Zoë sits down in my field of vision and catches me staring. I blink and shift, giving her a curt smile. She is staring right into my eyes, about a half-meter away from me, slowly eating. What the heck is that, applesauce? She makes me squirm a bit, but I remember I have a game to play, so I quickly meet her stare and hold it. She’s young, younger that I thought. She can’t be past eighteen. She has the unbending arrogance of youth. After a minute of playing the starting contest, she smiles and puts her cup of what I am definitely calling applesauce aside.
“So, you in trouble, Mr. Johnson?”
The worst thing I can do right now is treat her like a child. It takes considerable effort for me not to do so. “Complications, yes. I’m hoping you can help me.” I pause. “That’s not easy for me to admit.”
“Huh,” she says thoughtfully, leaning back. One of her arms gets lost in her bushy hair.
Vanity comes back into the room. Zoë looks at her, with an eyebrow cocking quickly, and an open-mouth smile. Vanity smiles back at her.
“Be nice to our guest, sweetie,” she tells the girl. “Come on, me and Mister Johnson need to talk. Vai.”
Zoë strings something in that tongue again as she gets up and leaves us. “Qué saudji,” she says, winking at Vanity and giggling a bit.
“Fala serio,” Vanity answers back with a click of her tongue.
I give Vanity a quizzical look. I’d like to get to the bottom of this.
Vanity looks at me sideways. “What?”
“What language is that? You used it when we first met and it looks like you all do.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she teases me. “It’s Portuguese. Brazilian Portuguese.”
“Ah. It sounds like Créole or something, wasn’t sure”
“You speak Créole?” she asks, surprised.
“No, I just kind of recognize it. I grew up in Montreal, lots of Carib people there. I don’t speak it, I just sort of know the sound of it.”
“Oh, Montreal, huh? You speak French?”
I think everyone asks me that when I say I’m from Montreal. Fact is, I purposefully don’t. My parents were driven from their country by fascist motherfucking language zealots. I have no desire to use their words.
I decide to share some of the adventures of my youth with Vanity. I need some emotional capital with my saviors. Vanity is a good person to start with. She seems interested in my story, but I don’t know. Always, in the back of my head, I know she’s a shadowrunner. She’ll play me, use me, and spit me out.
I finish my bit. I positioned myself well, now it’s her turn to volunteer something about herself. This I’m interested in. It’s for my mission. I need intel. That’s what I tell myself. But there’s something else I don’t want to admit to. It’s dangerous and I won’t even think it.
We’re interrupted by Angel and Irish who come back to where we are. They instantly get my attention because they’re fully equipped, with armored jackets and assault rifles. Uh-oh.
I stay cool. I look at them. Irish looks happy. Not good, I think.
“What’s going on?” I finally ask, since they don’t seem about to volunteer the information.
“Raven’s coming for ya, omae,” answers Irish. I think about it for a second. No, that doesn’t make any sense.
“What?” Not very eloquent on my part, but whatever.
Angel’s answer is much more useful. “The guy you tangled with in the hotel goes by the name of Raven. Irish knows him.” Irish smiles. Of course he does. Insane motherfuckers go together, right? “That bullet you think hit you? It’s a trace. Newer stuff. Just needs a glancing hit, deposits nano-dust trackers on you. He’ll be coming”
My eyes bulge a little but I get control of myself pretty fast. Nano-dust trackers. I feel like a complete idiot. I should have ditched my clothes. Stupid stupid stupid.
“Okay. So what do we do?”
“He’s not too smart. Surprised he’s still alive. He’s gonna come here and we’re gonna pop him,” answers Irish, with palpable delight in his voice. I guess that’s how psychos high-five or whatever. They “pop” each other. Shit, violent world.
“So …” I continue my very articulate side of the conversation.
“He may have a teammate. He should be just about due; wait here,” says Angel. He and Irish get into position, which is not very elaborate. They just get behind some of those crates they got lying everywhere, guns pointed at the door.
Not a moment later Zoë yells, “He’s here,” from the side room. I look at this set up. I’m sitting in the middle of a large empty warehouse where not two minutes earlier I was having a conversation. Angel and Irish are positioned in the simplest ambush I’ve ever seen. Vanity has gotten up and is standing against the wall, peeking out of the grimy industrial window panes lining the building.
This has got to be the dumbest, simplest plan I’ve ever seen. I have serious doubts about this team. Not just for keeping me alive, but for completing the mission I originally hired them to do.
“Shouldn’t you—” I begin, but a “Shh!” from Vanity silences me. She then gestures and Angel changes position. He runs all the way down the building and crouches by another window. He moves his head a bit, getting a good view or something, and then raises his rifle to his shoulder.
Just at about that point, the door to the warehouse squeaks open, tentatively. Nothing happens. So the door swings open wide, and that white-painted face asshole elf walks in. There I am, sitting at a table, looking at him dumbly. He smiles, and slowly, expertly, draws out a chrome razor blade. “Nice of you to wait for me,” he drawls menacingly.
Irish whispers, “Hey, asshole,” as he stands up from cover, rifle raised. Raven is taken completely by surprise. He recovers quickly, though, and reaches for a holstered gun. But Irish isn’t taking prisoners. He fires a burst right into his chest. Raven goes down. Almost at the same time come two quick bursts, then another one from down the building. I swing around before the last burst, and to my confusion, all I see is muzzle flash in mid-air. No Angel. No Vanity, either, I realize.
Well, shit.
I knew it all along. A goddamn mage. She had to be, right? On cue, both reappear out of thin air. Irish stands over Raven’s body. I can see Raven’s feet subtly moving, trying to push against nothing. Slight whispering sounds. Let’s be clear, he’s a terrible person that murdered innocent people in an effort to kill me. Of course, the latter part of that bothers me a lot more than the killing of innocents. When he walked in through that door, I felt a ball raise in my throat as I remembered the fear I felt in my hotel room, the thought of imminent death and urgency spreading through every fiber of my being wanting, above all else, to be alive. But, even with all that, I feel sad and pathetic watching him die. Faced with the end of his life, is he sorry, like I was? Did his life flash in front of his eyes, and did he regret everything that brought him here? Did he think back of the warm embrace of his mother and feel sad he grew up into a monster and let her down? Am I some sort of softie for thinking about this shit?
Irish apparently doesn’t have these thoughts. “Well fuckface, I told you I was the better man,” he says before lazily hovering the barrel of his rifle to Raven’s head and pulling the trigger. A single loud retort echoes against the concrete walls of the warehouse. “And you have a stupid name. Fucking chump.”
Irish looks up at me with a wide smile. I stare at him somewhat dumbly. “Good job, Mr. Johnson. You didn’t piss yourself, did you? Ha. See, don’t over-complicate a plan when a simple one will work.” He laughs. I see now that he’s high on it. He’s high on the kill, on being dominator, the king of the jungle. He’s genuinely happy right now. I look back at Raven and the pool of dark blood he’s lying in. I don’t feel happy. Should I?
Zoë comes out of her hiding place, tarp in hand. She lays it next to the body. “Come on,” she tell me, instructing me to help get rid of the corpse. I oblige, because he’s dead because of me. I help move the body, and I manage to do
so without looking at his face. Zoë doesn’t seem thrilled with the task, but she goes about it with grim efficiency and no complaints. We bag him, heft him, and dump him in the trunk of one of the team’s cars. Zoë tells me she’ll take it from here. I frown.
“Won’t you need help taking him out of the car?” I ask.
She smiles at my naiveté. “Naw, the buyers at the other end will be more than happy to take him from me”
Buyers at the other end. Right. I heard Atlanta has a thriving ghoul community, always looking to buy fresh meat. I don’t usually arrange body disposal. We have people for that at Renraku.
Zoë gives me one last smile, and her bobbing mass of hair follows the rest of her as she gets in the car and drives to the front, where Angel will load the second body, I imagine. I don’t even know who the second guy that Angel shot down might be. I guess that’s all right.
I go back inside and sit at the main table. Reflexes make me take out my commlink, ready to fiddle with it, but I remember it’s off. I haven’t checked messages or taken a call in way longer than I ever have, I think. I never noticed, but checking messages gives me comfort. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the thought that people need me. I mean, not in a way a child or a girlfriend might. But people value my expertise. I fit in people’s plans. I guess I still do, except that now the plan is “Won’t you just die already.”
I pass a hand through my hair. I notice it has a slight tremble. That’s fairly normal. I can remember a few times where I’ve had the shakes. Occupational hazard. It goes away. I just need some rest. I realize just how tired I am. It hits me all at once. In a way it’s not that I want to sleep, it’s that I just want this day to end.
Vanity comes by, sitting at the table. She looks me over, full of interest. She has a way of making me feel like a lab rat. Again, that disconnected look, box seat at the opera.
“You all right?” I ask her.
She is amused. “I’m just fine, Mr. Johnson” she says. Her voice is a soft, even slide. “How are you?” She gives me a wide smile. She clearly enjoys her little games.
“I like your make-up, did I tell you that?”
She holds that wide smile at me, her head tilting to one side. “Obrigado.”
I nod my head. Nod it for a while. Yep. Nodding.
“Vanity?”
“Hmm?”
“Where can I crash?”
“Ah,” she says. It’s a sound of triumph. “There is a small room past the work area, to the left. You can take it”
“Okay.” I get up. I take a moment to figure out which way if left. I’m right handed, so that means left is the other hand … right. Got it. I stumble into the room. A plain affair. Bunk bed amongst other supplies. My hands work to loosen my tie and unbutton the first few. I lack the patience to finish, so I slip the shirt over my head. Loosen my belt, shrug off my pants. I get in the cot and feel the covers over my bare skin. I pass out. I dream of dark streets, sudden violence, of chasms opening under my feet. I dream of flying, then falling, then both.
I wake up. Where am I? I’m in bed. I remember where. Vanity is in a cot next to me. Her eyes are open. She is observing me.
“Bad dream?” she asks
I grunt a yes. The dream was so bad I still feel rattled, even as my senses fall back into place. I look at Vanity. I flash back to the car, when she sat calmly behind me, ready to execute me in the blink of an eye. I don’t know where we stand anymore. I’m in a barebones safe house with a team of wired-up elite black operatives. Who am I anymore? Who was I ever? If you take away my Italian leather shoes, my whisky drinks, and my Manhattan condo, there isn’t much left. I sit on the side of the bed. I don’t think, per se. I kind of just marinate in my thoughts. I get up and start picking up my clothes and dressing back up. Vanity watches me idly the whole time.
As I stumble into the main room, it’s clear the rest of the team has been more efficient with their time while I was out. Gear has been packed neatly. Zoë is holding up what must be a map in AR and showing it to Irish. She hasn’t made the ARO public so I can’t see the actual map, but the way she’s gesturing in midair with Irish staring at nothing pretty much gives it away. The fact they are all professional and squared away, while I was being super busy sleeping makes me feel pretty sheepish, so as discreetly as possible, I look for some food. Because, seriously, I’m starving.
Vanity comes up behind me just as Angel rounds a corner to come meet Irish and Zoë. “Good, you’re up,” is what he says when he sees me. Irish and Zoë look up from their map to acknowledge me. Zoë’s eyes jump between me and Vanity, and a baldly fake smile crosses her face. Vanity comes up next to me, guesses accurately what I’m looking for, and points to one of the crates. “There are some ration bars in there. They’re good. Irish makes them.”
While the image of Irish wearing an apron, humming in a kitchen as he mixes nuts and honey in a big bowl is amusing, I question why Vanity would think specifying Irish prepared the food I’m about to eat would make me feel better. I expect to find granola bars with engine grease and nine millimeter bullets, but it turns out the ration bars are pretty damn decent, both in terms of taste and nutritional quality. Irish eyes me as I eat one of his bars. I nod at him. He looks away without further acknowledgement. Kid has social issues.
“Since we are so privileged as to have you on our side today, we were hoping there were more details you could share with us about the strike tonight,” Angel says as Zoë shares the info package with me. The map and assorted data markups appear in blue light in my field of vision.
“Sure, there isn’t much I didn’t tell you, but we can go over it,” I begin. But I have a deck of cards to play, too. “But before we get into that, I think we should talk more high-level.”
They all look at me.
“First, I imagine you’ve already been contacted by my employer, with notice that your Johnson has changed, correct?”
They do a good job of keeping poker faces.
“Right, I know how this works. And I trust in our agreement. You said you’d help me, and I don’t doubt your word. I know you must have carried on the job with my replacement.”
Angel nods. “Nothing changed.”
I assume they must have offered up more money as an excuse for the disruption, but Angel didn’t mention it. And rightly so, since it’s none of my business.
“We can simply complete the mission, but that’s not the long-game payoff we could get.” If they object to the “we” terms I’m using, they don’t show it. “Zoë, I’m going to need some of your time, if that’s all right with you.” I have to be polite. I’m a guest here, not Mr. Johnson. I can’t dictate. I have to ask. She cocks an eyebrow and nods curtly.
“Sleep brought wisdom, and I think I know what game they’re playing and how we can all profit. Once I’ve confirmed a few things, I should be able to come up with our end-game scenario. I don’t expect the meat of the mission to change. I see you’ve reviewed the data package I gave you. It should still be accurate. Did everything in there make sense?”
Zoë nods. “Yeah, we’re hitting a Boeing facility. We’re lifting a new sensor-defeating technology they are working on. We have facility plans, security info, stuff like that.”
“And there’s a second team helping us, right?” asks Irish.
“Yeah, sort of. They’re going to die for you, actually. No use sugar-coating it. They’re going to get in deep enough to cause a good distraction, and then they’re going to get mopped up. During that time this team is going to make its move and finish the job.”
I pause and stare at them. Johnsons hiring teams to get killed as a distraction is one of the biggest taboos in our industry. Runners hate, hate that shit. Any team that survives such a mission—and trust me, there are few—are guaranteed to come gunning for Mr. Johnson, no matter how much they got paid. That’s never happened to me, though; I make sure the teams I send to their death don’t come back.
Irish gets a gleam in his eye. Th
is guy executed one of his buddies not a day ago, and suddenly he gets sentimental about some team he doesn’t even know. Zoë looks rattled. “So, they’re just gonna die, that’s it? What if we … “
I cut her off. “Don’t over-complicate when a simple plan will work.” I toss a look toward Irish. He gives me a shrewd look back.
“He’s right,” cuts in Angel. “Continue.”
“Now, you already know it’s an inside job. You sniffed it the moment I gave it to you. Of course it is. I know that too. Before now, I didn’t care. But there’s something to this. You don’t flush one of your Johnsons for nothing, so something’s up here”
“Don’t think so highly of yourself. Maybe they just got tired of you,” retorts Irish with a cruel smile, trying to bait me.
“Unlikely. I’ve got a good record. So I doubt it would be as simple as that. I’m going with the working assumption there’s something here, and that’s what Zoë and I are going to confirm later. Once I have that figured out, I’ll fill you in on the play we’re going to make.”
“The play we’re going to make, or the play you’re going to make?” asks Vanity. I turn to look at her. I’m not entirely surprised—I’d been waiting for that objection to surface. Her eyes are glassy orbs fixed on me.
“I’m here, and you guys waxed the psycho elf for me. I figure we’re in it together now. And I’ll make it worth your while—I’m not expecting you to help me out of the muck out of the goodness of your hearts. I expect to be able to leverage my findings into more money for you, and a renewed position for me.” I shrug. “Worst case, more money for me too, and then I’ll make my own future.”
“They tried to kill you, and you want to go back to them?” asks Titanium Angel with a scoff. This indignation is the only emotion I’ve seen from him.
I shrug again. “You don’t understand. It’s not Renraku, the company, that tried to kill me. Rather, someone specific, higher up, is making a play, and I’m in the way and I got rubbed out. It’s nothing personal. Now I’m going to make my play, screw over whoever is messing with me, and go back to my rightful place. No hard feelings.”
Shadowrun: Nothing Personal Page 4
