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Mirrorshades: Ronin's Edge
The following is some flavor fiction I'm writing for my World of Darkness setting that blends in Cyberpunk elements. The more I work on it the more I seem to be leaning towards Hunter: The Vigil and Promethean: The Created as the primary games; although I plan on incorporating at least the presence of all of the core games. As I write up the different segments, I plan on sharing the story here.
It's about 0200 hours. The rain is starting to let up as the busy nightlife starts to stagger out of the bars in its drunken search for the next comfortable place to crash. I'm on edge as the buzz pills I threw back earlier are starting to peak; and I'm worried about losing my rush, losing my focus. I try to keep my head low and move with the flow of the crowd, hoping not to raise any suspicions from the local surveillance feeds. Last thing I need right now is some rent a cop stopping me while a have an entire handful of Hellfire rounds in my coat pocket and a sawed off running alongside my leg.
A blip occurs in the view of my shades; my PalmDeck quietly vibrates as it hones in on a target that matches the parameters of tonight's hunt. Alex Romero, local drug pusher, pimp, and according to my current contract: A Parasite. Apparently he has a few puppets on my contractor's payroll and it's believed he's probably called in a few favors from them -- at his expense.
I don't really have anything against blood suckers, really. They keep to themselves; and I mean, really, are they any worst than any of the other suits that run things? At least we know they're a bunch of bloodsucking leeches. But my employer, he has a problem with them. He's probably more annoyed about the possibility a few of his trusted staff are pulling favors for some other asshole's power plays, and he was completely left out. Who knows? Maybe he's just a tool for one of Alex's many foes.
I trail Alex, who's accompanied by a couple of his Ghouls and an entourage of skin jobs. If he's not in his limo, and freely walking the streets, it means he's not on his game. It means he's foolishly having a night to himself, and chances are his goons have their guard down. Doesn't mean they're any less armed; but it might buy the few seconds I need.
They drop into some dive cafe a few blocks away from the club strip. I don't even really recognize the place; I had to quickly check the local Net's directory listings to make sure it was a legit business and not just some front. To double check I buzz the listing; called in an order for a couple fried burritos to go and a cup of coffee.
While the gal on the other end punched in my order, I decided to lean back against the walls of the alley outside the joint and ask what kind of pie they had. She looks up to the screen, bites her lip, and says they didn't have any pies. I thudded my head against the wall, feeling the rain trickle from over the rooftops. What kind of a greasy spoon doesn't have pie? I focused my vision back to the feed in my shades. Asked instead if I could get some pancakes, and what kind of toppings they offered. She looked confused for a brief moment, and asked me to hold while she hit up the grill man for an answer. I'm starting to see why this place isn't so hot; but luckily she walked away from the screen for a moment to give me a perfect view of the place.
Alex and his crew in a booth, directly to the stage right of the entrance. Looks like the only other customer in the place was some Spook bastard shoveling some hashbrowns up at the counter. Hope he isn't packing. She comes back, tells me I had a choice between blueberries or strawberries. Told her just wanted them plain, with lots of butter and syrup. I punch in my pre-paid credit number, accept her charges and she tells me I have 15 minutes. I disconnect, and start the countdown in my shades.
At 12:15, I pop a few pills back to make sure I don't lose my buzz. At 14:12, I walk in and immediately hang a hard left. 14:23, and my arm starts its ascent to raise the sawed off. The cross hairs line up on Alex's face, my muscles automatically twitching into form. By 14:35, I'm already turning to grab the order as Romero's crew throws the table up. The girls are screaming as his head explodes and his body erupts in flames which begins to melt their PVC-Vinyl clubwear to their flesh. 15:01, and I duck out the door as the gunshots erupt. I forgot my coffee.
The time is 0547. I have no fucking clue where I'm at. My heart feels like it's about to explode like a bomb in my chest. My arm keeps twitching and I think it's got something to do with possibly over dosing the pills and maybe having an effect on my wires. I look down and see blood. A lot of blood. Apparently I'm too jacked up and wired to realize those bastards did score a few good shots on me. Quick glimpse of my surroundings; I'm apparently in a dumpster. An open dumpster, for any hot shot punk to come up and gank me. It's pouring rain again, and I'm watching everything by the light of some vidboard plastered above me, spamming the nightsky with some trashy dame advertising an equally trashy fast food product.
I crawl my way out of the trash, and start to limp out to the street. I'm trying to carry myself to atleast the nearest rail transit or auto taxi so I can get myself to some chop shop in order to have someone patch up my leg. I start to stumble, and collapse against the side of the building next to me. I push myself up, coughing a bit as my head feels like some incredible jackhammer muffled with a concrete brick bashing against my skull. Up ahead I catch a glimpse of a few bums who seem to want a chance to tango with me; they probably like the jacket I'm wearing.
But before they even have a chance to approach me a car whips up on the curb, blasting its horn and a driver side door blasts open as a lone dark figure lunges out to assist me. I'm dizzy, and the rain is starting to stain my eyes before I'm thrown in the back of the car. I close my eyes, praying for a moment that this isn't any of Romero's boys getting their claws on me.