Dirk "Tripp" Lockheart: The Sixth World Blues.

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« on: <08-05-12/0631:34> »
         Denver. Some call it a shithole, others call it a paradise in the shadows. What do I think you ask? Well Ill tell you its simple, The Sixth World. Is a world of takers and the taken, people with money and power are the takers, the taken are the nine to five guys with no life prospect and they work for the takers as Wage-Slaves. Living in burbclaves and cheap apartments for shit pay with about as much future as a chronically depressed lemming standing at the edge of a forty story rooftop, but there's another type of person in the world. Not a taker and not a taken but a person that lives in the shadows, media calls 'em criminals, corporations call them terrorists but they call themselves Shadowrunners. Now there are varying degrees of being a 'runner. You got deckers, sams, riggers, faces, mages and many many more but what I am...or was is a Spy. I worked for a corporation, more like The corporation. The Corporate Court. They used me as a way to keep track on corps of intrest. See not all corporations actually do what they say in their telecast ads, except maybe Horizon. Never had a reason to hate them, but lets just say I had abit of a downfall and now I'm stuck in Denver. My home city and I don't have any of my old contacts or friends. Plus to make it worse I've got a bad rep for being unreliable in certain circles. Luckily that isn't the circle I dabble in much, So as a way to make things move in this depressing world I've turned to alternate ways of survival. Such is the way of the world in the shadows. Take or be taken, kill or be killed...they have a name for it, or atleast I do. I call it 'The Sixth World Blues', come to think of it it's kinda catchy. Well I'm sure you aren't reading this post to hear about my sob story. Well I've got one more bit for you, sort of an explanation. Recently I've decided to include some tid-bits about a previous few experiences. So as my first offical post im going to write about an event in my life that I think best defines The Sixth World Blues, so here it is.

So, This story starts in the far-away meltingpot of Manhattan, I know its not far-away but its certainly a meltingpot. You see I was there for a run of the mill mission. A quick deviation before I continue, most people think Spys work for corps or even governments, while yes that is true to some extent in actuallity most spys work for independant firms. Like lawyers just more trustworthy. Working for a corp brings benefits and a good pay-grade but it is also stagnate and boring. Mostly like being stuck behind a school-desk with infinite amount of homework, and occassionally someone tries to kill you. So back to the story... I was sent there by a client to pick up a package, simple briefcase in a locker at bullet-train station. Yeah I know the beginning of every crappy spy trid out there but this goes far beyond that. So for your reading pleasure here's the story In full.

As I sat waiting for the time to run to midnight per the instructions handed to me not an hour before I couldn't help but watch the people standing around the station, the ferrocrete floors and alabaster white walls that gave a splitting migraine if you stared at them too long. Mind you when I got the call I was dining with a very attractive woman at one of the most expensive restraunts in the city, It was supposed to be my leave but it was a priority mission. Usually means some politican wants a deniable asset to retrieve some damning evidence of him with a ork prostitute in a seedy motel out in jersey but it really didn't matter. A jobs a job as I always said, then anyway. So I said goodbye to my date, got in my eurocar and sped like a cheetah on novacoke over to this dilapidated train-station that ran to the UCAS sector of Denver from New York. Oddly enough tickets were cheap, but I wasn't there for travel. As I sat there in my armani-gucci suit and tye, fondling the key I was given by the waiter at the restraunt and looking at the locker across the room from me, just past the troll man and woman dealing with their pack of five kids complaining that the train is taking too long. I rolled my eyes at the thought of having kids, wasn't worried that the father was staring at me because of two reasons, one I was wearing dark sunglasses that were special issue. Gave me low-light, imagelink, smartlink and thermographic so they were hardcore pieces of tech and they looked great on me, two I was wearing a suit that cost more then the car the family owned and the apartment in which they lived. He quickly turned when he noticed the pistol hanging in the shoulder holster under my jacket. Then this wiry ork boy, maybe fourteen years opened the locker I was watching and stuck a briefcase in and quickly hurried off. Before I got up I glanced around, besides the happy family there were four men standing in varying places around the platform, my thought is that they were backup incase the drop went wrong, come to think of it now. I was really really wrong. But this wasn't the worst of it.

So as I stand, carefully fixing my jacket and heading for the locker, a group of Orks strides onto the platform, maybe ten. As I stuck the key into the slot I had this pang of tension run up my spine, then I realised what that feeling was. It was a setup and I looked to see the men wearing suits and the Orks pulling pistols and both aiming at one another. I quickly grabbed the silver briefcase from the locker and pulled a disposable commlink from my jacket pocket and tossing it towards the Orks, landing on the ground with a light thud and skidding to the feet of the leader of the gang, he and I caught eyes and stared. His gaze full of anger and hate, his pistol aimed at me. I pulled my own commlink from my pants pocket and held it up. With a wide smirk I entered a series of letters quickly '07734' and the disposable commlink sitting at the orks feet detonates with a ear splitting bang. Sending the gangers flying and showering the area with little tiny pieces of ork. As fast as I could go I took to my feet, focusing on speed I took off like a blur. Sometimes its good to be an adept. I never took that magic thing like others of my kind, but it sure as hell comes useful in these moments. The men in suits and the gangers that are still breathing, stunned from the blast opened fire on one another. Filling the distance with the sounds of screams and gunfire, As they killed each other I tapped the tye-clip and my suit changed from a grey and white pinstripe to a soild dark blue just as I strode aboard the train to Denver.

It was then I knew that Manhattan wasn't safe. Specially when I called my handler and he said two words. "Your Blacklisted" and terminated the transmission. It was then that my life had changed irrevocably. In the days of my first year I heard some of the old timers talk about getting 'the blues' like it was a boogeyman. Then I learned it was a nickname for getting contacted by a man wearing a blue suit and gloves. They are a special agent with the sole purpose of handling spies that no longer had any use. When the bodies began to pile up and people asked questions they turned to Blacklisting, you can't kill an agent easily to stop him from working so they take away the support system that allows him to work. When your blacklisted they freeze your bank account, put your face and alias' on every watchlist, hire people to track you and worst of all. Turn all of your assets and contacts against you. This is what I call The Sixth World Blues, cause from this point on. Your life is now in the hands of those that are either going to kill you because you know too much or they are going to get you killed doing something for them because you have no choice.

Shoot straight, Conserve Ammo, Never Trust An Elf And Never, Ever Cut A Deal With A Dragon...