a great show of looking it over, like he was poring over every detail. Which is when Titus started thinking for sure that he'd missed something, that there was some detail on there that he'd missed. Or maybe the officer would know that the "customer" didn't really exist, or that they didn't live at the address he'd put in. Hell, maybe he was just humoring them so it would be more fun when he arrested them. So many unknowns started racing through his head.

So Titus panicked.

Later, when the KE rookie woke up in a hospital, he'd realize he shouldn't have gotten them both to get out at once. That he should have checked them for weapons. That he should have run their SINs before walking up to the truck. All sots of small little procedure things he hadn't done quite right; all sorts of things that could have prevented a panicking ex-ganger runner who simply could not afford to get picked up from hauling off and punching him so hard with a cyberarm that he came right off his feet and flew back a few meters.

Just before the punch landed, Overdrive regained his senses and knew that they'd have a very small window where the guy in the car wouldn't quite know what to do. A very small chance to get in the truck and get moving to have a chance of making it out of this. "I'm driving! Get in!" Immediately bringing the truck to ignition, he didn't what a half a second longer than he had to for Al to get in before peeling out of there.

Monday 19th August, 2075; Bellevue, vicinity of Sound Mental Health Facility

Al had been inches from talking the KnightErrant goon out of harrassing them when it had occurred to him that he was, in fact, in a sort of wise mentor big brother guru sensei spirit guide sort of role here, and he'd better let the kid get some experience with this sort of thing. So he'd tossed him the ball, and ended up being pretty impressed. Young feller was doing all right as near as Al could tell.

Unfortunately, the stormtrooper seemed to have something to prove. Who actually asks to look at the work order anyway? That never happened on the trid.

And then they were ordered out of the vehicle. Dammit. Al was not going back to prison. No sooner, though, had he started looking for the best play than the kid pulled back with that scrapheap cyberarm and laid the glorified rent-a-cop out flat. Boy could hit! But it was on now, and they still had the guy buttoned up in the Chrysler-Nissan Patrol-1 to worry about. Al reached into the bed of the truck for the loose tire iron he knew was there and hurled it at the driver's side windshield. It bounced harmlessly off the ballistic glass and straight back at him, nailing him agonizingly in the elbow. The lightning pain made him see stars, and by the time they'd cleared away a half a second later, he realized his truck was in motion.

"Holy freakin' moley," he muttered as he sprinted a few steps after his own damned truck and dove headlong into the back. It wasn't his first rodeo, and he wasn't a tiny bit surprised when his nose was the first thing to hit - what part should hit first when you dove HEADlong into anywhere? Another thing that sure never happened on the trid.

The truck looked like crap but it was in damned good condition. It was accelerating fast, but the patrol car was right on their tail - apparently the driver hadn't been too concerned about his buddy. Al settled his back against the exterior of the truck's cab and lit a cigarette as his nose streamed blood down over his lips. Within just moments, there was a drone in the air above them, its running lights red and blue, just like the cruiser tight on their six. And he knew the pawns were calling in the cavalry.

Now he'd see if the boy could drive.

Paris, June 2045 (Nikki)

Eleanor Margaret Bolt sits alone outside a small café watching the crowd. Thinking to herself, “See Daddy, Mother, I don’t ALWAYS need to follow the crowd. I can have fun by myself when I want to.” Eleanor is spending three days in Paris on her way to meet her parents in Casablanca, where they have invested heavily in the entertainment industry. While home is in Boston, she hasn't been back to the Big House on the Hill in nearly three years.

The weather this afternoon is mild, with just enough sun and heat to make the outside table a perfect spot to rest before her next adventure. “Should I visit a museum this time? If I were to tell daddy I went on my own to a museum, he’d probably check my temperature and call a doctor.” Shopping, dancing, and sailing are Eleanor’s primary passions, and he knows that.

Jacques Marcel Temblow sits at the same café contemplating his next move. He has a few consulting opportunities to choose from, and is not sure which will provide him the most entertainment, while still adding significantly to his portfolio. Jacques spies Eleanor sitting alone a few tables away. The café is not busy during a mid-week lull. Asking if she was alone, Eleanor automatically tells him she is waiting for someone. However Jacques, having 20 wonderful years in romancing the ladies, easily convinces Eleanor to allow him to join her while she waits. Of course, Eleanor doesn't really have anyone meeting her.

Another latte for both of them provides the time for Jacques to woo Eleanor. Eleanor is very naive, despite her ongoing travels. Jacques is able to convince Eleanor to meet him later for dinner, at one of her favorite restaurants, coincidentally. Eleanor is definitely feeling the fluttering in her stomach. She hasn't had a serious relationship and wonders if this could be it. A mature, wealthy man shows extended interest, and Eleanor is nearly ready to follow him anywhere. Jacques easily read the signs, and is very pleased with his afternoon conquest.

Dinner extends to dancing, which continues the romance for Eleanor. Jacques is enjoying himself, wondering how much time he wants to spend on her. Fun is fun, and work still needs to get done, is part of Jacques ongoing dialogue with myself. After taking Eleanor back to her flat, he tells her that he is leaving Paris the next morning. Eleanor is visibly distraught with this news, hoping to spend a lot more time with him. Jacques goes on to say that he will also be in Casablanca next week. Perhaps if she is still there they could have dinner. With a chaste kiss on the cheek, after getting her contact information, Jacques walks away with a big smile on his face. Perhaps the consulting job for the media mogul will be the next one after all.