It was very early in the morning, earlier than anyone in their right mind would get out of bed, let alone be out and about. But even that fact couldn't stop one man from slipping out of town. He'd checked out of his hotel and was heading back out into the wilderness like there wasn't a veritable menagerie of horrors beyond the AI-guarded walls of the city. A Synthetic that had given up trying to pass for human in exchange for more firepower, bid him farewell with a silent raised hand, its other hand filled by a multi-barrelled machine gun that looked like it had no business not being mounted on a vehicle of some kind. The man returned the gesture, but didn't look back. He was too focused on finding his next objective.
He'd heard rumours of someone who sold bootleg data they collected from plugging directly into cyberspace. Anyone who didn't need an interface had to be infected, but if they were, then how were they managing a business? He was determined to find out. To aid that, he was kitted out like the operator he was. Lightweight boots that managed to perform as much like running shoes as steel-toed work boots covered his feet, though they were largely obscured by his heavy cargo pants, just baggy enough to provide freedom of movement, while not interfering with anything. A full drop-leg holster sat on his right leg, rendering the pocket there useless, but that seemed to be compensated for by the bulge in his left pocket.
His long-sleeve shirt was badly faded, and from more than thirty or so feet, it appeared to be just a muddy green colour, but closer inspection revealed that it had once been a tiger-striped camouflage. Despite the obvious wear, however, it was in good condition, and even in such bleak conditions, his collar was still neatly folded and pressed, as if the minor point of professionalism might mean anything to anyone that wasn't him. Over it, he wore a chest rig, with an obvious lack of a plate carrier. For someone so obviously equipped for battle, his lack of protective gear would surprise the more perceptive. Most people were more concerned with the surprising number of shotgun shells strapped to his chest, however. There were easily a hundred or so there, not to mention the ones already strapped to his shotgun. The weapon itself, an older, semi-automatic model, well-beloved by shotgunners everywhere for its stubborn reliability, lacked a stock, and instead sported only a pistol grip. The seven round magazine tube terminated in a wickedly spiked standoff device, and the receiver was barely visible between the eight-round shotshell card on one side, and the two spare rounds strapped to the other side behind the ejection port.
His only concessions to protective gear were the mechanic's gloves on his hands, and the high-contrast eyeshields necessary to keep the wasteland out of his eyes. The leather jacket casually thrown over his ensemble, the well-loved shemagh around his neck, and the innocuous but high-capacity backpack on his back did very little to hide his contracting background. The only thing he had going for him was the fact that most people assumed he was military, rather a glorified security guard.
Less than a hundred metres from the gate, he reached up and adjusted his raid cap. Once black, it was now badly bleached by the sun, though it held up well, other than the lettering that had once read "GoldGate Assurance". Now it was left saying "old Ass nc" though thankfully formerly gold letters were as badly bleached as the rest of the hat. He double-checked the clip for his night-vision display, but he knew it wasn't going to fall off until the hat it was clipped to did. After playing around with the heads-up display on his glasses, the man finally got to actually walking. He switched the sling on his shotgun from one-point to two, and picked up the pace. There was nothing that could really hurt him out here, so he saw no reason not to be comfortable.
Walking with purpose now, he didn't look much different from any of the other brave souls wandering the wilderness. Closer inspection might reveal that he definitely liked tattoos more than most, but his otherworldly nature was entirely hidden, at least for the time being. Appearing as human as he did was a point of pride for the man, considering how some of his compatriots turned out, and he'd even recently managed to stop fingering the charm around his neck so incessantly. That had mostly been replaced with fondling the hilt of his sidearm and sipping at his water a little more than was necessary. He insisted there was nothing wrong with being hydrated or prepared, though, and resisted further change. He was too focused on his goal to worry about nervous habits now, anyway. He had to find that bunker, and the person inside. Not only was there money to be made, but they might even be the first step to curing the vampire plague that had rendered so much of the world uninhabitable...
He'd heard rumours of someone who sold bootleg data they collected from plugging directly into cyberspace. Anyone who didn't need an interface had to be infected, but if they were, then how were they managing a business? He was determined to find out. To aid that, he was kitted out like the operator he was. Lightweight boots that managed to perform as much like running shoes as steel-toed work boots covered his feet, though they were largely obscured by his heavy cargo pants, just baggy enough to provide freedom of movement, while not interfering with anything. A full drop-leg holster sat on his right leg, rendering the pocket there useless, but that seemed to be compensated for by the bulge in his left pocket.
His long-sleeve shirt was badly faded, and from more than thirty or so feet, it appeared to be just a muddy green colour, but closer inspection revealed that it had once been a tiger-striped camouflage. Despite the obvious wear, however, it was in good condition, and even in such bleak conditions, his collar was still neatly folded and pressed, as if the minor point of professionalism might mean anything to anyone that wasn't him. Over it, he wore a chest rig, with an obvious lack of a plate carrier. For someone so obviously equipped for battle, his lack of protective gear would surprise the more perceptive. Most people were more concerned with the surprising number of shotgun shells strapped to his chest, however. There were easily a hundred or so there, not to mention the ones already strapped to his shotgun. The weapon itself, an older, semi-automatic model, well-beloved by shotgunners everywhere for its stubborn reliability, lacked a stock, and instead sported only a pistol grip. The seven round magazine tube terminated in a wickedly spiked standoff device, and the receiver was barely visible between the eight-round shotshell card on one side, and the two spare rounds strapped to the other side behind the ejection port.
His only concessions to protective gear were the mechanic's gloves on his hands, and the high-contrast eyeshields necessary to keep the wasteland out of his eyes. The leather jacket casually thrown over his ensemble, the well-loved shemagh around his neck, and the innocuous but high-capacity backpack on his back did very little to hide his contracting background. The only thing he had going for him was the fact that most people assumed he was military, rather a glorified security guard.
Less than a hundred metres from the gate, he reached up and adjusted his raid cap. Once black, it was now badly bleached by the sun, though it held up well, other than the lettering that had once read "GoldGate Assurance". Now it was left saying "old Ass nc" though thankfully formerly gold letters were as badly bleached as the rest of the hat. He double-checked the clip for his night-vision display, but he knew it wasn't going to fall off until the hat it was clipped to did. After playing around with the heads-up display on his glasses, the man finally got to actually walking. He switched the sling on his shotgun from one-point to two, and picked up the pace. There was nothing that could really hurt him out here, so he saw no reason not to be comfortable.
Walking with purpose now, he didn't look much different from any of the other brave souls wandering the wilderness. Closer inspection might reveal that he definitely liked tattoos more than most, but his otherworldly nature was entirely hidden, at least for the time being. Appearing as human as he did was a point of pride for the man, considering how some of his compatriots turned out, and he'd even recently managed to stop fingering the charm around his neck so incessantly. That had mostly been replaced with fondling the hilt of his sidearm and sipping at his water a little more than was necessary. He insisted there was nothing wrong with being hydrated or prepared, though, and resisted further change. He was too focused on his goal to worry about nervous habits now, anyway. He had to find that bunker, and the person inside. Not only was there money to be made, but they might even be the first step to curing the vampire plague that had rendered so much of the world uninhabitable...
