Tacoma at night is a much different place than the daytime. The docks, jam-packed during the day with loading and unloading of cargo going to and from Cal-Free, Tir Tairngire, the CAS, Imperial Japan, the Carib League, etc., become more sparsely populated though not much less crowded with heavy shipments just waiting for a pickup. The pickups aren't just for heavy wooden crates or mysterious plastisteel boxes marked for places unknown; some of the pickups are for the sad sack women that ply the docks, waiting for the late shift to get off work with money in their pockets that would either normally go to feeding a family, paying off a debt, or just get boozed down a drain. They don't always get lucky and get picked up by a bone-tired and lonely dockworker, though. Sometimes, because even ladies of the night have to eat, they have to make do with the gangers that decide they want a little easy fun; the Milton Dark Angels, for example, with all their talk of boo-scariness, seem to take a perverse pleasure out of 'tempting' these women with 'sins of the flesh', or so they jeer noisily at no-one in particular at all hours of the night sometimes. Occasionally even these paragons of danger and excitement run into the real trouble on the streets, the organized crime of the Mafia and the Yakuza that are currently engaged in a death-grip struggle for this one stretch of turf in the Sea-Tac metroplex. Their respective warriors, hitmen, messengers... all they have to do is show their colors, and the gangers melt away. They all know their places in this society that rarely sees the sun. You notice I haven't mentioned shadowrunners? Good. You're catching on. And I have always thought it was funny how none of us seem to mind the smell of fish.
Yes, Tacoma is a different place at night than during the day. I know this, because I've lived here all thirty seven years of my life, and I've seen it all. I know, or I've at least heard of, everyone that lives and works here, and they know me or have heard of me. Most people call me The Widow, or just Widow, that want to work with me, or know of me, or just don't know me too well. My friends call me Widow, or Marlene. Depends on how secure they feel around me, I guess, because I know I'm a pretty intimidating chummer to be around. You've probably seen me sometime if you hang around these parts. You remember the tall human woman with a ladies' blonde crewcut? Grey 'shooter' eyes? Looked like she'd rather kiss your hoop goodbye than kiss you? Yeah, I know. They're all descriptions I've been told about, that I'm a hard-edged slitch with a sharp edge in the 'Trix and a sharper edge on the street. What else can I say... I won't defend that. It does my hooder rep good, keeps Humanis and Alamos wondering about me. You see, I lived through the Night of Rage, too. I lost a lot that night, right along with the other metahumans and their sympathizers. The Ork Underground doesn't call me a round-ear. You could say I'm an honorary Trog; with the rough life I lead, I'm becoming almost as ugly. And I take the jobs for them that no one else will.
Tonight's like any other night... cold, wet, noisy, with the famous 'Tacoma Aroma' making its presence known from the old industrial areas. You'd think that a native wouldn't notice it much anymore, but you can't help it. It's a unique smell that never goes away; it just comes and goes in the background. I can ignore it and do, walking down North 49th Avenue towards my chosen hangout for the night, a club called Fenris Nacht. It's a bar typical of most Tacoma bars - dark, gloomy, and full of close-mouthed Tacoma natives and regulars - so I naturally fit right in. I get the requisite nods and waves when I enter, since I've been here before and likely will come back again. Makes you feel right at home, this place does. I make my way to one of the least gloomy seats in the house, away from the worst of the smoke (I'm scrupulous about my health that way... have to be, at my age), aware of a few eyeballs burning on my backside, curious and non. It's times like these I wish I had the magic; maybe I could see in the back of my head then and check who's got heat and who doesn't. Who to worry about, in other words. I can do a fair job of it anyway, scanning the room as I go. Most of the folks tonight aren't anything to worry about, unless they're magicers or shapeshifters, if the rumors about wolf shifters here are to be believed.
I'm just settling into my seat, the waitress walking away with my order (an uninspiring UCAS beer, chosen for that reason), when some slag in a suit gets up from his table in a more shadowy corner of the bar. Might be time to get some cybereyes, because I didn't see him when I came in. My sight must be going. He janders towards my table and into my light; unless I miss my guess, this guy's half Japanese, half Russian. His hair is longish and shiny black, slicked back into a ponytail, one temple shaved slightly to expose a flesh-toned Chiba-made datajack (betaware?), and his eyes are slightly uptilted and hazel. His suit isn't the latest fashion, but it is a good cut, a tailored midnight blue double-breasted, with even a handkerchief poking out of the pocket. He's on the verge of looking old-fashioned, even, except he manages to carry it off as being new. That's a feat; even though the way he's looking at me is supposed to be inscrutable, and almost makes it, there's enough nervousness at approaching someone like me in a neighborhood like this that I know this slag, whatever he wants, has to be for real. You just can't fake that feeling. I've seen it enough to know.
He stands there next to my table for a moment - he looks to be about my height - before he finally speaks up. Without looking I can almost feel the whole bar's attention shifting, some towards us and some away. The smart ones are playing the "I don't see nothing" game.
"May I sit here, please?" he says in a cultured and soft voice. If I close my eyes, I could almost place him as being from some rich old British family, that's the kind of accent he has; he must be corp. Just about everything said he was. Maybe I'll test that theory.
"Sure. Must be a change from sitting with your fellow sararimen," I say, pushing one of the chairs out with my booted foot. To the guy's credit, he doesn't jerk when I say that, just looks a little surprised as he pauses, nodding with a short bow and pulling out the chair some more to seat himself. He does that pretty gracefully, too. If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say that he practices some kind of martial art on at least a weekly basis, but I don't think he'd last in a toe-to-toe fight. Well, not with me at least. I've got the advantage of years of experience and enhanced musculature on my side.
"Yes, it is. So far, it has been a very interesting change," he says, folding his hands and resting them on the table. He's been taken a little off-guard by what I said earlier, and now he's taking the time to get back on his little track and have his say; it's written all over his body language. I just watch him as he gets himself together, paying the waitress in cash with a tip when she comes with my beer. He glances at it as if it were going to bite him and continues.
"I have some friends who have heard of you. They tell me your name is Widow?" It's apparent he doesn't quite know what to make of my moniker, but that's alright. Not a lot of folks do. I just nod at him in answer.
"Excellent. My friends also told me what you looked like and gave me a few places at which you might show up as well. I needed to be sure, you see, because I would like to employ your services." Now he lays his hands flat on the table and leans forward a little bit, hazel eyes gone intense and serious. Geeze, this slag's laying it on thick. I take a sip of my beer and decide to lay it out nice and simple for him.
"Alright, Johnson, give it to me straight. Who, what, when, where, and why. I worry about the how, just so long as you've got the nuyen to pay me. And I don't do wetwork. If the job is a good one, I'll take it." Okay, so I'm being abrupt with him. Call it my test; if he can take it, then score points for him. If he can't, then he's not worth my time. Next Johnson, please.
Well now, this is interesting. He's blinking a little bit and has started smiling. It's a pretty reserved one, for sure, but it's a different look than the 'sober corp suit'.
"An interesting change, indeed," he murmurs, sitting back up a little bit. The shadows have shifted on his change of posture, lighting his face differently. Come to think of it, I suppose most women would be falling all over themselves around him, but I don't give a devil rat's tail. He's just another suit with money, to me.
"Very well, these are the bare facts. You must know this much of my story, since it is part of your 'why'." For a moment, he genuinely looks very uncomfortable, as if he'd rather not tell this part but is doing so anyway out of necessity. I take another sip of my beer and listen with a masked but growing interest.
"My name is Kenji; I work for Shiawase Envirotech out in the Pacific Rim... the Philippines, to be more specific. My family... my father, who also works for Shiawase, met my mother, a Russian woman, in Vladivostok while on vacation. They fell in love and in time, my sister and I were born," he recounts in a somewhat matter-of-fact manner. Anyone else might think that he didn't care about where he came from, but I know better. This guy Kenji is heavy into the idea of family, like most Japanese. Why he's decided to start with his life story must have something to do with the job, so I just keep my mouth shut and let him do the talking. The meat of his story is likely coming soon.
"My sister, who is younger than I am by six years, was born kawaruhito - an elf." Kenji looks slightly uncomfortable again, and now I understand why. The Japanese have a hard time accepting metahumans of any kind, although the orks and trolls have managed to get the worst of the racism. The Japanese have a long-standing preference for human perfection, usually meaning themselves with no mixed races among them. That Kenji seems to be doing all right is a testament to not only how hard he must have worked, but how high up in the company his dad must be, too. Shiawase isn't as bad as, say, Renraku, but like most Japanacorps with the exception of Yamatetsu, they gun hard for racial purity. I work hard to keep the disgusted look off of my face, because that's the kind of drek I fight against. He must have noticed it anyway, because now he's a little hastier about finishing his story, his cheek jumping in a momentary twitch.
"We all loved her, of course. Mika was a beautiful little girl with long dark hair that my mother brushed every night before we would go to bed. Still, we had to hide what she was from everyone else to save my father from shame. She received private tutors, she would wear hats when going outside, anything we could think of. It couldn't last, however, because Mika has always been a restless girl and has only gotten more headstrong over the years." Kenji gets really quiet for a second, and I think I know what's coming. There's usually only one way that the Japanese deal with metahumans when they discover them.
"One thing has led to another, and now my sister Mika has been sent to Yomi. Father has said that he cannot do anything about it, and that it is probably for the best, at any rate. My mother has stopped talking to him because of this. I..." He sighs.
"I cannot accept this. I have tried to appear as if I have, as a good Japanese should, but the fact remains that I care more about my sister than to send her to that cesspit. I know what Yomi has become, and it is no place for Mika." Now his hands are balled up, and he looks about ready to hit something; he probably takes after his mother more than his father suspects. Good for Kenji that he cares this much, because if he didn't, I wouldn't be thinking of saying 'yes' to what I think he's proposing.
"Yomi's no place for anyone," I say steadily, watching for his reaction. If he's done his homework like I think he has...
He flinches and nods.
"You are correct. Unfortunately, there is nothing that someone like me can do about it. All I can do is hope to get her away from there." Good man, Kenji. He knows the score, alright. "And this is why I am coming to you. It is said, here, that you work hard for the ka- for the metahuman cause, and that you will often take on projects that no one else will consider." And for that moment, I can see him for what he must be like when he's not hiding behind a mask: a real friendly, passionate sort of fellow that buys into the zaibatsu not because it's the thing to do, but because he truly believes in loyalty and teamwork, working for that common goal. Makes me wonder what it would be like if all corpers were like him, and I have to shake my head. It's a nice dream that will never see light.
"Don't suppose you know why, do you? No, don't answer. I already know. Y'see, I've got my reasons, like anybody else. Only thing I want you to know is that I take the metahuman cause, as you put it, personally. That's why I do this drek, and why I'm even considering taking this on. Your Mika, Kenji, is likely already neck-deep in all the drek that Yomi can shove down her pretty throat... and it can shove a lot. I've seen a few that have been 'rescued' from there. You familiar with PTSD? Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? Yomi survivors have fueled whole books on it. And that's just the surface, here."
Kenji's face has gone pale while I've talked. He knows it's bad there, but he might just now be realizing how bad. I'm shoving this point home, twisting the knife in his gut just so he understands what all is involved here other than just rescuing his sister. He's going to have a real mess on his hands in more than one sense once all is said and done. I nod at him.
"That's right. She's going to need a lot of help, more than just a rescue that's going to be far from simple to begin with. But all that is going to be your concern; I'm just letting you know what you're in for. What I need from you, Kenji, is an amount of money that's going to get me all the help, material and personnel-wise, that I'm going to need if I'm going to pull this off and have a little left over to pay the bills with," I tell him point blank, sitting up with a hand still on my beer. Do I look casual? Probably. But I know I'm serious, and he knows it too. This is how you do the real business. All the board meetings in the world just formalize decisions made elsewhere, some of them places just like this.
He finally orders a drink from the waitress, who'd been giving him the hairy eyeball since he sat down at my table, and clears his throat to regain the composure he'd nearly lost earlier.
"That you shall have. I am prepared to give you a fairly substantial sum of money; twenty thousand nuyen in advance, and forty thousand more when I have gotten my sister safely. I would pay more - no, anything - to have her back, but this is all I can reasonably get for you without raising suspicions." He pulls out a card with an LTG number on it and hands it to me. "This is a number where I can be reached; call it if there is any help that I might be able to provide you with, and to keep me informed. I am anxious to see Mika, and so any progress you make will bring me that much closer," he says. His little spiel is over, but I'm just warming up; I've got a lot of questions for him that he'd better be ready to answer if not right now, then pretty slotting soon. Like:
"And where will I be taking your sister, assuming this rescue attempt pans out? Will I be bringing her here to Seattle? Taking her to your office in the Philippines? Give me a destination, Kenji. That's a determining factor in this. I also need to know if I can count on you for any medical attention that I might need. I bruise easy," I tell him deadpan.
Kenji's mouth almost spreads into a genuine smile, there, so I know he's not totally without humor which is a good thing; no humor means that the person in question either has a stick up his hoop or is a crazy motherfragger, neither of which I like dealing with on an extended op. I save those kinds of slags for my regular, home turf ops since I know who they are around here.
"I can provide limited medical care for you, depending on where you end up when this is over. If you are in the Philippines, I am afraid that it will be a case of getting what I can find for you, otherwise if you manage to make it back here to Seattle, you will not need to worry about medical expenses; you will be taken care of. As for where to take my sister if you are successful, call me and I will give you an address to which you can take her. I will have people ready there to give her the care she needs. And before I forget.." he tacks on, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a chipcase to slide over the cheap macroplast table to me, "this chip has all the information I've been able to get on what has happened to her since being earmarked and sent towards Yomi. Perhaps it will help you in some way." I take the chipcase and tuck it into a pocket of my jeans along with his LTG number, catching an eye here and there in the bar. Time to cut this short since I didn't want to get any more attention than I was getting right now.
"Yeah, I hope it will help me, too. I'll tell you right now that it's going to take me at least a day, if not two, just to find out if she is indeed on Yomi yet, much less where I can find her. Likely I'm going to need to hire some additional help, which means talking to some acquaintances as well, and then there is the question of arranging travel to Yomi; I have contacts that might be able to get me there, but that is going to take time and money... I hope you get the idea. This will not be a cakewalk, and it will take some time... we're looking at a week to two weeks before you might be able to see Mika. I hope you're prepared for this," I tell him, watching him nod an affirmative response almost before I am done.
"Then I'm the woman for your job. Do you have my advance?" Kenji reaches into his suit once more, this time with a smile of relief, and pulls out his third item... a banded, certified credstick for twenty thousand nuyen, the amount showing clear as day when I check it out for myself. I'll have to make sure to get this transferred over quickly to me as soon as I get back to my doss just on the off chance that Kenji changes his mind or gets it changed for him.
"Excellent. I'm going to enjoy doing business with you, Kenji, but for now it's time for me to go. I've taken my fill of the atmosphere around here, and I'm pretty sure you have, too." I get up from the table, my chair scraping a little on the floor. Kenji does the same with a slight, wry look that turns curious as he realizes just how tall I am. I'm nowhere near troll-sized, that's for sure, but my height's definitely above average for your typical human woman, especially the ones that he must be used to. Discreetly, I drop a twenty bill on our table, knowing that if the waitress doesn't pick it up, the biggest and baddest motherfragger in that bar will. I'm buying their silence, not that they're a real talkative bunch to begin with. But you never know.
We step out of the bar quietly, with me already beginning to pretend that I didn't know Kenji from anyone else as I turn to walk down the street, when he puts a hand on my shoulder. Moves like that aren't a good idea around me, but seeing the look on his face, I squelch my reflex to send him spinning and instead wait patiently for him to talk. I'm not sure what he wants to say, since I can't quite fathom this look, but for some reason I've got goosepimples walking up my arms and the back of my neck.
"Forgive me for this impulse... Widow... but... will you join me for a real drink, somewhere else?" He hesitates, trying to read my expression, then goes on. I'm not sure what to think of this, which is why I'm still listening. "I can't explain it, but I do think that we have more to discuss, and I would like it if you came with me."
I don't believe this. He's asking me out. Yeah, I know I'm not really getting as ugly as I said earlier, but I'm also not the kind of gal you take home to Momma. Kenji must be slumming or something, getting a thrill out of hitting up someone as 'dangerous' as me. I shake my head, not only for that and ignoring the idea of getting all sweaty with someone like him, but because what he was proposing was ultimately unprofessional... and I'm nothing if not professional. Besides, I leave stuff like that for the younger kids. I'm too set in my ways to get interested in that foolishness.
"Thanks, Kenji, but if there's something more you need to tell me, you either tell me now or wait until I've had a chance to look at your chip and call you. If it's still important then, we'll talk and maybe meet once more. Being seen together too many times is a detriment if you want to get Mika back. Goodnight," I say, gently plucking his hand from my shoulder and letting it drop back to his side as I turn to go once more. I can hear him murmur 'goodnight' behind me, either stunned that I wasn't going to end up in the sack with him or trying to figure out if he should be impressed... I don't know, and I don't care, either. It's all stuff and nonsense.
I've got an early morning tomorrow, anyway.
To be continued...
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