Smokestacks & Cadillacs

Gunfights, Stims and Rock & Troll
March 3rd, 2075 - Seattle

The buzz and hum of amplifiers sets a background to the cigarette smoke and stale beer smell of Godsends, the sickest bar in Seattle. Filled with university types slumming it for the evening, most of the crowd is metahuman or metasapient, with dwarves, elves and humans as a minority. An unusual place to meet a Johnson, but the nuyen is where the nuyen is.

The runners make their way over to a corner booth. Their conversation is drowned out by the occasional cord and “Mic check, one two one two.”, a staple classic even in ’75.

The band starts playing, a low and rhythmic song, working the crowd. A chromed out elf, one of the runners, raises an eyebrow as one of her companions gestures to the band.

The songs change, growing, thickening in the air, fire dances through astral space, and pulses with the songs. The Dragonslayer is pleased. The spirit of rebellion, the last man standing. A spirit of change and anger, but also hope and support. The fire of rebels. The crusher of tyrants.

The band plays it’s encore, they smile and wave and sign cd and bodyparts, take photos and get some drinks.

The ambient bar noise returns, slowly building.

C6 is a plastic explosive, based on the original British C4 design from the 1950s. It is a combination of RDX, plastic binder, and plasticizer to make it malleable. Usually it contains an odorizing taggant chemical. But when its stuffed in a car, on a cold night in seattle, that distinct ripe cheese smell generally fades into the background of exhaust fumes, street vendors, spilled alcohol and vomit.

A couple grams placed properly on a 2 inch thick reinforced steel door, can twist it into two separate peices. Usually this is done in a controlled method to stop any shrapnel.

The engine block of a car contains somewhere in the region of four hundred separate peices of metal. Half a kilo of C6 has enough force on its own to take down a small building.

A crack splits the air of the bar, and for a dreadful moment the room seems to still.

Rain seems to lift off the ground around the car, the walls of the bar have been peeled back by seemingly giant hands, one pushed in the other veering out around the corner.

People in white robes with pointed hoods swarm into the bar and gunfire fills the air, dwarfing the sound of raindrops. A van tears down the street and into the bar. The sound of a light machine gun adds to the cadence of the firefight.

A man vomits on himself uncontrollably, another uses his fists against the cloaked figures as the dragon slayer smiles upon him. A troll is trying to evacuate people.

A second explosion, smaller thankfully, rocks the interior of the building, many fall. Some still stand.

A while later. The same van rolls through the bright lights of Seattle, the neon glow of the city rolls over it again and again like waves on the shore. The rain starts to lessen.

Three men pass around a joint as they watch a trid display in a living room.

A young woman cleans cuts and grazes on her friends face with plastic tweezers and wads of vodka soaked cotton. The bottle of which comes down from the elfs lips.

The storm eases up over Seattle bay at around four in the morning. The water’s are calm again in the light of the dawn.

Le Danse Macabre
January 3rd, 2075 - Somewhere on the North Pacific

I am Sergei Kim, You are all here because you seek passage to the east coast of America. We have made this possible for you. And you will owe us, but it is not so big a price to pay in the scheme of things. To make this journey easier, you will all be put into a medically induced coma. All those who object… Well. There’s always the Yakuza.

The ganger’s words echoed around her head. The little grey pill. The warm shuffling mass of bodies. The smell and the chemical haze of fog over her senses.

But when she woke, they were all gone. The heartbeats came first, the dull pound of the twenty two other girls. Packaged in, with their IVs out cold for the trip. The Vory were very good at sex trafficking. They had it down to a fine art. Then the smell, their flesh, soft, warm and sweet. She retched at first, gagging at the cloying sweetness.

Scrambling back to the bulk head, she pulled out her IV, crying and cursing unintelligibly.

Then the hunger came. The need to feed. Deep down she knew, she didn’t know how, but she knew, the only thing that would sate it, was their flesh.The world seemed this tiny prison of metal and meat.

She dragged the girl outside of their tiny cramped compartment, and into the little hallway below deck. She remembered the girls name. Alisa, she had come from a tiny village on the border near japan. She collected phone charms. Tiny little cartoon animals the size of a fingernail.

The door opened with a drawn out cry then shuddered and stopped. Gore dripped from her mouth as she looked up.

God forgive me.

Broadcast - 001 - ShadowNET Private Satellite
//Establishing Connection ...

This is You Didn’t Hear It From Me! The only remaining pirate radio on the planet! Probably.

You know that one last run with big enough payday to set you up for life? Well it wasn’t quite that but me and mine had enough to buy us a little piece of low earth orbit. Long story short, one blackmarket soviet satellite and a talented decker later and you have You Didn’t Hear It From Me!.

Anyway chummers, I’m Rico, your Anonymous source for the evening or morning, Ohayooo Japan. We’ve got some hot drek going on in Seattle, I know, who would have thought, but it ain’t runners.

The Pineapple Club, yes seattle’s own home grown terrorist organization, has bombed the ever living shit out of another Humanus chapterhouse, Lonestar says they’re dealing with the situation, will not tolerate this kind of attack, special task force, yada yada yada.

But, and say it with me now. You didn’t hear it from me, but word is that Lonestar has had to bring in some ordnance disposal experts, now they’re saying they’re worried about secondary devices; what we’re hearing is that they’re carting out thousands of nuyen in munitions, now we ain’t talking small arms, no siree, we’re talking big fuck off guns, autocannon shells, grenades, now we don’t have a proper list, but this sounds like some bad shit, but we’re just here to give you the facts. What’s actually going down is up to you.

As always the pineapple club left their famous? infamous? Either way they left their calling card. Now photos of these have been blowing up, uh, no pun intended, on social media and BBSs, now on certain parts of the ‘trix, we’ve seen a couple fansites for these guys, or gals, or fuck it free spirits who the fuck knows, well I mean, they’re probably not humans. And they’re garnering some real support. The 6 month forecast says, “Expect demands, with a chance of copycats.” I mean, these guys are really getting their momentum going, this is, what? Their third bombing in as many months? Now we don’t necessarily agree with their methods, but their message, despite the radio silence, probably has a metahuman equality aspect to it. And I can tell you, a more tolerant world is a better world.

Anyway, that’s about all we have the bandwidth for, tomorrow night we’ll be running our gang of the week segment, this week it’s the underdog, The White Tigers, splinter triads or fresh meat?

Stay tuned Chummers, and don’t forget!

You Didn’t Hear It From Me!


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