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theophenes · 8 years ago

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Seattle Nights, Byte 1: We were Running in the 90′s

The thing you need to remember about shadow-runners, as we begin this story, is that runners are not happy, well-adjusted people. No happy, well-adjusted person decides to live their life as a criminal mercenary of varying use and expendability to a wide variety of patrons in the hope of scoring enough money to do other things. No reasonable person wakes up one day and decides, “You know, I think I'm going to run around the city as a pawn for competing corporate, private, and criminal interests!” while making an omelet and smiling at their nice lawn.

Well-adjusted, happy people, with sane, reasonable lives, go into things like accountancy or mystical beauty school or amateur drone racing or making little holograms of dancing hot-dogs to lay over furniture on your AR goggles. This crappy little dive bar in Renton, however, was home to people who had far bigger problems on their minds than simply paying the bills and keeping the tedium from killing them. Hell, half of the people in this bar were worried about people who couldn't spell tedium trying to kill them.

In the back, near a particularly poorly lit fish tank, sat two men, with a woman between them. The one on left, with his back to the bar, looked so damn normal it was frankly strange that he was here. The man had all the appearance of a well-mannered corporate secretary—including the expensive suit. He nodded, sternly, looking at the other two. “I'd like to thank you for considering retaining me for this operation,” he said with a polite bow. He was so stiff and coifed, it seemed like he was likely an AI or some sort of cold-blooded cephalopod in a skin suit. Blonde hair that never seemed to move, frameless glasses with square lenses, and a three-piece suit that seemed perfectly tailored. His tie and pocket square were both dark red. The jacket and pants were a simple metallic gray affair with black, needle thin stripes. If the plain white human man with a height and weight that seemed so average as to be on purpose had any sign of emotion is his message, it certainly wasn't noticed by the two he addressed. Between the stiffness and the suit, people took to calling him “Jeeves.” For his part, he let it stick.

The other two, on the other hand, well, they didn't look like the type to hire runners. One of them, a large, dark-skinned orc in a heavily tailored jacket design to show off how hard it was to make a jacket in his size, wearing several gold chains and a rather thick turtle-neck. His posture was conspiratorial, his movements slow and stiff, as if he had been sore from something. The woman beside him wore some odd, extravagant not-quite-Chinese robes, her large horns and heavily-braided hair adding a look that earned her the nickname “Oni Queen” among other fixers. She had been happy to set up the meeting, but the employer wanted to meet her runner in person. No idea why.

“You read the files, Mr....Jeeves,” the Orc said. “I've got the check in hand. Can you deliver the goods to me?”

The blonde man grinned. “I can, but I'll need more talent.”

The Orc shrugged. “Yeah, no offense, but you're not exactly the guru of Wu. To get and reach this prize, you'll need a good third eye. No mage eye goggles, you need a drekkin' pro here,” he said calmly. “But I've sized you up in person, and you skills ain't hurtin'. You've got moves and confidence. And frankly, you're in my budget,” he said with a slight chuckle, his New York accent clicking in slightly with the weird, sing-songy delivery. “Still, it's easy. You get in, you steal back what's mine, bring the ruckus on the goons who took it. Now, are you ready to bring the coming of Wu, the new neon,” the orc said as he raised an eyebrow, “Or are you not playing with a full deck?”

The blonde man took a second to parse all the slang and nodded confidently. “I can assure you,” he said gently, “I've got a few aces up my sleeve, regardless of the deck. And I'm certain our dear queen has a mystic in mind to aid me in handling your project,” he extended a hand to her.

“Presumptuous,” she began with a smirk, “but not incorrect, Jeeves. I have a man, named Fong. He is experienced, but new to Seattle. He would be happy to assist you. However, he refuses to work with those he has not met,” she said as she produce a data-stick from somewhere in the complex structure of her hair, resting upon and woven with her horns like some bizarre pagoda of overwrought Wu Jen tradition. Whether or not the troll was actually Chinese, or just played up the incense master gimmick was a matter of debate. Her knack for knowing things, however, wasn't.

“The data-stick will give you relevant contact info. You need only text him. When the operation is finished, you may inform me, and I will see to it that payment and exchange are handled. Now, you two tend to your business. I need to finish preparing tomorrow's drink specials,” the troll stood up from the table, and moved towards the kitchen of the dive, as the blond man stood up as well.

“I'll see you after we've confirmed the merchandise is in our possession, Mr. Johnson.”

The orc nodded. “I suppose fake names are the rule, even if I'm known? Do your thing, Jeeves. I'll make sure you got enough Nuyen to make some waves, as per the contract with Oni.”

Jeeves gave a very small smile and slightly inclined forward. “Your earnestness is appreciated. I'll take it from here.” With that, the man dressed like a corporate flunky wandered up and out of the bar, tapping away and uploading the data to his comm-link.

--------------

Fong's 'pad', to put it politely, was a dump in Puyallup. Originally, years ago, it'd been some kind of a boxing gym. The sort of place that would've trained fighters and occasionally lent “talent” to local gangs for extra muscle.

Fong was by no means a trainer. He was an adept, but he wasn't known for taking on students, or doing much of anything other than winning the occasional local brawl. Still, this half-burned building, with some canvas on the floor, was better at keeping out the acid rain than some other parts of town, and if he'd been honest about it, there were fewer cash-cop patrols here. Not that there were any non-private cops in Seattle, mind you. Every officer on the beat was owned, either by Lone Errant, or some in-house corp security investigator with limited jurisdiction and a chip on their shoulder. Either way, the Barrens were better. Safer, at least until a little start-up cash could be had. Or the occasional fling with someone who had an actual bed.

Fong himself looked like a character from a bad action Trid. His outer robe was black and green, with small embroidered bits here and there. His beard—a rarity for an elf—was this white, wispy thing. He didn't look a day over twenty-five, but his hair and beard were white as clouds that were, well, not festooned with toxic sludge. His slacks were also black, but in that oh-so-futuristic hex pattern that was all the rage six years ago. Of course, anachronistic fashion added to his charm, if he was to be believed. His skin had a sort of ruddiness to it, with a few freckles on his arms on the rare occasions he rolled up his sleeves, or the less rare occasions he removed his shirt. His eyes seemed to always be cheerful, and he seemed to have a near permanent shit-eating grin.

While Fong sat, meditating with the stillness of a tree amongst the rubble, if a tree had been mildly hung-over. For in this moment, there was time, not only to reflect, but to transcend the limitations of the physical. To attune to the power of the mystical, and channel the raw energy of barrens into a heated, passionate wisdom. For in the chaos of this city, there a chance at enlightenment, and ascendance. Soon, he could move past the physical, and transcend the limitations of metahumanity to become something akin to a god. Something akin to a legend. A few more moments, and his meditation could afford him--

beeep-borp. Unknown caller. Beeeeep-borp. Uknown call--

The elf grabbed the phone. So much for seeking enlightenment in starvation. The monk sniggered to himself and answered the phone. “Only about eight people have this number. So, who has the universe added to my phone list?” His voice seemed cheery and slightly rehearsed, as if greeting a customer more than a person.

“Mr. Fong, I presume,” the sterner voice answered. “I'm a runner. Queen Oni believes you could assist me with a...mystical matter.”

A snicker. “Probably. I'm decent enough with magic. A bit out of practice as far as runs go. What details have you come to offer before the altar of my wisdom?” He said, a bit of dry cheesiness as a wry grin spread across his face. Half of the grin because he might have finally found some paying work, and half because he was likely enjoying teasing this man.

“Mr. Fong, my name is Jeeves. I will send you the details via comm.”

“Afraid my winning looks will reduce you to jelly? Fair enough,” the elf said with a chuckle. “Shoot me the details. I'll let you know if it's up my alley, and we'll meet up and talk shop. Happy to consider doing business with you, Jeeves.”

Jeeves simply made a severely noncommittal “Mmhmm” noise.

The elf smiled weakly. How did a guy scold you over the phone without a word? That was some talent. “Gotcha. Not the friend-making type. Still, I'll get back to you with a response after I'd had time to eye your dossier.”

“Very well. I expect to hear from you shortly, Mr. Fong. Time is not necessarily on our side.”

“Can and will handle it, my main man. Unless you're a lady with a voice modulator. Or a really dry accent. In that case, you do you!” The monk made a cheerful finger gun at a nearby rusted over turn-buckle, which did not seem to appreciate his plucky can-do attitude any more than the irascible well-dressed man on the other end of this conversation. Mr. Fong hung up and sighed. “Well, a deal's a deal. Let's see if this is worth it,” the elf said as he opened a message attachment. Big file.

The elf raised an eyebrow. “Client says they're missing a lost family heirloom, it's in a storage facility in a Horizon archive section for study...” he grunted. “Smash and grab, they probably just want some magic eyes to evade any para-security.....what are we grabbing, anyhow? Isn't Horizon into media production and PR? Does some local suit want to go antiquing....oh, there's the image. Oh. Shit. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeetttttttt.”

The elf stopped reading, typing back a text only comm message. “I'm in. I realize we haven't discussed payment, but I'm sure you'll come up with a fair rate. What has the client told you about this heirloom, and where are they from?”

“Not much. Just that it was taken and they want it back. Also, he's from New York, but tried to hide his accent. Why? What do you know about it?” The text came back.

“Not w/comms,” the elf said, typing with a finger while reading the dossier up and down intensely. “U kno Tasheem's Grub n'Gas? dive in Puyallup. Rough patch=secure.”

There was a long pause, were Jeeves was apparently typing something. However, after what was around five minutes of either hesitation or consistent revision, a third channel appeared.

Hel's Harpy has been added to the chat.

Mr. Fong's glorious white brows knitted together in a shape that would've made a numerologist blush if there had been one handy. Meh. Best to play it cool. “New party-goer? Groovy. We can meet at 7 tonight?”

He added coordinates to the chat.

Jeeves hesitated again and type something. “She insisted. She prefers to size you up herself.”

Mr. Fong sent an holo-ji of a disco-dancing elf. “Good. She can join our briefing party. I'll arrive early, ask the bouncer for Cloudy Fong. I have a usual spot at this point.”

Hel sent a holo-ji of a burning drumstick. “Order an appetizer, something spicy.”

“Please stop with the holo-ji's, I'm trying to avoid flashing lights right now.”

“Deal. 4 both,” Mr. Fong tapped out, still half-immersed in the dossier. So many details!

Hel sent an “image” made of text in the shape of a pouting ani-trid character. “Fine, but don't skip on the chilis. wierdo. I could use a good burn.”

---------------------------

Calling Tasheem's a 'rough patch' was the greatest proof that Fong still had either healthy optimism about Seattle, or a truly sick sense of humor. The place smelled like a mixture of a landfill, a barbecue restaurant, and an engine shop. The lean, cranky old cuss at the door glared over at Jeeves, and the stout, dour orc woman behind him.

If Jeeves was too clean and sharp and symmetrical and corporate, the Orc girl behind him was anything but. Her jacket seemed to be slapped together from a few dozen types of holographic projection suits and flex-screen systems, all alternating between desktop backgrounds and seemingly random advertisements. The colors kept alternating, making her large duster look like a robe of mutating stained glass, with a tank top that had the face of Marlon Brando made entirely out of mathematical symbols on under it. The irregular polygons of her jacket flickered as she produced an e-cig from her glowing jacket of obnoxious logos, which was at least marginally better than a trench-coat of dark obnoxious pathos. Her pants were simple fatigue cut, a sort of strange, shimmering metallic blue tint, almost glittery. She had something not entirely resembling a bird or a small squirrel on her shoulder. Her hair looked like a mix of dreadlocks and fiber optic cables, her eyes the sort of fake green color you expect to see on soda cans that keep you awake for twelve hours. Her tusks were both sharp and meticulously clean, given her smoking. The digital cigarette glowed briefly, and the orc exhaled a cloud of orange smoke, which smelled not entirely unlike undercooked tea and slightly aged tangerine zest.

Jeeves blinked, fidgeting with his cuff links. “We're here to see...” he said, attempting to be cordial, “Cloudy Fong.” he continued.

The cranky old biker with a chromed out arm and a bad attitude looked them over and nodded. “Don't cause trouble. We're over due for a shoot-out this week,” he muttered as he opened the door to the crappy faux-retro gas station.

The duo entered the den of random iniquity, the smell of beer, wings, and the occasional heavy cloud of drug smoke wafted through the air. The place seemed fairly quiet, save for a very, very drunk troll with an indeterminately European accent and a leather bustier singing....some ballad. It too drunk, too sluggish, and not in a language known to either of them.

Mr. Fong waved at the two of them, smiling. “Jeeves, Hel! How are you. Come over! I got us some fallout wings, and a few fried edamame poppers with mega-mozza sauce.” He munched on a popper and smirked.

Jeeves sat uncomfortably, and “Hel” sat on a barstool, staring down the white-haired man. “How the hell did you know it was us, Fong? I don't remember sending you any damn vacation photos,” she said bluntly.

Mr. Fong chuckled. “Because Jeeves moves almost as stiff as he chats on the phone. The only people wearing suits like his in this neighborhood are runners and slumming schmucks who are about to get mugged. Have a hot popper, they’re great. Fried smoke pepper stuff and other stuff, battered in cheese and beer and stuff. Totally good soy junk! And please, it’s Mr. Fong.” He said with a smirk.

Hel plucked an appetizer, and continued staring into Mr. Fong as she ate it. “So, you're the mage? No offense, chummer, but you don't look like a shaman. You look like some wage-slave with a bad golf swing.”

Mr. Fong shrugged. “I'm a mystical kung-fu master—and my swing is great, if you ask my exes. The illustrious Mr. Fong, at your service. Now, let's enjoy the show.” Mr. Fong smiled as he watched the woman at microphone, humming along to the tune of the music, muttering the lyrics that were clearly not being sung by the woman, or otherwise visible.

“How can you understand her singing?”

“I can't,” Mr. Fong out, tapping the side of his head, “but I can see her emotions. I assense the performer, and read what the song means to her as she sings it. It's good practice. Plus, Karaoke isn't about what you sound like, it's about your heart.” He nibbled on a “chicken fallout” wing.

The troll concluded her solo, and Mr. Fong smiled and wiped his eye. “Wow. She really loved the one she was singing about. How sweet,” he said with a smile. “Okay, so let's talk about your package.”

Hel choked on the wing she was eating. “Damn, and we haven't even ordered a entree yet. You always this flirty, skinny?”

Jeeves grunted. “Please try to keep it together. Is this location...secure?”

Mr. Fong shook his head. “Better, it's full of angry drunk go-gangers who don't care about anything unless I'm buying. Anyhow, your box” The orc snickered again-- “is the container of some very primo merch. An album,” he said with a smirk. “The only one of its kind. 'Once upon a time in Shaolin.' Originally made by the Wu-Tang clan.”

“Some sort of magic cult?” Jeeves asked, a blond eyebrow arching in a rare moment of facial expression for the taciturn drone.

“A rap group, around in the early 1990′s and late 2000′s,” he said with a slight wave of his hands. “It was printed as a one-time exclusive, then sold to the highest bidder, who leaked the tracks publicly, destroying the supposed rarity of the album. Millions of dollars, spent on a folly,” he clasped his hands together as if to demonstrate a hammer hitting nothing of importance.

“Why does this matter?” Jeeves inquired. “It's an interesting piece of music history. Why would we need an adept to find it? Why would we need magic?”

Fong grinned. “The Wu-tang were obsessed with kung-fu and eastern mysticism. Their name is based on the traditions of Wu-Tang and Shaolin kung-fu story gimmicks. And Rumor is, they weren't making all of it up. There's some folks out there who believe that not every track was released, and the physical copy has hidden connections to sixth-world knowledge. I'd bet some good nuyen that our collector believes there's some mojo involved as well,” he said.

Jeeves seemed unimpressed by the revelation. “So, our client believes that Horizon has an actual magic album form before the start of the sixth world, and that we can acquire it? How could there have even been mages before the awakening?”

The orc with a not-parrot on her shoulder shook her head as her coast turned slightly more violet. “Orcs and trolls didn't appear all at once with friggin' fanfare, it was over the course of a few years. Why wouldn't magic do that, too? A dribble before the gods-damned monsoon of insanity?”

Fong nodded. “Or, ancient rituals which were of no value then, but now, are far greater. If the album has hidden data or tracks, it could lead to something major. Or a wild goose-chase.”

Jeeves stared at Fong as if an explanation was forthcoming.

Fong smiled warmly. “I understand your skepticism,” he said as he ate another wing. “However, the true power of wisdom comes from knowing all possible truths, so we are not trapped in denial when the right one presents itself,” he said, doing his best to sound sagely. After all, Martial Mystique was always in demand. “The main reason these rumors are given such weight is that of the leaked tracks, there are a total of twenty-six tracks. However, most stories have thirty-five, or thirty-six, chambers of Shaolin. In addition, the guy who leaked them, a Pharmaceutical bigwig, was known for leading people on, being a smug little ass, and price-fixing critical medications. A real piece of work. So, it's fully possible there was another disc, with ten tracks, that nobody acknowledged, and he lied about the existence of to be a jack-ass.”

Fong stroked his beard, attempting to look thoughtful. “The reason your buyer believes such things, is that he may be of a sect tat teaches of the way of Wu Tang, or Wudang. Focus on a form of Tai Chi and pray to spirits of wealth and criminal debauchery—religion for and by runners, based in New York. And if our buyer is right, the relic matters. If our buyer is wrong, than it's a truly expensive paperweight. However, now you why I'm considered necessary.”

Jeeves nodded.

Hel took a puff of her electronic smoke and sighed. “New question: You didn't learn all this shit yesterday on a vision quest. Why the hell do you know so much about it?”

Fong smiled. “I'm well-read on weird martial traditions, even the ones I've never dealt with. Never know how's gonna be chasing me with a scimitar, Best to plan for it, though.”

Hel stared. “You normally got a drekking lie that ahlf-assed in your pocket, or is it a fire sale on bullshit today?”

Mr. Fong shrugged. “Yeah, I've dealt with the Wu before. If our buyer's with them, than it's a big deal. They talk about recovering it all the time.”

“Dealt with how?” Jeeves said, his tone pointed for the first time in this casual dining environment.

“Not important. That having been said, I'm not meeting your Johnson. I'm helping you get the goods, legit or not. If you want to use this info to up your price, that's on you. Personally, though, I want them to have it. If it's the real deal...well, that'll be far from dull, to say the least,” the elf mused, suddenly wincing.

Hel blinked. “You okay? Having a hard time keeping your weirdness down, Fong?”

“Nuclear fallout sauce...from wings...in eye...bathroom!” Mr. Fong bolted with the kind of speed usually reserved for mutant cyber-ninjas in bad Wuxia trideo releases. For a brief moment, he was like the wind. Then he was gone. Then a series of expletives in Mandarin were bellowed from the bathroom.

Jeeves nodded to Hel, opening a silent comm channel.

Your thoughts?

He's slick, but he wasn't lying, the Orc contributed. We keep him in. For now, at least.And if he screws us, we ventilate him.

Understood. Jeeves always was one for brevity. Polite, brief, clean—more like a surgeon than a runner.

The elf walked back, face slightly wetter, smiling warmly, his eyes closed. “Okay, so I'm sure you guys finished talking about me while I wasn't here. What's the verdict? Slot, Marry or Kill?”

Hel snickered again. “Hire. For now. And if you screw up, you have to deal with whatever consequences happen.”

Mr. Fong grinned. “Threats and bribes, all at once? Be still my beating heart. Anyway, thanks for sticking around for the time being. Next time, we'll meet at a place of your convenience. How soon do we want to make our move on this?”

Jeeves nodded. Finally, business. “Tomorrow night.”

Mr. Fong nodded. “Good. Enough time to say my prayers and focus my chakras. Give me a tiem to met you tomorrow, and we'll run this little party. Until then, I've got a date with the moon,” Fong let out with a shrug. “Also, if we do any victory celebrations, you guys will buy. I'm not gonna have much until we get paid. Last couple of nu-yen went to my appetizer platter here.”

“How dire of straits were you in, Fong?” Jeeves seemed rather blunt. “Seems odd to gamble your last bit of cred on a job interview.”

Mr. Fong shrugged. “When you're as awesome as I am, you learn to throw all your chips on the table when it counts. And if you dislike that lie, I have others,” he said as he slowly rose from the table, folding his hands into his sleeves dramatically. “See you tomorrow. If you'll excuse me, I need to prepare to aid you.”

Hel shook her head, still smiling. “I can't tell if you're a fucking idiot or a damn genius, elf boy.”

Fong cocked his head to the side, the picture of innocence. “I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. But please, stick to Mr. Fong. Elf-boy sounds like some sort of jab at my metatype, when so many other things exist to be criticized,” he said with a wink. “Like my fashion sense, or inability to remember who I'm supposed to be flirting with,” he said with a laugh. “Okay, going for real now. See you tomorrow, bring your best weapons and schemes.”

Hel shrugged. “Does anything bother that guy? Buddha on a god-damned stick.”

Jeeves shook his head. “Maybe you should wait until we work with him a few times before you decide to use your winning personality, Hel.”

Hel shook her head. “And you'd know, Mr. walking stiff? Neither of us are people...people,” she said with a grunt. “Pretty-boy is, though. Might be nice to have someone working with us on the regular who's that friggin' chill under fire, if he isn't a total drekhead.”

Jeeves chuckled. “You almost sound like you like toying with him. Still, our operation could use a few more hands. We'll treat this as an audition, then,” the blonde man sighed, adjusting his glasses. “Even if he is just a fool, he might be useful.”

Outside, Mr. Fong kept walking. This could work. And if that box was actually holding the lost manual of the Wu-tang, then...well, that'd be worth exploring after they got their hands on it. Still, letting the Nu Wu get the manual would tips the scales in Manhattan, and that'd be a hell of a thing. But hey, the Wu weren't the worst people to take over the New York underworld, by any stretch. Hell, The Rotten Apple was so corporate, odds are the album would end up starting a whole new shadow-war over there. Mr. Fong smirked, looking up at the moon. “Huh. I think they actually liked me. That's nice. A new crew....would be nice.”

For now, it was time to rest, and prepare. Tomorrow night, would be a hell of a ride.

#shadowrun #mike is writing #short story #fiction #fanfiction #oc's #Seattle #wu tang #kung-fu #kung-fu-riffic #Matrix stuff #magic #cyberpunk #screwing around #I blame you #damnit amy

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