Life and Death in 2058
Fortunar Hazerider lobbed himself towards the wooden table as another load of buckshot obliterated another strip of drywall. The blast left a massive hole in the wall, sparks flying from severed electrical lines. The other patrons of the bar were screaming, running for their lives, or both. Rolling into a crouch, he ejected the empty clip from his Colt Manhunter. He flinched instinctively as the bartender continued to fire his vintage shotgun around the gloomy dive. Specifically, the bartender was the person putting dinner on Fort's plate this week - but then again, who ever said being an outlaw, shadowrunner and bounty hunter was ever easy? He loaded in a fresh clip and jerked the slide back on this weapon, and peeked over the ravaged edge. Ten thousand nuyen for this old bastard, Fort thought to himself. The man he was hunting was an older war criminal, accused of crimes against metahumanity during the Desert Wars. Fort grinned as he leant over the top and fired two rounds at the man. Both missed, flying into the bottles of liquor behind him. Fort watched the man cock his weapon, and letting his wired reflexes take over, launched himself into the air, landing just as the table was reduced to kindling by another blast. Leveling the chrome plated Colt at the fat, balding man, he gave a cold half smile. "Drop it, gramps." he said. The barrel was no more than fifteen inches away from man's face, but he saw the fires of madness and hatred burning in the man's eyes. He stopped a second, and then sprung into motion, attempting to bring his beefy weapon to bear. He never had the chance. Fort's round caved in his face with a geyser of crimson, dropping the man like a ton of bricks.
"At the end of the day, I got it done." Fort muttered to himself as he walked down the steps of the local Lone Star division. He leafed through the wad of bills before him before stuffing them into a hidden pocket in his midnight black cloak. He was tired, but happy. His long, green hair waved in the breeze of a passing car as he walked alone into the sprawl. He was not afraid of anything that crawled, walked or stalked this part of the Boston slums. He had a rep here, and his looks made him hard to miss. He was an elf in a human enclave, for starters. He was slight but tall, weighing in at 6'4 and 150 pounds. He had sharp features that were almost hawkish, with dark gray eyes and pointed ears. His style was as unique as they got in these parts as well. He wore his hair loose, but kept in check with a leather headband. He had an abnormally large black cloak that contrasted against a blazing red sleeveless shirt, crisscrossed with holsters and gun slings. His pants were military surplus camouflage, accented by brightly polished combat boots. Any man, woman or child seeing him would instantly know who he was. He had made enough of a name for himself as the finest fighter from these streets, but as the guy who left an entire pack of thrillers hanging from the lampposts for screwing with the residents, and therefore him.
He was not necessarily a good man, but kept to his word and his friends. But neither was he a bad man. He shoved the door to his favorite tavern open, and announced his appearance. The regulars grunted welcomes, while the passers - through merely cocked eyebrows or ignored the loud outburst. Fort's favorite friend (and dispenser of alcohol), Lavina Shea, merely shook her head as she polished a glass mug. She was used to his antics after growing up with the strange elf. "Hey Lavy!" he called out, "The usual!" She grinned and poured him a shot of straight vodka. He was like to elf she'd ever met - flamboyant, down to earth, and truly bizarre. Childhood friends, they joked around after runs. He wasn't big time yet, but he had promised many times (many, many, many times) that he would sweep her out of the slums and away into Seattle, where she could open a bigger, better bar. But, then again, when would he make it big? He was small fries, compared to legends like Jack Skater and the Wrecking Crew's Argent. But in this world of spiring towers and ultra-powerful mega corporations, where magic was everywhere and the races of fantasy had reentered the earth, what was big anymore?
One patron approached the bar after Fort's third shot. He walked up behind him, and asked if he was the one and only Fortunar Hazerider. Fort turned around, grinned, and nodded. "You looking to hire?" he asked in a friendly tone. "Naw, "the man almost laughed. "But I am here to kill you." With those words, he drew a large hunting knife. Fort lunged away, the man's blade missing his neck by a hair's breath. Fort quickly threw off his cloak, and drew his own blade. The two men circled each other, sizing and appraising. They dove at each other at virtually the same moment, knives meeting in between. "You're better than I expected," the other bounty hunter snarled. "You too, chummer. What's the bounty on my head today?" Fort asked as the two struggled. "Thirteen thousand nuyen," the man replied as he used his greater bulk to throw Fort back. He was big, heavily built, but a human. Scruffy but skilled, the man was obviously at least as professional as Fortunar himself. "Wow, I've moved up in the world. " Fort said as the battle continued, sparks flying of the blades. They were moving so fast that it was hard for the jaded patrons to keep track of. Suddenly, the action paused. Fortunar's blade was millimeters from entering the man's gut, and the man's knife was held across Fort's throat. Slowly, they both smiled. The knives were brought down and tucked back into concealed sheaths.
"Liquor's on me." Fort said to the stranger. "Call it professional courtesy." The man extended his hand, and Fort shook it. "The name's McKaverick, kid." They both sat down, and began swapping tales. Lavina groaned. To her, it was bad enough having to own a shadowrunner's flop. These weird brawls were just plain unnerving. Not only that, but they scared away the customers occasionally.
A few rounds later, they contemplated what to do next. McKaverick was out his bounty, and Fort had decided to help him. "Why not take on a two man job." Fort managed to slur after his fifth drink. McKaverick merely nodded before slumping over the table. Lavy, as Fort's always helpful friend, helped a few of her waitresses haul the duo up two flights of stairs before depositing them on the floor of her den, mere inches away from the bathroom door in preparation for the inevitable.
McKaverick came to with the sounds of Fort's dinner making a quick reappearance in the next room. He hauled himself to his feet, feeling like someone had taken a jackhammer to his skull. It was time to go look for a job. Muttering and cursing to themselves, they left the bar and headed out onto the streets to contact their individual fixers.
As it happened, McKaverick's fixer had a job waiting to be filled - the greasing of a local Mafia don who had failed to follow through on several promises, and as such, had been targeted by a number of smaller crime bosses in the area. The pair took the job without hesitation, as they too had heard rumors of the downfall of the don, and figured him for an easy target.
Later that night, they entered the target's house. It had been rather easy - garrote three guards, pick a lock and they were in. The grounds themselves, however, were heavily patrolled. As they snuck past groups of guards, they though to themselves just how simple this was turning out to be. Until they accidentally tripped an alarm, that is.
Klaxons began to wail all throughout the compound. The pair could hear the clomp of booted feet as they ducked for cover in their opulent surroundings. With shocking suddenness, there was absolute silence save the click of Fort hitting the safety on his Colts. Then, all hell tore loose. Shock troopers stormed in, brandishing assault rifles and hosing the room with lead. Fort and McKaverick fought for their lives. More and more of the house guard began to pile up near the doorways. They kept coming and coming, and kept getting cut down. But the pair had better things to do than tango with the hired muscle. They were here for a job. They began moving from room to room.
As bullets pinged around them, the two finally spotted a man cowering near a door, surrounded by bodies. Fortunar chucked the two empty Colts, and fished a Ceska Black Scorpion machine pistol from one of his slings. McKaverick calmly and evenly strutted up to the man, shotgun in one hand. Fort swept the warehouse, covering the proceedings. Before McKaverick could even start a cocky, Bond-villainous claim to the don's death, the man had drawn a Tiffani Self-Defender pistol and shoved it into McKavericks gut. McKaverick reacted swiftly. He whipped the shotgun around, aiming for the man's heart. He never got there. They both fired at the same time. McKaverick's eyes widened as the bullets tore through his gut and shot out the other side. McKaverick's blast nearly tore the man's unused arm form his body.
Fortunar watched McKaverick fall in a spray of gore. The don stumbled around on his feet and screeched in pain. Enraged, he emptied the entire 35 round, high density clip into the don's body. It flew up and landed a few feet away with a mushy thud. He ran over to the body of his friend, and checked for a pulse. There was none.
Later in the day, as Fort was relating the story to Lavy, she only nodded. "McKaverick died like an outlaw. He died with a smile on his face, risking his life. Reminds me of Ancient Rome. The gladiators used to say, 'We, those about to die, salute you.' It's a good saying for us 'runners. We never know when some bastard's gonna cheat us out of our next heartbeat. But that's life for us."
Fortunar Hazerider lobbed himself towards the wooden table as another load of buckshot obliterated another strip of drywall. The blast left a massive hole in the wall, sparks flying from severed electrical lines. The other patrons of the bar were screaming, running for their lives, or both. Rolling into a crouch, he ejected the empty clip from his Colt Manhunter. He flinched instinctively as the bartender continued to fire his vintage shotgun around the gloomy dive. Specifically, the bartender was the person putting dinner on Fort's plate this week - but then again, who ever said being an outlaw, shadowrunner and bounty hunter was ever easy? He loaded in a fresh clip and jerked the slide back on this weapon, and peeked over the ravaged edge. Ten thousand nuyen for this old bastard, Fort thought to himself. The man he was hunting was an older war criminal, accused of crimes against metahumanity during the Desert Wars. Fort grinned as he leant over the top and fired two rounds at the man. Both missed, flying into the bottles of liquor behind him. Fort watched the man cock his weapon, and letting his wired reflexes take over, launched himself into the air, landing just as the table was reduced to kindling by another blast. Leveling the chrome plated Colt at the fat, balding man, he gave a cold half smile. "Drop it, gramps." he said. The barrel was no more than fifteen inches away from man's face, but he saw the fires of madness and hatred burning in the man's eyes. He stopped a second, and then sprung into motion, attempting to bring his beefy weapon to bear. He never had the chance. Fort's round caved in his face with a geyser of crimson, dropping the man like a ton of bricks.
"At the end of the day, I got it done." Fort muttered to himself as he walked down the steps of the local Lone Star division. He leafed through the wad of bills before him before stuffing them into a hidden pocket in his midnight black cloak. He was tired, but happy. His long, green hair waved in the breeze of a passing car as he walked alone into the sprawl. He was not afraid of anything that crawled, walked or stalked this part of the Boston slums. He had a rep here, and his looks made him hard to miss. He was an elf in a human enclave, for starters. He was slight but tall, weighing in at 6'4 and 150 pounds. He had sharp features that were almost hawkish, with dark gray eyes and pointed ears. His style was as unique as they got in these parts as well. He wore his hair loose, but kept in check with a leather headband. He had an abnormally large black cloak that contrasted against a blazing red sleeveless shirt, crisscrossed with holsters and gun slings. His pants were military surplus camouflage, accented by brightly polished combat boots. Any man, woman or child seeing him would instantly know who he was. He had made enough of a name for himself as the finest fighter from these streets, but as the guy who left an entire pack of thrillers hanging from the lampposts for screwing with the residents, and therefore him.
He was not necessarily a good man, but kept to his word and his friends. But neither was he a bad man. He shoved the door to his favorite tavern open, and announced his appearance. The regulars grunted welcomes, while the passers - through merely cocked eyebrows or ignored the loud outburst. Fort's favorite friend (and dispenser of alcohol), Lavina Shea, merely shook her head as she polished a glass mug. She was used to his antics after growing up with the strange elf. "Hey Lavy!" he called out, "The usual!" She grinned and poured him a shot of straight vodka. He was like to elf she'd ever met - flamboyant, down to earth, and truly bizarre. Childhood friends, they joked around after runs. He wasn't big time yet, but he had promised many times (many, many, many times) that he would sweep her out of the slums and away into Seattle, where she could open a bigger, better bar. But, then again, when would he make it big? He was small fries, compared to legends like Jack Skater and the Wrecking Crew's Argent. But in this world of spiring towers and ultra-powerful mega corporations, where magic was everywhere and the races of fantasy had reentered the earth, what was big anymore?
One patron approached the bar after Fort's third shot. He walked up behind him, and asked if he was the one and only Fortunar Hazerider. Fort turned around, grinned, and nodded. "You looking to hire?" he asked in a friendly tone. "Naw, "the man almost laughed. "But I am here to kill you." With those words, he drew a large hunting knife. Fort lunged away, the man's blade missing his neck by a hair's breath. Fort quickly threw off his cloak, and drew his own blade. The two men circled each other, sizing and appraising. They dove at each other at virtually the same moment, knives meeting in between. "You're better than I expected," the other bounty hunter snarled. "You too, chummer. What's the bounty on my head today?" Fort asked as the two struggled. "Thirteen thousand nuyen," the man replied as he used his greater bulk to throw Fort back. He was big, heavily built, but a human. Scruffy but skilled, the man was obviously at least as professional as Fortunar himself. "Wow, I've moved up in the world. " Fort said as the battle continued, sparks flying of the blades. They were moving so fast that it was hard for the jaded patrons to keep track of. Suddenly, the action paused. Fortunar's blade was millimeters from entering the man's gut, and the man's knife was held across Fort's throat. Slowly, they both smiled. The knives were brought down and tucked back into concealed sheaths.
"Liquor's on me." Fort said to the stranger. "Call it professional courtesy." The man extended his hand, and Fort shook it. "The name's McKaverick, kid." They both sat down, and began swapping tales. Lavina groaned. To her, it was bad enough having to own a shadowrunner's flop. These weird brawls were just plain unnerving. Not only that, but they scared away the customers occasionally.
A few rounds later, they contemplated what to do next. McKaverick was out his bounty, and Fort had decided to help him. "Why not take on a two man job." Fort managed to slur after his fifth drink. McKaverick merely nodded before slumping over the table. Lavy, as Fort's always helpful friend, helped a few of her waitresses haul the duo up two flights of stairs before depositing them on the floor of her den, mere inches away from the bathroom door in preparation for the inevitable.
McKaverick came to with the sounds of Fort's dinner making a quick reappearance in the next room. He hauled himself to his feet, feeling like someone had taken a jackhammer to his skull. It was time to go look for a job. Muttering and cursing to themselves, they left the bar and headed out onto the streets to contact their individual fixers.
As it happened, McKaverick's fixer had a job waiting to be filled - the greasing of a local Mafia don who had failed to follow through on several promises, and as such, had been targeted by a number of smaller crime bosses in the area. The pair took the job without hesitation, as they too had heard rumors of the downfall of the don, and figured him for an easy target.
Later that night, they entered the target's house. It had been rather easy - garrote three guards, pick a lock and they were in. The grounds themselves, however, were heavily patrolled. As they snuck past groups of guards, they though to themselves just how simple this was turning out to be. Until they accidentally tripped an alarm, that is.
Klaxons began to wail all throughout the compound. The pair could hear the clomp of booted feet as they ducked for cover in their opulent surroundings. With shocking suddenness, there was absolute silence save the click of Fort hitting the safety on his Colts. Then, all hell tore loose. Shock troopers stormed in, brandishing assault rifles and hosing the room with lead. Fort and McKaverick fought for their lives. More and more of the house guard began to pile up near the doorways. They kept coming and coming, and kept getting cut down. But the pair had better things to do than tango with the hired muscle. They were here for a job. They began moving from room to room.
As bullets pinged around them, the two finally spotted a man cowering near a door, surrounded by bodies. Fortunar chucked the two empty Colts, and fished a Ceska Black Scorpion machine pistol from one of his slings. McKaverick calmly and evenly strutted up to the man, shotgun in one hand. Fort swept the warehouse, covering the proceedings. Before McKaverick could even start a cocky, Bond-villainous claim to the don's death, the man had drawn a Tiffani Self-Defender pistol and shoved it into McKavericks gut. McKaverick reacted swiftly. He whipped the shotgun around, aiming for the man's heart. He never got there. They both fired at the same time. McKaverick's eyes widened as the bullets tore through his gut and shot out the other side. McKaverick's blast nearly tore the man's unused arm form his body.
Fortunar watched McKaverick fall in a spray of gore. The don stumbled around on his feet and screeched in pain. Enraged, he emptied the entire 35 round, high density clip into the don's body. It flew up and landed a few feet away with a mushy thud. He ran over to the body of his friend, and checked for a pulse. There was none.
Later in the day, as Fort was relating the story to Lavy, she only nodded. "McKaverick died like an outlaw. He died with a smile on his face, risking his life. Reminds me of Ancient Rome. The gladiators used to say, 'We, those about to die, salute you.' It's a good saying for us 'runners. We never know when some bastard's gonna cheat us out of our next heartbeat. But that's life for us."