[IC] Chase the Night

[Hexaflexagon]

Chapter One:
The Rising Sun Express

The city of Strasbourg continued its silent vigil amidst howling winds. The storms of spring had come once again to the Upper Rhine Valley, further accented by the rumbling of thunder far in the distance. Street vendors, businessman and mothers clutching their children's hands moved with a quicker pace to attend to their business, a flash of light lit up the horizon and moments later the concussive rumble followed. Things still needed to be done, food needed to be bought to prepare for supper, business meeting must be attended and knick knacks needed to be peddled but a new sense of urgency permeated the air.

The city had always been a place of duality and changing times Celtic ruins were built over by Romans and when the Empire fell it changed hands between the Alemanni, Huns, and Franks, a free city, to one of the many great bastions of civilization in the Holy Roman Empire, to the French, and to the Germans and back to the French. It was a bastard of many hands shown in its German architecture but French speaking populace whose ancestry can be traced all through Europe. A duality only further increased as humanity progressed further into the 21st century. 15th century buildings stood next to towering skyscrapers and pulsing clubs of bright neon throbbed in the night built atop long forgotten roman burial sites.

“Ashes to Ashes.” Crash muttered as he look up at the gray skies suspended above him. Strasbourg was one of many stops on their journey with Kybuashi Enterprises’ mysterious box. Their journey started in a small warehouse in Oxford, they took the Rising Sun Express (RSE) under the channel into mainland Europe and would eventually end up crossing another ocean to get to Japan. It was a trip that would've taken weeks if not months by land in the old days, but thanks to the improved maglev lines that crossed the globe it would take no more than the better half of a day. Oxford to Tokyo in a little over 15 hours without stops. Wasting time was wasting money after all.

Though the whole situation still bothered Crash. Everything still just felt... off in a way. You didn't need as many Divers as they had for a simple delivery mission. Most of them were armed to the teeth and cybered up in such a way that they were ready to invade a Corp HQ, not defend some box on a train. And why were they even taken a train? A cargo plane could of easily hauled the box unless somebody feared it being shot down. And it wasn't just the odd parts of the scenario either. Crash had dealt with Corps before. A man like him was hired often by these types for various missions and jobs of varying moral disposition. They valued his muscle and willingness to use it, but this deal felt like nothing like any of those shakedown runs. Even in those scenarios the Corps had always felt the need to show their dominance. He would be invited to their high reaching skyscrapers filled with guards, security and the latest in groundbreaking technology. You would be surrounding by impossibly pretty people all with smiles on their face even as their eyes told you that they were judging a commoner such as yourself. They wanted to show anyone that they could that they had the true power in the world and that they could flex it in any which way they pleased.

This time was different.

He was sitting in a studio apartment halfway across the world, barely furnished and the floor boards creaking beneath his cybernetic legs. No jobs had come through in the past month or so and he was starting to get restless. He had enough money to retire away to some nice quiet town and spend the rest of his days gardening if he wanted to, but of course he never would. He needed something anything to do or he could swear he felt his body rotting away underneath him. It was than that a message came through on his computer, state of the art five years ago. It was a simple three line message from a corporate account, a greeting, a date and a meeting point. He sent back a reply of agreement before he even read it all the way through.

He ended up meeting the Kybuashi Enterprises Representative on the other side of town at some coffeehouse. Crash didn't particularly like coffee but the place was high class enough so that a Corp wouldn't feel out of place and public enough so that neither of them would try and kill one another. He recognized the woman from the news one of Kybuashi's PR representatives: tall, blonde hair, blue eyes and the disarming sort of smile that just made you want to talk to her. Not Crash's type, but he at least appreciated the gesture. She came alone but he could of sworn he felt the Spook on the rooftop across from them with the sniper rifle trained on him for any sudden moves, practically begging for him to do something stupid. He did'nt of course instead they talked over coffee about business in the hum of conversation. Kybuashi would be transporting one of their new prototypes from one of their labs in England. Something big apparently, something that could change the game forever. They would be hiring a team t make sure that it got to where it needed to safely and on time. They did'nt expect any trouble but it was better safe than sorry. The money was good, half of it was wired straight away to his account but that wasn't why he took the deal.

Then silence for another two months until finally he received contact again. A message giving him a date and a location in Oxford. He arrived to find the other members of the team that had apparently been hired. They picked up the box from an empty warehouse the ID scanner at the door already programmed to let them in. On top of the box was a note written in elegant curvy handwriting. It told them they needed to catch a train.

He turned towards the train car where he knew the box would still be sitting. Curiosity taking the better of him he crossed the small distance and reentered the car. It was strange it stood no larger than a man, made of a strong blend of carbon fiber and advanced polymers that give it an almost alien black sheen. Running a metallic hand across the surface, it was perfectly smooth almost as if it was sanded down to a point. He casually flipped on the x-ray component of his EYE-SEE implants but just like before he still saw nothing. It was protected by something, probably an interior coating of lead. Whoever had built it made it specifically so that nobody could look inside of it.

“You were hired to protect the box, not to attempt to peek inside of it Crash.” A playful voice spoke out seemingly from out of the ether. Crash sighed as he removed his hand from the box, his large shoulders moving downwards. Ghost. The Spark certainty fit her handle, you almost forgot about her existence until she started whispering in your head. Crash never liked Sparks in the first place, they were always twitchy little buggers who definitely had some problems if they felt more at home in the Net where they were composed of ones and zeros rather than the real world. But Ghost took it to another level.

“Well miss, I doubt you're just speaking to chastise me. What’s the situation?” Crash responded, outside another flash and another concussive boom each one getting closer and closer. Soon the storm would be upon them.

“Loading and unloading will be finished shortly. You should be on the move with the package within ten minutes. But it’s strange, I’m picking something up through the net lots of chatter. It’s probably just interference because of the storm but I’ll keep monitoring it just in case.” There was a click as the voice disappeared once more leaving Crash in silence. He give one last look towards the box, making sure the straps keeping it rooted in place where secured before he step outside of the car again.

The others were all milling about outside, some talking among themselves and others like Crash keeping their own silent vigil. Another boom and a crash this time almost atop of them as the front of the storm began to drift over Strasbourg. Drip, drip, drip. The slow methodical dripping of water came soon after as droplets fell from the ever darkening sky. Crash switched over to local communications as he spoke relaying Ghost’s message out to the team.

“Ten minutes.”

[Atrophy]

“What a scam,” whispered Blank underneath his voice, his right eye glaring at the keychain of the Strasbourg Cathedral as it dangled tauntingly in front of his face.

He had been one of the first off of the train when it had settled in the station at Strasbourg, stopping only to let one of his new “friends” know that he was going to run a quick errand to grab, of all things, a souvenir. “It’s a tradition,” he had said without the other person egging him on to explain himself. “Truth be told, I collect keychains. Lame, I know, but it’s something I’ve done since I was a kid. You’re in charge while I’m gone. Don’t let them leave without me, okay?” he had said. It was supposed to be a harmless little lie. Truth be told, the only thing he collected was memories. Blank had stopped trusting his memory ever since she had nearly scrubbed herself clean from his mind.

He was waiting for the day he would wake up one morning, rollover in his bed, look at the wall of stickers, t-shirts, and keychains, and say to himself, “I never visited Bangladesh.” Then he would know he had met her again. That, or he would know that the PP chip in his cranium had finally cooked his brain and it was time to fly off the handle on a month-long drinking binge before dementia fully consumed him. Still, a breadcrumb trail of souvenirs was the best countermeasure he had against whatever the hell she had done to him or the rest of VitSol’s employees—even if it meant he had to spend his hard-earned cash on a goddamn gilded keychain. Seriously, what kind of souvenir shop carries only one kind of keychain?

The answer, it seemed, was the kind of souvenir shop that liked to rip off idiotic tourists like him. The price they charged for the bauble was ridiculous, doubly so because it wasn’t covered with real gold but pyrite—fool’s gold. A fitting name, all things considered; only a dumbass would buy a souvenir from a shop not even outside of the station. He could’ve easily stolen it from the store, but the idea of stealing something that wasn’t part of a gig just didn’t sit well with him. That, and the autonomous clerk had been watching him like a hawk since he had entered the store for whatever reason. Maybe it was the lowered baseball cap; maybe it was because a gaggle of cybered toughs had gotten off of the train with him.

Blank set the keychain down on the bathroom counter and pulled a small tool pouch out of his jacket so he could carve the date into the keychain’s back. It was strange to him that Kybuashi Enterprises had hired such a motley crew of Divers for a job that seemed like a cakewalk. Two people would have been enough to transport and watch their precious mystery box, but Blank wasn’t the kind of person to walk away from an easy paycheck—even if he had been a last minute substitution. These days, Corps rarely came calling for Blank. Apparently expertise and seniority were outweighed by cutting edge augments and brown nosing. Not to say that Blank was above schmoozing. If anything, gabbing was the one thing he felt he had above other Divers these days. He just wasn’t going to sign any contracts that tenured him as a Corps’s personal lapdog until they needed a scapegoat to take a fall for them.

Still, he could go for a milk run after his last gig. A nice, relaxing transcontinental train ride drinking wine and sampling cheeses (generously comped by Mr. Kybuashi himself, or so Blank had told the bartender) with a colorful cast of future C-Freaks; what could be better? He tossed the keychain into his pocket to accompany its much cheaper cousin from Oxford that he had picked up the day prior. Well, for starters, not wasting my money on a shitty souvenir, thought Blank, fixing his hat in the mirror and adjusting his eye to make it appear more natural. And maybe some excitement before we get to Japan, even if it’s just watching Crash bash the goddamn brains out of one of those baby D.Vs because they thought this week would be the right one to kick their Neurotop habit .

However, he knew Corps. They wouldn’t have brought along so many Divers if they didn’t have some good intel to justify the cost. Trouble was brewing just like that storm overhead, and knowing his luck it would wait until they were trapped on that metal deathtrap chugging along at a few hundred miles an hour before revealing itself. Here’s how he would do it: he’d wait until the doors were sealed and there was no hope of quickly exfiltrating the package. Then he’d sneak from railcar to railcar, slipping past any security that came between him and the engine. He’d shut the engine down with a scrambler once he reached the designated point located in the middle of some no man’s land where a small strike force would be waiting in ambush. They’d secure the package, neutralize all threats, and be home by dinner. If it was ten years ago, Blank could’ve done it solo.

Of course, you didn’t sign up for the wild west train heist job, did you Blanky Boy? Nooooo, sitting on you ass and waiting is soooo much more your speed these days.

Grabbing the bag of treats he had purchased for the crew of Divers that he had already declared out loud to be his new best friends (despite any potential protests), Blank stepped out of the bathroom and into the grand maglev station. Strasbourg seemed like a nice city; there was something about the way the old blended with the new that he couldn’t help but appreciate. A small, lonely voice in the back of his head told him that she would probably love it here. The thought was based on nothing. The voice had told him last night that she’d love it in Oxford, and had even insisted to him that she’d love it in that godawful backwater Ark had had been stuck on for almost a month during his last gig.

Still, this thought did actually make some sense. He paused at the top of the station stairs, looking out towards the city that proudly stood between the retro/neo line. After spending much of his youth stuck on Arks, Blank thought he’d be sick of cities built intricately around water. Yet he was a sucker for old architecture and antiquated junk. It was kind of a pity that the Corps had gone ahead and ruined the beauty of the city with dark towers of glass and steel, mountain sized billboards for some new yet soon-to-be-outdated augment, and a blinding amount of neon lights. Then again, they would’ve probably marketed Strasbourg as a “city lost in time” and charge admission just to stop by and visit. People could spend a day’s wages to ride in the back of a cab driven by an actual person. Oh, how novel! Blank rolled his eyes at the thought. It sounded like something he’d hear Janis pitch back to his mother back in his VitSol days.

Blank felt raindrops on the back of his neck and pulled the gray hood sticking out of his jacket over his ballcap. If not for the small, shadowy window that revealed a nose that had been offset from one too many boyish scuffles, a thin, smug smile, and a peppering of facial hair the man was almost completely shielded by clothing. He certainly looked shady, but who didn’t these days? A dark, leather satchel was slung across his chest, and a plastic bag twisted around the fingers of his gloves. The contents of the bag clanked together as he quickly made his way back to his flock, still pecking around in front of the train.

“Ten minutes,” said Crash over their local comm channel.

“Ten minutes?” echoed Blank over the comms with a playfully exaggerated sigh. “You mean we aren’t going to see the Cathedral after coming all the way out here? That’s kind of a bummer. But on the brightside…”

“...I found treats,” he said, finishing his sentence off-comms as he came within earshot of the group. The posh British accent his voice had adopted the other day when they were in Oxford had completely disappeared, replaced by a slight French one that he had lifted from one of the station attendants that wasn’t mechanized. These days he hardly realized he was even using his VoxMo to change his voice; he probably wouldn’t even recognize his natural voice anymore. He held the bag outstretched in front of him, pulling it open to reveal the cans of beer it had been cradling.

“I don’t know if they have any open beverage policies here, but I doubt anybody would be willing to give you fellas a ticket anyway. Come on, come on, don’t be shy. We should’ve done this the other day. It’s bad luck not to share a drink with the crew before a job, not that I actually believe in that crap. Here you go, here you go.”

As he spoke he handed out the drinks, paying no mind if the other person actually wanted to take it from him. As far as Blank really cared, if they wanted foam spraying all over their boots then it was on them. He paused in front of the little pale redhead who looked like she was barely out of high school, little miss...whatshername? Girly? Dolly? Baby Spice? Whatever. These neophyte Divers were a dime a dozen. Blank liked people and even he knew it was hardly worth the effort in ever learning the name of some young baby-faced idiot who thought it would be such a thrill to wire themselves up and play Diver for a day. Still, drinking her first beer with a bunch of psychos-for-hire was probably the least of the problems that awaited this punk.

“Oh, screw it. Be cool, buddy,” he said, sliding her a beer and giving her an exaggerated mechanical wink with his augmented eye. “Now don’t go spewing out your guts like some kinda freshman, and if anyone asks the weird blue-haired girl with the creepy arm gave it to you, okay? Hey, heads up, big guy!” he shouted, pushing past the girl and softly lobbing a can at Crash. It’d be an easy catch.

“I propose a toast,” he said, lazily lifting his beer up and nodding to the others expectantly as thunder rumbled overhead. “To new friends and easy gigs. When we get to Japan the first round of sake bombs are on me. Salut!”

[NuttsnBolts]

G A Z E

^{A K A : R A C H A E L M O R T O N}
Rachael laid on the train station bench staring up at the sky with one leg on the seat itself and the other placed perpendicular across her thigh with the sole of her shoe tapping away at the back rest. She was comfortable, looking up at the clouds above at the storm that was brewing over the team. The faint shots of lightning began to crack across the sky in a gentle glow with a rumble that announced that a storm was coming. It was almost as if the gods above in their pearly greatness were beginning to start a heavenly rave party and the people on the land below were the unlucky neighbours that had to deal with this disturbance.

The only problem with this scenario with Rachael was that she couldn't see what was really going on in front of her. For her the sky just looked like a grey mass with blurs of light appearing occasionally. She could see what direction the storm was moving thanks to the bursts of energy, but her vision itself remained fixated on an invisible, central point. The whole idea of moving her eyes around to focus on individual events was pointless these days. Useless energy with diminished results, even if it was a fraction of that energy used to turn those glazed over irises.

Gaze, Gaze, Gaze. Not Rachael Morton, The name is Gaze

Within her thoughts she kept repeating the same line over and over in an attempt to recreate that identity of hers. This was her first big mission as a Diver with all her previous work being small jobs that were used to put her name out there, and she needed to get used to the idea that her name was not that which her vile parents gave her but that of which she earned. Rachael never really picked the name. It just kind of stuck when she was on an early job and someone mentioned to her about the vacant look that she had. Before that, all she had to go by was some hexadecimal code until a name could be locked in for future jobs.

So there was Gaze, lounging about and feeling the pressure change of the atmosphere around her as the skies began to dribble with spits of rain. It pulled her out of that zen like trance when a droplet hit her on the cheek and naturally she blinked her eyes in protection. Turns out old habits die hard and even if she happened to get her memory wiped she was betting that her body would still naturally perform this reaction.

Crash announced the 10 minute mark almost on cue with the rain starting which in turn signalled Gaze to beginning prepping herself for boarding the high speed locomotive. Kicking her foot against the back rest, she spun herself upwards and sat there for a brief moment as she leaned down towards her rifle that was resting on the ground beneath her, her hands fumbled around the hard surface as she felt the concrete ground. She was sure she placed it just next to where her feet were but upon reaching a little further back she felt the cold metal of the stock. "I remember now..." she muttered to herself recalling that she heard some English speaking guy walk past her bench earlier with his foot clipping the edge of her gun. She knew it was still there as she would have heard the weapon being picked up and the bench was up against a wall, so no chance of someone sneaking it out from the other side, but it was just one of those fuzzy brain moment when the girl forgot for a second about an earlier, minor event.

Upon picking up her rifle and placing it on her lap, Gaze heard the offer of a canned alcoholic beverage to which she held out her hand and felt the icy cold cylinder land within her grasp. She twisted the can around and gave it a couple of hard flicks on the top with her finger, an old wives tale that people believed in helping prevent the contents from foaming up and out of the opening. Whether or not it was true was one thing, but the evidence seemed to point in the positive direction when she cracked opened the can and heard the gentle hiss of a safely diffused hand grenade.

"Cheers," Gaze spoke, lifting her drink up above her head before bringing it back down and too her lips. She took a sip, feeling the drink flow down her throat. Was it a larger or an ale? She couldn't really tell. To her it was alcohol and it was just yet another substance to abuse in her free time. "Have to ask..." speaking between the sips of drink, "with there being, what, six, seven, eight(?) of us... are they expecting some of you to not make it back alive?" her tone was condescending, as if toying with the possible survival rate of some of these chosen Divers. "Seems awfully much to have so many Cybered up people for a simple delivery job."

Gaze shrugged, knowing her words could cause some minor conflict between the others, but it was a good way for her to judge every character. After all she couldn't visually see them too well and only really had the voices to go off.

[Kingfisher]

Dame

“Thank ya. Ah ‘preciate that.” Dame said quietly, her usual drawl flooding into her voice, as the sketchy looking figure with messy hair and deranged eyes handed her a drink, which she placed on the floor next to her once he’d shuffled off.

Jackass. She muttered internally, mentally flipping him off. You always knew there’d be a big clusterfuck of egos in such a large group. Just keep a cool head and ignore them. The loud ones usually go down first.

A soft rumble rattled through her stomach. Do you even -GET- hungry anymore? Do you even -NEED- to eat?. She certainly could eat. She could still eat and piss and shit and do all that good stuff, but how much of it was real, and how much of it was a glass tower corporation's drearily manufactured imitation of life?

Some prissy blonde made a remark about how their employers must be expecting some of them not to come back alive. Dame smirked at the irony of the blonde not having considered that she herself was just as likely to come back in a body bag, but managed to keep her mouth shut.

The air on the platform was cold and wet as it lapped lazily against Dame’s synthetic flesh, making her thankful for the fact that she could quite literally retreat into her own memories.

You can’t stay trapped inside your head forever. She scolded herself internally. Just fucking watch me. She spat back.

This certainly wasn’t the life she’d envisioned for herself. She’d been the lucky kid back on Chereleanna, but the corporations had swept in, ripped her apart, and made her feel about as lucky as a nympho with aids. The irony that she was now working for one of those corporations was not lost on her.

These arseholes don’t just make the clothes we wear, and own the houses we live in. They control what we see, what we do, and what we think. One way or another, when you scrape away the bullshit, we’re all working for the corps.

“Ready whenever y,all are,” Dame muttered with hushed boldness “Ain’t the pizza free if we don’t deliver it on time?”

[Traitor]

Gorgon

"Like aug knuckles said, ten minutes." Gorgon jumped up from the ground where she had spent the last couple of minutes removing and re-inserting bullets from one of her oldschool-looking magazines. She was perpetually bored from waiting, and one of the few advantages of her old tech was that it served as a fine way to keep her five human fingers busy. Her unsettling left-arm gadget had formed into the general outline of a human arm, holding the mag she had used to kill some time. Her SMG was hanging losely down at hip-level, somehow attached to her coat. Unlike many more subtle-minded Divers, the woman made no effort to hide her weaponry, though that was pointless anyway with a body-aug as obvious as hers. Or in a group as menacing as this one.

During the few steps it took her to close the distance to Blank and Gaze, she rammed the mag back into the free slot of her weapon before snatching one of the beer cans out from the former. "Thanks bud!" She declared, instantly deciding that he liked the guy. Everyone who opened up a mission with beer was automatically her kind of buddy, and usually the type to continue the drinking afterwards with stuff from the higher octane-reaches.

The blue-haired woman didn't really contemplate the mission at hand with the same gravity as the others did. At all in fact. On the contrary, she was eager to get into a firefight, even hoped they'd get attacked, ambushed and raided. Which was quite likely considering the size of the group, and the fact that she was hired in the first place. What her brain would naturally consider a "sinking feeling" was mechanically intercepted by her emotional suppressant chip and reforged into thrilled anticipation. With every one of the heavy thunder strikes, she was getting more hyped for some good old fashioned murder.

It wasn't always this way, but Gorgon barely remembered what was before, and didn't want to. She had taken the job because the pay was right, that's all it was to her. The contractors never gave her many details, and she never asked. It was part of her reputation to accept jobs with minimal description or briefing, and contractors appreciated her eagerness to march straight into the fire and carry out the job, even if the rest of the team got scorched. By all means, she would have been the perfect merc if it wasn't for the massive collateral damage that always occured around her.

She actually took a brief moment to wonder how many of the others would make it out alive, and whether it was worth betting money on the outcome. The moment passed and she opened her can, taking several long gulps. Without much empathy, she dropped her artificial hand-shaped bundle of technology on Gaze's shoulder. "Don't worry cutie, I'll make sure you won't die first." While that wasn't much of a promise, Gorgon meant it. She did try her darnest to draw attention away from her teammates most of the time. They just always happened to die anyway.

[Blue Demon]

"Ten minutes"

Crash

Ace was still on the fence with this job. The can of beer in her cybernetic hand only served to outline the oddity of the whole situation. She had taken the can, not because she was going to drink it. She wasn't. Not that she was against alcohol. Which she kind of was. Being at anything less than her best while on the job was just asking for trouble. Alcohol was a depressant. It slowed reactions and eliminated finite motor functions. She could almost hear her Mechanic in the back of her head harping at her.

"Alcohol deteriorates neurological connections to your cybernetic parts. It makes you a disgrace. I wont fix damage done by booze. You'd deserve it."

Those words hand't come in at her finer moments. But they had worked. She hadn't touched the stuff since. Instead she had taken the can because it as easier than arguing with the man. And since she had watched those ahead of her take it, she decided not to waste her breath. Anyways, the silence hadn't lasted, despite most mouths being full of beer. It was interrupted by the little girl. She looked like she might be on the wrong side of twelve. Sadly, the age of most Divers. Young.

"Cheers. Have to ask... with there being, what, six, seven, eight(?) of us... are they expecting some of you to not make it back alive? Seems awfully much to have so many Cybered up people for a simple delivery job."

Gaze

Ace snorted loudly over her unopened beer. She would have spoken but Gorgon did so first. Instead her could have been outer monologue became an inner one instead. Sweetheart I don't know what sort of magical happy fantasy land you live in. But they expect us all to die. Sure they hope at least one of us will live to complete the job. But that's best case scenario. Newbies. Ace snorted again. The little thing was trying to create strife, but going about it absolutely the wrong way. Such a little word play wouldn't bother experienced Divers. All it did was highlight how young and inexperienced she was.

"I'll drink to that. Live fast die young." Ace raised her beer can in a mock salute in Gorgon's directions. The blue haired woman was someone Ace approved of. The distinctive style was very Sway. Ace was dressed in a sharp counterpart to her colorful coworker. She was wearing her black work clothes. It was comprised of multiple layers, the bottom were full body armor. And it was all covered by what appeared to be a rag, which the hood currently thrown back, but was actually very high quality. Ace liked fine things. No wasn't a word she liked.

Which, unfortunately, was the reason she was on this sketchy trip. That, and the pressing reason she hadn't jumped ship when she could have. Her blue eyes flicked back to the words on her glasses. Still nothing new on Ghost, their little shadow Spark. It set her teeth on edge not having all the information. It bothered her just as much as a knife in her back. Still, Kybuashi Enterprises had reeled her in like an expert. They dangled just the right bait. Money and lots of it. Her own dwindling supply had taken a hit last job with unexpected repairs to her arm.

And now she was looking at an end to her supply of Neurotop if she didn't tread carefully. She wasn't quite desperate, but she was getting there. Though she was beginning to think she should just walk out next stop. Money be damned. The little box wasn't worth it. But Ace didn't. On the train ride to the assigned station Ace had passed stop after stop passed and she hadn't budged. So she her HUD to find out more about Ghost and Kybuashi Enterprises. Nothing new that she didn't know had been found. But Ace was patient. She could wait to get what she wanted.

And now there was less than ten minutes left until the train they were taking arrived. Ace hated fighting in confined spaces and there would be fighting. All because there was something hinky going on. Par course. Her eyes flicked back to her glasses. Pre-system diagnosis had been complete since she had boarded the train, the first one. And five minutes every five minutes thereafter. The last systems check had just finished two minutes ago. She stopped the current check and took all her safeties off. Running the program again wouldn't make any difference. She was ready. She had been ready. Now all that was left was to pull the trigger, so to speak.

[Didgeridont]

Phantasm

Approximately two months prior to Strasbourg

Phantasm stood alone, the rain peppering the ground around her.

Phantasm leaned against a wall, under the protective awning of a computer cafe in Chengdu, China. The air was thick with deep, gray smog. The few people that did pass by her each wore their own air filtration system, lest they risk an early death at the hands of the clouds of chemicals that permeated the city. Phantasm, too, wore, what the locals called, an 空气口. It was an older model, built by a local firm, but it was good enough quality to properly filter an impurities. Sure, it had limited usage, but she didn’t plan on staying in the city that long, anyways. The place was a dump and, like most of China, was built on industry and little else. Anyone who had any money moved out, which left the city a cesspool of penury and decay, with the remaining residents consisting mainly of junkies, peons, and hobos. It’s probably no secret that people turn to drugs to escape the monotony or plight of living here. But hey, Phantasm didn’t really care about the various socio-economic factors which brought her business, she just cared that it brought her business.

>time

The neural processor recorded the thought of “time” that just passed through her mind. This was no ordinary thought, however. This brief spark of the synapses within her brain were special; they were specifically directed towards the 3800 that sat snugly on her occipital bone. Within milliseconds, the processor had been able to read the message directed to it and convey another message to her OEA to display the time for her to see. Although, note that none of this particularly concerned Phantasm, whose interest with the methodology of her various implants generally only lasted as long as the salesperson’s overview of his product.

It was 7:53:12 P.M.

Phantasm was waiting on a nondescript client, a woman, from what she judged. She wanted to meet at this location, not asking for any specific drug or any certain quantity. A very mysterious woman, though she probably had some very non-mysterious money with her, so Phantasm made sure not to think too much about it. They were to meet under the awning of the computer cafe, at 8:00 P.M., Chengdu, China; Phantasm brought a relatively new drug, Angelfyre, to sell to the woman. The stuff was getting popular with the younger crowd, gave the user a rush at first and then sent the person into a daze, so they say. Fun at parties, no doubt.

A sudden buzz broke her train of though. Phantasm reached into her pocket and whipped out her cell phone, looking at the caller. Valentin Siderovich, older guy, affiliated with the Свобода gang, a group of “Neo-Anarchists” who owned a lot of nightclubs all around Eurasia. Phantasm tapped the command to link with her neural processor and stowed the phone away.

“Hey, whatz up?” he asked, her ear implant transmitted the mans abnormally thick accent with crystal clear quality “Your deal went through or no?”

Not yet, Val, it’s at 20:00, my time, Phantasm told her neuralware to reply via text.

“Aw come on Phanta, why you don’t pick up the phone and talk to me,”

I told you I have business, can’t talk

“Alright, alright, listen, though, I have something for you. It’s a file, from anonymous contact, just for you, they said. I’m sending it now. It’z safe, don’t worry, scanned it already” he said. Phantasm was now interested. She glanced back at her phone and swiped the file to transmit it directly to her 3800. Her neuralware scanned the file, transmitting its information directly into her brain. A contract, bearing, at its head, the logo of Kybuashi Enterprises. “It’s password blocked. I could have cracked it but I’m too lazy for that shit,” Val finished with a laugh.

Val, this isn’t pass-protected

“Was when I got it,” he muttered, “heh, spooky stuff, I guess.”

Spooky stuff indeed, mused Phantasm as she perused the contents of the file. A contract detailing a pretty heavy job: multiple people guarding a very important, top secret prototype. Most importantly, though: big payout.

>time

7:59:47

She ended her call with Val just as she noticed the lone figure walking up the road. The figure introduced herself as a representative from Kybuashi Enterprises.

“I assume you already viewed the document I sent. Come inside.” The woman said, her voice partially muffled by her filtration mask. The two women entered the internet cafe, which was surprisingly empty for this time of day. The small, plump man who sat behind the counter directed them to a room upstairs. The room was barely furnished, the two chairs within it angled towards the meager view of the street outside that was provided to them by a rather dirty glass screen.

The two took off their filtration mask and sat down as the man hurried to exit the room. Phantasm scanned the buildings across the street, making a mental note of the second story apartment whose residents “happened” to be out of town for the week. The representative smiled as she noticed this.

“Right, let’s make this quick. Unfortunately, you will not have the opportunity to sell me any narcotics. Fortunately, however, I have proposed an offer that will, hopefully, reimburse you for your lost time,” the woman joked. Phantasm stared at her. “Right, since you already read the contract, I’ll just let you sign now, unless you have any questions . . .”

“Why me?” Phantasm asked, picking up the pen and signing the contract.

“That is . . . confidential, but I’m sure you can deduce why when you meet your coworkers,” the woman replied, gathering the papers and pen. The representative made to leave, but Phantasm still had a question.

“Why did you contact me like this,” Phantasm asked, facing towards the street, the woman already at the door at the opposite side of the room.

“Because we knew you would accept our offer,” the woman replied frankly.

---

Phantasm stood alone, the rain peppering the ground around her.

Crash’s words brought Phantasm out of the stupor of boredom. Ten minutes. 600 seconds. It wasn’t long, but the waiting made it feel like an eternity. That was coupled with the natural reluctance of conversation within the group.

Phantasm had barely noticed the rain, only now did she pull out her umbrella from one of her many coat pockets. Today’s attire was a gray coat with bulletproof lining, gray pants, and gray sneakers. Boring, but she didn’t care. This wasn’t wetworks yet, so Phantasm didn’t have to worry too much about what clothes she wore.

One of the hired goons decided to buy them all drinks. A nice gesture, without a doubt, but one that she felt was relatively fruitless, considering how most of these grade-A doinks cared little about the physical, let alone emotional, well-being of one another. Nevertheless, Phantasm appreciated the act. Unfortunately, Phantasm didn’t drink; drinking slowed her down, got in the way. She never took any of her own wares, nor did she indulge in many other vices, for that matter. Waste of time, waste of money, waste of life. Except for sugar. Sugar gave a tangible feeling of elation for a fraction of the cost of many other substances. Sure, she couldn’t eat too much, but moderation was her specialty, temperance her art.

Essentially disregarding the man’s toast, she stowed the can into her backpack, ultimately placing the backpack on the ground beneath her, directly next to the gun bag that stored her rifle. Luckily, in this day and age, no one really batted an eye at a group of armed thugs. I mean, they probably did, but no one had the balls or the jurisdiction to try and walk up and confront a group of would-be corporation thugs, politely asking them to hand over their weapons. If there were people like that, they’re probably dead now.

One of the girls mentioned something about the abnormal amount of people that were hired, talking about how most of them might die. While that was a possibility, half of these dorks probably thought of the fact as a probability. Phantasm made sure to comment on the matter, in hopes that these bozos might look on the bright side of life . . . like the guy who passed out the beer. A quirky character, one whose accent had changed since the first time she met him, but otherwise fine.

“I doubt this is a suicide mission. Kybuashi’s counting on this thing to make it home safe and sound. It makes sense that they would hire some extra insurance. Besides, if they had meant us to be fodder, they would have gone and got some enforcers. They’re planning for something else, count on it,” Phantasm said, her voice taking on an almost didactic tone. It wouldn’t help any of them if they only thought about the various gruesome ways they all might eventually meet their fate, so it was in her best interests to try and dissuade such thoughts.

Her phone buzzed, it was Val.

As much as she could have used his company, she pressed the X and stowed it back in her pocket, waiting until something could finally happen. She was tired of waiting.

[shivershiver]

Jag

The harsh neon floodlights cast an unearthly glow over the broken cobblestone of the train station, leaving no shadows save for the murky figures of travelers. Jag listened with a disinterested ear to snippets of their hushed conversations as they passed. French, German, English. Local dialects, pidgin languages, none of them meant anything to him. With a single thought he drowned them all out, pulsating synth music overtaking the footfalls and whispers. It was one of his first mods, the internal music player. Far better models were out now, but he kept it anyway. Jag's thoughts turned to Strasbourg. He’d only been in the city a short while, but Jag already hated it. The mixture of old and new, cultural history and cutting-edge technology made him sick to his stomach, though it might’ve just been his nerves. It felt like Johannesburg, full of people clinging to the glory of the past because the future held no place for the stupid and the poor. Here, though, even the "authentic" old buildings felt sterile, artificial, like the surrounding modern towers crept in and destroyed any sense of pride they ever held. There was a reason why the crumbling train station’s magline replaced the smoke-belching seam engines. Everything in the present was superior; those who romanticized the past fooling only themselves. Still, Jag couldn’t help but admire the retrofitting, reminding him of augments on the human body. Out with the old, in with the new. He wondered how much longer it would take until all his old became new.

A familiar voice interrupted the driving music inside Jag’s mind that startled him. “Ten minutes.” Crash. It would take a while for the diver to grow accustomed to his new team, or the very idea of a team. He typically worked alone, though not by choice. He turned his music off. Assassinations, thievery, and bounty hunting were his bread and butter; they were also one-man jobs. Jag didn’t mind working alongside the other divers though. More mercenaries meant more skillsets, improving their odds. What he did mind was the way in which the divers labeled themselves as such, flashing their heavy weaponry like jewelry. Anyone with a modicum of sense recognized them as DVs, and anyone with ill intentions for them had no trouble picking them out of the crowd. Sure, the job called for it, and he was sure it was the right move, but not for him. He worked in the shadows, or from a distance. Jag knew his way around a pistol, but that could only get you so far.

The longer Jag stood in the terminal, the more he regretted ever saying yes. Jag took the job a while back from some corporate stooge when he was desperate for work. Not cash, though, he had enough of that, but sulking in the bars only staved off the darkness for so long; he needed work to keep his mind occupied. At the time, Jag didn’t give a damn if it involved strong-arming a corp with nothing but his dick in hand. He was disappointed to hear that his services wouldn’t be required until a few months later, but the diver figured he wouldn’t get any other offers. Shortly after, work began to pick up again, and he almost forgot about the Kybuashi job. The date came, and Jag would have skipped out had it not been for a couple of spooks who came looking for him. They must really need me, Jag thought, looking back.

The diver pushed his way through the crowd, which grew thicker as the train’s departure grew closer. He spotted Crash, the man’s metal head high over everyone else. Just in time, he mused, graciously accepting a beer from one of the crew’s vet divers. With a nod, he cracked it open and drank, perhaps a bit too quickly, though his tolerance would allow it. He liked Blank, and the free drink certainly helped. Despite his cheery behavior and shifting voice, the man was the most subtle among the crew; he didn’t wave a weapon around, and possessed no visible tech. He looked entirely organic, though it had been over ten years since Jag saw someone without any cybernetics. Jag wondered what the man had installed. Outside of Blank, there was a lot of bravado floating around. Talk of the mission dominated the conversation, but Jag stayed out of it. Of course Kybuashi didn’t give them the full story. No corporation ever did. They were divers, an disposable work force. As long as one of them completed the job, it didn’t matter how many of them died, and with that logic, more was almost always better.

Jag started to grow anxious. His bloodshot eyes kept darting to the clock, then back to the group. He shifted uneasily in his cloth boots that were becoming saturated with rainwater. He looked like a C-Freak ready to crack, but he needed a different kind of fix. This job was too much waiting, too much standing around. He did the same in other jobs, but this was different. Here, he was the one being watched, targeted, like a piece of bait. Jag had over a decade of experience as a diver, putting him more with the likes of Blank and Crash, but his restlessness was that of a rookie.

A chime rang out, followed by a crackling male voice giving the order to board the magtrain. “Time to go,” the diver said, his Afrikaans accent shining through despite his efforts to mask it. The train was a death trap, they all knew it. Whoever wanted that box would make their move now. Ordinarily, Jag would have no problem throwing himself into danger, but here, he was out of his element. Close quarters, bottle necks, and bright lights he always avoided, but here he willingly walked into all three. Stealth and marksmanship wouldn’t mean a damn thing on the train. He checked his deep coat pocket to make sure his .45 was still there. After working the same type of jobs for so long, Jag had almost grown numb to the danger. The diver hadn’t been nervous in a long time; it felt good to be afraid.

[Hexaflexagon]

Crash was looking in the opposite direction of the can that was lobbed to him but he caught it none the less and in a swift singular motion brought a hard metallic finger through the aluminum top ripping open a hole and bringing it to his mouth. When you spent the days of your youth scavenging about for food and drink, having to fight for each morsel that came your way, you didn’t really turn down the offerings of free food and drink. The mentally had already been drilled into you by a young age, and it was hard to escape those kinds of things. Some refused the drinks for understandable reasons either too cautious or not wanting to dampen their own senses but the large Australian seemingly did not. In his mind if alcohol was enough to throw him out of fighting condition than he had more troublesome things to worry about than a weak stomach.

He watched as the others began to talk among themselves and not for the first time analyzing them all once again. There was Blank, the one that had given him the drink, an unseemly man from a distance but the longer Crash looked at him the more it made his skin crawl and he had to fight the reflexive human instinct to start chanting the Ave Maria and burn him at the stake for being a demon. None the less though Crash couldn't help at least liking the man, they were total opposites it seemed he was personable and cocky, and Crash had the personality of a brick wall missing a couple of bricks. It was refreshing almost, something so totally opposite and yet perfectly understable. And him being an “old guy” like Crash always helped matters, in a world where every month new kids with their brand new toys try and be Divers it was nice to have another person that knew the beat as well as he did.

He was talking to the pale one with the red hair, what was her handle? Dame... yes Dame seemed appropriate. His father had a thing for old crime movies and novels, old paperbacks of Raymond Chandler, John D. MacDonald and the like but more importantly when the two of them came back from the sub he’d always put on some old black and white film from nearly a hundred years ago actors with strange and archaic names like Humphrey Bogart playing bitter detectives, solving crimes in big cities. Dame seemed as if she would fit in perfectly with those trenchcoated detectives. Though if Crash was a bettin man he would of wagered she was hiding something behind those little too perfect eyes, everybody hid something there that’s why he kept his hidden.

The next that draw his attention was the producer of a small voice, so small in fact that Crash had almost lost it beneath the pattering of rain and roar of thunder. Gaze, ironic name given her eyes but Divers always did have a black sort of humor to them all. She asked if Kybuashi expected some of them to die along the way. A sentence that seemed to speak of naivete that got a Diver killed quick, but no this was different. She did not say some of us, she said some of you. It was a minor detail but it spoke volumes enough to Crash, she had full confidence in her ability to survive, but she was wondering about the rest of the team. Probably asking the same question that Crash had been asking himself. Who was the cannon fodder in this situation? All in all Crash didn't write her off yet, he’d seen smaller people take down giants before and was always best to err on the side of caution.

Next was Gorgon, the one with the big old tentacle arm thing. Crash really didn't see the point in it all that much why have an arm that can change shape and the like when you could just punch things? It made things overly complicated and forced the brain to have to go over too many options during a battle. It caused hesitation and a single second of hesitation is all that stood between a Diver and the bullet that finally puts them down. But none the less she seemed to come from the same factory lineup that had produced Blank but without the safety restraints this time. Everything about the woman exerted this type of suicidal confidence that depending on the person could mean two polar extremes about their abilities. In that way she was the perfect poster child from the public’s representation of Divers: loud, colorful, suicidal and volatile. Well there is always one to the bunch.

Next was Ace, she was cybered up to the point that Crash was actually surprised that she hadn't snapped yet. Her augs were nothing to snuff at either most it looked like the top of the line high end gear that cost a small fortune to buy and another small fortune atop of that to actually get them installed properly and they appeared to be professionally done. They were far flung from Crash’s own gear that he had smashed onto him by some drunk cyberdoc in a back alley somewhere using anaesthetics that barely worked so much to the fact that they finally resorted to shoving a rag soaked in whiskey in his mouth as the surgery went on feeling every nick and incision. She held herself differently as well, higher with a different kind of walk. She definitely wasn’t from the street Crash could at least tell that.

Another quiet voice almost lost in the void drew his attention, a voice that belonged to one called Phantasm. Most would have overlooked the pale black haired woman as something beyond the need for further inquiry. Relatively plain and average in every way she certainly didn't try much attention. But Crash was trained to notice people, trained to consider everybody as a threat who would at any moment spring around and kill him. That old lady with the walker who feeds the ducks in the morning? Has a pistol in her pocketbook and is waiting for you to get too comfortable around her. That carpenter working in front of his shop? As soon as you walk buy his is going to bury the sharp end of that hammer into your back. It wasn’t a nice way of living but in the be or be killed business it was the only way to think. And Phantasm... well Crash couldn't really place it on his tongue, she reminded him of the big kids that used to haunt the darker parts of the Ark, laying in wait with their knives and broken bottles, waiting to strike. But Crash didn't know what her agenda was, she was a puzzle. And puzzles were dreadfully annoying because they always beckoned to be solved.

Last but not least was Jag. The afrikaner was more or less a man after Crash’s own heart. He kept to himself mostly from what Crash could tell but still carried himself with a stance that at least forced you to consider him. Crash liked the quiet types, they usually had the most interesting things to say and if they weren't mouthing off it meant that they didn't need no real sort of bravado to get their point across.

“Time to go.”

Crash nodded at Jag’s rather blunt but acute statement as he moved to board the train. The others followed suit and most of them found their way into the car ahead of the one that held the box. The last actual passenger car before the cargo section of the train, Kybuashi had bought out the two cars for the trip. The passenger car give a good enough sightline so from wherever you where you say you could maintain a sightline on the box while still retaining some level of comfort and not having to stand up in a cargo car for fifteen hours. Crash settled in a chair close to the door that lead back to box facing into the room. The others found their place as well and the small fragments of conversation continued from where they had outside. Crash didn't join them of course, there was no point in wasting the energy and it’s not like Kybuashi had paid him to talk to the others.

He closed his eyes feeling the movement beneath his feet and before he knew it he found himself drifting away to some form of restless sleep.

He knew almost immediately that he wasn't on the train anymore. The sounds had told him that it was the screams and yells of his youth that now permeated his mind as he became an observer to events long past. A barrage of language Filipino, Japanese, Chinese, and English among others some perfectly articulate while others muffled and slurred with alcohol. It didn't matter what language they were speaking it all fell into the same incoherent roar of men betting and yelling as the fights progressed. The air reeked with a strange and intoxicating smell, a mixture of smoked meat and sweat that seemed to assault and invite the nasal cavities at the same time. The lights were bright and hung far above and hurt your eyes if you looked at them for too long, and the metal cage surrounding the ring was rusted and coated with a fresh layer of blood.

A younger Crash did his best to not think of these things. He instead focused on the feeling of the concrete beneath his bare feet, the flexed tightness of his hands balled into fists and his own breathing. 1..2..3 Breathe, 1...2...3 Exhale. His eyes were locked on the opponent across from him, a large Mongolian man that they called the Great Khan. His arms and legs had been replaced with metal cybernetics that glistened under the oppressive lights. Crash was still young at this point barely a teenager, still flesh and bone. This was the fight that would change it all, the fight that would force his hands. A loud gunshot sounded off and a roar from the crowd as the match began. Crash began to circle his opponent and using his smaller frame and speed moved in close and landed a solid jab right into the left kidney. The Mongolian moved with surprising speed and drove his fist hard into Crash’s chest. As metal made contact with flesh and bone it felt as if God himself had reached down to smite him. A flash of brilliant pain and a sickening crack in his sternum as he fell backwards. He gasped for air.

He didn't go down yet, he couldn't go down yet. He pushed past the pain as the adrenaline kicked him and got to his feet his legs feeling like straws beneath him ready to crack. The Great Khan was looking away from him putting on a show for the crowd flexing his muscles and pounding his muscular chest as the crowd chanted his name in approval. Khan, Khan, Khan, Khan. Crash took his chance, he rose to his feet and charged at the man and with a leap clambered up his back. With one hand wrapped around his neck for his support he bit down hard on the Mongolian’s ear and torn upwards as he drove his other fist over and over again into the man’s opposite temple. The crowed cheered in excitement and Crash felt blood fill his mouth as his ripped the ear from it’s perch. The Great Khan roared and buckled hard as he slammed his head back and up into Crash knocking him off of his back. Before he could even recover in a fury of retribution. A heavy metal foot slammed into Crash’s left arm splayed out in front of him. A crack and a snap as bones give way as the arm was grounded into the concrete. Crash yelled and squirmed, he tried to get away but could not. He felt himself being lifted into the air and slammed into the metal cage, the sharp and jagged wire digging into his back.

But a choir of small voices reached him, chanting the name that the premotor had given him. The other kids, the ones he was fighting for back when he used to actually fight for something bigger than himself, before he became addicted to the rush and the augs. Their voices reached his ears pushing him to go forward, pushing him to fight back. Crash, Crash, Crash, Crash, Crash....

“Crash!”

Crash eyes shot open from underneath his cranial helmet as a voice yelling in his ear rose him from the land of speech. He looked around and realized quite quickly that he wasn't in any underground fighting ring anymore. The job, the box, the train, Kybuashi it all came rushing back to him as he looked about. The others were sprayed about some talking, others just relaxing. He didn't know how much time had past but looking out the Window Strasburg had disappeared, replaced with rolling european countryside. The voice... Ghost. That was here name right?“Mhmm yeah Ghost?”

A sigh of exasperation on the other side. “Thought you’d never wake up. I need you to go check on the box.” She whispered to him even though Crash could tell that she was speaking to him over a private channel. Force of habit he guessed. Sighing the Diver, leaned over the edge of his chair and peered through the window which lead into the other car. The ominous black box remained where it was sitting alone in an empty train car.

“It’s exactly where we left it. No big surprise there.” Crash muttered under his breath so that the other’s didn't think that he was a crazy man talking to himself, since Ghost obviously didn't want anybody else to know this conversation was happening.

“No you lumber giant. Actually go check on the damn box.” The whisper had a half sense of urgency to it and sighing Crash raised to his feet and give a nod to his fellow Divers before opening the door and crossing the small gap between the two cars. He approached the box and it was the same as it was before, black and alien the straps still secured from the last time he had checked. It looked exactly like he had expected it to be.

“Well it didn't grow legs if that is what you are asking.” Crash responded with a sigh as he ran a hand over the box. “Now why couldn't you have gotten one of the others to do this?”

“Because I haven't checked their files yet. I don’t know if their trust worthy A girl can only read some many surveillance records and police reports before wanting to shoot herself.” She spoke with an annoyed tone as if her answer was the most obvious thing in the world and that Crash was some sort of mentally deficient simpleton. “Besides? You remember that weird chatter I mentioned before?”

“Mhmm” Crash responded not liking where this was going already.

“Well, I managed to isolate it and filter out the interference from the Storm. Something is coming your way quickly.” Crash’s heart stopped as he cursed under his breath. Of course it wasn't going to a be a cakerun.

“How fast?”

“You’ve got under a minute.”

Crash cursed as he sprinted towards the door back to the car where the rest of the team was as he crossed the gap between he looked into the sky and saw them. Two large black shapes moving in quickly partially hidden by the dark gray storm clouds above. He bashed the door to the car opened. Eyes came up as Crash looked up as unsettled as he could be at the moment.

“We got company.” And as if almost on cue, there was the sounds of large engines pulling away and the heavy thump of footsteps on the roof of the train, probably magnetized so that they would not fall off at the speeds they were going. Then a dull explosion in the passenger car ahead of them as screams pierced through the door and another dull explosion coming from the cargo section at the car directly behind the one with the Box in it. They didn't want to risk damaging it, he supposed. Crash looked back towards the box but cursed under his breath as he heard the screams of women and children coming from the passenger car. Without thinking he pushed past the rest of them towards the passenger car leaving them to decide for themselves which way they would go as the sounds of gunshots began to fill the train.

[Atrophy]

Blank cracked open his drink and put the rim to his lips. He gave an exaggerated sigh of satisfaction as he wiped his lips clean with the back of his glove. He actually didn’t really care for light beer. He generally preferred his drinks to be a lot darker, a lot stiffer, or a combination of the two. He lazily eyed the others from underneath his hat, casually lifting the can to his mouth. He didn’t really feel personally hurt by those who had set down his drink, although it would refrain from him mockingly acting insulted later on. Perhaps they were teetotalers. Blank could see someone boasting about how their body was a temple and alcohol was a poison, all the while splicing themselves with further and further unstable augments.

Still, sharing a drink was a sign of camaraderie; the least they could do was be like him and pretend to drink the pisswater. Pretending was Blank’s new pastime. From his voice to the smile on his face, nodding along as Gorgon pseudo-promised to protect Gaze, everything was just like his augmentations—artificial and barely more than skin deep. Toasting to their health and calling the ragtag group of C-Freaks friends? Yeah, to call it a little superficial would have been an understatement. It’s not that he didn’t like them, he did (well, most of them). He just wouldn’t be going to their funeral unless they offered a baller buffet and promised to speed through the rosary.

He pondered Gaze’s point: some of them wouldn’t come back alive. It was good to see that he wasn’t the only one who noticed that perhaps Kybuashi actually knew of some likely trouble instead of just being an overprotective investor. Scratch that, some of us wouldn’t come back alive, thought Blank, not putting his chances of survival above the others. He probably had more experience than most of the team, but experience meant jackshit when somebody could install an augment that allowed them to shoot a coin out of the air from over a mile away while running. He knew more than anyone that the only reason he made it so long was because of a hot streak when it came to rolling dice, and they were slowly being loaded against him.

Although he wasn’t above cheating if his luck did run out.

“Whatever it is, I’m sure we’ll be fine,” said Blank after Phantasm offered a sound reason as to why there were so many of them. He didn’t know much about the woman, but he could appreciate someone who put in the effort to remain unknown. It was a good quality in a Diver. He glanced over at the quiet man, Jag, as he shifted back and forth like he was fiending hard for some Neurotop. There was a chime.

“Time to go,” said Jag.

““I’m sure our biggest threat will be boredom. Should’ve brought cards,” said Blank, discretely placing his full beer into a trash can. Former corporate killer or not, he didn’t like littering. Perhaps his nanny did raise him right; more likely it was a force of habit from covering his tracks while on a job that had just become second nature.

Following the others into the train, Blank made a conscious decision not to sit next to Crash. It wasn’t that the man didn’t appreciate the Diver. Sure, they had completely different styles from what Blank could find out, but whatever got the job done, right? The reason was a much simpler one. If he was going to be on a train for over half a day then he wanted to have a window seat, and taking the one next to the big guy meant he was at best giving up his armrest and at worst having a metallic elbow dig into his gut for the entire trip. Sliding his satchel carefully below a seat in the front of the railcar, he casually kicked his foot up on the seat across from himself and leaned against the window as the maglev kicked on and the city turned into a blur.

After meeting the Divers early, Blank had dug through whatever resources he had to find out information on them. It was an old habit, back from the days when he took large jobs that split the pay between the remaining Divers as opposed to individually paying each an agreed upon sum. It was a recipe for disaster, and more than once had Blank found himself at the end of a “friend’s” gun for his share of the pay. Fortunately, the practice had fallen out of favor a few years back, and Blank had double checked with Kybuashi Enterprises just in case—their payments were freezed until the mission was complete, and any assets owed to deceased Divers would instead be returned to the Corp.

Still, finding out about his comrades had proven to be a daunting task (he once thought about creating a company that licensed and catalogued Divers, before realizing that it would exclusively be used by Corps), but scanning some of their hardware awarded with at least some basic knowledge about what they could bring to the table. He tried his hand at quickly categorizing the group—loud or quiet, tactical or instinctive, lethal or nonlethal—and tried to think of who he would mesh the best with if, no, when things derailed. He pulled himself out of his thoughts as Crash walked past him and stepped into the room with the box. I’m sure it’s not going anywhere, he thought as he leaned out of his seat and looked into the room. Yup, same old box.

“You think they’ll show us what’s in the box when we’re done?” asked Blank to his neighbor across the aisle. “I bet it’s going to actually be some p—shit!”

Blank jerked his head out of the way of getting smashed to bits by Crash, appropriately enough, crashing through the door. He didn’t need to hear the big guy to know what was going on; the Oracle Eye had just picked up the loud engines followed by a good number of signs of life. Footsteps overhead confirmed it, and explosions from the front and rear confirmed that they weren’t just some cybered out hobos hopping on a train to avoid buying a ticket.

Not exactly the way I would start the assault, but I gotta give them some credit, thought Blank.

“Not to be that guy, but I told you it’s bad luck not to share a drink,” said Blank loudly, smiling. Part of him was glad that things had so quickly gone awry; easy jobs were nice, but they just lacked that special something. He pulled his submachine gun and his baton from his satchel, leaving behind some of his heavier ordnance. Blank did not know what an EMP would do to a maglev train, but he didn’t want to risk sending them off course at several hundred miles per hour.

There was screaming from the car behind them, loud and shrill. His smile faded as Crash bolted towards the car full of civvies. He didn’t like the idea of collateral damage any more than the next man, but Blank had been hired on by Kybuashi Enterprises to protect a box—not publicly play bodyguard to help guard their PR. The feeling of doing a good deed did not put a roof over his head, buy him dinner, or provide him with intel and gadgets; if the package got grabbed when he was off playing hero then he was screwed.

Still, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t assist Crash, and they would have to take out all of the interlopers anyway. Blank turned his comms on, knowing from experience that plenty of runs had gone sideways because a lack of coordination between unfamiliar Divers. Sure, some knew how to move around other Divers like a talented dancer can avoid getting their toes stepped on by a nervous partner, but some sure as hell didn’t. Blank wasn’t going to simply hope that everyone knew what they were doing. He would have to hope, however, that none of his new friends had an ego; or if they did, at least knew when and where to flex it.

“The bastards are split into two groups; we should do the same and push back before they completely pincer us in here. Alpha can push back the pricks in the passenger car, Bravo can guard the box,” he said calmly over the comms, quickly running the numbers. There were eight of them, so two teams of four.

“I need three people to go with Crash. Preferably people who are good shots; I don’t want to have to throw any more bodies overboard than we need to. Gorgon, you and two others come with me. Call out your team over comms and keep this channel open. We don’t want a clusterfuck,” he said.

He would normally have picked Crash serve as his bullet sponge just on size alone, but the man had already incidentally volunteered himself to lead team Alpha. Gorgon would serve as a fine, if not even a better, alternative. His radar informed him that none of their attackers had entered the car holding their package yet. Good, that gave them time to set up an ambush. Tossing a piece of gum in his mouth, Blank gripped his Overloader as his mouth filled with the taste of cinnamon. He wrinkled his nose at the gross taste. It was a necessary evil as the chip in his mind vanished him from the sights of his allies. He had until the taste disappeared to be hidden; pushing anything beyond that was a risk he wasn’t willing to take.

“Stunning the first guy who comes through. We’ll want to know if they have anything else planned for us later,” said Blank over comms as he sidled up to the door at the far end of the almost empty cargo car. “Don’t shoot until he’s out of the way, and try not to get any bullet holes in their damn box.” Blips on his radar from the next cargo car moved closer to them. "Okay, here they come."

[NuttsnBolts]

G A Z E

^{A K A : R A C H A E L M O R T O N}
Gaze felt a heavy weight land on her shoulder, a mass of metal that was complimented by the sounds of a woman's voice. In a sort of humorous taunt Gorgon spoke out about not allowing Gaze to die first to which Gaze tilted her head back and to the side, looking at the bluish blur that stood next to her.

"Aw thank you," she spoke out, playing the puppy eyes look. "No one ever wants to take a bullet for the blind girl," Gaze made sure to elongate the words with an innocent tone in an attempt to farm some sympathy from those around her, even if she knew that they wouldn't give her a bar of it.

No sooner than Gaze finished her reply, Jag chimed in with the announcement that it was time to leave. Shrugging her shoulder, Gaze felt the weight of Gorgon slip off and proceeded to stand up, holding the rifle in her hands. With everyone moving about Gaze carefully began to wander towards the edge of the carriage, holding out her hand until she felt the edge of the train before sliding along until she came across the doorway that would lead into their compartment. She stepped up, into the vehicle and made her way to a seat that positioned itself next to the center aisle. As she sat down Gaze could hear the others shuffling about, moving into their seats, placing bags and satchels in compartments and preparing for the long trip ahead.

Gaze's loss of sight was a peculiar trait that she carried around with her. She was often asked why she didn't simply choose to have her eyes replaced with cybernetics, but the reasoning for doing so was a lot more complicated than that. Within the eye is a series of nerves and light receptors that pick up the imagery of the world outside and relay it to the brain through the optic nerve. Many cybernetics would reuse these resources and enhance them by changing over the iris for an adjustable lense, attaching certain features to individual nerves, or implanting different devices within the eye itself. The issue with this is that you need these resources in order to make these enhancements and in the case of Gaze the entire inside of her eyes were burnt to a crisp. The only reason why she can still see some features is because her optic nerve and a few light receptors survived.

Knowing all this Gaze learnt quite early on that she had to rely on her other senses; touch, smell, sound and taste; and although her hearing wasn't enhanced she had a keen ear to the sounds and disturbances around her. She could hear the humming of the mag rail underneath their feet and even Crash murmur to an unseen voice, but unfortunately couldn't make out what he was saying. Everything changed though when she heard the brute stand up from his feet and the doors open to the carriage where the box was being held.

Something isn't right, she passed through her own thoughts, knowing that there really shouldn't be a reason for the man to physically check the box. Her hands slipped over the rifle in her lap and she carefully disengaged the safety with a quiet click before sliding a lever back to arm the weapon with a mechanical "cha-chung". It was as if she made the prediction through a crystal ball when she heard what she had been fearing for the past minute or so.

"We got company," Crash bellowed as he stormed past the team and into the back car where the general public was situated.

Gaze had already chosen her move when Blank had announced the plan of action. She didn't really care much for the collateral damage of people, but her own opinions and that of the media were quite different. Every corporation and organisation in the world would be hearing about this in a matter of minutes and it would make the difference between the crew getting to Japan and treated as survivors of a raid, or treated as the terrorists who caused the catastrophe.

She stood up and swung around in the aisle, lifting her weapon up to her shoulder height and started to follow Crash. With a gentle request she felt the node open up on the back of her neck and the mechanical harness wrap around her neckline before extending up over the top of her head and form the mask that would eventually drop down and shield her face from the atrocities of the world. With a sudden snap the visor sealed shut and she entered a blackened state that began to digitally load up with a 270 degree vision of the world. The images quickly rendered themselves into existence with a colour pallet that seemed to be washed out like that of an old American sitcom, and for the first time since starting this job she could see the details of those around her. The bulky jacket worn by Jag and the vibrant red hair of Dame, all people that Gaze was seeing for the very first time.

None of these details mattered at the moment as Gaze pushed past the others and for the rear carriage. She came to the doorway where she hit the button on the wall, opening it up for her and the others to enter. With a short burst of haste she dashed inside and crouched behind one of the nearby chairs. In the brief moments that she had in her transition Gaze managed to sight her way down the carriage while being greeted by a short burst of fire from the opposing forces.

"The rear of the carriage has VIP compartments," she announced over the intercom as she heard screams of passengers fill her ears, "I can also see about five targets."

Gaze lifted her visor up for a moment, removing the extra vision that she had before propping herself upwards over the top of the chair and lining up her rifle to take a shot. As the scope lined up to her eye she could see as clear as day the cross-hairs wander over the potential victims until they settled on a lone individual who was foolish enough to not use his cover correctly. With a squeeze of the trigger the barrel exploded with energy as the bullet passed through the man's mouth and out the back of his skull. Seeing the confirmation of the kill Gaze dropped down to the floor just as the chair fabric shattered over her body from the return fire.

"Four targets..." she announced as the visor slipped back over her face.

[Traitor]

Gorgon didn't notice being scrutinized and thoroughly judged by the man with the iron fists, nor did she care much. She had made her own fleeting assessment of the little group, but her unaugmented eyes could only pick up so much at first glance and she wasn't the type to overanalyze details. Besides - after their first crossfire, half of them were presumably goners anyway so she could already cross a couple of names of the "to-remember" list. And said crossfire would tell her all she needed to know about her company, much better than judging the way they waited around.

She just shrugged as an answer to Gaze's comment, chugging the rest of her beer. While she didn't exactly express a whole lot of empathy with her half-joking promise, she would actually catch a bullet for the blind girl - with her shield. All of them, if she was physically able to. But those lousy projectiles always ended up coming from multiple directions at once, somehow. Gorgon threw the empty can at a trashbin, where almost missed the opening, danced around on top of the thing briefly, and then just barely dropped into it.

As the group moved into the train car that was destined to be their hangout-spot for the coming hours, Gorgon followed. She took note of the black box in the next car, but was visibly relaxed in general. At first she sat down on one of the seats in the middle of the car, but soon after the train came into motion, the blue-haired woman would get up and pace up and down the train car a few times, occasionally checking the next civilian car or side windows for anything interesting. She was as obviously bored as possible, when she started slamming one tentacle after the other into the roof of the train car, letting them cling onto more robust parts of the MagLev train until she was literally hanging in mid-air. The very distinct 'CLANG' noises were probably audible throughout the whole train, and would send little tremors through the Diver's train car. She offered a sight that had something of a grotesque, four legged spider lifting its human prey off the ground. But despite all that, Gorgon seemed oddly comfortable, dangling just barely above the ground.

When Crash awoke to check on the black box, the spider-hybrid didn't pay him much heed, assuming he might be just as bored as she was. By sheer coincident, her eyes crossed the room and caught Gaze disengaging the safety of her rifle. Whatever troubled the blind girl would probably mean the end to the endless tedium of waiting, Gorgon hoped. She released the grasp of her artificial arms and landed with a soft noise that was completely drowned out by Crash...well...crashing through the door.

"We got company."

"Finally." Gorgon shouted, her excitement completely uncontained. She already had her SMG in hand, supporting it with two of the tentacle fibers while the other two just hovered on her left side, ready to fulfill the next command. The woman didn't need to check the mags, or disengage the safety - it was never 'on' to begin with.

"Gorgon, you and two others come with me."

The blue-haired woman nodded in agreement. She had no interest in saving - or even sparing - civilians, and the cargo car on the other front line of this fight was much better suited for her peculiar close quarter talents anyway. "Roger roger." she answered and followed closely behind blank, but didn't join his tactical position by the side of the cargo car door. She had a different plan.

"They're gonna expect our ambush, and that's the most reasonable and safe option for us. Let's take the momentum in our hands instead and surprise the shit out of them instead!" She only used a com receiver, and a slightly outdated one at that, so her voice had to reach the ears of Blank and whoever might have followed them to this side of the engagement the old fashioned way. She barely finished her sentence when the door was violently ripped aside and a cybered up thug made his suicidal dash into their car - with the woman standing in his way. Gorgon didn't hesitate even for a split second, in fact she had planned - or rather hoped - for this scenario. One of her tentacles grabbed the right wrist of the guy, crushing it to make him drop his unimpressive last-gen shotgun. Another darted for his throat, assuming it was at least armored lightly, while a third one grabbed his knee and dug into the kneecap, probably removing his ability to walk normally for the next couple of weeks. The fourth tentacle dug into the ground at her feet to stabilize Gorgon while she lifted the still surprised fodder off the ground and hurled him behind her, into the box-car.

"Uh...shock him, I guess?" She stepped out of the doorframe, kicking the dropped shotgun away and took a moment to look back at her victim. He was still alive, but the gargling sounds and waterfalls of blood from his throat told her, that he actually wasn't armored enough. She emitted a fairly genuine, but quite careless "Oops...ah, we'll get you another".

She then gave Blank her signature shit-eating-grin and told him to "Wait here." before her left arm formed into a half-rounded riot-shield esque form and she stormed through the door into the cargo car. Flinging something chinese - probably insults of some kind - at the remaining hostiles, she capitalized on their confusion why anyone would be suicidal enough to storm this car alone. It gave her a solid two seconds before the bullet hails started, and by then she had already shield-bashed the next guy out of the way and backed into a corner, back-to-the wall. Here she could cower behind her shield and hold out for a bit.

[Blue Demon]

Ace climbed onto the train in the middle of the pack. She didn't worry that she hadn't made friends with any of the Divers. Or that by all appearances, they didn't care much for her. After all, she had been completely and totally ignored. Still, it was a nice change from the leers she had received last job. The solitary existence sung to Ace. Yet being along in a crowd of people bugged her. It was far easier to be alone when you were actually physically alone. There was less of a chance Ace would inadvertently actually start liking someone.

Kybuashi sure did know how to secure a train. Ace thought sardonically, her lip curling a little. Her damp cover clung like twenty pounds. She pushed back her hood for the first time since the job started. Her silver hair was plastered to her head. No longer spunky and spiked. She ran a hand through it, causing it to poke out at all angles, all helter skelter.

Ace eyed both compartments before picking a spot against the wall. Unlike most of the group Ace choose to remain standing. With her augs there was no chance that Ace would get tired from standing too long. Her muscles were metal and they didn't tire in the same way. She was just as refreshed standing as she would be sitting.

When it became apparent there was no immediate danger, Ace stripped off her over coat. Exposing her clothes under the black mass. She had a teased shirt. Her arms were bare, for ease of deployment. Her legs were now obviously bare apart from the mesh that looked like tights, but was actually reinforced nano armor. She folded her over-shrug neatly and placed it on a vacant seat.

While Ace did innocuous things her HUD was actively analyzing the train. So far there wasn't any unwanted passengers. Of course that didn't mean the civilian filled car was actually filled with civilians. Every time one of the Divers walked through that carriage, Ace tensed. After the first time Ace pulled out her Force Stick and began swinging it around in slow lazy circles. Her FS was already at full charge, but the motion did two things. First, it drew attention to the motion. Second it was a distraction. Anyone looking at it would think Ace nervous. She was anything but. Maybe a little bored. But she was patient and didn't mind waiting.

When the waiting ended it was abrupt. Ace watched as Crash moved from his silent sentinel position. He had been like a rock. Solid and immovable. Ace watched him because his behavior was out of the ordinary. It was extraordinary when he flung open the door and barreled through their car. He actually looked ruffled.

"We got company."

Crash

Ace's FS stopped moving and she stilled completely. Did the box get stolen? Or worse? Were they betrayed? The thoughts were barely through her mind when an explosion rocked the train. Screaming came from the passenger car and Crash was past all of them towards the noise. Still, his hesitation about the box was weird. They were paid to protect the box. Not anyone. Not even themselves. Still, the facts were plain. The ambushers were smart. Pinning their small band between a hammer and an anvil. If they got pinned in on both sides they were in dire trouble. Thus splitting the team was their best offense.

"Shit." Ace swore and dodged around the other divers and followed Crash. And apparently Gaze. Freaking little kid.

Ace's PEP gun left into her right hand even as her left hand expanded into Fight Mode. Her FS was returned to it's compartment. This was why she took off her shrug. No sense in having it get tangled up during the fight.

I can also see about five targets. Four targets.

Gaze

Ace paused in between the train compartments. Both Gaze and Crash were inside. Ace looked up into the darkened sky. The clouds were still ominous. Except now they fit the mood.

Ace's HUD showed green on all her augs and happily switched her optical into thermal imaging. She took a quick look around, even up and saw multiple targets. Some were still on top of the train.

"Well hello there." Ace sing-songed under her breath. She needed someone with mods that would allow her to climb on top of their ride without falling off. And she had just the lucky winner. Ace lifted her PEP gun and pulled the trigger as the opportunist poked his head over into the gap. The person took the plasma blast right to the face. Only their helmet kept them from earning an extreme makeover. As it was she watched their body twitch from the after effects.

Ace pocketed the PEP gun and carefully made her way up the two cars, one leg braced on either carriage. Her thermal imagine showed more people on the roof, but didn't show the direction they were looking. Poking her head up would be a disaster. She'd end up like Mr. Opportunity here. Or deader.

[Kingfisher]

Dame

Dame felt the carriage shake and judder, pulling her out of la la land, as Crash came speeding in to forewarn them of the train’s newest passengers.

“Ah’m a good shot,” Dame called out to Blank, completely honestly and without even the faintest hint of undeserved arrogance “Ah can watch Crash’s back. Stowp ‘im goin’ hero on us.”

The young synth slipped down beneath her seat, and pulled out a chunky steel lock box. A few latches were flicked, a few buttons were pressed, and then the box flew open with a snappy woosh, revealing the Decimator.

Dame scooped up the custom assault rifle in both hands, holding it loosely against her chest, as she broke into a controlled jog, following the face-plated Diver into the passenger carriage.

The section of the train that she made her way into had already degraded into a frantic mess of bloody panic. Armed hostiles were storming the carriage, and their very presence was a strong indicator that they had few reservations about gunning down civilians to get to their objective.

Dame stopped by the entrance, running over her options in her head. The Decimator fired explosives, albeit small ones, so shooting into the crowd would almost certainly result in civilian casualties. She’d let Crash deal with the hostiles who’d gotten close to the passengers, whilst she picked off the ones nearer the back.

Her optics gave an almost unnoticeable mechanical whirr as she pinpointed a trio of hired guns who were clambering through the gaping breach in the roof carriage’s steely casing, relatively out of the way of the rest of the commotion.

Potential lethality of projectile detonation on hostile persons: 83%

Potential risk of projectile detonation harming civilian persons: 52%

Dame set up her shot in one fluid motion, before squeezing the trigger and sending a rapid five-shot burst of explosive shells shrieking through the air. The projectiles slammed into the floor below the breach, erupting in a partially contained ploom of searing flame and shrapnel. The force of the blast itself was enough to knock a fair few hostiles and civilians to their feet, whilst the jagged spikes of metal and roaring fire turned a handful of hired guns into blotchy red splatters.

[Mifuyne]

“Today’s the day. I can feel it.”

Fury scowled, “You can’t feel anything. You’re just a voice in my head.”

The laugh was cold and hard. It was a laugh of a killer without remorse. “For now, but we both know it’s only a matter of time when you lose control, when you’ve pushed yourself too hard too fast, then it’ll be my turn.”

Fury woke with a start. The voice’s last words still lingered in his mind. Before he had a chance to consider them, dull explosions and piercing screams drew his attention back to reality. Panicked passengers scrambled away from the car in front of him, running for dear life. He got up from his seat, grabbed his duffel, full of his gear and weaved through the crowd, heading in the opposite direction of the crowd. The passengers didn’t bother looking at him as they parted just a couple steps ahead, not wanting to slow down their escape from the danger. Once he reached the end of his car, he reflexively ducked to the side as a stray bullet whizzed by.

“Shit.” Fury spat. He despise surprises like that, especially when his body needs to tap into his augmentation just to handle it. If he's not careful about how much he relies on his augmentation, he could lose control to that voice in his head. He pushed the thought aside and fished out his AR visor, a “gift” from one of the Divers hired to hunt him down a few months ago. It may be damaged and only holds a charge for all of five minutes, but it’s good enough to give him a quick glance.

His vision filled with green lines and text as the visor loaded the HUD. Shortly after, faint lines traced the shapes of people in the car in front of him. There were a couple hunched over, holding what appears to be assault rifles. He barely made out the figures hiding in cover further ahead of them before the visor died.

"Get in there, just kill them all. It’d be much faster." The voice goaded him. Fury hissed, "Just shut up for ten minutes. Can you do that?"

The voice didn't respond, which suited Fury just fine. He opened up his duffel and pulled out his weapons. He slung his carbine over his shoulder while slipping his sword--the wakizashi with a twisted sentimental value--into a loop on his belt. He took a quick breath to center himself, thumbed the carbine's firing mode over to single shot then tapped the controls for the car's door. The door slid open as Fury took aim at where one of the man's knee would be. The element of surprise gave him the extra time he needed to align his shot, squeeze the trigger and take out his target's knee. The man went down howling, but he didn't let go of his weapon. The man was taking aim just as Fury ducked back into cover.

“Good training...probably enforcers from a rival corporation. Maybe after that mysterious box I was brought along to guard?” Fury noted to himself. The voice wasted no time to chime in, "Just go in there with the sword, it'd be faster."

"You're not helping."

"I could do this in my sleep."

The voice wasn't wrong, he was the stronger swordsman between the two. While Fury retained memories of the training and the muscle memory, SP-2834—that voice in his head—had a way with the sword. Of course, SP refused to share his secret.

“Oh, I’ll share as soon you relinquish control over your body.”

“Forget it, asshole.” He’ll figure it on his own someday.

Once the firing stopped, Fury stuck his head out. He came face to face with the second hostile. The two froze, but Fury sprung into action a second sooner. He took hold of his sword's hilt in a reverse grip, unsheathed the sword and sliced the man's leg in one forceful arc. The man dropped to one knee clutching his injured leg as his weapon fell to the other side. Fury vaulted over the man's body, dodging a hail of bullets from the one he kneecapped earlier. He kicked the weapon aside and then thrusted knee to the man's throat, pinning him against the side of a seat’s backrest. The man fought harder than Fury expected, forcing him to push into his throat harder. He could feel the augment at the base of his neck buzzing slightly as it released the nanites to help with the effort. Fury ignored the feeling, keeping the pressure on the man’s neck. Now was not the time to think about the consequences.

The kneecapped man poked his head out of the door and took a few pot shots at Fury’s general direction. One of them dug through the suffocating man’s helmet, splattering his brain matter all over the inside of his helmet. Fury dodged to one side, avoiding the rest of the bullets without much effort. He returned fire, putting three into the man’s leg as he closed the distance between them. With a swing, he sliced through the man’s gun strap and separated the hand from the his arm. The man clutched the newly formed stump and screamed, the bullets in his leg forgotten. Fury dropped to one knee and the man’s larynx with a spear hand, stunning the man and forcing him to gasp.

"Stay here, don't cause trouble and I might let you live." He promised the man with little expectations he could keep it. The man nodded desperately between gasps. Fury nodded with a curt smile and made his way inside the next car.

At the opposite end of the car stood an exceptionally tall man. The height coupled with the white faceplates made him instantly recognizable as Crash, if the dossiers were anything to go by. There were others behind Crash but a barrage of bullets forced Fury into cover. When the gunfire stopped, he poked his head up and quickly took in the surroundings. There are two more of those men, both taking cover just like him. One was holed up between him and Crash with his focus on the tall guy. The other was still facing Fury, sighting him down with his rifle. Another hail of bullets and Fury’s back in cover. Two hostiles and one possible friendly, and what are the chances Crash would recognize him? He could only hope Crash remember the dossier’s details or this will get interesting really fast.

[Didgeridont]

Phantasm

The chime of the MagLev permeated the station. Various civilians filed into the sleek, protective shell of the train, given solace from the rain and lightning above, while the group made their way into their personal car, each of them choosing a place to sit. Phantasm sat alone, not really willing to make any conversation, at least for the moment. She placed her bags on the seat next to her, relieved of the weight that had been lifted. She sat near the window, looking out at the world beyond.

The train slowly accelerated away from the station, and it wasn’t long before the entire city was out of sight. Phantasm looked around at her coworkers, most of whom were taking this time to relax. She doubted that this lull of silence would be available for long, yet she knew she should take advantage of it while it lasted. Breaking free from the stupor caused by the stillness of the train’s movement, Phantasm made her way towards the civilian cars. The only items on the seat she previously occupied now being her rifle and backpack.

It won’t be long, just going to see what’s up, she told herself. She doubted any of them cared about whether or not she left the car.

The civilian cars were strangely quiet. Very few people were talking, most of them being too preoccupied with their own lives; none bothered to break their attention from their screens, earpieces, or ocular implants to notice the pale woman who wandered down the aisle. She looked upon the stoic and banal faces of the passengers, most of which were drowning in the mundanity of daily life. She pitied them, but also admired them. If she hadn’t been so capricious with her choice of occupation, it could be entirely possible that she could have been just another one of these faces, living a relatively safe, boring, normal life.

Alas, however, such was not the case.

---

The counter was pristine and polished, the stools neat and clean. There were few people at the counter, which Phantasm thought was even better. She sat down on a stool and ordered some sparkling water and tiramisu. Dreadfully overpriced, but this didn’t concern her now. Phantasm figured it was proper to take advantage of the amount of money she was making from this job.

The man behind the counter quickly prepared her order and went on to the next customer. He payed little attention to any of the patrons, an act which they reciprocated. It was a mutual agreement of apathy that seemed all too common in this world. However, it wasn’t any of Phantasm’s business to dwell on such topics, seeing as how she, too, benefited from such machinations.

The tiramisu was rather unremarkable; the sparkling water even more so. Perhaps it was a waste of money, but now wasn’t the time to fret about the quality of some cake and water. She finished what she had ordered, unwilling to let her money go without at least getting some value out of what she payed for. However, as she finished, it seemed that something had gone awry.

The unmistakable noise of engines came from the direction of the group’s car. Phantasm sighed deeply, putting her face in her hands, cursing to herself.

Ugh, why now?

She patted the areas of her body where her current weapons were, as a formality to make sure she didn’t misplace any of them. Sure, she didn’t have her rifle, but that wasn’t that large of a hindrance, considering the confined nature of the train.

As if it was on cue, a crowd of people rushed into the car she was in, desperate to escape the confrontation that had just begun in their adjacent car. She pushed through the influx of individuals, each one seemingly more desperate that the last, finally reaching the civi car adjacent to the one where the thugs had boarded. She glanced around at the surroundings, the vacated seats still filled with personal belongings. Yet someone remained, keeping an intense vigil on the door, preoccupied with the conflict going on in the next car. The guy looked suited up, clearly some vulture looking to take advantage of the situation. Phantasm ducked behind cover as she planned her next move.

She unbuttoned her coat, revealing the PPS Mk. 3 that was holstered on the side of her torso. She took out the gun, making sure it was at full capacity in the process. She glanced back at the fighting, noticing how it was goon vs. goon, although it seemed as if the melee was rather one-sided. The prevailing bozo was able to continue into the direct elimination round, going on to start cutting up some other guy in the process.

Throughout this scuffle, Phantasm used the brief periods of chaos to move further forward. Surprisingly, it seemed as if she went relatively unnoticed, as the assailants had to deal with an increasing number of people while their numbers thinned. Phantasm held her gun close to her, ready to use at any time. She kept remarkably calm during the ordeal, regulating her breathing as she crept up from one piece of cover to the next, managing to avoid any gunfire.

She passed both the enforcer with a missing brain and the one with a missing hand without thought regarding either of them. As far as she was concerned, they required none of her attention.

She had almost closed the gap between her and the bozo, making sure to keep out of sight of him in the process. She held her weapon tighter, her finger parallel to the trigger guard. There was the goon, hiding behind cover just a few short feet away.

“Hey, doink, where d’you think you’re going?”