Chapter 11 – The Angry Man

"Pysy kaukana minusta, James Joyce!"

Monika shrank back the side of bunk. "You know Talvi, I've heard people say a lot of weird things in their sleep, but I've never heard them mention James Joyce before."

Talvi awoke with a jerk, Monika's efforts to rouse her having had no effect. "MINÄ TUHOAN IRLANNIN!" she shouted before it dawned upon her that she was no longer dreaming. "Ehrmm...what's this about?"

"Wake up – some guy who calls himself 'Chernobog' wants to talk to you; he's the same guy whose been keeping CB Entertainment afloat."

Monika left the room while Talvi slowly crawled out of the bunk that was about a foot too short for her to sleep comfortably in. As she got to her feet a stabbing pain shot up her back, and the dreary fluorescent lights stung her eyes.

She couldn't wait to be back home, back by Lake Inari.

The dream was fading fast from her mind, but she remembered standing at the prow of a ship, with dozens of mighty Finnish warriors standing at her side. Their destination was Ireland, and their goal was loot and plunder. But just as they had come ashore they had found James Joyce waiting for then, and Talvi knew that there could be no hope of victory against his literary perversions.

After getting dressed she headed over to the next room, where Monika stood waiting by an old, battered vidphone. "Chernobog wants to speak to you, and only you. He says my haircut is stupid."

"It is stupid," came a voice from the vidphone. "And that's soykaf you're drinking...you fucking savage."

Talvi sat herself in front of the vidphone, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in her back. On the screen was a man in a hooded sweater, his face obscured by the shadows. There was nothing notable about his attire, save for the words "BITE IT YOU SCUM" stitched on the front. From that Talvi deduced that he was fan of GG Allin, which did not bode well at all.

"The name's Chernobog. Love your music. Now, I know how much you Finns hate small talk, so let's get down to business, shall we? You and your friend were hired by CB Entertainment to take down BSP Games. You're on your way to Chernobyl to nuke their off-site backup. Lucky for you, Chernobyl just happens to be my turf. 'Chernobog of Chernobyl'...has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

She tried in vain to place his accent, which sounded vaguely Slavic. "And how do you know all this?"

"'Cause I'm the best decker in the world. And that's not me boasting, that's fact. There's no one on this planet that can do one-tenth of what I can do. But while I can do a whole lot of things, there are some things I can't do. Let me ask you this: you ever heard of a geas?"

"It's an old form of Celtic magic, involving a restriction or compulsion placed upon someone with regards to certain behaviours."

Chernobog shrank back from the vidphone camera in mock surprise."Wow, look at the big brain on the elf! Too bad it's nothing compared to your tits. God damn, you could ski down those...eh, what was I talking about again?"

Talvi gritted her teeth. "You were talking about a geas?"

"Yeah, that. See, a few years ago this Irish bastard came along and...well...I won't bore you with the details, but that little piece of shit decided to place a geas on me that makes it so I can't leave this place without my body exploding into bloody chunks. And that's why I need your help dealing with BSP's off-site backup. See, its connection to the Matrix is fucking wireless, and I can't do shit with wireless tech."

"But what is your motivation in all this?" she asked. "Why do you want to ruin BSP Games so much?"

"Because they're assholes!" he cried. "And 'Lord Swedish' is the stupidest fucking name I've ever heard. Their games are shit, too, but that's the least of their crimes. And I'm telling you, the best way to deal with those fuckheads...the only way to deal with them...is to kill everybody who works for them. Doesn't matter if they're a VP or a janitor, they've all got to die. Every...fucking...one! And once you've finished painting the walls with their blood, you're going to make sure there's nothing left of their headquarters except a huge, smoking, and preferably radioactive crater."

"You sound awfully bloodthirsty."

There was something not quite right with this individual, Talvi thought. It was merely a whisper in the back of her mind, but even through the dim glow of the monitor she sensed that there was something off about him.

"'Blude-tursty,'" he said, mocking her accent. "I hate it to break it to you, sexy, but you aren't going to be doing this quietly. Lord Swedish might be an asshole, but he's a smart asshole, and he's planned for everything you can think of. And that means wiping the place off the face of the earth. But we can discuss that once we meet in person. Just a warning, though - Chernobyl's full of assholes. Assholes who are crazier than most. But you probably meet people like that all the time in your line of work. Anyway, before I sign off, there's someone I want you to meet in Kiev. His name's Artyom Kerensky, and he used to be part of Lord Swedish's crew."

"His 'crew?' Are you saying he was-"

"Yeah, he was a fucking shadowrunner, but maybe that's not the right word for him. See, he was less about 'running the shadows' and more about shooting everything in sight. The man just hated people. Didn't matter if you were human, elf, dwarf, ork, troll; if you were a living, breathing person, then he hated you and wanted you dead."

"People who work like that usually don't live for very long," Monika interjected.

"Well, I guess Lord Swedish – fuck, I feel dumber just saying that name – is a pretty hard man to kill. And by 'hard man to kill' I mean he's survived shit that would turn a fucking battle tank into scrap. But Kerensky is the guy to ask if you want to know the real story. He lives in some shithole apartment on 15 Yevhena Konovaltsia Street, in room 314. 'Course, he's a paranoid little fuck and thinks Lord Swedish's goons are going to bust down his door any day now, so it might take a bit of persuasion to get him to talk to you."

Suddenly Chernobog was distracted by something on another monitor. "Oh shit!" he exclaimed, turning away from the camera. "Those Ottoman fucks are at it again! Jesus fucking Christ, how many times do I have to tell them to stay the fuck away from the Steel Yard? That's the only way I can get any goddamn reception around these parts!"

Talvi frowned. "'Ottomans?' 'Steel Yard?' What are you talking about?"

Instead of answering her question, he simply terminated the connection, leaving Talvi staring into the monitor. "What an utterly uncouth individual."

"Well, if he's as good as his boasting – and trust me when I say that most deckers aren't – then he's someone we want on our side," Monika said. "There's something else I want to show you. You know that creep whose apartment you busted into...Rhodes Raskol or whatever his name was?"

"What about him?"

"While you were sleeping I did some searching on the Matrix for information on the Gamers' Alliance and I came across a video someone made of him. It's...well...see for yourself. But keep your hands away from the computer; I don't you want you blowing it up like you did with mine."

Talvi stood up, rather incensed at her remark. "I did not 'blow up' your computer! It blew itself up."

She followed Monika over to Weles' cyberterminal which, in contrast to the rest of the equipment in his clinic, looked to be fresh off the shelf. The logo on the monitor did not belong to a corporation Talvi recognised.

Monika pushed a key to begin playback and the monitor went dark. A few seconds later the words "HIDDEN CAMERA – EPIC GAMER RAGE" scrolled sideways onto the screen, followed by a blurry, off-centre view of someone seated in front of a large, expensive-looking trideo display. It was indeed the same young man she had encountered in Rhine-Ruhr Megaplex – the same pudgy, unshaven face, the same beady eyes, and the same sneering expression of disgust. He was playing a game of some sort, though it was impossible tell what kind on account of the camera angle.

"Oh come on!" Rhodes whined. "I spawn, I die! Instant death!"

"Whatever he's playing, he's not very good at it," Monika remarked. "Just watch."

About ten seconds later he sprang out of his chair in a fit of anger. "WHAT? How...that...I...you-ARRRGGH! Oh my god! Oh my fucking god! What am I supposed to do? Goddamn cheaters! He cheated! That fucking asshole cheated!"

From someone off-camera there came a muffled voice. "Hey, shut up in there!"

"This game's full of cheaters, man! I swear to GOD!"

A few more seconds passed, with Rhodes growing ever more agitated with each passing second. "NO!" he screamed without warning, his voice reaching into a register typically reserved for howler monkeys. "Where was my team? WHERE WAS MY GODDAMN TEAM?" He began pounding his fist against his thigh, going "No!" with every impact. "No! No! No! No! Why do I always get these GODDAMNED TEAMS? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? WHYYYYY? The worst team, I swear! The worst...fucking...TEAM!"

"I said shut the hell up in there! I'm trying to get to sleep!"

There was a half-minute of calm, thought it was clear Rhodes' rage was still simmering just below the surface. His face was flushed with anger, his arms and legs were trembling, and he looked to Talvi like a wounded animal driven into a corner.

It wasn't long he suffered another setback in his game. "What...what...WHAT THE HELL AM I GETTING HIT BY? And now I'm dead! Oh COME ON! The game is BUGGED! I swear to fucking GOD this game is bugged! Just completely fucking RANDOM! GAAAGH!"

Talvi watched the video unfold with growing dismay, wondering what kind of power electronic games must have over people if they could reduce them to this pitiable state. "It's only a game," she said quietly. "What does he have to be mad?"

"Just wait," said Monika. "We haven't got to the funniest part yet."

"Funny" did not even begin to characterise what happened next. For around thirty seconds things appeared to going well, or at least not too badly, before Rhodes suddenly threw his controller against the far wall and let out what could only be described as a primal scream, one so loud and shrill it would have set dogs barking all over the neighbourhood. "NO! NO! NO! NOOOOOO!" He leapt from his chair, got down on his knees, and started pounding his fists against the floor. "No! No! No! AARRRGGH! Why do I keep losing these...goddamn...GAMES? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? WHY? WHY? WHY?"

There was the sound of a door opening, and another young man stepped into frame. "Dude, could you PLEASE stop shouting? It's three in the morning for fuck's sake!"

"I'M NOT SHOUTING! THIS IS MY NORMAL VOICE!"

"Look, you need to calm down, okay? Just calm down! Deep breaths, nice and slow! It's just a game, all right?"

Rhodes slowly got to his feet, livid with rage and panting heavily. "I've lost FIFTEEN FUCKING GAMES in a row, man! FIFTEEN! My rank...my rank is going back down to goddamn BRONZE! All because of these stupid...these STUPID FUCKING TEAMS this game keeps putting me with!" He sounded as if he were close to tears.

"It doesn't matter, okay? You won't care about this next week, dude! It's just a game!"

"You don't understand, man! I've got to get to platinum rank! If you're not plat than you aren't worth shit in this world!"

Just when it seemed as if his fury had abated, Rhodes grabbed his trideo display, wrenched it from its stand, and threw it to the floor with an angry shout. He then reached for a Japanese sword hanging on the wall and began hacking away at the trideo unit, all the while emitting a horrid screeching sound that no human being should have been able to make. In a matter of seconds thousands of nuyen worth of electronics were reduced to a pile of twisted, chopped-up scrap.

The video ended abruptly, leaving Talvi starting at a blank screen in abject horror. "What...did I just see?"

"I think the game broke him."

"Why do people kill?" Finntroll asked no one in particular, steadying himself after the van struck a pothole. "Some people kill for money. Some people kill for their country. Me? I kill because it's the only way I can get an erection. What about the rest of you?"

"I'll gie ye a skelpit lug, if ye don't haud yer wheesht!" snarled Akemi. "A whole lot o' bawheids in this van."

"Just keep your eyes on the road."

Finntroll was so excited that he could barely sit still. Lord Swedish's decker had traced the email from Chernobog to an abandoned warehouse near Lichtenrade, and the trio's orders were music to Finntroll's ears: "Terminate with extreme prejudice." Nearly three months had passed since he had last killed someone and he was definitely feeling the itch.

He looked over his gun once more, gently fondling the ammo belt. Some might have questioned the wisdom of bringing an autocannon to a firefight, but given the kind of hardware Lord Swedish's enemies were packing these days, it was better to be safe than sorry.

"I hope these guys put up a better fight than those Knight Errant losers," he growled. "Bunch of weekend warriors who act like they're hard men, but blow off a leg or two and they start crying for their mommas. Pathetic."

Murphy stared at him with a look of furious contempt. "Who the hell are you talking to, private? I sure as hell hope it wasn't me, because I didn't hear a 'sir' at the end!"

Finntroll laughed. "Aww, look at little Murphy, still trying to play soldier! Isn't it time mommy came and tucked you in?"

"You slimy POG! I will PT your ass flatter than hammered shit! Look me in the eye when you speak to me, you filthy Bolshevik!"

He glanced towards Akemi. "You believe this dwarf? Still wearing the old American flag on his sleeve; still hasn't figured out it doesn't exist no more. You hear that, Murphy? America's a rotting carcass of a nation, just waiting for someone to come along and bury it."

This, obviously, did not nothing but further infuriate him. "I'm going to give you five seconds, soldier, to get down on your knees and beg for forgiveness before I pull your head out through your ass! America is, was, and always shall be! One day we will be great again! We will take back our country from the red man and reclaim what is ours, and when that day comes I will dig up Daniel Coleman's body and piss in his skull!"

"Piss in your trousers, more likely. 'In the rear with the gear' - that's you, Murphy. When the bullets start flying, you'll be crouching in a corner and sucking your thumb."

"You think you're tough, do you? Well I've been to hell and I've been to Quebec, and I ain't afraid of you!"

"All right, shut it!" Akemi barked. "We're here, ye wee scunners!"

Finntroll exited the van through the rear doors, stepping into the chilly morning air. Just beyond, past a section of broken chain link fence, was an old, long-abandoned warehouse. A large section of the roof had collapsed, and judging by the amount of graffiti covering the walls at least three dozen gangs or so claimed this territory as their turf.

He stopped and sniffed the air, which smelt faintly of smoke and unburned hydrocarbons. It was time to kill.

There was no sound save for the wind, but Finntroll knew the silence would soon be shattered by the roar of gunfire and the screams of his victims.

"No apparent motive," was how they had described the scene of his first kill. He had found the police analysis profoundly insulting, as if he had suddenly woken up one day and decided to slaughter his entire family on a whim. They didn't understand or appreciate that he had spent weeks planning it.

One of the loading bay doors was open, but Finntroll took that to be an obvious trap. Instead, he led the other two towards a small door near the south-east corner of the building. "Remember," he said quietly, "we go in, we kill the first people we see. Don't give them a chance to draw their weapons."

Never one for subtlety, Finntroll gave the door a swift kick, causing it to fly off its hinges, and then charged inside, expecting bullets to start flying at any moment.

But there was nothing. The faint wisps of sunlight streaming through the holes in the ceiling revealed an empty building that scrappers and looters had long ago stripped of anything valuable. Squatters had evidently made this place their home, as evidenced by the filthy, mould-covered mattresses lying around, but there was not a single soul to be seen.

Finntroll was not pleased. He strode towards the middle of the warehouse, past a stack of half-rotten wooden crates marked with the logo of some long-forgotten corporation.

"Nowt but hee-haw in this boggin place," Akemi muttered.

"You sure you drove us to the right place, numbnuts?" said Murphy, looking over his assault rifle.

"Get oot ma face ye tadger! Yer ma's got balls an' yer da' loves it!"

Finntroll was nearly paralysed with rage. "You mean, we came all the way out here and...and I DON'T GET TO KILL ANYBODY? This...this makes me angry. So angry I could just...just..."

From behind they heard footsteps on the concrete floor, and when Finntroll turned around he saw a half-dozen men, and armed and armoured in high-end combat gear, striding confidently into the warehouse. Instinctively he looked for the logo of Knight Errant, and not finding it he was suddenly filled with hope that he was going to have a decent fight for once.

One of the men stepped forward. He was wearing some sort of tactical visor, Finntroll noted, but no amount of technical contraptions would save him when he took an exploding round to the face.

"So I see Lord Swedish prefers to send his lackeys to do his dirty work these days. He must be going soft in his old age."

Finntroll kept his face expressionless. "And I see Chernobog is too much of a coward to face us in the flesh."

"'Chernobog?' What the hell are you talking about, trog? We represent Fusion Games, and we're here with a proposition from our managing director. You see, despite your company's efforts at concealing the truth we are well aware that Mega Therion makes unauthorised use of our proprietary graphics rendering technology. But our managing director is not an unreasonable man, and we are willing to overlook this blatant violation of our intellectual property rights so long as Lord Swedish makes a full and direct apology...along with a substantial monetary transfer."

"I'm sorry," said Finntroll, "but that's something you're gonna have to take up with our company's legal department. Which is my gun, by the way."

"Listen you boar-faced degenerate, we're here to resolve this situation peacefully, as difficult a concept as that might be for your kind to understand. There's no need for bloodshed."

Finntroll was less offended by his bigotry than by his moronic suggestion. "What? Are you dense? There's an incredible need for bloodshed! You don't think Lord Swedish sends us out to do grocery shopping, do you?" He suddenly gestured towards the far wall of the warehouse. "Hey, what's that...?"

The moment the man turned his head to look Finntroll squeezed the trigger of his gun. Instantly the autocannon roared to life, spitting out a stream of high-explosive death in a wide arc in front of him. He was not trying to aim – even with his trollish strength and heavily-augmented limbs the gun's recoil was far too fierce for that – but no aim was required. After letting go of the trigger and waiting for the dust and smoke to dissipate, Finntroll let out a long, raucous laugh. Nothing remained of their enemies save for a scattered assortment of mangled limbs and torsos.

"I can't believe it! I can't fucking believe it! They just fell for the oldest trick in the book! How bad at your job do you have to be to fall for the old 'look behind you' ploy? Not even those Knight Errant morons are that dumb." He turned to face his companions. "Well, we didn't find Chernobog, but I got to kill some people, and that's all that really matters in the end. Come on, let's find a bar and get ourselves some drinks. I'm buying."

"Admit it, man...we've lost!"

Dobbs looked like he was a heartbeat away from giving Rhodes a hefty smack. "We're not lost, you idiot! Didn't you read the sign back there that read 'Żyrardów'or however the hell you're supposed to say it? According to my map Warsaw is about 27 miles to the north-east."

Now it was Rhodes who wanted to smack him. "I didn't say we are lost, Dobbs, I said we've lost. As in, that elf chick won! We need to get back to Berlin before the shit hits the fan."

Dobbs stopped and turned around. "Did I hear you correctly, Rhodes? Are you telling me you want to quit? Is that what you're saying?"

"Yes, that's what I'm saying! In case you've forgotten, they just killed everyone on that bus, and I guarantee you that it's going to be all over the news, if it isn't already. And what are people going to think when they see us, these two Americans just stumbling around the country like a pair of idiots? What are they gonna think then, huh? They're gonna think we were on that bus, and they'll tell the police or the army or whatever all about us, and then we're gonna be fucked, man!"

Dobbs dismissed his fears with a snort. "You're paranoid, Rhodes," he said, continuing on along the side of the road. "We're not quitting, end of story."

"Dude, that elf's probably got a hundred-mile lead on us by now! And we don't even know where she's going after Warsaw. Face it, Dobbs, we're never going to catch up to her."

"Use your head, moron! Warsaw is in the eastern part of Poland. There are only three countries near the eastern border: Ukraine, Belarus, and Lithuania. But those aren't even real countries, so that elf's not going to be stopping there. No, she's going all the way to Moscow. That's where we'll intercept her."

Rhodes was left speechless by Dobbs' impeccable logic. "Assuming we can even find some transportation..."

"I'll find us a ride, don't worry. Just don't go falling apart on me or start getting a chip craving or something like that."

"Damn it, man! Why do you have to keep bringing that up? So I like to slot a BTL now and then...so what? That doesn't make me an addict any more than having a drink now and then makes you an alcoholic."

Dobbs waved his hand is dismissal. "That's a false equivalency fallacy, asshole! Slotting chips isn't like having a beer. It's more like mainlining smack, and it'll fuck you up just as quickly."

"No, it won't," Rhodes protested. "I got needs man, needs that can't be satisfied without my BTL girls." The mere thought of replaying one of his hentai chips was enough to make him quiver with anticipation.

"Dude, if you want to get laid that badly then buy a hooker! Hell, I'll even pay for it if it'll get you to shut up about those damn chips and start dealing with reality."

"That's not the same. Those women...they don't love me..."

Once more Dobbs stopped and turned around. "And you think those anime girls on the chips do? Rhodes, they love you because they're programmed to love you! It's not real!"

Without warning a terrible rage burst forth within him, like an erupting volcano. "It's real to me!" he screamed, his voice echoing across the field. "It's real to me, damn it! Those girls, they love me, they care about me, they make me feel happy when I'm sad! They don't make fun of me, they don't talk about me behind my back, they don't call me a 'nerd' and a 'loser' and a 'neckbeard' and all that kind of vile crap! 'Cause that's all real women do! They all think that just 'cause they were born with vaginas that they deserve Prince fucking Charming for a boyfriend! Doesn't matter if they're some 300lb hambeast or a strung-out crackwhore, they all think to themselves 'Oh, my man must be strong and handsome and funny and hard-working and be great with children and always treat me like a princess!' But the second I hold them to any kind of standard, all of a sudden I'm the misogynist, I'm the sexist one! Screw 'real' women, man! I fucking hate them! They're all so phony and fake with their fake nails and fake hair and fake tits and their fake fucking souls! Just fake, fake, fake, fake, fake! You say I need to deal with 'reality.' Why the hell should I, Dobbs? You want me to leave a reality where I am loved and valued and go back to a reality where I'm nothing but hot garbage. Well I can't do that."

Dobbs face remained expressionless. "You done?"

"Yeah, yeah, go on and ignore me. Just like everyone else."

After another half-hour of walking the two of them reached the outskirts of Żyrardów, a town that looked coldand distinctly unfriendly. The rusting hulks of burnt-out military vehicles were scattered along the road, a stark reminder of the horrors of the EuroWars.

"Look, see that parking lot there?" said Dobbs, pointing to a walled-in area behind a dreary, grey, nondescript apartment building. "I'll bet I can jack one of the cars in there."

Rhodes gaped at him, appalled. "What? Since when were you an expert on stealing cars?"

"I am a man of many talents."

The apartment building was truly a depressing sight. There was no indications of life that could be seen; even the cars in the lot looked like dilapidated relics from a bygone era. All the signs of urban decay were here – broken windows, trash and refuse strewn about, walls covered in graffiti; Rhodes looked upon it all with growing disgust, wishing more than ever that he could go back to San Francisco, back where life made sense.

Dobbs stopped by a large break in the concrete wall. "All right, you stay here and keep a look out while I find us a ride."

Before he could even protest Dobbs darted inside the parking lot, leaving Rhodes standing alone in the hip-high grass, still seething at Dobbs' earlier remarks. Like so many times before his mind started to wander down many a dark and twisted passage to the place where his subconscious meticulously collected every injustice and every wrong done to him. If one could graph the course of his life, Rhodes figured, it would be a downward-sloping line from the moment of his birth. There was an awareness in him, a constant cognisance that he was not getting his due, that someone, somewhere had screwed him over. Was it the elves, who took all the high-paying jobs and never, ever retired? Was the savage orks and trolls, who worked for a pittance and drove down wages? Or was it something else entirely? All Rhodes knew was that whoever was responsible for it all was going to get what was coming to him in the end.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw something moving around a nearby bush. "Good day to you, Mr. Raskol."

The voice was deep and commanding, the sort of voice that made you want to stop and pay attention.

"Who...who's there?"

A man emerged from the behind the shrubbery, and Rhodes's body went numb with fear. Darkness seemed to radiate from him, even in the morning light. A mask concealed the lower half of his face, and he wore a heavy black robe in the manner of a monk or priest. "Are you afraid?" he asked quietly. "Do you fear me?"

When he drew closer Rhodes saw that there was no colour in his eyes, just pure blackness. "N...no..."

"An obvious lie, but I do not blame you, Mr. Raskol. We all must lie to ourselves if we are to make it through the day. Otherwise, we'd have to confront the truth, and who could bear such a thing?"

His whole body had gone rigid with terror. Whoever this man was, he was clearly bad news. "Who are you? How...how do you know my name?"

The fear was almost overwhelming now. He couldn't move, could barely breathe, and even trying to speak taxed him to the utmost. There was something wrong with this person, something terribly, horribly wrong on more levels than he could count.

"I make it my business to know such things, Mr. Raskol. As for my name, you must understand that I cannot afford to give that information away. But you may call me...the Angry Man."

For a brief moment Rhodes' fear evaporated. "'Angry Man?' What kind of name is that?" Such a ridiculous handle was only ever used by members of a certain profession… "You...you're a shadowrunner, aren't you?"

He laughed, a chilling sound. "I suppose you could call me that. I was born in shadow, you see, and I have made it my home ever since. Now, let us get down to business, shall we? You are pursuing someone – an elven woman. I know of her. I have many enemies, but there is one I loathe more than any other, and while she does not serve him she is...tainted...by association. There is great hatred within you, Mr. Raskol, but I wonder...do you have the will to kill? When your enemy is helpless before you, would you have the strength to drive your blade into her heart? No, I do not think you do."

"I'm not a coward!" he exclaimed, his boast sounding pathetically effete. "I will embrace the satsui!"

More laughter. "I wonder if you have ever once told the truth in your entire life. But enough of this. I know where the elf is headed. Tell me, do you know of the gaming tournament held every year in Moscow – The Intercontinental?"

Now an entirely different kind of fear gripped Rhodes' heart. "Oh my god...that's the biggest Warriors of the Apocalypse tournament in the world! She's going to kill everyone there!"

He grinned, showing a row of rotten teeth. "That is correct, Mr. Raskol. But you can stop her. To do so, you'll need to cross the Russian border, and they won't let just anyone through." He reached into his robe and took out a large data chip. "This chip contains all the passport data needed to get you past the border crossing."

Rhodes heard the sound of an engine starting up somewhere in the parking lot. "Ah, looks like your friend is finished with his little larceny." The Angry Man handed Rhodes the chip. "We shall meet again, Mr. Raskol."

He turned around and vanished into the shadows just as Dobbs drove up in a dented, rusting old sedan that looked about half a century past its prime. Rhodes opened the passenger-side door and climbed inside, where his nostrils were immediately assailed by the stench of stale beer and cheap air fresheners.

"Jesus Christ, man," said Dobbs as he drove off. "You look like you've seen a ghost! Who was that guy you were talking to?"

Rhodes looked down at the passenger seat, which was stained with numerous unidentifiable substances. "You're not going to believe it, man! He said he was a shadowrunner, called himself 'the Angry Man.' I don't know how, but he knows who we are and what we're up to."

Dobbs looked concerned or the first time in as long as long as Rhodes could remember. "And what did he want?"

"You were right, man; that elf is going to Moscow. He said she was going to kill everyone at The Intercontinental."

"Holy shit, why didn't I think of that before? That's one of the biggest gaming tournaments in the world! He say anything else?"

"No, but he gave me this data chip. Said it would help us get across the Russian border. Look, Dobbs...I don't know about this. That guy was seriously fucking creepy, like he was into some really bad shit or something."

"Well of course he would be! He's a shadowrunner, dude! You don't survive in that line of work without getting your hands dirty."

Rhodes clenched his fists. "No, man, I meant like...gah, how can I explain it? Like, have you ever met someone who was into some really weird-ass religion? Not like Christianity or Islam or anything like that, but some creepy-as-hell cult like the Universal Brotherhood. That's what that guy was like."

"Who cares? It doesn't matter so long as he doesn't try and convert us or anything." The instant they reached the open road Dobbs put the pedal to the metal. The car's engine strained to carry them forward, sounding as though it were a hair's breadth from giving up the ghost. "I sure hope you grow a pair before we hit the border, Rhodes, 'cause Russia ain't no country for pussies. They can smell weakness, and right now you smell weak."

"I'm not weak."

"Oh really? Weren't you the one who was whining to me about wanting to go home? You sounded like a chump, Rhodes, and guess what? The Russians will sense your chumpitude and eat you alive."

"I'm not a chump."

"Yeah, and that's what every chump in the world tells himself just before he goes to bed alone."

Every time he closed his eyes he saw that horrible man with the black eyes, and his words repeated themselves in his mind: We all must lie to ourselves if we are to make it through the day. Otherwise, we'd have to confront the truth, and who could bear such a thing? And Rhodes knew, deep down, that he was lying to himself. He was weak, he was a chump. And now he was going to Russia, a country that was going to chew him up and spit him out.

Russia...the very word conjured up nightmarish images of grim, frosty landscapes inhabited by equally grim men sporting ushankas and Kalashnikovs and who wouldn't waste a second putting a pig-ignorant American like him in his place. He knew next to nothing about the country or its inhabitants, only that it was a bad place filled with bad people who did bad things, that had once tried to invade Europe and failed, and which was overrun with gangsters and criminal syndicates. It was a haven for shadowrunners, another group of people who knew nothing about but who he assumed were little more than thieves, murderers, and psychopaths. There was no such thing as a shadowrunner with a conscience; they surgically removed that part of the brain when you took the job.

But Rhodes would be lying to himself if he didn't feel some attraction to that scene. A shadowrunner was a badass who didn't play by any rules but his own, who didn't give two shits about what society might think. If he were a shadowrunner, he'd be a goddamn ninja, silently bringing death to his enemies. He'd narrate his life like some old hard-boiled detective...Rain fell from the sky as if the angels themselves were weeping...it was a hard rain, hard enough to wash the slime off the streets...The job was difficult, no question, but you didn't call someone like him for the easy ones. Just him and his katana, delivering justice in the shadows…how he was wished he could be that man.

He was so not that man.

Instead, he was weak, cowardly, unattractive, and more than a little overweight. He was a man who had lost everything – his job, his girlfriend, and worst of all his dignity. Rhodes knew that feeling sorry for himself wouldn't solve anything, but if he didn't feel sorry for himself than who would? If he died tomorrow, would anyone really care?

But if he stopped that elf, if he saved everyone at The Intercontinental...then he would be a hero. There would be book deals, movie rights, an army of adoring fans following him wherever he went. He wouldn't need to beg women for sex; they would offer it to him freely and with tremendous gusto. Maybe they'd even make a statue of him, katana in hand, wind blowing through his hair, a look of calm detachment on his face…

Yet to accomplish all this he needed to get good. He'd need to be strong and tough, but how? He had only a day or so to go from wimp to warrior. What was he going to do? He didn't have a skillwire system, so skillsofts were out of the question...not that he could afford it, anyway.

The answer came from within...hate. Anger and hate, that would do it. If he could just get angry enough, if he could just get pissed off enough, then he would be brave.

Being in the Gamers' Alliance meant the occasional brush with Humanis. While Rhodes had no strong feelings towards them either way, one piece of propaganda had stuck in his mind all these years. It was a poster depicting a grotesque caricature of a troll, with the words "THIS IS THE ENEMY – HATE IT!" written beneath in a garishly aggressive font. In his mind, the troll was replaced by an image of that elven woman, whatever her name was.

Hate her, hate her, hate her, hate her...those were the words he forced through his mind until they didn't even sound like words any more. Hateful deeds, hateful words, hateful thoughts – they would be his strength.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard the Angry Man laughing.