JOINT VENTURE
Chapter 31
by shapcano
Pale and haggard, the elf shook his head and sighed at the inquisitive look from Edge.
"I don't know what it is." Wolfman said with frustration in his voice. "I can't reach him. It's like he's protected from the very magic that would cure him." Shaking his head sadly the mage continued, "I can't even get him out of the fever state to talk to him. He just moans and tosses. I......"
"Hanzo! Itami Hanzo!" a hoarse voice called from the room the elf had just left. All of the team piled in to see their leader.
Cloak looked worse, if possible, than he did immediately after his encounter with the city spirit. Now, not only were there purpling contusions every place that wasn't covered by bandages or bedclothes, but he had the sunken-eyed sallow air of someone with a wasting disease. Only one eye was open and the pain caused by calling for Itami had the phys ad grimacing. Propped up on one elbow he held off all questions, comment and ministrations by weakly saying, "just Itami, please."
Despite their concern, the squad hastened to give their leader the privacy he sought.
Seven minutes later a determined looking Speed Racer returned to be immediately surrounded by the team.
"He's sleeping again. Gave me some instructions and then sort of collapsed," the ork rigger said. "First of all, Wolfman- you can stop the healing spells. They aren't going to work. Something from the artifact has hold of him. He's fighting, but your spells just don't get through. He said thanks, but stop killing yourself. You'll need your strength later."
"Second- Whatever we decide to do about the artifact is ok. He knows that he committed us to the job before he knew what it was all about, he's sorry and he doesn't want us getting fucked over out of loyalty to him. He said we should vote on what we want to do and then do it. He'll support any decision we make."
"Third- He said to tell Lug particularly that he was sorry.
"Fourth- whatever we decide, I've got to take the boss outta here after I make some arrangements. He hopes to be back but he's only got so long before he loses control. He said that before that happens he'll off himself. Thinks maybe distance from the thing will help. Tried to joke about not becoming a sock puppet for evil but........ FUCK! Listen, I owe that man my life more times than I want to think about. I gotta start makin arrangements. You guys do whatever you think is best about the fuckin whip. Burn the fuckin thing for all I care. I gotta go."
With that, Speed Racer stomped out to make telecom calls, leaving the Monster squad looking at each other and considering alternatives.
Nestor fumed quietly as he listened to Gregory Carmichael, (Fire Master of the Council of Elements, and the elf's superior in the Atlantean Foundation), recite a laundry list of frag ups. Never mind that he had been saddled with a psychopathic Dwarf illusionist more concerned with his own infantile pranks than the Foundation’s concerns. Pay no attention to the fact that even this “help” disappeared when this same dwarf had paid the final price for pissing off a spell slinger, getting himself noisily rendered into itty-bitty dwarf meat balls by the massed automatic weapons fire of the mercenary crew that he was supposed to be assisting in the retrieval of an ancient artifact. Forget that Nestor was also burdened with competition from a sociopath who not only did not care how many corpses he left in his trail, but wasn’t concerned at all about how many newfaxes he helped sell along the way. Or that Quillum's disregard for the sanctity of life extended to his fellow Mystic Crusaders, or even his own employees, which he had amply demonstrated in what the newsies were now calling “The Battle for Hell”. No. Carmichael had been embarrassed by his agents’ lack of subtlety and now was verbally excoriating Nestor for his failure. The Mystic Crusader’s only relief from the dressing down was the thought of how Maynard Fitzhue was conveying his displeasure to Quillum.
Rook felt completely helpless. Over the last several months, since becoming a member of the lost boys, he’d learned a great deal about himself and his capabilities. He’d developed pride in his ability as a tactician and great respect and admiration for his teammates. He was now discovering the other side of the lesson his friends had been drumming into him since joining the team: Letting the expert direct the team worked for specific situations, but absent the situation, someone had to look to overall goals. Strategy and Tactics, the decker thought, when Owen determines what the goal is, he sets the strategy. The team has trust in each other and has diverse expertise so we use that to establish the tactics for a particular situation. Now we need to figure out who will determine strategic objectives in the boss’s absence.
Through force of will Speed broke himself out of mission mode as he went looking for transportation. He normally would have picked up a Land-Rover or a Gaz-Willys Nomad and tricked it out himself for the journey ahead, but the boss’s plea “Please Itami, get me out of here…now….” kept echoing in his mind. So instead of his usual frugal approach, the rigger summoned up the courage to consider an SUV that cost more than double what he would otherwise have spent because it was already armored and ready to go. Before handing over the credsticks for the Renraku Bear, however, he did take the time to listen carefully to the engine and then rig the vehicle through a few miles of test. Without time for more than a token negotiation the thoroughly frustrated Ork muttered under his breath as he handed over ¥60,000. He took the “free bonus” camping equipment package offered by the overjoyed salesman without comment.
The dark echoed with the screams of the dying.
“Your handiwork” the voice whispered with glee. “A lifetime spreading death and destruction…”
Before he could utter a syllable of denial the silent parade began. Accusing eyes stared at him from the faces of those whose lives he had taken while serving the master of the Compound. The line stretched off to the horizon and, hard as he tried, he could not glance away from the unending train of pain and death. From the old gardener who had been his first through countless nameless “assignments”, he watched with dread as the parade of enemies, rivals, associates trooped past. He longed to tear himself away as the knowledge of what was coming grew. Finally it was there. He watched in horror as his adopted brother crawled up.
“Even a loved one” the voice gloated
The fomori adept’s body was suddenly ripped by the wounds that had killed him. As the long bloody gash appeared across the troll’s throat and the crimson stain spread across the massive chest, the horror nearly shattered Owen’s mind. The only thing that allowed him to hang on to a shred of sanity was the echo of Smiley’s wondering voice repeating "Zato-ichi...Grayson, you’re....Zato-ichi." There was no malice, no accusation in the tone, just a sense of surprise. Somewhere the pride in his “little brother’s” acceptance of the code of bushido, the fact that Smiley let go of life without anger or malice, gave Owen a part of his own fractured identity to cling to. It kept him from surrendering all control to his tormentor.
In spite of all malicious commands, he closed his eyes to the hell in his mind and enjoyed a few seconds of peace.
“We’ll begin again” the menacing voice whispered.
This story is copyright of the author. Shadowrun was a Registered Trademark of FASA Corporation until they went busto foldo. Now Wizkids LLC owns it. Or possibly FanPro. Or some other dragon owned subsidiary. Whoever holds the trademark, they didn't call and tell me it was ok to write this, and anybody who says I said that is full of it. I'm not challenging any of the rights or trademarks of anybody who own's them, whoever they are. I'm just writing stories. Honest. Thank you for not litigating.
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