(c) Cameron W. Rogers, 1994. All Rights (in all media) Reserved. RESIDUE ======= TIME: 0000 Hours. DATE: 01/01/2020 New Years Eve. You're in your flop on the northern fringe of the Night City Combat Zone. The room is dark, lit only with the vaguest of opalescent striations from the broken blinds that hang awkwardly over the square hole in the wall you call a window. You lie here, almost mesmerised by the slow drip of water through the plaster on the roof. Beside you on this foam slab lies Svetlana. She used to be a government paid actress for propaganda films back in the SovBlock. Before she migrated here and started living in places like this. Before she met you. Svetlana is so innocent, so naive, it makes you wonder how she managed to survive this long. You guess being a drop-dead beauty has a lot to do with it. Basic male CZ attitude. Dont kill it if you can screw it. Course you know a lot of CZoners who would argue with this, too. She's asleep now. Dreaming about someplace else. You dont know why you keep her. You dont need her. She's slow, she's weak, and she blindly accepts anything you say or do. In the back of your mind, a part that rarely sees daylight, you know why: Svetlana represents your last chance at being a functioning human being. She's the only human thing left in your life. She is your mind's last attempt to save itself from the Machine. When she goes, Wilson Crombie goes with her; all that'll be left is a thin tracery of something that used to be Wilson Crombie. Nothing tangible, just a reminder; a memory; a place where a human being used to be. Residue. That's all you are now. The arm flexes; servos whine and a great, lubricant- slick piston pulls back with a subdued, hissing complaint as you pull your sweater over your head, down over the dull sheen of your metal torso. You were proud of your meat-body once. You put a lot of work into it. Now you wonder what all the fuss was about. The man you are now could tear the man you were limb from limb and not break a sweat. The magic of the Machine. It's good to be alive. You need money. You tell yourself it's to buy food, to keep Svetlana happy. Thats what people do. You're people... a person. So that's what you'll do. Earn a wage. To buy food. You're lying. The Machine wants to be whole. It's got a body now, and a strong,powerful arm (a Soviet knockoff of the design used by the Moscow Spetsnaz),but it needs to be whole. Legs, eyes, a means to defend itself. You head north, wondering what Svetlana likes to eat. You suppose you knew once. There is a guy at the Slammer by the name of Slick Leroy Jones. Slick Leroy likes his name, even though he's Japanese and cant speak English for shit. "Hey my man!", he screams above the speedmetal. "You be plenty lucky my man! Slickie chickie be lookin' fo' yo' bod!" The Machine would like to kill Leroy. He is a dickhead. You move through the crowd to the bar. You notice people moving away quickly from your left hand side. The Machine gets respect. The Slammer is a booster bar on the Upper East Side, near the harbour. It plays mainly hard core punk and some speedmetal. Tonight there's a live band behind the razorwire: Napalm Feeder. The place is fairly sedate tonight. No brawls, no shootings. You imagine it'll pick up later though. You get to the bar. Leroy lounges there in jeans and a band shirt, trying to look like part of the crowd. His black hair is done like a goddamn powder puff which he flicks back and plays with three 3 inch nails. "What do you mean?", you ask. You hate talking to people like this. "Slickie chickie my man. Built, like _stacked_. You know?" He does this thing with his hands like watermelons are growing on his chest. "Who is she?" "Wants _you_, my man!" He sits back and grins, wedging a toothpick between his teeth. The Machine almost acts out a fantasy. "Where is she?" Leroy jerks a thumb and you're moving. Leroy's right. She looks good, but totally out of place. Anybody who has the audacity to walk into a pit like the Slammer in a suit either has plenty of balls or absolutely no brains. As you get closer you see two gangboys sprawled out on the sawdust floor at her feet. You go with balls. She sees you coming and acknowledges you with a nod. "Have a seat, Crombie." _Crombie_. Somehow it's like a breath of fresh air. The arm grabs a seat and spins it round. You straddle it. "Dont talk,", she says. "Just listen. My name's Kestral. Ive been a wetworks op for the last decade and my CV's longer than you'd believe. To cut a long story short Im sick of working, and Im sick of killing strangers for a living. But I still gotta make a living so Ive got a deal for you. Me and a few friends are starting a co-operative, a loose organisation of professionals. We find work for you, provide backup,insurance and so on, and in return we net a 20% cut of whatever you make. "I have no love of the corporations and have been jerked around and done over by them enough to make me never work for them ever again. With our syndicate running as blocker for you, it gives you some kind of insurance against that ever happening to you. "To begin with we can offer you a month's medical coverage, and a limited network of backup operatives. It's a fledgeling organisation,but we hope to be operating in force before the end of the year. "We have a job going for someone with your qualifications at the moment, if you're interested. Simple courier mission really. Pays about $4000. "Im also planning to have a 'Runner going blocker for you, maybe someone else as backup. Depends how our little recruiting drive goes. "So, what do you say Crombie? Four-grand, in the hand. Minus $800 for us, of course." It is cash. Kestral watches you think. She's got blonde hair cut military-style, and those spiked gloves really clash with the suit. Just your type really. Then, before you can give your reply, there is the muffled sound of gunfire from outside the main door of the club and one of the bouncers comes staggering in, clutching the right side of his chest. Then a group of figures burst in, waving guns and screaming. Yellow and black leather. Piranhas. "Friends of yours?", Kestral asks. There are four. Average build, probably kevlared. All are carrying pumpguns. The eye kicks in and the room plunges into black, every human being now nothing more than a roiling collection of reds, yellows and oranges. In some places the hot colours change to blues. Cyberwear. One of the gangers has an arm. That's about the only severe stuff they have. The scene switches back to normal Hi-Res vision, then you switch to targeting and the Colt comes online; waiting for you to give the word. "Everybody shut up!!", one of them screams. A woman with short, curly hair dyed yellow. "We want Suds! Where are you Joliet?" Suds Joliet runs the place. You havent seen him. There are about 15 people in here at the moment. You can see Leroy sitting frozen, a cheap beer in one hand. Suds has always done right by you. He could be out the back. The entrance area is slightly raised with the four Piranhas spaced out evenly on it. Four pillars support the roof through out the room. You are on the far side of the room from the gang. There is a glass window behind you that looks out over the harbour. The bar is ten meters to your right. There is a wide room filled with steel tables and chairs between you and them, some with people at them. About 40 meters in all. The gangers look ready to pop someone if someone doesnt speak up. Leroy does. "S. . . Suds is out back, homies!" The yellow haired woman grins. "Thanks. . . 'homie'." And raises the shotgun. It's your move. The woman with the yellow hair raises the short-stocked pumpgun and levels it at Leroy, who lets out a short shriek and scrambles up against the bar, trying to flip himself over it. Your gun comes online, the target sight sweeping across the floor and up the body of the Piranha with the arm. It's always the same when the booster kicks in. You dont speed up, everyone else just freezes in their tracks. By the time the Piranha with the arm has seen the ruby flash of the laser sight, a .454 caliber slug has destroyed the right side of his head and thrown him up against the wall. Yellow Hair has time to gasp before the Colt fires three times more. One slug strikes her in the left knee. She stumbles, but doesnt fall. Whatever she's wearing seems to be pretty resilient. The second shot strikes her in the groin and she staggers backward. The third shot strikes her in the same place. She's down and bleeding. You decide to squeeze off one more shot and catch the third Piranha, a kid with red hair, in the right shin. The leg breaks apart just below the knee and the kid drops like a sack of cement. The remaining piranha, a Chinese girl with ratty blonde hair, looks at you and makes a decision. She's out the door. 3.3 seconds. 5 shell casings on the floor. 2 dead. 1 wounded. People go back to their drinks. Kestral visibly relaxes as you reholster the gun, 19 shells left in the clip. "You're fast.", she says. "I like that. In fact, I like it too much to waste it on any dinky courier mission. Ive got something a little more credible lined up that I was thinking of saving for myself, but then I think you'll fit the bill just nicely. "I tell you what. Why dont you have a drink on me and we'll wait for the others to show. When they do, I'll outline the plan for you, and if you like it, it's yours." "Only if you lower the cut.", you say. Kestral is silent for a moment. "How much were you thinking, exactly?" On the other side of the room, a couple of the barstaff have started clearing away the bodies. Yellow Hair starts screaming when she's moved and she gets slugged out. "10 percent.", your voice a dark mumble. More silence. "That's quite a hunk." You give a subdued nod. "Im quite a guy." "But not worth the price. There's a million like you out there. And you need the work more than I need you. The way I see it, you dont have a choice. Just wait til the others get here, then hear me out. You dont like it,you can leave." A knot is forming in your gut. You know she's right. The Machine needs itself. And that costs money. You yell an order and the drink is there inside of a minute. The Machine gets respect. TIME 0030 Hours Fifteen minutes later a skinny guy dressed in urban cammo walks through the door. Kestral motions him over. He's South American or something, so that long blue hair just doesnt gel. You can tell he's looking at you. Looking at the Arm. "Slam", Kestral says. "This is Residue. You two will be working together." You turn and look at him, kicking in the targeting scope for effect. "'Allo.", you say. Kestral lays out the plan for you, without giving too much away. "The deal is this. Me and a few friends have formed a partnership. We're in the business of hiring out talent, like yourselves. In return for finding you work the organisation gets a 20% cut. We have a small fund at present to cover your medical expenses and so on. TTI coverage is standard. Now, I have a job lined up that should be just right for the proper mix of brains and unleashed violence. It involves a little personnel retrieval for the World News Service. I estimate the run to take anywhere between a day and a week. If you pull this off WNS has agreed to cough up a reward to the extent of $8000 for each of you, $4000 for the organsiation. "Now, our rates are not subject to negotiation and," she says looking pointedly at Slam. "as your friend Residue here knows, our rates are not open to negotiation. Wage increases and so forth will be granted once your standing within the syndicate has been field proven. "It's a simple snatch 'n grab boys. Do you want it or not?" You have sat. You have listened. You have played with your yo-yo. The guy next to you, Slam, is pretty quiet. Seems to be listening intently. Kestral finishes laying it out, and now he speaks up. Trying to play the businessman. "Lady, if I'm gonna be working for you I'll need a little in advance. To cover expenses, you understand. The software I'm running right now wouldn't cut butter, you know what I'm saying? I need something seriously technical,and maybe a roomsweeper to back up the meatside. Now, considering that I dont know you", he risks a sidelong glance in your direction. "Or your little playmate here, I do not consider that to be an unreasonable request. In short, you get what you pay for." He looks around the room, then dead-back at her. "What are you willing to pay for, lady?" Kestral eyes him levelly. You just fiddle with your yo- yo. Like you're pulling the wings off a fly. She is about to speak, when you take the opportunity to state your case. You want an advance. "Me too." Kestral now looks at you both. "Look boys, the standard advance is $1500 and that's what you'll get. No more, no less. And if any of you get it into your heads to bombshell with the cash, I feel it only fair to let you know that you will be making enemies of people who used to kill Peruvian mountain geurillas with nothing more than fingernails and a grin. You read me?" Slam sounds strangled. Lady must have scared him. "Sure." You snort and go back to the yo-yo. "Then that's all. You'll find the money in your accounts. The job itself is fairly standard. The World News Service has a member of its personnel that's gone missing. They want him back. It's that simple. His name is Ranier. Jean Ranier. Maybe you've heard of him. He's a WNS field agent,done a few big stories over the years." You know the name. One of the local star reporters. (continued) ... yet I cannot scream for I have no voice... From: Coyote@f201.n640.z3.fidonet.org (Coyote) Date: 13 Dec 94 15:06:02 Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo Subject: Residue (2) (c) Cameron W. Rogers, 1994. All Rights (in all media) Reserved. RESIDUE ======= Kestral reaches inside her jacket and pulls out a manilla envelope. She opens it and slides 2 photos across the table, 1 for each of you. Basically it's just a a black and white blowup of the guy. Good looking, mid-thirties. That's him alright. "You're to report to WNS tower in Corporate Plaza tomorrow morning at 8 am, sharp. They'll have someone there to fully debrief you and let you go through his things. And try to dress appropriately, hmm?" She makes a pointed look at you and that radiation logo sweater of yours. She looks at her watch. "I have to get going. Before I leave, is there anything you need to know?" The kid starts talking again. "Yeah. What happened out the front there?" He jerks a thumb over to the brain- splattered doorway. The one the TTI crew is exiting through. You smile a little, but no one sees you. 3.3 seconds. Never even got out of your goddamned chair. You feel her looking at you, and wonder if Svetlana's worth it. "Your friend here gave me an impromptu display of his ability under stress. Not too bad either." Then she looks back to the kid, all business. "So, you'll take it?" "Sure.", he says. She looks at you. "What about you, Wilson?" _Wilson. . ._ Your mother used to call you that. Back when having a mother mattered. You look at her from under that blonde-indigo fringe, then stand, trying to force your mother's face and voice from rebounding around inside your head, her name ricocheting off the walls of your skull. The hand unfurls with an audible hydraulic hiss and the yo-yo drops,suspended by string. The hand gives a servo whine as it jerks almost imperceptibly and the yo-yo rolls back up. "Yeah. I'll do it." And you walk out of the bar. The hall outside is cooler than the body heat of the Slammer. 2 guys in dusters brush past you, headed for the bar. Crewcut blonde beefcakes in corporate issue T-shirts and jeans. Even without the Thermograph you can tell they're carrying shotguns under the coats. Militech Crushers. Dinky as scatterguns go, but could do some serious damage to someone at close enough range. You watch them head down the narrow hall. They seem preoccuppied with getting their weapons to sit right beneath their coats, so they dont see Slam's face in the small, plexiglass window that rests in the centre of the doorway. And because they dont see his face, they dont see the undeniable expression of stunned horror that immediately settles upon it. You see him spin, scanning the barroom for a way out. The gunmen are 8 feet from the door and closing. Do you care? TIME: 0055 Hours DATE: 01/01/2020 In the dusty hallway you watch the two men head for the door, the muffled thudding of speedmetal still audible as a pattern of bass throbbing through the reinforced metal door. You size them up, clicking from Thermograph (world flashes black, two amorphous heat blotches writhing in your vision) to targeting (11.4 meters to target, Land Speed: 0.9 kmph). If you're quiet you could do that kid a favour and waste 'em right here. The only other person in the hall is Tiny, the bouncer by the grill at the entranceway, about 10 meters further away. You dont think he'd care if you popped a coupla strangers. Particularly strangers as clean and nice looking as these boys. A decision is made and the pistol whipped from the back of your jeans. The laser sight kicks in at the press of a thumb stud, a solid ruby beam flashing out to lock onto the rear guy's head. Something must have clicked for him, 'cos he turns, eyes wide as he screams to his partner. "Shooter!" The Machine curses you for thinking like a vegetable. The two ronin spin in the corridor, bending at the knees as coats pirhouette wide, revealing their scatterguns held fast in velcroed breakaway holsters. But it's not the scatterguns they go for. Reflexively their hands lash for the bulky looking automatics holstered beneath their left armpits and draw them out in the blink of an eye, pre-smarted at the cuff, twin beams of laser light flashing out to slash up the hallway murk with their dancing incarnadine glow. And they fire. The first one gets anxious and looses a shot into the wall a few feet away from you. The second one actually manages to get his scope centered before firing, and a slug slams into the Arm with a pyrotechnic eruption of sparks, and a dying, echoing whine. Heh. Now they notice the gleam beneath the sweater, and their faces drop. You love it when that happens. The gun kicks three times. The first guy's head is reduced to a torrent as he's thrown back, slack bodied, to slump awkwardly to the floor, laser-light waving spastically. You swing the Armalite toward the second one and fire, a slug striking him in the left hand, shattering it. He retains a hold on his weapon,desperately trying to bring it to bear as you release another. The second shot slams into the region of his left pectoral and sends him staggering back as a bloodless hole is ripped in the front of his coat. You're getting mad. He should be down by now. Another half-second and he'll manage a shot. He does. The shot deflects from the rim of your gun, forcing a flash of sparks up into your eyes. Before you know what's happened you've dropped the gun and he's firing. He fires twice. The first slams full into the left side of your chest. A sizeable hole is ripped into the fabric of your sweater, and a small, lightly smoking char mark is left on your chestplate. You're getting mad. The guy turns and runs into the Slammer as you stoop to pick up your gun and decide to cut your losses. Let the kid take care of himself. Then the whole hallway turns into a shrieking, blazing tunnel filled with the unmistakable whine of flying lead as every single individual in the Slammer opens up on the poor schmuck who just opened the door. You hurl yourself to the ground as a handful of flying metal shrieks past your head and chews into the plasterwork all around. Your ears are ringing and the lead just keeps on coming. After a while you're sure you've gone totally deaf. Then, after a seeming eternity, all goes quiet. Blue smoke roils all around you and the air is thick with the pungent odour of cordite. You check yourself. You took a succession of hits to the back, none of which penetrated your torso plate. Carefully, cautiously, you pick yourself up and hobble out the door. You forget using the wall for support after it caves in at first touch. And you dont even bother to look behind you. You know there'll be nothing left to see. Your gang, Maelstrom, have a patch of turf in Old Downtown that covers three blocks. You live in the Zone cos you know that sooner or later the Solo community you share the turf with is gonna get pissed and try to kick you out. You dont wanna be asleep in the middle of it when that happens. You stride out the front door of the Slammer, bound for the alleyway between Meadowcreek Pines (a crapped out apartment complex) and Guevarra's (a Mexican restaurant. A coupla ex-CIA agents deal weapons out the back door. Your buddies were planning on making a buy tonight). This block is just south of McCartney Stadium. You walk the 12 blocks to Guevarra's, strangely unmolested by the Night City wildlife. You are walking across the massive, flat expanse of the Stadium's gigantic open air carpark (listening to the arm go through a test-sequence, flexing fingers, servos clicking) when you see the light of a barrel-fire, and your buddies gathered around it. You stride up to them, a broad-shouldered negro named Flatbed slams you in the shoulder. A typical greeting. You do likewise. "Decided to hang with us tonight, huh?" You nod, fixated by the flame dancing in old fuel drum. "You seen Svet'?", you ask. You know the others are looking at each other. Not obviously. It's a ripple that passes almost telepathically. They've been wondering for a while now, wondering why you're still with her. Wondering if you've lost your touch. Anyone else would have passed her around and dumped her by now. Possibly hospitalised her. "Yeah. She's over at Golden State with Viz." Flatbed gestures with a worn looking open-frame cyberarm. Golden State is a rundown dive where the local boosters hock whatever trinkets they've managed to lift from those they've smoked. You can find almost anything in there, if you know where to look. As your gaze wanders over to the single-story building wedged between Guevarra's and the apartments, you can see her walking out the door with Viz. Viz is a Mexican. Ex-border trooper for a government long since replaced. Sort of lost the plot after immigration caught her and deported her, which meant she got sent to a string of women's camps along the Venezualan border, planting shit for the government. Apparently she was raped something like four hundred times by about fifty different guards that toured through the place at three month intervals. She finally got out, though. "Hey, punjeho.", Viz slams Flatbed in the back. "I got it. See?" Viz holds up her prize: a holographic keyring bearing the visage of the Right Reverend L. John Wayne, Televangelist Extrodanaire. Viz watches him all the time through store windows. That guy makes more cash in one day through donations from whitebrained people like Viz than you do through a year of robberies. You'll never understand it. Every second thing Viz says has something to do with L. John Wayne and what he says about this and that. You put it out of your head as you feel Svetlana slip her hand around your waist, approaching from the meat-side, as always. "Dont question it.", she murmurs. "She's happy with it and that's all that counts." Whenever she talks like that, you feel your eyes sting, occasionally water, and you dont know why. It's dark. There is the night, there is the fire, and there is your gang. Over the licking of the flames, and the occasional whirr of a servo, you can hear Viz sigh. The night was a calm one, with nothing untoward happening. Viz walks with you and Svet back into the Zone. She still dresses like a goddamn geurilla, does Viz. Cammo pants, khaki singlet, stomper boots, red bandanna, spiked up crew cut. Of course now she's got that gold hoop through her eyebrow but other than that you dont think she's ever left Mexico behind. TIME: 0755 DATE: 01/01/2020 Like any modern metropolis, Night City is always in a state of flux. Over the years, most neighborhoods and districts wend their way through a tortuous cycle, alternating between fashion and disrepair. But one area stands as an exception. It is all landscaped plazas and sculpted architecture. There are no cracks in the sidewalks, the streetlights always work, and there is always a police officer on duty, even if he doesnt draw his salary from City Hall. From these wide, orderly streets rise skyscrapers, lofty and serene in the early morning light, seperate from the chaos that is most of the urban ground level, spearing daggerlike through the grey smog above. Welcome to Corporate Center. The battered cab winds it's way into this hub of towering concrete and mirrored glass, like a beetle moving among a herd of sleeping elephants. You get no further than a half block when a squad car bearing the distinctive IBM logo approaches. You notice the tracking railguns on the side of the IBM bulding to your right and the machineguns from Raven Microcyb to your left all casually swing to bear on your puny little vehicle. The two corporate cops in the squad car hail your cabbie to a stop and demand to know what your business is in here. The Machine grinds its teeth and explains that you've got a job with WNS, stroking the butt of your gun. There is a delay as they check your story with their vehicle computer. The passenger side door of the security car opens and a guard in black and white composite armor gets out, a large, particularly Russian looking weapon held in white-gloved hands. He peers down at you through a shaded visor. "You got ID?" You don't. "I have to be there by 8. I'm freelancing on a short-term for WNS, arranged through a middleman named Kestral. Check it out, then leave." He looks from you to your cabbie, a rather pudgy immigrant who is, by now, sweating copiously. The cop looks back to you. "Come with me." He opens the door. "Hey. That'll be $45, pal.", the cabbie says. You get out and toss a few crumpled notes onto the worn vinyl of the back seat. Then you follow the cop back to his car, amazed that he's turned his back on you. The only thing stopping you from popping these plateheads is your location. Security Central. The lair of the Enemy. Instinct over Anger. He opens the rear door for you and you get in. You ain't never been in no squad car like this before. It's cool, it's clean, the upholstery is in one piece. . . it's even got an ashtray for chrissakes. You are seperated from the 2 cops by a mesh grille and a plate of bullet-resistant plasteel. "We're taking you into holding until your story can be properly verified. In the event of no provable right being evident you will be kept indefinitely, pending trial by automated jury for corporate trespass. Do you have anything to say at this time?" Half an hour ago you were on your face in the Zone. You don't say anything. God those buildings are big. TIME: 0805 DATE: 01/01/2020 Your holding cell door hisses open and 2 more IBM cops lead you out. You are led to some kind of bizarre militant secretarial pool and stopped in front of a large monitor. The monitor shows a studious faced red-head maybe 45. She looks to her left and the view changes. Kestral comes into view. "Yeah, that's him. Sorry about this. Standard security procedure I'm afraid. I did tell you to wear something a little more appropriate." She looks to her right, presumably to the red-head. "Blade Syndicate accepts full responsibility for this individual." The screen turns to static before going dead. One of the cops leads you by the arm and out into the central plaza. "Okay. You want the sort of small rectangular building on the exact opposite side of this plaza, okay? You cant miss it: white stone, black windows. It's got a WNS sign in the upper left corner of it. Go straight to the building and do not deviate from the road. IBM accepts no responsibility for any injury occurred through unlawful trespass on neighbouring grounds. Is everything I have just explained clear to you?" You nod mutely, wondering if his mother used to mix steroids with his raisin bran as a kid. ... Reality is not a fun place to be. From: Coyote@f201.n640.z3.fidonet.org (Coyote) Date: 13 Dec 94 15:29:34 Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo Subject: Residue (3) (c) Cameron W. Rogers, 1994. All Rights (in all media) Reserved. RESIDUE ======= You walk around the concourse to the flipside of the plaza. There's the building, just like robo-goon described it. You move across the lawn wondering how the receptionist is going to handle your machete. WNS security is at the door, as well as patrols roving the grounds. You move past the guards and into the massive expanse of the reception area. It's all laid out in hideously expensive looking Italian marble. The receptionist is on the very far side of the room, behind a gold-gilded, marble reception area. About thirty meters ahead, and against the left wall (all of which is black glass) is a news stand run by some smiling old guy. Looking at him you kind of get the impression he was told to smile or he'd be shot. So he's smiling. Beside this is a double pair of glass doors with gold push-handles. Lettering on the doors read WNS COMPANY SHOP, which apparently sells all the latest newsfaxes, screamsheets and newsdeck downloads. Fascinating. They also sell coffee and bagels at "prices you wont believe". The receptionist stands there, smiling, smiling, smiling and says: "Are you sure you have the right building?" You smile back at her and say: "Yes. I'm expected." and place the machete on the countertop for effect. It seems to do the trick. "Name please?", she asks, voice cracking slightly. You widen the smile. "Residue." You are instructed to enter the elevator bays to your right. The receptionist does the rest, ferrying you up to floor 33. The News Pit. The doors *ding* open on a sprawling den of desks, paper, computer terminals and reporters screaming at each other. there is a huge videoboard dominating the opposite wall, displaying clips of the latest news footage from such garden spots as Honduras and Bora Bora, flashing occasionally to layouts of satellite uplinks to receiver stations around the world. Waiting for you is the studious faced red-head in a grim looking suit. Reminds you of the old hag who taught you Euro History back in the Merrill, Akusaga & Finch arcology in Liverpool, just before your family bombed and hit the roads. "'Residue', is it?", her voice all disdain. Trace of an accent. Polish. She looks you over. "I've seen worse. You at least could pass for some kind of war correspondent", gesturing to the cammo. "With a haircut maybe. Your friend's late. Where is he?" You're about to say you have no idea, when you hear the elevator chime. TIME: 0815 Hours. DATE: 01/01/2020 The red-head, who's name turns out to be Markowicz, leads you to her office, away from the noise and chaos of the Pit. The office is basically a fogged glass box in the corner of the room, but it dims the sound somewhat. "Take a seat, gentlemen." She crosses to behind her desk. Slam pulls up a seat, while you backtrack and lean against the door. Markowicz seems diffident. "Now, as Ms. Kestral no doubt informed you, we have a member of our personnel missing. The standard amount WNS is willing to pay for the return of an absent employee is 10% of his total net worth, no more. In this case it is $20,000, $4000 of which goes to the business of Ms. Kestral and her friends. You both have photographs of Mr. Ranier. We at WNS feel that he was onto something just prior to his disappearance. If he did have anything, we want that as well. Theft, copying, duplication, sale, transmission or any action whatsoever which fails to result in the World News Service being the sole owner of said material will result in a law suit being filed against you, with a view to the maximum possible penalty for both data theft and breach of contract. Now, with that in mind I would like you to return Mr. Ranier to the WNS stable, post haste. "Im not really sure what I can tell you to help you find him, so I'll simply give you what we have. All of our operatives have a partner, a 'backup', if you will. These are almost always less experienced than the agent himself, but it's a good way to get stringers the experience they need. Jean's partner was a Korean lad nicknamed Tank. His real name eludes me. I believe he's out in the Pit at the moment if you wish to speak to him. "Jean also had a Netrunner as backup, down in the sublevel Dispatch pit. They call her Skyhigh. Dark woman. African, I think. Never had much cause to talk to her personally. "He was one of our better agents. He reported to me directly with whatever he was working on, but lately his behaviour had become more and more erratic. The other workers are inclined to put it down to the eccentricity of a born journalisitic genius. I was inclined to call it bullshit. Ranier was a self-indulgent little prick who too often got his way by pretending he was indispensable. I needed results from the man and he was going down fast. I suspected drug use, but never raised the issue. Never had a chance, before he disappeared." She folds her hands in front of her, collecting her thoughts. "His paranoia was peaking, he was terrified that he had made so many enemies over the years that it was just a matter of time before they, or one of their friends or family finally got him. He was unravelling at an amazing rate. He even kept a small missile-launcher in his camera for the love of God. I seriously think he needs help." At this point there is a knock at the office door. You stand aside and a young, dark-skinned boy bursts in, panting. "Ms. Markowicz. . ." He stops short, seeing the company in the room. "Speak up, Frank. What is it?" "Uh. . . it's Mr. Ranier, Ms. Markowicz. They found his van. In an alley behind the Hotel Yamagumi in Japantown. The police have taped the area off. They say they'll get a forensics team down there in an hour or so to go over it, take samples and stuff." Markowicz nods and smiles slightly. "Thank you, Frank." Frank nods and leaves quietly. Markowicz returns her attention to you. "Well gentlemen. There you have it. Any questions, or can I leave you to your duties?" Slam speaks first. "Do you have the addresses and phone numbers of his partner and netrunner? I think it may be of help." Markowicz sighs and leans forward. She picks up a phone. "Markowicz here. Get me the current addresses and contact numbers for Tank and Skyhigh would you." A pause. "I'm not sure. Check aliases." She hangs up. "Anything else?" "Yes.", he replies. "What's this netrunner's icon." His sole response is a blank stare. You hear Slam sigh, suffering the woman. "What does she look like in the Net?" "It'll be in the file.", she says. "Along with her home phone number." He leans back and settles, obviously done. Your turn. "Can you get the forensics evidence from the cops?", you ask. "From what?" "The van they found." Markowicz sighs and leans back again. "I dont know if you heard Frank just then, but a forensics team wont be at the site for an hour or so. If you want dibs, I'd get there before ten. But I didn't say that." She smiles ingratiatingly. She's making fun of you. Treating you like an idiot. The Machine surfaces and glares out your eyes, looking at her, face to face. She sees it. The smile slips and dies in a heartbeat. "Anything else?", she asks. Slam stands up and heads for the door, oblivious to it all. He smiles at you and says, "Come on Refuse, let's blow this joint." It's then that he turns back to flash his grin at Markowicz, this little man obviously pleased at his ability to rattle the animal's cage, that the arm lashes out with a split-second hydraulic scream, wood flying apart like balsa as your balled piston of a fist tears through it, destroying a large section of wall and blocking your path. He stumbles back, but before he's out of range, your meat hand locks onto the back of his throat and shoves his face up an inch from yours and the voice of the Machine hisses in his face. "You owe me, and I don't forget. I didn't have to take out those guys in the hallway last night. If I need it, you cover my ass. You don't, you won't live to wish you had." Then it tosses him to the floor. By the time he gets up you're standing out in the Pit, looking around, the hand flexing through a test pattern. The door creaks and falls off it's hinges, glass pane smashing as it hits the floor. "I'll take the partner. You take the 'runner." A security team materialises and Markowicz waves them away, yelling: "And get me someone from Maintenance!" TIME: 0845 DATE: 01/01/2020 Tank is a Korean male with the build of a guy who works out a lot. He dresses in a well-worn leather jacket with a patch on the back, like a Tibetan painting. 2 guys, faces like demons, one with 6 arms running toward some kind of pogoda or something. They're both carrying weird-looking swords, tusks poking up past their noses. His pants are leather and clasped in silver straight up the sides. Beneath the jacket is a web-vest. Pristine white hi-tops are on his feet and a thread-thin walkman is around his neck. His short hair is spiked into a wild crest. He's wearing mirrorshades and fingerless gloves, those white basketball shoes propped up on his desk near the terminal, fingers locked behind his head as he looks at you from behind those shades. "Yeah, I was just the guy who filled out the forms after Jean hauled it all in, y'know? Sounds cruddy, but it wasnt so bad. Good experience,watching how he got away with it all. I know for a fact that he never stayed in one particular place. He had a circuit of 2 or 3 hotels he drifted around in. "Man, sometimes he'd just disappear for weeks. That's probably what he's done now. No big fuss." TIME: 0915 DATE: 01/01/2020 You meet Slam in the elevator. "What did she tell you?", your voice is low, eyes fixed on the door, or somewhere beyond. "Ranier just told her that he was going underground for a while. I didnt get much more than that. What about you?" You tell him. TIME: 0945 DATE: 01/01/2020 The alleyway behind the Yamagumi could be an alleyway anywhere in the City. Its wedged between The Imperial Bank, a prestigious looking building, and the Nakagumi Business Plaza. Ranier's van is a standard looking WNS news van. White with a red logo on the side. There's POLICE LINE - DO NOT CROSS tape strung across the alleyway. A single beat cop stands around, waiting for the forensics team to show up. Slam walks down the alley toward him, and you figure you may as well follow. "Hey!", the cop is moving toward you. He's wearing standard-issue patrol armor and helmet. He unclips his hip- holstered Armalite .44. "You can't come down here! Gawan! Beat it!" Slam holds up a roll of cash and the cop shuts up. "You bribing me?", the cop asks. "I dont know. Am I?" The cop gives a look like 'Dont waste my time', then waves you off. "Get outta here before I book ya, alright? I'm in no mood for this horse-shit. Okay? Beat it." Slam sighs and pockets the roll in his light and dark grey mottled jacket. "Come on.", he mutters. "Hey. You know anyone who might know anything?" The cop has turned and walked back to his post. The alleyway is empty from you to him, aside from loose trash. The black armor-clad cop turns on his heel and walks back to the van. For a brief moment you consider the wisdom of attacking a fully armed and armoured patrolman. Then the Machine spits upon your petty qualms and spurs you to action. Silently you creep forward, swift and purposeful, eyes locked onto the nape of the man's neck; unsuspecting and vulnerable. You are soundless as you rapidly close the distance between yourself and this man. But today luck isnt with you. Sunlight gleams off the brutish quicksilver detail of your Arm, flashing into the officer's face as it is reflected back at him from the rear window of the parked van. You hear him gasp and he spins, the Armalite flying free of it's holster and four shots roar out, shattering the relative stillness of the alleyway. The first one passes between your legs to kick up sparks from the alley floor behind you. The second passes inches from your left side. The third slams into the right side of your chest, tearing a great hole in the sweater, but leaving you unharmed. The fourth flies crazy and ricochets off the alley wall. The Arm is up in an instant, servos whining, the cop's eyes widening in terror beneeath his visor. Then there is a great hydraulic scream and twenty pounds of superchromed Soviet steel smashes square into the middle of the cop's face. He is lifted off the alley floor with the force of the blow and carried backward, saved by his helmet. As his feet hit the floor once more, he stumbles backward, firing madly, desperate for escape. The gun blazes and you feel the familiar heat of supersonic lead fly past you, hear it squeal off the surrounding brickwork. And then, amidst the roar and the light, the world explodes. Pain tears at your face, kicking your head back. Something hard and fast and powerful gouges your cheek, knocking you senseless. For a moment you cannot see and all you know is pain. There is something in your eyes. You draw a hand across your face and it comes away bloody. You can see the cop on the ground, his visor twisted from the Arm's impact, gasping in panic as he fumbles for a fresh clip, babbling nonsense into his helmet mike. But no one is coming to help this man. The Arm reaches down, closing around the his throat; and, as every servo locks the Hand closed, the cop's head pops free of his shoulders. You move to the van and open the driver side door. Slam appears, running down an adjacent alleyway. Looks like he tried to sneak around and approach the van from the rear while you kept the cop busy. He sees the body of the cop and turns a little green. He opens the door and gets in. "Interesting", he says. "Living thermonuclear device. . . hair trigger too. Just wondering if the word 'overkill' ever occurred to you to describe your lifestyle." SouthAm dribblespeak. Pisses you off. You turn and look at him, the targeter drawing a bead on his forehead. You make sure he sees it. You decide to take the van into the Zone. The area in which you finally wind up isnt really Maelstrom territory, but it is the only one with a still functioning DataTerm, and Slam had to make a few calls. He's out there now, looking nervous and wondering when the neighborhood is gonna start playing Sidewalk Sniper. You figure you may as well take this time to take a look through the van, so you climb in the back and start rummaging around. There's a lot of stuff that grabs your attention. Velcroed under the driver-side seat is an old-style .357 Desert Eagle. It's a bulky automatic pistol that's been rechambered for 12mm caseless. In the glove compartment is a small ziploc bag with a few capsules in it. You're not really sure what they are. There's a worn old suitcase in the back of the van which holds a change of clothes. In the pocket of a jacket is $32 in change and a business card. It is a pastel shade of pink and, in black flowing script, it reads: THE NEW CHURCH OF CHRIST THE SAVIOR 'There is no monopoly on Love.' - The Rev. L. John Wayne. Transmitting daily Studio C, Colonial Studios Night City, Calif. There is a rack welded to the inside wall of the van which holds a video camera, currently jacked into a charger which must run off the van's battery. Below this is a yellow crate with two 3 hour tapes in it. Both have been relabelled so often it is now impossible to tell what is on them without actually watching them. (continued) ... Jesus saves. He passes to Moses. He shoots! HE SCORES! From: Coyote@f201.n640.z3.fidonet.org (Coyote) Date: 13 Dec 94 15:39:30 Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo Subject: Residue (4) (c) Cameron W. Rogers, 1994. All Rights (in all media) Reserved. RESIDUE ======= Then the van door opens and Slam piles in, eager and relieved to be off the street. "Okay", he says. "I made a few calls and it looks like Ranier made a career out of pissing people off. Mafia, corporates, the government, you name it. He's got more enemies than most people have molecules. "And, it turns out he's got a girlfriend over in Little Italy. Woman by the name of Sarina Skiv. Works at Guido's Fashion Trim over on 1st." TIME: 1015 DATE: 01/01/2020 Slam suggests that checking out the girlfriend might be the best course of action to begin with. As he gets comfortable you pulls out the videos and business card, proffering them to him. "Found these in the back.", you say. "L.John Wayne is a televangelist preacher. People send him money from their accounts 'n stuff. Makes more money in one show than I'd make in a decade. Sells people what they wanna 'ear. Biggest rip off artist in the country. Got 'is own line of merchandise 'n all. Hologram keyrings 'n stuff." Slam examines the card, then moves on to the tapes, turning them over in his hands. He puts them into an inside pocket in his jacket, and it's about then that you notice a look forming on his face, like gears turning in his head. He's looking at you, checking your wounds with an degree of concern that can only be forced. But you do look pretty bad, and in a distant part of your mind you know you're hurting. "That wound looks pretty bad,", Slam says. "I know a little first aid, perhaps I could fix it up a little." He shifts in his seat to get a better look, and you snap your blood-caked face toward hiu, targeting reticule flashing suddenly in the depths of one hollow eye. He freezes and slowly raises his hands palms-up, before sliding back into his seat. You turn the key and the engine kicks over. Before long you've cleared the Zone and are headed back into the City. You're passing through Studio City and up into the Old Downtown area when Slam finally breaks the silence. "Look it looks like we're going to be working together for a while, we should at least get things personal enough so I can have a joke or two without getting my face ripped off. And what happens if one of us finds a clue by accident that has to be followed up straight away and we can't contact the other person for backup? You I need for the physical and you need me for the net :info and such like.", he sighs. "So how about you and me at least start being socialable perhaps have a drink after this interview perhaps, at that bar where you removed several incompetents from the gene pool. Sound good, huh?" You don't say anything for a moment, wondering if in fact you need to say anything at all. It's not like this little rodent actually means anything to you. He's just another decker refugee from SouthAm. He means nothing. "We'll see how thirsty I get." And that's that. You're cruising past a place called Rose, Dahlia & Flora's Creations when the chatter starts again. You dont like this guy. You dont know his motivations, or for that matter care. All you care about is. . . something. In comparison to that, people dont even rate a close second. "So, whereabouts you live anyway? You don't look like the corpzoner type." You don't look at him. "I'd be an idiot to tell you." "Well, okay. What do you do for fun then?" You've had enough. Now you're getting mad. Part of you is getting mad. Part of you is getting. . . You turn and look at him. You can tell he wishes you weren't. There's a grin on your face that says - 'Guess'. *Part of you is getting. . .* Then the grin falters and you look back to the street, trying to remember how to think for yourself. *Part of you is getting. . .* "I feed the Machine.", the answer is a litany. "And I have no problem with that." *Jealous* The Machine turns and looks at him through infra-red eyes, a manic grimace flashing briefly across it's/your face. "He has no problem with that.", it says. You need no-one. No-one but It. The Machine flushes with pleasure to see the decker refugee turn sick with the knowledge of it all. Inside you, it's howling. ========================================================================= The four installments you just read were extrapolations from a game of CP run by myself. Any feedback would be appreciated, and if the response is positive I'll post the rest. Cam. ... Sometimes I miss my Mom. . . then I reload.