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// RAIN
// by IronRaven
//
//Shadowrun was the property of FASA and is now the property of WizKids. Hideoshi O'Leary is mine. Some
//of the other members of his team are the property of their players (you Guilders know who you are).
//
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"Rain...
"I hate working in the rain", I think, watching it run and stream down the jagged panes that remain in the window, dripping to the cracked and buckled sidewalk below.
This used to be a nice place. If I had the time, I might wonder what they were like, the people who lived here. Two bedrooms, big living room, equally big eat-in kitchen. Third story. Defiantly middle class. Nice. Before the Awakening and the Ghost Dance War, before the world went mad.
Must have been peaceful and safe. They tried. An ancient security system greeted me at the door, long dead, like this building. When the mountains blew and the quakes came, the lights when out in Seattle. Here in the Barrens, they never really came back on. Electric stove, electric heat, electric water pump- no power made this place unlivable. At least, by downtown thinking. People still live here- outcasts, crazies and people slipped through the system, three, four, even five generations ago. And criminals, lots of criminals. That's why I'm here.
My leg is falling asleep, so I have to move some. I slowly shift my weight, flexing my muscles without raising my profile. Fine grit, a mix of ancient ceiling tiles and disintegrating drywall, flaking paint and old dust, volcanic ash and air pollution, rasps between my body and the top of this old dining table. Closer to the window, it mixes with the moisture, making a paste of filth and decay.
Down in the streets, a truck moans by. Probably not a flower delivery, not in the neighborhood. Some kind of contraband, could be anyone's. Or maybe not... It's 2243, just about time for the rest of the crew to be getting here. Big, heavy, diesel turbine, maybe three blocks away. Yeah, it's them, making a cruise past where I was to meet them if this recon showed that the target was harder than we anticipated.
A lighting strike stabs down just behind the building across the street, rattling my hide and overloading my nightscope for a few seconds. Chips and chunks of the facades on this street tinkle and tumble down to the concrete makes a disorderly chorus with the crack and pop of interference in my radio headset. I almost miss the notes that tell me that the rest of the team is moving in.
One click, pause, and two more, tell me that the other half of my recon team sees no problem. My eyes flash across my wrist display one last time, the sensors I had laid out confirming what my instincts and senses tell me already- it's a go. I query my rifle one last time, then click my radio button twice, then twice more. I'm a go...
Spent all of last night sneaking in and planting my toys in the places I had picked out in my first sweep, three days ago. At dawn, in the Barrens, the weak and old come out from their hiding places. First light and twilight are the safest times for an old man in rags, the next shift of predators isn't ready to face the world and the last one is going to their nests. The other lost souls paid no notice of me, after they looked me over to make sure I wasn't a threat. And not worth the effort of robbing. The crazy boys I'm watching must be pretty scary. My sensors haven't been stolen, or even disturbed.
Slid into the area by the old storm drains and access tunnels, leaving a trail of fiber behind me to the remote transmitter I left behind, using a phone account our decker made for this run. I placed my sentries to cover the blind alley that neither I nor my partner could see. When the fire escape above they alley collapsed, it blocked the street entrance on that side. Must have been recent- in the Barrens, alleys aren't clean because of corporate or civic pride. That iron and aluminum should have been dragged away within hours, used for shelter or sold to salvage mongers. That it's there at all, means that our prey are good at beating on the weak and hopeless.
I spent the day in my hide, watching. Across the street, on the third floor, third apartment from the stairs, is a kid. Not a special one, just a dumb one who became a kidnapping-for-ransom statistic. We didn't tell his folks that there is no reason for him to have been this neighborhood, not a legal one. He must have come down here to score some mindbenders, or flirt with danger. Maybe be one of the small predators who come with dusk, preying on the truly weak for their sick thrills, but weak themselves. Doesn't really matter to me. We told his parents we would get him back. The cops don't care, not in the Barrens, and besides, he's from one of the corporate enclaves- he'd make them look like bad parents if this got public, and that isn't good for promotions. So they can't go to their local, friendly corporate goon squad. So they turn to people like me, who don't even exist in the eyes of the laws.
I spent the day sweltering under a thermal cloak with less than top of the line user support. Not my idea of fun, but I've always liked my job. We're more expensive than paying the ransom is, really, but we won't turn around and sell his pretty, healthy, pink, young organs to a bodylegger and the rest to a ghoul, once our pockets are lined with cash. Street crazies like these would. So I spent the day, racing the buckled and paddled asphalt below to see who would melt first, watching and listening. Sending my intell back along that spider string of optical fiber to a modified cell phone. How many? Which rooms? These were answers we needed.
As the light joined the city's dieing, the cooling buildings creaked and popped like tired old men slaving in a mine. The still air remained hot and ill, a sure sign the stifling day would become a stormy night as the first clouds came off the bay at sunset.
One thing about air pollution- when you can see them, the sunsets are spectacular. But it also makes the rain corrosive soup, slowly eating the crumbling bricks and sculpted concrete of my building. I have to chuckle when I realize I've started thinking of it as my building. The devil rats, rockworms and roaches were here first, and they'll be here when it finally falls in on itself. Tonight, I'm here, a specter, but tomorrow, this roof may shelter who knows what. A ghoul, a vampire, some denizens of a world twisted and warped, or a family let homeless by burecratic inefficiency and corporate apathy. But that isn't my concern.
The team is probably glad for their armour, and probably already breathing through their respirators. The acidic mist rolling into the room burns slightly at my nose and eyes as a suborbital screams over. Hope the pilot on that ship is good. Night like this, the radar won't see the turbulence, not all of it. And suborbitals can't go around for a second pass. Come in low, and it will splatter a chunk of the Barrens. A little left or right, and part of downtown will be torn off the map, like Chigago. That should be the BA London-Seattle milkrun. Right on time, to- the Brits are nothing if not punctual.
I glance at the screens- the rain makes the starlight and sonar modes on my scopes a bad joke, but the thermal can see enough. Nothing's changed. Four warm bodies upstairs, moving about some, with a fifth not moving but still warm. He hasn't moved much all day, and then only with an escort. That will be our boy. One sentry inside the closed door, trying to stay dry and warm. The thermal shows he's got something in a bottle and some kind of pocket screen to keep him company. Just crazies playing at being pros- he should have been outside, or at a window, not lounging in the entryway.
"Raid-One: we're in position. Anything to report?" Looking in thermal, I can see them- four doorkickers and medic, with their beacons burning bright, huddled at the corner of the building. I've been focusing on the moron on the other side of the door. Bad habit Hid. If that had been another team after this kid, we'd be out the cash. I've been on station too long.
"Deck: they haven't called anyone since we got here. Rifle-One, can you confirm?" Not much need for a decker at this point- no phones in the building, no lights, nothing that he can hurt through the computers. Lucky him, he gets to stay home and watch all this via the sensors we brought in, where it's nice and dry and the air is filtered.
"Rifle-One: no change. I've got the hallway covered, no one's stepped out for ten minutes."
My turn. "Rifle-Two: 4 moving, 1 still and warm in the target area. Confirm no major movement. One just behind the door, doesn't appear alert." If I heard the Manticore, he should have, and should have stuck his head outside. At least. The fool is probably half stoned on his booze, pills and chips.
"Manticore: ready to go." That would be our ride. Nice ride. But I get to walk home, salvaging the fiberlink back to the transmitter.
"Raid-One: Rifle-Two, take it."
'It', just a thing, not a person. But then again, when it start being a menace to society, it left the tribe of the people. 'It' it is. I lean into the stock of the silenced Walther, resting the crosshairs on the warm bulb on top of the torso, stroking the trigger with a lover's caress, slow, tender, gentle. My mind and it's become one, as the electronic action breaks at a precise 1.6 kilos, sending an armour-piercing tungsten slug tearing though the half-rotten plywood of the door. Something broke the glass there, a long time ago, reduced it to splinters, like the wood is now. That subsonic bullet was capable of destroying an engine block, but the crazy's head was about as hard. Now, it's a shattered red pulp, shot through with white shards. The smashed door hangs there, the victim of most of the energy, sprawling in a vertical mimic of the sentry. No need to worry about the lock.
"Rifle-Two: target serviced." Glance at my watch, 2258.
"Raid-One: Manticore, start your promenade."
It's odd. Turbine engines aren't very loud, and the hybrid ones make no noise idling. But the Manticore always sounds like the chariot of Death himself, especially at times like these. The big turbocharged diesel screams in the night like the souls of the damned as it hurtles towards the target while the entry team goes in through the front door, their heads up. Looking for a disagreement. I switch to the targets as the gleaming blue Freightliner halts before the building. Yeah, now they know something isn't right, their bodies are starting get warm as the fear pushes adrenaline into their blood, moving to the windows.
Then they hit the floor as the roof turrets, already extended, begin pouring gel slugs into the sky, systematically blowing any remaining glass out of the windows on this side, with a sound like a giant bolt of silk being torn in half. After a second, all of the fire centers on the apartment in question, both of the miniguns tearing through their magazines at two thousand rounds a minute, while the grenade launcher lobs pepper and regurgitant canisters with hollow, deep coughs. The grenades are just pressurized canisters that will make the eyes and throat burn, and cause you to cry your eyes out while puking up everything you've even thought of eating in the past twelve hours- nasty, non-lethal, and nonflammable. The gels are harmless, splattering as they hit the ceiling, shedding all their energy into the brittle drop panels, filling the rooms with a snow of dust. Hadn't been sure about that. "Rifle-Two: I'm blind. The gels are tearing up the ceiling."
That's a problem. Can't use the stun grenades without risking a dust explosion. That would be good, reducing the kid to ash in a heartbeat, and blowing out the side of the building. That's why we made sure everyone had a suppressed weapon. It's not like the cops care about gunshots in the Barrens, but the flash could have been problematic. But between the gas mists and the dust, visibility will be nothing. Peering into the scope, letting the tiny computer in my head look at the other sensors, straining for information. The clock mutely shines, 2301.
"Rifle-One, Raid-One: I have you in my vision." Good, they are at the door. The turrets go silent, leaving the Barrens loud in their noiselessness for a moment. I swear I can hear each drop of rain on the ground as an individual.
Without being able to see it, I know what has just happened. A single kick from a size 22 combat boot on the end of a troll's foot just dismembered any kind of lock on the door, sending the cheap plastic and aluminum panel flying. It is quickly followed by four dark forms, faceless and silent in the murk, like nightmares come to life. A single scream breaks the unnatural calm, before it is cut off, only half finished, as if the Spirits themselves found the noise bothersome. Through the mists, tiny red pinpoints dance- spent brass bouncing on the floor.
"Two, clear." "One, clear" "Three, clear." "Medic, clear. Hostage is alive." It really wasn't fair. They were good at abusing those who had no chance. Karma is funny like that, because they had no chance.
"Raid-Four, Hostage and Medic are moving." That's good. It means no major injuries to the hostage. Other than being stunned, blinded, terrified and more nauseous than can be imagined. It will pass. In a minute, the three appear at the door, one, tiny and battered on the shoulders of one, huge and hulking, with the third, lithe and fast, right behind them, heading for the truck.
"Raid-One: Rifles, get to the surface. Two, Three, clean up." Up in the apartment, they need to take care of their chores. Photographing and fingerprinting the dead, picking up their brass, salvaging any useful equipment from the area. Punks like these, no point in dragging out their bodies, not enough chrome in them to interest any chopshop, and their lifestyle leaves them valueless to bodyleggers. Still, they might be known. We'll run their faces and fingers, and let our contacts know that they aren't in circulation any more. If they have any comps, those might be useful, so will their guns, even if we have to hide them in a cache, saving them for a rainy day. The last step will to be round up any drugs or chips, and pour acid on them. The rest will be left for the scavengers. Some will want their clothes, other's their flesh. Like I said, Karma is funny.
A quick sweep of my arm slides my displays into a bag as I stand for the first time in over twelve hours. My legs and back scream in protest, sending ropes of fire and ice through my body as I sling the bag and the Walther across my back, snatching up the H&K submachinegun that has been laying beside me. In a moment, it is a part of me, a stubby, black, lethal finger, bound to me by the computer in its frame and the one in my head. I pause long enough to pull on my night-eyes, turning the world a mix of greens and reds, before shouldering the stairwell door open. My cloak trails behind me, flapping like a dragon's wings as I bound down the stairs, my enhanced body taking them in threes and fours.
I step out the door as my watch clicks to 2307, the rain pounding on my head through the hood of my thermal cloak. It isn't the best poncho, but it will do. The Manticore glows, a mechanical monster, ready to run the moment it's reins are lowered, it's turrets sweeping the street, sniffing the air for trouble. I hunker down behind the concrete knee-wall at the top of the stairs, waiting, watching. The miniguns made enough noise to let everyone for about twenty blocks know something just went down. The sane and fearful will wait a while, but there are too many who will want to get to scavenge first. Ghouls, especially, but this close to the Rat's Nest, the strongest and bravest of the squatters might try to get here first, see if they can glean anything valuable.
"Rifle-Two: On the street. Rifle-One, where are you?" It's been too long, her hide was right across from an old elevator, she was just going to slide down and go out the door.
"Rifle-One: On the street. Sorry, guys, I had to argue with a pack of devilrats. I'm OK, just short a little ammo." She's talking too much. Must have been more than just rats.
"Roger, Rifle-One, watch the com-chatter."
The wind picks up as she reports in, the pouring raining becoming a slashing one in a heartbeat. Anyone who says that magic hasn't screwed up the weather is crazy. I have to switch completely to thermal to see anything. But it's more than just a wind, it's a foul one, reeking of bad karma. And I'm not the only one getting nervous. "Manticore, Raid-One: My visibility just dropped to six meters on thermal and doppler. Are you three going to be much longer?"
"Raid-One: We're just about finished. Melting their stash now, be down in a minute. Rifle-Two, Raid-Three wants to join you on your walk. You mind?" Silly question. Of course not, I wouldn't go down there alone if I could help it. The three remaining members from the entry team spill out the door, their body language too tense for just this kind of job. We can all feel the bad vibes. One of the malevolent shadows dashes across the street after tossing his helmet in the truck, an automatic shotgun cradled in his arms like an infant, with a bulging, 12-round drum of death for a belly and lasersight eyes. Good weapon for dealing with the critters in the sewers, almost as good as a flamethrower.
Without a word, we gather the sensors packs, their soft bioplastic cases already scored and pitted after only a few hours in this rain. That stuff isn't too far removed from skin, chemically, so I'm not looking forward to walking through the storm drains and sewers. Even if we wanted to speak, the wind would throw our words down the street as it picks up, screaming like a lost soul as it lashes and whips the streets in it's rage. I'm actually glad to be in the tunnel, with things that go bump in the night, rather than out in that storm.
Afterword:
Tonight, shortly after twentythree-hundred, Seattle time, the President was killed. Five hours, I think that's some kind of record.
Dunklezahn is dead. Dead. Just like that. Dunklezahn, Dunk, Big Blue. The first dragon to give an interview after the Awakening. The first non-human to get US citizenship. The person that a lot of folks put their hopes on, hopes of America having a future, of ending the fractured continent. A chance for peace, for a return to normality, a prayer for the future. Gone.
I know I'm not the only one feeling lost. Seattle is quiet. Really quiet. Even the cops aren't out tonight, no gunfire, no choppers. The two Tirs have already called for the heads of Dee's killers. Denver is supposed to be a madhouse, the whole Free Range Zone is closed. The Azzie's are saying nothing, keeping their mouth's shut, which is probably a good idea. The news says that Detroit is in flames, from rioting- looks like the various Ares corporate muscle is being a little heavy in the Motor City. VP Heaffner called out the army to control DeeCee. Well, I guess Hef isn't the Veep, he's the prez now.
No more Dunk. He stood up for the people that the system really forgot the people who had all their choices taken from them early on by the rich and powerful. Lot of people owe him their lives, and don't even know it. "The hand of the weak, the voice of the silenced, the light that shines in the darkness that no others will banish.' Some guy wrote that back around the turn of the century, almost a generation before Dunklezahn appeared over Denver, but it really described him.
The Predent is dead. Dammit, I even voted for him. It must be the rain making my eyes water. I hate the rain, but no one will notice that some of the rain isn't corrosive enough...
I hate the rain....