Chapter Four
Urban Shaman
Winger walked along Puyallup's gritty, cruel streets in the dead of night. These streets were cruel to everyone who lived here. These are Barren Streets. No mercy is given to the weak, no quarter given to the desperate, and no forgiveness to those who do not respect the world they have entered. The lives of half a million metahumans play out on the dark alleys and crumbling buildings that line the streets. Every year thousands will fade away with no monument to their life, no remembrance for that they had done, and no one around to mourn them.
The streets do not distinguish between people. They can take anyone from the wealthiest corporate suit, to the hardest shadowrunner, or to the meekest squatter. Winger understands this. At one time he did not, long ago when he was weak in the ways of the Great Wing. He was close to being one of the many that passed quietly into the darkness.
He renounced his faith in the world long ago. Possessions, home, or job title didn't matter. Those were concepts society made up to give purpose to meaningless lives. Winger did not need a false conceptions. His eyes were now open permitting him to see the 6th World as it truly was. He saw the spirits that walked among the changed face of humanity, felt the joy and pain of countless lives that had lived before him, and bathed in the undying warmth of raw mana. This was the stuff of life. Not glittering corporate skyscrapers or elegant clothes made from the finest materials. These are false idols the mundane use to console themselves from a world where they do not fit in.
Winger no longer adorns his physical body with rags of fashion. His clothes are simple, tattered, and smell of the long days spent walking through the streets of the real world. People, mundane people, never walk anymore. They put their faith in their machines and creations to travel. Even the floor moves under their feet, disassociating themselves from the great spirit. How sad it must be never to feel the joy of wind brushing against one's face.
Winger never has a path in his walks. The Great Wing is there to guide him. It shows him the nicest places to rest for the night. A place where the spirits will lull one to sleep. By morning the urge to move is strong. That's the Great Wing's way of telling him it's time to go. Ever moving, ever walking, ever changing. That is the bat's way. It is not wise to stay in one place for too long. It becomes familiar and stale. New experiences are needed for one to keep a healthy spirit.
The Great Wing leads Winger to his one retreat in this crumbling world. Far beyond the path normal people travel. It tastes of the mana is new and fresh. It speaks of tragedy in the past and a feeling of dire hopelessness in the future. This is a place of his Lodge. Inside the old walls of a gothic-post modern building long abandoned by the civilized world is where the shaman goes to work his long magic. It is dark, secluded from the prying eyes of the world. This is how bat likes to live. Far away from those who do not understand the nature of the world.
Winger finds his Lodge to be the closest thing to home that he knows. It is the only place that he revisits. Its peace and familiarity fill his soul like no other could. He whispers the words of Talent that flow through the sacred walls. Candles, cleverly dispersed among his arcane possessions, light up. They shower the inner chamber with shadows and flickering flames.
The Great Wing nudges at Winger's thoughts. There is danger here.
"He came in here. I saw him." A young, squeaky voice sneers as cautious footsteps echo on the building's old, wooden floors. He is a young man, no older than his late teens. His is face scared with the deeds of the streets.
"Yeah, Yaz, look's like he's right in here." Another voice squeaks.
"There he is!" One of the shrieks and points a pistol at Winger.
"Yeah! We've got him now." Yaz agrees. "Okay, drekhead, you just stay right there."
Winger regards them with unemotional eyes. He sees through their posturing. Their auras are alive with desperation. Hunger and need from their lives on these streets. The Great Wing warns of desperate men for they are capable of many things.
"I bet he's drekking himself." The other laughs.
"You have violated my sanction." Winger says calmly. "For what reason?"
"What did he say?" Yaz pats the club against his hand. "Violated him?"
"Shaddup." The other said before speaking to Winger. "It's time to take a dirtnap chummer."
"Yeah." Yaz shrieks. "Beg for it, man! Beg me not to geek you!"
Winger watches them intently. They are young and of weak will. They smell of Puyallup which raises the question where they would have found a pistol of such quality. The shaman whispers words of power. Mana fills the air, quickened by the power of Winger's home. It reaches out across the chamber to do his bidding.
The other suddenly points his gun on his partner.
"Hey, what are you doing?"
The other shakes, unable to move. "I don't know."
"Don't point that at me!"
Yaz suddenly lifts off the ground. His body floats in the air as his feet work frightfully to move. "Hey! What's happening!?"
Winger stands and speaks to them rather than at them for the first time. "None on these streets comes into my place of deep Talent. You smell of these streets. Why have you disturbed me?"
"Drek, man!" Yaz said fearfully. "Shoot him! Shoot him!"
"I can't! My hand won't move!"
"Your path has taken you into the darkness." Winger stated. "You have come to end my life?"
"Shoot him! Shoot him!"
"I can't!"
Winger tilted his head quizzically. "You wish to use that which has been given to you?"
Yaz's eyes went wide as his partner took the safety off the polished firearm. "Chummer," he begged, "Don't-"
BLAM!
The other's features went slack as the gun went off. Yaz's body fell to the ground as his soul swam into the great beyond. Winger turned his thoughts, and his Talent, onto the other. The other brought the gun against his own head. A urine ran down his leg and collected around his feet.
"One as you does not trample into my path so easily." Winger stated. "You will tell me who has sent you."
The other's voice was trembling. "And if I don't?"
Another voice inside his own made the other pull the gun's hammer back. Winger had a small smile on his lips.
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