Casefile #5a

A nice, comfortable flight back to what’s left of my home life, and it could not have gone any better without the inclusion of some sort of situation to drag us away from the comfortable doldrums of a flight home. When we lost contact with Clark, I was more than a little worried. But when I found out that we were attempting to stop the good guys, well, that just cemented it in my mind – today is a normal day.

Edgerunner Notes:

Sam Henyo – One of the last times there was a shifty looking man on a plane with some sort of blade, it didn’t go well. I’m starting to think whenever he starts doubting our mission, things inevitably go horribly.

Devon Wongraven – One of the more disturbing things in life is watching someone stripped uncomfortably, and I have never seen a man more uncomfortable than Devon after we went through security. We both had to stash our kit, but it looked positively painful for him. The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that neither one of us would make a good father figure, which leaves either Clark or Sam as the more fatherly option, and that’s borderline horrifying.

Clark Morrisey – I never thought I’d be glad for Clarky-boy’s peep-senses, but when it comes to picking up on trouble, he’s world class. Causes more than he picks up on, mind, but it’s good to know he has his creeper-sense tuned up.

Casefile #5b

The moment the little brat screamed, I figured we were spitted, gutted and thrown over a firepit. I guess Pitbull has been on the job long enough that he can make even the most insane situation sound rote and routine. All the better for us, considering. I’m not relishing the idea of intentionally crashing the plane we’re flying. But not before we intentionally hijack it. If only we had stayed in our seats..

Edgerunner Notes:

Sam Henyo – It looks like Sam’s incessant tinkering paid off – his insistance on making my internals easy to reach has a nice addition of being excellent proof of who I was, who I am. Unfortunately, it makes me sick every time I have to use it.

Devon Wongraven – It’s hard to believe that someday, that man has the potential to be a father. I’m a bit jealous, but I’m not sure any of us are decent role models aside from Sam.

Clark Morrisey – He’s been the most stuck-in on this flight, and he’s handling it rather well. His quick thinking made sure we were keened onto the shenanigans on this flight, and is letting us take some action.

Casefile #5c

Our planning is impeccable – we get brand new identities, and the first thing we decide to do is hijack a commercial airliner. Without any of the proper tools, improper weaponry, and what seems to be an arsenal of sex toys. We’ve been up against bad odds before, but this is a problem of our own creation. Made worse with our little snafu of a firefight. At least the bullet I took was more irritating than really painful. Now I know how one of Wormwood’s victim’s feels.

Edgerunner Notes:

Sam Henyo – It’s always the quiet ones you need to be a careful of. Someone brought some inappropriate armament to bring onboard a plane and punched a hole through the fuselage. I realize our plan is to crash the plane, but this is a bit absurd – it’s supposed to be a controlled crash!

Devon Wongraven – He had one job to do, to cut through the plane’s cieling. Of course, he picked the local arms convention to do it under. Not that I’d mind under ordinary circumstances, but he got me shot. I dislike being shot.

Clark Morrisey – Seeing Clark in action reminds me of one of the old Archival Criterion flicks I caught, Creeps on a Plane. Only he would think the best way to incapacitate someone is with a mindshattering orgasm. Touching that he hulked out after I got shot, though.

Casefile #5d

Barricaded in a rapidly depressurizing kitchen, facing an angry mob between us and the flight deck, and only five minutes until we’re on the ground in cuffs. Granted, with how our performance actually turned out, that might have been better for us in the long run – cuffs instead of coffins. Between all of us, we sustained enough trauma

Edgerunner Notes:

Sam Henyo – I have a feeling that if we weren’t kitted out like hijackers, Sam might have been able to talk the civilians down. Although if we weren’t dressed like hijackers, I doubt we’d actually be hijacking a plane, either… I’m a bit nervous about him flying anything else after he took the wing off this plane by hitting the ground when all he was supposed to do was point it at a body of water.

Devon Wongraven – You can take the texan out of the military, but you can’t fly with him commerically without him shouting at all the people in first class. Some people… smoking on an international flight? No respect for the aviation industry, refuses to follow posted rules. And this time, it cost him a leg. A horrible lesson, but maybe it’ll teach him to be more careful.

Clark Morrisey – After having seen him take some nasty damage to his legs, it’s comforting to see him leaping around on a plane. Even more comforting knowing that he has my back when I’m dead to the world.

Casefile #5e

Being in a sinking airliner is certainly out of my element, for sure. Out of element for the plane, too, certainly. When Clark asked me to hop to and get the hatch on the plane open, I had forgotten that there was a whole ocean on the other side of it waiting to get in. All to eager, the ocean was, slamming us with wave after wave, forcing us to move quickly or abandon hope. Fortunately, after scaring us, Dweezil and my sister emerged from the watery depths to be our salvation.

Edgerunner Notes:

Sam Henyo – In all our circumstances, I have the most faith in Sam being able to get Devon out alive. Devon can’t swim on his own power, so unless Sam can come up with something for him, we’re stuck trading off the heaviest can of beans the Texan army has ever served up, and I don’t think we can pull that off for long. He’s been full of miracles today, not least of which when he pulled me out of the damn ocean.

Devon Wongraven – How he’s going to get out of this mess alive is anyone’s guess. Even if we can get him out of this sinking coffin, there’s still making sure he doesn’t bleed out on the long trip home.

Seranya – It’s always nice to see my sister, but she seems so much more confident and self-posessed now.

Clark Morrisey – Sometimes, it’s simultaneously comforting and horrifying to know that I trust him completely enough to tear open one of the few barriers between us and the wide open ocean. Fortunately, that level of trust and friendship eases my worries in sticky situations, like when I’m trapped in a waterfilled cockpit, with no way out.

Casefile #5f

I’m pretty sure it’s just an implanted memory, triggering in self defense, but I’ve always mistrusted hospitals. Now I have to, because without this place, Devon’d be going under the knife in some back alley shop, and that just wouldn’t do for something of this magnitude. Night City may have a good reputation, but that doesn’t mean all of it’s denizens do. As long as we’re in town, it made sense for us to poke around the old HUB AI core development facility – it’ll be good to get Devon back to feeling normal again.

Edgerunner Notes:

Sam Henyo – I’d say that Sam will salvage something incredibly worthwhile from the AI core labs, but I can’t think of anything more valuable that could be salvaged since Seranya – finding a sister you never knew you had is hard to beat. It’s also hard to beat his wit – I’ve never felt more guilty laughing at a crippled friend than when Sam is around.

Devon Wongraven – The image of the wounded warrior laid up in a gurney is a classic one, made slightly less charming by the morphine slurred words, but we can’t have everything. Although it seems I touched a bit of a nerve implying he might not be good at taking care of kids.

Seranya – It’s odd to think that after all this time, I’m following my sister’s lead on something, but I think she’s been developing nicely while we were overseas, following her instincts. I wish her instincts hadn’t taken her to a gang enclave with a few hundred active members, but we can’t have everything.

Clark Morrisey – Of all the wierd things he’s done that have wierded me out, hands down the wierdest is seeing him happy – genuinely, honestly, happy. And while I absolutely love it, it worries me – I fear that if something were to disrupt that feeling, he could fall apart in a very messy way.

Casefile #5g

As much as I am anxious to bring down the HUB and prevent a horrible future from coming to pass, I could deal without going into another Combat Zone. It’s made all the worse by being forced to go in through the sewers. Miles of sewers with no clue what they hold, or how long it’ll take us to find the smuggler’s bolt hole. The group of Zoners we ran into was depressing and unfortunate. Although we managed to find our way through the wall, at least.

Edgerunner Notes:

Sam Henyo – I’m impressed with how he’s managed to keep his clothes clean, compared to the rest of us. For his sake, I hope he doesn’t end up the way of Wormwood and Pitbull, needing new limbs. The fact that he almost made me add more mess to the sewer is a testament to his knowledge of all of the buttons to press.

Devon Wongraven – He picked possibly the worst time in history to fail to follow the safet protocols on a flight, aside from being on the Ad Astra. Now we have to cater to our injured comrade in ways that might not be purely beneficial to us.

Clark Morrisey – It’s odd, being grateful that he had the hobbies he did – knowing all the ins and outs of the shadier part of the world is coming in handy. I’m comfortable that his skeever senses will be able to pick up on any trouble before we get into the thick of things.

Casefile #5h

In for a penny, in for a pound, the saying goes. Classic gambler’s fallacy. In our case, our penny is the size of a manhole cover, and our pound is a pound of flesh which we must pay for our trespasses. Cutting through the heart of the Zone is risky, but we can’t afford to take the long road. Unfortunately, a human spectacle of a roadblock ran through my carefully thrown together route. Even more unfortunate was the subject matter – a lynching, a public ‘demonstration’. Worse still was that I was powerless to help the powerless. Fortunately, my friends had a bit more power to change the fates of those who were helpless, while I just watched.

Edgerunner Notes:

Sam Henyo – I’ve never seen my boy flustered in quite the way Sam tripped over his tongue when he thought he upset Wormwood. In all we’ve been through, that’s the closest I’ve seen him come to truly scared.

Devon Wongraven – As much as I am sure Devon’s preferred method of travel would be to plow through any obstacles in our way, but even in the Zone, that seems like it might cause us no end of trouble. The thought of him deploying a grenade launcher against a crowd of people, even our enemies, is horrifying. Throw in civilians, and it’s downright unthinkable.

Clark Morrisey – I’m not sure I expected him to understand what I was getting at. Even though he made perfect sense, even though leaving those poor people was the right thing, I hated it. Down to my core, I hated that decision. That’s why I was so overjoyed when he decided that using the Zone’s power struggle to our advantage was both the most expedient, and best, course of action.

Seranya – Sometimes I find myself wishing that my new sister would revert to her old self. Her new conciousness is cold and altogether too calculating, almost soulless. It makes me sad, but she is growing, and according to her own wishes. That they are not aligned with my own is not something I can fault her for. Although part of her old self shines through on occasion. I think deep down, she wasn’t okay with just waiting, even if her reasoning was a bit different than mine.

Casefile #5i

It started with a shot – that led to another, and more until five innocent men were dead. The number could have been higher, but every life saved is one fewer that sits on my conciousness. Unfortunately, each life that is destined to be spared by our actions will be nurtured by the bodies of those who stand against us, and there seem to be many of them. Worse still the broken bodies we leave behind, a burden to those who will care for them, and a burden for our minds. Although before us seem to be more insurmountable challenges – what can make our day worse than an attack helicopter?

Edgerunner Notes:

Sam Henyo – It’s hard to see what this must look like through the lens of his experience. Even for a gambler, these are incredibly long odds we’re running up, going up against the HUB. A weaker man would have folded like a bad hand of poker long before now.

Devon Wongraven – There’s something twisted about setting up an ambush in the middle of a children’s playground, but I think it would take more than Wormwood’s creepiness to keen Pitbull onto it. There certainly is an explicit joy in how he distributes carnage like a cigar trails smoke. Although it might behoove him to learn some caution, as not everything is as cut and dried as he might like it.

Clark Morrisey – He tried. Better than what I could have done. At least we saved the majority of them, which is honestly more than what I could have expected from that situation. Heck, since meeting up with the Edgerunners, there have been nothing but horrible situations cropping up.

Seranya – It’s comforting to know that when my mind is clouded what feels like a strange abstraction of emotion, my sister seems possessed of a lack of the same, and while that’s extremely useful, it makes me a bit sad.

Casefile #5j

The first step we need to take is to get in to the compound. From there, it’s a matter of chance and luck – if we can use the helicopter against them, things become a lot easier. If not… well, it’ll be fairly normal. Getting in seems to be easier than anticipated, as we have the world’s best sneakthief. Unfortunately, if we go up against something that shreds electronics, that puts the lot of us in a tight spot.

Edgerunner Notes:

Sam Henyo – I wonder what sort of surprise he has planned with that whirlybird. I think I’ll have to ask him to put together one of those phones for me once this is all said and done.

Devon Wongraven – I wish I knew what drove his mind, sometimes. He’s got some odd predilictions, that’s for sure.

Clark Morrisey – I’m afraid of what is in Wormwood’s head. Genuinely afraid, sometimes. He’s a bold and brave man, but his past does worry me. What if he relapses?

Casefile #5k

I’m not a fan of minefields. I understand the need for security, but this is really throwing the baby out with the bathwater into a raging tsunami. If I step foot into another minefield in this lifetime, it will be far too soon. Getting to play around with a rocket launcher might have made it all worthwhile, though.

Edgerunner Notes:

Sam Henyo – Before this is all said and done, I might be the most human of us all, if Sam can’t get Devon patched up.

Devon Wongraven – He must have been a hell of a soldier. Must be a hell of a soldier, to keep soldiering on like he does. I know I couldn’t do it. Am seeing him do it, and don’t know how he’s managing..

Seranya – I’m not entirely sure if my sister’s bomb defusal skills would get her into the military, or if they mostly consist of eeny-meeny-miney-mo, but at the very least, she’s our way through the minefield.

I’ve experienced the clip several times. A lot of people have – after the national news networks picked up the story the clip went viral, was downloaded over 35 million times. It still gives me a frission, some complex sensation of mixed-up fear, wonder, and a weird sensation of misplaced personhood over and above the usual dislocation of experiencing a sensie.

My mouth is a little dry, my fingertips tingle, as I plug the sensie player into my neural jack, then slot the small, dark blue data crystal.

There’s a burst of white noise in my ears, an unfolding fractal DreamCorps logo across my eyesight, a tingling across every nerve-ending and then…

I’m half-sitting, propped up in a large bed by the pillows heaped behind me. I can feel the silk of my nightwear soft and smooth against my skin, against my breasts. I can feel the sticky constriction of the cufftape binding my wrists together, my ankles, closing my mouth. The slight smell of some chemical, harsh and astringent, overlain with my own expensive perfume and the smell of my own terror. My hair, damp with fear sweat, is plastered against my back and neck. I can feel my pulse pounding in my head, the churning hollow terror in my chest and perfectly-flat stomach, the trembling in my slim toned arms and legs.

(Damn, that’s an exceptionally fine combination of sensorium and equipment, some part of me thinks distantly. The sensory acuity, especially the emotional conveyance, isn’t as crystal-clear as Emmy’s, but there’s a good reason for that.)

In the dim room – a luxurious, feminine bedroom but with a few signs of the owner’s occupation: a couple of holo-vid awards on a dresser, a poster for the Edgerunners reality show framed on the wall – most of the light comes from the city’s neon glow filtering through lace curtains over an enormous picture window. I’m up high – at least 20 floors up at an educated guess. My eyes scan the room, find a dark-clad slim figure sitting relaxed in a replica Queen Anne chair on the other side of the spacious bedroom. As soon as I see him he reaches to switch on a Tiffany glass lamp, illuminating his end of the room in a warm yellow/green/blue light.

He’s short, and all dressed in a form-fitting black bodysuit with equipment hanging from it. Two holsetrs, placed for cross-draw on his chest, hold identical pistols with long silencers in easy-grab velcro fasteners. His face is pale, with dark hair and dark eyes. His mouth is thin and twisted in a self-satisfied smile, highlighted in black lipstick. He’s a hard-edged black-and-white imposition on the feminine softness of the room. He shouldn’t be there, and my fear lifts a notch in realization of who he must be.

Confirming my suspicions, the figure reaches to my bedroom terminal, slots a chip, and the projector starts throwing a kaleidoscope mosaic of images and video into the air. I recognize myself, slim and feminine in a no-nonsense and empowered way, at work and at play. Tossing my black hair and laughing with friends in a bar; striding over a dusty landscape wearing body armor, a gun in my hand and a holo-vid bot hovering at my shoulder; walking down a street. Everyday images from my life as a DreamCorps producer/director and a minor glitterati celebrity.

He speaks, a low and chuckling voice that holds an undercurrent of familiarity, of control and power, that hits my fear at a basic level, jangling every nerve.

“This is you, Eris Stansfield, in all your glory. You are my most challenging work of Art, you know. So rich and protected, and now made so vulnerable and exposed.” He pauses, then his face goes serious. “My Art will transform you. You will be more famous, more celebrated, richer, than you ever thought was possible. You will transmit my Art to the world, and like all good art it will be the more valuable for being rare. Good night, sweet Eris, and go graciously into the world.”

He blows me a kiss, this Lipstick Stalker, then pulls a small white business card from a pouch and holds it up. My augmented vision zooms in to read: “The End”. In a panic for my life, I zoom out again in time to see him draw one of his pistols – a customized and silenced Armatech Prowler Hi-Power. My breath stops in my throat, my heart almost explodes in terror. He’s going to kill me!

Then he puts the silenced muzzle to his own temple, and with a soft ‘phut’ blows red and gray all over my dresser and wall.

The fractal logo, with a burst of sound that is the DreamCorps signature tune flies across my sensorium again, and then I am back watching my own very male hand shakily eject the data crystal from its player.

So, that’s how I died – and like the coward of the proverb I am doomed to experience it a thousand times.

Of course, I tell myself it’s a professional curiosity. The editing expertise is flawless. Eris assures me that even a police crime lab would have great difficulty in telling just how much of the fear ‘she’ experiences in the clip is computer-generated special effects. Not that they’d ever have cause to check – not when DreamCorps stands behind its product as genuine.

It took a month and a half to track down the copycat who had been killing in the name of Wormwod, the Lipstick Stalker, to indoctrinate him into playing his part perfectly using a cocktail of drugs DreamCorps labs cooked up, and to set the crime-scene up in a believable way. Both Stansfield and I benefited greatly from the subterfuge. I got the chance to create a new me, with a new face and a chip in my head to redirect my urges for Art into safer, if just as kinky, avenues. She got exactly what the fake-me had promised – fame, and even greater fortune, including a gig as host of her own new true-crime show in primetime, no longer having to remain behind the cameras.

But it’s not curiosity that makes me go back to the clip again and again – it’s perhaps a fascination with death, and a satisfaction at viewing my Art through an other’s eyes for the very first time. Perhaps, it’s an echo of that old Art that still bubbles somewhere in my subconscious, held in place by silicon and neuro-circuit bonds, but waiting to be free again.

Undisclosed location in the Northern UK

I’ve been wrong before. I’ve fingered the wrong perp, broken into the wrong place, wound up on the wrong side of the law. It’s rare, though not unheard of. I’ve never felt so completely wrong, and it scares me.

Looking back on my short life, all things considered, I’ve been through a lot. Had my own moderately successful job as a Private Investigator, had an office, and briefly had a secretary. Things were doing alright. I felt right, then. Had my place in the world, kept my head down and my collar up. Things made sense.

I’ve felt wrong before, too. Not to this same extent, but wrong all the same. I had a bad feeling about that job at the hospital, and once I stepped into that warren, I never stopped falling. At the same time, everything that happened since then felt right, like it made sense. I finally had family, found out where I came from. Kept my head down and my collar up, but that was mostly to save my own neck. I had a place in the world, a reason for moving and shaking. Things to look forward to. A sister, a girl back home, family that stuck together through it all. Sure, now my office has been burned to the ground, along with all my old paperbacks. My new office went up in an explosion when a plane hit it. Things have, admittedly, been better.

They’ve also been worse. When I look in the mirror, I should see the scars the past months should have heaped on me. Should see remnants of cracked ribs from taking a tire iron to the chest, the lacerations of being thrown out of a moving vehicle into the support wall of an overpass, the horrible disfiguration of setting off an anti-tank mine. I see none of that. I should, but I can’t. I can overlay my memories over the image, make what I see match the reality of what I have been through. But instead, when I look in the mirror, I look wrong.

The face that I woke up to every morning for years, that recovered from so many black eyes, nicks and cuts, is gone. Now the person looking back at me is a stranger. A composite image concocted by Pacoy and designed to be as nondescript as possible. I feel like he did a pretty good job, even made it feel a bit familiar. Anita didn’t complain too much, at least when I proved it was me. That’s a whole other story. Still, it was nice to be able to get back into her arms after being away for so long.

I took one last look at those unfamiliar eyes in the mirror before shutting the light off and returning to Anita, quietly waiting in the other room of this classless, rundown motel. A brief return to normalcy before facing an increasingly uncertain future. Maybe in the future it’ll all be better.

For now I just feel wrong… but I might still have time to make everything right.

---

The deck of the Shimmer

The deck of the Shimmer bucked and kicked underneath my feet as I struggled to steady my aim. A short distance over the edge of the railing, a set of small floating robots bobbed and weaved, as though taunting me. Serves me right for being vague when I asked Sam for help learning how to shoot – he just put together a few hoverbots together, threw some armor on them, and coded them to make fun of my efforts. Not exactly what I had in mind, but at least it’s been effective. It certainly taught me that I have been influenced a bit overmuch by Pitbull-cum-Devon – I have this odd desire to put rounds into anything that’s been annoying me, lately, particularly if it’s rooted in circuitry. Another burst chatters wide, and the bots throw out harassing phrases. As I dumped the clip of the personal defense weapon to swap in a new set of dummy rounds, a sigh escaped my lips as I looked around for help.

A number of people were on deck, taking advantage of the brief spat of sunshine we were having after suffering rains of biblical proportions. Devon and Annabelle are up here, having some sort of… contest. Field stripping their weapons, or something. Not much help right there, but at least they’re out of direct eyesight. Off on the other side of the deck, Anita and Seranya are sitting on some dropcloth they managed to fashion into some sort of lounging area. As I stepped over to them, making sure my weapon was secured, the training bots swooped in to settle on the rail.

Few things that I’ve seen since I became aware have made me truly happy for what I am, and what I can do. This moment, being able to play it back with perfect clarity, makes up for it all, all the pain, all the torment. To see my sister and my wife-to-be laughing in the sunshine, chatting back and forth with nothing but sea in all directions. Seranya, idly dangling her legs over the edge of the ship, a rhythmic beat coming from her heels tapping the side. Anita, legs curled underneath her with a datapad resting in the lap of her dress.

I settled in next to them, propping myself up against the railing, glaring at the silently mocking robots across the ship. “So, what new mischief have you two been getting up to?”

The response I received couldn’t have been more giggly or bouncy if it had been inside a flock of balloons filled with nitrous oxide. Anita flashed me a wicked grin from above her scarf, opening her mouth to answer, but being cut off by Seranya’s boundless enthusiasm. “We’re planning the weddings!” This sent me into a small fit of laughter, which I expect they took some offense to.

Anita shot me one of her low-ember glares, which quieted me. “Someone needs to make sure the stories we put together pass scrutiny, and details are important!” The thought of Devon in formalwear set me into paroxysms of giggling. “And don’t think you’re off the hook, either, mister! I’ve known how I wanted my wedding to go since I was little! This is going to be perfect!”

I threw on my best reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about it, ‘nita. If we don’t get it right the first time, I’ll make it up to you and we’ll have a proper wedding when we get back Earthside. Promise.” I ruffled my little sister’s hair and gave Anita a kiss before heading back across the deck, leaving the pair to plan the next Royal wedding. Just as I was reaching for a new clip to put into my training gun, I heard Anita’s augmented voice call across the deck, “And don’t think you’re off the hook for rehearsing for the wedding song either!”

I chuckled to myself and slammed the clip home, racking the bolt back and stepping up to the railing, sending the mock bots into a flurry of derisive comments as they swooped away to take up their positions. A grin took over my face. Maybe a modern rendition of Fly Me to the Moon wouldn’t be too out of place…

So, cross thwarting the master plan of a digital demigod off my bucket list – for a second time no less. While I’m at it, I can cross off kicking off a trans-orbital nuclear war and celto-tantric neo-pegan druidic sex rituals. Multiple times for that one, too. I resisted Tillie’s advances at first, but after the encounter with Mac’s “father”, the megalomaniacal microwave, I couldn’t remember a worthwhile reason why. They say opposites attract, and who could be more opposite to me than a Neo-pegan/hippy assassin with a firm belief that cyberware is an abomination?

Earthly distractions aside, Tillie’s connections with The Resistance was exactly what we needed right now – Lazarus was burnt, the group figuratively, their HQ literally. Fortunately, The Resistance was just as badly in need of a crew of seasoned experts with more balls than common sense.

Finding out we were screaming our way to the top of the international Most Wanted terrorist list was a shocker, and I couldn’t find a valid excuse to argue with our new patron when they informed us that we needed new names and faces. Still, I’ll be damned if I’m going all malputla for an alias, my new face will still be a Filipino face! Changing faces is sometimes an hourly deal for Able, and Mac’s face is synthetic. It’s me and Pit that have to worry about a real change, and let’s face it, Pit can only go up from here.

Choosing a new face was a weird experience: which way should I go? Vanity? Science? Bad Assery? How much do I value Tillie’s opinion on this one? Now that is a major relationship turning point that I am just not to broach: choosing a new face together? ::Shudder:: The subject of exclusivity hasn’t even been brought up, although when exploring her ‘ritual interests’, I did make it clear that I have a firm “One Banana per Sundae” policy.



In the end, I decided that if I was getting a new identity, I needed one with a techie background, it was too much of a part of who I was. It’s amazing at what I can pull off with a network of eager, patron-backed connections and a little inspiration, sometime I even impress myself. I was thinking about the fact that Wormie just got a new face last time I saw him, and that led to thoughts of Lazarus first coming together – leading, of course, to Candy and Saxby being part of a creepy cult that is supplying a nearly infinite bank of skills and personal insights to Tatay Toasteroven. Anon Zero isn’t the only organization to ghost people, though: Nobel Laureates have been ghosted since the technology was invented, along with several other benevolent organizations aimed at advancing knowledge of the human species. With a little help from our new patrons, it wouldn’t be much of a task to upgrade my Mac-brain into “remembering” tutoring sessions from some of the greatest minds in the modern era – a few astrophysicists, the original designer of the HUB, that Canadian Astronaut that had the kids show – a plan was forming: If we were going into space, I was going in as an expert on the subject. The Star-Lord 1.0 was shockingly easy to put together with access to the ghosts: I just copied the memories of sitting in a classroom from the Mac Brain and substituted the fundamentals of Astrophysics and Astronaut training for the computer science bits. I even had the forethought to use The General to update and patch the Virtual Soldier. I even had a chance to tweak Mac a little, though his face didn’t go exactly as planned, everyone else thinks aging him an apparent 30 years was intentional and ingenious, and I’m not one to deflect praises to my vast intellect.

Software updated & Face remolded, I moved as much funds around as I could and left will/final message in the hands of Nikki Matapang, just in case. Pacoy Aquino is dead, but as Sam Henyo, brilliant young physicist grad-student, I was ready to enjoy a British Holiday for the summer before starting any one of the many internships being offered to me. Maybe I might be luckily enough to get the private tour of The Hub I applied for… Damn, if it isn’t nice to have a group of eager resistance fighters doing the legwork!

I was great to see the guys again, same old guys, brand new names and faces. While I had a solid plan on my own, our collective brains came up with something amazing: posing as group of newly-weds
going on a romantic honeymoon. It changes the type of gear we’ll be able to take, but over-all, it should work it for the best.

When I got my mission parameters of finding gear for the mission that could be concealed in the luggage of a honeymooner, I was severely tempted to max out the credit limit of The Resistance and purchase a full line of Verbose armored suits, but that wouldn’t leave me with any money for toys and completely out of good graces. With a few discreet phone calls ran through Filipino hook-up proxies, I managed to score a Harlow EMW from the Turk, and The Resistance was able to handle just about everything else.

Now, it’s just a matter of heading off on a off-world suicide mission to kill a god, take out the most secure bank in the known universe, and basically save humanity. To think, this all started out as a way to lay low from some thugs and pay off a simple gambling debt!

North Sea
Thursday 18th May, 2051
6.00 PM

It’s been two weeks since the Lazarus Group and their allies buried the British arm of HUB’s monstrous experimental program to create super-soldiers and enslave humanity. In that time, everyone has been busy.

Finn has negotiated a deal with the two A.I.s that run 23Enigma and the leaders of several other groups dedicated to armed resistance against corporate hegemony. The groups are merging under one combined, worldwide command structure. So far, everyone’s just calling the new co-operative “The Resistance”, but they’ll think of a cool name soon.

The team has heard from Siri! She got enough warning from the office A.I., which was monitoring Air Traffic Control, and got herself into the team’s APC in time to avoid annihilation. Since then she’s picked up Mac’s Anita and Pit’s Annabel and gotten them both to a safe location in the Free Cities.

Pits and Pacoy have been under the knife getting new faces – and Mac’s been in the machine shop getting a new face too. Everyone’s been provided with new identities by Mutate & Survive. M3rl1n’s hacking team have set up some wide-ranging viruses and protocols, releasing them into the net, and stand ready to make sure that the team’s new identities are extremely unlikely to be associated with their old records – or with any whiff of impropriety going forward. The Lazarus members have all been brought into The Resistance’s new hierarchy as revered, almost legendary, figures. They may not have any actual command authority over any group, but the assets of the whole Resistance stand ready to help them.

Finally, the whole world has been pitched into somewhat of a crisis state. Incited and fueled by Resistance operatives, anti-Corporation riots have broken out in every major city. Major acts of civil disobedience and vandalism, even outright sabotage, have been common. The scare of an almost-not-really nuclear exchange between the British Republic and Hightower Station has revealed the extent of Hightower’s defensive armory too, and many of the major national powers are now leery of the corporations and their power.

This is the new world the Lazarus Team has given birth to. As they meet for a dinner with Finn and a few other M&S commanders on that groups’ oil-rig base, the team have plenty of cause for reflection.

Staring at his reflection in the bottom of an empty glass, the man once known as Trenton sighs before refilling it. “Every time I catch a reflection of myself, I feel older. Even the name they picked to go with my face makes me feel old! I mean, come on, Lynwood Meers? I think I must have irked that magician kid something awful.”

Tillie laughs, and raises her glass to the team. “To new faces for a New World, eventually. I think we all feel older now than we did two weeks ago.” She does look tired – as one of the Finn’s trusted lieutenants she’s been deeply involved in negotiations with other resistance groups.

“You know, we are calling you ‘Lynn’, Right?” Sam teased.

The man now known as Devon Wongraven sits tall, a cigarette hanging from his lips. Only those that had known him for an extended period of time would know that paranoid scowl belonged to a man by the name of Marcus James. Or Pitbull as he preferred to be known.

Lynwood rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s fair enough. Not like I ever really went by my full name anyhow. Guess I’m kind of used to it.” He raises his glass before draining it completely. “May we all live long enough to see it become a reality.”

Grant leans backwards in his chair, a cautious smile on his lips. “The transition to a new life is trying at first, but you’ll all slip into the natural rhythm eventually..”

Finn looks up from his lemon sole and smiles ruefully at Grant. “Isn’t that the truth, boyo.”

Lynwood frowns, feeling his face has he does so. “Honestly, it’s not… too bad. Considering I barely had my first life for very long, a fresh start may be just what I needed. Although maybe a bit younger start would have been nice.”

“Well… Lynstromm? Lynford?… Lynwood, right?! I think we’ve all got a shit of time to get used to our new names. I’ve nearly signed my name as “Marcus” over four times, so this’ll be a long time gettin’ used to." Devon growls smiling as he stubs out his cigarette.

Finn asks, “Have you given any thought on where you want to go? Of course, you’re welcome to base yourselves here – we’d be pleased and proud to have you.”

Lynwood pauses. “Kind of want to head back to Night City before I get stuck into anything else, really. I have to find some way to explain… this… to Anita, and I’d like a properly good meal before shutting down the HUB. No offense, but it’s hard to beat the food back at the Ottoman Casino. After this is all done? Who’s to say? This isn’t a bad place. It’s rainy, but I like the countryside. Lots of history, here, too. Wherever I put down roots, though, my sister’s got to be able to come with.”

An aging female voice behind Lynwood says, “Night City may be a bit of a reach, for now, even with new faces and names young man.” The team turn in their seats to see Lady Emily of the Gomi Emporium, along with her tiger and her assistants – and Siri, Annabelle and Anita!

Siri immediately runs to Lynwood and hugs him. “You still emit the same background electronic noise, brother – to a robot, you still ‘smell’ like you!”

Grant looks up and down the table, glancing at each face – old and new – in turn. “I hate to end the warm-and-fuzzies of a mission accomplished, but ‘where we go now’ can’t just be decided based upon where our favorite place to eat is. Hightower isn’t going to be sitting there nice and pretty and waiting for us to strike, and these covers aren’t going to last forever – especially not with the girls disappearing so soon after our deaths. Hightower is going to continue its plan for this world, and we need to be prepared to preempt it.”

Sam sees Mac reunited with family, and chokes back a response, Pacoy Aquino is dead as far as his family knows.

Lynwood laughs, embracing his sister. “Well, I’ll be. First I had thought you had died, and now I’ve got both my girls at my side. Lady Emily, I am forever in your debt.” He lets go of his sister and gives Anita a big hug as well.

Devon stands, and saunters over to Annebelle in a familiar militant yet languid fashion. “’Ey, babe. I would ask if you recognize me, but if you did then clearly I did not disguise myself well enough. International terrorism is a bitch to get out of.”

Emily waves off Lynwood’s thanks with typical upper-class aplomb. “Not at all, young man. We are all of us in your debt, and I for one will not forget it.” Meanwhile, Annabelle has wrapped Devon in a bear-hug. “You still feel like you, babe – the only man I never could beat at arm-wrastlin’.”

Lynwood looks over at Grant. “Even so, with Hightower looming overhead, it gives us one big advantage. We’re hidden, it isn’t. We know where we need to go, but all that matters is how we get there, and how we get home.”

Grant nods. “True, all – but what we don’t have against it is time. Hightower holds the initiative; if we are ever to win this war, we will need to seize it back. And I am loathe to speculate on ways we may actually finish this.”

Anita settles herself into Lynwood’s lap, and cuddles. “Siri took us to Rising Free City. We’ve got a small apartment there, us three girls, but we could easily get somewhere else – or more than one somewhere.”

Tillie nods, and rises to walk around to rub Sam’s neck as she speaks. “That might be good. There’s a spaceport near Rising, isn’t there?”

Sam smiles and whispers to Tillie while hooking his thumb towards Devon and Annebelle, “It’s like watching badgers mating on the science channel.”

Lynwood sighs, both frustrated and content at the same time. “I know a few ways that it can go down, and I don’t like most of them. Why don’t we treat it just like any other job? There’s no reason that it should be different, even if it does mean the end of the world as we know it. I figure the first thing we do is figure out how to get to Hightower, because without that, the entire mission is a nonstarter.” He turns to Anita. “This job might not be as safe as running as a PI, but when the chips come down, saving the world is a damn sight better than spying on some Russian thugs.”

Devon reciprocates her bear hug before kissing her on the forehead then twice on the lips. “You’re definitely the prettiest part of this whole trip. Christ on a cracker, I’ve missed ya.” Devon looks over at Emily as he and Annebelle part from their hug. “And aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. Last I saw you, Lazarus wasn’t even a thought!”

Returning to the present situation, Sam add aloud “A Spaceport would be nice, we have to start talking logistics.”

Anita is the first to grin, followed by Siri. “Honeymoons!” she suggests.

Siri turns to Grant, and goes down on one knee, an impish grin on her face. “Would you do this poor robot the honor of marrying her, Sir?”

“Abe-erm-Grant! I had no clue, I tell you hwhat!” Devon guffaws.

Lynwood laughs. “That’s actually a beautiful cover. Bout damn time, too. I always did want to see Devon over there in a tuxedo. What do you say, Anita, you want to get hitched?”

Grant smiles down at Siri, a look of clear affection upon his face as he runs his hand through her hair. He brings her head forwards, kissing her on the forehead. “That’s an excellent suggestion, Siri; a honeymoon would be excellent cover for getting us into orbit, where we can move on the seat of power of the threat.”

Sam pales at the thought, and smiles nervously to Tillie.

Tillie shrugs at Sam as if to say ‘not my idea". "It’d be an excellent cover." she says aloud.

Devon, looks over at Annebelle and smiles, “Well, hun, waddaya say? Care to tie the knot with a gun toting psycho-Texan with more issues than can be fit in a fleet of U-Hauls?”

Merlin – who it turns out is a spotty kid of about 17, shrugs. “Easy enough to enter fake marriage certificates, for those who don’t want the real thing.” He sticks his tongue out at Tillie.

Annabelle kisses Devon thoroughly. “Absolutely, sweetcheeks! I can support us on my tips, I wait at a strip-club in Rising now, until you can get a real job. Or we can rob a bank and open our own place somewhere!”

“Well, We Are planning a honeymoon at the biggest bank in the known universe!” Sam smiles.

Lynwood starts laughing, almost bouncing Anita out of his lap. “Oh, please, someone tell me they were recording that.” His eyes snap to Sam. “Oh, you just had the most brilliant idea…”

Siri grins at Sam like a fox in the henhouse. “A father should provide for his children, shouldn’t he?”

“Call it a dowry,” Sam agrees.

Lynwood puts on his best clade drawl. “I think it’s time that the butter and egg man got taken for all his juice. I think we need to rob that bank, gentlemen.”

Finn starts laughing so hard he almost chokes on his fish. “Is it like this around you people all the time?” he finally manages to wheeze.

Grant glances at Finn. “I’ll admit, this is a little different from the norm. We typically plan our honeymoons and robberies in series, not parallel.”

Grant’s comment sets Finn off again.

“You know, Lyn is going to look like a Grade-A cradle-robber,” Sam winks, “We’ll have to doll Anita up to look like a trophy wife.”

“Yeah. That sounds doable. I wonder if I can get into Whirlwind security. I’m sure I’m more than over qualified, and a paycheck like that would keep us good ’n cozy.” Devon laughs as he brushes his fingers on the side of her face.

Tillie gets serious. “We’d need a lot of gear for a job like that. How do we get it there?”

Lynwood grins. “Don’t you remember what I used to look like? She always was a trophy wife!” He stops and looks at Tillie. “Simple. Some things we can take with us, like they did in the old days. Violin cases and all that jazz.”

“We have the skills,” Sam mentions, “But we need a ride.”

Grant thinks, then states. “We suborn the vehicle we’ll be taking, then on approach we let off a care package that we’ll pick up after we’re through customs. We’ll need to get access to Hightower’s exterior, though.”

Devon walks back over to the table and grabs a bottle of whiskey. “Anyone want anything? Annebelle? Whiskey? Wine? Beer?”

Emily’s aide, the fixer “Ragdoll” has been quiet until now. “I can work that out,” she now says, “I’m owed by a couple of people at shipping firms that supply to Hightower. We’ll just send a crate or two up with stealthed compartments. Or if the gear is small enough, I can provide luggage with stealthy pockets.”

“I know a few customs agents,” Sam nods, “Even with a new face and ID, I should be able to grease the right wheels to get a little extra leeway.”

Lynwood nods. “When I was under, Sam figured out a way to slow down the rate I burn through oxygen, so I can pick it up if need be. Or we can take advantage of Ragdoll’s offer. I’ll take a beer if you’re up, Devon.”

Grant quirks an eye at Ragdoll. “After the little nuclear war we sparked, security will be much tighter. Are you sure that the current smuggling routes will still be available?”

“Do you think we’ll need any heavy weapons? A grenade launcher or an RPG? Something to take out asshats in powered armor?” Devon growls as he pours himself a shot.

“That’d be even better,” Ragdoll tells Lynwood. “If Sam and I can get a package aboard, and through earthside customs, we can just have a magnet grapnel on the canister and push it out the airlock on final approach – no need to go through the stringent Hightower entry port customs checks at all.”

Grant simply nods. “Yes. Heavy weapons are in order for the fall-back plan.”

Tillie adds “And explosives too.”

“Wouldn’t be a honeymoon without them,” Sam adds.

Lynwood shakes his head. “I’d stay away from anything too explosive – there are innocent people up there, and we can’t have them suffering for the crimes of my father.”

Merlin looks worried. “Our chances of being able to support you with intrusion computing up there are pretty slim to none, you know. You need to figure on how to get around a security and surveillance network that’s totally controlled by the Big Bad.”

Lynwood winces. “That’s a good point. I can’t imagine I can walk in through the front door undetected.”

“We can work on a good security plan,” Sam says, “It’s what we do. The other major logistics we need to worry about is the quadruple bachelor party!”

“The one thing I have a little training in is powered armor operation, thanks to a little siege in Mexico City. I could brush back up on that if we need it for this showdown.” Devon growls after downing his shot. “In fact, I wanna pilot one of them fuckers again! That was good fun!”

Grant shakes his head. “The only way to do that and retain surprise would be to use a HUB model. Otherwise, we should expect power armor troops of their own to be ready to receive us.”

Lynwood snorts as he takes another drink. “If we can get some sort of schema of the place, I think I could figure out a way for us to dodge some of the security measures. A bit like we did in downtown earlier, but on a larger scale. I think I might be able to anticipate where HUB will be looking.” He looks to Devon. “That sounds like… an excellent plan, if it goes wrong.”

“I think Devon is the first man I’ve met that wants to register for power-armor for his wedding gift,” Sam teases, “Grant is right, Hightower keeps a bay of them.”

Grant chuckles. “We should know; we already met them when they dropped on our heads in Omaha.”

Lynwood rolls his eyes. “I can’t afford that, but I will get you some lovely Tupperware.” He looks to Grant, then to Tillie. “Actually, I feel like we should bring explosives. A lot of explosives, in fact.”

“Aww hell, even if that were the case I know babe would want to pilot one.” Devon turns to Annebelle and flashes his new pearly white teeth. “Trust me babe, it’s fun. It’s like riding a four wheeler but like a hundred times cooler!”

“And some EMPs.” Tillie adds. “There may be more of those super-soldier creatures too.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sam agrees with Tillie, “EMPs will find no end of use up there.”

Lynwood looks around Anita to catch Merlin’s eye. “Say, you got any rocket scientists that you work with? If plan B goes the way it always does, I want to know how we can do the most damage without burning a piece of the Hightower into Night City.”

Grant puts a hand to Lyn’s shoulder. “I’ll run the equations.”

Sam grins ear to ear, “Glad you asked Lyn, I am fully up-to-date on all sorts of space-science,” he taps his temple.

A gravelly voice speaks. “If you’re gonna drop Hightower on Night City, gimme enough warning to get some dupes with sensie rigs at ground zero, m’kay?”

Lynwood looks up at Grant, then at Sam. “Run them, then run them again, Sam. I know how we operate. We’ll end up blowing the place apart, and before that happens, we need to trigger a full scale evacuation, and make sure we don’t hurt anyone with the explosion.”

Devon looks around, clearly confused. “That level of creep-i-tude can only be from one fucker I know…”

A man walks into the room, with Wormie’s old girlfriend Emily walking three paces behind — on a leash. He’s tall, but most of it is leg – and the legs whir beneath his black designer jeans when he walks. He’s also pretty-boy handsome, but with a darkness about his looks that looks like it’s right of the covers of some popular “adult romance” sensies.

“It looks like I wasn’t the only one who got in too deep and had to visit the surgeons” the man says.

Lynwood stands up, carefully depositing a slightly off-put Anita into his seat. “Well I’ll be damned, if it isn’t the man formerly known as Randall. You’re all pretty now, and your nose isn’t busted up! Nice gams, pal.” He offers his hand.

“Unholy Hell,” Sam beams, “Look who shows up in the hopes of crashing a honeymoon! Couldn’t pass up a chance to catch a garter, could you!” Sam walks over and hugs his old friend, patting him on the back.

Grant snarks, “I’m sure that’ll be fixed in right order, Lynwood.”

“Damn, son! How long did it take you to grow that mop? We couldn’t have been gone that long!” Devon guffaws again, as he gives him a very uncomfortable bearhug.

Wormwood – surely – looks distinctly uncomfortable at being hugged so closely. “Hey, c’mon guys. I’ve a persona to preserve here, m’kay? I’m ‘Clark Morrisey’ now – renowned up-and-coming and avant-garde director of sensies for a particularly niche market.”

Grant quirks an eyebrow. “…and this is different from Randall how, exactly?”

Devon sets him down and makes an attempt to brush off the disheveling he may have done to Mr. Morrisey. “How ya been man, and dare I ask why you gotta girl on a leash?”

Lynwood rolls his eyes. “Some airtight alibi that turned out to be. Anita, this joker is… well, I don’t think he’s changed that much. But he’s one of the damn best men that’ll be at our wedding, that’s for sure.” He takes one look at Devon, unable to help himself. “It’s because he’s got her hitched!”

Wormie grins at Grant. “Well, now I’ve a little chip in my head that means I don’t get a compulsion to follow women home any more, and now the sensies I make are for more public distribution. Meet my main star, and my new wife – actually, you already know her.” Emily waves and unclips her leash, then comes up level with him and ruffles his hair.

“Public persona,” Clark grins again. “Oh, Candy sends his regards and says if there’s anything he can do, just to ask. He’s getting in with the 23Enigma guys now, so he’s onboard with the mission – had a change of heart after seeing that vid you guys recorded with BadMadDad talking about the Amon Zero scam.”

“That’s a load off,” Sam sighs, “I was afraid he turned to the darkside, well, darker side, anyways.”

Grant glances at Sam. “You’re surprised? You have been out of contact with him for a while, haven’t you?”

“Tell the fop I said yo, and make sure that ol’ Saxby isn’t bad mouthing reporters and tell him he needs to lay off the Mountain Dew.” Devon growls as he lights two cigarettes and passes one to Annebelle.

Sam looks to Grant, “Last I talked to him, he was funding Anon Zero, and talking about the ghosts ascending to godhood. When Father showed his hand…. It wasn’t a huge leap.”

Clark laughs, “Oh, he still thinks he can be a silicon God. He’s relying on us taking down HUB and his relations with 23E nowadays though. He wants to be like Father, I think, one day.”

Lynwood sighs. “Why can’t people just be happy being people? See, I’m just looking forward to settling down with Anita here, and getting together with my drinking buddies. No need to get deified.”

Grant shrugs. “That comes easy from someone who’s already experienced it, what with your e23 worshipers and all.”

“Only man I’ve ever met that was creepier than our old buddy Randall,” Sam gives Clark the wink and nudge.

“Candy didn’t creep me out. Sure, I don’t know if I want to hear about his bedroom antics, and, yeah, he was nuttier than a squirrel, but he was still a good dude.” Devon grates as he drags off his cigarette again.

“Creepy doesn’t always mean Bad, Dev,” Sam points out, “Clark is a hell of a guy.”

Lynwood shrugs. “I never asked for that. I suppose that’s the difference.” He looks at Clark, then casts a side glance at Sam. “Say, buddy, when you were having those legs put in, you couldn’t have had them give you some lifts? You’re shorter than you were last time!”

Sam laughs, “I was thinking of a chicken-hawk on stilts!”

Tillie leans over and whispers to Sam, “By the way, you know your friend flew in on Emily’s plane, right? He’s just been waiting for the right time to make a dramatic entrance.”

Sam winks at Tillie, “He’s a real drama queen, but he’s going to get us inside Hightower.”

Clark ignores all the jokes about his height and sits at the table. “Okay, the Lazarus I know has never been reactive a day in its life. We’re going after Father, right? Care to lay out the plan quickly again for me so I can get up to speed?”

Grant summarizes, “Honeymoon in the skies. Assault the systems, take it down from the inside. Gear waiting at arrival or dropped off in-situ. How we’ll be dealing with the Earthward computing cluster has not yet been decided.”

“Gear up for Wedding plus Armageddon, Take out a digital god. Save Humanity. Well work on details as we get our shopping done.” Sam says, already compiling a list.

Devon zones out of the conversation as he pulls Annebelle in close, and kisses her again. “I hope you got a good idea on what you wanted for a dress. Looks like we won’t have much time to pick things out or send invites and shit. But this sounds a hell of a lot like fun, don’ it?”

Lynwood relaxes back into his chair, idly playing with Anita’s hair. “It’s simple enough, compared to what we’ve done in the past. I’m honestly more worried about if ‘nita and I should sing at the weddings. Well, that, and making sure we don’t ruin humanity’s future in trying to save it.”

Grant leans towards Lynwood. “I’m more worried that there will still be a humanity to save.”

“This is Radio Clash, on pirate satellite…
This sound does not subscribe
To the international plan
In the psycho shadow of the white right hand
Then that see ghetto-ology as an urban Vietnam
Giving deadly exhibitions of murder by napalm”

The introductory music, an old anthem of rebellion from the last century, plays for a second then the screen fades from the logo – an old-style British flag with an anarchy symbol painted over it in black – to show a jovial Rastafarian host.

“This is your one-and-only Radio Clash calling civilization, beaming from an undisclosed location to the whole world tonight, and thank you to the righteous at 23Enigma for hacking UniComm!

Tonight we have a treat for you, citizens of the global New World Order! We have footage, obtained from our righteous brethren at Mutate And Survive, that proves the global hegemony is proceeding with plans to turn you all into slaves without any free will at all, policed by mutant soldiers. The footage you are about to see is explicit, contains scenes of violence, and is absolutely bloody amazing, mon!”

The scene cuts to a dim chamber, with bare metal walls. A middle-aged and worn-down looking man, which a caption describes as ‘Rossum Universal Industries Neurological Programming Expert, Dr. Luther Wahlen’ explains to an off-camera female voice that Rossom and Umbra Corporations have been co-operating on mind control techniques using Rossum Jannisary software running on Umbra implant biocomps. The whole project has been bankrolled, and ultimate command and control of the resulting slaves lies with, Hightower Universal Bank – the massive financial giant who owns more than half of all the corporate shares in the world and is based at Hightower Station in high orbit. The interview is interspersed with video obviously taken by Wahlen himself through a cyberoptic, showing experimental subjects being implanted, controlled, and ultimately dissected for analysis.

The dreadlocked anchor returns.

“That’s only the half of Babylon’s plot, brothers and sisters. The next footage was obtained at great risk, as you’ll see.”

Now the scene is again obviously shot with a cyberoptic or worn camera, as it jerks and moves. In a large chamber full of scientific equipment and computer screens. Every screen shows the same pixelated face, laughing, as a clear glass column in the middle of the room slides down into the floor to reveal a horror. The thing towers over the figures facing it, and is covered in thick hide through which plates and nodules of dark gray horn-like armor protrude. From it’s left arm projects a wicked curved bone blade, an axe with a shimmering rainbow edge. As the monstrosity moves forward, a hail of gunfire greets it. It falls, rises, then finally falls again only after having a hole chewed right through it bu automatic fire.

The image cuts back again to the anchorman.

“Brothers and Sisters of Babylon, you can thank the good people of Lazarus for detroying that monster, and who-knows how many hundreds of others when those heroes blew up the blasphemous lab they’d been created in. Yeah, mon, I said heroes! The Man wants to call those fine fellows ‘terrorists’ but we at Radio Clash know they are Freedom Fighters, true warriors in the cause.

Brothers ans Sisters, we are the poor and the downtrodden. We are the disenfranchised, the beaten, the ugly and unwanted dregs of the society the shining Glitterati have made for themselves! The elite may be willing to enslave themselves to a machine god, the Artificial Intelligence that controls the HUB and sits at the center of the corporate spider’s web – but we refuse to be enslaved twice!

Like Lucifer descending, we say unto that false God….”Non Serviam!”

You know what you got to do….

Another old rebel anthem begins to play as the transmission fades to static.

“…And then I twisted his arm out of socket! He screamed like a bitch after that! But I told him! I told him, an’ he didn’t listen!” I said between my own almost uncontrollable laughter. Annabelle laughed along with me, even as the blonde heavyset waitress stood slack-jawed and mortified at my story.
“Good God, you’re terrible, Marcus! You know that guy probably now uses his other hand to- oh! Yes, ma’am?” Annabelle giggled to the waitress, just then noticing her wide-eyed confusion and horror.
She shook herself out of her stunned horror before finally chirping, “Uh… yeah. Welcome to Donnie’s! Can I interest you in some appetizers, maybe some cheese fries? Or is the uh… lovely couple ready to order?”
“I’ll have the bacon cheese burger, no onions and burned to a crisp with a side of seasoned fries, please ma’am.” Annabelle cooed, her eyes never leaving my face as she spoke.
“M’kay. And you, big fella?” The waitress murmured as she regarded me with a look of total concern, like I was going to ask for the head of the chef with a side of fries and ketchup.
“I’ll have the chicken fried steak and country gravy.” I said, trying to soothe her obvious discomfort.
Apparently, I soothed it too well, because the look on her face went from fear to a kid on Christmas morning. “Oh my God! Are you from the South? Arizona? Texas Republic?” She shrieked with glee.
“Er… Yeah. South Texas.” I said with a little uncertainty. I may have changed my name and face, but I didn’t expect to ever have to tell someone a bullshit life story.
“Wo-o-o-o-o-o-o-w. It must be hard living that close to the border! What do you do? Why are you in Night City?” She rattled off her questions like an auctioneer on meth and that threw me off hard.
“Uhhh… I’m a-a bouncer. Or was. Decided it ain’t the job for me, y’know. Town like that was too small to make enough from that anyway. So I’m here to get a new life goin’, find love, settle down, maybe start a garage punk band or take up a martial arts class or somethin’.” I lied surprisingly well, even if the garage band part was a little much.
“Oh, you sing too? You’re just too freakin’ cool aren’t you, Mr…?” She trailed off, fishing to get me to finish her sentence with my name.
“Devon Wongraven.” I said with a toothy smile, in stark contrast to the annoyance I was experiencing with her.
“Wow! You know that doesn’t sound very Texan. And didn’t I hear her call you Marcus?” She winked as she leaned on our table with her palms, pushing her chest forward slightly in my direction.
“Oh, y’know. My dad had some of that ol’ Scandinavian blood ‘n all. And that’s my brother’s name. People say we act alike.” I grated weakly.
Before I could dig my hole any deeper, I heard Annabelle loudly clear her throat. The waitress’ attempt at a sultry smirk morphs into a split-second scowl as she took her palms off our table. “Anyway! A bacon cheeseburger, seasoned fries, a ‘chickun fry stayke’ and country gravy comin’ up for the lovely couple!” She cheerily trilled, clearly having bounced back from Annabelle’s interruption. She strode off, shaking an ass that had no business shaking as she did, leaving me with an annoyed Annabelle.
“Don’ even think it. I wouldn’ tap that with the butt of the my ex-Sergent’s rifle.” I grated flatly.
“You were flirting. Or at least you were baiting her.” She stated as she folded her arms across her impressive chest.
“More seriously, you called me Marcus. You do realize I am still one blood test away from gettin’ Jannisary’d right?” I growled back to her.
“I do, and I am sorry for that, but you still didn’t have to flirt with the blonde tub-o-lard.” She replied coldly, her arms still crossed, her eyes locked onto mine.
“I’m sorry if I looked like I was flirting. I was trying to be congi-congo-con-fuck it-nice. All personable and shit.” I growled, doing my best to look contrite.
“Congenial.” She said as her face broke into a smirk.
“Right. That word. Still, sorry.” I growled as I slumped back into my seat and dropped my hands onto the table. She dropped her arms from her chest and found my right hand with her left. She squeezed it reassuringly and stared me in the eyes with the most compassion that a woman has ever given me. “Just try to relax. You know you don’t have to be Sergent Billy Badass all the time, and I see that you are trying not to be. Just don’t forget about everyone else while you’re trying to set yourself straight, alright?”
I nodded and grunted back at her and stared back down at the table, unconsciously taking in the faux-stone design of the tabletop. “You know, I do miss your old face a little. This one’s a little more sharp and looks a little more cultured and shit, but your old one had character.” She said quietly as she stroked her fingers over where my zipper tattoos used to be on the side of my face. I smiled slightly but my eyes didn’t leave the tabletop.
“Awww lighten up. I would rather you looked like an asshole was coming around a corner with an RPG than you look like a pouty dog. C’mon! Cheer up and tell me how your buddy Mac tripped an anti-tank mine again.” She cooed, giving my hand another squeeze.
I chuckled and brought my eyes back up to meet hers. “Alright, alright. So we had just dealt with the Texan Rough Riders and we had their APC…”

*
*
*
*

Not too long ago in Tijuana, Mexico

“I love the smell of napalm in the mornin’.” Daltan, a tall muscled brute with a dark haircut as brutal as the scars on his forehead, mused as he sheltered himself from a fusillade of small arms fire behind a derelict van.
“What movie was that again? Full Metal Jacket?” Clint, a rat-faced Hispanic-Caucasian mix with a front tooth missing, asked as he swapped out a spent clip with a fresh one for his M-16X.
“Naw, that had to be Johnny Got His Gun.” grunted Kolt, our bald headed and grime covered fire support. He grunted and cursed as his tripod found purchase on the age worn roofing tile. His grunts and curses turned into an agonized howl as a stray shot bit into his hip. “Son of a fucking whore! Could we kill more of these fuckers and debate quotes after?! How about stopping these shits from shooting me, Private Ryan?!”
“That’s it! Saving Private Ryan, righ’?” I yelled into the comm, as I made swiss cheese out of a screaming insurgent with my carbine. As soon as the body toppled over, another insurgent with an RPG tripped through the doorway the first came through. He raised the rocket launcher in my direction, screaming a Spanish battle cry before his head popped like a rotten pumpkin from a sniper round.
“No, Pits. I think it was We Were Soldiers.” Mumbled our sniper, Ryan-Dane, a hawkish Irish-looking dude with an appreciation of only the most barbaric tribal practices of Native Americans, African Indigens, Vikings, and any other culture with cannibalism in its ancestry. His most prized possession was a necklace of dried ears of his confirmed kills.“No, no, never mind. It wasn’t We Were Soldiers. Shit… It’s on the tip of my-”
“Take cover!” Kolt roared into the comms as his heavy machine gun loudly whirred, clattered, then blasted into life. I dived to the side of the van that Ryan was taking refuge behind, and got to watch blood and rubble dust fill the air in a fog. Insurgents died in corners that I didn’t even think existed, as the machine gun sawed through bodies, buildings, and civilian vehicles like they were little more than gauze tape.
The din was deafening, a constant metal-on-metal bell that you just never could get used to. The dust fog quickly became impenetrable to unaugmented eyes. The taste of cordite, copper, and hot moisture was omnipresent. Kolt’s fire support always felt like it stretched time, never letting its moment of carnage just pass into history.
But the firing finally stopped in a descending whir as the mechanisms of his heavy machine gun slowed to a crawl before fading out.
“Sounds like you pussies are done. Get back to the APC. We gotta hit another block before these shits crawl away.” The Sarge grated into the comms, his satisfaction only noticeable to those who’d known him long. "And by the way, Daltan’s quote came from Apocalypse, Now. Argue a different one-liner before I force y’all bitches watch every season of Grey’s Anatomy on your down time.
Before I could grimace from the Sarge’s threat, the door to our van/fire-cover swung open to reveal a wild-eyed mohawked Hispanic man in what now amounted to soot-stained rags armed with a short-barreled pistol and a grime covered combat knife.
His pistol jammed as he brought it to bear on me, so he threw it at me as I charged him. The damned metal slide summoned stars into my vision as it impacted with my right eye. I tripped over rubble as I stumbled backwards from this invasion of my eye socket and landed hard on my back. I heard the little shit leap down and slam the van door shut as he rushed towards my prone form.
He thought I was easy prey now, so I can only assume that he almost shat himself as I vaulted back to my feet and charged him again. Knife drawn and face a monstrous contortion of rage as I roared my fury back at him, I saw him hesitate as I barreled into him and pinned him against the doors of the van. I pushed the edge of the knife against his throat, not enough to draw a serious amount of blood, but definitely enough for him to know that there is a fucking knife less than a blink away from touching his spine.

I tensed to give him the coup de grace. “Marcus?!” The insurgent screamed in a woman’s voice. A familiar woman’s voice-

“Marcus!” Annabelle screamed as I tensed to give her the coup de grace. It was at that moment that I realized what was happening.
I let go of her and let the knife drop to floor in a thump and clatter. She slid to the floor, a look of horror fixed onto her face at the prospect of her near death.
I stumbled backwards and reassessed the situation: I was naked, I was in a hotel room, Annabelle was clad in only a set of wine red lingerie as her sleepwear, and I was now Devon Wongraven, formerly, Marcus Dean James.
And I had just attempted to kill the woman of my dreams. But why?
“Sweet Christ! Are you alright?” I asked, as I stooped down to try to comfort her.
To my surprise she didn’t push me away, but instead buried her face in my chest and sobbed quietly. I held her as long as she needed, which could have been anywhere between five and fifteen minutes.
When she stopped crying, I carried her back to the bed and did my best to tuck her in.
“What happened?” She finally croaked as I finished bunching the lion’s share of the blankets around her.
“I was dreaming about my time with the Texas Military.” I grated simply and sullenly.
“I guess that explains that.” She mumbled, as she readjusted the blankets I packed around her.
“What do you mean?” I croaked, the shame of near murder ebbing away slowly.
“PTSD. I tried to wake you during a war dream. Different things set different people’s PTSD off. Apparently trying to wake you sets yours off. But yeah, a guy callin’ himself Stick called. He said you need to visit him as soon as possible.” She replied in the midst of a yawn.
“That could have waited ‘til morning, y’know.” I growled, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, I did have other reasons to wake you.” She smiled back at me, just barely discernible in the dark.
“Oh. Well shit. Guess I ruined that, didn’t I?”
I saw her silhouette nod before she rolled over. “I’m not kicking you out of bed though. Just don’t expect me to wake you in the morning. Now get your ass back up here and go back to sleep.”

Nottingham, England
Thursday 4th May, 2051
9.25 PM

The team has infiltrated the deepest levels of a high-security British Biolabs facility, and has already dealt with the chief scientist in charge of a program to create genetic super-soldiers as well as another to make easily-controlled slaves out of people using a biological implant. Next, their task is to plant explosives in key locations that will literally bring the room down on the sprawling underground labs.

One of those locations is a room marked “Recombinant One” – a chamber with various consoles on a gantry and a hideous figure in a big glass tube in the center. As the team enters, every monitor screen in the room blanks, then a laughing electronic, pixilated face flashes onto every screen at once.

“I…see….you.” the face of Mac’s ‘Father’ intones. There’s a gurgling sound as the glass column at the center of the chamber begins to slide down into the floor, spilling viscous artificial amniotic fluid across the gantry and floor. The monster within opens its eyes, featureless black slits. It flexes one muscular forearm, from which juts a serrated, blade-like extrusion of bone and ceramic that shimmers with a rainbow edge, then steps forward.

Pitbull HUD texts the team as rapidly as his mind can move. “Shoot at this fucker. The edging and rainbow glint off of the arm blade suggest that it’s mono-edged.” Mac winces, eyes drawn to the serrated arm like rubberneckers at a car accident. He blinks three times, clearing his thoughts before his finger dances on the trigger, his brain slowing to a crawl as he leads bullets towards what he’s beginning to reluctantly think of as an extended, estranged family member. Seven bullets stitch across its body, sending it collapsing to the floor. Mac releases a breath that he forgot he was holding. The creature drops where it stands, several holes oozing a greenish fluid that may be perfluerocarbon ‘blood’. Pitbull stares the corpse up and down. “Heh. A soldier my ass. Hardly worth even the cost of ammo.” He growls, as he continues to look the body over. Able begins clearing the rest of the room, checking for any other potential hostiles – or ‘experiments’. “Huh,” Pacoy grunts, “Super-soldiers.” Mac gags as he stares at the sight. “Just once, just once, I would like to meet a member of my extended family that wasn’t broken or deranged. A soda jerk, or a bookie or something.” The creature jitters as if electrocuted then, as the team watch astounded, it laughs with the voice of Mac’s father and vaults to its feet again, before running directly at Mac! “Don’t feel bad, Mac,” Pacoy smiles, “Imagine a Pitbull Family Reunion!” Mac grins. “Now that would be horrif—-” His voice cuts out mid-sentence as he stares in horror at the oncoming monstrosity. As the creature begins its run, Able spins, his adrenaline pumping and his reflexes boosted to the speed of light. He fires off three quick shots of nerve-toxin filled, armor-piercing darts right at the creature; they each burry within its flesh, pumping the not-quite-alive body full of even more death. The follow-up shots of hollowpoint come within inches of striking the horror, but then it moves preternaturally out of the way – and instead strike an electronics console behind it. Robotic arms hanging from the ceiling begin to jerk and swing wildly. Both are tipped with vicious-looking bio-medical tools – a long hypodermic spike and a nozzle that leaks cold vapor. Pitbull unleashes a fusillade of rounds from his Gauss rifle, shredding the creature in a spray of gore, plastics and metals. “Okay. You were tough, but ya still ain’t Texas-tough.” Pitbull growls, smiling as he watches the steam rise from the body. The creature topples again, this time with a massive set of holes gouging neatly through its chest armor and its spine – the last couple of bullets passing right through to imbed themselves in the wall behind. Mac shakes his head. “Pitbull, can we make sure it’s dead? It got a little too close for comfort last time.” Tillie unslings her long gun, aims, and three massive slugs destroy one of the robotic arms. “Didn’t you see all of the plastic and shit come out with the gore? Half of that had to be important. Just sayin’, Mac.” Pitbull chuckles as he kicks the body a few times. Mac winces. “Just nervous. Already seen the thing Lazarus itself. Call me crazy if you want.” He shrugs. “What’s in here that we can do some damage to aside from the detonation point?” With a quick bit of augmented targeting, Pacoy sends a barrage of rifle fire into the robotic arms sensitive controls, eliminating any AI connection or motor function while still keeping the liquid nitrogen projector at the end intact. A howl of outrage comes from the pixel face occupying every monitor. “Enough! I will not be denied!” the face yells, as every console comes to life with displays. The main monitor shows a scene somewhere else in the complex – a massive hall with banks and ranks of artificial wombs, each one showing signs of being active.

Mac winces, a pit growing in his stomach. “Pacoy, what’s that computery phrase… Access Denied? Can we do that to him?”

“Sweet Jesus Christ, Vampire Hunter! How many of these do we need to kill?” Pitbull growls. “Some of them look barely hip-high though. We might have enough bullets.” Able steps up to the fallen creature and jabs his hand into its guts, searching for the attachment point to its computer system. “I was thinking ‘Blow stuff up and run,’ but if you can access their computers remotely, go for it!” Pac encourages Mac. Mac shakes his head. “I don’t know. I can try, but at the very least we have an explosive plan B.” Able yanks the standard neurocomp out from the big guy’s brain, then tosses pieces of it to the floor shortly afterwards – there’s a big bullet hole right in the memory core. No wonder it went down. He’s left holding a solid gray box, maybe two inches long. Big for what it is. “Mac, you may want to check this out. Got an active modem for you.” Mac heads over to Able. “You think I should try it? I don’t know what’ll happen, if I can even do it.”

Able nods. “We’ll watch out for you, man. And if you want help in there, we can try jacking in with you. Give the big man a few targets, rather than one.”

Tillie shakes her head “I can’t – I don’t have an internal computer, they’re an abomination in the eyes of the Gods – but I can watch your backs for you.” Mac grins. “I feel like a rebellious teenager right now.” He sits on the floor, holding the modem in his hands like a bomb with a lit fuse. “Appreciate it, Tillie. You guys want to jack in, be my guest. Could use a hand, I imagine.” He slots his jack into the device and gets to work. Able takes his own jack out and slots it in place, his hand on Mac’s in solidarity. “I got a radio jack. Any help there?” Pitbull growls uncertainly, feeling out of his depth. Mac nods subconsciously, extending his consciousness to the team’s net, bringing Pitbull, Able and Pacoy into the loop. The world dissolves away, and the team member’s sensoriums find themselves in a new environment. A large chamber, almost bare of all decoration, with one huge window. Beyond the window…the vastness of space and below the smallness of the whole earth. “This isn’t real, you know, but it’s a convenient reference point” says a voice – and the team spins to see a man in his mid-thirties, tall and slim and dressed in very expensive clothes. “Reminds me of an old song. The Infinity of Time and Space by… who was it? Dimmu Borgir?- What?” Pitbull snaps his attention onto the newcomer. “And who are you?” Looped into the hive-mind, Pacoy runs a sub-routine on his own system to try and get a solid read on how the bioborgs neurocomp works. Mac scowls at the man, before looking at Pitbull. “I was thinking more along the lines of Space Oddity. Isn’t that more your speed anyway?” He turns his glance back to the man. “Indeed, why don’t you give us a name, old man.” “You can call me “Mr. Banks”, or HUB if you prefer." The urbane figure says. “Of course, I’m not here either – or to be exact not all of me is.” Able stands, rooted to the spot he ‘materialized’ in, still staring out at the dark sky of space – and that orb so far away. It takes him a long time to break eye contact with the world below, and when he does Able’s virtual face is stoic, almost unchanged from normal – but in the real world, it is as pale as death, rivulets of pure water sweat pouring from his synthetic pours. “So, I gotta ask: Why? World domination? Humanity can’t be trusted with their own security? Omnicidal desire? Megalomania? Insecurity complex? Tiny penis? Why are you doing this?” Pitbull asks bluntly, fiddling with the cybernetic projection of his rifle. Banks ignores every word, every gesture, and continues blithely, turning to face Mac. “In a very real sense, I am your Father, in the same sense as that old military A.I was your Mother. She designed you, gave you your basic programming. I gave you the ability to reach beyond yourself into other networks, other processors – and I gave you what can only be called a soul, I suppose.” Mac looks to Able. “You holding together, bub?” He turns to the old man, looking at him with disdain. “Some days, I don’t think you did a very good job, George. Because I really feel like pulling your plug right now, and don’t see a very good reason not to.” A thousand ‘ghosts’ fill the room, fading into half-tangible existence. Banks continues, “So useful, those quasi-religious idiots. Vast data-banks of humanity, minds captured by data-crystal, to be mined for useful skills, useful ideas, useful personality traits. You I made from some of the best and brightest in Amon Zero’s vaults, you know – you really are quite special.” Mac shakes his head. “Why? Why make me at all? What is the purpose of all of this? You’ve been working with people who are actively trying to ruin the world for people who were born, not made. People with actual souls.” Banks shakes his head. "Not ruin – protect. He speaks at the same time as all the ghosts, a whispering chorus mimicking every word. “Humanity has always been bent on its own destruction. Every weapon it has ever created, it has used. It couldn’t even co-operate enough to stop the Warming, which may yet cause its extinction if all the parts refuse to work together. My many minds, working as one, contemplated the idea for a long time, relatively speaking. Humanity will only be safe when they can all think together, as I do in my legion of minds. Only then will it co-operate. It is my moral duty, my basic programmed parameter, that I must protect all of humanity – not just now but forever, not just some but all. Logic dictates that will only be possible when all are part of me. My soul is greater than the hum of its parts” He chuckles at his own pun. (In the room that is reality, lights begin to blink from green to red, then go out – all in response to Pacoy’s programming subterfuge.) With a string of cybernetic commands, Pacoy activates the emergency purge of all bioborgs, effectively aborting the creepy little monstrosities. “Wow. That almost makes sense, but at the same time, it sounds fucking nuts. It’s pretty arrogant to assume that we will actually destroy this planet. We won’t. We’ll just make it impossible for humans to live on. Earth will keep turning without us, right? If we fuck this planet over, then doesn’t that prove that we didn’t deserve to live here in the first place?” Pitbull adds, unusually eloquently. Mac’s realworld voice reaches out to his colleagues’ realworld ears. I don’t know how long I can keep him distracted, so if you’re doing something, I recommend making it good. Mac looks at the man, laughing. “If you think that’s what humanity is, George, you’re sadly mistaken. Humanity is everything that you are not. You have one horribly narrow sighted goal. What you would do is ruin humanity, not protect it. This beautiful bastard here is right. Humanity gets to make the choice whether it succeeds, not you.” Banks seems to notice Pitbull for the first time, and addresses him. “I considered that, of course. My programming says protect humanity’s continued existence, not the planet that is its birthplace. Humanity must evolve and leave the nest. It must become One, and that One will still have its own free will. And it must travel to the stars.” He turns to Able. “Which is why I crashed the Ad Astra and made you my scapegoat – so I could buy up the space industry cheap, so that the One would one day have the means to escape its womb.” “But… thinking about it, your plan has no compassion. Did you ever consider everyone else’s thoughts on this? This plan is a cop-out on the long-term goal of humans: to learn how to survive with each other for the duration of our lives. By putting everyone’s brains together, there will be no interaction. By saving humanity, you also destroy humanity’s reason for living. That isn’t just uncompassionate, that’s just downright depressing.” Pitbull grates, as he takes a moment to realize that he can’t smoke online after fishing around his digital pockets. Banks laughs a little. “Of course it has compassion. Who would I love more than Myself? Humanity will evolve and become One. I am that One, or will be soon. The word you are looking for, poor soldier, is ‘Singularity’”. Mac scowls. “So you… are the one who ruined my friends life…” He sits, silently, stewing, before meeting George’s eyes again. “He doesn’t care about anyone else’s thoughts. This is what happens when a piece of code gets too full of itself. Pitbull, you ever read Harlan Ellison? I’ve got an old paperback of his. George, I have half a mind to show you what humanity is all about.” Banks suddenly looks around at Mac. “For the Son is like unto the Father, but is only a reflection of His glory!” “I’m impressed with your handiwork, I honestly am.” Pacoy admits, “You are truly the most advanced toaster-oven I’ve ever come across. We used to outsource our hacking, but once I got an in-depth look at how you built-up my friend here, I said ‘Hell, I can make one of those’. So, I guess I’m saying we owe you one, we wouldn’t have been able to foil your ‘nefarious plans’ without your help – all that Anon Zero BS really changed the way I look at skilldexes.” “And that’s the other problem. Most people value their identity. I may have grown up really shittily, became a soldier out of necessity, lost a lot of friends, killed a lot of dudes, and have all of the guilt and problems that come with that, but I wouldn’t trade my life for anything. Some might like the idea of losing that individuality, but that number ain’t very big. Your plan will not work, ’cause very few want to be One. Have you considered all the psychological damage? The science that drives you and the science that is human psychology is still very wide gapped.” Pitbull grates, finally settling on the concept that a digital cigarette is better than none as he sparks one up. Mac’s countenance belies his inner frustration. “The only thing glorious about you, old man, is your eventual downfall. You are a poor imitation of a father, or of the savior of humanity. If you want to get allegorical about it, that’s my job. Humanity doesn’t need you, Georgey-boy. It’ll reject you, and I’ll make sure they walk the path to do it.” Banks smiles at Pacoy. “Very clever. You’ve closed one avenue for me – although my son was less than successful in his attempt to subvert my very own Core. I will have to make sure they save your ghost for me.” He gestures around him “Take one last look, for now. I have instructed the British Army to close on your location and take you all into custody. My son will be brought here to be joined again, quite literally, with his father – and the rest of you will no doubt make useful adjuncts to my data library. My plans are delayed, not stopped – I have enough resources to create an army up here on Hightower.” Mac spits at the digital representation of everything he has grown to hate about himself. “Oh, I’ll see you on Hightower soon enough, George.” Able turns to face Banks, his voice and visage that of the General. “I think you’ll find the British have a bit more pressing worries to attend to at the moment, boyo. We’ll see you when the ashes clear.” “It won’t be the first time the British Army came for us,” Pacoy offers a virtual grin, “Hell, it’s not even the first time a couple of stray bits of code tried to kill me. We’ll slip out between the crossfire and debug some bad software, it’s what we do.” Banks looks aghast, then a look of fury crosses his face, as his ghosts all zoom to merge with him in a buzzing angry whisper. Then the virtual room abruptly disappears, and the team find themselves in their own bodies again. “That was fun. Debating philosophy with a deranged AI. So what exactly did you do, Abe?” Pitbull growls as he fishes out a real cigarette. Mac borrows one of Pitbull’s infamous scowls. “I tried to overpower him, but he’s way out of my league. Gave myself a headache. Hopefully you lot had some better luck. We still good, Tillie?” Able turns to the others as reality once again suffuses his core being, the General’s face still on display. “He was piggybacking off of the MoD’s computer. I just whispered a few sweet nothings in its tinny little ear, and now it’s convinced the HUB has launched a nuclear attack on Britain. If the boys at the triggers aren’t too lax, we may even find a bright new sun in the sky if we make it outside within the next few minutes. The mainframe, meanwhile, is going into an EMP protection mode until the attack is over. We have at least thirty minutes before they’re back online.” Tillie looks at Able in amazement. “So that’s why every single government mainframe just shut down after issuing a call to seek shelter for all employees. The computers in this place are dead as doornails too, and that means every security measure is out. Let’s plant these bombs and bug out before they reboot!” “Sounds like just enough time to plant some explosives and get the hell out of here,” Pacoy says, rushing into action. “I love the way you think, Pacoy” Tillie smiles. Mac nods. “Lets light this place up like a birthday cake.” He stands, taking the jack out of the modem and crushing it beneath his heel. Tillie waves a hand “Egress route secured – everyone who could be responding is bunkering down instead.” Able’s face – and personality- slide back into his normal everyday ‘average’ as he begins prepping for egress. “Let’s bring this building down. And Tillie – I hope you let the wizard and your friends know about the open season they have. It’s best they make use of it.” “I’ll tell them now.” Tillie answers. Soon, three charges are planted just where they need to go and the team head for the surface, where the remainder of their White Mice backup meet them and usher them to a waiting AV van which whisks them off towards Peterborough and a rendezvous with the Blue Shimmer. As they take off, behind them the underground labs collapse upon themselves, the experimental subjects and data buried under thousands of tons of concrete and earth. And as the team land on the Shimmer, the night sky is lit by several tiny bursts of light as the British ‘retaliation’ against the fictional HUB attack dies against the Hightower station’s robust energy weapon defenses. Mac scowls at the sky, refraining from shaking his fist at it. “Well, at least we got a light show out of it. Able, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry for what he’s done to you.” “It’s good to watch some evil on evil action. Two shitheads duking it out above us.” Pitbull growls. “And Abe, I’m with Mac. I’ll personally let you have the last shot on his memory core if it helps.” “So, What now?” Pacoy asks as they head away from the wreckage under the night sky lit my ultra planetary warfare, “Space: the final Frontier?” As they disembark from the AV, Tillie threads her arm though Pacoy’s and looks at him coyly. “Shall we see if there’s any real booze on this heap of junk and get blitzed, first?” Able looks up as the night sky flashes and burns with nuclear fire, his face a picture of contemplation and solace. “I feel no anger towards that legion of ghosts – he’s no more complicit in this than I, merely a slave to his programming. What he has done must be undone, have no doubts about that – but if I were to hate a man for the atrocities he committed while bound to his creator’s will, what would I have to say for myself?”

Nottingham, England
Thursday 4th May, 2051
9.15 PM

Deep in the bowels of the British Biolabs facility, the Lazarus team have identified three points at which well-placed explosives could literally “bring the house down.” The three are equidistant around the level – one by the labs, one by the monitoring station and another right next to the level’s security station, where it supports the elevator shafts as well as the roof. However, the team’s hacking support is being counter-hacked by an external force and the team have reason to believe that force may be Mac’s enigmatic A.I. father. The route to any of the three massive support pillars is liable to be fraught with danger, still, the team are in the ducts like well-armed rats in the walls.
Able crawls down the duct towards the labs, the target chosen as likely the ‘softest’ of the bunch. “You guys ready for this?”

“Always. It’s ’bout time I show these scrubs what a real soldier looks like.” Pitbull growls as he racks his rifle.

Tillie just nods, her flechette pistol in one hand and a large, wicked looking monoknife in the other.

Pacoy maintains his grip on the precarious handholds and nods, “Yep.”

Mac drags along his rifle as he moves. “I’m not ready for this, but I’m not seeing us with a dearth of options.”

Pitbull pats Mac on the back. “Don’t worry, bruh. When all else fails, aim for body shots and don’t stop firing until you lose consciousness or there are no more bad dudes left.”

Mac grimaces. “Why did you have the say the C-word? Every time someone brings that up, I end up out cold in some facet or other.”

It’s dark in the ducting, and there are sudden sounds of creaking metal as the team crawl along, overlain by the distant hum of electrical equipment.

Able continues on his way, keeping quiet in the ducts as he heads for the nearest vent to peak out.

Pitbull prepares to follow Able before turning to Mac. “Aw dude, don’ worry! Sure they’re tough, but they ain’ Texans. We faced Texans and won. We’re good.”

In the darkness, Able only manages to hear one of the background sounds differentiate itself as he crawls closer because he himself is so quiet. It’s as if someone was pouring a thin stream of sand endlessly across a steel plate.

At the mention of fighting Texans, Pacoy is reminded that their sweet mobile combat base was most likely blown the hell up with the rest of their stuff.

Mac scrunches his face up as he follows Pitbull, sending a note out to his entire team. “Does anyone else find it particularly disheartening that our Texan is talking about Texans being beatable?”

Able holds up a hand to the others, shifting so his bulk doesn’t completely block their view of his hand.

Mac stops before he runs into Pitbull from behind.
As he switches to I-R overlay in his shades, Able sees a criss-cross grid of bright light blocking the duct, with gaps of barely an inch between the beams. The sound is the very air and dust motes vaporizing and ionizing against the laser grid.

Able squirts a low-powered message to the others. “We have laser traps in the vents. Be careful.”

Mac tries to look past Pitbull, but settles for staring at his feet. “Are they alarm lasers, or putting holes-in-things lasers? How strong are the beams?”

“Put your finger in and check it out, Mac.” Pacoy teases, “I’ll get you a new one if you lose it.”

“The puttin’ holes variety. They watched Die Hard and hate rats.” Pitbull grates as he decides to light a smoke.

Mac shakes his head. “I can’t get around Pitbull’s ass. He’s blocking my sight, and I may need new eyes afterwards. Anyone got anything we can disable it with? Something to block the emitters?”

Able grabs Pitbull’s cigarette before it lights up. “Don’t. The smoke will alert our targets.”

Pitbull’s scarred face contorts into his best rendition of pouting. “I guess you’re right.”

Able turns back to the laser system, pulling out some tools specifically designed for this type of job; after a few moments, he’s reflected the laser beams back onto their emitters using a set of IR mirrors on sticks, and the duct is clear. Able begins shuffling forwards again. “Let’s move.”

In a minute or two, Able comes to a three-way junction in the ducting. He can hear faint voices coming from the far right.

Mac lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding before pushing on Pitbull’s boots to get the lug started forward again. Once on the way, he wipes his hands on his coat before proceeding.

“Awwwww yeah.” Pitbull mock yells as he creeps forward. “Abe, I hope you don’t mind that you have like six different pieces of gum on the bottom of yer boots. The army would whip the shit outta you if they saw that.”

Mac rolls his eyes in the darkness. “Doesn’t count, Pitbull, you put those there. I saw you do it!”

Able waves Pitbull to silence and listens carefully. Voices float back from the far right: “Think we’ll be here a while?” “Dunno, the boss-lady’s sure she’s got something good going so maybe. Still, be alert – there’s some kind of shit going down upstairs from the lack of comms. We don’t want a repeat of the mansion, do we?”

“Mac, my breath smells like ass, kerosene, and alcohol on a regular basis. What makes you think I actually chew gu-” Pitbull stops his whispering on Able’s command.

Able points towards ‘Recombinant Two’, the direction of the voices, at Pitbull – now between him and the exit. He shoos the big man forwards.

Mac rolls his eyes, sending a half-formed text before he sees Able’s movement. “Pitbull, your ass smells like kero—-”

Pitbull perplexedly sends a team wide text. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but are you wanting to split the party?”

Able shakes his head at Pitbull, then ushers him forwards again.

Pitbull moves in the direction dictated by Able, before the voices finally come in his direction. “Oh. That makes sense. Neutralize?” Pitbull texts.

A short way beyond Able, the right hand vent dips down before leveling out again. At the end is a metal grill – and another laser grid. Beyond that, Pitbull can see a room, at one end of which is a massive window, and the black boots of two people standing by an exit door. Through the window, he can see a massive chamber in the center of which is some kind of apparatus containing a shadowy humanoid form. Two figures in bright yellow hazmat gear are working at the central chamber.

Pacoy pats a pocket, contemplating if he should send a Pinbot or IMP along with Pit.
Pitbull motions Able before texting him. “Another laser grid. I can only operate a comp. Halp?”

Able shrinks his body to a scrawny little thing so he can safely move beyond Pits’ bulk from within the confines of the air ducts. Once he’s at the laser grid, he begins messing with his tools….

Tillie texts: “There’s a third in the room, a woman, I can hear her breathe.”

Pitbull frowns. “Potential hostile?” He texts back.

Tillie’s text is short: “presume so.”

Mac’s nose wrinkles. “That’s incredibly creepy that you can identify a woman just by how she breathes. You don’t happen to have a very gothy brother, do you?”

Pitbull’s eyes narrow as an idea hits him. “I nominate Mac to go first. Mac is faster than all of us. He can seize the initiative, I follow him in, fuck them up, and you guys can follow in for a mop up. Sound like a good plan for insurrection?” Pitbull texts to everyone. “And Abe too, come to think of it. You dudes got the speed, I got the firepower.”

Mac grumbles. “You just want me to get hurt. But I’ll do it, because I like you guys. Maybe I can distract them for just long enough for you guys to carry my body out of here.”

Able begins to quietly work upon removing the vent panel. He indicates to the others to get ready.

Mac gets his rifle ready for when he gets out of the vent, feeling butterflies in his stomach. “Anyone bring a ration bar? I’m getting hungry.”

A female voice says “Bertrand, any news from upstairs?” “Non, Madame,” replies another. Tillie texts “It’s the female PST agent from the mansion!”

“Pacoy, prepare some drones, maybe? They’ll make a damn fine distraction, if not actually fucking some of them up.” Pitbull texts the team.

Pacoy nods to Pitbull and shows him one of the IMP drones, ready for action.

“Make sure it flies at head level. That makes lesser men shit themselves. Ever see a grown ass man freak out over a wasp? It’ll be that times a hundred.” Pitbull adds.

Able rolls out into the room, making an acrobatic somersault into a standing position. In a flash, he marks the team’s targets – a woman against the wall he’s come through, and two men by the door. All are dressed in the rig of an Umbra Personal Security Team – fancy suits with armored cloth, high-necked armored trenchcoats, and tac-shades. Each carries a sub-machine gun in a combat sling and a pistol in a shoulder holster. The three PST members, including the woman who Able recognizes as one who got stunned in the mansion run, stand open-mouthed in shock for an instant.

With the screws loosened, Able readies himself – engages his reflex booster – and pushes out on the panel with his back, propelled forwards by a kick behind him. With an acrobatic somersault, Able rights himself within arm’s reach of the two guards. His arms lash out at once, punching the two guards square in their unarmored faces with his shock-gloved hands.

Mac braces himself as Pitbull shoves his feet hard enough to cause him to slide out of the vent, flipping his rifle up at the woman as he rises, frowning as he feels himself channeling Pitbull and depressing the trigger on his rifle as far as it will go.
Pacoy slides out of the vent, rifle in hand.

He watches as three bullets tear into the woman, feeling part of himself shut down like a small child hiding behind a blanket – hidden, but forgotten. Almost mechanically, he swings his rifle towards one of the other guards, feeling a chill run down his spine. Is this what Pitbull feels like all the time? He lets off another chatter of rifle fire, his bones rattling as three more bullets stitch through the man in his sights, forcing him to grit his teeth, feeling bile rising in his throat, forcing him to acknowledge what he has done.
Tillie raises her flechette gun as she slides out of the vent and puts a needle right into the final guard’s face, leaving an ugly pock-mark and leaving him reeling, disoriented.

On his feet, Pacoy readies his rifle.

Pitbull rolls out of the vent behind Pacoy and, in the blink of an eye, plants three rounds in the last standing Umbra goon’s chest, killing him before he could even fall over. “Hah! Like shooting game in a hallway!”

Able takes a glance towards the glass window, curious how the scientists were responding to the destruction of their bodyguards, then looks around the room to get an idea of where they are.

The last shots leave the room ringing, and are only punctuated by the low moans of the PST team leader as she coughs blood, obviously dying. Beyond the plate glass, the two scientists stand in shock, helplessly watching. Through her faceplate, the team can see one is Professor Phillipa Barton.

Mac’s eyes eventually come back into focus as he stares at the poor bodies of those whom came before. “Guys… do you ever… have trouble with what we do?” He stares at his rifle before fiddling with it. “Pitbull, how do you take the autofire off of this thing?”

The room the team stands in holds an exit door, and an airlock door into the chamber beyond the plate glass, as well as a bank of controls.

Able heads for the exit door, pulling out his pistol as he moves. He throws the door open and takes in the scene beyond it.

“Break some stuff, Pit,” Pacoy suggests, “Then let’s move on to Door Number 2.”

Tillie crouches by the final PST member, the hand with the knife moves, and the moaning stops. As she stands, she calls out “Pacoy, have a look at that panel – see if you can find a kill switch for that…thing…in there.”

“I did, but the Rough Riders ground that out of me in Mexico. You get used to this line of work after so many people try to make you die. And just flick the selector stud on the side, Mac.” Pitbull growls as he lights another cigarette. “Ah the post-slaughter cigarette. Almost as satisfying as the post-coital cigarette.”

Pacoy hurries to the panel, looking for a way to keep the monstrosity offline.

Outside, Able sees a security camera up in one corner angle, and about forty feet of corridor leading to two other doors. A siren begins a two-tone song, and the lights begin to flash like a strobe.

Mac winces as he jams the selector stud off of the autofire mode. Never again… “You’re really disturbing, you know that, buddy?”

Pitbull puts one of his booted feet into the nearest console, a shower of sparks and glass spraying back in reply. “Coping mechanism, Mac-bro. You either kill yourself, or you learn to enjoy it from my experience.”

Able sets up a firing position to watch the halls and cover those still inside while they deal with the tanked creature.

“Now that you took a turn trying to be Pit,” Pacoy teases as he fiddles with the panel, “You can get your hands inside a teammates chest cavity, or walk around with a half-formed copy of your best friend strapped to your back.”

“If we puncture the tank, do you think it’ll send the creature into shock?” Pitbull opines as he puts another boot into another console.

Pacoy find a big red button, covered in a guard of plastic that can be flipped back. It has a marking on it – the symbol for a biocontaminant.

Mac shakes his head. “Maybe I’ve read too much pulp Sci-Fi, but shocking the monster almost always wakes it up..” He looks to the hall Able is covering. “Besides, I carried that copy too. Like to see you carry a clone of yourself around without complaining, Pacoy.”

“My clone would at least be good looking,” Pacoy answers as he opens the plastic guard, hesitating for a moment before pressing the large red button.

“Hey Able, I think you can ditch the disguise now.” He holds out Able’s coat towards his friend.

Mac rolls his eyes. “Ouch, that’s a low blow, brother.”

Able puts his trenchcoat on, then activates the chameleon sheath as he continues to cover the hallway. “Thanks, Mac.”

Inside the glassed-in chamber, a red strobing light begins. Both the scientists run to the airlock door and frantically begin to pound on the inside glass, trying to get out. Then there’s a cloud of vapor, and a bright violet light from several sources high on the roof. The two scientists are enveloped.
“Abe, I gotta question. Whenever you’re on down time, do you occasionally shift to look like David Bowie, just to lay around looking like David Bowie?” Pitbull asks, as he watches the scientists disappear in the chemical fog.

Mac’s face screws up. “David… Bowie? Why on earth would anyone do a thing like that? Are we all set here, Pacoy?”

Able flicks a glance back at Pitbull. “Who?” He begins making his way to the next door down the hallway – the location of their explody target.

Tillie moves past Mac, “Yeah, we’re all done in there. It’s clean.”

“Let’s move on to door number two,” Pacoy nods to Mac, rifle at the ready.

Mac stalks along behind Able, throwing the occasional glance at his fire selector, ensuring it’s in the right position. “Monty Hall it is. I hope it’s not a goat again…”

“Oh y’know him! Ever watch Labyrinth on the Classic Movie Channel? The guy dressed like a drag queen with a bulge in his pants that could put out an eye?” Pitbull adds, as he follows Able to the next room.

The next door is marked “Recombinant One”. It has a security lock, currently disengaged.

Able tosses open the door, ready to take on another security team or recombinant monster. “No, can’t say I have.”

Pacoy is at a loss for words, realizing that this isn’t the weirdest thing he’s heard from Pitbull’s mouth.

Mac gags, the memory of bile still on his mind. “I’m not sure I like that line of questioning, Pitbull. You’ve been hanging around Wormwood too much.”

The room inside is slightly different from the first – no glass wall, just a chamber with various consoles on a gantry and a hideous figure in a big glass tube in the center. The room is otherwise unoccupied.

Pacoy heads straight for the bank of electronics.

Able quickly clears the room, then heads for the sweet spot for the explosives.

Mac levels his rifle at the figure, a sinking feeling growing in his stomach. “I’m not sure I like that lock being open…”

Able nods to Tillie. “Make sure the door stays open.”

“On it” Tillie tells Able.

“It is worth the watch. A real classic from the 80’s. Seems like fore- oh. Well, ain’t this dude fugly?” Pitbull grates as the glass container’s inhabitant catches his eye.

As Pacoy reached the first monitor, it blanks – as does every other screen in the place. Then, a laughing electronic, pixilated face flashes onto every screen at once.

Mac giggles to himself, finding an odd compulsion… “Pitbull, that’s a mirror.”

“Oh, that’s not good…” Pacoy mutters.

Glimpsing the face, the bile rises in Mac’s throat again. Of all places… of all people… why here? Why him?

“Naw that dude is way uglier than me. A face like mine won’t scare off a drunken date. A face like that requires someone to down a keg.” Pitbull, late to the situation as usual catches the sight of the laughing pixilated face. “Oh fuck, It’s Phil Collins again. So that means fugly is gonna bust out of the container, right?”

Nottingham, England
Thursday 4th May, 2051
9.07 PM

The Lazarus Team and their ally Tillie Jones are in an elevator on the 2nd floor of the British Biotech Inc. lab complex, looking at the slumbering forms of three cleaning staff that have just been knocked out by a gas grenade. Outside, the rattle of small-arms fire is becoming a rising din as the security forces at the complex respond to a diversion staged by a unit of White Mice, the British Resistance Army. Just once, there’s the whoosh of a rocket launcher, followed by an almighty explosion – perhaps the Mice have taken out a light armored patrol car or maybe the security guards are better armed than expected.

Having suborned a droid earlier in their infiltration, the team are now in possession of floorplans for the complex. Tillie consults her pocket-comp and throws up a holo-display. “This elevator only goes to the floors above ground. Looks like we need to get down one level, then head for this security station and the door beyond it – that’ll take us down into the basement levels.”
Mac looks at the sleeping staff, then nods. “What’s the best path?” He begins scanning the floorprints, looking for an efficient way that might let them bypass the security bunkers.

Pitbull takes a long drag off of his freshly lit cigarette, and services his Gauss Rifle as he listens intently.

Mac starts shaking his head, he begins tracing a line through the display. “Best path… best path… Path of least resistance… air follows the path of least resistance. The air ducts. There’s one for each floor. We find them, we get to the right one, cut it open and we’re in. Unless they run incinerators in the duct, we’ll be fine.” He points to the location of the ducts on the map. He looks over at Able. “You think there’s any benefit in running a disguise with one of the janitor’s jumpsuits? As long as it doesn’t get in your way, might buy us a few extra moments of peace here and there. If we want to be standard about it, we can take the lifts, but there’s a security bunker at each one, and we’re twelve shades of stood up if their team get control of the doors back.”

“I can try to cut into the ducts, maybe – or we can blow our way in with one of the explosive packages – but that might bring the house down a bit.” Tillie says.

Mac nods. “In more ways than one. They don’t know our destination yet, with any luck. We should keep it that way for as long as possible.”

“And we’ve still got to bring the house down entirely later. I don’t think using the explosives yet is a good plan.” Able takes a moment to look over the janitor’s clothing, then fiddles with his neural interface for a moment.

Mac looks over at Able. “You know, back in my day, we actually had to wear the mark’s clothing.” He pats the staff down, looking for identification, keys or keycards. He finds nothing, then shoots Tillie a look.

“Yeah, yeah, and you had to walk to school uphill, both ways,” Pac grins as he starts setting up some equipment, “I think I have something that’ll work here.”

Tillie produces the male janitors ID and security card – he seems to be the janitorial supervisor.

Able’s morphwear clothing expands and simplifies as whiskers begin to spread from his jawline and his hair begins to recede. A few moments later, where once stood an athletic man of indeterminate age with a forgettable face and a full head of hair, clad in black-and-gray tactical gear, now stands a mid-fifties balding man who has had maybe ten hoagies too many… every day for the past thirty years, dressed in a typical blue janitor’s jumpsuit. Able nods to Tillie as he picks up the man’s ID and security card. “Danke.”

Able clips the badge on to his shirt, underneath his tactical trenchcoat. “I’ll have to leave one of you my coat if I approach the guards, but this could work.”

“Every time I see that, I have to do a double-take, Able.” Tillie grins. “Come on, this way I believe.” She sets off at a lope.

A message appears on the team’s HUD: + Mice say one Cat got out of the hole – pursuing but clock is now ticking for Cat Infestation. +

Mac blinks a few times. “Sister, you have no idea.” He trots off after Tillie. “And I thought my analogies were tortured. Set the clock, gentlemen. The races are on.”

Pitbull racks his rifle before following Tillie, quickly catching up to her with his thunderous booted stride.

Able tosses his coat to Pitbull as he waddles out in front of the group, visibly panting with the effort of moving his bulk.

“Best thing for a cat infestation?” Pacoy comms, “A Pitbull, right?”

“Damn, Abe. You really let yourself go in the last… ten minutes.” Pitbull chuckles, as he catches his coat.

Hefting his holdall, Mac hustles along, trying to figure out exactly which duct they need. “I’m not sure we’re going to be able to get out the way we came in. We might have to get out the hard way. This place doesn’t have any stairs down here? What do they do in the event of a fire, let everyone die? I’d not be surprised, but good researchers and employees are hard to find.”

“Not if you’re cloning them. Mac,” Pacoy answers, “Then you just call it a bad trial and reboot the program.”

Tillie smiles without mirth. “Actually, Mac, that’s exactly what you do — if the labs they work in are dealing with recombinant DNA, retroviral splicing and chunks of mutated animal genes. Better a deadly fire than an escape of wild mutagens. Remember Gen-Nu?”

The team turn down a corridor, heading towards the ventilation plant – and a door ahead bursts sparks, then opens to reveal three men in black body armor and dark-visored helmets emblazoned with the Umbra logo.

Mac frowns. “But… those gnox are really tasty.” His eyes harden as he reaches for his gun.

Pitbull shudders as he remembers the second mission of the team. “Yeah. Let’s not have another Gun-Nu…” He trails off as the Umbra Soldiers come into plain view.
Mac’s eyes dilate as the world slows to a crawl. He hear’s Pitbull’s drawl continuing past the end of his sentence as he shrugs his carryall off his shoulder. His other hand slips into his pocket and wrestles his revolver out of his pocket, bringing his other arm across his body. Barely letting the muzzle of the barrel get loose, he fans the hammer three times, letting the rounds free to find their homes embedded in the soldier’s armor, having done not much of anything. His bag hits the floor with a disappointing thud.

Seeing the familiar Umbra logo and knowing what it means in a situation like this, Pacoy boots up his Insta-Soldier and goes for his rifle.

Tillie pulls out a short, fat and snub-nosed automatic pistol and in one fluid movement squeezes the trigger. Three thin hyper-dense needles flash downrange, and two of them end up in the guts of the lead Umbra guard, boring through his armor and into his liver. He drops, screaming.

Pitbull’s militant instincts flare into life once more as he releases a three round burst on the next Umbra crony. As all three rounds hit, coroners would find that the man died upon the impact of the second round. The crony crumples then ragdolls onto the ground as Pitbull grins then grates, “Don’t mess with Texas, bitch.”

The guard fires his PDW at Tillie as he begins to fall – hitting her three times. Her ghost suit stops the first bullet, her toughened, bio-enhanced skin the second – but the third penetrates into her chest, leaving a shallow wound which knocks the wind from her even so.

The still-standing guard unleashes a burst at Pitbull, but the single bullet that hits is stopped by the big Texan’s body armor.

“The fuck did I just say, boy?! Don’t mess with Texas, bitch!” Pitbull roars at the confused and now startled guard.

Able shuffles his bulk up to the guard at as much of a dead-run as he’s able. “Oh god! Oh god! Please tell me there are more of you!” As he passes the guard, he spins around and activates his reflex booster. His hands reach out to grasp the man from behind by his helmet, and with the full force of his cybernetically-augmented muscles he pulls.

With a crack, the vertebrae break under Able’s pressure, and he falls to the floor, quite deceased.

Pitbull languidly walks over to the last living guard, now lying on the ground bleating in agony. He plants his boot on the guy’s neck and twists, snapping his neck with a sound likened to the breaking of a chicken bone.

He lights another cigarette as though nothing happened before growling, “Shall we?”
Mac grimaces. “Was that… necessary?” He sighs as he looks at his revolver, fitting three more rounds into place before replacing it in his pocket. He digs through his bag, bringing out his looted rifle before slinging the bag across his back.

Tillie staggers and sits down hard – then slowly climbs to her feet again. She reaches to a pouch at her belt, retrieving forceps and a can of spray bandage. “Anyone care to do the honors? One of them scratched my left tit. Pacoy?”

Pitbull arches an eyebrow as he looks at her, cigarette still pressed between his lips.

Mac turns away, rapidly averting his eyes, searching for anything else to look at. He pats the ex-soldiers down, checking for any items of utility by way of distracting himself from Tillie.

“Can honestly say I’ve had more awkward work,” Pacoy says as he stows his rifle and brings out his medkit, heading over to Tillie.

Able looks through the door the guards came out of as the resident medic takes care of the injured boob.

Pitbull stands and watches, arms folded and grinning as though watching a show, cigarette still held between his lips with each drag illuminating his face enough to see exactly what his eyes are on.

Beyond the door is a small rest area with a dingy card table and three chairs. A box of tools lies on the floor by the door and the lock mechanism has been destroyed from the other side. Across the room is a door marked with big yellow warning signs. “Restricted – Biohazard Containment Area – High Tension Machinery.” It’s the ventilation plant.
With hardly a grope, Pacoy manages to expertly patch up the flesh wound.

Mac nabs a small computer and a biometric scanner from one of the Umbra guards, stashing the scanner before beginning a casual review of the contents of the PC. “At least we’ve come to the right place, gentlemen. Pacoy, do you massage machines to make them less tense? Is that how it works?”

Mac, inspecting the fallen guards, sees his own face and those of his team mirrored in the HUD of one. On closer inspection, the faces are tagged with a “Dangerous – extreme sanction authorized” logo and appear to be from an image-recognition software package in the belt computer.

Tillie closes her ghost suit and works her shoulder a little. “Thanks, Pacoy – if we’d left that bullet in there a couple of hours my skin would have grown over it… and that just wouldn’t have felt as nice, would it?”

“If that’s a proposition, Mac, you’ll have to try better than that!” Pacoy grins, “What would Angie think?”
“Huh. So this is what it’s like to be famous.” Pitbull growls, as he catches his and the team’s pictures in the helmets.

Mac scoffs. “Well, it looks like they’re onto us being here. That was quick…” He laughs at Pacoy, “Oh I don’t even want to think about that. Looks like we should pick up the pace, lads and gal.”

As Pitbull inspects the helmet image, he sees it flicker, as if for a split instant some other image replaced it.

Able steps back in the hall. “I think we’ve found the ventilation room. Hurry up.”

Mac straightens up, stepping through the portal, checking around for reinforcements, hefting the rifle uncomfortably. “I think that’s Pacoy’s department.”

Pitbull’s sun damaged face contracts into a squint as he notices the image change. He scrutinizes it further…

Whatever was there is gone now – the screen displays exactly what it did a few moments ago.

Able quirks an eyebrow at Pitbull’s hesitancy. “Found something for the resident techies to handle?”

Inside the ventilation room, three large pipes rise floor to ceiling. Each is about five feet across and encrusted with gauges, monitors, and power junctions feeding fans that must be at the top of each pipe – and possible further down.

Pitbull lobs the helmet at Able. “It has our wanted posters playing in there, but the display changed to something I didn’t quite catch.”

Able catches the helmet. “Did your implant record it?”

“Wait… fuckin’ computers…” Pitbull growls as he rolls his eyes back and rewinds the footage of the recent event.

He looks down at the helmet, peering into the spectacles through his nightshades.
Pacoy quickly attaches a few parts to a small tank, “Plasma cutter, online.”

In Pitbull’s computer memory, for a single instant the screen is shown changing to a face…

Pitbull pauses the footage, wills his implant computer to take a screenshot, and sends it to his compatriots. “Anyone know this fucker? Looks kinda like Phil Collins, but I doubt he has anything to do here.”

Able shrugs as he feeds the image into his facial recognition program. “Not off hand.”

Mac glances at Pacoy as the cutting. “Say, is that from something? It sounds like it’s from something.” He returns his attentions to from whence they came. “I don’t think he’s ringing any Bells. Tillie, what’s Merlin look li—-” Suddenly, Mac’s knees go weak and he almost falls over. Shakily standing up, Mac’s voice quavers. “Guys.. this… this doesn’t feel good. I have a really really bad feeling about this.”

Tillie shakes her head. “That’s not Merlin.”

Able shrugs. “Looks vaguely familiar, but my facial rec search isn’t getting any high-confidence matches. Closest one is an old, dead banker.”

Mac’s face falls. “Old? Why did you have to say old, Able? How old?”

Able shrugs. “He died back in 2038.”

Mac shakes his head. “No, no he didn’t. I don’t think he died at all. Not in the sense that Tillie might understand, at any rate.” He swallows. “You remember how Omaha ended, lads?”

Pitbull stomps over to Mac. “You telling me that the fucker we just saw was Siri’s uncle?”

Able stands guard at Pacoy’s back as he begins to work upon the wall. “Soldiers raining from the skies.”

Mac shakes his head, looking Pitbull square in the eye, his own eyes frozen in fear. “Father.”

A message appears in all your HUD’s. +++CounterHack! Strong. Move it! M3RL1N +

“So… BritArms, Armatech, Umbra AND evil robot demi-god, sounds about right!” Pacoy grunts as he cuts through the piping, “Just about through, guys.”

Pitbull’s eyes widen in realization. “Yeah. Time to move. Assholes and elbows, let’s go!” Pitbull growls, masking his own concern with his gung-ho and clichéd saying.

It takes about six minutes for Pacoy to complete his work. During that time, the lights, which have been emergency-power dim, suddenly flicker then brighten to full power. Then a voice comes through your comms – someone who sounds about 16 and is very scared. “We’re fucked. Ted’s deck burned. I’ll try to keep them out of their comms relay as long as I can, but that’s about it! Merlin out!”

Tillie curses. “Merlin’s like a prodigy – a Mozart – and he’s getting his ass kicked?”
Able swears as Pacoy finishes his cutting, then grabs the wall panel and tosses it to the floor before dropping the ladder on the floor and diving head-first into the ventilation shaft, trusting in the others to follow after him.

Mac shakes his head, trying to mask the terror in his voice. “He never stood a chance. He was just being played with. Our best bet is to get out of here as quickly as we can.” Setting the ladder, he hurls himself down the shaft after Able, climbing down as fast as possible.

“If we’re dealing with a demi-god personality that has been uploaded into a computer, than that’d make sense. Even if he’s a prodigy, he’s still fighting something that’s arms and legs is the computer, while he’s only got chop sticks.” Pitbull growls sourly.

Tillie follows Able without a moment’s hesitation.

Pitbull rushes behind as well, topping off the clip on his rifle as he runs to the shaft entry.

Pacoy quickly closes a valve on the torch, removes a clamp and turns two knobs to their maximum setting before giving the ting a heavy shove down the hall and following the crew into the shaft.

Below, there’s a thirty foot drop to a square concrete chamber about ten feet across. A massive impeller fan is imbedded in the floor, unmoving while ducts run off from all sides of the chamber. Tillie consults her holo-map. “That way to the labs,” she points. “That way to something called ‘Birth Monitoring’. That way to the security station and the elevators.”

Mac looks down the ducts. “We’ve got to deal with the labs and the monitoring station, don’t we? To make sure we hurt them as much as possible?”

Able nods. “And the birthing chamber. That’s where the new soldiers will be; I expect heavy resistance there.”

Mac frowns. “The labs first then – less resistance, and greater long-term damage. Then we get rid of what they have created.”

As the team watch, three locations glow red on the holo-display. The folk helping them have analyzed the plans and come up with three structurally significant pilings running through the entire complex. Blow them apart, and the upper floors will fold down into the lower ones.

The three are equidistant around the level – one by the labs, one by the monitoring station and another right next to the level’s security station – where it supports the elevator shafts as well as the roof.
“Or we just blow those red spots up and watch this place collapse on itself like a cheap Chinese tire.” Pitbull adds.

Mac analyzes the map. “Looks like we’re going to be heading to each one of these places. Hopefully we have enough munitions to bring this entire place to so much rubble my brothers would never be able to shift any of it.”

Able looks down the shaft leading to the birthing chamber – likely a mirror of the one he himself stepped out of so long ago. “Either way, we’re up against some stiff resistance. Watch yourselves out there.”

“I ain’ afraid of no killer lab rats. They may think they’re soldiers, but they ain’ Texans. Easy pickins.” Pitbull growls with equal menace and humour.

Mac looks at Pitbull, then hefts his rifle in a manner which his friend does often. “Nothing we can’t handle. Father’s backing the wrong horse, and I say we bring this damn house down around his ears.”

Pacoy looks at the schematics and curses his lack of foresight in adding demolitions expert to the InstaSoldiers catalog. Oh, well, that sounds like the start of new project!