>From: wyang@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu (William D Yang)
Subject: A Run in the Night
Date: 19 Sep 91 04:43:48 GMT

Hi there.  This is my first story in what may or may not be the Cyberpunk
genre.  Try to be gentle, ok?  :)

I've been writing, trying to get the feel of a character; while he's
definitely in a cyberpunk (or Shadowrun, specifically) environment, I'm
starting to wonder if he's really the right kind of personality for the
setting.  Basically, I took your archetypical 1940's private detective and
dropped him, with all the necessary mods, into an entirely different kind of
environment.  I don't know if I've written within what "Cyberpunk" is
(actually, I'm not even sure I really /KNOW/ what "Cyberpunk" is); it does
kinda feel a bit different.  I dunno; all I can say is that life ain't all
Cyberware and Corps blocking out the light; life's about seeing you've got shit
in your hand and playing--and winning--anyway.  If this story ain't Cyberpunk,
well...  at least it was fun to write.  Lemme know wha'ch'all think, ok?

Oh yeah; all future postings by me relating to this character will have the
keywords 'Nightrunner Investigations.'  Whether you like him or hate him, it
should make life easier either way.

.  .  .

A Run in the Night
.  .  .

As a Licensed independent investigation firm in the city of Seattle,
Nightrunner Investigations takes on the usual PI jobs, and also the sensitive
work that Corps, cops, and nice "normal" folk don't want their hands dirtied
on.  The lost can be found; the found can be lost... and the price isn't TOO
unreasonable.  Delivery guaranteed.
.  .  .

The room lit up like a christmas tree as I closed the door, lock oil still
fresh on my fingers.  Four thugs, hired guards you could almost smell the
street on, flanked me as I stared at both the Crystal Lynx and Slugger.

The Crystal Lynx was a statuette, a translucent golden figurine of a cat-like
creature with ruby eyes, worth millions to the religious cult it was stolen
from; worth more from the Yaks and Execs who'd want it in a private gallery
somewhere.  Definitely 'twas a beauty, dug up from some ancient ruins half a
century ago.

Slugger, on the other hand, was fraggin' ugly.  The trog was a petty thief,
trying to geek his way into the big time by pulling off piss-ant jobs. This
time, he might've done it right....  if the Cult of the Crystal Lynx hadn't
hired me to recover the icon.

Me, my name's John Black -- I'm private heat workin' for my nutrisoy.  Got
hired to find this statue....  Damned thing about having a rep for always
getting the job done.  You get the clottin' drekkiest jobs.

"Been waitin' f'ya, Jack," Slugger began, his whining voice lingering on the
submachine gun he had pointed at me, "Word is yer lookin' fer my kitty cat."

"The Lynx goes back, Slugger.  You can walk without it, or you can give me
some practice in wetwork.  I don't care which."

"Who you think yer buzzin' with, Jack?  Who you think we be -- some
cyberkids?  This here Cat's mine -- and you ain't takin' it.  Ain't nobody
takin' it.  Not no heat, not no corpcop, and not no big-shit private heatwave
who calls himself Nightrunner!  Youse dead, Jack!  Dead!"

The four razorguys made their move.  They were fast and they were strong.
Too bad; in this world, it helps to be wired, too.  I was across the room
with a pistol out before Slugger's autofire sank into the wall.  A blue
triangle cut through my sight as I leveled my gun; its targeting system
started spilling distances and combat analysis into my head as I felt the
kick of four shots ending four meaningless lives.

I rolled onto my feet and spun, narrowly avoiding another burst of lead that
tore into the floor next to me.  The triangle aligned on the barrel of
Slugger's gun, and another kick recoiled through my arm as the thug lost his
pretty toy.  He backed slowly up as I stood and walked towards him, my gun
pointed at his unprotected chest.

A red warning washed across my chromed eyes as I pulled the trigger -- weapon
jam!  Fraggin' Confederate trashguns -- my supplier, Willy, told me not to buy
anything made in the CAS, but here I tried to save a few creds.  Last time I do
something stupid like that.

"Tell you what, Slugger.  I take the Lynx, you keep your bad self alive.
Sound fair?"

Damned thing about those street crooks -- they know when your guns are jammed
almost as fast as you do.  Friggin' drek!  What's the world coming to
nowadays?  Slugger grabbed the cat and tried to make a break for the door; he
wasn't too smart.  I slammed the gun into his jaw and knocked him into the
wall with a grunt.  He swung a fist, landing a good one on my jaw; he tried
to follow up with the statuette; I had my knife out by the time he was half-
way through the swing.  The Lynx went flying as my blade crunched through the
bones in his right forearm, landing with a loud thump as I battered Slugger
into unconsciousness.

Sheathing the knife and flipping the pistol its holster for later, I picked
up the statue and started to leave.  My chrono chimed in, it's electronic
workings unending.  It's LED read 23:05:30.  I was running a little late as
I begain walking towards my employer and my first payoff in two weeks.
.  .  .

The ice and gravel crunched as I walked down the street, my cigarette burning
more in my hand than on my lip.  The world seemed to be perpetually in the
shadows inside the City, as the Megacorp buildings climbed higher and higher
into the sky like some obscene Tower of Babel, leaving the streets with only
unending shadows and eternal night.  Not that it matters when it's dark out,
though.  Street lamps, with their powerful sodium bulbs, lit the way to the
Chatsubo.

The first block I walked was pretty tame; only the squatters and vagrants
littered the streets, marking their turf with discarded plexiglass, plastics,
and paper.  Didn't matter whether they were down on their luck, burnt out, or
just didn't care: they were on the streets.  They were targets for any strays
that might be found in the City.

I checked my chrono again.  23:24:47.  Clot!

I hurried another block, past joygirls and joyboys, selling their bodies for
credits or a few milliseconds of simstims.  A few made the normal passes, but
only one caught my attention.  Decked out, her brown hair was smeared with
silver and blue tints, her lips were chrome blue.  She wasn't wearing much
else: only a torn-up red dress and a strange pendant under her longcoat.  She
hurried by, oblivious to me and most of the rest of the world.  She stumbled,
falling against a nearby building; then she stood up and continued running
down the street.  Her handprints were on the iced wall, red paint on a
granite surface.  When my cybereyes focused closer, I realized it wasn't
paint.  That lady was taking care of herself: another denizen... or maybe
victim... of the street.

I only passed two fresh kills that night; for a change, most of the dead were
frozen instead of bleeding.
.  .  .

The priest was waiting for me outside the Chatsubo, his ice-encrusted robes
covering his shivering.  It was a cold night, a dusting of snow falling on
the winds around us.  I was late to see a clottin' priest: whatever Gods
there might be would see me in hell...  thing is, Hell ain't nothing to the
shadows.

"Mr. Black?  Do you have the Statue?  Did you save the Crystal Lynx?"

I walked up to him, ready to give him a statue.  I pulled out my pocket
secretary with the words, "You've got the credit ready, I presume."

As the priest slotted his Card, he began looking at the Lynx as if in awe.
As I handed him my pocket secretary for authorization of the cred transfer,
he glared at me.

"The Lynx is chipped!  You've damaged the Crystal Lynx!  I won't pay for your
bumbling, damaging this irreplacable artifact, Black!"

My gun was still jammed, but I had me a nasty idea.  I drew and had him dead
to sights with a worthless gun and a wicked grin.

"I recovered your precious kitty cat, you'll pay me for it."

He glowered and pressed his thumb to the pad at 23:49:22.
.  .  .

It only took me ten minutes in the Tube to get home.  The Slugs Nest was
closed; Roscoe and Gordon must've actually gotten rid of everyone on time.
I'd wanted to pick up a pistol from my stash.  Oh well; I'd see about getting
a key in the morning.

Amber, my beautiful fiance, was on the couch when I got back to the loft.
"John?  Isn't it a bit late for you to be working?"

"Well, it's a living, Amber," I replied with a smile, "I /am/ the
Nightrunner, after all?"
Her eyes narrowed as she looked at me; she wasn't too happy.  It's not good
to get a professional sorceress mad at you.  Then again, it does add a
certain spice to life....

"John, you and I need to talk."  Totally cold, she meant business.

For the first time that night, I felt the cold.  Through my armored jacket,
my insulated clothes; through the kevlar that protected me, I was stabbed
with the frigid touch of fear.
.  .  .

Nightrunner Investigations, The Crystal Lynx, Slugger, The Cult of the
Crystal Lynx, John "Nightrunner" Black, The Slugs Nest, and all other
prominent "thingies" are copyright (c) 1991 by William D. Yang. If you want
to use 'em, at least let me know first.  If you don't, well...  I'll have to
forward my tuition bills to you.... >:)
.  .  .
--
William D. Yang        wyang@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu        Yang.25@osu.edu
"Ray," the semi-demi-quasi-pseudo Lurker and chinese chef on alt.tuesdays...
It's my opinion, but if you really want it, you an have it for a nominal fee.