As expected the reprieve is only temporary. I wake up long enough for another nurse to tell me it's two days later. I also get to be awake for him removing my tracheal tube, which is not a fun experience. Later Fairchild shows up and we chat briefly while she scans my aura or something. My head's a little clearer this time. I find out her first name is Theresa and that we have met before. She's very professional, but reserved. Closed. I'm not sure if I scare her or if she just doesn't trust someone who has multiple identities and the attention of some feds. Or maybe it's my aura that scares her. Most magicians find it somewhere between off-putting and "sweet Hera help me that's just not right". According to John my aura is severely unhealthy looking and barely recognizable as human. Not like there's anything I can do about it. It's leftovers from my last hospital stay. Scars of the spirit require more than a little reconstructive surgery.
My prognosis is pretty rough. Lots of stuff needed replacing, including a bunch of my expensive cyber and bioware, and even with all that I was looking at a year or more of recovery time unless I can fork out yet more heavy bank for one of the fancy new regenerative techniques.
I feel like crying. I'd scrimped and saved and taken every unpleasant, risky, near insane job that paid well just to get healthy the last time something like this happened. Heck it's the reason I'd started running in the shadows in the first place. Less than two years after I'm finally achieved the status of "not dying" I'm looking at another massive medical bill.
I console myself that it could be worse. I'm not as bad off as last time. I'm not starting from scratch. it's something that normal medicine and techniques can take care of, and I'm not alone. That last one is the big one. I've got friends still. That gets me to thinking if Dust, George, and any of the temps survived the crash. Probably only Dust. Again I want to make some calls. But if I've got alphabet soup watching over me I can't risk them getting through and tracing my teammates down. It's hell, not knowing and knowing I can't go looking either.
Time passes and I wake up again. It's starting to feel kinda surreal. Normally you go to sleep and wake up knowing roughly how much time has passed. Now between the drugs and being injured I could be sleeping for days for all I know. Hell I'm not entirely sure if I'm sleeping, falling unconscious, or just staring at the wall and blanking out. I feel tired either way. Whenever now is it's the middle of the night and the two feds are back. The only light in the room is a reddish-orange glow coming from the runes carved into the red-head's staff and a thin slit shining under the door from the hallway. It's so strange that at first I'm pretty sure it's a dream. I just sort of sit there waiting for the bed to fly out the window or whatever but it doesn't happen.
Drek. I think to myself. Not a dream. If it's not a dream the feds are sure going to a lot of work to set up a spooky intimidating tableau. Here I am, weak as a kitten, vulnerable. And there they are, the mysterious MIBs, sorry PIB's, looming over my bed in the middle of the night. Darkness all around. People are scared of the dark. It's just instinct, and it doesn't go away once you grow up. We waste so much energy and money lighting up the night to drive back the darkness in every nook and cranny of our little world it's ridiculous. No one around, and no one to help me.
I almost laugh.
"Really?"
My voice is rough like I've been gargling gravel and whiskey. It's the first time I've used my actual voice since the crash.
"Gonna have to do better."
Ouch. That is starting to hurt already.
I fumble around a bit and manage to get the talker trode on my head. I can't tell you how glad I am at this point that my hands are at last paying lip service to the commands of my brain.
"Sorry guys. I can tell you've got a thing going on, but in the last decade my entire concept of scary has been redefines a couple times already."
Blood mages, ghosts, urban legend horror stories come to life, depraved broken psychopaths, mass murder, fracking dragons, and ghouls, and vampires. I once had every meat-pupet in a Yak bunkaru parlor have their personifix replaced with ninja-murder programming and a burning hatred yours truely. I'm guessing fifty women and a couple dozen men came howling up the stairs at me with anything and everything they could find. I'm not gonna pretend I've seen it all, but I've seen enough that what scares me nowadays isn't things or people but ideas, like mortality and wondering what the point of existence is and where metahumanity is headed. Existential junk really.
If they're bothered by my flippancy they don't show it. It's the red-head who speaks first this time. "So now that we have some privacy, and you've had a chance to recover and contemplate a life as a jailed cripple, I think it's time to resume our little interview."
"Before we do that I'd like you to tell me exactly who I'm dealing with. Who are you, and who do you represent."
He shrugs. "I suppose we can do at least that much. I'm agent Mungin and this is agent Hungin. We're part of D.E.M.A. The DEMA is-" I cut in. "I know what that is."
DEMA stands for the Department of the Etherial, Magical, and Astral. They're the magical equivalent of the Grid Over-watch Division. The best of the best of the best and all that. Working for both the corporate court and the assembly of nations. The thing is, unlike GOD, who loves their showboating, DEMA isn't much in the public eye, and that's the way the D-men like it. They've actually got roots going back as far as the fallout from the Great Ghost Dance. The public at large doesn't want to know about the existence of the sort of stuff your average D-man deals with. They are simply happier not knowing. They are the ones who are supposed to deal with things like HMHVV outbreaks, bug spirits, free spirits, toxic shamans, awakened drugs, and all sorts of awakened threats.
I'm distracted enough that it takes me a second to process the name thing. "Where's Odin and Thor?"
"Not here." Interjects Mungin, that's the dude, looking vaguely pissed.
Hungin picks up. "And believe me, you want to keep it that way very very badly. If any of them get involved it means we're going scorched earth, and as far as we're concerned you're just part of the terrain. So cooperate with us fully or you'll regret it."
"So does that make you the bad cop?" I quip glancing between the two. "Either way I think it might be in my best interest to have my lawyer present for any and all interviews." Before you ask, yes I actually have a lawyer. A legit one. Professionally educated and everything. Hungin cocks her head to the side as if considering. "Sorry if we gave you the impression that was an option, but it isn't. This is off the books. No-one knows we're here and no one is going to know. Besides, I don't like lawyers." Mungin steps forward and extends his hand. A fat blue spark jumps from his finger like the worlds biggest static shock. The pain is pretty incredible despite whatever drugs I'm on, and for a long couple of seconds I can't do anything, even breath. "And for the record, she's the bad cop, I'm the worse cop."
Whatever they're expecting once I caught my breath, I'm guessing laughter isn't it. The thing that's funny is that me and John have done the exact same routine before. Exact same routine. I go in all dangerous toughguy and when they look to John for the good cop routine he hits them with a ghost or zombie or something creepy like that. Works every time. Well almost every time, sometimes you get people that just won't be intimidated, either too stupid or a little crazy. Not sure which category I fall under at the moment.
A second spark shoots out and this time a couple of the monitors have full on panic attack. My vision narrows to a tunnel and I consider passing out as a viable alternative to remaining conscious. It doesn't happen though and Hungin, who's keeping one eye on the monitors takes up the thread. "Now then. You are indeed the same David Eddington, born in Seattle on October 12th 20xx, to Maria and Jason Eddington. Who worked for Ares Macrotechnology for a period of seven years, married to Salma Espinosa-Eddington for four years. After a firewatch trial-mission went bad you were left genetically and astrally damaged. With your health nearly crippled and full recovery a pipe dream your marriage dissolved and your career tanked. Allegedly you died in June of 20xx in a flaming multi-vehicle crash on I204. In truth you faked your death, convincingly I might add, and became the Shadowrunner known as Drake. Under multiple aliases including Julian Cormorant you have then engaged in both quasi-legal as well as fully illegal activities in return for money which went towards finding yourself a cure. This is correct?"
Hungin turned her attention away from the screens to watch my response. For his part Mungin raises his finger towards my chest again and says.
"I'm sure you're considering pulling the clam routine. You seem to think your hard. Well think hard about this. I am very curious to see if you can pull a repeat performance of your miraculous self-resurrection. It would be nice to view up close with my own astral eyes. If not, well, we are in a hospital. I'm sure they could bring you back before the brain damage got too severe. Reasonably sure."
I jerk a short nod. Not because I'm intimidated or scared of dying on the next spark. Honest. Because they've already got most of the goods that matter on me. And really there's not much I can do about it now. I quietly promise myself I'll settle up with the two for their little electro-shock questioning method. They didn't mention Chester though, which gives me a sliver of hope.
If Seamus is my second oldest friend Chester is my oldest, by a long long shot. We knew each other before I was potty trained. Chester "Buzz" Bennington has been a friend of the Eddington family for going on three generations now. He's a first generation dwarf and a wiz hacker who's been in the biz so long he was called a hacker, then a decker, and now a hacker again. Unlike me though he's legit. Works for Ares pretty much since the company was founded. He's low key, keeps out of the spotlight, but he's got clout.
And I owe him.
I owe him so so big. When it looked like I was going to wind up one of those dumb ass punk gangers, he was the one who straightened me out and got me a real job with a future at Ares. He was there for me and my mom when dad died and again when my marriage fell apart. Most of all he risked his job and jail time when he helped me fake my death and erased me from the system. He's set me up with air-tight identities (or at least airtight until now) and has kept them scrubbed and erased bad tags and traces. I've done everything I can to pay him back, but I don't think I'll ever feel like it's enough. And I might need him again soon.
"Interestingly our records of you as Drake the shadowrunner are more complete than those of David Eddington the person."
I shake my head.
"David is dead as far as I'm concerned. Dead and buried."
"Oh I think we'll dig him up eventually. For now though your activities as Drake are more incriminating. Let's see. Rumors you mixed it up with some made man in a hotel, some bodies show up at a campground in Salish where one of your ID's happens to be staying at, a 'self defense' shooting down at the docks. Here we are, I like this one. We've got a picture of you, injured, at the burning down of an orphanage. Man that's gonna look bad."
I sigh. "Wasn't me. Ask the Dunkelzein Institute about Bloody Mary."
"Yes, we found out about her already, but do you have any proof she was involved and it wasn't just you burning something? And that was just for starters. We've also got someone who looks an awful lot like you at a nice big messy incident in downtown. Made the A-line news. Shots fired, employees killed explosions, Haloweener involvement, police injuries, and yes another building burnt down. Magic Made Easy was the name of that company. Are you an arsonist Mr. Drake?"
I grunt. "Didn't do that one either. The building that is. MME was a front for a blood mage who was running some nasty experiments on customers in hopes of finding the "Magic key." I bet if you have access to the statistics you'll find a sharp rise in the number of mage burnouts around the time that company was in operation. I could also allege that it was an Azzie black bag project, but that probably wouldn't be good for my long-term health."
"Well we wouldn't want to risk your health then. And your involvement?"
"Rescuing a kidnap victim."
"And the Haloweeners?"
"If memory serves they were after MME for killing off one of their kiddie feeder gangs in an attempt to cover their tracks."
"And they're the ones who burned down the building and fired on police officers?"
"Didn't see that part, so I can't say for sure. But it sounds plausible. I mean this is the Haloweeners we're talking about."
Not much you could argue on that one. The Haloweeners are firebug anarchist idiots. I wouldn't have involved them at all except I needed a game changer, a big shot of chaos, because we'd been made from the start and were constantly three steps behind. The Johnson had been green to the whole shadow biz and had a tail at our first meeting.
"Funny thing, we had to get most of this off some very secure and very secret databases because they've vanished without a trace from the police and corporate and government records. Whoever your hacker is he or she is very good. Even our friends at GOD haven't managed to track him yet. That's not important for now."
She looks up from her e-paper.
"Next question. Tell us about your involvement with Dr. Heinrich Franksmark."
Hunh. Well wasn't that odd. Apparently Chester hadn't managed to erase quite all of my old life. I'm very careful not to give off any vibes beyond mild disinterest.
"Not much to tell. I went on a Firewatch mission as a prospect, meant to extract Franksmark from Aztlan. We almost got him, but things went pretty spectacularly bad and most of the team got wasted. One of the worst days of my life. It's how I got sick and eventually made me decide to start over as a runner."
Hungin crosses her arms behind her back. I get the impression she wants to pace. I know a guy who likes to do that, pace while lecturing like some sort of professor. No room for it in here.
"And you haven't seen or contacted him since?"
"No. I had a run in with another Blood mage during that Magic Made Easy thing, but it wasn't him and I didn't see any sign of him."
"Tell me what happened during that mission and everything you know about Dr. Franskmark."
I look up and to the side as though trying to dredge up the memory. Truth is I remember every little detail, including the . You don't forget that sort of thing. "Heinrich Franskmark. Caucasian human male, born 2011 in Austria. Wunderkind. Awakened early and strong and did well in school and so on. World class egghead in metaplanar and spiritual research and theory. Originally worked for S and K but was extracted by Aztech in 49. Some time a few years after that he was initatied as a Blood Mage. Married a Maria Espanosa in 55. Don't know anything about her except that she was a marketing exec. S&K tried to get him back a couple of times but failed.
That was about the limit of my briefing. I'm sure the officers and mages got a better overview. Out of curiosity I've looked up some public info on him but I'm pretty sure you've got better."
Mungin speaks up.
"Any idea why Ares was after him specifically?"
I give him that look that's reserved for normally intelligent people having an obvious brain blink.
"Oh yea, me and Villers had a chat about it over kaff and crumpets. Said Franksmark had a killer cilantro salsa recipe he just had to have."
No, obviously they wouldn't tell me squat. I expected to get zapped again, but it didn't happen. Mungin just sort of looked at me funny and shrugged. I had the strangest feeling I was missing something.
"Look if you want my take on it then I'd go with the obvious. He's a high end magical researcher. Those don't exactly grow on trees."
It's true. You can turn a normal person into a scientist with enough training and a bit of ware. Of course to be good, good enough to be a leader in your field, you also need a level of both talent and motivation that not many people have. Thing is, all the money and motivation in the world can't turn a normal person into a magician. At least not yet. It's one of those holy grails like teleportation and efficient space travel. You're either a Mage or you aren't, and only a very very few are. Even for those that are, only a few are the right type of mage and strong enough to make something of themselves. So you need all those elements together. You need someone lucky enough to be a strong non-aspected mage, also blessed with a rare level of natural intelligence and aptitude for research and development, and a good strong dose of motivation to make something of themselves, before you have someone who's going to make a good research magician. The only part of the formula an outsider can supply is the money, which can cover the training and probably part of the motivation.
It's why most execs would beat a cute toddler to death on live national TV to get their hands on one.
"We asked about the mission as well."
I decided then and there the pretentious fragger could zap me all he wanted.
"Sorry. I don't like talking about that one."
Like I said one of the worst days of my life. There were only three people I'd ever told that story to. All people that I thought had a right to know. People that I'd trust with my life.
Between blinks Mungin goes from leaning against the wall to leaning over my bed. It's so sudden I want to jump, but up close like this I notice just how green his eyes are. Green deep and old. I up my estimation of his age by a good decade. He holds my eyes with his.
"Mr. Eddington." I open my mouth to remind him to call me Drake, but there's something about him that cuts me off before I start. Instead I just listen. "I can say, without any ego, that I am in the top one half of one percent of magicians in the world. I've got the best training the corporate court and UN can provide, and I've seen and done things would put most people in an institution. There is no doubt in my mind that I can force you to tell us. Now get on with it. Tell us about the mission Mr. Eddington."
Well, when he put it that way. Besides what was the harm really?
(OOC: OMG I ended a post without him going unconscious?)