(As a preface to the story that follows, it is based off of my very first character made nearly ten years ago. Very young and impressionable at the time, I assumed the name of a character already listed in the SR II book...a one Mr. William Harkwood. To this day, I still play this character out of nostalgia, never really wanting to relinquish the name back to it's owner. That aside, the following is excepts from my live journal about the recent events, put to his perspective. Thanks go out to SeriousPaul for encouraging me to come here share my ideas. Enjoy!)
<<NA-UCAS/Seattle transmission relay...
r11.154.43.UTE-Denver...
----Enter Shadowland, "Land of the Dead Letters"----
I've been running the shadows not long after goblinization happened. Yes, that means I'm old. Well, older than your typical runner.
I should've retired by now, but something continued to grab at me everytime I made a huge score. The winnings would inevitably be spent on some new cybermantic device that would just make my game -that- much more easier. I've become addicted to living on the edge of...well...everything. Society, Life, you name it. Hell, my partner in crime calls himself "Edge" for fuck's sake. Together, we'd take on ONLY the biggest runs. The biggest of the big, the baddest of the bad...and make no mistake; its ALL ugly.
I had an epiphany last night in my hospital bed. Despite what I've come to believe, I'm not the best anymore. I dont believe that I'm invincible anymore. Death trails my very footsteps nightly, and it takes every single ounce of wit that I possess to elude him. Even as I lie here now, I know that he is searching the Seattle General Hospital trying to find my room.
My days are numbered.
"Hello Everybody, my name is William Harkwood, and I am a runaholic. I have more guns than I do friends, I have more friends than I have loves, and I have more loves than I have a fucking change of making it to my next birthday." To all of those at Shadowland that would read this, should anything happen to me (oh, so painfully cliche...), here is my NEW litany, my NEW claim to fame, my NEW master craft. Remember this:
I am Wedge. So long as I live, the tyranny of the Megacorps will fall to extreme prejudice and destruction in front of my judgement. I will leave their debacherous abodes in ruins, their blood money in the pockets of those more deserving, and the wicked hanging from the trees of redemption.
I am Wedge, and you, my friend....are very, very fucked.
<<End Transmission::
--Mr. Harkwood <18:14:41/8-26-63>
(to be continued...)
[Shadowrun] Dead Man's Journal
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SeriousDelerious
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[Shadowrun] Dead Man's Journal
The major difference between a thing that might go wrong and a thing that cannot possibly go wrong is that when a thing that cannot possibly go wrong goes wrong it usually turns out to be impossible to get at or repair.
--Douglas Adams
--Douglas Adams
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SeriousDelerious
- Tasty Human
- Posts: 18
- Joined: Mon Mar 15, 2004 11:23 pm
- Location: Corner of This St. and That Ave.
- Contact:
Re: [Shadowrun] Dead Man's Journal
<<NA-UCAS/Seattle transmission relay...
r11.154.43.UTE-Denver...
---A Plea for Help---
I dont know how the hell I ended up in Denver, but here I am...hiding in some blasted alleyway with nothing but a hospital gown and some surgical tools I grabbed on my way out. And its not as if I just said, "Hey, time for me to go!" and walked out the door.
Nope, too easy.
Instead, it all started with the normal morning nurse visit. She brought me breakfast, fixed my pillow...man, was she cute. Way to young for me, though. She was one of the few things I had to look at, though; there we no windows in that room. That should have been red flag numero uno.
Before she left after finishing her daily work, I asked ever so politely if she would please get a paper. If this headache wasnt going to kill me, boredom was. The pretty thing smiled and nodded, and took her sweet little touche out of my room to fetch me a paper. A short time later, she comes back to hand me the Denver times.
"Ma'am, I hate to be a bother, but I'd like to read the local news. I'm not to fond of Denver," I tell her, sad that yet another gorgeous face has to be clouded with either inattention to detail or dim bulb.
"Sir, this is the local news. If you'd like, I can find a paper for the other sectors, but the only one with anything interesting to read is the Ute Times."
Blink. Blink blink. Huh?
"Excuse me, ma'am...where the hell did you say I was?" She better be fucking joking.
She smiled slightly, with an amused smirk that im sure she practiced and used with other patients with severe brain trauma and/or mental retardation. "Sir, you're in the Denver Intensive Care Center, Ute sector. Hold on a minute, sir...I'll ask Dr. Cold Moon if it's okay to give you more medication."
From there, it's all a blur of events. I left my bed to follow a hunch that the nurse may have said too much. Call it paranoia if you want, but I dont consider it a derogitory term; more like a saving grace. Heh, and true to my suspicions, I hear her conversing with a very irate doctor over the phone. I should thank the powers that be that they placed my room right next to the nurse station, and that she had no clue how to keep her voice down.
"I'm sorry doctor, but I think there's a problem with your, uh, special patient. Yes, he's still alive. Yes, he's still in his room. Doctor, please listen. I, uh...I may have accidentally given him a local newspaper. I'm sorry doctor Cold Moon, I wasn't thinking. No, I'm not trying to get you fired. I...I...I didn't know, doctor. Do you want me to call the Azzie hospital for immediate transfer? Yes, sir. Yes, sir I will. No sir, I wont say anything else. He'll sleep like a baby, I promise doctor."
Thats all I needed to hear. There ain't an azzie slag in the world that'll get me alive.
Fast-forward to now. It's bloody cold, and and the drugs they were feeding me has left me with a monsterous case of cottonmouth. I have no contacts in this horrid place, no money, and I STILL HAVE THIS FRAGGIN HEADACHE. If there is anyone out there that's reading this...I'll gladly pay you back in favors, money, whatever the fuck you want. I dont care. But the azzies want me for some reason (which I have a good idea, and I wont disclose here...not now) and I am in heavy danger of kicking my bucket early.
I told you I wouldnt make it to my next birthday.
<<End Transmission::
--Mr. Harkwood <19:01:16/8-27-63>
(to be continued...)
r11.154.43.UTE-Denver...
---A Plea for Help---
I dont know how the hell I ended up in Denver, but here I am...hiding in some blasted alleyway with nothing but a hospital gown and some surgical tools I grabbed on my way out. And its not as if I just said, "Hey, time for me to go!" and walked out the door.
Nope, too easy.
Instead, it all started with the normal morning nurse visit. She brought me breakfast, fixed my pillow...man, was she cute. Way to young for me, though. She was one of the few things I had to look at, though; there we no windows in that room. That should have been red flag numero uno.
Before she left after finishing her daily work, I asked ever so politely if she would please get a paper. If this headache wasnt going to kill me, boredom was. The pretty thing smiled and nodded, and took her sweet little touche out of my room to fetch me a paper. A short time later, she comes back to hand me the Denver times.
"Ma'am, I hate to be a bother, but I'd like to read the local news. I'm not to fond of Denver," I tell her, sad that yet another gorgeous face has to be clouded with either inattention to detail or dim bulb.
"Sir, this is the local news. If you'd like, I can find a paper for the other sectors, but the only one with anything interesting to read is the Ute Times."
Blink. Blink blink. Huh?
"Excuse me, ma'am...where the hell did you say I was?" She better be fucking joking.
She smiled slightly, with an amused smirk that im sure she practiced and used with other patients with severe brain trauma and/or mental retardation. "Sir, you're in the Denver Intensive Care Center, Ute sector. Hold on a minute, sir...I'll ask Dr. Cold Moon if it's okay to give you more medication."
From there, it's all a blur of events. I left my bed to follow a hunch that the nurse may have said too much. Call it paranoia if you want, but I dont consider it a derogitory term; more like a saving grace. Heh, and true to my suspicions, I hear her conversing with a very irate doctor over the phone. I should thank the powers that be that they placed my room right next to the nurse station, and that she had no clue how to keep her voice down.
"I'm sorry doctor, but I think there's a problem with your, uh, special patient. Yes, he's still alive. Yes, he's still in his room. Doctor, please listen. I, uh...I may have accidentally given him a local newspaper. I'm sorry doctor Cold Moon, I wasn't thinking. No, I'm not trying to get you fired. I...I...I didn't know, doctor. Do you want me to call the Azzie hospital for immediate transfer? Yes, sir. Yes, sir I will. No sir, I wont say anything else. He'll sleep like a baby, I promise doctor."
Thats all I needed to hear. There ain't an azzie slag in the world that'll get me alive.
Fast-forward to now. It's bloody cold, and and the drugs they were feeding me has left me with a monsterous case of cottonmouth. I have no contacts in this horrid place, no money, and I STILL HAVE THIS FRAGGIN HEADACHE. If there is anyone out there that's reading this...I'll gladly pay you back in favors, money, whatever the fuck you want. I dont care. But the azzies want me for some reason (which I have a good idea, and I wont disclose here...not now) and I am in heavy danger of kicking my bucket early.
I told you I wouldnt make it to my next birthday.
<<End Transmission::
--Mr. Harkwood <19:01:16/8-27-63>
(to be continued...)
The major difference between a thing that might go wrong and a thing that cannot possibly go wrong is that when a thing that cannot possibly go wrong goes wrong it usually turns out to be impossible to get at or repair.
--Douglas Adams
--Douglas Adams
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SeriousDelerious
- Tasty Human
- Posts: 18
- Joined: Mon Mar 15, 2004 11:23 pm
- Location: Corner of This St. and That Ave.
- Contact:
Re: [Shadowrun] Dead Man's Journal
<<NA-UCAS/Seattle transmission relay...
r11.154.43.UTE-Denver...
---The Clot Thickens---
Why does bad news travel faster than good news? Even if they come in pairs, the bad news always hits first, ya know? Let me transpose it for just this once...maybe someone can get a kick out of later. Ready?
Yes, the Azzies want me, and for good reason. Through a colossal twist of fate, the gentleman my team and I was to assassinate was a full fledged, very powerful blood mage. Where's this "twist of fate" you ask? Well...my entire teams lacks even ONE single mage. Thats right...we hate em, 'specially the Aztechnology breed. Every bloody one of them. Get it? Bloody one of them?? Heheh...heh. Oh come on, it was funny.
Yeah, anyways. Sting and Edge managed to surprise the slag while he was casting some ritual mumbo jumbo. It could have been oatmeal fucking cookies for all I care, the point is- damn, this headache is killing me.
Ahem, sorry. The point is, the stupid fragger didnt post up ANY defense. Guess I'm not the only one cocky enough to make mistakes. Come to find out, this guy was a major Azzie player. Major major kind of major. Suddenly, that credstick didnt feel too well in my hands. Didn't stop me from renovating my bathroom, though.
I had a point, didn't I? Oh yes...the GOOD news is, I managed to leave the hospital before that very cute nurse (which I now dont like so goddamn much) thought it would smooth things over with Dr. Cold Moon if she called in some "hospital residents" to watch my room. So, no snake eyes just yet.
The bad news came when I finally found a 'doc out there to help me continue my healing process. Luckily, in Denver they trade favors just as much as they trade money, and boy-o here happened to know who I was. See? Notoriety can help sometimes. So yeah...I lie down on what looks like the dirtiest bed I have ever seen in my entire life. The bed wasnt the only thing. Jeez...why do I have to be so damn perceptive? Not to mention he has a pet tarantula named "Pokey" that was meandering his way across a tray of tools that had blood caked on them so think, they looked like they were burnt.
"So, Wedgie...I've completed some preliminary tests, and I've got you some good news and some bad news." Not again.
"Can I have the good news fir-"
"The bad news is, you've got a nasty, nasty virus contained in carcerands from head to toe. I'll need to do more tests to find out what it is exactly, but I can tell you this. It's magical in nature."
Damn and double damn.
Sigh. "You're a magicker?"
"Yes Wedgie. Spider Shaman to be exact. Don't worry, I won't bite. Pokey, might though." Very funny, ass hat. Tell me im dying, and make a shitty joke.
"The name's Wedge, and if that turd of a pet comes near me, I make juice out of it with my foot."
Deep chuckle. "I'd like to see that...I really would. He's got more power in one of his legs than you do in your entire virus-ridden body." He turned to look at me again, this time with a little more sincerity. "The good news is...your headache is a effect of some of the weaker carcerands are exploding early as free-radicals. I'm assuming that the mojo they have stored in those things has an incubation time, which leads me to believe that it's a bacteria."
"How in the name of Dunkelzahn's anus is that good news?"
He shrugs and says "Well, you wanted to know where it was coming from, right?"
I hate magickers.
----
Ol 'doc was good enough to let me use his shower and some old clothes of his. Barely fit, but at this point I can't complain. Also gave me a rusty Defiance shotgun with a box of shells. Older model...T-150's my guess. Rusted as fuck, but the magicker says it'll fire.
"Wedge, I've got about the best analysis that I'm going to get on your predicament. You ready?"
"SPIT IT OUT DOC!"
"I believe that the carcerands contain a biological agent, magical in nature, and very very similar to the VITAS plaque oh so many years back. Since I don't have a live sample, or a level four biohazard facility to study it in, I cant tell you much more than that."
"Wait. Level four biohazard facility? VITAS?? I'm carrying a super virus?!?!?"
"Yes, one I believe that has the potential to kill all metas, but aimed particularly at killing the magically active."
Thats one goddamn brave move for the Ute to do. Make ME their ticking time bomb? Why??
"Okay doc, I appreciate all the help. I can tell by your face that you dont want me in here as much as I dont want this crap in me."
Doc lowers his head, and says real nice-like, "Don't worry about the return favor. You'll need the grace of whatever diety you worship to live."
Out the door I went, like a good little trooper. Whatever diety I worship?
I worship El Colt Manhunter. And He needs a sacrifice, real bad-like. He says he wants Dr. Cold Moon.
Ironic, I was thinking the same thing...
<<End Transmission::
--Mr. Harkwood <09:39:16/8-28-63>
(to be continued...)
r11.154.43.UTE-Denver...
---The Clot Thickens---
Why does bad news travel faster than good news? Even if they come in pairs, the bad news always hits first, ya know? Let me transpose it for just this once...maybe someone can get a kick out of later. Ready?
Yes, the Azzies want me, and for good reason. Through a colossal twist of fate, the gentleman my team and I was to assassinate was a full fledged, very powerful blood mage. Where's this "twist of fate" you ask? Well...my entire teams lacks even ONE single mage. Thats right...we hate em, 'specially the Aztechnology breed. Every bloody one of them. Get it? Bloody one of them?? Heheh...heh. Oh come on, it was funny.
Yeah, anyways. Sting and Edge managed to surprise the slag while he was casting some ritual mumbo jumbo. It could have been oatmeal fucking cookies for all I care, the point is- damn, this headache is killing me.
Ahem, sorry. The point is, the stupid fragger didnt post up ANY defense. Guess I'm not the only one cocky enough to make mistakes. Come to find out, this guy was a major Azzie player. Major major kind of major. Suddenly, that credstick didnt feel too well in my hands. Didn't stop me from renovating my bathroom, though.
I had a point, didn't I? Oh yes...the GOOD news is, I managed to leave the hospital before that very cute nurse (which I now dont like so goddamn much) thought it would smooth things over with Dr. Cold Moon if she called in some "hospital residents" to watch my room. So, no snake eyes just yet.
The bad news came when I finally found a 'doc out there to help me continue my healing process. Luckily, in Denver they trade favors just as much as they trade money, and boy-o here happened to know who I was. See? Notoriety can help sometimes. So yeah...I lie down on what looks like the dirtiest bed I have ever seen in my entire life. The bed wasnt the only thing. Jeez...why do I have to be so damn perceptive? Not to mention he has a pet tarantula named "Pokey" that was meandering his way across a tray of tools that had blood caked on them so think, they looked like they were burnt.
"So, Wedgie...I've completed some preliminary tests, and I've got you some good news and some bad news." Not again.
"Can I have the good news fir-"
"The bad news is, you've got a nasty, nasty virus contained in carcerands from head to toe. I'll need to do more tests to find out what it is exactly, but I can tell you this. It's magical in nature."
Damn and double damn.
Sigh. "You're a magicker?"
"Yes Wedgie. Spider Shaman to be exact. Don't worry, I won't bite. Pokey, might though." Very funny, ass hat. Tell me im dying, and make a shitty joke.
"The name's Wedge, and if that turd of a pet comes near me, I make juice out of it with my foot."
Deep chuckle. "I'd like to see that...I really would. He's got more power in one of his legs than you do in your entire virus-ridden body." He turned to look at me again, this time with a little more sincerity. "The good news is...your headache is a effect of some of the weaker carcerands are exploding early as free-radicals. I'm assuming that the mojo they have stored in those things has an incubation time, which leads me to believe that it's a bacteria."
"How in the name of Dunkelzahn's anus is that good news?"
He shrugs and says "Well, you wanted to know where it was coming from, right?"
I hate magickers.
----
Ol 'doc was good enough to let me use his shower and some old clothes of his. Barely fit, but at this point I can't complain. Also gave me a rusty Defiance shotgun with a box of shells. Older model...T-150's my guess. Rusted as fuck, but the magicker says it'll fire.
"Wedge, I've got about the best analysis that I'm going to get on your predicament. You ready?"
"SPIT IT OUT DOC!"
"I believe that the carcerands contain a biological agent, magical in nature, and very very similar to the VITAS plaque oh so many years back. Since I don't have a live sample, or a level four biohazard facility to study it in, I cant tell you much more than that."
"Wait. Level four biohazard facility? VITAS?? I'm carrying a super virus?!?!?"
"Yes, one I believe that has the potential to kill all metas, but aimed particularly at killing the magically active."
Thats one goddamn brave move for the Ute to do. Make ME their ticking time bomb? Why??
"Okay doc, I appreciate all the help. I can tell by your face that you dont want me in here as much as I dont want this crap in me."
Doc lowers his head, and says real nice-like, "Don't worry about the return favor. You'll need the grace of whatever diety you worship to live."
Out the door I went, like a good little trooper. Whatever diety I worship?
I worship El Colt Manhunter. And He needs a sacrifice, real bad-like. He says he wants Dr. Cold Moon.
Ironic, I was thinking the same thing...
<<End Transmission::
--Mr. Harkwood <09:39:16/8-28-63>
(to be continued...)
The major difference between a thing that might go wrong and a thing that cannot possibly go wrong is that when a thing that cannot possibly go wrong goes wrong it usually turns out to be impossible to get at or repair.
--Douglas Adams
--Douglas Adams
-
SeriousDelerious
- Tasty Human
- Posts: 18
- Joined: Mon Mar 15, 2004 11:23 pm
- Location: Corner of This St. and That Ave.
- Contact:
Re: [Shadowrun] Dead Man's Journal
<<NA-UCAS/Seattle transmission relay...
r11.154.43.UTE-Denver...
---Headhunter---
I ask you...how pissed would you be? You're in a strange land with no money, no friends, and a rusted shotgun. You've got a killer disease riding in you, designed to kill just about everyone, particularly anything magical. You have no idea how long it'll be before it hatches, and a headache that WONT GO AWAY. You know only one person who can answer some questions, and he's hiding in a hospital FULL WELL KNOWING that I'm looking for him.
I expect at least three full squads of unmarked guards keeping watch, most likely more. They'll have ten times as many people monitoring the cameras looking for my ugly mug...and the funny thing about it is, I can guarantee that none of those hapless goons has any clue what I'm carrying. This is a beaurocracy we're talking about here.
Well, I'd like to tell you that I came up with a well thought out plan. Something that involved a disguise made by a simstar's makeup artists, keycards forged by the system administrator themselves, and smooth lines crafted by an elvish casanova to just jander on past the admissions desk. I stopped watching those sims a long time ago.
Instead, I ended up standing over the unconscious body of some unknown suit. Recognizing the basic DocWagon wristband he wore, it told me numerous things. One, he ain't rich by any means of the word, which translates into either very little or none of DocWagon's armed elite accompanying the ambulance here. Of course, I use that word loosely. I'd sooner place my life in the safety of a dozen drugged up Halloweeners.
The plan? Disarm and neutralize the DocWagon unit that comes on the scene. No, not kill them...karma does not play nice with those that needlessly kill. Trust me, I know.
I came up with the rest on the "plan" as minutes ticked on. It felt sloppy...like I was some newbie on the streets, straight out of the boonies with nothing but a few hundred nuyen and a dream. Even newbies had luck, though...and I ain't no newbie.
Time ticked and ticked on by, like someone watching a clock in a dream. Restless, shaking, and scared, I squatted in the shadows as I could make out the lights of the DocWagon Van make it's way down the street, driving like the driver was trying to avoid some unseen potholes. I almost wanted to complain about unprofessionalism, but I quickly reminded myself what I was about to do.
The door opened in the back, and two humans emerged with a dented medkit and a stretcher.
"Great, another chiphead who couldn't wait to get home. Check his ID, okay? Make sure he isn't important...then split his cash with me."
The other one nodded. "What about Trevor?"
"What about Trevor. He's driving, he's an ass, and he's got season tickets to the Timberwolves. He can't even pick a local team fror chissakes."
I had heard enough.
"Hands up, don't move. You too, pointdexter. Thats right, move to the wall. Now put your hands behind your head. Good job, kiddos." With one hand, I opened the medkit and fished for the small plastic wrapped packages with a picture of a man sleeping, with a line of z's floating from his head.
Must've been a pretty good grade tranq patch, dipshit number one hit the ground fast. Dipshit number two walked in front of my shotgun as went to ask the driver if he'd like to accompany the other guy for tea and crumpets in lala land.
Snap, crackle, and pop. All three were sleeping like babies in a matter of minutes, stripped of their handsets and a tiny palm pistol I found on one of them. Sheesh.
The DocWagon van smelt of smoke and sweat, and maybe just faintly like donuts. Next to the radio was a "cheat sheet", with their ambulance number, calling codes, and emergency numbers smeared in either raspberry jam or blood. Just hired? Maybe I do have some luck in me after all. So this is what happens when the three stooges in the 2060's. Does anybody remember that show? Damn, i'm old.
"DGH, this is DW-3...we've got a BTL chip user suffering from cardiac arrest." Static. It's kinda fun, playing doctor. Or ambulance driver. Or whatever.
"DW-3, roger that. Bay 12 is open with crash cart."
"Copy, DGH. Requesting cardiologist at the bay upon arrival." I'll use one doctor to find another. Not bad if I say so myself.
"Roger. Doctor will have to be paged. Keep 'em breating 'till then."
"Thank you, DGH. DW-3 out."
The drive was...interesting, to say the least. Not having previously driven a DocWagon van before, combined with my lack of knowledge of the Ute sector (or all of Denver, if you want to get picky about it), I managed to finally arrive, albeit a bit late for my tastes. At least the people on the street has the curtesy not to laugh when a DocWagon van pulls up to them and asks them directions to the Denver General Hospital.
The hospital itself was lit up like the Las Vegas skyline, like a beacon of salvation for those in need. Bay 12 was the last bay on the entire row, proceeded by 11 other empty bays...all either off duty, on patrol, or a combination of both. Backing into the bay was a bit complicated, and only made my headache that much worse. But when I opened the back doors into the hospital, everything I had had to do was paid for in full. Maybe I was in Las Vegas after all...
"It's about damn time. First and foremost this is going on your record. You never take this long with a heart patient. Second, if I ever have to-"
"Well well well, Doctor Cold Moon. How nice to fucking meet you. Get in the van." His eyes widened enough for me to tell he had a nice pair of blue Zeiss cybereyes. Oh, how nice it felt to sleep with lady luck.
"I'd prefer not to, if you don't mind-"
*chick-chick* One round chambered, four left to go.
"Get in the goddamn van. And close the doors behind you."
<<End Transmission::
--Mr. Harkwood <23:29:07/8-29-63>
(to be continued...)
r11.154.43.UTE-Denver...
---Headhunter---
I ask you...how pissed would you be? You're in a strange land with no money, no friends, and a rusted shotgun. You've got a killer disease riding in you, designed to kill just about everyone, particularly anything magical. You have no idea how long it'll be before it hatches, and a headache that WONT GO AWAY. You know only one person who can answer some questions, and he's hiding in a hospital FULL WELL KNOWING that I'm looking for him.
I expect at least three full squads of unmarked guards keeping watch, most likely more. They'll have ten times as many people monitoring the cameras looking for my ugly mug...and the funny thing about it is, I can guarantee that none of those hapless goons has any clue what I'm carrying. This is a beaurocracy we're talking about here.
Well, I'd like to tell you that I came up with a well thought out plan. Something that involved a disguise made by a simstar's makeup artists, keycards forged by the system administrator themselves, and smooth lines crafted by an elvish casanova to just jander on past the admissions desk. I stopped watching those sims a long time ago.
Instead, I ended up standing over the unconscious body of some unknown suit. Recognizing the basic DocWagon wristband he wore, it told me numerous things. One, he ain't rich by any means of the word, which translates into either very little or none of DocWagon's armed elite accompanying the ambulance here. Of course, I use that word loosely. I'd sooner place my life in the safety of a dozen drugged up Halloweeners.
The plan? Disarm and neutralize the DocWagon unit that comes on the scene. No, not kill them...karma does not play nice with those that needlessly kill. Trust me, I know.
I came up with the rest on the "plan" as minutes ticked on. It felt sloppy...like I was some newbie on the streets, straight out of the boonies with nothing but a few hundred nuyen and a dream. Even newbies had luck, though...and I ain't no newbie.
Time ticked and ticked on by, like someone watching a clock in a dream. Restless, shaking, and scared, I squatted in the shadows as I could make out the lights of the DocWagon Van make it's way down the street, driving like the driver was trying to avoid some unseen potholes. I almost wanted to complain about unprofessionalism, but I quickly reminded myself what I was about to do.
The door opened in the back, and two humans emerged with a dented medkit and a stretcher.
"Great, another chiphead who couldn't wait to get home. Check his ID, okay? Make sure he isn't important...then split his cash with me."
The other one nodded. "What about Trevor?"
"What about Trevor. He's driving, he's an ass, and he's got season tickets to the Timberwolves. He can't even pick a local team fror chissakes."
I had heard enough.
"Hands up, don't move. You too, pointdexter. Thats right, move to the wall. Now put your hands behind your head. Good job, kiddos." With one hand, I opened the medkit and fished for the small plastic wrapped packages with a picture of a man sleeping, with a line of z's floating from his head.
Must've been a pretty good grade tranq patch, dipshit number one hit the ground fast. Dipshit number two walked in front of my shotgun as went to ask the driver if he'd like to accompany the other guy for tea and crumpets in lala land.
Snap, crackle, and pop. All three were sleeping like babies in a matter of minutes, stripped of their handsets and a tiny palm pistol I found on one of them. Sheesh.
The DocWagon van smelt of smoke and sweat, and maybe just faintly like donuts. Next to the radio was a "cheat sheet", with their ambulance number, calling codes, and emergency numbers smeared in either raspberry jam or blood. Just hired? Maybe I do have some luck in me after all. So this is what happens when the three stooges in the 2060's. Does anybody remember that show? Damn, i'm old.
"DGH, this is DW-3...we've got a BTL chip user suffering from cardiac arrest." Static. It's kinda fun, playing doctor. Or ambulance driver. Or whatever.
"DW-3, roger that. Bay 12 is open with crash cart."
"Copy, DGH. Requesting cardiologist at the bay upon arrival." I'll use one doctor to find another. Not bad if I say so myself.
"Roger. Doctor will have to be paged. Keep 'em breating 'till then."
"Thank you, DGH. DW-3 out."
The drive was...interesting, to say the least. Not having previously driven a DocWagon van before, combined with my lack of knowledge of the Ute sector (or all of Denver, if you want to get picky about it), I managed to finally arrive, albeit a bit late for my tastes. At least the people on the street has the curtesy not to laugh when a DocWagon van pulls up to them and asks them directions to the Denver General Hospital.
The hospital itself was lit up like the Las Vegas skyline, like a beacon of salvation for those in need. Bay 12 was the last bay on the entire row, proceeded by 11 other empty bays...all either off duty, on patrol, or a combination of both. Backing into the bay was a bit complicated, and only made my headache that much worse. But when I opened the back doors into the hospital, everything I had had to do was paid for in full. Maybe I was in Las Vegas after all...
"It's about damn time. First and foremost this is going on your record. You never take this long with a heart patient. Second, if I ever have to-"
"Well well well, Doctor Cold Moon. How nice to fucking meet you. Get in the van." His eyes widened enough for me to tell he had a nice pair of blue Zeiss cybereyes. Oh, how nice it felt to sleep with lady luck.
"I'd prefer not to, if you don't mind-"
*chick-chick* One round chambered, four left to go.
"Get in the goddamn van. And close the doors behind you."
<<End Transmission::
--Mr. Harkwood <23:29:07/8-29-63>
(to be continued...)
The major difference between a thing that might go wrong and a thing that cannot possibly go wrong is that when a thing that cannot possibly go wrong goes wrong it usually turns out to be impossible to get at or repair.
--Douglas Adams
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SeriousDelerious
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Re: [Shadowrun] Dead Man's Journal
<<NA-UCAS/Seattle transmission relay...
r11.154.43.UTE-Denver...
---Age of Defiance---
For all of my pain, all of the absolute shit I'd gone through and all that would follow, the look on Cold Moon's face was nothing short of priceless. The way he stared down the barrel of the shotgun left him with this funny cross-eyed look. I almost smiled.
"You have a lot of explaining, and not a whole lot of time. Start spillin'."
"I can't say anything...I've got a killswitch. I say anything, and im toast." He was bluffing. He had to be. Answers resided in that head. Answers that I needed.
"Yeah, and you have another point pointed at your frontal lobe. The way I see it, one way or another, you're going to die."
"There's no cure!" he blurted out immediately. "There's nothing you can do! They've seen to that personally, and the only thing you can do now is find some airtight place to die so no one else does! THEY MADE ME DO IT!"
I felt the chills again, but this time it was death caressing my soul...getting a feel for his newest prize. One that would bring him thousands more.
Sigh. "How much time do I have?" He sat blinking at me for a second. Only a second, before I let him smell the cold steel business end of the Defiance. Oddly, I felt in tune with the old gun. We had a lot in common; old, rusty, but more than ready to pop a shell in this fuckhead's brain.
His nostrils flared with anticipation, his brain recieved all the signals needed for fear. I could practically smell the adrenaline making his body shake and voice stutter. A twelve guage bore is a large thing to be stuck under one's nose. "M-m-maybe 3 days. It's hard to t-t-t-tell..."
I wanted him to find me a cure, because I really didnt believe that there wasnt one. He didnt want to be around me anymore than the king of England wanted to be around a hospice filled with people dying from the black plague. Only this was worse, and in a technological age were something could be done. And he would find a cure. I would make sure of that.
I reached into one of the medkits that I had previously taken the tranq patches from, and found a decent sized needle. Keeping the lug of a shotgun in one hand, I tore off the plastic wrapping with my teeth and removed the plastic cap.
"Draw blood from me. Now."
"You would risk infecting all of us? Now? Are you fucking crazy?" Another bluff. It was at this point that I started to entertain the thought of just shooting his sorry ass anyways. But, we all know that I wouldnt be surviving much of anything that way. Drat.
"Doctor, you know as well as I do that the agent in me hasn't matured enough to become a threat yet. Not completely incubated, or something of the sort. Look, just take the blood or I smear yours across the back of the van. Comprende?" He had no more aces up his sleeves. I guess cards aren't his strong suit.
Reluctantly, he took a good sized syringe with my blood in it. The needle sting was nothing compared to the tumultuous headache already in progress.
"You know, I can only do so much with this sample. I can't guarantee to find a cure. Your blood type is 'a' and rH negative, which only 6.3 percent of the population have, including me. The amount of samples it would take for me to find something, if at all, would be monsterous. Besides, I never agreed to help. You can't point that gun at my head all the time."
"You're right, I cant. Give me your arm."
Stark terror wracked his face. I could practically see his pupils dialate.
"That's right, shitstain. You try to find a cure while you have this shit coursing through your veins."
<<End Transmission::
--Mr. Harkwood <14:41:19/8-30-63>
(to be continued...)
r11.154.43.UTE-Denver...
---Age of Defiance---
For all of my pain, all of the absolute shit I'd gone through and all that would follow, the look on Cold Moon's face was nothing short of priceless. The way he stared down the barrel of the shotgun left him with this funny cross-eyed look. I almost smiled.
"You have a lot of explaining, and not a whole lot of time. Start spillin'."
"I can't say anything...I've got a killswitch. I say anything, and im toast." He was bluffing. He had to be. Answers resided in that head. Answers that I needed.
"Yeah, and you have another point pointed at your frontal lobe. The way I see it, one way or another, you're going to die."
"There's no cure!" he blurted out immediately. "There's nothing you can do! They've seen to that personally, and the only thing you can do now is find some airtight place to die so no one else does! THEY MADE ME DO IT!"
I felt the chills again, but this time it was death caressing my soul...getting a feel for his newest prize. One that would bring him thousands more.
Sigh. "How much time do I have?" He sat blinking at me for a second. Only a second, before I let him smell the cold steel business end of the Defiance. Oddly, I felt in tune with the old gun. We had a lot in common; old, rusty, but more than ready to pop a shell in this fuckhead's brain.
His nostrils flared with anticipation, his brain recieved all the signals needed for fear. I could practically smell the adrenaline making his body shake and voice stutter. A twelve guage bore is a large thing to be stuck under one's nose. "M-m-maybe 3 days. It's hard to t-t-t-tell..."
I wanted him to find me a cure, because I really didnt believe that there wasnt one. He didnt want to be around me anymore than the king of England wanted to be around a hospice filled with people dying from the black plague. Only this was worse, and in a technological age were something could be done. And he would find a cure. I would make sure of that.
I reached into one of the medkits that I had previously taken the tranq patches from, and found a decent sized needle. Keeping the lug of a shotgun in one hand, I tore off the plastic wrapping with my teeth and removed the plastic cap.
"Draw blood from me. Now."
"You would risk infecting all of us? Now? Are you fucking crazy?" Another bluff. It was at this point that I started to entertain the thought of just shooting his sorry ass anyways. But, we all know that I wouldnt be surviving much of anything that way. Drat.
"Doctor, you know as well as I do that the agent in me hasn't matured enough to become a threat yet. Not completely incubated, or something of the sort. Look, just take the blood or I smear yours across the back of the van. Comprende?" He had no more aces up his sleeves. I guess cards aren't his strong suit.
Reluctantly, he took a good sized syringe with my blood in it. The needle sting was nothing compared to the tumultuous headache already in progress.
"You know, I can only do so much with this sample. I can't guarantee to find a cure. Your blood type is 'a' and rH negative, which only 6.3 percent of the population have, including me. The amount of samples it would take for me to find something, if at all, would be monsterous. Besides, I never agreed to help. You can't point that gun at my head all the time."
"You're right, I cant. Give me your arm."
Stark terror wracked his face. I could practically see his pupils dialate.
"That's right, shitstain. You try to find a cure while you have this shit coursing through your veins."
<<End Transmission::
--Mr. Harkwood <14:41:19/8-30-63>
(to be continued...)
The major difference between a thing that might go wrong and a thing that cannot possibly go wrong is that when a thing that cannot possibly go wrong goes wrong it usually turns out to be impossible to get at or repair.
--Douglas Adams
--Douglas Adams