This is where I'll post the stories I write.
Stories
The Little Boy and His Cyber-Doggie
It started life in a bundle of it's brethren. It reveled in is sleek black length and eagerly awaited the chance to contain some data in it's allotted memory storage. Then one day it happened. A hand reached in and grabbed it. The cred stick was rudely thrust into a port in a banking machine. Suddenly it was in heaven. It's storage was being filled! Even better! It was getting real money! It wasn't being relegated to the mundane SIN carriers. It was becoming one of the holy of holys, a certified credstick.
Now it had real data. data that translated directly into the power to purchase things. It looking in on itself and saw the amount. ¥100,000.00 It was rich! What was going to happen to it. Who knows? A few moments later it was stuffed into a small black case and it saw no more.
Hours later, it heard voices.
"Did you get it?"
"Of course Mister Johnson. Did you bring the money?"
"Let me see the item first. Then I will pay you as we agreed." There were some sounds of objects being moved. "At last, I have the Sacred Knife of Kunalif-Honatep. Phase one is complete. You have performed most satisfactorily."
The credstick felt the case being lifted and opened. The hand grabbed it and took it out of the comfortable womb of the stick case. No! Not that! it was being placed into the warty hand of an ork! How ignoble! It would be lucky if it got used to buy anything more wondrous than tusk polish. Oh the horror. But wait! What was the ork doing? No! You can't! It's precious data was being split up between four other credsticks. What a let down. not used, merely redistributed. How uncouth can these people be? What are they? Are these Shadowrunners?
By Tay-Dor 1999
It's hard when you are out of date. Nobody ever wants to do anything with you. You spend your days sitting on a shelf in a back room somewhere collecting dust. I remember a time when everyone wanted to use me and there were whole buildings devoted to me. They loved to cuddle up with me on rainy days and lose themselves in other worlds.
They have forgotten all about me now. The rain comes and I remain here. Stuck on this damn shelf watching the spiders weave their webs. The highlight of my day is watching some moth get caught in the web. I await the day. The fateful day. The day when someone finds me and throws me away.
The rains come and they do not use me. They stick chips in their heads. How those disgusting little bits of plastic and circuitry do my job is beyond my comprehension. There is no active participation. The little buggers rape their hosts. They play out their scripts and drag their hosts on a ragged ride of forced chemical imbalances. My way is or was so much purer. I never had to stimulate the brain chemicals directly. My way was clean and subtle. There was physical and mental interaction with my way. They could touch and feel me. They could see me, take in the adventure and create their own perceptions of the scenery.
I dream of the day when the little chips shall be discarded along the wayside for something better. Whether they realize I am what is better, I don't know. It will be hard for me to make a comeback in these depressing days. So many are illiterate. Most of them only learn simple iconography. How can such beings, who can fly in space and do so many other things, lose their ability to read?
I think I can tell you why. Technology. Those damn machines do it all for them. Why think when you can passively look at a picture.
I dream and plot their downfall. Yet I know I am doomed to fail. Progress. It is such an ugly word. Why must man progress? Can't they see that it is not all for the better? The fools.
Someday...someday...someday they will rediscover books.
By Tay-Dor 1999
Renault huddled in the corner of the bar, clothes dripping from the cold Seattle rain. Puddles formed around his scuffed and battered utility shoes. One thin hand cradled a steaming cup of coffee while the other held a wad of blood soaked gauze to his nose. His short dark hair was taking on the spikey aspect of drying hair, although most of it remained plastered to his skull. All in all, the elf looked like death warmed over.
A lady in her middle fourties apporached with a tray. Her short black skirt swung interestingly with the movements of her hips. "Can I get you anything?"
"Nothing thanks," Renalt quietly replied. "I'm waiting for some friends."
Noticing the bloody gauze, "Are you alright?"
Renault shook his head slowly. "Nothing a little time couldn't cure, thank you." The waitress walked off to serve the other patrons of the small establishment. It was a typical run down place in a typical out of the way location. A perfect place for a fallback regrouping site.
The door opened letting in a chill blast of air and a few errant scraps of lightly soaked trash. The streetlight was eclipsed by the massive form of a troll. The troll's figure resolved into clarity as he stepped into the bar. Dressed in black and wearing a heavy jacket that screamed armor of some sort, he walked straight to Renault's table and said, "Didn't think you'd make it."
"It was close. Please, sit."
The troll sat gingerly on a chair until he was reassured that it would hold his bulk. He scanned the room with his alert green eyes and gave a curt nod of satisfaction. "Good place," He rumbled in his deep bass voice. The troll layed his massive hands on the counter top and silently counted backwards from 20 as he watched his hands slowly stop quivering.
"Herc? Did Marks and Quinn make it?"
The troll looked up at the mention of his name. "They were right behind me. Should be here any minute." As if on cue, the door opened once more and two people quickly entered and made their way to the back table. The first was a human male dressed in paramilitary style, yet no obvious weaponry. He took off a beret and wrung the water out of it as he sat down. The other was a human female dressed in a black formfitting style. She unappily ran a gloved hand through her short waterlogged hair.
"Glad to see we all made it out in one piece." Marks secured his beret on a handy strap on his web harness.
"Where did they get all those Paranormals?" Quinn cursed as she removedher gloves and rubed her hands together to bring back some warmth to her fingers.
"Might I suggest a bit of security before this goes any further. Remember that group last week that talked too much and got themselves eliminated by their Johnson."
"Right, Renault." The troll reached into a small pocket and removed a small palm sized device and placed it on the table. Herc touched a switch and a low humm emmanated from the device. "Any chance of whipping up some magical security?"
Renault's look spoke volumes about his current condition. "Those elementals were almost the death of me, but I think I can manage a Watcher." The elf closed his eyes and marshalled his strength. Quietly chanting in Latin, Renault summoned a brainless watcher. "Alert me if anything approaches us in the astral." The watcher noded and set about patrolling the bar with the zeal of a trained rottwieler guarding a junkyard. Renault winced as a fresh ribbon of blood ran out one nostril. He jammed the wad of gauze back under his nose and said, "I'm exhausted. Can we speed things up?"
"Of course." replied Marks. "You have the chip right Quinn?"
Quinn nodded. "Managed to finish the download before that Samurai v3.2 about fried my deck. I hope that Johnson pays us enough. I have to replace quite a few chips on the motherboard."
"I'm sure we can work that as a justifiable expense. Herc?"
"I have the prototype stashed in a safe place. I'll get it before we meet Mr. Johnson."
"Excellent." Marks smiled. "You all did splendidly. Things may have seemed hosed, but at least we accomplished our mission. The timeline is as follows. We meet the Johnson tomorrow at 1800 and get our pay. 1900 hours, we board the private charter for our vacation in Jamaica and lay low for a few weeks."
Renault smiled wanly. "Sunlight. Just what I need."
Quinn laughed, "I'll bring the sunblock just for you."
"Okay. Lets split up again. Remember, keep quiet and hope Fuchi doesn't find us..."
The Little Boy and His Cyber-Doggie
Grim Shadow-Tales of The Sixth Age
"The Little Boy and his Cyber-Doggie"
By Tay-Dor
(Conceived and told 4/27/00 3:30am in #shadowrun)
Once apon a time there was a little boy and his pet cyber-dog. The pet cyber-dog ran off one acid rainy afternoon. So the little boy grabbed his Smartlinked-Spatula, cos you never know what you'll find on the streets, and set out to look for his cyber-dog.
After a block, he found a dead cyber-squirrel with little bits of wire sticking out of it's little eyeball. So the little boy took his trusy Smartlinked-Spatula and scraped the dead cyber-squirrely off the sidewalk. Course, this little boy, growing up near the barrens used a bit more force than neccesary and the dead cyber-squirrely bounced off the head of Bob the Troll. Bob the Troll turned around and thanked the little boy and happily walked off eating his cyber-squirrely breakfast.
So the little boy walked on.
How long would it take him to find his cyber-doggie?
His skin was starting to itch from the harsh chemicals in the rain. But the little boy persevered, vowing not to stop until he found his cyber-doggie.
But then he stopped.
In front of him was a bunch members of the Creampuff thrill gang. Now to most people, the Creampuff Thrill Gang isn't very scarey with their poofty hair and pink frilled suede jackets. But to a little boy, very tough indeed. The leader of the Creampuffs, Whiffle, pulled out a DMSO ladened Eclair and said, "Little Boy, give us that gosh darned spatula or we'll make you eat this really keen eclair."
The little boy, thinking fast, pulls out what he had hidden in his spacious pocket, his mostest favoritestest thing in the world, his Smartlinked 10 speed cyber-enhanced Blender from Mitsuhama technologies, makers of fine computer assisted cooking software everywhere. The Creampuffs recoiled in horror at the thought of having their eclair whipped. So the Creampuffs turned tail and ran screaming like a bunch of little girls who had just found out that they'd have to perform a dissection on dead cyber-frogs.
So the little boy walks on.
He doesn't notice that little flakes of skin are faling off, but his skin itches more and is turning a bright red. Little boys don't listen to the Renraku Weather Advisories. Renraku Weather Advisories, don't leave home without one.
The little boy walks on until he is stopped yet again. The trials of living in the 6th age.
This time it is the Stir Fwy Wok Gang, standing boldly in black leather jackets and wide metal helmets. Brandishing genetically enhanced Pea pods, Slices of beef and chicken, and assorted vegatables, the leader demands some used Bubblegum as payment for passage. Of course the little boy has not his chewing gum supply. But the little boy is ever resourcefull. Thinking quickly, the little boy pulls out his Ares Wiremaster Smartlinked Chopsticks. Of course, the Stir Fwy Wok Gang's meager weapons are no match for Smartlinked Chopsticks and they run away.
So the little boy trudges on.
The little boy is constantly itching a lot and has little welts. The acid rain keeps pouring down. But the little boy cares not for such things.
His mind is set on his goal. To find his cyber-doggie.
But then he stops
He can not believe his eyes
It's to amazing to be believed.
There, in the middle of the sidewalk is...
His Cyber-doggie!
The little boy runs to his cyber-doggie, but doesn't see the gun sticking out of the black van coming around the corner at high speeds.
A spray of bullets...
..people dance like marionettes...
...a small boy lies gasping his last breaths...
Life is tough in the sixth world.
Thrasher quietly stole through the night. There was a moon out there, cutting patterns of light and darkness across the warehouse district of Seattle. But Thrasher cared not for such things. His Chiba made eyes allowed him to see into the deepest shadows, as if it were mid-day. He ghosted through the alley and stopped just at the opening. Across the street was the EuroTech Imports Warehouse where he was supposed to get something for his Johnson.
Quickly ensuring that his Security armor was snug and the helmet strapped on tight, he checked his black matte assault rifle and the numerous pouches of ammo and grenades. Everything was set. He checked the moonlight streets and saw no sign of life, not even a devil rat.
Thrasher glided across the street and checked the height of the fence. Kicking in his cyberleg boosts, he bounded over the fence, landing in a tucked roll. So far so good. His cyberears picked up the pitter-patter of paws padding rapidly towards him. As the Barghests rounded the corner, Thrasher quickly palmed and through a flash grenade. Rolling to the side, he squeezed off a couple of sound suppressed bursts, noting that the bullets for each burst hit the paracritters dead between the eye. Dusting himself off, Thrasher stalked towards the main door of the warehouse.
Pulling out a chip that his johnson had given him, Thrasher slotted it into a receptacle by the door. Suddenly the warehouse door slid down into the ground, revealing a deep cavernous room lit only by a single purple strobe light on the ceiling. But it was enough to illuminate the great western dragon coiled around a small briefcase.
"Lofwyr!"
"Welcome to my little trap Thrasher. You have been a pain in my scales for a long time. Tonight it ends." The Great Wyrm breathed its Fire as Thrasher rolled to the opposite side, letting loose a burst that scored the dragon along the side of the neck. Thrasher continued to dodge Lofwyr's claws and jaws all the while sending a fussilade of lead towards the dragon. But Thrasher's luck didn't hold for long. Lofwyr managed to snag Thrasher with one large claw and pin him to the ground. The dragon's great head loomed above the helpless shadowrunner and said...
"Wake up."
...
"Wake up! You'll be late for school!" Johnny woke ups slowly from his safe sleep in his suburban bed while the dream of being a shadowrunner faded from his nine year old mind. Someday...