[Shadowrun by Clockwork] Take Two

[Ancient History]

With the baying of the hounds, Sam knew the time for stealth had passed. From 'neath his greatcoat came the two octagon-barelled revolvers that were his preferred weapons, which he cocked and readied for when his adversaries came into sight.

He need not have waited at all, the great baying black hounds rushed at him a-sudden from around the corner of the nearest building, their great coats shining with dew from the wet grass. Their speed was unnatural, the fluid muscles bunching beneath their fur responding with pretenatural ease as they loped almost on top of him.

The massive twin blasts ripped flesh and blood from the beasts, a great gouge torn through the chest of one and half the head missing from the other. Arms half-numbed by the recoil of his great guns and ears half-deafened from the cacophony, Sam loped himself toward the exit: a distant spiked gate, covered with a treacherous and slippery ivy. He shoved his great guns back in their leather holesters at his belt; the chance that he might stop and reload them was not great.

Sam reached the dark ivy wall just as he heard the local guards finding the dogs and giving pursuit. Not slwoing down he gave a running leap, catching the topmost iron bar with his heavy gloves, hefting his sweating form and massive coat up and over the hedge. Balanced for a moment at the top, something slammed into his left shoulder, propelling him full tilt over the gate, to land sprawling and painfully in the thorny bushes below. Ignoring both his aching legs and the sharp, spreading warmth from his shoulder, Sam barelled through the thorn-bushes, his great coat and gloves protecting him for the most part from their scratches, though his exposed cheeks grey ragged and bloody as he pounded on.

For some time he ran through the dense morass of thorns, until the bushes in front of him recoiled and threw him back. Sprawled on his backside, Sam watch with astonishment and then anger as a crude morass of sticks and thorny vines wove itself into the mockey of a man. Sam found his feet, and from his lower back drew a great curved knife from Burma, a relic of his soldiering days, and squatted in a knife-fighter's crouch before the thing.

The moon chose that moment to detach itself from behind the bank of clouds that had hidden it, and as the wan light lit upon Sam's silvered blade he roared and lept, slashing and stabbing at the manitou. Taken aback by the big man's sudden fury, the wood-spirit gave a groan like a falling tree and leaned back against Sam's stabbing blade. Green shoots with tiny thorns erupted around the enraged Sam, tugging with subtle purpose at the arms and body hidden within that great coat. The blade continue to chop, slash, stab and fell until with a sight and splash of bitter sap the whole of the constitute vines and twigs collapsed into a shape no longer remeniscient of any of God's creatures. Wiping his blade contemptuosly on a leaf, Sam replaced his Burmese blade and continued on.

Of a sudden, Sam happened upon a trail in the dim moonlight, and set off with all haste along it as it wrapped through a sleeping autumn garden. He had just passed through a tunnel of dark silver-veined marble that supported a bed of dried roses, when a bevy of figures ahead brought him to a halt.

On either side of the path, emerging from the shadows came to hulking figures in ancient, ornate armor; runes and charms dangling in meaningful ways as surely as they great rifles they held in open hands. The cross-hilts of proper swords were evident on their left hips, and fair Ares Dragoons stamped with the image of the god of war rested ready for use in holsters on their right.

Sam noticed these guards but in passing, for upon the path before him, fully illumined by the moonlight stood an elf lord of the Tir, dressed royally in silk, velvet and leather embossed with metal wire. A large signet glinted on a pale hand in a ruffled sleeve holding a fine, fluted crystal glass filled with some amber liquer. A fine perfume wafted from the elfin girl behind him, some nameless companion on this evening peramubulation through the lord's garden, no doubt en route to some proper rendezvous.

"Good even, Prince Laverty." Sam said with a trace of a bow, though his wounded shoulder made him stiff.

"Good even to you, Sam Tomlinson." The Prince responded with the King's English, with barely a hint of Sperethiel accent for effect. He continued in the same vein: "What reason have you to introude on my pleasures tonight?"

"The completion of a commission, sire." Still bowed and with exagerrated care, Sam reached into the inner pocket of his heavy great coat and worked free a thick envelope of parchement, sealed with wax, steel wire and seal. He presented to the Prince, who reached out his free hand and took it, appeared to weigh it carefully with his hand and gaze, then turned those darksome eyes back to the shadowrunner.
"Very good, Sir Tomlinson. You will find the remainder of the payment in your account tomorrow when the banks open. My Paladins will escort you out."

Tonight, mused Sam as he marched beside the armored elfin guards, I have suffered a great deal of pain and shed not a little blood for that elf lord's pleasure. Tired and dirty from his exertions, he thought little more of the matter when he returned to his rooms at the Portland Hiltown Hotel. He stripped off his layers of thick clothing and left them in ungaily heaps for the staff to pick up and launder. He fingered the scratches and scars endured upon his durable and favored great coat, especially the tell-tale hole where some medium caliber had penetrated almost entirely through the small metal plates sewn within the shoulders. His shower felt luxurious for being hot, and steady. Through the steam he watched bits of dirt, red hair and greenery float down the pinkish rivulets flowing down his body and into the gaping drain-hole. Fresh towel and green-hued lotions and poultices relaxed his already tired frame, so that the feather mattress and crisp clean sheets were barely in his awareness when he fell into them, sound asleep.

Rising late that morning, nearly 8 o'clock, Sam betook himself a hearty breakfast of eggs and bacon, coffee and toast before strolling down to the local First Multinational Bank. A grim and hearty smile fixed his lips when the teller promptly confirmed the night deposit of some 15,000 gold-pressed nuyen into his account. No, not a bad commission at all.

Strolling from the bank, a man in fine suit and hat fell into step beside him. His left eye gleamed of glass rimmed with surgical steal, and his left arm showed the fine-oiled whirling mechanisms of a prosthesis. The articulation of the hand in particular told that this was a man of wealth...or wealthy masters...

"Herr Tomlinson." The address came from a fascimile of a voice, the grinding of gears and strumming of whalebone not quite eradicated. "You may call me Johanneson. My employer has a commission for you, if you are interested..."

Nodding absently to himself, Sam lead the man into a dark yet handsome Portland bar.