Day One
Marco was worried. For the first time in his days as a Fixer having doubts about the job wasn't connected to the usual - low pay, funny target, lack of details, or outright screwing his employees over. He had no problem with that, as many young street kids inevitably found out. That's why his family name - Morales - was a joke among the Seattle's finest Fixers. He still had the vibe of a fiery preacher coupled with a used car salesman from pre-crash flicks. That's what kept him above the drek he dealt with... But he still had doubts.
Because the job offer came in brought by someone appearing to be a junkie with no real brain left. At night. During a storm. In a frakkin' real paper envelope. Calligraphic writings in blue ink covering the whole page with cryptic limericks describing the job, the right people for it, and the location where he should send them. And how. That mostly bothered him...
Until he found a goldish-hued metal disc inside, etched with incomprehensible, glyph-like markings.
"Orichalcum. Worth a lot on the market, and with those monkey-scratches it's probably double the price." He thought. "And that's only an advance pay, if i read this yeats crap right. God, I hate magicians. Goddamn loons." He threw a glance at the letter again, smiling to himself with a dreamy face. And he gets to mess with those poor shadowrunners lives. Oh, how he loved that game - all those pawns and figures at his disposal.
His feet itched, when he walked to the antique chessboard, and moved the white Rook with his left, artificial hand, placing it with a satisfying *THUNK* of wood.
Three Weeks Later
The Rook
Vabka shuddered. He spent five long years in a prison, and went independent after that, but he still felt like a kid when confronted with Matviej. The orc, even though his head was over half a meter lower than Vabka's, was still scary as the hell itself. Even if half the rumors that others were spreading is true, he was looking in the calm, icy eye of a devil, as the second one was a twitchy old russian military implant. That was the thing that unnerved most of his people more. Not the bulky cybereye itself, but it's age. Matviej was old, when most of his human soldiers still wore diapers. And he still lived, without any signs of weakening his grip around the syndicate. It was his order, that sent Vabka to prison. One that he couldn't refuse to carry, or even think about it. You can't cheat Old Man Death. Vabka's cyberspur shifted under stress, and he cursed awfully under his breath.
"Vabka, my boy. You know I love you like my own." As his boss started the usual talk, Vabka noticed something. Matviej did. The troll's own father threw him into the pit, without any second thought. It was one of the most fucked-up things in his life, but Matviej taught him how to win, not only survive. Like a real father would. "But we cannot let you stay. This time it's not the star we're worried about. The errants want you badly, and there's nothing we can do. We don't know why. That's why i told you to lay low." Great. He was skulking for three weeks straight, as a Priority One arrest warrant wrecked his social live. He had to kill two friends, who apparently weren't 'good' enough to keep their greed from trying to set him up. The ork stared at him for a while. "You need to leave." Maviej was calm, as usual, but Vabka could swear there was a slight ring of worry in his voice. "We can't send you to the Motherland, as ares dogs have a strong presence there. There is one other place though. A place where we are hunted like the wolves we are. You will do fine there." Matviej motioned to him, sending a stream of data. A job offer. Seek&Snatch, in... Poland? No, a Polish Free Corporate Zone. That could be... interesting. "Oh, and i almost forgot" His old mentor's face proved otherwise, but he got used to that trick. He used it when he sent him to prison. "She will be there. I already notified Yuri, and he sent a small welcome package from Mariya." Vabka smiled, as Matviej patted him on the elbow. The data package contained maps, loresofts, and even a Polish linguasoft. She was always a classy lady when it came to gifts. And she needed him, that was obvious. "Enjoy your vacation, my boy."
Two Weeks Later
The Bishop
"As you can see, mr. Fialonne, we are in a bind here." The Knight Errant officer looked him deeply in the eyes, grinning like a mad dog. "We have five cases of severe cardiac muscle damage, and noone to blame." He leaned back, putting his dirty boots on the table, and smiling shyly at the elf's disgust. "Oh i am so sorry. You know how it is. You walk the streets of your city, protecting it's Citizens from harm. There's no time for such luxury, as cleaning one's boots." He reached into his pocket, to pick up a small holoprojector, and place it on the desk. It flickered a globe of pixels, that turned into a surveillance trid. Yani did recognize himself. It was as bad as hearing his own name being used by the detective. He already managed to get a lot of dirt on his interrogator, with a little help from his friends. But none of it could be used without reassuring the cop in his suspicions of Yani's true talent. That would be really bad, because those five hospital cases were Humanis youths. Good homes, influencial parents, slumming kids, beating any defenseless metahuman vagrant they could get their hands on. The usual stuff under Brackhaven regime. "All of your permits seem to be in order. You appear, to be a model citizen." The emphasis in his voice couldn't be more obvious. "But we still need to know who hurt those boys. And i couldn't help but wonder, how can a model citizen smile, while seeing five young men wrecked with pain, and almost dying." Yani knew. That could have been an easy trick, as all five of those bastards were equipped with illegaly modified commlinks, slotting a BTL personafix called 'The Great White Hunter'. And the officer knew as well - that chip was all the rage among humanis-wannabes for months now. Yani could've just reached out into the Resonance with his Digital Mind, and ask a sprite to mess with their heads.
But he didn't. He was just hanging out, waiting for one of his friends to pick him up for a League of the Silver Thorn meeting. He wouldn't be that stupid, and try something like that out in the public, by a mall. Yes, he did smile. Just like a dozen of people who were watching the scene. None of them helped, even though most were 'model citizens'. And now a retarded human-supremacist corporate beat cop was up to something. And he knew.
Yani didn't break. Neither on the first interrogation, nor on many others. He endured the constant surveilance, KE spooks and confidents following him around, spiders with their clunky nets trying to catch him tripping on one of their silly traps. And his own people going distant. Friends rejecting calls. Clubs barring him from meetings. Strange messages appearing in his mail...
Two week after the first visit in the he was ready to do anything to get out of this mess. So when the offer came, he didn't hestitate. Even though he knew that whole thing was a setup. The only part Yani wasn't sure of was the job offer.
The Knight
"You know, Whisper, this wouldn't be a bad time to get some R'n'R, yes?." Pauline's AR image was flickering, and her next sentence was lost in a loud, crackling and beeping wave of static. She must have noticed that, because her mouth stopped moving, and she shook her head impatiently. Waiting it out took almost an eternity - or two minutes - but out in the distance a lone blimp returned to it's post over an abandoned mall, devoured by hungry sands of the Barrens. "Do you always have to run away into no-signal zones? How the hell am i going to warn you next time. That job you've pulled, it was a success, yes?" You nod, and smile slightly. Getting a whole team of shadowrunners through the Barrens, and into a restricted government area was tough. But who else would pull that off? Probably no one they could hire. "And that's the problem here. Whisper, you're good. Very good. And you saved my ass more than twice. That's why I'm not going to let some MCT hitman blow your head off." MCT. So that's whose facility it was. "It's a shame they burned it to the ground... Otherwise you wouldn't be mister-scapegoat now. Your fame betrays you. And they want your head. So..." Your AR flickers with data, folders opening in a standard job offer display. Far away, in a urban/wilderness terrain, the pay is good, and there is definitely something wrong with the job. It's not a setup, but your gut feeling tells you, that you should be wary. But it's a good opportunity to get out of MCT's scope. They won't waste money on targets they can't reach. "Just be careful. They guy who sent me this is a snake. He'll try to screw you over the moment you get the job done. I'll try to dig a bit, but there's not enough data to do a full sweep. Oh, and tell your Russian girl i said 'Hi'." You nod again, and Pauline reads it as she should - as a 'Thank you, Over and Out'. Your target comes slowly out of it's hiding place, as the sky darkens, and the orange light of a sunset. Muscles flex, carbon-fiber and flex-steel sings it's song, as a deadly messenger starts it's journey. He reaches the peak, and falls down like a hawk. The ghoul stumbles and falls under the force of an arrow between his shoulder. You notice his last movements were like an feral beast's, so there was no mistake on your side. The countdown on your AR screen reaches zero, and the arrowhead buried deep inside the flesh-eater's hear explodes, tearing his chest apart. Another hunt, another kill. You start to dissemble your trusty bow, thinking of all those places you've never been to. It's time to walk under a foreign sky again.
The Queen
There are times, when you really cannot help but hate all the attention you get. Between the Yaks shadowing your every move recently, the Triad double-numbers trying to get you, that crazy Horizon reporter, and that botched job from last week you couldn't help but feel that it's time for a change of scenery. Things were bad already a month ago, and from there everything went downhill. You were already used to your momens of misfortune, but that wasn't a moment. It was six straight weeks of fate kicking you in the face. Most people wouldn't handle that much punishment, but for you the worst part was not the danger, that followed you everywhere. It was the mud, and smell of bad luck - which usually smelled like sewers after a stormy day. And now it got even worse. One of those shady guys appeared, and tried to lure you into a trap. You found that out a bit too late, but your skills and augumentations proved reliable. Six bodies, and a huge electrified net are all that's left in that warehouse. From those six two weren't human anymore. Ghouls. Neatly dressed ghouls, sporting a mobile transplant van. After you. That could mean only one thing. Someone dug out your greatest secret. And sold you to the Tanamous... Risking a lot you open a line to Martin, who answers immediately. "Good evening, Dear." His personal software mod turns Seattle accent into a aristocratic British high-speak. "It seems that you have drawn a lot of attention lately. Even the news ramble about 'the shadowrunner known as Bat'Oni' all the time. Horizon seems to like you a lot." You ignore his sneer attitude, trying to clean your sleeve of ghoul-blood. "And that's not all. I've had a guest from Yakuza lately, who wanted to buy information on you. It's a good thing that we're friends, and I don't sell friends out, right?" You don't even bother to answer, letting him drift into monologue for a while. "Well, there were also rumours of some really nasty guys asking about you. I hope that's their blood you're trying to get out. It's hopeless by the way, those coats have to be cleaned by a licensed business, or by nano's. That's how they widen their profit margins. Anyway, there is this guy who paid me a hefty consulting fee for getting in touch with you. He's a snake, and an oiled one. But i know you, you like those dangerous jobs. And this one - surprisingly on time, isn't it - is far away from home. In Europe. Where Yaks and Triads don't have much authority. What do you say?" What could you say? He knows it, you don't really have better choices now. At least in Europe you won't get that dirty all the time...
The Pawn
It was raining. It always was, when you were working, for as long as you remember. It might have something to do with the local weather, or your luck. Probably both, because most British immigrants felt at home in this humid, cold city, flayed by winds from the bay. Now it was even a good thing, because the downpour should stop tinheads from noticing anything. Tinheads. Tin-cans. It took you better part of a year on the streets to start calling your former colleagues that. But they earned it with their corrupt, violent ways, that most of the city knew and hated. You just had to walk the streets as one of them, and not a 'cop'. This city doesn't need more violence and corruption - the whole free zone was built on them, but it was building layer on layer for hundreds of years... You can sometimes feel it in places all over the metroplex. Like stains of pain, greed and fear.
That's why you like being here, in the ruins of the old harbor. It's just desolation and salty, cold winds. No hate, no suffering, no nuyen chase that lets people trampled and bleeding. And you know why the Kapers love this place. Between the gyro-mines, destroyed piers and ruins of the old breakwater trying to pass as reefs, this place is a nightmare for any ship pilot. Except they know these dead waters like their own bodies... And the traces of magic you pick out of the background haze of astral shades obviously points at Water spirits involved.
You watch from the shadows as the crane picks up containers one by one, and places them on a prepared spot with fluid movements of an expert rigger at work. You see everything around, and the ragged auras of smugglers shine brightly in the night, as do these five auras you can't recognize, hazed by something akin to a web of barbed wire... Trouble. That was not in the job description...
