My dimly lit office looks like a trideo of one of those old 1950's detective shows, about the hard-hooped gumshoes. The window behind my desk shows a Tacoma neighborhood, except in the way, is a stenciled-in star, with the words "Dirk Star, Private Eye" around it. I sit at my desk, the old fedora with my pointed ears poking through it angled over my eyes, as I take a well-deserved snooze. Suddenly, the intercom on my desk buzzes. I lift my hat, and greet the face of my secretary, Rosie, through the screen of the 'com. The elven lass, age showing through her fair complexion informs me that I have a new client. Telling Rosie to buzz the client in, I straighten up, take out a cig, and light it, just as the door opens, and my client walks in. A buxom chica, in a flowing red dress walks through the open doorway. The door silently closes as she walks for my desk. He silken blond hair flows over her shoulders, making her look almost angelic. When she stops at my desk, I could see that she is almost in tears. As she leans over to tell me her problem, I can almost see down....

Suddenly, my chair gave out, and I toppled backwards, slamming my head to the ground, and knocking my hat off. As I rubbed my sore head, I tried to put my fedora on my head, only to be greeted with pain. I then removed the hat, rubbed the points of my ears, and turned the fedora around, plunking it on my head, and making sure that my ears fit through the holes in my hat. Sometimes I hate being an elf.

Sighing, I righted the chair, plopped back into it, and began comparing the dream I wished I could get back to with the real world. It's the same, 'cept for a couple exceptions. First, the client wasn't a beautiful blond, in fact, the client was non-existent. I remembered that I hadn't had a case in over two weeks. Second, the office may have been the same as the dream, but my desk sure wasn't. Sure, there was still an intercom, and a desk comp, but the top of the desk was a mess. Stale soyburger wrappers mixed with old case papers, that melded with a few items that I didn't want to think about.

I began searching through the jungle, and came upon a couple things of note. The first was a novel I was trying to get through, some comedy book called ShadowGummers by Prof. Hatfield, who taught over at U-Dub, the college I went to. Now, I know that the Prof is an excellent writer; I've read some of his stuff before. I also know that he has a wicked sense of humor, but the idea of geriatric shadowrunners, combined with SMG canes and cybernetic wheelchairs went a bit over the top. However, most of Seattle seemed to like it, so I picked it up on a whim. The other object I found was more interesting at the moment. In the middle of the desk, near the 'com, was an almost empty bottle of Jack Daniels.

Eagerly holding it up, I cleared the desk except for the expensive techno-drek, with a sweep of my arm. Taking a long draw, I drained the rest of the bottle, and tossed it behind me. Hearing the satisfying crash of glass on wood, I began to tire again. Rubbing the back of my head, I remembered not to lean back in my chair again, so I plopped myself on the desk, and tried to find out what my dream girl wanted.

I had just about replayed the entire dream, and was ready to go further, when my sleep was interrupted by a sharp click. I snapped my eyes open, and felt something cold and metallic pressed against my forehead. When I lifted my head, I saw the offending thing up close and too personal for my taste. About half a centemeter from the bridge of my nose, there was a barrel of a gun, an Ares Predator II, that had a barrel about the size of the top of the Space Needle. True, the AP II has only a barrel size of about one or two centemeters, but they didn't measure it from the perspective I had. "Good Evening Mister Star," a cool, menacing voice smoothly stated, from behind the gun. "Please, don't make any sudden movements. I happen to equip all of my weapons with the finest of hair triggers. One faint squeeze, and it goes off. And I am sure, from this range, there is no need to squeeze it more than once." He slightly chuckled at this last statement, and this made me edgy.

During this, I had been expressing my full sight on the cannon in front of me, but gradually, I let my eyes drift up to the person behind the gun, so I could at least know who was going to send me to the next life. From wht I could make out, the person was a human male. His light brown hair and nearly ivory skin had all the marks that he was Anglo, and that didn't set me at ease, either. His black suit, with black shades over his eyes to match signaled that he wasn't in the insurance biz. More likely, he was in the biz that usually made you cash your insurance in. Forcing a swallow down my throat, I built up what courage hadn't been washed out with the sweat forming on my forehead, and I calmly asked, with a tad bit of force, "Who are you, what do you want, and what have you done with Rosie?"

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about your secretary," he flatly replied, with a threatening smirk that made me think that I should worry more about the shape the blood splatter was going to make on the window behind me. "She will awaken in about a couple hours. Luckily for her, Narcojet isn't lethal." Another slight chuckle that set me on edge. "As for who I am, that is not what you need to know. For all aspects, you may know me as Johnson." Ooh, real original. "And finally, to the what. I require your services."

"You know," I shot back, "Forcing your way into my doss, knocking out my secretary, and holding me at gunpoint isn't exactly the way clients usually tell me that they need my 'services'."

"Ah, yes. However, I had to be exactly sure that you would agree to the job."

"I see," I responed, with a frown. "The lead jacket decision. If I take the job, cash, if not, a body bag, neh?"

"Of course," he said, with another of those eerie chuckles. "It is good that you see things as they are."

"It helps in my biz." I sighed. "All right, pal. You have my cojones in the vice, you could at least tell me what I'm going to do, before you redecorate my office in red and grey."

"I assume that you will be graciously accepting the job?"

"Oh yes, I shall be so ecstatic to be graciously preforming for you, sir," I muttered sarcastically.

"There is no need for that, Mister Star. However, before we begin negotiation," My mind pointed it out to me that it meant, read: before I decide not to blow you away... "I must inform you of a very important clause of our agreement."

"Fine, shoot." A thought popped into my mind that I shouldn't have exactly said that, so I backpedaled. "Though, not literally." This time, Mr. Johnson's slight chuckle turned into a slight laugh that made me almost grind my teeth.

"A sense of humor, is very important in the Sixth World, Mister Star. Or should I say, Mister Hawke." That sent my mind reeling. This slag, whoever he was, knew my real name! His rank in my own private Threat Scale had just jumped up about five points from Start Filling Our Yer Will, to You Ain't Got Time To Even Write "Last Will and Testament".

I weakly chuckled. "Um, sure... Good thing to have..."

Mr. Johnson's grin broadened. "Now, as I was saying. You will complete this job to the fullest. If you do not, or run from Seattle, we will catch you, and exact a very painful, very slow, very lethal death on you." I gulped, and slowly nodded. "Good." He took the gun away from my face, and slipped it underneath his black jacket. "Now, what we require from you, is to eliminate the leader of the Ancients here in Seattle."

Again my mind reeled. Anything but the Aincents! Back twenty years ago, when I was still a punk seventeen year-old kid named Frederic Pitt Hawke (don't have time to explain the middle name...), I was the "lucky" offspring of a pair of well-to-dos who make it big from the Resource Rush of the early part of the 21st century. What can I say? My parents were slime.

Anyways, they wanted Sonny Boy to go to college, so he I could learn the underhanded, though legal, tricks of the real estate trade, but I had other plans. Like most young adults, I wanted to see the world, not sell it. Needless to say, Mummy and Daddy would have none of that. After a few arguments, I left, and faster than a runner dives for credsticks, I was disowned, out of the family, out of the will, persona non grata, SIN revoked, drekcetera. Like they were waiting for an excuse to forget about their "freakish elf" of a son anyway.

So, ejected from high society, I had the time of my life. Nobody to tell me what to do, no schedules to keep. I'd been feeling like an outsider with the blue-bloods cause of my pointed ears that I didn't give a frag about 'em anyways. Living out a dream of mine, after securing a doss near Bellvue with my meager savings, I immediatley headed for the shadows. After about a year, I only managed to eke out a living, by being a wannabe named Hacksaw. Frag if I remember where I got the name from. Anyways, after a year of being shot at, nearly killed, and being fragged over by one too many Johnsons, I gave it up. Besides, I was getting that same outsider feeling that I had when I was among my family. I couldn't handle it anymore, cause I knew it was those damn pointy ears of mine again.

So, on the streets again, and beginning to resent being born an elf, I floated near the Bellvue HQ of the Aincents one day, on a whim. I figured that if the rest of the world was giving me drek 'cause I was an elf, then I'd go where my ears didn't stick out like a couple 'a sore thumbs.

After a brief initiation period, I joined the only family I knew that didn't give a frag that I was an elf, cause they were all elves, too. For the next seven years or so, I ran with my new family, still known as Hacksaw, causing havoc here and there just for the hell of it. I even managed to rise in the ranks after a couple of years, becoming one of the Lieutenants eventually. However, after gaining such high prestige, I was getting restless agian, and also a bit apalled at what the gang was doing to certain areas. Knowing that the only way out was via the permanent route, I "killed" myself, then dissapeared. Changing my name to Dirk Star, I went to U-Dub, where I learned how to be a detective, another dream of mine.

And here I was, nearly ten years after doing the fade, getting ready to geek the leader of my ex-gang. I knew this wouln't particularly be good for my health, especially since a couple of contacts within the gang tell me that a few of the higher-ups didn't buy my "death", and are still on my trail. However, like in the old vid, I was forced with an offer I couldn't refuse. At least the pay was good; the "we" that Johnson was working for offered a cool hundred g's to do the deed. That's nearly double what I usually charge, so I was beginning to see things his way.

Mr. J then proceeded to give me the lowdown on the job. The current leader of the Aincents was a chica the name of Sting. She had given the old leader, the one who'd given me the position of Lieutenant, the lead-jacket retirement, and has been in charge of the group for about the last nine years, just a little after I "died". The Mr. J gave me all the details on the job, pictures, maps, etc., but there was still something bothering me... Why was this "we" that he was working for trying to bump off the leader of the most powerful all-elven gang?

"Fine, I get the drift," I muttered to Mr. Johnson, keeping my eye on the area that he put his Predator underneath his jacket. "Off the chicha, contact you guys, collect the g's, dissapear into the shadows, and everything's hunky-dory, neh?"

Mr. J smiled, and replied, "Of course. Once the job is complete, we will no longer need your services, and we can part ways." Translating his sentence, I wasn't too sure about my future life, more about the possibility of the abrupt lack of it.

Not wanting to cause any premature problems, I nodded, and said, "I'll start in the morning."

"Take as much time as you need, Mr. Star. Here is the number that you can contact me when the job is complete." He handed me a small card, that had nothing on it but a number. I noticed that its LTG marked it as being in Redmond, making me worry a bit. He turned, walked to my door, and opened it, before turning his head to me and adding, "Good evening, Mr. Hawke." He then walked out of the door, silently closing it behind him. The sillouette in the frosted glass soon dissapeared afterwards. The moment that he left, I breathed a sigh of relief. I then took the card, booted up my computer, and got to work.

After about three hours, trying to extrapolate the number from both the Metroplex and UCAS phone listings, I came up with bupkus. Drumming my fingers on the desk, I lit up a coffin nail, and puffed on it, trying to figure out what to do next. I then snapped my fingers, immediatley coming up with an idea, and checked my watch, hoping that it was still early enough. Eleven O'clock PM. Puffing thoughfully, I knew that it was on the borderline time; she usually goes to bed between now and one AM, depending on whether she was active or not.

Dialing up her number, I heard it ring. Taking an occasional puff, I was getting aprehensive by the third ring, when the telecom indicated to me that someone on the other line had picked it up. However, I was greeted by a blank screen. I bit down on the cigarette, figuring that this was another of her tricks, when suddenly a computer-generated figure appeared on the screen.

It looked like a Borg, straight out of one of those old Star Trek flatvids from the '90s, floating in the inky blackness. It said, in a metallic voice, "Identify yourself, before I assimilate you. Resistance is futile." I smirked. The Borg was one of her personas; she was an avid Star Trek fan. Besides, it sort of fit with her handle. "Cyber!" I replied, happily. "It's me, Dirk. Cut the Trekkie drek, I need to talk flesh-to-flesh." That meant that I wanted to talk to her out of the Matrix, so we could talk biz. It was safer, cause any decker could possibly float into her LTG number, and scan our convo through the 'Trix.

The Borg just stayed there, floating there for a couple seconds. Soon, it dissapeared, to be replaced with a view of Cyber herself, her messy doss in the background. I smirked; she never was much of a housekeeper. However, Cyber herself was an image. The elven lass, younger than I was, was thin, though well rounded. Brown hair sort of floated on her head, showing her ears fully. And then there were her eyes. She had slate-grey goo-goo eyes that seemed to look directly into your soul, and make you happy forever. Too bad she was already taken.

She warmly smiled to me. "Hello, Dirk," she said, in a voice that made me return the warmth of her smile. "What do you need me for this time?"

"Well Cyb," I replied. "I got a, um, job, and I need a bit of assistance, in finding about the Johnson that hired yours truly. He gave me a number to call, and also didn't seem to get fully briefed about me." I tapped my left temple, and an optical disk popped out of a secret slot, to the right of my left eye. It's times like this that I am happy that I got those cybereyes with the camera option. I have low-light goggles to replace the loss of my natural ability, anyway. I slipped the chip into my comp. "So I have a picture of the perp, too. Not much, he seemed to have been outfitted by anybody, but I at least got him." And I made sure to get him sans gun, too, my brain added. Typing the number in, I added finally, "There's the number, see if you can trace it, and also see if you can get me an ID on Mr. J there." I smiled. "And I'll pay you double for you to get me the info by tomorrow."

Cyber smiled again. "Null persp, Dirk."

I returned it; this was a regular smile see-saw tonight. "Go ahead and leave me a message if I'm out."

She nodded. "Well, I better get to work, then. 'Night, Dirk."

"Good night, Cyb. Be careful out there."

"I always do.."

I chuckled, as she hung up. True, she always managed to be careful. It's just that I had a few apprehensions about this one, that got me worried. Letting out a yawn, I figured that things were in good hands, so I turned the comp of, and rose to my feet. I walked out of my office, and managed to awaken Rosie. She explained that some man had come in, she explained that I was most likely asleep, and then the man shot her with a Narcojet gun. I nodded as she told her story, then told her to take a vacation, to help her forget about this, and gave her a five thousand nuyen certified credstick to help her have a good time. "Good night, Rosie," I then muttered, as I headed up the stairs to my flat on the second story.

"Good night Mr. Star," she called back, "And thank you very much!"

"No prob." I got to the door leading to my flat, and unlocked it. Locking it behind me, I then proceeded to get drunk, and crash on my couch, trying to at least forget about what I had to do for one night.