- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Ask...ask for fine clothes? Fine clothes in your size. You've never had cause or the temperament to dress fashionably.
gotta be a sharp dressed man.
gotta be a sharp dressed man.
Shadowrun: Imugi
SirLagginton
Shadow Cabal Caerbannog Bun-Bun
- Location
- Arrrghhh
[X] Ask...ask for a game system? A-and a library too! It's been a really long time since you had anything nice like that.
I HEARD THERE WAS A SPESSBOX UP FOR GRABS
I HEARD THERE WAS A SPESSBOX UP FOR GRABS
Deadly Snark
Tryhard As Fuck
[X] Ask...ask for fine clothes? Fine clothes in your size. You've never had cause or the temperament to dress fashionably.
We are aiming to be a Dragon of Wealth and Taste. So we gonna start learning.
We are aiming to be a Dragon of Wealth and Taste. So we gonna start learning.
Quite. Our current shirt is affront against existence. We best get it replaced before everyone gets so fond of it that it becomes a permanent feature.
Act One Part Nine: Wake Up And See Lasers In My Steam
TenfoldShields
Lounging on a Hoard of Words
- Pronouns
- He/Him
What do you want?
The question catches you flatfooted. There's a few awkward seconds where your brain spins its wheels, cycling and scraping and reaching and finding nothing. You can't remember people asking it...ever really. Oh sure it must have happened; on the holidays, with Ji-ae, the question writ small and couched in restaurants and shops, screenings and little gifts. It must have happened at some point, it had to. But now there's just a gulf in your brain, an emptiness and you don't know what to do, how to make sense of it.
What do you want?
Why do you feel so shaky, so uncertain? Isn't this the dream? Isn't this what people imagine when they sit behind their desks and stand at their posts; watching the crowds roll past? Being so rich, so powerful, so famous, so significant that you can just name a thing and have it appear as if by magic. A high society spread. A new car, a new 'copter. Fine clothes. Fine jewelry.
What do you want?
The Drake murmurs and you say the first thing off the top of your head.
"...Can I have a game system?" Your voice is small.
You instantly feel foolish. And you sit there, shamefaced, like a spoiled child finally realizing how terribly he's behaved. You're being given something you don't deserve, something you didn't earn. But then- that's how it always feels doesn't it? How it's always felt. You don't deserve it. If you deserve it you shouldn't have it. If you have it it's because someone was kind to you, someone took pity on you, and gave you something you didn't, you couldn't, win for yourself. Nice things are for other people. People who are less ungrateful.
God a game system. Why a game system? You haven't played in years, haven't played since highschool. Where you killed hours by the brace, by the dozen, in Aunt Sarah's basement. And earlier, before Detroit. When you still lived in the house in some cookie-cutter, run-down slice of suburbia. The too-warm megaplex apartment in New Brunswick or Kansas or wherever you were living that year. Playing The Bitch was sleeping. Our when she was Out. You have -had, you had- a few games on your terminal yeah but they were mostly small stuff. Low-stress things that wouldn't melt the processor. And even then you barely played, just pushed them around the screen like unflavored tofu on your plate.
...You used to love playing. Why did you stop?
"Sorry." You say softly. Hunching in on yourself; suddenly fragile, suddenly frail. Resisting the urge to scrub your face like some snotty tyke. You're a grown fucking man sitting in a mercenary captain's office. You don't really have the luxury of having yourself a little cry. The Captain's head cocks by soft degrees. The crimson light behind his eyeslits seems to narrow; to brighten. You're not sure if he's bristling or just bemused.
[Please. I've had more inconvenient requests. Runners are a strange lot I find, prone to superstition and shall-we-say /exotic/ preferences? Why, a few years back I had to import cloned tiger cock by the crate such was the demand. A game system is fine. Any preferences?]
"...N-no?"
[Excellent.]
A glance out the window at the wreck choked coast. The sun is slipping beneath the horizon. A slice of orange-red fire just visible above the water; bloody and baleful.
[Workday is starting. You should go get ready. My First Mate will see you out.]
Dismissed with a wave. You stand and after an awkward moment you bow slightly from the waist with a murmur of thanks. You're pretty sure you fucked it up but The Captain seems pleased. You think. The elf escorts you to the elevator.
The walk back to the bow -the Maw (fuck what is with these names?)- goes more slowly this time around. The streets are crowded. Your legs are aching and tired. Eventually Fenrir just fixes you with a gleaming, gently glowing, eye and marches you over to a stand. Pointing at a stool, a sleeping Emil cradled in the crook of his arm. A few chits silently slid across the counter-top. The ork manning the stove wordlessly takes them, checks them, and turns to ladle a potent smelling broth over a bowl of thin, steaming noodles. Garnishing it with a bit of wilted green in a practiced flourish before setting it in front of you. It comes with a bricklike rice-cake thing in a paper wrapper; multicolored and mixed with beans. You look at it hesitantly. Look at Fenrir. He points at the noodles and makes it pretty clear that you're not getting up until you finish the meal.
You start eating.
The noodles are good: salty and savory, hot and filling. Crunch scraps of kelp swimming in a rich, fish broth. Your stomach rumbles, seizes, and you're suddenly reminded of how hungry you are. How little you've had to eat. The last time you had anything substantial was...
Was the night you went out with Gahm. BBQ and booze; squid and soju. Two days ago and worlds away. Your spoon clinks against the side of the bowl. Your hand's shaking. You wipe your eyes with the back of your arm. It's cool tonight, you're just shivering. You grip the cake and take a bite: it's chewy, sticky, it clings to your fingers like clay and grips the back of your teeth. Tugging them in their beds. Pulling them against the layer of fangs buried in your gums. You feel the ache, the itch. You keep eating. Big, breathless, mouthfuls. In a second you're cramming the last bit in your mouth. The whole square gone in a flash.
More soup. You gulp it down. It's spicy enough to make your nose run, but you're grateful for the heat. It warms your mouth, you feel the glow on your tongue. The bowl clatters on the tabletop. You look at Fenrir. Guilty and half-pleading. Too hungry to be properly ashamed. A few more chits. Another bowl, another cake.
You feel your body coming alive. Feel half-clenched muscles, sinews like knotted string, smoothing and relaxing. Feel your spine uncurling. Wings shift beneath your shirt, hooked clawtips scraping the skin beneath your shoulders as you stretch. Pressing little nubs against the fabric before subsiding. You slurp down the broth. You're disgusting you know but you can't help it. The sky is the color of burn ocher. Clouds lit by light pollution, the reflected glow of Pyongyang. The gaps between them dark as ash.
Fenrir slides a few more chits and then taps his fingers on the counter. Clawtips ticking against the oil-marred metal.
You rip into the third like a wild animal; ravenous and needy, desperate and greedy The vendor looks at you with something akin to fascination and mild nausea on her face. Your eyes are gleaming in the light, wide and bright. You don't care. You don't care at all.
You feel better.
"...Thank you."
The vendor raises her hand and turns to other customers, you hop off the stool. Suddenly self-conscious. You look up at the armored giant. Mumble a second apology, quieter this time. He just looks at you and starts walking. You follow him into the street.
Past the rows of blocks, now framed by strands of pulsing neon. Shadowy figures leaning against the slender railings.
Past the little towers, the prefab warrens. Steam and light filtering through the bathroom windows, carrying voices and laughter.
To the Maw. Up the stairs. Through the door.
Jiaolong and the rest are already gathered in the common room. He sits with a couch all to himself, arm lazily draped over the rest; ankle resting on his knee. His fancy clothes gone in favor of smart-mesh under a vest of light interlocking plate. An elegant black half-mask and pair goggles sitting in his lap. Nyx sits in the chair chair beside him, sword-case case at her chrome clawed feet. Her eyes are two polish orbs, beautiful and brilliant and as dead as the dark side of the moon. Glowworm's on his back across from the pair, his hands laced behind his head and stretched out over the remaining couch. You catch a glimpse of ceramic beneath his coat; starkly utilitarian against the circuit patterned tattoos spilling over his collarbone. A half-visor, an eyepatch-thing, all orange and glowing is hooked over one eye. They're not talking. They weren't talking before you walked through the door.
"Gear's on your bed Esser; soap and towel are in the bathroom. Get cleaned up and get changed. Make sure to really scrub down. The less dead skin and hair the better. We're not going anywhere high profile tonight but it's a good habit to get into." Jialong has his goggles around a finger and is idly spinning them. He doesn't quite look at you. He doesn't quite not look at you. A moment's hesitation and you do as he says.
The showers are just off of the common room, further towards the prow of the ship. It's not much: just a few stalls, some dingy mirrors. A row of small cubicles with cheap curtains for privacy. One of them as a hand written sign pinned to the plastic: "FENRIR ONLY". There's a folded towel, a brush, and a small bottle of soap on one of the sinks. You reach for the toiletries. You catch your reflection.
You freeze.
Your face is still your face. Your face is not your face. Some of the lines are a little sharper, a little harder, a little hungrier. Your hair is still as it was. Dark, the red dye back in place it's...no it's not dyed. The tips, the fringe, are just scarlet now. The color of fire and fresh blood. Your eyes are golden. Your irises gleam. You run your fingers over your cheeks. Feeling the harder edges, squeezing the soft flesh. Scales squirm at your touch, fingertips brushing a snake just beneath the water's surface.
You smile. Showing too many teeth to look anything but predatory, still knocking at least three years off of your face. As you watch your gums bulge. You see sharpened points sliding down, down down.
A canine slips loose from it's socket and falls into the sink. Clicking against the porcelain, root and all. Trailing a few drops of crimson before it crumples into so much white-hot ash. Flames licking the false enamel. You rub your tongue in the hollow. Feel it pushed aside as a new, identical, canine slips in. Your fangs submerge.
You just stand there for a long, long minute. Lustrous eyes searching once familiar features.
You strip down; you wet your skin, you soap yourself up. Your wash yourself clean with scalding water; scrubbing yourself down with the provided brush. Rinsing out your hair. The water's hot enough to hurt. You know it should hurt but the pain doesn't come. It's just a distant, warm, pressure even as your flesh flushes red. You lean your forehead against the wall.
Fake. All of it fake.
You grip your stomach. Fingers dimpling the flesh. A handful of skin and muscle with a bit of flab, a bit of fat to soften the edges. A few weeks ago you would have killed to be in the shape you're in now. You squeeze. And squeeze and you know that if you pulled it'd all come away in a ragged clump and there would be gold underneath. Brilliant, living metal.
You shut the water off and stand there. Dripping wet and half-boiled.
You feel sick.
You towel yourself off and wrap it around your hips. The fabric coarse and cheap. You cross the common room back to your room; eyes down, cheeks flushing, shirtless to the waist. Your gear is spread out in your little cube of a room. A space not much bigger than what you had at Togko. Not much different either: bare walls. A nighstand and a bed with a battered, metal edged, steamer trunk at the foot. A row of small, slitted windows let in the outside light. There's a drowsy fox curled up on your pillow. A little wheel of orange and red. You gently lift him up onto your pillow and start searching through what Jiaolong left you.
It's nothing special. There's no combat skin or chest-and-back plate. No high-tech helm or armorweave thigh guards. Urban camo fatigues for the legs. A heavy, puffy jacket for your chest with a silky, longsleeved shirt for the underlayer. A mask, sleek piece of crystalline composite; agular, boxy, filters at the side and heavy straps to cinch it in place. There's a utility belt with a pair of sheaths; short and long. You draw the sword first. Test it against the air. It's an old model. Not even Ares; some offbrand shit. The shocksword is thicker than you're used to and a little clumsier. Functional but...ugly.
It's all ugly. Dull and grey. Padded and plain. It wouldn't impede your movement but that's the best that can be said.
You get changed.
Nobody sits up when you come back into the common room. Heart in your throat. Squirming in your new, uncomfortable clothes, your new, uncomfortable skin. A few days ago you were legitimately employed. A few days ago you had a job, a few days ago this, all of this, would be unthinkable. And now? Now you're a r-
...A mercenary. You're a mercenary.
That's what everyone's said. What everyone's told you. And you already decided not to throw yourself over the edge so just take a seat and fold your hands and let things progress.
"Hey! Glad it all fits." To his credit Jiaolong at least sounds moderately pleased. "Had to eyeball your size, its best the Purser had. If you don't like it we can always get something else later. Oh and, uh, word's come down from The King! Your SIN's been burned out man. Welcome to the shadows, etc, etc, whatever. You know the score."
You're legally dead now. A nonperson.
You feel like that should be rocking you harder than it is but considering everything else that's happened recently it's only the little details you can really grasp. The small things that feel real. Everything else just...slides off. Too slippery to handle. You just nod as if he told you it might be warm tonight. He continues. Voice smooth and light.
"So, usually we have a fair bit of discretion in what we do. What jobs we take and where we go. Which is good because most of our money comes from the work we do for The Captain and it's always nice to jump the queue, snag the high paying stuff y'know? We're not really different from your run of the mill mercs in that regard: weapons and kit is all on us to maintain. Contacts are ours to cultivate. Everyone gets a cut of every job of course but you'll be in charge of your own stuff from here on out, like the rest of us."
"I can manage that." And you can. Endless hours of drilling with your kit, finally paying off. Who knew?
"Ultimately this is all mostly just to keep us sleek and shiny for the real work. Which is whatever The King in Yellow tells us to do. Some days it's planting malware and tapping corporate datanets. Other days," a rustle of cloth as he indicates you, "we're bailing guys out of an attack helicopter ambush. Tonight we're going to hit a warehouse and recover a materials cache. It's...milk run stuff really. Good for a first timer! Oh and, uh, Nyx requested that you be paired with her. So the two of you are going to provide us our way in. Understand?"
You look at the black-clad cyborg.
"Understood."
Understood.
The drive into the city was long and quiet. You dozed mostly. Bands of light passing over your face as you sat in the backseat of the SUV; temple pressed against the window. Glowworm up front. Jiaolong behind the wheel. Nyx and Fenrir sitting in the expanded back, knees drawn up tight. You don't remember how long it took you to arrive. Just endless, curving, concrete highways. The fast-flowing current of cars. The hulking whale-shape of an airship in the sky.
But you're here now. Standing in the mouth of an alleyway besides Nyx. Your mask in hand. You circled the block a few times, getting a good look at the structure. Pairing it to the prints Jiaolong forwarded to your PDA. A fence-lined brick: three stories tall and squat. Owned by nobody in particular. Housing nothing special. A squad of cheap, bipedal drones and three bleary-eyed security guards to watch it all.
Nyx stands are your side. Wig hidden behind a sleek, glossy black cowl. Face sealed away behind a facteted faceplate. Harsh, geometic lines joining together into a shield so dark it almost looks wet. The two of you watch the empty parking lot. The lights of the boxy little checkpoint bright, even across the shadowed street. The lone guard sits, cheek in hand, leafing through a magazine.
"Call it." She says. More bored than anything.
[ ] The long way. The fence isn't that high, you and Nyx could clear it easily. You know where the main security office is. Circle your way around. Ghost your way in. Open an access point for the rest of the team. Nobody will ever know you were here. Hopefully.
[ ] The shortcut. Hit the checkpoint. Subdue the guard (nonlethally, life's changed but you're not going to cut down the poor guy). Swipe his keycard and access the node in his booth. Places like this aren't exactly well put together. You can get this over with fast.
The question catches you flatfooted. There's a few awkward seconds where your brain spins its wheels, cycling and scraping and reaching and finding nothing. You can't remember people asking it...ever really. Oh sure it must have happened; on the holidays, with Ji-ae, the question writ small and couched in restaurants and shops, screenings and little gifts. It must have happened at some point, it had to. But now there's just a gulf in your brain, an emptiness and you don't know what to do, how to make sense of it.
What do you want?
Why do you feel so shaky, so uncertain? Isn't this the dream? Isn't this what people imagine when they sit behind their desks and stand at their posts; watching the crowds roll past? Being so rich, so powerful, so famous, so significant that you can just name a thing and have it appear as if by magic. A high society spread. A new car, a new 'copter. Fine clothes. Fine jewelry.
What do you want?
The Drake murmurs and you say the first thing off the top of your head.
"...Can I have a game system?" Your voice is small.
You instantly feel foolish. And you sit there, shamefaced, like a spoiled child finally realizing how terribly he's behaved. You're being given something you don't deserve, something you didn't earn. But then- that's how it always feels doesn't it? How it's always felt. You don't deserve it. If you deserve it you shouldn't have it. If you have it it's because someone was kind to you, someone took pity on you, and gave you something you didn't, you couldn't, win for yourself. Nice things are for other people. People who are less ungrateful.
God a game system. Why a game system? You haven't played in years, haven't played since highschool. Where you killed hours by the brace, by the dozen, in Aunt Sarah's basement. And earlier, before Detroit. When you still lived in the house in some cookie-cutter, run-down slice of suburbia. The too-warm megaplex apartment in New Brunswick or Kansas or wherever you were living that year. Playing The Bitch was sleeping. Our when she was Out. You have -had, you had- a few games on your terminal yeah but they were mostly small stuff. Low-stress things that wouldn't melt the processor. And even then you barely played, just pushed them around the screen like unflavored tofu on your plate.
...You used to love playing. Why did you stop?
"Sorry." You say softly. Hunching in on yourself; suddenly fragile, suddenly frail. Resisting the urge to scrub your face like some snotty tyke. You're a grown fucking man sitting in a mercenary captain's office. You don't really have the luxury of having yourself a little cry. The Captain's head cocks by soft degrees. The crimson light behind his eyeslits seems to narrow; to brighten. You're not sure if he's bristling or just bemused.
[Please. I've had more inconvenient requests. Runners are a strange lot I find, prone to superstition and shall-we-say /exotic/ preferences? Why, a few years back I had to import cloned tiger cock by the crate such was the demand. A game system is fine. Any preferences?]
"...N-no?"
[Excellent.]
A glance out the window at the wreck choked coast. The sun is slipping beneath the horizon. A slice of orange-red fire just visible above the water; bloody and baleful.
[Workday is starting. You should go get ready. My First Mate will see you out.]
Dismissed with a wave. You stand and after an awkward moment you bow slightly from the waist with a murmur of thanks. You're pretty sure you fucked it up but The Captain seems pleased. You think. The elf escorts you to the elevator.
The walk back to the bow -the Maw (fuck what is with these names?)- goes more slowly this time around. The streets are crowded. Your legs are aching and tired. Eventually Fenrir just fixes you with a gleaming, gently glowing, eye and marches you over to a stand. Pointing at a stool, a sleeping Emil cradled in the crook of his arm. A few chits silently slid across the counter-top. The ork manning the stove wordlessly takes them, checks them, and turns to ladle a potent smelling broth over a bowl of thin, steaming noodles. Garnishing it with a bit of wilted green in a practiced flourish before setting it in front of you. It comes with a bricklike rice-cake thing in a paper wrapper; multicolored and mixed with beans. You look at it hesitantly. Look at Fenrir. He points at the noodles and makes it pretty clear that you're not getting up until you finish the meal.
You start eating.
The noodles are good: salty and savory, hot and filling. Crunch scraps of kelp swimming in a rich, fish broth. Your stomach rumbles, seizes, and you're suddenly reminded of how hungry you are. How little you've had to eat. The last time you had anything substantial was...
Was the night you went out with Gahm. BBQ and booze; squid and soju. Two days ago and worlds away. Your spoon clinks against the side of the bowl. Your hand's shaking. You wipe your eyes with the back of your arm. It's cool tonight, you're just shivering. You grip the cake and take a bite: it's chewy, sticky, it clings to your fingers like clay and grips the back of your teeth. Tugging them in their beds. Pulling them against the layer of fangs buried in your gums. You feel the ache, the itch. You keep eating. Big, breathless, mouthfuls. In a second you're cramming the last bit in your mouth. The whole square gone in a flash.
More soup. You gulp it down. It's spicy enough to make your nose run, but you're grateful for the heat. It warms your mouth, you feel the glow on your tongue. The bowl clatters on the tabletop. You look at Fenrir. Guilty and half-pleading. Too hungry to be properly ashamed. A few more chits. Another bowl, another cake.
You feel your body coming alive. Feel half-clenched muscles, sinews like knotted string, smoothing and relaxing. Feel your spine uncurling. Wings shift beneath your shirt, hooked clawtips scraping the skin beneath your shoulders as you stretch. Pressing little nubs against the fabric before subsiding. You slurp down the broth. You're disgusting you know but you can't help it. The sky is the color of burn ocher. Clouds lit by light pollution, the reflected glow of Pyongyang. The gaps between them dark as ash.
Fenrir slides a few more chits and then taps his fingers on the counter. Clawtips ticking against the oil-marred metal.
You rip into the third like a wild animal; ravenous and needy, desperate and greedy The vendor looks at you with something akin to fascination and mild nausea on her face. Your eyes are gleaming in the light, wide and bright. You don't care. You don't care at all.
You feel better.
"...Thank you."
The vendor raises her hand and turns to other customers, you hop off the stool. Suddenly self-conscious. You look up at the armored giant. Mumble a second apology, quieter this time. He just looks at you and starts walking. You follow him into the street.
Past the rows of blocks, now framed by strands of pulsing neon. Shadowy figures leaning against the slender railings.
Past the little towers, the prefab warrens. Steam and light filtering through the bathroom windows, carrying voices and laughter.
To the Maw. Up the stairs. Through the door.
Jiaolong and the rest are already gathered in the common room. He sits with a couch all to himself, arm lazily draped over the rest; ankle resting on his knee. His fancy clothes gone in favor of smart-mesh under a vest of light interlocking plate. An elegant black half-mask and pair goggles sitting in his lap. Nyx sits in the chair chair beside him, sword-case case at her chrome clawed feet. Her eyes are two polish orbs, beautiful and brilliant and as dead as the dark side of the moon. Glowworm's on his back across from the pair, his hands laced behind his head and stretched out over the remaining couch. You catch a glimpse of ceramic beneath his coat; starkly utilitarian against the circuit patterned tattoos spilling over his collarbone. A half-visor, an eyepatch-thing, all orange and glowing is hooked over one eye. They're not talking. They weren't talking before you walked through the door.
"Gear's on your bed Esser; soap and towel are in the bathroom. Get cleaned up and get changed. Make sure to really scrub down. The less dead skin and hair the better. We're not going anywhere high profile tonight but it's a good habit to get into." Jialong has his goggles around a finger and is idly spinning them. He doesn't quite look at you. He doesn't quite not look at you. A moment's hesitation and you do as he says.
The showers are just off of the common room, further towards the prow of the ship. It's not much: just a few stalls, some dingy mirrors. A row of small cubicles with cheap curtains for privacy. One of them as a hand written sign pinned to the plastic: "FENRIR ONLY". There's a folded towel, a brush, and a small bottle of soap on one of the sinks. You reach for the toiletries. You catch your reflection.
You freeze.
Your face is still your face. Your face is not your face. Some of the lines are a little sharper, a little harder, a little hungrier. Your hair is still as it was. Dark, the red dye back in place it's...no it's not dyed. The tips, the fringe, are just scarlet now. The color of fire and fresh blood. Your eyes are golden. Your irises gleam. You run your fingers over your cheeks. Feeling the harder edges, squeezing the soft flesh. Scales squirm at your touch, fingertips brushing a snake just beneath the water's surface.
You smile. Showing too many teeth to look anything but predatory, still knocking at least three years off of your face. As you watch your gums bulge. You see sharpened points sliding down, down down.
A canine slips loose from it's socket and falls into the sink. Clicking against the porcelain, root and all. Trailing a few drops of crimson before it crumples into so much white-hot ash. Flames licking the false enamel. You rub your tongue in the hollow. Feel it pushed aside as a new, identical, canine slips in. Your fangs submerge.
You just stand there for a long, long minute. Lustrous eyes searching once familiar features.
You strip down; you wet your skin, you soap yourself up. Your wash yourself clean with scalding water; scrubbing yourself down with the provided brush. Rinsing out your hair. The water's hot enough to hurt. You know it should hurt but the pain doesn't come. It's just a distant, warm, pressure even as your flesh flushes red. You lean your forehead against the wall.
Fake. All of it fake.
You grip your stomach. Fingers dimpling the flesh. A handful of skin and muscle with a bit of flab, a bit of fat to soften the edges. A few weeks ago you would have killed to be in the shape you're in now. You squeeze. And squeeze and you know that if you pulled it'd all come away in a ragged clump and there would be gold underneath. Brilliant, living metal.
You shut the water off and stand there. Dripping wet and half-boiled.
You feel sick.
You towel yourself off and wrap it around your hips. The fabric coarse and cheap. You cross the common room back to your room; eyes down, cheeks flushing, shirtless to the waist. Your gear is spread out in your little cube of a room. A space not much bigger than what you had at Togko. Not much different either: bare walls. A nighstand and a bed with a battered, metal edged, steamer trunk at the foot. A row of small, slitted windows let in the outside light. There's a drowsy fox curled up on your pillow. A little wheel of orange and red. You gently lift him up onto your pillow and start searching through what Jiaolong left you.
It's nothing special. There's no combat skin or chest-and-back plate. No high-tech helm or armorweave thigh guards. Urban camo fatigues for the legs. A heavy, puffy jacket for your chest with a silky, longsleeved shirt for the underlayer. A mask, sleek piece of crystalline composite; agular, boxy, filters at the side and heavy straps to cinch it in place. There's a utility belt with a pair of sheaths; short and long. You draw the sword first. Test it against the air. It's an old model. Not even Ares; some offbrand shit. The shocksword is thicker than you're used to and a little clumsier. Functional but...ugly.
It's all ugly. Dull and grey. Padded and plain. It wouldn't impede your movement but that's the best that can be said.
You get changed.
Nobody sits up when you come back into the common room. Heart in your throat. Squirming in your new, uncomfortable clothes, your new, uncomfortable skin. A few days ago you were legitimately employed. A few days ago you had a job, a few days ago this, all of this, would be unthinkable. And now? Now you're a r-
...A mercenary. You're a mercenary.
That's what everyone's said. What everyone's told you. And you already decided not to throw yourself over the edge so just take a seat and fold your hands and let things progress.
"Hey! Glad it all fits." To his credit Jiaolong at least sounds moderately pleased. "Had to eyeball your size, its best the Purser had. If you don't like it we can always get something else later. Oh and, uh, word's come down from The King! Your SIN's been burned out man. Welcome to the shadows, etc, etc, whatever. You know the score."
You're legally dead now. A nonperson.
You feel like that should be rocking you harder than it is but considering everything else that's happened recently it's only the little details you can really grasp. The small things that feel real. Everything else just...slides off. Too slippery to handle. You just nod as if he told you it might be warm tonight. He continues. Voice smooth and light.
"So, usually we have a fair bit of discretion in what we do. What jobs we take and where we go. Which is good because most of our money comes from the work we do for The Captain and it's always nice to jump the queue, snag the high paying stuff y'know? We're not really different from your run of the mill mercs in that regard: weapons and kit is all on us to maintain. Contacts are ours to cultivate. Everyone gets a cut of every job of course but you'll be in charge of your own stuff from here on out, like the rest of us."
"I can manage that." And you can. Endless hours of drilling with your kit, finally paying off. Who knew?
"Ultimately this is all mostly just to keep us sleek and shiny for the real work. Which is whatever The King in Yellow tells us to do. Some days it's planting malware and tapping corporate datanets. Other days," a rustle of cloth as he indicates you, "we're bailing guys out of an attack helicopter ambush. Tonight we're going to hit a warehouse and recover a materials cache. It's...milk run stuff really. Good for a first timer! Oh and, uh, Nyx requested that you be paired with her. So the two of you are going to provide us our way in. Understand?"
You look at the black-clad cyborg.
"Understood."
Understood.
The drive into the city was long and quiet. You dozed mostly. Bands of light passing over your face as you sat in the backseat of the SUV; temple pressed against the window. Glowworm up front. Jiaolong behind the wheel. Nyx and Fenrir sitting in the expanded back, knees drawn up tight. You don't remember how long it took you to arrive. Just endless, curving, concrete highways. The fast-flowing current of cars. The hulking whale-shape of an airship in the sky.
But you're here now. Standing in the mouth of an alleyway besides Nyx. Your mask in hand. You circled the block a few times, getting a good look at the structure. Pairing it to the prints Jiaolong forwarded to your PDA. A fence-lined brick: three stories tall and squat. Owned by nobody in particular. Housing nothing special. A squad of cheap, bipedal drones and three bleary-eyed security guards to watch it all.
Nyx stands are your side. Wig hidden behind a sleek, glossy black cowl. Face sealed away behind a facteted faceplate. Harsh, geometic lines joining together into a shield so dark it almost looks wet. The two of you watch the empty parking lot. The lights of the boxy little checkpoint bright, even across the shadowed street. The lone guard sits, cheek in hand, leafing through a magazine.
"Call it." She says. More bored than anything.
[ ] The long way. The fence isn't that high, you and Nyx could clear it easily. You know where the main security office is. Circle your way around. Ghost your way in. Open an access point for the rest of the team. Nobody will ever know you were here. Hopefully.
[ ] The shortcut. Hit the checkpoint. Subdue the guard (nonlethally, life's changed but you're not going to cut down the poor guy). Swipe his keycard and access the node in his booth. Places like this aren't exactly well put together. You can get this over with fast.
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[X] The long way. The fence isn't that high, you and Nyx could clear it easily. You know where the main security office is. Circle your way around. Ghost your way in. Open an access point for the rest of the team. Nobody will ever know you were here. Hopefully.
If you're going to do something, you might as well take the time to do it properly.
If you're going to do something, you might as well take the time to do it properly.
[X] The long way. The fence isn't that high, you and Nyx could clear it easily. You know where the main security office is. Circle your way around. Ghost your way in. Open an access point for the rest of the team. Nobody will ever know you were here. Hopefully.
Sarpedon
Knight Errant
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] The long way. The fence isn't that high, you and Nyx could clear it easily. You know where the main security office is. Circle your way around. Ghost your way in. Open an access point for the rest of the team. Nobody will ever know you were here. Hopefully.
LupineVolt
Now with 200% more Puns
- Location
- Michigan
[X] The shortcut. Hit the checkpoint. Subdue the guard (nonlethally, life's changed but you're not going to cut down the poor guy). Swipe his keycard and access the node in his booth. Places like this aren't exactly well put together. You can get this over with fast.
I say we go quick. Get in, grab the stuff, get out. The longer we're here, the more likely something else is gonna show up and complicate matters. Fortune favors the bold and all that, right?
Besides, sometimes the best way to acclimate is to dive right in. Just keep moving before your brain can catch up to process what you're handling right now.
I say we go quick. Get in, grab the stuff, get out. The longer we're here, the more likely something else is gonna show up and complicate matters. Fortune favors the bold and all that, right?
Besides, sometimes the best way to acclimate is to dive right in. Just keep moving before your brain can catch up to process what you're handling right now.
Deadly Snark
Tryhard As Fuck
[X] The long way. The fence isn't that high, you and Nyx could clear it easily. You know where the main security office is. Circle your way around. Ghost your way in. Open an access point for the rest of the team. Nobody will ever know you were here. Hopefully.
Shortcut is just another name for ambush and trap. I ain't falling for it.
Shortcut is just another name for ambush and trap. I ain't falling for it.
LaRed
Are you stupid or something
- Location
- Mou Ikkai hell
[X] The long way. The fence isn't that high, you and Nyx could clear it easily. You know where the main security office is. Circle your way around. Ghost your way in. Open an access point for the rest of the team. Nobody will ever know you were here. Hopefully.
Gotta take the time to do it right.
Gotta take the time to do it right.
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
[X] The shortcut. Hit the checkpoint. Subdue the guard (nonlethally, life's changed but you're not going to cut down the poor guy). Swipe his keycard and access the node in his booth. Places like this aren't exactly well put together. You can get this over with fast.
You're all loser babymen. Besides, girls are watching and considering one chance to look like we have a large penis slipped away I say we take this one.
You're all loser babymen. Besides, girls are watching and considering one chance to look like we have a large penis slipped away I say we take this one.
XkaliburRage
Perpetual Procrastinator
...what girls?
[X] The long way. The fence isn't that high, you and Nyx could clear it easily. You know where the main security office is. Circle your way around. Ghost your way in. Open an access point for the rest of the team. Nobody will ever know you were here. Hopefully.
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
You're lucky Nyx probably doesn't give enough of a shit to be offended you forgot about her
XkaliburRage
Perpetual Procrastinator
I don't really think Nyx should even be considered human really.You're lucky Nyx probably doesn't give enough of a shit to be offended you forgot about her
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
I don't really think Nyx should even be considered human really.
sir if you disrespect this pure maiden online again i will be forced to kill you without hesitation once i have enough good boy points to get my mum to drive me to your house
notthepenguins
Neither Spherical Nor Frictionless
- Pronouns
- He/She/They
[x] The long way. The fence isn't that high, you and Nyx could clear it easily. You know where the main security office is. Circle your way around. Ghost your way in. Open an access point for the rest of the team. Nobody will ever know you were here. Hopefully.
SirLagginton
Shadow Cabal Caerbannog Bun-Bun
- Location
- Arrrghhh
[X] The long way. The fence isn't that high, you and Nyx could clear it easily. You know where the main security office is. Circle your way around. Ghost your way in. Open an access point for the rest of the team. Nobody will ever know you were here. Hopefully.
[X] The long way. The fence isn't that high, you and Nyx could clear it easily. You know where the main security office is. Circle your way around. Ghost your way in. Open an access point for the rest of the team. Nobody will ever know you were here. Hopefully.
XkaliburRage
Perpetual Procrastinator
sir if you disrespect this pure maiden online again i will be forced to kill you without hesitation once i have enough good boy points to get my mum to drive me to your house
u wot? com @ me den
btw your thing is broken
- Location
- St. Petersburg
[X] The long way. The fence isn't that high, you and Nyx could clear it easily. You know where the main security office is. Circle your way around. Ghost your way in. Open an access point for the rest of the team. Nobody will ever know you were here. Hopefully.
There's no such thing as a milk run, and even if there were, we are still better off treating each job deadly serious. Cutting corners is not a luxury a newbie can afford.
There's no such thing as a milk run, and even if there were, we are still better off treating each job deadly serious. Cutting corners is not a luxury a newbie can afford.
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