From: A.W.Hughes@bradford.ac.uk (AW HUGHES)
Subject: STORY: Shadows
Date: Wed, 8 Dec 1993 19:13:20 GMT


Just a quickie re-run of a Shadowrun game from last week, sorry
if it's mucked up but it's been a hard night on the ale.
No doubt tomorrow I will swear to never write whilst drunk again.

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 Matchsticks was full for the mid afternoon calm down.  TV  execs
and  model  secretaries  sat on each others knees, wound down and
bought expensive drinks. Their faces showed the pleasure and con-
centration  from being near the aura of power that surrounded the
few shadowrunners that dotted themselves around the  bar.  Middle
rich  acting  like  groupies,picking  up half imagined stories to
make their friends believe their lives were any less than tedium.
I  stood  for a moment at the entrance way, trying to see further
through the dark with its bright flashes and not  for  the  first
time  cursing my lack of low light eyes. Image enhancement helped
of course, you could read labels on bottles, see if it was  fake,
but  in  dark,  you  just saw dark better. Back placed toward the
bar, hand straying occasionally to the  case  at  my  shoulder  I
tried  to  let  my  eyes adjust and see past the sea of suits who
stared and nudged toward me. Nervousness wasn't a normal part  of
my  actions,  but a buzz of unease from the looks made me turn my
back, risking my safety, and admiring the eyes of a  hardbody  at
the  bar.  A  tall  tumbler  of brown was assembled into place in
front of me, my nostrils twitched in affirmation at the  Glenfid-
dich as it grew close to my face, touched my lips and was gone. A
second was splashed down to replace the first and I smiled appre-
ciatively  at  the  quality of service and wondered at how seldom
one saw real eyes these days. Speech was impossible amid the hard
pulsing  cyberpunk  beat  that belted the walls and threatened to
smash any glasses placed under the Sarinek 2000 synth-amps that I
passed  amid  my  following  of the barmaids indicating finger. I
passed through the circular tables of leather-lapelled suits that
gave  me  room  and nudged with pride their inputs and expected a
squeeze in return. Tagboys grew fewer in number at the  back  few
tables  where  the  prescence  of  real guns and the crackling of
white noise obviously forced a difference. The music didn't cease
to silence but passed straight over into a speedier version. Bull
stood up and enthusiastically waved at  me,  his  face  lit  with
pleasure,  causing some wonderment, and I regretfully had to rule
out RainbowCrystal as it's cause. Next to him sat Flipside, look-
ing faintly worn out and staring accusingly at her drink.
   From the seat that I'd slid into opposite  Flipside  I  momen-
tarily admired the linited work done on her arm and toyed briefly
with the idea that the new black look was  aimed  at  me.  Quikly
boring  of  my view I stared pointedly at the mirrored table top,
seeing my inscrutible expression turn to the painted snarl of the
samurai  and imagining the face in battle, clad in helmet and re-
flecting further into the dark surface of the  black  blade  held
menacingly  in  front. My eyes buzzing blue like static, cool and
hidden with the expression to match. I saw myself like my father,
thoughtful  and  with  honour.  The  urge to smash the mirror was
great and I closed my heavy eyelids and felt  instead.  Felt  the
limits of the flesh. and the stillness of it, the lack of feeling
for the constant flows of atoms rushing through us. Human  infor-
mation.  I  smelt  sweat  and stalenes, whiskey and root beer and
stared up into the flat face of Flipside. Before a mention  could
be made of her apparent lapse in heavy drinking, she spoke.

   'Dragonjack. Long time no see.' I thought back over  the  last
month  and  it's activity and declined to answer. Seeing a try of
drinks coming our way, I timed my speech so that it would be  in-
terupted by their arival.

    'I have been around, mainly..'

   'Drinks courtesy of some gentlemen  from  Shabitsi.  Sirs.'  I
stared  at  the drinks and noticed the orders accuracy whilst the
corner of my vision noticed Flipside still staring at  me  as  if
knowing my ruse and showing it hadn't worked. She asked no furth-
er. A swift gulping sound brought my  attention  to  Bull  who  I
caught  in time to see a glass being deposited before  some story
continued.

    'Anyway, after I um told her it um was me  who  did  Euphoria
job  she  got  real  friendly. Her hair was soft as um coyote but
when mouth opened it was um not to um howl.'

 He looked up smiling to  gauge  our  reaction  and  prepare  the
further  adventures.  More  drinks arrived and I began to contem-
plate getting seriously drunk seeing as the bars current  patrons
could  obviously  afford it. Bull sought out other more dedicated
listeners from the corporate crowd possibly  with  the  angle  of
finding  more hardbodies to be the object of stories later in the
week. Flipside talked as usual through a wildly  differing  vari-
ance  of  subjects,  though  all keeping within certain limits of
guns, thoughts and peoples stupidity. I  let  it  flow  over  me,
keeping as usual to short, prompted answers and observing motions
and actions through interest and security, much like the  others.
Donovan  was  late.  I  myself was correctly and fashionably late
(some fashions never die, maybe none do). It  got  so  late  that
Donovan  was obviously not going to turn. No mention was made, or
assumptions, its best not to think. Wait til they turn to  decide
whether they're dead or not. Approaches were made and lines said.
Morlock was the name. A hire job, details on  approach  to  Uber-
lander  plaza  or  something.  I let Flipside take the details, I
prefer to just keep track  of  stuff  that  interests  me.  Money
splashed  to  some  kid  with a green shadow told us Morlock only
hired the best and whilst we  revelled  in  the  extra  burst  of
drinks this information brought we eyed each other with the ques-
tion. 'So why is he choosing us?'.  There  were  three  hours  to
waste so we did.

    I was standing in the plushness of  the  Uberland?,  watching
Flipside  and Bull stare in awe at the plushness of the surround-
ings and with a much lower awe at the Lonestar scratchers hanging
near  the corners. The mood took me well and I ignored the pointy
nosed receptionist and called for another drink, flirting briefly
with the idea that I ought to cut down. The name Morlock the War-
lock found some amusement for a while, then we  presented  it  to
the  biz  at the desk and received a Maglock card in return. Pro-
fessional interest gained it my attention and I  tapped  a  rapid
rythym on it's smooth plastic outer. Only one elevator was avail-
able to us and we waited with touche of agitation for it  to  ar-
rive.  There  were no numbers over the door, only a plaque saying
'elevator 1'. The door opened like a steel mouth  and  exhaled  a
fetid smell of Orc. Three of them stood arrogantly in the interi-
or, staring down. The first opened its wide mouth and spoke.

    'You. Scum. Get out of our way.' I  visibly  wrinkled  up  my
nose,  seeing  bull and flipside thinking out of the corner of my
eye.

    'Bellboys just aren't as polite as they used to be.'  I  said
as  I  reached  out  and  closed  the lift doors. Flipside looked
slightly overcome at her first confontration in a while.

   'Any Grenades Dragonjack?' She said. I  mentioned  the  couple
that I held at the reverse of my belt just as the door reopened.

    'Look scum just bugger off will you.' Said the  good  looking
one. I fumbled for my Viper and then came across a better idea in
the form of my Maglock Passkey. In one motion I closed  the  door
and began to scramble the lock with the intention of gaining time
or finding a diffeent elevator without losing face. Bull gave  me
a look, cursed something Coyote and then cast. I didn't have time
to avert my eyes and so was rather glad to see no evidence of the
spell  to  affect my techno sensibiities. At his bidding I rather
confusedly unscrambled the lock. Though I felt  slightly  worried
as there had been no all familiar rushing boom of a fireball. The
orc at thefront stepped meekly out and apologise to flipside for-
calling  her   dandalion eater and stode off with his compatriots
but not before the mood took me again and I planted a Yen coin in
the last orcs pocket with the words.

   'Thank you very much Bell Boy'.
--
| Alistair Hughes            |  'F*ck you,                     |
| A.W.Hughes@Bradford.ac.uk  |     you do what I told you.'    |
| Computing Msc.             |   Rage Against The Machine      |