I-25, 210 Miles Outside of Foundry
Just Over the Colorado Border
Friday, February 24, 2051
9:45 PM

The long ride on the dark, dusty highway has continued on into night. Overhead, the big high-speed rail lines continue to send trains barreling down the tracks every fifteen minutes, their lights the only ones that can be seen aside from the occasional fellow traveler. As the captured APC rises a crest, a few small lights dot the landscape below – the first real sign of civilization they’ve seen since the team left Foundry over seven hours ago.

Wormwood, who has pretty much claimed the front passenger seat since leaving Foundry, sits up straight. “Hey guys, we’ve found some life!” Mac’s head snaps upwards from where he had been playing at sleeping. “Life? Gnox herd, or are we talking people?” Pacoy glances up form his tinkering “But is it intelligent life?” Pitbull growls through the cigarette clenched between his lips as he drives the APC on through. “Just buildin’s. Some walkin’ people though. Nothin’ to worry ’bout.”

AlbuQorp Industrial Hospital
Free City of Foundry
Thursday, February 23, 2051
8:10 PM

With squealing tires, the APC pulls into the lot of a big, black building labeled with the ubiquitous red cross. Above the entrance is a grim-looking sign, proclaiming it to be the ‘AlbuQorp Industrial Hospital’. To either side of the sprawling building – easily thirty stories tall and wider than a ‘regulation’ city block – lie yet more factories and other industrial facilities. The hospital is only a few miles from the mile-deep mining boreshaft/fusion reactor complex called the Steamworks that marks the city center and gifts the city its distinctive red glow, like iron in a hot forge. The ambient heat is already sweltering, reaching into the nineties, the result of the fusion reactor’s waste heat overpowering the meager southwest winter chill.

Wormwood looks around, “Feels like home, doesn’t it? Like Night City’s eastside only nastier, if that’s possible.” He checks his credit chip on his HUD and swears. This is going to hurt. Mac shrugs. “I’ve seen nothing like this. I know they’ll be able to patch you up, Worm, but… not sure if they have the facilities to treat me. Not sure if they should, for that matter.” “Almost reminds me of back home. Hell, it’s almost as hot here. Almost.” Pitbull growls as he steps out of the APC, lighting another cigarette off of his last one.

Mac dismounts from the vehicle. “Want me to go see if we can get you a wheelchair, Worm? A stretcher?” "On the bright side, my skills as a healer are more suited towards Mac, now. Then again, I think Worm need the most attention now.” Pacoy tosses out. “Check list: we need to get Worm and Eris some medical attention, see about umm… ‘parts’ for Siri and Mac, and look into resupplying what we can.” Wormwood shrugs, “They’ll have the facilities somewhere in town, Mac, and I really think you should.” He ponders pointing out how awesome Mac could be if he can unlock his full potential, then decides its too soon to hit his friend with more future-shock. He turns in his seat and makes a face, “A wheelchair would be good, Pacoy. Dammit, I hate feeling like a gimp!”

Pitbull turned around from the driver seat, his face contorted in concern. “I’m hearing that Mac might be fully bionic. Am I wrong?”

“Guys… I think this is a little beyond cybernetics at this point. I think we are in Siri territory, what with the intentionally disguised tissue and organs.” Pacoy sounded honestly scared and turned to Siri with a near whisper, “Seranya, you wouldn’t happen to know your primary serial number off-hand, would you?” Seranya squeezed Mac’s hand, smiling a little bit as she looked up at Pacoy. “My chassis’s original serial number was P52-SF-84901-A-1, but it was reset to X1-G-14-SB-3 when I was refurbished after an accident. I have parts labeled with both.”

My eyes began to glaze over as their voices drifted in and out of focus like leaves spinning idly in the midst of a tornado – words, full of meaning, implication, emotion, meaning nothing. Bionic? In a world where limb replacement and augmentation is the norm, that word had a place. But not in my world. Twists, slugs, and roscoes – that’s what I lived my life dealing with. The first you could never get enough of, but all three of them were equally dangerous. But they were all things you could wrap your mind around. But Pacoy is great with ‘bots… he wouldn’t make a mistake on that scale. If it’s true…

Back on the Road
Near the Free City of Foundry
Thursday, February 23, 2051
7:30 PM

The Texan APC is on the road, speeding for the Foundry border with its cargo of medical casualties and accompanying nursemaids. The big deisel engine purrs like a contented cat, with only the occasional coughing up of a hairball, as it pulls you down the deserted highway at seventy miles per hour. The casualties all lie next to each other on the rear seats, whose backs have folded out to form two bunk beds, one on either side of the cabin. Mac and Wormwood are on the left side of the vehicle, tended to carefully by Pacoy, while Eris lies on the lower bunk on the right side, clutching her arm in pain and just barely awake, starting to come out of the near-coma the drugs Pacoy had pumped her with begin to wear off. Mac, his eyes now working but his back burnt rather severely, lies on his front on the lower bunk as Pacoy works on him; Wormwood lies above, his legs bandaged but still needing dire medical treatment before they can be salvaged.

Pitbull, meanwhile, sits in the driver’s seat, plugged into the APC’s controls and guiding the big vehicle through the beginnings of traffic towards its destination. Seranya pokes her head into the driver’s compartment again, possibly the fourth time in the past ten minutes, and sits down at the passenger’s side console, looking out at the evening sky.

Mac grumbles, his dangling arms toying with the scorched fringes of his jacket. “Mind avoiding some of the road pimples, eh Pitbull? Can’t say having our doctor looking at my back while riding on a pistol is comfortable.” : “OH… So that IS a Pistol in your pocket?” Pacoy asks with a grin as he works on the patients. Mac plays at shrugging, wincing in pain. “No quick draw jokes from the peanut gallery back there.” Pitbull just resumes blaring his grinding and painful chrome-metal noise, this particular number being “Systematic Evisceration” by Black President Conspiracy. His cigarete hangs from the side of his mouth as he holds the machine steady on the ruined roads.

Wormwood stares at the ceiling of the APC, listening to his team-mates’ banter and trying not to think about the pain in both legs, only mildly softened by the pills Pacoy gave him. He also tries not to think about the future if he can’t get his legs fixed – a life without the ability to create his Art wouldn’t be a life at all, and he can hardly collect the raw materials for an artwork while limping and unable to climb. Shaking himself out of his gloom, he rolls on his side. “Hey Eris, how you doing? You’re one of the in-crowd now, you know. You’ve been wounded in service. Does DreamCorps give out medals for that or should we give you one of ours?” “Don’t let Wormwood pin anything on you or stick you with something sharp and metal. Just trust me on that on.” Pacoy continues to try and keep spirits light. Wormwood laughs, “Yeah, I suppose so. Anyhow, Eris, just how many bugs did you have planted in the old car?” He’s hoping she’s still so out of it she’ll be honest, but not really caring right now if she isn’t.

Abandoned Outskirts, Free City of Foundry
Thursday, February 23, 2051
3:15 PM

The afternoon has quieted down significantly since the last of the Texans bit the dust. Their reputation for rowdiness is, apparently, well-deserved. However, that still leaves the Lazarus team thirty miles from the inhabited portion of Foundry with destroyed SUV, an APC ran by an AI they probably can’t trust, and several severely injured team members – and with significantly fewer supplies than they started out with.

Wormie levers himself into a seat with a sigh of relief. “Pits, let’s get outa here my brother. Head for Foundry while we see what’s back here, huh?” “Are we looking to keep stuff for salvage/resale, or just taking the plug-ins for the APC?” Pacoy asks, readying his tools as Siri lugs corpses. “We could probably recoup our losses on what the Sarge was packing alone,” Pacoy glances at his injured comrades and amends his claims, “Well, our monetary loses, anyways – plus enough to patch you guys up. But then again, I’m not the kind of guy who feels comfortable ditching a contract, especially one where we are working for THE major media, and will be broadcast looking like a bunch of amateurs that can’t finish a job – Spelling the end for Lazarus, we are supposed to be on a time sensitive mission here.”

Mac drums his fingers against the side of the APC, rubbing at his eyes with his free hands. “We should probably load up whatever we can salvage from the Amur first, and make sure we hitch up the trailer. I’m not much good carrying things unless you pack it into a sling. I can manage going on, but I’d like to see if we can’t get Worm a bit of help at Foundry.” Wormwood grits his teeth, “We’re not chickening on this mission. We’ve blood invested in it now. Good ideas, though. I’d help hitch up but…” he gestures at his legs.

“Right, Pit – can you start consolidating loot while the bot deals with bodies?” Pacoy asks. “Mac and Wormie could use a quick break." As Siri goes about the gruesome task of dragging the bodies and arranging them in positions suitable for quick and dirty postmortem cybersurgery, Pacoy decides to address the concerns Mac has shown about the treatment of Siri since she was added to the group. “Look, Mac, I’m not ungentlemanly – I never disrespect women or treat them like objects, but that’s the thing here: Siri isn’t a woman, she is an object!” Pitbull lights up a cigarette as stands back up from his seat in the front. “Pac, before we get moving, I need you to service this thing. There is at the very least a tactical GPS locator in this thing, and we need it gone. Can you do that?”

Abandoned Outskirts, Free City of Foundry
Thursday, Feburary 23, 2051
2:02 PM

The smoke begins to clear as the echoes of Pitbull’s final shotgun blast echo in the silence of the ruined suburb. For a long moment, nothing moves – the Rough Riders and their mad sergeant unmoving in the still grace of death – until the moans of the wounded Lazarus members and affiliates begin to replace the sound and fury that had occupied the roadway just before.

Wormwood slumps on his face in the dirt, “Oh hells bells – are they finally all dead?…Damn, my legs hurt!” Mac looks over at Wormwood’s voice. “Are they? I can’t tell – still blind as a cat in a bag thrown in the ocean. Is it safe for me to come out? This rebar can’t be good for my suit. You able to walk, Worm?”

Wormwood lifts his head long enough to say, “Pacoy, dude, check Mac’s eyes first then I think I could do with some serious painkillers.”

Abandoned Outskirts, Free City of Foundry
Thursday, February 23, 2051
1:40 PM

The firefight continues unabated. The Sergeant, once thought out of the fight, has just crawled to his feet, his augmentations revitalizing him and keeping him in the fight. One Texan Rough Rider has already died, but two others remain at large, both secluded in their cover downrange.

The Lazarus team hasn’t escaped injury, either – Mac’s eyes remain shot, while Wormwood lies upon the ground, cradled by the Amur’s upside-down frame, his legs blasted out from under him. Saranya is still off-line, Pacoy having deactivated her prior to the crash, and Eris lies unconscious with a compound fracture in her arm.

Abandoned Outskirts, Free City of Foundry
Thursday, February 23, 2051
1:35 PM

The Rough Riders are in rough shape. Though none of them have yet died, three of the four Texan special operations soldiers have been significantly injured so far. Two of the Riders have had their legs shot out from under them, though one has been pumped so full of drugs that he can’t seem to tell anything’s wrong – even though both arms completely refuse to work. The Rough Rider’s Sergeant, Doug Wilson, has been shot in the head by Pacoy’s Harpy, the little bullet luckily penetrating the weak cyberarmor encasing the soldier in his tin shell. The fourth Rough Rider remains uninjured, and is currently doing something while behind cover – unfortunately, the Lazarus team has no way to tell exactly what.

The Lazarus group has fared somewhat better; nobody has been hit just yet, though Mac remains blinded by the dazzler grenade that had been tossed at the start of the fight.

Against all odds, Sergeant Wilson staggers to his feet, a rivulet of blood dripping down his face from the bullet wound in his forehead. He lifts his M-16X assault rifle to his shoulder, his hand at the forward trigger – the one that activates the underbarrel grenade launcher. Standing straight and tall, he aims the rifle – straight at Pitbull’s face.

Abandoned Outskirts, Free City of Foundry
Thursday, February 23, 2051
1:25 PM

The dazzler grenade falls to the ground, its charge spent. The blind eye stumbles as the sudden loss of vision sends his secretly cybernetic brain spiraling into a null-feedback loop, his bloody tears dropping to the ground like rain. Ahead of him and beyond a makeshift barricade made up of the smoking hulk of the Lazarus team’s rented ride, the Texan Rough Riders are advancing with military precision upon their position, three soldiers all firing short bursts to push Lazarus heads down while the fourth leapfrogs ahead. Currently, their leader, a massive man of flesh and chrome is in the lead, sending bullets downrange that skip off the surface of the Amur’s twisted frame mere inches from Pitbull and Wormwoods faces.

Abandoned Outskirts, Free City of Foundry
Thursday, February 23, 2051
1:05 PM

The Lazarus team awakens to the acrid smell of smoke mixed with blood and hydraulic fluid, their timepieces showing that they only lost consciousness for a few brief moments. The Amur is lying upside down under an overpass, the result of an explosion in the undercarriage flipping the vehicle head-over-heels.

Mac sits upside-down against the wall of the overpass, his entire being screaming out in pain from the sudden stop after the undesired ejection from the speeding vehicle. Wormwood is still in the passenger’s seat up front, with Pitbull hanging out the driver’s side window, his arm wrapped around his crash web. Pacoy and Eris are in the back, the robot girl Seranya in between them, powered off with her remaining hand locked around her stump of an arm.

The sound of a combustion engine rings in their ears; it’s got to be only a minute or two away, and approaching fast.

“Oh Klono’s Balls!” Wormwood groans as he checks himself for major injuries and tries to struggle out of his crash-web. “Guys….we gotta move!” Also groaning softly, Pacoy quickly checks himself for major injuries before making his way to Eris. Mac moans in pain, blinking his eyes through the red liquid streaming over his eyes, trying to clear them. “…did anyone catch the name of that exploding Amur…?” He slowly collapses to the side and eventually rights himself, dragging his broken and bleeding body back towards the group to assist in getting everyone out of the vehicle. Pitbull pushes himself up and out with a drawn out grunt and grabs his Reaper and M16X from the wreck. “Worm, we can’t out-run them. We were pretty toe-to-toe with them in a vehicle. Now we’re not. Now we can’t.” Pitbull growls as he checks his Reaper.

“Uhhggg…You OK Pits? Pac?…Where the hell is Mac?” Wormwood slices his web cradle with his extendable mono-molecular fingerblades and starts to climb out. “I’m not going without a fight!” Mac winces as he draws near. “We need to get away from the Amur now – it’s on fire, and if it cooks off, that explosion will do us in for sure. Run or stay, we can’t do it here.” He limps over to the trailer in an attempt to get right it and get the motorbikes out.