Alley nodded with a brief smile at Ajax's comment about Peter. "I can swim, yes." Listening to Peter's concerns, she thoughtfully tapped out a message to Sev.
Favor for some real Bailey's to go with the coffee? Private island party, James McCormick. Whose talking about it or him on the 'trix and what are they saying? Don't go nosing around him, bad news, just gimme the buzz
"I think we all need to be in range if something unexpected goes down. I'll run interference and keep attention off whichever of you wants to hook up that datatap, sound good?"
[Shadowrun] IC: The Old Dogs of War Redux - Intro
Roger was distrustful of all forms of magic-the facts were magicians and shamans were an unstable breed at best, and more often much worse. Much, much worse. Realizing he'd paused for far too long, and that the others must be staring at him he shrugged his shoulders in what he hoped was a noncommittal fashion. "I'm certainly not interested in taking more risks than necessary...but sometimes it's best if we handle things in a mundane fashion."
He was a professional, of course, so he hoped he was handling this better than he had handled things so far. He wasn't used to this sort of crowd, or these sorts of time constraints. Was he becoming that desperate predator that so many in his line of work ended up as? Was this his end run? Shaking those thoughts aside he continued. "Security is tight, at least at first glance-but there's a lot of exploitable holes. Hiring outside security always means gaps, and frankly this stuff may be state of the art but the weather takes its toll. If we're lucky we'll have some rain, that will help erase physical trace evidence and obfuscate our actions."
He was a professional, of course, so he hoped he was handling this better than he had handled things so far. He wasn't used to this sort of crowd, or these sorts of time constraints. Was he becoming that desperate predator that so many in his line of work ended up as? Was this his end run? Shaking those thoughts aside he continued. "Security is tight, at least at first glance-but there's a lot of exploitable holes. Hiring outside security always means gaps, and frankly this stuff may be state of the art but the weather takes its toll. If we're lucky we'll have some rain, that will help erase physical trace evidence and obfuscate our actions."
Kick Rocks
-
Jeff Hauze
- Wuffle Trainer
- Posts: 1415
- Joined: Mon Mar 18, 2002 10:31 pm
The list looks pretty daunting at first glance. But this isn't some novice dealing with their first major hack and bash. Scarlett looks over the target list provided by Blake and quickly begins prioritizing in her mind. A number of the keywords can be handled by some frames and data searches, though some will require some actual datahunts. Within aan hour, she has made a simple plan for tackling the list, with much of the initial work for the searches and agents handled.
The three items that keep drawing her attention back are the three that will require dedicated attention.
1. All pertinent information on one Lieutenant Jonas Saulk of Lone Star Seattle.
2. As much info as can possibly be found, without raising alarms, on an arms dealer known as Mac, based in Seattle currently.
3. Information on a small group known as the Rune Foundation, based out of Tacoma.[/i]
The three items that keep drawing her attention back are the three that will require dedicated attention.
1. All pertinent information on one Lieutenant Jonas Saulk of Lone Star Seattle.
2. As much info as can possibly be found, without raising alarms, on an arms dealer known as Mac, based in Seattle currently.
3. Information on a small group known as the Rune Foundation, based out of Tacoma.[/i]
Screw liquid diamond. I want to be able to fling apartment building sized ingots of extracted metal into space.
They'd been discussing it for quite some time now. The detailed security schematics made planning escape and evasion routes for each person easy, plus Roger was able to explain quite easily how to install a dataline tap. Ajax had sat silent through much of the discussion though, and Roger wondered what was on the big mans mind.
Kick Rocks
Alley nodded, absently thinking that she wanted to find those kids on the bus and do some research into what Blake might be alluding to with his 'group' rather than sleep, but the end result was there didn't seem to be much more they needed to discuss here.
"Night after tomorrow, Peter. Gives us one day to get our covers tweaked in whatever systems Blake has them in, and one day to gather any info on this party."
"Night after tomorrow, Peter. Gives us one day to get our covers tweaked in whatever systems Blake has them in, and one day to gather any info on this party."
"Okay. Um, all right, then. Where do we want to meet up, and when? I'll be wherever you need me, whenever." He shrugged, as if to say, You'll all know better than me, anyway.
He pondered for a moment while they thought. He should hide. Better than usual. What if people tried to follow him, or track him? His brain began to clock back up from its "I don't know what to do" mode into his high-speed magical consideration. They'd played games like this at university - hide and seek, basically, with magic and high stakes - and he'd been the champion at hiding. Only one person had regularly been able to locate him, and that was Marita. Her gift had remained undimmed until the day he'd shut off her lights forever.
Dragging himself away from morbid thoughts, he formulated, considered, revised a plan which he felt would keep him safe for the next day or so. Perhaps not an exciting day, but a reasonably safe one, if he didn't have to go too deep, and remembered to come up periodically.
He pondered for a moment while they thought. He should hide. Better than usual. What if people tried to follow him, or track him? His brain began to clock back up from its "I don't know what to do" mode into his high-speed magical consideration. They'd played games like this at university - hide and seek, basically, with magic and high stakes - and he'd been the champion at hiding. Only one person had regularly been able to locate him, and that was Marita. Her gift had remained undimmed until the day he'd shut off her lights forever.
Dragging himself away from morbid thoughts, he formulated, considered, revised a plan which he felt would keep him safe for the next day or so. Perhaps not an exciting day, but a reasonably safe one, if he didn't have to go too deep, and remembered to come up periodically.
Ajax had been silent throughout it all. He had been talking too much, and that made it easy for the others to remain silent. If he was going to find out more about them, he'd have to force them to talk a bit more. As it so happened, he had gleaned quite a bit of information about Roger. Not nearly as much as he had asked for when shit had hit the fan earlier, but enough that he could get a clear picture while only filling in the minor gaps with assumption. Roger had most likely been corporate before he - probably reluctantly - found his ass parked on the other side of the fence. He did seem to have quite a bit of knowledge about security procedures, strategies and tactics, so perhaps he used to be a goon, or perhaps corp kick-artist, or even an independent security contractor for some of the smaller corporations that lacked the capital to keep people like that on retainer.
He thought crossed his mind; "If we're going to decentralise the responsibility of plugging the tap, then there's a risk involved. It is my experience that whenever more than one person is responsible for the actions that have to be taken and there's no clear direction overseeing these people, the ball often falls in the middle, and nobody takes action." He paused a moment and reflected on what he considered to be a problem. "I don't want anyone to pussy-foot around when an opportunity arises. At a certain point someone needs to decide who is going to carpe the diem and do what needs to be done." He turned to Roger; "You can get this type of equipment. Frosty. Can you also get some high end personal, closed-circuit communication devices?" Before giving Roger a chance to reply he turned to the rest. "We're going to need to keep in touch with one another. We need to be able to make decisions and give directions to one another. Some subtle communications equipment will allow for that, although it's likely that whoever's going to be the security officer is going to end up juggling two different systems, as it's likely he'll be given one by the security team as well." He paused again, giving himself some time to think things over. "We need to decide who's going to make the tough decisions when it comes down to it. We need to decide who's going to direct this sim. If an opportunity comes up, I want someone in command, who can set everything in motion. That way we don't have any doubt about who is going to do what and when. Otherwise all the decisions and subsequently the success of this mission is going to fall in the middle." He opened his hands and said, almost apologetically; "I vote that Roger takes the lead in this, since he has the most experience in security, intelligence and counter-intelligence. He's probably done this type of thing before. I would've proposed myself to take the lead if we'd be down in a jungle hell-hole, but it's clear, to me at least, that Roger should be the guy pulling the strings."
He thought crossed his mind; "If we're going to decentralise the responsibility of plugging the tap, then there's a risk involved. It is my experience that whenever more than one person is responsible for the actions that have to be taken and there's no clear direction overseeing these people, the ball often falls in the middle, and nobody takes action." He paused a moment and reflected on what he considered to be a problem. "I don't want anyone to pussy-foot around when an opportunity arises. At a certain point someone needs to decide who is going to carpe the diem and do what needs to be done." He turned to Roger; "You can get this type of equipment. Frosty. Can you also get some high end personal, closed-circuit communication devices?" Before giving Roger a chance to reply he turned to the rest. "We're going to need to keep in touch with one another. We need to be able to make decisions and give directions to one another. Some subtle communications equipment will allow for that, although it's likely that whoever's going to be the security officer is going to end up juggling two different systems, as it's likely he'll be given one by the security team as well." He paused again, giving himself some time to think things over. "We need to decide who's going to make the tough decisions when it comes down to it. We need to decide who's going to direct this sim. If an opportunity comes up, I want someone in command, who can set everything in motion. That way we don't have any doubt about who is going to do what and when. Otherwise all the decisions and subsequently the success of this mission is going to fall in the middle." He opened his hands and said, almost apologetically; "I vote that Roger takes the lead in this, since he has the most experience in security, intelligence and counter-intelligence. He's probably done this type of thing before. I would've proposed myself to take the lead if we'd be down in a jungle hell-hole, but it's clear, to me at least, that Roger should be the guy pulling the strings."
Peter shifted in his chair, uncomfortable with how much information to share. "I don't have a problem with someone being in charge. I mean, you know, someone, not-me, being in charge. But I can't really wear a radio. Well, I can. It's just. It'll be feathers during the, you know, 'operation.'" He spoke the word broadly, as if it were conceptual and not something they'd be doing in a couple of days.
"Uh, still. I think I can...follow along. And I can send my hearing around, so I'll be able to hear you all talking, anyway. I think I can work it out." In truth, whomever was going to be leader he'd be listening to a hell of a lot closer than that, but some practices of magic were more disconcerting to people than others.
"Uh, still. I think I can...follow along. And I can send my hearing around, so I'll be able to hear you all talking, anyway. I think I can work it out." In truth, whomever was going to be leader he'd be listening to a hell of a lot closer than that, but some practices of magic were more disconcerting to people than others.
It seemed like they had the plan in order. It was time for a break-there was nothing left to do here. Over planning was as dangerous as under planning in this business. "Well then it seems like we've got a handle on this...for now at least. I need to pick a few things up from my place-anyone else need a ride?"
Kick Rocks
Alley shook her head. "Need to take care of a few errands on the way home, but thanks. See you later then?" Popping the back of the pocsec off, she pulled out three small strips imprinted with her number and closed it again. "A number in case you need to reach me."
With a friendly wave, she headed over to the bar and had the bartender call a cab.
With a friendly wave, she headed over to the bar and had the bartender call a cab.
With a sort of careful control bordering on the obsessive, Peter carefully uncoiled his field straw, the water helixing back into the glass through the slowly retracting twisted forms of the fields. His idea of subtlety, apparently. "I, ah," he said, "I won't need, you know, a ride. I think that, anyway, I can handle." Without physical movement, he lifted one of the strips Alley had left on the table, read the information there, dropped it into the ashtray and excited its molecules until it darkened and curled. A drop of force crushed them to less than ash, a powder so fine no magic Peter knew of could reconstitute it.
Now that they weren't talking about massive criminal conspiracies, he seemed to have regained some of his footing, and he turned to Alley without discernible awkwardness. "I'll contact you tomorrow evening, whether this thing" --he fished an earplug phone from his pocket-- "keeps working or not. We'll make plans. It'll be good."
He nodded to Ajax and Roger in turn, and stood without offering his hand. "Day after tomorrow, then." Exiting as mundanely as he hadn't entered, Peter walked out of the bar and onto the darkening street outside. Arclights snapped on, warming up, while newer xLEDs slowly illuminated to maintain the same level of light on the street. Though the skies darkened, the city was lighting up, and Peter knew that on the street, he had no chance of fading from view quietly.
Concerned that someone or some agency might be following him, Peter walked slowly along the sidewalk, apparently browsing the shops in the small commercial district in which he'd found the coffee shop. He still had the purloined certified credstick, so he stopped there to buy a mocha from the pretty ork coed working the counter. At every opportunity, he would glance about casually, looking for the odd repeated sound, recurring patterns of behavior that might indicate someone was following him. He perceived nothing, but he was aware of how fragile his experience - gained mostly secondhand from the trid - was against the professionalism of those within whose world he moved now.
He sipped his mocha and missed academia. For several moments he stood, pretending to look at the displays flickering in the window of a men's clothing store, lost in memory of time long past and never to be regained. He closed his eyes against the rush of emotions he kept normally filed carefully away, and white lights flashed through his eyelids, washing his world in actinic brightness.
It was the sound of it that pulled him back. His eyes flashed open at the sharp series of pops before him, and he realized instantly he'd stayed too long, controlled too little. The trid displays in the storefront had ceased cycling through today's hottest celebrities in today's hottest clothes and had begun instead flashing randomly, cubes of white light where should stand a heartthrob in a minimalist tracksuit. The circuitry beneath had begun to spark, and in horror Peter realized his plan of a quiet exit had been damned by his own foolish reminiscence.
The lights in the canopy above the coffee shop exploded all at once, showering those outide with high-impact plastic shards. The trideos all finally gave up their efforts and began slowly smoking, the storefront filling with noxious fumes. Bystanders rushed into the streets to escape the mayhem, triggering collision alarms on half-a-dozen autonav systems and failing to trigger any sort of useful response from two humans driving older cars and one motorcyclist, who impacted the rear of an Elite at a speed which resulted in the rider - a dwarven man in riding leathers with fine clothing beneath, his hair nicely groomed and his eyes wide with fear - catapulting through the air on a ballistic course for the pavement.
Peter wanted to run, to pop out of sight and fly as far away as he could, but time was fast approaching that he would have to take responsibility for his failures. He had run far - across the continent, ostensibly in search of answers - but the guilt followed. If his desire to find a means of containment for himself was, in fact, motivated by a desire to injure no more people, then he could hardly flee from the events of this moment; to do so would be a logical admission that all he sought was a means of guilt-free release, a way to die quickly without guilt. Peter wondered, not for the first time, how he could know so much about the greater world around him, and so little of his own unconscious desires.
He blinked, all the delay he could grant himself, and did not move. With a glance, he sought the aura of the motorcylist, quickly fading into view now as Peter altered his perceptions, on one side of his vision and those in front of the coffee shop on the other. Without other motion, he slid a barrier of force between the shattered lights and the crowd below, the plastic ceasing its fall without sound or apparent cause. At the same time, he held and stilled the force of gravity where it applied to the dwarven motorcylist, then slowly bled off his inertia until the man floated safely just above the ground. He twisted the form of the barrier into a hemisphere, allowing the shards to fall gently to the ground like rain from an umbrella. He turned, almost losing sight of the dwarf before remembering to slowly increase the effect of gravity on him, allowing him to drift to the ground unharmed. Peter was losing focus. He had not had time to fortify his will before the incident, and simultaneous and immediate independent manipulation was extraordinarily difficult at the best of times. What was he doing? Why had he turned from the biker?
Screams from within the men's clothing store drew him back. He turned and saw the store was filling quickly with smoke, and the wooden frames of the trid circuitry had begun to burn. His electromagnetic disruption had damaged the maglock, and one intrepid employee, her hair pulled severely back into a bun, was smashing at the lock with frenzy in her eyes while she coughed and choked on the smoke and fumes. "Get back!" Peter yelled, breaking his physical stillness and waving his arms broadly to her. "Get away from the window!"
She looked at him in doubt, but her desperation and something in his voice caused her to pause. She looked him in the eye, through a blue haze, and finally nodded. He could hear her muffled voice from within exhorting the others to move to the back of the store.
Peter knew such things as he was going to attempt were possible, but he had never tried such a thing in practice, never had cause. He had cause now.
It was fortunate the glass had been depolarized; had this been an hour earlier, he would not have been able to see through the storefront, and what he intended would be impossible. He marked a spot on the floor several meters behind the window, but in front of any of the people in the store, who remained huddled together behind the till. Interesting, he thought, while marking equivalences on the ceiling, how in times of stress, that primitive instinct to huddle when flight is impossible nevertheless remains; we think of ourselves as so beyond animals, but human behavior is a luxury born of lack of threat: when pressed, a group of strangers will become a family unit of primates, all at once and all together. He thought of Roger, then, and Ajax and Alley, and then there was no time for introspection.
Lines of force formed at four corners of a square, marking a plane reaching floor to ceiling. Peter wished he'd spent more time learning barriers, but he'd never needed them so much as in the past few weeks; the barrier he was erecting was perhaps half the power of the force he could apply to it, so he would need to be careful. Fighting fatigue and the distraction of building panic in the street, he formed what he felt was a force of necessary but not overwhelming strength. By chance, his eyes met those of the girl who had been trying frantically to open the lock, almost lost in the haze. They were like limitless pools, begging him for action, praying to him for salvation. She had trusted him, and he could not let her die.
He released the force he had been building, and the storefront shattered. Thick sheets of composite plastic drove through the air, man-sized blocks of supposedly "unbreakable" material propelled by magical force toward those huddled primates at the back of the store. His barrier shook with impacts, but he had tied its threads securely to its focus, and it held. Bulletproof lexan thudded to the floor in shards and sheets, but the fumes remained. Weak now, Peter began to move it toward him, like a plunger; the barrier would allow gases through, but not particles of smoke, and while the carbon monoxide left over from the burning was harmful, this would allow those within a clearer path to exit.
The edge of the barrier caught on the display ledge, and Peter was too vague to properly shrink it, so much of the smoke curled beneath to re-enter the store, but those within saw salvation and sought it nevertheless. People clutched at strangers' children, aiding them, and the strong carried the weak. Coughing and stumbling, they all exited in a mass, and Peter instinctively hid himself, bending light around his form that these might not see his shame. He sought, in the mass of people, the woman he had focused on, searched for those deep eyes and that severe hair, but he did not see her. He sent his sight behind, beneath, and through the crowd as it fell in a heap, gasping, outside, but she was nowhere.
He realized, terror pulsing through him like lightning beneath his flesh, that the woman had been Marita, and she had not been there at all. He fell to one knee, invisible and exhausted, and wept, as those around him picked up their lives and began moving along.
He did not know how long he remained, but the street was clear when he became aware of it again. Night had truly fallen, and the false noon of the streetlights had fallen back to their late-night energy conservation levels. It was bright enough to see, but no longer did shadows have hard edges, no longer was every corner illuminated. Few cars passed, and those that did were introspected, their windows polarized and their guidance automatic, drivers asleep and awaiting notice that they had arrived at their destinations. No one walked the street save for a few homeless, SINless souls who wandered, living their lives at night and sleeping in parks during the day, lest police or drone pester them for loitering on the streets at night.
Peter was crouched between one store and the steps leading up to another, though he had no memory of moving here. He felt rested, though with a shock he realized he had truly slept, with no precautions or control, for several hours. And yet nothing around him was pudding, or on fire, or growing slime mold at an alarming rate. He filed this mystery away with his many others, to be considered at leisure, and stood. He was very fortunate to have not been discovered, although it seemed his invisibility had been threaded to a focus, and all his magical protection had been bent inward. With the general increase in background count he produced, he was not terribly surprised that no one had spotted him in the din.
Those precautions he retained. He had no desire to bring any more attention to himself than necessary. He looked about astrally, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary except a housecat which appeared more interested in his shoes than he would have anticipated. He began considering a spell which would perform the same function for scent as his spells for vision and hearing, but this too must wait. He sent his sight away, as far to the west as he could, and found a spot which he felt would suffice for his purposes. Weaving the necessary threads, Peter felt gravity and inertia lose their hold on him, and gave a little kick. Without effort, he slowly ascended.
Mentally directing his course, but otherwise leaving matters of maintenance to his focus, Peter slipped through the clean night air on wings of mana. He was incapable of astral travel, though he could perceive it as well as any, but he had been told by his various acquaintances that it was an experience unlike any other, to drift, free of the body, flying within the realm of life and magic itself, bound only by thought. For Peter, this was the closest substitute, soaring through the city, unseen, moving through a darkness punctuated here and there by the illuminative efforts of civilization. Here, he felt free.
What he wished could not be done until morning, so he spent the next few hours simply coasting around the city, watching the routines of the nighthunters - avian and human - and simply thinking about the world as he saw it. Flight and invisibility seemed to draw off a great deal of his excess power, and he could almost relax. His few hours' sleep seemed to have done him great deal more good than he would have imagined.
As the sky brightened in the east, Peter flew with the flocks of nuthatches as they awakened and began scouring the city for seed, all the while singing vigorously to the coming dawn. Once the light was strong enough, he left them - promising to come back later, when he was a bird - and arced with all speed out to the west.
His far sight had spotted a good target, an open bit of water not far into the Sound, but with no human presence close by. He confirmed this with his astral sight as he approached, and found the location excellent. Though years of pollution had taken their toll, this empty bit of water led, clearly indicated through the deposition of silt at its bottom, to open ocean comparatively untouched by the efforts of man to exploit it. Peter carefully took back control of his inertia from the focus, and then wove threads into that formation necessary to create a sphere of force, which he then hung on its own focus. He lowered himself until the barrier floated gently atop the water with no force from him, water displaced only by his own weight as the center of the sphere anchored itself strictly to him. The bubble of force, 6 meters in diameter, would float, the air trapped within being lighter than the water trapped without. He retained manual control of his inertia, so in the event he became unconscious, he would simply pop back up to the surface; twice he had stayed too long, and run out of useable oxygen within the sphere, but once it floated above the water, clean air simply rushed through the gas-permeable walls of the barrier, and he had come to, with a splitting headache each time, but alive. Now he tried to limit his descents to a couple of hours, punctuated by trips to the surface to allow some portion of the bubble to extend above the water so he might exchange air. This was a delicate procedure if one did not wish to attract attention, and invisibility of the magician during such activities simply made spheres of air beneath the water more of a mystery, so he did his level best to avoid people when he was out.
He pressed himself beneath the surface, no mean feat given the buoyancy of the sphere, and slowly descended until the light filtering from above clearly showed the contents of the ground. The bottom was of various silts, run through with indications of current, but also littered with garbage, twisted rusting hulks, and all manner of human construction, centuries of activity having made the Sound completely unlike its prehuman state. Peter had once heard that all plastic bags which are not buried beneath the earth or recycled will eventually blow out to sea and end up on the ocean's floor, but it was not until a few years ago, armed with a powerful diving light and auxiliary air, that Peter had discovered off the coast of home how painfully true this was. Ever since, he had made a point of diving as often as possible, not only to rejoice in what life survived in the deep oceans - as deep as he could go, with his limited barrier power - but also to witness the detestation, as if he felt the need to be the witness for humanity, to acknowledge the guilt of our race personally and directly.
He had no light now, but he was less here for himself than to hide, in any case. He pressed his bubble onward, toward open sea, letting the current pull him, letting the gradations on the bottom lead him. Any who wish to find me now, he thought, good fortune to you.
Now that they weren't talking about massive criminal conspiracies, he seemed to have regained some of his footing, and he turned to Alley without discernible awkwardness. "I'll contact you tomorrow evening, whether this thing" --he fished an earplug phone from his pocket-- "keeps working or not. We'll make plans. It'll be good."
He nodded to Ajax and Roger in turn, and stood without offering his hand. "Day after tomorrow, then." Exiting as mundanely as he hadn't entered, Peter walked out of the bar and onto the darkening street outside. Arclights snapped on, warming up, while newer xLEDs slowly illuminated to maintain the same level of light on the street. Though the skies darkened, the city was lighting up, and Peter knew that on the street, he had no chance of fading from view quietly.
Concerned that someone or some agency might be following him, Peter walked slowly along the sidewalk, apparently browsing the shops in the small commercial district in which he'd found the coffee shop. He still had the purloined certified credstick, so he stopped there to buy a mocha from the pretty ork coed working the counter. At every opportunity, he would glance about casually, looking for the odd repeated sound, recurring patterns of behavior that might indicate someone was following him. He perceived nothing, but he was aware of how fragile his experience - gained mostly secondhand from the trid - was against the professionalism of those within whose world he moved now.
He sipped his mocha and missed academia. For several moments he stood, pretending to look at the displays flickering in the window of a men's clothing store, lost in memory of time long past and never to be regained. He closed his eyes against the rush of emotions he kept normally filed carefully away, and white lights flashed through his eyelids, washing his world in actinic brightness.
It was the sound of it that pulled him back. His eyes flashed open at the sharp series of pops before him, and he realized instantly he'd stayed too long, controlled too little. The trid displays in the storefront had ceased cycling through today's hottest celebrities in today's hottest clothes and had begun instead flashing randomly, cubes of white light where should stand a heartthrob in a minimalist tracksuit. The circuitry beneath had begun to spark, and in horror Peter realized his plan of a quiet exit had been damned by his own foolish reminiscence.
The lights in the canopy above the coffee shop exploded all at once, showering those outide with high-impact plastic shards. The trideos all finally gave up their efforts and began slowly smoking, the storefront filling with noxious fumes. Bystanders rushed into the streets to escape the mayhem, triggering collision alarms on half-a-dozen autonav systems and failing to trigger any sort of useful response from two humans driving older cars and one motorcyclist, who impacted the rear of an Elite at a speed which resulted in the rider - a dwarven man in riding leathers with fine clothing beneath, his hair nicely groomed and his eyes wide with fear - catapulting through the air on a ballistic course for the pavement.
Peter wanted to run, to pop out of sight and fly as far away as he could, but time was fast approaching that he would have to take responsibility for his failures. He had run far - across the continent, ostensibly in search of answers - but the guilt followed. If his desire to find a means of containment for himself was, in fact, motivated by a desire to injure no more people, then he could hardly flee from the events of this moment; to do so would be a logical admission that all he sought was a means of guilt-free release, a way to die quickly without guilt. Peter wondered, not for the first time, how he could know so much about the greater world around him, and so little of his own unconscious desires.
He blinked, all the delay he could grant himself, and did not move. With a glance, he sought the aura of the motorcylist, quickly fading into view now as Peter altered his perceptions, on one side of his vision and those in front of the coffee shop on the other. Without other motion, he slid a barrier of force between the shattered lights and the crowd below, the plastic ceasing its fall without sound or apparent cause. At the same time, he held and stilled the force of gravity where it applied to the dwarven motorcylist, then slowly bled off his inertia until the man floated safely just above the ground. He twisted the form of the barrier into a hemisphere, allowing the shards to fall gently to the ground like rain from an umbrella. He turned, almost losing sight of the dwarf before remembering to slowly increase the effect of gravity on him, allowing him to drift to the ground unharmed. Peter was losing focus. He had not had time to fortify his will before the incident, and simultaneous and immediate independent manipulation was extraordinarily difficult at the best of times. What was he doing? Why had he turned from the biker?
Screams from within the men's clothing store drew him back. He turned and saw the store was filling quickly with smoke, and the wooden frames of the trid circuitry had begun to burn. His electromagnetic disruption had damaged the maglock, and one intrepid employee, her hair pulled severely back into a bun, was smashing at the lock with frenzy in her eyes while she coughed and choked on the smoke and fumes. "Get back!" Peter yelled, breaking his physical stillness and waving his arms broadly to her. "Get away from the window!"
She looked at him in doubt, but her desperation and something in his voice caused her to pause. She looked him in the eye, through a blue haze, and finally nodded. He could hear her muffled voice from within exhorting the others to move to the back of the store.
Peter knew such things as he was going to attempt were possible, but he had never tried such a thing in practice, never had cause. He had cause now.
It was fortunate the glass had been depolarized; had this been an hour earlier, he would not have been able to see through the storefront, and what he intended would be impossible. He marked a spot on the floor several meters behind the window, but in front of any of the people in the store, who remained huddled together behind the till. Interesting, he thought, while marking equivalences on the ceiling, how in times of stress, that primitive instinct to huddle when flight is impossible nevertheless remains; we think of ourselves as so beyond animals, but human behavior is a luxury born of lack of threat: when pressed, a group of strangers will become a family unit of primates, all at once and all together. He thought of Roger, then, and Ajax and Alley, and then there was no time for introspection.
Lines of force formed at four corners of a square, marking a plane reaching floor to ceiling. Peter wished he'd spent more time learning barriers, but he'd never needed them so much as in the past few weeks; the barrier he was erecting was perhaps half the power of the force he could apply to it, so he would need to be careful. Fighting fatigue and the distraction of building panic in the street, he formed what he felt was a force of necessary but not overwhelming strength. By chance, his eyes met those of the girl who had been trying frantically to open the lock, almost lost in the haze. They were like limitless pools, begging him for action, praying to him for salvation. She had trusted him, and he could not let her die.
He released the force he had been building, and the storefront shattered. Thick sheets of composite plastic drove through the air, man-sized blocks of supposedly "unbreakable" material propelled by magical force toward those huddled primates at the back of the store. His barrier shook with impacts, but he had tied its threads securely to its focus, and it held. Bulletproof lexan thudded to the floor in shards and sheets, but the fumes remained. Weak now, Peter began to move it toward him, like a plunger; the barrier would allow gases through, but not particles of smoke, and while the carbon monoxide left over from the burning was harmful, this would allow those within a clearer path to exit.
The edge of the barrier caught on the display ledge, and Peter was too vague to properly shrink it, so much of the smoke curled beneath to re-enter the store, but those within saw salvation and sought it nevertheless. People clutched at strangers' children, aiding them, and the strong carried the weak. Coughing and stumbling, they all exited in a mass, and Peter instinctively hid himself, bending light around his form that these might not see his shame. He sought, in the mass of people, the woman he had focused on, searched for those deep eyes and that severe hair, but he did not see her. He sent his sight behind, beneath, and through the crowd as it fell in a heap, gasping, outside, but she was nowhere.
He realized, terror pulsing through him like lightning beneath his flesh, that the woman had been Marita, and she had not been there at all. He fell to one knee, invisible and exhausted, and wept, as those around him picked up their lives and began moving along.
He did not know how long he remained, but the street was clear when he became aware of it again. Night had truly fallen, and the false noon of the streetlights had fallen back to their late-night energy conservation levels. It was bright enough to see, but no longer did shadows have hard edges, no longer was every corner illuminated. Few cars passed, and those that did were introspected, their windows polarized and their guidance automatic, drivers asleep and awaiting notice that they had arrived at their destinations. No one walked the street save for a few homeless, SINless souls who wandered, living their lives at night and sleeping in parks during the day, lest police or drone pester them for loitering on the streets at night.
Peter was crouched between one store and the steps leading up to another, though he had no memory of moving here. He felt rested, though with a shock he realized he had truly slept, with no precautions or control, for several hours. And yet nothing around him was pudding, or on fire, or growing slime mold at an alarming rate. He filed this mystery away with his many others, to be considered at leisure, and stood. He was very fortunate to have not been discovered, although it seemed his invisibility had been threaded to a focus, and all his magical protection had been bent inward. With the general increase in background count he produced, he was not terribly surprised that no one had spotted him in the din.
Those precautions he retained. He had no desire to bring any more attention to himself than necessary. He looked about astrally, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary except a housecat which appeared more interested in his shoes than he would have anticipated. He began considering a spell which would perform the same function for scent as his spells for vision and hearing, but this too must wait. He sent his sight away, as far to the west as he could, and found a spot which he felt would suffice for his purposes. Weaving the necessary threads, Peter felt gravity and inertia lose their hold on him, and gave a little kick. Without effort, he slowly ascended.
Mentally directing his course, but otherwise leaving matters of maintenance to his focus, Peter slipped through the clean night air on wings of mana. He was incapable of astral travel, though he could perceive it as well as any, but he had been told by his various acquaintances that it was an experience unlike any other, to drift, free of the body, flying within the realm of life and magic itself, bound only by thought. For Peter, this was the closest substitute, soaring through the city, unseen, moving through a darkness punctuated here and there by the illuminative efforts of civilization. Here, he felt free.
What he wished could not be done until morning, so he spent the next few hours simply coasting around the city, watching the routines of the nighthunters - avian and human - and simply thinking about the world as he saw it. Flight and invisibility seemed to draw off a great deal of his excess power, and he could almost relax. His few hours' sleep seemed to have done him great deal more good than he would have imagined.
As the sky brightened in the east, Peter flew with the flocks of nuthatches as they awakened and began scouring the city for seed, all the while singing vigorously to the coming dawn. Once the light was strong enough, he left them - promising to come back later, when he was a bird - and arced with all speed out to the west.
His far sight had spotted a good target, an open bit of water not far into the Sound, but with no human presence close by. He confirmed this with his astral sight as he approached, and found the location excellent. Though years of pollution had taken their toll, this empty bit of water led, clearly indicated through the deposition of silt at its bottom, to open ocean comparatively untouched by the efforts of man to exploit it. Peter carefully took back control of his inertia from the focus, and then wove threads into that formation necessary to create a sphere of force, which he then hung on its own focus. He lowered himself until the barrier floated gently atop the water with no force from him, water displaced only by his own weight as the center of the sphere anchored itself strictly to him. The bubble of force, 6 meters in diameter, would float, the air trapped within being lighter than the water trapped without. He retained manual control of his inertia, so in the event he became unconscious, he would simply pop back up to the surface; twice he had stayed too long, and run out of useable oxygen within the sphere, but once it floated above the water, clean air simply rushed through the gas-permeable walls of the barrier, and he had come to, with a splitting headache each time, but alive. Now he tried to limit his descents to a couple of hours, punctuated by trips to the surface to allow some portion of the bubble to extend above the water so he might exchange air. This was a delicate procedure if one did not wish to attract attention, and invisibility of the magician during such activities simply made spheres of air beneath the water more of a mystery, so he did his level best to avoid people when he was out.
He pressed himself beneath the surface, no mean feat given the buoyancy of the sphere, and slowly descended until the light filtering from above clearly showed the contents of the ground. The bottom was of various silts, run through with indications of current, but also littered with garbage, twisted rusting hulks, and all manner of human construction, centuries of activity having made the Sound completely unlike its prehuman state. Peter had once heard that all plastic bags which are not buried beneath the earth or recycled will eventually blow out to sea and end up on the ocean's floor, but it was not until a few years ago, armed with a powerful diving light and auxiliary air, that Peter had discovered off the coast of home how painfully true this was. Ever since, he had made a point of diving as often as possible, not only to rejoice in what life survived in the deep oceans - as deep as he could go, with his limited barrier power - but also to witness the detestation, as if he felt the need to be the witness for humanity, to acknowledge the guilt of our race personally and directly.
He had no light now, but he was less here for himself than to hide, in any case. He pressed his bubble onward, toward open sea, letting the current pull him, letting the gradations on the bottom lead him. Any who wish to find me now, he thought, good fortune to you.
Ajax was riding shotgun, and the car had been inching along, following the young Peter. Then everything went a little crazy, and the two men in the car looked on in amazement, until finally the people came, coughing and stumbling, out of the building, and Peter faded from view. "That was interesting," Ajax said to Roger whose expression hadn't betrayed what the old man had thought of the raw power displayed by Peter. They sat next to eachother for a while, looking at the busy street straightening itself out again, and slowly Roger set the car back in motion. "I'm in Tacoma," Ajax said, "so anywhere on Schuster Parkway will do."
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Reika
- Freeman of the Crimson Assfro
- Posts: 2338
- Joined: Mon Mar 18, 2002 4:41 am
- Location: Jacksonville, FL
- Contact:
(Sorry for the delay, but had been having a hard time getting down what I wanted.)
Luridly red skirts of an old style ball gown, one easily dating back to 1800's, swirled
about the feet of the buxom redhead whose ringleted hair remained perfectly in place as she danced around her much more imposing opponent. It seemed a disparity between the woman armed only with a small derringer and calvary saber against a massive knight in thick steel plate, but as with anything else in the environs they fought looks were deceiving. A quick shot from the tiny pistol opened up a surprisingly large hole in the chest of the armored foe who was quickly finished off by a swift strike of the sabre while the defenses were down. Not giving the downed knight's rescue a chance to appear, she quickly snatched up the glowing jewel from the radiant pedestal and beat a hasty retreat.
In the meat world her skin was pallid and covered in a faint sheen of sweat, much to her friend's dismay. But the biomonitor on her deck remained a steady green so the diminuative hispanic woman remained in her watchful pose.
Sunlight poured down like a thick warm syrup on the heavily flowered gardens that surrounded the portico of the antebellum southern plantation house. Seated at a beautiful wrought iron table covered with the remnants of afternoon tea, a southern gentleman quietly conversed with the woman in the carmine gown. Finally as the conversation wound down the man finally shook his head in good natured defeat, "Ah surely don't know how you do it, Miss Scarlet, but you did indeed deliver as requested. And as promised here is the information you were looking for."
With pleasant smiles they exchanged a thick folio of papers and the glowing gem, then parted ways through separates ways, she through a side gate in the garden and he through the door into the house.
As she rifled through the files, Scarlett smiled at seeing she had gotten the last of the major information she needed.
Luridly red skirts of an old style ball gown, one easily dating back to 1800's, swirled
about the feet of the buxom redhead whose ringleted hair remained perfectly in place as she danced around her much more imposing opponent. It seemed a disparity between the woman armed only with a small derringer and calvary saber against a massive knight in thick steel plate, but as with anything else in the environs they fought looks were deceiving. A quick shot from the tiny pistol opened up a surprisingly large hole in the chest of the armored foe who was quickly finished off by a swift strike of the sabre while the defenses were down. Not giving the downed knight's rescue a chance to appear, she quickly snatched up the glowing jewel from the radiant pedestal and beat a hasty retreat.
In the meat world her skin was pallid and covered in a faint sheen of sweat, much to her friend's dismay. But the biomonitor on her deck remained a steady green so the diminuative hispanic woman remained in her watchful pose.
Sunlight poured down like a thick warm syrup on the heavily flowered gardens that surrounded the portico of the antebellum southern plantation house. Seated at a beautiful wrought iron table covered with the remnants of afternoon tea, a southern gentleman quietly conversed with the woman in the carmine gown. Finally as the conversation wound down the man finally shook his head in good natured defeat, "Ah surely don't know how you do it, Miss Scarlet, but you did indeed deliver as requested. And as promised here is the information you were looking for."
With pleasant smiles they exchanged a thick folio of papers and the glowing gem, then parted ways through separates ways, she through a side gate in the garden and he through the door into the house.
As she rifled through the files, Scarlett smiled at seeing she had gotten the last of the major information she needed.
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Serious Paul
- Devil
- Posts: 6644
- Joined: Mon Mar 18, 2002 12:38 pm
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Serious Paul
- Devil
- Posts: 6644
- Joined: Mon Mar 18, 2002 12:38 pm
Roger grunted as the truck chugged along. "Interesting? Yeah that's one way to put it..." his voice betrayed his obvious distrust of magic. He flicked his finger across the button that turned on the radio, and calmly drove the vehicle away from the mayhem behind them.
"I'm in Tacoma," Ajax said, "so anywhere on Schuster Parkway will do."
The big mans calm voice brought Roger back down to reality. "Sorry...Look man I'm sorry about earlier. It's been a rough couple of weeks." An old Waylon Jennings song came on, and Roger continued. "I may not have been too clear back there-but I've worked on the other side of the street more than few times. Electronics, computers, and security-I can handle all of that."
After a long pause he smiled and said, "But I never could get used to magic."
"I'm in Tacoma," Ajax said, "so anywhere on Schuster Parkway will do."
The big mans calm voice brought Roger back down to reality. "Sorry...Look man I'm sorry about earlier. It's been a rough couple of weeks." An old Waylon Jennings song came on, and Roger continued. "I may not have been too clear back there-but I've worked on the other side of the street more than few times. Electronics, computers, and security-I can handle all of that."
After a long pause he smiled and said, "But I never could get used to magic."
Ajax was really glad Roger's ice started to break. He hated having bad blood between the people he had to work with. When Winters and Vasquez got involved, his crew was very happy for the both of them, but without fail the bitterness started to creep into their relationship after a couple of months, and that eventually lead to static in the group. Snide remarks, unnecessarily harsh words were spoken, and it always seem to be at the times where concentration and focus were most necessary; in jungle hells, or while shadow-trailing a mark, or even in the thick of a gunfight. He even remembered it happened right after he and Duke were sentences to be put away for a short stretch, when everyone came to say goodbye at the gate of the courthouse.
"I'm glad to hear at least one of us knows something about surveillance and counter-measures; I was never very good with them. My experience with it mostly from edu-sims and field-work. You know, closed-circuit communications and such. I was in the army for a while, doing mercenary work for a longer while, and then most of my squad-buddies and I struck out on our own. Freelancing." While Ajax talked his eyes roamed the streets they were on. "We had a really tight-knit group, you see. We all knew each other. Hell, most of us even lived together. While I know secrecy is supposed to be the norm, it's never been something I've had to get used to, or been comfortable with. So my apologies if I stepped out of line." He smiled and momentarily took his eyes off the streets and looked at Roger; "Today is exactly 111 days until my 44th birthday, this dog is too old to be taught new tricks." He put his eyes back on the street. "Now you know my birthdate, quite a bit of relevant history, and you know my specialty. With your skills you'll have my sheet in no time."
After a moment, he looked back at Roger and said; "I could never get used to magic, neither, though someone told me that I was gifted not so long ago. I haven't had the chance to get that verified, though I wouldn't really know what to do with it if I did turn out to be. I'm more of a meat and potatoes kind of guy, you know." Another moment passed. "Is there low-light circuitry in those glasses of yours, or are you wired? I can't imagine anyone seeing shit in this light with those glasses on." He smiled.
"I'm glad to hear at least one of us knows something about surveillance and counter-measures; I was never very good with them. My experience with it mostly from edu-sims and field-work. You know, closed-circuit communications and such. I was in the army for a while, doing mercenary work for a longer while, and then most of my squad-buddies and I struck out on our own. Freelancing." While Ajax talked his eyes roamed the streets they were on. "We had a really tight-knit group, you see. We all knew each other. Hell, most of us even lived together. While I know secrecy is supposed to be the norm, it's never been something I've had to get used to, or been comfortable with. So my apologies if I stepped out of line." He smiled and momentarily took his eyes off the streets and looked at Roger; "Today is exactly 111 days until my 44th birthday, this dog is too old to be taught new tricks." He put his eyes back on the street. "Now you know my birthdate, quite a bit of relevant history, and you know my specialty. With your skills you'll have my sheet in no time."
After a moment, he looked back at Roger and said; "I could never get used to magic, neither, though someone told me that I was gifted not so long ago. I haven't had the chance to get that verified, though I wouldn't really know what to do with it if I did turn out to be. I'm more of a meat and potatoes kind of guy, you know." Another moment passed. "Is there low-light circuitry in those glasses of yours, or are you wired? I can't imagine anyone seeing shit in this light with those glasses on." He smiled.
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Serious Paul
- Devil
- Posts: 6644
- Joined: Mon Mar 18, 2002 12:38 pm
"The glasses are just for show." Roger took them off, carefully folding them and placing them in his pocket. Pointing at his right eye with his index finger he spoke"They look normal for the most part-but if you watch carefully I don't blink nearly as often as I should. I got these a few years back, my third set. Got my originals after...a thaumaturgical event is what I think he called it. I had to pay extra to get the scar tissue replaced."
Roger shook his head thinking about the first time he'd seen magic go terribly wrong. It had cost him his eyes, and he was the lucky one. Roger down shifted as the approached a corner, and as they turned he continued. "I never thought I'd ride the wire-but a few accidents here, a wrong turn there, a high powered slug there...well it all adds up. I've been luckier than some-I've always been able to purchase the best equipment, from the best sources. I've had good docs-but frankly I've spent enough time hooked up to diagnostic equipment to last me for the rest of my life."
Roger shook his head thinking about the first time he'd seen magic go terribly wrong. It had cost him his eyes, and he was the lucky one. Roger down shifted as the approached a corner, and as they turned he continued. "I never thought I'd ride the wire-but a few accidents here, a wrong turn there, a high powered slug there...well it all adds up. I've been luckier than some-I've always been able to purchase the best equipment, from the best sources. I've had good docs-but frankly I've spent enough time hooked up to diagnostic equipment to last me for the rest of my life."
Ajax peered at Roger's eyes as he took his glasses off. "Jeez-louise, that must've been expensive! You can't even see the difference. Yeah, you're definitely ex-corp," he laughed. "A few of my old crew had some implants, but nowhere near that quality. Duke had his eyes replaced after he was hit by a white phosper grenade. He got some basic combat replacements that looked like two plugs burried into his face. Steel frames with hardened siliciumdioxide lenses. Ugly as sin, but then again, Duke was never a pretty boy to begin with."
"For some reason I've always been pretty lucky. I'm pretty tough, so whenever I got hurt I was usually up and about in no-time, to the surprise of my ripper-doc. At first my crew thought it was pretty impressive - oh, take the second right here, you'll avoid Ruston and can take 30th street to Schuster - but after a while they started taking it for granted a bit. Expecting me to be kind of indestructable, you know." he looked out over the window, across the Pudget Sound down to the Tacoma Port as they drifted towards Schuster. He fell silent for a few minutes until he was jarred from his reverie; "We're approaching Fireman's Park. If you drop me off there, you can take the I705 south to the I5 and you'll be able to go wherever it is you need to."
Ajax start to zip up his coat and had his hand on the belt so that he could make a quick exit.
"For some reason I've always been pretty lucky. I'm pretty tough, so whenever I got hurt I was usually up and about in no-time, to the surprise of my ripper-doc. At first my crew thought it was pretty impressive - oh, take the second right here, you'll avoid Ruston and can take 30th street to Schuster - but after a while they started taking it for granted a bit. Expecting me to be kind of indestructable, you know." he looked out over the window, across the Pudget Sound down to the Tacoma Port as they drifted towards Schuster. He fell silent for a few minutes until he was jarred from his reverie; "We're approaching Fireman's Park. If you drop me off there, you can take the I705 south to the I5 and you'll be able to go wherever it is you need to."
Ajax start to zip up his coat and had his hand on the belt so that he could make a quick exit.