"Ascension" a Shadowrun Campaign Journal

[Kid Jake]

Once again boredom has led me to assemble a game and then write about it for your (potential) amusement. I couldn't get a group together for various reasons, so I settled for a solo game this time without my regulars.

As I'm doing this on a phone at the moment it might be slow going, but I should be able to make it legible with a little luck.

Anyhoo, I hope you enjoy. Lemme know what you think.

Spoiler

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She was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made the elven stereotype a thing. The kind of beautiful that makes a man, or in Frank's case an ork, do things against his better judgement. Blonde hair, green eyes, a figure that could conservatively be called distracting...

"Please Mr Rater," she pleads, her large doe-like eyes filling with tears. "You're my last hope. I don't know where else to turn. My brother deserves justice!"

"You don't need me ma'am," Frank replies with a weary sigh; pouring himself 2 fingers of rotgut whiskey to steady his quivering hands before the client notices. Whether out of professional pride or simple machismo in front of a pretty girl it's hard to say. "This is a matter for the authorities; I've got some numbers for Knight Errant-"
"No!" the tearful elf shouts, slamming her hands onto his battered desk to emphasise her point. "They don't care what happens in Redmond, just so long as it stays out of the rest of the city."

She leans forwawrd into her hands and fights a shuddering sob back. "Besides they...they already know. I had to identify the body."

Frank shakes his head, running a thick, bruised hand down his face. He'd heard the rumors of course, the whispers in the alleys and bars that Redmond had a serial killer on the loose. He'd assumed they were nothing but rumors and hearsay though, idle talk to pass the time and scare the tourists. But this...

it was a great opportunity. If he caught the killer that Knight Errant disavaowed then clients would be lining up down the street. He'd never have to buy his own drink the rest of his days. Maybe he'd even make the news. Assuming of course that the killer doesn't, you know, kill him too.

"I charge 50 nuyen a day, plus expenses, plus another 200 when the job's done." he finally says.

The pretty elf looks up, almost shocked. "That's...thank you Mr Rater. I...i don't have a lot of money though, c-could we work out some sort of payment plan or...?"

Every part of him screams out not to do it, that it's not worth the headache as it stands; but he awkwardly mumbles that he could possibly waive expenses, this one time.

She takes his calloused hand in hers and thanks the aging ork repeatedly until he finally stands and clears his throat, embarassed. "I'll get started right away Ms. Devins,"

"Please, call me Grace," she interrupts.

"Err..I'll get started right away then...Grace. I'll need to see the body of course, as soon as possible." he says, downing his drink and pouring another.

Her eyes tear up again as she shakes her head. "They wouldn't let me have it. They kept citing fees and regulations and wanted 5,000 credits... Those bastards sent him to some chop-shop instead."

Frank starts to remark that there probably isn't enough left to help them at this point, but thinks better of it. "Do you have a picture?" he asks instead.

Grace nods and makes a dragging motion in the air, almost instantly the image of young, tattooed elf with a shaven head appears in his AR display, smiling broadly.

"Lot of tats....did he run with a gang that you know of?" Frank asks, filing the image away for later.

Grace adamantly shakes her head. "Peter wasn't a ganger."

"There's no shame in it." Frank presses, "Nowadays it's almost stranger for a young man not to-"

"I said my brother wasn't in a gang!" she loudly insists.

Frank nods, sensing he's struck a nerve. "Sorry... Look I'm going to ask around and see what I can round up. I'll let you know if I find anything, alright?"

"That's it?" Grace asks. "Just...ask around? You aren't going to trace his commlink or follow his aura or something?"

Frank rests a meaty hand on Grace's shoulder as he leads her to the door. "If you wanted a wiz decker, then you should've hired one. If you wanted a magician you should've looked one of those up too. But you didn't Ms Dev-, err Grace, you hired a mean old cuss to go ask some very unpleasant people, some very unpleasant questions very unpleasantly."

"And...that works?" she asks as she walks out of his cramped office.

Frank smiles, his tusks flashing reassuringly. "More often than you'd think."

Spoiler

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With no body or actual leads to start with, Frank does what he told Grace he was going to. He starts asking around. He puts in a call to an aquaintance over at Knight Errant Security requesting any information on the Redmond murders, off the record of course. He also sends the elf's image to a ganger contact, to pass around and see if anybody recognizes him.

Neither of them get back to him, so he pours himself another drink and drifts off to sleep in his chair.

It's 3am when he snaps awake, his commlink alerting him to an incoming call from his ganger snitch.

"Just getting up old man?" the voice on the line asks mockingly.

Frank rubs the sleep from his eyes as he snarls "Of course not. I've been up for days. What do you have for me Lapdog?"

"YarDog!"the ganger interrupts irritably.

"Sorry Yardsale, what do you got?" Frank asks, sitting up in his chair and finishing off the last of the whiskey; letting the empty bottle clang into the trash can with the others.

"Found some guys that say they're looking for your elf-boy, but they wouldn't say why." YarDog says, the anger simmering in his voice.

"Well?" Frank asks.

"Well what?" YarDog snaps back.

"Well where the drek are they?" Frank says, snapping on his gunbelt and slipping his Super Warhawk into the holster.

"Payment first chummer." YarDog snorts.

"And how much for this unhelpful, barely coherent tip?" Frank asks irritably, grabbing his hat on his way out the door.

"Two hundred of course." YarDog replies.

"Look, I got...like one sixty." Frank says, checking his available balance.

"What the hell," YarDog chuckles, "I'm feeling generous."

Spoiler

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It's almost 5am when the P.I. rolls up in front of the Barren Wasters 'club house', an old and crumbling tenement in the southeast portion of Redmond, in his battered Jackrabbit. He climbs the steep set of steps out front and bangs on the front door with as much force as he can muster without spilling his still hot soykaf.

After a moment he bangs again and the door swings open to unveal 3 very suspicious young men sporting bright red mohawks and armored vests.

"What the frak you want?" the biggest of them asks, pushing his way to the front. Frank doesn't much like the look of the kid's heavy, chrome right arm but tries not to let it show.

"I hear tell you boys are looking for an elf. About six foot, bald, lots of snake tattoos." Frank says, sipping his beverage. "I was hoping you could tell me why."

"Oh yeah, of course." the big man says, opening the door a little further. "It's because he... none of your frakking business!"

The cyberarm swings up at him with ridiculous speed, a handful of razorblades forces Frank back up a step to avoid losing his face. The other gangers laugh at the weary ork's surprise.

Their laughter is cut short when Frank plants his still steaming mug directly in the surprised ganger's mouth and manages to catch the young man's wrist at waist level before his handrazors can come up again to do any damage.

Frank grabs the back of the young man's vest and curses loudly as he feels the punk's razors slash across his inner thigh. The ork drives his forehead into the smirking ganger's nose, breaking it in three places and, perhaps more importantly, wiping that stupid grin off his face.

Before the ganger can recover, Frank spins on his heels and throws the young man off the stairs. He lands face first in the street and leaves a trail of broken teeth and ragged flesh along the path he slid.

Out of the corner of his eye Frank sees the smaller Wasters run to grab something but he calmly limps down the stairs, hand pressed tightly against the blood gash in his leg, and stomps down on the back of the big man's head; all but caving it in and leaving little doubt that he's in no mood for this drek.

As the fallen ganger's friends stalk intimidatingly down the stairs, wielding a chain and bat respectively, Frank groans and draws his Warhawk. He thinks about saying something like "Make my day." or "Not so fast punk." but decides against it. The sound of the hand-cannon's hammer being pulled back says everything that the old ork has to say on the subject and then some.

As the gangers drop their weapons and extend their hands amiably Frank Rater wonders to himself why he didn't lead with this.

Spoiler

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As he sits in his car, pantsless and bleeding, Frank sloppily bandages his gaping wound and contemplates what he learned from the Wasters. The elf had ripped them off about a month ago, and how, stealing a souped up Ares Roadmaster that they'd just finished stealing themselves.

Peter may or may not have been a ganger, but he was most definitely a criminal. Maybe not a good one, but one experienced enough to live to steal another day...to a point at least.

The stolen Roadmaster isn't much to go on, but it's something. More at least than the sister was willing to comp to. Maybe the murders have a criminal element? A rival gang or incensed victim setting an example. Maybe a vigilante or overeager lawman...

Or maybe Peter was chosen because he had a pretty mouth.

The problem with trying to form a pattern based on a single example that you aren't allowed to see is...well, it'd take less time to just call up everyone that lived in the Barrens and ask if they did it than to name them all.

Running a blood stained hand through his greying hair Frank sighs and fishes out his hip flask. This was a bad idea. This was multiple bad ideas all coalescing into a terrible idea. He should just cut his losses and be done with it. Before he loses more nuyen on this wild goose chase, before he loses a limb or his life, before wastes more time...

Taking another swig to steady his shaking hands Frank almost laughs. He won't. He knows he won't. He knew he wouldn't before he even thought it. Thinking back to the pretty elf with the innocent eyes he throws his car into gear.

He's always been prone to bad decisions.

[IntelectPaladin]

I followed both your superhero campaign,
And your star wars campaign as much as possible.
A shame it wasn't finished, why wasn't it?
I just wanted to say that I am a major fan of your work,
and that I'm seriously looking forward to this new campaign.
Please, all I ask is that you make this one last.
Thank you for reading this, and I hope you have a better day!

[Kid Jake]

Thank ya, it means a lot to hear that.

Hopefully we'll be able to actually finish the SW campaign some day, and maybe even start up a new chapter of the supers. Seems like it's about impossible to pin 2 players down at the same time anymore; though we're still trying.

[Kid Jake]

Spoiler

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It seems a safe assumption that the kid didn't steal the Roadmaster to keep for himself, or at least that's the mindset that Frank's decided to run with. So the question now is why did he steal it? To sell? To use? For giggles?

It's a valuable vehicle to be sure with plenty of utility; so the options are damned near limitless. Frank decides to work the 'sold' angle first and starts hitting up the local 'used' car lots to see if anything matching the Roadmaster's description has been through recently.

The first six or so dealers are a bust, but the owner of the last one that Frank stops at, a middle aged elf with a slaught paunch and gently receding hairline, claims that it strikes him as familiar.

"So it's been through here?" Frank asks, his hopes briefly rising.

The elf shakes his head. "Nope, but a fella came through here a little over a month ago asking about the same vehicle. Said some punk kids stole it off him. Sounded like he wanted it back something fierce."

"You catch a name during all this? Maybe a description of the guy?" Frank asks, his interest piqued.

"Maybe..." the sleazy elf says, grinning broadly. "What's it worth to you?"

"How about 20 credits?" Frank suggests.

The elf snorts. "Let's start at 200."

Frank takes a deep breath, resisting the urge to just break the guy's arm. Feeling around for a cred stick he tosses it to salesman and says "I've got a hundred, but if you're pulling something here..."

The elf waves a hand dismissively. "I know, I know. You'll break my legs, right?"

Frank grunts the affirmative.

"He was a big guy, an ork like you only..orkier I guess. Bigger, broader... Wore a lot of jewelry, earrings and the like. Didn't get a name, but he left a number." the elf says, leading Frank into his office, a quick search revealing a match-book with a hastily scrawled comm code on it.

Frank slips it into his coat pocket and retreats back to his Jackrabbit. He tries the number, but gets a 'service disconnected' message instead. He curses under his breath, but calms himself with another swig from his flask. Turning the book between his fingers he notices that it's from a place called The Bear's Den and sports the image of a large bear's head attempting to burst through the logo.

Frank contemplates checking the place out, but a quick glance at his AR display tells him it's just past 8pm and he's had a long day. He stops by a liquor store and a little Chinese place he knows on the way back to the office. By 10 he's fast asleep, his belly full of cheap chow mein and cheaper scotch.

Spoiler

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It's almost twelve hours later that Frank sits up on his ratty old couch, briefly wondering when, and how, he got home. He starts a pot of soykaf, wincing at the stiffness in his leg as he stands, and spends the intervening minutes searching through his pile of discarded liquor bottles for a mouthful of something, anything really, to start the day.

Giving up and looking through his coat pockets for his flask the weary ork instead finds the Bear's Den matchbook. Taking a seat at his desk sipping soykaf directly from the pot (his favorite travel mug now decorating the side of some ganger's face) Frank turns the matchbook over in his hand a few times and tries to prepare himself for the day ahead.

With a final sigh of resignation he finishes off what's left of his precious caffeine, changes his pants to something slightly less ragged, and heads out once more.

It takes a while to find the place and it's just after noon that he rolls up in front of small bar, smack in the middle of the Barrens with a sign just above the door that matches the logo on the matchbook.

The building itself is surprisingly clean with no gang tags or busted windows, which seems...odd in this nieghborhood.

Stepping into the bar, the first thing that catches Frank's eye is that the monitor on the back wall doesn't have the game on, but a livefeed from the camera aimed at the door. The second thing that stands out is the massive troll standing behind the bar wearing an open tropical shirt and a necklace presumably made of bear claws.

Inwardly Frank groans a little. He's always hated dealing with trolls, and to a slightly lesser degree other orks. When he's the largest, scariest man in the room the answers to his questions always seem to appear a little easier. But when dealing with someone his own size or worse, so much larger he has to tilt back just to look them in the eye, he actually has to work for it.

"What can I get'cha chummer?" the troll asks, already filling a large round glass with something neon green and...churning? Before Frank can answer it's already been set in front of him.

"What's this?" the ork asks, nodding towards his 'drink'.

"On the house." the troll responds chipperly, "Trying out a new recipe."

Since Frank's never been one to turn down free booze he upturns the glass and almost chokes when it makes contact with his throat. If he had to describe the taste it would probably be...burning. It tastes like burning, with a dash of numbness. As an avid partaker of all things alcohol, Frank is fairly sure that this isn't alcoholic. In fact, it smells more like....bleach?

"Could probably use some more work." Frank coughs, surprised at how hoarse his voice comes out. "In the meantime how about a bourbon?"

Without missing a beat the smiling troll slides Frank a beer which the ork downs without argument. At this point he'd settle for slightly flavored cleaning fluid to get the taste out of his mouth.

"Thanks." Frank says, setting a credstick on the bar to cover his drinks. "While I got your ear, mind if I ask you a question?"

The troll's grin becomes wider and he wags a sausage sized finger in Frank's direction, "Sorry, my secret ingredients die with me."

Resisting the urge to verbally give thanks for small mercies, Frank instead returns the troll's smile. "Actually, I was hoping you might know a guy that I'm looking for. An ork,kind of on the beefy side, lots of jewelry; specifically earrings. I believe someone stole his vehicle a few weeks back and he was looking to get it back."

"This friend of your have a name?" the troll asks.

Frank shakes his head. "That's what I'm hoping you could help me with."

The troll gives an exaggerated shrug, "Sorry pal, just not ringing any bells..."

Frank nods slowly, pulling up and displaying Peter's image. "How about this kid?"

The troll shrugs again and taps his head. "Sorry chummer, no AR. Stuff makes me dizzy."

"Elf. Young, bald, tall, kind of gangly. Lots of serpent tattoos." Frank says, the humor slipping from his voice.

"Afraid that doesn't ring a-" the troll starts, but is cut off by Frank mid-sentence.

"But I think it does." Frank states plainly. "I think you're more than aware of him, I think he was a regular here."

The troll seems a little shocked by this and stammers for a split second. "What would make you think that?"

"The kid was a runner and this is a runner hangout." Frank insists, hoping that his shot in the dark was at least aimed in the right direction. "Lack of gang activity outside suggests that you people are more trouble than you're worth, and one look at your patrons says the same. Everyone here's packing a piece, not some drek you buy out of the back of some guy named Dave's van; but nice custom jobs, probably sold by people named Eduardo...or Viper."

Indicating the screen at the back of the bar, Frank continues "That tells me that nobody here likes sitting with their backs to the door; but it'd look pretty weird to only have chairs on one side so you compromise. But perhaps most damningly, I count half a dozen (presumably) regulars sitting here in the middle of the day when you seem to go out of your way to drive people off with the worst service and most gut-wrenching drinks I've ever encountered in all my years of bar hopping."

"So, can we cut the bull?" Frank asks gruffly.

The troll looks like he's been physically slapped in the face. Setting his jaw angrilly he tosses a dish towel he'd been handling onto the floor and says "Well I LIKE the drinks." before storming off into the backroom, presumably to pout.

It takes Frank a minute to actually process what just happened. He glances after the bartender for a moment, unsure whether this is the strangest delaying tactic he's ever seen or if the burly troll is really that sensitive.

Before Frank knows what to think and elf that seems like he's 90% chrome grabs him by the collar and starts escorting him to the door. Frank attempts to wrestle free, but the servos in the elf's bulky cyberarms just whir a little louder and easily overpower the bewildered ork.

"Woah, woah, woah!" Frank says as he's ejected from the building.

The elf stabs a metal finger into Frank's chest and growls "Lay off Big Bear pretty boy, while you can still walk home."

Frank can't quite muster the energy to growl back and just stammers "How the hell was I supposed to know he was so sensitive?"

The elf's heavily scarred face softens, his good eye closing for a moment though his glowing cybereye remains locked onto Frank. "Null sweat." he finally says with a sigh, shaking his head.

Tapping his head, the elf says "Look, Big Bear's just a little...punchy, alright? Why're you looking for this elf of yours?"

"I'm not looking for him." Frank says, straightening his coat. "I know right where he is. Most of him anyway."

The elf grimaces and looks down. "He the one they found shredded a few days back?"

Frank nods and holds out his hands helplessly. "I'm just trying to find out why."

"Kid was a runner." the elf confirms with a nod. "Strictly small time, but I seen him here a time or two."

"Figured as much." Frank grunts. "Know who he was running with?"

"You think they did it?" the elf asks.

Frank shakes his head. "I don't know what I think yet, just trying to get all the facts."

The elf nods. "Don't know his crew off the top of my head. Only reason I recognised the kid was because he had such a bad reaction to Big Bear's house specialty that he set his table on fire."

"This doesn't strike me much like a candle-lit establishment. You saying the kid was awakened?" Frank asks.

"Either that or his mama got it on with a dragon." the elf responds with a wink...or maybe he just blinked, it's hard to tell when they've only got one set of eyelids.

Frank strokes his chin. "Seems like a dangerous target for a random attack."

The elf seems a little concerned. "You think he was targeted because he was a runner?"

"Could've been a factor." Frank says with a nod. "Know of a way I could find out the jobs he's worked lately?"

"I could maybe ask around." the elf says, crossing his arms. "Make it worth my while? I'd be doing your job for you after all."

Frank chuckles. "I imagine you're out of my price range."

"Favor for a favor?" the elf says, raising his good eyebrow expectantly.

Frank nods. "I could live with that. Frank Rater, private investigator." he says, extending a hand.

The elf shakes it. "Skinner, hardass razorguy."

"That a name, or an MO?" Frank asks.

Skinner chuckles. "Just hope you don't find out."

Spoiler

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Despite their rocky start Frank and Skinner part on amiable terms. While runners have always made him nervous, it's certainly not the first time he's had to deal with them and the wired elf certainly seemed friendlier than most he'd encountered.

It's just after 4 when he pulls into the office, carrying a bag of assorted dark liquors and a plastic bowl of something being sold out of a cart labeled "Chili". Some men would find the use of written air quotes on their foodstuffs a warning. Those men would not soon have a belly full of "Chili". Frank felt that he'd made the right choice.

While he eats he puts in another call to his Knight Errant contact, pestering the guy for details on the Remond murders and reminding him that there are plenty of other beat cops out there with a mortgage if he doesn't feel like calling back.

He contemplates placing a call to Grace Devins, updating her on her brother's case, but decides against it. He decides it's unlikely that he's discovered anything she didn't already know, and from her earlier outburst she's certainly not interested in actually discussing her brother's illicit behavior.

Frank shrugs, washing down his questionable dinner with a mouthful of whiskey and turning on his trid-player, more for background noise than actual entertainment. She could enjoy her denial all she wants, more billable hours for him.

The rest of the evening is spent searching the Matrix for some mention of the Redmond killer, but while there's a dash of urban legend there's nothing from anything resembling a credible source. Sometime around 10 Frank gives up altogether and drifts off on the couch.





There's a sound like an angry jackhammer on the front door.

Frank rolls of the couch in a stupor, no idea what time it is or what's going on. As he stumbles to his feet he realizes that it's somebody at the door and staggers to see who it is, a yawn still on his lips as he opens the door.

In less than a second the yawn gives way to slackjawed gawking as he recognizes the bright mohawks and ill-kempt clothes of the four Barren Wasters lined up along the sides of his hallway, and especially recognizes the scarred face of the fifth Waster that cost him his favorite mug in mid-charge from the apartment across the hall.

In less time than he went from yawn to gawk, he finishes the transition from gawk to groan as more than 100 kilos of screaming fury tackles him off his feet, through his office and onto his increasingly battered desk. He can hear the hoots and hollers of the ganger's friends screaming for his blood from the hallway as his attacker bellows "Think you can disrespect me in MY house?!"

Before the ganger even knows what's happening however, Frank's found the pot of soykaf he'd left on his desk earlier and slams it into the same side of the man's face that already holds remnants of their last fight. The massive ganger atop him is rocked, but still lashes out with a razortipped cyberarm.

With a growl of irritation and effort Frank grabs the man's wrist and slams it palm down onto his desk. Before the ganger even has a chance wrestle his hand free the last shard of Frank's soykaf pot has opened his jugular.

With his largest assailant bleeding to death on his desk, Frank slips free and charges his front door; shouldering it closed and locking it with one swift motion. Without even thinking, Frank throws himself backwards away from the door just as a dinner plate sized hole appears where his face was, from what sounds like a shotgun blast.

With a practiced ease Frank tears the giant revolver from his side and fires just under the new hole. He hears a gurgled scream along with a thud and almost breathes a sigh of relief. Almost. A fireaxe appears in the shotgun hole immediately, the force of the blow almost splitting the door down the center. Frank fires again, for good measure, and hears a second thud accompanied by the sound of an axe clanging against the floor.

He quickly scrambles around the corner, almost laughing at the image of these idiots lining up like ducks at a fair; but the reality of his situation saps the humor out of the moment. The sound of the shotgun barking in the hallway and the feel of the slug tearing a hole in his side and bowling him face forward onto the floor, even through the wall, removes the rest of his mirth.

Staggering to his feet and weaving on unsteady legs Frank quickly crosses the room to his side window. Glancing down at the four story drop he suddenly feels very nauseous, barely resisting the urge to vomit and/or pass out. With the sound of that fireaxe having its way with his front door however, the decision is already made for him.

Closing his eyes and, hopefully, aiming towards the dumpster below; Frank takes one final deep breath and rolls himself out.

The impact knocks the breath from his body and very nearly knocks him unconscious. He struggles for breath even as he climbs from the dumpster, collapsing into the street with great heaving gasps.

On his hands and kness he crawls to his car, counting down the seconds until the Wasters surge outside and nail him to the side of his building. He reaches for the car door, his hands shaking so violently that he can't grip the handle.

It takes him almost half a dozen tries just to get the door open and fall inside, still gasping for air. He sees the first of the gangers exit the building just as he manages to get the door shut again. The first Waster out is holding that damned shotgun, and opens fire immediately; smashing through Frank's windshield but accomplishing little else.

Frank attempts to drive off, but he's trembling so bad that he slams directly into the side of the neighboring building; driving his own face into the steering wheel and clouding his thinking further.

The other gangers begin filing out, including the man with the fireaxe who seems particularly pissed to be holding his insides in with the hand not gripping the axe, as Frank struggles to clear his head enough to get out of this mess. He ducks, more through luck than design, as his driver side window disappears altogether.

The ganger stops to reload his weapon and Frank, in a moment of clarity, slams the car into reverse. The shotgun wielding ganger rolls over the top of the Jackrabbit and lands in a crumpled heap as Frank swerves off into the early morning.

[IntelectPaladin]

Well, that was dramatic.
and the way you tell it, I'm surprised it isn't televised.
It would probably go on HBO.
Honestly, I'm glad to see your usual sort of storytelling here,
as it's always enjoyable.
I apologize for not being my usual self, it's been a long night
I'm looking forward to seeing more of this,
thank you again for sticking around!
Yes, we all thought that you'd left. Hence the eagerness.
And lastly, Have a better day!
Also, I'm obligated to tell you that I leave hidden messages in my every post.

[Kid Jake]

Heh, it feltdramatic when a lucky potshot filled in all but 2 of Frank's physical condition, he failed his Unsteady Hands test (as the flaw) and then decided to try his luck with gravity. His cumulative penalties left him rolling a single die for most tests.

Almost reminded me of McCrow' s shenanigans at their most desperate.

I didn't leave exactly, I've just moved twice in the past 6 months and have had trouble getting an internet company to find my place both times. I'd just got it connected at my last place when I had to pack up again. Glad to know I was missed though.

Hopefully things'll go back to normal soon and I'll try to wrap up my open games one way or another. Fingers crossed that with just one player there won't be any of my usual scheduling conflicts during this game in the meantime.

[MintyNinja]

A Kid Jake campaign journal?
It's a Solo Campaign?
It's a Shadowrun PI campaign?!

It's like Christmas in August!

[Earthwalker]

A Kid Jake campaign journal?
It's a Solo Campaign?
It's a Shadowrun PI campaign?!

It's like Christmas in August!

Yes so much this.
Thank you for the write up so far Kid Jake, I am loving it.

[IntelectPaladin]

Yes so much this.
Thank you for the write up so far Kid Jake, I am loving it.

As am I, in all honesty.
Thank you for coming back, Kidjake.

By the way, do you have any sort of schedule for these posts?
Just to be able to keep track, I mean.

Thank you for reading this, and I hope you have a better day.

[Kid Jake]

Glad everyone's enjoying it so far.

I've got a few more sessions to type up and then we should meet either Wednsdays or Thursdays after that.

[Kid Jake]

Spoiler

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"So, it's not a concussion..." Frank mutters as he comes to, glancing groggily at the contents of the medkit hastily scattered in the passenger's seat. "I woke up."

Forcing his door open, Frank falls out onto the sidewalk where he eventually crashed his car and tries to survey the damage. His car looks like a butcher shop, with damned near every inch of his seats soaked in blood. Half his windows lay scattered in the floorboards and he feels every bit as terrible as the evidence says he should.

He doesn't even bother lifting his head from the ground as he punches in a comm-code and hopes to hell and back it's still valid.

"Yeah?" comes an impatient grunt from the other end.

"I think I stepped in it Simmons...I'm gutshot. I need some help." Frank hisses into his commlink.

"How bad is it?" the voice asks, still as disinterested and rushed as it was before.

"I'm not sure...it feels like I swallowed razors and I've been leaking all over my upholstery for at least an hour now." Frank replies with a grimace, almost passing out from the strain of looking down at his stomach.

"That's bad for it you know." Simmons says, the sound of mechanical whirring in the background. "It never comes out."

"Yeah...that was my first concern too." Frank growls.

"Where are you now?" Simmons asks, unperturbed.

"Bleeding to death in some frakking ditch." Frank spits.

There's a slight pause on the other end, but Simmons finally responds. "I'm in the middle of surgery right now, it'll be at least an hour before I've wrapped up here. I'd suggest you find a way here."

"Oh that's just great..." Frank groans, lifting himself back into the bloodsoaked driver's seat. "At least it gives me time to run an errand first."

"DO NOT DRINK Frank." Simmons says, loud and slow for emphasis.

"I'm not." Frank sighs.

"I'm serious Frank." Simmons says assertively, "A gutshot can take a long time to bleed out, but if you start pouring liquor down it you're just going to speed things up."

"I said I'm not." Frank snaps. "I've got to see a guy before I come over. Shouldn't take more than 10 minutes and it's on the way."

"Are you sure you can actually hold out for an hour Frank?" Simmons asks, his voice just as flat and impersonal as it always is.

Frank almost laughs, but the movement feels like it's disemboweling him. "Would it make a difference?"

"Well," Simmons replies, the whirring still audible behind him. "I could always take an early lunch."

"You're all heart doc." Frank growls, terminating the call. "All heart..."

Spoiler

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Frank checks his AR display, another 30 minutes before the doc can see him, and bangs on the apartment door once again. He swoons on his feet, but manages to stay upright for now at least.

"Whatever you want I don't...." YarDog shouts, throwing open the door. He trails off softly at the sight of his private investigator pal. The young ork is tall and strangely skinny for one of his race; with elaborate tattoos coveirng his arms and spiked dog collar around his neck.

"Damn Frank, you look like-" YarDog begins, but fails to finish as Frank brings a crowbar wordlessly across his face; spattering teeth, blood and YarDog himself across the cramped apartment's peeling linoleum floor.

YarDog looks up in horror and starts to say something, but is interrupted by the heel of Frank's shoe crushing his throat and jaw.

"You send a hitsquad to my office...and don't bother to give me a COURTESY CALL!" Frank shouts, applying more pressure to the gasping ork's neck.

"Frank...I..don't know...what....you're....." YarDog struggles to squeak out.

"You're the only person that they know, knows me." Frank reminds his now toothless contact.

Panic starting to set in, YarDog starts to stammer "F-F-Frank man...I....tried to...."

"Let's check my call history then? Ten o'clock, no call from YarDog. Nine o'clock, no call from Yardog. Eight o'clock, no call from Yardog. Seven o'clock-"

"Frank...please..." YarDog whimpers.

Frank lets the crowbar fall to the floor and grabs YarDog's collar in both hands, lifting him off the ground through the blinding pain in his own side. As the gurgling ganger tries to regain his footing, Frank kicks his feet out from under him so that he's hanging by his own collar once again.

"Six o'clock, no call from YarDog. Five o'clock, NO CALL FROM YARDOG!" Frank spits into the terrified young man's face, noting with some concern the flecks of blood that fly from his own mouth.

At this point YarDog is very purple and barely conscious (which the medically inclined might note is the reverse of how a healthy man should be) and Frank allows him to collapse gasping onto the floor once again.

"Please don't kill me Frank....please don't kill me..." YarDog manages to sob between great gulps of air.

"You remember how we met YarDog?" Frank asks, wincing as he retrieves his crowbar from the floor.

The young man nods enthusiastically. "I...I used to help you out from time to time-"

"You were my snitch, YarDog. My snivelling, two faced snitch." Frank says, resting the curled claw of his crowbar against the whimpering ork's face. "I had a case I couldn't quite figure out, I'd go to you and you'd roll over on all your friends."

YarDog doesn't say anything, he just casts a shamed glance down at his missing teeth.

"It was a good relationship." Frank says, starting to feel lightheaded but working through it. "It was a ....well defined relationship, and I think that's what we're lacking here. We're not friends YarDog, we're not even employee/employer. YOU are a mouthy little lapdog, and I'm the man holding your leash."

YarDog decides that this is too much, his pride demands an immediate response and summoning all of his strength he lets out a mighty shout and grabs Frank's leg, preparing to throw the old man to the ground and show him why you don't mess with the Dog!

Then Frank's crowbar shatters his shoulder in two different places and he goes back to crying.

"I don't have the badge anymore." Frank says, tapping the side of YarDog's face a little harder than necessary. "I don't have the authority. I might not even have the moral high ground. But what I do have, is this crowbar. So if I tell you to speak, you speak. If I tell you to fetch, you fetch....and you catch wind of somebody poking in my business you'd best bark your head off. Or the next time I start beating you, I swear to whatever god, demon or corp you fear the most I won't stop while your mother can still identify your corpse."

He doesn't bother waiting for YarDog's reply before making his exit. The young man looks to have another good twenty minutes of crying in him before he's legible and he's got a doctor's appointment to keep.

Spoiler

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Doc Simmons is not what most would call a considerate man, and that fact is never more pronounced than when he's got you on his operating table.

"You worry and complain like an old woman." the sharp faced human says, his hand buried so deep in Frank's side that his knuckles are no longer visible. Despite the gore-soaked nature of his operating room/clothes, not a single stylishly slicked grey hair of his is out of place.

"And how many old women have you dragged a slug out of?" Frank growls through the pain.

Withdrawing his hand and dropping the chunk of lead into a nearby trash can, Simmons begins stripping off his now drenched gloves. "Three, and each of them asked me the same question when I pointed out what a baby they were being over such a minor injury."

"My innards were blown through my outtards." Frank says, hissing in pain as the doctor presses something against his side that singes his flesh.

"Barely. You'd already staunched the worst of the bleeding well before your melodramatic little call." Simmons replies dismissively.

"So, you're saying I'm going to be alright then?" Frank asks, gritting his teeth against the pain as he sits up.

"Of course not. I'm only saying that the gunshot isnt as bad as you thought it was." Simmons retorts. "You're still a middle-aged alcoholic with a hole in your side, one gunfight away from a nervous breakdown...or the morgue."

Frank chuckles bitterly, holding his side tight to minimize his movement.

"I wouldn't consider it a laughing matter Mr Rater." Simmons says, as humorless and unreadable as Frank had ever seen him. The street-doc makes no further comment as he strips off his surgical apron and simply walks out of the room.

Spoiler

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Despite Doc Simmons' dismissal of Frank's injuries as little more than a (whiny) child's skinned knee; he allows the P.I. to recuperate in his basement clinic for a few days. It's not pleasant, what with the near constant sound of unlucky street toughs screaming through the good doctor's 'tender ministrations', but it's at least marginally safer than healing at home.

After about three days however Frank decides that alcohol withdrawal hurts more than the gunshot and he declares that he's healthy enough and takes his leave of Simmons minimalist hospitality, after settling his 100 nuyen tab of course.

He rolls up to his office around midday, taking the stairs slowly; a brown bag of assorted liquors in his left hand and his Warhawk drawn and ready in his right. He breathes a sigh of both relief and pain as he reaches his office and lowers his gun.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Everything of any value, even questionable value, has simply been stripped from the room; his couch, trideo and fridge are the most glaring ommissions. His desk and a few changes of clothes, most of which hadn't been touched in a decade or more, are pretty much the last of his possessions. If not for all the blood stains, gang signs and bullet holes you'd almost think he was just moving in.

Frank groans as he leans against his desk, running a calloused hand down his face as he tries to focus. He reasons that they didn't get much, just some out of date junk and a few momentos of a life that wasn't his anymore; anything of real importance is kept in his car. Of course they also took the closets thing to a bed in this place, and the door's a wash, so he's not sleeping here tonight....

"Jesus Frank!" Travis's slow drawl calls from the doorway, interrupting Frank's thoughts. "What the hell happened here?"

Frank glances up in time to see the exhausted looking Knight Errant patrolman gawking at the blood splatter in the hallway. Travis is a human, roughly 30 years old and built short and stocky; his short blonde hair appears unkempt and unwashed and his eyes are surrounded by dark circles. He's still in his work-clothes and looks as though he's been in them for a while. His speech is even slower than usual. "What does it look like?" Frank growls, spinning on his desktop to search for a glass in the drawers.

"Looks like you hosted a riot." Travis stammers. Noticing the bandages around Frank's bare torso he adds "That YOUR blood?"

Frank finally finds an unbroken glass in the bottom of his desk and proceeds to pour himself 2 fingers of whiskey. "More of it than I'd like."

"Frank..." Travis says, shaking his head. "Why do you kill yourself out here in this drek-pit? You could be making some serious credits over at Knight Errant."

Frank snorts dismissively. "Like you? No thanks."

"I'm serious Frank." Travis says, surveying the damage. "You know they wouldn't start you off walking a beat. Who knows where you could end up? You could have a real future."

"Until Knight Errant loses the city contract." Frank replies, downing his drink. "Then I'm standing in the unemployment line, right behind you."

Travis laughs. "There's no way that Knight Errant is going to-"

"That's what Lone Star thought," Frank interrupts bitterly, pouring himself another drink. "And you see where that got them."

"Hey..I didn't mean to..." Travis trails off awkwardly.

Frank waves a dismissive hand to silence him. "I'm where I belong. I'd rather fight for scraps here in Redmond than dance for my supper Downtown. If you just came to pester me then-"

"Oh, right!" Travis says, clapping his hands in front of himself. "I've been meaning to get in touch with you. They found another victim."

Frank's on his feet almost instantly. "I've been hounding you about this for days and you're just telling me this now?!"

Travis bristles defensively. "Don't get pissy with me chummer! They just found it this morning...and besides; I just finished pulling my second triple-shift this WEEK. You're lucky I bothered to tell you at all, I'm going home right now to turn off my commlink and sleep until my next one."

"You mean AFTER you show me the body?" Frank says.

Travis holds up his hands defensively. "Woah, now that's above my pay-grade Frank. I'm not completely sure that I have clearance to see this thing. I'm not risking my job to sneak a civvy in to gawk at it."

"Well then i need a photo or the autopsy report or..." Frank stammers.

"Sorry Frank, but it's a no go. You'll just have to be satisfied with what I've given you." Travis says, holding out his hand for the customary bribe.

"With...with what.... You've not given me anything!" Frank bellows. "Now you expect to be PAID for nothing?"

"It's not nothing!" Travis barks back. "You realize I could LOSE MY JOB just for telling you this? Whatever this is, it's out of control and YOU are now the only person outside of Knight Errant that's ever going to know he's struck again. There's rumors that they're going to start disposing of the bodies as they get them from here on in; thanks to a certain private **** going around flashing pictures of the last victim all around town."

Frank grits his teeth angrilly, but exhales quite calmly. He wraps an arm around Travis's shoulder and pats his stomach affectionately as he leads the officer to the door. "You're right, I'm sorry. It's just....it's just been a difficult case. I shouldn't take it out on you."

Sliding his hand into a coat pocket he withdraws about 20 nuyen and passes it to Travis. "It's all I've got, sorry if it's a little light. I just crawled back from a hospital stay that tapped me out."

Travis is shocked by Frank's sudden change in demeanor, but is just sleepy enough to shrug it off. "It's fine Frank...just get the rest to me whenever you can."

Frank grins and pats him on the back on the way out. "As soon as I can." he says kindly, shutting the door and leaning against it.

He takes another calming breath, trying to put everything in perspective as he plans his next move. "It's not like things can really get worse..." he mutters, taking Travis's security badge from his coat pocket and tapping it thoughtfully against his palm.

Spoiler

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Moving quickly, Frank stuffs a couple changes of clothes (along with his current suit) into a trashbag to take with him and slips on a threadbare sweater and sweatpants. He then takes a swig from his whiskey bottle and splashes some on him and his clothes, almost like cologne. He then does his best to muss up his hair and make it stand on end. The illusion complete, he packs his bag into his trunk and drives to his local Knight Errant Security office.

Leaving his weapons, and other questionable tools, sitting under his seat; Frank takes a deep breath and walks into the bustling building, dodging irritably officers and raging civilians at seemingly every turn.

Reeking of alcohol and muttering to himself, Frank stumbles pretty much in circles until a young lady in a Knight Errant uniform grabs him by the arm and asks if she can help him.

"I seen it. I done seen it, I seen it all!" Frank rambles, trying to pull away from her feebly. "He done it, and he knows I knows he done it!"

"Who did what?" the lady asks, tightening her grip on the ork even though he's easily twice her size.

"I can't...no, I won't. I won't. I won't. " he says, a tear running down his cheek as he tries unsuccessfully to walk away. "I gotta talk to Officer Dean. I gotta talk to OFFICER DEAN. I GOTTA TALK TO OFFICER DEAN NOW!" he shouts, almost hysterically.

The young woman seems almost panicked herself and flags the first person she sees, an older dwarf with a grey streaked beard, asking him to escort Frank to an interrogation room while she tries to get ahold of Travis.

Frank doubles down on his frantic ramblings and the dwarf is only too glad to be rid of him after leading him through the upper offices and tossing him in the room. Once Frank hears the door lock behind him he stops what he's doing, counts to 30 and calmly retrieves Travis's security card; running it through the door's reader.

"If there's one immutable law of the universe, it's that nobody wants to deal with a drunken lunatic that's somebody else's problem." Frank chuckles to himself, slowly slipping the door open and surveying the hall outside.

Seeing nobody between him and the end of the hallway Frank all but sprints ahead, using Travis's card once again to gain entrance to the locked stairwell. Once inside however he hears footsteps on the stairs above him and moves as silently/quickly as he can down to the next level; slipping out the door and into a series of office and cubicles, just before whoever it is can see him.

It's been a couple of years since Frank's seen the inside of this building, and it was a rather brief and uneventful visit when he was here, but he recalls the morgue being located about 2 floors down in the basement.

Frank presses himself against the adjacent wall and gives his fellow stair-dweller enough time to pass, hoping to go unnoticed.

"What are you doing here?" he hears, almost the second he tries to reenter the stairwell. The voice is high and nasal, belonging to a redhaired human in a crappy suit. The man looks like the physical incarnation of the phrase 'wage-slave'. "You're not supposed to be here, it's authorized personnel only!"

"I'm just up from maintenance, I was told there was a leak in your john; but I think they must've been talking about the thid floor's bathroom." Frank bluffs, hoping the man doesn't notice his lack of tools.

The man does. "And what were you going to fix it with? For that matter I'm pretty sure the maintenance uniform isn't 40 proof." he says, wrinkling his nose at the stench coming from Frank's clothes.

"Yeah," Frank laughs, "I got splashed by some drunk on-"

"I'm sure." the weasely man interrupts, reaching for his commlink.

Frank panics.

The ork drives a meaty fist into the man's solar plexus, knocking the wind from his lungs before he has a chance to say another word. As the man continues gasping for air, Frank grabs him by the hair of his head and drives his face into the doorframe; knocking the man out cold.

Before anyone can check out the commotion Frank's dragged him into the stairwell, gently laid him face down on the stairs and just for good measure doused his suit and face with what's left of the whiskey.

Figuring he might be pushing his luck he then sprints down the next two flights of stairs for everything he's worth. As he reaches the door to the morgue he finds it deserted. Quickly moving along he finds a locked door which he presumes holds his target and swipes Travis's card, grinning as it opens up.

"Looks like you underestimated yourself son." he chuckles, pushing into the room and hitting a lightswitch.

As he'd suspected there's a covered corpse in the room, however it takes an unexpected turn as he strips off the sheet; and it definitely confirms that this is the right room.

It's an older man, with thick grey beard and what looks to have once been long, luxurious hair. The sides are freshly shaven and sport deep, red scars that start just above the ears and seem to circle his head. Frank quickly removes a micro camera from his waistband and snaps a couple of pictures.

Wanting to get a better shot of the scars he flips the corpse over and actually gasps at the damage. The back of the man's head has been thoroughly laid open and seems to extend all the way down his spine; laying his back open literally to the bone. The back of each of the man's arms and legs are likewise completely split open.

With shaking hands, Frank snaps half a dozen more pictures; making sure to get a couple of close-ups on the wounds themselves.

Figuring he's pushing his luck at this point, Frank flips the corpse back over; recovers it and starts to leave the way he came in. No sooner does he enter the morgue proper than he hears a door opening on the opposite end.

Cursing under his breath Frank glances around the room and then sprints across it, snatching a lab coat hanging on a chair as he passes and luckily opening an unused slab. Before whoever it is enters his sight, Frank's slid himself onto the slab and closed it back.

Holding his breath and hoping for the best he listens for the better part of 10 minutes as a pair of coroners debate the finer points of Tex-Mex vs Chinese before finally settling on pizza for lunch.

As soon as their voices have trailed off he slides out of his hiding place and breathes a sigh of relief, slipping on the (far too tight) lab coat with shaky hands. He straightens his hair as best he can on his way out and with perhaps a little too much confidence, simply walks straight out the front door; his head held down but his spirits high.

[Kid Jake]

Spoiler

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"So...why would a man do this?" Frank asks, looking over the rather disturbing photos he took from the morgue.

"Are you asking me why a madman behaves the way he does Mr Rater?" Doc Simmons asks, looking over his reading glasses disapprovingly. "I don't know whether to be flattered at your overestimation of my insight, or insulted at your insinuation about my moral fiber."

"Neither actually," Frank grunts irritably. "I'm asking you literally, why would somebody make cuts like these?"

Pursing his lips, Doc Simmons flips through the pictures in his AR display. "They're deep and wide, yet precise. I'd say he was trying to remove something."

"So...what did he take?" Frank asks.

Simmons shakes his head. "Obviously I can't tell for certain from a handful of pictures, but if I had to guess I'd say....nothing? From what I can see the cuts only go to the bone and the bones are still there."

"So he took some 'ware? Reaction Enhancers or bone lacing maybe? They've got some value on the market. I mean...look who I'm talking to." Frank says.

Simmons glares at him for a moment before shaking his head. "Doubtful Mr Rater. When you install cyberware you don't simply staple it on top of an existing structure, you generally replace it. The spinal column still seems intact and the forearms show no signs of having been laced."

"So..." Frank starts and then just rubs his head. "So he was after something, but didn't find it? Or...maybe he was taking something out that wasn't supposed to be there in the first place?"

"Such as?" Simmons asks.

""I'll let you know when I figure that out." Frank says with a sigh.

Spoiler

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It's almost 5pm when Frank walks into the Bear's Den and it's surprisingly busy; he counts almost 2 dozen people lingering about the place. Not really drinking, not really socializing; just...lingering.

Frank spots Skinner talking to a pair of dwarves over in the corner and touches his hat in greeting. Skinner throws him a wave in return, but goes back to his business so Frank lets him be and takes a seat at the bar.

"What'll it be?" Big Bear asks, sitting down a champagne flute filled with something red and....misty. Either he doesn't recognize Frank or doesn't hold a grudge.

"I'll have a bourbon." Frank says, pushing the drink away. Instead he gets a glass of gin, but doesn't complain.

Frank drinks in peace for a few minutes, until he feels a metallic clap on his shoulder and sees Skinner plop down beside him.

"Miss the atmosphere?" the chromed up elf asks with a grin. "I told you I'd call if I heard anything."

Frank nods, "I know. But there's another one. Wanted to see if you knew him too."

Skinner laughs. "Running's a big business chummer, it's not like we've got corporate picnics we all go to."

"All the same." Frank replies with a shrug, sharing the victim's picture through his AR.

Skinner's laugh dies in his throat and the elf actually pales a little. "Bear, you've gotta see this!" he shouts, snatching Frank's commlink and shouldering his way to the back of the bar. Once there he almost rips out the monitor's feed and quickly attaches the commlink to it via its cable; bringing the pictures up for all to see before Frank can stop him.

Several of the runners nearby almost gasp, Big Bear claps a hamsized fist to his mouth to stifle something between a sob and a curse. His normally jovial features replaced with those of a tired old man.

"It's him?" Skinner asks.

Big Bear nods and turns away. "Take it down!" he shouts.

"Who is it?" Frank asks, glancing from patron to patron.

"The Sage." Skinner says, tossing Frank his commlink back. "Old school runner...like....the oldest school. Everyone's either ran with him, or ran with somebody trained by him at some point."

"Not the kind of person to be taken unaware?" Frank asks.

Skinner snorts. "That's an understatement. The guy wrote the book on magical defenses. Literally. Three of them I think. Used to teach at MITT according to Big Bear. Supposedly one of the first real professional magicians way back in the twenties."

"That's some resume." Frank says, taken off guard. "How'd he come to....well, this?"

"Same way we all do omae." Skinner says with a shake of his head.

"Was he a regular then?" Frank probes.

"Nah, nothing like that. He barely left his place anymore, definitely not to hang out with the likes of us."

"So then he was retired?" Frank asks.

The elf shrugs. "Semi. Last I heard he wasn't doing runs anymore but he was still available for other services. Talismongering, assensing, basic protection and such... So somebody really is targetting runners, huh?" he asks solemnly.

"Maybe..." Frank says. "Or maybe they're targetting the awakened..."

Walking up to the bar, followed by Skinner, Frank takes a seat near the still grieving Big Bear. "I'm sorry you found out this way." he says genuinely.

Big Bear nods slowly. "He deserved better."

"Those claws around your neck, and your name....would you happen to be a shaman, Big Bear?" Frank asks.

Once again, Big Bear nods the affirmative. "Bear showed me how to make magic, but Sage showed me how to make a living."

"Are parts of metahumans ever used in sorcery?" Frank asks.

Big Bear growls defensively, "Of course not, we aren't savages!"

Frank holds up his hands apologetically. "I'm not saying that, I'm talking in general terms. COULD parts of a metahuman have magical properties?"

Big Bear nods slowly. "I...I suppose. The heart, or bones, are sometimes used by...by people better left alone."

"Would the bones of a magician be worth more than those of the non-awakened?" Frank asks, a theory forming in his mind.

Big Bear shakes his head. "I...I don't know. That's not Bear's way..."

"Were bones missing?" Skinner asks.

Frank shakes his head. "Not yet. But maybe he's just not found the right ones..." he mutters. "What sort of magic would require the bones of a magician? Specifically one stronger than the Sage?"

Big Bear shudders. "Bad magic." he says softly.

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After leaving the Bear's Den with Sage's address in hand, Frank rents a room at a local coffin hotel recommended by Skinner. He rents it for the week at a slight discount and spends a restless night in the uncomfortably tight quarters.

Come morning Frank retreats to the comparable spaciousness of his Jackrabbit to drink in peace and make some calls. First and foremost being his landlord to demand something be done about the appaling state of his apartment/office.

Naturally they disagree on who's responsible for repairing the extensive damage, but they eventually come to a fair compromise: Frank gets what left of his drek out of what's left of the apartment by the end of the month and the landlord doesn't burn it on the sidewalk. As might be expected, Frank also fails to get his security deposit back.

After a productive five minutes of banging his forehead against the steering wheel and cursing himself hoarse, Frank finally rests his head and takes a deep breath. He resolves to solve his homeless situation soon, but for the moment there's work.

Taking another swig from his bottle he dials an old friend from his days in Lone Star.

"Hoi omae!" the voice on the other end calls out cheerfully. "Long time no see Frank, what've you been up to?"

"Champagne, limosines and two thousand nuyen a night joygirls. You know, the usual." Frank says with an earnest laugh, inwardly wincing as he almost pops a stitch from his most recent gunshot wound. "How's Boston treating you Brad?"

"Same as anywhere else." Brad replies cheerfully.

"Sorry to hear that." Frank says with a laugh. "Listen, Brad...I'd love to catch up, but I'm actually calling about a case. Knight Errant's no help so I'm hoping you guys have something. I'm sending you the pictures now."


There's a slight pause and then the sound of somebody choking. "What the hell Frank? I'm on my lunchbreak here!"

"Sorry, sorry. But have you seen anything like this?" Frank asks.

"Not that I can recall... Gimme a minute and I'll see if we've got any records." Brad responds.

About fifteen minutes pass in relative silence before Brad finally says "Ha! Found something. There were about six victims with wounds similar to your vic's pulled out of Redmond and Puyallup about three years ago."

"What do you mean similar?" Frank inquires.

"The last one had wounds matching your guy's, but the rest were missing the arm and leg incisions; they just had their spines exposed." Brad explains.

"Seems grisly...why didn't we ever hear about it?" Frank ponders out loud.

Brad makes a noncomittal grunt. "Was probably deemed a non-priority. One popped up every two weeks for about three months and then everything went quiet. Puyallup and Redmond both have a heavy gang presence and I guess we figured it was just the Yakuza or Vory making an example of some rivals."

"Unlikely." Frank responds.

"Oh?" Brad prods.

"Depending on who you ask there's been two to three times that number in the last year or so and the last few that I know of have been Shadowrunners. One of which has been retired for some time. Whatever this is about, I don't think it's settling scores." Frank explains with a sigh.

"Hey look, I'll try and find out who the detective assinged to the case was and pick his brain for you alright?" Brad offers.

"Thanks man, I'll owe you one." Frank says gratefully.

After saying their goodbyes Frank starts cruising the local ads for a new place to move into.

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The day passes fruitlessly and Frank spends another miserable night in the cramped coffin hotel. By morning he's anxious to get out so he decides to check out the Sage's home to get an idea of what happened to the man.

Around noon he rolls up to a surprisingly nice row of Brownstone houses in a relatively nice neighborhood in Redmond's northern section. Checking the address once more to be sure, Frank parks across the street and jogs to the door.

Popping in an audio-enhancing earbud, Frank presses his ear to the door and holds his breath. After about thirty seconds he exhales slowly; if somebody was inside he'd have heard them moving around, or at least breathing.

Glancing around to make sure there are no lookie-loos, Frank slides an auto-picker out of his pocket and quickly jimmies the lock. Pushing open the door he steps into a spacious foyer leading into a set of spiraling stairs, a living room and what looks like a kitchen.

Figuring he should clear the ground floor first, Frank walks into the living room and starts poking around. The first thing that catches his eye is how organized and tidy everything is. Rows and rows of physical books ordered alphabetically, decorative knick knacks and furniure arranged to make the most of the room's feng shui....everything seems to have its place except for the pile of (impossibly well kept) rubble piled in the corner almost chest high.

Sensing something amiss, Frank slowly reaches down to look under one of the microwave sized stones and jerks his head back just in time to avoid having it taken off.
Stumbling back and drawing his gun Frank watches the pile of rocks shift into something vaguely gorilla shaped. Frank fires his handcannon directly into the thing's chest and watches in horror as the bullet bounces off harmlessly.

The beastly elemental brings both of its hands above its head and attempts to smash Frank with an overhand blow, but the wilely ork stumbles backwards and fires uselessly at it again. The creature lands beside him and delivers a backhand to his chest that cracks a rib and sends him tumbling backwards over a nearby couch.

Frank's eyes grow wide as the spirit's torso seems to split open, the stones making it up spreading out to reveal the hollowness inside. Frank rolls of the way just in time to prevent the spirit from crashing down and trapping him inside itself.

The elemental crashes into Frank's backside as he attempts to flee towards the door causing both of them to tumble down the outside stairs in a clumsy heap. Before the earth elemental can recover, Frank's stumbled to his feet and sprinted across the street; throwing open his passenger side door and diving inside.

Before he has a chance to so much as sigh in relief however the elemental tackles the car, knocking his still opened passenger side door off and reaching one of its massive arms inside, grabbing Frank by the ankle even as he slams the car into reverse. The elemental grabs onto the car's frame to keep itself from falling out and tries to force its bulk inside.

Thinking fast, Frank snaps his steering wheel back and forth; throwing the Jackrabbit dangerously off balance due to the elemental's weight and nearly flipping the car. The elemental is momentarily dislodged, but manages to catch itself on the small car's hood. It manages to haul itself upright and punches a fist directly into the engine.

Frank curses as a burst of steam fills his vision and slams on the breaks, spinning the car around 180 degrees and bowling the elemental off backwards. Just as the creature begins to charge him once again he slams the vehicle in reverse and lays on the gas.

He manages to buy some distance in this manner but realizes that he's not going to outrun it with his car in the shape its in, so quickly changes gears once more and accelerates as fast as he can. The elemental sees its target coming back to it and pulls itself up to its full, impressive, height; banging on its chest and bellowing a challenge right up until Frank plows through it at 60kmh.

Frank's face slams painfully into his steering wheel as the spirit explodes into a shower of stone and dust and the Jackrabbit finally gives up the ghost and dies. He sits in his car for a good five minutes, waiting for the thing to reform and kill him and when he finally accepts it's not going to he crawls out and surveys the damage.

No passenger door, no front windshield, no driver side windshield, no headlights, no front bumper, no...left front tire apparently.... The hood is caved in almost half a meter with a hole larger than his head driven straight through and into the engine below. He almost fills a tear forming in his eye as he places his hands on the ruined hood and shouts "Why the frak would I waive expenses!?!" to nobody in particular.

He slams his still sore head against the almost painfully hot car and lays there as he considers having himself a good cry for about fifteen minutes. Finally realizing it's just not in him he heaves a weary sigh and takes a seat next to his totaled car.

With a calming breath, Frank dials his commlink. "Hey Skinner, it's me Frank, are you anywhere close to Big Bear? I need him to look over some stuff for me at the Sage's place...and, I kind of need a ride if that's ok."

[Gray Mage]

I love shadowrun and I love the story so far.

[Kid Jake]

Thank ya, always glad to hear from a satisfied reader.

[IntelectPaladin]

Just to let you know, I'm still reading.
I've just been caught up in preparations for a 5-day camping trip.
Heaven help me. Please.
I'll be back to commenting afterwards,
and I'm looking forward to what I come back to!
I-E the well-written stories that you excel at.
Thank you for reading this, and I hope you have a better day!

[Kid Jake]

Heh, good luck. It's probably been 15 years since the last time I had to got to go camping. Hope your trip turns out better than mine always did.

[Kid Jake]

Sorry if this entry seems a little rushed, I've been having some back problems over the last few days that make it a little hard to focus on what I'm doing. Hopefully everything came out legible at least.

Spoiler

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Frank and Skinner sit on the steps outside the Sage's residence, sharing a bottle of rum and and passing the time while Big Bear goes over the inside of the house. After just over an hour the troll steps out into the light of day and takes a deep breath.

"It's done." Big Bear says, taking a seat on the steps.

"What'd you find in there?" Frank asks.

"A handful more spirits and warding like I've never seen. All of it his." Big Bear replies.

Frank rubs his bruised chest, "With the kind of hell that rock spirit raised on its own, I don't see anyone walking through five of them. He definitely wasn't taken here.... Is it safe to look around?"

Big Bear nods. "I found nothing else on the astral, the house is clear."

Frank picks himself up with a groan and makes his way inside. He spends a few minutes poking around the house before finally setting his sights on the Sage's upstairs study. It's a beautiful room filled with magical trinkets, carefully arranged bookshelves and a gorgeous mahogany desk that Frank is almost tempted to steal when he leaves.

Walking over to the desk, Frank begins rifling through the drawers. He finds a box of cigars, a handful of prescription pill bottles, a fine bottle of aged scotch (which he DOES go ahead and sample) and a .45 pistol along with a box of ammunition. Most enticingly however, is the locked top drawer.

Frank pulls out his autopicker and tries to pop the lock, failing miserably. After about four attempts he grinds his teeth irritably and pulls out his miniature crowbar; chipping a hole in the drawer itself and simply tearing it open. The only thing of any real importance is fairly nice commlink.

It's encoded, but not overly so, and Frank manages to reset the commlink's password to something he can remember. He settles on PASSWORD2.

Inside, he finds hundreds of contacts; none of which are identified by name. Only a letter and a series of numbers. Frank briefly attempts to figure out the Sage's code but quickly grows irritated and instead flips over to the saved messages.

As expected, the people that the Sage dealt with were less cryptic than the man himself and the first message that catches his eye is titled "RE: EASY 15,000!!!!!" the body of which simply lists an address and a time. Checking the date, it was received about three weeks ago, right around the time the Sage most likely disappeared.

"Promising..." Frank mutters, slipping the commlink into his pocket.

Stepping outside, Frank explains to the others about the commlin and asks if they recognize the commcode of the message. Skinner closes his eyes and moves his lips slightly as he mentally scans his internal commlink; eventually confirming that he's got that number in his too; it belongs to a low-rate fixer. Not the sort of man that the Sage would usually deal with, but 15,000 nuyen warrants a second glance.

Skinner offers to get in touch with the fixer and Big Bear pulls a few strings to get Frank's Jackrabbit repaired on the cheap. In the meantime Frank takes the mystery address, and since his car is temporarily indisposed, rents a vehicle from Big Bear's mechanic friend.

Naturally all they had available was a Dodge Scoot.

Spoiler

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Frank parks around the corner to avoid losing his 'mystique' by puttering up on an electric scooter and walks around the block to the specified address, finding the kind of dive bar that makes the Bear's Den look like a family joint. It's still early so the place is pretty much deserted; only the bartender, a short and stocky human with a face that bears the scars of a brief acquaintainceship with a rocky patch of road.

"What'choo want?" the bartender asks, barely glancing up from whatever he's doing on his commlink.

"Information actually. Wondered if you might've seen a man a few weeks back, older guy. Long white hair, long white beard, he would've been dressed kinda nice. Had a-" Frank starts.

"We got beer and we got whiskey." the barman replies gruffly.

"Then I'll take a whiskey..." Frank says. "Along with-"

"We're out. Piss off." the barman growls.

Frank takes a deep breath and then quickly grabs the bartender by the collar and drags him out from behind the bar, slamming his face into the floor and dropping his knee onto the back of the shocked man's neck. He projects the images of the butchered Sage for the bartender to see and shouts "How about now? Does this look more familiar!?"

The bartender simply stammers, "I...I...no, I didn't...."

"This drekhole is the closest thing to a lead that I've come across in this case, and you acting like you don't recognize the first man to ever step in here not wearing bags on his feet strikes me as the least bit suspicious!" Frank growls, crushing the man's head and face into the filthy floor.

"Ok! Ok, yeah I seen him!" the bartender shouts.

Frank hauls the man to his feet and shoves him against the bar. "Elaborate!" the ork snaps.

"He came in about a month ago, picked up a package and that was the first, and last, I seen him." the bartender explains.

"What was in the package?" Frank asks.

The bartender shrugs. "I don't know. Guy just gave me some packages and told me to hold them until his couriers came to pick them up. Said not to touch them until then...."

"And you're just such a nice guy you did like he asked?" Frank growls.

"He gave me five grand to hold onto them, said he might have more when these ran out. I mean...easy money right?" the bartender replies.

"Wait...do you still have them?" Frank asks, a look of shock and....excitement(?) playing across his face.

The bartender nods. "I've got two left. Behind the bar..."

Frank shoulders his way past and draws a knife from behind his back. The boxes are easy enough to spot and in seconds he's laid one open...though it raises more questions than answers.

Inside is a number of rocks. Not magical rocks, not crystals or minerals or polished stones; just dirty, filthy rocks. The kind you'd dig up...anywhere. He dumps the first box on the floor and quickly opens the second one, finding the same thing.

"Don't play with me..." Frank snarls, leaping across the bar. The bartender takes a step back and falls directly on his ass.

"I'm not, hand to God!" the man pipes up.

Frank pulls up the picture of the runner kid and a picture of his sister from his personal files. "How about these two, seen them?"

The bartender looks over the pictures and nods. "Yeah...yeah, I seen the kid; but the lady don't look familiar."

"The kid come here for one of these boxes?" Frank asks.

The bartender nods.

"Who came for one last?" Frank demands.

"An ork with real flashy cybereyes and some redhead." the bartender answers.

"Just...some redhead?" Frank snaps.

"Ah...pretty, young kinda short. Looked maybe 19? Real fair skin." the bartender quickly describes her.

"How about the guy that gave you the packages, what'd he look like?" Frank asks anxiously.

"Human. Kind of a big guy, real broad in the shoulders. Had dark skin...I think. He wore a coat with his hood up. Didn't stick around long." the bartender says.

Without another word, Frank pushes past the bartender and comms Skinner. He describes the ork and the girl asking the runner to put out the word for them to be on their guard on the off-chance that neither's been snatched yet. He also describes the hooded man and asks for Skinner to pass around the description to a few fixers and see if anyone knows him.

Skinner laughs it off as a long-shot, but agrees to do it all the same.

Spoiler

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Frank picks up a 12 pack of cheap beer on his way back to the hotel and sits up into the wee hours trying to go over the Sage's contacts. He accomplishes nothing and ends up drifting off sometime around four in the morning.

He wakes up to the sound of his commlink blaring and quickly answers it, hoping for answers.

"What the HELL is wrong with you Frank?" Travis shouts on the other end. "You steal my badge?! Break into my work!? Who exactly do you think you are?"

"Travis?" Frank asks groggily. "What are you talking about? I didn't-"

"Cut the drek Frank!" Travis exclaims angrilly, "Who else besides you knew, or cared, about the Redmond killer? There's pictures of that damned old man circulating all over town. Pictures ON OUR SLAB!"

Frank starts to say something and then realizes that Travis has him dead to rights. "You're right...I'm sorry. I crossed a line."

"You're...sorry? You're sorry!? You realize I just spent the last 36 hours DETAINED, as in they debated on charging me with frakking corporate espionage! The only reason I haven't been shipped out to some corporate black site until some executive's niece needs a kidney transplant is because the toxicology report confirmed that I spent the few hours I was off duty too tranqed up to find my way across town!"

"Well, at least they absolved you of-" Frank starts again.

"Absolved nothing Frank, they canned me!" Travis snaps. "They threw me on my ass and you can bet your last nuyen that there's not a corp in Seattle that'll hire me after the drek they've marked me with."

"Listen Travis, I can find you work, just sit tight and stop freaking out." Frank says, sitting up in his cramped pod.

Travis laughs bitterly. "Sure Frank, you can set me up an office right next to yours and we can both drink ourselves to death on ten credits a day. Lose my number Rater, I just wanted to tell you to go to hell."

Frank starts to respond, but the line is dead. He puts his head in his hands and just sits there groaning for a good five minutes. When he finally musters the will to stand up he grits his teeth and massages his cracked ribs.

With a resigned sigh Frank collapses back into bed, turns off his commlink and decides to drink this horrible day away.

Spoiler

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Sometime around 11 the next morning Frank wakes up and wearily checks his messages. The first is Skinner informing Frank that he's arranged a meeting with the fixer at two this afternoon. The second is Travis drunkenly ranting at Frank for being such a useless, ugly ork bastard. The third is Skinner demanding that Frank confirm the appointment if he's not dead....then apologizing if Frank is dead. The next six or so are just an increasingly drunk Travis attempting to berate Frank into suicide.

Bringing up his commlink, Frank sends a brief message to Skinner confirming that he'll be there at two. He then heads to the communal bathroom and attempts to wash the acumulated 'drunk ork stank' off of himself before his meeting.

It's just before noon when Frank steps into the hotel's near deserted parking lot to find a tall, broad figure in a heavy robe standing between him and his scooter; its back is turned to face the Scoot. His hand rests nervously on his Warhawk as his eyes quickly dart around, making sure they're alone.

"That's my ride." Frank says gruffly.

"I know." a hollow monotone voice says from beneath the hood, as the figure turns around Frank notices his deeply tanned skin and the way his robed hands are crossed before him, as though hiding something. The man's face is near expressionless, with rough skin and faint tribal tattoos almost faded with age.

'Yeah....I suppose you would." Frank mutters. "So, you found me then."

"You're unsubtle." the figure replies .

Frank laughs. "Care to elaborate?"

"No." the figure replies once more.

"Well, I guess this is the part where we kill each other then..." Frank says, hand on his weapon.

"Doubtful." the figure responds dismissively.

Frank glares at the figure for a split second before yanking his revolver from its holster. No sooner does his gun clear leather however than to his horror the figure is standing directly next to him, its hand flashes from its robe with steel in hand; the light of the midday sun reflecting off the shiny new katana brightly. Before Frank can even attempt to dodge his right arm disappears at the elbow in a shower of blood.

Frank collapses backwards screaming at the top of his lungs, his bloody nub flailing uselessly even as his dying forearm twitches its last.

"You would have made a fine addition...if only I hadn't outgrown you." the figure says, spinning its blade around to deliver a killing stroke.

As it raises the blade above its head Frank tears the smaller Taurus from his ankle holster and fires into the robed chest three times in rapid succession. Smiling with no small satisfaction at the accompanying thud and the clatter of that damned sword across the pavement, Frank lets his head fall back as he stares into the blue sky above.

"Not the worst way to die..." Frank chuckles to himself as he has an increasingly hard time clamping his good hand over his spurting wound. As the shock starts setting in he gives up altogether and just lays back.

"Not the way I'd have chosen..." he mutters with a bitter smile spreading across his face, "But who knows....maybe I'll make the news after all."

He hears the faint sound of boots on the pavement and a low baritone cursing, but by that point he's too far gone to care.

[Gray Mage]

Whoa, cliffhanger.

Also, hope your back gets well soon.

[IntelectPaladin]

Well, this is a shock.
I'm getting more and more invested as time rolls by,
and i'm glad to have gotten to read it this time just as I was getting home.
Two words. Wasp. Nado.
Thank you for reading this, and I hope you have a better day!

[Kid Jake]

Glad y'all are enjoying it. I'll try and get the next chapter typed up as soon as I can focus on what I'm doing.

Also, hope your back gets well soon.

Thankya. It does this from time to time, but it'll pass eventually. Probably would have already if I hadn't helped a buddy move the other day.

[TerryPie]

I've been lurking this thread since it first popped up and decided to also add my voice to the "oh man, this is totally awesome" camp. It sounds like the sessions are really enjoyable and you write them up fantastically.

I read through your other Shadowrun one shot today and it was equally fantastic.

Though I am almost always the GM for our group, I've only ever played in Shadowrun sessions. I've always wanted to run a game though and your Shadowrun campaign journals make me want to do so even more.

Great stuff mate, look forward to the next installment.

[IntelectPaladin]

I seriously hope this isn't thread necromancy,
As I can't remember the exact wait time before it hits the mark.
I'll be content to keep waiting, as I have since the last post.
Which was posted, according to my gut feeling, back in 2013.
In the meantime, I just wanted to say that I miss this thread,
And the story it's had so far.
Just what happened, exactly? Are you alright, jake? Was it something familial?
Thank you for reading this, and I hope you have a better day!

[Kid Jake]

I've been lurking this thread since it first popped up and decided to also add my voice to the "oh man, this is totally awesome" camp. It sounds like the sessions are really enjoyable and you write them up fantastically.

I read through your other Shadowrun one shot today and it was equally fantastic.

Though I am almost always the GM for our group, I've only ever played in Shadowrun sessions. I've always wanted to run a game though and your Shadowrun campaign journals make me want to do so even more.

Great stuff mate, look forward to the next installment.

Thankya. Shadowrun's one of the harder systems I've GMed for, but it's definitely worth it. I can't exactly remember what my second game used, but I believe each of my journals so far has been a different edition and so far 5e's been my favorite; just seems like it's easier to find what I need when I need it.

I seriously hope this isn't thread necromancy,
As I can't remember the exact wait time before it hits the mark.
I'll be content to keep waiting, as I have since the last post.
Which was posted, according to my gut feeling, back in 2013.
In the meantime, I just wanted to say that I miss this thread,
And the story it's had so far.
Just what happened, exactly? Are you alright, jake? Was it something familial?
Thank you for reading this, and I hope you have a better day!

Heh, sorry didn't realize it'd been so long. I've got another couple of sessions to type up, just seems like every time I sit down to do it somebody needs me for something. You might be happy to know though that I'm in the middle of typing one up even as we speak, so long as nothing else happens to distract me.

[graymagiker]

You might be happy to know though that I'm in the middle of typing one up even as we speak, so long as nothing else happens to distract me.

Alas and Alack, it looks like distraction has struck again!

I'm wondering if our protagonist can make it out of this one, seems dim but not impossible.

[IntelectPaladin]

Alas and Alack, it looks like distraction has struck again!

I'm wondering if our protagonist can make it out of this one, seems dim but not impossible.

As a paladin, I can personally verify that there is always hope.
I'm seriously concerned, but still hopeful.
So, I wonder if there are other shadowrun stories anyone has to share?

Also, thank you for reading this, and I hope you have a better day!

[Kid Jake]

Heh, sorry. Most of it's typed up, I've just been running around a lot with my nieces and haven't been able to look at my notes. I've thought of just posting what I have, but I like keeping sessions together when I can.

Should have it up tomorrow though.

[graymagiker]

No need to appologize. I am thrilled that it will be up tomorrow (fingers crossed). I am even more delighted that you have better things to do than entertain us by slaving away at your keyboard.

[Kid Jake]

Don't be. I'm still only like two feet away from my keyboard, I just can't use it because all of my time is devoted to keeping a 4 year old from using all the horrible tricks I've taught her over the last four years on her two year old cousin.

[Kid Jake]

Alright, sorry if this seems rushed; it kinda was. Hopefully I'll have the opportunity to actually sit down and write out the next one straight through.

Spoiler

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The sound of screaming snaps Frank awake and he finds himself immersed in darkness on all sides. His groggy mind struggles to understand the situation he finds himself in, but it all feels so...familiar. Then it hits him.

The tortured screams of God-knows-who, the feel of cold metal pressed into his back, a suffocating lack of oxygen...

"Dammit Simmons, let me out off this slab!" he shouts hoarsely, kicking the metallic door by his foot with what little strength he can muster.

After a couple of minutes of frantic kicking the door opens and Frank is slid out into the dim light and stale air of Simmons' workshop. Some troll he's never seen before is laid over the surgical table with 6 arrows, and four gaping arrow wounds, in his back.

"Be quiet Frank." Simmons snaps gruffly, returning to his work and causing the troll to go back into screaming fits. "I [i]do[/] have other clients you know."

"He's the one moaning." Frank rasps, sitting up slowly and rubbing his still adjusting eyes with the palm of his left hand.

"He's also the one paying for my services, so stop interrupting me or wait outside." Simmons replies, tearing another arrow from the troll's back. The troll whimpers pitifully and Simmons sneers. "You simper like an old woman."

"And how many old women have you pulled arrows out of?" the troll half-heartedly snaps back.

"Two." Simmons replies, ripping up another one. "And they both asked that same question when I informed them of their ridiculous overreactions."

Frank almost chuckles, before noticing the useless stump where his arm once was. "Simmons....where's my arm?" he asks curiously.

With a foot on the troll's back, attempting to remove the final arrow Simmons grunts "Where you left it Mr Rater."

Frank stares at the nub in confusion for a long moment before replying "In the parking lot?"

"If that's where you were." Simmons says with a sigh, already moving onto stapling the troll's wounds closed.

"How do you not know where you found me?" Frank asks, his mind clearing a bit.

"Because I didn't find you Mr Rater." Simmons replies, turning from his whimpering patient and snatching an envelope out of a nearby drawer. "Your dwarf friend dropped you off and left this." he says, tossing it in Frank's lap.

"Dwarf....what dwarf?" Frank asks.

"The...I don't know, the dwarf. How many dwarves do you know?" Simmons asks irritably.

Frank shakes his head. "I...I don't think I know a dwarf. What did he look like?"

"I don't know Mr Rater," Simmons answers, tossing his gloves in the trash. "Short, broad....dwarf-like."

"Careful Simmons, you're one step away from 'they all look the same to me.'" Frank says with a snort.

"ALL of you look the same to me. " Simmons says disinterestedly as he walks into his office. "If not for the constant gunshot wounds I wouldn't be able to pick any of you people out of a crowd."

Before Frank can think of anything to say to that, the door slams shut and he's left sitting with the now unconscious troll and his envelope. He notices that he's passively rubbing the raw nub that once ended in a forearm and sighs, wanting a drink now more than ever; but knowing that Simmons wouldn't allow it.

Taking his envelope in hand, he bites the corner and tears the thing open to dump out the contents: a simple credstick and a handwritten note. Picking up the note he looks over the short message, it reads:

"Mr Rater, forget the Devins case; it was a mistake and you should have never been hired. Please accept this in compensation for any injury or misfortune this situation has caused you."

Frank looks at the note for a moment longer before snatching up the credit stick and checking the balance. He nearly drops the damned thing in shock when he sees 60,000 nuyen flash before his eyes.

His first thought is naturally "Jackpot!" but then his natural suspicion starts kicking in. He quickly grabs his comm to ask Grace about what's going on, but finds that her number's been disconnected. It makes him uneasy, but with nothing else to go on he has little choice but to accept that his job's at an end.

As Simmons steps out of his office, Frank looks up. "I need a new arm doc."

"I need a long vacation and a summer home, but things don't always go the way we want Mr Rater." Simmons replies without bothering to cast a glance in Frank's direction.

"I can pay for it." Frank barks. "No credit or installments BS, nuyen in your pocket today."

Simmons stops in his tracks. "What sort of price range?"

Frank looks down at his missing appendage for a moment before replying "Show me the good drek and we'll go from there."

Spoiler

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It ends up costing him more than half his earnings but Simmons comes through for him. The forearm is bulky and obvious(he notes with a little irritation that he's going to have cut the sleeves out of his shirts to make them fit), but what it lacks in subtlety it more than makes up for in speed, power and sheer intimidation factor. It feels unreal how responsive it is, his own limbs don't react so swiftly to his mental commands.

It takes some getting used to however. His forearm often seems to outrun the rest of him and several times feels as though it's going to wrench the rest of his arm out of its socket. He vows to spend a few days sleeping off the effects of surgery and getting the hang of his new prosthetic; but first and foremost he has Simmons show him the killer.

Simmons has the man in a conveniently body sized freezer, one of several in fact, and lets Frank get at him. Frank quickly snaps a number of pictures and then sends them to his Lone Star contact; along with a message urging Brad to have somebody check out the guy's property in case he has anyone stashed there.

Simmons asks what Frank wants done with the body and Frank just shrugs, telling him to sell it for scrap for all he cares. Simmons is only too happy to comply.

Over the next few days Frank recovers from his injuries and visits a local gym to work on his control. He has to fork over 20 nuyen to pay for a ruptured speed bag, but considers it money well spent. He takes a grand from his leftover money and puts a security deposit on an office, as well as has his old desk moved in for him.

During this time he stops by the Bear's Den to pass the killer's picture around, just in case somebody knows something, and can barely walk out by himself after the number of drinks the patrons by him. Big Bear even gets most of them right.

He realizes, as he's stumbling to a cab, just how little the authorities do for people out in the Barrens. All he had to do was try to give a damn and the same hardened criminals that would have once mugged him for being a SINner are lining up to shake his hand.

It'd be funny if it wasn't so sad...

Spoiler

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Just over a week passes with Frank spending his days advertising his new office and his nights getting fall down drunk off free hooch at The Bear's Den.

It's about 6pm and he's just walking out of a local gym, after another training session with his new arm, when he suddenly finds himself lifted about a foot off the ground with his face smashed painfully into the glass of the front door. His groggy mind almost chuckles at the bloody face indention he's left in the cracked glass, but the sensation of tumbling end over end into the street stops him short.

Looking up from his place on the sidewalk Frank takes in the largest troll he's ever seen in his life, arms almost as thick as Frank himself and a jaw that looks like a slab of granite, standing over him in a surprisingly expensive suit. Before Frank can say a word, the troll grabs him painfully by the ear and drags him to his feet.

"My boss would like a word with you." the troll growls in a voice so deep and resounding it's almost hard to understand him and motioning to a town car parked across the street.

"All you had to do...was ask..." Frank grunts painfully, standing on his tip-toes to avoid having his ear torn off.

The troll relaxes his grip and Frank immediately throws a right hook into the troll's ribs with his mechanical arm. The troll grunts from the impact and then to Frank's horror jerks him up by the same arm so hard that the older ork hears his shoulder pop.

Frank starts to scream in agony and the troll responds with a blow of his own, knocking the wind completely out of Frank's lungs and leaving him gasping pathetically for air as he's dragged across the street by the wrist like a petulant child.

The car is spacious, it would normally have been nice enough to illicit an appreciative whistle from Frank but his thoughts and oxygen are elsewhere as he's harshly thrown inside. He lands at the feet of an elderly human, mid-70's by Frank's guess, in an impressively tailored blue suit; with thick white hair slicked back stylishly.

"You're not a stupid man Mr Rater." the human says. "You must have known that this was coming."

The entire car shifts as the troll seats himself and closes the door.

"W....w...wh..." Frank tries to gasp.

"Who? What? Why?" the man suggests. "Knight Errant."

Frank pales visibly.

"You embarassed us Mr Rater, or at least our internal security...and you have the ability to embarass us much further. Our clients are not yet aware of our...little problem, but if they were they would demand results. Results that we aren't prepared to guarantee." the well dressed man explains.

"So...what took you so long?" Frank finally manages to ask.

"We'd heard that you'd taken care of the problem for us. It didn't seem worthwhile to retaliate against a good samaritan." the man says with a chuckle.

"And..." Frank asks.

"You didn't." the man replies. "We found a photogenic little redhead this morning that could cause us problems if you come poking around again."

Frank's gaze darts around nervously. "So you're going to kill me then?"

"Eventually." the man replies. "But first, you're going to give us what you have."

"Why the hell would I do that?" Frank growls.

In response, the troll grabs Frank's knee in one massive hand and squeezes. Frank bellows in pain as he can actually hear his joint shattering under the brute's crushing strength.

"You can die relatively peaceful Mr Rater....or you can die screaming. The choice is of course yours, but I wouldn't suggest the latter." the man says.

"Ok! Ok!" Frank screams, causing the troll to back off. "I'll...I'll give you what I've got. But I don't have it, I gave it to my friend; an old contact from Lone Star! I told him to hang onto it in case...in case of this...."

"The time for bargaining is over Mr Rater." the man says, nodding towards the troll.

"No, wait! Wait!" Frank shouts. "Let me call him! I'll have him meet us with it...just please don't kill me! Please....it was just a job...."

"Call him." the man says tersely.

The troll fishes the commlink out of Frank's pocket and Frank says "Call BD."

The troll does and no sooner do the pick up then Frank shouts "Brad listen to me, there's no time to argue! Remember those Knight Errant files I gave you? I need them back and I need them bad! I assume you're still at the bar right? Well drop what you're doing and go get them! Meet me at my old office in....forty minutes. Alright?"

the line is silent for a moment, but eventually Skinner says "Yeah...alright. I'll be right there."

Spoiler

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Almost an hour later they pull up in front of Frank's old building and the troll hauls him out by the scruff of his neck. As the bossman steps out, so too do two more bodyguards from the front seat.

"You had better hope your friend did as he was told." the boss says coldly, the troll shoving Frank to the ground for emphasis.

Frank nods sorely, struggling to his feet. "He's good people, he'll be here. I think my old place is still empty, we should go inside and wait for him."

"Splendid idea." the man replies snidely, pressing a gun into Frank's ribs and nodding towards the door for him to lead the way.

Frank holds his hands up to show his compliance, stumbling forward as instructed.

A homeless man, heavily bundled in filthy rags dozes drunkenly on the steps. Frank ignores him, but the Knight Errant men instinctively scowl over their shoulders in disgust as they pass by.

"You people live like animals." the boss scoffs.

"I'm sorry we can't all live in..." Frank starts to say something about not always having the luxury of living somewhere that doesn't smell like pee, but as he steps inside the lobby of his former home he's almost shocked to see Big Bear sitting patiently on the steps.

Cords of braided leather are wrapped around the troll's scarred forearms and a thick leather vest barely fits over his retired bulk. He wears what appears to be a pair of buckskin pants and his face is marked in red paint that almost looks like claw marks.

"Bear is a gentle spirit." Big Bear says, standing to his feet.

As the security detail bristles and draws their weapons, Big Bear holds up his hands to indicate that he is unarmed.

"When we are lost, he guides us. When we are hurt, he tends to our wounds. But when we are threatened..." Big Bear says, his legs bend and arms extend forward in a classic horse stance.

"Geek the mage!" the security troll bellows.

Before any shots are fired however one of the guards gurgles a warning before being tossed against the side wall, a bloody smear marking his path. The homeless man, now revealed to be Skinner, stands behind them; blood dripping from the metallic claws in his fingers.

Frank takes advantage of the opportunity to spin on his heels and grab the boss's wrist with his cyber-hand, he gives it a flick and the bone shatters; causing the man's gun to tumble to the floor. Frank immediately pulls the man to himself as a human shield.

Big Bear flexes as both the security troll and remaining bodyguard open fire with a burst from their SMGs, to Frank's surprise Big Bear simply flexes and grits his teeth; and the bullets appear to simply bounce off his skin.

Skinner rams both hands into the sides of the remaining human guard's throat and thoroughly eviscerates him. Big Bear sprints forward with baffling speed and lands a flying double knee in the other troll's chest; sending both of them crashing through the front door and down the steps.

Now in a martial arts movie, this flashy piece of action would have dramatically ended the fight...or perhaps have led to a longer and more intricate battle, but that's rarely the way things actually work out. The troll is tough and strong, maybe stronger and tougher than any man Frank's ever seen, but Big Bear is almost as strong...almost as tough. Plus he's got Skinner with him. Plus magic. Plus, also didn't just have his chest caved in with a badass flying knee attack.

It's not a fight in the sporting sense. Big Bear just crawls on top of his dazed opponent and begins raining down blows while Skinner soccer kicks the troll's face every time he sees an opening. All told, it takes about five minutes to beat the troll to death in the apartment parking lot. it's somewhat doubtful that he was actually conscious for more than one of them.

When it's all said and done Big Bear and Skinner take a knee to catch their breath and Frank drags his injured prisoner over to meet them.

"What are you doing with him?" Skinner asks.

Frank jams the man's own gun into his right ear and growls "I want to know the real reason you haven't taken steps to stop the killer, and I want to know now! Why are you all but protecting this son of a bitch!?"

"Our projections show that it would cost more in man hours than it would help our statistics!"
the old man squeaks. "It's just business, I swear!"

"And the people this monster takes?" Frank demands, kicking the man's leg out from under him and forcing him to his knees.

"They....they aren't considered a priority." the man replies.

Frank nods grimly, pulling the trigger and splattering brains and bits of skull across the parking lot as Big Bear and Skinner exchange looks of disgust at the Ares drone's last words.

"I just wanted to hear you say it." Frank says with a depressed sigh.

[The Bandicoot]

I am LOVING Big Bear.

And also seriously thinking about playing some Shadowrun.