Difference between revisions of "DoA"

Latest revision as of 19:48, 22 April 2009

Back to Shadowrun: Hong Kong

Real Date: 2nd September 2006
Game Date:
Venue: Stuarts

Prelude

.....

Cast of Players

Bane Played by Joe
J.D Played by Chris
Danny Played by Ivo

Events

Buenos dios Muchachos, buenos dios Chicas and Senioritas ;) Its me, Daniel P. Murphy (a.k.a. “Gwailo”) your eye-in-the-shadows; the vengeful ghost of the underpass; the phanthom of the dark alley; and general scourge of the pool-hall, back-room poker circuit. Yup, yer friendly neighbourhood desperado. Unless you piss me off, that is. Or serve me flat beer. Or look like an ork, pixie or dwarf. Or troll. Or wear trainers. Or look at me funny. Anyway, when you’ve been on the streets as long as I have and you learn to drift with karmic sine-winds of the dao until the slightest breeze feels like a hurricane tugging at your percepction and your senses are so edged, you can smell those renraku ninjas from the shoe-paste they wear; you get what we in the shadows call a ‘handle.’ Now, you can use your own name if you want to but it doesn’t sound quite as mythical. People are more likely to pick fights with you and you get trouble with cops. I am known as “Gwailo.” Its Cantonese for.. something or other.

* * *

So I’m in this bar. Its an down-town merc hangout called ‘Los Hospedados’usually frequented by occidentals and expats. Facing me is a shining vision of loveliness called Ceil. A pale, angelic visage, clouded with consternation, framed by closely cropped blond hair, followed by a set of curves snugly contained in a frayed pvc outfit, standing in a pair of unlaced, black doc-marten boots. Seperating us, like an implacable ebony redoubt, is the bar. She looks at me with that clear, arctic-blue gaze and says:

 ‘What will it be, sport?’

I pretend to think about this for while-

 ‘I guess that depends on wether or not you’re on the menu.’
 ‘Look, I pour drinks.  I don’t get paid for listening to punks like you, comprendez?  So tell me what you want or go take a hike.’  Noticing the way her withering, throaty delivery rattles my insides I say:
 ‘I’d like a double scotch on the rocks, a bottle of tequila with a lime, and your telephone number.’
 At this, the gothic nymph looks up at me with lifted eyebrows.  She flutters her eyelashes in a way that sets my heart racing and says:
 ‘That will be 15 bucks, ten cents, and one personality transplant.’

The ork next to me slaps the counter and roars with approval.

* * *

Snapped back to reality like an unseated fanbelt, I looked at his yellow-fanged grin and said: ‘You got something to say lizard-face, say it to the chrome…’ The ork stopped laughing and sat rock still, eyes focusing down on the barrel of the manhunter automatic which I put into his mouth. Behind me, the proof of devine existence was calling security. That’s when my own commlink went off. I holstered my piece and looked at the device attached to my belt. Slacker’s name was flashing in the display. And then someone tapped me on the shoulder.

Everything was going so well, until one of the bouncers caught me in the eye with a spinning backfist. I remember feeling a bit sorry about the bottle of tequila (though it did stop that ork reaching for his gun), and I’m sure somebody’s arm cracked when I caught it in an aikido move. But everything else was forgotten as I left the bar, together with most of the window.

The pavement. Once more I find myself in the privelaged position to effect a close examination of that most fundamental aspect of the urban environment. Footnote for all you aspiring shadowrunners: glass does not behave like in the movies. It gets everywhere and usually ends up lodged in different parts of your leading contact surface.

I picked myself up off the ground and then did some improvised surgery on the two dozen or so bits of crystal lodged in my gloves. Leaving a trail of bloody shrapnel I padded off to the grocery store on the corner to see if I can get an ice-pack. On the way there I (cautiously) put on my sunglasses and plugged them into the comlink (I don’t go in for any of that invasive VR stuff, don’t want some console jockey hacking my vision in the mddle of a gunfight, thank you very much). Slacker’s virtual persona cristalised infront of me, superimposed over the asian shop-keeper. He invited me to meet with Sammy the fixer and the rest of the team to discuss a job. Great. Could be one of those where I get some money left over after the rent. I could get a set of wheels and use it to impress the bar-maid… Sorrounded by fluffy visions of riding off into the sunset with Ceil on the back of my motorbike, I head off towards the train station.

* * *

Riding the L while holding an ice-pack to your face with two dozen leaky band-aids running down your arm is an interesting experience. I think everyone should try it at least once. Making it a monthly habit is NOT the way to go. Still; a meet with the Fixer. At least I don’t have to worry about first impressions. Who else is gonna to be there? T-no. Lent me a box of shells. Did I pay her back? Yeah I think so. There’s an enigma. Looks at us like we’re garbage. Beneath contempt bullet-monkeys. Yet comes back time after time for more. Could it be? Little miss pixie has developed a taste for it... Strange, that. Two such different people, yet we’re linked by an element that is as old as the Spartans. That unmistakable addiction to life on the edge. Entire fate in micro-seconds, everything decided by the next bullet. Take me, for instace. I’m not exactly Einstein, and I’ll never try to be. But I’m still smart enough to realise there have to be better ways to make a living. I’ve been around for what, thirty two years? And the sum of all that experience is standing right here, in the middle of a crowded train carriage somewhere above Hong Kong, with a melting Ice-Pack running down my arm… Still, Bane’s got it, bad. But he understands and doesn’t care. Kind of like a double-barreled addiction: smart enough to see he’s addicted, and smart enough to know he can’t fight it. That’s why he takes BT Ls. Eclipse might turn up. Little girl playing shadow-runner. Jumped-up street-kid loaded with toy guns and more eagerness then sense. What’s in it for her, I wonder...