Debt of Non-Blood - 1

Debt of Non-Blood – 1

2070:  Seattle Metroplex, UCAS

My name is Jon “Money” Johnson, and I am suffering.

All the herculean trials that I have found myself facing in my many years, this had to have been the most difficult.  More difficult than the first time I hired a team of Shadowrunners for wetwork, than killing my first metahuman, than proposing to my wife.

“OhwowMoneythisisgreat, checktheseshoesIgotIloveshoesanditmatchesmyCommLink, andohwowcheckitoutviolentManga!!!”  Speeder had not shut up a single time since she jumped into the passenger seat of my Chrysler-Nissan Jackrabbit Car, as she came close to enjoying a simple pleasure that most girls her age took for granted:  A shopping trip to the mall.

Speeder was 12-years old, and a Hacker of some repute in the dark underbelly of society known as the “Shadows”.  But, a scant three years ago, she was just the daughter of a JoyGrrl.  And dear old Mom's Pimp decided that Speeder would make a good streetwalker as well, after a few modifications, of course.  And so the poor girl was unknowingly fed a hormone cocktail that would grow out the important parts.  He made the mistake of not getting her hooked on some kind of drug, first, as little Speeder was a very sharp girl, and was able to figure out what was going on very quickly, and ran away from home.

Living on the street was only a step down from her life before, and had the added benefit of allowing freedom to figure out whatever she wanted, and had scratched out a fairly decent life for herself compared to most runaways.  She really lucked out one day when an old, semi-retired Decker named Sensei, spotted her hacking a vending machine, using the keypad and the default menu system to get free food-like substances.

Sensei gained her trust, took her in, cleaned her up, and taught her how to Hack with the best of them.  He also instructed her in surviving in the Shadows, how to run, hide, shoot.  How to kill if needed.

Unfortunately, due to the effects of those hormones, she could never show herself in any kind of polite company, she'd be detained and put into social services, taking away the freedom she found so hard for.  And, as for impolite company, needed someone to watch over and protect her from the predators of the street.

Hence, here I am, standing guard as she walked the only shopping centre that she'd be welcome at.  The Mafia-Run Crime Mall of the Puyallup Barrens.  A collection of shops and stalls in an abandoned shopping mall in a desolated area, unpoliced by anything save the mob enforcers, which mainly ensured that everyone paid their protection money on time.

It was a wretched hive of scum and villainy, to use the old movie cliché, filled with smugglers, drug dealers, arms dealers, pirate warez d00dz, and thieves.  Everything was for sale here, and, if they didn't have it, they could get it.  For a price.  Everything had it's price at the Crime Mall, and sometimes the cheapest was life itself.

But, right now, the most valuable thing I could think of in the Mall was one girl's simple joy of running from store-to-store, bags in each arm, wandering around aimlessly on a pair of brand new high-platform shoes that were the latest fashion in Japan, and wearing an armoured jumpsuit that left little to the imagination, which was also the style of kids her age.  I'd like to claim that back in my day, girls wore more respectable clothing, but, frankly, they wore less back then.  I'm many things, but not a hypocrite.

A few of the flesh mongers looked at Speeder, as if trying to figure out how to add her to their collection, but then caught my gaze.  I'm not exactly an imposing person physically, slightly below average height, average build, short dark brown hair, but it's the clothes that make the man sometimes.  I was wearing my “fun clothing”, a worn out armoured leather duster that had been my Grandfather's being the most obvious.  Wearing it, by feeling it's weight, I hunched down, as if coiled to strike at any time.  I was trouble on two-legs to anyone with instincts to feel.  They looked away quickly under my gaze, my gold Zeiss electric eyes concealed by a pair of mirrorshades.  My reputation preceded me.  Death would be a release if someone tried anything with Speeder under my care.  Really, they'd be lucky for death if anything happened for her, period.

Walking past one of the stores, however, I whistled for Speeder to get her attention away from some electronic dancing toy.  “We're going in here.”  I told her, indicating the store front.  She pouted for a moment, obviously about to object to being ordered around, but shrugged.  One shop was as good as another here.

Entering through the dingy transplas door, it was obviously selling simchips of all types, mostly classics that were no longer available anywhere else.  A select clientèle came here, and the owner had made a deal long ago with one of the higher ups that ran the Crime Mall.  Before either had even come to Seattle.

“Money!”  The proprietor called at me as I walked in.  A tallish human with a muscular build, just starting to paunch out.  He smiled easily, as if he didn't have a care in the world, enjoying every moment as it came.  He did, too.  He once told me that every breath he took was one he shouldn't be having, and that each was treasured.

“Beetle!”  I cried back, calling him by his old nickname that only his “family” knew.  Fellow survivors of the Chicago Containment Zone, when Insect Spirits swarmed the city, using the metahuman population there to breed further for some arcane reason.  He had earned the name when he dropped into a beetle nest with nothing more than a machete, and came out with the severed head that now hung behind him, one of two decorations in the store.  The other was a holo of the old “Buggies”, the squad of freaks, weirdos, and maniacs that my Grandfather had collected to hunt the bugs, rather than be hunted.  Most survived.

I looked around the rest of the store, which was wall-to-wall with racks of chips.  All legal-level SimChips, the hallucinogenic replacements for movies from the previous century, adding feeling, taste, and smell to the sights and sounds.  You became the main character.  Speeder was running around from rack to rack, squealing out about finding impossible to find classics that she'd never seen before.

“Didn't think you were into kids, Money.”  He said, coming close to frowning and seeing the girl and her condition.

“Ever hear of Speeder, the hacker?”  I replied, looking at Beetle from over my mirrorshades, the electric blue glow of my cyberoptics stabbing at him.

“That's her?  Oh...”  He smiled once more, and turned to her, “Hey, you with this decadent reprobate?”  He called out.

For the first time in hours, she was silent, and just stared a glare of pure hatred at Beetle for that, “Yes.”  was the single word that came out from her, quickly, but fired off like a icy bullet.

“Good!  He's one of the best people you can find in the Shadows!  Take whatever you want, on the house!”  That made her squee like the child she was, and started filling her bags with the entire collection of Neil the Ork Barbarian and Slade the Sniper, along with other wholesome classics.

“Wow, Beetle, that's pretty generous!  And just for a friend of the...”  I started.

“I did it, Jon.  I sold the last one.”  He interrupted, his eyes twinkling.  “I can retire now.”  Beetle had come out of Chicago with a few souvenirs, the severed head being one, and a datacore of raw recordings from a simchip factory being the other.  He made a deal with one of the Mafia guys that was also a Buggie, cheap space in the Crime Mall for as long as it took to sell at least one copy of every item on the core.

“Son of a Slitch!  Congrats!  Hey, Beetle, this calls for a celebration!  Look, I'll finish up shopping with the kid here, and then swing back, pick you up, and we'll paint the town in whiskey!”  I replied, slapping his shoulder friendly.

“Sounds good, Money!  Hey, how's the Old Man?”  He asked, meaning my Grandfather.  Granddad had a tendency of giving everyone a different name for himself, and somehow always kept it straight.  It confuses the hell out of most people, which is the point entirely.

“Same as always.  Still whining about missing the Arcology thing.”  I said.  Grandpa has been through every major catastrophe and riot in North America since the New York Teamster's Strike near the turn of the millennium.  He's actually on one of the pieces of stock footage they show when talking about those riots on the 'trid, which he constantly brags about.  All of them save one:  The Renraku Arcology being taken over by an insane AI named Dues.  He missed his connection, and was on the train after the place was sealed off.  He still insists he could have saved lives with his experience.

“Crazy old bastard indeed.”  Beetle said, looking off into the distance, remembering worse times.  Then shook himself back into the present, “Hey, make sure he knows about me getting out from this!”

“Will do, Beetle!  Now, I better go before Speeder here tries to take half the stock with her.”
***
I parked the Jackrabbit in front of the old factory that Sensei called home, or to be more accurate, his fortress, bunker, and illegal jackpoint into the Matrix, the virtual reality shared hallucination that was the interconnected computer system that spanned the world.

I waited until Speeder got inside safely, and made sure the engine was running, waiting for the cry...

“YAY!PIXIESTICKS!”  Came a girlish voice, “WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”

“MONEY!  YOU SON OF A SLITCH!”  Came a cry of anguish.

And that was my cue to head back and pick up Beetle.