Relationships
The building across from them remained motionless and dark. They
sat on that rooftop waiting for any sign of movement, for movement and their prey. At least they were getting paid to watch, even if it was a boring view of
a building from a time past.
The Gate enjoyed the torment that he was putting Mickey through.
This had been one of the easiest jobs of his short career, and he was going to
have fun with it. Of course he remained professional on the exterior, but at
heart he was still a kid and Mickey was an easy target for him.
Mickey was used to these waiting periods while on a job, but
this one was unsettling for him. He now had to contend with some punk kid who
was like a malicious spirit bent on annoying him. He had minimal dealings with
magic and each time had worsened his attitudes toward the so-called awakened,
this time was no different.
Both of their attentions were diverted to the explosion of glass
and the explosions that continued shaking the entire apartment to its foundation.
A fraction of a second took place, and Mickey realized that two bodies now lay
on the street below. Seeing them lay there he assumed they must have been
thrown from the building, and had hit the street rather hard. Everything had
happened so quickly that Mickey’s mind began trying to piece bits and pieces
together. So strange to him that this was seemingly turning into the previous
observation, and he had a moment to wonder if this was a coincidence or
something more sinister.
“You just going lie there and wait for LoneStar to show up, or
are you going to get out of here.” The Gate’s voice was so calm and formal it
made Mickey look in his direction, but to quickly shake it off for the
realization that The Gate was obviously right. Mickey just packed everything
away, and continued to blend with his surroundings much like his namesake. The
Gate watched with piqued curiosity as Mickey moved with skillful and precise
speed. Before he could almost register what had happened Mickey was moving
across the rooftop cautiously.
The two of them climbed down and were moving out of the alleyway
faster than they had climbed to the rooftop. The Gate followed closely behind,
despite Mickey’s decisive height advantage. “Do you need a ride
somewhere, Mickey? Like to your place? Granted I know it’s right around the
corner, but the offer stands either way.” His voice rang in Mickey’s ears with
a mischievous smile, and Mickey was beginning to become accustomed to sighing
and rolling his eyes.
A young man sat at the bedside of his mother, holding her hand.
She had been comatose for some time and the dull beep of her heart monitor was
the only sound in the room. His eyes were on her but his gaze was elsewhere,
looking into the Astral Plane; the once lively and vivid colors he recognized
as his mother’s signature was now dulled and clouded.
There was no medical explanation for her condition, and thus
there had been no change of her status from critical. The sparks of color he
remembered as his mother were quickly drawn back into the darkness consuming
her. This was no physical ailment. There was strong magical forces holding her
back.
“She wanted to learn how to bind a soul to a body after death,”
Drago Dune, the young man’s teacher confided in the young man quietly, far from
the ears of any corp security. “She was refining something forbidden; something
called cybermancy, to better understand the process of the soul. A shaman is
not necessary, but can be a key element in that ritual, but at great risk to
them, and the last process nearly took her life. Her shamanic totem was angry
with her, and this is just one price for practicing such forbidden things.” The
young man knew the subject was revolting to Drago, but his teacher was trying
to be indifferent, to not spark the youth. “Unless her totem forgives her,
there will always be something on her aura holding her back, eating away at her
until she dies. There’s nothing medical that can be done for her. I’m sorry, Trent
It was those words, a year earlier that lead the young man once
known as Trent onto the Astral Plane. He was a young but skillful mage who had
gone through an ordeal to speak with his mother’s totem. Talking to a shamanic
totem was the most bizarre experience he would recollect, if he could remember
much of the experience. The Astral quest was the most trying thing in the young
mage’s life, and in the end, Bear was not even satisfied enough to leave Trent
A fittingly clouded day greeted the kid, only now becoming what
could be called a “young man” to the rest of society. He made his way from the
hospital exit of the Ares building that he had know most his waking life. The
overcast day only brought a chill as he clutched his coat closed, walking down
the street. Everything was so overwhelming since that day his mother came back
like that: A broken shell of what her once proud and powerful Elven spirit had
been.
Jaw clenched, he fought back the emotions coming over him and
just focused on the walk. His bike would have been faster to his appointment at
the Stuffer Shack, but he needed the walk to calm his nerves, and the cold
would have made the ride that much more unpleasant.
The visible transition of the city dictated the level of his
caution. The area around Ares was well lit, with tall buildings and
conservatively dressed men and women walking clean streets. As he approached
his destination the quiet buzzing of electric-fueled cars of economy and luxury
class gave way to the roar of street bikes complimenting the drab coloring of
abandoned squatter buildings.
An attempt to avoid running into a shoulder of an ork, or a
troll, was as much of a task as avoiding the piles of filth on the sidewalk, to
those who could distinguish the differences between the two. His father’s Colt
Manhunter transitioned from a holster on the small of his back to his coat
pocket mid-trip, he would shoot glances around the Astral when pausing at
intersections and even found himself identifying gang colors in case he needed
to try and talk his way out of something.
Still, there was something comforting about this environment.
Security was all a matter of perception. In one place, Lone Star was a guardian
angel, or your worst enemy. In this other place you had to count on the crew
you ran with and the power in your hand.
Metal adorned his sister’s pointed ears and slender face, more
than he had remembered. Ink licked the side of her neck, disappearing into the
collar of her shirt. She had a new tattoo. She looked far more like an elf than
he did, but the gang she affiliated herself with had transformed her into
something less aesthetically pleasing. Only a few years older than him, but
years of living on the streets betrayed her age and she almost looked like she
could be his mother if it wasn’t for the leather and metal that she dressed
herself in.
“So whadda
want?” His sister was direct as ever, flinging crumbs from her mouth,
unintentionally, as she spoke. Her swirling blue eyes matched his, and stared
blankly into Trent Trent
The corners of Trent
“Well, drek, that’s what the slag gets for fragging with that
corp…..You’d be better off without that filth controlin’ ya too. Why don’t you
come back? Talk on the street is you been running the Shadows for them; makin’
a name for yourself…..What do they call you? The Gate?” She chuckled. “Little
brother’s getting’ street cred. The Cutters‘d love ta get ya back.” She had
managed to choke down another mouthful of burger.
His sister threw what little was left of the bun at the plate as
she finished chewing back her meal, “Don’t talk to me like that, GATE,”
her voice assuming a condescending tone, “That witch wasn’t our mother the day
dad died. What has she done for us? Left us in the sprawl to fend for ourselves
while she was off in the Tairngire daisy fields!” Anger flittered in her eyes,
something The Gate had never seen before. “Locked us up in that corp while she
did God knows what for them! Made you a slave for those fraggers when she
couldn’t handle what they made her do! Look at you!” Her face giving way to
exasperation as she gestured wildly at him, “You’re fifteen years old, in a
suit, probably packing a Predator, with enough foci to spot you a kilometer
away. She took our childhood away from us and all you can do is worry about
getting her back, like it will make everything better.” Her voice shifted back
to the callous and indifferent person he had met sitting in the booth. “I’ve
moved on, GATE, and found a new family, remember?” The Gate’s face was
on the verge of a frown. Anger flashed now in his eyes at the condescending
tone of his sister. “The same family that took us in when that slitch
ran off to her Elven Nation. The Cutters are more of a family to me than
she ever was, so don’t you go on trying to make me feel sorry for what she
brought upon herself!”
“I’ve saved up
enough nuyen; I’m having her moved to Tir Tangire with dad’s stone. I thought
she would have wanted that.” His sister just leaned against the back of the
booth, arms crossed as she looked at him spitefully. “Do whatever ya want,
Gate.”
The
differences in the two were as extreme as their gender. His sister was a
shaman, like their mother, and he a mage, like their father. The Shaman’s
discipline relied on emotions and intuition. While the Hermetic’s discipline
relied on logic and formulas. One was a ganger and the other a corporate wage
slave. The Gate just sighed.
“Well, you seem to have caught up on me. What about you, Sydnee?
How are the Cu—“
“Envy. They call me Envy now, Gate. You’re not the only one
making a name for yourself; I’m moving up in the Cutters. In fact, you might
not be seeing me around much with the directions I’m moving.” The Gate took a
sip from his soycaf to hold his tongue.
He certainly knew of what directions she was moving; those same
directions had gotten them into that gang in the first place. “We’re building
our numbers with the help of a third party, if you catch my drift,” a confident
smirk had crossed her face. The Gate felt a slight turn in his stomach at the sight
of it. “And I’m in a unique opportunity to move into a comfortable position.”
Her bother set his cup down and looked at her straight faced at the
unintentional innuendoes. “…Shut up.” Envy responded with an uncomfortable
look. The Gate nodded, knowing she had caught what she had said.
The
waitress walked up to the siblings, holding out an outdated digital pad, which
doubled as a cred reader, with their bill on the display. The two looked
between each other and The Gate slumped his shoulders a little. He drew the
credstick from his pocket, slotted it, and tapped a few buttons on the screen.
The waitress looked at the pad to ensure the transaction went through, and her
tip. After a moment she looked down at the kid with surprise before walking
away.
Silence
continued between the two of them for a minute before Envy stood, taking her
brothers soycaf and downing it in one gulp. She knew he didn’t like that drek
anyway. She set the cup down and then placed her hand on his shoulder,
squeezing lightly. “Take care of yourself, Trent… And say bye to mom for me.”
It felt awkward and uncharacteristic her fleeting attempt of compassion. Her
words had barely escaped her lips, and she was off and gone from his life.
He
was by his mother’s side to the last moment, and ensured she lay to rest beside
her husband’s empty grave. The burial was private and uneventful. That day was
the end of Trent Tesoro. The Gate was all that survived. Ares didn’t put up
much of an effort to look for their former employee knowing that the Shadows
are a hard place to live, and those that knew didn’t talk.
The
experience of running the Shadows led him back to what he knew, but without a
corp sponsor he was a wild card. No purpose, or guide, he set out to find his
sister. The street gang known as The Cutters; had almost died out before, but
were making their way back with help from the Mafia. This is where The Gate
found himself. Sitting face to face with a dead man, Mickey the Quail. Once
known as Thomas Anthoney, and another face. No matter how paranoid you are, no
matter the skill you achieve, and no amount of money can fully hide you away.
The past can always come back to haunt you.
So
it was, The Gate had come to be. Hired by the Mafia to observe, and if needed
remove Mickey from causing them any more problems. This was his big break, if
he was lucky enough. He would be able to find his sister, and frag Ares all in
one go. The others involved were just pawns, a means to the end. The Gate
wouldn’t hesitate to remove any of them if they became hindrances. After all it
was business, and nothing personal with the others. Dog eat dog world type
thing. It was the Shadows after all, and The Gate had seen some of the worst
that the Shadows had to offer.
Mickey the Quail sat in the shower, the
water dripping wildly down his naked body. He liked to soak in the water it was
one of the few certainties in his lonely existence. The feeling as it caressed
his flesh and draped a waterfall falling from his hair. It was a relaxing
moment in the small shower, in a lifetime of nerves.
Ten years ago, Thomas Anthoney had struck a
deal with the devil. He had helped a young and upcoming soldier become a ruling
king; the Don’s son. In return he got to disappear from existence. He got out,
and free of mob rule, to become a freelance mercenary. It was a life that he
felt he could call his own. Even if he felt like looking over his shoulder in
his own home, and often thought his shadow was an assassin. It was his very
own, his own identity; his own little niche in the grimy dirty wall of the
world.
Mickey had gotten the call from an old
friend. A job offer that could allow him to finally retire. He’d been saving up
a few bucks here and a few there, but this would put him well over the top. He
was trying to get, tired of running from the Shadows, only to end up back in
them. Like a junkie kicking his habit with more drugs. Worse drugs than before,
only heightening the paranoia.
He wrapped the small motel towel around his
lanky form, not bothering to fully dry his hair. He looked around the grungy
room and felt at home. He’d been living in one rat hole after another. In the
past year alone, he’d lived in seven different motels in-between staying in a
little hole in the wall he called home. To Mickey the Quail home was just a
word, its true nature something long forgotten.
He sat down on the creaky musty bed and
looked blankly at the floor, contemplating this new job. It was dangerous to
associate with the big wigs; a triple A. It not only got you higher up on the
metaphorical radar in the underworld, but the Corp itself was more than likely
just waiting to screw you over. Runners were, are, a dime a dozen. Lowly filth,
in the eyes of the rich and powerful, to be used and discarded like the trash
they are.
Slowly as his hair dried, it began to shape
into the odd feather like appearance that had earned him his street name. He
called it a pompadour, but it was more like his namesake and somehow naturally
stood that way.
The scraping of shoes could be heard
outside his door, and Mickey’s eyes instinctively shot toward the crevice
between the door and floor. The shadow seemed to pause in front of his door.
Mickey could feel the pulsating of his own heart as it began to race. Frozen
with fear, he could not move, sitting on the bed in nothing but a small beige
towel. His breathing heavy and he felt as if the very essence of time had slowed
to a standstill.
As sweat began to perspire down his
forehead, he saw it. An envelope sliding through the door, his eyes nearly
bulging out of his head, a small whimper betrayed him from his lips. He tried
to move but simply fell off the bed, and with the thud of his body. The shadow
vanished from under his door, only leaving the envelope behind.
Suddenly Mickey felt the pressure of fear
lift like a veil from him, and all his senses returned. He scrambled to his
feet and ran to his coat, which had been hung loosely on a rickety old chair.
Fumbling through it he found his predator, not his first choice, but suitable
to the situation. He felt as though he was sprinting, the door flew open faster
than he had anticipated, and he quickly peered around the corner his predator
at the ready.
Seeing
no one on the balcony of the second level, he peered over the railing
cautiously, his trigger finger trembling on the predator behind his back
obscuring it from view. Suddenly his ears led him to the sound of a motorcycle,
a sports bike, peeling away. His eyes followed the sound to its source and
found what he assumed as the source of his panic.
Riding away was a person in a professional
overcoat, their face hidden by a sports helmet. He took careful note of the
bike, but couldn’t distinguish much more than his initial observation as the
bike sped around the corner and out of sight.
As quickly as Mickey had jumped out of the
room, he vanished back into it. Closing the door behind him, he slid down the
door and slumped onto the floor. He sat there for an hour staring distantly at
the simple envelope between his legs. It glared back at him. Mickey desperately
wanted the envelope to go away, but the longer they sat together the worse he
felt.
An hour passed, and his phone rang
startling him out of the daze that had over taken him. He looked over at his
coat, as it continued ringing. He didn’t budge, but continue to watch the
phone. Finally it left him to his silence, and dread. He moved his hand to the
envelope and touched it carefully as if it might burn him.
Without thinking he had picked up the
envelope, it shook lightly in his hand, his thoughts ran wild. He stared at it
for what felt like an eternity, and began to turn it over. He felt his world
shrink and numbness overtook his body as his eyes fell on the face of the
envelope.
He had half expected a blank front to face
him, but instead it was his worst nightmare: the same one that had hunted him
for ten years, his birth name. It looked up at him innocently, but to Mickey he
felt as if it was the end. He knew that, this job was the last one. His life
that he had worked so hard to claim was going to be taken from him one way or
another.
Mickey the Quail had spent several days
planning, and waiting. He had been assigned to observe a group of runners by a
man named Requiem. It was simple enough, and Requiem had specified if the
runners failed to achieve their objective, then he was to accomplish it.
Only a few problems arose for Mickey in
this job. It was in his field of expertise so a sigh of relief, but the target
was an acquaintance and someone who had helped him in the past. An elusive man
known as Simon was the target, and he felt compelled to do something besides
merely ending his life.
The Quail had been sitting in the woods
outside of Simon’s house for a full week, hiding under cover and brush. He had
blended completely into the environment, only someone with enhanced sense of
smell, or those pesky and abnormal “awakened” people would’ve found him.
As the week passed, Mickey made several
attempts to alert and warn Simon to the oncoming attempt on his life. Using his
phone in the up most caution and silence possible. As a half week passed, a
small rabbit hopped a couple of feet in front of him. Mickey’s eyes moved
slightly off the house to observe the small herbivore. The rabbit sat there for
a few moments, seemingly looked up at him from the ground, and continued on its
way as if he was part of the scenery. Mickey watched the rabbit saunter away,
and felt at peace for a short moment. A blissful calm and something extremely
unusual, that should have been a warning sign, but alas hindsight is something
we all have after the fact.
Then it happened after nearly three weeks
of waiting, Mickey saw a group of people approaching the house as a group. He
focused his sights on them, and watched patiently. He had decided that if it
came down to it, he would kill these runners and personally warn Simon.
As he scanned each of them with his
enhanced scope, he fell on one person in particular. He couldn’t make out any
distinguishable features because they were hidden behind goggles and a mask.
Mickey could almost swear that this person was looking directly at him, and his
suspicion was confirmed when the person gave a little wave, and simply vanished
from sight.
It was the second time in a month that
Mickey felt his heart in his throat, and it was a hard swallow. He scanned the
area quickly and steadily for any sign of his invisible prey. Mickey had
managed to track the other three people just fine, and they still moved forward
towards the house. They’re invisible companion might kill him, but he wasn’t
going to let them kill Simon.
If his eyes weren’t protected by flare
compensation, he would have been blinded by what happened next: a massive flash
and resounding explosion shook the entire area as a fireball erupted from
Simon’s house. Mickey stared blankly and felt dumbfounded. He only caught a
glimpse of the now unconscious runners being carried away by their once
invisible friend. The Quail would have to mourn Simon later as the cover of darkness
was quickly vanishing. Quickly packing his gear he melted back into the inky
blackness of night and back to his hiding hole in the Barrens.
Mickey the Quail now found himself faced
with little options, and felt that the people he was now working with were
either his assassin, or involved in the assassin attempt on Simon. He was once
again immersed in the world of the Shadows and faced with the all too
convenient punk kid, who knew a little too much about his habits to be
trustworthy. At least he was making an extra couple of yen, and maybe, just
maybe, if he were lucky, he’d get to spend it.
-BIO-
Name: Jozu “Mr. Popular” Takeuchi
Height: 6’1 ft. (185.42 cm)
Weight: 179 (81.36 kg)
Age:
33
Race:
Human (ethnicity: Japanese-UCAS)
Likes: Honor and Duty, his business, and natto
Dislikes:
People that show him disrespect, the
mafia, and pachinko
Archtype:
Yakuza boss/Jack of all Trades
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Note: Mr. Popular was originally created by Nate Beal. With edits and revisions by this blog's author Benjamin Weisman.
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