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Post by Stefan [GM] on Feb 2, 2011 23:07:02 GMT -7
Hack'n'Run
Two more blocks. The biomonitor pops up with all kinds of warning in my AR view. Blood pressure. Fatique. Breathing. Hydration. Muscle spasms. Blood loss and two bullet holes in my right shoulder, bla bla bla, and they all are written in bold and big, ugly red. Up to this point, though, the run went very smoothly, professional. "Sir Baptiste," my friendly agent in his flawless english butler theme remarks, "your vitals are in critical stage. Should I contact DocWagen for you?" Drekk. With a simple thought I abort the request. Yes, I'm injured, got it. Thanks. Though, somehow I believe Renraku won't give permission to the Docs, to rescue me from their turf. Behind me, the steps of the security guards echo through the ally. Another gunshot's hitting the wall to my left, missing me and ripping apart the plaster. Close one, unlike the first two bullets, now buried in my shoulder. Sirens, high pitched and noisy, and as alarming as they are annoying, wake up the entire corp-block. Two more blocks and I'm out of the 'Raku-turf. Though, according to my biomonitor, and the flashing red lights in my AR, I won't make it. But I've got the package. Some hot data from one of the mainframes. Even now, as more bullets are closing in and blood's soaking through my shirt, I have to smile about how easy it was to get the data. Very light security, no IC I couldn't fool. Hard to believe anyone would pay so much nuyen for this little effort - besides my almost certain death after bumping into a security guard, that wasn't on his scheduled patrol but randomly strolling around. What good is it to hack in and gather input on the security schedules, if the damn guards don't follow it? The steps are closing in and I'm still one block from the exit. Shit. In the heat of the pursuit and gunshots I forgot to engage the spoof for the gate - and the two security drones with assault rifles slaved to its node. I could almost smell the stench of freedom, so close, yet so so far. And the guards are now close enough to have a good aim. Shit, shit, shit. I grind my teeth, ignore the burning pain in my legs and activate the arm-slide with a thought, dropping my trusty Savellete Guardian right into my hand. I hold my breath for just a few more seconds and think about my spoof program, making its interface pop up in my sight. And as I'm about to swing around a dramatic way, I select the node of the gate, not even one block away now, and it's slaved and angry drones and try to convince them I'm allowed through. If I'm not passing out in any second now, due to the pain in my shoulder from lifting my very impaired gun arm, I might even get a shot at this. The guards look pissed and their guns are already hot and smoking. It takes a very long fracture of a second to adjust my eyes to the smartlink input over all the red bleeping vital-alerts. Targets locked. Heart rate critical. Burst fire engaged. Blood pressure dropping. Projectile angle calculated. You are fucked, Sir. Running backwards, I command the gun to fire, and the first guard drops. Ace. Then, a sudden, sharp punch knocks the wind out of me. Even before I hear the heavy pistol fire, before the crawling tickle on my skin, as the bullet cuts the air around it, I can feel the .45 ACP caliber forcing its way through my armored vest. I stumble, maybe even fly for a couple of feet through the air. Luckily, smart guns are called that for a reason, and the processor in my chrome-covered friend picked out the second guard already, measured and improved the odds for the next shot. As my head hits the concrete, stopping my sudden fall after the bullet hit me, the Savelette Guardian spits out another three ultrasonic babies. Then, everything is black. Everything but the fragging red alerts telling me that I'm dying, and the countdown. The gate security is disengaged for another 24.48 seconds, and I'm on the ground and can't even open my eyes. My head hurts, and I think one of the vital statistics is now counting in blood loss from my head. Like a mad man I crawl towards the gate, gathering the last little bit of strength in my well-overdue-body into a push-up and something, that is anything but a graceful sprint. As the gates close behind me, I tell my friendly agent to call the Docs, while I also upload a copy of the data onto his load, sending it to my secure node back in Seattle. I delete the original copy from my 'link - don't want DocWagen getting too nosy about my business. Job done with 2.32 seconds to spare. And I almost made it look professional. My armored vest caught the bullet before it broke my skin. With great anticipation, I realize it'll make for a big bruise, however. Hidden in a dumpster not far from the crime scene, I'll switch the ID on my 'link to the one, Docwagen has under contract and wait for the Docs to arrive and rescue my sorry ass. The pain starts to get bad. Really, really bad. The biomonitor panics. I think it's time to pass out.
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Post by Stefan [GM] on Feb 3, 2011 11:37:40 GMT -7
//ID ..Patrick James Osbourne //Matching Database... //Scanning Biometrics... //...confirmed, Status: Gold //Vitals ..CRITICAL "That's him," the doc in armored jacket says, after scanning the the ID of the nearly dead guy in the dumpster. "Okay boys, get him out'a here. Be careful, he's got some bad holes in 'em, so don't break him. Here is the stats from his bio - don't look so good." After quickly going over the very alarming vitals, pulled from the target's biomonitor, the troop of DocWagen extraction members follows the order, carefully pulling the man out of the trash. "Sir," one of the men says, pointing at the target, "he is armed. Two heavy caliber pistols, two combat knives." "You know the protocol, O'Larey. Gold and up don't get asked questions," The team leader shrugs. They take his weapons and put them into a lockbox, programmed to the fingerprint of the target. The Docs make sure the target is stabilized, stopping the blood loss on the major wounds and disinfecting every scratch, before they carry him into the DocWagen rescue van. One of the team members turns around, and looking at the gate, leading into corporation territory, he says, "What do you think he got shot for, O'Larey?" O'Larey stares at the community entry sign, proudly broadcasted in AR with soothing lights and friendly colors, and answers, "I don't know, dude. Sometimes I wonder if we're maybe saving the wrong people." Welcome to SmartSPACE Software & Community Design! ->Where your neighbors are your co-workers -->Your community is your office --->Your family is always around ---->Your FUTURE is secure
/\ Live where you work/\work where you live/\ Enjoy a LIFE of PEACE, SECURITY and FREEDOM/\ APPLY today and become a citizen of SmartSPACE Software & Community Design!
[[SmartSPACE - Associated Subsidiary of Renraku Computer Systems]]
RENRAKU "Today's Solutions to Tomorrow's Problems"
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Post by Stefan [GM] on Feb 7, 2011 12:11:57 GMT -7
Renraku World Headquaters; Chiba, Japan a few hours earlier
Sitting upright on his expensive leather chair, the japanese man stares at the comlink in front of him. Floating over the table, carved out of the finest woods of this planet, are a dozen windows filled with statistics, numbers and processes, only visible to his image link. Not one of the images projects an operation, that is completely legal in any business around the globe.
The door to his office slides open, and a young japanese man enters. He's dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, every crease in his pants accounted for, the hair systematically arranged down to the last streak hanging over his forehead. His steps are measured, his facial expression calculated. The young man looks professional on every level; perfect and cold. "Mr. Ineko Sadao," the young man says calmly, "Our man in Seattle report success. The subject has been captured and will be transported here. As per your request, the subject will be flying with public direct-flight JPN-0014A, scheduled take-off on June 12th, 0700 hours." "Excellent. Is the data secured as I asked?" Sadao asks, already knowing the answer. "Yes, Mr. Ineko Sadao," answers the suit promptly,"As you requested, the data has been stored on the mainframe C14-1 in our SmartSPACE-devision in the CAS. Any existing copy has been deleted by our best matrix-technicians." Sadao turns in his chair towards the artificial window, projecting a beautiful mountain view, and his project-images turn with his sight. Still processing the information before him, he says in a harsh tone, "Is there anything else, Mr. Kiro?" The young advisor hesitates. "The subject, as well as the data he retrieved for us, are highly delicate, Mr. Ineko Sadao. Should we not transfer both to a more secure location, immediately?" Sadao presses his eyelids together to suppress the urge to sigh. These young advisors - they know their job well, are very good with numbers. But they don't know, how real business works. Not the kind of business, that really matters. The kind of business, Ineko Sadao perfected. The shadow business. "Kiro," it sounds harsh from behind the chair, "Our competitors surely know about the data already. The word-of-mouth spreads fast in the shadows. We are best advised to play this one by their rules, not the protocol, you are familiar with." Sadao takes a deep breath and says slowly, with precise enunciation, "Just - do - as - I - say - Understood?" "Yes, Mr. Ineko Sadao. My apologies. This would be all." Embarrassed, the young advisor turns around, swallowing his pride and hiding his upcoming anger professionally. If we make it look like it has been stolen from us, Sadao thinks to confirm his plan to himself, nobody will be looking at our business, leaving us all the freedom in the world to deal with the matter. A new window opens in his AR view. A direct security feed from the main security-hub of SmartSPACE Software & Community Design, CAS, just as he requested. The camera link shows an intruder, hardwired into the mainframe C14-1 and downloading the package. A dialog appears in bold, red letters. Security breach on level 3. Defense System loaded // Engage Alarm >> run IC-protocol >> ready security on all stations // <ENGAGE/CANCEL> The next step in Sadao's plan. Excellent, the japanese smiles. Data-laundry. He opens another window and starts a voice-only call to Seattle, loading is voice changer utility and spoofing tools. A southern england accent accepts the call on the other end. "Badger's office." "This is Mr. Satou," Sadao replies, "The promised payment methods will be wired in the agreed methods over the next 31 days. Five hundred thousand nuyen, plus your personal incentive. I appreciate your business, Mr. Badger." Sadao hangs up and waves his virtual hand over the alarm-dialog. <CANCEL>
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Post by Stefan [GM] on Feb 7, 2011 17:41:06 GMT -7
Empty pizza boxes, dirty cups each filled with a zip of old, gooey soy-caf, long overdue laundry and a smell, not easily put into a category, fill the room. The cleaning drone has been inactive and out of power for over a week now. But at least it's quiet. The certified stick in my palm reads 5000¥. Picked it up this morning from a locker at the train station. Another 10,000¥ were wired in small amounts to a handful of shadow accounts, all authorized to cash out to me. The process of laundering money; within the next four weeks, I will be 500k nuyen richer. Half-a-fraggin-million. Enough to shut me up. Enough for me not to worry. Yet, something about this run irks me in places, that shouldn't ever irk me. It was too easy to get in, too easy to get the data, that is worth five-hundred-thousand nuyen. I know it didn't look like that, but even getting out was too easy, considering the gun shots on 'Raku property and everything. I don't even recall an alarm, come to think of it.
This place is a mess. I need to think straight, and for that I cut the video feed of my cybereyes. Now that's way better, way cleaner already. My personal code prevents me from looking at the data. My motto's always been, get the package, drop the package, cash the check and never, ever ask questions. "George," I command my agent to appear. In front of me, in the darkness of my cybereyes, my virtual butler manifest, walking towards me with his silver tray. "Sir Baptiste. How may I be of assistance?" "George, access to file <project_ex>," I order the bot. "Naturally, Sir Baptiste. Do you want me to delete the copy, as per protocol, Sir?" The old man asks me just the I programmed him. "No, I want you do run your decryption protocol and assist me." "As you wish, Sir," he says and the package appears on the tray, as he slips on black leather gloves over his old, digital hands.
Okay, I know. I shouldn't do this. I should leave it alone. Forget about, enjoy the money and move on. I cut off the wireless signal on my 'link and slip into my private VR. George carries the package into my library and preps the table for the hack. I crack my virtual bones and together we get to work decrypting the file. This will take a few hours and whoever secured the data in the first place didn't want anyone to just hack on the fly. First I start an analyzer, a magnifying glass to check for hidden bombs and worms, while my decryption tool probes the target already. Through my reality filter the file looks like an old safe. After the bomb-check, it is now covered in wired, which will electrify the safe if anyone tries to break it open. Disarming the bomb, however, doesn't take much effort on my part and I can get cracking on the code to open the safe.
A few hours later, I hear footsteps, heavy and they are not part of my library. My cyberears pick up noise right from outside my safe house's door. I activate my cybereyes again, trying to ignore the sudden burst of visual information into my brain and instantly grab the pistol from my coffee table. The pistol-shaped imprint on the dust covered table has something fascinating about it. I open a window with the statistics of my decryption progress in my view. God, I hate having to leave this kind of job to a program but it appears I have other issues right now. I attune my audio to filter out all background noises and select the happenings on the other side of my door. "That's the place, right?" A male voice says. "Okay, I count to three and we go in. Remember, Johnson wants him alive, so don't aim for his head." Amateurs. I put the gun back on the table and use the smart camera to lock onto the door. Now I'm hiding in the bathroom and should really be cleaning this place soon. "One." The silicon beat around the sink is pealing off and a thin layer of mold already settled in. I set the gun to single fire and make sure the tiny gas vents are working, that will allow me to rig and move the gun within a very limited range. Perfect. "Two." A weird stench comes from my shower drain. According to the audio filter, I count two people outside. I take a deep breath. A deep breath of stale, gross air. "Three." Time for action. The door flies out of its hinges and into the room. Through the camera I see two guys with machine guns. The first one is already locked onto. Before he even knows what's happening, the smart gun fires a bullet straight into his head. While the microprocessor of my Savelette Guardian calculates the next shot into non-vital areas of the second guy, he opens fire. A burst of bullets tears apart my place, the sofa, the windows, the chairs. Old, mud-like soy-caf splatters all over the apartment. Then my gun adjusted itself and shoots him into his thigh. Not even a second later, another shot hits him in the shoulder, forcing him to drop his weapon. God, I love technology.
I come out of the bathroom, the process reads 76%. With the Guardian now in my hand, I pull the guy into the room and push the barrel into his mouth. "Listen, Punk! I'll give you three seconds to tell me, who hired you and what he's paying. Got that?" His eyes agree nervously and I take the gun out of his mouth. "One." He gasps for air. "Two." Then he soils himself. Amateur. "Three." He talks. They always talk. A hard hit on his head and he is out. One quarter of a million nuyen bounty on my head. NeoNET after me. And now, after I leave the place, after looking at the decrypted file, none of that seems to matter anymore. Baptiste, you've really done it this time. The file's containing a fracture of a source code of something, that shouldn't exist. Not anymore.
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Post by Stefan [GM] on Feb 8, 2011 0:37:38 GMT -7
The Face
Lipstick, eyeliner, make-up to match any skin tone. Perfume, spray-on pheromones, shoes, bracelets, and whatever else the heart desires to make yourself better than normal. Everything, the sophisticated, young business woman needs. A business woman like Angelique Clark; the woman I am tonight. I finish my mask of the perfect woman and take a deep breath. Really, I don't even recognize the person starring out of the mirror and into my eyes. After a decade of pretending, a girl tends to forget who she really is, where she really comes from. Maybe it's for the best.
A few hours later, I'm in the elevator up to the thirteenth floor of Adams-Westlake Mediaworks, Seattle. The image link in my contact lenses projects a countdown into my view. My hacker friend guarantees me a time window of 23 minutes, before my spoofed access ID will be compromised. The elevator stops, I pull my blouse and skirt straight, and tighten my grip around the briefcase. Showtime. With a polite signal the doors slide open. The interior is very sleek, a few real oil paintings on the wall and four lonely plants in each corner. It took me years to perfect a flawless walk in high heels and I still feel kind of awkward walking over marble floors, echoing with every step. The young japanese man behind the desk stands up straight. With a cold face he scans my RFID tag, before he puts on a fake smile and greets me. "Welcome, Miss Clark. Mr. Isamu Kiro is expecting you in his office." He points down the hall to a set of heavy, decorative doors. "Thank you," I nod and keep my cool as he would expect it. "Of course," he says, "I will have to scan your briefcase. Formality, I'm sure you'll understand, Miss Clark." "Naturally," I smile and look into his eyes. Without moving, without saying another word, I work my magic with simply a smile and a deep, promising blink of an eye. I distract him enough to not pay attention to the scan. "All clear, miss Clark." His smile now real, he must really believe he has a chance with me. My hidden commlink picks up the ID of the scanner node. "Chummer," I talk in my head and transmit the ID, "you'll need to get into this thing and erase the latest scan if you really want to keep this hidden." "Already on it, babe," my hacker replies, and even though I can't see it, I can feel the smirk on his face in his voice. I walk up to the door, which opens the second I step before it. The office behind it is not much more decorated than the foyer. Isamu Kiro, one of the advisors of Ineko Sadao, a Renraku shark, waits behind his desk at the end of the room. Behind him, the window projects the trideo image of the sea at sunset. He greets me with a acknowledging nod, but I can tell his eyes are going through a pile of AR windows right now. In the corner of my eye, I pick up the signals of four surveillance cameras. 17:21 minutes. Elegantly as I am, I walk over to the desk and put my briefcase next to the table. "Mr. Isamu Kiro, a pleasure to finally meet you in person." He shakes my hand and answers, "I'm looking forward to doing business with you, Miss Angelique Clark." His grip is light and feminine. He expects business negotiations to buy out my fake company and bring it into the Renraku family. He also knows, that I'm interested in working for Renraku. What he doesn't know is that me and my hacker are preparing the false front for over two months. A Johnson contacted me almost the same time, my hacker did, about stealing data from the very same location. My hacker has his own agenda, mine is money from Mr. Johnson. Strange, how things work out sometimes. Everything, the japanese business man believes to be true is perfectly orchestrated. He also doesn't know, that my palm was coated in a narcotic, that is absorbed by the skin. In about five seconds, he will feel nausea, an urge to barf and eventually, under a lot of sweat and a sudden rush of fever, he will collapse. Then, as he falls over his desk, I will run behind him. "Mr. Kiro, are you okay?" I will sound concerned and make the play look real for the cameras. The acting lessons will pay off once again. Hidden behind the desk and the aching japanese body in front of me, I will use a micro bug to tap into his desk-link, making the fibre-optics accessible from a wireless 'link, like the one my hacker uses. 15:12 minutes. Almost done. Two months of preparation for 10 seconds of perfect acting. I scream on the top of my lungs for help. Not even five seconds later, the receptionist storms in, and he already alarmed the security. Mr. Kiro will be handled with special medical care, while security will lead me and my briefcase, filled with another set of clothes and programmed nano paste for a quick escape, into the downstairs private lounge. 7:45 minutes. Hidden in the bathroom, I change my outfit, change the look of my face yet again. My name is Nadja O'Neil, temporary assistant to the receptionist desk. Complete with ID, access codes to the front door and a work schedule, I never attended. With more than one minute to spare I leave the corporation building and blend into the Seattle nightlife. "Got the files, babe. You did awesome," my hacker buzzed through my commlink into my head. "I owe you." "You bet you do, Baptiste. Got the files I wanted, too?" A few seconds later, my hacker transfers the encrypted files, my Johnson requested.
Now, that I'm home again, looking into my own face in the mirror for a change, I fire up my secondary 'link and connect to contact my Johnson.
Connecting Jackpoint VPN … … Matrix Access ID Spoofed. … Encryption Keys Generated. … Connected to Onion Routers. > Login **************************** > Enter Passcode **************************** … Biometric Scan Confirmed. Connected to <ERROR: NODE UNKNOWN> "There are no secrets in the matrix, no privacy. Here, we are naked for everyone to see. Anonymity is an illusion."
Welcome back to Jackpoint, The Pessimist.
//Open PM - TO: Access ID::TEMP::0041/Mr.Satou
"Got the package. Transfer initiated as agreed."
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Post by Stefan [GM] on Feb 14, 2011 21:43:45 GMT -7
I think I'm getting too old for this. Again I'm thinking about retiring. Again. Fooling security systems, breaching firewalls, spoofing dead people to claim money on forgotten bank accounts. And at the end of the day, none of it is real. Only digital numbers, paperwork that doesn't exists, money that never had any real value, and absolutely nothing matters anymore. Around me, countless personas fly around the terminal, checking in, checking out, booking, canceling, chatting. Real people in a world, that is not real anymore. A security guard runs his scanner along side my virtual body, scanning for unusual files and programs. A semi-transparent window hovers right before my face. //Spoofing access ID ... Complete The IC puts on a virtual smile, way too big, way too fake, and greets me. "ID authorized. Welcome Steven James Smith; Registered Pilot of Bowing Airline. Your plane; flight number JPN-0014A; is awaiting your input; please follow the directions." The icon of the MAD-scanner in front of me opens a gate to the secured node of the airplane. I recon I have about two minutes, before the real Steven James Smith tries to enter through the very same authentication system. In VR, that means a nearly infinite time window.
The node looks like a cockpit. Instruments and levers, blinking lights and buttons. A very cute stewardess greets me wi a sexy smile. Another IC making sure I won't screw up anything. Time to get to work. I activate my reality filter, and the cockpit around me transforms into a square room, glowing cubes and pyramids take the place of the instruments and buttons. Streams and connections, made out of colored light, replace the levers and everything turns into something, that is easy to work with. My virtual butt sneaks around the aggressively red ball. I liked her better in mini skirt and tight blouse. The IC is accepting my ID for now. My analyze program hums around the different sub-nodes, locating the pilot software. I pull a white, paper-like icon out of my pockets and feed it to the glowing box, representing the pilot's node, and it absorbs it into its routine. Another window pops up in my view. //Uploading stealth routine //Initiate worm ... //Uploading ... 0% ... 100% //Worm engaged ... time for activation :: 8:13:24 AM, June 12th, 2072; local time, sub-routine :: altering course of flight ... The red ball comes up to me. I deactivate my reality filter, and the now once again sexy stewardess checks me out. Pilots must have a very sad life, if they need to program their security to be so sexy, when they are about to kick you out. The IC noticed that I did something not within protocol, and even if she can't find anything on my icon, she will scan the sub-nodes next and find the worm. I grab her neck and push the tips of my index and middle finger from the other hand into her chest. An old technic to disable the central nervous system of a metahuman. I don't think it really works, but for my crash-program routine it looks pretty neat. The IC drops to the floor and disappears. I leave the cockpit and find myself back in the terminal. In the distance, I see the real Steven James Smith appear, slowly walking towards the secured entrance behind me. My spoof program kept the gate open for just another second, while it severs every data trail I left behind. If my old hacker brain can still handle this biz, the real Smith will authenticate his very person without triggering an alarm, because I was never here. I was not real.
While I leave the node of the international airport, and find myself back in the node of the stuffer shack next door, I open a secured connection to my contact. I never get tired of his british accent. "Badger's office?" "Tell Satou I've got the protocol released. I'm expecting the account to be filled as agreed." After I hang up, my agent alerts me about an intrusion on my 'link. With a mental 'click' I engage into my own 'link, looking at the idiot trying to hack my firewall. A man in fine clothing presents himself. His white hair is sleek and almost shiny. A cold and mysterious aura surrounds his persona. Next to him, an agent with the look of an old, british butler fumbles around my firewall routine. The old man in count Dracula costume grins with a cold smile, that gives me chills. "Baptiste," I say, "can't you just knock like everybody else?" The count puts his hands together and hints a slight bow. "You never answer your phone, old man. You're a hard to reach guy, DotCom." I authenticate his ID and wave him in. "Take your butler off, he wouldn't get it right anyways. What can I do you for, old chum'?" My commlink looks like a pile of orbs and boxes, all of them are decoy data packages, confusing any analyze programs from finding the juicy stuff in the sub-systems. The count sits down in my on a yellow ball 'link and cuts straight to the chase. "I'll need your help. Something very strange is going down in the 'trix, and I'm sure you don't want to miss this. What's the latest news on Renraku, you've heard?"
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Post by Stefan [GM] on Feb 16, 2011 13:00:35 GMT -7
"Dude, are you okay?" I panic. Things have been weird ever since I grouped up with this shaman. We've been living together for over a month now and I haven't had a night of sleep since. Usually he just sleepwalks quietly enough to not trouble me. But I'm not able to get a single good hour of sleep myself, anyways. Now, the shaman cries out loud, cramping with every muscle. Sweat from a sudden fever boils on his forehead, and his eyes are pushing out of their sockets. He just cries and cries and cries. I have not the slightest clue about the mojo and how it works, but even I can tell something wicked is happening to him. "Eagle, chummer, get a grip on yourself! I can't deal with this shit anymore! What the fuck is happening to you?" I don't know what to do. Should I touch him? Is he having some sort of spiritual seizure? Fuck, if I could go back in time for just a month, I would stop my-damned-self from ever taking this job.
Badger called me for a job. He arranged an interview with Johnson; Mr. Satou as he called himself. Before that, I was as normal of a runner as the next guy. The meeting was in a chat-room. Text based, only in AR. I've never seen his face, heard his voice. Only a few lines of cold, coded text. He offered 50,000 nuyen to protect a magician for two months, drive him around as he ties up a handful of loose ends. I should have have known better. A part of me wanted to decline, but in a secondary AR window my balance read 12 nuyen. Choice was not an option, as my father always said. Satou's got us a safe house in Redmond, payed a local gang to shelter us. The shaman, a dwarf named Desert Eagle, was like most of his kind. Weird. He didn't talk much, and come to think of it, I'm not sure if he ever really talked to me. After a month of insomnia, it's hard to remember any real facts. For a month now, I drove him around. All over Seattle, twice into native territory. Every stop was the same. A handful of thugs, which were no match for my shotgun. Then, the shaman went inside the building, the restaurant, shop, cellar, barn, whatever the current location was. About ten minutes later, he came out, and he looked like he just got raped by a dragon. Never did I go inside myself. Never did I ask what he did there. Every single night I was awake, listening to him walking around as he sleeps. Sometimes he was mumbling something in a language, I never heard before. Once I asked him about this behavior, and he claimed that he has no idea what I was talking about. God, I'm pep'ed up on energy pills and caffein. The last few nights I started to hear voices, saw shadows flying in the corner of my eyes. My head felt spongy, my eyes were dry and lifeless. Eventually, I couldn't tell whether I was awake or asleep. Everything melted together, reality became a lost concept.
Now, Eagle won't stop crying. His voice slowly becomes a screech, and I'm sure it's just the lack of sleep, but his feet start to look like talons. Is he shrinking? Are his eyes moving apart from each other, becoming dark and round? Something grows out of his neck, out of his hands. Feathers, beautiful in color and shape, cover his entire body. Oh my fucking God ...I must be dreaming.
Fascinated, yet completely freaked out, I watch the eagle leaving through the open window. The eagle, that just one minute ago has been my chummer, crying in agony, and is now flying towards the Seattle night sky. My reflexes are faster than my mind, and I instinctively grab the tag-pistol from the living room table. Through the window, I can still see his wings before the dark, cloudy sky. My smart-processor tags his outline, measures the distance and calculates the possible projectile angle. The RFID tag shoots towards the eagle, and glues itself to its wing. It looses balance for a second, but the stealth tag is light enough that the eagle can keep flying without an issue.
I shouldn't do this. Nothing good ever comes from mojo. Nothing. I race down to my bike and with squealing tires I follow the tag through Seattle. Luckily, I still have my fake ID for the native nations and leaving Seattle isn't a problem. The eagle flys south-east.
I'm on his trail for endless days now and he doesn't stop flying. "Where are you going, chummer ..." Thank God for my arsenal of fake IDs for my smuggling side job. Just as we pass the border into the CAS he slows down. According to my AR display, he loses altitude and is coming down to ground level. It looks like he is on foot now, judging by his speed, and I finally catch up to him. My machine stops ten feet in front of him. I get off it and walk towards him. His bare feet are maybe a one hour march away from being nothing but bloody stumps. His eyes are bloodshot, his skin is pale and wraps tightly around his bones. He looks like a zombie. "Eagle, chummer, can you hear me?" I grab him by his shoulders and shake him. "It's me, Cosmo!" No reaction. I shake harder. I yell at him. He raises one arm end points to the distance. "I must go. It is waiting for me. The answer for everything. Please, let me go." His voice is sad, his lower lip shivers. I let him go. There's nothing I can do for him, short of killing him. I turn around and watch him walk farther south-east. Choice is not an option. Then it strikes me. There is something in the distance. I adjust my shades to magnify the image. 10%, nothing. 50%, there is something, like a dark cloud, far away. 100%, fuck. A vicious storm rages far, far away in the distance. I see lightning in the sky, and even this far away, I can feel the intense heat and ... hate on my skin. A sudden shower of emotions covers my entire body. Hate, fear, even lust. It's orgasmic, it's dreading. I feel lost, forsaken, hopeless. All, that is known to men will come to an end and I'm the only witness. Yet, it is divine, as if a greater truth reveals itself, just as everything falls apart. I grab my glasses and throw them to the ground, breaking them into a dozen little pieces. The insomnia finally must have gotten the best of me. After a deep breath, I realize that Desert Eagle has marched on, that I must have been starring at the clouds for almost an hour. A part of me knows these illusions aren't from the insomnia or pep-pills. I'm alone on this highway. Nobody is around, no city, not even a single house. I walk up to my bike and put on my helmet. The AR on the visor is still following the RFID tag on him. The engine cries out loud and I head back to Seattle. The entire trip I must resist the urge to turn back around again. Once I lose his signal, the last thing he said keeps coming back to mind. I will never forget his face, the apathy in his voice. "Please, let me go."
Good luck, chummer.
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