Murphy "Murph" O'Connor sighed as he closed the door to his apartment. It was 4am and he'd just gotten off his shift. He shrugged and placed his jacket on the back of the couch and walked through the nice if sparsely decorated living room before promptly flopping down onto said couch. The apartment was a in a decent neighborhood of Toronto, and nothing to brag about, but it was home. Tonya was already asleep in the bedroom; he could see her lean elven frame already stretched out on the bed. Sitting up he undid the fastening of his shoulder holster and placed Ares Predator still inside of it on the table.
"Just a quick mail check, then crash time," he said aloud with a slight hint of an accent that was clearly not Canadian. Slipping on his ARs Murph accessed his mail…and stopped cold. The one new message was addressed: From: Cúchulainn To: Ferdiad:
No. No fucking way. Playing the message brought up the face an angular faced man with intense green eyes. There was brown stubble on his face that was a few shades darker then the lighter brown of his short, unkempt head of hair. A red line of scar tissue ran from just below the man's right eye and a small smirk brought out lines in the man's forehead. Murph's jaw dropped in awe as a voice he hadn't heard in going on five years spoke to him in the lilting brogue so like Murph's late father.
"Hey there mate, download the attachment with this. Thought you'd like to have a look at my new memoirs. Pretty wiz stuff if I do say so myself"
*The angular man leaned back in his chair, what can be seen of the room he's recording this in is minimal. It's dark but clearly maintained, the smirk slides from his face as he begins speaking in an earnest but less than rushed fashion*
My Travels through the City of Dust and Ash
By Declan O'Connor
I hate Seattle. There's no way to get around it. The people, from the lowliest gang "chummer" to the high end salarymen just irk me to no fucking end. It is as if they enjoy being stuck in this cycle of violence and misery, just so long as it fits in with the way they know things have always been. If I had my choice I'd be in any, and I do mean any other city, and I've been in the middle of some of the worst blood stained, piss poor regions working for the corps. That was why with the resignation of one of the long gone Martyrs that I live here now. Weird statement after that tirade I know but I'll flesh out my reasons for you as we go along. It's been a long, painful and bloody ride through the dark and shadowed alleyways of the metroplex…and if you're reading this then I'm dead.
Don't go looking for the men who did it, I know you little brother and even if things have changed drastically in the last five years of separation, I know this is out of your league. Hell, it was out of mine. But if things went as I planned the bastards that caused it from beginning to end will meet God with me or whatever comes after this dirty little world. The connected datafiles will let you know what I'm talking about. Now I know that my above warning will fall on deaf ears so if you can't honor you're dead brothers last request at least wait until you read it all. You should be receiving them now, they're encrypted so you'll need the pass code at the end of each, well…chapter I guess, to access the next. And don't let that little teched out decker girl of yours touch it either I had a high level Matrix jockey rig it to auto-purge if it's tampered with. Then you'll never know the truth. We may be very different people Murph but as I said I know you, a mystery like this would eat you up for years to come. So for once in our lives take your big brother's advice, sit down and listen. It's a long story to tell and the last I'm going to get. Like every other major fuck up in my life, it started with a woman…
My contact was late. I hate it when contacts are late for meetings it makes me edgy, right then I should have know this was a bad start to a bad run. I needed this though, you need creds to live off the grid (or as far off the grid as one can get these days) and that means work. I don't have it in me to sell my gun to the mafia goons or the triads and ganger connections have no real appeal to me either. That means being a runner. Runners are discreet, don't generally ask questions they shouldn't and don't give a damn how you were trained or by who as long as you watch their fucking backs. An ork I know by the name of Grendal (I'm sure its not his real name, he just gets a kick out of naming himself after a monster and most people these days not getting the reference until they make a certain amount of effort to track it down.) had set me up with a line for work. Small crew he said nothing major but it should be enough to hold me over for awhile. I wasn't meeting the Johnson, but this crew's leader. Grendel said they were good but a little green for his liking and light on firepower for what the job might entail. So here I was sitting in the Silver Veil (don't let the name fool you it's a dive bar but it was a Matrix dead zone so it suited my purpose just fine) when trouble and one of her cronies walked in. She was tall, a little bit shy of my 5'11'' and lean like a dancer. She was human as far as I could tell with dark brown hair and eyes a shade of blue so dark they were almost black. Clad in tight brown leather pants and long duster over a flak-jacket, the only mar to her looks I could see was the ugly dull steel data-jack set in her skull just behind her right ear. She looked confident and secure but it was clear that the squat dwarf that walked in with her was the one to worry about. At least it was clear to me. He didn't advertise but he was definitely a spellslinger if ever I saw one.
With a simple rune carved medallion hanging to his chest that was clearly visibly through the open shirt and hand stitched leather satchel bag that hung from his shoulder he didn't seem that much of a threat…until you looked him in the eye. His pupils were an odd spiral, I had no idea what it meant but the cold mean look in them besides that was more then enough. The pair walked to the bar and Ms. Dark Blue Eyes took a seat while her diminutive (and probably highly competent engine of destruction) remained standing beside her. She spoke in a clear tone, quiet and still comfortable to the slab of muscle that was the troll bartender.
"Water please." The trog turned his eyebrow up at that as did a few of the scattered patrons. Not usually what one asked for in a place like this if they wanted their bowels to be working right for the next couple of days, the troll shrugged his shoulders and filled a glass with mostly clear liquid and placed it on the counter in front of this apparent nut job "On the house. Figure you'll need the cred for a Doc Wagon or some drek." That was my cue and how I'd know my contact, or so Grendel said, I hate it when that damn ork does this. I was two feet from the pair and had two words out of my mouth in greeting "You're th…" when the guy sitting at the bar two stools away from the pair shifted…a sleek little stiletto in his hand. My hands moved of their own volition, sliding behind my back and grasping the hilt that hung between my shoulder blades before whipping back around to bury the curved Kukri blade into Stiletto Boy's throat. I looked over my shoulder at the two still stunned runners. "Name's Hound…" the front door to the bar blew in with some serious mojo behind it. That's not even mentioning the three military equipped goons that came behind that. That was when, as they say, the drek hit the fan.
Pass Code: Gae Bolg