When things go to hell, I always find a part of brain thinking about the weirdest things. This time it was thinking about all the names I’ve had in my life. It had started off thinking about our current employer, a Mr. Harley Quinn. Obviously Harley Quinn wasn’t his real name, but if it was, or if he was working for the mysterious elf with the painted face, then we were in deep drek. There are only two rules to shadowrunning - never deal with a dragon and never, ever trust an elf. So far I haven’t broken rule number one, but with an elf decker on our team and our mysterious elven employer I guess I’ve really fragged number two.
I suspected that the run was a bad deal from the beginning. It started out with a meet at a very suave elven party in the AAA part of town. Our fixer supplied the invites and I wore the only suit I own, a ferrari red armored armanti outfit that I bought with the up-front money from a previous run. The suit was custom-fitted for me with just the right amount of extra material to conceal a slim-line shoulder holster under my left shoulder. I was also wearing a pair of fake Jimi Choo red leather shoes with Ares SureGripTM sprayed on the soles. Finally, I had my hair and goatee trimmed and dyed red just for the occasion.
Needless to say, the while the outfit blended in, I didn’t. The only other humans at the party were Stylish, our ex-corp wireguy and our physad Oshi’. Fortunately, none of the elves even deigned to notice our presence as the ‘butler’ escorted us in to meet the Johnson. The room was a like a library out of some period trid, filled with real books and polished wood. Frag, you could even smell the polish and paper. The Johnson looked just like any other elf – tall, thin and with an indefinable air of superiority – and then he introduced himself as “Quinn. Harley Quinn” and gave us all a knowing wink.
Fortunately, I was running a level three corp etiquette activesoft, so I didn’t even blink. However, Oshi’ gawped so wide I could see her tonsils and Stylish looked like he was ready to flee the premises. Then the fragger makes this flourish with his hands and he’s got four credsticks in one hand and what looks like a maglock passkey in the other. Stylish’s expression changed from fear to greed when he clocked the passkey, while I was trying my best to zoom in on the amount displayed on the credsticks. When I did, the Russian knock-off of a Jewish negotiating skillsoft I was running went divide by zero and I practically had to reboot my headware to get it back up and running.
As a result, we were probably a bit hasty about accepting the job, which requires us to break into this no-name corp premises, tonight, with no preparation, and crack a safe containing the financial records of a particularly vicious elven biker gang called the Halloweeners.
With no time to prepare, we’re going in loaded for bear. Stylish has configured his ?? with the heavier carbine barrel and extended stock. Oshi’s got her spear, which is usually all she needs, and Medusa’s wearing light combat armor and carrying her cut-down Remington pump-action shotgun in addition to her tools and deck. Me, I’ve got Rover and I’m wearing the suit.
We’re standing in the rain outside the target when our employer’s name starts running around that part of my brain that stands next to me and dispassionately analyses everything I do. It’s not a good sign, but I try to ignore as I complete my systems check and climb into the captain’s chair. That’s right chummer, I’m the team’s rigger, although you would technically refer to me as a combat remote rigger. That just means that I don’t spend all my time waiting for the rest of the team in the getaway vehicle, I’m in there with them, backed up by my drones.
I’ve got a headful of cyber including a full level two rigger interface and a mnemonic enhancer that helps stop me walking into things while I’m in the captain’s chair. Right now I’m juggling feeds from Rover, my doberman combat drone, the bulldog’s passive sensor array and the suit’s rigger interface. The suit, by the way, isn’t just a suit. It’s a heavily modified set of heavy security armor featuring a combined rigger and remote interface, full combat sensors, a pair of micro turrets equipped with Beretta light machine pistols and a deluxe gyro mount currently supporting an aging but reliable AK98. Basically, I’m a walking gun platform.
The bulldog’s parked in a spot directly across from the main entrance in case we need it to cover our escape and Rover is tagging along by my side, his weapon systems, slaved to my smartlink. We roll up to the front entrance and Stylish swipes the passkey through the lock on the front door and instead of going ‘click’ it goes ‘click, bzzz’, and the run starts its journey down the toilet.
That ‘click, bzzz’ takes me back to when I was a kid, reminding me of the sound the security door to our apartment block used to make when somebody ‘buzzed’ you in. Back then my name was Mark. Mark Howard. I remember that I used to know I was in trouble when my mother called me by my full name, otherwise she usually just called me ‘Marky’. However, apart from a few close chummers who still use my first name when we’re not on a run, no-one uses that handle anymore. Most people know me as Fire Mission, although they often shorten it to ‘Mission or even abbreviate it right down to ‘FM’ if the drek’s really hit the fan.
‘Drek’ says Stylish pocketing the passkey and bringing up his HK. He slides inside accompanied by Oshi’ while Rover rolls into the reception area next to me.
ROVER: QUERY, PATROL OR HOLD?
I transmit >Rover: Hold< indicating the reception desk as a good place for him to take cover and we move further inside with Medusa bringing up the rear. Once I’m happy that Rover is safely tucked behind the reception desk while still keeping a clear view of the entrance, I pick up the pace and hustle over to the emergency stairs.
When I was a teenager, I acquired the handle Pickup from the other members of The Cutters, a go-gang I used to run with in the Redmond barrens. I used to drive this beat-up old Ford Pickup that belonged to my stepfather and my chummers would always call me to pick up what was left of them, and their rice rockets, when they wrecked them trying some bizarre, dangerous or just plain stupid stunt. I never really fitted in with them as I’ve always preferred the four wheels over two. I still don’t even know how to ride a bike, although I can chip the basic skill if I need to.
Stylish and Oshi are already halfway up the stairs when I arrive at the fire escape. The only problem with the suit is that is makes me the slowest in the team. But then again, I don’t have wires or magic speeding me up. Medusa keeps behind me, as I provide good cover and she’s the least combat-oriented member of the team.
When I was about nineteen, the Cutters got caught up in a running battle with two other gangs, Lone Star and a corporate APC. Most of them were killed and after that I sort of retired from the gang lifestyle and for a while at least, got myself a real job. Working as a mechanic at Billings garage on the edge of the Barrens, I developed the basic repair skills I learned patching up the Cutters’ bikes to the point where I can now fix, modify or even completely rebuild anything from a rice rocket to a 18-wheeler. I also acquired a few more names. Old man Billings usually just called me ‘hey kid’, while Mrs. Billings used to call me Timmy, which was also what she called her cat, but then she wasn’t all there since her son got capped in a drive-by.
By the time I make it to the top of the stairs, Stylish and Oshi are already at the end of the corridor, outside the room where the safe is supposed to be.
“The whole place is locked down”, grunts Stylish, “We tried every door, but they’re all locked. I don’t like it.”
Neither do I, but I take up a defensive stance covering the corridor, while Medusa works on the door. Stylish takes up position behind me, watching the street from the armored window at the end of the corridor, while Oshi’ sneaks off to check out the upper floor.
>Suit: Slave turrets to smartlink< I command and feel the tingle of the suit’s micro turrets adjusting to follow the smartlink targ floating in my field of vision. People often ask me what rigging feels like and I find it difficult to explain. It’s usually like replacing your body with another one that’s got wheels instead of legs and V12 turbocharged diesel engine instead of lungs, or in the case of the suit, it’s like having an extra pair of arms grafted onto my shoulders and enhanced senses.
When the Billings were killed in a burglary gone wrong, I just kind of took the place over and after that most people just assumed that I was Mr. Billings. I ran the place for a couple of years and that’s how I met up with Wheeler Dealer, my fixer. Back then he was just Wheeler and one of the best riggers in the ‘plex. One night, he pulled his shot up Aurora into the garage and I patched up both him and his wheels. That night introduced me to the world of shadowrunners and from then on I made a tidy profit from fixing up and modifying vehicles belonging to a number of Seattle’s hottest shadowrunner teams.
After a few tense minutes, Medusa jimmies the lock and Stylish sweeps in to check the room. Medusa’s a wiz with electronics and computers and held me worked out a lot of the bugs in the suit’s systems. A japanese elf, she’s short, gorgeous and totally not into men. Her deck’s built into her cybered right arm, but don’t ask me how she ended up with that - I’m the new boy on the team.
“Clear” announces Stylish and Medusa slips into the room. Using the suit’s 360-degree vision, I can watch them and still cover the corridor. They find the safe where it’s supposed to be, our first break so far, and Medusa gets to work on the lock while Stylish continues searching the room.
I got to know Wheeler pretty well, and when he needed another driver for a run, he asked me. Everything went chill and when the run was over I had a new career. I splashed most of my savings on enhancements for the bulldog and myself. I also picked up Rover and a few other drones, and after a few more successful runs earned my current name.
SUIT: PROXIMITY ALERT!
One of the ‘locked’ doors down the corridor opens and two of the biggest, fastest trolls I’ve ever seen pop out into the corridor. They’re wearing corp body armor and carrying LMGs that look like SMGs in their massive hands. Time to earn some creds.
Ordering >Suit: Turrets: Engage<, I swing the AK98 up to bring my smartlink targ onto the nearest troll. At the same time, data from the AK’s grenade link is being processed through my math SPU and timing data fed back to the gun. I automatically brace for recoil, although all my weapons are fully compensated.
The trolls spot me, but too late. My/suit’s micro turrets fire their first bursts as I squeeze the grenade launcher’s trigger and comm to the team, “Fire in the hole”. The grenade lands at the feet of the nearest troll and bounces into the corner before detonating. Even though it’s an IPE defensive, I can still feel the blast wave 7.3 m down the corridor. The trolls are much worse off. They might be tough fraggers, but caught at the centre of the blast they are killed instantly. Bits of them along with pieces of the wall, floor and ceiling bounce off the suit as I try not to throw up inside my helmet. I’m not a killer by nature, but in this biz, it often comes down to you or them. This time it was them.
My comm starts spouting a stream of furious Chinese, distracting me from the carnage around me. Oshi limps around the corner, her figure hugging ninja-babe outfit spattered with blood. It’s difficult to see if it’s hers or the trolls, but she was obviously a lot closer to the blast than me. She switches to English, “Wat you do that for stoopid rigger? I gonna deal with them my way. Quiet.”
My mind goes ‘oops’ and I start to apologize when the door to my right suddenly opens.
SUIT: PROXIMITY ALERT!
>Tell me about it<, I think as I try to spin to face my attacker.
>Turrets: Independent mode: All unidentified targets are hostile. Fire at will< I command as I fight the gyro mount to bring the AK to bear. One of the first things I did when I joined the team was issue them with transponders identifying them as friendly to my drones - it reduces the chances of friendly-fire accidents.
Now I’m the one that’s too slow. I can see Oshi’ moving towards me, her figure glowing with magical energy, while behind me Stylish is trying to get a shot in, screaming, ‘FM, get clear, get clear!’
The first burst catches me square in the chest, where the suit’s armor is heaviest. It knocks the wind out me and drives me backwards, but doesn’t penetrate. My AK draws a line of holes across the top of the door as I stagger back into Stylish. The gyro mount keeps pulling me around, throwing me off balance and opening up my right hand side to the next burst. Pain courses up my arm and I feel/hear a rib snap as I continue to fall backwards.
SUIT: MEDICAL TRAUMA! ACTIVATING MEDICAL SYSTEM
The suit’s turrets are fighting to target the armored human across the hall, as I crash to the floor in a sprawl of limbs. Then, Stylish opens up, laying down a lead hose of APDS rounds that practically cut my attacker in two.
Frustrated, Oshi’ spins into the other room, spearing the dead corper. She then proceeds to tear the place up, all the while cursing in Chinese. Stylish moves to cover the door, while Medusa stops working on the safe to check me out. I try to get up, automatically supporting both my weight and the suit with my injured right arm, and nearly pass out there and then. Medusa helps me back up to a sitting position and examines the wound on my right arm.
“Looks like it just took out a chunk of flesh”, she states unsympathetically. “Plus you’ve got a nice dent in your side.”
I wince as she sprays some synthskin onto my arm. “That should stop the bleeding for now. But I’ll need to get you out of that armor, before I can check you over properly.” Now there’s an offer I can’t refuse!
I grunt an acknowledgement between clenched teeth as I interface with the suit’s medical system. It’s little more than a basic medkit, so I feed it my condition and it injects me with a combination of painkillers, adrenaline and a coagulant. As I wait for the drugs to work through my system I comm Medusa, “Can you make a sling for my arm?”
“Sure, but can you shoot that left-handed?” she asks, nodding towards the AK.
In response, I close my eyes and slip deeper into the suit’s rig.
>Suit: Deactive gyro mount: Activate arm servos<, I command. I no longer feel the throbbing in my right arm as Medusa duct tapes it to my chest, only the cool metallic strength of my gyro-mount arm. Medusa gives a little yelp as the gyro mount suddenly moves on its own.
“I didn’t know you could do that”, she says in a surprised and intrigued tone. While she helped me a lot with electronics design and programming for the suit, I’m a tinkerer and this is just one of the many enhancements I’ve made since I first built it.
“Beta test” I reply honestly as she helps back to my feet. “I have to shut down the gyros to stop them counteracting the servos, but at least it works.”
“Hmmm, let me think about that.” she says, pressing the tip of forefinger to her full lips.
BULLDOG: MULTIPLE TARGETS ACQUIRED. CLOSING ON THIS LOCATION.
“Frag. You better get back to the safe”, I remind her. “I think we’ve got company.”
I comm Stylish and Oshi’, “Incoming.”
“What you got?” asks Stylish.
“Checking”, I reply as I switch my senses from the suit’s to the Bulldog’s. My mind fills with vectors, speeds and directions, ETAs and threat ratings.
“Motorbikes”, I comm. “Maybe ten, twelve, plus. ETA, two minutes.”
“I need at least three” interrupts Medusa.
“I think it’s Halloweeners” supplies Stylish peering out the window.
“Now we fragged” adds Oshi’ unhelpfully.
“Not yet”, I finish. “Oshi’ I want you in here with me and Medusa in case we need to get up close and personal. Stylish, cover the stairs and the elevators. Pull back to the office opposite if things look bad, but don’t come back through that door until I give the all clear.”
Being the newest recruit on the team I normally don’t give the orders, but this is my play and the rest of team seem to realize it. Medusa turns her attention back to the safe, while Stylish and Oshi’ give short bows and take up their positions. I’m feeling a bit shaky from blood loss and the adrenaline, so I settle myself into the office’s fake leather seat and lock my weapons on the door.
>Suit: Command override: Designate all targets entering room as hostile: Fire at will<
SUIT: CONFIRM COMMAND OVERRIDE: INCLUDE FRIENDLY STYLISH?
>Suit: Confirm<
>Rover: Hostiles approaching: Suppress on my command<
ROVER: WOOF!
And then I merge with the Bulldog’s rig. My/bulldog’s ECM and ECCM systems come on-line. Targeting systems play across my vision and my gunnery ‘soft starts plotting fire patterns. I am aware of the approaching bikes in a way that only a rigger can be, and a pleasant tingling between my shoulder blades signals that my/bulldog’s pop-up turret is on standby.
Twelve bikes, mainly Rapiers pull up outside the office’s main entrance, blocking the street. Their riders, all elves in the distinctive makeup of the Halloweeners are wearing armor jackets and packing some serious firepower, ranging from Ingram smartguns to assault rifles and even a combat shotgun. They seem unconcerned about attracting attention, and indeed most people seeing a dozen heavily armed elves in ghoulish makeup would probably remember an urgent appointment in the opposite direction.
I/bulldog don’t have any audio pickups, but one of the gangers seems to be ordering the others around so I tag him as the highest threat and my gunnery ‘soft recalculates fire patterns. Two gangers start moving up to the main door, while the rest cover them from behind their bikes, leaving themselves exposed to me/bulldog.
ROVER: TWO TARGETS ACQUIRED: AWAITING FIRE ORDER
<Rover: Hold: Hold:…<
The two gangers enter the building and I expand my sensor inputs to include Rover’s, watching as they step warily into the reception area.
Medusa once asked me what it was like running two drones at the same time. I tried to explain that it wasn’t like having a split-personality, it was more one mind controlling two bodies. That’s when she made some comment about women being better at multi-tasking than men and started calling me ‘the man with two brains’.
>…Engage<
Rover pops a stun grenade towards the gangers from his chassis firmpoint and runs a line of fire across the two gangers as he opens up with his LMG. Rover’s Nameless LMG has a cyclical rate of 500 rounds per minute, so he can only suppress the reception area for 30 seconds. More than enough time for me/bulldog. I will my/bulldog’s pop-up turret to deploy, counting off the 5 seconds it needs to lock into position and bring the Vindicator up to speed.
Fortunately most of the gangers, unprepared for Rover’s outburst, are still hunkered down behind their bikes firing blindly at the entrance. Unfortunately, one of them must have good hearing, because he turns at the last moment his face filling with shock, fear and anger. I shift him to the top of my/bulldog’s threat list and start firing.
The Vindicator’s cyclical rate is 1500 rounds per minute, that’s 25 rounds a second. In the first two seconds it shreds the ganger with the good hearing, his bike, the ganger next to him and the one I identified as their leader, before continuing it’s way methodically down the threat list. As more of the gangers realize that the shabby white panel van they ignored on their arrival is now hosing them with impersonal efficiency they start to turn their weapons on me/bulldog. Light rounds spang off my/bulldog’s hardened armor, a faintly ticklish sensation.
I cut their return fire short with a single round from the assault cannon attached to my chest/chassis. The heavy round rips into one of the methanol fuelled racing bikes, turning it into a cartwheeling fireball. The flames ignite several of the other bikes, which also promptly explode and I’m glad I can’t hear the burning gangers screams. I cut the bulldog’s optics and let it finish the job, watching the threat list count down to zero in my head.
BULLDOG: AREA SECURE
>Rover: Cease fire:<
>All systems: Stand down: Restore full command protocols<
BULLDOG: CONFIRM: TURRET RETRACTING: 623 VINDICATOR ROUNDS EXPENDED: 1 CANNON ROUND EXPENDED: ALL SYSTEMS GREEN
ROVER: WOOF!: ALL MUNITIONS EXPENDED: ALL SYSTEMS GREEN
SUIT: CONFIRM: COMMAND PROTOCOLS RESTORED: 3/3 PISTOL ROUNDS EXPENDED: 10 AK98 ROUNDS EXPENDED: 1 GRENADE EXPENDED: ARMOR BREACHED: ALL SYSTEMS GREEN
I add mentally >Fire Mission: Confirm: Flesh wound to right arm: One plus broken ribs: Skillwires off-line: Hurting like hell<, but no-one’s listening.
“Jesus H. Christ!”, whistles Stylish, interrupting the drones reports. “Remind me never to piss you off!”
I open my eyes and find Medusa peering at me through the suit’s tiny visor. All I can see are her teardrop feline green cybereyes, slim nose and fine cheekbones.
“Hi there”, she chirps, “Welcome back to your body.”
She steps back and waves a plastic folder in front of the visor. “Some of us have been busy while you were off playing with your toys.”
I struggle out the chair and reply humorlessly, “Then let’s get the frag out of here. I’m tired and hurt and would rather not be here when the next surprise shows up.”
She pouts and turns away. I’ll apologize later, after we’ve been paid and I’ve been patched up.
>Rover: Back in you kennel<, I send, finally getting one-up on the uppity dog-brained drone.
>ROVER: WOOF!<
>Bulldog: Plot standard evasion course. Ready to roll in two minutes<
>BULLDOG: VROOM, VROOM!<
What is with drones these days anyway. They got no respect for their owner.
“Okay team”, I comm, “You’re chariot awaits. Let’s get out of here.”
END TRANSMISSION