A Note From The Author:

Tales From The Network is derived from four solo posts originally written for Star Force RP.

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Moscow, Sharo

Mac relaxed in the "shotgun seat", shoes on the front dash, seat in the reclining postion. Dressed in a common, dark-colored t-shirt and jogging pants, he was starting to look like a local.

His hair was long, flipped to one side, as if he were Aaron Bruno.

"I thought we were fighting against dealers."

The voice was James', but it was coming from Mac's mouth.

Mac yawned. "We are."

"So why are we running?"

"We're professionals." Mac said, staring into traffic. "We get packages from A-Z, without getting stopped, and without opening. We don't know who our clients are, and we don't care. Documents, letters, gifts - as long as my fee is paid, I don't care what's inside."

There was an audible ding as the vehicle came to a halt.

Mac climbed out and tapped on the car. It was a silver, 2168 model Huanda Darter - or seemed to be, at least. The type of import that was on the road twenty years ago, and still humming around in parts of the country.

He opened the backdoor. Mac pulled a black backpack from the rear seat. Backpack in one hand, he pulled a red Hunter-VG from a side pocket. He swiped through a series of screens. The car disappeared.

Mac checked a map on the Hunter, before slipping it back into the backpack pocket. Zwiiip.

"Right, off we go."

Mac started down a sidewalk. The young blades of grass were a rich green, a stark contrast to spring back home.

"Mac..."

"What?"

"... why are there runners? Shouldn't drones have replaced them?"

"Sharo banned drones from flight. Banned the sale and manufacture. They went quite privacy concious after the Poutine Affair."

"... oh."

The streets of downtown Sharo were an interesting affair. Old factories mingled with victorian-age housing, and modern skyscrapers. The planning was, decidedly, laisezz-faire. Classic communist design.

Down the street, there seemed to be a commotion.

Mac ducked into the alley.

"Up we go."

Mac eyed the fire escape of the apartment complex. If he wheeled a bin underneath, it would be a matter of jumping - and luck. The fire escape looked like it had last been touched 200 years ago.

The brakes on the large green bins were surprisingly easy to dis-engage. A push, and it was in place. Mac clambered atop it, and leapt for the ladder.

He caught on, with one hand. The bin slowly picked up speed, rolling out from beneath him. He gripped with a second hand, pulling himself up a rung. Grabbing the sides of the ladder, he "walked" up with his feet.

First platform, second story. Two more to go. A little wobbly, but the platform seemed to be holding. Mac started on the second ladder.

By the time he was on the second platform, the dumpster bin had made it into the street.

The third platform ended, it's top rail just four feet shy of the roof. Mac bit his lip, balancing delicately. He jumped, caught the inner lip, pulled himself up, scraping his arm in the process.

The gray gravel of the roof nearly matched the blue-gray of the sky above. Rain was coming, Mac knew. Despite the clouds, it was a nice 18 degrees celcius.

Mac sprinted, spotting a path from one roof to the other street.

Dak-dak-dak went his feet.

There was an almighty "BANG" as something smacked into the dumpster bin. What had started as a simple commotion would soon spread, possibly turning into a full-on panic.

The metro was on the other street, and that's where he was headed.

A side-street seperated the building he was on from the one he needed to go to. Eight feet across, clearly designed for a one-way.

Mac was going full-sprint when he reached the edge of his roof. He leapt, clearing the street. Wait, no, he crashed into the wall, luckily catching hold.

"Thank god for kneepads."

Again, Mac pulled himself up. The side-street seemed to be barricaded. Hopefully the metro was still open.

The front, public face of the building had a sloping roof over a veranda. It was an eighteen foot drop to that roof, but if he lowered himself from a window ledge-

Ten feet. Mac hit it with a roll, nearly slipping off entirely. The impact hurt, especially since it was sloped.

Mac crawled to the edge of the veranda roof, and dropped.

The street was deserted. The metro entrance loomed across the street, stairs headed underground. What else could he do? He crossed the street, and headed to the ticket-dispenser.

Coins. He luckily had enough, and the ticket printed almost instantly. Down another set of stairs (and through a pass-checker), the station platform.

The lighting was flickery, the concrete covered in graffiti. The station had been built 150 years ago - and it showed.

An hour later, the doors opened, Mac spilling out into Slavyansky Bulvar Station.

The station was crowded, people moving in and out, a constant stream in all directions. It was always this way, had been since it was renovated just twelve years.

Mac went with the flow, up a set of escalators, and onto the street. A shopping district - a mall dead ahead, and a parkade behind the subway entrance.

Mac headed for the parkade, jogging along the broad sidewalk. The sidewalk continued past the toll-booth, and into the parkade proper. A handful of people were meandering down.

Into the parkade, and toward the elevator.

Mac tapped the button. The doors slid opoen. He stepped in, and hit (6). The doors closed, and it started up.

When the doors opened, Mac strode out. There was another level to this yet, but he wasn't headed for it. No, he was headed toward the far corner of the F-section.

A figure on a black moped waved.

Mac took off the backpack, and pulled out the black lunch box.

"Take it from here."

Mac pulled out the red Hunter-VG, and tapped a series of buttons.

It was time to head back to the hostel.