The Walox
2012-04-23, 03:54 PM
The Pullayup Barrens of Seattle weren’t the worst place one could find oneself and that was saying something. The rundown buildings sad remnants of the late art deco period, the streets an exercise in how large potholes could grow and the gangers a fine example of the breed; they’d at least ask for your name before they’d shoot you.
The Barrens weren’t just a testament to the power of urban decay, no; there was something unique about this particular junkie infested pile of rubble. The Barrens were the hub of the Mech. business in the greater Seattle area.
http://i2.pinger.pl/pgr145/06c79c1d001aa6b949eae925/1240041778XANqStf.jpg
Pilots and merc. companies from the world over flooded into this city for contracts and recruitment; making poor men rich and rich men richer. The media was hailing the rise of the massive combat machines and their pilots as the new generation of shadowrunners. It was glorified. And the Pullayup Barrens were the covert center of it all.
http://www.blogcdn.com/www.joystiq.com/media/2011/02/3-1.jpg
At least thirty seven merc companies operated out of the barrens. Devouring whole city blocks with their shops and compounds. They attracted gangers, junkies, as well as the down and out, who would do anything to get out of the squalid mess of the Barrens, to their doors for work. Not that all of this progress meant that the Barrens were any less dangerous; far from it in fact.
The decay of society went hand in hand with the decay of men and in the Pullayup Barrens there were still evil men. Dangerous opportunistic men, who would take any chance they could get to kill you, rob you, steal your soul and then some. That’s why even in the mist of the booming trade parents watched the doors and windows at night, guarding their children with rifles as they slept.
Chapter One: Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves
Seattle, June 5th, 2072, 7:a.m.
Some old men like to fish, others like to garden and the more unwholesome of them get drunk and watch porn. The point is that all old men have hobbies, Carlos Domenici, Don of the mafia by the same name, liked to make practical jokes; and boy did he have one sick sense of humor.
In particular he liked to “tease” the people who where dependant on the services his “organization” provided. He’d gladly sell drugs to potential junkie, get him hooked on the goods, and then cut him off; just to watch him suffer the effects of withdrawal. One might say that this wasn’t practical joking at all, but sadism instead. That one would be correct. Here is another example of the games that this old man loved to play.
Gamblers or starry eyed entrepreneurs would ask for a loan; simple enough, but where is the fun in just being a loan shark? Give them the money but at high rate, where is the originality in that? “Oldest game in the book” he would tell his two sons and daughter. But what if the individual in question had his lively hood destroyed? The racing horse gets shot, somebody wrecks the delivery truck or the boys trash the family shop. Now, THAT’S fun, that’s when they begin to sweat.
The anticipation kills them and if that doesn’t do it, the boys will. Sure, it was hardly profitable, sure Carlos lost money; lots of it in fact. But that’s what hobbies were about and besides an old man has to have his hobbies.
Choob had a bad track record for waking up with no recollection of the night before. The most vivid incident was when he walked out of a hospital with no clue as to why he was in there in the first place. The other incident that came to mind was the morning after a particularly eventful Cinco de Mayo party when he woke up in a kayak with a llama and a dwarf. But this time was different as he lay on the cold cement floor of his shop.
Broken florescent light bulbs remained connected to the ceiling by only a few wires. Their sporadic flickering and the occasional violent spark of electricity brought the scene into light. Security drones lay smashed upon the concrete, welders, hoists and other tools lay sprawled across the floor or strewn about in shattered pieces. Industrial fluids mixed together in a thick murky lake along with human blood.
Broken weapons and bodies added to the Jackson Pollock from hell. The former members of metahumanity were clad in some expensive suits and reeked of death. Among this mess two live human figures were visible. One, the shorter of the two, held a flashlight. The figure stooped, let out a curse and a sigh of relief and waded through the disaster to Choob.
An instant later the face of Ophelia Porter swam into view. She was a mechanic for the small merc company down the street. It was called t.r.i.b.e. and was run by an obese hippie named Nicolas; nice guy but very, very strange.
“Oh, God! Selim get over here he’s still alive!” She was a beautiful woman of Italian and Scandinavian heritage. Her Latin and Nordic features wore an expression of concern as she knelt on the bare cold concert next to Choob, Her baggy, red off the shoulder t-shirt had the ax-face band logo splashed the chest and she wore a pair of black canvas cargo pants that somehow managed to compliment her curvy figure. She tucked a loose strand of her black curly hair behind an ear. “Selim! Hurry up!” Choob could hear the faint whirring of the electronic motors of her prosthetic leg.
Selim sauntered through the mess moving with the fine sinewy grace of a large cat. He dressed like an extra from Lawrence of Arabia and kept the customs and manners of the old world dear. He was also the best mech pilot Choob ever met. He knelt opposite Ophelia; his handsome swarthy face too wore an expression of concern.
“Awya Ophie, it would be wise to get Effendi out of here before the mob returns for its missing men.” He absentmindedly pulled a large knife of eastern origin from the sash of his brilliant white robe. “I will keep watch while you tend to him.”
The Barrens weren’t just a testament to the power of urban decay, no; there was something unique about this particular junkie infested pile of rubble. The Barrens were the hub of the Mech. business in the greater Seattle area.
http://i2.pinger.pl/pgr145/06c79c1d001aa6b949eae925/1240041778XANqStf.jpg
Pilots and merc. companies from the world over flooded into this city for contracts and recruitment; making poor men rich and rich men richer. The media was hailing the rise of the massive combat machines and their pilots as the new generation of shadowrunners. It was glorified. And the Pullayup Barrens were the covert center of it all.
http://www.blogcdn.com/www.joystiq.com/media/2011/02/3-1.jpg
At least thirty seven merc companies operated out of the barrens. Devouring whole city blocks with their shops and compounds. They attracted gangers, junkies, as well as the down and out, who would do anything to get out of the squalid mess of the Barrens, to their doors for work. Not that all of this progress meant that the Barrens were any less dangerous; far from it in fact.
The decay of society went hand in hand with the decay of men and in the Pullayup Barrens there were still evil men. Dangerous opportunistic men, who would take any chance they could get to kill you, rob you, steal your soul and then some. That’s why even in the mist of the booming trade parents watched the doors and windows at night, guarding their children with rifles as they slept.
Chapter One: Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves
Seattle, June 5th, 2072, 7:a.m.
Some old men like to fish, others like to garden and the more unwholesome of them get drunk and watch porn. The point is that all old men have hobbies, Carlos Domenici, Don of the mafia by the same name, liked to make practical jokes; and boy did he have one sick sense of humor.
In particular he liked to “tease” the people who where dependant on the services his “organization” provided. He’d gladly sell drugs to potential junkie, get him hooked on the goods, and then cut him off; just to watch him suffer the effects of withdrawal. One might say that this wasn’t practical joking at all, but sadism instead. That one would be correct. Here is another example of the games that this old man loved to play.
Gamblers or starry eyed entrepreneurs would ask for a loan; simple enough, but where is the fun in just being a loan shark? Give them the money but at high rate, where is the originality in that? “Oldest game in the book” he would tell his two sons and daughter. But what if the individual in question had his lively hood destroyed? The racing horse gets shot, somebody wrecks the delivery truck or the boys trash the family shop. Now, THAT’S fun, that’s when they begin to sweat.
The anticipation kills them and if that doesn’t do it, the boys will. Sure, it was hardly profitable, sure Carlos lost money; lots of it in fact. But that’s what hobbies were about and besides an old man has to have his hobbies.
Choob had a bad track record for waking up with no recollection of the night before. The most vivid incident was when he walked out of a hospital with no clue as to why he was in there in the first place. The other incident that came to mind was the morning after a particularly eventful Cinco de Mayo party when he woke up in a kayak with a llama and a dwarf. But this time was different as he lay on the cold cement floor of his shop.
Broken florescent light bulbs remained connected to the ceiling by only a few wires. Their sporadic flickering and the occasional violent spark of electricity brought the scene into light. Security drones lay smashed upon the concrete, welders, hoists and other tools lay sprawled across the floor or strewn about in shattered pieces. Industrial fluids mixed together in a thick murky lake along with human blood.
Broken weapons and bodies added to the Jackson Pollock from hell. The former members of metahumanity were clad in some expensive suits and reeked of death. Among this mess two live human figures were visible. One, the shorter of the two, held a flashlight. The figure stooped, let out a curse and a sigh of relief and waded through the disaster to Choob.
An instant later the face of Ophelia Porter swam into view. She was a mechanic for the small merc company down the street. It was called t.r.i.b.e. and was run by an obese hippie named Nicolas; nice guy but very, very strange.
“Oh, God! Selim get over here he’s still alive!” She was a beautiful woman of Italian and Scandinavian heritage. Her Latin and Nordic features wore an expression of concern as she knelt on the bare cold concert next to Choob, Her baggy, red off the shoulder t-shirt had the ax-face band logo splashed the chest and she wore a pair of black canvas cargo pants that somehow managed to compliment her curvy figure. She tucked a loose strand of her black curly hair behind an ear. “Selim! Hurry up!” Choob could hear the faint whirring of the electronic motors of her prosthetic leg.
Selim sauntered through the mess moving with the fine sinewy grace of a large cat. He dressed like an extra from Lawrence of Arabia and kept the customs and manners of the old world dear. He was also the best mech pilot Choob ever met. He knelt opposite Ophelia; his handsome swarthy face too wore an expression of concern.
“Awya Ophie, it would be wise to get Effendi out of here before the mob returns for its missing men.” He absentmindedly pulled a large knife of eastern origin from the sash of his brilliant white robe. “I will keep watch while you tend to him.”