From: Coyote@f201.n640.z3.fidonet.org (Coyote)
Date: 13 Dec 94 14:16:37
Subject: Residue (1)
(c) Cameron W. Rogers, 1994.
All Rights (in all media) Reserved.
RESIDUE
=======
TIME: 0000 Hours. DATE: 01/01/2020
New Years Eve. You're in your flop on the northern fringe of the Night City
Combat Zone. The room is dark, lit only with the vaguest of
opalescent striations from the broken blinds that hang
awkwardly over the square hole in the wall you call a
window. You lie here, almost mesmerised by the slow drip of
water through the plaster on the roof. Beside you on this
foam slab lies Svetlana. She used to be a government paid
actress for propaganda films back in the SovBlock. Before
she migrated here and started living in places like this.
Before she met you.
Svetlana is so innocent, so naive, it makes you wonder
how she managed to survive this long. You guess being a
drop-dead beauty has a lot to do with it. Basic male CZ
attitude. Dont kill it if you can screw it.
Course you know a lot of CZoners who would argue with this, too.
She's asleep now. Dreaming about someplace else.
You dont know why you keep her. You dont need her. She's slow, she's weak,
and she blindly accepts anything you say or do.
In the back of your mind, a part that rarely sees
daylight, you know why: Svetlana represents your last
chance at being a functioning human being. She's the only
human thing left in your life. She is your mind's last
attempt to save itself from the Machine.
When she goes, Wilson Crombie goes with her; all that'll
be left is a thin tracery of something that used to be
Wilson Crombie. Nothing tangible, just a reminder; a
memory; a place where a human being used to be.
Residue.
That's all you are now.
The arm flexes; servos whine and a great, lubricant-
slick piston pulls back with a subdued, hissing complaint
as you pull your sweater over your head, down over the dull
sheen of your metal torso.
You were proud of your meat-body once. You put a lot of work into it.
Now you wonder what all the fuss was about. The man you
are now could tear the man you were limb from limb and not
break a sweat.
The magic of the Machine.
It's good to be alive.
You need money. You tell yourself it's to buy food, to
keep Svetlana happy. Thats what people do. You're people...
a person. So that's what you'll do. Earn a wage. To buy
food.
You're lying.
The Machine wants to be whole. It's got a body now, and a strong,powerful
arm (a Soviet knockoff of the design used by the Moscow
Spetsnaz),but it needs to be whole. Legs, eyes, a means to
defend itself.
You head north, wondering what Svetlana likes to eat.
You suppose you knew once.
There is a guy at the Slammer by the name of Slick Leroy
Jones. Slick Leroy likes his name, even though he's
Japanese and cant speak English for shit.
"Hey my man!", he screams above the speedmetal. "You be
plenty lucky my man! Slickie chickie be lookin' fo' yo'
bod!"
The Machine would like to kill Leroy. He is a dickhead.
You move through the crowd to the bar. You notice people moving away
quickly from your left hand side.
The Machine gets respect.
The Slammer is a booster bar on the Upper East Side,
near the harbour. It plays mainly hard core punk and some
speedmetal. Tonight there's a live band behind the
razorwire: Napalm Feeder. The place is fairly sedate
tonight. No brawls, no shootings. You imagine it'll pick up
later though.
You get to the bar. Leroy lounges there in jeans and a band shirt, trying
to look like part of the crowd. His black hair is done like
a goddamn powder puff which he flicks back and plays with
three 3 inch nails.
"What do you mean?", you ask. You hate talking to people like this.
"Slickie chickie my man. Built, like _stacked_. You
know?" He does this thing with his hands like watermelons
are growing on his chest.
"Who is she?"
"Wants _you_, my man!" He sits back and grins, wedging a toothpick
between his teeth.
The Machine almost acts out a fantasy.
"Where is she?"
Leroy jerks a thumb and you're moving.
Leroy's right. She looks good, but totally out of place.
Anybody who has the audacity to walk into a pit like the
Slammer in a suit either has plenty of balls or absolutely
no brains.
As you get closer you see two gangboys sprawled out on
the sawdust floor at her feet.
You go with balls.
She sees you coming and acknowledges you with a nod.
"Have a seat, Crombie."
_Crombie_. Somehow it's like a breath of fresh air.
The arm grabs a seat and spins it round. You straddle it.
"Dont talk,", she says. "Just listen. My name's Kestral. Ive been a
wetworks op for the last decade and my CV's longer than
you'd believe. To cut a long story short Im sick of
working, and Im sick of killing strangers for a living. But
I still gotta make a living so Ive got a deal for you. Me
and a few friends are starting a co-operative, a loose
organisation of professionals. We find work for you,
provide backup,insurance and so on, and in return we net a
20% cut of whatever you make.
"I have no love of the corporations and have been jerked
around and done over by them enough to make me never work
for them ever again. With our syndicate running as blocker
for you, it gives you some kind of insurance against that
ever happening to you.
"To begin with we can offer you a month's medical
coverage, and a limited network of backup operatives. It's
a fledgeling organisation,but we hope to be operating in
force before the end of the year.
"We have a job going for someone with your
qualifications at the moment, if you're interested. Simple
courier mission really. Pays about $4000.
"Im also planning to have a 'Runner going blocker for
you, maybe someone else as backup. Depends how our little
recruiting drive goes.
"So, what do you say Crombie? Four-grand, in the hand.
Minus $800 for us, of course."
It is cash. Kestral watches you think. She's got blonde
hair cut military-style, and those spiked gloves really
clash with the suit.
Just your type really.
Then, before you can give your reply, there is the
muffled sound of gunfire from outside the main door of the
club and one of the bouncers comes staggering in, clutching
the right side of his chest. Then a group of figures burst
in, waving guns and screaming.
Yellow and black leather. Piranhas.
"Friends of yours?", Kestral asks.
There are four. Average build, probably kevlared. All
are carrying pumpguns. The eye kicks in and the room
plunges into black, every human being now nothing more than
a roiling collection of reds, yellows and oranges. In some
places the hot colours change to blues. Cyberwear.
One of the gangers has an arm. That's about the only severe stuff they
have. The scene switches back to normal Hi-Res vision, then
you switch to targeting and the Colt comes online; waiting
for you to give the word.
"Everybody shut up!!", one of them screams. A woman with
short, curly hair dyed yellow. "We want Suds! Where are you
Joliet?"
Suds Joliet runs the place. You havent seen him. There
are about 15 people in here at the moment. You can see
Leroy sitting frozen, a cheap beer in one hand.
Suds has always done right by you. He could be out the back. The entrance
area is slightly raised with the four Piranhas spaced out
evenly on it. Four pillars support the roof through out the
room. You are on the far side of the room from the gang.
There is a glass window behind you that looks out over the
harbour. The bar is ten meters to your right. There is a
wide room filled with steel tables and chairs between you
and them, some with people at them. About 40 meters in all.
The gangers look ready to pop someone if someone doesnt speak up.
Leroy does.
"S. . . Suds is out back, homies!"
The yellow haired woman grins.
"Thanks. . . 'homie'."
And raises the shotgun.
It's your move.
The woman with the yellow hair raises the short-stocked
pumpgun and levels it at Leroy, who lets out a short shriek
and scrambles up against the bar, trying to flip himself
over it.
Your gun comes online, the target sight sweeping across
the floor and up the body of the Piranha with the arm. It's
always the same when the booster kicks in. You dont speed
up, everyone else just freezes in their tracks.
By the time the Piranha with the arm has seen the ruby flash of the laser
sight, a .454 caliber slug has destroyed the right side of
his head and thrown him up against the wall. Yellow Hair
has time to gasp before the Colt fires three times more.
One slug strikes her in the left knee. She stumbles, but
doesnt fall. Whatever she's wearing seems to be pretty
resilient. The second shot strikes her in the groin and she
staggers backward. The third shot strikes her in the same
place. She's down and bleeding.
You decide to squeeze off one more shot and catch the third Piranha, a kid
with red hair, in the right shin. The leg breaks apart just
below the knee and the kid drops like a sack of cement.
The remaining piranha, a Chinese girl with ratty blonde
hair, looks at you and makes a decision.
She's out the door.
3.3 seconds.
5 shell casings on the floor.
2 dead. 1 wounded.
People go back to their drinks.
Kestral visibly relaxes as you reholster the gun, 19 shells left in
the clip.
"You're fast.", she says. "I like that. In fact, I like
it too much to waste it on any dinky courier mission. Ive
got something a little more credible lined up that I was
thinking of saving for myself, but then I think you'll fit
the bill just nicely.
"I tell you what. Why dont you have a drink on me and we'll wait for the
others to show. When they do, I'll outline the plan for
you, and if you like it, it's yours."
"Only if you lower the cut.", you say.
Kestral is silent for a moment.
"How much were you thinking, exactly?"
On the other side of the room, a couple of the barstaff
have started clearing away the bodies. Yellow Hair starts
screaming when she's moved and she gets slugged out.
"10 percent.", your voice a dark mumble.
More silence.
"That's quite a hunk."
You give a subdued nod.
"Im quite a guy."
"But not worth the price. There's a million like you out
there. And you need the work more than I need you. The way
I see it, you dont have a choice. Just wait til the others get here, then hear
me out.
You dont like it,you can leave."
A knot is forming in your gut. You know she's right. The
Machine needs itself. And that costs money.
You yell an order and the drink is there inside of a minute.
The Machine gets respect.
TIME 0030 Hours
Fifteen minutes later a skinny guy dressed in urban
cammo walks through the door. Kestral motions him over.
He's South American or something, so that long blue hair
just doesnt gel.
You can tell he's looking at you. Looking at the Arm.
"Slam", Kestral says. "This is Residue. You two will be working together."
You turn and look at him, kicking in the targeting scope for effect.
"'Allo.", you say.
Kestral lays out the plan for you, without giving too much away.
"The deal is this. Me and a few friends have formed a
partnership. We're in the business of hiring out talent,
like yourselves. In return for finding you work the
organisation gets a 20% cut. We have a small fund at
present to cover your medical expenses and so on. TTI
coverage is standard.
Now, I have a job lined up that should be just right for
the proper mix of brains and unleashed violence. It
involves a little personnel retrieval for the World News
Service. I estimate the run to take anywhere between a day
and a week. If you pull this off WNS has agreed to cough up
a reward to the extent of $8000 for each of you, $4000 for
the organsiation.
"Now, our rates are not subject to negotiation and," she says looking
pointedly at Slam. "as your friend Residue here knows, our
rates are not open to negotiation. Wage increases and so
forth will be granted once your standing within the
syndicate has been field proven.
"It's a simple snatch 'n grab boys. Do you want it or not?"
You have sat. You have listened. You have played with your yo-yo.
The guy next to you, Slam, is pretty quiet. Seems to be listening intently.
Kestral finishes laying it out, and now he speaks up.
Trying to play the businessman.
"Lady, if I'm gonna be working for you I'll need a little in advance. To
cover expenses, you understand. The software I'm running
right now wouldn't cut butter, you know what I'm saying? I
need something seriously technical,and maybe a roomsweeper
to back up the meatside. Now, considering that I dont know
you", he risks a sidelong glance in your direction. "Or
your little playmate here, I do not consider that to be an
unreasonable request. In short, you get what you pay for."
He looks around the room, then dead-back at her.
"What are you willing to pay for, lady?"
Kestral eyes him levelly. You just fiddle with your yo-
yo. Like you're pulling the wings off a fly.
She is about to speak, when you take the opportunity to
state your case. You want an advance.
"Me too."
Kestral now looks at you both.
"Look boys, the standard advance is $1500 and that's
what you'll get. No more, no less. And if any of you get it
into your heads to bombshell with the cash, I feel it only
fair to let you know that you will be making enemies of
people who used to kill Peruvian mountain geurillas with
nothing more than fingernails and a grin. You read me?"
Slam sounds strangled. Lady must have scared him. "Sure."
You snort and go back to the yo-yo.
"Then that's all. You'll find the money in your
accounts. The job itself is fairly standard. The World News
Service has a member of its personnel that's gone missing.
They want him back. It's that simple. His name is Ranier.
Jean Ranier. Maybe you've heard of him. He's a WNS field
agent,done a few big stories over the years." You know the
name. One of the local star reporters.
(continued)
... yet I cannot scream for I have no voice...
From Coyote@f201.n640.z3.fidonet.org (Coyote)
Date: 13 Dec 94 15:06:02
Subject: Residue (2)
(c) Cameron W. Rogers, 1994.
All Rights (in all media) Reserved.
RESIDUE
=======
Kestral reaches inside her jacket and pulls out a manilla envelope. She
opens it and slides 2 photos across the table, 1 for each
of you. Basically it's just a a black and white blowup of
the guy.
Good looking, mid-thirties. That's him alright.
"You're to report to WNS tower in Corporate Plaza
tomorrow morning at 8 am, sharp. They'll have someone there
to fully debrief you and let you go through his things. And try to
dress appropriately, hmm?" She makes a pointed look at you and that
radiation logo sweater of yours.
She looks at her watch. "I have to get going. Before I
leave, is there anything you need to know?"
The kid starts talking again. "Yeah. What happened out
the front there?" He jerks a thumb over to the brain-
splattered doorway. The one the TTI crew is exiting
through. You smile a little, but no one sees you.
3.3 seconds. Never even got out of your goddamned chair.
You feel her looking at you, and wonder if Svetlana's
worth it. "Your friend here gave me an impromptu display of
his ability under stress. Not too bad either."
Then she looks back to the kid, all business. "So, you'll take it?"
"Sure.", he says.
She looks at you. "What about you, Wilson?"
_Wilson. . ._ Your mother used to call you that. Back
when having a mother mattered.
You look at her from under that blonde-indigo fringe,
then stand, trying to force your mother's face and voice
from rebounding around inside your head, her name
ricocheting off the walls of your skull.
The hand unfurls with an audible hydraulic hiss and the
yo-yo drops,suspended by string. The hand gives a servo
whine as it jerks almost imperceptibly and the yo-yo rolls
back up.
"Yeah. I'll do it."
And you walk out of the bar.
The hall outside is cooler than the body heat of the
Slammer. 2 guys in dusters brush past you, headed for the
bar. Crewcut blonde beefcakes in corporate issue T-shirts
and jeans. Even without the Thermograph you can tell
they're carrying shotguns under the coats.
Militech Crushers. Dinky as scatterguns go, but could do some serious
damage to someone at close enough range.
You watch them head down the narrow hall. They seem
preoccuppied with getting their weapons to sit right
beneath their coats, so they dont see Slam's face in the
small, plexiglass window that rests in the centre of the
doorway. And because they dont see his face, they dont see
the undeniable expression of stunned horror that
immediately settles upon it. You see him spin, scanning the
barroom for a way out.
The gunmen are 8 feet from the door and closing.
Do you care?
TIME: 0055 Hours DATE: 01/01/2020
In the dusty hallway you watch the two men head for the
door, the muffled thudding of speedmetal still audible as a
pattern of bass throbbing through the reinforced metal door.
You size them up, clicking from Thermograph (world flashes black, two
amorphous heat blotches writhing in your vision) to
targeting (11.4 meters to target, Land Speed: 0.9 kmph). If
you're quiet you could do that kid a favour and waste 'em
right here. The only other person in the hall is Tiny, the
bouncer by the grill at the entranceway, about 10 meters
further away. You dont think he'd care if you popped a
coupla strangers.
Particularly strangers as clean and nice looking as these boys.
A decision is made and the pistol whipped from the back
of your jeans. The laser sight kicks in at the press of a
thumb stud, a solid ruby beam flashing out to lock onto the
rear guy's head.
Something must have clicked for him, 'cos he turns, eyes
wide as he screams to his partner.
"Shooter!"
The Machine curses you for thinking like a vegetable.
The two ronin spin in the corridor, bending at the knees
as coats pirhouette wide, revealing their scatterguns held
fast in velcroed breakaway holsters. But it's not the
scatterguns they go for.
Reflexively their hands lash for the bulky looking
automatics holstered beneath their left armpits and draw
them out in the blink of an eye, pre-smarted at the cuff,
twin beams of laser light flashing out to slash up the
hallway murk with their dancing incarnadine glow.
And they fire.
The first one gets anxious and looses a shot into the
wall a few feet away from you.
The second one actually manages to get his scope centered before firing,
and a slug slams into the Arm with a pyrotechnic eruption
of sparks, and a dying, echoing whine.
Heh.
Now they notice the gleam beneath the sweater, and their faces drop.
You love it when that happens.
The gun kicks three times.
The first guy's head is reduced to a torrent as he's
thrown back, slack bodied, to slump awkwardly to the floor,
laser-light waving spastically.
You swing the Armalite toward the second one and fire, a slug striking him
in the left hand, shattering it. He retains a hold on his
weapon,desperately trying to bring it to bear as you
release another. The second shot slams into the region of
his left pectoral and sends him staggering back as a
bloodless hole is ripped in the front of his coat.
You're getting mad. He should be down by now. Another
half-second and he'll manage a shot.
He does.
The shot deflects from the rim of your gun, forcing a
flash of sparks up into your eyes. Before you know what's
happened you've dropped the gun and he's firing.
He fires twice. The first slams full into the left side
of your chest. A sizeable hole is ripped into the fabric of
your sweater, and a small, lightly smoking char mark is
left on your chestplate.
You're getting mad. The guy turns and runs into the
Slammer as you stoop to pick up your gun and decide to cut
your losses.
Let the kid take care of himself.
Then the whole hallway turns into a shrieking, blazing
tunnel filled with the unmistakable whine of flying lead as
every single individual in the Slammer opens up on the poor
schmuck who just opened the door. You hurl yourself to the
ground as a handful of flying metal shrieks past your head
and chews into the plasterwork all around. Your ears are
ringing and the lead just keeps on coming. After a while
you're sure you've gone totally deaf.
Then, after a seeming eternity, all goes quiet. Blue
smoke roils all around you and the air is thick with the
pungent odour of cordite.
You check yourself. You took a succession of hits to the
back, none of which penetrated your torso plate.
Carefully, cautiously, you pick yourself up and hobble
out the door. You forget using the wall for support after
it caves in at first touch.
And you dont even bother to look behind you. You know
there'll be nothing left to see.
Your gang, Maelstrom, have a patch of turf in Old
Downtown that covers three blocks. You live in the Zone cos
you know that sooner or later the Solo community you share
the turf with is gonna get pissed and try to kick you out.
You dont wanna be asleep in the middle of it when that happens.
You stride out the front door of the Slammer, bound for
the alleyway between Meadowcreek Pines (a crapped out
apartment complex) and Guevarra's (a Mexican restaurant. A
coupla ex-CIA agents deal weapons out the back door. Your
buddies were planning on making a buy tonight). This block
is just south of McCartney Stadium.
You walk the 12 blocks to Guevarra's, strangely unmolested by the Night
City wildlife. You are walking across the massive, flat
expanse of the Stadium's gigantic open air carpark
(listening to the arm go through a test-sequence, flexing
fingers, servos clicking) when you see the light of a
barrel-fire, and your buddies gathered around it.
You stride up to them, a broad-shouldered negro named
Flatbed slams you in the shoulder. A typical greeting. You
do likewise.
"Decided to hang with us tonight, huh?"
You nod, fixated by the flame dancing in old fuel drum.
"You seen Svet'?", you ask.
You know the others are looking at each other. Not
obviously. It's a ripple that passes almost telepathically.
They've been wondering for a while now, wondering why
you're still with her. Wondering if you've lost your touch.
Anyone else would have passed her around and dumped her
by now. Possibly hospitalised her.
"Yeah. She's over at Golden State with Viz." Flatbed
gestures with a worn looking open-frame cyberarm. Golden
State is a rundown dive where the local boosters hock
whatever trinkets they've managed to lift from those
they've smoked. You can find almost anything in there, if
you know where to look.
As your gaze wanders over to the single-story building wedged between
Guevarra's and the apartments, you can see her walking out
the door with Viz. Viz is a Mexican. Ex-border trooper for
a government long since replaced. Sort of lost the plot
after immigration caught her and deported her, which meant
she got sent to a string of women's camps along the
Venezualan border, planting shit for the government.
Apparently she was raped something like four hundred
times by about fifty different guards that toured through
the place at three month intervals.
She finally got out, though.
"Hey, punjeho.", Viz slams Flatbed in the back. "I got it. See?"
Viz holds up her prize: a holographic keyring bearing
the visage of the Right Reverend L. John Wayne,
Televangelist Extrodanaire. Viz watches him all the time
through store windows. That guy makes more cash in one day
through donations from whitebrained people like Viz than
you do through a year of robberies.
You'll never understand it. Every second thing Viz says has something to
do with L. John Wayne and what he says about this and that.
You put it out of your head as you feel Svetlana slip
her hand around your waist, approaching from the meat-side,
as always.
"Dont question it.", she murmurs. "She's happy with it
and that's all that counts."
Whenever she talks like that, you feel your eyes sting,
occasionally water, and you dont know why.
It's dark. There is the night, there is the fire, and there is your gang.
Over the licking of the flames, and the occasional whirr
of a servo, you can hear Viz sigh.
The night was a calm one, with nothing untoward
happening. Viz walks with you and Svet back into the Zone.
She still dresses like a goddamn geurilla, does Viz. Cammo
pants, khaki singlet, stomper boots, red bandanna, spiked
up crew cut. Of course now she's got that gold hoop through
her eyebrow but other than that you dont think she's ever left Mexico behind.
TIME: 0755 DATE: 01/01/2020
Like any modern metropolis, Night City is always in a state of flux.
Over the years, most neighborhoods and districts wend their way through a
tortuous cycle, alternating between fashion and disrepair. But one area
stands as an exception. It is all landscaped plazas and sculpted
architecture. There are no cracks in the sidewalks, the streetlights always
work, and there is always a police officer on duty, even if he doesnt
draw his salary from City Hall. From these wide, orderly streets rise
skyscrapers, lofty and serene in the early morning light, seperate from
the chaos that is most of the urban ground level, spearing daggerlike
through the grey smog above.
Welcome to Corporate Center.
The battered cab winds it's way into this hub of towering concrete
and mirrored glass, like a beetle moving among a herd of sleeping
elephants. You get no further than a half block when a squad car bearing the
distinctive IBM logo approaches. You notice the tracking railguns on the
side of the IBM bulding to your right and the machineguns from Raven Microcyb
to your left all casually swing to bear on your puny little vehicle.
The two corporate cops in the squad car hail your cabbie to a stop
and demand to know what your business is in here. The Machine grinds
its teeth and explains that you've got a job with WNS, stroking the
butt of your gun.
There is a delay as they check your story with their vehicle computer.
The passenger side door of the security car opens and a guard in black and
white composite armor gets out, a large, particularly Russian looking
weapon held in white-gloved hands.
He peers down at you through a shaded visor. "You got ID?"
You don't.
"I have to be there by 8. I'm freelancing on a short-term for
WNS, arranged through a middleman named Kestral. Check it out, then
leave."
He looks from you to your cabbie, a rather pudgy immigrant who is, by
now, sweating copiously.
The cop looks back to you.
"Come with me." He opens the door.
"Hey. That'll be $45, pal.", the cabbie says.
You get out and toss a few crumpled notes onto the worn vinyl of
the back seat. Then you follow the cop back to his car, amazed that
he's turned his back on you. The only thing stopping you from
popping these plateheads is your location. Security Central. The
lair of the Enemy. Instinct over Anger.
He opens the rear door for you and you get in.
You ain't never been in no squad car like this before. It's cool, it's
clean, the upholstery is in one piece. . . it's even got an ashtray for
chrissakes. You are seperated from the 2 cops by a mesh grille and a plate
of bullet-resistant plasteel.
"We're taking you into holding until your story can be properly
verified. In the event of no provable right being evident you will be
kept indefinitely, pending trial by automated jury for corporate
trespass. Do you have anything to say at this time?"
Half an hour ago you were on your face in the Zone.
You don't say anything. God those buildings are big.
TIME: 0805 DATE: 01/01/2020
Your holding cell door hisses open and 2 more IBM cops lead you out.
You are led to some kind of bizarre militant secretarial pool and
stopped in front of a large monitor. The monitor shows a studious faced
red-head maybe 45. She looks to her left and the view changes. Kestral
comes into view.
"Yeah, that's him. Sorry about this. Standard security procedure
I'm afraid. I did tell you to wear something a little more appropriate."
She looks to her right, presumably to the red-head. "Blade Syndicate
accepts full responsibility for this individual."
The screen turns to static before going dead. One of the cops leads
you by the arm and out into the central plaza.
"Okay. You want the sort of small rectangular building on the exact
opposite side of this plaza, okay? You cant miss it: white stone, black
windows. It's got a WNS sign in the upper left corner of it. Go straight
to the building and do not deviate from the road. IBM accepts no
responsibility for any injury occurred through unlawful trespass on
neighbouring grounds. Is everything I have just explained clear to you?"
You nod mutely, wondering if his mother used to mix steroids with
his raisin bran as a kid.
... Reality is not a fun place to be.
From Coyote@f201.n640.z3.fidonet.org (Coyote)
Date: 13 Dec 94 15:29:34
Subject: Residue (3)
(c) Cameron W. Rogers, 1994.
All Rights (in all media) Reserved.
RESIDUE
=======
You walk around the concourse to the flipside of the plaza. There's
the building, just like robo-goon described it. You move across the lawn
wondering how the receptionist is going to handle your machete.
WNS security is at the door, as well as patrols roving the grounds.
You move past the guards and into the massive expanse of the reception
area. It's all laid out in hideously expensive looking Italian marble. The
receptionist is on the very far side of the room, behind a gold-gilded,
marble reception area. About thirty meters ahead, and against the
left wall (all of which is black glass) is a news stand run by some smiling
old guy. Looking at him you kind of get the impression he was told to
smile or he'd be shot. So he's smiling. Beside this is a double pair of
glass doors with gold push-handles. Lettering on the doors read WNS COMPANY
SHOP, which apparently sells all the latest newsfaxes, screamsheets and
newsdeck downloads.
Fascinating.
They also sell coffee and bagels at "prices you wont believe".
The receptionist stands there, smiling, smiling, smiling and says:
"Are you sure you have the right building?"
You smile back at her and say: "Yes. I'm expected." and place the
machete on the countertop for effect. It seems to do the trick.
"Name please?", she asks, voice cracking slightly.
You widen the smile.
"Residue."
You are instructed to enter the elevator bays to your right. The
receptionist does the rest, ferrying you up to floor 33. The News Pit.
The doors *ding* open on a sprawling den of desks, paper, computer
terminals and reporters screaming at each other. there is a huge
videoboard dominating the opposite wall, displaying clips of the
latest news footage from such garden spots as Honduras and Bora Bora,
flashing occasionally to layouts of satellite uplinks to receiver
stations around the world.
Waiting for you is the studious faced red-head in a grim looking
suit. Reminds you of the old hag who taught you Euro History back in
the Merrill, Akusaga & Finch arcology in Liverpool, just before your
family bombed and hit the roads.
"'Residue', is it?", her voice all disdain. Trace of an accent. Polish.
She looks you over. "I've seen worse. You at least could pass for some
kind of war correspondent", gesturing to the cammo. "With a haircut maybe.
Your friend's late. Where is he?"
You're about to say you have no idea, when you hear the elevator chime.
TIME: 0815 Hours. DATE: 01/01/2020
The red-head, who's name turns out to be Markowicz, leads you to her
office, away from the noise and chaos of the Pit. The office is basically
a fogged glass box in the corner of the room, but it dims the sound
somewhat.
"Take a seat, gentlemen." She crosses to behind her desk. Slam
pulls up a seat, while you backtrack and lean against the door. Markowicz
seems diffident. "Now, as Ms. Kestral no doubt informed you, we have a
member of our personnel missing. The standard amount WNS is willing to
pay for the return of an absent employee is 10% of his total net worth, no
more. In this case it is $20,000, $4000 of which goes to the business of Ms.
Kestral and her friends. You both have photographs of Mr. Ranier. We at
WNS feel that he was onto something just prior to his disappearance. If
he did have anything, we want that as well. Theft, copying, duplication,
sale, transmission or any action whatsoever which fails to result in the
World News Service being the sole owner of said material will result in
a law suit being filed against you, with a view to the maximum possible
penalty for both data theft and breach of contract. Now, with that in mind
I would like you to return Mr. Ranier to the WNS stable, post haste.
"Im not really sure what I can tell you to help you find him, so I'll
simply give you what we have. All of our operatives have a partner, a
'backup', if you will. These are almost always less experienced than the
agent himself, but it's a good way to get stringers the experience they
need. Jean's partner was a Korean lad nicknamed Tank. His real name eludes
me. I believe he's out in the Pit at the moment if you wish to speak to him.
"Jean also had a Netrunner as backup, down in the sublevel Dispatch pit.
They call her Skyhigh. Dark woman. African, I think. Never had much cause
to talk to her personally.
"He was one of our better agents. He reported to me directly with
whatever he was working on, but lately his behaviour had become more and
more erratic. The other workers are inclined to put it down to the
eccentricity of a born journalisitic genius. I was inclined to call it
bullshit. Ranier was a self-indulgent little prick who too often got
his way by pretending he was indispensable. I needed results from the man
and he was going down fast. I suspected drug use, but never raised the issue.
Never had a chance, before he disappeared."
She folds her hands in front of her, collecting her thoughts.
"His paranoia was peaking, he was terrified that he had made so many
enemies over the years that it was just a matter of time before they, or one
of their friends or family finally got him. He was unravelling at an
amazing rate. He even kept a small missile-launcher in his camera for
the love of God. I seriously think he needs help."
At this point there is a knock at the office door. You stand aside
and a young, dark-skinned boy bursts in, panting. "Ms. Markowicz. . ."
He stops short, seeing the company in the room.
"Speak up, Frank. What is it?"
"Uh. . . it's Mr. Ranier, Ms. Markowicz. They found his van. In an alley
behind the Hotel Yamagumi in Japantown. The police have taped the area off.
They say they'll get a forensics team down there in an hour or so to go over
it, take samples and stuff."
Markowicz nods and smiles slightly. "Thank you, Frank."
Frank nods and leaves quietly.
Markowicz returns her attention to you. "Well gentlemen. There you
have it. Any questions, or can I leave you to your duties?"
Slam speaks first.
"Do you have the addresses and phone numbers of his
partner and netrunner? I think it may be of help."
Markowicz sighs and leans forward. She picks up a phone.
"Markowicz here. Get me the current addresses and contact
numbers for Tank and Skyhigh would you." A pause. "I'm not
sure. Check aliases." She hangs up.
"Anything else?"
"Yes.", he replies. "What's this netrunner's icon."
His sole response is a blank stare.
You hear Slam sigh, suffering the woman.
"What does she look like in the Net?"
"It'll be in the file.", she says. "Along with her home phone number."
He leans back and settles, obviously done.
Your turn.
"Can you get the forensics evidence from the cops?", you ask.
"From what?"
"The van they found."
Markowicz sighs and leans back again. "I dont know if you heard Frank just
then, but a forensics team wont be at the site for an hour
or so. If you want dibs, I'd get there before ten. But I
didn't say that." She smiles ingratiatingly.
She's making fun of you. Treating you like an idiot. The
Machine surfaces and glares out your eyes, looking at her,
face to face.
She sees it.
The smile slips and dies in a heartbeat.
"Anything else?", she asks.
Slam stands up and heads for the door, oblivious to it all.
He smiles at you and says, "Come on Refuse, let's blow this joint."
It's then that he turns back to flash his grin at Markowicz, this
little man obviously pleased at his ability to rattle the animal's
cage, that the arm lashes out with a split-second hydraulic
scream, wood flying apart like balsa as your balled piston
of a fist tears through it, destroying a large section of
wall and blocking your path. He stumbles back, but before
he's out of range, your meat hand locks onto the back of
his throat and shoves his face up an inch from yours and
the voice of the Machine hisses in his face.
"You owe me, and I don't forget. I didn't have to take out those
guys in the hallway last night. If I need it, you cover
my ass. You don't, you won't live to wish you had."
Then it tosses him to the floor. By the time he gets up
you're standing out in the Pit, looking around, the hand
flexing through a test pattern.
The door creaks and falls off it's hinges, glass pane
smashing as it hits the floor.
"I'll take the partner. You take the 'runner."
A security team materialises and Markowicz waves them
away, yelling: "And get me someone from Maintenance!"
TIME: 0845 DATE: 01/01/2020
Tank is a Korean male with the build of a guy who works out a lot. He dresses
in a well-worn leather jacket with a patch on the back,
like a Tibetan painting. 2 guys, faces like demons, one
with 6 arms running toward some kind of pogoda or
something. They're both carrying weird-looking swords,
tusks poking up past their noses. His pants are leather and
clasped in silver straight up the sides. Beneath the jacket
is a web-vest. Pristine white hi-tops are on his feet and a
thread-thin walkman is around his neck. His short hair is
spiked into a wild crest. He's wearing mirrorshades and
fingerless gloves, those white basketball shoes propped up
on his desk near the terminal, fingers locked behind his
head as he looks at you from behind those shades.
"Yeah, I was just the guy who filled out the forms after Jean hauled it
all in, y'know? Sounds cruddy, but it wasnt so bad. Good
experience,watching how he got away with it all. I know for
a fact that he never stayed in one particular place. He had
a circuit of 2 or 3 hotels he drifted around in.
"Man, sometimes he'd just disappear for weeks. That's
probably what he's done now. No big fuss."
TIME: 0915 DATE: 01/01/2020
You meet Slam in the elevator.
"What did she tell you?", your voice is low, eyes fixed
on the door, or somewhere beyond.
"Ranier just told her that he was going underground for
a while. I didnt get much more than that. What about you?"
You tell him.
TIME: 0945 DATE: 01/01/2020
The alleyway behind the Yamagumi could be an alleyway anywhere in the
City. Its wedged between The Imperial Bank, a prestigious
looking building, and the Nakagumi Business Plaza.
Ranier's van is a standard looking WNS news van. White
with a red logo on the side. There's POLICE LINE - DO NOT
CROSS tape strung across the alleyway. A single beat cop
stands around, waiting for the forensics team to show up.
Slam walks down the alley toward him, and you figure you
may as well follow.
"Hey!", the cop is moving toward you. He's wearing standard-issue patrol
armor and helmet. He unclips his hip- holstered Armalite .44. "You can't
come down here! Gawan! Beat it!"
Slam holds up a roll of cash and the cop shuts up.
"You bribing me?", the cop asks.
"I dont know. Am I?"
The cop gives a look like 'Dont waste my time', then waves you off.
"Get outta here before I book ya, alright? I'm in no mood
for this horse-shit. Okay? Beat it."
Slam sighs and pockets the roll in his light and dark
grey mottled jacket. "Come on.", he mutters. "Hey. You know
anyone who might know anything?"
The cop has turned and walked back to his post.
The alleyway is empty from you to him, aside from loose trash.
The black armor-clad cop turns on his heel and walks back to the van.
For a brief moment you consider the wisdom of attacking a fully armed
and armoured patrolman.
Then the Machine spits upon your petty qualms and spurs you to
action. Silently you creep forward, swift and purposeful, eyes locked
onto the nape of the man's neck; unsuspecting and vulnerable.
You are soundless as you rapidly close the distance between yourself
and this man. But today luck isnt with you.
Sunlight gleams off the brutish quicksilver detail of your Arm,
flashing into the officer's face as it is reflected back at him from the
rear window of the parked van. You hear him gasp and he spins, the
Armalite flying free of it's holster and four shots roar out, shattering
the relative stillness of the alleyway.
The first one passes between your legs to kick up sparks from the
alley floor behind you. The second passes inches from your left side.
The third slams into the right side of your chest, tearing a great hole
in the sweater, but leaving you unharmed. The fourth flies crazy and
ricochets off the alley wall.
The Arm is up in an instant, servos whining, the cop's eyes widening
in terror beneeath his visor. Then there is a great hydraulic scream and
twenty pounds of superchromed Soviet steel smashes square into the
middle of the cop's face. He is lifted off the alley floor with the
force of the blow and carried backward, saved by his helmet. As his feet
hit the floor once more, he stumbles backward, firing madly, desperate for
escape. The gun blazes and you feel the familiar heat of supersonic lead
fly past you, hear it squeal off the surrounding brickwork.
And then, amidst the roar and the light, the world explodes.
Pain tears at your face, kicking your head back. Something hard and
fast and powerful gouges your cheek, knocking you senseless. For a
moment you cannot see and all you know is pain. There is something in
your eyes. You draw a hand across your face and it comes away bloody.
You can see the cop on the ground, his visor twisted from the Arm's
impact, gasping in panic as he fumbles for a fresh clip, babbling
nonsense into his helmet mike.
But no one is coming to help this man.
The Arm reaches down, closing around the his throat; and, as every
servo locks the Hand closed, the cop's head pops free of his shoulders.
You move to the van and open the driver side door. Slam appears, running
down an adjacent alleyway. Looks like he tried to sneak around and
approach the van from the rear while you kept the cop busy. He sees the
body of the cop and turns a little green. He opens the door and gets in.
"Interesting", he says. "Living thermonuclear device. . . hair
trigger too. Just wondering if the word 'overkill' ever occurred to you
to describe your lifestyle."
SouthAm dribblespeak. Pisses you off.
You turn and look at him, the targeter drawing a bead on his
forehead. You make sure he sees it.
You decide to take the van into the Zone. The area in which you
finally wind up isnt really Maelstrom territory, but it is the only one
with a still functioning DataTerm, and Slam had to make a few calls.
He's out there now, looking nervous and wondering when the
neighborhood is gonna start playing Sidewalk Sniper. You figure you may
as well take this time to take a look through the van, so you climb in
the back and start rummaging around.
There's a lot of stuff that grabs your attention.
Velcroed under the driver-side seat is an old-style .357 Desert Eagle.
It's a bulky automatic pistol that's been rechambered for 12mm caseless.
In the glove compartment is a small ziploc bag with a few capsules in
it. You're not really sure what they are.
There's a worn old suitcase in the back of the van which holds a
change of clothes. In the pocket of a jacket is $32 in change and a
business card. It is a pastel shade of pink and, in black flowing
script, it reads:
THE NEW CHURCH OF CHRIST THE SAVIOR
'There is no monopoly on Love.'
- The Rev. L. John Wayne.
Transmitting daily
Studio C, Colonial Studios
Night City, Calif.
There is a rack welded to the inside wall of the van which holds a
video camera, currently jacked into a charger which must run off the
van's battery. Below this is a yellow crate with two 3 hour tapes in it.
Both have been relabelled so often it is now impossible to tell what is
on them without actually watching them.
(continued)
... Jesus saves. He passes to Moses. He shoots! HE SCORES!
From Coyote@f201.n640.z3.fidonet.org (Coyote)
Date: 13 Dec 94 15:39:30
Subject: Residue (4)
(c) Cameron W. Rogers, 1994.
All Rights (in all media) Reserved.
RESIDUE
=======
Then the van door opens and Slam piles in, eager and relieved to be off
the street.
"Okay", he says. "I made a few calls and it looks like Ranier made a
career out of pissing people off. Mafia, corporates, the government, you
name it. He's got more enemies than most people have molecules.
"And, it turns out he's got a girlfriend over in Little Italy. Woman
by the name of Sarina Skiv. Works at Guido's Fashion Trim over on 1st."
TIME: 1015 DATE: 01/01/2020
Slam suggests that checking out the girlfriend might be the best course of
action to begin with. As he gets comfortable you pulls out the videos
and business card, proffering them to him.
"Found these in the back.", you say. "L.John Wayne is a televangelist
preacher. People send him money from their accounts 'n stuff.
Makes more money in one show than I'd make in a decade. Sells people
what they wanna 'ear. Biggest rip off artist in the country. Got 'is own
line of merchandise 'n all. Hologram keyrings 'n stuff."
Slam examines the card, then moves on to the tapes, turning them over
in his hands. He puts them into an inside pocket in his jacket, and it's
about then that you notice a look forming on his face, like gears
turning in his head. He's looking at you, checking your wounds with an
degree of concern that can only be forced.
But you do look pretty bad, and in a distant part of your mind you
know you're hurting.
"That wound looks pretty bad,", Slam says. "I know a little first aid,
perhaps I could fix it up a little." He shifts in his seat to get a better
look, and you snap your blood-caked face toward hiu, targeting reticule
flashing suddenly in the depths of one hollow eye.
He freezes and slowly raises his hands palms-up, before sliding back
into his seat.
You turn the key and the engine kicks over. Before long you've
cleared the Zone and are headed back into the City. You're passing
through Studio City and up into the Old Downtown area when Slam finally
breaks the silence.
"Look it looks like we're going to be working together for a while, we
should at least get things personal enough so I can have a joke or two
without getting my face ripped off. And what happens if one of us finds
a clue by accident that has to be followed up straight away and we can't
contact the other person for backup? You I need for the physical and you
need me for the net :info and such like.", he sighs. "So how about you and
me at least start being socialable perhaps have a drink after this
interview perhaps, at that bar where you removed several incompetents from
the gene pool. Sound good, huh?"
You don't say anything for a moment, wondering if in fact you need to
say anything at all. It's not like this little rodent actually means
anything to you. He's just another decker refugee from SouthAm.
He means nothing.
"We'll see how thirsty I get."
And that's that.
You're cruising past a place called Rose, Dahlia & Flora's Creations
when the chatter starts again. You dont like this guy. You dont know his
motivations, or for that matter care. All you care about is. . .
something.
In comparison to that, people dont even rate a close second.
"So, whereabouts you live anyway? You don't look like the corpzoner
type."
You don't look at him. "I'd be an idiot to tell you."
"Well, okay. What do you do for fun then?"
You've had enough. Now you're getting mad. Part of you is getting
mad. Part of you is getting. . .
You turn and look at him. You can tell he wishes you weren't. There's
a grin on your face that says - 'Guess'.
*Part of you is getting. . .*
Then the grin falters and you look back to the street, trying to
remember how to think for yourself.
*Part of you is getting. . .*
"I feed the Machine.", the answer is a litany. "And I have no problem with
that."
*Jealous*
The Machine turns and looks at him through infra-red eyes, a manic grimace
flashing briefly across it's/your face.
"He has no problem with that.", it says.
You need no-one. No-one but It.
The Machine flushes with pleasure to see the decker refugee turn sick
with the knowledge of it all. Inside you, it's howling.
=========================================================================
The four installments you just read were extrapolations from a game
of CP run by myself. Any feedback would be appreciated, and if the
response is positive I'll post the rest.
Cam.
... Sometimes I miss my Mom. . . then I reload.
From coyote@softtech.brisnet.org.au (Coyote)
Date: 31 Dec 94 12:59:37
Subject: Residue (5)
(c) Cameron W. Rogers, 1994.
All Rights (in all media) Reserved. (except where RTG got there
first)
RESIDUE
=======
You're cruising through the Bank Block, headed for Little Italy,
along a stretch of street that runs between the Japanese Consulate and
the Ashcroft Hotel, when a Mercedes hammers around the Corporate Plaza
strip, veering in front of the Toyota CityCar in front of you. The
Toyota veers suddenly and the Merc slams on the breaks with a screech,
too late to avoid a side-on collision, The force of impact spins the
Merc 90 degrees with the nose of the Toyota ploughed firmly into the
passenger-side door. You reef at the wheel, too late to avoid
ploughing into the two vehicles, shoving all three of you up against the
curve, flipping your vehicle practically end-over-end until you, and the
best part of the other vehicles, wind up on the rear lawn of the WNS
building (I kid you not).
When it's all over the van is lying on it's right side, with Slam's
limp body lying sprawled on top of of you. From across the lawn you can hear
raised voices, yelling abuse.
Slam begins to move, but the Arm whirs and throws him upright against
the driver/passenger seat, clearing the way for you. You haul your bulk
upright and shake your head to clear it.
"What the fuck. . ."
"Crash, man.", Slam says, you're no more than an inch from his face. It's
almost like you're lying on top of him, your feet on the grass outside
the driver's window.
Youre a little bruised, but OK. Your head hurts and there's blood in
your mouth. You feel a little dizzy. A voice somewhere tells you your
concussed, but you dont hear it. Not really. Slam's clutching his chest and at
a guess you'd say he slammed into the dash when the van rear ended that
CityCar.
"Gimme a hand.", you say and lift one leg. Slam looks at you a little
disbelievingly, but links his fingers under your boot, and with no small
effort hauls you up through the passenger side window. It
sounds like the other 2 drivers are really going for it, yelling and
screaming at each other, debating who's fault it was. The Mercedes is up on
its right side a few meters away from you. A black woman in
leathers with a mohawk is screaming abuse at another woman, a Hispanic in
jungle greens who is struggling to crawl out the window of her overturned
CityCar.
That's when the gunfire starts. The black woman hauls out a .338 and
looses 3 shots, all of which thunk into the metal of the CityCar's door.
Slam screams "Jesus!" and lets go of your boot.
But you dont fall, cos you're holding yourself up. The Hispanic pulls
out some kind of weird looking gun like you've never seen before and
fires two shots back at the black chick. Doesnt make any kind of noise,
just a compressed gas hiss. You watch the black woman squeeze of three
more shots. It's then you notice the metal SSS patch on her shoulders.
A member of the Steel Slaughter Slammers. A C-Zone combat gang.
That's when you go over the top, screaming. The Armalite fires three
times and she slumps over, blood recolouring the Mercede's paintwork.
"Drop - your - weapons!"
The unmistakable chatter of safeties being clicked off.
You look around. Corporate security. Lots of 'em.
Simple self-preservation demands that you do as they say. You unclick
the plug from your gun and toss it to the lawn. It lands heavily.
There are four squad cars, each holding four guards, each wearing WNS
armour. Four of them now approach you, Ronin assault rifles levelled at you.
Another crew moves to search the vehicles, looking for survivors and possible
hostiles.
Three of the corporate ronin remain covering you while one withdraws
a bunch of EMP cuffs.
They wanna shut down the Arm.
Every nerve, muscle and myomolecular cable tenses, transmitting an
unmistakable aura of volatile hostility. It's enough to stop the guard
in his tracks. He looks back to his helmeted teammates.
"DONT SHOOT!"
Slam. Looks like security found him.
"You. Outta the van. Now."
He clambers up and is hauled out the window by 2 armoured guards.
"Hey, relax. It's OK", he says. "Me and him, we work for. . ."
"Save it, Slam."
Standing below him, happy as ever, is Markowicz.
"Oh, hello Ms. Markowicz." He looks around at the carnage that now
decorates the lawn. The WNS grounds look like a place where cars come to die.
The Hispanic is being helped out by 2 guards, and the SSS member is
still draped out the window of the Merc, blood running in rivers down
the vehicle's undercarriage.
"See what you've done?", Markowicz asks.
"Hey! I'll have you know that this crazy bitch,", he retorts, gesturing
absently to the deceased. "Screamed out in front of *that*
hunk a junk. We just caught the ass end of the situation."
You're only half-hearing all this. You're still staring out the guard
who is using Markowicz' appearance as an excuse to put off trying to
slap those cuffs on you.
"We'll decide that when we review the security footage. This the
van?"
"Um. . . yeah.", Slam admits.
"Anything of value in it?"
"Dunno. We found some stuff, but haven't really had a chance to review
it yet. We were on the way to follow up a possible lead when. . ."
"Lead?"
"Yeah. Ranier had a girlfriend over in Little Italy."
Markowicz seems to mull this over.
"Okay. Let 'em go."
The guard with the EMP shackles seems visibly relieved. He's got a
look like 'Really?'. You half expect him to burst into tears and start
grovelling.
Markowicz walks around the van, checking for damage as the guards
help Slam down.
"Whole front end and right side will have to be replaced. New
windshield. All this will be coming out of your pay, of course. Probably
looking at about $500 a piece."
You stoop, pick up the Armalite and use the Arm to flip the van onto it's
wheels. Because you can.
It crashes to the lawn and the guards all take one involuntary step
back.
With a sense of satisfaction you slide the Armalite into the back of
your jeans, pull the sweater over it, and toss them a casual finger.
Markowicz notices Slam holding his side and looks him over, leading his
head from side to side with a finger on his jaw, ascertaining the damage.
"You got an hour? I'd like to get you boys patched up. And I'll
arrange for a screening room to be made available to you. See if those
tapes you're holding are Ranier's missing story."
TIME: 1130 Hours DATE:01/01/2020
A WNS medical technician tapes Slam's ribs and disinfects what
lacerations he has, but pays special attention to you, removing
microfine items of shrapnel from the wounds to your head, where the
cratering shells fragmented as they grazed your skull. The tech disinfects
the wounds and stitches them closed. He sprays newskin over both your wounds
and tells you, good-naturedly, to be more careful in future.
He then hands over a voucher to go get something to eat at the
cafeteria. Apparently both your blood sugar levels are extremely low, and,
now that you think of it, you haven't eaten since last year.
TIME: 1200 Hours DATE:01/01/2020
Slam orders up just about everything he can think of, but you're not
really that hungry. You order some mashed potatoes and a glass of water.
Eating is an almost alien experience. Seems so. . . superfluous, the
motions becoming a chore. Almost like your humouring your body, just
putting up with it.
Spoon. Chew. Once, twice, three times, four times, five times, swallow.
Pause. Spoon. Chew. Once, twice, three times, four times, five times,
swallow. Pause. Spoon. . .
TIME: 1210 Hours DATE:01/01/2020
Frank, the stringer you met earlier today in Markowicz' office meets you
at the cafeteria to escort you to a screening room.
You travel four levels up and through a maze of corridors into a
small movie theatre type of room.
"If you'll give me the tapes I'll load them into the deck for you and
then you can skim through them using this."
He hands Slam a basic remote control device. You hand over the tapes,
watching him very closely as he loads them into the deck.
Old habits die hard.
"Very well gentlemen. I'll leave you to it."
And with that, he exits.
TIME: 1520 Hours DATE:01/01/2020
After just over three hours of watching old footage chopping and changing
youre about ready to scream. It looks like these tapes are just old
dross accumulated from a lifetime of reporting. Nothing of interest.
Then, just when you're about ready to pack it in, Slam hits freeze, then
rewind. You saw it, too.
There is the standard WNS logo in the corner of the frame along with
the date: 10/11/2019. Long before he disappeared.
The tape rolls and you get a backstage view of what could only be an
L. John Wayne sermon. The camerawork is a little shaky, but it shows a
brightly lit TV studio as seen from the wings. Cabling can be seen on
the ground, parts of girders and so forth. L. John Wayne is a good
looking man groomed to perfection and decked out in a Japanese 3-piece.
He's talking to a camera hovering on a cherry-picker, a packed audience
shrouded in the darkness just beyond the reach of the stage lights. It
looks like Ranier was going in for a closer look when a voice
hisses:
"Hey!"
And the camera swishpans to get a shaky closeup of a heavily built
guy in a sleeveless duster carrying some kind of stocky express gun. The
most striking thing about the man is that, aside from then fact that
he's smiling politely, he is wearing some kind of custom HUD monocle
over his left eye.
You freeze the frame, the man's smiling face leering at you, the size
of a wall.
The monocle is made from a heavy, dark-grey metal with a stylised
cross in the centre of it. Not a crucifix, more like a plus sign with a
small diamond at the end of each branch. The cross glows slightly
yellow.
... To really ask is to open the door to the whirlwind. - Anne Rice, TVL.
From coyote@softtech.brisnet.org.au (Coyote)
Date: 31 Dec 94 13:06:58
Subject: Residue (6)
(c) Cameron W. Rogers, 1994.
All Rights (in all media) Reserved. (except where RTG got there
first)
RESIDUE
=======
Ranier obviously turned to scope an escape route and the camera pans
across another man, dressed identically with the same type of monocle.
Then the film goes to static.
Having finished with the screening room, Frank, Markowicz'
assistant, asks for you to follow him to the roof pad. Once there, hot
ocean wind tugging at your clothes, he leads you over to a parked Aerocab.
"Ms. Markowicz said to take this to wherever you need to go. One way
trip. This is your last handout." He holds his hands up. "Her words, not
mine." He smiles. "Have a nice day.", and runs back to the elevator bay.
You climb into the back of the AV-4 and tell the unseen driver to take
you to Guido's Fashion Trim, Little Italy.
The side door rolls shut, interior lighting kicking in, and you're
away.
TIME: 1525 DATE:01/01/2020
A low rectangular building, Guido's Fashion trim appears more than just
a barber shop; it holds just about everything needed for
personal fashion grooming. It appears to cater primarily for male
clientele, although there are a few items here and there that might be
appropriate for the ladies.
The inside of the building is air-conditioned, everything looking
polished and new, like an uptown department store. While neither of you
really fit in here, Slam does more than you do and what's more, you know
it. So does he.
You look at Slam, an air of discomfort exuding from his every pore,
watching you as you look at the people inside like you're watching an
ant farm.
"Listen,", he says. "Looking around here it seems to me that most of the
people around here arent really used to people who look. . ."
"I think I'll stay out here", you say. "Not really my crowd."
Pause.
"Fine.", he replies. "See you in five. Oh, and listen, if this doesnt
work, maybe we should just swipe her. What do you think?"
Not really what you planned on. You were thinking more along the
lines of a stand-up interrogation. But then, you cant really interrogate
her if you don't have her. And besides, the security in there looks up
to shit. A few cameras and a few linebackers with Mexican knockoffs who
like to call themselves guards.
Fucking cakewalk.
"Shouldn't be a problem."
Slam nods and walks in.
He looks around. The store floor is sparsely dotted with racks
displaying jackets and suits, sunglasses and various cuts of Italian
fashion. At the far end of the room is a glass topped counter selling...
jewelry you suppose. Beyond that is a barber's.
Slam orients himself, then heads for the counter at the other end of
the room.
He gets halfway when a female attendant approaches him, wearing a
smile. He smiles back. Words are exchanged. The attendant turns and
leaves, leaving Slam, this blue haired South American with red eyes and
a nosering decked out in urban camoflauge, waiting amid a sea of Italian
suits. Security is obviously scoping him out. They're so unpro it's
almost laughable, if only it wasn't so sad. Beefboys in muscle shirts
toting cheap Mexican Goncz-Taurus ripoffs on their hips.
Scare value, nothing more.
From the side service door, near the glass counter, you see a fairly
average-looking, reed-thin, dark-haired girl in her early twenties dressed in
the standard red and white uniform that all the attendants seem to be
sporting. She looks positively anorexic.
Slam goes into some kind of routine, you don't know what. The girl
phases from being polite to being indignant. Slam is about to cover for
whatever the hell it was he just did, when the girl bursts into tears,
her hands covering her face, the sobs coming in hysterical jags.
Christ. What a mover.
He falteringly moves forward, as if about to comfort her, when she just ups
and runs for the back room. About halfway there she is
intercepted by the attendant who first saw Slam in there. Then he decides to
push it a little further and walk anxiously toward them. Sarina is
sobbing, her body heaving against her friend as she holds her.
Security is now taking a definite interest in him. One of the
muscleboys closes in.
You draw the Armalite from your jeans and smart up, checking the
clip.
You look back up to see that Slam has moved over to the bouncer, talking to
him. You know this is only gonna get worse.
It does. Sarina's friend starts screaming.
"GET OUT! TAKE YOUR STINKING CROSSBRED ASS AND JUST GET OUT!!
SECURITY!"
Security grins and cracks his knuckles.
Slam runs for the door, fumbling for the subgun under his jacket.
The guard tries for a flying tackle and lands face down on the
polished floor as Slam bursts through the front door.
Amateurs. Third-rate wannabe cowboys. You weren't hired to kill: you
were hired to goddamn babysit.
You pass Slam on the way in as he's on the way out.
You approach the first guard, the one who tried to tackle Slam. Three more
move in from flanking positions.
The guard in front of you pulls out a gun.
You takes it from him and force him to eat it.
Then you kill the rest of his friends.
They all opened fire when they realised just what they were dealing
with here. Not just your typical, 'dorphed up piece of gangboy white
trash, but a fully-functional man/meat killing mechanism.
Trouble was, it seems they'd all been raised on old reruns of The
Six-Million Dollar Man and thought a bullet in the right place would do
it.
One of the guards' pistols jammed when the first volley of 6 slugs
slammed into you. Serves him right for using a cheap import.
Buy American.
One of them got lucky and bagged you in the legs.
Didn't notice.
And the Armalite just blazed.
The first guy got plugged twice in the left shin and once in the
right knee. He just sort of splattered from the knees down and caved in
on himself.
The second on got plugged in the left foot and right shin. He lurched
forward, fired a couple of shots into the floor before landing face
down and unmoving.
You opened fired four more times on the guard that was fumbling
around with his jammed weapon. Suit racks to the left and right of the guy
jumped as lead filled the air. He gasped wide eyed into the face of that metal
storm and turned to run as a .454 Casul slug caught him in the right
shoulderblade, a red splash turning to a mid-air trail as he was thrown
forward into a rack of menswear, weapon skittering across the floor.
He clutched the exit wound at his chest, scrambling across the floor
and onto his feet, running, as five more slugs struck him squarely in
the back, throwing his bloodied corpse forward and smashing it through
the glass counter, sending Japanese watches and fake gold flying in a
storm of glass shards.
Everywhere, alarms started ringing.
Both Sarina and her friend are in shock when you come for them.
Sarina isn't doing much: just staring into space through tear-stained
eyes. Her friend, however, is screaming her lungs out.
The Arm balls up the Hand and drives itself through her head while
the meat arm picks up Sarina.
Ten seconds later all three of you are in the street and wondering
what the hell to do from here.
TIME: 1535 Hours DATE:01/01/2020
You stand there, breathing heavily, as alarms seem to scream all around
you. From somewhere deeper inside Guido's people are starting to scream.
This is not good. You're standing in the middle of Little Italy,
Mob Central, with an anorexic, semi-catatonic storegirl and no vehicle.
You stand there and look around slowly. Then you check the clip
in your Armalite.
"I need ammo.", you say.
Slam blinks. "Get it later! We have to get out of here! Now!"
You turn and look at him, Sarina a limp sack held in one
corded arm. You can see cops scrambling out of the Precinct House over
the street.
"So, you want to be social. Fine." You shove Sarina at him. "Tell me
where you live, you can give me dinner and maybe we'll talk."
He's sweating buckets by this point, eyes fixed on the NCPD
precinct house, which now has a squad of cops storming through the doors
toward you, screaming for your surrender.
He shoves Sarina back at you.
"Take the girl, keep her quiet, find what you can and meet you at the bar
where death waits at the door!", and he takes off as you throw him
an evil look, haul Sarina in front of you, and start blazing. One
officer's gloved hand erupts in a crimson explosion, while another is
shot in the groin and collapses on the spot. 2 shots miss altogether,
while the fifth strikes another in the throat, sending great gouts of
arterial spray streaking across brickwork as he spins in place and
collapses to the sidewalk. The sixth shot strikes an officer dead-center
in the chest, throwing him backward.
The remaining cops are about to start shooting when one of them
raises a hand and yells:
"Don't shoot! Don't shoot! That's Spiv's neice he's got there!"
And then it's all lost in the roar of gunfire as you take advantage
of the distraction to open up. You fire 7 times and miss 3. You send one
cop down with a shot to the knee, 2 more with shots to the feet and
manage to strike one in the left side of the chest, but his flak vest
absrbs the shot. Then you sling Sarina over one shoulder and run. You
round the corner and head south. Half a block away you can see Slam
bolting for 2nd street and you scream: "Run or we're both dead!"
Then you pass him, Sarina slung under the mechanical mass of your
Arm.
You can hear sirens now; police sirens. And maybe even a chopper.
You break across 2nd Street and sprint for the KJBR studios, a huge
videoboard suspended above the large, block-sized, square building flashing a
reasonably attractive face and the words:
KJBR: HOME OF ROCKABYE ROZALYN
You slam through the front door and into the lobby, grab the receptionist
from behind her console and toss her aside, seizing it as cover when two
security guards materialise out of a rear hallway.
You swing the gun toward them and squeeze. There is a
soul-crushing *click*, and the guards open fire.
A .44 slug rips into your left quadracep, drawing a dark patch of
blood, while the other shot strikes you with full force in the left arm,
sending a flash of sparks from the superchromed monstrosity.
You're bleeding, and your head hurts from where that
alleyway-cop got lucky. You imagine your internals must almost be soup by now.
You grit your teeth and charge, screaming all the way. You lunge at the
guards, grabbing the first one by his crotch and slamming him into the second
guard, sending him reeling. You then stoop, grab the second guard's leg and
tear it out of the socket.
So much for security.
Alarms are screeching and there is the sound of an AV descending from
overhead. Down the block you can see the strobe of police light-bars and you
know you're in deep.
And you're losing blood from your various wounds, the
most recent being that nasty hole in your leg you just received which is
pumping out blood at a disturbing rate.
Sarina by now is slumped behind the receptionist's console and
sobbing uncontrollably. Three cruisers screech to a halt outside the building,
followed by a Max-Tac APC.
You scramble for cover as black-clad troopers take up defensive
positions behind their vehicles, and a squad of cyber-enhanced
anti-terrorist specialists begin unloading from the armoured belly of
their APC.
"This is the NCPD! There is no way you can escape! Give up the girl
and come out quietly and no one has to get hurt! You have 15 seconds!
Failing that we will flood the room with capsicum gas! It's your
choice!"
Then, seemingly from out of nowhere, a yellow and black AV-4 drops to
the street.
Cops scatter as it crashes downward onto a cruiser and bounces
through the front window/wall of the KJBR building, plate-glass flying
everywhichway like a heavy razor storm. Then you see Slam tapping away
at his 'deck and put two and two together. Maybe the kid is good for
something after all.
You run for it, dragging Sarina as the cops open fire, trying to keep the
yellow and black AV between you and the guns. 3 carloads of cops with assault
rifles open up on full-auto, filling the air with lead and powdering the
entire front lobby.
Stonework gets chewed into oblivion and Sarina just doesnt stop
screaming. The funny thing is, you cant hear anything. The noise is so
great it's like you're not hearing anything at all.
You stumble blindly through the chaos, desperate for the shelter
which the nose of the AV will provide. Gasping hard you slam into it,
feeling the resonance of bullets slamming into it play against your
back, trying to think of a way to get out of this other than in a body
bag. Slam has already made it, amazingly unscathed. He's breathing hard and
Sarina is positively brainlocked.
"So, whatta we do now?", you ask.
Then the shooting stops.
"They're reloading." you say. "Move! Now!" and dive around
the side of the AV.
Slam grits his teeth and follows, commanding the AV to open the door as
a few officers open up with handguns, missing you. The AV is totally
scragged. There's holes all over the place and the rear section looks
like swiss-cheese.
You'll be lucky if it can even take off after this, but there's no
time to run a diagnostic. Slam just hits the thrusters.
The engines whine to life and the whole vehicle lurches diagonally to
the right front. A systems alert flashes onto the deck's screen:
WARNING! RIGHT-FRONT FAN INOPERABLE!
Slam compensates as much as he possibly can and tries again, backing the
whole thing out of the building, nudging the crushed cop car and
hovering out above the street. Then he hits the thrusters and that seems to
kill any desire to open fire on you. Then you're up and away, limping
out over the skyline.
"Keep holding the girl,", Slam says, fixed to his screen. "And direct
me on where the safest place is."
"What about your place?", you ask groggily. You're bleeding badly and
the world keeps spinning. That leg wound is giving you grief.
"I dont have a place.", Slam says. "Except the odd dumpster. Any better
ideas?"
TIME: 1550 Hours. DATE:01/01/2020
The Robocab limps it's way generally south, trailing smoke and making
some disturbing hydraulic sputtering sounds from deep within itself.
1000 feet below you the city scrolls past. That's a long way to drop
when all you're piloting is a half-dead AV-4, which roughly amounts to
jack-shit as far as reliability goes.
... Celebrate National No Pants Day.
From coyote@softtech.brisnet.org.au (Coyote)
Date: 31 Dec 94 13:38:31
Subject: Residue (7)
(c) Cameron W. Rogers, 1994.
All Rights (in all media) Reserved. (except where RTG got there
first).
RESIDUE
=======
Slam looks up from his deck for a moment. "Residue." You look
sluggishly over at him, cyberarm still locked around the girl's neck.
"The only place the cops won't get us the Combat Zone. Where to buddy,
otherwise I could dump us in a riot zone by accident. Then we'll see
what we can do about putting you back on line." He offers a smile. "Guess an
entire police station is what it takes to scare you, huh?"
You say nothing for a moment, weighing your options, and then ask: "Where
are we?"
He checks his 'deck. "Looks like we're just over NCU. Lake Park is off to
our left."
"Veer across the park then head south from Japantown. My turf is
about 5 clicks south from there."
He nods and turns back to his deck, the AV lurching as it tilts to
port and heads for Japantown.
TIME: 1600 Hours. DATE:01/01/2020
The Combat Zone is like a blasted scar on the face of the land beneath
you, old and forgotten buildings that have become home to the city's
human refuse. The Zone stretches for miles, almost to the horizon, a
vast, teeming colony of filth and murderous scum.
And you, of course.
You look over Slam's shoulder, directing him to hover for a moment as you
check out the scene through his monitor, then you point to a short stretch of
street nestled between a huge rundown factory and an old dance club on
one side, and a smaller factory and adjacent building on the other. The
street is currently being used for what look like motorcycle
drag races. You know that street. Sometimes, when you have a vehicle,
you race there yourself. There is a sizeable number of people down there, and
you recognise all of them.
"Land there.", you point a finger at the T-intersection to the west
of the strip.
Slam guides the AV forward carefully, the eyes of all below turned
upwards to watch you. If one of those down there decides to open
up on you, that could very well be it. Through the underside camera you
can see weapons being drawn, or unslung, but no one fires.
Slam spirals down between the buildings, struggling to keep the vehicle
even. It touches down heavily in the centre of the T-intersection,
jolting him nastily. You grunt, the girl gets tossed around, but
you're alive.
You move over and throw the side-door open. Standing out there,
completely occupying your field of vision, is a large, and heavily
deranged looking, group of men and women, all of whom sport masses of
visible cyberware and a lot of viscious looking weaponry.
A voice from the crowd: "Residue?"
"Hi Viz."
You notice suspended on a shoelace around her neck is
the holographic keyring she picked up last night. L. John Wayne.
"Madre, my man you look...", she stops, seeing Slam and the girl
inside the vehicle. "Who is this?", she asks.
You look back at him, seeing him keeping a brave face but looking
like the vulnerable piece of meat that he is. "Im working with him",
you say. "He's okay. Somebody bring the girl."
At this point a loud, gruff and arrogant voice makes itself heard, a
ripple spreading through the crowd as a huge man with 2 distinctly
Russian looking cyberarms muscles his way through, yelling: "Move it!
Let someone who knows what he's doing handle this!" This man is
Well'ard. He wears leather jeans and a singlet with the Nazi eagle emblem on
the chest, a CD on a chain around his neck, spiked gloves sheathing his broad
and evil looking Soviet metal hands. His square-shaped head is topped
with a white crew-cut and on his back, beneath the singlet, is a massive
tattoo that takes up most of his back. You've seen it. It is a depiction
of a Blood-Ankh with a dragon bursting from the centre of it, rending flesh
as it goes. There is an Arasaka Rapid Assault Shotgun strapped in a sheath
to his back, and the huge, unmistakable bulk of a Super-Chief in a holster
on his left-thigh. He's been with the group for a few months and has always
been a little. . . full-on. Sometimes he just plain pisses you off. He can
be very angry at times, you know. Well'ard moves up and supports you with one
arm, hauling you out of the cab.
"Jesus kid you look like shit! C'mere! And someone bring these other
losers!"
You are taken from the Robocab, along with Sarina, and out into the
street. The sun is preparing to set as you are taken into the old factory
to your right. The place is rundown and rusting, but it doesnt look
ready to collapse just yet. It used to be an old smelting plant.
As soon as you're through the door, Svetlana appears in the company of a
few other gang members. She is wearing jeans and a red shirt, tucked in
with the sleeves rolled up slightly. A basebal cap is one her head, her
long brown hair tied into a ponytail and protruding from the back of the
cap, pristine white basketball shoes on her feet, fingerless gloves on
her hands. Upon seeing you and your condition, she runs to you, peppering you
with kisses and holding you tight.
You're pale. You're bleeding. Your body is beginning to shut down
from shock. With her mindless, emotional scrambling this woman is, in
effect, killing you. 80% of you wants to throw her aside and look for a
means to repair yourself, but 20% manages to keep yourself in check for
some forgotten reason. Long enough for Viz to pry her off you.
"Ease up, stupido. Can't you see the man is hurt? Go get Eyeball and tell
him to bring the kit. Okay?"
Eyeball is the Maelstrom's medic.
Svetlana steps back, looking a little poutish. "Okay.", then she
looks back at you, lingering overlong on the sight of your leg wound. "A
simple job you said. You promised me. No risks."
"I didn't promise anything.", you say. "I just listened."
That seems to tear it and she spins on her heel and storms out.
You think maybe you hear tears.
Viz regards you something akin to motherly contempt. "Jerkoff. You
lose her and it'll be your own puta white-trash fault. You know that?"
This is a waste of time. You brush past her to slump down
against the shell of an old boiler unit, lowered there by Well'ard.
Then the big man crouches and seems ready to rip open your sweater
when your hand whips out and grabs him by the wrist.
"Dont. I'm fine."
Well'ard looks you over. "You're busted up man. You need help. And
that leg wound doesnt look good." He hauls back an arm and sets his hand
like claws. "I can rip the slug out. You want I should try?"
"No.", you say flatly. "I'm fine."
Well'ard just looks at you for a loaded moment, then he stands.
"What the fuck is the matter with you? I'm just trying to help. I
thought you could handle pain."
You were expecting this and your reply is factual. "Pain I can handle. A
crippling, on the other hand, would be a disadvantage at this point in time."
Well'ard just throws his arms up, which sounds like a factory
whining to life, and leans up against the boiler. He fishes out his
cigarettes and lights one up. You motion to the girl.
"Sarina. Come here."
The girl seems to snap out of her catatonia at hearing her name, and
looks around like a frightened rabbit, but she sees nowhere to run so
she staggers forward, slowly and reluctantly. Slam takes this as a cue
and crosses the room to stand beside you also.
"Girl", you say. "I have no patience whatsoever. Lie to me and I'll
kill you. Fail to answer me, and I'll kill you. Try to run, and they'll
kill you. It's that simple. Now, where is Jean Ranier?"
There is a loaded moment, and then in one swift move she goes from
numb and semi-catatonic to an hysterical blubbering mess. "He's dead.",
she sobs. "Jean is dead. Okay? What do you want from me anyway?"
"Who killed him?"
Her mouth opens, then closes. She looks around at all these armed and
armoured people, and back at you, battered and bleeding with an
atmosphere of cold detachment. "Who do you think does all the killing in
Little Italy? Huh? You born yesterday?"
"Names."
She gives a stifled laugh. "The Capo di tutti Cappi, you stupid shit.
The Don. Who else. Boss Spiv. And *you*. . . are gonna be so. . .
*fucked*. . . when he finds you. HE'S GONNA HAND YOU YOUR SPINE ON A
FUCKING PLATE!"
At this Well'ard becomes animated. "Who is this chick? How hot is
she anyway? What kind of heat have you brought down on us, Res?"
You don't look up at your accuser. "She won't be here that long."
"Look girlie we haven't much time,", Slam says. "And my friend doesn't have
much patience, he has a hard enough time not killing me and he's paid not to
kill you. I think the only reason you're still alive is because he
likes the way you look... scary thought really. Now tell us everything
about your scumbag boyfriend."
She sniffs, holds her head up, trying to regain control. "I already
have. Jean is dead, killed by the order of Boss Spiv, my uncle. That is
how it is. Now let me go."
"Why was he killed?", you ask.
"I DONT KNOW!"
"Why was he killed?"
Sarina sighs and her resolve seems to desert her. "He came to me",
she says. "Asking for money. $5000 or so. I didn't have it so I asked my
father. The next thing I know Jean is dead. I dont know why. They sent
Dexter and Horse over to the Yamagumi and shot him. Then they dumped the
body. I dont know where."
At this point a strangely good-looking Asian man dressed in a white
shirt and slashed leather pants appears through a side door carrying a
medical kit. Through the slashes in his pants you can see the dull gleam
of industrial steel, hear the mechancial click-and-stomp of heavy-duty
cyberlegs moving over concrete. His face is tattooed with red veins
covering the right side of his face, centering on his right eye.
Eyeball.
With cool efficiency he crouches by you as 2 members of Maelstrom
lead Sarina away.
TIME: 1645 Hours DATE:01/01/2020
45 minutes later you have had your wounds tended to and are helped to
your feet by Svetlana.
"Get some sleep.", you tell Slam. "We'll deal with this in the morning."
Right on cue, Well'ard taps him on the shoulder and
says "This way, buddy."
TIME: 1650 Hours. DATE:01/01/2020
Svetlana leads you out of the factory and into the afternoon light. You
have a room over at the ganghouse, Maelstrom's HQ, which is on the next
block to the south. It used to be a mini-mall, back when this part of
town used to be part of the old township of Del Coronado. Now it's
yours.
"Goddamnit Wilson, you let me down. If you go and get yourself killed
on me, I'll never fucking forgive you. You got that? I don't care how
much money you stand to make, no amount is worth getting killed over."
You dont say anything, you just walk.
The mini-mall is a colloseum like affair, with laneways to the north
and west giving access to the center atrium. The HQ has 3 levels. Your
room is on floor 2 in what used to be an old fashion warehouse. You
share the space with about 8 store dummies and a cash register.
You walk up the long escalator (no way it works anymore) and onto Level 2.
You walk past the other rooms and into yours. There is a foam slab in the
corner, beneath a boarded up window.
When Svetlana lets you go, you just fall, and sleep is on you before
you can even get comfortable.
TIME: 0600 Hours DATE: 02/01/2020
You reluctantly wake, the wound in your leg aching like a mother.
Svetlana is still asleep behind you. Looking down at your still-booted
feet you can see through the glass wall and out into the atrium of the mall,
the sun just beginning to crest it, spilling orange neon into the room.
You blink the sleep out of your eyes and test your joints. The Arm
groans as it stretches, bumping a cardboard box by your bed. A box with
your name on it. A name written in the distinctive shade of dried blood.
You're out of bed in an instant, yanking the still sleeping Svetlana
behind you before you can even rationalise why you did it. Your eyes are
fixed on the small, five inch square container.
Svetlana is groaning loud. "Wha. . . What did you do that for?"
You click to thermo and scan it. Nil heat. You click off.
"What's your goddamn problem, asshole?"
"Shut up." You're thinking. You have an idea. Moving carefully you
cross to the package and gingerly pick it up. Then you walk out the
front door to stand on the walkway, facing the sun. You hold the box up
to the approaching dawn, using it to shield your face from the sun. You
hold it there for a half minute, feeling the warmth creep through your
flesh hand. Then you click back to thermo. The sun-side of the box glows
pale orange from the heat. Uniformly orange. There are no solid objects
to speak of within the box.
You open it.
Inside, there is a brown paper bag.
Gingerly you remove the bag, examining it, before opening it.
Inside is a brown paper envelope, too thin to hold any kind mof
explosive that you know of.
You open the envelope and withdraw a sheet of folded paper. You open
that. On it is a short message, written in blood.
'You're dead. I'm coming to get you. You're so fucked. I'm going to
grind your corpse.
Signed Corpsegrinder.
corpsegrindercorpsegrindercorpsegrindercorpse'
There's something else in the envelope as well. You turn it upside down
and shake them out. You are holding in your palm what looks like 10
human toenails. Still bloody.
You hear Svetlana step onto the landing behind you. "What is it?"
TIME: 0615 Hours DATE: 02/01/2020
Slam was put up at a local weapons dealers. A guy by the name of Duster.
Duster operates out of a decaying old storefront on the block north-west
of HQ. That's where you head.
Duster is a veteran marine of a few of the SouthAm conflicts. His
story is that his body was wasted by the designer chemicals the
goverment kept pumping into him and everyone else in his battallion. You
gotta admit, he sounds and looks pretty convincing.
You walk in the front door, setting off about a hundred alarms.
Duster is bolt upright in a millisecond, levelling a 4 meter railgun at your
chest in the time it takes most people to draw breath. Then he relaxes.
"Oh. It's you." He picks up a remote, thumbs a trigger and all goes
silent. He was sleeping on a row of crates marked "HEAT 40". Slam was on
the other side of the room, crashed out on a blanket laid over some more
crates. Weapons of all descriptions line the walls, bolted into
brackets. Rocket launchers, autocannons, flamethrowers. It's all here.
Duster is sitting up and rubbing his eyes. He's dressed in a white
shirt tucked into black leather pants that sheath legs which are
matchstick thin. His upper body by contrast is well-built. He is
Indonesian by descent, with long unwashed black hair falling all over
the place. He slips on a pair of mirrorshades with gloved hands.
"Come to get your friend, huh?"
You nod. Slam is clutching his head and shaking it after such a
violent awakening.
"C'mon. We have to talk."
Slam blinks widely, clearing his head. "Okay. Just let me get my
things." While he gathers what little he has and stuffs them into the
pockets of his urban camoflauge jacket you wonder if it's possible that
he may have left that note. You were so tired last night anyone could
have got in and done it.
... Thou shalt not admit adultery.
From coyote@softtech.brisnet.org.au (Coyote)
Date: 31 Dec 94 13:52:41
Subject: Residue (8)
(c) Cameron W. Rogers, 1994.
All Rights (in all media) Reserved. (except where RTG got there
first)
RESIDUE
=======
Corpsegrinder. You've never heard the name before. Maybe a member of
the Warrior Heart? You've had a feud with them for as long as you've
been a gang.
Slam finishes packing and heads for the door.
Once in the street you start walking toward the wreck of the Robocab,
now virtually picked clean by whatever squatters and gang members got
there first.
"You're looking better already", he says. "Only three-quarters dead.
You given any thought about the assignment those law enforcement bully
boys so rudely interrupted us from?"
You stop by the AV. "Actually little man, I was wondering if you had.
What about Sarina?"
He snorts. "What about Sarina? I say we go check out that preacher
over at Colonial. Leave the girl here. Get someone to watch her. How
much trouble can one checkout chick be to a gang full of semi-psychotic..."
His voice trails off, punctuated by a grin. "I mean trained
professionals? Heh."
You keep talking. "Works for me. L. John Wayne seems to be our best
bet. I want you in the Net first. Check the place out. Find out what
we're getting into."
Slam shrugs.
"Oh", you say. "And one other thing. Slam, I reckon it'd probably be best
for you to forget what you've seen last night. I reckon it'd probably be best
if you forgot about the people you've seen too. Some people say that they
wouldn't want me as an enemy. They don't know the half of it, I'm just one
card in the deck that's gonna fuck them if they fuck with me. Know what I
mean, Little Man? I suppose I'm gonna have to trust you on this but hey,
I get suspicious bloody easily."
The Machine seems pleased. If he was the one who planted the note,
that should have his little meat-brain thinking.
TIME: 0620 Hours DATE: 02/01/2020
You outline your plan to Slam, beginning with him heading into the Net
before anything else happens. He sighs, scratches the back of his blue
haired head and looks you straight in the eye.
"Residue, I am currently at such a low-point in my financial J-curve
that I have no programs that let me hack into any database. Not even the
City Library. And I would appreciate it if you didn't keep rubbing it in
my face by asking me to go where, if I had a choice, I would spend most
of my life." He breathes deep, as if waiting for an answer. "You give
none. "Thank you." Once again he looks around himself and rubs his eyes.
"Well, lets get going then. That drink offer is still open. Dunno about
you, but I need a wake-me-up."
You half-hear him, your mind on other things. Your Netrunner now
cannot perform his primary function. He says has no useful programs.
Corpsegrinder. You now no longer know who you can trust. Viz. Maybe Viz would
know something. You need to ask her to mind Sarina for you anyway. You point
to the decaying old bar on the kerb. There is no sign above the door,
but everyone knows the place as The Split Lip. Captain Damage's Split
Lip, to be precise.
"You wanna drink, go in there. I gotta go take care of a few things
and I'll meet you in a few minutes."
Slam looks over to The Split Lip, and swallows. "Okay.", he says. "A
few minutes."
TIME: 0633 DATE: 02/01/2020
Viz lives in a burned out old block of apartments to the far north of
Maelstrom territory. Takes you about fifteen minutes to get there on
foot.
The place is basically a burnt out husk, but there are a few sections
that are relatively unscathed. This is where she makes her home, along
with a few squatters.
When you walk in she is asleep. The squatters, however, know you and
quickly scuttle out of your way. The room used to be an office of some
kind. Viz is curled up on a blanket in the corner, near a blasted old
water cooler.
"I need to talk to you."
She looks up, squinting. "Hmmm? Oh, Willy. Hi."
You flinch. "I need to talk to you about the girl."
"What about her?" She sits up, grinding the heels of her palms into
her eyes.
"I need you to watch her for me today. While I'm gone. I'll be back
for her later."
She thinks for a moment, then nods. "Sure. Okay. But what are you
going to do with her in the long run? If she really is Boss Spiv's
neice then I think you should be careful. Old Man Spiv is about the most
vicious mob warlord this side of LA."
"Viz", you say. "You know anything about a guy named Corpsegrinder?"
Her look grows quizzical. "No. Why?"
"He's some guy that's been fucking with me and pretty soon I reckon he
could mean trouble. Ask around, see if anyone saw anyone going places
they usually wouldn't, or any non-Maelstrom members in the area last
night."
Then you turn and leave.
"Hey, don't mention it.", Viz mumbles.
TIME: 0650 Hours DATE: 02/01/2020
You return to your flop to find Svetlana crouched on the floor in her
underwear, stirring something up on the gas cooker. You walk over.
"I have to go to work now. I'll be back later tonight. Wait here for
me."
You make a half-assed effort to sound tender and it winds up sounding
like a command.
"What's going on?", she asks. She looks at you and you realise she's
been crying.
"Just business."
"What was in the package."
You think. "More business."
She stands and crosses to where her jeans are and starts pulling them
on. "I think you're lying to me."
You think about this, then turn and walk for the door.
"Why don't you answer me?", her voice cracks.
You turn and look at her.
"It was a statement, not a question."
And you're gone.
TIME: 0657 Hours DATE: 02/01/2020
When you get back to The Split Lip, you find Slam sitting in a corner
table trying not to look anyone in the face. Everyone else seems to be
pretty much ignoring him.
You walk over and take a seat.
The Split Lip is run by a member of the Maelstrom by the name of
Captain Damage. The Captain is a black man with a crew cut which he has
lovingly dyed vivid red. His eyes are yellow with vertical irises and
his face is covered with a porcelain-white tattoo of a jawless skull. He
wears a tight black bodysuit with a wet-look veneer and chrome-capped
biker boots. The Captain is an artist. It is said he knows a thousand
ways to kill.
But today he's pouring drinks.
Slam has a double whiskey in front of him. You're not drinking.
"You done?", you ask.
"I guess.", he says. "You got a plan?"
"Nope."
"Well, how about we check out the address on that business card? Just
walk in and see what happens?"
You're about to reply when someone pulls up a seat. It's Well'ard.
"Hey Res. How ya doin'?"
"I'm fine", you say, then turn back to Slam. "You were saying?"
"Well," Slam says. "I merely suggested that we check out that
address. What do you think?"
He stands. "No forget that, I have a better idea. You go check the guy
out at one of his meetings, I'll meet you later this afternoon and see what
we can do. I have some things to do."
You dont want to say anything more with Well'ard sitting beside you. You
dont trust him. So you look Slam in the eye and say "Lets talk about this
later.
Right now we have to get back to the city."
"Well", Slam says. "How about I meet you at the studios? I won't take
long."
Now you stand. You just want him to stop talking but he doesnt seem
to get the message. Well'ard, not wanting to be left out, stands as well.
"We need a vehicle first.", you say. "We'll discuss anything else later."
This doesnt seem to go down well.
"Quiet for a moment huh?!", he yells. "I only have 2 things to
say: One, You have been playing the covert operative with me all this time;
everything is super secret, you even found some stuff in the back of the van,
remember the van the one that got trashed in that accident? And you try and
pocket it without me knowing or seeing, but I did. One of them was drugs. Are
you an addict, Residue? Addicted enough to sell out your friends?"
You notice him catch Well'ard's eye for a second.
"When I finally have something *I* need to do you call it a secondary
consideration and try to brush it aside!"
You're about to strongly suggest that he shut the fuck up, but he
keeps on going.
"And two: you have an utterly stunning woman who wants you. . ."
** Something kicks **
". . .and a lot of reliable friends to count on. . ."
** You dont deserve what you have. You see that now. For one bright,
incandescent moment you are given clarity. And you see. For the first
time in years you really and truly see. You remember biking with your
friends through the LONDMARLAUTH barrens back home in England, the
stench of octane and sweat. The laughter. . . **
". . .while my ex wants to kill me and my closest friend is the hired help
at a bar. . ."
** Svetlana. Her face when she made it through immigration. The way
she looks when she takes out those faded old photos of her family. Those
glossy Russian magazines with her face on the cover that she values so
much. The amount of pain it caused her to leave all that behind. The
pain she bought on herself by choosing you over everything else. The
pain she looks to have eased in you. The pain you cause her by being
you.
By being you. . . **
". . .yet you are the shithead who acts like he's got a
wasp nest up his ASS!"
** By being you. . . **
Your face tears open in an unbridled scream as the Arm pistons
downward, crushing the metal table into an awkward U. You cant see
anything, everything is flushed red. Nothing stands out, it's all a
blur. Everything breaks as it comes into contact with you, but none of
it makes you feel any better. You scream and smash and scream, looking
for a way out, looking to stop feeling all this *anger*, looking to stop
feeling. . .
There he is.
He runs for the door as you run for him. In his panic he piledrives
into a chair and sends himself crashing into a table. It's a simple
matter to lock the Arm around his throat and haul the little fucker to
his feet. Then you throw him across the room. He bounces off the wall
and lands in a crumpled heap on the floor, still breathing and
scrambling, trying to stand up, trying squeeze air through that bruised
and constricted windpipe.
He screams as you come for him, as you pick him up once more.
"I'm just going to the Short Circuit! You wanted me in the Net, well let me
do it!!" Blood flecks his lips.
You jerk him by the collar and hiss a single word into his face:
"Outside."
You drag him out the door and it's all he can do to keep up. You
drag him past the wrecked AV and toss him up against a wall.
"The reason. . .", you say, the words strained through clenched
teeth. "That I tossed off your request, little man, was because I didn't
want to say anything more. . ."
"Everything OK?" It's Well'ard. "Everything's fine.", you snap. "Me and him
have to talk."
Well'ard nods. "Fair enough. Was just wondering if maybe you guys
wanted to help me pull a job. I've got this joint cased out in Corporate
Centre. . ."
"We're busy. Leave."
Well'ard stops talking. You wonder if he's going to make a play for
you. But he doesn't. He just flashes a smile and walks off.
Once he's safely out of earshot, you speak again. "*That's* why
I said nothing. I dont trust him. Now go do what you have to do and I'll
meet you at Colonial Studios. Don't take too long."
Then you turn and walk off, trying to ignore the voices.
TIME: 0730 Hours. DATE: 02/01/2020
You sit in your flop, thinking about Well'ard. He's been with the group
for about 2 months now and seems to do drugs like other people drink
bottled water. He's the owner of two Soviet-imported Rostovik model
cyberarms and claims to have had a cyberliver implanted (which
attributes him great stamina with regards to his drug and alcohol
intake). He's a big guy. Bigger than you. Works out a lot and has had
muscle grafts and bone reinforcement done. He likes singing when he's
drunk, and doesnt sound half-bad. Goes for blues mostly. Has a serious
attitude problem in that he likes violence and hurting people a great
deal. And he likes shotguns. Carries around a Rapid Assault 12, an
AKR-20 and a Super Chief. He says he's 35.
TIME: 0800 Hours. DATE: 02/01/2020
Svet cooks you up breakfast. Packeted porridge. You eat it. After that,
Viz agreed to give you a lift into Studio City.
TIME: 0830 Hours. DATE: 02/01/2020
Viz drops you off on 22nd street, the last east-west stretch of road in
the CZ before the city. On the other side of the block is Studio C of
Colinial Studios, home of the Right Rev. L. John Wayne's Televangelistic
Ministry for the New Church of Christ the Saviour. You could get a real
good vantage point from this decaying old apartment block, so that's
where you're headed. The place is filled with squatters who give you no
grief and it is a simple matter to climb to the fourth floor and set up
base in an abandoned old apartment. The place is wet and rotting and
partially burned, but other than that it's fine. You pull up a gutted
old lounge chair and prop your feet up on the windowsill.
There is a crowd outside Studio C, and the videoboard above the huge
doorway reads: BROADCASTING LIVE! THE REV. L. JOHN WAYNE AND THE NCCS!
THERE IS NO MONOPOLY ON LOVE!
According to the board the show is recorded and broadcast at 11:00
each and every weekday, with The Best of The Rev. L. John Wayne being
broadcast as gap fillers on weekends.
TIME: 0930 Hours. DATE: 02/01/2020
People continue to roll up. You've been here an hour now and you're
wondering whether or not you should try and contact Slam. Or maybe you
should just do something off your own back.
From coyote@softtech.brisnet.org.au (Coyote)
Date: Thu Feb 02 04:27:01 MET 1995
Subject: Residue (9)
Organization: Soft-Tech +61-7-869-1131
Apologies if some of this is a repost. I've lost track of the last
section I sent up.
Any and all feedback is extremely welcome.
---
(c) Cameron W. Rogers, 1994.
All Rights (in all media) Reserved. (except where RTG got there
first)
RESIDUE
=======
TIME: 0615 Hours DATE: 02/01/2020
Slam was put up at a local weapons dealer's. A guy by the name of Duster.
Duster operates out of a decaying old storefront on the block north-west
of HQ. That's where you head.
Duster is a veteran marine of a few of the SouthAm conflicts. His
story is that his body was wasted by the designer chemicals the
goverment kept pumping into him and the other's in his battallion. You
gotta admit, he sounds and looks pretty convincing.
You walk in the front door, setting off about a hundred alarms.
Duster is bolt upright in a millisecond, levelling a 4 meter railgun at your
chest in the time it takes most people to draw breath. Then he relaxes.
"Oh. It's you." He picks up a remote, thumbs a trigger and all goes
silent. He was sleeping on a row of crates marked HEAT 40". Slam was on
the other side of the room, crashed out on a blanket laid over some more
crates. Weapons of all descriptions line the walls, bolted into
brackets. Rocket launchers, autocannons, flamethrowers. It's all here.
Duster is sitting up and rubbing his eyes. He's dressed in a white
shirt tucked into black leather pants that sheath legs which are
matchstick thin. His upper body by contrast is well-built. He is
Indonesian by descent, with long unwashed black hair falling all over
the place. He slips on a pair of mirrorshades with gloved hands.
"Come to get your friend, huh?"
You nod. Slam is clutching his head and shaking it after such a
violent awakening.
"C'mon. We have to talk."
Slam blinks widely, clearing his head. "Okay. Just let me get my
things." While he gathers what little he has and stuffs them into the
pockets of his urban camoflauge jacket you wonder if it's possible that
he may have left that note. You were so tired last night anyone could
have got in and done it.
Corpsegrinder. You've never heard the name before. Maybe a member of
the Warrior Heart? You've had a feud with them for as long as you've
been a gang.
Slam finishes packing and heads for the door.
Once in the street you start walking toward the wreck of the Robocab,
now virtually picked clean by whatever squatters and gang members got
there first.
"You're looking better already", he says. "Only three-quarters dead.
You given any thought about the assignment those law enforcement bully
boys so rudely interrupted us from?"
You stop by the AV. "Actually little man, I was wondering if you had.
What about Sarina?"
He snorts. "What about Sarina? I say we go check out that preacher
over at Colonial. Leave the girl here. Get someone to watch her. How
much trouble can one checkout chick be to a gang full of semi-psychotic.
. .". His voice trails off, punctuated by a grin. "I mean trained
professionals? Heh."
You keep talking. "Works for me. L. John Wayne seems to be our best
bet. I want you in the Net first. Check the place out. Find out what
we're getting into."
Slam shrugs.
"Oh", you say. "And one other thing. Slam, I reckon it'd probably be best
for you to forget what you've seen last night. I reckon it'd probably be best
if you forgot about the people you've seen too. Some people say that they
wouldn't want me as an enemy. They don't know the half of it, I'm just one
card in the deck that's gonna fuck them if they fuck with me. Know what I
mean Little Man? I suppose I'm gonna have to trust you on this but hey,
I get suspicious bloody easily."
The Machine seems pleased. If he was the one who planted the note,
that should have his little meat-brain thinking.
TIME: 0620 Hours DATE: 02/01/2020
You outline your plan to Slam, beginning with him heading into the Net
before anything else happens. He sighs, scratches the back of his blue
haired head and looks you straight in the eye.
"Residue, I am currently at such a low-point in my financial J-curve
that I have no programs that let me hack into any database. Not even the
City Library. And I would appreciate it if you didn't keep rubbing it in
my face by asking me to go where, if I had a choice, I would spend most
of my life." He breathes deep, as if waiting for an answer. "You give
none. "Thank you." Once again he looks around himself and rubs his eyes.
"Well, lets get going then. That drink offer is still open. Dunno about
you, but I need a wake-me-up."
You half-hear him, your mind on other things. Your Netrunner now
cannot perform his primary function. He has no programs. Corpsegrinder.
You now no longer know who you can trust. Viz. Maybe Viz would know
something. You need to ask her to mind Sarina for you anyway. You point
to the decaying old bar on the kerb. There is no sign above the door,
but everyone knows the place as The Split Lip. Captain Damage's Split
Lip, to be precise.
"You wanna drink, go in there. I gotta go take care of a few things
and I'll meet you in a few minutes."
Slam looks over to The Split Lip, and swallows. "Okay.", he says. "A
few minutes."
TIME: 0633 DATE: 02/01/2020
Viz lives in a burned out old block of apartments to the far north of
Maelstrom territory. Takes you about fifteen minutes to get there on
foot.
The place is basically a burnt out husk, but there are a few sections
that are relatively unscathed. This is where she makes her home, along
with a few squatters.
When you walk in she is asleep. The squatters, however, know you and
quickly scuttle out of your way. The room used to be an office of some
kind. Viz is curled up on a blanket in the corner, near a blasted old
water cooler.
"I need to talk to you."
She looks up, squinting. "Hmmm? Oh, Willy. Hi."
You flinch. "I need to talk to you about the girl."
"What about her?" She sits up, grinding the heels of her palms into
her eyes.
"I need you to watch her for me today. While I'm gone. I'll be back
for her later."
She thinks for a moment, then nods. "Sure. Okay. But what are you
going to do with her in the long run? If she really is Boss Spiv's
neice then I think you should be careful. Old Man Spiv is about the most
vicious mob warlord this side of LA."
"Viz", you say. "You know anything about a guy named Corpsegrinder?"
Her look grows quizzical. "No. Why?"
"He's some guy that's been fucking with me and pretty soon I reckon he
could mean trouble. Ask around, see if anyone saw anyone going places
they usually wouldn't, or any non-Maelstrom members in the area last
night."
Then you turn and leave.
"Hey, don't mention it.", Viz mumbles.
TIME: 0650 Hours DATE: 02/01/2020
You return to your flop to find Svetlana crouched on the floor in her
underwear, stirring something up on the gas cooker. You walk over.
"I have to go to work now. I'll be back later tonight. Wait here for
me."
You make a half-assed effort to sound tender and it winds up sounding
like a command.
"What's going on?", she asks. She looks at you and you realise she's
been crying.
"Just business."
"What was in the package."
You think. "More business."
She stands and crosses to where her jeans are and starts pulling them
on. "I think you're lying to me."
You think about this, then turn and walk for the door.
"Why don't you answer me?", her voice cracks.
You turn and look at her.
"It was a statement, not a question."
And you're gone.
TIME: 0657 Hours DATE: 02/01/2020
When you get back to The Split Lip, you find Slam sitting in a corner
table trying not to look anyone in the face. Everyone else seems to be
pretty much ignoring him.
You walk over and take a seat.
The Split Lip is run by a member of the Maelstrom by the name of
Captain Damage. The Captain is a black man with a crew cut which he has
lovingly dyed vivid red. His eyes are yellow with vertical irises and
his face is covered with a porcelain-white tattoo of a jawless skull. He
wears a tight black bodysuit with a wet-look veneer and chrome-capped
biker boots. The Captain is an artist. It is said he knows a thousand
ways to kill.
But today he's pouring drinks.
Slam has a double whiskey in front of him. You're not drinking.
"You done?", you ask.
"I guess.", he says. "You got a plan?"
"Nope."
"Well, how about we check out the address on that business card? Just
walk in and see what happens?"
You're about to reply when someone pulls up a seat. It's Well'ard.
"Hey Res. How ya doin'?"
"I'm fine", you say, then turn back to Slam. "You were saying?"
"Well," Slam says. "I merely suggested that we check out that
address. What do you think?" Then he stands. "No forget that, I have a
better idea. You go check the guy out at one of his meetings, I'll meet
you later this afternoon and see what we can do. I have some things to do."
You dont want to say anything more with Well'ard sitting beside you. You
dont trust him. So you look Slam in the eye and say "Lets talk about
this later. Right now we have to get back to the city."
"Well", Slam says. "How about I meet you at the studios? I wont take
long."
Now you stand. You just want him to stop talking but he doesnt seem
to get the message. Well'ard, not wanting to be left out, stands as well.
"We need a vehicle first.", you say. "We'll discuss anything else later."
This doesnt seem to go down well.
"Quiet for a moment huh?!", he yells. "I only have one thing to say:
You have been playing the covert operative with me all this time;
everything is super secret, you even found some stuff in the back of the
van, remember the van the one that got trashed in that accident? And you
try and pocket it without me knowing or seeing, but I did. One of them
was drugs. Are you an addict, Residue? Addicted enough to sell out
your friends?"
You notice him catch Well'ard's eye for a second.
"When I finally have something *I* need to do you call it a secondary
consideration and try to brush it aside!"
You're about to strongly suggest that he shut the fuck up, but he
keeps on going.
"And two: you have an utterly stunning woman who wants you. . ."
** Something kicks **
". . .and a lot of reliable friends to count on. . ."
** You dont deserve what you have. You see that now. For one bright,
incandescent moment you are given clarity. And you see. For the first
time in years you really and truly see. You remember biking with your
friends through the LONDMARLAUTH barrens back home in England, the
stench of octane and sweat. The laughter. . . **
". . .while my ex wants to kill me, and my closest friend is the
hired help at a bar. . ."
** Svetlana. Her face when she made it through immigration. The way
she looks when she takes out those faded old photos of her family. Those
glossy Russian magazines with her face on the cover that she values so
much. The amount of pain it caused her to leave all that behind. The
pain she bought on herself by choosing you over everything else. The
pain she looks to have eased in you. The pain you cause her by being
you.
By being you. . . **
". . .yet you are the shithead who acts like he's got a
wasp nest up his ASS!"
** By being you. . . **
Your face tears open in an unbridled scream as the Arm pistons
downward, crushing the metal table into an awkward U. You cant see
anything, everything is flushed red. Nothing stands out, it's all a
blur. Everything breaks as it comes into contact with you, but none of
it makes you feel any better. You scream and smash and scream, looking
for a way out, looking to stop feeling all this *anger*, looking to stop
feeling. . .
There he is.
He runs for the door as you run for him. In his panic he piledrives
into a chair and sends himself crashing into a table. It's a simple
matter to lock the Arm around his throat and haul the little fucker to
his feet. Then you throw him across the room. He bounces off the wall
and lands in a crumpled heap on the floor, still breathing and
scrambling, trying to stand up, trying squeeze air through that bruised
and constricted windpipe.
He screams as you come for him, as you pick him up once more.
"I'm just going to the SHort Circuit! You wanted me in the Net, well let me
do it!!"
You jerk him by the collar and hiss a single word into his face:
"Outside."
You drag him out the door and it's all he can do to keep up. You
drag him past the wrecked AV and toss him up against the wall.
"The reason. . .", you say, the words strained through clenched
teeth. "That I tossed off your request, little man, was because I didn't
want to say anything more. . ."
"Everything OK?" It's Well'ard.
"Everything's fine.", you snap. "Me and 'im have to talk."
Well'ard nods. "Fair enough. Was just wondering if maybe you guys
wanted to help me pull a job. I've got this joint cased out in Corporate
Centre. . ."
"We're busy. Leave."
Well'ard stops talking. You wonder if he's going to make a play for
you. But he doesn't. He just flashes a smile and walks off.
Once he's safely out of earshot, you speak again. "*That's* why
I said nothing. I dont trust him. Now go do what you have to do and I'll
meet you at Colonial Studios. Don't take too long."
Then you turn and walk off, trying to ignore the voices.
TIME: 0730 Hours. DATE: 02/01/2020
You sit in your flop, thinking about Well'ard. He's been with the group
for about 2 months now and seems to do drugs like other people drink
bottled water. He's the owner of two Soviet-imported Rostovik model
cyberarms and claims to have had a cyberliver implanted (which
attributes him great stamina with regards to his drug and alcohol
intake). He's a big guy. Bigger than you. Works out a lot and has had
muscle grafts and bone reinforcement done. He likes singing when he's
drunk, and doesnt sound half-bad. Goes for blues mostly. Has a serious
attitude problem in that he likes violence and hurting people a great
deal. And he likes shotguns. Carries around a Rapid Assault 12, an
AKR-20 and a Super Chief. He says he's 35.
TIME: 0800 Hours. DATE: 02/01/2020
Svet cooks you up breakfast. Packeted porridge. You eat it. After that,
Viz agreed to give you a lift into Studio City.
TIME: 0830 Hours. DATE: 02/01/2020
Viz drops you off on 22nd street, the last east-west stretch of road in
the CZ before the city. On the other side of the block is Studio C of
Colinial Studios, home of the Right Rev. L. John Wayne's Televangelistic
Ministry for the New Church of Christ the Saviour. You could get a real
good vantage point from this decaying old apartment block, so that's
where you're headed. The place is filled with squatters who give you no
grief and it is a simple matter to climb to the fourth floor and set up
base in an abandoned old apartment. The place is wet and rotting and
partially burned, but other than that it's fine. You pull up a gutted
old lounge chair and prop your feet up on the window sill.
There is a crowd outside Studio C, and the videoboard above the huge
doorway reads: BROADCASTING LIVE! THE REV. L. JOHN WAYNE AND THE NCCS!
THERE IS NO MONOPOLY ON LOVE!
According to the board the show is recorded and broadcast at 11:00
each and every weekday, with The Best of The Rev. L. John Wayne being
broadcast as gap fillers on weekends.
TIME: 0930 Hours. DATE: 02/01/2020
People continue to roll up. You've been here an hour now and you're
wondering whether or not you should try and contact Slam. Or maybe you
should just do something off your own back.
TIME: 1030 Hours DATE: 02/01/2020
The show goes on in a half-hour and Slam hasn't shown up yet. Nothing
unusual has happened so you figure it's about as safe as it's gonna get
for you, so you head on down.
It's a simple matter to exit on the other side of the block and walk
around to the studio, making it appear that you've just walked off the
street. There are standard Colonial Studios security personnel, armed
and armoured with Metal Gear and assault rifles. The past hour has just
been the slow shuffle of people arriving. The guards keep everyone out
for the time being. You imagine the crunch is gonna come when they open
those doors.
So you stand in the crowd, about a half-block from the front doors,
surrounded by people clutching rosaries and Rev. Wayne bibles, waving
hand made placards and chanting the Rev. Wayne theme song.
TIME: 1045 Hours DATE: 02/01/2020
It's 15 minutes to showtime when the doors swing open and the first wave
of people make the rush. The guards hold them back behind a steel
riot-gate erected not 5 minutes before. Through this gate the members of
the crowd are let through at a snail's pace, their 'gifts of love' (read
'cover charge') extracted from them by a white-suited female attendant
in a plexiglass booth.
Judging from the size of the studio to the size of the crowd, the
majority of these people are not gonna get in. Time for the direct
approach.
Moving purposefully you jar your way through the crowd, eyes fixed on
making it to that shield before the studio fills to capacity. It's no
easy matter. Some of these people are not your typical, pasty-faced,
accountant types. There are kickers from the Zone here, and people from
Corporate Plaza: the kind of people that go to gyms not to work out, but
to have their bodies *constructed* by trained personnel and designer
steroids from the upmarket labs of Chiba and New Hanover. These people
do not give way lightly.
But there's a lotta love in this crowd, and aint nobody gonna pound
you on the Rev. Wayne's doorstep.
You make it to the shield.
An armoured guard scans you and locates the Armalite.
"You'll have to surrender that to me, sir."
Figuring you don't really have a choice, you agree. The guard permits you
through the gate and the attendant smiles like you're eighty-five and she's
putting you out of your misery. She takes your cash and stamps your hand.
You're in.
TIME: 1100 Hours DATE: 02/01/2020
You file in through a plush lobby and into the auditorium itself, which
is fairly spartan in contrast to the lobby. It basically is nothing more
than a large, cathedralesque studio floor with racks of stadium seating
for the audience, into which you all file. The studio floor itself is
quite lavish. There are four sets: one looks like a modest chapel, the
next a quite beautiful, modern day church, and the third looks like a
Gothic cathedral, replete with 40 inch video monitors suspended from
each of the sandstone pillars. The fourth set is a simple podium with a
blue-screen suspended behind it for superimposition purposes. There is a
murmur of excitement as you are all herded into your seats, awaiting the
beginning of the show.
You're scoping out security, and all you've seen so far is the
standard Colonial Studios security force covering the exits and flanking
the sets, conveniently out of camera view. You can see parts of
backstage as the sets are not as large as they appear on the box. Over
the tops of the sets you can see the dark of backstage, a solid brick
wall and racks of pulleys and the heads of a few lamps. Around the sides
of the sets you can see a fire-exit leadin out the back, more pulleys,
lamps and so forth, as well as stage crew murmuring into headsets as
they run around performing whatever tasks they are supposed to.
While you are observing this section of backstage, you notice a
stream of light appear, as if someone has just opened a door which you
cannot see because the set is blocking your view. There is one
individual, a fit looking Japanese woman around whom all the attention
seems to centre. She wears a headset and is constantly mumbling into it
and referring to her clipboard. The light thins and dies once more, and
three people make an appearance, crossing to her. Two you recognise
immediately: sleeveless dusters and a heavy grey-metal monocle slung
over one eye and carrying express guns. They accompany another
individual: a distinctly African-looking man wearing an old flight suit
covered in a variety of patches and zippered pockets. He wears stomper
boots and the suit has a large SAMURAI band-patch on the back of it as
well. He wears a yellow, brown and red sash from his left shoulder to
right hip and fingerless gloves on his hands. He wears his hair as
dreads, long and ratty looking. There is a deck slung under one arm. He
is talking feverishly to the woman, who for once has stopped mumbling
into her headset, and gestures vaguely to the crowd. The woman nods and
returns to her headset. You notice the Colonial Studios security start
moving.
You're getting nervous.
The decker and his 2 companions return to wherever they came from.
Four CS security guards break from their flanking positons to the
sides of the set and begin walking slowly in front of the audience,
scanning them. Unconsciously the Hand balls into a fist; there's plenty
o soft-cover. If you had to you could probably get out of here in one
piece.
To your left one of the guards motions to an ugly looking man with a mohawk
and biker leathers. The guy looks around and then points to himself as if to
say "Who? Me?". The guard nods and motions him down.
While to your right another guard has singled out a plain looking
Spanish girl with a shaved head and wearing a suit. She too is ushered
down. This goes on for a few minutes with about thirty people being
called down, and eventually lead out. After a few minutes a group of
thirty new faces come and take their places, all looking very happy at
having gotten in after all.
One thing you noticed: all the people who were taken down, all of
them had multiple head-plugs.
(cont.)
... If money can't buy happiness/ I guess I'll have to rent it. - Yankovic
From coyote@softtech.brisnet.org.au (Coyote)
Date: Thu Feb 02 04:44:11 MET 1995
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo
Subject: Residue (10)
Organization: Soft-Tech +61-7-869-1131
(c) Cameron W. Rogers, 1994.
All Rights (in all media) Reserved (except where RTG got there
first)
RESIDUE
=======
TIME: 1120 Hours. DATE: 02/01/2020
Twenty minutes late the crowd is working itself into a silent state of
frantic anticipation. The slightest movement of every stagehand is
misinterpreted as a signal that the show is about to begin.
But finally, it does.
The podium set lights up and three cameras swing to converge on it,
triangle-formation. The crowd begins clapping with unbridled fervour.
The woman next to you is even crying. The guy in the sound booth runs
the introduction, his newscaster voice booming through the hollow studio
expanse:
"It's time. . ."
He sounds like somebody's father trying to sell car wax to his kids.
The crowd cheers louder still.
The blue screen flares up with images from warzones the world over.
"The Rev. L. John Wayne is a man dedicated to his people. . ."
A face, a middle-aged man with European features and neat blonde
hair, is superimposed distantly over the scenes. Slowly it grows
larger.
". . . a man who asks the question: 'What about the individual? Why
can't YOU get what you need? What YOU want?"
The crowd is silent. The war scenes fade out. The auditorium is dark.
"Your neighbourhood is a killing field. Your children are
smack-heads. Your life is a mechanism manipulated by the hand of
Consumerism. Your life is not your own. Your life is a commodity. . ."
Black and white footage of a Stalin speech, and the masses assembled
before him. Superimposed over this is a circling shot of Corporate
Plaza, seen from ground level. The Arasaka emblem burns bright.
"WHO is going to look after you in these times? WHO struggles to free
your mind in the only way he knows how?"
The crowd is murmuring a name. People are sniffling.
The voice is silent for a moment. The blue screen fades to black.
Everything is completely and utterly dark.
The voice returns, softly.
"There is no monopoly on Love. . ."
The crowd roars and the lights flare up to full brightness. Standing
there, behind the podium is L. John Wayne, hands spread wide to embrace
his people.
Even you're impressed.
TIME: 1420 Hours DATE: 02/01/2020
The show goes on for 3 hours and you find it hard to keep up. It's
flashy and very well done, but you really couldn't give a crud if God
DOES save and the government is really out to screw us all. Hell, you
already knew *that*.
So, when the show finally wraps itself up, it's with a sense of
relief that you stand, stretch and forward back out into the harsh Night
City glare.
The crowd is a seething mass of happy faces.
Sheep.
Looking around you see a familiar shape huddled in the shade of the
doorway across the street.
Slam.
You walk over. As you approach you notice a dark stain spread across
the mottled grey material of his right pants leg, a viscious hole torn
in the rear side of his pants leg. Looks like somebody shot him in the
back of the knee. He's pale, a thin sheen of sweat masking his face and
staining his clothes.
You step up onto the sidewalk.
"You want me to make the run, I'll need your help", he says without
looking up. Then he struggles to his feet, favouring his left side and
using the doorway for support. "Let's go."
"Where were you?", you say. "We agreed to meet here."
"Got into some trouble", he says through trembling lips. "Net
security. Fucked me up. Got shot. And I got a message from Kestral. She
says TTI has our specs and that we should head in to get a Deadman
Switch implanted. It's a 10-minute operation. I already had mine done.
Now c'mon, if I'm gonna run that Net then I'll need your assitance.
Can I count on you, or what?"
You look around at the crowd and figure it'll be a while before they
all disperse. You can always come back later. And if Slam can get into
the NCCS datafort then it could make getting into Studio C a lot easier.
"Yeah. Let's go."
Slam nods and gestures toward a kerbside DataTerm not 30 meters from
where he's standing. He motions for you to follow and limps toward it,
using the apartment building for support as he goes. Once there he takes
out his deck and lays it on the console. He then takes the interface jacks,
unfurls them and plugs them into the ports provided. After this he picks
up the cyberdeck and sits on the sidewalk, leaning against the DataTerm.
"OK", he says, looking up at you. "If I for any reason start freaking
out or showing any signs of losing it, pull the plugs out. *Carefully*
as they *are* connected to my brain. Then carry me and make a fast break
for it. If that happens they have probably tracked us down and will be
sending some troops to come get us. You understand?"
You nod.
TIME: 1445 Hours DATE: 02/01/2020
Slam finishes his run, jacks out and haul himself painfully to his feet. "Okay.
Let's get the hell outta here." He gestures that he's gonna need some help
beating a hasty retreat and you oblige. You ferry him along the
street at a good pace, headed you dont know where.
"How about we get you to TTI?", Slam suggests. "You can get that switch
implanted and I can blow what's left of my medical account. Ouch." You
cross the street and heard north, along the side of Studio C. "The friendly LJ
Wayne there is in the pocket of our little girliefriend's uncle, Big Boss Spiv.
If you don't remember Spiv is also the guy that iced Riley."
"Ranier.", you correct him.
"Yeah, Ranier. It might be an idea to find out how much Spat care for his
niece, she could turn out to be a good bargaining chip." You have moved
across the street and down the side of Studio C. You quickly scans
the road, then cross it. "Also he got something going on the airwaves that
brainwashes people and turns them into those people on the video we saw, you
probably saw a couple in the church to. Big guys with monocles. I'm
not too sure on the details or if that's what it really is, I have to
give it a better read. You do know read don't you?" Your response is
to tighten your grip on him, jostling his ribs and forcing the breath
out of him. "Just kidding.", he wheezes, and you slacken up.
You've crossed the street and past the Post-Production building. He
spots a DT on the kerb to the north-east. "Over there."
You take him across and put him down in front of it. "I'm gonna call
Kestral.", he explains. "Explain a few things to her."
He takes out the card she gave him and dials in the number. Before too
long a connection is made and her face flickers onscreen. "Hello? Slam?
The TTI people say you came in looking like hell. I can see they were letting
me down easy. What the hell happened?"
"Something's have come up regarding the current job, could we perhaps have
a chat... today."
She thinks about this. "Sure. Where do you want to meet."
He shrugs.
"Alright. Meet me at the Lake Park Bandstand. 1 hour." The line goes
dead.
TIME: 1525 Hours. DATE: 02/01/2020
Lake Park was designed by Richard Night to be the playground of his model
city, the City government dedicated Lake Park to his memory. The
grandstand that was built in 2014 to commemorate his death still bears a
bronze plaque with his name on it; one of the few items of metal in the
Park not pried off it's fixture and sold by an ambitious punker.
The Park Bandstand is a piece of Night City history. It was destroyed
in the Homeless Riots of 2014, and rebuilt shortly thereafter. It was
used by Johnny Silverhand during his famous free-benefit concert to
bring attention to the brutal methods the NCPD used to quell the riots.
The Bandstand stood pretty well neglected for the next few years, only
to enter the headlines again when a Cyberpsycho Squad from the MuckJuck
ran a mass-murderer known as "The Claw" to ground here in 2019. After
that, the bandstand got a fresh coat of paint and is now used by public
officials and the occasional rockerboy for small events.
The AV cab touches down and deducts $7 from Slam's account.
You climb out. The green of the Park stretches before you. You
once again take Slam's weight and you walk on over to the bandstand. You
have asked him repeatedly about what it was he found, but always he
brushes you off saying he only has the energy to say it once. So you
wait for Kestral.
He takes a seat on the stage while you stand there, scanning the
Park. This place is really peaceful. There are people scattered all over
the green meadow before you, on blankets and such. You can still hear
the traffic of course, but visually it's another world. If it wasn't for
Corporate Plaza towering above the trees and the AV traffic shuttling
back and forth.
You hear a voice. "Not so tough now, are you? Now that you don't have
no gang no more. . ."
You turn. You see a group of punks in yellow and black leather.
Yellow and black. . . The Slammer. Piranhas.
The voice belongs to an asian girl with long blonde hair. The one
that escaped. She's got 3 friends.
You sneer. "Trash."
They've got their weapons drawn: old-style brass-firing Walthers.
The girl laughs. "Trash, huh? At least our buddies are still
breathin', smokehead. We still got contacts. We still got. . ."
"What are you talking about." Your voice could freeze stone.
She looks at you for a loaded moment, and then bursts into shrieks of
laughter. "You don't *know*?" She laughs again. "He hasn't heard!! HA!
Your buddies, scumbag! They're dead. Wasted by the fucking Mafia. . ."
*Everything twists inside you. It twists, and twists hard. Twists so
hard it flushes everything from your head and fills it with dancing,
flashing light. . .*
Four shots, four kills. As the last plosive burst echoes and dies
across the flat of the park, and the people all gather their things and
move away, you lower the gun, shaking. Your hands are shaking.
Your face feels wet. You tentaively check it with a metal finger. It's
not blood. But you hurt anyway. Your face is wet.
"They were lying.", you say.
You turn and look south, toward the Zone. You watch. You watch.
You see the skyline, the grey smog-pall. Buildings. A neighbourhood
you know like the back of your hand. And you see smoke, pillars of it,
dark and thick reaching high into the orange sky.
The mask breaks.
You scream 'til you think you're bleeding, breaking into a run, southward
and out of the Park, across the street. Traffic blares and tyres squeal.
TIME: 1540 Hours DATE: 02/01/2020
You're sprinting through Zone territory, burnt out tenements to each
side of you, the only thing in your vision are those columns of thick,
black smoke that mark out where you used to live.
You've given leave of all rational thought, the Machine is screaming
at you, laughing at you, pleading with you, telling you this doesn't
mean a thing. You're not listening. You should never have listened. You
realise now just how worthless you really are, and how worthless you
will be if you get there and all that you now realise you ever loved is
gone.
If Svetlana is gone.
And then they're on you. They leap at you like wild cats, shadows
blurring in from the sides of your vision, their claws glinting like
steel light. Before you are even aware of it, the Machine seizes control
and throws you to the side, pulling the gun free in the same movement.
Four punks stand in the street holding combat knives, quivering with the
synthetic rush of cocaine analogs, possessed of that wild-eyed glare of
those who believe themselves unstoppable. These guys are topped up on
Black Lace, and they feel no pain.
You squeeze the trigger, and are rewarded with a *click*. Fucking
thing's jammed again. You toss it aside and leap to your feet, taking a
wild swing at the closest.
The leap on you like wolves.
Amid a flurry of blades you are fortunate enough to outwit most of
them, bar one which finds it's mark on your abdomen.
You grin and drive a metalled fist directly through his head. As he
drops his friends close in. You send a wild backhand toward the one to
your left which he dodges with balletic ease, before grabbing his knife
hilt with both hands and plunging the blade into your right foot, missing
your smallest toe by a millimeter. The others strike and connect, ducking
below your flailing arm and homing in on the vulnerable meat of your
legs, but deflecting off the armor.
While they are crouched beside you, you forego all attempts at
dodging and decide instead to pound them where they stand. The first
rolls out of the way, but the second is felled by the blow. The third
also manages to avoid you as you overstretch to get him and throw
yourself off balance. They seize this opportunity to finish you off. One
comes in swinging like a madman, futilely. The second strikes twice,
stabbing repeatedly at your upper torso and deflecting off the metal
plating there. Now that they are in appropriately close quarters you
reach out, grab the first by the head and hurl him into his friend,
ending their lives with a sickening *crack*.
You quickly look around, scanning the area for any other threats.
Then you gather up your malfunctioning weapon and resume your sprint
homeward.
TIME: 1610 Hours DATE: 02/01/2020
The first thing you see of your old home is litter and ruin. Buildings
that aren't bullet ridden have actually been blown up, their gutted
shells still hold some remnants of flickering flame. One of these
buildings is the old clubhouse, your home.
Lying strewn in the street outside are shards of rubble, and bodies.
Mostly they are people you know. The others are different. They wear
suits.
Italian suits.
You break into a run. The central plaza of the old HQ is rubble
strewn and destroyed. The disused fountain is now toppled and shattered
and you are forced to pick your way across it to gain access to the
stairwell leading to the first tier. Once up, you make your way across
the pocked and blasted balcony to the shattered glass front on what used
to be your flop. The steel frame of the door is twisted and pushed open.
Inside you can see the burnt husk of your mattress, the mannequins lying
blasted and sprawled over the floor. Spread over the floor are hundreds
of concrete chunks, and against the wall, Svetlana's makeshift bookshelf
has toppled.
And next to it, lies Svetlana.
You move to her, seeing that someone has already removed some rubble
from her grey and bloodied form.
She is undeniably dead.
TIME: 1715 Hours DATE: 02/01/2020
Time passes.
You sit, hunkered down on the blasted concrete of what used to be a
home, surrounded by the pungent stench of flame and cordite, company to
a corpse.
You are very, very angry.
So is the Machine.
There is no one left.
You and the Machine have become friends.
TIME: 1815 Hours DATE: 02/01/2020
It was decided amongst yourself to look for survivors. The Maelstrom was
a combat gang; a combat gang formed around the remnants of the Metal
Warriors, a gang virtually wiped out in one night by the Inquisitors.
The survivors then banded together under a man named Hammer, and drafted
together a new membership from the ranks of the Red Chrome Legion and
Ironsights, gangs with a personal grudge against the Inquisitors.
Hammer was a man who was originally thrown out of the Warriors for
breaking their combat code. With his new gang, Maelstrom, he wrote the
rules.
Anything goes.
Hammer died not long ago in a shootout with a bunch of Cuban
Liberationists. His successor was Flatbed.
This was a gang that was no holds barred. They were stronger and more
violent than the Metal Warriors ever were. Everyone had enough anger
inside them for ten men.
There was no way in hell they were ever going to back down from a
fight, no matter the odds.
If there were survivors, they're not here.
Flatbed was on the sidewalk right outside the clubhouse, his arms locked
around the throat of some slick-haired guy in a suit. You found Captain Damage
lying barehanded in the middle of about 8 bodies, all of them with their
necks broken. You couldn't find Johnny Southside, the groups chemist,
nor could you find Duster, the arms dealer.
But the one that tore you up, undeniably, was Viz. You found her in
the street, one block north of the clubhouse. In her hand she was
holding that holographic keyring of L.John Wayne.
You took the keyring, took her home, and torched the building.
TIME: 1830 Hours DATE: 02/01/2020
The sky is striated with livid purple and crimson as you walk back to
the clubhouse and Duster's storehouse that is a block away from that.
You and the Machine are working together now, going over and over what
must have happened, how it could have happened, who would be responsible
and who is going to die for it.
It always comes back to the same man, of course. Bruce Spiv. But
there's more to it than that. Someone must have tipped him off. But who?
Slam? Well'ard? The Inquisitors?
Slam was pretty pissed off at you for busting him up yesterday
morning. But then Well'ard has only been with the group for 2 months,
and his whole attitude does make you very suspicious. Or maybe it *was*
the Inquisitors. Anything's possible. They'd jump at the chance to wipe
out a gang that was seen to embody every evil of the cyber-menace.
You grit your teeth and keep walking.
(cont)
... "Just put on a happy face..." - Hannibal Lecter.
From coyote@softtech.brisnet.org.au (Coyote)
Date: Thu Feb 02 05:25:24 MET 1995
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo
Subject: Residue (11)
Organization: Soft-Tech +61-7-869-1131
(c) Cameron W. Rogers, 1994.
All Rights (in all media) Reserved (except where RTG got there
first)
RESIDUE
=======
TIME: 1845 Hours DATE: 02/01/2020
Upon reflection, it's probably a good thing that Duster's legs don't
work properly anymore. He doesn't have a vehicle, so if he did get out
he didn't take all that much stuff. There are still weapons and stuff in
brackets on the walls, but you do notice that the large factory-floor
cargo hauler he had for shipping crates around is gone. If he did get
out he must be dragging it through the Zone right now. You wonder if
he'll manage to find a buyer.
There are 2 suits on the floor in here, both with their throats slit.
Looks like Duster must have ambushed them as they came in. Marine
training pays off.
You poke around, trying to find ordinance that is both portable and
powerful. There's a lot to choose from, and you can't help but wonder
why the Mafia didn't take off with some of this stuff. Either Duster put
up a good fight, or their priority was to get Sarina and get out. What
with the rep Maelstrom had, that wouldn't surprise you. Flatbed used to
boast that his dream was to beat up God.
You find a shipment of 12 Sternmeyer Type 35 pistols, standard cop
issue, in 3 padded briefcases. There is a crate filled with styrofoam
packing peanuts and about a dozen mini-Uzi's. One thing you find that
immediately grabs your attention is a metal carry-case with a military
logo spray painted on the side. It reads: MILITECH AM-3 "ANTI-MATTER"
RIFLE. You pop open the case to find a sizeable rifle of fairly
high-tech appearance. It is possessed of a light-grey gunmetal sheen,
with a telescoping, shock-absorbing stock, hydro-pneumatic recoil
absorption system, advanced muzzle brake and a bipod. It is perhaps a
meter and a half long. There is a single clip in the foam moulding,
along with the rifle itself, and a manual. You've never heard of or seen
anything like this weapon.
Eagerly you pick it up out of the moulding and take the weight. It's
heavy. The weapon has a top-mounted sight with a screen about the size
of a mini-TV. You power it up and flick through the options using a
side-mounted stud. You quickly learn that the sight is equipped with a
Cyberoptic Triangulation smartgun interlock and a 2-10X telescopic
lighting system with low-light and thermal imaging capabilities.
You unspool your plugs and jack in.
Immediately your vision is consumed, and you are seeing through the
gun's eye. A targeting reticule is painted dead-centre in your field of
vision, the outline of a crate flashing red. Range to target is read out
in meters in the bottom left of your vision and, on a simple mental
prompt, a window appears in the top left of your field of view. Your
main field-of-view is once again your own, but the window shows what the
gun is seeing. You quickly realise this could be used to shoot around
corners.
Duster always did have good stuff. A quick flip through the manual
reveals that this weapon is optimised to fire Depleted Uranium slugs.
There is 1 clip in the case, with 5 bullets.
It is also your good fortune to find another steel carry-case bearing
the Militech logo. Popping the clasps, you find you are now the proud
possessor of a Militech Urban Missile Launcher. It is a magazine fed
weapon which resembles an oversized SMG, and fires self-guiding,
heat-seeking, explosive-tipped, rocket-propelled micromissle
projectiles. It comes with a full clip.
There is also a shipment of Malorian Arms Sliver Guns, but you forego
them. You now have 2 rather formidable weapons. Someone up there must
be in a good mood.
Too bad you've never laid hands on a heavy weapon in your lifetime.
You find an old duffel bag and stuff the Uzis and Sternmeyers into
it. Maybe you can sell them for cash later. Looking around, you figure
to take a breather, and take out the Armalite. You rummage around in
what's left of Duster's stuff and find his maintenance kit. You could
clear the breech in a minute with your bare hands, but it's jammed up
twice in as many days, so you figure it's due for some maintenance.
Locating the kit, you then find a clean spot and slide down the wall,
looking to get lost in the job at hand, trying to feel something other
than grief.
TIME: 1730 Hours DATE: 02/01/2020
If you could, you would bury Svetlana properly. You would put her in the
ground, the way that it's supposed to be done. Or even better, you would
send her home, to her family. But both of these options are out of your
reach, so take Flatbed inside, off of the street, as well as anyone else
you can find, and place them in the remains of the clubhouse.
And you torch it.
As the building burns, you decide to never return here again. This
part of your life is now over. It was the look of a Maelstrom member to
wear black leather and chrome. Or just to look dirty and dangerous. You
chose the latter. Maybe it's time for a change.
Bending over, you pick up three things from the sidewalk where you left
them. Flatbed's black leather jacket, with the Maelstrom symbol
hand-painted on the back: a fist clenched around the handle of an old
style hammer, in a whirlwind; Svetlana's blue baseball cap, and Viz's
keyring. This is all that's left of your life and your friends.
Everything's coming apart.
It's time for what goes around to come around. And it starts now.
You slip into the jacket, put on the cap, and latch the keyring to
the strap loop on the butt of the Armalite. Then you sling the duffelbag
and head north.
TIME: 1745 Hours DATE: 02/01/2020
You've been walking 15 minutes, with the Gibson Overpass a concrete arc
on the near horizon, when someone starts taking shots at you. They've
set themselves up in alleyways on the left and right of the street
you're walking down. They're wearing purple robes and mirrorshades.
Inquisitors.
The Machine screams. You scream. The Machine hauls out the Armalite,
keyring reflecting sunlight as it starts to kick.
You thank God for small mercies, feeling a year of rage pour out the
barrel of the gun, not giving a damn about cover, feeling guilty for
not being there for your friends, for not having fought to the end. In
your own way, this is how you atone for your sins. In a way, you almost
wish you'd get killed, right here and now.
There are 3 of them, carrying H&K MPK11 sub-machine guns.
They combine their fire on you as you hurl yourself to the side,
snapping off 3 shots at the nearest one. Lead whines as it fills the air,
ricocheting off the sides of buildings and thunking into car bodies, old
post boxes.
All three slugs strike the Inquisitor in the head, sending a horrible
splash of crimson against the far alley wall. His compatriots look
visibly shaken, until one launches a grenade at you. You gasp and hurl
yourself aside as the explosive impacts harmlessly against the building
wall. From your new position, prone on the street, you prop yourself up
on your elbows and fire 5 consecutive shots. 3 at the Inquisitor with
the launcher and 2 at the other.
The first takes three hits to the head, spins wildly and collapses. The
remaining Inquisitor takes two head hits, and slumps to his knees to
land face first on the sidewalk.
There is silence. You wait for a moment, wary of any other threat.
Then you lower the gun and relax, sinking onto the hot asphalt.
And you start to breath again.
TIME: 1900 Hours DATE: 02/01/2020
It is 7pm when you walk through the doors of TTI. You explain who you
are, and a nurse escorts you to the elevator and up to the 5th floor.
You are given a bed next to Slam. He's on a drip. There is a sign on the
foot of his bed that reads: NIL BY MOUTH.
"Hey there", he says, putting down a small cardboard box full of
noodles and a pair of chopsticks. "Was wondering when you'd show."
You look around, then throw your duffel bag onto the bed, which lands
heavily. You scratched the logos off of the carry-cases for the rifle
and launcher and placed them in the bag as well. No one asks you
any questions.
There are 2 other beds in here, both empty.
You take off your cap and climb into bed. It doesnt take long before
you just pass out altogether.
TIME: 0830 Hours DATE: 03/01/2020
You're woken by the sound of conversation in your room. You slowly open your
eyes, blinking in the early morning glare streaming through the windows. You
do not move, pretending you are still asleep. Whoever the new voice is,
it isn't a nurse.
"Hey kid." Male. Middle-aged. Gravelly.
A pause. "What are you doing here?" Slam.
"Just thought I'd pay you a visit. What? A friend cant
visit a friend no more? Besides,",there is the sound of something being
removed from a pocket. "I'm your partner."
"You?"
"Yeah me. Now I think you oughta know something. Some cops have been
asking questions, looking for you guys. You in particular. They've been
to the Circuit and showed me a cop sketch of you. What you been doing to
piss off the law?"
"I dunno. The Mob, maybe."
"Well, you should be safe here. Kestral went to a lot of trouble to assure
you your privacy. You're being dealt with by a team of 1 doctor and 2 nurses.
No one else should know that you're here."
You hear Slam sigh. "So how did you get this job?"
"Oh, me and Kestral go back a long way." You hear the new voice stand and
take a few steps. The sound of the NIL BY MOUTH sign being
flipped around. "You want some breakfast?"
"Order me some eggs.", you say, figuring there is no longer any point
in being secretive. Besides, you're hungry. "And bacon. And a stack of
pancakes and some brewed coffee. The real stuff." You roll over to look
at the visitor. "Okay?"
He's a typical middle-American: middle-aged, slightly balding, got a
cigar in one hand, dressed in jeans, a baseball jacket and sneakers that
are showing the signs of age. He looks you over, and takes a drag.
"You got two hands an' an intercom, buddy. Use 'em." Then he looks
back to Slam. "Be back in a minute, kid."
TIME: 0850 Hours DATE: 03/01/2020
Slam's visitor returns with a trayful of food: coffee, juice, muffins and
blueberry jam, cereal, a side order of bacon and two ham and cheese
croissants.
"There ya go, kid." He sets it up in front of Slam. "Eat up, and while
you're doing that I'll figure out just what we're gonna take on this
little jaunt." He pulls a sports-bag out from under the bed, and starts
rifling through an assortment of programs.
TIME: 0930 Hours DATE: 03/01/2020
Slam has finished breakfast and got himself prepped. His deck is laid out
before him, copies of various programs locked into their sockets.
Then the door to your ward opens, and in walks your 2 nurses.
"Ah, good to see you're both up. Mr. Crombie, Nurse Franklin will be
taking you down to get your switch installed. Should only take a half an
hour or so. And Mr. Chicacuatlan, I will be escorting you to post op.
Then we'll see if we can do something about those ribs of yours."
Slam's friend looks at him. "Y'know kid, you probably could use a little
fixing up. Why don't you just leave it to me. I mean, I've got all the
software I need, and from what you've told me, the layout of the places
shouldn't be too much of a problem. Hell, Kestral need never know. I'll
tell her you went in with me." He winks. "Don't worry about it. Really.
Just go get fixed and I'll still be here when you get back."
He thinks about this, then nods.
Nurse Lada helps him into a wheelchair.
The other nurse approaches you, and escorts you from your bed to the
elevator in the hall.
TIME: 1015 Hours DATE: 03/01/2020
When you return to your room, with a faint scar on your abdomen, you
find Slam's friend lying on his bed, leafing through a magazine. You
order a hamburger and a shake and settle back to watch some daytime TV.
TIME: 1200 Hours DATE: 03/01/2020
Sometime later, Slam is wheeled into the room, unconscious, on a gurney.
The two nurses hoist him off and settle him into bed. His friend quickly
throws himself off to make room, and settles into the padded chair by
the bedside and goes back to his magazine.
You notice that Slam now wears a neck brace.
TIME: 1300 Hours DATE: 03/01/2020
An hour later, Slam wakes.
"Hey kid.", his friend smiles and waves a disk. "You'll be pleased to know
that you're a very wealthy man."
"What did you find?", he asks.
His friend takes his deck, pops up the view screen and inserts the
disk. Slam's eyes light up, which immediately gets your attention. You
put down the last half of your third burger, turn off the TV, get out of bed
and walk over to him.
"Is this it?", you ask.
He nods.
The screen is lit with information.
FILE #1: BLIPVERTS/IBM/MALCOLM TARRIDES
This file provides you with detailed information about something
called a blipvert. A form of televisual subliminal coercive first
devised by a man by the name of Malcolm Tarrides, who was originally
working on the project for the IBM corporation. Blipverts can be used to
install a low-level suggestion in the mind of the viewer. In this case
it was calling for ratings and donations. Tarrides is a brilliant
technician whom L. John Wayne had forcibly extracted from the stalls of
IBM in Switzerland. According to all official documents, Malcolm
Tarrides was killed by the extracting team during the op. This is false.
He was sedated with a drug that nulled his vitals while his biomonitor
and other corporate assurance were removed.
Malcolm Tarrides is a netrunner, and goes by the handle of Deadline.
A photograph of the man is supplied, as well as a dossier. He is of
Fantu-African descent. His psych profile describes him as a sociable
extrovert who knows his worth. This leads to childish fits of anger when
he feels he isnt being given the respect accorded to his station. His
wife was killed by Pro-African nationalists during a demonstration in
Munich. It is suspected that he harbours a deep rooted sense of
frustration and anger over this.
He is a 5'10" dreadlocked African with no outstanding features.
"I saw him", you say. "Backstage at the L. John Wayne broadcast.
He gave orders to the guards and anyone with headplugs was taken out of
the studio."
Slam's visitor nods. "Probably thought that whoever busted their
datafort was gonna try and infiltrate the show." Slam grins. "Guys with
headplugs stand out as 'runners, which is why I got mine in the wrist."
He smiles.
FILE #2: MAFIA PAYOUTS
L. John Wayne is in the pocket of the local Mafia. The majority of what
the ministry makes goes to the Mafia. L. John Wayne is kept in check via
blackmail. They know his history. Prior to becoming L. John Wayne, L.
John Wayne was Marcel Petrie, a rip-off artist from Avignon, France. Now
he's got an middle-American accent and is ripping people off,
nationwide.
He has thus far managed to elude Interpol through extensive facial
surgery.
It also mentions that the Mafia has expressed an interest in L. John
Wayne's "Sentinel Project".
The Machine is taking this in as fast as the deck supplies it. This
is all starting to fall into place. Now you've got dirt on L. John Wayne
AND the Mafia.
FILE #3: LIST OF 'HOT' FBI AGENTS, CATERGORISED BY THREAT
This is an extensive and detailed list of 11 FBI agents, their
backgrounds, history, specialities, work history etc.
All of them have worked in France.
They are catergorised by the threat they pose to L. John Wayne.
Four of whom are listed as deceased.
FILE #4: THE SENTINEL PROJECT
Through extended exposure to a modified form of blipvert, L. John Wayne
has slowly been creating a force of loyal soldiers. He currently has a
cadre of a dozen of these fighting men. Schematics for the standard
Sentinel outfit is also provided. The uniform is a sleeveless grey
armoured duster over a white tunic and black pants. All are outfitted
with a customised Kiroshi Optics HUD, mounted over one eye. Through this
the unit receives visual cues and info downloaded from the nearest van
or site. This permits them to move with great efficiency. It is a heavy,
dark grey metal monocle with a stylised cross dead centre, which glows
pale yellow.
It makes mention that they are looking to acquire a shipment of
Combat Crystal for installation ASAP.
The standard issue weapon is the .477 Boomer Buster, a weapon which
saw limited popularity with some 'Borg Squads. Each express gun comes
outfitted with a gun-cam, triple magazine extension, laser sight and
smarting. Each Sentinel also carries two rifle grenades: 1 Frag and 1
Anti-tank.
Standard issue side-arm is a Sternmeyer Type 35 pistol. These come
standard with smarting, a COT targeting system and a laser sight. Each
Sentinel carries two clips of AP for this weapon.
Each is also issued with a combat knife.
There is also a list of standard cyberware:
Double-speed Sansistevan reflex boost with Boostmaster attachment
L.OPTIC: Targeting, IR, Image Enhance
R.OPTIC: Video Imager
AUDIO: Radio, Phone, Scrambler
And that's it.
TIME: 1310 Hours DATE: 03/01/2020
You finish reading the last of the files, sorting out all that you now
know as it runs through your head.
"Why the repeated references to France?", you ask.
Slam shrugs. "I dunno. Maybe. . ."
His friend pipes up. "L. John Wayne used to be a 2-bit scammer from
Avignon. They were probably investigating him. If the FBI ever got solid
proof that L.J. and this Marcel Petrie were the same person, he'd be
done for. So, my guess is that he's been keeping an eye on what they've
been doing, and bagging them when they got too close."
"So, this means Ranier is no longer a priority then."
"Sarina already told us the Mob had him killed, remember?", Slam
says. "Unless WNS wants the body, which I doubt."
"You heard this from Kestral?", you ask.
"No, but it would just seem to make sense that if he's dead, he's no
use."
You think about this. "Okay then. What's the plan of attack?"
Slam's eyes seem to jump out of his head. "*Attack?* Are you serious?
Man, we've done all we came to do! We got the story, found out that
Ranier is history, *as well* as having the largest crime syndicate in
town on our butts AND I just learn that the friggin' cops are lookin'
for me! What more do you want!"
"The cops are looking for you? How do you know?"
"Livewire here told me. Oh, Livewire, this is Residue. Residue,
Livewire."
Livewire nods. "We've met."
"Livewire here runs the Short Circuit, that bar just behind this
building. Good food. Anyway, like I said, colour me gone."
"The cops came 'round to the bar", Livewire says. "Showed a cop
sketch, said he went by the name of Slam. My guess is they don't have
his real name. They were plainclothes, that much jumped out at me. And
they ID'd themselves as Vice."
The Machine is waking up.
"What did they look like?"
Livewire shrugs. "A black guy and some hispanic girl. Dressed dirty,
y'know. Gangboy-style."
You turn to Slam. "Sound familiar?"
He shakes his head. "No man. Dunno why they'd want me. I don't do
drugs. Regularly."
"So what are you going to do now then?"
"Well, I was going to stay here until I was back to 100%, then I was
going to collect my pay and split."
"Even though NCPD Vice is looking for you."
"Well, yeah."
Livewire clears his throat. "Um, I hate to break it to you boys, but
the Syndicate covered you for three grand in hospitalisation expenses. I
do believe it's all been used. Anything else comes out of your pay."
Slam sighs and looks up at the ceiling. "I'm gonna stay here the rest
of the day, and maybe leave tomorrow, seeing as it's all been paid for anyway.
What about you?"
---
That's all for now. Any feedback would be welcome.
Cam.
... You cant call a film 'Alien Cubed', and then show me 1 alien.-C.Barker
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