Back in Town

Having arrived during an unusually long Seattle rain, Justin Llor couldn't help but miss the dry heat of India.  Despite the weather he was glad to be home and anxious to collect his nuyen.

During his flight, Nina had sent him posts from the Seattle forums that pertained to last weeks impromptu run.  The buzz on the street was that a gang war was about to break out.  Justin wasn't so sure of that.  It seemed to him that Jarrol was small time and likely hired by a megacorp to shakedown Cate at the Devil's Doorstep.

His part of the run it had gone smooth (the street gang didn't have much in the way of matrix security), but his fellow runners didn't have it as easy and worse, they didn't handle themselves with the same subtlety as he had.  In fact, with the amount of munitions discharged and explosions, the megacorp law enforcement agencies were likely to have noticed.  That wasn't a pleasant thought.

A black sedan rolled down the street, pulling to a stop in front of Justin. The tinted reinforced window slid down to reveal Ivan Putin, an older man with grey hair and a sharp chin.  "Mr. Chance, it is good to have you back. Was your time in India good?"

Justin palmed the copied datachip he'd stolen and handed it to Ivan through the window.  "The food was synth and the connection flaky." Justin took the offered credstick and stepped away from the window.  "I'm glad to be home."

"Hah!  Well don't go far.  Word is something big is about to go down."

The sedan took off, leaving Justin standing on the curb.  He pulled up his AR and asked Nina to locate the nearest taxi.  He had a couple stops to make before meeting up with Cid.

                       *******************************************************

                         *                       Later that day                  *

                       *******************************************************

The mounted crystal display came to life in a flurry of black and white noise.  Justin banged the side of the terminal until the screen came into focus.  "Cid, we're online."  A muffled response came from outside the van. "I still can't understand you, man. Try using the comm."

Justin pulled a keyboard down from one of the racks inside the van and waited for the rig to come online.  Ninarested on his shoulder, waiting patiently for something to do.


Hermes BIOS v10.8r
Ikon Series 
.
<dmitri.bios.overide>
External Response Chip Detected
Verifying...............Done
Internal Response Chip Disabled
<end>
.
Initializing Hardware
...Sim Module Interfaces (1)
...Fiber-Optic Storage Devices (2)
...Wireless Matrix Interfaces (2)
...Wired Matrix Interfaces (1)
.
<dmitri.bootloader.break>
Dimitri.ROM#boot novaOS,8,1
.
Loading Novatech Operating System
... 100% (complete)




"Comrade Chance," Dmitri's voice acknowledged Justin after the biometric scanner logged him in to the terminal. Dmitri was an IC program that Justin picked up in India, discarded after the second crash.  Justin was excited about this rig. In a world of implanted commlinks and holographic outputs, the two-dimensional display was considered archaic, but Justin thought the black crystal display still offered a richer color palette than the holographs.

"Hey Dmitri, welcome to your new home." Justin flipped through his database of black ISP commcode addresses.  "Let's get you connected."

Dimitri.OS>open commcode worldcorp.isp
passcode: ********
Access Granted

Cid jumped back and cursed as Dmitri's icon entered the AR and transformed into a four-story robot reminiscent of late 20th century japanime.  "Holy hell, are you trying to draw attention to us?" Cid shouted over the comm.

"Oops! I'll fix it, hold on."  Justin issued a command and Dmitri's icon transformed into a mimic of the van itself, but with a new decal on the hood. "Is that better?"

The Boxer

"In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of ev'ry glove that layed him down
Or cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame
"I am leaving, I am leaving"
But the fighter still remains"

- Paul Simon

A drop of sweat blurred the vision of his left eye just enough to obscure the crushing haymaker delivered to his jaw.  Immediately he raised his massive arm to defend against another.  The punch had left his face aching and his ear ringing.  He could taste the coppery stream of blood flowing freely from the corner of his mouth.

Bull shook his head vigorously to clear his mind and a stream of sweat and blood sprayed down on the canvas.  His opponent was smaller, but the ork was quick and loaded with cutting edge augmentation.  If he took a dive and threw the fight like he was supposed to, no one would question it.  This ork was undefeated and a far more experienced fighter in the ring.   The smell of sweat, blood, ork and canvas was overwhelming.  He planted his feet to steady himself.  Flashing neon all around him and the noise from the crowd all fought against him as he tried to regain his focus.

A jab from the ork slipped through his defenses and caught him in the chin.  If he didn’t do something soon there would be no need to throw the fight.  He was losing.

Bull snorted loudly and feinted to his left and followed with a straight jab to the midsection of the ork that caught him off guard.  He could feel the air being forced from his opponent’s lungs as his massive fist connected.  It was a lucky shot.  He had been trying to land that jab all night.  Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.  The ork bit his lip.  Bull could see he was in pain.  He saw his opportunity.

In a second he flashed back to his conversation with the mobster, Antonio Scalia.  Throw the fight he said, take the money.  One little loss on his record was worth the money, he said.  Scalia was a made man, which meant he was a petulant little bitch used to getting what he wanted.  Bull had agreed to go down in the 5th round.  Scalia said that everyone would make their nuyen and Bull could go on with his career.  He said he would leave him alone after that.

Bull knew that once Scalia had made some cash that he would never be out of his life.  Throwing this fight would only grant him a temporary reprieve.  Scalia could go fuck himself and his threats.

He focused on the ork, who was now on the defensive.  His left arm was tucked in a little close.  Must have broken a rib with that jab, he thought.

Bull shifted to his left and then punched with all of his might at the exact same spot.  Even though the ork was protecting his rib with his arm, the force of the punch had him gasping for breath.  Bull feinted as if he was going to throw another and then shifted his weight.  He brought up his right fist in an uppercut to the jaw that lifted the ork completely off of the canvas.  Bull could hear the crowd go wild as the ref came in to deliver the count.  Lights flashed all around him and out of the corner of his eye he could see Scalia and his men get up out of their front row seats and storm out of the arena.

*** ”Hey!  Hey, you awake?  You said we were going to spar?” ***

Bull unloaded the Simsense file of the fight and reality came back into focus.  He was sitting on a dusty couch on the third floor of the Devil’s Doorstep.  Back in the slums, he thought.  Sabrehawk was standing in front of him snapping her fingers in his face.

“What were ya doin’?” she asked as she stretched before their sparring match.

“Nothing…just thinkin’ about the past” he said as he rose to his feet.

“So, uh, about this sparring idea….  How am I supposed to do this without smashing you?” Bull asked as he stepped onto the practice mat.

Sabrehawk answered with a roundhouse kick to the side of the troll’s head that staggered him.

“Why am I not surprised….” Bull grunted as he rose to his feet with a toothy grin.

Max 'Bull' Lang - Troll Street Sam

Bull is an amazing physical specimen, even for a troll.  Lots of trolls are massive, but few are as nimble and naturally athletic as Bull.  Born Max Lang, his somewhat mellow personality and amiable sense of humor stand in stark contrast to his ferocious appearance.

His obvious physical talents led to him being pulled into the world of Augmented/Metahuman class boxing.  Known as 'The Bull' in the ring, he had a natural ability to excite the raucous crowds.   Max used his winnings to fund a series of augmentations to make him an even more formidable fighter.  His high tech cyber eyes/ears and implanted commlink setup were installed to capture fight sensory data from his first person perspective.....and Bull always put on an exciting show for the fans.

Being young, and showered with  fame and easy money he soon fell in with 'the wrong crowd'.  A mid-level mafia boss, Antonio Scalia, coerced Max into agreeing to throw his biggest fight.  In the ring, with the adrenaline pumping, Max just couldn't do it.  He won the match with a spectacular uppercut to the jaw of his formidable ork opponent.

Scalia was furious and demanded that Max pay back all the money that he lost.  Even after liquidating everything he had in the world, Max still owes Scalia 15,000 nuyen.

Max lost his credibility in the ring, his apartment, his collection of motorcycles...basically everything he had.  He is broke, on the streets and the mafia is getting impatient waiting on the balance of the money he owes.  He's turned to a life of squatting and picking up runner jobs where he can to try and scrape together the last 15,000 so that he can re-start his life.

Max Capacity

Sabrehawk stepped into the dim glow of the elevator's diehard florescent lights.  Its walls once white had since faded into a pasty stained yellow. The floor was molded plastic modeled to look like linoleum and was peeling at the corners.

Cate had told her how to operate the outdated key-coded access panel and Sabrehawk entered the passkey, slipped the data card into the slot, and pressed the large glowing button with a three.  The lights flickered and the elevator's gears groaned reluctantly to life as it began to clack ponderously upwards.  After a time the elevator shuddered to a halt.  There was a mechanical buzz that should have been a ringing chime then the doors cracked open and stopped mid-way.

Sabrehawk shook her head and smirked. She kind of liked fixer-uppers and boy did this one look like a doozy.  Bracing herself she shoved the doors open and stood looking out at a sparse forest of skeletal steel beams and struts.  Thick shafts of moonlight slanted from windows somewhere off to her left and partially illuminated the large gray space.

She could see the air was thick with dust as motes drifted in the yellow light from the elevator that cut clearly onto the grime and trash littered floor.  The sheer size of the space was promising but Sabrehawk's heart sank a little as she began to think how much work would be required to make this place a secure and operable safehouse.

"Well at least the structure is bare," Sabrehawk stepped forward and glided one hand across a nearby beam.  "Demo won't be neccessary."

There was a sudden dragging sound in the back corner of the floor.  Sabrehawk found one of her Steyr TMPs in hand seemingly unbidden, through her skinlink had the safety off, and switched to semi-auto.  She felt a little vulnerable without her AR glasses providing her smartlink and glowing combat HUD up.  She could feel eyes on her coming from somehwere out in the darkness.

A shadow towered above her as it rose up off of the floor and began to take shape.  Sabrehawk could make out the bulk of a massive grey troll as it slowly stepped forward out of the shadows.  The floor boards groaned beneath the troll's boots but held.  In a fraction of a second Sabrehawk had drawn her second machine pistol and now had both in her hands aimed directly at the troll's eyes.

"Whoah, whoah lady!  I was just taking a nap, put the guns away."  The troll looked almost sheepish as he muttered, "Can't take a nap in this town without being woken up by an elf chick with guns, man."

Sabrehawk was taken aback by his deep baritone voice and watched in undisguised awe as he stretched his enormous shoulders and yawned.  The troll stood over two and a half meters tall, his hands had brushed the support beams on the ceiling, and must have weighed 300 kilos.  It must have seemed rude but Sabrehawk just stared for a moment.  Though her mouth tried to make a sound none came out.

"Look, I'll get out of here okay?  I was just crashing for the night.  Cate said I could crash here if I ever needed a place.  She must have forgotten.  I've worked as a bouncer for her a few times.  Nice lady."

Sabrehawk held up her guns in what she hoped was a reassuring gesture and put them away. An embarrased smile crept up one corner of her mouth.  "Its ok, you just uh, startled me was all."

"I'm Max by the way, but most people call me Bull.  I used to be a professional fighter, might have heard of me?"  The troll reached out a massive hand towards her.

"I'm uh, sort of new in town."  Sabrehawk's smile flashed and she had to suppress a giggle as she shook hands with Max. This was probably the nicest troll she had ever met, let alone the most polite squatter in the whole of the barrens.  Seattle was shaping up to be pretty nice afterall, especially in its darkest places. Sabrehawk arched an eyebrow as her smile grew.

"So Max, looking for a job?"

New Guy

My uncle had told me they had come for her in the night. That they had experimented on her. Ripped out everything that was my mother and replaced it with something else. Like my life.

Sabine dived behind a nearby dumpster that triple-panged from a short burst of SMG fire.

"How about I just take the bike and we call it null-sheen little girl?" The troll's gutteral laughter barked again and so did his SMG.

"Why do they always make things difficult? It was a good deal." Sabine turned to the man in the long coat that crouched next to her. He seemed to be staring off into space but she could see his lips muttering and seemed to be counting.

The man stood just before the SMG fire stopped and walked from behind the dumpster. He stared up at the massive troll as the spang of a metal clip bounced off the ground. Calmly he drew a long revolver from the folds of his coat and slowly aimed down the sight of the barrel. The troll growled and fumbled to reload. A single loud shot ignited followed by a large slump and the alley went silent.

Eyebrows slowly inched up in surprise as Sabine peeked from behind the dumpster to see the man in the coat nudging the massive troll's body with a single booted heel. She smiled and hopped from behind cover.

"Wow mister, nice shot!" The man grunted and nodded. Sabine watched in fascination as he re-loaded the single round before replacing the long revolver back inside his coat.

"That was real lucky mister. He could have pasted you easy. Trolls got thick hides. I mean, you're a good shot mister but nobody is that good."

"Some times its better to be lucky than good."

"So, will you take the job? I've got the nuyen and I can pay up front if you need it." The man looked resigned. Afterall, she'd only been bugging him for the last week.

"Yea, I'll take the job. Half now, half when I get you a solid lead." Sabine's eye sparkled.

"Done." Sabine had her hands shoved in her jacket pockets and jumped up and down smiling. Her hair was up in a pony tail and bounced energetically despite the rain. "So Mr. Turlington, while I got you on retainer and all. Think you could use a regular gig while you work on my case?"

"Call me Rip."

"Hmm?"

"I said, call me Rip. Its my name kid." The man's grizzled face swept the alley before he turned back towards the street. Sabine followed.

"Oh right, so wanna run security for me and my group? We could use an extra pair of eyes while we jam. Last time there were some, uh, problems."

"Group?"

"Yea the band. We're called Night Shyft. Not the best name I know but we're still new at this kind of thing. We do mostly classic metal from late 20s early 21st. Kind of a tribute thing. Most people think we're wiz. We really put on a great show."

"Uh huh."

"So you want in? We play most weekends."

"I'll think about it kid."

To Mr. Johnson

The streets of Seattle passed by in blur of neon lights.  From the back of the limo Mr Johnson rhythmically tapped his finger on the leather upholstery as he listened to the classical music streaming over his PAN.  A notification flashed in the corner of his AR glasses:


NEW MESSAGES (1)


Johnson accessed the message and watched it scroll by:


TO:  MR_JOHNSON, SABREHAWK
FROM:  CHANCE
.
SUBJECT:  RE:RE:RE:TONIGHT'S GIG
.
HEY,
.
I'M STILL ON BTL VACATION AND WON'T BE ABLE TO MAKE IT TO THE GIG TONIGHT.  I'VE SENT CAT A HOLO PROJECTOR AND A COPY OF SKYPE.9X TO RUN ON HER COMM SO I CAN REMOTE IN FOR THE SHOW.  
.
AS ALWAYS, I'M IN NEED OF NUYEN.  YOU KNOW THE NODE TO CONTACT ME IF A JOB IS AVAILABLE.
.
.
.
CHANCE
.
<MESSAGE END::REPLY/DELETE/SAVE?>#


Hackers, he thought as he deleted the message, always thinking they can work remotely and not get their hands dirty.  Mr. Johnson smiled and continued to tap his finger to the music.  He'll learn soon enough.

Fire & Ice

Sabine grew up in a quiet suburb of Cheyenne within the Sioux nation and was raised by her smiling Uncle Mort.

Growing up was perfectly normal for Sabine. Though on occasion neighbors did complain about the gunshots and the restricted weaponry on the premises.

While most little girls were playing with their dolls Sabine was learning how to field strip an HK-227X. By the time other girls were in gym class or practicing their cheers Sabine was learning how to dodge live fire. All was right in the world.

Life was thrilling and challenging. Besides her uncle's training, Sabine lived a life of normalcy and happiness. That all changed. Their house was hit fast and hard that night. Sabine must have spent the first several minutes under her bed screaming and vomiting from the gas.

Sabine learned two things that night. One, her uncle's real name was Mortacainen Foxfire and he used to be a shadowrunner. The second, her mother was still alive somewhere. The team that hit their home learned something that night too. That inescapable images of horror await all those who survive a little girl that Awakens as a warrior adept in a night of anguish and revelation.

Sabine lost her uncle and saw her whole life vaped in the staccato flash of SMG fire. The Johnson got to have his revenge against her uncle and only lost most of his team of expendable runners.

Sabine tapped her uncle's reserve account and a supply cache he had hidden outside of the city. She found a pair of machine pistols she had seen in a picture of her mother.

Now Sabine was headed to her uncle's old running grounds to see what she could uncover. The same city where her mother disappeared. The shadows of Seattle beckoned her into their cold and dark embrace.