Oct. 24, 2070
Friday
“Thanks for the beer,” Donny raised the bottle in Jugular’s direction. The rigger shrugged, even as he fetched another from the cooler. The weather was unusually warm today, and both of them had met on the Spitzenreiter to toss back a couple and enjoy the view on the marina.
“You could have stayed on the boat, you know,” Jugular pointed out.
“Needed my own place,” the dwarf shrugged, “besides, you wouldn’t let me set up a lodge on the boat.”
“I said no such thing,” Jugular objected.
The dwarf chuckled, “so, you’d let me take up the entire cargo-hold on this vessel?”
Jugular looked shocked. This was, after all, a smuggler’s ship.
“Thought not,” the dwarf grinned and toasted his host before taking another swig.
The sudden distant look in the rigger’s eyes signaled an incoming call. Checking his commlink, Jugular saw it was his fixer, Lagniappe.
“Call,” the rigger noted quietly, “possibly work.”
Donny perked up and leaned forward as the rigger answered it.
“Jugular, I’ve got a juicy bit of biz for you,” the fixer’s virtual smile was exaggerated, the corners of his mouth wider than his face. A small icon appeared in the rigger’s field of vision, a cocker spaniel sniffing around. Jugular recognized the footprint of Lagniappe’s hacker – this call was protected from eavesdroppers.
“Alright,” the rigger answered the grin, “one of my crew’s here, he’s going to listen in.” Jugular subscribed Donny’s PAN to the call, allowing him to watch, and then said, “ok: let’s see what you’ve got.”
An image of a man popped into view with bio-data scrolling around him. He looked to be a typical suit.
“Mr. Coregear,” the fixer identified the man, “works for Gulf Star. He wanted to leave his corp and work for another.”
“Extraction?” inquired Jugular.
The fixer’s icon shook its head, “no, it seems Mr. Coregear got impatient and tried to extract himself. He got lost in the swamp, but his next employer has tracked down a lead on him. Apparently, he’s been picked up by a mentally-unhinged rigger by the name of…” the fixer checked his notes, “Wax Devil.”
Lagniappe returned his attention directly to Jugular. “The job, quite simply, is to go in and retrieve Mr. Coregear from this rigger, then hack into Gulf Star and retrieve his research material. His new employer would prefer that the suit doesn’t have to start from scratch.”
“Score?” Jugular quipped.
“Twenty thousand, plus 2K per member.”
After some tense negotiations, Jugular managed to talk the fixer up to $25K, plus $3K per member.
“We’ll need a hacker,” Donny said out loud.
Nodding, Jugular repeated this to Lagniappe.
The fixer considered the matter for a moment before conceding that he might know someone willing to take the job.
“He’s been in the business for years,” the fixer cautioned, “but some consider him washed out. He’s old enough to have started his career as a decker.” Before Crash 2.0, when the Matrix relied on clunky wires and hard-lines, deckers performed the same roles that hackers do now. Still, the wireless net had been around long enough for deckers to be yesterday’s old news.
“Sure,” Jugular shrugged, “give me his number.”
After the rigger cut the commlink to his fixer, Donny said, “you call the hacker, get him to meet us here. I’ll get our chummers.”
After giving the heads-up to Raven and Piman, the dwarf settled down to do a little digging of his own on this ‘Wax Devil.’ Keying his browse program to search for possible hits related to “wax devil”+”crazy rigger”, he sat back and began to review the data that poured in.
Raven arrived first. Dressed identically as he was on their last run, the Brit sauntered up the dock and onto the boat. After a hearty handshake from his old chummer Jugular, Raven turned a critical red eye onto the dwarf.
“Blimey,” the Brit smirked, “buy you look absolutely normal, Wee Man.”
“That’s the point,” the dwarf glowered.
“Ah, he’s here,” the rigger commented, having just received a text message from their new hacker.
Both dwarf and man turned to watch the dock.
“What’s his name?” the dwarf asked.
“He goes by the handle, ‘Pretty Boy.’ He’s an ork, and according to the data file Lagniappe sent, we’ll know him when we see him.”
On cue, a large, beefy ork stepped out on the dock, stomping in steel-toed boots as he zeroed in on the boat. The runners couldn’t help but gape at the fellow. His head was severely misshapen: the top of his skull narrowed dramatically, exaggerated by a tight, pink Mohawk. The effect was further exasperated by lop-sided, piggish eyes, offset by a counter-lopsided set of ears that stuck flat out. The ork’s mouth, for lack of a better word, was huge. One of his tusks had broken off right at the lip. The other, skewed, was much larger than normal, stabbing up to hover right between the eyes. The ork had that bizarre tusk fully encased in dazzling chrome.
In a word, this ork was ugly, with the type of face that would make children cry at the mere glimpse of him.
The group was still taking this all in when the ork stopped on the dock in front of the boat. Even Raven’s emotitoy Grue struggled to make sense of him.
“Pretty Boy?!?” Jugular breathed, as if asking an obviously wrong question.
The ork grinned, the gesture obscene as his freakish mouth was made all the larger for it.
“You got it,” Pretty Boy gurgled in a voice made of gravel and grit.
“Wee Man,” Raven said with obvious distaste, “perhaps you can fix this poor sod up with the same spell you used on yourself? This bloke could certainly use it.”
Pretty Boy’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Englishman,” he gurgled, “was you talking to the dwarf?”
Raven did not like the tone of this ork.
“Aye,” he shot back, “you got a problem, there, tusker?”
“A serious one, when it comes to racists,” the ork raised his right arm, an old relic of obvious cybernetics from the days when chrome was king, and a long, wicked spur popped out of the mechanical forearm.
“Raven’s confrontational,” the dwarf interjected, “but he’s no racist. He calls me ‘Wee Man’ because that’s my handle.”
All at once the ork’s demeanor loosened up and his spur popped back into the cyber-sheath on the skeletal chrome arm. “You mean,” Pretty Boy gurgled, “you actually answer to ‘Wee Man?’ Doesn’t offend you?”
“They call me whatever they want,” the dwarf shrugged, “it’s the best name they could come up with.”
“That’s terrible!” the ork cast about him, daring the other two to take credit for this, “the best you could come up with is ‘Wee Man’?!? Call him that around another dwarf, yer spoiling for a fight… dwarf, what’s your specialty?”
“I’m a mage,” the dwarf supplied, his raspy voice seemingly smooth compared to the ork’s.
Pretty Boy’s eyes lit up, a disturbing sight given the smile that blossomed on his face like road kill.
“Excellent,” the hacker laughed, “then I know the perfect handle for you: Yoda.”
Jugular tugged at his beard. “Yoda… you know, it kind of fits.”
Raven shrugged, muttering, “whatever.”
“Yoda…” the ork grinned and thrust out his beefy hand, “I’m Pretty Boy!”
The dwarf took the hand, giving it a single shake.
“Nice to meet you,” the dwarf, now known as Yoda, rasped, “now let’s get to work. Subscribe to my PAN, Pretty Boy.”
The ork nodded and swung an antique from a shoulder strap before him. It was an actual deck, the kind made obsolete many years ago. Not that it even worked, however. Pretty Boy’s actually PAN was hidden in a gaudy badge he wore on his jacket, marked “Sherriff.” The deck had AR tags on the keys, used as a tool to manipulate the Matrix when he wasn’t in hot sim. It was hot tech, once, and the hacker stroked the frame with fond memories.
At Yoda’s request, the hacker subscribed all of their PANs together, grouping them into a single node that he could guard from intrusion. Though Piman was still not there, he, too, was linked in with the rest of them.
“Good,” the dwarf nodded, “now let’s get down to business.”
The five runners held a virtual meeting. With Piman still en route, a physical one was out of the question, and Yoda did not want to have to repeat himself once the merc arrived. Jugular and Pretty Boy settled on the furniture in the deck below and went into hot sim, their meat bodies comatose as their minds existed in the Matrix. Raven, Yoda and Piman settled for AR, the image of the meeting room semi-transparent so they could still see what was going on around them in the real world.
Pretty Boy set the meeting area up. A die-hard fanatic of 20th century comic books (digitized of course), he chose the office of J. Jonah Jameson of the Daily Bugle from Spiderman, rendering the flat color environment in 3D and applying the same coloring limitations on everyone who attended. It was, he thought proudly, an exact replica, right down to the trim on the window.
Everyone was represented by their stylized icons, looking much like they do in real life (Yoda as Donny), though subtly tweaked to look better than they normally could on the best of days. The software took facial cues and body language and translated them into the Matrix, making the meet more personal and easier to follow.
“Alright guys,” the dwarf rasped as he walked before the desk, “our job’s to find some crazy rigger and free our mark from him. What I’ve managed to dig up on the rigger certainly lends credence to the notion that he’s a bit loose in the brain.”
With a flick of his wrist, Yoda brought up a video file to display beside him. Hacking on the fly, Pretty Boy made the trim of the video turn into a Daily Bugle paper with the large front picture as the video he displayed, a sensational headline above it that served like a teleprompter as the dwarf spoke.
“He’s called the Wax Devil,” the dwarf said, his words flashing in all caps over the images on the paper, “and he owns a wax museum west of the French Quarter. He’s gone through some pretty radical cyber modifications… I found this eye-cam footage online.”
Most cybereyes come standard with a record feature. The tell-tale angle spoke of an owner of average height, the video fuzzy. Center screen, approaching the viewer, was a man who looked anything but – he was naked, his nether regions hidden under thick curly hair, his skin glossy red, legs shaped like a Raptor’s, his bald head sporting twin horns. With an evil grin, the devil raised a pistol aiming right into the camera, and with a flash from the muzzle the video ended.
“Blimey,” Raven gagged, “but that’s some heavy mods to go through just to fit a street name.”
Yoda nodded. “All the intel I’ve found suggests the man’s insane. But, he has our mark, and I believe we’re more likely to retrieve him alive the sooner we find him. Pretty Boy, hack into the wax museum and see if you can dig up any info on where to find this fragger.”
Piman was staring off, apparently focused on something in the real world and not on the meeting.
“Piman,” Jugular snapped, “what’s your ETA?”
“Huh?” the merc’s eyes snapped back to them, his virtual mullet taking a life of its own as it swirled dramatically, “um, pro’bly nudder hour or so…”
The others groaned.
“We’ve got a job to do,” Raven admonished.
“Yeah, get here ASAP,” the dwarf added.
“Yeah, ok,” Piman replied, a bit evasively, “I be dare as soon as I can, in aw hour or so.”
The merc promptly cut the connection. Muttering darkly, Raven, Yoda, and Jugular also cut their connection.
“So…” Pretty Boy, now alone, said out loud in the virtual office, “pretty damn fine job on this room, eh?”
J. Jonah Jameson burst into the room, his cigar threatening to fall from his lips as the man yelled, “HELL YES, my boy, BEST DAMN rendering I ever saw. You’ve got talent, I tell you, TALENT!!!”
“Please,” Pretty Boy replied with mock humility, waving his arms, “you’re embarrassing me… I’m just a humble code-slinger.”
Jameson continued a barrage of flattery as Pretty Boy leapt out the window, his virtual ork icon melting into the Amazing Spiderman, web-slinging his way through the Matrix as a thunderous techno-mix of the theme song from the 2020s feature film blared all around him.
Finding the node for the wax museum was cake, almost as easy as fooling the system into believing he was a registered user. Browsing the server for the museum, Pretty Boy found only one data file of interest: an exhibit next month, featuring “Wax Devil and God.”
As he opened the file, his analyze program warned of an attack as IC (Intrusion Countermeasure) flew out of a virtual drawer in the shape of a pitchfork, stabbing at the hacker as the program attempted to corrupt his code and crash his system.
Bringing up his own corruption codes, ready for the fight, Pretty Boy was surprised to see the pitchfork glitch and freeze. Cautiously, the hacker examined the code of the IC. Whoever wrote this program did a poor job, for instead of attacking as intended the IC had frozen up, the data trail to its source jammed open.
Flashing a virtual grin, the hacker followed the trail, up to an orbiting telecommunications satellite high overhead, then bouncing back down to a node that took the shape of an aircraft carrier. The deck of the ship yawned open with a mammoth cave at its center, filled with fire and brimstone, patrolling demons circling overhead like aircraft in a holding pattern. IC, no doubt, the hacker thought to himself, but his meat-body back home was grinning ear to ear – this HAD to be the home node of the Wax Devil.
Pretty Boy was about to hack into the system before a better idea surfaced. Hacking into this fragger’s node might set an alarm or two off. Even if he got away clean, the owner would likely know someone had been snooping around his data-files. The telecommunications satellite overhead, however, would be corporate-owned. If he returned there and hacked into the system, he could get the subscriber’s location by triangulating the strength of the signal – these days, multiple satellites were deployed to ensure a stable, steady connection.
Back at the satellite node, Pretty Boy began hacking his way into user-level access. As he began to crack the system, he noticed a tiny satellite icon orbiting his own, little pings of light radiating outward. A quick analyze told him this was track IC. The system was alerted to his presence and trying to find out where his meat-body was. The hacker took a moment to spoof the trail, putting three plus three more false locations out there for the IC to chase. Hoping that would keep it busy long enough, he finished breaking into the node. In seconds, he had the GPS coordinates he was looking for, even as active alarms sounded and an ugly host of IC began to close in.
Pretty Boy retreated to the safety of the museum node, wiped his data trail clean and exited the Matrix.
The ork’s eyes opened, finding the dwarf, Jugular, and Raven nearby, the three turning to watch him as he sat up. The entire Matrix run had taken only six seconds.
“Got it,” the ork’s voice was a horrid blend of gravel on gravel, sloshed with smugness. “I have the coordinates to his home.”
“Give it to me,” Jugular replied, pulling up a map of the region. The rigger overlaid the map between them in AR, letting everyone see. The location was deep in the swamps, roughly two hours trip if they went straight in. As Jugular began to zoom in to get a better view of the area, an odd icon began blinking at those exact coordinates.
Intrigued, the rigger keyed the file open, and in everyone’s AR the sound of a massive bonfire began to crackle as a sinister voice spoke.
“Oi, omea, as you’ve found my lair, come to play, or come to trade. Those who come with open palms may leave with their hands…”
“We’ve been hacked!” Jugular shouted, condemning eyes turned to the hacker, but his body was limp and unresponsive. Pretty Boy was already hunting for the intruder.
In two seconds, the ork sat back up.
“Whoever it was, they’re gone,” the ork rumbled, “and NO, we weren’t hacked. That file was attached to the GPS system as a note of interest, approximately ten seconds before you called up the info. It was set to delete after being accessed once, but I managed to dig up the code in the trash.”
“Likely someone found out you were snooping,” the dwarf muttered, pointing to the hacker.
Pretty Boy shrugged unapologetically. Hacking on the fly is not as stealthy as probing for weaknesses, and he had been pressed for time. It was likely some evidence was left behind that suggested someone was looking for the Wax Devil.
“Well,” Yoda noted, “we know he’s probably a competent rigger, now we have evidence he’s also a good hacker… but we still have one up on him, most likely.”
“Yeah?” Raven replied.
“Chances are good he doesn’t have magic,” the dwarf wiggled his fingers for emphasis. “We’ve got the bullets and tech to match him, with our magic we may very well find ourselves at a serious advantage… or not. Either way, let’s go meet him. We’re not getting paid until we finish the job.”
The Spitzenreiter entered the canals beneath the Spire, the artificial cavern giving the passage an other-worldly feel to it. The broad river ‘tunnel’ was well lit, like a highway. In half an hour, daylight exploded around them as the boat left the structure and continued on its path beneath open sky, the Spire so impressive behind them it looked as though it might fall over at any moment and crush the world.
Turning to the captain, Yoda rasped, “you know how I can hide myself with my spirit? Well, I can hide our entire boat that way, but better there be no traffic when I do.”
Using his knowledge of smuggler routes, Jugular plotted a backwater course. Once he was certain they would encounter little to no traffic the rest of the way, the rigger informed the mage. Yoda waited until the boat passed directly beneath the heavy foliage of two trees pressing in on either side, moss streaming from the limbs like a blanket, then gave Sean the order to invoke the power of concealment. This was timed intentionally, for should anyone be watching by satellite or aerial drone, they might believe that the boat had stopped beneath the cover.
Soon enough everyone had a pretty good idea why these routes were not often traveled. Occasionally, Jugular would cut the engines and pass out poles. Using their own manpower, the runners grunted and shoved with the poles, inching the boat through some narrow patches too hazardous for the rotors, lest they get mucked up and strand them. Truly: these were back waters.
When the rigger estimated they were half an hour from the coordinates, he pulled the boat into an inlet and cut the power.
“Alright, Yoda, do your thing,” the rigger said.
“Give me the map,” the dwarf replied. Seizing the virtual terrain with his AR gloves, he zoomed in on the spot they were at, the course plot blinking yellow, marking the byways to their destination. This map was a digital recreation based on satellite imagery of multiple wavelengths, updated twice a week, making it a very accurate representation of every twig and clump in the region. Meticulously, the mage studied the layout of the swamp en route, paying particular attention to the shape of prominent trees along the way. In astral space, living things are the most visible, and the dwarf did not want to get lost along the way. Then, the dwarf turned to their newest member.
“Pretty Boy,” Yoda said, serious as possible, “you’re going to see what I really look like. You must never mention this, to anyone, for your own sake. I must have your word on this.”
The hacker nodded that he understood, then his crooked eyes widened as he witnessed the disguise spell drop. The dwarf got thicker, more muscular, the orange of his skin bright, almost garish. The business-style haircut seemed to spike out into a wild stab of bloody barbs streaked with yellow. Brown eyes now a rich, intense blue, the dwarf nodded one more time, then settled onto a bunk and appeared to still himself in meditation.
Astrally, the mage passed through the hull of the ship and over the water, traveling at a pace slow enough that he could study their route as he went. This was still fast in mundane terms, more than 30 meters per second. Suspecting a trap, the mage scrutinized everything of interest along the way. A pack of Nutrarats, awakened critters similar in shape to a Devil Rat but with two massive, orange incisors, watched him with their astral sight as he passed, apparently not particularly interested in his presence as they swam lazily with beaver-like tails. An awakened creature, similar in form to an alligator, was glimpsed moving with a cunning purpose, but when assensed, the mage dismissed it as a possible threat. Its purpose was the pursuit of food, and its aura spoke well that this was the creature’s only pursuit, never ending.
When Yoda arrived at the coordinates, he was surprised to discover there was no base of operations. All he found was the gray form of a speed boat, four humans within. Their auras were tinged with minor markings of cyberware, their demeanors hovering between anticipation for something they were waiting for and boredom. Three men and one woman in the boat was all he saw. Not trusting this scene, the mage began a spiral pattern out to half a kilometer, but he found nothing but natural wildlife in the area. A bit perturbed, he returned to his friends.
“No base,” the dwarf muttered sourly once he was back in his body, “nothing in the area but a boat with four people… waiting for us, no doubt.”
Raven closed his hands into fists, eliciting a loud, crisp barrage of snaps as the gesture cracked his ceramic-laced knuckles. “Oi,” the Brit said, his civilized, English accent at odds with his words, “let’s go meet these blokes and bloody them up a bit, until they tell us what we want to hear, eh?”
Yoda frowned, saying, “let’s try the diplomatic approach first, shall we?”
The others agreed. Outvoted, Raven consented as Jugular powered the engines and left the inlet. Within half a kilometer of the spot, Yoda warned them they would no longer be hidden. Then he faded from sight as he dropped the concealment on the boat and the others while keeping it on himself. When the Spitzenreiter pulled into view, the occupants of the speed boat stood and watched them approach. Their boat was a Crest, a popular smuggling craft. With a modest price tag of $20,000, smugglers would often strip the vehicle, stash their cargo into the frame, then assemble and drive it to their destination. Often, the boat would be dismantled (to get to the contraband) and discarded, the value of the goods typically far exceeding the price of the boat.
Pretty Boy kept most of his focus virtual, keeping his attention on the node, in case one of the strangers tried to hack their systems. When Jugular got his craft within 40 meters of the other boat, he idled to a stop.
“I here y’all come seekin de Devil?” It was the woman who called out, her Cajun/Creole accent heavy.
Yoda sent a text message to everyone’s AR: “Just tell them the devil has what we want.”
Still keeping AR overwatch, Pretty Boy stepped up to the railing and shouted, “the devil has something we need.”
Annoyed, Raven said, “we need to see the devil.”
The woman grinned. “So w’heard from yo tusker friend,” she laughed. “The devil’s been waitin fo you. Keep yo weapons put’way, lest we have to kill y’all. Follow us… we’ll take you right to de devil... he LUVES comp’ny.”
Apparently finding great mirth in the situation, the woman laughed as she and her passengers settled down in the speed boat. The sleek Crest rose up on its bow as it sped off. Jugular’s larger craft followed closely, the engines throwing an impressive wake behind it as he kept pace. On sudden impulse, Pretty Boy decided to scan the racing craft’s RFID tag. With it, he could have tracked the boat’s path all the way back to the manufacturer, but the tag (not surprisingly) had been wiped.
As the two boats wove through the byways, Yoda scouted the path astrally, alert for any deception. The path they took was even more back-water than the ones Jugular typically ran, and the mage often found himself guessing the wrong path. Sometimes, the Crest took a route he’d missed altogether, and quite a bit of his scouting involved retracing to find the boats.
Still, the mage got a good glimpse of their destination with time to spare. Returning to the boat and his prone body below deck, Yoda warned his friends. They’d been following the Crest for half an hour by now.
“Caution,” his AR message read, “base up ahead; large tree-covered island surrounded by bayou; a few skimmers in the area, 4 boats, each with 2 men patrolling. Island is protected by 2 spirits: he has magical backup. Jugular, don’t dock on this island until I’m certain the spirits won’t attack.”
Though back in his body, Yoda kept his astral sight up as the island came into view, Sean’s concealment wrapping him like a shroud. The spirits patrolling that island may have orders to attack any awakened person who crossed a pre-determined line, or his own spirit may become a target. He’d assensed both of them: each was equally as powerful as his own. One was a Spirit of Beast, the other a Spirit of Water. As their guide boat began to swing left to circle the island, the Beast Spirit paused its patrol and began shadowing them in astral space. It had the form of a half man, half gator, head set in a large permanent grin of impressive teeth.
On the back side of the island, a broad inlet led inside, giving the land mass a rough, crescent shape to it, ringed inside with a handful of docks. The guide boat shot for the largest dock, one of the men rising to wave them in on the opposite side. As the Spitzenreiter pulled along the pier, Piman hopped off and began to tie off.
Standing on the dock, the woman called out, “Instead o wastin time, lez get you to see de devil.”
“He has something we want,” Pretty Boy gurgled as Raven winced.
“Yes…” the woman said, her humor gone, “you said dat alreadee.”
“Damn tusker,” Raven whispered harshly, “shut the frag up!”
The runners stepped off the boat, Jugular keying up his steel lynx drone into guard mode. The barrel-sized tank rolled out onto the dock, its track/legs extending to give the turret a clear shot across the craft. The guide men frowned at this, demanding to know what the rigger was doing.
“This,” Jugular said, as if speaking to a child, “is YOURs.” The rigger pounded the dock with his foot. “This… is MINE.” He jabbed a thumb at the boat. “You stay off what’s MINE, and the drone will leave you be.”
The men, obviously, did not like this answer, but after careful thought they decided to let the matter go, save a lame warning that if the drone started to attack, all hell would break loose. During this exchange, Yoda tentatively approached the pier from the safety of the boat. The beast spirit was close now, watching him intently. Watching for any sign of aggression, Yoda stepped onto the dock, his own spirit in tow. The guardian did nothing but continue to monitor him.
Leading them down a path framed with sweeping trees and tall grass, the woman and her men brought them to a depression in the ground. More than ten meters wide, it had the look of a makeshift theater, rings of crude wooden seats around a raised dais in the center. Even from here, the cage on the dais was obvious. Apparently built to hold dangerous creatures, the bolt on the cage was augmented with a more recent maglock. Lying inside, apparently unconscious, was Mr. Corigear, recognizable from his picture, his business suit soiled with mud and filth. The woman gestured the runners to take a seat, noting, “HE will be with you shortly,” then she turned and left with the three men in tow.
“That’s our mark,” Raven muttered, his eyes lighting up.
Piman, however, was more interested in what was hidden in the surrounding trees. He identified at least two LMG (light machinegun) turrets, currently tracking them from camouflaged nests.
Still hidden, Yoda decided to try and get some information from their spirit guard.
“So,” he said astrally, “where is your master? Will he be joining us?”
Snarling, the spirit retorted, “step out from your spirit, so I may see you. Then I’ll talk.”
Softly to Sean, the mage muttered, “ask him what he’s watching us for… see if you can determine what would set him off.”
Try as Sean did, he was unable to get any information from the gator/man spirit.
Suddenly, a booming voice on hidden speakers echoed all around them, “I spy with my little eye…” The sound of hooves clopping on wood directed everyone’s attention to the dais. A full two meters in height, his glossy red skin was painful to see in the sunlight, as if the skin was sculpted from bloody wax. The smile on his face was lined with large, white shark teeth.
The runners examined the devil as he stood with his hands on his hips, his posture gloating. Yoda assensed an aura of gleeful emotion, blacked by extensive cyberware: his skull, limbs, and torso were cybernetic replacements, almost nothing left of the man’s humanity. With the glee, he also sensed a maliciousness of twisted pleasure.
Running a scan, Pretty Boy detected several strong signals radiating from the fellow, at least eight, nearly as strong as what you’d expect from vehicles.
The Devil said, “We have the hacker, the muscle, and the rigger. Oh, there’s supposed to be a mage here, too.”
Raven quipped, “we got tired of him, tossed him overboard on the way here.”
“Are you going to lie to the devil, boy?”
“I’m catholic… I make a habit of lying to the devil.”
Wax Devil grinned luridly at this bit of news, rubbing his hands together as his black, glossy nails clicked excitedly. “Catholic, eh? So… what brings you to the lair of the devil?”
“You have something we want,” Pretty Boy growled. A smack rang out as Raven palmed his bald head, embarrassed.
“And what is it you want?”
Afraid Pretty Boy would repeat himself yet again, Raven quickly interceded, “There… in that cage of yours.”
The devil turned and casually kicked the side of the cage. Jerking upright, Mr. Corigear cast about within the confines like a cornered animal, immediately blubbering to be freed.
“Calm yourself,” the devil admonished sternly, “we have guests… they’ve come looking for you.”
The man looked upon the runners, fearful and distrustful.
Pretty Boy tried to flash a reassuring grin, his warty lips warping about a mouth of exposed, cankered teeth. At the sight of the hacker, the man moaned with terror.
“Pretty Boy,” the dwarf shot a terse message, “PLEASE don’t smile at him!”
“No,” the man squeaked, “NO!!! Stay away, leave me alone!!”
“Mr. Corigear,” Raven said in a calm, civilized manner, “we’re your extraction team, here to take you home.”
The man stopped blabbering and took a second, harder look at the runners. Pleading, he then said, “please, get me out of here,” then he began to cry.
“Stop crying,” Jugular snapped, annoyed, “we’re on this, just sit tight until we free you.”
The devil seemed rather pleased by this whole exchange.
“Oh,” he sneered, “I DO have something you want. How shall we arrange this affair? Shall we trade, or play a game?”
“What kind of game?” Piman asked, uneasy.
“Why,” the devil oozed, “the entertaining kind, of course.” The devil cackled with glee as his eyes lit up.
“Trade,” Yoda shot out on AR, sending a confirmation request with the text. They all quickly voted in agreement, and Jugular informed Wax Devil they wished to go with that option.
Obviously disappointed, the devil snorted, “fine… I’ve heard of you, Jugular, is it? Not only is that your boat, but rumor has it you’re a somewhat competent rigger… an errand, perhaps? Have you heard of Lafitte’s Sailors?”
Jugular nodded once. They’d had a run-in with those sludge-rats when he and Piman had first met Yoda. What local smuggler didn’t know of those bottom feeders?
“Well,” the devil continued, “I want you to get something from them. They… acquired two crates which happen to be my property. I was just about to retrieve my possessions, but you could save me the trouble. You bring back my crates, and we can trade.”
The devil sent them a data packet containing the coordinates of where, he believed, the crates were held. Examining the data with his companions, Raven glanced up and snarled, “and how can we trust the devil to keep his word?”
“Trust a Christian to doubt my word,” the devil snickered at some private joke. “You know who calls me the Prince of Lies? Christians. Those who know me know my word is good.”
Yoda requested an AR vote. All agreed to go with this plan, though Raven was last, after a long, tortured moment of indecision. Clearly, he was not eager to follow through with this.
“Excellent,” the devil wrung his hands, “now, take your hacker with you and be on your way. I expect the crates no later than tomorrow. They’re not too far from here.”
The runners turned to return to their ship, the bleating of their mark a long and pitiful whine that followed them to the pier.
“I don’t trust this fragger,” Pretty Boy shot through the AR link.
“No choice,” Yoda replied, feeding a pic of the LMG turrets for emphasis. “We’ll bring him his crates… and we’ll be ready if he betrays us.”
“When’s more like it,” Raven grumbled.
Once they’d sailed beyond sight of the island base and Yoda confirmed astrally that they weren’t being followed, Pretty Boy flashed one of his patented, putrid grins and slipped into hot sim to do some digging. He promptly found, then smashed through the blog of the Lafitte’s Sailors. He was surprised to find how arrogant they were of their activities, for right there on an open forum they bragged about their operations in the swamp.
The node had other interesting bits of data. Their dress code was staunchly enforced: every member had to wear bright-red boots, knee-high in a Renaissance style, and matching sashes. Much of the node focused on the history of the pirate John Lafitte, a French privateer turned pirate. There were also some wild ramblings from the leader, ‘Captain Domingue.’ The fellow was a self-proclaimed mage who boasted of battles in which he’s practically naked.
Much of the bragging focused on preying on lone travelers or smugglers deep in the swamp. Some of the stories of brutalities and atrocities committed by this gang left Pretty Boy sick to his stomach. As he surveyed one repulsive picture of an old man’s body stretched out on a dock, grinning gang members around it like prize fishermen posing with their catch, the hacker began to doubt whether these people could even claim one shred of humanity between them.
Pretty Boy left the blog, and on sudden impulse he visited a major node of his most hated enemies, the Humanis Policlub. This policlub replaced the old KKK of last century, except skin color or beliefs were no longer cause for discrimination. Why hate a black or a Jew when your neighbor has pointed ears? A common feature of meta-variants (be they trolls, orks, dwarves, or elves) was that, to some degree or another, their ears formed a point along the top edge. The symbol of the Humanis Policlub was a round ear, often visible atop the hooded masks they wore when they terrorized metahumans.
Pretty Boy had a long, sorted history with these hate-mongers, many events that he tried very hard not to dwell on. The hatred ran both ways in his case, and whenever he could, he’d implicate them in a crime or start a virtual fight on their behalf with anyone with the means and power to retaliate. Such was his intent here, for the Humanis Policlub and Lafitte’s Sailors seemed a great match-up for mutual destruction.
His icon approached the entrance to the club’s node, stylized as a large, stone wall with vaulted double-doors. As he began to hack on the fly to gain access, the hacker hit an unexpected snag: they’d upgraded their system. In response to his last visit, the ork thought as memories brought a grotesque smile to his meat-body far away. Then, an active alarm summoned more IC than he’d ever seen at an entrance. Not wanting to risk such a fight, Pretty Boy’s icon retreated, a line of virtual, hooded IC now on the ramparts with torches, accusing eyes watching him depart.
Abandoning that impromptu plan, Pretty Boy chose instead to hack into an imaging satellite over the swamps. With some remarkable code-slinging, the hacker watched proudly as he obtained access to one of the imaging devices on board the satellite and zeroed in on the given coordinates to spy on the hideout.
As the picture uploaded, he saw several buildings on a stretch of land, connected by a small canal to a large bayou, spreading into a network of waterways that faded into the surrounding swamp. Several fan boats, at least half a dozen, could be seen in the still image either connected to one of the docks on the canal or drifting in or out. One larger craft was a Samuvani Criscraft Otter, a mid-sized boat typically used for pleasure, utility or light hauling. Over five meters in length with an open hull, this vessel was clearly the best available at the base. Some heavy foliage from the trees hid some parts, so possibly there were more craft or features not seen here.
Pretty Boy returned to AR, sitting up to stretch and belt out a yawn that looked like an ogre in its death throes. Then, he shot the image to everyone’s PAN for review.
“Looks like the right sort of place,” the ork gurgled into the commlink.
Warning his friends, Yoda had his spirit conceal them all once again, the Spitzenreiter passing under dense foliage and never emerging, as far as any spies were concerned.
In under an hour, they’d arrived at the outskirts to the base, everyone on deck as they watched nervously for discovery. One fan boat suddenly burst out from behind a bend, both the men on board laughing merrily (at what, none could guess) as they angled the boat and passed within 10 meters, oblivious to the death that passed them by.
“Blimey,” Raven breathed when they’d disappeared around another bend, “tusker, can you give us some better intel than a bleeding still?”
Nodding, Pretty Boy lay down on the deck and slipped back into hot sim. A second later, the ork stood back up with a smug grin absolutely horrid to witness and fed them a live feed from the camera – he’d upgraded himself to security level, the imaging device now his own, private toy… until the owners discovered they were one short, of course.
The Otter was gone, not visible anywhere within the area.
“I’d better get a ground view,” the mage rasped, and Jugular mentally stilled the engines of his craft as the dwarf settled down to meditate.
Unseen to his mundane companions, the dwarf raced out astrally, surveyed the base, and returned within minutes.
“Roughly fifteen people on the ground,” Yoda rasped quietly as he gazed towards the base, as if he could still see everything through the dense brush it currently hid in, “largest building on the compound is encased in a mana-barrier, with a spirit guarding it.”
“Is dat where’de crates be?” Piman mused out loud.
The dwarf shook his head saying, “doubtful… it has the aura of a troll mage, I’d guess it’s the hermetic lodge of their leader. No, see right here…”
He pulled up the live satellite feed on AR between them, highlighting one building near the water, the largest pier directly in front. “Right here would be a logical place for stolen goods. They could unload off the dock and right into the building. See here, there’s a large set of double doors dock-side… If I had to carry anything heavy, this would be the logical place to stash it.”
“Agreed,” Jugular breathed, surveying the image. “I’ll pull up right there. If what we need’s inside, a quick smash and grab and we’d be gone before they could put up much of a fight.”
The runners liked this plan, so without further discussion the rigger inched his craft through the water, running on silent engines, and they all watched as the base loomed into view. The sun was low to the west, long shadows draping across the terrain to pool and hide swaths of areas. The buildings were cobbled together from pre-fab materials, not very pretty to look at but clearly serviceable. Here and there, a thick pole topped with a light flickered on, illuminating the entire base, especially the main pier, though ambient light from the sun was still plentiful.
Slowly, quietly, the Spitzenreiter slid along the pier, stopping a mere 20 meters from the shore. Many of the runners on board felt their napes prickle as one passing bandit turned to look at them, his eyes unfocused as his expression remained bored. Then, he turned and walked away, oblivious to their presence.
“Let me scout the building,” Yoda spoke into his sub-vocal microphone, all but silent to anyone not subscribed to their commlinks.
His body lay in meditation for a minute before he returned.
“Lots of crates inside, all shapes,” he said sub-vocally. “Three humans at one end, playing a game of chance. There’s also a troll asleep on top of one of the crates. Aside from a couple of hook-hands, they’re not cybered, and they’re not awakened. Everyone, look for cameras, there’s bound to be a few watching.”
The runners turned to scrutinize the area as Yoda sat back and waited; his eyes were not cybernetic. Though in his drake form he had impressive vision, he trusted on his cybered friends to find them.
“Got it,” Raven whispered, his British accent laced with smugness, “there, on the building over the doors… it’s sweeping the docks.”
“You messed two mo,” Piman replied matter-of-factly, “One on dat pole o’dare and de o’one on dat pier.”
“Pretty Boy,” the dwarf muttered, “take care of them.”
The feat took him three seconds as he hacked his way into the local security site. Fooling the system into believing he had admin-level access, the ork took two minutes of uneventful video and looped it.
“Done,” he gurgled.
Just then, two Lafitte’s Sailors strolled between the warehouse and the pier, chatting and laughing as they walked. Pretty Boy reviewed the live satellite feed, then whispered harshly, “there’s not any pattern that I can see, folks on patrol are just walking about. Give me a second… there, I have a program set up to track when they disappear under the trees and estimate where they’ll reappear. We should be able to guess when the path is clear.”
“Jugular,” Yoda said, “We need you to pull close enough to the shore so we cross there, just in case there’s a pressure switch on the pier. We’ll slip into the trees on that side of the building. Come back here and cover us with your drones. There’s a side entrance we’ll use.”
Then the dwarf turned to the other runners. “We’ll have to sneak without magic, I’m afraid.”
“Want to make it challenging, Wee Man?” Raven replied sarcastically. He’d grown rather fond of magical concealment.
“No choice,” the dwarf replied, “I can only have one spirit in service, and he needs to hide the boat. He can’t keep us covered when we leave it. I’ll have to take my other form; I can hide better that way… Pretty Boy, don’t be afraid.”
The dwarf began to swell and bulge, the feathered dragon within bursting free as tiny shreds of Yoda wisped away in the wind, disintegrating into smoke, then nothing. The ork’s jaw threatened to fall off his face, his chromed tusk stabbing outward as his eyes bulged.
“Never seen a drake, mate?” Raven sneered at the ork’s shock.
“Uh, sure,” the ork replied, regaining his composure, “it’s just, well, how the HELL is he expecting to hide with bright orange and yellow plumage? He looks someone ate too many jelly beans and puked all over him.”
The feathered serpent’s neck whipped around, startling-blue eyes narrowing dangerously as a brilliant crown of fiery feathers flared out, framing its head. As a warning, the drake let a low, sinister hiss leak out.
“Right,” Piman breathed, “well, no time like the present.”
The merc, his FN HAR in hand, headed to the front of the boat as it inched towards the shore. Raven and Pretty Boy followed, with the feathered serpent last. The drake pulled its wings to its sides and tucked in its two legs, slithering along the ground with its barbed tail held clear. At the front, they waited as they watched the live feed.
After a few minutes, it was clear no one would interrupt them unless the nearest patrollers were to run here. Nodding to one another, the runners slipped over the side and into the shallows, the boat vanishing into a haze as they made for the shore. Yoda had been right: as brightly-colored as he was, he had the agility of a racing snake, sliding from one hidden patch to the other, his 3-meter length as fast as any serpent a fraction of that size. With a mad dash, the runners made for the trees to the left of the warehouse. In moments, they were at the back entrance, thankfully hidden from the base by some overgrown brush.
The door was guarded by a maglock with a keypad. With admin access to the bases security, a mental twitch was all it took for Pretty Boy to pop open the door. All three men slipped inside along with the drake, the door closing behind them. Just to be sure, Pretty Boy jammed both the side entrance and the main one locked, key codes now useless.
Yoda stood up as the wisps of drake-smoke vanished. Using AR, he began to draw a rough map of the warehouse from memory. Not impressed by the sloppy drawing, Pretty Boy pulled a layout of the building up and presented it in 3D between them. Nodding, Yoda got to work on the image, giving a simple marker where the three men were gambling and the snoozing troll.
Marking a forward position near the thieves, Yoda began sneaking in, his companions on his heels.
“Not again!” a man’s voice complained bitterly, punctuated by another cursing vehemently as a third laughed at their misfortune.
“Lady luck favors me tonight,” the laugher gloated among grumbles.
As they came into view, a plan formed in Yoda’s mind. He’d seen two of his chummers in hand to hand combat before, and the ork looked like he knew how to use that spur of his.
“I have an idea,” the dwarf whispered sub-vocally, pulling up the map and marking the three gamblers where they sat, “You guys rush them all at once. Raven, take out the man facing us (the laugher), as you’re the quickest and he’ll likely not have time to react. At the same time, Pretty Boy, take out this one, and Piman, this one. Most likely, they’ll just be standing up as they watch Raven hit the first.”
“And the troll?” Piman asked.
“I’ll watch him,” Yoda replied. “I’ll be in my drake form, so I won’t have access to AR.”
“We just… kill dem?” Piman said this distastefully. Though he was a merc, he wasn’t a cold-blooded killer.
“They’re ruthless murderers,” Pretty Boy hissed, “they deserve worse.”
The merc thought on this, then nodded. He’d heard many stories of Lafitte’s Sailors. If half were true, they were heartless thugs who’d drown a child and laugh at the mother’s reactions. His conscience clear, the merc sighed resolutely and unsheathed a large, brutal machete. All three men keyed their reflexes to high, the mage matching the motion magically.
“On three,” the dwarf whispered, and with the countdown, the ugly business got underway.
The dice danced in the makeshift table: a battered crate lid upside-down. A pair of fives settled, to the moans and whines of his companions as the lucky man with a hook for a hand whooped and hollered.
“Damn-it, not AGAIN!”
“You lucky bastard!!!”
“Haha,” the man’s shit-eating grin threatened to swallow his face, gloating eyes turned upward to soak in the misery of his mates as he used his hook to snag the dice and pull them back to his side.
Their looks were borderline murderous, but not as threatening as the solid-red eyes of icy intent materializing from the shadows behind them. The sailor’s grin began to slip, eyes bugging as death flew at him.
Raven launched into a double-fisted flying punch, threading between the two men and connecting with the stunned gambler with a loud snap, the man’s armored vest nearly cracking under the force of ceramic-laced knuckles backed by Raven’s entire weight. The poor man tried to yell, but with his legs crossed before him and one arm pinned, the gambler’s body whipped back at high speed, slamming his head into the floor like a hammer. His eyes lost all focus as his skull nearly failed him, even as Raven rolled and popped up on his feet, lightly spinning to eye the other two.
The other two gamblers stood as one. The one on the left tried to say something, but all that came out of his throat was a long, wicked cyberspur, jutting out of his adam’s apple. The spur retreated back into the poor sod’s throat, and all he could do was gurgle and collapse: the last thing he saw as he turned was the nightmare that was Pretty Boy’s face. Then, mercifully, the lack of blood flow slipped his mind into oblivion.
Alerted to the gurgles of his other mate, the last gambler turned to gape at the hideous hacker. Then, he spotted Piman bearing down on him. The man tried to dodge, catching the swung machete in his shoulder. Agony lanced through his system, and the gambler screamed.
Yoda shed his skin, snaking his serpentine neck up to watch the sleeping troll. As the scream echoed in the warehouse, the troll sat up, groggy and confused. Too bad, the drake thought to himself as he advanced, slithering silently towards his prey on thick, feathery coils that whispered through the support beams along the roof.
The first gambler began to sit up, eyes still unfocused. Raven dropped to one knee and seized the man’s head in one smooth motion, slamming it back into the floor. This time, his skull did fail him, and as his final thoughts ran runny across the wooden surface, a look of horror and utter shock froze on his features.
Pretty Boy spun to watch the troll’s spot intently, but the big fragger was hidden from view. What he did see was a flash of bright feathers over the hiding spot, the drake coiling to strike. The feathered serpent whipped his tail around, intending to open the troll’s throat with the barbs, but the big fellow showed surprising speed as he kicked out with a leg, shoving part of the crate in the way and deflecting the blow. Then, the troll leapt to the floor, whipping out a TMP submachine gun fitted with a troll-sized grip and screamed, “Intruders!”
The shout seemed to jolt Raven into action. Sprinting, the Brit launched into a flying kick, knocking the large foe backwards as all air rushed out of his chest with a whoosh, silencing the next shout. Even as momentum cleared some space between the troll and Raven, Pretty Boy appeared in the void, sinking his spur into the troll’s gut. Face twisting in pain, the troll reflexively tried to scream, but nothing but a hoarse squeak croaked forth from his depleted lungs.
Back at the gambling table, Piman’s foe lunged for an assault rifle leaning nearby, but the merc caught him at the corner of his throat and down his chest with the machete. Blood spraying from the wound, the man fell to his hands and knees and began crawling away.
With two cybered foes before him, the troll spun as the feathered serpent descended with a violent snap of its jaws. The feint worked, and as the troll threw one arm up to shield his face, several serrated barbs flew across his armpit, sawing open the flesh as the venom burned into his bloodstream. Scoring the hit, the poisonous tail lashed back and forth behind the serpent as he sought another opening.
That same arm held the SMG, and as the troll tried to fire a burst, the muscles failed him, pumping three rounds into the floor before the weapon fell from his fingers. He followed it to his knees, looking down at the weapon with dismay. Stepping up, Raven swung one leg straight up, and then dropped a heel kick into the base of the troll’s neck, a loud, sharp crack sounding through the troll’s body as it went ragdoll-limp and collapsed. The hacker turned to survey their last opponent still moving, the merc looming over him.
“Stop toying with him,” Pretty Boy admonished, and with a dangerous glare at the ork, Piman stepped over and dropped the crawling gambler with a single stroke to his neck.
“A’least I don let mine fire aw gun,” Piman hissed through clenched teeth, even as he wiped his machete off with the corpse’s sash and slammed it back in its sheath. Unslinging his FN HAR, the merc went to cover the front door.
“Null perspiration,” the hacker gurgled in his gravelly voice, “the doors are secured.”
Raven glanced with distaste at a spot of blood on his arm. As he brushed it off delicately, he noted, “bugger locked or not, I’d rather not have fifteen pissed-off blokes waiting outside with rifles.”
Yoda was already in his dwarf skin. “Jugular,” he rasped through the commlink, “how’s the weather outside.”
“Clear as a bell,” the rigger shot back, “was that gunshots I heard?”
“Question is,” the dwarf replied, “did any of THEM hear it?”
Several seconds passed. Then, the rigger said, “not that I can see.”
The runners sighed, though Piman still guarded the door. Pretty Boy began looking for the crates, scanning for their RFID tags. Sensing a golden opportunity, Yoda began combing through the other crates, trying to find them a ‘bonus.’
Raven walked over to the gambler he’d killed, pulled out his rosaries, and began speaking softly in Latin.
“What are you doing?” the ork rumbled.
“Performing last rights,” the Brit quipped as he traced the sign of the cross before him. “I must give last rights to everyone I kill.”
The Brit put his rosaries away and began looking for their objective.
“Hey,” Pretty Boy gurgled, “what about him?”
“Him?!?” Raven seemed shocked. “He doesn’t get last rights… he’s a troll.”
Pretty Boy looked even worse angry than he did happy. His misshapen teeth began to grind horribly in the silence, and muttering darkly, he turned stiffly to search the other end of the warehouse.
In about 10 minutes, Yoda narrowed his choices down to two smaller crates: one was loaded with kilograms worth of street drugs, the old-fashioned chemical kind, and another crate was a case of actual rum, not synthohol – both should fetch a hefty bit of money.
“Found them,” the hacker gloated from the back of the warehouse, and he came forward with two crates of his own, each nearly half a cubic meter, stacked in his arms. “Hey Yoda, what’cha got there?”
“Something for us to make a little extra money on,” the dwarf replied, hoisting the two he’d found.
Setting down the crates near the main entrance, the hacker walked over to the gambling area.
“Well if it’s cash you’re looking for,” he noted, even as he bent over to scoop up a fist-full of currency notes. Cash in this day and age was rare, but for SIN-less it still had its uses. For these bandits, it was likely a necessity.
“Damn Pretty Boy,” the dwarf replied, setting his own crates aside, “why didn’t I think of that?”
He went to help the ork, and when they were done they’d found nearly $1,700 in cash, most of it at the feet of the lucky gambler. Piman glanced over briefly before turning back to the front door.
“Hey,” the merc said softly, eyes on the job, “you sh’take dose ‘sault rifles o’dares… word a’least aw couple large.”
Yoda glanced at the two assault rifles: HVAR models, very expensive, for they had the firing rate equivalent to a chain-gun. One tossed to the hacker, they both slung the rifles over their backs and scored the boxy spare clips from their previous owners. Then, they each retrieved their armful of crates.
“Still sunny?” Yoda breathed tersely into the commlink.
“Yep,” Jugular shot back.
Nodding to one another, the runners tensed: Yoda and Pretty Boy each with an armful of crates, Raven with his Predators in hand, Piman with his FN HAR. All four broke into a jog, and the double doors unlocked and opened before them with a thought from the hacker.
They crossed the ground in seconds, Raven in front, the load-bearers in the center, Piman at the rear. Just before Raven’s foot touched the Pier, a husky voice in the base bawled out, “Intruders!! Baratarians, come help!”
Piman spun as his FoF software acquired the target: an ork wearing a red trench coat, standing beside a tree as he brawled and pointed. Fifty meters away, the target was, answering shouts already ringing out. Their cover blown, the merc realized stealth was no longer necessary. His smartlink system began selecting vital impacts as he pulled the trigger, sending a narrow burst at the ork.
The fellow must have seen what the merc intended, for even as the rounds began to bark loose from the barrel he dove behind the tree, but not before the burst caught one leg, putting an ugly spin on his jump. The ork fell into the tall grass, disappearing from Piman’s sights. Two henchmen rounded a building. The merc could hear the boots of his chummers pounding down the dock behind him. Walking backward in a casual manner, he mentally rotated the selector lever to full auto and the FN HAR began leaping in his arms, spraying hot lead. The first man fell flat on his face, narrowly dodging the gun fire. The second, however, was not so lucky: one of the rounds blossomed red gore from his cheek, another catching him in the shoulder as he jerked and fell from the impacts.
The other runners were on the boat, now invisible to everyone including the merc. Understanding this dilemma, Yoda began talking out loud, saying, “this way, follow my voice!”
Piman walked backwards, sweeping the base with his eyes as his FoF software sought more targets. A distant thump echoed, and he caught sight of a small, egg-shaped object as it fell at his feet from the sky, bounced, and landed in the water. “Grenade,” his FoF software tagged the projectile as it spun out of sight. The merc’s eyes widened, and he turned away and shielded his face as the blast gurgled up from the water, shrapnel shredding through that side of the dock. Unharmed, the merc grinned at his luck and turned to his invisible ride, vanishing as he stepping into the spirit’s influence.
As the boat began to back off from the dock on silent engines, a dozen men came pounding into view, submachine guns and assault rifles waving wildly as they shouted confusion, searching the pier.
“He must be in the water!” one man shouted, and in a crazy rush they ran to one side of the pier or the other, spraying bullets in a vain effort to hit their missing foe. “No,” another shouted, “under the dock, he must be hiding there!” Others jumped into the water near the shore, in the shallows, sweeping under the pier with their weapons at the ready as they cursed or bawled threats. Some even fired into the dock, trying to score a hit on anyone underneath. Even as this frantic scramble took place, three fan boats came barreling down the canal, each with a man on a front seat with an assault rifle at the ready while another steered.
Piman instinctively raised his FN HAR in response.
“Don’t,” Yoda hissed in his sub-vocal, “you’ll give away our position.”
The drivers of the fan boat subconsciously angled to avoid the concealed Spitzenreiter and closed in to assist in the search around the pier. The random firing died down as an ork in a red trench coat took charge, bawling orders as he hobbled, ignoring the gunshot wounds in his leg. Just then, the base alarm began to sound.
Grinning luridly, Pretty Boy accessed the alarm and replaced the blaring claxon with an automated message. In an impartial voice, the base system announced repeatedly, “attention all, shoot the guy in the red trench coat, repeat, shoot the guy in the red trench coat, repeat…”
Red faced, the ork began to utter a stream of curses so foul they’d make a sailor blush. Shouting for the men to ignore the alarm, he directed the search effort to spread outward. As a final gesture, Pretty Boy pasted up Humanis Policlub slogans and derogative jokes across the AR landscape and set the alarm to his own custom setting, ‘Maximum Annoy.’ The resulting whine was a high pitched warble, causing everyone on the boat to cringe. They were over two-hundred meters away by now and the noise was difficult to stomach; for those on the base, it had to be utterly intolerable.
Laughing, the hacker wiped his data trail, encrypted all access codes to the node so the real admin could never access the system, and logged off.
“Oi,” Raven said, tuning the horrid alarm out with his cyber ears, “who was that tusker in the red coat? I thought you said their leader was a troll.”
Pretty Boy had recognized the ork from a picture on their blog node. “He’s called ‘the Baratarian,’” the hacker replied, “he’s some sort of lieutenant of Lafitte’s Sailors. There’s a faction loyal to him, calling themselves Baratarians. My guess is they were responsible for guarding the base.”
Jugular laughed, “hah! Sounds like someone’s due for a demotion.”
Free and clear, the hidden boat wove through the web of bayous, retracing the path back to the devil’s lair.
The last rays of the sun stabbed up from the western trees, the sky on fire with fading brilliance. As the Spitzenreiter crawled through the swamps, hidden by the Spirit of Man, the bayous about them buzzed with the flight of a dozen mad bees: flatboats with angry men atop them, searching for their unseen prey. At the moment, none of the flatboats were visible, but their activities echoed through the trees all around them.
Yoda stood on deck, watching the west. At each sunset and sunrise, unbound spirits such as his are free from further service. To keep the concealment going, the dwarf mage intended to re-summon Sean at just the right moment. Though invisible behind the trees, he sensed the precise moment the last slice of the sun slipped beyond the horizon. The mage closed his eyes and performed the summons. At least, he tried.
Were any watching this narrow patch of water, they would see the boat spring into existence, one dwarven passenger with bloody hair and orange skin wearing a very, very upset expression as he withered with exhaustion.
“Shit,” Yoda breathed out, “we’re visible!”
The failed effort had a cost: the dwarf was fatigued, for the spirit had resisted with surprising strength. Screwing his eyes shut and ignoring the alarmed questions ringing about him, the dwarf tried the summons again. Almost begrudgingly, Sean returned, owing only a single service. Yoda used it to hide the boat. After a brief AR message advising everyone their cover was once again working, the dwarf shed his skin, curled up into a tight ball of feathers and napped.
Fan boats continued to buzz about while the Spitzenreiter eased along through the waterways. Jugular kept his boat at a leisurely pace, unsure if a wide wake behind them might give away their position. The rigger tensed as one fan boat rounded a bend before them in a collision course. The driver of the boat veered hard to avoid them, passing within 2 meters of the ship as a man at the front vainly swept the area, peering through the boat itself as if to spy them somewhere behind the trees. Unaware of the twin Predators and FN HAR assault rifle that tracked them, the two men in the boat rounded another bend and were gone, the growling of the big fan fading into the din of others.
Half an hour after sunset, their route brought them within sight of a larger canal running parallel to their own course. All but the sleeping drake were startled to see an amazing sight: on the canal more than 150 meters away, heading in the opposite direction, was a brightly-lit Otter pleasure craft, easily traveling five times as fast as should have been possible, a fan of water jetting high behind it, broken up as if the rotors were skipping on the surface.
“Looks like Captain Domingue’s in a hurry to get home,” Pretty Boy gurgled quietly into the commlink. He wasn’t certain that was the leader’s craft, but it made sense that the best boat was reserved for the troll mage.
Piman gasped, “how his craft move s’fast?!?”
The runners shrugged. Yoda could have guessed the mage used the aide of spirits to move so quickly, but the drake was asleep on deck, and none were willing to try to rouse the sleeping serpent.
In another fifteen minutes, the last sound of the distant fan boats died among the thousands of swamp denizens screaming, croaking, hissing, and clacking in the dark. Raven and Pretty Boy were particularly unsettled, casting about as the clamor of nature threatened to drown any noise of pursuit or ambush. During the day, the sounds of the swamp were clear. But, both were at a loss at why, with all traces of sunlight gone, the songs of these lands rose several octaves. Piman and Jugular, by contrast, relaxed. Natives to these swamps, they’d have been alarmed had the sounds not risen to their current levels.
A loud snap in the brush left of the boat caused Brit and hacker to spin, pistols out. Piman glanced at them slyly over one shoulder, a single eyebrow cocked up as he shook his long hair clear of his face.
“R’lax,” the merc grinned, “dat be just aw gator.”
Lowering their weapons, the two glanced at each other briefly before holstering them.
In two hours the drake stirred, shedding his skin as Yoda stood straight and stretched with a yawn. Fully recovered, the crimson-haired dwarf nodded to his chummers and walked to the front to stand next to Piman. The other runners relied on their cybereyes in such darkness, but dwarves have natural thermographic vision. All matter has some heat emanating from it. To the runners’ eyes, everything glowed as if lit internally, a subtle shift of colors depending on internal temperatures. For a human with normal sight, the swamp would have been black and sinister, the gray sky overhead tainted with the light pollution of New Orlean’s sprawl still 50 kilometers distant. For the runners, many secrets of the swamp hidden in the daylight glowed visible among the brush, sometimes even just under the surface of the water.
Yoda pulled up the AR map, noting their ETA (estimated time of arrival). When they were half an hour out, he slipped his flesh and made a brief astral sweep of the devil’s base. It looked as it had before, no ambushes or nasty surprises waiting along their way. With a warning, he withdrew his spirit’s concealment on everything but himself just before the boat rounded the last bend, cutting visibly through the clear waters of the surrounding bayou, straight towards the inlet of the island.
A familiar Crest racing boat awaited, the same woman on board, but with two new men. She stood, grinning luridly as the boat approached.
“W’heard o’de commotion,” she drawled, “figured ya’ll might be moseyin’ back t’night, so we reckoned o’leavin’ out de red carpet. Follow us.”
As both of her henchmen nodded, the suspicious dwarf read their auras. Each man had a blend of tainted colors, markings of heavy drug use, at least a half dozen addictions he could see. One man’s mood was boredom, the other a retarded eagerness: drug use had addled his mind. Aside from minor cyberware, there was no other sign of hidden danger.
The Spitzenreiter was lead to the same dock, Piman leaping off to secure the ship as their counterparts did the same opposite with the Crest. The woman stood with her hands on her hips, grinning obscenely as the runners stepped on, Pretty Boy and Jugular each carrying one of the crates. The entire island was brightly lit with an annoying blend of phosphorus yellow and fiery red lights, mist in the air giving the scene a smoky tint.
As they arrived at the stage, the Wax Devil stood tall upon it, deafening the makeshift amphitheater with thunderous applause, his hands smacking together with a waxen clamor. He punctuated the display with cheers and whistles.
“Oh,” he grinned luridly, “I most thoroughly enjoyed your display at their base.” The devil singled out Piman with a hellish gaze. “Especially you… so professional, the way you cut those men down! As if you’d done that before. You know, I’m always looking for good mercs…”
“I’ll keep dat in consideration,” Piman breathed uneasily. His answer clearly disappointed the devil. His frown was as freakish as his grins, for the cyber face contorted beyond what would be possible for a real expression. Then, the disturbing grimace melted before an equally disturbing grin.
“My goods,” the devil clapped with glee, “my goods! Y’all don’t disappoint, do you! Set them there.” With a nod he indicated the side of the stage to their right. Mr. Corigear could still be seen in the cage, crumpled and unconscious. Pretty Boy and Jugular deposited the crates and returned to stand with their chummers at the foot of the stage, everyone alert for betrayal. Unseen, the dwarf surveyed the area with astral perception. As before, the gator/man spirit was there, tailing them.
“Interested in a game?” the devil rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
“What’s in it for us?” Jugular shot back.
Frowning, Yoda keyed a brief message to his teammates, “we must be going.”
“Sorry,” Raven replied delicately, “we don’t have time.”
The frown of the devil topped his earlier display, even more freakishly wide, the corners of his mouth actually dipping below his chin. “Take him,” the devil scoffed, waving to the cage, “he’s no fun anymore.”
The Brit vaulted onto the platform, one of the men who accompanied the woman going with him (the bored one). The devil’s cloven hooves clacked loudly as he went over to his crates. Piman searched the area with a hawk’s focus, spotting a third LMG turret he’d missed earlier. All three turrets were tracking them. He marked the location with an AR tag, alerting the runners to its presence. Raven nodded slightly in gratitude, watching the weapon with a bit of trepidation, ready to leap aside at the first sign of fire.
As the henchman keyed the maglock open and Raven hunkered down to inspect their mark, the devil suddenly blurted, “oh, I almost forgot – he tried to escape, so we had to shoot him.”
All the runners froze. Raven’s solid-red eyes bore into the devil’s back, brimming with loathing and hatred as one of his hands twitched involuntarily towards one of the concealed Predators at the base of his back. The woman and both men seemed ready for action, though the retard wore a stupid smile.
“If he’s dead,” Yoda keyed, “we keep the crates.”
At the edge of the stage, the devil turned a gloating grin to them, standing defiantly, soaking in the loathing and alarm he saw on the runners’ faces. Forcing himself on task, Raven turned and inspected Mr. Corigear. Turning the comatose man over, he saw a mesh of bloody shirt sticking about the gunshot wound to his chest.
“He’s shot bad,” the Brit breathed into his commlink.
Yoda rushed onto the stage, surveying the man’s aura. The mark’s spirit was slipping free of the flesh, even as he watched: in moments, he’d be dead. Rushing to his side, the dwarf laid hands on the dying man and cast a Heal spell, pouring all his will into keeping their payday alive.
To heal someone so close to death is dangerous. Were he a weaker mage, the attempt could have rendered him unconscious, but the dwarf was stout. Still, as he pulled the man from death’s grip and healed the gaping chest wound just enough to keep him alive, Yoda swooned with exhaustion, falling to his knees.
“Raven,” the dwarf breathed sub-vocally, his fatigue heavy in his words, “I’m keeping him alive, barely. Carry him, but don’t let my grip on him falter.”
Nodding, the Brit lifted the unconscious man from his cage, aware that Yoda clung to his trench coat with one hand while gripping the mark’s leg with his other, stumbling against him as he gingerly navigated the stage and rejoined the others. The blood-soaked front of their mark squished against the Brit’s coat, smearing him with the sticky mess.
The devil grinned, immensely enjoying this little show. “I DO hope your poor mage didn’t put himself out trying to heal,” the devil crooned with mock sympathy. Then, his expression went flat. “I do suggest you hurry along now, before I start a game of my own.”
As one the runners made haste for the boat, Piman trailing to keep an eye on the turrets tracking them. Raven walked slowly with the mark in his arms, the dwarf beside him stumbling badly as he clung to the Brit’s coat, one hand in a death grip on the flaccid leg.
“Do I need to pick you up as well?” Raven muttered softly. Invisible to everyone but him, the dwarf answered with a soft, threatening growl.
As they reached their boat, two more goons were waiting, eyeing them eagerly.
“Y’all shouldn’t leave s’quickly,” one of the men drawled, “de devil don like it when comp’ny runs out on him.”
Raven growled, “the devil can go back to HELL where he belongs.”
One of the men snorted, even as the other chuckled. Amused, they watched the runners board the boat, Piman slipping the moorings even as Jugular mentally fired up the engines and pulled clear. Subscribing to all his drones, the rigger launched his mini-spy, the diminutive eye flying just above the craft to aid in spotting any betrayal. The combat drones remained in their racks, appearing docile, but in reality online and ready to leap into action.
“Too weak,” the dwarf mage gasped into the commlink, “can’t hide us, we’ll be visible.” Then, Raven and Yoda stumbled below deck and hooked Mr. Corigear up to the medkit.
“Um,” the Brit said, glancing with distaste at the bloodstains on himself, “I’m untrained in first aid.”
Yoda activated the medkit, advising the AI he needed assistance in attaching the kit to the patient. In a pleasant woman’s voice, the medkit talked him through hooking the man up for diagnostics. Then, the AI got to work.
“Massive blood loss,” she said lightly, “subject has gunshot wound to the chest, bullet located within chest cavity. Immediate medical attention needed.”
The Ai punctuated this with AR displays of the mark’s insides, the slug glowing visibly under virtual tissue and bone. Recommended treatments began listing about him, the words floating in the air with blinking links for further recommendations.
“Jugular,” the dwarf breathed into his sub-vocal, “we need you here to run the medkit. I’m too exhausted, I can’t think straight. If he dies, we don’t get paid.”
The rigger growled annoyance. “We’ve just cleared the bayou but we could still be attacked. Damn-it, I’ll be there in a sec.”
The sniper rotor-drone sprang into life, lifting to hover over the craft as it sped through the swamps. With one eye on the sensor data, the rigger headed below, setting the Spitzenreiter’s pilot program to take over navigating the maze. Once below, he saw Raven trying to sponge blood off his coat with a soiled towel, the mark prostrate on the couch. Jugular settled into a chair next to the patient and began treatment.
“Toxicology analysis underway,” the AI cut in pleasantly, “warning: high levels of toxins present in the bloodstream, subject’s heart in eminent seizure. Suggest adrenal-shot immediately to prevent cardiac arrest.”
This warning came as a large, hypodermic needle popped out of the medkit. A virtual guide appeared, displaying how the syringe should be recovered, then driven into the patient’s chest, his heart visible in AR with the path of the needle glowing.
As Jugular seized the syringe and carefully lined up his arm to mimic the virtual one hovering over the patient’s chest, Yoda took a closer look at the mark’s aura. How did he miss this before? Despite his serious fatigue, the mage could now clearly see the poison that raced through the man’s veins with every erratic heartbeat.
Certain he had the angle and speed right, Jugular stabbed the man’s chest with the long, thick needle. AR assist showed the tip of the needle piercing the heart, and the rigger mashed the plunger, shooting adrenaline directly into the pulsing organ.
Instantly Mr. Corigear came to, thrashing wildly, threatening to shred his own heart on the needle. Yoda reacted almost as quickly, throwing himself on top of the man. Despite his exhaustion, the dwarf pinned the man still on the couch. Jugular withdrew the needle with a frown.
“Identifying toxins,” the AI cut in pleasantly, “detecting three mixtures of hallucinogens… WARNING!! WARNING!! Traces of Ringu detected – class one nerve-toxin, no known antidote in my database. Immediate hospitalization required, chances of complete system failure likely without immediate medical attention in a Class One hospital. WARNING!! Manufacturer’s warranty clause 13F absolves this medikit of any fault in the event subject expires.”
Jugular sat back with dismay. Ringu! That was the deadliest nerve-agent known to metahumanity. The chances of their mark surviving just dropped to near nil. In fact, he should already be dead.
Mr. Corigear settled as the counter-hallucinogens antidote streamed through his IV. His eyes cleared, and he glanced down at the dwarf pinning him to the couch. The dwarf was facing the man’s feet, his wild mop of red hair his only features visible to the patient. Then, the man looked up at the rigger standing over him, a look of pity heavy on the man’s face. Jugular paused only a moment more before settling down to treat the gunshot wound, squirting synth-flesh into the hole.
“Am I free?” the words came out haltingly through the man’s lips, the muscles in his body seizing up sporadically. Jugular merely nodded, afraid that if he spoke the man’s odds of living would bleed through his tone.
“My research,” Mr. Corigear moaned, fighting jaw-lock, “front… front pocket of my shirt.”
The rigger paused in his work, digging through the blood-soaked, tattered clothing. He pulled out a tiny object wrapped in cloth. Opening this, he discovered a tiny pill.
“Give… give it to… me,” the mark struggled with the words, then opened his mouth wide, face shivering with the effort.
Pausing only a moment, the rigger placed the pill on the protruding tongue, then fetched a water bottle and helped the man swallow. The mark’s struggles had ceased, so Yoda withdrew, returning to invisibility as he watched. For 30 seconds, the man lay there, breathing heavily as he fought a losing battle with the nerve toxin.
Suddenly, the man turned on his side and vomited violently. Jugular jumped clear just as the puke spewed onto the floor, the effort wracking the patient painfully. Mostly bile, the mess was colored black and a sickly green: apparently the devil had forced him to swallow something vile.
With a sick, horrid rasp to his voice, Mr. Corigear muttered, “only… place HE wouldn’t look.” Then, he passed out.
“Warning!! Immediate medical attention needed,” the AI cut in firmly.
As Jugular rushed in to tend to their patient, Yoda spotted a small cylinder in the pile of muck and bile. Gingerly picking it up with a rag, he took it to the sink for a thorough cleaning. It was a glass vial, a data crystal now visible inside. The mage informed the runners of this, cautioning he’d be unavailable while he slept, then shed his skin and curled up in a corner to slip into unconsciousness and badly needed rest, the vial now hidden on him as the spirit of man cloaked him from sight.
“This fragger’s not going to live,” the rigger snorted into his commlink, “not without immediate medical care… I’m calling my fixer. We need a medical team extraction NOW.”
Jugular called up Lagniappe, briefing him on the mark’s condition. Within 20 minutes, a DocWagon Stallion helicopter fell from the sky and hovered over the boat, floodlights bathing the swamp as two heavily-armored medics and a gurney were lowered by robotic arms. Mr. Corigear, still clinging to life, disappeared into a medical pod as the two medics, without so much as a nod or glance, whisked him up into the belly of the chopper even as it tore out for the hospital, the stealthy rotor-blades quickly fading in the clamor of the night.
The muscle and the hacker settled on the deck, racking the surrounding waters for any sign of danger as Jugular began mopping up the mess their mark had left behind. A trip back without concealment was especially risky, given that Lafitte’s Sailors were undoubtedly on the prowl. Avoiding their waters all together added at least another hour to the trip. The rigger estimated their arrival home to be near 10:00 pm.
When the drake awoke, he immediately noticed Mr. Corigear was missing. Shedding his skin, the dwarf ran up to the deck, sub-vocally calling, “hey, what happened to our mark?”
“Chill, Yoda,” Pretty Boy gurgled, “DocWagon’s got him now. We’re almost back.”
The hacker punctuated his words with a stab of his skeletal cyberarm, chromed finger pointing to the Spire dominating the sky, a black mass framed in a twinkling of hazard lights, the tip beautifully lit, shaming the moon with its brilliance.
“Here,” Yoda breathed, grabbing the ork so he could see him. Handing over the data chip, the dwarf added, “we need you to grab all his research data, everything.”
The ork opened the vial and dumped the tiny crystal into his palm, popping it into a reader on his belt. His smile jabbed the air with a chromed tusk. “Nice,” he oozed, “a backdoor!” His eyes glazed for a moment, then, his grin melted away. “Well this is great… some sod locked the door. What good is a locked backdoor?”
“You’re a hacker,” the rigger spat, crossing the deck, “can’t you make a ‘key?’”
Like a plague, the grin returned. “Of course,” the ork preened, “but, if we have the time, I’d rather probe their defenses, slip in quietly. That’ll take a few hours.”
“We’ll be at the marina in an hour,” the rigger mused, “you can stay below deck until it’s done.”
Pretty Boy went there immediately, seeing no reason to wait. Soon he was prone on the couch, his consciousness busy at work at the virtual backdoor as he began to gently probe it for weaknesses.
Once at the marina, Yoda pointed out that, since they had a little time to kill, they should all get to work on cashing in the ‘bonus’ he snatched. Piman placed a call to his old gang boss, the leader of the Crewe of Babylon. The go-gang only dabbled in drugs, but they had connections with the Zobop, who dealt heavily with trafficking and distribution.
The gang leader, King Flambeaux, answered Piman’s call in a stylized icon with a mirrored visor hiding the face, a pillar of flashing lights rising from the ground at his feet to cast sinister shadows from below, flickering like flames.
“Oi, Piman,” the icon’s head moved with the words, “how de big leagues be treatin’ you?”
“No too bad,” the merc replied, “givin’ you aw head’s up…” The merc sent a data packet containing the inventory of the crate of drugs. The leader’s icon glanced to one side, surveying the list.
“Quite aw haul dare,” he said after several moments, “who you hit?”
“Lafitte’s Sailors.”
“Oh, dose fraggers? Long reach in de swamps, but dis is de city: dey don reach dat far… W’might could move dem drugs. Y’got some heavy quant’ties o’de cheaper stuff, but some top-dollar doses, too.”
Piman began to work his old gang leader, negotiating in rare form. Playing heavily on their friendship, he finally got the man to concede to a sweet deal.
“A’ight,” King Flambeaux relented, “we’ll sample some o’de finer ones, make sure it’s legit. If tis, we’ll pay 40 percent street value u’front, take dem off yo hands.”
Piman’s virtual smile was solid. “Mes ami, we be on our way,” the merc beamed.
Raven elected to stay behind and guard the comatose hacker. So, Jugular fetched his white GMC Bulldog van and Piman and Yoda hopped in, carrying the two crates. Yoda had brought along the expensive rum, just in case they needed the leverage. Worth nearly $5,000 themselves, the rum was a valuable negotiation tool. What gang could resist the bragging rights of having real liquor on hand?
Once hidden in the van, Yoda released his spirit, dropping the concealment. With another summons, the gutted ghost appeared briefly before fading, yet the mage did not vanish this time. Instead, focusing his will, the orange skin and bloody hair melted into the respectable, bland features of Donnie Baker. Stealth wasn’t wanted on this little trip, for the dwarf had a powerful urge to interact with people; he was sick of all this hiding. Piman watched all of this with great interest. Real magic, he decided, was nothing like the movies. Still, it took his breath away to see an actual mage perform such feats.
Jugular sat back in the driver’s seat, seeming to pay no attention as the van flew through the streets, weaving through traffic with astonishing precision and not a few drivers trying to swallow their hearts back into their chests as he whizzed past them, often missing bumpers by centimeters.
“Traffic advisory,” a virtual woman of GridGuide pleasantly cut in, “N.O.P.D. has closed the bridge up ahead.”
A news feed cut in, one of those amateur reporters who’d caught a lucky break and was witnessing a news-worthy story. The live feed was from a cybereye (luckily with full low-light and thermo-mods to push back the dark), sweeping one end of a small bridge from a distance just as two cyclers leapt an overturned car, howling. One of the go-gangers lost control, the bike wobbly beneath him as he held on with one arm, the other flailing. The other had a much cleaner jump, controlling his ride as he aimed an SMG and let loose with a burst of flashes.
Yoda sighed loudly. “You know,” he grumbled, “you can see my house in that shot.”
The Crewe of Zulu, he recognized, undoubtedly fighting the Bobbies. On cue, one of the 1800s-era costumed ‘cops’ rose into view, returning fire. Doubtless, both gangs would slug it out until the N.O.P.D. mustered enough overwhelming force to brave the melee. Then, they’d scatter. Sometimes the law would get many of them, but most often the majority would get away.
Jugular cut the feed and rerouted their trip. They circled the French Quarter, getting onto highway 90. Soon enough, they entered Rivertown. Long ago, this area was awash with stores along the Mississippi and connecting canals. Now, byways were encroaching on the city, eating away bits as they were reclaimed by the swamps. Yoda, glancing down a side street, was shocked to see the pavement ending in water, the thermal warmth of the road cut off by the cooler liquid, a small tree growing from the sidewalk.
“Dat’s eve’more common where we headed,” Piman muttered, catching his chummer’s look of confusion. “Some say eco-shawmans are t’blame – coaxin’ de swamp taw reclaim dis area.”
At the coordinates Piman had supplied, Jugular saw four go-gangers on racing cycles waiting, each bike with twin lights on back, stabbing into the sky like miniature spotlights.
“Keep goin’, dat’s our escort,” the merc breathed.
The bikers pulled onto the highway and fell in step, two in front, two in back. With no further directions, Jugular followed the ones in front, mentally playing with the concealed LMG turret – he didn’t like go-gangers, and was wary of a double-cross. GridGuide began to flicker, AR warnings blaring about lost coverage, then the service terminated. It tried to flicker on a few more times, but by now they were in south Rivertown, and this area was all but abandoned to the swamps.
Their guides brought them to what was once a warehouse district. Like a scene from an apocalyptic thriller, the buildings were abandoned and decayed. Here, impressive vines were already busy at work swallowing the structures, and several side roads were flooded and swampy. A few trees were even growing out of the pavement itself.
The two go-gangers in front slowed and turned hard to enter a yawning opening in one of the warehouses, light leaking through cracks and windows from the building. Inside, a party was underway. This was an impressive structure, over a hundred meters to a side and nearly thirty to the ceiling. Ancient crates left forgotten were rotting or smashed up, often used as makeshift furniture or partitions. Everywhere, pockets of gang members were dancing, laughing, and drinking. Everywhere, their bikes sat in clusters, all types of cycles tricked out in one form or another, and most were racing vehicles. This was the prime hangout for the Crewe of Babylon.
Yoda and Jugular stared in disbelief at the gangers. This was a mullet-fest, every man and woman here sported some variation of the old-fashioned hairstyle. Some were little more than small fantails, a few, massive ‘dues curly or straight. Each ganger also wore thick shoulder pads, chromed like ancient armor. Still, no one could ever mistake that these were Piman’s people.
Not every ganger partied. Some sat shirtless under bright lights, smoking chemsticks while they cleaned guns, their mullets flapping from their efforts.
Their guides pulled into an open space and stopped, signaling for the van to cut its engines. Piman pulled open the side door, a blast of music washing over them. The Snott-Eater’s hit single, “Road Rash in my Ass” was blaring, a number of mullets banging to the troll-metal beat. Faintly in the distant, the century-old classic, “Born to be Wild” tried to compete with the ear-bleeding, heavy music.
Jugular sat in his seat, frowning at a trio of gangers now standing outside his door, admiring the clean, bright white exterior of his ride. “Piman,” the rigger growled, “get your ass out there and talk to your people.”
The merc complied, a few of the gangers waving to him in recognition.
“Lookie lookie,” one unseen man cried out, “Mr. Big-timer’s c’back!”
“I got good stuff t’sell,” Piman called out, and a few ragged cheers echoed among the go-gangers. Yoda stayed in the side entrance, one foot propped on the crate of drugs.
One of the gangers stepped forward, a shorter man, not at all imposing, but curiously with his helm still on, the chrome, mirrored faceplate hiding his features. On his jacket, he had a symbol of cross torches, bright diodes shedding light from the brands. As this man approached, others parted in respect, nodding each in turn. Up close, this man’s mullet was nearly waist-long, too extravagant to miss, flowing out from under his helm like an avalanche.
“Piman!” the helmed-man called out, voice modulators making his voice clear, as if he wore no helm.
“King Flambeaux,” the merc replied, nodding in respect, “come see what w’have.”
On cue, Yoda opened the crate for inspection. The gang leader sauntered close, then stopped, turning his faceplate directly until Piman was staring at his own reflection.
“Forgot yo manners, sha?” the leader purred, “no goin’ t’introduce yo chummers?”
Sighing quietly, Jugular got out and walked around to stand next to his dwarven friend.
“Sorry cap,” Piman muttered, then louder he said, “dis here’s Jug’lar, our rigger. And dis be our mage, Yoda.”
“Yoda?!?” the leader seemed a bit taken back by the nickname, “Yoda?!?”
“Hey,” Piman muttered quickly, “he came up wid it.”
“No,” the mage growled in his gravelly voice, “that was Pretty Boy’s idea.”
The leader was shaking his head, the dwarf’s expression darkening as he tried to find the man’s eyes within the visor. The body language of the leader was pissing the halfer off.
Stone-cold serious, Yoda threatened, “would you like to feel the FULL power of the ‘Force?’”
The helmet cocked sideways about 40 degrees as everyone grew silent. Then, the helmet tilted back as King Flambeaux laughed hard. Yoda looked shocked, then slightly offended.
“A’ight,” the leader said when his mirth faded, “let’s see what you got.”
The leader leaned over and inspected the collection of drugs. Selecting one container, he pulled out a pill and bellowed, “Crankjaw!!!”
Yoda frowned, for a drug so-named was not on the roster. Soon enough, however, it was clear that Crankjaw was not slang for a drug, but the name of a go-ganger. Other gangers repeated the call, and soon a younger man arrived, his mullet short and straight. In a non-stop blather, he spoke as if sentences had no punctuation, every half-formed thought in his head spilling out.
“Pipe down, Crankjaw,” the leader snapped, then after silence took hold he added, “take dis, n tell us how you feel.”
The young ganger obediently swallowed the pill, immediately talking again as Yoda pulled up the listing on the inventory: that was a dose of Slab the biker just took.
“What kind o’drug is dis boss I don feel anytin’ dat kind o’tasted funny is dis goin’ to make me strong or happy or sad or excited or ‘haps I need t’get de blood pumpin’ I shou run’round do you tink or do so’flips or will it make me do flips wow dis be so excitin’ I con wait t’see what dis does it’s party time fo Crankjaw maybe dis will make me lucky wid… de…”
Crankjaw seized up, then fell over dead.
Jugular, Yoda, and Piman froze. King Flambeaux began to laugh as the mage frantically pulled up the effects of Slab, sharing the info in AR. Originally produced as a surgical aid, Slab puts the subject in a coma, slowing metabolic and heart rhythms to near-imperceptible levels. The effect would last hours.
Chuckling, the leader turned and produced a tube of gel from the crate, reading the label out loud, “No-Pain! An’volunteers?”
After several moments of silence, the leader growled, “very well, Bedster! Com’here.”
A man with a tiny mullet cursed under his breath, then said aloud, “yes, my King” and came forward.
As the leader smeared some of the gel on his forearm, the fellow looked about nervously, smiling weakly.
“Keep yo arm up,” the leader warned as he whipped out a butterfly knife, twirling it open. Gulping, the brave go-ganger kept his arm out. With a slash, the leader cut into the limb. Shock, then pleasant surprise flashed on the kid’s face.
“Did you feel dat?” the leader asked.
“Frag, no!” the man laughed, “do it again, I can take it!”
King Flambeaux shook his head, “no, go see de doc, get dat wound fixed.” Then, he turned to Piman. “Looks like yo stuff’s legit. You scored some good chems, but more ‘portantly, you ‘membered yo old gang.”
“I no forget you guys,” Piman insisted, his mullet shaking with conviction.
Turning to the merc’s chummers, the leader said, “did he ever tell y’all where he got de name Piman from? Dat be Creole for ‘Red Pepper.’ You see… wait, none can tell dis story better dan my Lt. DENTIST!!!”
The shout of the King was caught up in many throats, and his lieutenant soon stepped out from the back of the warehouse and approached. She was a well-endowed woman, her mullet massive, extravagant, primped and permed into a fountain of curls. On her chromed shoulder pads, impressions of teeth were carved into the finish. She wore a large necklace of human molars, tapering to ork tusks, with a long troll fang dangling as the centerpiece. She had matching bracelets of human teeth, and the expensive assault rifle slung over her shoulder had been worked with incisors pierced through with wire wrapping the stock. Her expression was disturbing.
“Yes, my King,” she purred in a slow Louisiana accent, nodding her respect.
“Dese be Piman’s chummers,” the leader introduced them, “Yoda n Jugular. Tell dem how Piman gaw his name.”
Giggling with sick enjoyment, the woman spoke in a slow southern drawl the way only old money spoke in New Orleans. She said, “you see darlins, he’d been keepin his eye on a local girl for quite some time now, and the fragger was too timid ta go for it. He’d been courtin her for months, he was ole fashioned that way. So, I had a chat with the lady, and she was more than willing to step up and make our boy a MAN. She waited in a hotel room, and we brought little Piman and told him that, for his initiation, he’d have to go into that room and make sweet whoop with her while we all stayed outside and cheered him on.
“Darlins, as red as he turned when we told him this, his loins got the better of him, and he went inside as we all began to shout and cheer.” Dentist paused laughing, then got control of herself to continue, “not ten minutes after heavy, HEAVY foreplay, we heard a scream from the room, and Piman comes barreling out in nothin but his mullet, screaming at the top of his lungs, ‘she aint no woman, SHE AINT no WOMAN, SHE’S A MAN!!!!’”
The whole warehouse roared with laughter, newer members rocked by the revealing story while older veterans wiped at their eyes in remembrance.
“You see, darlins,” Dentist struggled to control her laughing, “Piman was as naked as a newborne nutrirat, and every last bit of him was cherry-red, right down to his manhood! He had a red pepper for a schlong! See, it was THAT color.”
She pointed to the crimson fellow: Piman’s face looked painted, blood-red as the merc struggled with crushing embarrassment over the ugly, painful memory.
Once the laughter died away, Dentist took her leave, wiping away tears as she returned to the back of the warehouse.
“Good times,” the King chuckled, “a’ight, nuff fun, let’s get down to business. We conclude dis matter in my ‘fice.”
The go-gang leader led them to metal steps bolted into the side of the ferrocrete wall, leading up to a single box room suspended overhead. Inside, a bay window commanded an impressive view into the warehouse, all the go-gangers and their toys visible as the party resumed. Excusing himself, the leader went to a door in back, returning in a moment with a certified credstick, the balance reading $20,800… a very nice bonus to their run.
“Yo welcome t’stay aw bit,” the leader advised, “toss back aw few wid us, fo old time’s sake.”
Yoda called Pretty Boy on the commlink. The hacker advised him he still had a few hours to go.
“Looks like we have the time,” Yoda said aloud in his gravelly voice. Then, he added, “wait here a minute,” and he ran back to the van.
In a bit, the dwarf returned with another unmarked crate. As he set it down, he turned to Piman and said, “chummer, your old boss has been very hospitable. Why don’t we give him a bottle on the house, as a way of saying thanks?”
Jugular and Piman both nodded, so the mage pulled out a bottle of authentic rum and handed it over. As King Flambeaux accepted the gift, he studied the label intently, surprise evident in his body language.
“Wait aw tic,” the leader mumbled, and he returned to the back room even as he was opening the bottle. In a few minutes, he returned, exclaiming, “dis be de real shit! You willin’ t’sell me de res?”
Yoda’s skills at negotiation were horrid, and the dwarf knew it, so he deferred to Piman. “He’s your mate,” the dwarf growled, “talk to him.”
Piman’s efforts in this regard did not come near matching his deal on the drugs, and $1,800 was all he scored on the $5k crate of rum. Still, Yoda and Jugular agreed, and to celebrate the deal, King Flambeaux offered them each a swig of the rare and valuable liquor.
Dwarves have a heightened resistance to pathogens and toxins. For the mage, the pleasant taste of this rum was as potent as water. Unthinking, he upended the bottle, chugging a few hundred dollars down his throat. When his gulping had gone three seconds longer than what any sane person would consider polite, Piman and Jugular were both clearing their throats loudly, King Flambeaux fidgeting nervously. Finally, Yoda lowered the bottle and passed it on to Piman.
Jugular casually leaned over and smacked the back of the dwarf’s head.
“What?” Yoda demanded.
The rigger shook his head, muttering, “dip-shit, don’t take advantage of our host.” The blank stare of the dwarf caused the rigger to roll his eyes and add, “I’ll explain in the van.”
The dwarf glanced at the King, but his expression was unreadable under that helm. Frowning, the mage opened his astral perception and assensed him. His was a potent aura, powerful, with a strong presence. He was human, though his body was laced with cyberware, implants running like roots throughout his system, his bones and muscles blackened with replacements. His mood, however, was very pleased.
“Please, mes amis,” the King said casually as he received the bottle from Jugular after a brief sip, “let’s head down to de floor n have aw few drinks.” Everyone nodded and headed for the door. Delicately, the leader made certain to leave the bottle of rum behind, now two-thirds empty.
The go-gang welcomed the chummers of Piman like they were cousins. Unable to stand the bland swill of human beer, Yoda went searching for dwarf gangers. He noted with dismay that this must be an all-human go-gang, but after ten minutes of searching he was relieved to see he’d been mistaken. Four ork members were in one corner, laughing and drinking.
“Got anything stouter than this piss?” he growled to them, waving the beer bottle he’d acquired.
Two of the orks eyed him suspiciously, another bored, but the forth, the short one, smirked a tusky grin at the halfer.
“Yes,” he chuckled, “you gaw de stomach fo Hurlg?”
Yoda froze, not believing his luck. Hurlg was an orkish creation: a potent blend of alcohols each over 150 proof, swimming with chunks of barley and so much nutmeg that it had a mildly hallucinogenic effect. For humans and elves, the drink typically brought about crippling stomach cramps, but it was Yoda’s favorite beverage. Nodding mutely, the dwarf received a fat, stubby bottle, pried open the top with his teeth, and proceeded to chug while the orks watched intently. The heady mixture burned down his throat with exquisite delight. Belching loudly, the mage let a silly grin spread as he savored the effects.
As one the orks cheered, some rising to clap him on the back. At their invitation, the dwarf joined them, swigging Hurlg and occasionally some home-made moonshine the short one had been cooking up in a motorcycle carburetor.
Jugular stuck with Piman, sipping lightly on his beer as he watched the merc mingle with childhood chummers. This was not the rigger’s scene: he’d rather be tucked behind the one-way glass of his van, or at one of his own favorite haunts where he could sit in the shadows and blend with the background. Everyone here took an uncomfortable interest in the bearded rigger, asking questions and looking at him. Jugular stayed subscribed to his van, and more than once the hidden LMG nearly popped out as loud, noisy revelers demanded the rigger’s attention.
They spotted Yoda only once, singing badly out of tune with a small cluster of unkempt orks. Then, an incoming call from Pretty Boy got all three’s attention. For three hours, they’d been partying with the go-gang – now it was time to depart, for the hacker had the last bit of pay-data they needed to finish the run. Yoda wished the orks well, raising the Hurlg and draining the last bits to a final cheer. Without fanfare, Jugular hopped into his van, leaving Piman to handle the goodbyes.
As they pulled through the yawning opening and into the overgrown streets, Jugular made the call to his fixer and arranged the meet. Once that was done, the rigger advised everyone to meet in the French Quarter. Pretty Boy and Raven would ride their bikes and meet them in the square outside Jackson Brewery. Pulling back onto Highway 90, Jugular re-established his connection to GridGuide and set a route, synchronizing his ETA with the two bikers on the other side of the city. The time was 2 am.
When they entered the French Quarter, the Friday night party was still roaring along, and GridGuide advised the closest parking was a few blocks from their destination. Jugular pulled into the lot, a twenty-story affair built solely for vehicles, and followed the AR guide to a spot capable of holding the van. As the rigger cut the engines and jumped out, Yoda and Piman hopped out the side, the merc lingering a moment as he gently placed the FN HAR on the seat – even with his fake bodyguard license, he’d be foolish to carry such a weapon in the French Quarter. Better to remove the temptation than have a confrontation end with a face-to-face meet with the great spirit of this town.
Trailing behind Yoda and Jugular, Piman kept his machete on his back holster, the handle peeking out of his mullet. They entered the streets, weaving through merry-makers drinking, laughing, dancing, puking, and grooving to the musicians scattered everywhere, playing a blend of tunes that fit the mood of revelry. In time they reached their destination: Andrew Jackson Square. Street Performers were scattered about, one posing as a shaman. The fake shaman was surely a skilled programmer, for in AR his finger-wagging commanded impressive virtual displays of fire and lightning, dancing along to the background hum of music.
On the north side of the square, Saint Paul’s Cathedral towered with gothic spires, an impressive site seeming to dominate the air, for the mirrored surface on the far wall of the Spire reflected the star-lit sky, hiding the Spire, save for a curvature detected in the reflection at odds with the actual sky.
Having arrived before Pretty Boy and Raven, the three stood there, watching the party undulate around them. Two patrol cops of the N.O.P.D. sauntered by, one freezing to frown as the other followed suit. They stopped two meters from the trio, quickly placing their hands on the handles of their heavy tasers.
Pointing to Piman with his free hand, the taller one demanded, “what do you plan on doing with THAT thing?”
Jugular and Yoda turned to see what the officers were glaring at. Jugular groaned, seeing the large, imposing machete clearly visible. Piman glanced over his shoulder at the hilt, then turned back to the officer and said, “no’tin… Me n so’friends be meetin up t’head to de swamp.”
The officer looked doubtful. “At two in the morning?”
Piman shrugged, “dey night owls.”
“Listen,” the other cut in with a snarl, “how about you not be a fragging idiot and not leave the big knife out in the open like that?”
The first officer shook his head, adding, “you know how much paperwork you’re making us do? Now, the onlyreason you are not chewing on the ferrocrete right now, with my knee in your spine, handcuffed, is because the paperwork would take hours. How about you pay us a $50 fine, to my personal account, so we can go about our business knowing you learned your lesson… or, we could go downtown.”
Mumbling apologies, Piman promptly paid the bribe.
Pleased, the two cops took their hands off their handles. “Pleasure doing business son,” one of them smirked, and then he turned to his partner and said, “come on, let’s go grab a beer.”
The crooked cops sauntered away as Piman, muttering darkly, unclipped the machete from his armor and slipped it into his coat. On impulse, he read the AR tag of the one who demanded the bribe: Officer Ramirez.
Within ten minutes, their two chummers arrived. Pretty Boy danced as he walked, his grotesque features frightening in motion. One lady, somewhat intoxicated, turned to gape face-to-face with the ork, the sight ripping a long, hideous scream from the frightened woman. Pretty Boy answered with his patented grin, pointing to the woman and winking as if she’d paid him a compliment, unfazed as he continued to jive his way across the square. Raven, by contrast, was muted, walking as dignified as one could with a dancing, hideous freak in tow, his expression stoic. Arriving at their destination, the turmoil within the Brit slipped out with a long, frustrated sigh.
As one they headed for the Jackson Brewery, a multi-story affair. Inside, the party was even louder than out, the shopping areas crammed with revelers. They threaded through people as they worked up broad, sweeping steps to the top floor, where the nightclub was. Once a beer brewery, this area was now a trendy club, called simply ‘The Brewery.’ Ancient copper stills crowded one end, although every other one was cut open, each interior turned into a private booth. The second such booth was where they headed. Inside, they saw Lagniappe waiting for them.
This fixer was an ork, dressed immaculately in a powder-blue suit (to Jugular’s recollection, he always wore blue suits). The tusker was somewhat handsome for an ork, though his skin was slightly orange. The fixer flashed Jugular a grin as the runners approached. Pretty Boy pulled a data crystal from his pocket and passed it to the rigger, then the runners stood shoulder to shoulder facing into the club, backs to the booth, as Jugular slid in the seat across from his fixer. In a corner, hidden from sight outside the booth, was a suit, the cut of his clothing screaming big dollars, non-descript shades hiding his eyes.
“Jugular,” Lagnaippe said politely, his Cajun heritage hidden by heavy schooling, “this is your Johnson.” The suit nodded once in greeting.
Casually, the rigger tossed the data crystal, which hopped and skittered to stop in front of the suit. The man picked it up after a moment’s hesitation, slotting it into a reader set in the side of a very expensive watch.
Then, the Johnson said, “we have Mr. Corigear… a shame, his condition.”
“Couldn’t be helped,” the rigger replied, “but, in a way, he did that to himself.”
Johnson said, “from what Lagniappe has told me, this Wax Devil character is unpredictable.” Then the suit grew quiet as he studied the data.
Finally he said, “good… good… seems to be all of it, from what Mr. Corigear told us. Now, did your hacker do anything to the site, or just grab the information?”
Pretty Boy, eavesdropping from the entrance, turned to lean in, giving a close face-to-face smile into the Johnson’s mirrored shades.
“Nope,” the hacker gurgled, “just a run in, grab, run out.”
The stoic expression of the Johnson twitched as he involuntarily leaned back. As the hacker resumed his watch, the suit composed himself. Turning to the fixer and the rigger, he produced a certified credstick, its AR tag reading $40,000 in CAS dollars. “The agreed-upon price,” the man concluded, handing the stick over the table to Jugular.
Eager to conclude the business and get out of there, the rigger mumbled thanks, taking the funds and sliding to exit the booth, but the Johnson was faster, slipping through the curtain of runners and heading for the exit. Materializing, another man (who, apparently, had been hiding with the aid of magic) followed after him, with a slight nod to the dwarf as he left. None of the runners took offense to this, for it was perfectly understandable that the suit brought some magical protection, given the hazards of this business.
“Well,” Lagniappe said as he also scooted for the exit, “if you won’t stay for a drink, I’m heading for bed.”
“Fixer,” Yoda grunted, “what happened to the mark?”
“Mr. Corigear? He’s in a coma.”
The dwarf frowned, asking, “for how long?”
The fixer shrugged, adding, “some things modern science is uncertain of. That toxin… he had heavy doses of it, it’s impressive that he’s alive at all. But, Johnson was more interested in the data. People can be a bit… expendable in this business. That’s why I became a fixer and left the shadows.”
The fixer flashed an unapologetic smile, touching his slick-backed hair, nodded, and left. By the time they’d reached the entrance, all of the runners received their cut from the rigger, who wired it through their PANs to each of their accounts. Including the ‘bonus’ they’d scored, each runner walked away with $12,720, plus $330 in actual cash – useless in many places, but you never know when physical cash could come in handy.
Some of the runners went about their business to procure new weapons or tech. Yoda promptly upgraded his hermetic lodge, taking several days in the process, and got enough supplies to bind two minor spirits into his service. In the end, the money they made was not enough, and they all agreed that, very soon, they’d need more work. Their partnership was beginning to look most profitable indeed.
Author’s note: during one of our sessions, Shawn, Raven’s player, pulled out at the last minute and missed the game session. He told us that, as long as his character isn’t killed, we could do whatever we want with him. As this player kept up with events by reading this story closely, after the session while joking around we thought it’d be really funny if I wrote a fake chapter, putting his character in an ugly situation. This is also a sort of nod to the humor of Robot Chicken, a subtle parody of their Boba Fett sketch involving Han in carbonite.
What follows is the fake chapter in question. Within two days of posting it, I received a flurry of text messages: rage at first, then embarrassment, and finally laughter. He has a good sense of humor, and sadly this is the kind of trick you can only pull on someone once. Enjoy, keeping in mind this did not actually happen in game, but, oh, if only we could have hidden and watched Shawn’s expression as he read through this chapter!
At the marina, Yoda, Jugular, and Piman decided to sell the crate of drugs they’d lifted from the pirate base. Pretty Boy was still probing the node of their mark, trying to gain access as the back door from the data chip was locked. To maximize his chances, the ork was in hot sim, his body left behind on the bed below deck.
“Oi,” Raven said as his chummers prepared to depart, “I’ll stay, guard the ugly tusker’s hide while he’s comatose.”
Nodding, Yoda picked up the crate and followed his two chummers down the pier. Alone but for his unconscious friend below, the Brit glanced carefully about for any sign of trouble. A hundred meters over on the next pier, a yacht party was in full swing, revelers drinking and dancing. No one took notice of the Spitzenreiter.
Raven went below deck, snatching a fizzy drink and setting back to stare morosely at the ork.
“Bleeding tusker,” he muttered darkly. A few seconds later, the ork grinned, his consciousness somewhere in the Matrix making some progress, no doubt.
“Oi, you like verbal abuse,” the Brit responded, knowing the ork couldn’t hear him. That nasty, cankered grin remained.
Raven stood and stretched, letting the ceramic-laced bones in his spine crack one at a time. Loosening up, he removed his trench coat. Annoyed at the concealable holsters digging into his back, he removed the weapons as well. In such closed quarters, he was still dangerous without them. The Brit paced the tiny room, humming tunelessly as he flexed and made a few mock punches in the air.
“Tusker,” the Brit growled, turning to the prone hacker, “you fancy a match? A little rope-a-dope?”
Raven brought up his fists, waving them in circles like an old-fashioned boxer. “Want a piece of the Raven, eh?”
The Brit threw a series of punches, mimicking the sounds of impacts with his mouth.
“Boom!!” Raven yelled, “and the bleeding tusker is down!! Begging for mercy! Oi, chummer, you’ll get no mercy from the RAVEN! I’m a hurricane!”
The Brit launched into a long series of kicks, weaving the air in the cabin with lightning-fast snaps of each foot and knee. This display lingered for several minutes, until he finally stopped, stooping over to catch his breath.
“Bleeding… (gasp)… tusker… (gasp)… no chance… (gasp)… against the Raven!”
Oblivious, Pretty Boy just lay there, a slight smile still stamped on his features.
“Oh you like that, eh?” Raven said, leaning closer, “you like what you see, tusker?”
The Brit removed his shirt, his sculpted muscles perfectly formed as his pecks flexed repeated, bragging about their tone and strength.
“Playing hard to get, tusker?” the Brit breathed, softer. “Want a little piece of the Raven, eh?”
Raven fell to his knees, his hands running over the hacker’s body, exploring his most intimate of parts. The Brit removed one hand to play with his own nipple, even as his other continued to grope the ork. Tweaking the sensitive part and moaning sensually, he began stripping.
“Yeah,” Raven whispered lustfully, “you like that, don’t you… you’re a bad boy, a very bad boy who needs a lesson.”
Unable to defend himself from the Brit’s advances, Pretty Boy’s body was used to satisfy his perverse desires, in ways that would make a drag queen squeal…