Realizing that his question would be more appropriate if he had chosen "Rookie" for his out-of-town handle, the decker debated internally about asking what was on the tip of his tongue. Seeing the nonchalant look on the faces of the other members of the "Monster Squad" as they sat around the conference table preparing to discuss their next move, did nothing to curb his curiosity. He'd waited for an explanation as the team had re-entered their new doss but it was becoming obvious that the conversation was not going to involve the incident he had just witnessed. Finally, reaching the end of his patience, Rook blurted out: "Okay, okay. I'll ask. Why?"
"Why, what?" Manny innocently responded.
"Why did Owen.....er, Cloak take so long to brutalize that clown?" The exasperated Ork asked.
"Brutalize?" Wolfman asked as his eyebrows arched, "Clown? My dear Rook, methinks the wonder of travel has befogged your powers of observation......."
"No," Speed Racer interrupted. "It was brutal." He said to the group in general. "Leatherface shouldn't be dismissed as a clown. He was obviously strong and tough, but Rook's got to understand why what happened happened." The rigger said, defending his young teammate's question.
"So, let Rook tell us." Edge said, cutting into the ensuing silence.
"Yeah," Manny agreed. "Why did Cloak take so long to brutalize that clown, Rook?"
Rook's mind raced as all eyes turned to him to hear his analysis. "Well....... He didn't hurt the girl at all. She obvious had a lot of skill and speed, but he proved he was faster and more skillful by NOT hurting her. Everybody saw that he could have taken her out pretty easily but he just kept uh......."
"Counting coup" Wolfman helpfully supplied. When Rook cocked his head to indicate he was unfamiliar with the term, the elf said quietly "Touching your enemy in battle without inflicting damage proves that you could do damage but that you have enough skill not to. Historically, some Native American tribes resolved entire disputes this way."
Nodding as he saw the logic of it, the young ork recognized that the team was still waiting for his analysis. "Okay so counting coup with the dancer shows speed and skill, which ought to be enough but......uhm.....this slot Leatherface didn't get it. He kept pushing like strength was the only important thing......." To Rook's credit the pause as the conclusion dawned was considerably shorter than it might have been a few weeks previously. "....so Cloak beat him just using strength. No fancy moves, no kicks or throws or joint locks. Just a fist in the face until the ganger was out cold. Cleaning his clock that way.....leaves no doubt that Cloak is not somebody to frag with, and uh, by extension, neither are his teammates."
"Why not cack him and be done with it?" Manny challenged.
Without hesitating, Rook responded, "But that would mean that the gang's rep would be in the drecker. They couldn't stand by and see one of their own get iced, but if one of their own got beat and beat convincingly after a challenge to single combat......" Turning back to Cloak the now blushing decker said "...Uhm...sorry, boss. I...uh, didn't think it through. Just...uh, reacted to the mismatch....."
Cloak nodded his acceptance of the decker's apology but the young ork saw a flash of deep regret in the phys ad's eyes as he said "No apology necessary, Rook. It was brutal and probably wrong to use my abilities to turn that ganger into an object lesson. No doubt I'll pay for it eventually." With a small sigh that was almost wistful, Cloak continued, "It seemed the best course of action at the time....."
"...So you just take my advice." Wolfman interrupted loudly, "When some wild-eyed 8 foot tall maniac grabs your throat and starts tapping the back of your favorite head against the bar room wall, stares you crooked in the eye and asks if you've paid your dues...."
Smiling, Cloak responded "You remember what old Jack Burton always says at a time like that. 'Have you paid your dues, Jack?' Yes, sir. The check is in the mail."
The phys ad and elf mage offered each other a nod of acknowledgment: Wolfman for Cloak's successfully completing the opening speech of the vid "Big Trouble in Little China" and Cloak for his friend's shocking him out of some guilt ridden introspection.
If the thought that his fellow Mystic Crusaders were also attempting to secure the artifact that was his assignment bothered him, Quillum gave no outward indication. Nor did he give any sign that he was concerned about the potential for internecine bloodshed as different factions within the foundation sought the prize he had been dispatched to discover. Instead Quillum did that for which his skills, training and disposition were best suited. He intimidated those around him with a greater desire for personal safety then he possessed. A short while after completing his instructions to the rigger, the albino was pursuing his own lines of inquiry at a local bar.
".....you listen, Whitey!" The troll's voice rumbled as he dramatically drew the cutdown, pistol gripped, 10 gauge shotgun which served him as a sidearm, "Ya don't get yer hand offa da boss's troat right now, I'm......"
"....SHUT UP!!" The elf woman gasped. When the albino relaxed the grip on her trachea enough for her to breathe, she quickly said, "Nobody say or do anything, nothing at ack....."
Tightening his grip on the fixer's throat to cut off her instructions to her crew, Quillum looked around The Apple Pie to see if any of the bar's personnel would make the mistake of responding to his provocation. Noting that the watering hole had adopted the frenetic activity of an empty statue gallery, the albino turned his attention back to the elf woman. "Doc....elf....mage...runner. Associates?" He asked quietly.
As the grip on her throat relaxed enough for her to draw a lung full of air, Lonalee "Lon" Sweetsong, instantly reviewed her options. Neither Buttercup, her trained Bogie, nor Choe Choe Sammy, her shaman bodyguard, had given any indication that the albino was any sort of a threat, and between the two of them the pair were usually sensitive enough to sniff out untruths, let alone hostility. In spite of their regularly displayed (and relied upon) talent for paranormal paranoia, this white hared norm was literally only inches away from tearing out her windpipe. This norm was way too dangerous to mess around with. As her thoughts naturally turned to her attacker's possible acquisition to her stable of operatives, Lon felt the hand on her throat begin to close as Buttercup let out a small pitiable whine.
"I...know Doc." Lon said, buying herself more air. "Top runner.... hasn't worked for me in years...." Quillum indicated his impatience by a slight squeeze and the elf woman's thoughts of selling information disappeared as the lack of air caused her vision to darken. "....Lost boys...." she gasped out, earning another reprieve from suffocation.
"Lost Boys?" Quillum asked.
"Top team..... 2 orks, 2 norms, 1 dwarf, and Doc" Lon quickly explained, "All male. Phys ad, Rigger, Decker, Mage and Sams. Heavy. Major rep. Gone."
"Gone?"
"Outta town. Dead of night to parts unknown." This last bit of data had caused Quillum to release Lon's throat entirely, but the absolute stillness she and her assailant displayed kept the rest of the bar frozen.
Without moving a muscle Quillum demanded more data with a look. Finally Lon said "Look, the Lost Boys don't take work from fixers. Nobody can give you anything about them because they don't like working for anybody. Nobody knows where they went but they didn't bother to hide the fact that they were leaving town. Since they didn't take their equipment, everybody assumes they'll be back...." The sarcastic offer to tell them he had been looking for them died on the elf woman's lips as the albino took off his glasses to show her the death in his eyes.
Quillum produced a certified cred stick with 20,000 nuyen on it and laid it on a table by way of apology/compensation. His respect for the elf woman's organization increased when nobody made any move at all over this "peace offering".
Without fear or hesitation the albino turned and sauntered to the door. When he got there he turned back to offer more creds for data on where the "Lost Boys" might have gone to, but Lon shook her head before he could voice the offer. Toying with the idea of killing everyone in the tavern to prevent the annoyance of misguided counter-attacks, Quillum paused outside to consider the now confirmed data that his prey had fled town. After 20 seconds of complete silence from the bar ( relayed by the micro-transceiver planted in the credstick's body) he saw the stick come sailing through the open door. Since it was a business expense he didn't bother to pick it up. With a shrug he moved back up the street.
Back in the Apple Pie, Lon cut off her crew's apologies/explanations/solicitous-offers-of-bloodshed with a look. She then thought long and hard about the advisability of selling a description of the Lost Boys' hunter on the Watcher Board. The memory of the madness in the albino eyes decided her on discretion being the better part of survival. With a slight shudder she concluded that there were just too many safer ways to make a cred.
Trick or Treat, eh? Gini Kiew Kit thought as she examined the scene of the Vice Lords' massacre. Tossing her wild mane of red hair while looking over the grisly remains of the ganger's patrol, the small woman thought, Not only are a team of my servitors wiped out in a grisly fashion on their own "turf", but their murderer leaves behind a challenge. "Trick or Treat".... Trick or Treat.... I will find whoever did this and have a little Trick or Treat of my own.... Quickly putting aside all thoughts of vengance, Gini began reconstructing how the murders took place. Like a clever detective, she questioned every detail of every wound, eventually concluding that some form of illusion magic must have been involved. Her lips pulled back into a snarl/smile as she checked the area to insure she was unobserved. Once certain that she was alone the small Asian woman began to change. Her face flowed and reformed as her features became more fox like and her body shrank. Within seconds, in place of the Asian woman, a vixen stood testing the wind. The fox scented the illusion magic that permeated the air around the dead bodies and, more to the point, began to construct a psychic impression of the twisted mind that had created that magic. Once satisfied that the scent would not be forgotten and that the impression was as detailed as she could make it, she morphed back into her human form. After a few minutes of concentrated thought Gini plucked the flip phone from the pocket of one of the bodies and called for a meeting with the remaining Vice Lords.
As she stepped from the alley, Gini's face was grim. The small twisted one who did this may not have had any object in mind save amusement, but when I find him the cost of this will be higher than he can imagine.
His target was very good. Perhaps even great. Detailed, elusive, subtle. He wouldn't hesitate to admit that without enough resources the decker's work might never be found. Guyver, however, had the resources and the preponderance of evidence was bringing him to the point of mathematical certainty on his target's location.
Lying flat on his back in Atlanta's Richfield Sanitarium, Guyver's meat wore a wrist tag that read Richard Vitaris. The decker had long ago ceased to identify with the decaying physical shell which lay among the banks of monitors and respirators. No, it was even difficult to remember when he had been able to make the meat move, much less to think of it as part of him. He was the Guyver, a silver bodied, faceless cyclops, relentlessly tracking data through the matrix at the behest of the Atlantean foundation.
Beginning with the premise that his quarry had arranged to move his "team" quickly, Guyver had directed three of the deckers who worked for him to look at all travel arrangements made from the target's city within twenty four hours of departure. As his hounds accumulated this vast store of data, he had another matrix head isolating the gender and races of the travelers while a fifth tracked common destinations. He had BALL, the spherical icon of the decker he trusted the most, check and direct the others while he himself built the endless symbolic logic formulae which would determine the highest probabilities from the data the other deckers were accumulating. As the mathematics of the process progressed, the focus of the deckers effort became more and more specific. Eventually the odds said that the target probably fled to the west coast, that if he had fled to the west coast he had probably gone to Seattle, that if he had gone to Seattle, these were probably the identities used.
Putting aside this set of probabilities, Guyver next directed his researchers to work from the premise that the quarry's team had long standing escape routes that would allow them to disappear quickly. When the data had been collected, sifted and run through the probabilities, he set this data aside and approached the problem from a third angle, this time looking for the best places to have ultra powerful players "bid" on an artifact at "auction". The more premises he examined, the greater the preponderance of Seattle appearing at the end of his formulae. Eventually he called Master Fitzhue with his conclusions.
"Excellent work, Guyver" the Wind master responded before the decker could bore him to tears with his endless explanation of the logic chain which supported the conclusion. "The Foundation is grateful for your thoroughness. We will take it from here."
Approximately 18 seconds after his conversation with Maynard Fitzhue, Guyver had utilized another probability formulae and was acting on it's conclusion. He could hear the smile in the bored drawl of his second call as Gregory Carmichael said ".... yes, Guyvah, ahm very interested in your conclusions and ah'll certainly remembah your consideration in letting me know what was happening. You let me know when ah can return the favor..... Thank you, sir."
The Shadorat and shapcano. Together again for the first time! This serial continues at Winterhawk's Virtual Magespace. To read Chapter 18 click here.
This story is copyright of the author. Shadowrun is a Registered Trademark of FASA Corporation. All Rights Reserved. Used without permission. Any use of FASA Corporation's copyrighted material or trademarks in this file should not be viewed as a challenge to those copyrights or trademarks.
"Why, what?" Manny innocently responded.
"Why did Owen.....er, Cloak take so long to brutalize that clown?" The exasperated Ork asked.
"Brutalize?" Wolfman asked as his eyebrows arched, "Clown? My dear Rook, methinks the wonder of travel has befogged your powers of observation......."
"No," Speed Racer interrupted. "It was brutal." He said to the group in general. "Leatherface shouldn't be dismissed as a clown. He was obviously strong and tough, but Rook's got to understand why what happened happened." The rigger said, defending his young teammate's question.
"So, let Rook tell us." Edge said, cutting into the ensuing silence.
"Yeah," Manny agreed. "Why did Cloak take so long to brutalize that clown, Rook?"
Rook's mind raced as all eyes turned to him to hear his analysis. "Well....... He didn't hurt the girl at all. She obvious had a lot of skill and speed, but he proved he was faster and more skillful by NOT hurting her. Everybody saw that he could have taken her out pretty easily but he just kept uh......."
"Counting coup" Wolfman helpfully supplied. When Rook cocked his head to indicate he was unfamiliar with the term, the elf said quietly "Touching your enemy in battle without inflicting damage proves that you could do damage but that you have enough skill not to. Historically, some Native American tribes resolved entire disputes this way."
Nodding as he saw the logic of it, the young ork recognized that the team was still waiting for his analysis. "Okay so counting coup with the dancer shows speed and skill, which ought to be enough but......uhm.....this slot Leatherface didn't get it. He kept pushing like strength was the only important thing......." To Rook's credit the pause as the conclusion dawned was considerably shorter than it might have been a few weeks previously. "....so Cloak beat him just using strength. No fancy moves, no kicks or throws or joint locks. Just a fist in the face until the ganger was out cold. Cleaning his clock that way.....leaves no doubt that Cloak is not somebody to frag with, and uh, by extension, neither are his teammates."
"Why not cack him and be done with it?" Manny challenged.
Without hesitating, Rook responded, "But that would mean that the gang's rep would be in the drecker. They couldn't stand by and see one of their own get iced, but if one of their own got beat and beat convincingly after a challenge to single combat......" Turning back to Cloak the now blushing decker said "...Uhm...sorry, boss. I...uh, didn't think it through. Just...uh, reacted to the mismatch....."
Cloak nodded his acceptance of the decker's apology but the young ork saw a flash of deep regret in the phys ad's eyes as he said "No apology necessary, Rook. It was brutal and probably wrong to use my abilities to turn that ganger into an object lesson. No doubt I'll pay for it eventually." With a small sigh that was almost wistful, Cloak continued, "It seemed the best course of action at the time....."
"...So you just take my advice." Wolfman interrupted loudly, "When some wild-eyed 8 foot tall maniac grabs your throat and starts tapping the back of your favorite head against the bar room wall, stares you crooked in the eye and asks if you've paid your dues...."
Smiling, Cloak responded "You remember what old Jack Burton always says at a time like that. 'Have you paid your dues, Jack?' Yes, sir. The check is in the mail."
The phys ad and elf mage offered each other a nod of acknowledgment: Wolfman for Cloak's successfully completing the opening speech of the vid "Big Trouble in Little China" and Cloak for his friend's shocking him out of some guilt ridden introspection.
If the thought that his fellow Mystic Crusaders were also attempting to secure the artifact that was his assignment bothered him, Quillum gave no outward indication. Nor did he give any sign that he was concerned about the potential for internecine bloodshed as different factions within the foundation sought the prize he had been dispatched to discover. Instead Quillum did that for which his skills, training and disposition were best suited. He intimidated those around him with a greater desire for personal safety then he possessed. A short while after completing his instructions to the rigger, the albino was pursuing his own lines of inquiry at a local bar.
".....you listen, Whitey!" The troll's voice rumbled as he dramatically drew the cutdown, pistol gripped, 10 gauge shotgun which served him as a sidearm, "Ya don't get yer hand offa da boss's troat right now, I'm......"
"....SHUT UP!!" The elf woman gasped. When the albino relaxed the grip on her trachea enough for her to breathe, she quickly said, "Nobody say or do anything, nothing at ack....."
Tightening his grip on the fixer's throat to cut off her instructions to her crew, Quillum looked around The Apple Pie to see if any of the bar's personnel would make the mistake of responding to his provocation. Noting that the watering hole had adopted the frenetic activity of an empty statue gallery, the albino turned his attention back to the elf woman. "Doc....elf....mage...runner. Associates?" He asked quietly.
As the grip on her throat relaxed enough for her to draw a lung full of air, Lonalee "Lon" Sweetsong, instantly reviewed her options. Neither Buttercup, her trained Bogie, nor Choe Choe Sammy, her shaman bodyguard, had given any indication that the albino was any sort of a threat, and between the two of them the pair were usually sensitive enough to sniff out untruths, let alone hostility. In spite of their regularly displayed (and relied upon) talent for paranormal paranoia, this white hared norm was literally only inches away from tearing out her windpipe. This norm was way too dangerous to mess around with. As her thoughts naturally turned to her attacker's possible acquisition to her stable of operatives, Lon felt the hand on her throat begin to close as Buttercup let out a small pitiable whine.
"I...know Doc." Lon said, buying herself more air. "Top runner.... hasn't worked for me in years...." Quillum indicated his impatience by a slight squeeze and the elf woman's thoughts of selling information disappeared as the lack of air caused her vision to darken. "....Lost boys...." she gasped out, earning another reprieve from suffocation.
"Lost Boys?" Quillum asked.
"Top team..... 2 orks, 2 norms, 1 dwarf, and Doc" Lon quickly explained, "All male. Phys ad, Rigger, Decker, Mage and Sams. Heavy. Major rep. Gone."
"Gone?"
"Outta town. Dead of night to parts unknown." This last bit of data had caused Quillum to release Lon's throat entirely, but the absolute stillness she and her assailant displayed kept the rest of the bar frozen.
Without moving a muscle Quillum demanded more data with a look. Finally Lon said "Look, the Lost Boys don't take work from fixers. Nobody can give you anything about them because they don't like working for anybody. Nobody knows where they went but they didn't bother to hide the fact that they were leaving town. Since they didn't take their equipment, everybody assumes they'll be back...." The sarcastic offer to tell them he had been looking for them died on the elf woman's lips as the albino took off his glasses to show her the death in his eyes.
Quillum produced a certified cred stick with 20,000 nuyen on it and laid it on a table by way of apology/compensation. His respect for the elf woman's organization increased when nobody made any move at all over this "peace offering".
Without fear or hesitation the albino turned and sauntered to the door. When he got there he turned back to offer more creds for data on where the "Lost Boys" might have gone to, but Lon shook her head before he could voice the offer. Toying with the idea of killing everyone in the tavern to prevent the annoyance of misguided counter-attacks, Quillum paused outside to consider the now confirmed data that his prey had fled town. After 20 seconds of complete silence from the bar ( relayed by the micro-transceiver planted in the credstick's body) he saw the stick come sailing through the open door. Since it was a business expense he didn't bother to pick it up. With a shrug he moved back up the street.
Back in the Apple Pie, Lon cut off her crew's apologies/explanations/solicitous-offers-of-bloodshed with a look. She then thought long and hard about the advisability of selling a description of the Lost Boys' hunter on the Watcher Board. The memory of the madness in the albino eyes decided her on discretion being the better part of survival. With a slight shudder she concluded that there were just too many safer ways to make a cred.
Trick or Treat, eh? Gini Kiew Kit thought as she examined the scene of the Vice Lords' massacre. Tossing her wild mane of red hair while looking over the grisly remains of the ganger's patrol, the small woman thought, Not only are a team of my servitors wiped out in a grisly fashion on their own "turf", but their murderer leaves behind a challenge. "Trick or Treat".... Trick or Treat.... I will find whoever did this and have a little Trick or Treat of my own.... Quickly putting aside all thoughts of vengance, Gini began reconstructing how the murders took place. Like a clever detective, she questioned every detail of every wound, eventually concluding that some form of illusion magic must have been involved. Her lips pulled back into a snarl/smile as she checked the area to insure she was unobserved. Once certain that she was alone the small Asian woman began to change. Her face flowed and reformed as her features became more fox like and her body shrank. Within seconds, in place of the Asian woman, a vixen stood testing the wind. The fox scented the illusion magic that permeated the air around the dead bodies and, more to the point, began to construct a psychic impression of the twisted mind that had created that magic. Once satisfied that the scent would not be forgotten and that the impression was as detailed as she could make it, she morphed back into her human form. After a few minutes of concentrated thought Gini plucked the flip phone from the pocket of one of the bodies and called for a meeting with the remaining Vice Lords.
As she stepped from the alley, Gini's face was grim. The small twisted one who did this may not have had any object in mind save amusement, but when I find him the cost of this will be higher than he can imagine.
His target was very good. Perhaps even great. Detailed, elusive, subtle. He wouldn't hesitate to admit that without enough resources the decker's work might never be found. Guyver, however, had the resources and the preponderance of evidence was bringing him to the point of mathematical certainty on his target's location.
Lying flat on his back in Atlanta's Richfield Sanitarium, Guyver's meat wore a wrist tag that read Richard Vitaris. The decker had long ago ceased to identify with the decaying physical shell which lay among the banks of monitors and respirators. No, it was even difficult to remember when he had been able to make the meat move, much less to think of it as part of him. He was the Guyver, a silver bodied, faceless cyclops, relentlessly tracking data through the matrix at the behest of the Atlantean foundation.
Beginning with the premise that his quarry had arranged to move his "team" quickly, Guyver had directed three of the deckers who worked for him to look at all travel arrangements made from the target's city within twenty four hours of departure. As his hounds accumulated this vast store of data, he had another matrix head isolating the gender and races of the travelers while a fifth tracked common destinations. He had BALL, the spherical icon of the decker he trusted the most, check and direct the others while he himself built the endless symbolic logic formulae which would determine the highest probabilities from the data the other deckers were accumulating. As the mathematics of the process progressed, the focus of the deckers effort became more and more specific. Eventually the odds said that the target probably fled to the west coast, that if he had fled to the west coast he had probably gone to Seattle, that if he had gone to Seattle, these were probably the identities used.
Putting aside this set of probabilities, Guyver next directed his researchers to work from the premise that the quarry's team had long standing escape routes that would allow them to disappear quickly. When the data had been collected, sifted and run through the probabilities, he set this data aside and approached the problem from a third angle, this time looking for the best places to have ultra powerful players "bid" on an artifact at "auction". The more premises he examined, the greater the preponderance of Seattle appearing at the end of his formulae. Eventually he called Master Fitzhue with his conclusions.
"Excellent work, Guyver" the Wind master responded before the decker could bore him to tears with his endless explanation of the logic chain which supported the conclusion. "The Foundation is grateful for your thoroughness. We will take it from here."
Approximately 18 seconds after his conversation with Maynard Fitzhue, Guyver had utilized another probability formulae and was acting on it's conclusion. He could hear the smile in the bored drawl of his second call as Gregory Carmichael said ".... yes, Guyvah, ahm very interested in your conclusions and ah'll certainly remembah your consideration in letting me know what was happening. You let me know when ah can return the favor..... Thank you, sir."
The Shadorat and shapcano. Together again for the first time! This serial continues at Winterhawk's Virtual Magespace. To read Chapter 18 click here.
This story is copyright of the author. Shadowrun is a Registered Trademark of FASA Corporation. All Rights Reserved. Used without permission. Any use of FASA Corporation's copyrighted material or trademarks in this file should not be viewed as a challenge to those copyrights or trademarks.
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