Nov. 4, 2070
Tuesday
Along the marina where the Spitzenreiter was moored, there was a curious bar, its sign reading: Borgne Again?
Donny Baker pondered the sign as he stood before the small pub. Some sort of inside joke with the locals? A witty reference to Lake Borgne? The dwarf shook his head, unable to get the owner’s intent.
Dismissing this little mystery, the dwarf joined Piman and Jugular as the three entered the bar. Lagniappe stood in the back, the ork meticulously manicured, wearing a light, powdery-blue suit as always. Motioning them over, he flashed a tusky grin as the three runners slipped into the booth behind him. Then, he joined them, pulling the curtain closed.
As he sat down the fixer couldn’t help but stare at the dwarf’s face. When he’d been told to procure a fake id for some anonymous dwarf, he had no idea he’d be seeing the photo ID in the flesh, right down to the last hair. HAD to be magic, he guessed. He could have figured that out even if he knew nothing of the runner named Yoda – that fake id was second rate, in other words cheap, and a runner would be mad to skimp so much on one only to turn around and spend a fortune in cosmetic surgery to look like the image. Much, much cheaper to have the image doctored. Shaking his head, he looked away at some AR menus floating over the table.
“How was your Halloween?” he inquired politely as he pulled in one of the virtual order sheets.
“Busy,” Jugular grunted at the fixer as he took a brief glance at the options and keyed in a drink. “We worked that night.”
The others followed suit, each choosing a beverage.
“Pity,” the ork grunted, “I, on the other hand, had an excellent time. There was this party, see, and I met a most eager pair of girls who could not say no…”
The ork grinned suggestively, chuckling as their waitress arrived. The girl handed out their drinks, accepted a virtual tip from the group, and respectfully pulled the curtain closed.
“An ork and a dwarf,” the fixer added, fishing for something in his pocket, “and we had FAR too many drinks. Oh, the things they were willing to do…”
Lagniappe’s voice trailed off as he placed a small device on the table, a tiny bit of tech that hummed with a high frequency. The runners leaned forward, all business now. That device was a white-noise generator: any potential eaves-dropper would pick up nothing but static.
“Got you here early, before the Johnson shows up,” the ork explained. Then, he looked directly to Jugular and implored, “is this all you could find? What about your Brit friend, or the hacker I introduced you to?”
“They didn’t answer my call,” the rigger spat, anger in his tone, “so they’re left out of the loop.”
Lagniappe nodded, though it was obvious he was unhappy.
“Very well,” the fixer sighed, “the Johnson wanted a minimum crew of three, so I guess you’ll have to do. You’ll be escorting a cargo shipment out of town. I don’t know much beyond that; he’ll have to tell you the rest. If you’re not interested, then enjoy your drinks and I’ll bring in another team.”
The three runners exchanged a look.
“Dat won be ne’ssary,” Piman said, the others nodding.
“Excellent,” Lagniappe smiled, “then I’ll inform your Johnson.”
They sipped at their drinks as the fixer’s eyes lost focus, lips twitching has he carried on a sub-vocal conversation over his PAN. After a brief exchange, he looked up smiling again.
“He’ll be here in 20 minutes. Care for another drink on me?”
When the Johnson arrived, he was what you’d expect of your typical suit – well manicured, corporate haircut, perfect smile. His bodyguard was a mountain of muscle and threatening glares. This muscle was a troll, well built at that, his arms crossed on approach as he stared down the group, eyes daring them to try something.
Yoda assensed them both. The Johnson was smug and self-assured as he took off his glasses, turned up the grin and sat down. The troll was very cybered and very alert as he split his attention between the runners and the bar.
Eyes twinkling, the Johnson began, “So… I hear you’re up for the job. In light of some recent delivery issues my company has experienced, we need some additional muscle: off the books, of course.”
With a polite nod towards the fixer, he continued, “Lagniappe speaks highly of you. There’s a shipment coming in by boat, offloaded…” his voice trailed briefly as his eyes lost focus, scanning AR data, “… by 1 p.m. tomorrow. Simple job, shouldn’t take long. Be there when they load the truck and escort the shipment to Baton Rogue. Pay’s 18k, providing the entire shipment arrives safely at its destination.”
Donnie Baker muttered, “we riding with the shipment or can we bring our own wheels?”
The Johnson glanced to Lagniappe, who’d been silent to this point, and shrugged, “either’s fine with me.”
Jugular shot the halfer a foul look. “We’ll be taking our own ride,” the rigger hissed, as if that was the only plausible choice.
“Very well,” the suit grinned, “it’ll take two hours to offload, an hour and a half in route… then, you’re done. Pay will be waiting on arrival.”
Sounds good Donnie subvocaled to his running mates. The other two agreed.
“We’ll be there,” Jugular said to the suit.
“Excellent,” the Johnson smiled broadly, “your fixer now has the specifics. If there’s no other questions for me, I’ll be going.” The Johnson’s grin was smug as he got up. Troubled, Yoda assensed him again.
The aura reeked of amusement and satisfaction as the suit and his muscle left the bar. Though this unsettled the dwarf, he couldn’t reason why.
Something’s off, Yoda said subvocally to the other two. The merc and the rigger waited for more, but the mage had nothing to add. Finally, Jugular began to chat with Lagniappe as the dwarf pondered his ill feeling.
After half a drink, the dwarf shook his head and tried their hacker again.
The ork answered after a moment, his icon’s chest heaving as heavy breathing flooded the comm channel.
“Yoda!” the hacker graveled in greeting, gulping air like a starved man.
Ignoring this, Yoda quickly filled him in, giving him the details of the run, the name of the delivery ship, the van, everything he could think of.
“Something’s coming at us sideways,” the dwarf concluded, “we need you on this. Dig up anything you can find.”
By now, the hacker’s breathing had steadied. Nodding once, the ork cut the connection.
Three hours later, the hacker got Yoda, Jugular, and Piman on the line with his results. The trio had left the bar, each now at their respective homes.
Starting with the shipping vessel, Pretty Boy said, “the Leviticus isn’t owned by any of the megacorps… It’s independent and privately owned, as near as I can tell. Takes several jobs at once, up and down the east coast. Looks like you’ll be working for GM. The van they’ll use to haul the shipment is owned by GM, one of their standard delivery trucks. The driver and security’s all GM personnel.
“The shipment appears to be parts for drones and vehicles. Nothing special that I can see, whatever’s valuable must be off the books. Now, the warehouse you’re delivering to, now that’s a different story…”
The hacker pulled up a security camera feed of a nondescript building, windowless, with an empty parking lot. A cycle of images of different angles began.
“This one’s off the grid,” the hacker apologized, “so there isn’t much I can tell you about it. Hasn’t been used recently, but the building is drawing power, what you’d expect for lights and maybe a terminal or two.”
“What about the Johnson,” Yoda cut in.
“Ah…” the hacker replied, pulling up a corporate ID photo of the man, “this is Mr. Joe Burke: he’s a mid-level exec for Ares.”
“Ares?” Jugular grunted in surprise, “so this is a weapons shipment?”
The hacker shrugged virtually, “Ares owns GM, if you’re looking for a connection, and GM doesn’t deal in guns. Now, his bodyguard is Torg Ulann, private professional, on contract with Mr. Burke for a year now. Whatever your Johnson’s been shipping, somebody wants it bad.”
Pretty Boy pulled up a trideo-feed of a news flash, dated October 31st. A female commentator could be heard as the scene of a bullet-riddled delivery truck unfolded, police walking among bloody asphalt and body bags. “… just a gruesome scene here, and officials are confirming that four bodies have been discovered so far. Ares, the parent company of GM, has no comment at this time.”
“It’s the second shipment hit in the last two weeks,” the ork growled, “first strike was in Gretna, just south of the docks: 8 security dead. This feed’s from the second, outside Kenner on the west side. In both instances, all guards killed.”
“What about the drivers,” Jugular asked.
“First one was unmanned, a drone vehicle,” the hacker replied, “cheaper than meat drivers, but they coughed up the coin for a real driver on the second. He’s still missing.”
“Dis be aw joke,” Piman scoffed, “dose c’ates have trackin’vices built in, no?”
“Ripped out and left behind,” the hacker answered, “whoever hit these knew how to find them.”
Yoda frowned. “You’re not giving us much to work with,” he growled.
Pursing his virtual meaty lips, the orc grunted, “Ares eventually released a statement that no guns were in the shipment. There… is a rumor that the Crewe ofl Zulu’s stirring things up, getting more violent. Word is, they’ve got some new tech. Fighting not only the Bobbies, but pushing south and gobbling up other gangs.”
With nothing further to offer, the hacker cut the feed. As the runners signed off, Yoda’s brow threatened to eat itself. That rumor about that local gang seemed a long shot, undoubtedly Pretty Boy was trying to pad his report with something other than ‘no clue.’ They needed more intel, and he had a lot to do to before the job tomorrow. The dwarf pondered this in his living room.
With his spirit of man Sean behind him, the dwarf shed his humanoid form in a flash of shredding skin smoking to nothing. Rising in his drakeform, the mage swiveled his head on a long, sinewy neck to inspect the commlink and AR accesories he’d just purchased. The commlink was identical to his own, even the ID tags were the same. As a feathered serpent, he only had two legs to use like arms, but his dexterity with these limbs was amazing. Carefully, he slithered into the commlink’s harness, nestling the electronics buckle on his chest. Supporting his own weight on his tail, the serpent reached up with both sets of nimble claws, settling the straps to crisscross between his wings. Once the whole mess was firmly secured with tightened straps, the drake gently secured each of the AR taggers to a digit of his claws. Now, he’ll be able to interact with virtual space with both limbs. Finally, he adjusted the AR monocles firmly over each eye and fitted the earbuds into place.
Tapping out a few test messages in AR with a deft claw, the serpent smirked at his own ingenuity: no more charades in the heat of battle, he’ll be able to communicate with his chummers properly. Certainly, syncing the twin commlinks was a challenge, for while in one form, the other’s equipment was unavailable, frozen as inert matter in his other shape. Still, with Pretty Boy’s help, he’d set up a buffer in their group node that his commlinks would update to. Wirelessly, there’d be only a microsecond’s hiccup on his PAN when switching between forms.
Shedding feathers, Yoda settled down in a cross-legged position. Now that that business was over with, he had one other job to attend to. Closing his eyes, the dwarf slipped into astral space.
With Sean and his two bound spirits in tow, the mage raced to the mystery warehouse they’ll be delivering the goods to tomorrow. This building was just as boring astrally as it was visually. Sensing no wards or magical defenses, Yoda slid through the walls to survey the interior.
Crates, a loading area… what you’d expect the interior of a warehouse to look like. There were two guards, one of whom had cybereyes, both their auras bored, barely attentive. They were apathetic, poorly paid security guards, he guessed. Their pistols at their sides had no trace of violence, and the men wandered quietly throughout the building, probably on patrol.
Finding nothing else of interest but unwilling to quit just yet, the mage shadowed the two men. After a couple of hours, a new presence entered the building, a man whose aura tremored with authority. He listened as the other two reported a quiet, uneventful shift. Then, two new men entered, and the original duo signed some paperwork, wished the new pair good luck, and left.
Any other member of his team would be bored sick by now, thought Yoda to himself, but the mage lived for one reason only: he was paranoid enough to endure. Mr. ‘Authority’ left the new duo to patrol, and the mage followed him outside, to a set of office buildings in front.
His aura spiking with anticipation, the man eagerly sat down at a terminal. Yoda’s hope that some valuable intel may finally be garnered quickly deteriorated as the man’s aura spiked with arousal and perversion: whatever he was viewing on his monitor, the mage knew it had nothing to do with his job.
Yoda had had enough: stout as he was, he was not willing to lurk there watching the perv get his rocks off. Yet, just as he was about to leave, the man’s aura shifted as he stiffened, then he began talking: he was answering a commcall.
“Yeah, I’m leaving shortly,” Mr. Authority said, lounging in his chair, “I could use a stiff drink or two… Naw, nothing going on, same old nothing. OK, let’s go get a drink, I’ll be there in half an hour.”
The man stood, keyed open a safe and place his gun inside, then locked up and left.
Stubborn as he was, Yoda had to concede he’d learn nothing more from his spying. Frustrated, the mage chewed miles in a heartbeat to open his meat-eyes back home. There was nothing more he could do today.
Early the next morning Piman met Jugular at the marina, to help load up for the coming gig. As the merc tossed his duffle in the back of the rigger’s van, an AR image of his own face appeared inside. The merc gasped at the bald apparition as the virtual sound of shears buzzed loudly.
“Dat’s no funny,” Piman glowered.
Smirking, the rigger shot back, “I didn’t do that.”
Clearly the merc didn’t believe him.
Chuckling, the rigger checked the time. “Where’s Yoda?”
Back in his apartment, the mage was preparing for the day’s run. As at every dusk or dawn, he reached into the either, summoning Sean, but something went terribly, terribly wrong.
Sean answered the summons, but so did a host of other spirits. Surprise slacked to shock on Yoda’s face as they materialized: Freddy, Bob, Frank, and Cindy… his family and friends from his prior life, surrounding the mage as his breath came in ragged, pitiful gasps. Betrayal and desolation all but bled from their eyes as they clutched at the entrails spilling from their guts. The stench of the carnage choked Yoda as he collapsed and cowered among them.
“You did this to us,” Cindy whispered, her voice a knife carving out his heart. Yoda choked as he jerked his head up, gazing deep into those condemning, suffering eyes. Her words stabbed into his soul, guilt shredding inside him as if a real blade dug into his chest. Horror burned his face as the mage quivered, his mouth flapping in silence.
As one, the spirits howled in agony as they thrashed at their fates, struggling to hold on to their insides as they tumbled and spilled across the floor. The mage howled with them. Drinking insanity, the mage slashed desperately with his hand, dismissing them, then collapsed sobbing madly. He wailed into the carpet, a loud, incoherent babble that begged forgiveness and lamented shame. His guilt shook the small fellow like an earthquake.
A rough pounding shook his door, shocking the mage to silence.
“Ya bleeding halfer,” screeched a hideous voice outside, “shut up shut up SHUT UP!!!”
It was Miss Doogle, his landlord. Yoda pulled his knees into his chest and sobbed on in silence. A string of foul, biting curses faded beyond the door, leaving him to his misery.
Back at the marina, Jugular checked the time then shot a frown to Piman. Yoda was now a half-hour late, and he’d never been late before. Finally, Piman decided to give him a call. After several rings, the mage answered, his icon blank, indicating an emotional state the program couldn’t track.
“Dare you,” Piman greeted, his virtual mullet waving, “we aw gitten’ worried, y’ok?”
After a very long pause, Yoda answered, his voice rougher than the merc had ever heard, “… yeah.”
“You, aw… need aw ride?”
“… yeah.”
“Bonne, I be dare in aw bit.”
Hopping on his pathfinder, the merc raced the streets to Yoda’s neighborhood. He couldn’t guess what was troubling the dwarf, but it was obvious the little fellow was in rough shape. Arriving at the apartment complex, the merc frowned as he approached the entrance: the sound of small-arms fire echoed through the streets, arguing with an assault rifle. A pair of small children huddled in the doorframe, afraid to venture out. Wide-eyed, they watched the merc fearfully as he stalked past. Shaking his head in disgust at the gang violence, the merc entered the complex, threading the hallways until he stopped and rapped on Yoda’s door.
After several moments, Yoda opened the door, standing there in his Donnie Baker form, head hung so low the merc couldn’t see his face.
“Wha’wrong,” the merc crooned, “Dev’rats git cha?”
“No,” the dwarf whispered harshly, “… let’s go.”
As they walked to Piman’s bike, the merc kept glancing at his running mate. The little fellow walked like a condemned man.
“Aw, c’mone now,” the merc piped up, “we got aw job t’do. You wid us?”
The dwarf stiffened as if insulted. He glanced up at the merc, and the look on his face stole Piman’s breath.Bondye, the merc thought to himself, dis boy’s been thru hell!
“I won’t fail you,” the dwarf hissed, yet his eyes were wild, as if terrified he’d fail in that promise.
At a loss for words, the merc clumsily began to pat the dwarf on the head then stopped, afraid it’d insult the little fellow. Awkward at the tension, he climbed onto the bike, helped his friend up, and gunned the engine as he started back.
Gunfire still echoed in the neighborhood. As they crossed the bridge, a half dozen N.O.P.D partrollers screamed by, sirens clashing as they raced into the neighborhood the two just left.
Desperate to break the tension, Piman opened a comm channel to the dwarf and said, “Sou’s like de Zulus and de Bobbies be causin’ trouble a’gin.”
Yoda didn’t answer. Sighing, Piman gave up and drove on in silence until they returned back to the van.
“About time,” Jugular spat, unsympathetic as he stood with his arms crossed. The dwarf marched past him, head hung low, and entered the van without a word. The rigger searched Piman’s face for answers, but all he got was a shrug that said hell if I know.
When the time was right, Yoda broke his silence to summon a spirit: not one of man, the mage shuddered at the thought, but one of earth. A spirit answered, taking the form of crumbling ferrocrete laced with gnarled roots. Then, mage and spirit both faded from view.
“I’m ready,” the dwarf whispered harshly.
Piman and Jugular exchanged a look, and the rigger pulled the van out of the marina and headed for the docks.
When they arrived, they found a region bustling with activity: countless vans and shipping trucks were everywhere. Jugular’s Bulldog was just another delivery van, indistinguishable save for the overhead rack that hid his drones. The Leviticus was hard to miss: it was a massive cargo vessel, three cranes working to unload its deck.
Following the AR tags supplied by the Johnson, Jugular pulled up near the center of the vessel. An AR tag identified the van they’ll be following. As they approached, a sour-looking ork in sec-armor stepped into view, the GM logo stamped on his chest and SMG. The guard watched them closely as they pulled to a stop.
Piman hopped out, flashing the guard a friendly smile. The ork glowered in return.
“State your name and business,” he spat, gripping his weapon.
“Piman,” beamed the merc, “added muscle.”
“We’ll need more than just you,” rasped the ork, looking ill, “the rest of you, get out.”
Muttering grimly, Jugular stepped out, checked his AR instructions and growled, “where’s Mark? We need to speak with him.”
The door to the GM van popped open, and a plain fellow in a GMC jumpsuit hopped out.
“I’m Mark,” the fellow nodded. A second guard stepped out from behind the van frowning.
“Just two of you?” he moaned in disappointment.
“Contract was for three,” Mark added, frowning.
“There are three of us,” Yoda growled, the disembodied voice unsettling to the crew.
“He’s invisible,” Jugular spat, “and no, you can’t see him, but I’ll trust you to believe he’s there.”
“Magic muscle?” the ork guard guttered. He exchanged a relieved look with the other guard.
“Ware be de’udder guards,” Piman inquired.
“Just us,” the ork replied, “and you.”
“Good enough,” Mark nodded, looking a bit relieved himself. “Very well, they’re almost done, we’ll be rolling out in 15.”
Piman joined the guards in some small talk as Jugular paired up with Mark. Wishing to be alone, Yoda climbed up on top of the Bulldog van and sat down on the drone rack. A dockworker supervised as unmanned forklifts loaded pallets into the truck. Once finished, he nodded to the ork guard and left.
“Alright, moving out,” the ork barked as he headed for the passenger side of the van with the other guard.
“Follow us, but not too closely,” Mark said to Jugular, then he climbed into his truck.
Piman and Jugular entered the van.
“Ya bonne to go, Yoda?” Piman called out, and Yoda answered yes over their comms. Jugular hopped into the driver’s seat, Piman at the side door, about to slam it shut before he froze.
“Aw, Yoda… you be inside now?”
“No,” the dwarf answered subvocally, “I’ll be riding on top.”
“Don’t damage the rack,” Jugular cut into the channel.
Nodding, Piman shut the door and the van took off, following the truck.
Invisible, the dwarf shed his skin, coiled around the drone rack and pulled his wings in tight, settling in for the long ride ahead. Though the sustaining focus was not physically visible, its aura shone brightly on the drake’s chest. Channeling mana, the drake set a spell into the focus: reflexes key to twice as reactive, the creature struggled to forget and focus on the mission.
Haunting memories slipped away as the drake poured all of his attention on either the truck ahead or the surrounding environment. Their route skirted the French Quarter, the Spire looming large overhead, the sun climbing for its peak. They passed through a district called Rivertown. Cruising down Highway 90, the invisible drake stiffened briefly at the sign of two approaching go-gangers on choppers, but their auras hinted at no imminent violence. In a splash of gurgling engines, the duo streaked past and disappeared behind them.
Yoda turned his attention back on the truck they were following. The driver and both guards rode in the cab; the cargo on back was visible on the flatbed, secured tightly in a mesh of straps. A logo on the bumper identified the model as “Scrounger,” though the drake had no idea who the manufacturer was. The truck turned on to Highway 61, Jugular keeping their Bulldog van a cozy 40 meters behind it. The urban sprawl ended here, replaced by the occasional food stand along the side of the road, selling pumpkins, greenhouse vegetables, and a lot of crab and shrimp, some of which was sold off the side of boats pulled right up to the road. They were in swamp country now: stretches of water and submerged trees stretched out all around them. In some stretches, it seemed the only firm ground was the base beneath the highway, a meter-high median of sandbags on either side running the length of the road. Traffic was sparse on this stretch, and there was little to fret over for some time.
An hour since they’d left the sprawl, the drake spotted a small stall on the right side of the highway up ahead, next to a copse of dense brush. This shack was held clear of the swamp by stilts, and it looked a hundred years old, though a fresh-painted sign facing traffic read: Fresh Strawberries.
In the van, Piman had spotted the shack as well. Frowning, the merc leaned out the window to get a better view as they drew closer. There… in the brush beside the shack, he saw someone crouching in the bushes.
“Uh, cap…” the merc began, but he never finished his statement.
A loud staccato of pops rang out and the truck ahead began to swerve, bits of rubber flying out from its shredded tires. Jugular cursed as he spotted the puncture strip they themselves were fast approaching. Twitchy at his virtual controls, the rigger swerved into the oncoming lane to miss it, but overcompensated on the switch back, the Bulldog’s tires squealing across the pavement. The Scrounger, fast approaching a dead stop, twisted to plow through the sandbag median, putting the front end in the swamp with an impressive splash. Jugular’s van fishtailed into a T-bone collision with the truck, but screeched to a stop just a few meters away, jamming the side door against the sandbag median with a puff of dust. Cursing at his lousy driving, the rigger noted their client’s truck had sunk up to its engine.
As the van beneath him stopped, the drake uncoiled from the rack as he was thrown off, spreading his wings to twist to the sky, getting an aerial view of their situation. The truck had stopped about 15 meters from the shack, and blocked the view of the runners van. Visible now behind the copse and shack, two fan boats pulled cleared, each with two men wearing outlandish boots and red sashes. Each man held an assault rifle. With whoops and yells, they began peppering the cab of the delivery truck, echoes of the gunfire gobbled up by the surrounding swamp. Beside the shack, another stood from the bushes, joining in with an SMG. Simultaneously, the door of the shack was kicked open as another stepped out, grinning as he raised an HVAR and added a high-stream of lead to the fray as he strolled into the street.
Lafitte’s Sailors - it seemed the runners where about to tango with these scum once more.
The drake gained altitude as he tagged the men and boats in AR, alerting his chummers to their locations. That HVAR is a serious weapon: it can spit lead as fast as a chain-gun, and in little time it would do a lot of damage. Choosing this man as his target, the invisible drake dove for the kill.
Piman, FN HAR in hand, squeezed out of the window onto the row of sandbags and ran to the truck. The truck had smashed through the median, tilting forward into the swamp, and from this vantage he could see the fanboats, shack and men while gaining partial cover from the cab. His collapsible stock popped out and settled on his shoulder.
Jugular slumped into his seat as his meat-body went limp. The rigger’s consciousness awoke in the LEBD-1 Drone as it powered up, milliseconds dragging out from his perspective. With a tight hum, the drone lifted off the rack with its rotors, the sniper rifle leveling as Jugular engaged the manual controls. Sensors and gyroscopes turned to sensations for the rigger: drone and man were now one. The shack, gunners, and fanboats loomed into view as he gained altitude, angling to rise over the truck they were paid to protect: the very same currently screaming from the barrage of bullets punching into it.
The HVAR gunner in the street held death in his hand, the barrel blossoming an ‘X’ of flames from its beveled end, a look of pure, murderous glee dancing on his face as the weapon shook him in a stuttered waltz. Diving for the kill, to the drake’s eye, the gunner loomed large; he never knew what hit him. All he felt was a whisper of air, from above, as his chest sawed open, the barbed tail severing ribcage and collarbone as Yoda pumped for altitude, ripping his tail free. Jugular watched as the man’s shoulder bloomed open, a trail of meat and blood tracing a path to the sky briefly as the HVAR went silent, the owner flying back to fall prone on the asphalt: what little life remained would soon be stilled by the venom racing from wound to heart.
Piman braced the FN-HAR to his shoulder, his smartlink locking on to the sailor in the bushes he’d first spotted. The sailor’s grin slipped as his SMG grew quiet, eyes bulging as he stared down the barrel of the merc’s assault rifle. With a yelp, the man dove to the side as the merc pumped twin bursts into the bushes. Piman muttered a Creole curse as every shot registered a miss.
With the HVAR gunner down, Jugular turned his sights to the man scrambling from Piman’s gunfire. With a few extra milliseconds of preparation, the rigger engaged the auto-lock of his drone’s targeting system. A gentle wind swayed the drone; the man dodged and rolled as he sought cover from the merc. From the sights of the rifle, only the man’s chest was frozen still, while the world around swayed and jostled. The silencer whispered and the man screamed, dropping among debris and fetid swamp water, to watch his life flow out into rotted flotsam.
Forgoing another auto-lock, the drone spun smoothly midair to face the first fanboat, pumping two rounds at the occupants. The front gunner jerked as a round tore his shoulder open; the driver jumping as the other tore through his seat cushion, 5 centimeters from his head.
The air tore at the drake as he circled towards the rear fanboat. Like a serrated whip, his tailed caught the gunner’s face, spinning him about as a good portion of his cheek sprayed out into the swamp. Thinking this a gunshot wound, the driver behind the man cursed.
His opponent now dying in the swamp, Piman swiveled his aim at the first fanboat. The FN-HAR connected with a triple-staccato, lifting the wounded gunner off the platform, tossing him with a flat spin to die in the water. Seeing this, the driver dove from his seat, trying to avoid the same fate, but the poor man twisted as he rose, and as he reached the massive fan that propelled his boat, he accidentally thrust his arm through it. With a growling gurgle, the boat ate the limb, spitting out the meal with a horrid sound guttering to the howls of its victim. With barely a pause, the merc silenced the anguished cries with a burst, dropping the man to slide dead in a swampy grave. Free of its occupants, the fanboat plowed onward on its current trajectory.
The drone was over 8 meters above the pavement now, continuing a lazy climb as Jugular brought the rifle to bear on the second fanboat. The front man, gripping what was left of his cheek, jerked as his atom’s apple flew apart, the high-caliber round shattering a vertebra in his neck, and fell to the deck like a sack of meat. The sniper rifle whispered again as the driver recoiled from the shot, badly wounded.
Desperate, the lone driver twisted on his controls, sending the fanboat to slide sideways and flinging the body of his chummer into the swamp. “Shit,” the man yelled frantically, clutching the bullet hole in his side, “they’re everywhere, EVERYWHERE!! We need reinforcements!”
Through the eyes of his drone, Jugular began zeroing in on the last driver, but a motion alarm caused him to snap to wide-angle instead. Hidden until now, two more opponents were emerging from the strawberry shack, one stepping into the street, raising an assault shotgun to his shoulder, the other taking cover in the doorframe.
That was a Spaz-22 assault shotgun: capable of 3-round bursts of its 12-Ga slugs, that weapon could turn his drone into a scrap piñata, not to mention he was hot-rigging for added speed: the biofeedback he’d suffer from such an attack could seriously injure or incapacitate him. Jugular cringed as the sailor raised his weapon: the rigger’s sensors could see down the barrel, at the first slug locked and loaded. Not my drone!
The sniper rifle forgotten, the rigger poured every neuron he had into dodging. Like a pamphlet in a tornado, the drone shook and whined as it jerked about, the rotors ripping it all over the place with squeals and stuttered barks. The shotgun boomed triplets once… twice… The sailor cursing as each burst missed, jerking his barrel about, trying to keep the spastic drone in his sights.
His chummer in the doorway aimed for the merc. Spotting the danger, Piman ducked as bullets pinged off the cab or whizzed overhead.
Yoda’s flight brought him around on the last fanboat. The man continued to scream for reinforcements, until he emitted one final gurgle as the tail-lash caught him in the throat with such force that his neck failed him. The man’s head spun through the air, then ker-plunked in the swamp. Free of its pilot, the fanboat carried on. Hearing the gunfire from the street, the drake arched into a turn that would bring him inline with their last foes.
Piman popped back up, swinging his FN-HAR towards the shotgunner. Seeing this, the man turned to find cover, but tripped over the HVAR gunner’s body in the street. Cursing, the man went to his knees as the first burst tore through him, and then died with the second burst, the shotgun clattering beside the fallen machinegun.
By now, the first fanboat reached the median, on a collision course with the Bulldog. Jugular’s body barely twitched as the boat rammed the sandbags, sending puffs of dirt into the air. Shortly later, the second rammed into the shack, grounding itself on the flotsam among the stilts.
No longer under threat of the shotgun, the drone leveled off, then sighted on the man in the doorway. The first round tore through the awning, missing. The rigger’s virtual senses were flooded with warning alarms as he tried to fire again. “WARNING!!! MISFIRE!!! BREACH OBSTRUCTION!!!” The warnings repeated as the rigger virtually snarled: the auto-load had malfunctioned, jamming a round halfway into the breach. The rigger tried to jettison the cartridge, but with no luck. Only one way to fix this: he’d have to physically remove the casing and repair the system by hand. His drone was out of the fight.
As the drone pulled back, the drake was now racing above the pavement, parallel to the street. As he passed the shack, his serpentine neck twisted sideways, belching a stream of fire at the structure. The last sailor gaped as a stream of fire emerged from thin air, catching him full in the chest. The flames also engulfed the doors and windows. Dropping his weapon, the man howled as he scrambled to flee the inferno. One final burst from the merc and he dropped dead where he stood. No one else remained to threaten the team.
The drone, now under its own AI’s power, returned to the van, landing in the street as Jugular climbed out to see if the flatboat at his side had damaged the Bulldog. It was dirty, but otherwise unharmed. Piman turned his attention to the carnage inside the cab as the invisible drake searched the area for any lingering trace of his magic, wiping it clean from the astral.
“Aw, cap?” Piman drawled, “you bedder bring aw med-kit, des folks be busted up real bonne.”
Drone forgotten, Jugular reached back in the Bulldog and fished out his kit, running over to help Piman. The sight in the cab was grisly. For the driver, there was no hope: most of his brains decorated the rear windshield, making the mass of bullet holes in his body seem trite by comparison. The nearest guard rolled out of his seat, with the aid of Piman, on to the median, then down on asphalt, moaning from the wounds in his shoulder and leg.
The wind whipped about them as the drake landed nearby. Both runners recognized the sound of metamorphosis, so they were not at all surprised when they heard Yoda’s voice, “let me in.” Both stepped aside as the invisible dwarf surveyed the interior. The second guard sat in the middle, clutching a chest wound that would soon end him.
“I’ll take care of the one in the cab,” the dwarf growled, “you patch up the other one.”
Nodding, Jugular settled down to hook up the AI to his patient. Clearly he’d live, but some painkillers and synth flesh for the wounds would be needed for his shoulder and leg. After applying the synth flesh, and while the AI took a few minutes to check his vitals, the rigger cleared the breach on his drone’s sniper rifle, ordered it to return to the rack, and then ordered the spy drone to keep a lookout. The LEBD-1 lifted and settled on the rack as the tiny spy drone zipped high into the air.
The dwarf laid one hand on his own patient’s face, covering his eyes, and delved into his essence. With his magic, the mage staunched the bleeding, mending what he could, then withdrew before the guard saw him: he was still badly wounded, but, with care, he’d live.
“We need to get this thing moving,” the dwarf grumbled, surveying the tattered Scrounger. “Can it be repaired?”
Finishing up with his patient, Jugular turned his attention to the truck. Both front tires, mostly submerged, were shredded, as well as one of the dual tires in back. The truck had 2 spares, and the back dual could roll with one tire busted, so tires weren’t a problem: what worried the rigger were the bullet holes around the engine. Sinking up to his knees in swamp water, the rigger popped the hood and began inspection.
Meanwhile, the dwarf gingerly removed the driver’s body, wrapped it in canvas, and stowed on the flatbed, securing it in place. Piman stepped out into the middle of the street, keeping an eye out for any more trouble.
“She’ll run,” the rigger yelled, snapping the hood back in place. “Piman, steer this thing…”
Yoda replaced Piman in the center street as lookout while the rigger, with the merc’s help, retrieved some tow cables from the Scrounger, hooked up the back end to the front of the Bulldog, and pulled it out of the swamp, with Piman manning the wheel. Once on solid concrete, the rigger hunkered down to change the front tires. Piman returned to the street to keep watch, unaware that the dwarf stood so close. The strawberry shack was a fireball by now: the dry, rotted wood pouring heat and smoke into its surroundings.