A small narrative that explores what happens when a Shadowrunner accomplishes their goals—what next?

Though Acahya’s story didn’t end with the hard-fought battle in the waters off of Japan’s rocky coast, finally putting down the bastard that betrayed her and sent her fleeing into two years of international piracy, it did take a sharp turn. Having sailed the seas and helped foment social and anti-corporate economical revolution on multiple continents, as she sailed away from the burning wreckage of Simon’s combat ship she realized she had spread herself too thin.

Being chased from port to port and country to country by corporate assault teams, she and her crewmates hadn’t spent more than a few weeks in any one country. They had a small reprieve when they took up residence inside a crumbling arcology within the irradiated special exclusion zone between Germany and France—and she felt very good about the work she had spearheaded in restoring the land there—but since their flight from Los Angeles it had been a nearly non-stop series of escapes and investigations into Simon’s whereabouts and plans.

She had scored real victories, rallying the disaffected peoples of Berlin, Prague, and Indonesia to rise up against their corporate overlords, to seize their communities back from the control of faceless foreign bureaucrats, but no matter how empowering, they never quite had the same impact her efforts in Aztlan and Puerto Rico did. She helped rebels carve the Yucatán peninsula away from Aztechnology and form their own nation. She led the peoples of San Juan to—violently—overthrow corporate control of the island’s food processing plants, strengthening anti-corporate sentiment across the island and within the whole of the Caribbean League. Even in nearby Amazonia she helped put down pro-corporate propaganda squads trying to create inroads for more corporate control of the resource-rich country.

Maybe, she thought, it was time to return home again, to reinforce the groundwork already laid and prove to the huddled masses that a different life, a different world was possible. An existence not dictated by multinational corporations and unchecked pillaging of nature, but rather in harmony with the natural world, and according to everyone’s needs. As the rest of the crew cheered and celebrated their victory, she stood alone at the bow of the ship, thinking about what could come next, what should come next.

Though Aztlan continued to hunt for the anti-governmental activist named Tlayotol Ja’ak—with decades of reported incidents and damage to corporate holdings—and petition the fledgling Yucatán nation and the sovereignty of Amazonia for extradition rights, both countries held firm that Tlayotol was a prominent and upstanding citizen and had never been implicated in any crime on their respective soils. In fact, she was a well-known and -trusted voice of the people and the environment. They also categorically denied any suggested association between Tlayotol and the internationally-renowned eco-terrorist known as “Acahya,” who had a history of brutal attacks against corporate interests on four continents, particularly those owned by Aztechnology.

Aztlan could do little but look on with derision and disgust as their would-be holdings across the region were dismantled, either by political pressure, environmental regulation, or clandestine operations that seemed to strike at exactly the most damaging point of a project. More than a few executives were promoted on the promise that they could do something about the “Acahya situation”, but all failed to make a dent in her growing popularity and influence, both above and below board.

She embraced her dual-role as champion of the common person and puppet master behind unending clandestine shadowruns, finding a growing satisfaction in seeing results from afar, rather than directly at her hand. She was a passionate and striking public orator, scarred both emotionally and physically from her history with the megacorps—proof that she understood the hurt, pain, and loss that so many felt at their hands. Behind the scenes she planned, directed, and even occasionally directly funded clandestine missions against those same corporate forces.

She found herself on talk shows, keynoting political rallies, and even speaking before the combined Yucatán congress on more than one occasion, even as various corporations continued to associate her, no matter how tangentially, with the continued politically-motivated assaults and sabotaging of their facilities in the region.

For nearly a decade she was a public face—or rather, the face of the public—across the Yucatán and all corners of the Caribbean, and in 2062, in what was a legitimate surprise to her, she was elected governor of the breakaway state she had helped create years before. Her rise to prominence sparked hope that Aztechnology could actually be defeated on their home turf, and if there, anywhere. If local power could stifle and stymie the efforts of one megacorp, maybe the others were vulnerable, too.

She had been so focused on the mission—her passion used to inflame and encourage workers’ rights, ecological harmony, and political activism—that she hadn’t paid much attention to the growing calls for her to take an active role in government, rather than sitting on the side as an advisor and constant check against the many entities who sought to take advantage of the fledgling nation and its resources.

Though she helped steer the government well, being surprisingly well-read on geopolitics, economics, and finance—as well as intimately familiar with the plight of the common denizen—she quickly realized she hated running a government even more than she hated being in a leadership role of the arcology back in Germany; endless meetings and people vying for her attention, in a way that hamstrung her ability to get real work done. No matter how far she’d come from her roots as a lone survivor in the Sonoran Desert, she still hadn’t fully let go of the idea that she needed to have her hands directly in the mix. Being the face of an entire nation, particularly on the world stage and in talks with other leaders, hamstrung her aims far more than enabled them.

The 2064 Matrix crash provided her a unique opportunity to solve multiple problems. After years of working with the Yucatán government, and two years leading it, corporations knew they had to tread lightly on the peninsula, that it wasn’t an area they could rape and pillage with impunity. Forging close allegiances with the islands of the Caribbean League and the whole of Amazonia meant that her influence had steadily spread in those directions as well, forming a powerful block of similarly-minded, citizen- and nature-first governmental bodies, well-informed and well-aware of the dangers of corporate exploitation.

Ensuring that her government and direct cabinet members were well-poised to continue her vision, Tlayototl slipped off into the chaos, passing herself off as another refugee from the digital Armageddon as she sought a place to reinvent herself, continuing the good works that had been so successful in the Americas.

Living almost entirely off the grid in eastern Tibet, she knew the former Chinese states were ripe with opportunity—corporations had for years propped up warlords and micronations for their own interests, leaving the entire region awash in dirty money, ecological exploitation, and human misery.

Nodding to herself as she stood at the edge of the small plateau which had served as her shamanic retreat for more than six months, she looked out over the Asiatic steppes. With a small backpack of provisions, she trusted the spirits to guide her to the place, the people, with the greatest need. She would help them build a bulwark against corporate interests, to rebuild in harmony with the natural world. To defend themselves and their budding harmony.

And then she would teach others. And others. And her message would spread, this time without a figurehead. After all, figureheads can fail or die, but ideas—given life through the hard work and belief of the common person—never can.

This epilogue concludes the stories of Acahya’s adventures, which were an absolute delight to create over this past year. Created for a fifth edition Shadowrun campaign set in the early 2050s, she was a lone wolf forced by circumstance to work as part of a team, and learned along the way which parts of her prickly personality may or may not be actually serving her needs. A fierce defender of the natural world and person who loathed corporate interests in every shape and form, the story took her from her roots in North America across the whole of the world.

Obviously there were far more adventures than those I wrote about in this subreddit or my blog, as is the nature of a good role-playing campaign, but I think I by and large touched on the most impactful and meaningful arcs that are approachable to a wider audience, who may not be familiar with the near-future world of Shadowrun. Her character arc definitely went in directions I didn’t expect, and I’d say that’s the true strength of collaborative storytelling.

Thank you all for following along on her adventures, and I look forward to finding my next character to write about soon.

“Aiight - now who the hell are they?” Honey remarked, pointing the camera so the rest of her team could see.

A small team, wearing gray armor was sweeping towards the building, navigating the terrain silently with a steady, relentless stride - and Nightingale recognized them in an instant.

“That’s a Cerberus Alpha team. Unplug and get the fuck out of there. They don’t show up to negotiate, or to defuse the situation. They come to solve problems.”

“And… how do you know this?” came the question from Angel.

“Because I’ve met the XO. That mage, leading the second squad? He’s a certified card-carrying badass all on his own - and this time, he brought his whole team. Pack up and move out. There’s more going on here than just us, and there’s going to be a whole lot of blood when they’re done. We need to be far away when that happens. Get out. Now.” Nightingale ordered.

"I already suffered from Thalassophobia. It happened while a Kraken swept up and took my at-the-time-partner for a late-night snack. Oh, I got her back. But she doesn't go diving very deep. Me? I'll hunt devilfish and krakens all damn day, Ma'am." ~ Lt. "Rattlesnake" Adrian Thompson.

FlashBurn: 100 Watt Laser Flashlight Tag Night

Leave the kids at home as the flawless mirrors are raised and everything but light armor and goggles come off on a night of seared flesh and burning hair!  There are now 20 stories worth of tunnels, mirrors, jumps, ropes and any other obstacle you can think of and at least 400 contestants are welcomed to participate at once, with a 50,000¥ prize for whoever can handle being burned to a near husk during the competition without crawling or sprinting to a safe zone for treatment!  The entrance fee is 250¥ and the wide spaced, polarized viewing areas and feeds allow spectators to safely see the action for a 10¥ cover.  Lasers are provided for free (no, you don't get to keep them) but the cost of treatment for your burns?  NOT INCLUDED!

BlockChop: Neck Breaker Race

With a 20 kilometer course, and a turn at every block, this edition of the race is twice as long as the old and consists of 250 individual turns over 200 square kilometers of the Sticks. Turn off that grid link and throw yourself into a race that previously resulted in 39 arrests, 22 deaths and only 10 riggers who finished the race. This is about speed and control, not combat, so don't be a dick. Drones and hacked cams will bring the action to all 22 citywide BlockChop bars and 40 associated garages. 50¥ cover to watch at the bar, 1,500¥ to enter and now a prize of 125,000¥ for the winner, as well as a fully restored BMW Blitzen 2052 Limited Edition. And for second and third: Absofuckinglutely nothing! Well, except for the bragging rights that you were able to actually finish.

The Steel Focus: Blades And Barriers Bash Battle

Get to building that circle or lodge, pull out those power up spells, and get ready to back your chosen spellcaster in a Blade And Barrier battle for a 20,000¥ prize. Yes, it's a 1,000¥ cover to watch in person, but we got the whole center of the club open and clear for the action. The blades may be blunt, but the action is real, with each team focusing their energies on their chosen's speed, agility, armor and shields in a battle royale of incredible spectacle until only one team's fighter remains standing. Healers, of course, will be standing by, cuz the night is about skill, power and honor above all. And, of course, a variety of reagent infused ales and wines for those watching, all included in the cover.

Black Hawk Vineyard: Dragon Rides

If you want to meet a dragon that won't tear you to pieces if you try to touch it, let alone ride it, Black Hawk Vineyard is hosting dragon rides, courtesy of Nosor, voted Dragon of The Year by Dragon Fancy magazine and Man Of The Year by People.  The fee is 1,000¥ for a 90 second ride around a beautiful 10,000 acre estate and vineyard, with 50% of the profits going towards the Nosor Children's Charity.  A full evening of wine tasting is also included as well as a bottle of Limited-Edition Black Hawk Red, cured by dragon breath, a one of a kind memento from an evening you'll never forget!

Club Chaos: Maze Night

Now that Club Chaos has expanded to two complete scraper levels, Maze Night is more fun than ever.  Find your way through a full 1,200 square meters of shifting walls, both material and magical, to the crushing sounds of a live performance by Exploding God.  With themed bars around the perimeter, finally making your way to Whiskey Land, Hawaii Paradse and others has never been more challenging.  And, of course, every hour there’s a Cross The Club competition to see who can make it from one side of the Club to the other the fastest to win a 200¥ prize and free drinks for the rest of the night.  Be sure to check our site for our 'don't be a dick' disclaimers and have fun!

Museum Of The Shadows: Harlequin Exposed

Many people are excited and intrigued about an exhibit covering one of the most dynamic and mysterious entities of the mid to late 2000s and have apparently chosen, just as a precaution to, you know, not go.  Purported to have exhibits ranging from original writings to fragments of masks, tickets to the displays that meander through nearly a kilometer of maze-like aisles over several levels of a scraper run 2,000¥, up from 25¥ because, like, EVERYBODY is too freaked to attend and I think whoever runs it is just trying to pay the rent with the hard cores.  One of the first visitors apparently made it five meters into the labyrinthian construct before running out with blood fountaining from her eyes.  But, in any case, if you're up for an experience of a life/death time, stop on by!  Grand re re re re opening at midnight!

Emmers College Annex: Police Sketch Class

With people now able to basically 'print out' their memories, sketching in general is fast becoming a lost art, and police sketching is almost nonexistent.  But, if you want to learn something unique and useful, this 2500¥, three-night class will help you learn a challenging and still useful art.  Not everybody can receive a Bluetooth transmission, but there's always an iPad or Surface or perhaps even paper to draw up an image. Still trucking at age 92, former FDC Metro artist Hatsuyo Romanoff will help pass on a dying art that deserves to survive.

Strike: PGP2 Drone War Open

With a 50th story view of the Prince George's Phase 2 Exclusion Zone and a roof top launch pad, the rigger utopia club ‘Strike’ has put together a 20,000¥ prize in both the air and air drop ground categories with a mere 750¥ entrance fee and the opportunity for thousands more nuyen in future competition sponsorships.  Normal build rules apply: Your drone must be at least 50% custom and equipped with max encryption to keep those pesky feds from ruining our fun.  A comfy control chair is part of the deal and lookie loos can watch in our multi-level rigger techno themed lounge for a 25¥ cover.  See what your drone can do, and help every rigger see what gear the feds will invite to the fight.  And, of course, go after your salvage at your own peril!

Larry's Legito Land: Block Bash Night

Got 250¥ for the entrance fee and even a lose grasp structural engineering?  Then sign up for the block bashing event of, well, the week because, yup, it's every week.  BUT this time the theme is Space Legitos, (which are not at all just repainted Legos used to avoid a costly lawsuit), and a multi-tiered factory scraper setting is ready for the ruckus.  The blocks drop like rain at midnight and you got 10 minutes to grab and build before the bashing begins!  Lob a block of bricks or bash with a well-made sword, with no armor permitted it comes down to will and, probably, a lot of ortho skin.  And, overtly lethal moves are forbidden again, because of that dick who got all the big flat blocks last week, Rambore, who is actually returning to fight again this week.  There’s a designated 'norm' fight two stories down with a 100¥ fee, 5k purse.  But why muck around with a 5,000¥ prize when you can win a full 25,000¥ if you're a badass who can survive the battle royale!  Spectators pay a mere 20¥ cover and the expansive venue seats up to 2,500!  And, as usual, management is NOT responsible for collateral damage!  Go to it, block heads!

To The Pain: Tolerance Competition

Along with their normal courtesy meal whippings and complimentary variable voltage nipple clamps, To The Pain is cooking up more than barbed wire infused steaks.  Compete for a 10,000¥ prize in their legendary scar free, clean voltage pain induction contest against the reigning non suppression ware champion, Godmother.  Or, if you're a wuss, you can go for the Pussy Prize of 500¥ that allows for the use of ware, but what fun is that.  In either case, full medical monitoring is provided, and the Marquis De Sade arena is fully opened so you can view the action from mere meters away.  Viewer passes are available for 250¥, and include a complete meal as well as your choice of acid shots.  Whether you’re inside the arena or out, feel the pain.

BlockChop: Buy Breakdown Move And Build Rally

With the target vehicle the Honda GM-3220, this rally adds a bit more complexity than the Runabouts of competitions past.  The rules are the same: Buy it, break it down, move it to the designated rebuild site (TBA), put it back together and then race it to the finish line, also TBA, because what's the fun in knowing exactly what the hell is going on, eh?  The chase drones are provided by the bar, and spectators can enjoy the race from home or mingle with riggers galore at the bar itself for 25¥.  The winning payout is 100,000¥ so the competition will be fierce.  Past showdown highlights: A big ole' brawl when two teams found the same vehicle at the same lot, a running gunfight when two teams merged on the same highway while carrying their parts, and, perhaps the best finish ever when, half a click from the finish line, two Runabouts rammed head on!  With a sports car in play, the fun should be fast and, without violating copyright, quite furious!

Stampede Sewer Cleaners Presents: Sewer Hover Race

Bring your custom hover scout and compete in a "cash per checkpoint" race through the cavernous expanses of the deep sewers, where, since the vehicles are unarmed, and pilots may only carry a heavy pistol on themselves, were certain to see at least a couple assholes get straight up eaten by monsters! The course consists of a jarring 10 kilometer run with 100 checkpoints, each worth 1,000¥, and even if you're in an accident that left you with nothing but a joystick and, thankfully, a pair of boxer shorts, you still get to keep anything earned prior to the wreck! The entrance fee is absolutely nothing, as Stampede is sponsoring the event, but only 20 of entrants will be chosen to race because, c'mon, you gonna send 1,200 entrants down a sewer conduit, even a huge one, at the same time? Actually, that would be fucking hilarious.

Club Ragdoll: Decker/Gamer Bandwidth Battle

How much data can you manage?  How much throughput can you deck, and your brain, handle at once?  The Bandwidth Battle is on and with a newly installed exabyte connections, more deckers than ever can compete for the 50,000¥ prize!  The current champion Elong has decided to sit this one out after destroying his competition with a simulstream of nearly 100,000 porn sites dragging down 22.2 Petabytes per second.  So, if you're willing to shell out the 1,500¥ entrance fee you'll get a comfy couch in our five-story scraper lounge and a hardwire to the central core, because even your fastest wireless is going to be TOO GODDAMN SLOW!  Spectators can view the action by sim or on one of our 500 interpretive displays for 100¥ and be treated to endless Red Bull pitchers and snacks, snacks, snacks!

Uninvited: Floating Fovea Fight Night

You might have the spells, but do you have the brawn to fight without them?  Find out when Uninvited fires up their variable Fovea zone arena and see if you can handle yourself with a blunt object of your choice when a zone suddenly pops up around you.  All non-lethal spells are on the table, as well as a selection of clubs, batons, saps or anything else you can knock somebody the fuck out with.  There's a 2,500¥ prize in the individual competition and a full 10,000¥ in the teams division.  Don't feel like getting zapped or clocked on the head?  Join the unique team of shamans and mages that use their ritual skills to make these fields possible. It only pays 50¥, but it's a great way to meet and greet colleagues, as well as test your overall magical prowess.  And, yes, if you're a mundane meat bag or a magician who just wants to chill, viewer passes are available for 100¥.  Enjoy the show!

Unified Products Presents: Something For Everyone Treasure Hunt

Known for their generic versions of much of the hardware, weapons, decks, drones and other popular items runners use, Unified Products has placed 4 'mother-lodes', crates containing over 175,000¥ worth of their most popular items drawn from all categories, at various locations in the city. Think it's easy to find a giant crate? Don't be a fucking idiot. The clues are sparse, the crates are masked, and finding them can take weeks. No fee to enter, and, as an added bonus, the first to find the items also gets to defend it from the numerous other teams who will almost certainly descend upon it shortly thereafter! Hurray!

Ares Transportation: 24 Hour Window Hyperloop Roll Rumble

In a tradition that was started as a compromise between corps and criminals to keep the latter element from perpetually fucking with the loops, the Roll Rumble has been chosen as this year's designated sport for the 24 Hour Window. And with only a day to play with the H22 segment, 750¥ gets you a scant 5 minutes of combat, but considering most of the safety protocols are released, allowing for fast banks and even barrel-rolls, that's 750¥ pretty well, fucking spent. Melee weapons only, and the fine for causing a depressurization is now up to 75,000¥. So, yeah, don't be the guy with the dikote swords. Just, don't.

Rubber Meets The Road Nightclub  - Dregs Loop Challenge

The notorious Dregs Loop, now updated to a 200-kilometer jagged, complex path that does make the entire loop around the city, just in a really fucked up way. And to prevent disruption by police roadblocks the official path may be subject to change, an addition that has many riggers, known as "pussies" to bitch. The entrance fee is a steep 10,000¥ because something has to pay for all the goddamn technology it takes to make this shit happen. Both speed and hard core divisions exist for bike and car, but heavier vehicles are now right the fuck out. And all those who watched the December 18th shit show knows exactly why. Oh, winner gets 350,000¥.

Le Fantome: Runner Fashion Show

Fine dining, fine fashion and fine firearms merge at Le Fantome, the multi-story, multi-building hotspot the merges clubbing and culture and has featured the biggest names in fashion since its creation. But for one night a year, the lights are dimmed and the site becomes a veritable who's who of the more glamorous members of the shadowrunner community. Dress is formal, tickets are expensive (1,000¥ per person if you want a decent view of the catwalk) and general community participation is nonexistent, so you won't be treated to a catwalk congo line of the shadow's prettiest rejects. These are the real deal, and, I'm sorry, whoever you are, you just ain't pretty enough to play.

 -bjk

He was intent on Mount Shasta. The hard way. Meat and muscle, all the way, up, and he'd have the final laugh, before he took his wingsuit back down to the parking lot and took the damn transit right back through Tir lands, straight back to his comfortable job putting gun muzzles to the heads of corporate miscreants.

What he didn't count on was mounting the summit, and meeting a woman in a power-suit. Heels included.

Hardly what you'd expect from a climber, but Aydi wasn't in a position to argue. Heck, just last winter, he'd been mistaken as a Tir Seditionist. That had taken some diplomacy. But a smoking-hot redhead, on a remote mountain? The spirits were messing with him. Heck. WHY did she look so familiar?

He pulled out a couple of bottles of "Portland Porter" he'd been saving to drink until he'd reached the summit at dawn, and offered one to the woman - who just looked at him with the same bemusement that he looked upon her.

She sat down next to him in the snow, and tipped back the beer with appreciation and thirst. It was a damn good beer.

"You look so familiar. You on the Trid? May I have the pleasure of your name?"

The woman in the dress looked at him fondly. Like she'd met him long ago, but he'd forgotten.

"Hestaby". She said.

Without another word, she walked off of the mountain cliff, certain that he'd follow.

"I don't make them stand in front of the miniguns." Me, responding to a 199X email asking how I keep my NPCs from being shredded by miniguns.

“Did I dream myself to death again? Don’t we have a guy for that?” - Electric Warrior [T/M], behind the scenes at his marathon 3 week dreamstream.

“All I remember is I was watching AR porn when I rammed into the biggest cock I’d ever seen.” Cyrus Pessoa [M/D], testifying at his manslaughter trial for rear ending a city bus with a Citymaster, killing 27.

“At any point in your life did you consider moving on from the fat crayons?” Sativola [F/D], rated 5th most influential art critic, reviewing a work by Oihenarte Janosek [M/D]. The value of all of his works dropped by 95% after the comment.

“Did you see him hit the ground and die? No? Cuz, I don’t care how far he fell out of that helicopter, he’s your arch enemy. They simply don’t go out like that.” Matriarch [F/H], Author of “Chromed Memoirs: Yet Another Goddamn Runner Story”.

“Discretion isn’t all that necessary if your enemy isn’t paying any attention.” Silentstar [F/H], from her book “Woah, There: Logical Run Planning”, p. 2071

“Don’t pick at it.” - Simple advice that a recent New England Of Medicine study showed would prevent 15% of post-op cyber and bio infections if followed.

“For every bed of roses, there will be a bed of thorns. Which will you lie on?” - Riku [H/M], Leader Of The “Front 50/50” Policlub, one of the new breed of ‘Economist Policlubs' to crop up in recent years.

“He who laughs last often doesn’t realize how severe his injuries are yet.” Tiffany Gawronski [F/O], former DocWagon employee and host of “The Shadow’s Stupidest Samurai”.

“I am happy to report that the two sides have agreed to cease hostilities at midnight. Until then, and I quote, ‘The game is motherfucking on.’” - Kiley Correra [F/E], arbiter for the Babakku and Konton-Shi gangs, ending (eventually) weeks of bloodshed.

“I did show an astonishingly high aptitude towards surviving falls from very high distances, but they don’t really give bonuses for that.” - Celese [F/H], from her autobio “I Was A Runner Wannabe", p. 2073

“I gave up crime so I could go about stealing shit the legal way.” Alexa Mossadegh (Shadowstalker) [F/H] in her autobio "Lawyers, Corps And Cops: A Former Runner’s Life On The Top Ten Floors", p. 2071

“I looked down, and it was GONE! I wasn’t even sure which orifice I lost it in!” Ezekiel Lodge [M/E], in a graphic vlog post after a drug fueled encounter with a malfunctioning sexbot.

“I still want the record to show that I beat the living shit out of that donkey.” Dill Wart [O/M], In a rambling police statement after a drunken miscommunication at The Screaming Asses’ 'Donkey Punch' night.

“I take everything a woman has, lock her in a room for a week with nothing but a razor blade, and if she’s still alive after seven days: I give it all back.” Unnamed Evo exec, quoted in “Games Trillionaires Play” (p. 2075), by Felipa Sabo [F/H], (d. 2075).

“I won Body Mod Bod of the year, and all I had to do was get hit by a truck.” Azurepyre [F/E], In a post award ceremony interview with ‘Metal Meat' magazine.

“I’m sorry, but we recently refinished the floors. Your commandos will just have to invade on the lawn.” President Lành Phan [M/H] of Nong Khai after an Udon Thani incursion. The micronations have invaded each other over 60 times in the past decade.

“I’ve been in the midst of an implant assisted orgasm since 2062. Just easier to nev..oh…never shut it off.” - Jenny Gleem [F/H], simporn actress.

“If somebody described a trip to the bathroom as ‘life changing’, you think negatively because, regardless if the experience was good or bad, there’s still a bathroom involved.” Bingo [F/T] from her book “The Worst: Surviving The Z Zone”, p. 2069

“If we lock a man in a room, and return to find the man standing next to a pile of shit, we can no longer even prove that it’s his shit.” Attorney Daniel Brown [M/H] from ‘Magic Mayhem: The New Legal Order’, p. 2031

“Laziness Is Fatal” Loose translation of the motto of Fujitimaha Motors, an automotive sweatshop recently shut down on Japan's Yakushima Island. It is one of over a dozen ‘counterfeit car" operations shut down in recent months.

“Never let another person tie your knots. Even your mom has a tiny part of her that thinks you should die.” Seraphic [F/H], Host of ‘Don’t Fuck Up: Survival In The Sprawl', daily senseburst.

“Operation Dog Fart” The code name casually given by the U.K. to their 2063 Falkland raid, not realizing it would go on to be one of the most successful military actions of the decade, destined to be taught in military academies for years.

“Thankfully, I’m too stupid to grasp the concept of embarrassment.” Big Bubba Bartholomew [M/D], after winning the Butt Network’s ‘Public Pooping’ contest, coming from behind and pinching the lead after destroying his opponent in both mass and precision.

“You can tell a lot about a person by how they laugh. I, for instance, laugh like an asshole, which is 100% on the mark.” Razor, Radio Phree Philadelphia, available on FM receivers everywhere.

“You think I’m disappointed; I think I heard God shoot herself.” - Dawnhunter [F/D], deconstructing the new hopefuls on the hit stream ‘Dumped In The Shadows: From Rejects To Runners In 30 Days.’

“We’ve made a pretty good business out of other runners fucking up royal.” Resolution [M/T], Owner Of ‘Pinch Hitters Runner Support Services'.

“Facts, when combined with an assault cannon, constitute the greatest force in the world.” Anvil [M/O] ‘KnowNow’ Policlub And Militia Leader

“We just put a lot of effort into getting our enemies to exhaust all but one option, and then pounce on that option.” White Pony [F/O], DeeCee Area Runner.

“A fertile mind needs a lot of shit dumped onto it to grow to its full potential. It’s either that or they drown in the shit.” Lam An [M/H], Commander, Bogota Bravo Faction, During Sentencing For The Murder Of 278 Child Recruits

“I’ve found that changing my mind at the last minute only results in two fuckups instead of one.” Province [F/H], Boston Area Runner

“If knowledge is dangerous, I feel pretty safe around here.” Random Patron, “Dumbs Bar And Grill”, After Passing The Location’s ‘Lack Of Intelligence’ Test.

“It wasn’t until I made all this fucking money that I realized how many friends I have.” - Biggie Bang [D/M], DJ And Recording Artist.

“I got so many Colt M23s crammed into my bathroom alone that I have to shit in the yard. The neighbors don’t complain, probably because of all the Colt M23s I got crammed into my bathroom.” - Finnick, Fence

“Running on fumes is still running.” – Blackjack [M/H], From The Autobio “Grade D, But Edible: 25 Years In The Sprawl”, 2051 SimonEl Press

“Running is like adding too much garlic to a salad; Rude if you’re feeding vampire…...I’m not sure where I was going with that.“ - Chris, The Cracked Cranium Comedian [O/M].

“Another 50k run? I still owe ten grand from the last one!” - Stoobie [D/M], 17th Worst Sammy In The Sprawl.

“All these conceded masses who think they matter because of their differing opinions disgust me! I’m better than you! Just accept that and watch!” - Erika Grey [F/H], Commentator, XF Zero NewsEve.

“Apathy is pulling the trigger and not giving a shit whether or not it fires. True apathy is not bothering to pull the trigger at all.” KillJoy [H/M] [DECEASED], Samurai , From The Bio “Dented Chrome: Streets, Sewers And Suicide”, 2065 SimonEl Press.

“Pull your head into your shell, little turtle. I’ll be ready with the guillotine when you poke it back out.” Dzuljeta Ji-Hye [F/H], Former CIA Sniper, From The Bio “One Chance”, 2071 Simon El Press.

“Facts only make it harder to form a pure ethos. I despise you. I don’t need to know why.” - Ho Bustillo [M/H], Humanis Policlub Initiate.

“A lie will rumble through the sprawl for days before the truth even gets its shit together.” Joeann Dimario [F/E], Investigative Reporter, InDeep News.

“It isn’t the lights and cameras that frighten a true performer. It’s what happens when the lights and cameras are turned off that gives us nightmares.” Dyna [F/E], Former Megastar, From The Autobiosim “It’s Not A Star, It’s A Flare”, 2068 SimonEl Press.

“The only thing a fuckup can learn is how to be a better fuckup, regardless of the tech involved.” – Sif Simon [F/H], Synaptic Enhancement Surgeon.

-bjk

“You can’t even conceive of what I’ve put into motion!” the man ranted, continuing to pace about the small control room, his too-expensive haircut marred by soot as the ship fell to fiery pieces around him. “What I started will outlive me, will outlive you, will outlive this very country!”

Acahya looked to her companions—bloodied, battle-weary, and emotionally drained after the prolonged siege that eventually, and at great cost, lead to their victory. She saw them trying to figure out Simon’s angle, his master plan. To glean some meaning of why he betrayed them so many months ago, burning their contacts and setting the world’s top corporations gunning for them. The act that instigated their globe-spanning efforts to stop him. One piece of his multi-layered plan.

Contrarily to her crewmates, for the Aztec shaman he wasn’t a deeper mystery to be solved, he was just another corporate suit, puffed up by his own self-importance and delusions of grandeur. His motives and machinations didn’t matter to her—just his actions. To her, he signed his own death warrant as soon as he ran afoul of their deal; she had never taken betrayal lightly, and if he had done his due diligence, perhaps he would have known that about her. By forcing her to go on the run, pursued by corporate hit teams no matter where they sought refuge, he all but ensured she was going to take the time to amass the resources, personnel, and firepower to reach him no matter where he hid.

A lot of honest and hard-working people died in the corporate assaults to find them, people who just had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The major multinationals didn’t care much about “collateral damage,” so long as it didn’t make it on the afternoon news. In Acahya’s mind Simon was directly responsible for those slayings, and even as his whole world crumbled around him, she saw that he didn’t spare a single thought to the mountain of corpses he climbed to achieve his aims, whatever they were.

Her team had uncovered evidence that he was trying to orchestrate the creation a new megacorp, one backed by key players across the political landscape. He had used dangerous rogue AI to steal his competitors’ secrets and calculate the exact moment to make his moves, plotting and scheming for years to make his dreams of power a reality.

Acahya didn’t care about any of that, however. From the moment the team realized that their escape plan for the very first heist they worked together—the mission orchestrated by Simon—had been a ruse designed to get them caught, her only thought of him was seeing his throat squeezed by her hands. She was a devout follower of Raven, and her mentor spirit taught that disloyalty can only be paid for in blood. A lesson few—knowing her background and the rumors surrounding her exploits in Aztlan—would dare put to the test.

“Tomorrow a new Horizon dawns on the world—and history will be forever changed. My work is done,” the man smiled broadly, his perfect teeth reflecting the flames which licked at the walls as the heavily-damaged, critically-listing stealth attack ship began to groan and tear itself apart under its own weight. He spread his arms wide, as if expecting praise, applause, or both.

“Then you’ll die happy,” the shaman muttered, unimpressed. With practiced and deft control, she twisted and re-threaded the mana streams which connected all living things, rearranging them into a form much more to her liking.

Simon’s too-perfect features began to sag, losing cohesion as her powerful magic found purchase within his aura. His muscles and even bones began to droop, to melt. Dropping to the floor in thick, viscous glops, in seconds the shadowy figure who had been behind so many of their heartaches, setbacks, and close calls over the past sixteen months, was nothing more than a slowly-oozing pile of inert slop.

“Acahya, what the hell are you doing?” one of her companions yelled at her. “He would have told us why this all happened!”

She shook her head callously, ignoring the incredulous stares. “No, he wouldn’t. His mind was as full of corporate doublespeak and weasel-words as his mouth.” A new bead of sweat traced a rivulet down her sooty skin, the effort of maintaining the powerful transmutation spell adding stress and strain to the tally of magic she had already woven throughout the assault on the vessel.

Several of her newer companions raised their voices in protest before being quieted by other members of the crew—in all their travels together the two things they had learned about Acahya were her impossible stubbornness and her exacting sense of retribution. There’d be no talking her out of whatever she had planned.

She knelt beside the quivering puddle, the chunky puddle that used to be Simon—and which would be once again if she stopped concentrating on her magics. Closing her eyes, she spread her arms wide, and began to focus on a new spell, one she had never used in such a way before. Her breathing slowed.

The sounds of her companions, the death knells of the ship, even the encroaching flames, all fell away as she concentrated. She felt the pins and needles of the spells she had already cast, and the one she maintained on Simon, as waves of stinging nettles blowing across an empty plain, embedding deeply in her bare skin. Still, she did not falter, and she called her prayers to great Raven, her connection to the realms of spirit, by whose grace she was able to wield magic.

Blood exploded from her nose as she continued her chants, the staccato sounds of the Nahuatl language—the voice of her ancestral people—rising to a fever pitch as she prayed, every word focusing and gathering more astral energy to her cause.

Wounds she had suffered in the assault split open anew, as if ignoring the advanced medical care she received for her injuries. Dark bruises spiderwebbed across her olive skin. Still, she sang.

Her crewmates, even those who had been with her from the beginning, had never seen such a display, from her or any other practitioner they had encountered. In the ruddy light of the control room her jet black hair took on the appearance of oiled feathers, while the shadows of her downturned face seemed to suggest a dark, pointed beak. Haunting caws mixed in with Acahya’s increasingly raspy voice, and her outstretched fingers, bent and flexed with effort, could have been mistaken for powerful talons.

With blood coursing down her arms and dripping from the turquoise beads of her native bracelets, leaking out of a dozen wounds across her torso, and flying as thick spittle with every plosive syllable, she channeled all the cleansing magic, the purification and healing power she could muster, into the capricious pile of waste before her.

As she rocked back and forth on her knees, her voice breaking and barely audible above the rasping of her very breath, the mass began to change. The edges began to clarify, as if the milky ooze were withdrawing, leaving clear water in its wake. Slowly at first, and then faster and faster, more and more of the puddle began to purify, the very essence of the corporate hatchetman boiling off, out of the puddle, vanishing into the ether.

And still Acahya sang, her hands clenched tightly to the point of drawing blood in her palms, her voice nearly inaudible, the magics channeled through her body taking a terrible toll. But still she sang, with the spirit of her people, the spirit of a healed Earth, the spirit of a world no longer plagued by the corruption of greed and gluttony, pride and avarice. She sang a song of hope, and rage, and retribution.

As the last of the milky chunks dissolved beneath the power of her magic, leaving behind only a crystal-clear puddle of the purest spring water, Acahya’s voice caught in her throat and her head snapped back, bloodshot eyes wide and wild. She couldn’t breathe.

The puddle exploded.

For the briefest of moments, the air was filled with a billion billion shimmering crystal droplets, all that remained of Simon, reflecting the faces of the triumphant shadowrunners, the sterile control consoles, and the billowing flames approaching from the aft hull. Hanging motionless, in a perfect moment of clarity, they then evaporated in an instant into the heat and smoke of the sinking ship.

Acahya fell heavily forward, barely catching herself with a hand as she coughed and sputtered, taking deep, gasping breaths, the strain of channeling such a powerful degree of magic—and its wholly unprecedented usage—threatening to drive her unconscious.

The crew looked to their captain, Dakka, who was a shaman of no small power himself. “Help her up, if she’ll let you,” he added. “That was more power than I’ve seen anyone try to use.”

Too weak to fight off the two who moved to support her, Acahya gave Dakka a wan, blood-filled smile, her lips cracked and split. “We finally got the bastard,” she rasped.

He nodded, unsure of what to say, before directing the remaining crew to pick up anything not nailed down on their way out of the derelict and actively-sinking vessel.

“But Simon’s big plans, and everything that comes next,” Nova began to ask, a teammate who had been with the crew through thick and thin though not from the beginning. “He said it’s happening even without him.”

Dakka shrugged and gestured up the passage, where everyone was scrambling to disembark before the entire ship succumbed to fire and the seas beneath. Specifically, he pointed to the half-unconscious Acahya being carried around the corner, just out of sight.

“That’s the difference between people like him and people like her.”

Nova cocked an eyebrow, questioning.

“He thought the whole world started and stopped with his grand design. That anyone he met or faced would be concerned with his plans. Acahya though, she didn’t give one whit about his plans. Everything she did this whole time, every run she went on, every person she helped, it was to get close enough to eventually kill him. Him the person, not him the mastermind.”

He paused, bending down to relieve a fallen corporate soldier of a particularly nice rifle and ammo belt, before continuing.

“There’s a lesson in humility there, I suppose. No plan is so great that it’ll keep someone from sticking a knife in your gut.”

“Or whatever the hell it was she did to him.”

“Or that.”

The penultimate writeup of Acahya's many adventures, some of which have been posted to this subreddit. More can be found on my blog

As the O’Shant—an 80 meter luxury yacht-turned mobile piracy headquarters—reemerged from a crackling magical portal in the calm doldrums of the Bermuda Triangle, the collective stomach of the crew leapt into their collective throat. Returning to normal space from a demiplane where time had no meaning—where one could spend a month in meditation in the same span others could eat a sandwich—meant their bodies had to “re-sync” with the local time stream; a process that was neither expected nor fun.

Getting their bearings, it appeared the ship had emerged in the same waters it had departed from; the crew had been chasing legends of mysterious technology and magical artefacts near the center of the Triangle when they were sucked into the otherworldly plane. Their clocks told them nearly six weeks had elapsed, though for some of the crew it seemed like they had spent whole lifetimes in the “other place.”

Everyone’s commlinks chirped in unison as the rigger piloting the modified ship got a reading on its sensors. “Something big—check that, lots of big things! Port side! Starboard! All around us!”

A sinister fog, coalescing from a crystal-clear sky, swirling though there was no wind to propel it, soon surrounded the vessel, blotting out the sun above. When the crew first entered the doldrums on their way to the portal, they were beset by a spiritual apparition—a nineteenth-century Spanish galleon, who demanded they turn back or suffer the consequences. Not afraid of literal ghost pirates, the crew plunged headlong and vanished into the forbidden rift leading to the hidden plane.

This time, it seemed the ghosts weren’t interested in letting the modified yacht simply sail past. The calm waters began to roil and from the depths rose dozens of ephemeral ships, from all ages of Atlantic exploration. Galleons narrowly missed scraping hulls with iron-clad Civil War-era frigates, native canoes, and 20th century cutters, all fully-crewed and with cannons, deck guns, and even bows trained on the interloper. Their hulls trailed green smoke and the frothing waves began to pulse with an eerie, otherworldly glow.

The Spanish captain who had issued warnings a month before grinned cruelly from the prow of his ship, his bearded face looking maniacal, lit as it was from beneath. He raised a cutlass toward the yacht and its de facto captain Dakka, who had spurned the pirate on their first voyage.

This time the ghost had brought friends, and they were committed to sinking the high-powered, twenty-first century pleasure ship.

“Boys!” Dakka called from the foredeck, backing up several paces. “It’s time to prove who owns these waters!” Charging forward he launched himself off the yacht, sailing through the air toward the galleon, his antiquated long-coat flapping behind him. Landing heavily on the wooden deck of his opponent, he drew his own blade—a monofilament edge recently purloined from an Ares weapon division storehouse—and, with a grin spanning from ear to ear, made to duel the ghostly Spaniard.

As the O’Shant’s automated turrets were primed and aimed at the many ships circling it, the crew—all experienced shadowrunners with more than a year of history working together—each took up their own arms. Some drew blades to repel boarders, some large-bore rifles, and others began to glow with mystical power all their own.

Acahya, the neo-Aztec shaman who had helped lead a multi-continent campaign against the megacorporation who murdered her parents and poisoned her homeland, was unimpressed with the ghosts’ showing. She held great disdain for all things “unnatural,” and while months and months spent in meditation within the timeless place had softened her stance on technology—seeing it as a tool rather than an evil in and of itself—it had done nothing for her opinion of the undead, the likes of which she had faced before.

Calling out to the great spirits of land and sky, she focused her attention, her desire, and her raw will into the astral plane, into the unbridled essence of spiritual energy which pervaded the world. With eyes closed tight she whispered one name over and over, beckoning a power greater than she had ever before attempted, convincing it to enact its dread purpose on her behalf.

Sensing the bands of magical aether she wove snap like too-tight rubber bands, she felt her ribs break and blood poor from her chest. With labored breath she fell bodily to the deck, heaving and wracked with pain.

“Acahya, you good?” yelled another crewmate, fighting off a ghostly British officer and his viper-like cutlass. The sounds of cannon fire began to fill the air, and the yacht began to shudder with the impacts. It may have been protected by state-of-the-art armour, but each shot was filled with magical energy, and they began to take their toll on the vessel.

The shaman nodded, not even looking up, a dark pool of blood spreading out beneath her. “Xipe Totec has answered my call, and these seas will be cleansed.”

A flash of lightning rippled through the heavens above and, for a second, it seemed that all eyes were drawn skyward. A powerfully-built Aztec warrior, standing hundreds of feet tall and with blinding white eyes as luminous as the sun, bent down beneath the clouds to survey the battlefield. His disapproving growl shook like stampeding horses or rolling thunder.

Spreading his arms wide—his reach extended far beyond the swirling mists of the ghostly battlefield—he suddenly clapped them together with enough force to send the 80 meter yacht rolling in the shockwave, deafening the crew and breaking the mainmasts of many smaller ephemeral vessels.

Lightning arced from the clouds, striking angrily around the seas, each blasting parts of the ghost ships to pieces. More than one was sunk in the barrage as the dread Aztec spirit’s anger seethed and his temper flared.

Then, as if something more interesting than the dozens of undead ships and hundreds of pirates had caught both his eye and his aggression, he dove silently beneath the waves, the last bolts of lightning ringing across the clouded ocean. The strange green glow from beneath the waves began to flash and jitter, as if a hidden battle was taking place between two titanic forces, far below the more military engagement above.

As the yacht’s crew began to take the day—the number of ghost ships nearly cut in half by Xipe Totec’s fury—someone slapped a trauma patch on Acahya as they ran from one raging battle to another, its concoction of amphetamines, plain blockers, and clotting agents working to stem the terrible damage done to her body by the mystic forces she sought to wield.

Slowly able to turn herself around, facing upward to the sky, Acahya smiled to the heavens as the first notes of starlight began to pierce the thinning fog. Her chest pounded in places it wasn’t supposed to, her clothing shredded and ruined, and she lay in a spreading pool of her own blood in the shape of the great thunderbird, but for the first time since she was a child she had felt the touch of a god, and she was at peace.

When the wise-woman Lou’opa first told her parents that young Acahya had potential for “the sight,” it was a celebration for the whole family. Far away from the corporate enclaves and their rigorously-enforced secular education, the family practiced animism, the belief that all humans had a twin spirit in the animal kingdom, and that the spoiling of natural resources would directly corrupt the soul of human civilization. There was power in the natural world, and some select people were called to wield it, entrusted to defend the world against excess and greed.

After months of practice, training, and education, Acahya followed Lou’opa to a secret cave late one evening while her parents slept. “They do not have the sight,” the old woman whispered, “they cannot see what you will be able to, if the gods be willing, and if your conviction is strong enough.”

Acahya walked into that cave a young girl who had her whole life ahead of her. She walked out a fledgling shaman, having sworn to defend the earth and its natural inhabitants, to honor balance and fight against corruption. Her path was set, and her charge given directly by the god Nextepehua, lord of ashes. He laid a sooty finger against her forehead and awakened within her the power to see, to call, and to control the magical energies which formed the other half of the world. In return, she would bring all that threatened the natural order to his realm—she would crumble their empires to ash and cast them to the four winds.

Thirty years later, all but bleeding out on the deck of a stolen yacht, watching the swirling ghostly mists dissipate as her crew dispatched the rest of the pirates, she couldn’t help but feel unending serenity. She closed her eyes.

“Goddamnit Acahya,” someone said, taking her pulse as they knelt beside her. “What the hell was that thing you called? It was massive!”

She laughed, which seized her torso in shooting pain, blood violently coughing out of her mouth. “Xipe Totec, the god of storms and natural order. He has a particular hate of the undead.” She smiled to herself, satisfied.

“Well whatever he’s doing, it looks like he’s still doing it,” they said, glancing over the railing, where the ocean continued to boil and froth, flashing lights strobing from deep beneath.

“I asked him to solve a problem,” she wheezed. “Sometimes the right prayers get to the right ears.”

“Dakka says we’re heading out. He took some nasty cuts from that ghost captain, but you’re up next in the auto-doc.”

“I’m happy to lay here all the same,” Acahya whispered peacefully, slipping off into a medically-induced slumber.

She had the most wonderful dreams.

As the armored truck bounded down the narrow access road away from the food processing and refinery plant, explosions and gunfire echoed through the humid Peurto Rican evening behind them, the scattered cloud cover lit from beneath by reds and yellows. Marred by deep gouges, shattered reinforced windows, and bullet holes all along the driver's side, the truck had only one last gate to get through before freedom.

The lone guard, who hours before waved them into the facility after barely glancing at their fake credentials, stepped out of the small security shack, a hand near his rifle but wisely not resting on it. Even at their reckless speed the truck's team could see his quirked eyebrow and wrinkled brow. The multi-layered security gate did not open for them. "Run him over?" the driver asked his companions, one half of a split effort to destabilize the food giant's hold on the local economy and its workforce.

Acahya, bleeding profusely from a sniper round she took exiting the ruined facility control room and the taxing effort of casting offensive and defensive spells in the ensuing firefight, painfully lifted her head out of the truck's bed to take a look at the guard through bleary and bloodshot eyes. She had spent most of her life under the thumb of the vast megacorporation they had just attacked, and had helped lead communities in her native Sonora against their oppression.

Their team's strike, undertaken on behalf of a would-be rebel leader in San Juan named Maria, would hopefully foment more support for the rising independence movement. She didn't want to kill any locals she didn't have to, knowing that good local men and women were forced to work for the corp or risk homelessness, starvation, and death. Her heart, erratically beating as it was with pain and shock, went out to the people of the island, and their plight.

"Give him a chance," she wheezed, her breaths labored. She could feel the bullet, having entered near her collar bone at a steep angle, digging into her pelvis. It had lanced through her torso and broken a hip on its murderous travel through her body.

Slowing to a stop beside the guard, who wisely made no aggressive movements as the truck neared, the driver calmly rolled down his window, gripping a high-caliber pistol just out of sight. "Hola, officer Rodriguez," he offered, reading the man's badge. The driver's eyes were far icier than his neutral tone.

The guard turned his head to the distant sounds and flashes of destruction, and the approaching wails of more vehicles, likely filled with the plant's remaining high-threat response teams. "A busy night for a routine inspection," he said flatly, calmly.

Acahya, the only team member who spoke Spanish natively, answered from the truck bed, her eyes shut tight from pain. "Aztechnology is bleeding your land dry, your people, your futures. It is time for San Juan to tell them you are a free and self-governed Puerto Rico, one that doesn't bow to corporate greed. It is time for revolución."

Officer Rodriguez nodded, seemingly unfazed by her grievous wounds. "Maria is waiting for you at the dock. Your ship is free to launch as soon as you arrive." He glanced back in the direction of the plant. "You had better hurry, I think."

Lifting her shaking hand toward him, rather than offering a handshake as expected, Acahya left a bloody smear on his arm and wrist. Rodriguez looked down at it.

"I bled for you," she coughed, her teeth awash with crimson. "I bleed for freedom. what do you bleed for, hombre libre?" Her head slumped back down into the truck bed, the last of her energy spent, as a companion started a new bag of saline.

Rodriguez nodded solemnly, slowly, his eyes focused on the dark stain she had left across his clothing and skin. An outsider, willing to fight---and perhaps even die---for his small island. To take on a company with all the money and power in the world, she and her team. He wordlessly triggered the gate to open for the abused truck.

As they drove away, toward the distant lights of San Juan where their exodus awaited, the driver caught one last look of the local man in the rear view mirror. He had thrown his corporate uniform hat into the dust, spitting on it with disgust, before wiping his bloody hand across his cheeks as war paint. He lifted his rifle to his shoulder and slowly walked back toward the plant, toward the corporate hit squad sent to capture or kill the escaping mercenaries.

The heavy security fence closed as the truck passed, and then they were alone in the darkness.

Behind them, gunshots.

A little post-run fiction I put together after the team I was with helped destroy a corporate facility in Puerto Rico on behalf of local freedom fighters.

I have several other stories focused around the character Acahya if folks are interested. She's something of an impassioned eco-terrorist who has an almost pathological hatred of Aztechnology

Links: AO3 (NSFW), FNN (SFW)

Words: 253,555 (32/32)

Rating: E (Most chapters M)

Fighter, Warrior, Wizard. Three Shadowrunners walk into Calfree. Through love and war, their grit and their dreams, they are there to change the world.

FINAL CHAPTER - Eight years later. War and peace, love and loss, hope and a choice.

Adapted from a playthrough of Antumbra Saga by Cirion. With tremendous thanks for their work on AS, the Caldecott Caper and Calfree in Chains, without which this story would not have been possible.

The smell of hot garbage bathed the alley. I emerged from my dumpster on what may have been the most sweltering day of the year, sweat pooling on my brow as the sun beat down upon the pavement with ferocious intensity. My neighbors gathered beneath the shade, passing a warm bottle of hooch around. Anything to stay hydrated. The taste of Hurlg was still heavy on my breath, and my head was pounding from the night before. I’d have to remember not to drink from Jimbo’s private stock again. It had been a hell of a celebration. I lit a Deepweed blunt and made my way out of the alley.

The sounds of chatter bled from the Rosewood ‘plex. The protestors were still riding a wave of elation after yesterday’s triumph. The poor bastards didn’t know this was just the beginning. With any luck the next attempt would be a more subtle one, something that would allow the wounded time to recoup their losses and recover. We’d need all the numbers we could get in the coming days.

“Rascal! I was just looking for you. I was hoping to thank you for your help yesterday,” a warm voice rang out from a window.

I glanced up to see Astria’s Elven features staring out from the third floor. She’d apparently dyed her mohawk green. Broken windows framed either side of her, and smoke was rolling from out of her unit. Astria was the buildings Spider, and my favorite Deepweed dealer. I’d known her most of her life and worked with her dad for years. I was there the day he bit the bullet. Ever since me and her had been tight, I’d always helped her out where I could. She was a good kid.

“No need, ma’am, just helping out where I can.”

“I’m not asking! C’mon up, I’ve got a surprise for you,” she answered, enthusiastically.

The door to the Rosewood ‘plex was battered to the point of being almost unusable. A small party raged inside. Balcony soy barbeques produced platters of seasoned imitation meat, as kegs were rolled into the hall from residents’ apartments. I snagged a half full plastic cup of beer and made my way to the stairs. As nice as barbeque and beer sounded, there was too much to do today.

The stairs bore the stains of almost a century of heavy use. Fist sized holes were scattered about the walls in an almost decorative fashion. I weaved through the mystery puddles and holes in the floor with practiced grace, hustling to Astria’s apartment as fast as I could. The sooner I wrapped this up the sooner I could start my day. Jimbo’s newest batch of Deepweed should be almost dried by now. Finally, I reached the third floor, pounding twice on Astria’s door, before letting myself.

Astria lived in the disheveled mess that was typical for deckers and riggers. Clothes and takeout boxes coalesced to form a second floor atop the carpet, and two of the rooms three couches had been converted into storage places for clean clothes. Astria was dancing frantically in her kitchen to German Techno-Punk. Clouds of smoke rose from her stove, alongside the smell of burnt soy.

“Rascal, find a spot to sit, food will done soon, then we can talk biz.”

“Biz?”

“C’mon, I wouldn’t waste your time. I have a lead, but it’s out of my hands now—I need someone with a skillset like yours to get the job done,” she explained, flipping a soy patty from her skillet.

“What kind of skills are we talking about, Astria?”

“The quiet kind,” she paused, “the dangerous kind. You know the Thorns?”

“I think so, yeah. Local band of runners; grew up in the building, and made a name for themselves working as enforcers for the mob, right?” I said, exhaling a cloud of Deepweed.

“Bingo! I’ve got reason to believe that they’re selling info about the ‘plex to the corps. They’re supposed to be doing another drop today, I was hoping you could follow them and find out what’s what,” she paused, handing me a soy burger and a bag of Deepweed.

I looked down at the bag: it was enough for the next two months. The burger didn’t look half bad either—it was always nice when there was more meals in a week than days. Fuck it, I’d do it.

“Aren’t a couple of these kids still teenagers?”

“Their face, Angel, is seventeen for the next couple of months. The rest are eighteen or nineteen, respectfully.”

“You know I’m not about to geek a bunch of kids, right, Astria?”

“I know—that’s why you’re the person I went to first. I skimmed their deckers PDA, they’re supposed to meet their first client of the day in an hour, I’ll have a drone tailing them as backup, but I’m going to need you to do the bulk of the heavy lifting,” she explained.

“Alright, I have to go pick up Jimbo first, but I’ll be back before the hour’s up. Where’s their first meet? Anywhere close?”

“It sounds like they’ll be doing the first meet of the day in Touristville, at a gift stand called the Blind Eye, then another at the Pour House, two hours later. My girlfriend will be here in an hour with more info, she has eyes on them.”

“Well, thanks for breakfast, tell your old lady I said ‘hi.’ I figure I ought to head out and get to it, then.”

I whispered an incantation, cast Levitate, and leapt from the window. There was no time to take the stairs. Jimbo was too far away; I’d have to be quick if I wanted to bring him on the job with me.

The alleys were lined with improvised beds. Even the unhoused had come out in force to celebrate after last night—a win against the corps was a win for all of the Barrens. I snagged an offered bottle of wine and took a long pull. I’d have to be at least a little bit drunk if I wanted to pull this off, it was the only way to fight the giggles that Deepweed gave me. I nursed the bottle for a half mile, snuffing out two Deepweed joints in that time. Finally, I reached the familiar rusted fences of Jimbo’s scrapyard. Trog metal blared over the PA system.

As I breached the gate, the sparks of a welder in the distance caught my eye. The Hellhounds were off their chains, hunting flocks of Devil Rats. Jimbo must’ve had a project going—he always loosed the hounds for his projects, it helped him think; something about the sound of fleeing Devil Rats quieted the chaos in his mind, I suppose. I whispered an incantation, casting Invisibility. I always liked to greet Jimbo with a scare, assuming the situation wasn’t too dire.

I dashed through a maze of stacked junkers, careful to avoid Jimbo’s sight. The welding station wasn’t far.

“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to take a shower every now and then,” Jimbo snarled, killing the welder and lifting his hood.

A pair of heavily armored drones sat on his workbench, beneath a tin a-frame. Smoke rose from four freshly mounted Ingrams Smartguns, welded on to both sides of the drones. Jimbo’s muscles hid beneath a welding smock, a beer gut, and a layer of glowing adept tattoos. His cyber arms were clunky and outdated. A smile emerged behind a fractured pair of tusks.

“How’d you know I was here?” I asked, dismissing the spell.

“I could smell you a half mile off, buddy. Besides, I knew you were coming; Astria called ahead. You know if you had a pocket secretary like everybody else, you could just call me and I’d meet up with you, instead of you having to walk a mile to get to me.”

“That’s true, but if I had a pocket secretary, people would expect me to answer it.”

“So, Astria said we’re doing espionage work?” Jimbo asked, exchanging his smock for a tattered chameleon suit.

“That we are. Probably ought to be headed back soon, we have twenty minutes until their first meet, by my count,” I said, glaring up at the sky, watching for the suns position to recalculate the time.

“Really? Astria called me fifteen minutes ago and said an hour,” he paused, seeing my eyes glued to the sky, “for fucks sake, Rascal, are you using the sun to tell the time again? You know that hasn’t worked since the awakening, right?”

“That’s a lie that the Dragons started to make us reliant on their tech, Jimbo. Wake up, stop acting like a sheep.”

His eyes met mine in a disapproving glare. Jimbo always hated it when I told him about the Dragon’s machinations. He was what I considered ‘willfully ignorant’—able to see the signs but unwilling to hear the truth.

Jimbo muttered a string of curses, leading me to a 20th Century Toyota Forerunner. The body was almost entirely rusted out, and the seats had more holes than the corpses in the Puyallup morgue, but I’ll be damned if the engine didn’t still roar. I hopped in beside Jimbo, and fastened my seatbelt as he slammed the pedal to the floor, casting the drones into the backseat.

“What’s up with the robots?” I asked.

“They’re for Astria, something extra, in case we run in to trouble on the job.”

The decaying streets of the Barrens eventually gave way to roads lined with neon advertisements, roadside gift shops and discrete Bunraku parlors. I hated Touristville. The whole damned place was just so… fake. It did nothing but mask the suffering that suffused the rest of the district.

The Blind Eye was close. Perhaps the tackiest talismonger shop in town, the Blind Eye specialized in items that were comically occult, and sold hundreds of refurbished trinkets, known for making absurd claims such as they were selling Aleister Crowley’s broom, H.P. Lovecraft’s toilet seat or the favorite toothbrush of J.K. Rowling. The tourists ate it up. I had it on good authority that the shop furnished most of their items through junkyards and storage locker sales.

A black building with green trim sat nestled between a pair of giftshops. Above the oaken door, an emblazoned sign read, ‘The Blind Eye.’ A bound Fire Elemental worked the door, attracting customers in droves, as a pair of Lone Star agents watched on nervously from across the road. The spirit juggled balls of flame absent mindedly. I couldn’t help but shudder. Bound spirits and Lone Star officers were perhaps the two things in this world I hated the most… aside from Brendan.

“So, what’s the plan?” Jimbo asked.

“Click on your suit, try to listen in where you can. I’m going to cast invisibility, silence myself, and listen to everything they have to say. I’ll mindlink us. I’m hoping to sneak into their car when they leave, really get the scoop,” I explained, preparing myself for what was to come with what remained of the 40 oz I’d left in Jimbo’s car three months ago.

“Sounds good,” Jimbo said, disappearing into the crowd only seconds after his door had opened.

I rounded the corner and muttered an incantation. Mana enveloped me and I disappeared like a thief in the night. Cloaked in a sheath of invisibility, I dodged through the crowd of hungry consumers, patiently working towards the door. Apparently nine A.M. was rush hour in this part of town. When I finally reached the door, it swung open as if of its own volition. A quick assensing revealed Jimbo’s aura.

“Got you,” Jimbo thought.

The store was packed from wall to wall. Tourists, wannabe street mages and hustlers alike filled the building, representing almost every facet of Touristville’s economy. I spotted the face, Angel, peering over an amethyst amulet, her Elven features amplified by the rooms dramatic lighting. Behind her a stocky Ork duo sat, perched on either side. Their eyes were glued to the door, lacking any sense of subtlety whatsoever. Romulus and Remus were among the most infamous enforcers in the Trog community; despite their relative inexperience they had quickly gained a name for themselves through brutal efficiency.

But that still left Brutus, their rigger, Jane, their decker, and Lazlo, their mage, unattended. They must be outside, likely covering the exits. I hated pulling jobs against pros.

Angel filed around the store absent mindedly for almost a half hour. Every few minutes she would pick up yet another trinket with no discernable pattern, seemingly focusing the entirety of her attention on each new item. Remus and Romulus’ eyes never left the door. Jimbo had circled the room at least a thousand times now. I could sense his irritation growing; Jimbo wasn’t good at anything resembling a stakeout—the man had the attention span of a squirrel on amphetamines. If I didn’t need the muscle, and the entertainment, I never would’ve brought him.

A Satyr bumped into Angel; their hands met for a fraction of a second. After she passed, Angel casually set down the wand she was holding (allegedly once belonging to Kenneth Copeland) and made her way to the door. The Satyr pranced to the register and purchased a cheap pair of earrings. I knew her face— but from where?

“If you’re going to get in the car, you’re gonna have to get moving,” Jimbo thought, impatiently.

“If you’re going to want to keep fitting into that suit, you’re going to have to start dieting,” I retorted.

“Fuck you, Rascal.”

I raced to the door. As I emerged into the streets, I saw Angel lighting a cigarette outside a Saeder-Krupp-Bentley Concordat. Brutus was jacked in in the front seat, while Lazlo and Jane were parked behind them in a Ford Americar. Remus and Romulus sat impatiently beside Angel, each growing visibly paranoid the longer she smoked. They were scared, I could see it on their faces. I hit a dead sprint, swinging wide around the group before circling near the drivers side of the Concordat. I muttered an incantation beneath my breath.

Sirens tore through the streets. A pair of go-gangers zig zagged through traffic as Lone Star followed in hot pursuit. I seized my opportunity and slipped into the backseat. There were only four seats. Fuck. I sat nervously in quiet anticipation, doing my best not to give away my position. As the cars passed, I dropped the illusion. Thankfully, Brutus was apparently a fan of Dwarven Noize Metal, judging by the deafening disharmony that blared from his speakers.

The front door swung open and Angel took a seat. Remus sat directly behind her. The car lurched forward violently, accelerating at a pace that nearly made me lose my breakfast. Worse though, the giggles were encroaching. I could feel it—the anxiety of knowing you were a mere bump away from being discovered. I should have drunk more of my breakfast.

“Jesus fuck, Brutus, did you lay ass in here?” Remus groaned, pinching his nostrils shut.

“No, it wasn’t me, I’ve been smelling it for a minute. I think it’s coming from outside, probably another one of those corporate air sanitation gassings,” Brutus lamented.

“You know those are all orchestrated by the Dragons, right? They’re using chem trails to make us all weak and stupid!” Angel said, looking up from her pocket secretary.

“Holy shit, not this again. Look, Keeb, none of us want to hear your backroom Jackpoint conspiracy theories,” Brutus retorted.

Remus shot a glare.

“Drop that ‘Keeb’ shit, Halfer. We both know you’ve had the hots for me since—” Angel started.

Sirens roared behind the car. I closed my eyes and reached out into the astral, locating Jimbo. He was only a few cars back. Thank Ghost.

“Looks like its time,” Remus said in a nasally tone, his nose still plugged.

“Yeah, let me just find an alley. I guess we’ll be catching up with the others later,” Brutus replied.

“Man, did you have a body back here recently? Or a pile of dirty diapers? This smells like more than air purification,” Remus replied.

The car came to a halt and the group fell silent. Four sets of boots were approaching at an aggressive pace. This was my chance. The team was nervous, I could hear them hyperventilating, fidgeting with whatever was nearby. Whoever was coming, they apparently scared the shit out of the Thorns. The front passenger window rolled down at an agonizing pace.

“Angel, what’s the news on the inside? Are they planning to retaliate?”

Brendan. It was always fucking Brendan.

“Unfortunately, I haven’t heard much. My contact from the inner circle gave me a data stick this morning, but I haven’t had time to listen to it, yet,” Angel explained.

“I’ll take it,” Brendan paused, sticking his head in the window and taking a deep whiff, “is there a fucking body in your car? It smells like a bag maggot filled diapers in here.”

I whispered an incantation, dropping my invisibility.

“Surprise, asshole!” I yelled, completing the spell.

The group all looked down in horror. I’d only recently learned ‘Wreck: pants,’ but already it was having exactly the desired effect. Brendan appeared unamused. I watched him bend over and scramble frantically for his gun. One last incantation left my lips, and the rear passenger door swung open, colliding with his skull to create a hollow thud that was likely heard from blocks away. I circled around the car. I worked frantically to rip the data-stick from Brendan’s half-conscious grip. I ran roughly ten feet before doubling back to spit on his face.

Sparks erupted as Jimbo’s Forerunner slammed into the Lone Star cruisers, forcing them forward into Brutus’ parked Bentley. I dived out of the way. Suddenly Brutus’ wheels where spinning backwards, burning out and filling the alley with black smoke. Bullets shredded the air. I raced across the rooftops of parked cars, tailed by a swarm of stinging lead hornets. I hated smart guns.

“Need some help?” a voice rang out in my mind.

As I looked back, I saw an alley spirit manifest. The creature took the shape of a great pile of studded tires, a pair of hub caps and a crumpled fender forming an almost human face. Remus’ rounds exploded on impact. I raced forward, leaping into Jimbo’s Forerunner. Removing the roof had been a god send.

“You get the info?” Jimbo bellowed.

“I think we’ve got everything we need,” I answered.

Jimbo’s reply was the screeching of tires. We roared into the streets, drifting through Touristville with the pedal to the floor. Jimbo’s grin was impossibly wide; his eyes swept the road with the practiced efficiency of a retired getaway driver; every turn was accented with a drifting flourish. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought he was jumped into the Jeep.

Sirens painted the rearview mirror. Jimbo chuckled and lit a cigar; this was nothing for him—he lived for this shit. I shamelessly stole a pull from his beer and began to cast a spell. A split second later the Jeep was covered with a translucent sheen of crackling mana. Jimbo mumbled something under his breath in an amused tone, though I couldn’t make out what. Finally, we hit a straight-away. The Jeep lurched forward almost violently, rapidly reaching speeds that it shouldn’t have been capable of, the engine roaring like a lion in its death throws. A cracking noise emanated from behind the Jeep, as an oil slick coated the street.

I looked back in time to see a pair of Lone Star cruisers crash into each other. Two more took their place. With a sigh I mustered the last of my mana, calling out to the spirit realm. I was beyond desperate—anything would do. Twin spirits of the street awoke in response, manifesting as a pair of spectral motorcycles. The duo worked in perfect tandem. Carving backwards through traffic, against the grain, the spirits moved in figure eights, slamming themselves into our pursuers relentlessly. Lone Star never stood a chance.

And then it hit me.

“Jimbo, do you have your PDA?”

“Of course. It wouldn’t do me much good other-“

“Call Astria! Now!” I said.

I knew I’d recognized the Satyr.

Anxiety gripped me as I waited for the PDA to ring.

“Hello?”

“Astria? it’s Rascal.”

“Hey, what’s up? Did you figure out what the Thorns where up to?” Astria interjected.

“Kind of; is your girlfriend already there?”

“Sheena? Yeah, she just—”

“Lock yourself in the bathroom, Jimbo and I are on our way; she’s your mole! I saw her give Angel data this morning,” I explained.

“Sheena? There’s no wa—"

The crackling of a taser echoed through the PDA and Astria fell silent.

My mind raced the rest of the ride. By the time we arrived my anxiety had peaked and I was shaking uncontrollably. I raced up the stairs in a panic. It was too late. She was gone without a trace; the trid was still on, and food was still hot on the counter. Damnit.

Branches passed above the Gopher at lightning speed, entrails wrapped along them and suspended from the ends like a sky full of morbid flags. Izzy’s eyes were glued on the canopy. Morg was laser focused, smashing the gas pedal to the floor as he steadily puffed on a glowing hot lightbulb, filled with Betameth. It was all I could do to keep my eyes open. Slinging spells as recklessly as I had been had taken a toll on my body.

The wolverine’s aura wasn’t far. I could sense it in the canopy, but there was something—someone—clouding my third eye’s vision. My stomach turned. Just being in the vicinity of the mage was making me physically ill.

“So, what do you make of that sludge ball we fought? Never seen anything like it, myself,” Morg said, exhaling a cloud the size of my head.

“Not sure; it was alien to me too. All I know is, being close to it made me feel sick—and I’m starting to feel it again,” I answered, straightening my slouched posture and fishing the Roomsweeper off the floor.

“Wait, did you say it made you feel sick?” Izzy asked.

“Yeah, like I couldn’t shape the mana around me. I figured it was just drain at the time, but the longer I sit with it, the more I realize I’ve never felt drain like this before. Headaches, nosebleeds, nausea and fatigue are all par for the course, but this is different. I feel like I’ve got the flu.”

“Fuck,” Izzy sighed, “well, it looks like we’ll either be dead or rich soon—we’re up against a toxic mage.”

“You’re right, gotta be. It’s the only thing that makes sense with the sludge spirit we faced, and the symptoms I’m experiencing.”

“Can you still sense the wolverine nearby?” Izzy asked, her eyes never moving from the canopy.

“Yeah, I can’t pinpoint it, though. The toxic must be hazing its signature. The thing is, I can’t sense the mage either. Something’s up; this isn’t right.”

Almost on cue a thunderous force collided with the top of the Gopher. The Wolverine. Izzy wasted no time emptying a clip. Before I could hoist the Roomsweeper, Morg was motioning for me to take the wheel, and climbing out the window, onto the roof. In a panicked reaction, I leapt into the driver’s seat, jerking the steering wheel so hard we nearly flipped. Izzy snatched an Ares Alpha from beneath the seat. With a quick, practiced movement, she jammed the bayonet through the roof.

A burning arc outstretched from the canopy. I swerved—straight into a tree. The airbag’s impact nearly shattered my sternum. Izzy smashed into the passenger seat with enough force to knock it off its track. Fuck. Before I could get the door open, a fireball smashed into the Gopher.

Izzy wrestled herself from the burning wreckage, tearing me along behind her like a sack of potatoes. She was somehow faster than Morg. It was unbelievable.

“That makes us square, newbie,” she coughed.

Morg wrestled the beast atop the Gopher, bathed in blood and surrounded by an encroaching ring of fire. I assensed the woods: the mage was close. In their apparent hurry to finish the fight, they’d failed to continue hazing their aura. I called out to Bear. Sure, I’d been a needy mentee lately, but he had no choice but to answer—I was doing his work.

An ethereal ursine form took to the battlefield. Materializing atop the jeep, Bear’s avatar thrashed against the wolverine. Morg pulled away. With a grin, he drew his axe, swinging as Izzy let lose a stream of carefully placed rounds. They had this. There was nothing else meaningful for me to contribute here.

“I found the toxic—I’ll be back,” I said to Izzy.

Try as she might to protest, I wouldn’t hear her out. I’d already hit a dead sprint, Roomsweeper in hand. My free hand did its best to shape a bolt of mana as I raced through the woods. They were close—only a couple dozen yards off now. My third eye directed me to the cavernous mouth of a tenebrous cave, seemingly calling my name. This had to be it. My stomach turned, twisting violently as I drew closer.

The stench of chemicals and blood combined to create a putrid odor like none I’d experienced before. Peering into the darkness I made out the shapes of dozens of stalactites and stalagmites. Something moved ahead. Again, this time almost too fast to see. I fired the Roomsweeper twice. Nothing.

“So, you managed to find me, eh dearie? Impressive,” a sickly voice echoed through the cave, seconds before five dagger like claws raked at my guts.

She was infected. A Banshee, covered with qi foci tattoos, her claws emanated an aura so intense I nearly threw up.

I shot her in the face. Twice.

She disappeared into the cave, cackling almost melodically. She was too fast to keep up with, especially with my guts leaking out of my stomach. I reached for my comm.

“None of that now, dearie!” she called, zipping back into range, and snatching the comm from my hands.

I heard the comm shatter against the ground beside me. Black sparks flickered from my fingertips. The mana bolt I hit her with was a higher force than anything I’d ever even attempted to cast before—it was all I had left in me. The drain from overcasting nearly tore my body apart. Within a split second lacerations had appeared across my body, the excess mana flooding out of me.

She was hardly fazed.

“You’ll have to do better than that, Ork. Now, why don’t you try running and see how far you can get?”

I could feel her breath on my neck. Before I’d even blinked, she was behind me, her claws gently caressing my throat.

A thunderous roar echoed from the mouth of the cavern. The left side of her skull exploded in a magnificent fashion, casting chunks of grey matter across the floor. She threw me to the side, retreating into her lair.

“Nook! Get the hell out of there, now!” Morg screamed.

“We have her, she’s on the—”

A round flew past my skull.

“Now, god damnit! The next round will be two inches to the left if you don’t get a move on!”

I clamored to the mouth of the cave as fast as I could. I could hear the Banshee howling in agony behind me. No time. No way I was getting shot by one of my own chummers—not on my first damned gig. Racing through the cavern, my mind wandered to the gaping hole in my stomach. Between that and the countless cuts across my body, it would be a miracle if I didn’t bleed out before I made it out.

“What the hell was that? We need to hit her fast, she’s going to heal from that in to time, and then—”

Morg’s fist nearly cracked my jaw.

“God damnit, newbie! You put the whole damned team in danger twice in the last hour by sprinting headfirst into danger without a thought! I even backed you the first time, but this? This was reckless! You thought you could take on a damned toxic by yourself? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You two had the wolverine under control, there was no need for me to stay and help!”

“But that’s what you do when you’re a team! Listen, you need to make a decision, and make it fast: are you a team player, or a lone wolf?” Morg growled.

“Morg, buddy, you’re being ridiculous—”

“Fine, go in and handle the toxic. Izzy and I are leaving, we’re both fucked up, and it looks like you are too. Good luck, Nook,” Morg shook his head, walking back towards the Gopher.

Fuck. If I went back in alone, I was dead.

“Wait up, I’m coming!”

“Smart choice, kid. Now, lets jet before we get zeroed,” Morg said, breaking into a sprint.

Izzy waited in the driver’s seat. Her left arm hung limp at her side, the lower half of her shirt torn off and serving as a bandage, to little effect. She was getting pale. I collapsed into the backseat, quickly realizing I’d dropped the Roomsweeper on the way. Oh well, with a payday this big, a pistol was the least of my concerns.

The bar was ghastly. Perseus idly wondered if the chairs were still standing out of a miracle of craftsmanship – at this level, carpentry necromancy – or if it was simply the filth holding them together. The heavily perfumed man facing him was still talking, but Perseus was no longer listening. He had to savour this moment, take it all in. The lively smells, the not-too-clean patrons, the gush of the heater overhead, even the wall paintings of questionable taste. This was history.

The waitress was coming with his second drink at last. She was human, and had the look of an Imperial anime character – pink hair, violet eyes. Perseus had no love for the Imps. He grunted, and the girl started shaking, spilling the first of two reasons this place was still in business – its decent beer.

He snatched the glass before more of its contents made it out, prompting the waitress to issue the shortest socially acceptable apology and back off. He didn’t need her smell to know she was feeling both awkward and scared. His grunt evolved into a whine. The waitress’ face was not nearly worth wasting all that good beer.

Having green skin and tusks didn’t help when one wanted to appear friendly, but they did wonders for the opposite endeavour. Perseus was an ork, like the ones in the past age’s video games. He was a first-generation – meaning he remembered the Awakening, and subsequent Goblinisation, first-hand.

There were still shows about it – lab coat-wearing folks still discussing theories after all this time – but for all Perseus knew, in 2011, the world went upside-down, as elf, ork, dwarf, troll and all the other metahumans began to appear out of the blue. Needless to say some human families took it better than others, but mostly those who had beautiful elven children amongst them. The parents of twisted monstrosities more often than not took them out on the street to die, only to try their luck again.

With the Awakening came the magic users and shit got real real fast. A single one of these buggers, well trained, could burn a squad of elite forces to a crisp without taking a shot. Suddenly the Native Americans decided it was high time to reclaim their rightful homeland and carved the US into the UCAS – United Canadian and American States, a shadow of its former glory. The Imperial Japanese took to the seas again… These were crazy times. Bad times to grow up as an orphan. Then again, were there ever good times for a parentless street kid ?

Perseus took a sip and went back to savouring. Some folk told him that he thought too much for a hitman, but Perseus was no common assassin. He was a shadowrunner, a deniable asset in the powerplay of the figures of this world, be they politicians, megacorporations, or worse. He was called upon to extract VIPs, steal data, sabotage operations… If that meant pulling the trigger from time to time though, he sure could do it, but in his experience, a little braintime often translated into increased lifetime.

They called his type the street-sam, though no one who knew Perseus would have called him that to his face ; he had implants, and fought with mono-blade and gun, sure, but of all things, Perseus was no Imp samurai. As a matter of fact, he had so many body parts replaced he would not put it beyond some folk to refuse to call him an ork any longer. His essence, what some mages called spiritual life force, was a mess.

In turn, they called Perseus ‘Bad Omen’, and though Perseus argued the moniker should inspire righteous fear into the hearts of his enemies, folk really used it to say he brought bad luck. The superstition sadly had some truth to it, not that Perseus would admit it ever. He had had enough misfortune in his life for some of it to spill around him, just like the beer.

That was behind him now, though. He had just got the chance he had waited so long for. The final run - as the saying went in the shadows - the one where you retire in luxury, or die a failure, had come to him. The man before him was a Mr Johnson, an intermediate for a powerful person, organisation, or thing, who had money and wanted a job done. A madman’s job done.

It was the 15th of September, 2057, and Perseus had just accepted to take down the President elect, a certain Dunkelzahn.

Out the window, the perpetual cloud of toxic fumes hovering over New York was thickening. It made Perseus think of the fictional Shadow Land of Mordor in Tolkien’s books, although he was pretty sure that there, the orks made the rules. Racism sure didn’t wait for the Awakening of the metahumans, but it damn well adapted to them.

Mr Johnson had finally left, and Perseus was waiting to do the same, per protocol. Wouldn’t do to have his employer thinking he was tailing him, right ? It was part of the game. Just like the employer was always named Mr Johnson, no matter the city, the price, or the job. Just like he’d be paid in cash, no questions asked. Just like no one would ever come to his help if things went south.

He was thus left back to brooding dark thoughts. Most people agreed there were real bad guys around, but very few would count Dunkelzahn – “big D” as he was known in the shadows – amongst them. Perseus had a special place in his heart for the bastard, though. A place he shared with the blasted Imps.

Both had a part in destroying everything he had managed to build from nothing. Raised in the sprawl with no parents, no Serial Identification Number, and no ressources of any kind, he learnt to survive the hard way. Being SINless meant you had no higher power to go to ; as far as the government was concerned, you did not exist. Which suited Perseus just fine.

The thing is, Perseus thrived so well in the criminal world as a kid that he managed to leave it and the East Coast altogether. He settled in Los Angeles, made a new life with a fake identity, got a real job and even a little family of his own. Perseus kept those memories for when his life would be flashing before his eyes. Until then, they wouldn’t do him any good.

An alert popped up on his retinal screen. It seems there was someone who could read his thoughts and was proposing immediate help with the life-flashing part. For someone who had his share of enemies, Perseus would pass for a fool by choosing a chair with its back to a window.

For his part, Perseus argued that a time when you could get a fully-rotating eye that could easily pierce through your own flesh warranted a new definition of fool.

Right now, a masked gunman was aiming a rifle at him from the building opposite and no doubt congratulating himself on the easy money he was about to make. That suddenly reminded Perseus of two things. First, his numerous debts to the wrong people ; he knew what he would do with his share from the job. Second, like it or not, Perseus ‘Bad Omen’ definitely had some truth to it.

Perseus dropped prone as the hitman shot, the bullet landing in his right shoulder and sending a jolt of pain – somewhat mitigated by his in-built compensators – throughout his body. The bar filled with screams and smells of fear and panic. None came from him. He proceeded to calmly exit the room in as dignified a manner as anyone on all fours, as the shooter vented his frustration on the bar as a whole – or did he just hope to hit him by shooting at random ? Perseus didn’t plan to stick around to find out.

He jumped down the stairs and landed three stories below with a thud and let out another grunt. His leg springs had taken the brunt of the shock off, but he seemed to have twisted his ankle nonetheless. He snuck a peek outside before opening the door – that radar vision was quickly becoming a sound investment – of course there were two other killers on the 91st crossing. These clearly bore Shiawase Circle tattoos ; that was bad news.

Good thing he was the planning kind, because he couldn’t have run very far right now. Without wasting a second, he took the first door on his right, then the second, hefted the moldy board in the room corner and took the second reason this bar was still in business - the silent way out. A walk into the sewers was a disenchanting proposal, but a handy one, and Perseus wasn’t about to be picky.

He wrinkled his nose – it was surely a dark fate to be an ork working these places ; their sense of smell was thrice that of the average human. A sure sign of how twisted the world had become was that most of the sewer people were orks of course ; you never saw an elf in these parts even in the street.

After several minutes it became clear the ork wasn’t being followed. That was good – his bad foot wouldn’t mind the walking. The dark sewer tunnels didn’t help to lift his spirits though ; that had been his life for a long time, the underworld. Places for people without ID, without future.

Since the Great Cleansing of the city gangs in ’42, the criminals of NY took to lying so low they brought their business to the sewers. You could find everything down there, from drugs, to metahuman slaves or illegal chips that could literally blow your mind using your own implants. This was where they would have him belong.

Perseus halted. His boot hit a puddle with a splash. Something was moving ahead – and with his luck, it could not be good. With his warm blood trickling down his side and the stench in the air, he would bet on ghouls.

Sure enough, a pack of the bastards was clustered at the next crossing, watching him with glittering, hungry eyes, judging. Maybe they were waiting for him to drop like a ripe fruit from blood loss. The thing is, the Awakening took its toll on nature too ; suddenly your house rat could disappear at will and bitch-slap the cat. Protected species took to defending their own with mystical powers, partly helped by eco-terrorist freaks in self-proclaimed natural reserves. Guess you can stop progress if you throw enough fireballs at it.

Even worse, Awakened viruses caused diseases much like what the past age’s twisted minds had come up with in fiction ; shit that could turn an ordinary metahuman into a ghoul, a white-skinned monster, faster, stronger, and sometimes smarter than the original human with an unending hunger for flesh. People in lab coats called it being “infected with the Krieger strain of the HMHVV”. Perseus called them vermin.

By the look of it, these were feral, or very hungry, since they had let Perseus see them. Perhaps they were hungry for a little chase before their next meal. Perseus was only too happy to oblige - with a mental command his gun jumped from its magnetic holster and into the metallic piece in his right hand. Raising that into view was enough to set the less courageous ghouls flying, though probably not in the direction they had anticipated.

The retinal alert proved handy for a second time and in this instance, Perseus had enough of a head-start to power on his wired reflexes. If they thought the pitch darkness made him easy prey, they were in for a disappointment. The first one to fall was the one behind him who had pounced with a blood-curdling cry.

It dropped on the floor headless, though it kept thrashing around for some time. The second didn’t have the time to make a proper jump before falling flat, a crater smothering from its back. The third he got only in the leg, and it was smart enough to back off screaming in pain. There were advantages to working in the shadows ; you didn’t care too much about the legality of what you were packing.

Now with another savage cry, the ones in his way flooded the tunnel ; Perseus emptied his clip, then unsheathed his mono-knife. To think that some people reasoned that you could work with ghouls – to Perseus, they were a threat to be brought down. A few minutes later he was alone in the tunnel, with quite a few corpses at his feet and a nasty bite on the arm for his troubles.

He’d have to disinfect that and get treatment – white skin wouldn’t suit him.

Down there all alone in the shit of better people, short on ammo, with his foot, shoulder and arm regularly reminding him of his mortality, Perseus felt the remainder of his high spirits quickly leave him. As he always did at the wrong times, he thought of his daughter. Perseus was gay, not that it was a problem in these times as far as procreation was concerned. There were affordable ways of mixing two male seeds to produce a perfectly healthy child around : Ariane was proof of that.

She was a beautiful little ork, with curled hair and an irresistible little snout. She always smelled and dressed very fine, like a proper lady. Her grades were top notch, her manners spotless, and she had good spirit, too. Perseus would have dared any elf to call her a monster. She was only 6 when the bogey took her - poor soul never had a decent chance at life.

Perseus was so onto his child he probably spoiled her a little. He still had some of her tiny dresses and first drawings, along with his fake SIN from those blessed days - not that it would do him or her any good now. She was attending his school back in the days, of course. Looking at him now, it would be difficult to see the headmaster behind the layers of muscle and scars, but that’s what he had managed to rise out of the shadows to become, for a time at least. It felt like an eternity ago now.

Father and husband, with a respectable job – now that couldn’t last for Perseus ‘Bad Omen’. He had been readying himself for the day of retribution, when the shadows would come back to reclaim him as one of their own. He had not been ready for the Imp attack on Los Angeles.

“No matter how beautiful it looks, metahumans will always find a way to make something ugly out of it.” That old saying has never been so true as with magic ; when the Imps launched their assault, they didn’t send troops. They sent spirits, thousands of long-dead samurais to slaughter every moving thing. And those spirits did. They got his daughter, and his husband, and sliced them with their neat ethereal katanas. Made a real mess on the flat’s floor.

The only reason he made it out of that bloodbath alive is that spirits are pretty touchy when it comes to wording. If you tell them to kill everything that moves, they’ll leave alone the folk that are too scared to budge. Perseus learned later the Imps had done it on purpose – they wanted to regain the initiative in the war and make a point, but they did want some survivors, if only to tell the story.

Thus, someone at their army headquarters had come up with that brilliant idea for wording a command that would statistically kill most but leave some. That bugger had arguably saved Perseus’ life and forever tainted his nights with frozen instants of unstoppable horror at the same time. Taking his life would be a job Perseus would happily do free of charge.

People said LA still had it easier than Chicago in 2055, when insect spirits from another dimension took over the city and the corps had to nuke the place to contain them. At the time, the very existence of the alien bugs and the cult surrounding them was a closely guarded secret, though some in the shadows had a flair for this sort of trouble. Perseus hadn’t gone to Bug City for the sake of comparison, but he was pretty sure none of the loudmouths who compared its fate to LA had either.

Dunkelzahn was not even a UCAS citizen at the time, so who knows how he had come to be at the negotiating table. To put it in a nutshell, he was there, made a speech, rallied the Americans against the Imps and made it clear to everyone they had to fight back. They eventually did and the Imps were pushed out at the cost of several thousand more widows, God bless the UCAS. Dunkelzahn didn’t stop here though. He brokered an amiable deal that secured peace for decades to come, or so the history books say.

In Perseus’ eye though, if Dunkelzahn hadn’t turned up, the UCAS would have signed the Imps’ peace treaty before attacking Los Angeles, and he would still have a family. Thus he slumbered back into the shadows, dancing dangerously close to several addictions before turning to the thrill of shadowrunning – more out of necessity than choice, like most.

He was jerked back to the moment by his biomonitor casually informing him that he had lost about 8% of his blood. Not that it mattered now - he was close to his current hiding place. He would patch himself up, wash his knife hard to wear the smell off, book an appointment with a specialist and call the others.

From there on, his life would go according to the plan.

A few days later, they met in an abandoned warehouse, around a featureless grey plastic table. There was Zephyr, a hot elf who came from the lofty West Coast elven lands ; a dream place of riches and opportunities, unless you were trans apparently. He was an adept, who used magic to change his appearance at will.

His kind shunned implants, relying on magic to achieve physical prowess instead. This had something to do with essence again, and how magic interacted with spiritual energy, or something. Perseus had so far never thought too much about it and thus dodged the question of his own essence. It’s not like he had a choice ; like 99.9% of people he hadn’t been gifted with magic and had to keep up with the Joneses using other stuff.

Zephyr had a distinctive hairstyle and black leather outfit – biker style. He bragged that he was in the shadows for the fun and the style, and Perseus could believe that. He was kind of a crush as far as Perseus was concerned, but he’d never admit it to the brat, and work and play don’t mix very well in his book.

The accent, leather suit, and tantalising perfume didn’t help, though…

Some distance to the table was Cobalt, a squat guy who took his nickname from the metallic colour of his skull. Looking carefully, one could find real metal on there too – he wasn’t lacking in implants. He probably stood aside on purpose, both as a social freak, and in order to avoid yet another reminder of his reasonable if limited height.

He was the sort of dwarf that would shave his beard in two so he could get closer to his circuitry - dwarves were so stubborn, crafty and dedicated they always made the best artisans. He was their tech-guy, or decker, as the name went. Cobalt was a genius who knew his way past any firewall - and who was also aware of that fact all too well for his own good.

The dwarf wafted confidence when he didn’t plain stink from lack of a shower, which didn’t make him any less smart or dependable. His thought process went faster than Perseus’ bullet, at least as long as none of these were around. For all his bragging about the addictive thrills in the shadows, he tended to underperform when his hide was at stake.

That was the thing with these modern kids who spent their lives hooked on their Matrix, always experiencing new things through virtual reality. They were more accustomed to these things than their elders, but more often than not they grew either reckless or fearful. Perseus was content to leave the Matrix to him, keep his brains safe, and cover the dwarf’s six.

Closer to the table sat Mercury, who was musing over a dusty book in front of her. Mercury was a human mage, which was a statistical oddity as far as both magic and the team’s minority distribution went. Indeed, there were few human mages, and a lot more humans than anything else around, but the shadows lived by different rules which tended to overrepresent the fringes.

Maybe in a form of cosmic compensation, her approach to magic was very structured. She had gone to an academy of magic, a concept which in itself would be heresy to a number of mages of different traditions. Proud titulary of a dual degree in Hermitian magic and mathematics, she took to the shadows for the money.

The story went that a family tragedy had hit her family’s finances hard, and after the general sacrifice everyone had gone through to allow her to study, she felt obliged to pay her dues full and fast. The rest is history, as of course when the family finally found out about the truth behind Mercury’s gelt, she was instantly disavowed.

Mercury would draw geometric shapes in the air and speak Latin when casting spells, yet she wasn’t no superstitious fool. Indeed, her brand of magic elevated reason above all else, and she had some to spare. Gifted with the innate ability to point out flaws in other people’s reasonings, she was often described as a pessimist, which she considered a fitting description of anyone with wits and accessible facts. Her and Cobalt often jested, as Cobalt would often show off while sweeping details under the rug where Mercury was all about facts and proofs.

She had brains and common sense about her too – something that could end a runner’s career, though it was more likely to extend life expectancy considerably. She had a low-profile – no distinctive clothing or striking features, except for the tattoo that extended into her right hand.

That was her main weapon. If she ever pointed that hand at someone with lethal intent, that person had better have cover close by or be ready to meet one’s creator. She looked able and smelt at ease, even though she was the latest addition to the team.

Orion was of a rare metatype ; he was a minotaur, and was about as close as Perseus had to a relative. Orion was in the same class as Perseus when the bogeys turned up – they were sole unmoving survivors out of 30 breathing beings, and since both had lost all their other relatives in seconds, the kid found himself under Perseus’ wing, metatypes be damned. He was probably the reason Perseus didn’t go completely under at the time.

Orion and Perseus made for a fantastic duo. Orion’s hide was so thick he became nigh invulnerable with proper protection on. He was taller and stronger than Perseus, who already towered higher and punched harder than the rest of them – excluding Mercury’s magic, which both Orion and Perseus agreed to consider as cheating. The kid was easily two and a half meters from hooves to horns, and probably almost as wide. He could turn over a car with that muscle mass, and that was when he wasn’t packing his machine-gun…

The Imp attack had taken its toll on him too though. He moved okay, but his speech was… Well, limited. He rarely used electronics to communicate and preferred to rely on hand gestures, meaning the others always had to wait for Perseus to translate. That was when his nose alone wasn’t enough – Perseus knew Orion so well he could tell his thoughts with a sniff.

The team went by street names not because they didn’t trust each other – in fact they were a pretty long-lived crew as crews go, and one shouldn’t get Perseus started on that run with the elven prince. They stuck to street names because it had become a habit. They’d complain about the classic names at first – Perseus was the only one who knew his letters, trust an orphanage to put that sort of useless nonsense in his head. In time though, they’d come to grow into them as they pulled off more and more daring runs.

Currently, the party had assembled so he could tell them of the job and to devise a plan. Time to break the merry news of their quarry.

Zephyr laughed whole-heartedly for a full minute before coming to his senses : “You are not serious ? You are ?!”

Cobalt blinked, and his muscles tensed – he’d been in VR for a while there. Using that cable he’d rolled in, he could have been anywhere on the world wide Matrix. “I must have heard something wrong… You shook to kill Dunkelzahn, the president-elect ?”

Mercury closed her mouth, her book, and started counting on her fingers. “President elect yes, but mostly great western dragon. Let’s see, aside from his impenetrable scales and his own magical powers, he has most of our world’s thaumaturgical relics at his disposal, the secret service, his many friends far and wide, along with the damn country at his beck and call ! Besides, big D is pretty decent as far as dragons go – even my ex adores him. Most of what we know about magic comes from him, and he saved us from the Imps, right ? I’m not sure I can work against a good guy like that…”

Orion remained silent though, and waited for Perseus’ final line. For that Perseus was grateful. He was the only one not reeking of fear and incredulity, which could turn out to be a bad thing. Perseus thought Orion could use some degree of fear to get some common sense into him. Mercury also smelled… Strange. Perseus would have to do something about it. He had anticipated this though, and kept in reserve the main argument in favour of this fool’s errand : “The pay’s ten million each.”

As could be expected, silence settled across the room as every shadowrunner contemplated near certain death versus the possibility of becoming a millionaire. Their decisions came somewhat faster than expected, a testament to the crazy times, or perhaps the singular characters of the team. Perseus would have done this with no other.

Orion made a thumbs-up just as his scent shifted from attentive to tense. After a shaky comment on “the final run”, Zephyr shouted his engagement loud and clear, throwing his head back and grinning wildly. He smelled just as wild. Cobalt made a quick run into VR, and back with them again. His savage grin more than his ever-polluted stench seemed to indicate he was now convinced that it could be done and thus could commit.

Seeing herself surrounded with newfound enthusiasm, yet wafting an unconvinced scent, Mercury threw her arms up and declared : “To hell with it, I’m with you, but this is pure madness. How do you kill a dragon anyway ?”

Zephyr immediately struck a pose : “Just like any target, I guess. Just sneak me into the place and get me a long rifle…”

Mercury didn’t bother to conceal her disdain : “Ah ! I meant it when I said ‘invulnerable scales’, but that was assuming you made it past his protective spells… After the Awakening, Dunkelzahn explained magic to the world in twelve hours ! He masters spells that metahumans dream of... Your bullet will never get through…”

There was an uneasy silence.

Mercury spoke again, her voice going shrill : “Besides, he’s a dragon ! He can twist fate and destiny itself at his will ! You can be sure that one of your guns will jam at the worst possible…”

Orion slammed his fist into the table – he had meant it to be somewhat gentle, but the impact still bent the plastic generously. Then, his brow crested with concentration, he brought his two closed fists together and made an exaggerated slow explosion gesture. Perseus could not hide a grin of approval. That was his boy.

“I agree with Orion, nothing will protect you against enough explosives. Cobalt, you have an approach plan ?”

Cobalt woke up again from his slouching position and wiped the saliva from his previously drooling face, unabated : “Yeah, you see, the president-elect will be sworn in on the 9th of August. As per protocol, an inauguration party at the Watergate Hotel will follow. That’s as vulnerable as a president elect’s location gets. It’s got so many entries it’s hard to keep count. It will be impossible to cover all of them properly, especially the upper level balconies.”

“More importantly, the cellar’s just below the ball room with a bare half a metre of marble in between. Perhaps just as importantly, the president will be forced to assume human form for the occasion. Easy as hell.”

Zephyr shrugged. “Phony ! No one can force the UCAS president to do anything… Like other dragons, why wouldn’t he remain true to his form ?”

Cobalt had his cocky smile - he had an answer at the ready. He didn’t speak right away though, instead pointed at the corrugated ceiling with a mischievous grin. “Sure, he could remain in dragon form… Which would mean levelling the first floor out entirely, along with a bit of the second... They would have to redo the entire dining room, not to mention the toilets… No politician posting as a champion of the working class would go to such expenses on inauguration day. The Watergate hotel is as luxurious as they get, but it comes metahuman sized.”

Mercury seemed dumbstruck so Cobalt went on, waving his fibre optic cable for emphasis : “Ever heard about the Matrix, or you’re still on the Internet ?”

Mercury smelled offence, but she didn’t let it show. She replied : “I don’t know how you can sound so confident about this… Is it stupidity, or madness ?”

Zephyr, also annoyed, made a big show of correcting his hairstyle before saying : “How are you going to get the explosives there ? You want to go in with several tons of them on your big back ?”

Wearing his face, Zephyr made a big show of illustrating how Cobalt would look with such a payload on his limited frame, which drew some measure of laughter around the table. Cobalt, though, was unabated. Proud as a lion, and his retina still flickering with information, he continued.

“The hotel will get it in there for me. I’ll mix it with their fine imported spirits. I’ve already tracked the Watergate orders ; in the following week they will receive more than I need, and these shipments shouldn’t be hard to hijack.”

Mercury’s eyebrow shot up : “No way such a simple trick is going to pass secret service scrutiny. Besides, what if a guest has a drink and dies before Dunkelzahn arrives ?”

Cobalt tutted and took his encyclopaedic tone : “My friends, modern chemistry works wonders. FYXXOR binary explosive is nontoxic – in fact, nigh impossible to detect by any means known to both science and magic. Developed two months ago by a secret Shiawase lab, it’s extremely hard to obtain and only a handful of people even know about it. We could have the whole party dancing on enough payload to send them to space, and they would have no way of knowing !”

Mercury heaved an exaggerated sigh of relief. She smelled playful now, but still full of fear : “Great ! Now that our genius Cobalt has figured out an astounding solution to our trivially simple problem, let’s just sit back, press the button, and kill the president elect ! It’s a wonder nobody has thought of it before...”

Cobalt coughed, but quickly regained his composure : “Well there is one tiny little problem… There’s no way I can get a detonator in there, and we’ll have to mix the stuff for it to work. I don’t know about you, but I’m not ready to trust anyone we could buy at the hotel with this ; we’ll have to sneak inside ourselves.”

Zephyr let his enthusiasm explode : “I knew you would need me ! Acknowledge my grandeur, Cobalt, and maybe I’ll light that party up for you.”

Perseus raised his voice : “Alright that’s enough ! So step one, we obtain enough of the FYXXOR thing. Step two, we hit the spirits trucks and plant the good stuff while keeping a low profile. Step three, we move close to the hotel, kidnap one of their workers and take position to cover Zephyr. Step four, Zephyr gets in there, impersonates a hotel worker, walks straight past the guards, mixes the stuff and plants the detonator. Step five, we blow everyone in that hotel to a million pieces and get ten times that in cash.”

He waited a moment for that to sink in. Around the table were nods of approvals, wicked grins, and a general look of anticipation. Perseus would definitely have done this with no other.

“I say we move out closer to the target ; rent a stash closer to DC, take our gear, and prepare. We don’t have much time.”

9th August 2057. D Day. Or rather, no D day, as the press would call it after the facts, Zephyr joked. Cobalt, Perseus and Orion were driving to DC for the president’s first and last surprise appointment. To be fair, Perseus’ pickup was driving them ; the tech now was good enough to work even on this kind of backwater road. They had selected a place a three hours drive away so as not to attract attention, and now the sun was setting. The party at Watergate hotel would commence soon ; it would be rude to be late...

The nation had witnessed Dunkelzahn’s inauguration with awe. One couldn’t help but wonder how it would react to his death. The president didn’t even bother to take human form, or to speak using his own voice ; he had Nadja Daviar, the voice of Dunkelzahn, for that. Don’t get it wrong though, she was more than a talking mouth. She was his right-hand woman - supposedly amongst the top 10 brains on the planet. She was an elf of course, a powerful adept, and as if all that wasn’t enough, she had a body that got people drooling without realising it.

The campaign message was one of hope and tolerance amongst metahumans. She argued for unilateral disarmament along the Native Indian Nations border, and even ranted about ecological protection, though few would ever associate her irresistible voice with any sort of ranting. Champion of the common metahuman and the universal good, unstoppable icon – her voice carried the momentum of a sweeping victory at the urns for her monstrous master. It remained to be seen how long that would last.

He said, or rather she said, that the whole voice of Dunkelzahn cover job was in order not to freak people out with his usual telepathic communication and allow for metahumans to become gradually more used to dragons walking around in their natural forms ; bullocks. Dunkelzahn himself just couldn’t be bothered to speak to metahumans anymore, and he was happy to have one of them deal with the other underlings. Power was getting to him like it got to everyone else.

Headlines back when he announced his candidacy came back unheeded to Perseus : “Hope reborn” , “One with Dunkelzahn”, “For he’s a jolly good dragon…”. Never in the history of the UCAS was a president so universally loved, though as the history of the UCAS went that wasn’t so impressive. Nadja’s voice brought hope to billions. Not to Perseus, who didn’t believe in good and evil. He thought everyone had their share of shadow, especially those in power, and Dunkelzahn, with Nadja and his PR team, was just better at hiding it.

As for the plan, preparation had gone smoothly. Obtaining the explosives had proven more difficult than expected, but achievable. It turned out one of Perseus’ creditors had already stolen some of the stuff from a triad guy. Thus, the team had literally killed two birds with one stone, and also illustrated that stealing doesn’t pay, at least not as much as a presidential assassination.

They had hit his mansion at night, a quick, though not exactly clean, affair. These posses were too quick to let their guard down with a crowd of enforcers around them - no, the problem was that the enforcers themselves were too confident amidst their own. Perseus prefered Orion at his side than any dozen losers that would run at the first sign of lead. Loyalty was one of the few things in the streets that didn’t come with a price tag.

Perseus had hit the vault himself while the others distracted the guards outside. Said distraction involved a few fireballs and a decent number of shots fired, so the team was understandably disappointed when Perseus revealed the single little container he had gotten away with. For a moment he was afraid it would ruin their motivation, but in the end Cobalt assured them it would be more than enough for their purposes.

Planting it inside the spirit trucks had gone smoothly as well ; the guards had all drifted to a magical sleep for the briefest moment as their remotely hijacked trucks slowed to the side of the highway. All Perseus had to do was get in and replace the order with their specially prepared boxes. Easy as can be. The drinks they got to grab in order to make room made for a fitting celebration.

There was one important hiccup though – during astral reconnaissance, Mercury had made a nasty encounter. According to her, she made sure to both complete her mission and leave no trace of her passing, but the experience had worn her so hard that she would be of little use tonight. So she stayed at the stash to heal, which meant the team had lost an important asset. It was too late to stop now anyway. It was “the final run” and there would be no half-measures tonight.

Zephyr had insisted on bringing his own motorcycle, something that Perseus could understand, given the alternative was sharing the back bench with Orion – and suffering his troll metal music, earplugs or no. Perseus could see him in front of them, occasionally joking about the pickup’s crawling speed on the team’s channel. They were speeding along through the countryside, and life was good.

Then he started cursing on the comms. After a sharp turn, the roadblock came into view. Perseus ‘Bad Omen’ should have known it couldn’t last.

The Redmond Barrens, 2050

The sound of sirens tore me from my slumber. Emerging from a bed of newspaper and cardboard, I yawned and crawled from my dumpster to investigate. Lone Star had no business being in Redmond—they didn’t give a damn about what happened here. I drew a Deepweed blunt from my coat and sparked it. The alley was empty, save for a few of my compatriots from the burn barrel party the night before, still slumbering peacefully in a huddled mass of flesh and frayed clothing. How unhygienic. With a shudder, I brushed past them, grabbing what remained of the hooch and downing it in a single swill. I snapped my fingers, quickly casting an invisibility spell on myself.

You could never be too safe around the pigs; they tended to get jumpy around SINless and worry about questions after they were done shooting. Being a Dwarf didn’t help.

A pair of Lone Star cruisers screeched to a halt in front of the Rosewood mega-complex. It was the largest apartment in the neighborhood. A gathering of residents had amassed out front, many still in their pajamas, forming a wall of flesh in front of a tide of construction workers. Bulldozers and payloaders roared beside the building. It was a damned demo crew—a bunch of Ares wageslaves trying to push these poor slotters out of their homes and into the streets. Not today. I closed my eyes and whispered an incantation: Hot Potato.

Chaos erupted. The workers and police alike flew into a frenzy, dropping their tools and guns. It was almost immediate. I stayed just long enough to see Lone Star stripping off all their metallic gear before I returned to the alleys. This was far from over. Hopefully, that would buy the protestors a little time. The Star didn’t usually wait to get violent. I dropped my invisibility spell. This was my turf, even if they had a mage to assense me, they’d never be able to catch up now.

And then it hit me. I muttered an incantation and created the illusion of a fireball, soaring into the air and exploding into the shape of a broken star, before morphing into the shape of a burning middle finger. That ought to get their attention.

I tore through the alleys at breakneck pace. Jumping over my sleeping neighbors and snagging unattended bottles, I did my best to steel myself for what was to come. Liquor helped to keep the giggles away. More than once I’d had to abandon an operation because laughter had given away my position. Deepweed tended to have that effect on me.

A hail of bullets grazed past me. Pain radiated from my calf. I spun around, diving behind a burn barrel and avoiding yet another spray of bullets. Two Lone Star officers gave chase. With each step forward they shredded the barrel further, bullets rapidly reducing the container to little more than rusted scraps. The pain in my calf intensified—they’d actually hit this time.

"You drekheads made the wrong call following me," I said with a sneer.

"Get on the ground, now! You’re going to the big house you half-stack piece of shit!"

I launched a stunbolt into his skull. As his partner let out a bloodcurdling scream and fired another volley, the officer slumped and fell to the ground unconscious.I scrambled to hide behind a nearby dumpster. With a quick incantation, I cast Trid Phantasm, projecting a replica of myself. My duplicate sprinted out from behind the dumpster. With a quick casting of Magic Fingers, I managed to telekinetically lift a manhole in perfect synchronization with my illusory double, before sending my twin into the sewers. I took a long pull of wine and tried not to laugh. The officer raced behind him, clutching an illusory ladder, before tumbling to the bottom, and landing with an exaggerated splash. I dropped the manhole cover back into place. I didn’t see his face but could only hope it was Brendan. I hated Brendan.

A rusting iron fence wrapped around the junkyard, encasing a sprawling landscape of jagged scrap steel and rusting junker cars. A pair of hellhounds barked frantically from within. I rushed to them, passing a wall of compacted cubes of steel, stacked sky high, and passing under a ramshackle bridge, connecting two towers of steel. Their chains slid off in a second. I rang the bell above the hounds and bent over, scratching their heads and passing out scraps of soy jerky from my pocket. The dogs happily obliged.

A grizzled Ork emerged from a rusting tin structure, adept tattoos flickering as his twin cyber arms clutched an automatic shotgun. Jimbo.

"Rascal, you halfer son of a bitch, how the hell are you doing?" he growled.

"What’s that? Sorry, it’s hard to hear you through those tusks, they give you a hell of a lisp," I said with a grin.

"Look, Rascal, I don’t know what brings you to the yard, but if you’re looking for a place to sleep again, I’m going to have to say no. I haven't been able to get the shed to smell like it used to since you crashed here a few months ago, and I haven't had a chance to replenish my Deepweed crop."

"Whoa, whoa. Jimbo, man, chill out. I’m here because of Lone Star. A bunch of Ares goons called them in to help them evict the entire Rosewood ‘plex, and I’m not about to let them. I figured you’re always down to fuck with the Star."

Jimbo stared at me for a moment, mulling the idea over in quiet contemplation. I’d seen this face before. He was already sold, he just needed a bit of assurance—something to let him know the plan was solid, and we’d be able to pull it off. Jimbo and I went way back; he was the only person I knew who liked pranking the Star as much as I did. It was likely the reason we were still friends after all these years.

"Trust me, Jimbo: I’ve been drinking all morning."

He nodded, muttering something quietly to himself and chuckling. Finally, his eyes met mine.

"I’ve got a bathtub full of old Devil Rat carcasses I’ve been saving for something special like this, just soaking in old formaldehyde. Anything you can do with that?"

I raised an eyebrow. Surely, he had to be kidding.

Jimbo led me to the back of his decaying shack. True to his word, the Ork had managed to preserve almost two dozen Devil Rats. Beneath the tub a swarm of rats had taken nest. And then it struck me—a plan so perfect, so flawlessly hilarious, that it was certain to go down without a hitch. I closed my eyes and muttered an incantation. Seconds later a great beast spirit materialized in front of me, taking the form of a coyote, my totem.

Jimbo spat out his drink, leaping back.

"I need a favor of you, spirit," I said, offering a handful of reagents.

The coyote snatched them, excitedly devouring the reagents. When it was done, the beast nodded, its beady eyes fixed on me.

"There are Devil Rats nearby: find them and tell them to gather swarms of rats. When they’re done, I need them to attack the Lone Star officers, and the Ares demo workers, but leave the protestors alone."

I could feel the spirit’s response in my mind.

"Too complex—two favors, not one."

I dug in my jacket pockets, gathering another fistful of reagents. The spirit devoured them with a silent fervor and unrivaled intensity.I could feel its satisfaction. Finally, the spirit flew off into the junkyard, disappearing into the scrap.

"Sending swarms of rats after the pigs, eh? That's... definitely something," Jimbo exclaimed, his eyes wide.

"I just got rid of all your surviving vermin. You’re welcome. The dead ones are on you," I said, shuddering as I circled back around.

"So, what’s the plan, buddy?"

The rats would help, but we needed more. Much more. With two Lone Star officers gone missing, back up would be arriving shortly. Hopefully, they’d hit the alleys looking for a magical Dwarf, instead of attacking the protestors. Soon they’d have bigger concerns.

"Do you still have that old Ares Super Squirt laying around?"

"Oh yeah, it’s in the storage shed, sitting on a crate of tear gas rounds," Jimbo said with a grin.

"Perfect. While you get that, I’ll round up some backup," I chuckled.

"I got something else you might be interested in, buddy—a little custom aerosolized laxative my brother cooked up a couple of months ago. What do you say?"

"I say you should have led with that."

Jimbo raced into his shed excitedly. I started with my breathing, working to center my concentration. My eyes sealed shut. I could feel it, waiting to be pulled into this world and materialized: the spirit of the junkyard. The creature’s power was like nothing I’d encountered before. It was incredible.

The winds picked up. A cyclone of detritus swirled into existence, towering ten feet high, and nearly just as wide. Scrap metal, spare car parts, and trash bags formed an almost humanoid shape. The creature clutched a stop sign in both hands, hoisting it like a great claymore. A scream broke my concentration. Jimbo. We’d worked together for years, but he’d never quite gotten used to seeing powerful spirits.

I kneeled in front of the spirit, offering a bag of reagents.

"What do you need, friend?" The spirit bellowed.

"Aid. I need to stop the Ares demo team and the Lone Star officers from pushing out the residents of the Rosewood ‘plex and tearing it down. First, I need to make my friend and I invisible," I gestured to Jimbo, who nervously nodded in silence, "and then I need to scare those assholes off. What do you say? There will be more reagents in it at the end."

"You have been… good to my kind. And I approve heartily of your mission… I will sustain your spells, and fight by your side."

"Thank you, friend," I said, bowing and gesturing to Jimbo.

"Uh… thanks for making me invisible, buddy," Jimbo awkwardly mumbled.

Bolstered by the spirit, I whispered a pair of incantations, first linking Jimbo and I’s minds, and then cloaking us in a veil of invisibility. The spirit followed suite.

We ran through the alleys with reckless abandon. Jimbo’s aura violently flickered between nervousness and excitement. I could hear the crowd in the distance, roaring as the Star fired rounds haphazardly. I could only hope they were aiming for the rats—from here there was no way of telling what was going on.

I closed my eyes, reaching out into the astral plane. The sheer number of auras to read were almost overwhelming. Fear, hatred, anxiety; I could feel it all emanating from both sides. Fortunately, I sensed no physical pain. They hadn’t killed anyone yet-- not as far as I could tell. A pair of powerful conjuring foci glowed an oppressive grey that seemed to dim the auras of those around them. They’d brought in magicians.

"They have mages," I mentally exclaimed.

"Good. Point ‘em out, I’ll hit ‘em with the gas, make sure they’re too busy to be casting spells," Jimbo replied.

"They’re conjurers, so we’ll have to be quick—otherwise this fight gets significantly more difficult."

"I brought my dart-gun, just in case. What if I go around back and tap ‘em with a couple of Narco Jet darts?"

"Brilliant. It’s a plan then," I answered.

Finally, we reached the mouth of the alley. Chaos had consumed the area outside the apartments. Lone Star had called in six more cruisers, and the twelve present officers had taken to firing almost randomly at the ground, in hopes of denting the unstoppable tide of rats. It was no use. Between the rats and the protestors, they were being pushed from all sides. I worked through an incantation, casting Chaotic World upon the Star officers and demo-team alike. A stench resembling a landfill emerged. The air itself seemed to turn bitter, as the winds around the teams picked up, kicking up errant pieces of garbage. The rats were unrelenting. With a chuckle, I dropped another Hot Potato.

Two Lone Star officers fell to the ground with a pair of darts protruding from their necks. The wrong officers.

Four pillars of twisting flame apparated, rapidly taking on monstrous features that were nearly humanoid. Of all the things I hated in this world, there was little that compared to the burning fury that wage mages inspired in me. Using magic to benefit the corpos was an act reserved for the lowest of the low. I had no pity for that type of filth.

The junkyard spirit attacked. Swinging its stop sign like a great claymore, the creature focused the totality of its force upon the first four Lone Star officers it crossed. The first swing sent two of the officers soaring helplessly through the air, before finally smashing into the face of a building. A sickening cracking of limbs ensued. Jimbo rained down laxative gas into the crowd. It was a beautiful symphony of chaos and disarray. The stench was almost overwhelming; I couldn’t help but laugh. Helpless, the Star turned tail, retreating for their cruisers.

All except two. A behemoth of a Troll snagged Jimbo from the air, pounding his head against his own riot armor with a sinister chuckle. Blood slicked the invisible man, rendering him as the sanguine outline of a face and shoulders, floating in the air. Behind the Troll, an Elf clutching a Ruger Warhawk conjured yet another fire elemental. The junkyard spirit carved a path forward, until finally it was surrounded by elementals.

A bullet sunk into my shoulder.

"Nice try, Butch," a voice echoed from behind me.

From the shadows an Ork with too many muscles emerged, his face covered with scars and bearing a mustache that resembled an overly fat squirrel, precariously balancing itself atop his upper lip. Fucking Brendan.

"Back to try to ruin my fun again, eh, Brendan?" I groaned, clutching my shoulder.

"You’re trash, Butch, that’s why you sleep in the dumpsters. You always have been, ever since we were kids—and I’ve always been the one who was able to see it," he growled, his adept tattoos glowing a sickly shade of purple.

He launched a kick that almost shattered my sternum. A one two combo followed that nearly put me to sleep. I hated fighting Brendan up close—the bastard was just too fast. I dropped concentration on the mindlink.

"And you’ve always been a little snitch, Brendan," I said, driving my boot into his groin, "I mean really, what kind of kid from Redmond grows up and says, ‘hey, I want to work for Lone Star?’ you’re a damned traitor."

He reeled backwards. This was it—my one chance. I closed my eyes and focused what remained of my energy, calling out to any nearby spirits for aid. The alley’s spirit didn’t disappoint.

A burst of gunfire tore into my midsection. Brendan’s face turned to horror as a spirit materialized between us; the creature taking the shape of a great dumpster, its arms and legs rapidly forming in the shape of burn barrels. I mumbled an incantation between pulls of wine, gritting my teeth while my flesh weaved itself back together.

Brendan drew a pair of batons. Immediately, the weapons cast a crimson aura, the weapon foci priming themselves to tear through the spirit. Fuck. Jimbo was in danger, but so was the spirit. I launched a stunbolt towards Brendan and took off running. As I reached the mouth of the alley, I conjured a road spirit, a great serpentine asphalt beast with ridges of concrete curbing running along its back, and yellow and white paint running along its body. Finally, I turned back to face Brendan.

The trash spirit was nearly defeated, drawing ever closer to succumbing to Brendan’s brutal flurries of blows. I launched another stunbolt—striking with rapid precision. Brendan gave pause. An opportunity that was evidently all the spirit needed, seizing the chance to dominate its assailant. A chorus of deafening barks rang out from the streets.

A final stunbolt rendered Brendan unconscious. I dismissed the spirit, opening its lid and frantically dumping in a handful of reagents. A marker in my pocket became the tool that painted the masterpiece of the century, decorating Brendan’s face with all manner of profanity, weaved together around a swastika, drawn inside an intentionally poor rendition of the Lone Star symbol.

I returned to the mouth of the alley in time to see Jimbo leading his hellhounds after a fleeing Troll. The road spirit clutched the defeated mage in its jaws thrashing viciously. I elected to allow it to choose the filthy wage mages fate—it seemed fitting, considering the bastard bound elementals for the corpos.

I ran across the street to Jimbo. The crowd was helping him string up the Troll, suspended by his wrists from a flag pole, after being stripped to his underwear. In a few hours someone would inevitably let him down; in the meantime, the citizens wasted no time snapping pictures on their commlinks and uploading them to their favored form of decentralized social media. Jimbo’s grin was nearly too big for his face.

"Well, I’d say that’s a job well done, eh, partner?" I chuckled to Jimbo.

"This ain’t gonna be the end, Rascal. Now that we hit ‘em big like this, they’ll be back."

"No way; I’ve pushed Lone Star out of the Barrens before, I’ll do it again. It’s routine at this point. They won’t come back for a couple of months, and then they’ll flee again when they do."

"That’s my point, buddy. You’ve been terrorizing Lone Star agents for years now—they’ve been pushed out more times than I reckon I can count. But this time you hit Ares, too. I think we just gave ‘em a reason to keep coming back."

"Then I guess I’ll be sleeping in the dumpster behind the Rosewood ‘plex for a couple of months."

I awoke to the sound of bones cracking and flesh tearing. Primal fear flooded my mind—visions of the massacre of Nome were carved into my memory. My fingers frantically tore at the seatbelt’s buckle, apparently broken in the crash. The truck was overturned, Izzy sprawled out across the roof, passed out. My ribs were shattered. Breathing was almost too much work. Fuck. Izzy might make it out, but this was it for me. I guess my family was right—I wasn’t cut out for this. My eyes closed.

The Astral plane was peaceful. I couldn’t feel the pain of my broken body here; all I felt was contentment. I was home.

"This is how you’re going to die?" A monstrous voice roared, booming from the skies like thunder.

Suddenly, the ambient space of the astral plane was replaced by plates of ice floating above murky, black waters. My stomach dropped. The ice began to rumble, floating atop waves that quickly grew violent. I didn’t fight it; there was no use. The waves forced me to my knees, kneeling atop the frozen plateau. The water erupted, revealing a massive snarling polar bear.My namesake—the bear god, Nanook. The beast was enormous, larger than any building I’d ever seen. Soon I was clinched between the creature’s paws, rapidly traveling towards a frothing maw. The growl that ensued shook my very essence.

"This is pathetic! Are you prey or predator, my child?" Nanook roared.

"There’s nothing I can do... I saved Izzy; I tried my best, but this is it... I’m bleeding out. I could feel it."

"So, you retreat to find a comfortable place to die? You’re better than this!"

Bear cast me into the frigid seas. Pins and needles spread across my freezing limbs, as I sunk into the icy depths. A great shadowy beast swam towards me with predatory intent. Rows of teeth emerged from the tenebrous blob, seemingly extending from the beast’s body.

The world shifted. Suddenly I was in a new Meta Plane that was somehow *more* bizarre than the first. Spruce and Evergreens lined the mountainous horizon, crimson skies casting a red overlay across the world. I’d been here before, in my dreams. Chirps and screeches echoed from the canopy, twigs snapping beneath trampling hooves in the distance. A stampede was coming. A horde of antlered beasts crested a hill in the distance, charging forth. Deer, moose, elk and even gazelle filled the roaming horde. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before; it was magnificent. They were barreling straight towards me.

"Are you prey or predator, my child?" Nanook called from the skies.

It didn’t take long to scale a tree. Soon the herd was trampling below, their hides swirling with patches of green. They looked sickly, decaying. I watched them charge beneath until finally, in the center of the pack, a rider passed—perched atop a great two headed stag, six powerful legs jutting from its armored torso. I pounced. The rider was fast, leveling a manabolt as I ripped him from his steed. We wrestled through the flow of charging hooves for what felt like days. My astral form was fading fast.

"Do you understand now, my child?"

The world faded to black. Pain wracked my ribs, and the cold metallic taste of blood pooled in my mouth. In the distance, I could still hear flesh being torn and bones snapping. My eyes opened as something ripped me from the overturned pickup—Nanook had materialized an avatar, a great polar bear spirit. I could feel the spirit bolstering my magic, a gift of healing. I muttered the incantation almost subconsciously. Laying on the grass, my ribs slowly forced themselves back into place, the few that had protruded from my stomach returning to their rightful home. It felt like hours.

Morg was only a few feet away, engaged in a life-or-death battle. Legions of wolverines swarmed the towering minotaur, charging him from every angle. He held a semi-conscious wolverine by the tail, swinging it like a mace with his right hand. The pulp that remained in his left hand had been reduced to little more than a head and a spine. Wielding what amounted to corpses, he valiantly fought back the endless tide of fangs and fur. Lacerations covered his arms and chest, but the Minotaur appeared to be having the time of his life. He was impossibly fast.

When I finally returned to my feet, I launched a pair of lightning bolts, one from each hand. The dried blood beneath my nose was soon covered with fresh crimson again. I couldn’t do this for much longer—I’d need a break soon if I was going to keep casting spells. The scent of sizzling fur rose from a pair of freshly dead wolverines, lightning still flickering from their corpses as they fell flat, mid-pounce. Bear’s manifestation launched into the fray, ripping wolverines from the air.

"Holy shit, you decided to pull through, eh? Good on ya, kid," Morg laughed, cracking another wolverine’s skull with his improvised mace.

I glanced at the pile of corpses that had built up around Morg. There must have been almost three dozen Wolverines dead already.

"Same to you," I said, firing off clusters of flechette rounds with the Roomsweeper.

"I don’t get it, where the hell did they find so many wolverines?"

"There’s more to this than we thought—I think there’s a mage around here somewhere pulling the strings."

"Makes sense; the wolverine had to get out somehow, I suppose. What are we looking for, then?" Morg asked, hurling a fist sized rock through an incoming wolverine.

"I don’t know yet… but I think we need to get a better position, because we’re dead out in the open l like this."

"Izzy needs time; after you stitched her up, she went right back out. I can flip the gopher if you can cover me for a minute?"

"One second," I said, pulling what energy was left in my body together for one last push.

It took everything that I had to pull another spirit into the material realm. By the time the second bear arrived, I was hardly standing. I opened fire with the Roomsweeper, as the spirits worked together to push through the coming horde of wolverines. My back slumped against a tree. It was all I could do to not fall over. Nanook’s gift of healing had been a boon—but it hadn’t done much to alleviate the strain that constant casting and summoning put on the body.

Morg strained in a squat, veins bulging from his neck as he struggled to rip the Gopher from the ground. Adept foci tattoos glowed a deep shade of blue, his muscles acclimating to their new magical limits in seconds. When the Gopher finally flipped, it looked almost effortless. Like a dance, practiced to perfection. He gently lowered it to the ground, Izzy softly rag dolling in the back. It was incredible. Morg was perhaps simultaneously the fastest *and* strongest warrior I’d ever encountered. He ripped the door open and motioned for me to follow.

"C’mon, kid, let’s get out of here!"

Before I could answer, a thick pool of sludge began to form in my path, slowly taking on a shape that was almost humanoid. Two neon green eyes rested in the center of the being's gelatinous, purple body, staring out of what should have been its chest. The spirit’s head was a swirling mass of noxious gel, twisting shades of purple, orange, and green swirling around an immense black spot in the head’s center.

I was out of juice. Nanook had already gifted me what power he was willing to, and worse yet—I’d never seen a spirit like this in my life. It’s aura was almost sickening just to be around. It was nearly more than I could take.

An explosion erupted against the spirits back. Then another. The third punched a hole clean through the spirit’s torso, the bullet falling to the ground as it came out the other side, half dissolved. Morg’s laughter ripped me from my weakened state. The Gopher ripped past, Morg using his assault cannon to hold the passenger door open. I didn’t waste a second.

"Good work… newbie," Izzy croaked from the back, her voice hoarse and scratchy.

The Runner's Edge was a quiet little hell hole in the south end of Puyallup—a rusting mass of titanium beams and corrugated steel siding. An eyesore in any neighborhood. Emerald street bikes, cigarette butts, and expended needles littered the parking lot. I knew the type; I’d been to dozens of bars that were all the same. Alaska or Seattle, the slums never change.

My muscles tensed as Morg tore into the driveway. His Toyota Gopher was older than I was. The roll-cage rattled every mile of the way, and I'd never quite escaped Izzy's glare. Her eyes trained upon the mirror, waiting for some inevitable sign of 'weakness.' Luckily, my resolve was insulated by the burning confidence of whiskey and novacoke. Morg had been happy to share.

With a violent jerk, the gopher came to a stop. I was the first to step out, my eyes trained upon the Keebs at the door. Ancients. I had to waste a band of 'em my first night in the city. I'd barely survived. I hated fighting adepts, too quick for my tastes. My fists clenched on their own accord.

"You good, newbie?" Izzy whispered; her voice uncharacteristically empathetic. "Null sweat, chummer. Let's go get paid," I replied, my tone thick with powdered bravado. This novacoke shit wasn't half bad.

"Don't sweat the Keebs; they know better," Morg bellowed between gritted teeth. We moved to the door in tandem, Morg and I flanking Izzy. She checked a pair of Ares Predators beneath her jacket, lowering her shades with a scowl. An efficient little show. The Ancients' eyes suddenly shifted, refusing to meet her gaze. She had an aura of confidence and power about her, the kind of demeanor that sent corpos running and rallied the punks. She was a born leader, I could see it in her eyes. We’d only just met, and still, I’d follow her to hell and back.

A thick haze of deepweed, synthetic tobacco, and hyper concentrated THC smoke covered the room, melding with the nutty scent of fresh Hurlg. A celebration, I assumed. The band of Orks partying in the corner seemed to be the source.

Ancients gathered in mass across the bar, glaring daggers at the Orks. As Izzy crossed their path, their eyes shifted. I'd have to ask about that later. For now, though, I was just focused on looking confident. My faux fur long coat was matted with bile and sewer grime, and my jeans were ripped nearly to shreds—I felt less than professional.

A short, lean man in a silver tuxedo sat alone in the corner. A shady booth provided inconspicuous concealment. He never even noticed us approach. His eyes were obscured by mirrored shades, and his body adorned with excessive jewelry. Fucking corpos. Must've been a newbie, even I knew better than that. Glued to his commlink, he extended a hand of silence as we sat.

Izzy let loose a forceful grunt.

"My team's time is valuable, Mr. J.; let's get to the biz at hand," she growled. "And my time is priceless: I'm in the middle of something, and you're two minutes early. You can wait for two minutes," he grinned, speaking smugly in a thick Japanese accent.

Izzy stood up, nodding to Morg. He followed suit. Soon the three of us were leaving the table, Izzy’s eyes locked on the door across the room.

"Fine, if you insist on being dramatic, we can begin conducting business," he huffed, "my employer has a non-metahuman threat they need removed. They're offering thirty-five thousand Nuyen."

"Make it forty, and we're in," Izzy snapped back, a fraction of a second later.

"Thirty-seven," he retorted.

"Thirty-nine," Izzy barked.

"Deal," Mr. Johnson replied.

"Alright then, hit me with some deets, my crew doesn't have time to frag around," Izzy replied in a satisfied tone.

"Tell me, have you ever heard of a Dire Wolverine?" He asked, lighting four cigars and passing them out.

"I have. They're everywhere back home: brilliant predators, the size of Grizzly Bears. Sadistic too. They telepathically command hordes of wolverines, real bitch to hunt," I chimed in.

Izzy nodded, cracking a small grin. Morg stared on unfazed.

"Indeed. I must confess, I didn't expect such knowledge," he chuckled, "the beast is loose in Snohomish, and it's already claimed a half dozen locals. We suspect it's somehow assembled a pack."

"You have a location other than just Snohomish? You expect us to comb the whole area?" Izzy interjected.

"The creature was last seen near the hills, spotted after devouring a farmer and her family," he paused, "one more thing: the beast is... Augmented."

"What kind of augmentations are we talking?" Izzy growled.

"I'm not entirely sure, the records were... Lost. However, I'm certain the creature has Wired Reflexes. High grade, too," he casually responded.

"We'll see you tonight," Izzy huffed, shooting from her seat and tearing towards the door.

"Take care, Mr. J.; make sure the money's waiting," Morg laughed, standing and making his way behind Izzy.

I nodded to the Johnson and followed my teammates out.

Izzy and Morg moved in near perfect formation, almost subconsciously. Every dozen feet they'd swap lead positions, checking corners habitually. I did my best to follow along. It was clear they were making a show for the Johnson, and I wasn't going to ruin it.

We walked to the Jeep in silence, Ancients glaring as soon as we passed. Morg spit on the ground and raised a middle finger. Izzy took the driver's seat, burning out as she left the parking lot.

"So, what do you two make of this?" Izzy asked, her tone frigid.

"Sounds like we'll be killing a bunch of wolverines and one huge mama Wolverine. Don't overthink it," Morg shrugged.

"What do you think, Nook? You said you'd encountered these things before?" Izzy asked.

"They were a problem back home. After the awakening, they tore through the villages up north. They're ruthless hunters, like to play with their food, as they say. Known for eating slowly, from the bottom up, making you watch every second. But above all else, they're smart. Scary smart," I shuddered. I'd seen one of the villages after a massacre, went to visit a cousin. I'd barely escaped with my life.

"How smart?" Morg asked, his eyebrow raised in concern.

"To put it simply? They use traps. They like to scare you well before the hunt ever begins. And they love the chase," I answered.

"Great, so we're facing a giant sociopathic Wolverine and a swarm of regular Wolverines. Sounds promising," Izzy remarked. I could practically hear her eyes rolling.

"You got a fake SIN, Nook?" Morg asked.

"No, haven't had the scratch to—" I started.

"You don't have a fake SIN? And you expect to make it into Snohomish?" Izzy sighed, "Find some blankets and cover yourself; lay on the floor and be quiet. I'm not getting stopped because of your stupidity."

The rest of the ride passed in relative silence, save for the muffled speech or Izzy and Morg. I couldn't make any of it out. After a few minutes I gave in and passed out. Might as well rest before the hunt. Sleep came quick.

The Jeep screeched to a halt. My head pounded against the drivers seat, and I shot upright. Sleeping light had saved me more than once.

"We've arrived, newbie," Izzy chuckled.

I rose from my nest of blankets and jackets and immediately left the vehicle. It was beautiful. Rolling verdant hills blanketed the area, spruce and pine littered throughout. Cottages were dispersed along the hillside, the lights universally off. The sun had begun to set.

"Alright, pick up your jaw, Nook. Aren't you supposed to be from Alaska?" Morg teased.

"It's... It's beautiful. It's just like home. I'll have to get a place out here," I pondered.

"Good luck, newbie. The locals aren't so fond of Trogs around here. We'll be lucky if we don't face an angry mob," Izzy laughed, loading a double-barreled shotgun. Morg strapped on a ballistic mask and matching forearm guards, both stylized in a skeletal fashion. Izzy quickly followed suit, her skeletal theme a deep shade of purple. Looks like I'd have to add one more thing to the list after this mission.

"I pulled up reports, Knight Errant's trying to keep things quiet though. Looks like this was the location of their last emergency call, strange though: I don't see any pawns," Izzy said.

And then I saw it: a crumpled mess of steel, barely protruding from the earth. One blue light still faintly flashed beneath the sod. I pointed a finger to the car. Izzy sighed as Morg broke into laughter. Glad someone was optimistic about this. My vision faded, reemerging into the astral realm. I assensed the area quickly. There it was, on the horizon. A malicious aura, raging across the hillside, moving too quickly to be human. The Wolverine.

My mind raced: blood in the snow, limbs in the water, entrails strung from the rafters. Nome had fallen quickly.

"Bear, hear me! I need your aid; I face an impossible foe!" I called out into the astral plane.

Nothing. Damnit.

"I see him," I pointed to the horizon, "I'll drive, let’s go!"

"Not so fast, newbie-" Izzy started.

I jumped into the driver’s seat, firing up the engine. Morg and Izzy hopped in behind me. The gopher cut across the countryside with ease, tearing through the sod. I did my best to minimize the airtime off hills, but it was of little use. The aura tore into the forest; it sensed me. It was leading me, I could tell by the way it lagged, waiting whenever it had nearly lost me.

"We're driving into a trap," I bellowed.

"Then pull over!" Izzy screamed, pointing her gun directly at my skull.

"No, fuck that, let the bastard try! I'll tear it in half!" Morg shouted, pushing Izzy's shotgun down. Hanging out the window, he began to aim his assault cannon.

I did my best to drive smooth.

Suddenly the creature dipped into the forest, taking to the trees. I revved the engine, tearing forward. Sparks of black mana crackled from my fingertips. Flashes of fur passed through the canopy above. The pack.

"It's in the trees! Straight ahead!" I shouted, hurtling a mana bolt at the beast. It shrugged it off, paying little mind. Blood streamed from my nose, as drain began to set in.

"Die!" Morg screamed, unloading as explosions peppered the tree tops. Izzy cursed under her breath, bracing herself. Her shotgun pointed to the roof as she sprawled herself out in the back.

The thud that followed was nearly deafening. The beast had lunged atop the Jeep in a split second, effortlessly flipping it. Izzy fired six times and reloaded three. My stomach dropped as we again became airborne, swinging in a circular rotation. Finally the beast released its grip. We must have crashed through five trees before we finally came to a halt. My ribs were shattered, I could feel it. As I forced my eyes open, I saw Morg desperately trying to wake Izzy. A branch pierced her abdomen, blood pouring from her body, suspended from the roof.

"Pull…..Pull her off….I can…. Save her.." I managed to groan, blood leaking from my mouth.

Mustering what strength remained, I channeled my power into Izzy, her flesh weaving itself back together. Blood poured from my nose. Almost there, just a little more, one big push. I expelled the last of the mana from my body. She gasped, pulled back from the brink of death.

My world faded.

AO3 (NSFW) FNN

Words: 239000+ (31/32)

Rating: M/E (violence, sex, torture and universe-typical content)

Summary: Three Shadowrunners have arrived in Calfree. Through love and war, their dreams and their grit, they are there to change the world.

Chpt 31 - Hestaby's awakening changed the course of Sixth World history; the lives of three shadowrunners still determined to live out their own destinies.

(Original Shadowrunners, recreated from the anime Goblin Slayer, in an adapted playthrough of Shadowrun Returns UGC missions. Shadowrun and Goblin Slayer belong to the copyright holders)

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Puyallup, 2051

The sky over Seattle was a sickly, pallid shade of gray, with tenebrous clouds taking shape to the crackling of thunder. Acid rain careened into the asphalt below, pouring into the gutters at a torrential pace. I’d heard Seattle was rainy, but this was the fifth straight day of downpour. I was beginning to regret only bringing one set of clothes. Not that I could afford to bring a bag. Smugglers tend to value their space, I suppose.

I'd left Anchorage almost a week ago. I'd heard there was a lot of money to be made for a talented Shaman willing to work as a deniable asset, so I started saving right away. It took me almost six days to find someone who could point me to the Ork underground. Rumors claimed the sewers were teeming with infected; infected with a taste for Ork flesh. I never cared much for rumors.

I lifted the manhole cover, and the stench of toxic excrement rushed forth, barreling headfirst into my olfactory glands and nearly knocking me on my ass. I gathered myself, jamming two chunks of tissue into my nostrils, before sliding down a ladder covered in grime. I was careful to keep my beard from touching the slime. My coat would undoubtedly be ruined after this. One of these days I'd have to get into the habit of wearing a shirt.

Two narrow walkways ran along the walls of the sewer, ladders scattered about every couple dozen feet. The torrent of feces and acid rain coalesced to form a rushing river of putrid filth. I walked carefully along the pathway, watching the walls for signs pointing to the Underground. No use, nothing here. Suddenly, a stiff breeze tore through the tunnel, kicking up a tide of waste. I was just fast enough to scale a ladder and avoid a thorough soaking. In the wake I saw it: a half dozen ghouls lurking beneath the water. I locked eyes with one--only for a split second--and the pack erupted. They were faster than I ever could’ve expected. Fuck.

I shut my eyes, reaching into the astral plane with my third eye and calling out for help. Bear would hear me, he always did. The reward for being a faithful acolyte, I suppose. I could feel it forming—the mentor's mask straddling my face, nearly suffocating me with power. The drain hit, and I shrugged it off like a glancing blow, shucked to the side. The blood leaking from my nose was inconsequential now.

My stomach churned. When my eyes reopened, an immense spectral bear had formed, slashing through a pair of Ghouls with ease. I hurtled a bolt of mana, frying a third ghoul, before drawing my Remington Roomsweeper. The rungs slid between my hands. I landed, and launched a gout of flechette rounds towards a pair of chargers. The first fell with a wet gurgle, but the second deftly evaded, diving back into the water. His last remaining companion followed suit. It was at this point that I realized just how much I hated Ghouls.

Bear's manifestation lingered alongside his mask, guiding me through the stench of the sewers in relative safety. I walked for what felt like days, finishing the bottle of whiskey in my breast pocket within the first hour. By the end of the third, I'd run out of smokes. At least I could still feel Bear watching over me. For a moment, my mind returned to Anchorage—to my family, telling me not to go. They didn’t think I’d make it in the states. Maybe they’d been right. Finally, the bleak sewers gave way to a waste redirection system, with dozens of hovels built upon platforms overlooking an immense basin. Orks and Trolls filled the area, and biz was in the air. I couldn't help but stop a moment, mouth agape. I was home, even if I'd never been here before. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before.

I scanned the area for a moment before spotting a small, faux wooden building, a dimly lit sign above the door reading "The Korner." A band of chromed out trolls lurked out front, covered in Sons of Sauron patches. Wiz. Maybe one of these days I’d see about joining up.

I began to traverse the intricate series of platforms, ramps, and stairwells, cutting through a thick crowd. An Oni with bright blue hair bumped into me, her bangs catching the light just right, framing a delicate face. Her body was wrapped tightly in an armored jump suit, an Ingram Smartgun dangling from her waist. She was breath-taking taking, enthralling.

I felt her hand enter my pocket and snatched her wrist. "Look, lady, even you ain't pretty enough to take my whole damn wallet. And, even if you did, I don't suspect you'd like what you found," I winked, gazing into her chrome eyes.

"Don't know what you're talking about, asshole," She exclaimed, shoving me before taking off into the crowd. I brushed past the Sons of Sauron and made my way into the Korner. Smoke danced beneath the neon lights, swirling atop stained floors, and filling the spaces between tables. A heavy-set troll worked the bar, a blazing pink mohawk crowning her bumpy skull, complimented by an armored orange jogging suit. In the corner, a group of chrome junkies shot pool, glaring at me as I made my way to the bar. Let ‘em stare.

"Lemme get a Cosmo, extra lime," I said, flashing a cred stick.

The bartender stopped a moment and examined me before responding.

"You ain't from around here, are ya?" She bellowed, absentmindedly washing a glass.

"Nah, just flew in from up north, looking to make some scratch. Why?"

"This ain't the type of joint you buy a Cosmo in, kid," she chuckled, placing a glass of whiskey and water in front of me.

"What do I owe you?" I replied.

"First one's on the house, welcome to Seattle. I'm Maxxy," she grinned.

"Nanook, friends call me Nook. It's good to meet you. So, do you know where an enterprising young Shaman might be able to find a gig?" I asked, returning her smile.

She paused a moment, scanning the bar.

"Sorry, chummer, but right now you're nobody around here, and I can't put my neck out for a nobody." She took a long drink of vodka, "But I'll tell you what, you zero those chrome jockeys in the corner? I'll give you a room for the week and get you linked up with a group I know."

"Why do you want them ganked?" I asked.

"You keep asking questions you're gonna make a shit Shadowrunner, Nook. Might make an alright guy, though." She set her drink down, and leaned too close to me, "They owe me a lot of money, killed a couple of my bouncers last night to top it off. Satisfied?"

"Yeah, I can work with that," I answered, shooting to my feet and cracking my neck.

I closed my eyes, calling again to Bear for help. He answered. Twice. A pair of spectral bears flew forth, with a pair of mana bolts following in tow. The first two were dead before they ever knew we were fighting, their brains leaking out the sides of their heads and onto the floor. The bears claimed three in a matter of seconds. I was getting good at this.

A shot rang out, piercing my abdomen. I dove for cover behind a table, as the crowd erupted, cheering at the bloodshed. A Troll the size of a Mac truck charged me, moving nearly faster than my eyes could track. The Roomsweeper fired twice, catching him in the abdomen each time. No use.

He hit me like a .50 caliber round. My body embedded itself in the drywall, after an extended flight across the room. A fountain of blood spilled from my nostrils. The drain almost hit harder than he did. Black sparks of mana began to dance atop my fingertips, and I hurled a swirling ball of entropic energy. The Troll fell with a satisfying thud, and the crowd erupted into a fit of morbid laughter. Manabolts were my specialty.

I sat at the bar composing myself for what felt like hours, drinking as much water as I could stomach. The wound in my gut was mostly healed, my flesh magically woven back together. Finally, Glenda returned with an amused grin. "So, big timer, you still looking for work?" She chirped. "You know it," I winced, choking back the pain.

"Right this way." She grinned, leading me through the bar and into a secluded corner in the back, a booth with an immense spectacle of a Minotaur leaning out. His ropey muscles were covered in Adept Foci tattoos, cloaked beneath an oversized bulletproof vest. Mutton chop sideburns and a comically large goatee framed his cyberized face. A Krime Kannon was slung atop his shoulder.

Beside him, a stunning Oni was seated. The woman who'd tried to lift my wallet. "Nook, meet Morg and Izzy," Maxxy bellowed.

"Good to see you again. Guess we both needed the money," I chuckled, extending a hand to Izzy.

"Guess so, newbie. You got creds other than blasting some gangers in a bar?" Izzy growled; her words were laced with venom.

"Of course. I used to work at a clinic back home, been patching people up my whole life. And I'm no slouch in a fight, I might not be from here, but where I'm from isn't much different. They might not be the same gangs, but we have no shortage of street crime."

"Eh, worst case scenario, you get geeked; best case scenario, you're worth a shit and you join the crew," Morg chuckled, trying to break the tension. "No, worst case scenario he gets us geeked. You ever even been on a run before, newbie?" She hissed.

"No, I haven't. But I've patched up plenty of runners, and wasted my share of gangers. Look, I'm just looking for a shot, give it to me and you won't regret it." I pleaded.

"Fine. You got something to wear other than a grimy fur jacket and torn up jeans? Do you have a shirt?" Izzy inquired, leaning towards me with a puzzled look. "I... I don't. But I will, when we get paid." I answered.

"Alright, newbie, here's the deal: we're headed topside in a half an hour to meet with a new fixer, guy named Black-Jack. In the meantime? You get to buy the crew a round." Izzy said.

I'm a very active cyberpunk author, curious if this page still has an audience. If so, I'd love to start pumping out stories.

A heavily-accented, deep voice commanded “go away. Go away and never come back to the Caribbean.” One of his men forced her into the waiting plane as she kicked, screamed, and cried.

Her eyes snapped open, a hot sheen of sweat at odds with the too-cold air pumped in to the too-cold basement “apartment.” There was the sound of rain—she tried to focus on it to calm her ragged breaths.

It wasn’t always the same dream. Sometimes she saw her husband fall from the zip line into the waiting jungle below. Sometimes it was him being loaded into the “ambulance” that spirited him away. Sometimes it was the police chief who suggested she killed him for his money, because there was no evidence he ever made it to a hospital.

She checked her commlink—one new message. Another security detail job, protecting some anonymous playboy who wanted to visit a “real street bar” far away from the safe walls and bright lights of his daddy’s corporate lifestyle. She shook her head and sharply winced from the bruised vertebrae she was left with from her last gig.

But she couldn’t bring herself to delete the message; the money was too good, and she needed every nuyen.

The Caribbean League government thought she killed her husband. Her in-laws thought she killed her husband. Everyone thought she was after his money, but she knew the truth—he had been taken from her, kidnapped, and that he was still alive.

The fake “tour guide” who had recommended the shady, fly-by-night zip line operation in the first place confirmed as much to her, through the remains of his broken teeth.

That’s where the police had found her, straddling the nearly-unconscious man, screaming at him in the middle of a dirt street. The club she had bodily thrown him out of—the same club he first met the honeymooners at four nights before—had called them after she rampaged her way in, looking for him. It took four officers to pry her off of him, one of which ended up in the hospital himself.

“His blood,” the guide gurgled as the cops took her away. “They need his special blood.”

Since landing in a less-than-friendly UCAS that never cared about her even before she was declared a violent and unhinged deportee of a renowned tourist-friendly foreign government, she had scrimped and saved every red cent she could make to try and get back to her husband.

An upbringing filled with pain and brutality taught her she couldn’t trust anyone—only her fists. Her husband was the first person who showed that maybe there was good in the world, and just maybe she was deserving of it.

That little flicker of happiness in a lifetime of cloying dark, and someone took it away from her.

She knew what it would cost to hire private investigators—quality ones—and how much it would take to get herself smuggled back into the island nation. Every day that went by she knew her chances of finding him grew slimmer, but every job brought her just that much closer to making it possible.

She responded to the waiting message, asking when and where she’d meet her client. She had a job to do, and she’d be focused on the mission at hand, but always in the back of her thoughts was the unwavering goal of making those responsible pay for what they did, in blood.

This character concept was directly inspired by Gina Carano’s character from the 2014 action movie "In the Blood", written by James Robert Johnston.

Two major perks of tending a bar like Franklin’s Rusty Moose: good tips and no trouble. After more than twenty years serving drinks, Crash was glad to finally work for an establishment that didn’t rely on the latest pop songs and lines of new adults lining the block. Just a quiet bar with no questions asked, serving a specific purpose and a specific clientele.

He knew the score, of course, and played his role, but more than anything he maintained the Moose’s atmosphere; a grizzled dwarf acting as the public face for a bar filled with shadowrunners. Crash was here more nights than not—nothing half as entertaining as all this on the trid—and after a while the locals came to accept him as a fixture of the place. He knew how to read people and gave off the neutral aura that had served late night drink purveyors well ever since there were drinks to serve and customers to order them.

Sometimes a wet-behind-the-ears runner or Johnson came by, but those were the exceptions—the Moose wasn’t a place people just stopped in at. It wasn’t exclusive to runners by any means, but everyone understood that if word got out about anything or anyone going on inside, they’d have a real bad time for the rest of their brief life. Some people really enjoy their privacy.

He pressed a button under the bar for the second private room—a mechanical circuit, harder for enterprising troublemakers to hack—and the door opened for the three people headed inside. The Johnson and her guard had shown up early, and business was about to be struck. Crash hadn’t recognized any of them, but all were playing nice and that was fine by him. Hopefully another calm night of taking care of the front of house while back end business went on unacknowledged and unremarked.

He knew the owners got a small cut of the proceeds, probably rolled out by the local fixers who “suggested” the Moose as a safe, secure location for clandestine business. Reportedly the owner’s dad built the place from nothing a few decades back—no corp oversight or meddling anywhere near the sleepy street corner which housed the Moose. The pay was average, meaning not enough, but Crash always made up for it with tips.

Runners were always generous when they finished a job, failing at not flaunt their money at every occasion. “Fat and happy until the rent comes due,” a retired patron remarked once. “Life seems pretty rosy with fresh credsticks in your pocket.”

The old ork was spot on with his late hour proclamation; almost nobody in the world happier than a successful shadowrunner, and almost nobody as desperate as a failing one. Most of the bar’s quiet patrons, largely visiting by themselves or in quiet pairs, had lived those lessons and managed to keep breathing.

Trouble did come knocking at the Moose some months back, Crash remembered idly, washing a simple highball glass. There was murmur in the street that some major deals were going down—either being offered or being completed—and that meant a lot of money in the place. As popular as Seattle was with the multinational corporations, it was still at its heart a cash town, and paper UCAS money was in high demand for those wanting to stay off the radar.

Crash didn’t peg the kid for trouble when he first walked in, but certainly knew he didn’t belong. Shifty-eyed and jumpy, he looked around the room but obviously didn’t register the patrons before approaching the bar, taking a moment to steel himself.

“Give me all the money,” he hoarsely whispered, adrenaline turning his throat into an arid desert. He flashed the handle of a pistol in his waistband.

“Kid,” Chase shook his head, unimpressed, “just turn around and walk away. You don’t want this.” Several pairs of eyes turned toward the would-be robber who was looking to interrupt a quiet evening of drinking.

“You don’t get it, shorty,” the youth spat back, slamming his gun down on the bar, “I’m in charge here and I say give me the cash.”

More eyes turned toward the bar, several patrons rising from their seats, grim expressions on grimmer faces.

“I’m trying to do you a favor. You’re in a bad way and don’t know it yet.”

The audacious youth angrily fumbled for the gun on the bartop, but was stopped by two large regulars grabbing him bodily by the elbows, lifting him from the floor. With his feet kicking futilely in the air, the runners “escorted” the robber out the front door.

Chase palmed the small pistol and tossed it in a bin labeled “idiots.” Doubtlessly he’d make some good tips that evening, and the owners would disappear the firearm like they undoubtedly had so many others before.

With a smile he rang up order of tomato beef chow mein for another regular walking in off the drizzling street.

My father once told me the story of a San Francisco bar—Franklin’s—that was frequented by off-duty police and burly dockworkers. Letting the patrons cash their paychecks, it was known to have a lot of money on-hand every Friday. A youth walked in one day, flashed a gun to the bartender, and demanded the stockpile. Unable to be persuaded otherwise by the calm employee, the kid ended up being bodily removed from the bar by its patrons, with the implication that such removal didn’t go well for him. This story was directly inspired by that tale, first told to me maybe 30 years ago.

Story written in October, 2019

“What does it say about me,” Vivian wondered aloud to herself, “that I’m alone on a Wednesday night, drinking in a dive bar that never left the 2050s.” She sighed, running a fingertip along the rim of her glass. Thousands of miles from home, dropped from her dream college, another drink or two and she’d scarcely have enough for lukewarm noodle soup to get her through the week. When had things gone so wrong?

“Says you hate the weekend crowd,” a stranger replied, her voice melodic, warm, and silky. “No more, no less.”

Vivian turned to look at the person who had intruded into her personal monologue of self-pity, offering a wan smile in return. The woman’s platinum hair pulled back into a simple pony-tail, her eyes were deep sapphires in the dark bar. She almost had to fight to not get lost in those eyes.

“I don’t know about that,” Vivian mumbled after what felt like long seconds, finally tearing herself from the stranger’s gaze. “I think it paints me pretty well —just a dumb girl who got in over her head.” She smiled in spite of herself. Self-deprecation had become a routine escape since she left the school.

“I know a thing or two about that,” the stranger shrugged sympathetically, gesturing for the bartender to refill her and Vivian’s drinks. “Without intending to minimize your current dramas, you look pretty far from rock bottom, all things considered. Hong Kong can be pretty cruel when it thinks you aren’t looking.”

“I was supposed to be happy here,” Vivian offered, voice filled with self-pity. “I was supposed to do great things. Instead…”

“Instead you’re in a retro-themed dive bar in the middle of nowhere, right?” the other woman finished for her.

Vivian nodded glumly, holding her head in her hands. She realized the bartender had poured her a fresh drink and sipped at it meekly, hoping to make it last.

“What did you want to do here?” the woman asked, cocking her head slightly to the side, regarding Vivian’s despair.

“I create interactive art. Augmented reality pieces that change depending on who’s looking at them; based their social media profile, their ethnicity, even their height. Everyone sees something slightly different.”

“Hong Kong sounds like the perfect market for that,” the stranger offered, intrigued. “Is that what brought you here from the Americas?” Her voice didn’t carry an accent to Vivian’s ears, painting the stranger as coming from Anytown, UCAS.

Vivian nodded slowly as she continued to sip her drink. “Specialized responsive design and programming schools; cutting-edge stuff they don’t even have at MIT&T. It was supposed to be my chance to make a name for myself.”

“Let me guess,” the velvet-voiced stranger suggested. “You fell for the wrong person, got caught up in something you shouldn’t have.”

Vivian burst into uncontrolled sobbing, fruitlessly trying to stifle her tears. She tried not to think of Alan and his empty promises, but their first meeting stuck on repeat in her mind, a continual loop of the moment everything started to fall apart.

“Hey, hey,” the stranger said with genuine empathy, rubbing Vivian’s upper back with her near hand. “I didn’t mean to dredge anything up; I’ve been there myself, right smack in the middle of Hell before I knew it.” She continued to console the teary-eyed Vivian, waving off the bartender when he looked over to check on the pair.

“Everything was supposed to be so different,” she sobbed, wiping her nose on a dirty drink napkin. “My art was finally going to take me somewhere.”

“It looks like it’s already taken you halfway around the world.”

“But not any farther,” Vivian spat out, her hand slapping the bartop for emphasis. “I’m sorry, I just—it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

The stranger nodded solemnly. “Not so long ago I met someone who told me he could make me a superstar. Instead he got me hooked on BTL chips, forced me to get invasive implants, and made me his personal slave. I couldn’t even see ‘normal’ from how far I had fallen.”

“How did you get out?” Vivian asked, having earlier noted the woman’s fine clothing and expensive, chic jewelry. High-quality but not flashy. There was a woman doing well for herself.

She shrugged. “Someone gave me a chance. It wasn’t easy, for either of us, but we made it work, got through it. Shared a few scars. It was a long road to rediscover who I always was, but in the end I just needed someone to believe in me and keep me focused on getting clean. I did the work, but I couldn’t have done it without them.”

Vivian nodded heavily, tears having traced rivulets down her cheeks. “I just wanted to create, to express myself.”

Once, long ago, when troubles came your way

You couldn’t take them on yourself,
But you knew just what to do,
To find someone who would help…

The sound system began playing one of Maria Mercurial’s breakout hits, “Tell it to Mister,” the 2048 single that rocketed her into super-stardom. A true classic but a little too on-the-nose, Vivian thought. She’d heard the song a thousand times before, but whether due to her situation or something else nagging at the back of her mind, it felt uncomfortably close to home. Luckily the woman next to her waved for the bartender to change the tune.

“Pain can inspire great art,” the stranger offered, leaving her hand reassuringly on Vivian’s shoulder.

“Did making art help you?”

The woman chuckled to herself, a rich sound that made Vivian self-conscious for having asked. “Yes it did, more than I ever expected. I didn’t stop when things got better though, that’s important. The art was for me, far more than it was for anyone else.”

Vivian nodded with understanding. “I don’t want to give up on my dreams, I just can’t see a way forward.”

“I’ll tell you what,” the strange woman with the too-smooth voice offered, pulling out an old-style business card from a small clutch on her lap. “I can get you an introduction to someone who’s doing visuals for a big gig coming up. It’s just an introduction – you have to prove you have what it takes, yourself.”

Vivian looked up at her questioningly, accepting the card without glancing at it. “But why? You’ve just met me.”

The woman shrugged, a playful smile on her perfect face. “I like your idea, and think there’s a real future in it. Besides, maybe I have a soft spot for people chasing their dreams.” She gave Vivian’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Call the number, he’s only in Hong Kong for a few more days.”

Vivian nodded as the woman stood, leaving enough money on the bar to cover several more rounds. “Don’t go overboard,” she warned as a joke. “You have a big day tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Vivian said, finding herself drawn into the stranger’s eyes. “I’ll make the call.”

“Good girl. Show the world just who it’s been messing with.” And with that, the stranger was gone, leaving the small bar worse for it, Vivian thought.

Finishing her drink, she decided against getting another. The night had been long enough and her self-pity had been well and truly drowned by that point. Some sleep – hopefully without dreams – would do her well. Half-waving to the bartender, she made her way back onto the neon streets of the foreign city where she had sought to make her mark.

Jamming her hands into small jacket pockets, she felt the business card the strange woman had given her. Stopping under the fuchsia glow of a nearby billboard, she finally turned it over, reading the name.

Markus Grüller

Tour Manager for Maria Mercurial

Mouth agape, Vivian was instantly sober. Tomorrow would be a big day, indeed.

—Written October 2018

Sailing at a leisurely 10 knots, the cruise ship New Horizon made its way out of Puget Sound. As a floating grand hotel its clientele were largely well-to-do corporate types that wanted to experience a veneer of the region’s rich Tsimshian culture and history—from a distance, of course. The cruise provided a unique opportunity to witness the area’s natural splendor as it motored up the coast of what was once called British Columbia, without foregoing the posh amenities and conveniences of 2070 life.

Largely keeping to themselves, a small group of passengers didn’t fit in with the voyage’s usual fare—instead of using the cruise as an escape from work, they were using it as a most uncommon commute to their next job. Having passed through security without careful inspection, thanks to well-placed contacts and generous bribes, the amount of equipment they intended to bring caused a large snag. While they could convince one or two amenable guards to look the other way when the scanners revealed they had dangerous or illicit cybernetic enhancements, there was likely no way to successfully slip large-caliber, unlicensed firearms and a significant cache of unlawful surveillance equipment through baggage checks.

The cruise ship had been their best option, with no realistic way to carry their gear over the international boarder between the Seattle Metroplex and the Native American Nations. They didn’t have long to plan their ingress, and knew they wouldn’t be able to source the necessary equipment once in-country. The only option was to find another way to cross the border.

“How’s the view down there, Kaz?” one of the steely-eyed travelers tapped into his commlink, smirking as he watched the last vestiges of UCAS territory sail past from the lounge deck.

“Dark, cold, and miserable. How are you?” the response came, causing a chuckle among the group. While the ordinary cruise passengers surmounted the gangplanks that would lead them to their temporary home away from home, Kaz had navigated the murky water depths to attach a specially-made, magnetized, waterproof carry bag filled with the team’s most dangerous—and questionable—gear. Gifted with powerful control over his own metabolism, he could go days without eating or drinking, meaning he was perfectly suited to baby-sit the important cargo while they sailed up the coast.

“Engineering has noticed the unexpected drag. They’re planning on launching a drone in the next half-hour to investigate,” the team’s hacker reported from his personal cabin, having carefully inserted wiretaps in the crew’s internal communications networks, for just such an opportunity.

“Any way you can convince the drone that everything’s okay?” the team’s resident weapons specialist chimed into the group chat, well aware that he had the most to lose if they had to abandon the concealed bag.

“Already working on it. I’ll find out soon enough.”

With any luck the team would be able to blend in with the crowd long enough to move farther up the coast, slipping overboard with the help of a local fixer they contacted before departing. Once ashore, it would be time to hike inland, complete the mission, then return to the coast in time to catch the cruise on its way back. If they could slip back onboard with none the wiser, there’d be no indication they were anything other than regular travelers during the week-long voyage. No alarms, no suspicion, no one the wiser.

Planning such a perfect plan was one thing though—executing it was quite another.

—Written August 2019

“Guys, something’s wrong with Casper,” the mechanic called out to the rest of his crew, worry tinging his normally gruff voice. He understood mechanical systems—pistons, pumps, and the like—no matter how ubiquitous cyberspace had become, it wasn’t his area of expertise, nor was tending to those who were lost inside its currents. Casper, their young hacker, had blood seeping from around his neural jack and spasms shook his whole body as he lay on the couch. Whatever he had run into while trying to investigate the team’s next target—a local subsidiary of a large multinational conglomerate—he wasn’t handling it well.

“Can we pull him out?” their driver asked, a normally quiet and reserved woman who could pilot almost anything on land, sea, or air. She nervously brushed a lock of hair behind her pointed ears as she looked on with concern.

Their medic shook his head, walking into the small back room and taking quick stock of the situation. “Absolutely not,” he chided, beginning a quick diagnostic of the comatose hacker’s vitals with a hand-held scanner. “Something’s got a hold of him in there; he’s not just browsing the Matrix like some passive observer. Our boy went into places you and I can’t even dream of—if we yanked the plug now he’d spend the rest of his days as a vegetable. We have to keep him comfortable until he either finds his way back on his own, or dies.”

The team’s commlinks all bleeped in unison—an incoming message. The more tech-integrated among them were able to mentally command their devices to display directly in their field of vision while the more old-fashioned reached down to glance at their screens. Letter by letter Casper was reaching out to them, the message printing with anxiety-rising slowness. Inside the Matrix time moved at the speed of thought; whatever electronic foe he was facing was taking enough of his attention that he could only spare enough attention to send each new letter after what would have felt like minutes on the inside.

Traced me. Guards coming. Hurry.

Everyone’s eyes narrowed. Their mission target was an arms manufacturer, and one not known for going easy on those performing industrial espionage. Whoever was on their way, they wouldn’t be friendly. After taking a moment to process what was about to happen, everyone sprung into action.

The mechanic joined the team’s muscle in distributing weapons to everyone who wanted them—most had some experience with burst-fire weapons but more than a few pistols and shotguns were loaded and checked. “About time for a proper dust-up” mumbled the green-skinned mercenary. He wasn’t one for logistics or lengthy information-gathering. To him, any time spent without a weapon in-hand was boring, and he hated being bored.

The driver plugged herself into the pilot seat of the armoured van that served as the team’s primary transport, subsuming her own senses in favor of the full-spectrum cameras and detectors custom-built into the heavily-modified vehicle. If it came to a quick escape, she knew she’d be able to plow through the roll-up door with almost no damage. Connected as she was, she could keep a detailed eye on everything happening around or within the large van. She opened the back hatch to facilitate a rapid embarking, hoping the team wouldn’t need it.

Sinking to a comfortable position on the floor, the magician closed her eyes and allowed her consciousness to leave her body, trying to give as much forewarning of approaching danger as possible. As the doctor and the group’s resident faceman—a genetically- and technologically-enhanced smooth-talker—made preparations to move Casper into the waiting van, the wizard’s voice seemed to come from the air itself. “Team of four, heavily armed. Drone support and at least one spirit in tow.” A pause, as if she were confirming a suspicion. “They’re headed right for us; time’s up.”

The medic signaled for the face to lower Casper back onto the couch. His unexpected patient situated for the time being, he tucked a heavy revolver into the back of his waistband and moved toward the front door; it was one of his aliases that had rented the small shop and he knew he had to be the front line of defense when it came to nosy corporate goons. The face, perking up with a new idea, sprinted into the back of the combat van.

As a heavy three-knock staccato echoed from the front door, the team’s driver could only look on with horror as the face started peeling off clothes. While the rest of the group prepared for a tense standoff—and possible combat—with corporate hit-men, their smooth-talking negotiator was stripping down to his birthday suit. With the van’s enhanced sensor package the driver was getting a front-row seat to all of the details, whether she wanted one or not.

“I’ll need everyone inside the premises to come with me,” the heavily-augmented corporate mercenary said by way of introduction when the medic opened the door. Just out of view most of the team had their firearms at the ready, some more eager than others to use them.

“You have no authority here,” the medic answered, unimpressed with the heavily-armed team at his door. “We’re not on corporate grounds and I don’t imagine the municipal cops gave you a bulk arrest warrant for whatever it is you think I’ve done. Run along back home and stop bothering me.”

With a heavy visor obscuring most of his face, only the soldier’s deepening frown was visible. “The Shiawase Decision of 2001, amended by the BRA treaty of 2042, permits corporate interests to extend beyond the physical grounds of their holdings, and includes the ongoing defense and recovery of electronic and intellectual property, even if said property has been exfiltrated from recognized corporate holdings and territories.”

“You probably say that a lot, don’t you,” the medic stalled, crossing his arms. “How about you report it was a false alarm and we can all go our separate ways?”

As the medic stood up to the collectively glowering corporate goon squad, he noticed a message come in from the team’s resident trigger-happy mercenary in the bottom corner of his vision.

Can we just kill them already?

“Fine, fine,” the medic sighed, both to his unexpected guests and to his ambitious teammate. “Come on in if you want and have a look around, but you’ll see there’s no reason to take anyone anywhere.” He stepped back from the doorway, hands spread wide.

As the corporate thugs warily entered the rented shop, the driver couldn’t have paid attention to them no matter how much she wanted to. The team’s face was squat-thrusting in the back of the van, now completely free of any shred of decency. “Time for the big show,” the man murmured to himself, as if part of some pregame ritual, “gotta get everything aired out just right.”

Gunfire rocked the confined industrial space as the third corporate heavy cleared the door. The team’s mercenary sprung up and riddled the first two with bullets as the medic dove for the reinforced couch, his heavy pistol brought to bear. Tearing her electronic eyes from the horrifying gyrations going on in the van’s back compartment, the driver deployed several automated mounted weapons and set them to free-fire.

As the third intruder stumbled backward into the small back room where Casper lay unmoving, he was hit with a powerful arcane blast from the mage who had taken over his protection. Cobalt flames licked at the man’s armour, finding the spaces between its thick plating and seeking out the soft flesh beneath.

As the final shots rang out, four corporate goons having fallen beneath the weight of the team’s heavy-weapon onslaught, the face strode proudly out of the back of the van, with all the energy and poise of a Hollywood star walking down the red carpet. “Alright, now where were we—” his voice trailed off as he took in the carnage around him.

“What the frag were you doing?” the driver’s voice came from the van’s speakers.

“Why the hell are you naked?” the medic called out.

“You know we can see your junk, right?” the mercenary asked, gesturing with his SMG

“Well if you all hadn’t taken the violent option, it would have worked,” the face harumphed, almost pouting. “You never give me time to work.”

The medic pressed again. “What was your plan here? What on god’s green Earth possessed you to strip in the middle of a gunfight?”

“I’m telling you, it would have worked.”

Rolling his eyes at the non-answer, the medic looked around the would-be headquarters. “We need to get Casper to the van and get out of here. This place is blown. And you—” he added, looking disdainfully at the face, “put on some damn clothes. We’re rolling out in five.”

Originally written July 2020 Taken from an actual gaming session I ran

It’s almost hard to believe that Beaver Lake used to be a nice area for commuters and families to live, grow old, and retire, free from the radioactive ash and almost universal lawlessness that would later come to define it.

“Glow City” formed in the wake of Redmond’s nuclear meltdown catastrophe in 2013, a home to everyone pushed out by regular society, for whom life without running water or a stable roof overhead was already common. With the Awakening in full swing and fears running rampant, more than a few orks and trolls found their way to the Barrens, their natural physical stature a benefit when it came to survival in the gang-controlled streets.

The SIN-less population outnumbers those with legal documentation almost three-to-one, but even those with government records won’t find peace and quiet—law enforcement of all levels have given up on Redmond, leaving everyone therein to fend for themselves. There are even plenty of Shadowrunners who won’t take jobs in Redmond; the risks are just too high. Corporations, and their security forces, are generally fair, if heavy-handed, when it comes to defending their property. In the crazed wilds on the metroplex’s outskirts, there’s no such tacit professionalism.

In the swirling ocean of street chaos and perpetual violence however there exists a small island of tranquility, an eye in the storm just beyond the contaminated lake waters. On a small street whose name has long been ground under by the forces of entropy, for two city blocks, there is peace.

There isn’t running power, water, or sanitation—other than what the residents can jury-rig themselves—but gangs give the area a wide berth, and while most of the buildings have boarded-up windows and bullet-holes, nobody inside can remember a time where shootings, stabbings, or violence entered their quiet hamlet in any great measure.

In a world where Megacorporations are building bases on Mars and immortal dragons fly through the sky, where magic and technology have advanced to a degree unthinkable just decades before, it’s difficult to take comfort in faith or religion. Every night however, the lucky few who make that nameless street their home give a silent thanks to Ghost for keeping them safe.

Some think Ghost is exactly what the name implies—the spirit or soul of a powerful magician who grew up near ground zero, whose care and concern for the area extends beyond even the veil of death. Others believe it’s a team of retired Shadowrunners trying to ensure their own peace and quiet, in a place they won’t be sought after. One political researcher, in a long-buried treatise, suggested it was evidence that collective activism could work wonders, even in the most blighted places in the modern world, and that it was the residents themselves, working in unison, who carved out a home for themselves.

Whatever Ghost may or may not be, there’s no denying that there exists a stretch of the Redmond Barrens, no matter how small, where violence is all but unknown and the residents are left to live in peace. It’s not a glamorous existence by any means, but compared to the chaos and terrors which plague the rest of Glow City, it’s a vast improvement. Even if nobody knows why, everyone in the area is sure you don’t bring violence, push drugs, or bring trouble to the small oasis; that kind of excitement will ensure your friends—or anyone else for that matter—will never see you again.

Originally written April 2021

Content warning: this story contains difficult and uncomfortable elements from a non-binary person’s upbringing. It is ultimately a character background focused on finding acceptance, but that road is rocky, and painful, and dangerous.

Okea never felt at home in the physical world. Cold, judging eyes were everywhere; cataloguing, categorizing, labeling. Metahumanity, and the electronic systems they had created, dealt much more easily, more readily, with groups than it did individuals. To a casual observer, an ork with red hair was just that and nothing more—merely a list of easy characteristics that ultimately said nothing about the person they described.

Whether growing up on the dirty, industrial streets of Novosibirsk or awash in the neon glow of Osaka’s opulent downtown years later, Okea could always feel the eyes of the world on them. The gilt and AR broadcasts of opulent society did nothing to hide the rotten core beneath—if anything, it made the population even more overt in their judgment, thinking too highly of themselves by double.

While the Matrix always held a special place in their heart, the anonymity of electronic communication bringing a sense of freedom the analog lacked, Okea’s true fascination were drones. Robots didn’t judge or disapprove, they only did what they were told, what they were created to do. Piloting a drone was the closest they ever felt to being true to themselves.

They didn’t cast their lot in with the transhumanists—there was nothing wrong with being human, it was society itself and the people that perpetuated it who were to blame for the state of the world—but much of their propaganda rang true for Okea, even at a young age. When their father found a Techno Republic policlub flyer in their school bag, the relation between the two shifted irrevocably.

A devout attendee of the local Orthodox church, he was furious at them for what he felt was “an insult to our God, to think you know better than Him.” In that instant they had gone from his only child, filled with promise and a bright future, to a heretic whose foolish desires had let let them stray from the one true path.

The beatings and the sermons—at home and in the large town cathedral both—continued for years. They couldn’t help but divulge how out of place they felt around others, how uncomfortable they were with their own developing body. The church was not kind, and the warm and caring father they remembered became a distant memory, only surfacing as a further torment in the midst of already terrible nightmares.

With no support network—no friends or extended family willing to take them in, or even to lend a sympathetic ear—they fled, finally accepting that their life in Siberia was over, perhaps forever. Only by escaping the life they knew would there be the hope of something better, something resembling happiness. Stealing what meager provisions they could, and using their electronic skills to transfer a small amount of their father’s savings—just enough to get by, they did still love the man he once was, after all—Okea disappeared into the darkness, a heavily-bundled form trudging through the midnight snows.

The doctor put down her electronic clipboard and placed a concerned hand on Okea’s arm. “This is an invasive procedure. I know you know that, but I’ll be cutting into and splicing almost every nerve group in your body.” She sighed, absently rubbing the bridge of her nose. “I’ve been around the block long enough to know what it means when someone comes to my small clinic, offers certified credsticks instead of credit or corp scrip for payment, and doesn’t tell me anything about their career. I want to make sure you’re doing this for you, and not just for the hope of making more money on the next job.”

Okea, who had registered at the clinic’s front desk under the name Jarka Orlovi, nodded with grave confidence. “This is for us, and us alone.” They had heard what it would feel like from other accounts, online, but if even half of what they read were true, the surgery would be worth double. “I’m ready.”

The doctor sighed, her lips tight, and she patted Okea’s arm once again. “Sleep well, child.”

As the intravenous anesthetic took sudden hold, they couldn’t even find the strength to protest, that they were nearly twenty-five. As if having jumped off a tall cliffside, dark unconsciousness rushed toward them with the weight of inevitability.

My love for you is as constant as the ocean.

Their father’s voice, the refrain a source of comfort in youth and its later absence, heartache, faded from mind as they swam upwards toward consciousness, his deep timbre replaced by electronic beeping. They tried to move, and began to struggle against the forces holding them down.

“Gentle, gentle,” a stranger said from nearby. “You’ll pull everything out and that won’t do anyone any good.” Their voice was soothing, placating. Okea wasn’t their first patient by a long shot. He unwrapped the gauze which blocked their vision, and encouraged them to look around—carefully.

“How do you feel?”

“I’m…hollow,” was the best they could come up with, ill-equipped to describe the sensation.

“You picked a doozy of an augmentation. Your ‘jack,” he referenced the small cybernetic port just behind their ear, “is nothing compared to a control rig. I can’t say that hollow or empty feeling will ever fully go away, but you get used to it, in time.” He smiled distantly, a practiced and routine gesture of sympathy.

They noticed his left arm was synthetic, faux-skin wrapped over cold steel—not a sleek or expensive model. There was a story there, but it had never been in Okea’s character to pry into such things. Instead they simply nodded.

“I’ll go get the doctor,” the nurse said, tapping a menu on his tablet.

Okea always looked serene when controlling a drone, their face at peace and smiling, no matter how strenuous or dangerous the situation. They could be piloting a minuscule fly-spy, surveilling a corporate ballroom or trying to outrun hostile roto-drones, with blood seeping out of their nose from the strain, and still look at home, placid and content.

Teams got used to communicating with them over commlink, as they spent as often as possible with their mind inside a drone or vehicle, to an extent that deckers and mages—who had their own special realms with the Matrix and astral plane, respectively—found their obsession with being jacked in strange and occasionally worrisome.

Okea couldn’t explain how it felt to put their consciousness and perceptions into a machine, any more than they could explain how being fully immersed was the only time they felt truly in sync with themselves. Whether a robotic guard dog or stealth flyer outfitted with electronic countermeasures, the assumed body felt far more real, tangible, and important, than the one they were born with.

The difference between issuing commands to a drone or vehicle using a commlink and diving into virtual reality, where meat and machine moved at the speed of thought, was as great as the difference between VR and using their control rig. It’s not that they simply shifted their mind into the drone, it’s that they became the drone. Its sensors were their perception, its internal circuitry their nervous system. Even when piloting an entire swarm of mini-drones, the control rig—and a great deal of practice—made the experience feel organic, natural, and sublime. Nothing in the physical world could compare.

Okea wasn’t great at socialization, but had a mind as sharp as a whip, and wasn’t too bad with a wrench either, taking great pains to tend to their flock with a care and attention to detail that would put a classic car mechanic’s to shame.

As long as they get to use their drones, and occasionally play with new ones, they’re happy, even though of late there’s been a tiny whisper longing for more consistent social connection than the fly-by-night, solely professional, ephemeral reliance which unites—if temporarily—ad hoc shadowrunning teams. Maybe, just maybe, if they were to find the right group, where they can feel at least a hint of comfort when being social in their physical body, where they are accepted and welcomed not for who they should be but instead who they are, those nagging thoughts could be put to rest.

Until they find that group, however, at least they’ll always have their drones—those extensions of themselves that let them feel, even if for only a time, at peace. No judgment, no condescension, just freedom.

Originally written September 2021

Growing up on the streets isn’t easy for anyone, particularly a homeless ork discretely disowned by his all-human family during his painful pubescent goblinization. His features and relationship with the world changed, but they couldn’t accept that at the core he was still their son, their brother, the same boy they had known.

At first, his size made him a target. Gangers and other toughs wanted to beef up their street cred by attacking the largest guy around, particularly when he didn’t want to fight back. He wasn’t interested in their power games; he just wanted to survive another day on the grimy and acid rain-drenched streets of a city he used to love.

There’s something to be said for serendipity, those unexpected moments that forever change a life’s trajectory. Scrounging for food behind a closed-for-renovations Stuffer Shack, he heard shots ring out in the night, closer than normal. The screeching tires of an approaching car echoed through the alley, and the man that came barreling into the dark path neither heard nor saw the young ork until it was too late, colliding like a freight train.

“500 nuyen if you find me a place to hide,” the man panted, looking frantically over his shoulder as he rose from the ground. The ork nodded – he knew the area well, and that money would go a very long way. Leaving the discarded remnants of venda-soy burgers and sugar apple pops behind, he gestured for the stranger to follow.

Through a twisting maze of run-down passages and alleyways, eventually they arrived at one of his private little spaces; camouflaged from the outside by building debris and faded roofing strips, it was at least large enough for a passable bedroll, and boasted a solid enough roof that the rain didn’t soak everything inside. It wasn’t much, but it was somewhere he knew.

“You get me through the night, I’ll make it a grand,” the gruff man said, a close-trimmed black beard framing his face. As tall as the ork, beneath his shredded leather jacket he was easily as muscular, more lithe to boot. There was blood seeping through his thick pants, and his breath was labored after the dizzying chase.

A noise outside caught both of their attention, heads snapping to the hollow’s cramped entrance – several people were approaching the small hiding space. The ork looked at his new – albeit temporary – roommate, and motioned for him to stay put, to keep quiet. “Come out, come out, greenskin!” a taunting voice carried over the storm. A voice the ork unfortunately knew all too well.

Several local thugs, baselessly considering themselves genuine high-end street criminals, were just outside, hoping that going a few rounds with the local pushover would improve their sour moods. They’d talk themselves up into throwing the first blow, and it would end with the ork balled on the ground, coughing up blood. It wouldn’t have been the first time the scenario played out.

Something in the man’s eyes made the ork stop, an icy hardness that wasn’t directed at him. The man nodded slowly and moved to follow his host out of the dilapidated shelter.

“Who’s your friend, greenskin?” the lead boy called out, creative insults being his strong suit. His friends snickered, thinking themselves clever.

When the man rose to his full height, built like a 2000’s-era football linebacker, the boys were obviously caught off-guard, shuffling backwards a step in spite of their bravado.

“He’s with me,” the serious man stated flatly, his eyes hidden in pools of shadow. “Is there a problem I can help you with?”

The ork realized for the first time that the man had a cybernetic arm, the minuscule pistons and actuators hissing quietly as he clenched his fist under the reflected glow of the neon city. Not only was he built like a tank, he was built like a tank.

To their credit, the boys hesitated a moment before turning and running, sprinting back down the way they’d come. They were obviously no match against someone like him, and they knew it. The ork stared in wonder. “How did you do that?” he asked, genuinely surprised. “You didn’t even show a weapon.”

“It’s all about confidence, kid,” the man answered, turning back to the shelter after making sure the boys had truly gone. “Not only did they know I could take them, I knew it too. When you get someone to see the world as a simple equation, they figure out real quick if they want to stick around for the answer.”

True to his word, the stranger gave the ork a full thousand nuyen after the morning sun began burning off the early morning fog. They had spent the evening talking – or more accurately, the man talking – and the ork had a greater appreciation for his own successes, few as they may be from an objective viewpoint. The first stirrings of self-confidence burned inside him.

“Tell you what,” the man said before leaving. “Make your way to Vic’s Fight Circus just outside downtown. Tell him ‘Little Reggie’ sent you. He’ll take good care of you.”

“‘Little?'” the ork asked, trying to understand.

“Before Vic put me to work, I didn’t have a lot of faith in myself. Got me to straighten out how I saw myself, how I saw the world, and what I could actually accomplish.” The man pointed to the shiny credstick in the ork’s hand. “That’ll get you there, and buy a good number of lessons. See what kind of person you become when you realize you can handle yourself.”

As he turned to walk away, the ork caught his attention. “Last night, why did you stand up for me?” The question had been nagging at him ever since, though he’d been afraid to ask.

“My mom’s an ork, sister too,” the tall human shrugged. “They had to do a lot of standing up for me when I was young. Least I can do is repay the favor.”

“Thank you,” the ork smiled, meaning it. As the man walked out of his life, he looked to the credstick in his hand and wondered at the possibilities that lay before him.

Originally written June 2018

The sound of a heavy revolver being cocked snapped Carl from his fitful dreams, eyes frantically searching for the weapon, only to find it in his own shaking hand. His head and the firearm dropped back to the bed as one, and he spent long minutes trying to control his breathing, trying to forget the terrors within his own mind.

Ever since fleeing Chicago, it was always the same. Every time he closed his eyes he knew what story would unfold, what horror awaited him. Even self-medicating only dulled the sensations, not blocked them. Forcing his eyes open he felt the sheen of cold sweat start to evaporate as the broken air circulation unit did its best to swirl the stale miasma which constantly seeped into his apartment from the alley outside. Three thousand klicks from home and it all smelled the same. Everything was the same.

“Aren’t you supposed to forget dreams?” he lamented to himself, setting the weighty revolver on his bedside table and trying to shake away his own exhaustion—there would be no more sleep that night.

It always started off so simply. Meet the Johnson at the outdoor bistro, go over a vague job outline, agree on a price. It all sounded like a normal datasteal/object procurement gig until he mentioned the targets: specifications for and a prototype of a set of cybernetic genitals. The Johnson was completely serious, and it was too late for Carl to say no. As he sat on the bed, rubbing his temples and trying not to remember what came next, the thoughts came unbidden, unwanted.

Reconnaissance went as well as one could expect from two computer specialists and a fast-talking mage; the team found the means to blackmail the head of the R&D wing and a simple plan of “get an appointment, make demands” was agreed upon. Carl grimaced in closet-sized apartment, alone with the ghosts of the past.

Ghosts—bad turn of phrase. Running his hands through unwashed hair did nothing to stop the dreams…the memories.

He was the youngest, freshest member of the team, and as such was stationed outside the building as surveillance in case anything looked awry with their lines of escape. Connected to the team by private image links, he could see and hear everything, as much as he would come to regret his high-definition, front-row seat.

As the mage sauntered to the front desk, tepid muzak piped in to provide corporate-approved and inoffensive ambience, everything went wrong at once. Carl’s budding career, his shot at a payday, and his sanity all disappeared in an instant. A swarm of more than a dozen ghostly, ephemeral security guards, dressed in archetypal cowboy duds, and bolstered by a seven-foot werewolf, faded into existence, six-shooters at the ready.

Carl winced, hating that he couldn’t tell the difference between what had actually happened and what his brain fed him every time he closed his eyes. It was a never-ending rerun of his worst experiences, and it wouldn’t leave him alone, no matter how far he ran.

Opening fire, the ghost-cowboy-werewolf security team felled the mage in one cacophonous volley, dropping him to the floor. The shared team feed showed he was alive but in critical condition, at best. As he clutched at his chest the other hacker decided to leave no runner behind, and burst through the front door with his gas-guzzling Harley Scorpion motorcycle, intending to scoop up the fallen mage and make a quick—if impressive—exit.

As fast as he was, the werewolf was faster. Try as he might, even with a fully-automatic rifle, he couldn’t put a dent in the mass of teeth and claws before he too was cut down, the bike spinning out from beneath his eviscerated form. The last image coming through the shared link was a final spray of blood.

Dream-Carl had the crushing realization that had he stepped forward, had he been anywhere else but around the back of the building, he too could have been another body for the pile. Whatever mission he had signed up for, what he had been a part of was a merciless slaughter. He knew that the security team would be looking for whomever was on the other end of the video feed, and he sped off into the busy city streets, knowing his fledgling career as a Chicago-area shadowrunner was just as dead as his teammates.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Carl’s body trembled with adrenaline and anxiety, fear and self-doubt. He had begged, borrowed, and stolen his way across the country, and had arrived with nothing to his name but a quickly-cracking psyche. How long would the memories, the dreams continue?

Carl wept, the sounds of his sobbing lost in the drizzle falling in sheets against his thin walls.

-- Written in October, 2020