. . .a man
neither out of place nor out of time, in perfect harmony with his existance,
but all of that is about to change in the hour of
Midnight: Layer one
Some
called him the Rorschach, others called him worse. For the most part, the
svelte Elven male wandering through Hell cared little. He did his best to avoid
touching the wildly writhing masses around him, who in turn contented
themselves in screaming raggedly and clawing at the air. Many might feel pity
for these lost souls, their hollow eyes lit by the occasional flashes of light
and staring vacantly at nothing in particular, sunken orbs that peered from the
heated shadows like some sort of sweaty, desperate insanity. Not he however, he
felt nothing for these SINers. Absolutely nothing. To him they were merely
prey.
The
Rorschach fancied himself as a hunter in a world too weak for him. One would
think that in a society built upon blood and disbelief that a common thief
would not survive long, and that would be true except he was a rather special case.
Thus it was that he thrived. Those around him were what he thought of as
TridRunners, Street Ronin with no code or class to distinguish themselves from
anyone else with the warez to gun down unsuspecting slots in expensively
tailored suits. They performed whatever task a Johnson asked of them and then
scattered to their various and sundry homes of residence.
He
laughed bitterly at that as he exited Club Hell. Residence. Establish a
routine, stay anywhere too long, sit too still, you became a target. He himself
has no home, sleeping instead in rented caskets, or abandoned buildings. Case
in point: One particular chip head had been entirely too still, standing in
back of the dancers and watching with suspicion like a holopic on his forehead
as the Rorschach slipped nimble fingers into his synth-leather long coat and
removed his SIN and credstick.
That
would have been enough for most thieves perhaps, but not him. Where the man’s
possessions had once been was now a note thanking him for his contributions to
the Modern Panthers and asking if he’d enjoyed his stay in Seattle. Yes, he was
a special case indeed.
Smiling
to himself as he tried to picture the man’s impotent fury when he discovered
the letter in his pocket, he was taken completely by surprise when the strong
hand gripped his shoulder from behind and spun him around, placing him back up
against the scum slicked brick wall.
“Lose
something?”
The
words seemed to pull themselves almost painfully from the unsmiling wound that
served as the large norm’s mouth. The eyes above it were decidedly unfriendly,
and judging by the set of his jaw the Rorschach guessed violence would
immediately ensue. In his right hand the man held what appeared to be a
business card, though noone in this century would have recognized it as such.
Things
like that were Crude and archaic. Ancient. And the Rorschach loved them.
In
his left hand was a rather large handgun. Knowing nothing of guns, side from
their reputation of ending many of thieves dishonourable career in the Shadow,
he could not say what kind it was.
With
a small rueful smile, he slowly reached for the card as thought the whole
situation was slightly embarrassing but truly of no real consequence, however
he never touched it. Instead, small razors slipped free of his fingertips and
seemed to touch lightly upon the man’s wrists for a moment. In the aftermath of
his caress however, his aggressor stumbled back and brought up his gun, blood
flowing freely from his newly opened artery and into a puddle at his feet. He
was quick, the Rorschach had to give him that, however he was a poor match for
anyone but perhaps a small child in his current condition.
The
Rorschach was already twisting around the outstretched arm holding the large
calibur pistol, angling his teeth upwards for the throat, three inch fangs
extending from his incisors and messily removing the man’s larynx. Slumping in
defeat the man quietly bled himself to death, fear and regret a urine scented
pool surrounding his corpse as the thief cum murderer slipped the gore
splattered secure coat from his shoulders
While
the Rorschach was sliding his arms through the entirely too large sleeves, he
was startled by yet a glib voice rising from the dank darkness surrounding him.
“Soft
now, soft. I saw how he got geeked and I can guarantee you I ain’t getting iced
like that.”
Without
turning he tried to ascertain as much about her as he could. Her outline,
shades darker than the dim whisps of midnight clinging to garbage strewn street
before him, suggested she was tall for a woman, her stance said she not only
had a rifle, but that it was trained on his back. Her voice sounded youthful
and sure of herself, her words said she wasn’t overly confident but neither was
she overly concerned. She knew herself, and apparently something of himself as
well.
Dangerous.
Swearing
soundlessly to himself he stayed exactly as he stood, settled comfortably
crouched on his toes, half way into his newly acquired clothing. At her request
he rose to his feet more like an apparition of smoke and shadow rather than a
thing of flesh and blood. He was slim of hip and small of chest, his limbs
likes narrow blades. His clothes only made him seem more slight, transforming
him from a slip of a boy into some spectral haunt. The effect was not caused so
much by what he was wearing, or the build of his body, but rather the liquid
grace with which he carried himself. Turning slowly and raising his hands he
favoured her with a self effacing smile, however he could tell immediately such
guile would do him no good as she did not even notice it. She seemed to be an Elf as well, and as such
probably well used to smiles from men anyway.
Her
eyes were not even on his face, instead they seemed to be examining the 31337
tattoo inscribed along the inside of his wrist. As her wandering glance took
him full in the face he idly considered smiling again, perhaps disarming her
through charm, but the metallic taste of freshly shed blood reminded him of
what was all over his lips and chin, and chest as well. In all probability any
grin he could offer would appear demented if not outright demonic.
“You’re
Rorschach right?”
He
tried not to so much as blink, but apparently she knew what she was about
because she continued without confirmation. A professional, and well informed
as well.
“You
don’t know me, don’t need to either. Yet. Been tracking you for a couple days,
surprised you never noticed, but I won’t hold it against you. I’m good at what
I do. Your not bad yourself, just bad luck he found that paper when he did, and
that he noticed you leaving.”
Fishing
with one hand through a bag at her shoulder, and spilling what looked brass
jacketed rounds roughly three and a half inches in length in the process, she
pulled free a shockingly clean strip of clothe and tossed it to him with the
instruction to clean himself up. He didn’t need to be told twice.
“Handled
yourself well enough, put that was mostly luck too. If he hadn’t been so cocky
he’d have gunned you down instead of facing you. ‘Course that was why you chose
him wasn’t it? Because he was so arrogant.”
Occupied
primarily by his attempt to clean himself, he answered her with a slight nod.
The
material was thoroughly soaked by the time he was satisfied he’d gotten rid of
most of it. Some still lingered beneath his fingernails, and his own clothing
couldn’t be helped much, but for the most part he appeared greatly improved.
Tossing it to the ground, watching momentarily as the restless winds picked it
up and blew it back behind him towards the corpse, he heard her begin talking
again.
“Quiet
aren’t you, or is it true you can’t talk?”
Coughing
quietly he cast a glance before and behind him to make certain there was noone
wandering about, but said nothing. She seemed to enjoy the sound of her own
voice, and he hoped through his silence she would divulge something of her
nature and intention.
“Whatever.
Someone wants to see you.”
Not
an invitation apparently, just a formality which would make his soon to be
abduction something more than a simple kidnapping. Securing her firearm, she
escorted him out of the alleyway flanking him from back and to the left. It
would do him little good to run, he surmised, as she had already found him once
already. His weak attempts to at keeping such a thing from happening obviously
ineffective.
His
thoughts were still focused inward when she made her move, but even still he
wasn’t surprised when she hit tried to hit him at the base of his neck and drop
him like a sack of shit. He wasn’t unconscious, having expected it and compensated
by lifting his shoulder blades upward to soak the blow, but he played along
anyway. He felt himself lifted, then shortly lowered into the trunk of a small
car.
Closing
his eyes he concentrated on the vibrations around him, noting the turns and stops
taken, all the while counting silently to better memorize the route taken.
Assuming he got out of this alive, a good assumption as he was wanted for words
and not a quick death, he’d love nothing more than paying an off season visit
to his guests.
After
a half dozen turns, and a very long slightly curving straight away, he felt the
car dip as the inclination changed downwards. Soon after their speed slowed
considerably. He could hear the sounds of muffled conversation, the whirring of
automated cervos opening a very large gate or entry way, then a short drive
before stopping completely.
Smiling
to himself, he guessed they were somewhere Downtown, and in an area –once
again, assuming he was correct- he knew well. Shiawasi Territory. He knew
little of the Corporations and their rivalries and couldn’t possibly care less,
he preyed upon individuals not faceless institutionalized conglomerates with
privately funded armies, but wracked his mind for any facts he could find
anyway.
The
lid to the trunk cracked somewhat, and just as his eyes adjusted to the new
source of light, he caught sight of what the Elven girl was holding loosely in
her hand.
“Sleep
well? No? Here’s another chance for you then.”
It
was a narcojet gun, aimed directly at his chest. He tried his best to escape,
but he’d no sooner moved than he felt pain explode inside his chest. Grabbing
weakly for her gun, he dimly felt his careless swing brushed easily away.
Trying to concentrate, he felt as though some crushing weight were killing his
ideas before they had done more than taken shape. Confused he slipped away from
the waking world, and into one of nightmare, the girls words leading the way.
“By
the way, my name is Storm.”
To
be Continued. . .
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