HAY GUYS! Still updating this. It’s incomplete, obviously. And it’s a Dover Hunt. And yeah, Dover maybe the biggest Marty-Stu ever.
Note: Taking a note from Des, I’m using long-unused characters. The half-troll in Navidson’s (the druggie hobo Dover) fight was (I believe) Kaze’s first character, Koryuhou, I think. (Yeah, I know, it is spelled wrong). Not to piss any of you off, people still active don’t get shot in the face. But, your names are omitted, so there.)
Now for the preview.
They wouldn’t have even noticed the wall, if the hobo leaning on it hadn’t matched the description of the man who attacked the corporate meeting.
The half-troll checked the picture, and then looked at the hobo leaning against the plasticrete wall. The sclera was black, opal use. Joint jammed between lips smelled like zen and novacoke. The man looked twenty, but looked very raggedy; face was weather beaten, blackened with some sort of substance. The beard extended into the once-expensive shirt and leather jacket. The eyes were blood-shot, despite the void caused by opal. The man twitched and looked around slowly, as if slowed down by something, BTL. The clothes he wore - a real leather jacket, a rare Aphex Twin t-shirt (complete with rotating, glowing logo), Fearless jeans, and snakeskin boots – had now gone to shit, pierced, shot, burned, ripped, pulled, moth-eaten, then covered thrice in drek – were way too expensive, even if he managed to see them.
Despite being drugged, the son-of-a-slitch’s eyes widened within a half a second of the runners reaching for their weapons, and took off down the alleyway.
“Hey! GET BACK HERE!”
The runners followed soon after, guns at the ready. For a drunkard, drugged chiphead, the man was fast. The steps and shadows flickered about, like a shadow puppet show in a echoing cavern. The runners followed every move of their mark, as they leaped over fences, over backyards, past barking junkyard hellhounds and Cerberuses, until they reached a dead end.
The half-troll cursed in Japanese, then threw down his gun-
The runners froze. It was unmistakably the sound of a double barrel. They turned to see the hobo aiming a rather high tech, yet pump-action, shotgun.
“I’M GONNA SLEEP IN YER BLOODY CARCASSES – TONIGHT!”
Before their brains were processing “reach for your weapon”, buckshot tore through the various armor, all inadequate against experimental UCAS rounds. Within minutes, the entire group were missing various body parts and/or limbs.
The Japanese half-troll lay on the ground, bleeding, both his legs torn to shreds from the pellets. The hobo, despite his skeletal frame, stomped over and slammed his right foot into the troll, breaking the ribs. He leveled the shotgun at the half-trolls face.
“Spread the word, yah dirty cocksuckers! Ah want all of yeh fraggin’ corporate whoring friends out of this city NOWWWWW!”
The final shot splattered blood all over the place, covering Navidson in blood. The remains of the half-troll (namely, below the waist) twitched and died out.
Five minutes later, Lone Star’s Fire Division responded to an inferno on the block near Chinatown. They extinguished the fire, before it did any real damage to the surrounding buildings.
The firefighters found several crispy corpses.
The women (and black guy) turned around.
It was a male child of about twelve or thirteen. The voice hadn’t deepened yet. He was shaking, tears running down his eyes. The hair was brilliant white, fluffy and uncombed. His teeth were still gapped, but braces covered them. He was wearing a choirboy outfit the cap looking as if to fly off, embroidered with the Seattle College Preparatory logo, one of the best in the UCAS. He was human.
“E…excuse me? I… I’m lost… could… could y-you direct me t-to…” the child fumbled in his shorts, pulling out a small data pad, and shakily tapped it, tears streaking down his eyes.
The night-one rolled her eyes. The Razorgirl twitched. They’d eliminated three schoolgirls the day earlier.
“What’s your name?” the black man in the lab coat asked.
“Merrydew, sir…” the boy mumbled. He showed them the data pad, showing the local opera house, another famous area.
The black man rolled his eyes, and, grabbing the child’s hand, lead him through traffic, peddlers, pedestrians, and prostitutes, flanked by a razor girl and a dark night one. This drew stares from everyone. Quite a sight. The boy sniffled and recited "Merrydew MacNamara, Seattle, Flat 453, Renraku Arcology..."
The two women barely kept themselves from hitting Merrydew.
Finally, they reached the spire. There were several school buses parked, and the parking garage was filled up. The letters gliding across the old style, New York City Radio Hall-themed holograph announced “Les Misérables: The Musical”.
The boy stopped sniffling, then suddenly brightened, then happily turned and said “Thank you!” before skipping into the theater.
“Frankly, I would have shot him, fraggin' snot-nosed brats...” the razorgirl growled.
“Give it a rest,” said the black man.
They continued their search for the mark.
Inside the theater, the boy walked into the men’s restroom. He walked into a stall, took out a dark blue, freshly pressed suit hanging from a hanger (Frankie's Dry Clean, less than ten minutes or your cred back), and wore it, the suit and pants sagging and wrinkling, attempting to fit the boy. A small pop, then suddenly straightened up, as the space filled.
Dover grinned and walked out of the stall. Suckers.
"Those that live by the sword get shot by those that don't."