shivershiver — Roleplayer Guild

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.
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