Psychophant's Rants
27.3.09
Fair musings
- Something in the open nature of a fair makes the bazaar spirit arise, so everyone has to bargain, and ask for a reduction no matter how fair the first price was. Then you start asking for a higher price, and then they go away, offended.
- Every one seems busier than you are, but really they are all as bored as you are.
- There is always food, and we know what happens when you mix bored people with food.
- However, even the best cured ham or grana cheese seem stale after three days eating the same.
- Rather than getting better at foreign languages, they start to mix up at some level of remove, just slightly beyond true understanding.
- English may be a common language, but most people are not speaking English when they think they do.
- The wine tasting starts earlier everyday.
- Water is the first drink to go scarce.
- Coffee does not replace water, no matter how hard you try.
- The fact that my boss is a fool does not mean I am one, though.
- Women are still scarce, and yet there are more every year.
- Experts are scarce, dabblers are plentiful. Or, technicians and traders.
- Rumour trading and name dropping, the secondary fair economy. And how exciting, when you discover your name has a certain value. ¶ 9:37 PM
- Something in the open nature of a fair makes the bazaar spirit arise, so everyone has to bargain, and ask for a reduction no matter how fair the first price was. Then you start asking for a higher price, and then they go away, offended.
- Every one seems busier than you are, but really they are all as bored as you are.
- There is always food, and we know what happens when you mix bored people with food.
- However, even the best cured ham or grana cheese seem stale after three days eating the same.
- Rather than getting better at foreign languages, they start to mix up at some level of remove, just slightly beyond true understanding.
- English may be a common language, but most people are not speaking English when they think they do.
- The wine tasting starts earlier everyday.
- Water is the first drink to go scarce.
- Coffee does not replace water, no matter how hard you try.
- The fact that my boss is a fool does not mean I am one, though.
- Women are still scarce, and yet there are more every year.
- Experts are scarce, dabblers are plentiful. Or, technicians and traders.
- Rumour trading and name dropping, the secondary fair economy. And how exciting, when you discover your name has a certain value. ¶ 9:37 PM
24.3.09
RPG Narrative XII
Now we are getting to the end of the story. Caracas was nominally under Interpol control, but in fact it was Aztechnology's troops who swept the streets and manned the checkpoints. Tourists still flew in, and that helped my cover, but they were the worst kind, the predators and the weirdoes looking for forbidden pleasures.
The organseller shop was a smoking ruin. I had to assume that the possessed Rivero could have survived, and keep looking for her.
The main part of the search was infiltrating the Interpol communications, to make sure she had not been found, and what you knew about her. No, it was not easy, if it nakes you feel better.
Then came the conversation that made me contact you. I had found one of the remaining Tempo drug dens, to see if the drug came from Rivero's personal stockpile. Suddenly one of the unconscious addicts, one of those that were badly gone and deteriorated, stood up and started talking, in Portuguese. It took me a few moments to realise that he was giving me indications to a suburb of illegal housings. When I asked if it could possess any Tempo addict, it said that only when they were far gone. I could not resist the temptation and shot him in the chest. In a moment the wound closed and the addict, after examining the wound with curiosity, repeated the directions. Then he slumped, with the possessing spirit gone, but the wound did not reappear. Any addict gone enough. I started to see some possibilities for a radical terrorist group, or for any kind of apocalyptical organization. And Rivero was going to offer this to Aztechnology.
Self-preservation won, as part of the plan was to assure my own survival, included in the deal.
The ending was an anticlimax. No patrols stopped me as I followed the addict's indications. Another skeletal figure waited for me at the spot to give me a new set of indications and asked to show him the tree. Two exchanges later I finally found Rivero. I finally learnt that her ally was named Yajé, and that only the great mother and its main shaman, Cesar Da Silva, knew the actual plan. It knew that they expected Tempo distribution to dry up by then, but Yajé wanted to make sure that addicts linked to him kept taking the drug. I felt as if I were in a remake of the Bodysnatchers. Yajé did not want to stop possessing those that were linked to its own effluvium.
Domingo Ramos, one of the most powerful executives of Aztechnology, was in Caracas. I was to be Rivero and Yajé's envoy, in exchange for my own safety. I accepted, as I would have taken any way out, one that let me tell all I knew and live. And I had gotten a little insurance in Lima, something to make sure that tree did not live to maturity. Of course there were other camps and other trees, but that was in the future.
It all went as a dream. Ramos accepted the deal, I would be transported wherever I wanted, with some extra plus all the money I had made working for Rivero, while Rivero and Yajé would start working for the David cartel, out of reach of the Interpol and you. Yes, he played you, as you played him to increase Interpol's influence. I chose Denver, which is why we are having this conversation. Because I need to tell someone how dangerous Tempo was, and that it has not ended with the crushing of the Olaya cartel, it is just the first step in some complex plan. Rivero disappeared in Tenochtitlan, and I doubt we will meet her again.
Me? I told everything to the Dragon, who got worried, and he contacted you and arranged for this meeting. So I suppose he will join us soon. If it were not Ghostwalker, I would say he was frightened. ¶ 9:50 AM
Now we are getting to the end of the story. Caracas was nominally under Interpol control, but in fact it was Aztechnology's troops who swept the streets and manned the checkpoints. Tourists still flew in, and that helped my cover, but they were the worst kind, the predators and the weirdoes looking for forbidden pleasures.
The organseller shop was a smoking ruin. I had to assume that the possessed Rivero could have survived, and keep looking for her.
The main part of the search was infiltrating the Interpol communications, to make sure she had not been found, and what you knew about her. No, it was not easy, if it nakes you feel better.
Then came the conversation that made me contact you. I had found one of the remaining Tempo drug dens, to see if the drug came from Rivero's personal stockpile. Suddenly one of the unconscious addicts, one of those that were badly gone and deteriorated, stood up and started talking, in Portuguese. It took me a few moments to realise that he was giving me indications to a suburb of illegal housings. When I asked if it could possess any Tempo addict, it said that only when they were far gone. I could not resist the temptation and shot him in the chest. In a moment the wound closed and the addict, after examining the wound with curiosity, repeated the directions. Then he slumped, with the possessing spirit gone, but the wound did not reappear. Any addict gone enough. I started to see some possibilities for a radical terrorist group, or for any kind of apocalyptical organization. And Rivero was going to offer this to Aztechnology.
Self-preservation won, as part of the plan was to assure my own survival, included in the deal.
The ending was an anticlimax. No patrols stopped me as I followed the addict's indications. Another skeletal figure waited for me at the spot to give me a new set of indications and asked to show him the tree. Two exchanges later I finally found Rivero. I finally learnt that her ally was named Yajé, and that only the great mother and its main shaman, Cesar Da Silva, knew the actual plan. It knew that they expected Tempo distribution to dry up by then, but Yajé wanted to make sure that addicts linked to him kept taking the drug. I felt as if I were in a remake of the Bodysnatchers. Yajé did not want to stop possessing those that were linked to its own effluvium.
Domingo Ramos, one of the most powerful executives of Aztechnology, was in Caracas. I was to be Rivero and Yajé's envoy, in exchange for my own safety. I accepted, as I would have taken any way out, one that let me tell all I knew and live. And I had gotten a little insurance in Lima, something to make sure that tree did not live to maturity. Of course there were other camps and other trees, but that was in the future.
It all went as a dream. Ramos accepted the deal, I would be transported wherever I wanted, with some extra plus all the money I had made working for Rivero, while Rivero and Yajé would start working for the David cartel, out of reach of the Interpol and you. Yes, he played you, as you played him to increase Interpol's influence. I chose Denver, which is why we are having this conversation. Because I need to tell someone how dangerous Tempo was, and that it has not ended with the crushing of the Olaya cartel, it is just the first step in some complex plan. Rivero disappeared in Tenochtitlan, and I doubt we will meet her again.
Me? I told everything to the Dragon, who got worried, and he contacted you and arranged for this meeting. So I suppose he will join us soon. If it were not Ghostwalker, I would say he was frightened. ¶ 9:50 AM
23.3.09
RPG Narrative XI
That was not my first foray into the deep Amazonia. But the last one had been nine years ago, and the other three times I had had Bernie's common sense with me. Once to steal an orchid, another to steal a kiwi, and the last one to return an archeological relic. Besides his common sense, I also missed Bernie's strength, as it would not be easy to take all I needed with me. We also were lacking on good weapon dealer contacts, but there I got a lucky break, as I managed to pick up a special shipment I had commanded some time before from London.
A Holland & Holland Express Nitro, with custom ammo. All the heavy armor, people that refuse to die, and yes, even demons, made me wish for that old fashioned equalizer, the elephant gun. With advanced ammo, it could equalize anything, although I only had two dozens of the cigar sized cartridges. And it was much less menacing or illegal as an assault rifle or a grenade launcher. Poacher is a reasonable cover story in Amazonia, if you do not poach anything important and are willing to gift the tribes you met. Of course I also had a handgun and my trusty flechette pistol, but the rifle would have to handle anything out of the ordinary.
Rivero managed the smuggler side of the trip, and she found a capable crew willing to take me as close as possible to the target. No, I will not say more about them, as I may need them again. The drug trees were in a fazenda close to the town of Santa Isabel, on the Río Negro, so I only needed to traverse 30 km of jungle, almost like a picnic.The fact that surely the roads were watched, and that the cross country way was one of the hardest in Earth, were mundane obstacles. The spirits might ignore me, as I was also very mundane, and that is an advantage in the jungle. We would see what would happen with the other, material, critters.
The first part, till I reached Santa Isabel, was uneventful. Rivero (or her possessing spirit) had given me an amulet of bark and wood that would guide me to its tree. So I avoided the locals and trusting on a magic charm and an inertial locator, as GPS is unreliable under the jungle canopy, and there were no big rivers in the right direction, I just plodded in. I met hostile natives or, to be fair, I met natives and it is possible I made them hostile. Lucky thing I have an improved resistance to poisons. I found bugs, the big, spirit kind, and an intelligent giant anaconda. That was the first test of the elephant gun and it performed as expected. The anaconda was, somehow, one of the Jungle wardens, but it was willing to let my presence in a forbidden area pass, both because I helped it, and because most wardens mistrust the Primeira Vaga cultists. Yes, that is First Wave in Portuguese. It appears the ecoterrorists have developed a splinter apocalyptical nature cult, and it is that cult who is using nature spirits to grow the drug. What benefit the cult might get from the drug, besides the economical, I could not say, but if it worried a twenty five meter long magical snake, it should terrorize me.
I still went on with the plan, because clearly Rivero's ally spirit had broken from the big plan and wanted a way out, which meant weakening the conspiration and maybe getting more information on them.
Even with the amulet, it took me four days to get close to the First Wave camp, which was a problem because my appointment with the smugglers was in three days. Yet I watched and waited, as there were several shamans, some spirits, and maybe fifty armed people, as the camp also served as a training camp. I got to watch a magical ritual, with human sacrifice included, and weird magical effects, but rather than use that distraction to hit and run, I waited till the ritual, and the all night music and dancing, ended and then hit the exhausted sentinels and magickers.
There is no need now for you to look for that camp except for forensic purposes. The trees are much bigger than I thought, well over 40 meter tall, and probably took some time to grow to that size, as the sapling I got was bonsai-like. I also found indications that there are other camps like this around the jungle, as certainly this single orchard could not produce the tons of drug being distributed.
The spirits? They manifested, menaced me, tried to frighten me. But as long as I stayed on my side there was little they could do, and soon I had a nice fire going, thanks to the barrels of diesel fuel for the trucks that took the drug back in town. One of those trucks helped me arrive in time for my way out. Then a quick hop to Lima, as Caracas was too dangerous for a trip from Amazonia, and a commercial plane back to Caracas, with a nice potted tree as a gift for my boss.
Of course I did not get rid of the big gun. I sent it via UPS to my company in Denver before going to the airport. ¶ 9:50 AM
That was not my first foray into the deep Amazonia. But the last one had been nine years ago, and the other three times I had had Bernie's common sense with me. Once to steal an orchid, another to steal a kiwi, and the last one to return an archeological relic. Besides his common sense, I also missed Bernie's strength, as it would not be easy to take all I needed with me. We also were lacking on good weapon dealer contacts, but there I got a lucky break, as I managed to pick up a special shipment I had commanded some time before from London.
A Holland & Holland Express Nitro, with custom ammo. All the heavy armor, people that refuse to die, and yes, even demons, made me wish for that old fashioned equalizer, the elephant gun. With advanced ammo, it could equalize anything, although I only had two dozens of the cigar sized cartridges. And it was much less menacing or illegal as an assault rifle or a grenade launcher. Poacher is a reasonable cover story in Amazonia, if you do not poach anything important and are willing to gift the tribes you met. Of course I also had a handgun and my trusty flechette pistol, but the rifle would have to handle anything out of the ordinary.
Rivero managed the smuggler side of the trip, and she found a capable crew willing to take me as close as possible to the target. No, I will not say more about them, as I may need them again. The drug trees were in a fazenda close to the town of Santa Isabel, on the Río Negro, so I only needed to traverse 30 km of jungle, almost like a picnic.The fact that surely the roads were watched, and that the cross country way was one of the hardest in Earth, were mundane obstacles. The spirits might ignore me, as I was also very mundane, and that is an advantage in the jungle. We would see what would happen with the other, material, critters.
The first part, till I reached Santa Isabel, was uneventful. Rivero (or her possessing spirit) had given me an amulet of bark and wood that would guide me to its tree. So I avoided the locals and trusting on a magic charm and an inertial locator, as GPS is unreliable under the jungle canopy, and there were no big rivers in the right direction, I just plodded in. I met hostile natives or, to be fair, I met natives and it is possible I made them hostile. Lucky thing I have an improved resistance to poisons. I found bugs, the big, spirit kind, and an intelligent giant anaconda. That was the first test of the elephant gun and it performed as expected. The anaconda was, somehow, one of the Jungle wardens, but it was willing to let my presence in a forbidden area pass, both because I helped it, and because most wardens mistrust the Primeira Vaga cultists. Yes, that is First Wave in Portuguese. It appears the ecoterrorists have developed a splinter apocalyptical nature cult, and it is that cult who is using nature spirits to grow the drug. What benefit the cult might get from the drug, besides the economical, I could not say, but if it worried a twenty five meter long magical snake, it should terrorize me.
I still went on with the plan, because clearly Rivero's ally spirit had broken from the big plan and wanted a way out, which meant weakening the conspiration and maybe getting more information on them.
Even with the amulet, it took me four days to get close to the First Wave camp, which was a problem because my appointment with the smugglers was in three days. Yet I watched and waited, as there were several shamans, some spirits, and maybe fifty armed people, as the camp also served as a training camp. I got to watch a magical ritual, with human sacrifice included, and weird magical effects, but rather than use that distraction to hit and run, I waited till the ritual, and the all night music and dancing, ended and then hit the exhausted sentinels and magickers.
There is no need now for you to look for that camp except for forensic purposes. The trees are much bigger than I thought, well over 40 meter tall, and probably took some time to grow to that size, as the sapling I got was bonsai-like. I also found indications that there are other camps like this around the jungle, as certainly this single orchard could not produce the tons of drug being distributed.
The spirits? They manifested, menaced me, tried to frighten me. But as long as I stayed on my side there was little they could do, and soon I had a nice fire going, thanks to the barrels of diesel fuel for the trucks that took the drug back in town. One of those trucks helped me arrive in time for my way out. Then a quick hop to Lima, as Caracas was too dangerous for a trip from Amazonia, and a commercial plane back to Caracas, with a nice potted tree as a gift for my boss.
Of course I did not get rid of the big gun. I sent it via UPS to my company in Denver before going to the airport. ¶ 9:50 AM
22.3.09
RPG Narrative X
I arrived in the middle of chaos, with the Aztechnology/Interpol task forces hitting all of Rivero's holdings, and all the other Olaya assets in town. I got to Riveros Applied Mimetics, her own biotechnology company, just in time to see the siege start.
Ah, I see you know what is coming. Yes, I acquired a uniform and weapons and hit the assault team from behind. First the electronic warfare truck, then the snipers, and finally the grunts at the front. For once I did not run away, but stay and fight, in my own terms.
Not that it helped much, as ninety percent of Rivero's guards were out. She insisted we moved to her mansion, only to find it in flames. So we changed cars, left behind all the guards except for her two personal bodyguards, and tried to make our way discreetly into the developments, to a prepared safe house.
In the RAM assault once again she demonstrated her knowledge of Portuguese and amazing regenerative powers. At the safe house she confessed that she had some unusual ally, but she refused to elaborate more.
Then we started an alternate plan, one that required a trip deep into Amazonia, and that a lot of equipment and a trustworthy smuggler, considering how you were locking down the city. At least Rivero still had a ton of drug money. Not as good as true friends, but a reasonable substitute.
That night we were hit at the safe house. This time they were not professional soldiers, but a shadowrunner group. They knew perfectly where we were, and the set up of the house. Only the Olaya cartel should have known all that. Unfortunately they did not know about the new monowire grid in the windows, or the miniature claymore mines. The survivors made their best effort, but it was not enough. Once again we dug down, fought, won, and then moved on.
We ended up at the ghoul's shop, a very discreet place at a reasonable price. That gave me time to arrange things for my solo trip to Amazonia, now that Rivero had told me everything about Tempo.
Yes, I know why nobody has been able to recreate the substance in the lab, or why all of it passed through Caracas, or even why it gives normal people a glimpse of the astral plane, and of magic.
The key is how it is produced. I suppose you know by now that it comes from the bark of an awakened tree, the gameleira torcida. However the bark contains the active drug only when the tree itself is possessed by a certain plant spirit. Rivero had made a deal with one of the spirits, so I would go in, kill the tree that housed the spirit to free it, and steal a sapling so Rivero and her ally could start again somewhere else. It was the same spirit who possessed her at the moments of danger. Unfortunately all the trees are in the middle of the Amazonas.
Why do I tell you this? You will learn soon.
¶ 9:50 AM
I arrived in the middle of chaos, with the Aztechnology/Interpol task forces hitting all of Rivero's holdings, and all the other Olaya assets in town. I got to Riveros Applied Mimetics, her own biotechnology company, just in time to see the siege start.
Ah, I see you know what is coming. Yes, I acquired a uniform and weapons and hit the assault team from behind. First the electronic warfare truck, then the snipers, and finally the grunts at the front. For once I did not run away, but stay and fight, in my own terms.
Not that it helped much, as ninety percent of Rivero's guards were out. She insisted we moved to her mansion, only to find it in flames. So we changed cars, left behind all the guards except for her two personal bodyguards, and tried to make our way discreetly into the developments, to a prepared safe house.
In the RAM assault once again she demonstrated her knowledge of Portuguese and amazing regenerative powers. At the safe house she confessed that she had some unusual ally, but she refused to elaborate more.
Then we started an alternate plan, one that required a trip deep into Amazonia, and that a lot of equipment and a trustworthy smuggler, considering how you were locking down the city. At least Rivero still had a ton of drug money. Not as good as true friends, but a reasonable substitute.
That night we were hit at the safe house. This time they were not professional soldiers, but a shadowrunner group. They knew perfectly where we were, and the set up of the house. Only the Olaya cartel should have known all that. Unfortunately they did not know about the new monowire grid in the windows, or the miniature claymore mines. The survivors made their best effort, but it was not enough. Once again we dug down, fought, won, and then moved on.
We ended up at the ghoul's shop, a very discreet place at a reasonable price. That gave me time to arrange things for my solo trip to Amazonia, now that Rivero had told me everything about Tempo.
Yes, I know why nobody has been able to recreate the substance in the lab, or why all of it passed through Caracas, or even why it gives normal people a glimpse of the astral plane, and of magic.
The key is how it is produced. I suppose you know by now that it comes from the bark of an awakened tree, the gameleira torcida. However the bark contains the active drug only when the tree itself is possessed by a certain plant spirit. Rivero had made a deal with one of the spirits, so I would go in, kill the tree that housed the spirit to free it, and steal a sapling so Rivero and her ally could start again somewhere else. It was the same spirit who possessed her at the moments of danger. Unfortunately all the trees are in the middle of the Amazonas.
Why do I tell you this? You will learn soon.
¶ 9:50 AM
21.3.09
RPG Narrative IX
Caracas was a full time trip, to a time when I had been young, hungry and angry. I had not stepped out of the First World in ten years, and I had gone soft and caring. One day in Caracas and I knew my job was hopeless, that there was little I could do, and that Tempo was a plague of biblical proportions.
As all the drug was funneled from there, lots of it just stayed in the city. So I could see what lay in the future if the Olaya's kept their plans. Not that they were likely to. Besides the big surprise you pulled, freezing Kondorchid, their shipping company, at the Corporate Court, plugging the biggest pipeline, Aztechnology was increasing its pressure on the Olaya's, abandoned by the rest of the Cartels after Los Angeles.
Graciela behaved as if nothing had changed, from her mansion to her office, and back. Yes, she had big contacts in the city, and her cavalcade rivalled that of a head of state. But as long as she did not change locations and customs, she was a sitting duck. She felt strangely confident in "her" city. So I moved from bodyguard to troubleshooter, which at least kept me doing things and feeling useful.
My first task was checking the loyalty of several local key players, as Salazar was trying to woo her supporters away, and the David cartel, from Aztechnology, was killing them. Although not all of those killed with an obsidian blade were her friends.
I soon developed my favorite cover, as a courier, this time as one of the plentiful moped package carriers. I tangled often with the roller gangs, but otherwise could go anywhere. I even tailed my old friend Uribe without him noticing, but Rivero still believed they could patch things up, so I just watched him offer her friends money and immunity if they changed sides.
Then Salazar's cousin disappeared, and things got frosty really quick. After two days I found her on a slab at an organ seller. She was missing several pieces, but the friendly ghoul that ran the business informed me that she already was missing her heart when she was found, and there were traces of obsidian in the wound, though I well knew that meant little.
Rivero's next step was to send me as peace envoy to Bogota, to make peace with Salazar, to work together against the common enemy. Now, I am no friend at all of Aztlan, but I do not think I was a good choice, as I did not really want them to stay in business. But there is a moment when you are down that you only have left your own pride in what you do. I would do the best I could, as usual.
It was doomed from the start, as Salazar did not trust me, Uribe did not specially like me, and Salazar's mutilated cousin was not a good introduction card. So I just stayed at the big hacienda while they discussed what to do with Rivero and me. I saw the satellite data, later, and you just did not realise I was a prisoner, but nevermind, I am getting ahead, .
It was not a bad week, treated as a honored, unarmed guest, playing with Salazar's five year old son, flirting with his lovers and catching up with my correspondence. Probably the only real rest I had since Tokyo. Rivero seemed satisfied that I had not been killed, so I could relax.
Then you raided Salazar with an army, and it all went to hell. He called me a spy before he ran away, but he must have his doubts because he did not order his men to kill me. Military armor is an imposing obstacle when you are unarmed, or poorly armed, as most of the guards were, so I had to find my own gear to have a fighting chance. First I had to blind your overwatch birds. Which is how I got your pre-strike reports, collateral booty. I also got one of those nice big guns your guys brought, so adequate for taking out armored troopers. The rest was just a matter of keeping out of the way and making it to the airport before Aztechnology troops closed it down, and Salazar would not need all his cars. I returned him the favor of not killing me by saving his son, but I never got even a thank you note.
Even after warning Rivero to get ready for a raid I knew I was just jumping from the pan into the fire. But that report of yours just gave me little choice but to stay. ¶ 9:50 AM
Caracas was a full time trip, to a time when I had been young, hungry and angry. I had not stepped out of the First World in ten years, and I had gone soft and caring. One day in Caracas and I knew my job was hopeless, that there was little I could do, and that Tempo was a plague of biblical proportions.
As all the drug was funneled from there, lots of it just stayed in the city. So I could see what lay in the future if the Olaya's kept their plans. Not that they were likely to. Besides the big surprise you pulled, freezing Kondorchid, their shipping company, at the Corporate Court, plugging the biggest pipeline, Aztechnology was increasing its pressure on the Olaya's, abandoned by the rest of the Cartels after Los Angeles.
Graciela behaved as if nothing had changed, from her mansion to her office, and back. Yes, she had big contacts in the city, and her cavalcade rivalled that of a head of state. But as long as she did not change locations and customs, she was a sitting duck. She felt strangely confident in "her" city. So I moved from bodyguard to troubleshooter, which at least kept me doing things and feeling useful.
My first task was checking the loyalty of several local key players, as Salazar was trying to woo her supporters away, and the David cartel, from Aztechnology, was killing them. Although not all of those killed with an obsidian blade were her friends.
I soon developed my favorite cover, as a courier, this time as one of the plentiful moped package carriers. I tangled often with the roller gangs, but otherwise could go anywhere. I even tailed my old friend Uribe without him noticing, but Rivero still believed they could patch things up, so I just watched him offer her friends money and immunity if they changed sides.
Then Salazar's cousin disappeared, and things got frosty really quick. After two days I found her on a slab at an organ seller. She was missing several pieces, but the friendly ghoul that ran the business informed me that she already was missing her heart when she was found, and there were traces of obsidian in the wound, though I well knew that meant little.
Rivero's next step was to send me as peace envoy to Bogota, to make peace with Salazar, to work together against the common enemy. Now, I am no friend at all of Aztlan, but I do not think I was a good choice, as I did not really want them to stay in business. But there is a moment when you are down that you only have left your own pride in what you do. I would do the best I could, as usual.
It was doomed from the start, as Salazar did not trust me, Uribe did not specially like me, and Salazar's mutilated cousin was not a good introduction card. So I just stayed at the big hacienda while they discussed what to do with Rivero and me. I saw the satellite data, later, and you just did not realise I was a prisoner, but nevermind, I am getting ahead, .
It was not a bad week, treated as a honored, unarmed guest, playing with Salazar's five year old son, flirting with his lovers and catching up with my correspondence. Probably the only real rest I had since Tokyo. Rivero seemed satisfied that I had not been killed, so I could relax.
Then you raided Salazar with an army, and it all went to hell. He called me a spy before he ran away, but he must have his doubts because he did not order his men to kill me. Military armor is an imposing obstacle when you are unarmed, or poorly armed, as most of the guards were, so I had to find my own gear to have a fighting chance. First I had to blind your overwatch birds. Which is how I got your pre-strike reports, collateral booty. I also got one of those nice big guns your guys brought, so adequate for taking out armored troopers. The rest was just a matter of keeping out of the way and making it to the airport before Aztechnology troops closed it down, and Salazar would not need all his cars. I returned him the favor of not killing me by saving his son, but I never got even a thank you note.
Even after warning Rivero to get ready for a raid I knew I was just jumping from the pan into the fire. But that report of yours just gave me little choice but to stay. ¶ 9:50 AM
20.3.09
Burnt Bridges
I have received confirmation that all my Groupee accounts have been deleted. There is no going back. I know it is easier for me to take a moral stand when I have almost nothing to lose from doing so, but I would like to think I would have done the same two years ago, when I still had something to lose. ¶ 10:22 PM
I have received confirmation that all my Groupee accounts have been deleted. There is no going back. I know it is easier for me to take a moral stand when I have almost nothing to lose from doing so, but I would like to think I would have done the same two years ago, when I still had something to lose. ¶ 10:22 PM
RPG Narrative VIII
My first duty as head of security, and the only security, of Ms Rivero was to attend to her at the welcome dinner. Just to highlight how friendly the meetings were, each of the representatives was allowed a single bodyguard inside, armed.
While Graciela freshened up, I had a talk with María as I changed into something formal. She was angry and relieved at the same time, and kept her distance. Clearly it was over for her, so I only had made things more complicated by staying. A conversation I am bound to repeat over and over in my mind.
Suits are great to hide armor and weapons, and I did so. I checked the security center, to make sure they knew I was back, and that all the little extras I had set up to improve the electronic security were still working. Then I accompanied my new employer, stunning in a low cut green dress, to the dining hall.
You have been at the Baltimore Towers, so you are familiar with that retro-futuristic behemoth, the three silvered skyscrapers shaped like a gernsbackian space rocket, topped by a golden colossus with a fifty meter sword. The three towers are linked by open bridges, protected that night by automated defenses and those guards in punishment shifts. The wind at half a kilometer height made it "interesting" to cross from the residential suites in one tower to the dining hall.
The dinner was silent, with clear stress and unvoiced accusations. Standing behind Graciela's chair restricted most of my view, a problem of my own small size. Curiously only the Olaya cartel had women among the delegates. Graciela was treated as guilty of some crime, rather than the survivor of an assassination attempt. It was clear most of those machist pigs would feel better if the assassin had succeeded, so I felt she wore a big bullseye, and by extension, so I did.
Then one of my small monitor programs beeped my commlink, indicating that the external surveillance cameras had been switched off. While I was checking the status in my internal vision, and wondered how that could have happened without triggering any other alarm, an explosion blew the main doors in, and several figures in military armor and machineguns in gyrostabilized mounts came in shooting. I was in maximum time amplification by then, so I could see in exquisite slow motion how the second burst cut María in half, while I was still getting my gun out. I lost it, a little, then. I recovered my sanity as I was putting a fresh clip in, ducking under the table, and I remembered I had an employer to protect. She was crouching by a side door that was, by chance, close to her. By chance? I did not think so. I shouted to her to wait and let me through first, but she clearly preferred an unknown risk to a room full of flying lead.
Casualties? I am sure at least ten of the attackers went down, several of them from quite close. As for people, there were two dozen delegates and the same number of bodyguards, with maybe twice as many security personnel spread through the top three floors. So if you found only fifteen corpses, certainly many escaped and I suppose the assault team took their casualties with them. I suppose they came through stealth helicopters, while a mole inside killed the electronic surveillance specialist and shut off the cameras to keep them from recording. The easiest way to overcome all the automated defenses.
Where was I? Ah, yes, Graciela going through the side door while I followed her. I did not make it through, as I got a glimpse of a big man with a macuahuitl and a dart gun, holding her limp form upright. There were several of the armored guys behind him, and I dropped one before pulling back. Then I heard a bass scream, shouts and some pistol shots, though it took me some time to steal a quick look because a miss from the big shootout from the other side of the dining room sent me sprawling. My armor held, but the bruising was quite impressive.
When I finally checked Graciela she was standing in the middle of the hallway, covered in blood, while the Aztec warrior and his three pals were laying in pieces, only held together by their armor.
I moved on, mainly to get out of the firefight, and she followed me, talking in Portuguese rather than Spanish. She did not seem wounded, but her dress sported several big holes. She pushed me off when I tried to check her for wounds. Even her moves were more cat-like.
No, I am sure she was hit. It was more similar to how a vampire or a lycanthrope regenerates wounds, as she had been wounded for sure. I just supposed she had some advanced biomodifications, and maybe some magical support. I thanked the heavens my employer was tougher than I thought, and blanked out what had happened in the dining hall.
She did not make any more power displays. We avoided the rest of the assault team, killed those that stumbled upon us, and she insisted we get out of the building. Then a big HERF gun went off, and we ended up taking the full stairs down. She collapsed in the parking, while I tried to convince one of the cars I was its owner. When she woke up the car was revving up, and she spoke Spanish. Twelve hours and a lot of hiding and skulking later we were in a small plane bound for Caracas.
Yes, we avoided the rest of the Olaya cartel, and also the police, when we saw we were wanted for questioning for the Baltimore Towers massacre. I know you just wanted to interrogate us, but from where we were hiding it was clear we had no option but to run away. I suppose you got our images from the security systems of the other cars, didn't you? No time for a clean wipe. ¶ 9:50 AM
My first duty as head of security, and the only security, of Ms Rivero was to attend to her at the welcome dinner. Just to highlight how friendly the meetings were, each of the representatives was allowed a single bodyguard inside, armed.
While Graciela freshened up, I had a talk with María as I changed into something formal. She was angry and relieved at the same time, and kept her distance. Clearly it was over for her, so I only had made things more complicated by staying. A conversation I am bound to repeat over and over in my mind.
Suits are great to hide armor and weapons, and I did so. I checked the security center, to make sure they knew I was back, and that all the little extras I had set up to improve the electronic security were still working. Then I accompanied my new employer, stunning in a low cut green dress, to the dining hall.
You have been at the Baltimore Towers, so you are familiar with that retro-futuristic behemoth, the three silvered skyscrapers shaped like a gernsbackian space rocket, topped by a golden colossus with a fifty meter sword. The three towers are linked by open bridges, protected that night by automated defenses and those guards in punishment shifts. The wind at half a kilometer height made it "interesting" to cross from the residential suites in one tower to the dining hall.
The dinner was silent, with clear stress and unvoiced accusations. Standing behind Graciela's chair restricted most of my view, a problem of my own small size. Curiously only the Olaya cartel had women among the delegates. Graciela was treated as guilty of some crime, rather than the survivor of an assassination attempt. It was clear most of those machist pigs would feel better if the assassin had succeeded, so I felt she wore a big bullseye, and by extension, so I did.
Then one of my small monitor programs beeped my commlink, indicating that the external surveillance cameras had been switched off. While I was checking the status in my internal vision, and wondered how that could have happened without triggering any other alarm, an explosion blew the main doors in, and several figures in military armor and machineguns in gyrostabilized mounts came in shooting. I was in maximum time amplification by then, so I could see in exquisite slow motion how the second burst cut María in half, while I was still getting my gun out. I lost it, a little, then. I recovered my sanity as I was putting a fresh clip in, ducking under the table, and I remembered I had an employer to protect. She was crouching by a side door that was, by chance, close to her. By chance? I did not think so. I shouted to her to wait and let me through first, but she clearly preferred an unknown risk to a room full of flying lead.
Casualties? I am sure at least ten of the attackers went down, several of them from quite close. As for people, there were two dozen delegates and the same number of bodyguards, with maybe twice as many security personnel spread through the top three floors. So if you found only fifteen corpses, certainly many escaped and I suppose the assault team took their casualties with them. I suppose they came through stealth helicopters, while a mole inside killed the electronic surveillance specialist and shut off the cameras to keep them from recording. The easiest way to overcome all the automated defenses.
Where was I? Ah, yes, Graciela going through the side door while I followed her. I did not make it through, as I got a glimpse of a big man with a macuahuitl and a dart gun, holding her limp form upright. There were several of the armored guys behind him, and I dropped one before pulling back. Then I heard a bass scream, shouts and some pistol shots, though it took me some time to steal a quick look because a miss from the big shootout from the other side of the dining room sent me sprawling. My armor held, but the bruising was quite impressive.
When I finally checked Graciela she was standing in the middle of the hallway, covered in blood, while the Aztec warrior and his three pals were laying in pieces, only held together by their armor.
I moved on, mainly to get out of the firefight, and she followed me, talking in Portuguese rather than Spanish. She did not seem wounded, but her dress sported several big holes. She pushed me off when I tried to check her for wounds. Even her moves were more cat-like.
No, I am sure she was hit. It was more similar to how a vampire or a lycanthrope regenerates wounds, as she had been wounded for sure. I just supposed she had some advanced biomodifications, and maybe some magical support. I thanked the heavens my employer was tougher than I thought, and blanked out what had happened in the dining hall.
She did not make any more power displays. We avoided the rest of the assault team, killed those that stumbled upon us, and she insisted we get out of the building. Then a big HERF gun went off, and we ended up taking the full stairs down. She collapsed in the parking, while I tried to convince one of the cars I was its owner. When she woke up the car was revving up, and she spoke Spanish. Twelve hours and a lot of hiding and skulking later we were in a small plane bound for Caracas.
Yes, we avoided the rest of the Olaya cartel, and also the police, when we saw we were wanted for questioning for the Baltimore Towers massacre. I know you just wanted to interrogate us, but from where we were hiding it was clear we had no option but to run away. I suppose you got our images from the security systems of the other cars, didn't you? No time for a clean wipe. ¶ 9:50 AM
19.3.09
RPG Narrative VII
I see that Graciela is what you really want to talk about. Don't worry, she will appear a lot from now on. And I know you were in Los Angeles two days later, so I hope I can clarify what happened at the Baltimore Towers, and around the City of Angels.
María asked me to pick her up at a small private airport. I had made my homework so I already knew she was one of the top bosses in the Olaya cartel, answering only to the top man Salazar. Her power base was in Caracas, with a side business of body modification and sculpting look-alike whores. As Tempo was funneled through Caracas and she was known as a brilliant biochemist, everybody supposed she was the developer of Tempo. Probably the most important guest at the summit. A honor I could have made without.
I took with me three of the local muscle I had hired, a combat mage to run magic security and two riggers to drive the armored vans we took to pick up her security team. Knowing how sensitive some of those bodyguards are, I left my team guarding the vehicles and approached the tarmac on my own.
The private plane landed on schedule and was taxiing towards the little terminal building when instead of braking it just went on, ploughing on the corner of the control tower. Running towards it, I noticed the emergency personnel opposite to me looked like military personnel, with suspicious bulges and pieces of equipment. I was still halfway when I heard gunfire coming from the plane, so I got a taser out , turned the slow motion on, and, just in case, began tasering the people between the plane and me, while alerting the vehicle detail for a quick getaway. I was lucky that almost everyone was looking at the plane, rather than behind them. I switched to a flechette gun when I started seeing drawn weapons. Pinned at the doors and caught from behind, the assault team did not have a chance. When gunfire stopped, I called Rivero's private number and gave her the password, as I did not relish being shot by a jumpy bodyguard. Only one was still alive, but she looked competent enough.
We ended up walking all the way back to the parking, feeling exposed all the way, because a group of Burning Angels gangers had the vehicles boxed up. A replay of the previous engagement, coming from behind with silenced weapons and soon we were in the vehicles. As we had suddenly plenty of space available, we played at shuffle the druglord and sent one of the vans empty, to see if it could draw some pursuit, while the rest took off in the other. I wonder who arrived first, the clean up team or law enforcement, as it never made the news, and there should have been over twenty bodies spread around the runway.
Then came pursuit and evasion. Mike, our driver, was killed by a sniper before we even reached the city limits. The bridges are natural chokepoints, and it was a bit risky to enter the grid guide in a hijacked cab, so we soon were back on foot, while gangers on motorcycles and choppers above hunted for us, and Sacristan was unable to arrange a rescue till the cartel bosses agreed. Apparently some of them believed it was not Aztechnology but one of them who was trying to kidnap Rivero.
In the end that was what saved us, as whoever was behind us, and I believe those were Jaguar knights in ganger leather, was willing to die to take her alive. Karl, the mage, proposed we hid underground, in the big alchera under the city, the magical landscape that sank half the city, and hollowed out the foundations of the rest. There the advantage in numbers and technological surveillance toys were useless, and apparently he had made some forays inside. In a game of ambushes and booby traps, quality counts more than quantity, and we made it safely through the tunnels into the city and under the umbrella of the crime prevention AI that Horizon has put in charge of the whole downtown area.
We scored some vandalism fines and some trespassing warnings, but nothing serious. Just when we were relaxing, crossing the square towards the Baltimore Towers, a final sniper killed Rivero's bodyguard, who was dressed and made up like her, and could not kill Rivero because Karl had placed a bullet barrier on her. The AI drones nailed him before I could. We had to leave her in the sidewalk, as we could not afford to stop and answer questions. Pity, as she was a good comrade and a funny companion. Maybe it was a sour grapes attempt, to kill her before she was safe, but I suspect it was some other group, possibly one of the other cartels, as it did not fit to use non-lethal weapons and running risks, just to shoot her at the end. If Aztech did know our final destination, we should have met a grab team, not a sniper.
Graciela Rivero made a good impression on me. She is cool under fire, follows orders, knows that she is no match for a professional, she did not even draw her pistol. She is also extremely callous, as the sacrifice of her escorts, the casualties around the day, even the death of her double did not cause any discernible emotion. She considered everything a transaction. At least you knew what you were getting into with her.
So when she proposed to hire me as security, as she did not trust the Olaya people, offering three times my previous contract, I said yes. Maybe it was greed, maybe I wanted to stay a bit longer near María, maybe I did not want to go home.
Whatever it was, for the third time I missed a plane out of this story. It was the last one.
We scored some vandalism fines and some trespassing warnings, but nothing serious. Just when we were relaxing, crossing the square towards the Baltimore Towers, a final sniper killed Rivero's bodyguard, who was dressed and made up like her, and could not kill Rivero because Karl had placed a bullet barrier on her. The AI drones nailed him before I could. We had to leave her in the sidewalk, as we could not afford to stop and answer questions. Pity, as she was a good comrade and a funny companion. Maybe it was a sour grapes attempt, to kill her before she was safe, but I suspect it was some other group, possibly one of the other cartels, as it did not fit to use non-lethal weapons and running risks, just to shoot her at the end. If Aztech did know our final destination, we should have met a grab team, not a sniper.
Graciela Rivero made a good impression on me. She is cool under fire, follows orders, knows that she is no match for a professional, she did not even draw her pistol. She is also extremely callous, as the sacrifice of her escorts, the casualties around the day, even the death of her double did not cause any discernible emotion. She considered everything a transaction. At least you knew what you were getting into with her.
So when she proposed to hire me as security, as she did not trust the Olaya people, offering three times my previous contract, I said yes. Maybe it was greed, maybe I wanted to stay a bit longer near María, maybe I did not want to go home.
Whatever it was, for the third time I missed a plane out of this story. It was the last one.
18.3.09
RPG Narrative Intermission
Maybe I should have started with this, rather than the text outright. But I wanted to make experiments with the content, rather than the typical mix of impotent anger and whining. And I also wondered how a text with limited context information, unless some of you belong to the quite limited group of Shadowrun followers, would be received and understood. Also, ironically, Shadowrun is a dirty word at the WGB, and that simple fact made it funnier.
Nothing like a dystopian future where magic works and the "typical" fantasy races have made a comeback to get postmodern and irrational.
Then there was a technical interest, both in my English narrative writing and how I handled a first person narrative, taken as an interactive conversation where only one side is shown. I also wanted to see if I could get the character through as something more than a one-dimensional killing machine (without forgetting that he is a dehumanized killing machine).
Each section is done in one go, transcribing how I would tell what the character is telling. Then I revise twice, once for obvious mistakes and then reading aloud to see if it works to my ear. And that is it. Some stops are arbitrary because I got busy, some are natural stop points. As usual, this is something where you learn as you go, and it is being an interesting experience.
Now, for context, it is the year 2071 but due to several disasters (and some lack of imagination on the side of the worldbuilders) the technology level and society structure is closer to what we would expect in 2020. The fantasy species give colour and justify even more bigoted discrimination and violence, but they do not change much from the basic human. Some, like Dragons and spirits, have a serious effect in the world, however. Magic changes many things, but it soon integrates with the existing Technology, so for daily life it is not so evident, though it has a deep effect in worldview, philosophy and, again, bigotry and violence.
So when John Smith says that he faced a demon in the Walled City in Hong Kong, it was an actual demon, one impervious to normal weapons, and when they call Bernie a dwarf it is because he was a four feet tall, 160 pounds ball of muscles in humanoid form. Incidentally, Bernie was a Physical Adept, using magic subconsciously to see the astral plane and break steel (or people) with his bare hands.
Smith used to be a criminal for hire, and has got back into his old lifestyle. He has spent fortunes on technological and biological changes to make himself better than anyone, and he has been quite succesful at it. That makes most conflicts with him quite one-sided, so I gloss them over as I do not see the fun in ultraviolence or graphic dismembering. It is also a side effect of the dehumanization and trivialization of violence that keeps him more or less sane and functional.
And yes, he is a character in a game, all presented in funny notes and numbers, and also a mask, a release system, an evasion mechanism. ¶ 9:50 AM
Maybe I should have started with this, rather than the text outright. But I wanted to make experiments with the content, rather than the typical mix of impotent anger and whining. And I also wondered how a text with limited context information, unless some of you belong to the quite limited group of Shadowrun followers, would be received and understood. Also, ironically, Shadowrun is a dirty word at the WGB, and that simple fact made it funnier.
Nothing like a dystopian future where magic works and the "typical" fantasy races have made a comeback to get postmodern and irrational.
Then there was a technical interest, both in my English narrative writing and how I handled a first person narrative, taken as an interactive conversation where only one side is shown. I also wanted to see if I could get the character through as something more than a one-dimensional killing machine (without forgetting that he is a dehumanized killing machine).
Each section is done in one go, transcribing how I would tell what the character is telling. Then I revise twice, once for obvious mistakes and then reading aloud to see if it works to my ear. And that is it. Some stops are arbitrary because I got busy, some are natural stop points. As usual, this is something where you learn as you go, and it is being an interesting experience.
Now, for context, it is the year 2071 but due to several disasters (and some lack of imagination on the side of the worldbuilders) the technology level and society structure is closer to what we would expect in 2020. The fantasy species give colour and justify even more bigoted discrimination and violence, but they do not change much from the basic human. Some, like Dragons and spirits, have a serious effect in the world, however. Magic changes many things, but it soon integrates with the existing Technology, so for daily life it is not so evident, though it has a deep effect in worldview, philosophy and, again, bigotry and violence.
So when John Smith says that he faced a demon in the Walled City in Hong Kong, it was an actual demon, one impervious to normal weapons, and when they call Bernie a dwarf it is because he was a four feet tall, 160 pounds ball of muscles in humanoid form. Incidentally, Bernie was a Physical Adept, using magic subconsciously to see the astral plane and break steel (or people) with his bare hands.
Smith used to be a criminal for hire, and has got back into his old lifestyle. He has spent fortunes on technological and biological changes to make himself better than anyone, and he has been quite succesful at it. That makes most conflicts with him quite one-sided, so I gloss them over as I do not see the fun in ultraviolence or graphic dismembering. It is also a side effect of the dehumanization and trivialization of violence that keeps him more or less sane and functional.
And yes, he is a character in a game, all presented in funny notes and numbers, and also a mask, a release system, an evasion mechanism. ¶ 9:50 AM
17.3.09
RPG Narrative VI
Ah, summer in Los Angeles. A Scottish shower of blazing concrete and freezing buildings. More or less what I was going through, alternating between love heat and panic cold. Sacristán was much more collected than I was, and I did not lie to myself that she loved me back. Yes, I know this does not interest you at all, but the price for getting my story is that you have to get it whole. This is like confession, you have to tell it all, not only the bloody bits.
The Ghost Cartels were unbalanced by the success of the Tempo drug, and did not like it that the world at large blamed them while only the Olaya's were reaping the benefits. Why they chose Los Angeles, so close to their traditional enemies, the ORO cartels that took over the Mexican government and then crushed all competition, turning them into true ghosts, I could not understand. Denver would have been a much better choice, under the dragon's shadow, or somewhere further away from Tenochtitlan.
Anyway, Sacristan was relaxed, out of Uribe's inflexible control, looking for some safe venue for the meeting. I spent the first days escorting her to see buildings and hotels, to check their vulnerabilities and security faults, or meeting on my own the Olaya's partners in the Tempo business. In California they are the Ancients gang, in charge of smuggling and the Koshari, who handle local distribution, and I have always had good relationships with both outfits, with the Ancients in Seattle and the Koshari at Denver. It was good I was well connected, because the local groups hated each other, so getting them to collaborate rather than fight was quite an undertaking.
I also made some contacts in the shadow community, trying to stay away from the pervasive public web ratings. My old persona had had quite good ratings, but also some big enemies, so I preferred to stay an unknown actor for the time being. Hiring local talent gave me some rest, so I could enjoy more time a bit more.
Sacristán did not like to talk about her past, but the weird cyberweapons she had concealed on her body indicated that she had been an infiltrator or even an assassin. Not for long, as someone had realised that she was a much better organizer than a fighter. She really got into playing our cover of rich dilettantes having an affair, as if all of it was a game to her, combined with gratitude from her rescue, as well as keeping a key asset happy. After all, this world now lets us play at being a knight in shining armor saving a damsel, even if often it is the damsel who saves the knight. I am older than I look and I no longer lie to myself about these things.
How old? I do not know. I have amnesia. I remember nothing before the tenth of March of 2050, and even if I looked like a kid back then, I certainly was not one. Considering the fortune in implants on me, I probably was some kind of brainwashed agent. Not a clue, and powerful people have looked into it. Anyway, I still have over twenty years experience on the dark underside of the world, and my body remembers even more.
During the day I met unsavory people, worried about Aztech infiltrators and affiliated gangs, and used my experience to spot the weak points in the chosen venue. The nights I played at being a South American playboy and enjoyed the hot spots and fashionable places of the city. Just the right internal drug mix of adrenaline and endorphins.
The biggest advantage of working for a cartel is the salary and the expense account. The disadvantage is the very bad people that compete with you, and some good people, like yourself, who wants to shut the business down.
As summer advanced, I knew that the Aztlaners knew. No matter how I presented it, how I tracked money to San Diego or weapons to Albuquerque, how every clash with the Burning Angels reminded me of the Jaguar Knights training manual, it was impossible to move the venue or change the dates.
The best and the worst summer in my life.
Come September, there started to arrive the security people for the different cartels, so our affair, relationship, whatever it was, went into the backdrop. We only met virtually then, and usually for business. There were still some good moments, riding with the Ancients late at night through the old Redwood National Park, or dawn in the Mojave desert while hunting for an Aztlaner mole. Or simply a covert squeeze of the hand in a web security meeting. But I had a feeling of impending doom, unrelated to my heart pangs.
Maria must have felt it too, because the day before the meeting started she paid me in full, four months plus bonuses, a big private account at Zurich Orbital. Then she fired me, but asked me for a last favor. And that is how Graciela Rivero entered my life. ¶ 9:50 AM
Ah, summer in Los Angeles. A Scottish shower of blazing concrete and freezing buildings. More or less what I was going through, alternating between love heat and panic cold. Sacristán was much more collected than I was, and I did not lie to myself that she loved me back. Yes, I know this does not interest you at all, but the price for getting my story is that you have to get it whole. This is like confession, you have to tell it all, not only the bloody bits.
The Ghost Cartels were unbalanced by the success of the Tempo drug, and did not like it that the world at large blamed them while only the Olaya's were reaping the benefits. Why they chose Los Angeles, so close to their traditional enemies, the ORO cartels that took over the Mexican government and then crushed all competition, turning them into true ghosts, I could not understand. Denver would have been a much better choice, under the dragon's shadow, or somewhere further away from Tenochtitlan.
Anyway, Sacristan was relaxed, out of Uribe's inflexible control, looking for some safe venue for the meeting. I spent the first days escorting her to see buildings and hotels, to check their vulnerabilities and security faults, or meeting on my own the Olaya's partners in the Tempo business. In California they are the Ancients gang, in charge of smuggling and the Koshari, who handle local distribution, and I have always had good relationships with both outfits, with the Ancients in Seattle and the Koshari at Denver. It was good I was well connected, because the local groups hated each other, so getting them to collaborate rather than fight was quite an undertaking.
I also made some contacts in the shadow community, trying to stay away from the pervasive public web ratings. My old persona had had quite good ratings, but also some big enemies, so I preferred to stay an unknown actor for the time being. Hiring local talent gave me some rest, so I could enjoy more time a bit more.
Sacristán did not like to talk about her past, but the weird cyberweapons she had concealed on her body indicated that she had been an infiltrator or even an assassin. Not for long, as someone had realised that she was a much better organizer than a fighter. She really got into playing our cover of rich dilettantes having an affair, as if all of it was a game to her, combined with gratitude from her rescue, as well as keeping a key asset happy. After all, this world now lets us play at being a knight in shining armor saving a damsel, even if often it is the damsel who saves the knight. I am older than I look and I no longer lie to myself about these things.
How old? I do not know. I have amnesia. I remember nothing before the tenth of March of 2050, and even if I looked like a kid back then, I certainly was not one. Considering the fortune in implants on me, I probably was some kind of brainwashed agent. Not a clue, and powerful people have looked into it. Anyway, I still have over twenty years experience on the dark underside of the world, and my body remembers even more.
During the day I met unsavory people, worried about Aztech infiltrators and affiliated gangs, and used my experience to spot the weak points in the chosen venue. The nights I played at being a South American playboy and enjoyed the hot spots and fashionable places of the city. Just the right internal drug mix of adrenaline and endorphins.
The biggest advantage of working for a cartel is the salary and the expense account. The disadvantage is the very bad people that compete with you, and some good people, like yourself, who wants to shut the business down.
As summer advanced, I knew that the Aztlaners knew. No matter how I presented it, how I tracked money to San Diego or weapons to Albuquerque, how every clash with the Burning Angels reminded me of the Jaguar Knights training manual, it was impossible to move the venue or change the dates.
The best and the worst summer in my life.
Come September, there started to arrive the security people for the different cartels, so our affair, relationship, whatever it was, went into the backdrop. We only met virtually then, and usually for business. There were still some good moments, riding with the Ancients late at night through the old Redwood National Park, or dawn in the Mojave desert while hunting for an Aztlaner mole. Or simply a covert squeeze of the hand in a web security meeting. But I had a feeling of impending doom, unrelated to my heart pangs.
Maria must have felt it too, because the day before the meeting started she paid me in full, four months plus bonuses, a big private account at Zurich Orbital. Then she fired me, but asked me for a last favor. And that is how Graciela Rivero entered my life. ¶ 9:50 AM
16.3.09
RPG Narrative V
Japan in June was another opportunity to play tourist and run a few errands. Yes the contact were Yakuza, but I cannot say what band. I was not at the negotiating table and people there did not wear badges with names. I can only tell you they were advised by the great spirit Jurojin, as I got a glimpse of it a couple of times. And it was not the Wanibuchi-rengo, of that I am sure.
Biometric readings on Tokyo police images? Well, I have seen those images and the gaijin making the deliveries is a dark haired, tanned fellow, and anyway, the Tokyo police did retain me for a while as I was in a bar when it got busted, but I am sure they would have arrested me if I had been the delivery boy. Anyway, you know how easy it is to manipulate images like those. I do know that the same Tempo was used to bait and catch a Russian gang, a group of Korean pushers and a bunch of corrupt policemen selling confiscated goods on the side. A master stroke of manipulation. But I suppose you are not saying the police is on the take and that is why I got free?
Anyway, I know it was not the Wanibuchi-rengo because just when the negotiations winded down and we were getting ready to fly to Vladivostok they hit the delegation, killed a few people and kidnapped Sacristan and Rhys. Me? I was at a private funeral, a former associate of Mr. Uribe. No, I was just attending the funeral and helping carry the body, I had nothing to do with the man. A sea burial, very traditional, though the cannon balls were replaced with rebar. Times change. So when I could answer the phone it was already over.
Uribe, in the absence of Sacristan, was the one in charge, and his orders were clear. Either I managed to have Sacristan and Rhys in the plane the following morning, or I should terminate them to avoid them telling what they knew. Apparently the Wanibuchi-gumi wanted a piece of the drug pie, and they were showing our hosts as unable to protect us. Made some sense, in that Japanese way, while they started negotiating the return of the "hostages". Uribe was not in a negotiating mood, so he just got ready to leave. I got some help from yakuza informants, and was lucky enough to get the Tokyo version of a "combat cabbie", so I staged my own rescue operation. Maybe it was the aftershock of the Walled City massacre, or the memories of Bernie, but I really made an effort not to kill anyone, so I suppose it did not trascend. Less ripples that way.
We got to the airport with a couple of hours left, and that rescue did change some things between María and me. Uribe was more concerned with what they could have said while captive than relieved, but I suppose that is why he was a drug lord while I was the hired help.
Uribe stayed in Vladivostok with some new reinforcements from Colombia, while Sacristan (and me) left for Los Angeles. Something big was brewing in the City of Angels, and we spent the whole summer there. ¶ 9:50 AM
Japan in June was another opportunity to play tourist and run a few errands. Yes the contact were Yakuza, but I cannot say what band. I was not at the negotiating table and people there did not wear badges with names. I can only tell you they were advised by the great spirit Jurojin, as I got a glimpse of it a couple of times. And it was not the Wanibuchi-rengo, of that I am sure.
Biometric readings on Tokyo police images? Well, I have seen those images and the gaijin making the deliveries is a dark haired, tanned fellow, and anyway, the Tokyo police did retain me for a while as I was in a bar when it got busted, but I am sure they would have arrested me if I had been the delivery boy. Anyway, you know how easy it is to manipulate images like those. I do know that the same Tempo was used to bait and catch a Russian gang, a group of Korean pushers and a bunch of corrupt policemen selling confiscated goods on the side. A master stroke of manipulation. But I suppose you are not saying the police is on the take and that is why I got free?
Anyway, I know it was not the Wanibuchi-rengo because just when the negotiations winded down and we were getting ready to fly to Vladivostok they hit the delegation, killed a few people and kidnapped Sacristan and Rhys. Me? I was at a private funeral, a former associate of Mr. Uribe. No, I was just attending the funeral and helping carry the body, I had nothing to do with the man. A sea burial, very traditional, though the cannon balls were replaced with rebar. Times change. So when I could answer the phone it was already over.
Uribe, in the absence of Sacristan, was the one in charge, and his orders were clear. Either I managed to have Sacristan and Rhys in the plane the following morning, or I should terminate them to avoid them telling what they knew. Apparently the Wanibuchi-gumi wanted a piece of the drug pie, and they were showing our hosts as unable to protect us. Made some sense, in that Japanese way, while they started negotiating the return of the "hostages". Uribe was not in a negotiating mood, so he just got ready to leave. I got some help from yakuza informants, and was lucky enough to get the Tokyo version of a "combat cabbie", so I staged my own rescue operation. Maybe it was the aftershock of the Walled City massacre, or the memories of Bernie, but I really made an effort not to kill anyone, so I suppose it did not trascend. Less ripples that way.
We got to the airport with a couple of hours left, and that rescue did change some things between María and me. Uribe was more concerned with what they could have said while captive than relieved, but I suppose that is why he was a drug lord while I was the hired help.
Uribe stayed in Vladivostok with some new reinforcements from Colombia, while Sacristan (and me) left for Los Angeles. Something big was brewing in the City of Angels, and we spent the whole summer there. ¶ 9:50 AM
15.3.09
RPG Narrative IV
I went back to Mr. Yakamura, who was very willing to offer me his help to really hurt the Shotozumi-rengo. After a short deliberation it was clear that unless I hijacked a strike bomber there was little I could do to get the Oyabun in his compound.
The Seoulpa lieutenant had his own reasons to provoke the Yakuza, so we decided to muddle the waters even more by getting the Mob involved. A cousin of the Oyabun and the Rengo’s accountant used to play high stakes poker with a Mafia high-up, so it was not too difficult to get a Mafia hitman and a defective rocket launcher pointed towards the casino. That was my first contact with the Olaya delegation and specially with Miz Sacristan, the facilitator. I suppose you know about Henry Uribe’s world tour arranging supply, prices and exclusivity deals. They could get the multiple launch rockets we required, and considering how hot Seattle and even the UCAS could get for me, they also offered a bodyguarding ticket, as general troubleshooter for Miz Sacristan. I liked the woman already, so I said maybe. What a pity. But I am advancing events.
Finally a mafia hitman attacked a casino full of underworld bosses, only to die when his last, defective rocket failed. The Yakuza and the Mafia were at each other’s throats, and I was thinking, once again, that vengeance was mine and I could go back to Denver. Then that brain-addled addict of Yakamura –yes, he was dipping in the product he moved- called the Oyabun to gloat. The war solidified his position, as no deals were possible then with the Yaks, but that put a million nuyen bounty on my head, as the Oyabun had a good idea who had arranged the fireworks.
That evening I was not on a Denver plane, but on a Hong Kong one, talking Spanish with a bunch of cartel thugs.
The delegation was a highly stratified affair. Uribe was top boss, but he did not worry about details. He was concerned with the dealmaking and little else. Our paths did not cross, normally. Then there was Sacristán, planner and operative boss, and supposedly at her level, a top drug chemist, Rhys, a weird dwarf with a drug fixation. Then Escobar’s security detail, four top class, highly enhanced bodyguards, and the general security, a mixed bag of burned out European muscle and ambitious but unskilled South American talent. I was directly under Sacristan’s orders, making quite a bunch of money by staying out of Seattle. Or so I thought.
In Hong Kong the Cartel had picked up a Triad group, the Black Chrysantemums, as favored contact, so by the time we got there there was open war with the other main drug dealing gang, the Smoke Circle. I had been in HK last year, in the aftermath of the virtuakinetic scare, so I still had some contacts there, but I was lying low so I played at being a tourist. I got scuba lessons, visited some picturesque areas, even played babysitter to Rhys and Sacristan in a tour. Ah, you saw the Walled City massacre images? And you are sure it was me? Well, yes, I was there and it was the worst experience I have had since Chicago. A nightmare of zombie-like addicts, horrors from beyond, snipers on every rooftop, and a demon between us and the helicopter. Like Chicago, in fact, if you think about it. If you have seen the images, you know the main facts, and the rest just cannot be explained. Yes, I suppose I would be welcome in Kowloon, as Fear’s slayer, but I cannot live that close to the Yama kings. The ammo? They were shotgun rounds, dragon’s breath fire rounds. An alternative when ordinary bullets just are not enough. It was neither the first nor the last timeI wished I had taken that Panther assault cannon with me.
At least I got Rhys and Sacristan out alive, and Uribe was happy with the deals he made. And no, I did not discuss those things with him. We just flew first class north to Tokyo. ¶ 9:51 AM
I went back to Mr. Yakamura, who was very willing to offer me his help to really hurt the Shotozumi-rengo. After a short deliberation it was clear that unless I hijacked a strike bomber there was little I could do to get the Oyabun in his compound.
The Seoulpa lieutenant had his own reasons to provoke the Yakuza, so we decided to muddle the waters even more by getting the Mob involved. A cousin of the Oyabun and the Rengo’s accountant used to play high stakes poker with a Mafia high-up, so it was not too difficult to get a Mafia hitman and a defective rocket launcher pointed towards the casino. That was my first contact with the Olaya delegation and specially with Miz Sacristan, the facilitator. I suppose you know about Henry Uribe’s world tour arranging supply, prices and exclusivity deals. They could get the multiple launch rockets we required, and considering how hot Seattle and even the UCAS could get for me, they also offered a bodyguarding ticket, as general troubleshooter for Miz Sacristan. I liked the woman already, so I said maybe. What a pity. But I am advancing events.
Finally a mafia hitman attacked a casino full of underworld bosses, only to die when his last, defective rocket failed. The Yakuza and the Mafia were at each other’s throats, and I was thinking, once again, that vengeance was mine and I could go back to Denver. Then that brain-addled addict of Yakamura –yes, he was dipping in the product he moved- called the Oyabun to gloat. The war solidified his position, as no deals were possible then with the Yaks, but that put a million nuyen bounty on my head, as the Oyabun had a good idea who had arranged the fireworks.
That evening I was not on a Denver plane, but on a Hong Kong one, talking Spanish with a bunch of cartel thugs.
The delegation was a highly stratified affair. Uribe was top boss, but he did not worry about details. He was concerned with the dealmaking and little else. Our paths did not cross, normally. Then there was Sacristán, planner and operative boss, and supposedly at her level, a top drug chemist, Rhys, a weird dwarf with a drug fixation. Then Escobar’s security detail, four top class, highly enhanced bodyguards, and the general security, a mixed bag of burned out European muscle and ambitious but unskilled South American talent. I was directly under Sacristan’s orders, making quite a bunch of money by staying out of Seattle. Or so I thought.
In Hong Kong the Cartel had picked up a Triad group, the Black Chrysantemums, as favored contact, so by the time we got there there was open war with the other main drug dealing gang, the Smoke Circle. I had been in HK last year, in the aftermath of the virtuakinetic scare, so I still had some contacts there, but I was lying low so I played at being a tourist. I got scuba lessons, visited some picturesque areas, even played babysitter to Rhys and Sacristan in a tour. Ah, you saw the Walled City massacre images? And you are sure it was me? Well, yes, I was there and it was the worst experience I have had since Chicago. A nightmare of zombie-like addicts, horrors from beyond, snipers on every rooftop, and a demon between us and the helicopter. Like Chicago, in fact, if you think about it. If you have seen the images, you know the main facts, and the rest just cannot be explained. Yes, I suppose I would be welcome in Kowloon, as Fear’s slayer, but I cannot live that close to the Yama kings. The ammo? They were shotgun rounds, dragon’s breath fire rounds. An alternative when ordinary bullets just are not enough. It was neither the first nor the last timeI wished I had taken that Panther assault cannon with me.
At least I got Rhys and Sacristan out alive, and Uribe was happy with the deals he made. And no, I did not discuss those things with him. We just flew first class north to Tokyo. ¶ 9:51 AM
14.3.09
RPG Narrative III
After parking the bike on the sidewalk, by one of the pedestrian entrances, and making sure the security camera would not keep any record of me, I went in. Two guys were playing lookout, so I lost a couple of minutes making sure they would not be a problem. Now, that is a trick of the trade I cannot share with you. When I finally found the cars, a bunch of people in suits were surrounding a poor guy tied up to a column. Just when I was planning how to get close enough, an amplified voice shouted "Freeze! F B I!"
The suited guys did not freeze, so I did not either. I supposed I was not the target, but it is not good to be armed without license in a crime scene. Because before the last one got into a car, it was a murder scene.
I just got away from the high threat response team, as they probably were not even aware I was there, and so did the two armored cars. I thought about giving away my position by taking some potshots, but seeing how automatic rifles were not even scratching the paint job, I accepted that discretion was better. I would need something bigger that a pistol.
Now that would be a trip down the memory lane. I was lucky, and the second old safehouse I checked still had its weapon stash intact, even if some human vermin had taken it over. They were not bulletproof. I would have preferred the first one, as a high powered rifle is easier to hide than an assault cannon, but it was good to have an old friend from the Bug Wars back.
Settled down in a newer safehouse and went back into the net, to see how Inoue had fared against the FBI. He had escaped, but one of the cars had not, probably sacrificing themselves to ensure his escape. Good quality henchmen. So that took out tracking the cars as an option, as the Feds would be looking for them too. And Inoue was sure to hole down for a while.
So I spent some time getting to know the changed Seattle, and even do some business on the side. So far I had been hemorrhaging money, so I needed to balance the books.
I also checked around that Tempo drug, and found that apparently a Korean gang was behind its distribution, and they were at war with the Yakuza, which explained the scene at the restaurant. Yes, I see you know the score. Also the drug was moving so much money that the small players were killing each other for a piece of the pie. It was a dangerous time to be a pusher.
What, to the point? Oh, all right, I hate it when my audience starts to go glassy eyed, and anyway now we get into actual crimes, so the less details the better…
My lucky break was a half-Japanese troll named Kaz Yakamura, and Inoue was trying to kill him.
Ah, I see that name does interest you. Yes, he probably controlled the distribution of Tempo in Seattle, but I did not discuss those things with him, only the Yakuza that we both wanted dead.
Let’s just say that Mr. Inoue was killed in Seattle’s downtown, when his car was waiting at a red light. Someone used a 20 mm portable cannon, a weapon that was last used in an attack on Renton’s Universal Brotherhood, seventeen years ago. It was a wonder it still worked. Now, do you think a weakling like me could handle that thing? I just was glad that happened.
Then, rather than consider the matter settled, when I was at the airport to return home, three yakuza assassins with ceramic knives tried to get a pound of my flesh. I showed them my ultimate trick, that one that makes me kill you if you see it, and missed my plane. I was very angry and not thinking right. Whoever decided to send attractive teenagers to kill me had a good grasp on my mind’s make up. But not good enough. But turning perfectly sculpted schoolgirls into slabs of meat makes me mad. ¶ 9:50 AM
After parking the bike on the sidewalk, by one of the pedestrian entrances, and making sure the security camera would not keep any record of me, I went in. Two guys were playing lookout, so I lost a couple of minutes making sure they would not be a problem. Now, that is a trick of the trade I cannot share with you. When I finally found the cars, a bunch of people in suits were surrounding a poor guy tied up to a column. Just when I was planning how to get close enough, an amplified voice shouted "Freeze! F B I!"
The suited guys did not freeze, so I did not either. I supposed I was not the target, but it is not good to be armed without license in a crime scene. Because before the last one got into a car, it was a murder scene.
I just got away from the high threat response team, as they probably were not even aware I was there, and so did the two armored cars. I thought about giving away my position by taking some potshots, but seeing how automatic rifles were not even scratching the paint job, I accepted that discretion was better. I would need something bigger that a pistol.
Now that would be a trip down the memory lane. I was lucky, and the second old safehouse I checked still had its weapon stash intact, even if some human vermin had taken it over. They were not bulletproof. I would have preferred the first one, as a high powered rifle is easier to hide than an assault cannon, but it was good to have an old friend from the Bug Wars back.
Settled down in a newer safehouse and went back into the net, to see how Inoue had fared against the FBI. He had escaped, but one of the cars had not, probably sacrificing themselves to ensure his escape. Good quality henchmen. So that took out tracking the cars as an option, as the Feds would be looking for them too. And Inoue was sure to hole down for a while.
So I spent some time getting to know the changed Seattle, and even do some business on the side. So far I had been hemorrhaging money, so I needed to balance the books.
I also checked around that Tempo drug, and found that apparently a Korean gang was behind its distribution, and they were at war with the Yakuza, which explained the scene at the restaurant. Yes, I see you know the score. Also the drug was moving so much money that the small players were killing each other for a piece of the pie. It was a dangerous time to be a pusher.
What, to the point? Oh, all right, I hate it when my audience starts to go glassy eyed, and anyway now we get into actual crimes, so the less details the better…
My lucky break was a half-Japanese troll named Kaz Yakamura, and Inoue was trying to kill him.
Ah, I see that name does interest you. Yes, he probably controlled the distribution of Tempo in Seattle, but I did not discuss those things with him, only the Yakuza that we both wanted dead.
Let’s just say that Mr. Inoue was killed in Seattle’s downtown, when his car was waiting at a red light. Someone used a 20 mm portable cannon, a weapon that was last used in an attack on Renton’s Universal Brotherhood, seventeen years ago. It was a wonder it still worked. Now, do you think a weakling like me could handle that thing? I just was glad that happened.
Then, rather than consider the matter settled, when I was at the airport to return home, three yakuza assassins with ceramic knives tried to get a pound of my flesh. I showed them my ultimate trick, that one that makes me kill you if you see it, and missed my plane. I was very angry and not thinking right. Whoever decided to send attractive teenagers to kill me had a good grasp on my mind’s make up. But not good enough. But turning perfectly sculpted schoolgirls into slabs of meat makes me mad. ¶ 9:50 AM
13.3.09
RPG Narrative II
The funeral was an example that our kind do not age gracefully. We usually end up messed up or paranoid. There were more drones than actual people, and I am sure that at least three attendants were officially dead.
Nora had asked me to do a friend's eulogy. But I was one of the dead people, currently masquerading as a part-Thai orphan Bernie had helped once, so I had to decline. Nora did not need me, anyway, with all the big shots from the old days sending duel testimonies. At least four dragons sent flowers. Nothing like that in my own funeral, five years ago. That must be what making good means. Nothing from Shotozumi, which I found significant, as Bernie and I had worked for him in the past.
The dead Yaks were not from Seattle, so that meant that somebody had brought in outside talent. That somebody should be the Shotozumi-rengo, but you do not make that kind of assumption lightly in this business.
After the funeral, it was legwork time. Nobody will talk to an unknown scrawny Asian guy, unless you have their balls in a vise, so once things started to settle down I decided it was time for my official return from the dead. One goes down, one resurrects. As soon as I appeared everyone would know why I was in town. However that buzz of fear was just the edge that I felt I needed. So after checking there were no pending charges or bounties standing against the old me, I went into a cosmetic parlor to recover myself. I also checked in the downtown Westin, to avoid Nora getting some unpleasant visits on my account.
After 24 hours, when my face settled down and red stubble started to appear on my head, I took a taxi once again to Tacoma, with the layered body armor and heavy pistols that Bernie should have brought a week earlier. I knew I had been right when a group of Ancients bikers swung 180 degrees when they saw my armored jacket colors, the old Blacknight combo. Time response so amplified that I was getting bored in between steps, I arranged a meeting with one of the First Nations lieutenants, the gang that was dealing that tempo buzz. Nobody tried to kill me, so I could not kill them either. Damned politeness rules.
The big Salish guy knew who I was and why I was there, and I felt so giddy on the respect he showed me that I was quite respectful too. He promptly offered me the surveillance footage of the hit, and what info he had, knowing it was likely some enemy of his gang would suffer.
High amplification always makes me hungry, and many of my enhancements also take their toll, so afterwards I went to blow some money on real cow burgers. A couple of Korean gentlemen chose my lunchtime to come greet me, approaching my corner table in an obvious way, swaggering as if they owned the place. I briefly considered that maybe they did, then whether I could have done anything to make them try to kill me, and finally that there were much better ways to off me, so I just kept eating with one hand. The bow was reasonably polite, and the condolence note was simple enough. The real message probably was in the file one of them squirted to my comm unit, but as it was immediately frozen and stored for later by my security daemons, it would have to wait.
Meanwhile two Japanese musclemen crossed the retreating Koreans, and I regretted not slotting those languages in the morning. After a colorful but non-violent verbal exchange the Japanese made a better bow and gave me another condolence note, this time without an attachment. I read the handwritten note in English and wondered who had written it, as I did not imagine the Oyabun would deign to write in English.
Things were getting interesting, but I needed some peace to check several distorted images and a suspicious file.
Although I am mostly known as a thief and a sociopathic killer, at least according to that Knight Errant dossier you have there, I made my name as a red-hot hacker. I lost the magic touch ten years ago, and I have even stopped using hot virtual immersion, getting cold feet after the Crash. That does not keep me from still being top of the line, if I may say so, as money and good software will beat brilliance nine times out of nine. So directly in the restaurant I set up a virtual comm unit to check the mysterious file.
It was a holographic image tagged Lucky Inoue, showing a blond Japanese male with obvious artificial arms, covered in elaborate glowing tattoos. My instinct told me that one of those arms hid a spur, possibly both.
Then the video confirmed that someone who resembled Mr. Inoue led the group that assaulted the drug den. The most interesting information was the car that had brought Inoue in. After a couple of hours socializing at Seattle’s Institute of Technology I bought some backdoor keys to Grid Guide and Ground Traffic control, so I could check the plate number of that Mercury and who was the owner. I was getting dinner when I finally confirmed that it was owned by the Shotozumi-rengo, through a couple of shell companies. What was much more interesting, that company had bought three identical armored cars, and two of them were currently at a big parking tower downtown.
I jumped into my motorcycle and went to see how lucky Lucky was. ¶ 9:52 AM
The funeral was an example that our kind do not age gracefully. We usually end up messed up or paranoid. There were more drones than actual people, and I am sure that at least three attendants were officially dead.
Nora had asked me to do a friend's eulogy. But I was one of the dead people, currently masquerading as a part-Thai orphan Bernie had helped once, so I had to decline. Nora did not need me, anyway, with all the big shots from the old days sending duel testimonies. At least four dragons sent flowers. Nothing like that in my own funeral, five years ago. That must be what making good means. Nothing from Shotozumi, which I found significant, as Bernie and I had worked for him in the past.
The dead Yaks were not from Seattle, so that meant that somebody had brought in outside talent. That somebody should be the Shotozumi-rengo, but you do not make that kind of assumption lightly in this business.
After the funeral, it was legwork time. Nobody will talk to an unknown scrawny Asian guy, unless you have their balls in a vise, so once things started to settle down I decided it was time for my official return from the dead. One goes down, one resurrects. As soon as I appeared everyone would know why I was in town. However that buzz of fear was just the edge that I felt I needed. So after checking there were no pending charges or bounties standing against the old me, I went into a cosmetic parlor to recover myself. I also checked in the downtown Westin, to avoid Nora getting some unpleasant visits on my account.
After 24 hours, when my face settled down and red stubble started to appear on my head, I took a taxi once again to Tacoma, with the layered body armor and heavy pistols that Bernie should have brought a week earlier. I knew I had been right when a group of Ancients bikers swung 180 degrees when they saw my armored jacket colors, the old Blacknight combo. Time response so amplified that I was getting bored in between steps, I arranged a meeting with one of the First Nations lieutenants, the gang that was dealing that tempo buzz. Nobody tried to kill me, so I could not kill them either. Damned politeness rules.
The big Salish guy knew who I was and why I was there, and I felt so giddy on the respect he showed me that I was quite respectful too. He promptly offered me the surveillance footage of the hit, and what info he had, knowing it was likely some enemy of his gang would suffer.
High amplification always makes me hungry, and many of my enhancements also take their toll, so afterwards I went to blow some money on real cow burgers. A couple of Korean gentlemen chose my lunchtime to come greet me, approaching my corner table in an obvious way, swaggering as if they owned the place. I briefly considered that maybe they did, then whether I could have done anything to make them try to kill me, and finally that there were much better ways to off me, so I just kept eating with one hand. The bow was reasonably polite, and the condolence note was simple enough. The real message probably was in the file one of them squirted to my comm unit, but as it was immediately frozen and stored for later by my security daemons, it would have to wait.
Meanwhile two Japanese musclemen crossed the retreating Koreans, and I regretted not slotting those languages in the morning. After a colorful but non-violent verbal exchange the Japanese made a better bow and gave me another condolence note, this time without an attachment. I read the handwritten note in English and wondered who had written it, as I did not imagine the Oyabun would deign to write in English.
Things were getting interesting, but I needed some peace to check several distorted images and a suspicious file.
Although I am mostly known as a thief and a sociopathic killer, at least according to that Knight Errant dossier you have there, I made my name as a red-hot hacker. I lost the magic touch ten years ago, and I have even stopped using hot virtual immersion, getting cold feet after the Crash. That does not keep me from still being top of the line, if I may say so, as money and good software will beat brilliance nine times out of nine. So directly in the restaurant I set up a virtual comm unit to check the mysterious file.
It was a holographic image tagged Lucky Inoue, showing a blond Japanese male with obvious artificial arms, covered in elaborate glowing tattoos. My instinct told me that one of those arms hid a spur, possibly both.
Then the video confirmed that someone who resembled Mr. Inoue led the group that assaulted the drug den. The most interesting information was the car that had brought Inoue in. After a couple of hours socializing at Seattle’s Institute of Technology I bought some backdoor keys to Grid Guide and Ground Traffic control, so I could check the plate number of that Mercury and who was the owner. I was getting dinner when I finally confirmed that it was owned by the Shotozumi-rengo, through a couple of shell companies. What was much more interesting, that company had bought three identical armored cars, and two of them were currently at a big parking tower downtown.
I jumped into my motorcycle and went to see how lucky Lucky was. ¶ 9:52 AM
12.3.09
RPG narrative
The bloodbath started before the funeral, though I did not know it then, and it did not abate for months.
Yes, I know you want to learn about the Olayas and Graciela. But I am the one telling the story, so either you do it my way or you get nothing. And that Interpol badge does not impress me, madam.
The mean times seemed over, and I was at last doing legitimate work. Don't give me that look, it is true. I had not killed anything in three months, which had to be some kind of personal record, and the last year I had gone through more taser darts than bullets. At first I could not believe that Bernie was dead. He was so solid, so strong, and so bulletproof. Bernie Wright, I am sure you got his dossier when you got mine. He had gone through so much shit that nothing the world could throw at him would stop him. Not the kind of man that should die in a random violence event. He had retired seven years ago, after the big web crash. Riding on top of an armed nuke tends to change your priorities, so he just left the shadows, married and became a full time teacher. I was a few kilometers away from the bomb, so I just became a consultant, and kept my old job as a sideline, if only to stay at the edge and to pay the high maintenance cost of keeping myself honed. The last six years we had grown a bit apart, after fifteen years living closer than most couples, sharing blood and sweat and all kind of enemies. The conscience he had seeded in me seemed to thrive, however, and we still kept in touch. His jibes that my lifestyle would be the end of me seemed so ironic now that I almost laughed aloud in the plane from Denver to Seattle.
Yes, Denver, do not play at being surprised. I know your people have been harassing my employees.
Nora was waiting for me at the airport, which surprised me, as she always considered, rightly, that I was a bad influence on her husband. Maybe it was because she had won, and yet she still ended up losing. She asked me if I was going to find who did it. "You know me. I plan on doing much more than finding them." "He would not have liked it. He would have said: keep living, forgive them. His reasonable, sensible voice..." I knew I had to hug her then, but she is thirty centimeters shorter than me and twenty kilos heavier, so it became a bit awkward. In the end I was on my knees, straining to keep her steady while she sobbed. There she whispered: "Make them pay. Pay in blood. He won’t complain."
I knew, if things were reversed, he would have investigated with an open mind. He would have looked into it, and if he had an excuse he would have hurt them, thrown them to the Star, or even arranged to kill them in self defense. But he would have given whoever it was an opportunity. Unlike me. I used to be a little piece of shit. A skinny baby face guy with some skill and enhancements, doing whatever brought money for more toys. Kill, steal, bomb, whatever. He showed me purpose, and the meaning of limits. I suspect he hang on being my partner when we already were rich enough to become respectable because he doubted I would fly straight on my own.
And here I was, planning a war on his name. Nora told me part of what had happened, from an old friend of Bernie in the force. I spent the evening before the funeral canvassing the area in Tacoma where he died, and got a better picture. I also was reminded of how easily the street forgets, and how fast the gangs grow and fade. I did not kill or maim anyone, not yet. But I also found the time to check one of our old hardware dealers and tool up a bit. Expensive clothes, no matter how bulletproof, attract the wrong kind of attention, and as I flew in, I needed some new toys. No names, lady, except for those you already know.
What I got was that Bernie had gone to Tacoma looking for a student of his that had skipped some classes, a pretty party girl that was dabbling with some new emo-drug. The dealers were part of a neo-Amerindian gang that used to work for the Yakuza, but not anymore. Yes, the First Nations. Apparently a Yakuza strike team had hit the dealer's house when Bernie was inside. The fact that it was a Yakuza hit was supported by the four tattooed Japanese gentlemen that were found bludgeoned to death, besides three Amerindians and the girl. Bernie had gone in unarmed but not defenseless, and indeed Forensics confirmed it had been his fists what had downed the Yaks. Hammerhands' last ride. Although he had been shot five times and had a deep sword cut, he was killed by a piercing weapon, probably some kind of spur, possibly with a pneumatic ram.
A tough dwarf till the end.
This narrative is based on my own take on Catalyst games Shadowrun adventure campaign Ghost Cartels. You better avoid it if you plan on playing. I should stop playing with myself. ¶ 9:50 AM
The bloodbath started before the funeral, though I did not know it then, and it did not abate for months.
Yes, I know you want to learn about the Olayas and Graciela. But I am the one telling the story, so either you do it my way or you get nothing. And that Interpol badge does not impress me, madam.
The mean times seemed over, and I was at last doing legitimate work. Don't give me that look, it is true. I had not killed anything in three months, which had to be some kind of personal record, and the last year I had gone through more taser darts than bullets. At first I could not believe that Bernie was dead. He was so solid, so strong, and so bulletproof. Bernie Wright, I am sure you got his dossier when you got mine. He had gone through so much shit that nothing the world could throw at him would stop him. Not the kind of man that should die in a random violence event. He had retired seven years ago, after the big web crash. Riding on top of an armed nuke tends to change your priorities, so he just left the shadows, married and became a full time teacher. I was a few kilometers away from the bomb, so I just became a consultant, and kept my old job as a sideline, if only to stay at the edge and to pay the high maintenance cost of keeping myself honed. The last six years we had grown a bit apart, after fifteen years living closer than most couples, sharing blood and sweat and all kind of enemies. The conscience he had seeded in me seemed to thrive, however, and we still kept in touch. His jibes that my lifestyle would be the end of me seemed so ironic now that I almost laughed aloud in the plane from Denver to Seattle.
Yes, Denver, do not play at being surprised. I know your people have been harassing my employees.
Nora was waiting for me at the airport, which surprised me, as she always considered, rightly, that I was a bad influence on her husband. Maybe it was because she had won, and yet she still ended up losing. She asked me if I was going to find who did it. "You know me. I plan on doing much more than finding them." "He would not have liked it. He would have said: keep living, forgive them. His reasonable, sensible voice..." I knew I had to hug her then, but she is thirty centimeters shorter than me and twenty kilos heavier, so it became a bit awkward. In the end I was on my knees, straining to keep her steady while she sobbed. There she whispered: "Make them pay. Pay in blood. He won’t complain."
I knew, if things were reversed, he would have investigated with an open mind. He would have looked into it, and if he had an excuse he would have hurt them, thrown them to the Star, or even arranged to kill them in self defense. But he would have given whoever it was an opportunity. Unlike me. I used to be a little piece of shit. A skinny baby face guy with some skill and enhancements, doing whatever brought money for more toys. Kill, steal, bomb, whatever. He showed me purpose, and the meaning of limits. I suspect he hang on being my partner when we already were rich enough to become respectable because he doubted I would fly straight on my own.
And here I was, planning a war on his name. Nora told me part of what had happened, from an old friend of Bernie in the force. I spent the evening before the funeral canvassing the area in Tacoma where he died, and got a better picture. I also was reminded of how easily the street forgets, and how fast the gangs grow and fade. I did not kill or maim anyone, not yet. But I also found the time to check one of our old hardware dealers and tool up a bit. Expensive clothes, no matter how bulletproof, attract the wrong kind of attention, and as I flew in, I needed some new toys. No names, lady, except for those you already know.
What I got was that Bernie had gone to Tacoma looking for a student of his that had skipped some classes, a pretty party girl that was dabbling with some new emo-drug. The dealers were part of a neo-Amerindian gang that used to work for the Yakuza, but not anymore. Yes, the First Nations. Apparently a Yakuza strike team had hit the dealer's house when Bernie was inside. The fact that it was a Yakuza hit was supported by the four tattooed Japanese gentlemen that were found bludgeoned to death, besides three Amerindians and the girl. Bernie had gone in unarmed but not defenseless, and indeed Forensics confirmed it had been his fists what had downed the Yaks. Hammerhands' last ride. Although he had been shot five times and had a deep sword cut, he was killed by a piercing weapon, probably some kind of spur, possibly with a pneumatic ram.
A tough dwarf till the end.
This narrative is based on my own take on Catalyst games Shadowrun adventure campaign Ghost Cartels. You better avoid it if you plan on playing. I should stop playing with myself. ¶ 9:50 AM
11.3.09
Epiphany
I suppose this may be simple and obvious to an economist, but it has really changed the way I see the current crisis. Just applying some equilibrium mechanics and conservation of matter principles.
If we take a closed economical system (which would have to be the earth, but as that is quite complex, let’s take a country and suppose it is isolated), the value of things in the system is mostly constant, as new value is created (GPB) but the old one is spent/consumed. Then we have inflation or deflation, which indicates how good is the correlation of the local money with the (perceived) value of things. If your GPB is calculated using money, you should discount that currency’s inflation.
In this closed system, the average yield of an investment would be the inflation plus the GPB increase. If you have a greater return than that, somebody is losing it (or at least not benefitting). For many years the West has benefitted from the GPB increases and inflation in developing countries, saddling them with huge debts and industrial infrastructure owned by foreign groups, that balanced out the big benefits in developed countries with low GPB increases and inflation. That also explains the rampant poverty in apparent economical powerhouses.
However, as this exploitation winded down, how did the huge benefit ratios of the noughts continue? And why are we now going down more than the simple numbers would indicate?
I believe there has been a double trickery going in. On one hand the states have been publishing lower inflation rates than the real ones, just by tweaking the formulas that determine the official price increases and by offering many financial products that work as money without appearing as circulating cash. On the other hand, by using that inflated monetary value rather than actual value when calculating GPB, we have had a rosy coloured image of reality.
Even now, with GPBs under serious contraction, we do not see the expected deflation because we still have to catch up to the real inflation numbers.
Because, if a bank did effectively print money, and then the government ends up backing that paper, it is as if the government had printed that money in the first place.
When the house of cards came tumbling down, all this inflated values will adjust to their real values, something we have lost sight of. The stock market is the faster in realising over 40% of that value is smoke, but it is bound to happen to many other things. I hope we will return to an economy creating value, rather than having an economy based in "adding" (unnecessary) value. ¶ 9:45 AM
I suppose this may be simple and obvious to an economist, but it has really changed the way I see the current crisis. Just applying some equilibrium mechanics and conservation of matter principles.
If we take a closed economical system (which would have to be the earth, but as that is quite complex, let’s take a country and suppose it is isolated), the value of things in the system is mostly constant, as new value is created (GPB) but the old one is spent/consumed. Then we have inflation or deflation, which indicates how good is the correlation of the local money with the (perceived) value of things. If your GPB is calculated using money, you should discount that currency’s inflation.
In this closed system, the average yield of an investment would be the inflation plus the GPB increase. If you have a greater return than that, somebody is losing it (or at least not benefitting). For many years the West has benefitted from the GPB increases and inflation in developing countries, saddling them with huge debts and industrial infrastructure owned by foreign groups, that balanced out the big benefits in developed countries with low GPB increases and inflation. That also explains the rampant poverty in apparent economical powerhouses.
However, as this exploitation winded down, how did the huge benefit ratios of the noughts continue? And why are we now going down more than the simple numbers would indicate?
I believe there has been a double trickery going in. On one hand the states have been publishing lower inflation rates than the real ones, just by tweaking the formulas that determine the official price increases and by offering many financial products that work as money without appearing as circulating cash. On the other hand, by using that inflated monetary value rather than actual value when calculating GPB, we have had a rosy coloured image of reality.
Even now, with GPBs under serious contraction, we do not see the expected deflation because we still have to catch up to the real inflation numbers.
Because, if a bank did effectively print money, and then the government ends up backing that paper, it is as if the government had printed that money in the first place.
When the house of cards came tumbling down, all this inflated values will adjust to their real values, something we have lost sight of. The stock market is the faster in realising over 40% of that value is smoke, but it is bound to happen to many other things. I hope we will return to an economy creating value, rather than having an economy based in "adding" (unnecessary) value. ¶ 9:45 AM
10.3.09
Pet peeves, revisited
The past weekend I was on a pleasure trip (old stones and cherry blossoms), on a nice state supported hotel in Merida, a Parador. This time the reason there was no WiFi in the room were the thick granite walls of the old monastery, rather than any restrictive policies. So I only had to sit at the former chapel or the cloister to have access. A pleasant environment.
Then nobody, including myself, has used anything else than the "phone" function of a mobile phone, and even that sparely. I feel somehow restored and at peace with myself, a real necessity as I will be back in Milan in two weeks time. Much better to spend my time looking for elusive cherry blossoms. We were two weeks too early, but perseverance earns a reward.
¶ 11:33 AM
