Re-insertion

“It is now Seven-o-Clock,” urgently rang the commlink on her nightstand, signaling the start of another day in the soul crushing grinder. Dreading this moment, Lachesis had been awake for a few hours now, staring up at the one room's long stained ceiling.

With a groan, the umber skinned woman sat up, her small bed's molded frame creaking dangerously under her huge troll frame. Lachesis lodged in a tiny one room apartment, the kind you'd find a Trid show's down on their luck protagonist living out of. Her own first season one had not ended so well.

She reached into the kitchenette's mini fridge and retrieved a pair of high protean sip-a-meal breakfast shakes. She downed the first of the frothy drinks. It was advertised as chocolate/strawberry, but she'd better describe it as being the “tolerable” flavor. The shakes had become a staple food since her soymaker had burst open in mid action. She'd dropped it of at the shop two weeks ago and hadn't heart from it since.

Lachesis gulped down the second drink before standing up to stretch her legs, which still ached from long hours spent on her feet. She'd have appreciated a shower, but the building didn't have any running water that day, so she freshened up with a rag and water she kept in a bucket.

Done, she tied back her thick mane of white hair in a low pony tail, and slid into her light grey boilersuit, the one written “Stuffer Shack janitor” on the back. The thick garment chaffed, and did not breathe especially well. A set of heavy work boots completed the bland outfit.

Rolling her sleeves up, she pulled a thick elastic band over her left forearm, to which was clipped her special troll-framed commlink, a piece of kit featuring an oversized molded plastic frame containing the tiny guts of some long obsolete model. It could still accomplish a few interesting tricks, few of which were for her benefit.

The kit had been provided to Lachesis by her parole officer, along with the subcutaneous tracker inserted into the base of her neck. The damned thing logged her every move, and if she so much as sneezed off schedule, it would patch through her PAN and report it.

Whatever false sense of freedom she'd first enjoyed upon her release had long ago worn away, leaving behind a harsh sense of routine that was slowly eating away at her.

A few quick taps on her commlink eliminated the mountain of spam in her mail folder, leaving only her daily assignments to check up on. A store across town was already flagged for an intervention.

“Woopie-doo,” she wheezed unenthusiastically as she headed out into the city.

***


She found Seattle firmly clenched in a cloudy August day. Dry winds channeled harshly through a forest of looming skyscrapers blew clouds of and litter dust across the streets.

At just under 2.5 meters in height, Lachesis had a commanding view of the sidewalk as she made her way to the nearest tube station. She didn't bother with music today, taking in the grinding sounds of the sprawl, from the whir of electric engines, to the trash talk of wannabe go-gangers squatting an intersection. Everywhere, street vendors competed with AR advertisements to sell their wares, some stolen, others simply counterfeit.

Lachesis noticed a heavy set orc selling a small handgun to a skinny young man in a small alley. The nervous buyer looked at the end of his rope, his bloodshot eyes and shaky hands hinting at some pretty intense BTL binging. She doubted his story would end well, but at least it would end soon.


***


People in the tube gave the troll woman her space, smaller folk always assuming the worse of her kin. Lachesis ignored most of the glances, just like she ignored most of the vapid advertisement sent her way. She did get a chuckle at an add for horn straightening. For once, she was ahead of the fashion trend, her own horns being naturally swept back.

Quickly enough, she emerged at street level near a busy intersection. Built right by a highway offramp was her destination, a Stuffer Shack. The boxy convenience store had the telltale beige walls with green and orange highlights, with a glass facade with sliding doors.

Ducking under the doorframe, Lachesis found the familiar aromas of artificial sweeteners, old soycaf, and industrial strength floor cleaners. Under a harsh white lighting, neat rows of brightly packaged products filled the area, each promising a quick fix of some kind.

Behind the counter sat an old dwarf clerk separated from the world by a layer of graffiti covered bullet proof glass. The man's slack jawed expression seemed to be a million miles away, either in the mother of all daydreams, or in some VR fantasy.

Lachesis ignored the man and went to the utility door in the back which unlocked automatically for her, recognizing the access codes provided by her PAN. A skilled hacker could have found such codes in three seconds flat, and in another life, she had paid some to do so in far more dire situations.

For now, she simply gathered a mop and bucket, and proceeded to clean the spill in aisle three, the one that had been reported well over an hour ago. By the looks of it, someone had dropped a can of Green Wyrm energy drink onto a sharp edge of a shelf, puncturing it, and sending a spray of fizzy bright green drink all over the cat food display. Worse yet, the sticky stuff was already quite dry.

“Oh for frag's sake,” she cursed under her breath, getting down on all fours to examine just how far into the shelves the spill went. She'd likely have to empty shelves and clean cans individually.

With a sigh, she went to work, only stopping when she heard a client step in. There was something about his walk, the purposeful footsteps of fancy shoes on the tiled flours, that gave her pause. He soon appeared at the end of the aisle, a well dressed man in his forties, dark skinned, with silver-framed sunglasses and a platinum suit. His head was shaved, but he had a bleached soul patch under his thick lips. From his commanding posture, hands in his pant pockets, to the not so subtle bulge under his vest, the man screamed underworld.

A few years ago, she'd be preparing to reach for her own sidearm. Right now, on her knees, her arms cradling a load of Dandy Feast kitten meals, she felt worse then defenseless, she felt pathetic.

“Funny how three hundred and fifty milliliters of liquid kept under pressure in a simple aluminum can can cause such a mess, isn't it?” he began, slowly advancing on her. Lachesis tightened her jaw, wondering if this wasn't about some old debt. She'd whip up her commlink to look the guy up, but whatever ID he'd be broadcasting would be as fake as the tuna in the cans she was holding.

“Looks like it really got over everything. I'd say this was no simple accident,” he mused.

“You wouldn't happen to know anything about that?” she asked, dropping the cat food so she could stand and face the man, who flashed her an amused grin, his teeth perfect and shinny.

“I thought you liked trouble? What was it they use to call you, the Troubleshooter?”

“You have me at a disadvantage, mister...”

“Johnson.”

“Yeah, mister Johnson. Haven't met one of those in a long while,” she answered flippantly.

“Five years, seven months, give or take?” he answered.

“The answer is no,” she spat.

“You haven't even heard the question.”

“And I'll be better off not knowing,” she said, turning her back on him so she could soak her mop in the bucket. There was a moment of silence during which she hoped he would go away, but he did not, watching her clean the floor, which somehow got under her skin. That ordinary people saw her work was something she could live with. But this man, he knew who she had been, understood the fall she'd taken.

“You look like a woman who deeply enjoys her job,” he finally said.

“Best job I could find in this kind of economy,” she said, swabbing the tiled floor.

“Really? I could find you much better.”

“You know, my parole officer could be listening in through my commlink right now,” she warned.

“He's busy,” was the man's answer, one that left little doubt that he had made certain of that.

“What about...”

“Subdermal tracker, hawkish parole agent, record on file with Ares Macrotechnology and good old Lone Star. I'm well aware of all those sticky strings holding you back, and I think those are things we could both do without, no?” he let hang.

“That's a lot of pull.”

“My line of work is all about pull,” he countered, leaning closer, “There's a van waiting outside. Jump in with me, and you'll never have to clean another toilet again.”

“This could easily be a test,” she shot back, “my parole officer's enough of a hard-ass for it.”

“Everything's a test, my dear. I'm testing you right now, to see if your keen mind remains intact.”

“My keen mind?” she asked with a snicker, “If I'm so smart, why am I mopping a floor in a Stuffer Shack?”

“Because you gambled, and you lost, which is all part of the game, a game you use to excel at.”

“I was never that good.”

“Don't sell yourself short. You always found a way, always crawled into, and out of situations that would have stumped quite a few teams with more spells, chrome, and guns then you ever packed.”

“Flattery.”

“A tool like so many others. Now accept the compliment. A troll runner with brains is a rarity.”

“Your compliment's pretty fragging racist,” she answered with a frown.

“Statistics on the subject are undeniable,” he countered.

“Most of those studies are flawed. They don't take into consideration society-economical backgrounds.”

“Causality interests me far less then the end results,” bluntly answered the man, “It's you I want.”

“And what exactly do you know about me?”

“You grew up in Redmond's slums, SINless. Your mother died in an industrial accident, your father from alcohol abuse. You're almost entirely self taught. Introverted and analytic, but not devoid of a certain charisma. An outcast, you never it in, and first got into running to make some quick money...”

“Stop,” she growled, towering angrily over the man, but he did not stop.

“I also know that your last Johnson threw your team under the bus.”

“Then you know I'm not the trusting type.”

“By nature, few runners are. I'm offering you more then just a job, miss Lachesis, I'm offering you your life back.”

“You're pitching this one pretty damn hard,” she said.

“Because I really want you leading one of my teams.”

“Bullshit,” she spat right at him.

“Pardon?”

“You walk in here with your might-be-real leather shoes, your Zoé power suit, and that fancy cologne, but the only think I can smell, mister Johnson, is desperation.” Lachesis let that sink in for a moment, watching his jaw harden before she went on, “I've been out of the biz for almost six years now. I'd have no gear, no contacts, nothing. The only reason you'd want a burnout like me is that you've lost your crew. Either they got iced, or they bailed, doesn't really matter. If I'm right, you've got jobs pilling up, and it's costing you cred, so if you're going to stay in the game, you need a new stable of runners, fast. If you're in the habit of misplacing your shadowrunners, then whatever team you scrounge up will either be too green to know better then to work with you, or too desperate to care.”

The Johnson flashed her an irritated smile, showing off his perfect white teeth again.

“What's the matter, Mr Johnson? I thought you liked my sharp mind?” she tease.

“My offer still stands,” he managed between clenched teeth, “But you are testing my patience, and I do not recommend you make an enemy of me,” he growled, pulling off his shades to reveal a pair of neon blue cybereyes.

Lachesis had to wonder, how badly would this man take rejection? A Johnson, even a struggling one, had the contacts to make her life a living hell. A breach of parole would send her right back to the slammer, where she still had seven years to go on a twelve year sentence.

The thought of going back to the world of corrupt guards and shaky prison gangs made her want to puke. She'd found a niche for herself by organizing a highly efficient contraband network, but the cell block had no doubt moved on by now.

“I don't really feel like going back into the joint,” she admitted aloud.

“Then don't. Work for me, just for a while, then you can vanish, move in the CFS or something. You could even start over in Berlin.”

“My German sucks.”

“That's what linguasoft is for. Either way, look at the alternative? Don't tell me this doesn't bore you out of your mind?” he said kicking at her wheeled bucket, which rolled and bounced off the shelf, spilling water as it went.

He had a point, she did miss doing what she did best, outwitting people who all thought they were all smarter then a troll from the slums. Lachesis looked over to the unmarked van parked just outside. Could it ever be like old times again?

“Sure I miss some things, but I don't miss the smell of cordite in my hair, or the street doc's crapy banter as he pulls bits of shrapnel out of my fat ass.”

“Then don't get shot in the ass,” he countered, “just because you lost one hand, doesn't mean you just stop playing cards.”

“And what if the game's rigged? How can I know you don't just want me for some sacrificial fall job? Runners trust Johnsons based on their rep, and I don't know drek about yours.”

“How about I give you twenty four hours to look me up. Then, I'll be in touch again,” he said, walking away.

“My parole conditions specifically frown upon me fraternizing with shadowrunners,” she called out. The Johnson never turned around.

“Consider the next twenty four hours parole free, a gesture of good faith, one I suggest you use wisely” he said waiving as he went. She blinked, thinking aloud.

“Twenty four hours...”

Lachesis waited for him to be good and gone. Sure, he could be watching her through the place's security cam, or even tracking her the same way her parole officer did, but at this point, she didn't care. All she cared about was the time, and how she'd use those twenty four hours.

She did a half assed job cleaning the shelves, and then walked out of the Stuffer Shack at a brisk pace, trying very hard not to run. Lachesis took the tube back to redmond, already planning her next few moves. It was there that she noticed her Commling acting funny. A quick check revealed that it had indeed been rebooted to a stock OS.

“Thank you very much, mister Johnson,” she whispered. Soon, she was walking back on old stomping grounds. Derelict, graffiti covered cars littered the streets, buildings here bare husks with broken windows and rusting steel bars. She eventually came to a thick metal grating covering a long defunct power substation. There was a trick to getting it open, and then it took considerable strength to lift it up, the kind of strength trolls were known for. Once she'd swung it open, Lachesis climbed down the tight opening. There, she pushed aside a heavy piece of fast rusting junk, exposing a hole in the ground filled with sand.

She knew several runners who had several safe houses, and although Lachesis had never been too big on real-estate, she'd taken to keeping a few well hidden stashes.

Digging into the sand, she pulled out a blue plastic bag. Lachesis counted her blessings to find it intact after nearly eight years. She broke the bag's hermetic seal, finding a small backpack, a bug-out bag, as some would call it. Inside was a short barreled Colt Asp revolver in a concealed holster. The small handgun had a deep blue finish and an oversized rubber grip fit for her big hands. She made certain the weapon's cylinder was loaded before stuffing it in a pocket.

There was also a six pack of expired stim patches, a flashbang grenade, and a pair of fake ID chips, both of which were no doubt hopelessly out of date. Far more important was a pair of pure cash credsticks each containing five thousand nuyens, her ticket out of here.

The Johnson may have given her twenty four hours, but what he hadn't done was consider how she would use them. Within four hours, the chip in her neck would be gone, Within ten, she'd have a new fake ID. Within twelve, she'd be on a bus out of town, heading to the California Free State. What she'd do there was anyone's guess, but mopping floors wouldn't be on the program.