Chapter OnePrologue
Boxer crunched his fingers together, feeling the joints creak and pop. They tended to get stiff after several hours of pounding keys on a cyberdeck. The back also had a tendency to get swore. To say nothing of his butt which grew numb after only half an hour. Those were the complaints from the parts of his body that were still flesh and blood. There was an unstoppable itch from his datajack not to mention the distant buzzing that remained long after his consciousness returned to the real world.
It took another big stretch before he felt confident enough to stand on his wobbly legs. Boxer was tall for an ork, standing chin and head above most others. Only his brother was taller in his family. Boxer wasn't as meaty as his brother. What did he expect from sitting on his rear ten hours a day? In his mother's eyes, Boxer also had the worst haircut of any of her four children. His brother had called it a Picasso gone horribly wrong. The sides of his head were shaved to a fine fuzz. A slick Mohawk rose from his crown to his bangs, standing a finger tall on a cloudless day.
The apartment was dark except for the dim glow of a clock. It was just after eight. The symphony of the sprawl was well underway. Sirens, car horns, and the occasional gunshot play a familiar waltz. It was part of a Grand Gala he had become apart of. People like him came to this grand event to mingle with the esteemed guests, drink of the fine wine, and dance across the marbled floor.
Only the esteemed guests are career criminals, the wine is cheap soy, and the dance floor is asphalt and pavement.
Boxer left his apartment and entered the Grand Gala. In his small, economy car he traced a deary path through the black asphalt streets as the streetlights cast ghostly glows over the bug-encrusted windshield. The flash luminesce calls up old memories for him."Slot and run, chumminskies, slot and run!" Trevor had called.
"Did you get the file, Boxer?" Grubber had asked.
Yes, Boxer had gotten the file. The power of his programs and the skill of his mind had sliced the corporate security decker like a razor through paper. The file was his prize and he paraded it around with all ferocity of a conquering barbarian.
"Corp Sec is moving up stairwell two. Everyone to Plan B, take the service entrance!" Trevor was so smart. He always knew exactly what he was doing. He always knew of a way out. There was nothing the corporate thugs could do to shut him down.
"I'm right behind you two. One of my sprites will stall security." Grubber was so confident in his abilities. The dwarf wielded the power of mana as an artist would a brush.
"This is Mask coming at you guys with the 411. News from the radio waves here! There's a HR team en route. ETA is five minutes." These words from the rigger who sits in a armored car ready to speed their getaway.
"Null presp. We'll be out of here in two." Trevor was always so confident. "Heh. Marc Antony's got nothing over me."
Boxer's car rolled to a stop in front of a seedy bar. The sign is unreadable. Half of its lights are permanently dark. The windows display grim, graffiti, and posters from previous decades. The parking lot is filled with bikes, cars, and garbage.
Boxer leaves the car in its usual place. No too close to the door to be hit by unruly customers, but not too far away to be stripped by the squatters in the alley.
The bar is subdued for this time of night. An elderly old man sits at a table near the front with a half empty Uncle Jack keeping him company. The man's glass is half full with dirty fingerprints smeared across its clear surface. A younger man occupies a booth in the far corner. His face hidden by the smoky haze of a cigarette. The ashtray overflows with its cousins. A small crowd of middled-aged people socializes around the pool tables. They laugh and dance and carry on without a care in the world, confident in who they are and where they are going.
Boxer settles into a famliar stool near the door. His fingers drum lightly on the metal bartop, tapping out a tune that his brother had known well. One that his mother hates. The bartender gives Boxer a hearty, typical ork/troll greeting. Basically a healthy bellow followed by heavy shoves, grunts, and head-butting. When Boxer didn't return the bellow the bartender knew that it was a bad night. He took one glance at the calender and nodded. The troll poured a special blend into a tall glass."They're deploying drones!" Mask had cried. "I can't stay here anymore."
"Don't pull out!" Trevor had tried to calm him down. "Just because Birnam Woods are approaching doesn't mean you can turn tail and run."
"I'm a sitting duck!"
"Come around to the north side, behind the service entrance. We'll meet you there in two minutes. Scatter smoke to cover yourself."
"Are you sure you know what you're doing, Trevor?"
"I know exactly what I'm doing. Now get your hoop into gear!"
"We might make it after all. Boxer, what's the news?" Grubber had asked.
"We got a new problem here. This place's going into lockdown."
"Lockdown? Frag we've been cut off!" Grubber drew his mystical powers unto himself . "I'm not going down in here! Frag this!"
"Stay frosty, Grub."
"What's that sound?"
Boxer had tilted his head. Countless footfalls could be heard behind them. There was no time. Trevor ordered him to open the doors. Boxer had plugged his deck into a port. Red hot code burned through the security system's mainframe as he brought every trick he knew into play. The Security door creaked open, but just a little. A meter gap separated it from the floor.
Grubber took a hit. Blood splattered over Boxer's cyberdeck as the shaman's entrails flopped onto the floor. He started to collapse. Trevor returned fire. The chattering of the Colt Cobra echoed in Boxer's ears. Empty shell casings scattered themselves across the floor and swam in Grubber's blood.
Boxer caught Grubber as he fell.
"Move, Box!" Trevor had screamed. "Get Grubber out! Get the files out!"
Boxer didn't argue because Trevor knew best. Grubber was barely conscious when he was shoved through the crack in the door. The cyberdeck was right behind him. Boxer rolled under. As he did the door dropped half a meter. It wouldn't stay open much longer. Trevor was still on the side. His gun spat fire at the on rushing guards.
Only they weren't guards. The footsteps weren't footsteps. Not the normal kind, anyway. Trevor was facing off against combat drones.
"Come on, Trev!" Boxer had urged.
"I'm right behind you. Slot and run!"
A burst struck Trevor. High explosive rounds turned his leg into so much red mist. As the mighty ork fell another volley tore through his armored jacket and mauled his shoulder. The Colt Cobra clattered onto the floor.
The door dropped lower.
"Hang in there, Trev, I'm coming." Boxer reached under the door and grasped the bloody collar.
Trevor was barely conscious. "Slot and run, chummer. Slot and run."
"Go frag yourself! I'm pulling you out!"
A chunk of flying metal struck Boxer's arm which immediately went limp as fiery pain burned into his memory. Another round bounced off the floor and struck him square in the chest. The impact flipped him over as his armored jacket cried out under the punishment, but held strong. He forced himself to look through the pain. Trevor was still on the other side. His eyes were barely open. He reached for him.
"Slot and run." Trevor had repeated himself.
Then the door slammed shut.
The bartender set the special drink in front of Boxer who took the glass in one hand and stared at its color contents for a few moments before raising it above his head.
"Here's to you, brother." Boxer said. "Here's to knowing exactly what to do."
Boxer down the drink in one gulp.