Then, I stare out into the night. I am so screwed. I feel betrayed. I love my job. I don’t necessarily love my employer, because that sort of commitment is dangerous. But I respect the corp, and it’s treated me well. I believe in what I do, and I do it well. I’ve made plenty of nuyen for Renraku. I’m not naive. I don’t believe in loyalty. Loyalty is a word used to con you into doing things that run counter to your interests. I believe in equality. I provide excellent service to Renraku in exchange for top remuneration. It is a mutually beneficial relationship. This is the only god I believe in; the god of win-win. And now … this. Why? It maddens me, it saddens me, sickens me. But mostly, it frightens me. I think of my pad in Manhattan. I think of my days off where I kick up my feet and play on my gaming rig. I love sim games. And I think of how far from that I am right now.
I’m torn from my self-pitying thoughts by noises in the streets. I peek out of my nook. Looks like some gangers out for a stroll, four humans. There is a blond kid, hair all spiky, wearing a grey armored vest and carrying a baseball. I can see the glint of a chrome handgun tucked in his belt. He’s whooping and jeering and hitting whatever he can with his baseball bat, taking glugs from a bottle in his other hand. He has a girl with him. Dirty pink hair, she’s walking around topless. Her bare breasts are painted over with concentric yellow, red, and blue stars. She’s hitting a bottle too, her walk is sluggish. The two others behind are carrying a conversation composed mainly of swear words.
Then, headlights appear down the lonely, abandoned road. Whoever is driving here is either desperate to get somewhere or stupid. Maybe not paying attention to what GridGuide is doing, bringing her down this path. I put my odds on it being a poor, single mother wageslave secretary, held late at the office, forced to complete some menial paperwork that couldn’t possibly matter at all by a cruel boss that just loves to hate. I don’t know. But it’s what I imagine. Maybe I’m projecting.
Anyway, wrong time, wrong place. The gangers all hoot excitedly, draw pistols, and start peppering the car. The driver swerves crazily, hits the gas, and takes off as best he or she can. The gangers laugh excitedly. The punkette shakes her painted breasts at the car and gives it the finger, yelling “Fuck you!” hoarsely, with every fiber of her being. They all laugh.
I pull back into my recess. Jesus Christ. People accuse me of being elitist, but they don’t see this shit. How can you think we are equal beings? I must regretfully inform you that society diverged at some point. At some point, some of us kept civilized, educated, and well-fed, and we taught our children to value hard work and family and drek like that. Others, well, just didn’t. Sure, if I think about it, I pity them a little. It’s not their fault. They didn’t get to eat full nutritious meals when growing up. They’re stunted. They’re dumb. It’s not their fault—not entirely, anyway. But what do you want me to say? The fact remains is they are sub-humans, and I’m not. I am the human race. They are our excrement. You think you can save them now? Now is too late. Maybe we can save the kids, if we start with them. Feed them, teach them. But their animal-like mothers wouldn’t let go of them. They don’t want to be elevated. Isn’t that true? Don’t they despise us? So there you go, full, vicious, cycle. They are their own worst enemy. They want to be like this. So let them. Let them die like this in their filth.
I get up. I’m a top dog. Nobody gets me down, not for long. I ain’t staying here to die with the filth. There are ways out of this. I’m not dead. So whoever hired that killer underestimated me. It wasn’t a thorough job. It was half-assed. If Renraku—and I mean Renraku, the whole god-like unidirectional might of it—wanted me dead, they could have done it a million other ways that would have succeeded. There are reasons—reasons the corp wants me dead, reasons the psychotic elf was hired to do the job. If I can figure those reasons out, if I can unravel the story, I can get out of this. And if not, fuck it, I’m employable. A well-trained, top-rank Johnson isn’t exactly common. It’s a rare blend of civilized smarts and street grime. I have value, if not for Renraku, then for someone else. So let’s get this show on the road to keeping me alive and civilized.
I head back toward the city center, back to civilization. I stop at a bank, turn on my commlink, and make a cash withdrawal onto a certified credstick, The machine only allows me a couple hundred, but that’ll do for now. I do one more thing, send a quick note to Wolfman to tell him “thanks.” It’s part of the code—someone sticks their neck out for you, you acknowledge it. Then you help them when you can. Maybe it’ll help both of you stay alive.
I immediately turn it off once the message is sent. Yeah, I just told my hunters where I am and they know I withdrew some money, but I figure that’s not telling them much they wouldn’t figure out on their own. With some of the money, I buy a disposable commlink, just to get basic apps. A phone, map AROs, etc. Now I can move.
I formulate a plan. Okay, it’s not really a plan. A real plan is a series of vetted actions you suspect are likely to happen in a particular order. That’s what I call a plan, anyway. What I have is more like a vague prayer, with far too many uncontrolled elements. But at least I’m honest enough with myself to admit I’m working from a disadvantaged position. Sometimes your moon waxes, sometimes it wanes. Overconfidence and underestimating your enemies are how you lose. I have confidence, but I estimate my enemies fairly.
I hop a cab, paying with my precious certified cred, and head for what is my only hope right now.
The Opera club is happening. There is a lineup to get inside. I hesitate and opt to wait a while. It’s a common misconception you can just wave money in the face of a bouncer and get in a club. Those guys have professional pride, you might be surprised to hear. They hate macho assholes who think they can get in just because they have money, or more likely, because their daddy does. I mean, in theory, a guy waving dough around to get in the club will be good for business. Mister Big Spender is going to drop lots of dough to get bottles to get the girls. You’d think the bouncers would like that. Thing is, bouncers aren’t big on the whole concept of “corporate good.” They really don’t give a shit how much money the club makes. They only care about regulating justice. You’re on the guest list, you get in. You’re not, you wait your turn. You act nice and respectful, maybe they’ll let you in faster. You act like an asshole, they’ll tell you to shove off. I’ve seen them do it to known gangsters. I’m serious; they care more about the philosophical order of things than they do about money or their own personal safety. Bouncers: Don’t mess with them.
So I don’t. I play it straight, approaching the bouncer for a friendly chat. I show respect, ask him how things are. He shows respect back. I make it clear—through my actions, not direct words—that if I get in I’ll spend some money, play well with others, and not cause a scene. That’s what he wants from a customer. We shake hands, he tells me to enjoy myself. It’s simple: Drop the attitude and you’ll make friends. Maybe this will make a difference later, if I need it. You want to be a Johnson, you start thinking like this. This is how we operate. This is how we stay alive.
Opera is an interesting place. I assume it must have been a theatre or something in some past life. The shell is vaguely shaped like a theatre. I’ve been in a theatre a total of twice in my life, and both were field trips when I was a kid in school. The arts aren’t what they used to be. I live in Manhattan and have never been to see a Broadway play. I hear the special effects are nice.
Anyway, once you get past a lobby area, the club has immensely high ceilings. There are tables on the ground floor, a huge bar, and more tables on the second level. The floor isn’t slanted like a theatre’s would be. That would make it pretty bad for dancing. The walls are given depth by having a weird kaleidoscope of overlaid AR scenes from popular operas. But they flash in quick, disorienting succession. It’s mesmerizing, but I command my commlink to dim the effect. It’s a little too much for me right now. I head for the bar. It’s fairly crowded with people in their twenties and thirties, mostly women. Their s
tyling favors somewhat stripped-down Renaissance-style dresses with wild bouquets of hair. The men are dressed in similar era pieces, layered with scarves, brooches, and a few top hats. More a mish-mash of fashion from the Renaissance, to Victorian England, with a touch of classic modern Japanese sarariman suits. Wild, powder-heavy, makeup laced with nano-tags, causing a wispy double image of the person. I get the feeling Atlanta, or at least this club, is being influenced by the opulent Neo-Renaissance fashion of Montreal. They do it pretty well here, but it’s even more grandiose up north. But colder.
I run Vanity’s description by the barman. He shrugs. His eyes dart to the bar, his body drawing away from me, eager to get back to serving drinks before there is a riot, but not wishing to offend. I feel pressured. I say simply “Goes by the name of Vanity.” Oh, different look now. I have his attention. He nods his chin towards the upstairs level. I nod my head and pull back into the crowd, my precious bar-side real estate quickly swallowed up by the crowd of fashion dilettantes.
Upstairs is calmer. It’s a lot darker. Small groups whisper in booths, the odd flirtatious giggle from courtesans in recessed shadows. Hands slipping down knees, up thighs. I walk slowly, my eyes needing a minute to peer through the veiled darkness to identify booth occupants. I see her long after she’s seen me.
Vanity and Titanium Angel are in a booth with a commanding view, their backs to the wall. Goddamn shadowrunners. It’s like instinct with them. As an experiment, I once met a runner in a restaurant, the table in the middle of the room. He was like a caged animal. His knee jumped up and down at an alarming rate. And I mean alarming, I think he was cybered. He chewed on a toothpick, constantly swiveled to look at the room. Jesus, that was uncomfortable. But also amusing. I didn’t do it again, though.
Angel’s eyes flash at me, slits of white in the obscurity. He quickly returns to his drink, ignoring me for the moment. Vanity gives me a big smile, her eyes sparkling in the half-light.
“Mr. Johnson, what a surprise. We did not expect to see you, seeing as how we have not yet completed our mission” she says grandly, obviously, mockingly. I groan inwardly. There’s no dancing around with this one.
“I need your help,” I say.
Vanity holds her smile. Angel extends a hand, inviting me to sit. “What can we do for you?” he says mirthlessly. I wonder if he had a happy childhood.
I recount my predicament. How my employer has seemingly marked me for death. I tell them of Psycho Ghost Face Killer Elf. I tell them I am, effectively, powerless at the moment.
You might think this is a mistake. You may doubly think so if you correctly calculate that the gentle face-shooters in front of me have concluded that any connection to me could bring them the same trouble that’s come down on me. So, why keep me around? Why help me at all? Why not kill me, perhaps to appease the people after me, perhaps just because why-the-hell-not?
Well, these are intricate power games, indeed. If I held back and pretended I had encountered “just a slight wrinkle in the plan” or some bullshit like that, they would instantly know. They can smell Johnson bullshit from a kilometer away. They’d wonder about the real angle, wouldn’t trust me, and would tell me to pay them a fortune or get the hell out of their faces. I don’t have a fortune. What I have is the humility to accept I’m powerless. And that’s strength. If you can’t admit you’re powerless, it is because you doubt you will ever again be powerful, or that you ever were. I can admit my weakness because I know I will be powerful again.
Titanium Angel and Vanity understand that. They are top crew. They have power in the shadows. They don’t pretend to have it; they have it. If I didn’t know it from the rap sheet I have on them, I’d know it from just looking at them. So, after I lay down my cards, and after we all stare at each other for a moment—me, Vanity; Vanity, Angel; Angel, me; me, Vanity—they don’t tell me to fuck off. They don’t say much, but I know they have accepted.
“He shot you, you said?” Angel asks me, just to start somewhere.
“Yes, but my jacket took it.”
“This jacket?” he asks.
“Yes.” I don’t see the point to his questions, but it’s good to play nice with people you just begged for help.
He nods. “Okay.”
He gets up, Vanity too. So do I. I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t know if I’m supposed to follow. Stay. Follow. Stay or follow? I follow.
I guess right. We leave the club out the back. They have a sleek black sedan, nothing special. We get in, Titanium Angel drives. I’m placed in the passenger seat, Vanity directly in back of me, right where someone who wanted to cap you in the head would sit. It’s good to know that with all her playfulness, she’ll execute me the second something looks fishy. I wonder if other people have that problem with their friends.
We drive into a warehouse district and pull into the empty lot of a crumbly red brick building. We park and get in the warehouse using a steel door that opens with a loud metallic groan. Given my situation, I have no energy to appreciate how cliché this is.
It’s spartan lodging, wide-open spaces with not much in them. An unusually large, dinged-up wooden table sits in the middle, a bare light bulb hanging from a chain above it. Our steps echo, but other loud sounds reverberate all over the bare concrete structure. Someone is talking somewhere, the distorted words booming in the empty hall. There are crates lining the walls, lots of them covered in dusty tarps, but I also see a few small drones, grenades, and guns; lots of guns, actually. Assault rifles, sub-machine guns. There are pistols lying everywhere. Plus ammo to keep them all fed.
“We have a visitor,” announces Angel. The other noises stop. I look back and forth too quickly. I don’t want to look nervous, but if there’s one place a defenseless Johnson doesn’t wants to be, it’s in the den of the shadowrunners he hired. They want me as far away as possible. I want me as far away from them as possible. I don’t want to know their private business. I don’t want them to fucking kill me. It’s pretty simple. I have the money and, really, after they go through the job which invariably is far more complicated than it was supposed to be, get shot up, or even have some of their buddies die, the line between killing the Johnson and not killing the Johnson is pretty thin. Sure, they haven’t gone through my bullshit mission yet, but then again, I don’t have their pay either. The point is, I’m pretty disposable.
A girl comes out of a side room, a spoon in her mouth. She has a wild bouquet of curly blond hair blossoming around her pretty young face. She wears an army-green tank top, the look completed with silver dog tags. She eyes me moodily, glancing to Vanity and Angel. Before she can comment, if she was even inclined to do so, a lean, muscled man steps in. He’s sweaty, covered in tattoos. I think he has cyberarms. His face is interesting. I would say California, Orange County beach bad boy. He has a bit of that permanent squint thing going. A suggestion of good looks is hidden behind scars. He has rough skin, dimply where scratches, cuts, and burns healed. His nose was definitely broken, most likely more than once. The overall effect is that he doesn’t look too smart to me, but I’m sure he gets into girls’ panties with little effort. Instinctively, I don’t like him. But, I’m going to do my best to find a way, or at least pretend to like him, because he can probably kill me easily, and he looks violent enough to do so without worrying about the consequences. Those are the worst, the psycho street samurais who have made themselves into killing machines but are too dumb to differentiate between the paying moves and the dumb ones. And so you have to rely on their teammates to keep them in check. Us Johnsons, that’s when we play the power game. With rational runners, you just keep it business and all goes well. With these mad dogs, you have to show you’re the alpha male. That’s all they care about. But it’s a dumb move. If they killed you, they’d be dead the next day, as matter-of-fact payback from the corporation. But these wired-up killers, they just don’t care. I hate that.
Of course, this jock razorboy is the first to speak. “The fuck is this?”
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Angel speaks up. “This is our Johnson for the Renraku gig, or was. The corp tried to kill him. He came to us for help.”
The blond girl chokes on a laugh. The bad boy has a hint of a playful smile, but his eyes focus on me like prey.
“There is a big-picture move for us, here,” Angel says, in a “conversation over” kind of way. The other two simmer down. So, looks like we have Father Titanium Angel, Mother Vanity, and two kids. It’s an interesting dynamic. The younger girl looks up to Vanity, the gorilla recognizes Angel as the alpha male. I think I can work with that.
Vanity steps up to the blond girl and wraps an arm around her shoulder. “Mr. Johnson, this is Zoë, our hacker. That one over there is Irish. I’m sure you can guess what he’s for.” Zoë deliberately looks me over up and down with suggested disgust, while Irish cracks the joints of his fists. Then he loses interest in me and goes back to lifting weights.
Angel heads over to Irish’s corner gym and spots for him as he pumps iron. I eye them. I’m pretty sure they are having a silent commlink conversation by the way they occasionally look at each other and sometimes at me. I think back at the foreign language he and Vanity spoke. Guess for serious business, they still communicate the normal way. I can’t really blame them.
Shadowrun: Nothing Personal Page 3