Kyuzo lounged casually in the waiting area of the clinic, one of several individuals of various conditions. He found his gaze wandering to a mother and daughter, both human, who sat across from him. The mother seemed to be seething below the surface while the daughter sat with her arms crossed, turned away from her mother. Neither seemed sick, there were no injuries apparent, and the tension between them screamed out that there was a male involved somewhere.

He studied the girl a few more moments, his own mind mulling over life, hands dealt, and fate. She couldn’t be more than 17, 18 tops—about the same age as Kyuzo himself. But humans aged slower than orks, and most orks raised in inner cities, or away from clans, they were out when they reached maturity at about 12 or 13. Unless they were some major asset to the family, which Kyuzo never was.

Her she was, with her mother, still directly dependent on her family, still growing up and experiencing aspects of growing up. And here he was, grown, street wise, independent, and a veteran of the shadows for about 4 years. 4 years isn’t a long time, but in perspective, that was almost a quarter of his life.

“Joe Smith please.” Well, it’s show time. He was escorted to a room where he was seated and in a casual tone, the nurse said “Doctor Jeridiah will be with you shortly.”

He waited for close to a half an hour before the Doctor came in. He didn’t look at Kyuzo initially, he just sat down after giving a haphazardly greeting and flipped through the paperwork. His brows furrowed after a moment before looking up at the ork patient.

“Mister Smith, it says you are here for…a dislocated finger…uh, facial trauma with possible symptoms of a concussion…several broken ribs. Internal bleeding. Broken knee cap….I’m sorry, this must be the wrong patient form, I’ll—“

“Nope doc. You got it right. I’m here for that.”

“Mister Smith, if this is some jok—“

Kyuzo reached out suddenly, grabbing the doctor’s hand, snapping his pinky back and out of socket while pulling him forward, smashing his own thick ork skull into the elf’s own face. He was careful not to do too much damage, wanting to ensure that the doctor was able to absorb the message that was to follow. He put a hand over the doctor’s mouth and cleared his throat.

“Broke finger. Check. Facial trauma. Check. Want more, it’s up to you. I ain’t get paid to kill you or put you in a coma, but I get paid regardless. There’s a long list of injuries there…You gunna keep your trap shut?”

The doctor nodded and Kyuzo removed his hand. “You were seeing a dwarf girl. You’re not anymore. Pretty straight forward, right chum?”

“I don’t underst—“

“Don’t care if you do. Just don’t. Ever. See. Or talk. To her. Turns out, her parents, very glittery. They wanted you dead, but I ‘splained to them that persuasion is my...Fort, or. Forty?"

"Forte," the doctor said with an eyeroll...well, an attempt at one, what with the swelling and what not.

"Forte, that’s it. And you squeakies, you’re usually very smart, you know. I figured, I could get paid to talk with you, you’d rather be alive and not dead. Win, win, win, ya know? What do you say doc?”

For a moment, he puffed up his chest and said, “Melinda is 17, and as a dwarf, she’s of age to make her own dec—.”

“Her parents. They’re human. To humans, that is still their 17 year old baby girl. Or some drek. What was next on the list, broken ribs, yeah?” Kyuzo sat up, put on a pair of brass knuckles and stepped towards the doctor. In a voice that was part shout, part whisper, he gave in. “Fine fine, no please. Fine! I accept your…terms.”

“Good. Sorry doc, not all love stories end up like, you know, Romeo and Juliet, all happily ever after and that.”

The elf opened his mouth, an angry look flashing across his face, but he cleared his throat before speaking. “Romeo and Juliet died, idiot.”

“Ah, see? Even famous actors aren’t safe from a well paid shadowrunner, eh doc?”

The doctor sat there, dumbfounded look on his face, as Kyuzo simply nodded and walked out the door.

Sitting inside of the small coffin hotel in Chicago, slightly anxious but also set in his course. He didn’t KNOW what was about to happen, but he KNEW what was about to happen. Part angry, part sad, and also part resolved, he sat and waited.

Ignoring the slight bumping behind him, he watched the room across the street. His current position afforded him a great view of the front and back exits and also the room that he had rented out under a commonly used alias he used to run under in Detroit.

He thought back to a quote he remembered from his brief childhood. “The choices you have made in your life have brought you here.”

He looked back as there was another dull bang, sighing at the elf tied in the chair. His legs, arms, body, and neck were all heavily taped to the chair and a quick gag was placed in the elf’s mouth. He leaned back in the chair and removed the gag. He’s paid a street mage to cast a silence spell over the room, but he still played it cool. “Raise your voice, Kaz cut out yer tongue and eat it.”

Not waiting for a reply, you know, the gag and all, he removed it and let the elf talk. His voice came out quickly and panicked. “Please. Look. Kaz man, you know I didn’t tell them anything. I swear, on my family, I didn—“

Kyuzo smashed a fist into Arnold’s chest, definitely knocking the wind out of him, maybe cracking a rib or two. “Lie again, Kaz make sure you not able to tell more lies.”

“I don’t understand, why you think it was me Kaz. You even said man, I was the only person you trusted. You said you were the only person in Chicago you’d talk to. We ran together, bled together, what the fuck man.”

That was when Kyuzo saw them. Two unmarked black vans. To anyone not looking for something out of place, it could have been nothing. But to someone looking for Corp paid hit, seeing two vans on two separate sides of the building, it was fairly obvious that something was up. A large chunk of the world wouldn’t know one hit squad from another. In fact, some may have even confused this cleaning squad for a group of Runners. No. This was an Ares and Knight Errant hit squad, fresh off the rotor from Detroit.

Kyuzo sighed. He had liked Arnold. A little. Maybe he still did. It’s fragged what enough nuyen can make you do to someone you care about.

“Kaz also told Arnold, Arnold is only person Kaz tell about Detroit.”

He looked at Arnold who had no idea what was happening across the street. “Only. Person. Only person in Detroit. Chicago. Missouri. Only. Person. Kaz ork. Kaz not stupid.”

Arnold could see by following Kyuzo’s gaze that he was looking at the building across the street and he put two and two together. Kyuzo could see the metaphorical wheels spinning as he tried to come up with another lie or excuse, but he spoke first.

“No worry, Kaz not kill you Arnold. The Corps, well, they may find Arnold and kill him, but you know, playing with fire and that. But.” He pulled out a thick rubber tube and a stick, wrapping it around the shoulder of Arnold. It took a moment to understand and he panicked. Hard. He tried to kick, push, roll, everything.

Yeah. He knew what was coming.

“Kaz Kaz, no man, no man, no! Please. There’s no point man. I’ll get some ware. Man, my arm will be better it’s a waste don’t do this man. Kaz Kaz, no do—,” he was cut short be the gag being placed back in his mouth roughly.

“Arnold. You may get better arm, Kaz not know.” He lifted up the elf’s chin so that the two were looking into each other’s eyes.

“But Kaz never, ever forget feeling his arm cut off. Not one day. Now. Neither will you.”

Even with the gag, up until the elf passed out, Kyuzo realized that he made the right decision paying that street mage for a silence spell…

A milk run gone right, a good night at the bar, a great early morning dinner with some chums…the perfect reason to walk down an alley and witness a mugging and a beating. Why not have that person getting beat down a small statured elf? Why not have the group be a mix of metas all larger? Why not have them obviously be gangers? Why not have them all just have a lethal look to them?

Because fate doesn’t give a shit about you.

While he wasn’t drunk, Kyuzo had a few, but those affects were gone the moment he realized what was happening and his body seemed to know what was going to happen before his mind did.

He couldn’t tell if the elf was male or female, but, you know...elves, right? It didn’t matter though. He did note a male troll with a mix match of streetgear on yet seeming to lack any real ‘ware, a human female who had the appearance of a summoner or shaman, and then a male ork who seemed to be shining through the darkness with all his augmentations. They were cheap in terms of price, but that didn’t mean that they weren’t lethal. When it comes to ‘ware, you pay to NOT see it, but sometimes seeing it is the point.

The female was kicking the elf while the troll was yelling something akin to ‘give me your shit’ or some such thing. Kyuzo took a few steps down the alley when the troll noticed him and made a click sound with his tongue. The two others responded by stepping away and squaring up to Kyuzo and the human quickly said in a calm, measured, and almost believable tone, “hold up citizen, Lone Star.”

“Good, me like to file report for drunk n’ disorderly.” He never stopped moving forward.

“Slot off drekhead, you go sleep it off somewhere else,” the ork commanded.

“Hoi maybe me n’ you got off on wrong foot, yeah? Let’s do this. Me give two options. Leave. Don’t. Either way, me n’ the daisy eater’re walking out the other side’a this alley. Go easy or go hard.”

In a deep, menacing voice that could almost be felt, the troll stepped in front of the two others, both of whom seemed about to speak, and said “know what wenig, you leave or I leave your guts splattered all across dis alley.”

“Fine. Me go.” He stopped moving forward, instead letting the other three move towards him, allowing them to gain confidence. In hindsight, his approach was sloppy, but he was drunk and this wasn't planned. The fact that they didn't pick up on it spoke a lot about their lack of perception.

The ork, now gaining some ganger swagger back, stepped forward and commanded, “leave yer credstick chummer. On the ground.”

“Really?” Kyuzo sounded somewhat dejected, if not disappointed. “You dregs so…predictable.”

The human seemed to finally be picking up on something being off about him, so he knew he had to hurry.

He reached in his outer pocket and tossed the stick on the floor in front of them. What they didn’t know is that it was a flashpack, smartlinked. The moment the software recognized that the 3 targets designated by Kyuzo’s smartlink feedback all had their retinas on it, it set off a series of amazingly bright lights aimed directly into each individual eye.

“The frag?”

“Oi suka….”

The moment after his smartlink fired the flashpack, Kyuzo took off running toward the three. His initial target was the magic user. She was small, not armored, and if she was as shaman, she’d call some form of aid.

However, as he whipped his predator around, he noticed that the wared out ork was moving towards him and moving to draw his own weapons. ‘Cyber eyes, anti-flash. Noooiice,’ he thought to himself as he let loose 3 rounds into the chest and face of the ork.

While one hand was subjecting the ork to some lead poisoning, the other reached to the small of his back and in one smooth motion, he grabbed and threw 2 gyroknives. They were on point enough to have caused damage, but the gyros and smartlink adjusted their paths slightly enough so that they killed on impact. The human mage was down and the ork fell a moment after.

Perhaps the troll had some augmented eye. Perhaps he was hopped up on some combat drug. Or perhaps Kyuzo just had bad luck. Either way, not a moment later, the troll drove forward and with speed that most trolls shouldn’t possess, he slapped the gun from Kyuzo’s hand and booted him in the stomach.

‘Drek. Nitro,’ he thought to himself. He stood up shakily and the troll launched a punch kick combo. While Kyuzo had little trouble deflecting, he couldn’t dodge well in the narrow alley. Dodging was preferred because blocking punches and kicks from a 7 foot something, 4 or 5 hundred pound troll ganger, nitroed out to his eyes was NOT a good idea. He could already feel deep bone bruising and his combat HUD was going on about trauma this, trauma that.

Kyuzo decided to dart in and attack, hitting a series of blows and managing to evade any real contact or damage as he did—but also seeming to DEAL no real damage in return. The troll picked up a discarded piece of rebar and threw it at Kyuzo. While attempting to move back and away, he didn’t realize he’d moved almost directly back against a dumpster.

The rebar tore through his clothing and skin, protruding out the back by several inches. His smartlink flashed a damage assessment on his combat HUD but it was ignored. There were more pressing matters to focus on, in the form of a charging troll. He sidestepped at the last moment, actually succeeding in NOT hitting a dumpster this time, and he watched the troll smash headfirst into the dumpster. To the ganger’s credit, it actually sent the dumpster sliding about 6 feet away, and it was already full of trash.

Moving as quick as he could thanks to an adrenal dump, he pulled his trenchknife and went to work stabbing the troll repeatedly, savagely. However the troll shook away the affects of running head first into a dumpster, and if he even realized he was being stabbed 20 or so times, he didn’t show it. He swung around and grabbed the rebar sticking out of Kyuzo’s chest and lifted him into the air.

'That hurt.'

A lot.

The two stared at one another and the troll roared victoriously while Kyuzo roared back, a mix of pain and defiance as he stabbed one last time into the head of the troll. He knew it wouldn’t kill the thing, but it would piss him off and give the troll something to remember him by. The troll’s own roar became one of pain from the knife biting into his head, when there were several bursts of gunfire and the troll slumped to his knees. He didn’t let go of the rebar and it took a moment for Kyuzo to realize that the elf had picked up the Ares Predator that had been dropped and emptied its contents.

The troll however, refused to die. He got back up to one knee and Kyuzo just let go of the trench knife as it stuck into the troll’s skull. For a split second, he stared at the thing in disbelief.

And for the first time in many, many months, the façade of the dumb ork slipped away. “You got to be fragging KIDDING me. That must have been some primo nitro.”

There was a slight whirring sound, then a metallic clunk. Out of the internal holster in his synthetic arm appeared a small, compact firearm. The troll looked at the sound just as Kyuzo’s hand moved towards it, gripping the hilt of the Colt revolver there. The large caliber revolver was a last resort, but this my friends, this was pretty much textbook definition of a last fragging resort. One shot and the troll dropped Kyuzo and fell to the floor.

And...why not have the rebar clip the edge of the wall on the way down, sending jolts of agony through the ork? Oh yeah, fate doesn’t give a shit about you.

Kyuzo put the pistol back, mouthing to himself, “most expensive rounds on the market, capable of piercing inches of armor, and I gotta waste it on some dregged out troll.” He ripped the rebar out and set the pain suppressor system to MAX, leaning against the wall and letting his gaze fall to the elf who was handing his gun over.

To the small, young elf’s credit, he wasn’t shaking badly. He was a street kid. He was small, but mentally, he was tough.

The kid didn’t say anything right away, he just kind of stared at Kyuzo and then said, “sorry.”

“The frag’re you sorry for kid?”

He pointed at Kyuzo, his shoulder, and said, “I kind of shot you.”

He looked down, seen the bloody whole. “You gotta be fragging kidding me!”

The elf turned and darted away, yelling over his shoulder, “you called me a daisy eater, you smelly trog!”

The streetlamps winked at her, red light mingling with the neon overhead and darkness crammed everywhere else. She tried to keep her mind on the steady click-clack of her heels and off the deathly silence behind her, folk in these parts didn't get quiet they got scarce; it was a pinprick of awareness scratching at the inside of her skull. From out of the night the sound of fractured glass filled her ears with enough force to spin her head around as she locked eyes on the culprit, a snoozing drunk tucked away in the gutter. She breathed a short-lived sigh of relief before turning back, a stark still silhouette juxtaposed between herself and the block of coffin apartments she called home.

The stranger was different, unmoving but aware; without thinking she'd frozen before him. As her heart hammered away there was that sudden clarity shared between predator and prey--on both fronts--for although men can't smell fear they can certainly see it. When the figure stepped forward he heard it, what was meant to be a commanding 'Frag off' slid from her throat as a whimper and in that instant she knew to run, he was already chasing her. With the way she came deserted and the echo of his long strides off the asphalt she careened from the path and into the carcass of a building long condemned, stealing a glance at her pursuer as she fled. If he'd merely stopped chasing her there was a chance she could get a grip on herself, that he'd turned heel to run the opposite direction had her blood run cold. She'd missed the graffiti on the way in.

Before she could follow suite someone slammed the door she was looking through from the other side and the dry metallic rasp of metal on concrete hissed down the hall at her. There were no shadows at the end, just the harsh, cheap glare of a half installed light fixture and the man beneath it. He was from a posergang, that much was clear even if the walls didn't scream it at her in big bold letters: Choirboys. He hacked at the urban decay she'd foolishly thought her salvation, the bite of his axe knelling out far and above the fleshy thwack of her fists against the barred exit. Pleading and praying she bloodied her balled knuckles against the flaked paint that bristled from the slab of steel that contained her, it and bits of raised up rust biting into her skin like brittle teeth. Just as it seemed he was upon her the path buckled and gave way as she stumbled out into the open air, lungs raw with effort as she sent herself sprawling. Seeing what she saw there, the woman couldn't even muster the strength to rise.

At least a dozen men and women were waiting for her, dressed prim and proper in their Sunday best. That alone would be chilling but the sea of serene faces staring back at her was absolute horror. A mix of masks and sculpts each member of the sparsely thronged crowd wore matching smiles, watched with the same calm eyes and turned her stomach on its side in equal measure. They hid behind the likeness of what could only be a child of less than eleven years. Even before they'd forced her into the sack she'd collapsed under the immense weight of this moment. She was certain to die, swaddled in burlap and to the muffled yet sickly sweet hymn of 'Never Grow Old.' Anger. Desperation. Sorrow. It wasn't something you could put a word to, everything about herself fell away. Just humanity laid bare. When they'd dropped something else in with her and kicked it the experience was singular. Pain. Agony smothered her every thought as the creature burrowed away from the assault, instinct driving it towards the softest, warmest thing it could find. Like a bone snapping against an ever growing pressure the end she'd feared was suddenly welcomed, and after what seemed an eternal torture she shuddered and let go.

All went white.

And Kanchana was suddenly back on a familiar stretch of highway, straddling a terrified stranger, their arms and legs tethered to no less than four different streetcycles. "Drek." she muttered, shaking off the initial kick of the experience "Frag'n flash boys, flash. We got some ace croakers here, pick whatever kit you can find off this coyote." Kali rumbled, stuffing herself back into a pair of taut leather pants. "Gonna' swipe your ride loverboy, but null-fret--we'll help you split fore' Sec shows." she called down to the badly beaten smuggler, everything in her voice announcing she were privy to some private joke. The punchline wasn't far off, soon as they loaded up everything they could carry and sparked up their ignitions the air filled with the smell of burnt rubber and the brief, audible strain of tearing sinew. With a messy pop the unlucky crook took off to the east, west, north and south courtesy of a quartet of high output engines and a few feet of steel fetter. "Damn" she chuckled over the cheering of her cohorts "Anyone make a wish?" There was a series of groans eked out under the roar of their machines. No matter she thought. There was always next time.

Detroit. Some time ago...

Kyuzo stared up at the ceiling he'd just fallen through, gasping desparately to find his breath. His ears were ringing from a combination of close range gun fire and adrenaline. He wanted to get up and help Mars, but right now, he was unable to breathe and checking his combat HUD for vital checks. His internal commlink lit up a moment later though and he mentally breathed a sigh of relief.

"Kyooz, fuck man, I see your vitals still up. Don't worry, I fragged that drekhead good brother. You never saw him, he never saw me, I guess in the end, we win. Now we need to get the hell out of here before more--HOOOOOLY DREK, K, you fell a good thirty feet. You sure your totem isn't a cat, you got nine friggin' lives. Anyway, on my way down."

"Sorry Mars, had to catch my breath. Man, this armor was worth it. Stopped that buckshot from getting inside. But is didn't do drek about impact. I'm fairly confident a rib or two are busted to hell."

"Long hair, don't care. Get'yer ass up. I'm almost to you. So far, not picking up any re-ups, building looks clear."

Kyuzo managed to sit up, wincing slightly as he flexed his hands, not even realizing his cyber hand never required any such exercise. He looked at it, grimaced, and still knew there was a long way to go before getting used to it. He saw Mars come in through the door, the larger ork smiling at him as he approached. "Always sitting down on the job. Lazy ass."

"Shut up man. I just wanna get out of here. You have the file, so far security isn't an issue, and we should skin out."

"Agreed, let's get the fra--" the sound and energy of some magic projectile could be heard and felt as it ripped through Mars, spraying Kyuzo's face with a fair amount of blood and guts. Mars was closer to Kyuzo than anyone. He was more of a pack member to Kyuzo than his own flesh and blood.

And for the first time in his life, he felt something different. He'd lost control before. And in the past, his wolf spirit took control. But never this. It seemed both lost it.

He didn't even seem to mentally recall casting it, but it was obvious the attacker either didn't know Kyuzo was there or thought he was dead, and as he got up, he felt the buzz of a reflex spell and armor spell. His senses were...unreal. He didn't know how much of what he felt was magical, and what was simply some manifestation of his wolf spirit, but he never felt like this.

It was, literally, indescribable.

The pain from moments ago vanished as if he had adrenal dumps or pain supressors, and he lept up, cut a corner at a sharp angle, and the cut back to where the Ares Security mage came into view. In a flash, before the mage even registered he was under attack, smashed a shoulder into his chest. The two smashed into a metal crate and Kyuzo smiled, feeling bones crack and hearing the air expelled from the lungs of his prey.

The mage's hands went for his throat and to avoid being grabbed, his own arms came up and forced the mages hands away. Then he brought his hands down to the face of the mage, grabbed his head and forced his thumbs into the eye sockets. The mage screamed in a way that Kyuzo had never heard in his life as he was lifted into the air and smashed headfirst into the hard concrete. There was a bloody mess and silence, and it felt good. Then he heard a person approaching, but it sounded so clear. If sound could be pristine, it was what it sounded like.

With the speed and grace of an animal, he lept off in the direction of his next prey. He waited to see the barrel of an assault rifle peek by another large industrial crate before grabbing it with his cyber hand, squeezing it and to his surprise, crushing it. This wasn't magic, this wasn't rage, it was simply the awesome power of a quality cyberhand doing its job.

A fraction of a second later, the guard pulled the trigger, not realizing that the gun was crushed, and that this would cause the gun to essentially explode with the bulk of the force directed back at his face.

The soldier brought his own cyberarm down in a well placed defensive blow, but Kyuzo met it with his own cyber hand and brought his other elbow up toward the armpit joint of the cyber arm, smashing up with terrible force. He didn't tear the cyberarm off, but he could see the skin and metal stretch in a gruesome and disgusting manner, a combination of blood and some kind of blue fluid spurting out where the skin ripped at some place.

He then spun behind the guard, who seemed unable to react due to the pain and Kyuzo's speed, brought his cyberhand up quickly, and then slashed it down, metal tips first, into the area between the neck and shoulder of the human. He thought he could feel the cyberhand slicing through bone, wire, and muscle and he then brought his other hand up in the same motion, to the neck...and grabbed and ripped. His cyber arm pulled one way, his other hand the other, and it separated most of the guards body.

The guard hadn't hit the floor when he felt something behind him, some kind of magic, and then he was engulfed in a blue light....

-----------------------

"-oly drek I think he's waki--"

"-rug him again, he's coming out of it--"

He was being held up by...someone, and he opened his eyes. Some facility, oxygen tanks, chemicals. A lab. Seemed like the same building, just a different area. He had no idea how long it had been. He realized two trolls were holding him up, but from the waist down, he was shackled heavily. His eyes gained more focus and adjusted to the light. There were about a dozen well armed guards around him--some mages, some straight meat, some 'wared out. There were even two drones buzzing very close to him. A man had his back turned to him and was on a small commphone. "Yeah, got it. No worries. I'll take a few liberties with him. Send him off with something to remember us by."

Without so much as a word, the next...what was it? 10 minutes? 20? 30? An hour? They were spent beating and torturing Kyuzo. They turned up the sensitivity of the cyberhand and smashed at bone, tore out muscles. One man seemed to thoroughly enjoy heating up slim, sharp pieces of surgical steel and inserting them into Kyuzo's body.

For once in his life, Kyuzo didn't want to kill everything or make people pay.

He just wanted to die.

He realized that he'd stopped screaming and that there were voices, but voices directed at him. He looked left, and right, and he smirked, finding it odd that the trolls were still holding him up after all this time. Their arms were just as slick with blood as his own.

Part of him assumed it was to make sure these trolls suffered to some degree. Who knows...

"Kyuzo. Troggy. Look up. You've been such a splendid sport. But sadly, all things must come to an end."

Kyuzo went to say something but his throat was dry and bloody, so he seemed to just start coughing, which to those in the room seemed to be funnier than a stand up routine because they couldn't stop laughing.

"What's that?" He motioned for one of the other men, the surgical steel practitioner, to get some water and he gave Kyuzo a few drinks.

"Did you have a last request? Something to say? I cannot express enough, how please I am that some dregs, some gutter trash, dumb fucking trogs like you, you meta filth, you decide to try to one up one of the Trips. The frag were you thinkin--You know what, I'm sorry. It doesn't matter. You'll be dead like the rest of your team, and all is well that ends well. Now, you were saying."

"I--" He coughed heavily, but after a few seconds was able to talk.

"I want you...to take my sword...cut off my cyberhand...send it to whoever...is in charge...and...shove it up their pompous ass...If these trolls would let me go, I'd tear your ugly breeder face off with--" The man was caught offguard, initially expecting some honorable disposal of the orks hand or sword, but his face twisted in rage as he grabbed the sword and moved to Kyuzo.

"-my teeth. You're so powerful because I'm drugged, injured and held by two trolls. Bring that smug look out into the sprawl boy--"

Kyuzo was actually surprised by the reaction of the human. He hoped that inciting a rage would cause the man to strike him, making things quick and as painless as possible. Not the end, but the surprise. Regardless, the suit moved over to Kyuzo, exhaled deeply, and started to cut. Slow. Slicing. Painful layet by layer.

Kyuzo bellowed and roared and the trolls had to dig their fingers in to hold him. It would all be over soon...

Kyuzo's vision was something dreamlike, his hearing was distorted and he felt like he was watching this from someone else's eyes. The arm was finally cut free and the man, laughed. He then thought it would be funny to toss the entire arm to someone to the side.

Kyuzo smiled softly, at least he thought he did, and he said as loud as he could, "slot off, drekheads."

There was a quick beep from the cyberhand, and then an explosion rocked the entire building.

An ork and a human moved into a backroom of a store and sat down casually. The ork sat down slowly and heavily, grimacing slightly as he settled in. It was well after hours and the store, and streets were very quiet and dark.

“So. I’m assuming you’re coming to pay off what you owe on the account, eh Yegor?”

“Ha, hardly. I pay upfront, always. That’s why we always got along so well. And speaking of getting along so well, have you got the stuff we mentioned initially?”

“Drek. Right down to business. Big favors. Calls at, what is it, 3 am? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say we’re parting ways Kyooz.”

“Indeed chum. Things went sideways. Pretty bad.”

“Ah. Again for you huh? Seems to be a trend with you.” It wasn’t a question so much as a statement.

“You know, I’m gunna miss your smoothie, geared head, right? Best damn…shit, what are you? Mechanic? Decker? I dunno. All I know is you’re a hidden treasure here. You do my ‘trix fixes, you patch my ‘ware, mod my toys. Yeah. A damn hidden gem.”

“Nice to hear that, even if it’s from you. Anyway. You asked about that stuff, and—“

“And you got someone. You always got someone. I wonder how often that someone is actually you. But no matter what, you always got someone.”

“Damn right I always got someone. It’s how I survived this long chummer. This sprawl woulda sucked me up long ago, spit my ass out. I’m getting old brother, I’m getting old.”

“You are. And that’s why I trust you.”

The only response was a confused look which prompted the ork to continue. “You’re old. In this biz, that means you can be trusted. Because if not, you’d have been dusted a long time ago. But you can be trusted, but you’re not stupid. In this world, that blind, stupid trust, it’ll get you greased quick as drek. But you made it. A human. Here. Most people don’t know of you, or just give a nod of respect and keep it hush hush. I envy you. Us orks, we don’t get that.”

“Ah drek. Most people dunno how old orks grow to be. Shit, a lotta us humans are around from the kick off of all this shit. Sure, a shit ton of your orks die, but most of you die violently. Who knows how long you could live. If you, you know, put down the guns, stepped away from the shadows and did something respectable.”

“Some of us are past that point. I dunno.”

“You’re no victim kid. Look at me, in my damn face. The choices you have made in your life have brought you here. Why do you do it anyway? Honestly. I know that whole ‘I Yegor, I shoot bullets’ routine, and I never told you this, but I fucking hate Yegor. Never understood why the hell you play it so fraggin’ dumb.”

“Now now, one question at a time. Yegor is a tool. Nothing more.” The shop owner chuckled and opened his mouth but Kyuzo cut him off quickly. “Slot off frag face. Look. It’s like, why don’t you put up signs and advertise? Why don’t you get corporate work? Why don’t you lay heavy into the grab that money you’d be making by outfitting runners? Because you do what you have to do to stay alive and have some sort of edge. In the shadows, if you’re smart, capable, if you’re a leader, if you’re anything people look up to, they don’t look up to you. They target you. They’ll look you up, find someone to sell you out too. This bunch I’m running with now, I need to bail soon. They’re no good for me, no good for anyone. I miss that about Detroit.” He grimaced saying it, but remembered that he’d spoken to the man before about his past, albeit briefly. He’s so used to keeping that hidden that it was second nature now.

“And as much as you might wanna deny it, people like me are needed, to a degree. People out there, they got Corps robbing them, gangs stealing from them, cops stepping on their throats, governments turning their backs on them, organizations taking advantage of them. I remember back in Detroit, I started a war. I had enough of the Yaks out there. I know some places, the outfits are decent, respectable, don’t piss on people, but this outfit, they were trying to make a place there, carve out something new. So I did some work, pulled some strings and both the Star and local triads got wind of a few hits on them by those Yak boys. It was bloody, but you know what? As long as Lone, gangs, corps, and runners, they’re killing each other, they’re not focused on other things, like innocents.”

The old man’s look was one of interest and he motioned for Kyuzo to continue. “Sorry, I digressed. Anyway, one way or another, basically by my own hand, they find out it was me who turned the others onto them and they want revenge you know? So they send the bosses’...frag’s the term? Futokoro-Gatana. Right hand dude. They’re like brothers. They send him and two yak swordsmen after me. They find me in a bar and the guy, to his credit, asks if I wanted to do that there. I sad nah, let’s head out to somewhere away from prying eyes. Long story short, two goons get aced and it’s he and I, and he thought he had me, I turn and his sword meets my kukri. And that look.”

Kyuzo’s eyes glazed over slightly, and a wicked smirk crept onto his face. “That look is one of the things. Every once in a while, you get to show someone who thinks they’re god what it’s like. Those people that pray on those who cannot do anything, they don’t know what it’s like to feel that. Helpless. About to die. That that person standing over them with a sword, gun, about to cast some spell and end their life, even if they don’t deserve it, they have kids, people love them—that scum standing over them is putting a fear of god into them. And seeing that look in their eyes, at that one moment. They know they’re about to go off to whatever afterlife they believe in. They know that, if they believe god keeps score, they’re going to have hell to pay, and there is that edge of panic and fear. They finally get what they had coming. And it’s people like me that get to dish it out. Does it change anything? Not usually. Those victims are still dead. It’s not about violence, or blood, or revenge. It’s about there being some actual justice in dark places. And you know what. Maybe, sometimes it does make something better. And it sure as drek don’t make it any worse.”

“Very well. I can see your perspective. But there are other ways to make peace. And Kyuzo, you’re not at peace with yourse—“

“Aw, come on, you too? With the Universal Brotherhood, New Age Gods, One Spirit stuff? I’m just drekking you. But look. Everything has its place. Peace. Love. Words. Violence. Bloodshed. I guess I’m just really good at finding my niche.”

The man sighed and looked down for a moment, either sad or disappointed.

“I know you think I’m young. I am. And you’re old and experienced. It’s why you’re the only motherfragger on this planet I can talk to like this. But, well. I hope that you never go through something and actually agree with me. I mean that. You have been through a lot, we’ve talked about it. But you’re still…innocent to some things. I think that’s what really makes you a fraggin’ gem. Stay gold Ponyboy.”

“You know. In all my years, I’ve never really…thought that there was a difference in loss. You know? I mean, I thought losing a son was losing a son. Losing a husband or wife, it was all the same. I guess you’re right. I think this shop, this biz, it’s my little sanctuary. I may be the luckiest man in the city.”

“You just might. Now. How about my bullets, and my gun?”

“Yegor want his toys huh?” He had a look of distaste as he said it before continuing, with a laugh. “Yeah. These rounds. Man. I’m assuming you… I don’t even know. So yeah. 3 boxes of shotgun loads, 5 boxes of 308, 3 boxes of 668 and I could only get one box of the 50. This is some high end stuff.”

“What’d you hear about it?”

“Well, the shottie rounds are especially nasty. Corp erasers is what I heard. Seen a video. So it’s highly volatile and corrosive agents mixed with high temp thermite and copper rounds. First of all, I’m not sure what kind of guy would ever think this up, but I’m mad I didn’t first. Anyway, this vid’s got this corps security drone, the tanks. They take one shot with the scattergun and, holy drek. I mean, this stuff looks like someone threw up acid on that drone. It just, melted and shredded it. I can only think what it would do to some poor street sam, even the high end corp ones burnouts. They’d be gone. And the pistol and rifle rounds, just as devastating. But look man. I know you know your stuff. These things SCREAM collateral damage. You don’t understand. You need to think about what is behind that target, and then some. This shit is highly dangerous, highly illegal, and Corps, Lonestar and every other sec-corp are shitting themselves trying to get rid of these things.”

“I’m not in the habit of offing my own people, but thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And this thing. Kyooz, you’re lucky I always thought highly of you. This thing, I made. And you know that means it’s like one of my children I never had. It’s a Nolan Arms Hunter. 30 Caliber medium machine gun. Usually crew served, but I stripped this down to make it as tactical as it can be. Bipod gone—I know you need a bipod about as much as I need a dragon crawling up my ass. All premium parts, mostly titanium aluminum alloy. Lighter and less prone to overheating and damage than the original parts. Mag fed from bottom, can be belt fed on top. Integrated suppressor in a shorter barrel, smartlink per usual. Speaking of smartlink, before you go, I can hook it up like you asked. I’ll make your systems almost completely, if not completely, internal. No wireless. Very low likelihood of getting hacked, at least without someone porting into your arm. Not impossible, nothing is, especially if you run in to one of them technomancer types. But the good thing about me is I run my own hardware and software. So my ICs aren’t unbeatable, but most people ain’t seen stuff like this before. They’ll have to fight to get into your system, and you’ll be aware of it and can take measure if need be. But anyway, yeah, that Hunter. It’ll destroy the majority of any AVs you’ll see, let alone some chromed out corp guard. Especially with this, these are Armor Piercing Sabot Rounds. These things were MADE to eat through armor.”

Kyuzo nodded appreciatively and noted that schematics and information had been sent to his personal HUD. He put them away from later.

“And I have a gift for you. I went ahead and thought to myself, how’re you gunna move your arsenal. And I realized, you’d put them in a friggin trunk, like a short sighted whelp. So, I know a person who works on the magical side of things. I dunno all the fancy mage talk and terms. So basically, I got you a bag. This bag though, it’s a magical storage bag. This is the important part. It’s the side of a duffel bag. It can hold anything that’ll fit in there. You put it in, it’s gone, poof. Again, dunno how it works, and I hope it DOES, or you’ll be assed out on a LOT of gear. SO yeah. Drop it in, it’s gone. ONLY ZIP IT WHEN YOU’RE DONE. Period. When zipped, it’s supposed to shrink to like, a wallet or something, dunno. Get to where you’re going, unzip it, reach in, pull shit out. DO NOT ZIP UNTIL ALL THINGS ARE OUT! Once you zip again, you got a plain old, run of the mill duffel bag.”

“And what about that other thing?”

“Done. You know, if you ever wanted to know, they—“

“I don’t,” Kyuzo insisted.

“Understood. All’s well. And don’t forget to leave that credstick, I don’t need you blowing out of town with a bag full of my merch.”

“Ha! Yegor not leave old robo-breeder with no nuyen.”

“Yegor’s like a bad rash. You think he’s gone, but he doesn’t go away forever. Anyway, let’s go get your link patched up. And I need something from you.”

Both men stood, but Kyuzo looked at the man strangely. He’d never heard him say he needed anything, and it just caught him off guard. He silently waited for him to go on. “Humor me and come give an old man a hug. I know in this day and age, it’s an antiquated thing, but so am I.”

At first Kyuzo had no idea how to react, thinking maybe it was a joke or something. But the man quickly stepped forward and put his arms around the ork in a hug, which Kyuzo returned somewhat awkwardly. “It’s a Slavic thing.”

“It’s weird.”

“Shut up, or I’m charging you for the free merch.”

“Hug away old timer.”

Present Day

On occasion, other runners - other members of whatever team Traction happened to be with - would harry her about the Dreamchips. Usually out of concern for the habit interfering with her job, sometimes just out of misplaced personal concern. Both parties afraid that you would forget which layer of existence was real.

None of them had ever ran hot in a UV host though. Hosts that hard are rare, to say the least - word says the number of them in operation is only in the single digits. SCIRE, or rather ACHE, had one of them. You were thrown out by Renraku when you were only ten, just in time to avoid the Arcology Catastrophe and to be swept back in when the Yak and Mob and everyone else moved inside. The Yak were a resourceful bunch, to say the least, and they milked the host for everything they could. Skilltrainer programs, elaborate pornographic fantasies, horrific torture, the works. All simulated in a VR so swag that people actively looking for telltale signs that it was all fake in the sculpting found less evidence than if they had been looking in real life. The process of jacking in is literally simulated as waking up, and even switching interface modes in order to jack out hits you with dumpshock which people have described as similar to being born a second time.

Some people say that using Beetles makes the user forget which layer of existence is real, since the programs don't have simsense limitations and 'feel' more real. Maybe that's true for most Beetle addicts. Not for you though. The truth of the matter is, after having to experience UV Hosts, everything about regular Beetles screams 'fake.' There are small telltale signs, giveaways, flaws that you would normally never ever consider - but which would be absent in UV. You see them everywhere in every beetle you've ever used. If anything, the Beetles are just something to keep your mind stimulated and distracted, a bit like the brain does when sleeping. So that you can ignore the truth.

When you left the Yak, you left the UV behind. Barred from the Heavens. Now you're trapped for all eternity in the hell that is reality.

You never studied Decartes, but you know about his ontological exercise. You see it in the real world every day, shadowy half-real, muted illusions playing before your eyes and filling your ears, pressing against every fiber of your being. Less overtly harmful, since even real pain never hurt so much as it did in UV. More subtle. Sinister. Some force directing attacks at your psyche - the only one of two things you could be sure with utter certainty truly existed.

The twist is, you're pretty sure the damned are in the same situation you are. They just don't know it. They never fell from Heaven. Even in Hell, life goes on, and there is always work to be done.

"The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven."

You pull the Beetle and descend back into the depths from Purgatory.


For the longest time Traction lay limp on one of the couches in the Commons, unmoving. Then without warning, her eyes flashed open, one of her hands suddenly moving to yank the simchip out from the back of her neck. Tucking the small device away, she looked around the room, a bored if stern set to her features.

The briefing was scheduled to happen in five minutes. Practice dictated that everyone should arrive early, and yet she was the only one here. Typical. With a silent sigh, Traction got up and headed for the fridge, effortlessly calling up an ARO displaying her current WAN connections to three of her team's cybereyes - Damien, Yegor, and Recluse. They weren't in any immediate danger (she would have been alerted while still in-sim if that were the case). She was less certain about Kali and Caewil. The former's simrig wasn't wireless and so couldn't be hacked without a direct connection. Caewil carried a Commlink, but that wasn't something Traction could use for surveillance. She could use it to contact the Elf though, and as far as Traction cared Kali could spend the entire briefing unconscious in a ditch somewhere. It wouldn't affect any aspect of the actual planning that occurred. The others needed to be here though.

Traction opened the fridge and sent out a message. For Damien and Yegor it was a simple AR notification in their messaging system, which they could be relied on to open and read without prompting. For Recluse, she forced open a number of neon-colored noisemaker popups with the message flashing in large, bolded technicolor letters right in his center of his cybereye's vision, since if she didn't he would leave the message unopened and unread. For Caewil, she forced the Elf's commlink to vibrate and sent her the same message that had been sent to Damien and Yegor.


Peering at the contents of the fridge, Traction reached in and procured a bag of soyjerky. She wasn't hungry right at the moment but wanted something to chew on, and it was always helpful to have small snacks on hand during rides. She headed back to the couch and mentally deployed an Agent into the local Host to scan the WAN for hidden intrusions and unauthorized marks.

Midday. The Louisiana sun beat down heavy over the city of New Orleans, scorching the black asphalt of the roads until you could grill an egg on them. Not that you'd want to, streets this dirty. Waste of a good egg. Everything by the waterfront was all black tar, hot steel, sand and sweat. Miserable day to be outside, but at least the sun wasn't beaming through the open windows anymore. The glorious Waterfront Condos and Hotel, which the team had taken up as their home base, had the kind of landscape view you'd see in some moldy old painting somewhere, a far cry from the brick alleys (or no windows at all) that some members of the team would be more intimate with. But it meant that even the top-notch climate control couldn't stop the nuclear heat waves cast by that damned star shining in the sky. Beautiful fraggin day to be holed up with a group of sweaty runners waiting for a call.

It had been a couple of days since they arrived at the city, and Recluse had left the house a whole one time to stuff himself with some hearty synth burgers before returning to hibernation. Not overly concerned with the comings and goings of his team, he had a date and time for their contact, and that was pretty much his only reason for waking up right now. Well, and the mildly annoying prodding of a certain teammate of his. He was seated comfortably in a posh-looking chair, folded on top of it as though he was made of gelatin instead of meat and bones. Not fancying the idea of staring any of his teammates in the face, his gaze remained firmly fixed on the plain white ceiling. Far too clean for this, man. More than anything, he felt wiped. He'd been laying off the Long Haul since they got here - never knew what you missed on the stuff, after all - and all he wanted to do was go back to bed. Some vacation. Everybody knew that the next call they got was gonna be for work, and all Recluse could repeat in his mind was Milk run. Milk run. Dear god. Milk Run.

His commlink went off suddenly, mercifully interrupting his thought process. Simultaneously, everybody in the room rang the same way. This was the call they were waiting for, no way it could have not been. About time... He didn't know any details about who they were supposed to be reporting to. Whether they were male or female, who they worked for, anything like that. It was almost exciting, now they'd have the chance to find out. With a simple motion, he accepted the call, and a voice rang through the room.

"Heeey, dem boys and girls. Mi hear you be wantin some work, yeah?" The voice over the comms was clearly female, with a jamaican accent that seemed both heavy and localized at the same time. "Maybe ya be wantin sometin' eeeeeeeasy, yeah? Maybe ya be wantin sometin' be makin' ya rich, yeah? Faaaaaamous, yeah?" The woman drew out her words, embellishing everything heavily, for sarcasm or just to be dramatic. Recluse immediately found this habit annoying.

"Well, mi tell ya, mi ent got nuttin like dat! Mi work be booooorin' for a experienced group such as y'all. But she will pay, oh yes. And she keep ya busy, oh yes. and maybe ya get out this drek city wit' ya skins in one piece, oh yes." Without waiting for a pause, she continued on. "Mi ent got no time for ya rasslin' me. Mi just tell ya what ya need to do."

"On da waterfront, dere be a handful o' unmarked warehouses. Receivin, yeah? We got stuff comin' in off a boat today. Big skids o' honest-to-Jah CDs, yeah? We be talkin' reeeal old-fashion biz. We dunna where dey goin to, where dey came from. But mi wanna know. Ya catch da plot mi hope. Ya boys get into da right warehouse, get dem CDs. Full price for a whoooooole skid, bonus nuyen for fudgin' da books a little, yeah? Maybe make dey never received dem shipment at all, yeah? Ah, but mi have some mercy, don't say mi dunna. So long as ya bring me couple dem CDs, ya get paid, yeah? Not full price, mind, but we work sometin' out. Zelda be an eeeeeasy girl to please, yeah?"

The hell...? Might have been the sobriety talking, but Recluse was having an unusually hard time following what this woman was saying. Well, maybe somebody else understood. Something about getting CDs from a warehouse... Who cares, even? So what? Well, a job was a job. What did it matter if he understood or not.

"Ya gotta do dis tonight. Dey gon' be a black van, no license, parked in de area, da back door be unlocked. She be dere all night, but no later. De sun come up, de van be gone. Whatever be inside of she when she leave is what mi client get in de morning. So long as dey ain't be Lone Star fillin' de back of dat van, we still be friends, even if ya get nuttin at all. But ya come with high recommendation, so mi client be expectin' da world."

"Ya be happy to know de warehouse workers all de unnerpaid illegal type, yeah? Dey put up no resistance, else dey get fragged and nooooooobody care. No bonus points for playin da murder game, but nobody gon' dock your pay either. Ya be free to take dis however ya please."

Recluse's head spun, like it always did after the initial infodump of a job. Their regular Johnson knew to take it slow, some of the members of their team weren't the fastest signals in the grid, that was for sure. Of course, that included him. But this chick was firing on all cylinders, all business and things to do. Frankly it was a pain in the ass, and his head hurt already. If they had to wait until nightfall, he'd have time for some release beforehand, maybe dislodge himself from the incoming headache. But first this lady had to disconnect the comm.

"Alright boys, ya got all de info now. Ya run free in ya playground, like dem bird inna sky. Ya question mi what ya will now, and we conclude our biz."

Somewhere beneath the dogpile of hangovers and leaden specter of approaching sobriety Kali surfaced, aches both old and new cataloged as unwelcome awareness flooded her prone form. Taking inventory of her surroundings bleary eyes beheld the splintered corpse of a sink set against a canvas of dirty linoleum--not bad, she could have done worse than wake up in a bathroom. With the grace of a fresh foal she flopped up to her feet, though not before rolling over into an inch of stagnant water; she didn't know if that made her feel better or worse about her pants being soaked all the way though. "Think." she thought, somewhat underwhelmingly "What's waiting on the other side of that door?" The urgent cudgeling of an unseen fist upon the locked divider doing approximately jack squat for her memory; somewhere behind her eyes a migraine was gaining traction.

Glancing down to her watch the minimalistic display affirmed it was precisely too damned early for her to start giving a damn and she gripped the handle, yanking everything attached from it out from under the next knock with a quick jerk of the wrist. Looking absolutely dumfounded an employee of Big Bob's stared straight at the disheveled Nartaki before slowly backpedaling from the encroaching tide of squalid liquid. "What? I don't even...are you alright?" the working stiff exclaimed in a voice as much at the mercy of puberty as exasperation. "Eh? You playin' at being clever? Buzz choob, I'm frag'n apogee." Kali quietly yawped, brushing passed the boy to ineffectually daub herself with a fistful of napkins. Nattering away at what one could naturally assume seemed a safe distance the rebuffed worker did his best to explain to Kali her order was ready, to his credit it only took three or four tries.

Thus cajoled runner waded her way up to the counter in squelching boots, just now taking notice that Big Bob's 'authentic' ork cuisine was absent the titular Bob, staffed entirely by humans and lacking anyone deserving of the moniker 'big'. Irregardless a listless young woman at the register forked over the sort of order that read like a butcher's black bag. "That's three orders of fatback, hog maw with extra chitterlings on the side. A number seven with hocks and a side of giblet, two hoppin' johns with collard greens and an order of grits. Your sweet potato pie is on the bottom, drinks are on the side: two jumbo soya-sloppies, double-thick per request. It's all a little cold mind, you ordered it like an hour agoOW!" An expertly flung cred chip let the wageslave know the transaction was complete and roused enough attention for Kali's fond farewell:

""You gob in my chow?"
"No."
"Frag'n pussy."

One balancing act later she'd ferried the feed to her waiting bike--the purple mirage having attracted a few admirers. "Wizzer set of wheels, you some sort of Valerie?" queried a young and far too enthusiastic troll. With the distinct brand of weighted silence one can only author alongside a 'fuck off somewhere far' stare Kali wrung the dampness from her ombre style braid, flicking her tongue off a chip in her front tooth in annoyance. "Dilligaf? Eh? Somethin' bout' me say I want to play Frag'n Q & A with some runty Trog? Go twist your horns twinkie, fore' I slammit on!" she groused, peeling out of the parking lot as she let fly the only hand signal she knew, a solitary extended finger.

It didn't take long for her suped up Suzuki to deposit her at the safehouse, likewise it was a short schlep from the lockup to flat once she'd scanned in at the elevator. Breaching the threshold with a literal armful of grub an uninitiated observer could be forgiven the fool notion of thinking she'd gone above and beyond and scored eats for the team. Fact of the matter was you don't abuse kamikaze and walk away clean, woman was burning calories like kerosene soaked rags. Sans commlink she sidled up to the sort of art-deco sofa designed for everything but comfort and called across the room to Recluse, prompted by the thick Jamaican accent that had just announced "Ya question mi what ya will now, and we conclude our biz."

"Ex that drek chummer, fragin' unprofessional. Sposed' to be waiting on a call not tuned into some scam psychic."

Damien felt strong, fresh, young even. All the miles he'd been feeling since Detroit had simply washed away. In fact his every limb was twitching with a new-found power, the likes of which his Gopher simply hadn't afforded him since it was new. The joy of a new engine he thought, an oil chance usually gave him a feeling of refreshment alone, but the new engine he'd loaded into the truck was like stepping back in time. It had always been a thrill, replacing all those pesky physical nerves with the sensation of a freshly tuned drone or vehicle. Then again when he'd thrown the rod and originally ruined the engine it felt like having a rib torn out of his chest. So perhaps inside his rig wasn't always the best place to be.

He took a long moment but eventually drove his senses back into his own body, letting the sensation of the truck slip away to be replaced by the dull ache of his own joints. With one quick command the engine on his gopher sputtered to silence. Inside in the meat he sat motionless in a fold-out chair, just to the side of his Gopher inside a cramped garage. Well 'garage' was really giving it too much credit, in reality it was a tiny concrete lockup with just enough room for his truck, bike, and the chair. So most of his worldly possessions. Back in Detroit he'd earned himself a real garage, space for four cars, hydraulic lifts, engine lifts, a wall of tools, and enough bench space to maintain drones of damn near any size. He'd been comfortable, stable, complacent, and stupid. He forgot the basics, the background-checks, the recon, and it'd almost cost him everything. Well live and learn, that's what he did best, get back to basics, lick his wounds, and work his way back up.

That was when Tractions message came across his AR "Briefing?" He groaned "'bout damn time." He never liked the whole idea of getting set up by someone else. Especially not a Fixer. He didn't like owing anyone favors, favors get you stuck in the line of fire. Still the team was here and it wasn't like many of them were used to a life on the road, so he stuck with it. He was about to leave his seat when a familiar sound crept through the air. An engine, not one of his but one he'd quickly committed to memory. Kali's Suzuki. It had taken a while to recognize it's own unique noise, all Jap bikes sounded inferior after all, but simply being able to avoid the women had made it worthwhile.

Leaning back in his chair he went VR again, only this time he jumped into his eye. Without a doubt it had always been the strangest jump to take, all his physical sensation left him but he was still looking out of his eyes. At least for a moment, before he took the drone ahead, outside of its socket and into the air. He floated through a cracked window and out into the large lockup scanning the area. All clear he thought when he saw Kali disappear behind elevator doors. Stairs then, he hadn't seen her in several days and he didn't care to imagine the scent she'd leave in that small a space. it wouldn't be that much longer of a trek up to the house and he could get a moment or two in the sun. He observed a few passerby's on his way, a young foolish couple, a sulking dwarf, and a troll that seemed content to simply stair into the sun. Perfect place to disappear, He thought while rolling his floating eye, who would ever suspect six ragtag misfits living together in this place.

Still he floated along for the house they'd been provided using the back window to slip inside, then down a hallway and into the common room. So far it was only Terminal, Kali, and Recluse, of course, but from the look of things the call had already come through. Better get their in the meat, he thought and jumped out, sending a simple command for his floating eye to navigate itself easily down on to the center table.

once again in his own body, he made his own way up to the house, locking the door behind him. if the floating drone had caught anyone's attention it certainly paled compared to the looks folks threw a one eyed cowboy as he wondered up to the house. Still it was a short walk and no one payed him any trouble ignoring him as soon as he was past. So he wondered inside and into the common room a simple Return command to his eye as he made his way to an open chair, the two reuniting as he sat.

"So, CD's are sellin' these days. Wish someone would'ave said that when I was a boy had a whole box of the damn things. Probably could've retired properly." He muttered with a wry smile when the women was done. Though frankly he was relived for something so...standard, though she made it sound all so easy that his hairs were standing on end. Nothing scared him more than easy. He shot Traction a sideways glance, he had questions to be sure but none he wanted to ask while this new Fixer was on the line so instead he sent the young Decker a simple AR message 'Any way to tell if this Fixer is as...simple as she sounds.'

The heat was oppressive, and though she preferred to be outside on sunny days she had had to seek refuge in a Starbucks of all things. Corporate greed clinged to the walls and the atmosphere of the place. The cheap soykaf tasted about as bad as the first time. Back home in Tir Na Nog, she had been able to get real actual coffee when she had socialized with the Danaan families… But that was the problem, she wasn’t back home. A number of bad decisions on her part had placed her in a racist dump in a whole other country. She doubted she would have liked it much even without the racism. Initially, it hadn’t been so bad to live in the UCAS. The worst part had been how much she had missed her love. The one person she had thought was her true love had only answered her calls once after she had arrived, to tell her that she should never call again, and that had been that. If she’d used her brain, she could have seen this ending coming before the affair begun. It was another harsh lesson she’d been forced to learn.

“Would you rather be dead?” Mirage asked, from where he sat on the table, having known her long enough to be able to tell what she was thinking too often. “You bloody well would be if it weren’t for me.”

Caewil made a grimace at him, feeling no need to respond, smile or give him her entire attention. It had always been a welcome addition to have someone in her life she could be rude and uncaring towards at times. Especially since she had become a face and learnt how to play nice with everyone, despite what she really thought of them. No one else would stick by her side in the same way, and after losing her true love she’d likely never love anyone else than Mirage.

She hadn’t spent her entire time in Louisana sulking though. It was the damn soykaf and Starbucks that put her in a sour mood at the moment. The team she was a member of could be entertaining if she was bored, but there were a couple of establishments nearby that had been fun to visit.

The racist dance club called Samuel’s had been interesting. She had only meant to try and see if she could talk her way inside while covering up her ears with fake long hair. It had worked better than expected. All she had done was shout at the bouncer at the door that she was no metahuman, and how dare he suggest such, until a member of the staff told him to let her inside. It was probably her eyes that had made him suspicious. Fake IDs that identified her as human had been in her possession for years. Caewil had been the life of the party once inside, dancing and spouting racist nonsense with the rest of them. Those who hadn’t been careful with their jewellery would find some of it missing after the night was over, but she needed it more than them anyway. It was still in her possession actually, as she hadn’t decided whether to keep it or pawn it.

The other night she had visited Under the Floorboards as well. The difference between the two clubs had been large. Yet, she hadn’t gone to either as her true self. At the metahuman bar she had donned some of her trashier clothes and a few facial piercings to fit in better. Somehow, it had been less exciting than Samuel’s. Maybe because she wasn’t facing the same threat if anyone found out she was faking her entire persona. Caewil had made a few contacts at the bar before calling it a night with another elf. Losing faith in love, didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy physical pleasures of the flesh.

She hadn’t decided on what place to visit today, and her thoughts were interrupted by the vibrating commlink in her pocket before she could. Apparently the briefing was about to begin. Well, at least it meant she didn’t have to bother trying to drink anymore of the soykaf. Caewil made her way back to their hotel across the street, and entered their room with a confident stride before long. She found most of the team gathered already, except for the Ork it seemed.

“Greetings.” Caewil said with a wave of her hand, and a smile. “Such a sunny day we’ve got. It might burn your skin right off!”

“Laying it on thick.” Mirage muttered behind her.

She took a seat where she could find one. Mirage jumped up her in lap to listen to the briefing with them, and out of habit her hand soon petted his soft fur. It doubtlessly looked off to anyone else that couldn’t see him. The team had probably already heard her talk with no one more than once in the past month.

“Mi be wonderin’ if ya gotta clue who dey belong too, yeah?” Caewil asked after the woman had stopped talking, trying to mimic her dialect as best she could. After the botched run, she’d be willing to listen to suspicions. “Who else be wantin’ de CDs.”

The first few days, the group was to the winds. No one really did much together and they went their own separate ways. Kyuzo was totally ok with that as it afforded him time to get his stuff organized. Truth be told, he was dealing with a mix of depression and anxiety. He didn’t enjoy leaving places he was familiar with, it just wasn’t his nature. So far though, the trend was that each time he left, he had fewer attachments than the last place. Eventually, he’d see if that trend would continue.

The first thing he did was apprehensively unload his magical bag given to him by his contact. It was weird to load initially; essentially, you’d reach in with whatever you were loading, drop it and it was gone. Poof. Like that. Like it fell away into nothingness. So, the bag worked. At least on the first part of its alleged functions.

So sitting in his room, when he unloaded the weapons, it was even more awkward. He unzipped the bag and when he reached his hand inside, a piece of gear seemed to be HANDED to him, as if someone was handing the item up. The situation was extremely odd, and once he had accounted for the last item and there was nothing else handed up, he zipped the bag. After waiting a moment, he unzipped again, and sure enough, there was now a black vinyl bottom to the thing.

He spend hours after doing function checks on the gear. This took some time because he was testing them not only mechanically, but electronically too—making sure that smartlinks and other systems worked upon powering them up. Good charges, systems linked, symbonds were all good to go.

He didn’t do much but walk around for a few days after that. He ate here and there, familiarized himself with the layout and streets. He talked to a few individuals about gang activity and turfs, what areas were more ethnically open or closed, trying to get a quick view of the streets and how life out here functioned. In between that, he found a small storage unit, rented it for one month, and put a striking bag up in there. He’d spent more on the bag, finding one that could withstand heavier contact than a typical bag. It also had smart sensors on it that could help him monitor damage output and things of that nature.

He didn’t care about the numbers. He cared about not ripping a bag in half.

In the unforgiving heat, he was there beating up the bags. The cyberware that he was sporting was top of the line, state of the art, and that included it’s software. It utilized a system called “symbond,” which was a system that monitored and analyzed muscle functions at a local level and as a whole. After doing this, the cyberware and software would react in kind. If a fighter generally left his left guard down, it would direct more focus in that area, keep those muscles juiced up a bit more to compensate. Eventually, based on the wearer and the degree at which it focused on developing a symbond, it would initiate training, visual stimuli, or other methods via HUDs or body functions that would actually correct the issues.

So there he was, pouring out sweat and beating the hell out of the bag. The ying to the robotic yang was that in doing this, he was still training his muscles and utilizing muscle memory. The soft and cyberware worked in spite of physical issues. Well, muscles worked in spite of that same ‘ware, and if it came to a point where he couldn’t depend on his chrome, he still needed his muscles to work.

At the time the message came in, that was where he was: beating up that bag in that storage unit. He had never been shirtless around the team—save Kali, but she probably wouldn’t remember anything of any real detail, but he was as he worked out. Across his chest in a slightly arced series of letters, “BULLETPROOF” was spelled out in large, sharp letters, just below where the collar of a shirt would be. Ironically enough, in the U of that tattoo was a large caliber pistol scar and on the PRO were several scars from buckshot. His body, and the tattoo, was crisscrossed with myriads of other marks and burns, except for his left arm which seemed smooth and perfect.

Both the scars and drastic difference in skin conditions were causes for him to generally wear a long sleeved shirt, regardless of the weather.

It was then that he saw a message flash onto his personal HUD.

He personalized names in his comm, so the indicator stated YOU HAVE ONE UNREAD MESSAGE FROM TRIX BITCH.

He rolled his eyes and opened it, rolling his eyes again immediately. Kyuzo had a brief stint running deep in the BTL world, but like most of those vices, they were all part of a...phase. And he was past that phase. Kali wasn’t his concern, so he wiped himself off with a towel, tossed it on the floor and put his shirt and jacket on in spite of the heat. He took a moment to toss his weapons in their places, locked up, and made his way to the spot.

He grabbed what he assumed was some mix of soymeat, and streetmeat on a piece of pita bread from a vendor and ate as he walked, looking around. He took measure to walk a route that took him down several empty streets so that anyone or any thing following him would be forced to hang back, or expose themselves before finally arriving at the building.

He was moving to enter the door when it opened in front of him. He grabbed it and held it and immediately his nose caught scent of some fragrance. It tickled his nose and smelled of flowers and that soapy clean scent. Out walked a stunningly attractive human female. She looked at Kyuzo, giving him a once over and appreciative nod, and was followed by 2 other human males who paid him little mind. He raised an eyebrow at her in return and made his way inside. When all was said and done, Kyuzo was somewhat lucky. He was not on the extreme end of “looking orkish” and if he tried, maybe with a couple minor surgical alterations, he could probably pass as human. Sure, he was more solid, think and square of shoulder, but again, he wasn’t on the far end of the spectrum.

He attempted to shake it from his mind but looked back one last time towards the door, smelling her in the lobby and in the elevator when he was riding up. He entered the room, noting he was the last one there, but arriving just in time to catch the brief. While the brief was happening, he used his HUD to search what the hell a “CD” actually was.

He listened and had no immediate questions, so he stood there and waited for someone to dictate the next move, looking on silently and stupidly.

It’s what Yegor would do.

He took a few moments to study those around, seeing for any changes, trying to gauge their overall moods, and moods in regards to the run.

He noted that Kali looked as if she's slept in a dumpster, one that got emptied into the back of a waste pick up truck, driven for a few days, and dropped off here moments before. Vintage Kali...

"Maybe ya be wantin sometin' eeeeeeeasy, yeah?...Well, mi tell ya, mi ent got nuttin like dat!...Big skids o' honest-to-Jah CDs, yeah? We be talkin' reeeal old-fashion biz. We dunna where dey goin to, where dey came from. But mi wanna know. Ya catch da plot mi hope. Ya boys get into da right warehouse, get dem CDs. Full price for a whoooooole skid, bonus nuyen for fudgin' da books a little, yeah?

Traction visibly sighed in irritation. Their Fixer was a fucking idiot.

It was always a given that a Fixer would always try to screw you over by withholding information. Occupational hazard, there never was a run where you went in knowing the whole of it. Most Fixers were smart enough to at least try and come across as honest. Gestures of good will, fake collateral, double bluffs, planted evidence, sweet talk. This drek-for-brains though had given away everything they hadn't wanted to say.

The job SOUNDED simple, but the first thing they had said indicated the job wasn't going to be easy. Wholesale palettes of actual CDs meant smuggling and illicit deals. Not usual fair for organized groups like the yak or mob but not unheard of, though it could just be an unusually resourceful gang sitting pretty on some decent talent. Either way it meant armed drek enforcers with itchy trigger fingers. Worse yet, although the Fix claimed not to know where they were from or where they were headed, they still knew the CDs existed and where they were. That meant the Fix might be slaved to someone else, that they had picked the intel up, or that they were on the inside. Which meant that other people also knew about the CDs and might be gunning with them, apart from whoever already owned them. The most infuriating part was the request to fudge the records - anybody who had ever cased and run a shipping warehouse before knew that when you fudged their manifests, you also had to fudge the manifest of the delivery vessel as well, and if you wanted to show off you also fudged the manifest of whatever was supposed to pick up the delivery later. The Fixer was asking them to do two jobs for the price of one, and the 'bonus' for doing it was just there to trick everyone else not familiar with running numbers that it was a fair game.

"Ex that drek chummer, fragin' unprofessional. Sposed' to be waiting on a call not tuned into some scam psychic."

'Even a broken clock is right twice a day.' Traction thought, smirking faintly as she opened her AR interface to open the message Damien had just sent her. She glanced at him and raised an eyebrow, but then figured it was to be expected. The older rigger was probably used to working with more thoroughly vetted contacts in familiar territory - it shouldn't have been surprising that even the most experienced member of the team (except perhaps the Elf, though most keebs never took anything they learnt to heart so she probably didn't count) was out of his element. She sent him a reply message.

'This fixer has obviously never hired a half-decent decker before, else she wouldn't have called the rest of you over all of your comms. Give me six seconds.'

And not even six VR seconds either. The task was so simple Traction could get everything she needed in AR alone. She gestured smoothly at the invisible interface for her ARO, running commands to her integral cyberdeck.

Their Fixer had left herself awfully exposed by contacting each of their commlinks - because all of them were slaved to Traction's cyberdeck (it hadn't necessarily been a matter of choice on the rest of the team's part). She could monitor every aspect of the incoming datastreams being sent to devices, and from that alone she could see the commcode for whatever device their Fixer was using to contact them. There was no promise the Fixer was using a device that actually belonged to them, but that was only one piece of the puzzle. Because they were sending multiple datastreams simultaneously, Traction didn't even have to run any sleaze programs - she just executed a simple trace action that sourced each datastream individually in order to triangulate the physical location of the sender. Their own setup, whatever it was, never got the chance to even detect the trace, since Traction's program had never probed it - it had only analyzed the connections and node bounces the datastream themselves were being sent through. Which was the exact reason professionals were a lot more careful about sending messages to multiple unsecured devices - they could be traced without ever knowing until it was too late.

Three seconds in and already Traction knew exactly where the Fixer was, what device she was using, and her commcode. Now it was time to actually start hacking. A slight and predatory smile broke across Traction's face as she leaned forward where she was sitting on the couch, hunching over her ARO with a devious sense of concentration as she focused on the information being displayed.

First she deployed an autonomous agent into the Matrix and had it run a few sleaze programs across a public grid search, plugging in the Fixer's commcode, coordinate location, and address - the low profile software letting it identify helpful information without ringing any alarms in case the Fixer was on the lookout for people pinging her through the Matrix. Then Traction ran a sleaze program across all the slaved commlinks, injecting a subtle probe into the datastream device transceivers. As the devices communicated back and forth, their software constantly fed status messages and code back and forth to each other, the equivalent of an electronic handshake to make sure both sides were still there and online. With the next handshake though, the Fixer's device would be instructed by the slaved commlinks to send an extra packet of verification data as part of the handshake protocol. Which meant that with the next active message the Fixer sent, Traction would gain a mark on her device. Once for each confirmation the Fixer's device sent back, for each of the commlinks receiving the message, which would give Traction effective administrative, owner-level access. If the other device didn't send the packet, the message wouldn't get through, and if it sent a packet containing anything other than the requested information, the sleaze program would purge the package.

Once that happened Traction could throw a wild rumpus in the Fixer's device without them ever the wiser, but it did depend on them sending another message. Thankfully, Caewil decided to ask the big dumb elephant of a question that had been hanging in the air, and so Traction primed a spoof command to reformat a targeted device. All she needed was for the Fixer to answer the question. Traction's hand hovered in the air, still and steady as a conductor's just before a composition began.

Recluse rolled his eyes behind his goggles at Kali's entrance. It wasn't worth the air in his lungs to respond. This sort of thing was common, and it didn't seem to matter what he said in response. Seemed like she had armloads of food with her, but he knew better than to assume she'd brought anything for the team, and he wasn't ever hungry enough to try and risk stealing any for himself. Kali burned calories as fast as she sucked oxygen, and Recluse was the exact opposite, like some kind of camel, he could get away with eating twice a week, and it'd fuel him the whole time if he was on a job or at home.

Everybody filtered in slowly, and reactions seemed to be reticent at best, with the exception of Cath. That was fine. Everybody had their own business this week, there was no reason to believe that everyone would suddenly be excited about this... odd job. The lady at the other end of the call seemed to understand this as well, as she waited patiently for responses to filter in. She thought for a moment about Cath's particular question, which seemed to be the only one forthcoming, at least vocally. Recluse decided that this was the time to speak up for once. Unfortunately, it was a question he needed to ask before almost every job.

"...You need this job done quiet? What would you say about a risk of... explosions? Hypothetically."

Their new employer was fairly quick to respond. It seemed like she was anxious, or just in a hurry. "Ent got noooooo problem if ya wanna end with some big kaboom. Ent mi warehouses, yeah? An ya dunna got connections to me. Not yet. Mi pay ya at de end regardless. But mebbe ya get not so many jobs from us if ya blow em all up, yeah?"

That out of the way, she turned her attention towards Cath's question. "Mi feel ya tryin' to make fun o' me or flatter me, miss. But mi give ya pass since mi like ya, hmm? As for ya question... dis only suspicion, personal, yeah? Not representative of reality or mi client, yeah? But word is dere be some kinda crazy astral at play. Some crazy wicked juju attached to dem CDs. I dunna who might want sometin like dat, but mi client do, and it's good enough for mi."

Without any time for further questions, the call suddenly cut off on the other end. Either the connection dropped on the other end, or she had hung up. It was probably safe to assume the latter was true. Their business had been concluded, and it didn't seem like she was going to answer any further questions, even if any were forthcoming. Which left the group alone to their planning, save for one final text message that came through their comms. "Mi send all further contact through either the elf or the sniper. No reason in particular. Have fun boys and girls! -Z" Recluse sighed heavily. What a pain in the ass... Maybe he'd just foist the job off on Cath in full, if he could. Seemed like he got picked at random, which was drek in the first place.

"Well, talking points, fellas. Three goals. Find out which warehouse houses our goods, then we have to get the stuff and be able to transport it to the van. Then fudge the numbers, right? As far as I'm concerned... I'm probably not the man to deal with the numbers. Once we find out where we're going, I'll cover our retreat, same as usual. Y'all know how to reach me if you need a hand carrying stuff, but otherwise, I'll be making sure nobody gets in or out once we start."

Kyuzo put his cyber hand up to his chin and made a thinking face for several moments while the other's spoke their pieces. After Recluse finished up with his three points, he spoke up. "Yegor may help. Was out near docks and ended up drinking with troll at hole near pier. Ha, Yegor not recommend you all head there. Big troll run place, not like breeders and pointees. I mean, big troll. BIG. Anyway, the troll on dock drink with Yegor, swap stories. Used to be runner. Yegor talk to Ilrek, get information. Worst case, Yegor get buzz and still have no info, yeah?"

He looked around at the others, mentally going over what he thought he'd have to do to get this part of the job done. The minimal information he would want was confirmation that the container was there. Anything more than that was a bonus--and would most likely cost. He would fish for loading docks, security, the manifest and even see if the troll would simply let them in, depending on the security and procedures of the docks. Well, he'd cross that bridge when he got to it. One odd thing about a lot of trolls is that they live rather humble and meager lives. This troll had a job, not much threat, and could afford shelter, food, and alcohol. To a lot of trolls, that was living a perfectly content life. So to offer the troll something more would either raise a lot of suspicion, cost something extremely odd, or simply not be an option. Or, offering too much could raise Ilrek's alarm and lead him to maybe sell out the group for MORE meaningful things.

All of those factors would be assessed as he worked his angle and he enjoyed this kind of work immensely, as it rarely came his way, at least with the group. He loved working people and angling, going after what he knew he could, and walking that edge, knowing what the risks could be. Part of him thrived dealing with emotional intelligence and gauging people based on experience, even sometimes on the fly and improvising.

He looked over at Cath, silently musing over a thought about taking over as a face. It would never happen though. As much as Kyuzo enjoyed many things, there were few things he enjoyed as much as sluggin' n gunnin'. That was a life and death run, in the literal sense, and as much as he tried to force the thoughts far, far away and deep down, there was an unparalleled, natural gratification that came along with physically protecting people. It was always there, guiding his actions, molding his thoughts, pushing him down a specific path at a crossroads. And he was constantly working to hide it, maybe even make it untrue. Much mental energy and focus had been spent denying who he really was.

Even if he didn't consciously know it...

Damien silently observed the team as they set about their work. Traction's message made it clear she was busy with the digital two-step, Cath was twisting her words and...doing whatever it was she did when she was stroking thin air, even Yegor was offering contact information. "Suppose it's time to get to work then." He grunted leaning back in his chair. Work didn't mean he had to leave his new seat after all.

First off he needed a view, so he slipped into AR and pulled up a handful of mapsofts. He started small, street maps of the area, the Fixer might not have been useful enough to give him an address but unmarked warehouses on the waterfront meant smuggling den to him, and smuggling den meant there were at least a dozen quiet ways to get in and out of the area. He started looking for those, quiet alleys, underpasses, tunnel entrances, a sewer line maybe? Sure the team wouldn't like the idea but sewer runs were the price one simply had to pay to survive. Still he made that one a last resort and focused on quick ways to ex-filtrate. Getting in couldn't be hard after all, but if things went explosive, and when it came to Kali and Yegor he found it safer to always assume it would, he wanted a backup for his backup.

He eventually settled on a relative straightaway of a aside road, the kind of thing that would get them out of the Warehouse distract fast, assuming there wasn't any trouble. Beyond that he picked a handful of alleys some straight, in case the roads were blocked, others zig-zaged back and forth out of the area, in case they needed to loose a tail. Of course there was also the option of mounting a bullbar onto the truck if things needed to be done in a hurry, but he doubted he had time for that. Though the idea did get him thinking of more creative exit options. Air? To expensive, not to mention he didn't know where to start looking for a craft large enough to fit the whole crew and small enough to store in their current accommodations. Something for the to-do list though he thought. Water, then? Surely there would be at least one boat capable of moving a handful of runners in a bind. He'd have to find something beforehand, break down it's security, and tie it into his network but it could very well save their lives.

He already had his 'shopping list' so he decided to start checking off a few items. Not least of which was actual footage. It was too far to send one of his lockheads out on it's own. he'd have to take a little road trip ahead of the crew to put together some aerial surveillance. So he skipped to his next item, he needed a route for his truck to take the team to the waterfront. It wasn't that he didn't trust the team with his wheels, he didn't trust anyone behind the wheel of his baby and he didn't much care for the idea of babysitting them VR all the way there. Still that was easy enough, a quick glance at his Mapsoft uploaded to his gophers autosoft. Beyond that he needed more information, information the rest of the team was far more capable to provide.

"If we're talking contacts I might be able to make a call." He said as he cleared a bead of sweat from his brow "Some of the guys I used to run with have a heavy hand in the smuggling business. Doubt they'd be able to say which warehouse to hit, CD's aren't really their thing, but they might give us an idea of what shacks to avoid." It made sense after all, they knew full well he had no interest of knocking them over, hell they might float a few nuyen his way for letting them know that some chaos might be hitting the water front. Then again the might hold a grudge if they thought he was responsible. Have to word my questions carefully then, he decided as he leaned forward in his seat.

"Either way I've got some work I need to do before this drek really kicks off, So what do we know?" he asked looking towards Traction "And what's our plan?" his gaze turning back towards the rest of the room.

The others started talking and getting themselves in order, so Kyuzo decided he could step away and get his gear ready. He casually said over his shoulder , “Yegor listening, skinnies keep planning,” while making his way to his room which was close enough to the common area to be able to hear, probably even without turning up the input level, which he did anyway. He listened in intently and looked around the room.

His small living space was desolate by any standards. There was a bed and a dresser in the room that were there prior, and that was still the only furniture, and that wouldn’t change any time soon. There was an empty, oldschool military sea bag which had been all he’d traveled with aside from the formerly magical duffel bag. The sea bag held his clothing which, aside from his weapons, were his only real possessions. Next to the sea bag was the afore mentioned duffel bag and then at various places around the room were his weapons, most on a small case of some sort, or at least on a cloth with magazines, rounds, and random accessories placed around them.

The planning to him was not that important. In his experience, the plan was only worth sticking to until the first or second step, which was usually entering whatever the target area was. After that, plans usually were drek canned because of one thing or another. Sure, a plan was helpful, especially when going over the method and location by which they’d egress also. However, the team’s ability to adapt and improvise were usually what led to a run being successful or a frag fest. That, and a bit of luck here and there.

As he continued listening, he picked up his Ares Predator and holstered it, along with 2 magazines. This gun was always comforting. It was heavy, a lot of steel and old tech, and it was not prone to misfire and was still 100% operable even if the smart system was compromised, which saved him more than once. All of that and the fact that it could penetrate most armors worn by anything but premier hit squads made it his go to firearm. He then grabbed his Knight Errand SFAR and slung it across his back. Instead of the large and bulky drum magazines, he opted to load a smaller magazine and carry another two larger “banana” magazines as well. This shouldn’t be a spray and pray type scenario so he opted for a bit more concealability over bullet count. He then slid his kukri behind his back and up into its sheath and tossed a light leather jacket on over it. Again, he opted out of wearing any real armor, although he was wearing an UnderArmor Pro shirt, which was extremely expensive but not something that stood out. This armor would stop a great deal of rounds from piercing it, but wore quickly. The other downside is that it did literally nothing to lessen impact, so getting hit with a round wouldn’t likely pierce the body, but it would leave one hell of a mark, to say the least.

He then knelt beside each weapon and put a trigger locking mechanism on each one, and these were extremely cunning devices. On each lock, there was what appeared to be a simple key that would unlock it. However, any physical intrusion into the lock, even by an replicated key of the exact pattern that would unlock it would trigger a concentrated electric shock with enough power to render most people unconscious. Removing the lock all together, if one avoided the lock, would trigger a small explosion of thermite which would ruin the weapon and if it didn’t kill the target, would at least remove the majority of whatever limb(s) were close enough. The trick to actually opening them was simple and low tech: on one side, there was a small hole about the size of a paperclip. Inside of that was a small switch that would have to be pressed twice in succession to open. Simple, easy, and uncommon. Because of these security measures, he made sure to walk out of the room and when the conversation broke, he interjected and said firmly, “no one touch Yegor’s weapons.” It was an awkward thing to say and a weird time to throw it into the middle of planning, but he threw it in none the less.

This was one of those times where being stupid Yegor helped. It wasn’t likely that anyone would try to steal his weapons, but if someone in the group DID decide to cut bait and leave, and wanted to either make some quick nuyen or make off with a weapon or two, they’d likely think him too stupid to operate any technologically sophisticated measures, and not trust or be able to afford biometrics.

Part of him detested that the group had no real “leader” and the closest thing to one was Traction. It wasn’t out of jealousy, because Kyuzo sure as drek had zero desire to lead this, or any group. It was that part of him had the suspicion that any of her plans were highlighted by putting her in a position to be able to avoid danger and keep herself out of harm’s way immediately and leaving the others to fend for themselves if things went sideways.

One last thing he wanted to make sure he either confirmed or put to rest was the feeling that the docks seemed to be worked by metas. He wasn’t sure if it was some sort of union, and if it was, whether it was a legitimate one or one done on an informal level, but at the bar, the patrons seemed to be working class and all were obviously trolls or orks. It wasn’t clear if this was simply a place for those orks and trolls who worked the docks to blow off steam and do some hydrating, or if this was THE place that ALL dock workers frequented. It wouldn’t be wise to be caught walking with a combination of humans and elves if only other trogs were welcomed, not unless there was some sort of plan involved.

The moment Zelda killed the call, Traction tutted in annoyance. She glanced at Recluse and Damien briefly as they both spoke before she began to contribute.

"This fixer of ours issn't quite as dumb as she sounds, though my Nuyen is still on her being a low grade pilot with halfway bricked meat. She used a throwaway comm for this call with its GPS tracker removed, which means jing and at least a few minor corp contacts, probably means she's fixed before but not often or ever for runners like us. Case in point, I managed to trace her sorry hoop down anyway." She shot a loose gesture and a glance at Damien. "I've sent you the coordinates for the location she was calling us from. As for the comm itself, I reformatted its kernal and put in a snoop. If she uses it again, we'll know it. As for this job," Traction abruptly went limp mid-sentence, her eyes going glassy and dead as she transitioned to running hot - but not for long. A second later her head picked back up and she raised both her arms back up from the couch to continue manipulating her ARO.

"...Basically none of the warehouses on the waterfront have any devices proper meshed. It's like a little slice of the stone age, I only saw a few LANs amongst them connected to the Matrix via comm, no hosts or nothing, everything public grid. If they have any hardware on site, it's all self-contained. As for this drek about fudging the numbers, this hoop is gouging us. If you want to run a numbers job, you have to alter the receiving and delivering manifests. If you want to be thorough, you've also got to alter the manifest of whatever is supposed to pick it up. She's trying to run us twice for half the cost, the bonus pay is just her trying to spoof us without a mark. As for the plan,"

Traction made a few gestures, moving things around her ARO during her brief pause. "...Warehouses are unmarked, wholesale pallet means illicit shipping. Probably a gang if we're hot, maybe the Yak or mob if we're not. Fact that our particular Fixer knows about the CDs means others do as well, so we're not going to be the only people running. Likely candidates are another gang or nightlight runners. Our best option is to go in fast and smooth, hit the warehouses as fast as possible before anybody else has time to try drek. We'll go in with Damien's gopher, get into stoneage wireless range and I'll see if there are any unmeshed WANs I can tap tap into. We'll bring the drones to provide overwatch, let us know when and where our opposition will arrive and to discourage them. Kali can do that whole weightless rider thing to let us drop her anywhere we need some meat bricked." Traction slammed the palm of her hand with a clenched fist for emphasize. "If these warehouses are too real for me to pull anything from them, we have Cath and Yegor run some face and razor jander respectively, loosen a few tongues. Once we locate the warehouse, I'll lift us some blueprints and upload them to our smartlinks while Damien probes the warehouse interior. Cath, Yegor, and I run in and secure the pallete. Yegor for muscle, Cath can protect us from whatever Astral drek is on the CDs, and if I can find any kind of digital manifest or record I'll cook the books. Damien drives to the loading Dock, drops Kali down to secure it, we load the pallet in and burn rubber."

Traction turned her gaze disapprovingly to Recluse. "...I suppose in the interest of giving you something to do you can plant some explosives somewhere else along the waterfront, rig it for remote detonation to draw the PD's aim if they jander too close. Otherwise you might just want to run reconnaissance and mitigation."

She then abruptly stood up from the couch wearing a deadpan expression. "Our chances of success are best the sooner we do this. The more time you all waste, the higher the chance whoever else is running will get the pallet first. This isn't exactly a prime job, not like we're trying to run the Krupp. Relatively low-risk even if our Fixer is a drek-filled slot who told everyone we were coming. We don't exactly need heist prep to pull this off, and like always I've got contingencies for everyone. The biggest risk is literally that you drekheads will waste so much time in this simple, straightforward approach doing frivolous drek that the warehouse will be empty when we get there. Let's go."

Without even waiting for anybody else to respond, Traction then made a gesture to remotely open the elevator doors and walked straight out of the commons.

Cath smiled as their fixer responded to her by first addressing whether she had meant to flatter or make fun of her. Perhaps a bit of both she thought to herself, but didn't get a chance to reply before the call was cut. There was that final message through her commlink though. It was obviously adressed to all of them. She tried sending a private reply back to Zelda. "Why, flatter, of course. I'm a sucker for women with delightful accents - TheElf" It was close enough to the truth, even if she prefered an irish or french accent before any other. Mimicking others was often a good way to build rapport with them too, and that had been the main reason, but it was considerably easier when she had more to go on than audio. Body language was preferable.

“Let’s consider this astral she mentioned, rather than what she may look like.” Mirage cut in.

Oh yeah, that, well she doubted it was something the two of them couldn’t handle together or with the added assistance of a spirit. Admittedly, she hadn’t heard a lot about CDs that were attached to the astral before. Other than perhaps the contents, as someone could have put any kind of information on one. She would assume that was what their fixer had meant, until proven otherwise, but remain cautious anyway.

Caewil supposed she could ask around about the CDs, perhaps visit that other shaman who had a shop nearby or consult the spirits. The best way would be to simply get her hands on the CDs, because then she didn’t have to do as much guessing, not that they would be hers to keep for long. Her quick and nimble fingers could possibly pocket one when someone wasn’t looking, but she may not have a use for the CD at all. It would be a shame to take such a risk for a meaningless object.

She kept part of her attention on the team members, smiled and nodded without appearing distracted despite being quite absorbed with her own thoughts. It was mechanical, and something she could do on auto-pilot without being as obvious about it as someone else might be. Cath didn’t have many contacts in the area or the country, but she didn’t need too. Part of her job was to make new friends as fast as possible. She was glad that the ork would be the one to talk with a troll instead of her.

“I guess I could investigate this “wicked juju on dem CDs.” Cath said, this time making fun of Zelda. “Maybe another shaman nearby knows about it, or there are always other beings… I could probably get information out of reluctant sources too if anyone knows someone that wouldn’t tell them much.”

It didn’t seem like this would be a mission that required a lot of preparation from her side. She could take a look around the docks to find out what clothes they were wearing to fit in better, but other than that she would bring her usual gear. As Traction began to go over a plan, Mirage shifted in Caewil’s lap and made her more attentive. Had she missed something he had picked up on?

“Who put this bloody youngling in charge?” He asked after Traction had finished her speech on such a distasteful note. “We could lock her in a box with her tech and she’d be just as useful.”

No, she hadn’t missed anything of importance. Well, Traction agreed with her that there was not much to prepare for this job, even if she couldn’t express herself this particularly idea in an appropriate manner. At least not to Cath, even if the others may listen better to such an attitude. She shrugged and figured it was the only way she knew how to make others listen, a lack of social skills, nothing more.

“I guess I will have to consult the spirits in the car.” Cath joked and gestured with her hands, then stood up and headed for her belongings. She’d put her belongings here, but she hadn’t entirely made up her mind about whether to stay in the same place as the rest of the team or not yet. She’d spent some nights in the safe house, but almost as many in other places thanks to her skills as a face and the fact that she was used to shitty sleeping conditions after living on the streets. Twice she had fled countries, and it had made her a little paranoid. If she found a place she considered safe she’d feel better, but everyone gathered in one apartment could make it easy for an enemy.

Kali punctuated Traction's straightforward stratagem with a stiff rustle as she balled several fistfuls of paper wrapping together--a novella's worth of the logo laden material all that remained in living memory of her meal. "Imagine that." the nartaki flourished, driving an oddly volatile brand of sarcasm home with her many emotive hands. "Bithead's got it all lined up nice and pretty like, eh? That's just aces--give her a hand." she lowly thrummed, briefly compressing a bit of lip under tooth as she began to half-heartedly clap "Frag it, why not two?" Kali continued, banking the tightly wadded detritus off the wall and into a waiting wastebin before her other arms joined in the applause. "Eh. Wait wait wait. There's a niggle--" she tsked, tongue impacting behind less-than pearly whites with an audible thwack--the woman's freaker habit having left those smile bones slightly rouged. "So how bout' that, niggle?" she posed, addressing Damien with her stare. "Ponder a fossil the likes of you gots the goods to keep his bot buzzing level? Cause rowr--I'd put nuyen elsewise." the rough edged runner emphasized with a sharp, stretched whistling sound as she slowly lowered a fist into palm, its arrival marked by a wet, squelching razz. With eyes that betrayed little Nomad spoke "Cal Rangers are half lawmen, half showmen. I can carry you all right, might even make you look good when you tumble off after a stim patch. Hell when you're ass-over-teakettle on the ground I'll even keep the bullets downrange." Leaving no room for rebuttal the seasoned rigger pushed the world away and slipped himself into AR, snarking out a final thought."Try to wash your...everything. If you're going to be hanging onto my drone I'd rather you not rust the plating."

Kali was quick to square her shoulders and puff up like an angry blowfish--but with the former ranger otherwise indisposed lacked a target for her verbal barbs. "Yeah yeah yeah." she groused waving it off under a fusillade of non-committal gesture. "Was revving for somethin' with more gristle than this milkrun, suss?" Kali bemoaned, plucking up a disposable packet of ketchup from where it had roosted untouched atop a pile of napkins, tossing it from one idle mitt to the other. "You know me..." she started, strutting over to single Kyuzo out in turn. "Don't mind gettin' gouged but good, long as it's bloody." the resident timebomb snarled out, words weighted with lewd intentions as she bore a thumb down on the thin aluminum pocket and sent its contents spurting at the ork.

Kyuzo was hardly paying her mind only catching her actions at the last moment, allowing him to turn his head to the side to avoid most of the mess. There was a slight splatter on his cheek and this was one of those times where it was hard a battle to remain Yegor when Kyuzo's instinct tried to wrestle control. Part of him wanted to just give her a good choke but truth be told, she'd probably enjoy it to a degree. A part of him was also slightly embarrassed. Truth be told, Kali was the only female he'd ever been sexually involved with, aside from trivial high school flings that really involved one, two, or maybe three bases. Sometimes, it was hard to keep it in the forefront of one's mind that the ork was only 17. And that youth wasn't the sweet life, with silver spoons and family trips, and high school yearbooks and time spent building up your social status.

Surprisingly quick, hardly missing a beat, Kyuzo snorted and said in a tone that was as flirtatious as the Yegor persona allowed, "Ork not on menu. Least, not right now." To his credit he'd grown acclimated to these little exchanges, more Mexican standoff than the tootsies of former lovers; knowing better than anyone how quickly they could escalate. "Ain't like that, grunge. Leftovers are always on the menu." she shot back, directing a love tap into the unyielding contour of Kaz's cyberarm.

Juking by she wound her way down the hall, peeling away layers of befouled street clothes as she went and depositing them just beyond the threshold of her room, a section of the floor designated as a temporary hamper. The complete antithesis of Yegor's spartan armory of a boudoir. Without so much as closing the door she dressed down to naught but gold skin and ink, the tattoos on display pitted with a variety of scars and the ever present tanlines of her unflattering underwear. Opting against a shower the agitated hiss of an aerosol body spray rose briefly above the clatter as Kali multitasked, upending the mess around her as she hunted down a few essentials. Within moments she'd compressed herself into a sleek onepeice that didn't so much flatter her sturdy figure as exaggerate its more threatening elements; holstering eenie, meenie, miney and mo along the way. With the weighty assurance of these four revolvers one half of the team's muscle shrugged herself into a heavily fringed duster and rolled the sleeves up to the elbow. Sufficiently dolled up the gun toting ex-Delhiite swept an armful of loose rounds into her satchel and squirreled away a fire-and-forget inhaler; glancing down to the floor to steal a glimpse of herself in a shard of broken mirror as she left.

Kyuzo, being loaded up and ready to go, stood with his arms crossed. He turned his head to glare at the elevator and Traction. "Little girl is eager to run out into the shadows, especially knowing who's furthest away from bullets when they fly. You should join us. Yegor could use some good company. You won't though, statement was," the ork looked up to the corner of his eye as he feigned accessing his thesaurus, an action that was rather common. A half second later, he continued. "Rhetorical in nature. Anyway, Yegor suggest little bit of planning. Let Yegor talk to troll from docks. Get information. Yegor said, by docks, many trolls, many orks. Breeders, not so much. They make computer program that make elf look like ork, and four arm human like troll, mayhaps we're good. Yegor say, give a little time. Regardless Yegor going to talk to Ilrek and get information. You go on run without..." He gave a shrug, indicating that they were more than welcomed to go in without a plan, and without information. He moved to the elevator and stood across from her, arms crossing once again as he leaned against the wall casually.

"Just because you did not listen to or understand the plan does not mean there is not a plan. You and Cath are being sent to do exactly that while I try and pull information from any WANs and LANs in and around the warehouses." Traction deadpanned, not even deigning to so much as look at Yegor in preference for staring at some point of space between the elevator doors and call button. "Since you have trouble remembering, I'll highlight that bit for you."

Traction's eyes flickered briefly as she moved information in an unseen ARO around without even twitching. A large ARO overlay opened in front of Yegor, a line of glowing text that floated high towards the top range of his right eye's vision. It didn't get in the way of seeing what was in front of him, but it was definitely distracting - and it appeared resistant to his attempts to dismiss it.

...we have Cath and Yegor run some face and razor jander respectively, loosen a few tongues.

"You don't need to work with Cath if you don't want, you can run separate or whatever. Kali is remaining on air support and we'll be keeping an eye on you via overwatch. Do you ka, or do you need an audio replay as well?" She did not even look at him as she spoke, her gaze lazy, her stance loose and relaxed.

"Kali's on air support." she parroted with a big wide smile, the kind that showed only teeth. "Roger motherfrag'n doger, ma'am." the gold gunslinger thrummed, striding into the elevator on what would have been a collision course for Traction, had the far wall not met with Kali's outstretched arms. Doing her best to bullock in the taller, tech savvy teammate the woman whispered out the beginnings of their claustrophobic exchange. "Never fails to get a rise when I eye you puttin' on tough--could just gnaw on that all day." she spoke with such brevity and force as to make discerning whether it was threat or innuendo a difficult task.

Traction's reaction was to peer over Kali's head inquisitively, as if looking as to where the other members of the team were. "Hey Yegor, are the other three coming? I can't tell because of the one by five stack of scorched baggage blocking the door." though soon a quartette of probing hands vied for the decker's divided attention, sweeping over her slim figure with the diligence of colluding arachnids. They dipped into what nooks and crannies they could with slapdash abandon, exposition offered at arm's length. "See now, if you and I didn't pal it on so hard that's exactly the sort of drek don't slide off easy, ain't it? Nul-sweat though, yeah? Sure you've got a little somethin' tucked away for me haven't you?" Kali queried with a certain languid urgency, patting her down like a junkie hungry for a hit.