Al staggered off the airship and nearly fell headlong into the gray ash dust before righting himself under his load. A rifle, shotgun, big canteen, and three good-sized satchels were clearly too much for his tiny frame. He stood just over five feet and weighed a hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet. His clothes were all too big on him.
He'd missed the initial meet-and-greet on this one, if there had even been one, handling everything by text with this Torrent fellow. The ork had a good enough rep. Al knew from watching the trid that a lot of these people who thought of themselves as "shadowrunners" liked to meet their employers. Whatever. He'd been busy lately. Never would have taken this silly job - they were always more trouble than advertised - if the guy hadn't mentioned it would be for a circus.
Al had always loved circuses.
He'd kept uncharacteristically silent on the ride over. Having spent the first half of August scrapping his Gaz around the ash wastes of Hell's Kitchen, he hadn't been able to resist taking a good look at the lie of the ground from cloud level. The team for this job was as colorful as usual, though not as pleasantly so as the last lot - that group had been over half women, all model-hot, median age maybe nineteen. Like something out of the wrong kind of sim.
Lot of missed opportunities there.
Trailing the group as they got their bearings, he noticed them talking to the head-dwarf-in-charge, but he'd been too busy looking at the barely dressed circus girls to hear anything that was said. Then people seemed to go their own ways - not a lot of cohesion yet, certainly no one stepping up on the leader front - suited him just fine. He trudged the long stretch up to the head of the lead train.
Letting the satchels drop, he climbed the ladder to the cab. The hands gripping the rungs looked as though they were melting around the aluminum rods, so horrifc was the burn scarring that covered them. It was early enough in the fall morning that he was glad for the ancient brown leather bomber jacket that covered him. The face that appeared in the window, startling the driver, had unattractively craggy features topped by an unkempt mop of sandy hair and framed by sideburns. The nose sported a unique line that could only be the product of several breaks. He had a red bandanna around his neck and a dusty pair of goggles on his forehead. The huge smile was like a wolf's, if wolves had Lucky Strikes hanging from the corner of their mouths.
He tapped at the window with a tobacco-stained fingernail, and the driver lowered it. Al loved working with men that worked for a living. Before the husky teamster could say a word, Al's scarred right hand was thrust through the aperture in an enthusiastic greeting - the man couldn't help but shake. "Top o' the mornin', kemo sabe. Alouicious Harlan Guthrie, esquire, at yer service."
"Uh, Frank. Driver."
"Allahu akbar, Frank. Looks like ol' Al's been tasked with supplementalizin' the security fer this show, an' I hope a free ticket's included inna fee."
"Well, I couldn't…"
"No, no, Al ain't no beggar. Feller's gotta work fer a livin', jist like it sez inna Good Book. Simply wuz hopin' I could ride up here with you. Reckon it's the best place to keep an eye onna horizon."
"Actually, be kind of tight. Other driver, Tyrone, he's a troll, right. Sorry, man, always welcome any extra security."
"Not to worry, amigo. I'd be onna running board, or up on top if things git sticky. Won't take no seatage up. Nosirreebob. Long as ya don't mind the company, an' ya don't mind muh bags tucked behind the seat there."
And the two men shook hands again.
