Shadowrun: Nothing Personal Read online

  NOTHING PERSONAL

  By Olivier Gagnon

  I let the warm water trickle down my body. Not warm enough though. I need hot; scalding. Something about hot water makes you feel cleaner, fresher. What I got was that nasty state between warm and cold, where it’s warm enough so you want to believe it’s warm, but, no, you know that’s a lie. The shower curtain has a clear plastic strip at eye level. It’s thick plastic, more translucent than clear. It makes the bathroom beyond, with its annoying flickering neon bulb, seem surreal. Like a shitty dream.

  The company holed me up in the shittiest Ramada hotel I’ve ever been in. Something about a convention in the area; all hotels were booked, this was the only thing they could get. Whatever. My room smells of stale smoke, with a hint of Indian sweat. That last part isn’t racist. I mean it. The owners are Indian and they live in the hotel, cook their food here obviously. That spice smells gets everywhere. Fucking Indians. There, that’s racist. Fuck ’em.

  I get through the motions. Wash. Shave. Head to the “lobby”—yes, quotation marks, cause this ain’t no damn lobby—and have “breakfast.” Sure, I’m sour, but I have stuff to do. The body needs a good start. “Most important meal of the day,” and all that jazz, according to the flickering AR display. What do I get instead? Fucking cardboard cereal. There’s a waffle press, but I’ve had waffles for a few days now. You can get sick of waffles. Yeah, I didn’t know that either, so cardboard cereal it is. There is a group of four brown orks. I don’t know what nationality, maybe Indian, maybe Sri Lankan, who knows. Anyway, they huddle at ungodly o’clock in the morning, like me, and have breakfast, such as it is. They are covered in white paint flecks, so I assume they are painters or laborers of some kind. Probably SINless, or illegal immigrants. I can tell they’re dead inside. Every morning they have breakfast here, probably because it costs nothing. They must know the owners. And I can tell they are dead inside, cause they aspire to nothing more. They expect nothing more. They are at the bottom of society. They go through the motions, and that’s it.

  They make me feel better.

  I’ll be out of here in two more days, back to Manhattan. Fuck Alpharetta, Georgia. What the hell am I doing here? Yes, I’m actually doing stuff here. What I appear to be doing is providing training to a bunch of accounting clerks on the newest Renraku Sherpa ERP system. That’s not my real job, but it just so happens I actually know about this shit. I learned it in a previous life, which is a concept my hotel landlords should understand.

  Anyway, today is the third day of four days of training I’m giving. It’s going well. Interestingly, though, the class is composed of six female accounting clerks. This is interesting precisely because they are accounting clerks. That’s not super high in the corporate ladder, you see. That means these girls aren’t used to being paid attention to. They aren’t used to consultants like me. They aren’t used to the confidence I exude. They think I’m something, that I am a hot jet-set bachelor, and they want a piece of that. Two of the girls have fallen into a rivalry. Clearly, this is continuation of work issues, power struggles, dominating personalities clashing, that sort of shit. The thing they’re fighting for now is my attention. Who can answer more of my questions? Who do I say “That’s right!” the most to? Oh, ’cause I’m different when I give training. I’m all nice and professional. I’m awesome. You’re awesome. Aren’t we all awesome? So, anyway, I’m fucking both those girls.

  First one was yesterday. She’s a bit of a skinny girl. I think I overheard that she’s part Native American or something. As if I cared. She’s way too nice. She really wants to please me, like she still needs me to say “That’s right!” all the time. Sweet, but you know, that’s it for her. She’ll give you cavities.

  The next one is more of a challenge. I like that. I’d say she’s playing hard to get, but that’s not really it. She’s a tough one. Somewhere in the course of the day she told me she grew up in the outskirts of Chicago. That’ll make you tough. Anyway, she’s an ork, little bit of extra weight, kind of short. Now, if you think all orks are ugly, you’ve been reading too many Human Nation brochures. Ork girls are cute too; just open your eyes and look. The thing that really gets me going is her tough-girl attitude, mixed with a little urban hipster style. She doesn’t know how to say she’s interested. But she is. That’s in the eyes. She wants it too; she just doesn’t quite know it. No, I’m not gonna rape her. She’ll come around.

  Anyway, I spend my day doing this training class. A full day, ten unbroken hours of training. I feel bad for the girls. Their brains are overheating. Well, that works in my favor, ultimately. Oh, there is this awkward moment where Needy Girl shyly asks me about my plans for tonight, looking for more. She’s insatiable, at least when it comes to getting her emotional validation rocks off. Anyway, I smile a big charming smile and give her the dashing “Not tonight, duty calls,” line. She understands and nods vigorously. I’m not rejecting her. Of course not, I have work to do. Meanwhile, Chicago Cutie eyeball-fucks me furtively every now and then throughout the day. Stolen moments. I can see she is trying to stay professional with me. I play it cool, of course. Act like I’m above her. She wants to be on top. I know the dance.

  During a break, I discreetly make arrangements with Chicago Cutie. She blushes and looks down when I flirt with her, invite her for what is obviously going to be sex in my room. A new hotel room, because I pulled the strings I needed to and got something better. Fuck that Ramada. On the way out this morning, I saw a small white box in the vending machine. It was labeled, with a marker, “CONDOMS.” Seriously, who does that? The new place is much nicer. Anyway, I think Needy suspects us. It’ll nag her. She’ll either convince herself she is wrong, or, more likely, she’ll hate the other girl even more. More fuel to the fire of their existing power struggle. Whatever—that’s their problem.

  I discover that evening, once that torturous training is done with, that Chicago Cutie fucks well. I knew she would. To my surprise, she doesn’t try to dominate me. What do you know? The tough girl thing is just an act. She has the typical self-consciousness of a girl. She’s amazed a big shot like me likes her even though she has curves. I’m just a tad disappointed. I thought she’d have more self-esteem. She acted like she did, but things change when the pants drop. I fuck her doggy style, and I’m glad to see she gets into it. Squeezing her big tits as they bounce, moaning and letting loose. She gets her confidence back as I’m fucking her hard. That’s nice. Good ending to the story. She’s way better than Needy. I could get to liking her, but that’s not in the cards. I have a pleasant evening. She does too, which is important to me. I knew she wanted it. It’s win-win.

  So, I finally finish that training bullshit and get on with my real purpose. I drive back to Atlanta and book another hotel. The kind of luxury that pissants can’t even dream of. I change into my good suit. A small, boutique label I get from this Italian guy I know. I freaking love this suit. It has a black vest with hues of marine in it. Black satin dress shirt, Italian again. Nice Louis Vuitton tie. Yeah, they make ties. Those whores will make anything they can sell, but I respect their brand, for one reason only: Louis Vuitton will destroy their overstock product rather than sell it at a discount. That’s some stubborn shit. I like that. I much prefer their leather items—they remain master of the material—but the tie is nice too. And again, shoes from my Italian guy, his own private label. Luko Vera, he calls it.

  Now that I feel like myself again, I head out for the meet. It’s at a hotel bar, but not my hotel’s bar. Come on, I don’t shit where I eat. I used the hotel across the street. It’s a nice hotel too with a modern bar. The AR overlay is tasteful, enhancing the beauty of the physical. I appreciate that. Too often, bars and
clubs just use AR as a means of cutting costs on the physical material. My guy shows up. He is a black troll with big scar across his face, but intelligent eyes. Well, I’m about to kill him, so he can’t be that smart.

  He sits on the stool next to me. I nod my head. He gives me a sideways look and then shoots the same look to the whole place. He grimaces and finally nods. He hates it here, and he hates me. There’s so much money dripping off of everything. It’s not his world. He could pry shit off the walls, pawn it, and feed his community for a week. If he were to sell my suit, he could finally fix his damaged cyberware and survive another month. I understand. I’d be disgusted too in his place. I empathize. I can do that. When I want to. But, fact is, I’m the one in the fine Italian shoes. And as it so happens, his world disgusts me just as much. So fuck it, I’m gonna kill this guy. I slide a tiny chip to him, just as my drink—a fancy drink, of course—arrives. He puts a finger the size of my entire hand over the chip and slides it over to himself. I can see him access it via AR and read it. I drink my drink, all innocent-like. I might whistle if my mouth wasn’t full of delicious, delicious, whatever this drink is. Damn it’s good. I’m happy again. Fuck the Ramada and the whole training bullshit. Or most of it—I’m gonna miss Chicago Cutie.

  He snaps me back to my job with a grunt. “You sure on the security?” he asks in an incredibly deep voice.

  “Yep,” I answer curtly, with a tone that insinuates he’s wasting my time.

  It has the desired effect. He looks at me suspiciously, back to the data, and back to me. Figures asking anything more will make him look like an idiot. Except for one thing. They always ask about this one. “And the money?”

  “Half now, half on completion. Generous terms, but you come highly recommended.”

  Oh, shit! Take that! Now he’s destabilized! The money is good; I just acted like he was wasting my time, but now I’m complimenting him. Whoa, what just happened, right? I love my job.

  He shifts his eyes and looks a little prouder than he was before. Even these guys, even these killers and thieves and people that sleep with a gun under their pillow, even these guys swallow a lie if it makes them feel good. Goddamn it, I weep for mankind.

  “All right,” he announces. He gets up and walks out. Sometimes they shake my hand but not always. We’re not friends. We’re not even mutual business contacts. I need him and he needs my money. Just as well. I mean, I would have done it, I would have looked him straight in his eyes—well, okay, maybe I would have involuntarily glanced at his big-ass scar, but still—looked him straight in the eye, shook his hand, and smiled. I don’t feel bad about this. I have no regret. I enjoy it with every ounce of my being.

  The bartender comes back to check on me. Handsome, square-jawed young man. He fits perfectly with the décor. I bet that’s how he got the job. That’s all right, I respect an establishment’s desire to offer good-looking products, even if that extends to staff. Sucks for ugly people, but the world’s always been like that. There are jobs out there for ugly people. Just ask the big-ass ugly troll that just left.

  “This is delicious. What is it again?” I ask the bartender, twirling my empty cocktail glass.

  “Thanks. Pretty Brown Eyes. It’s Eagle Rare Bourbon, Benedictine, lemon, Ben Marco and a float of Malbec.”

  “No shit. That was wine on top? Wouldn’t have thought it would work.”

  “Yep. One of my favorites here. Want another?”

  Informative, polite, but down to business. I love it. If only everyone acted this way. We wouldn’t have wars. I tell him no and pay up. Time for my next meeting, which unfortunately means I have to change establishments again. Golden rule of my profession—never meet two teams at the same place. It doesn’t matter if you schedule them hours apart. The sneaky shits will either stake out the place in a fit of paranoia, or the first party will stall and stall and stall and next thing you know, they run into each other. Yuk. Unprofessional, very possibly hazardous. So, off I go.

  I get into an automated cab a couple blocks down. I arranged for the meet in a lounge club. It’s early in the evening, so the place only has a handful of patrons. That’s fine. When I was young and went out with my friends, people would avoid these empty places like VITAS bred there. They were mortified of being in a club early in the evening. I never got that. I don’t mind. They still serve drinks. They still play music. Your friends are there. Forget everyone else, they’re just crowd noise. I dunno, maybe I’m not cool. Or maybe I hate other people.

  I settle in, a pretty elf girl with bioluminescent makeup escorting me to my seat. Man, these clubs stock up on the pretty hostesses. Girls this pretty don’t even exist in the outside world. I tell her I like her makeup. She smiles, thanks me, and leaves. She couldn’t care less. I’m thinking more of that at-the-club-early prejudice. A guy that shows up alone in a club early can’t possibly be interesting. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not interested in her. I’m not interested in nightclub girls. They’re nothing but vapid eye candy. Not my style. I prefer discussions like I had with the bartender; polite, informative, down to business. I didn’t get that now.

  I figure out the elf girl is just there to seat you. Another girl, equally unbelievably good looking, comes by and asks me if I want anything. I order an Old Fashioned. “You do them with oranges here? Great. Muddle an orange in it,” I add. She almost answered my question before I ended with a statement. I do that sometimes. I ask a question, realize the answer is irrelevant, and state what I’m really looking for. Some people don’t like it, but it helps me get what I want. I’ll tip her well enough to make it all worthwhile.

  It doesn’t take too long before my next appointment shows up. I watch them come in and make their way to my table. The guy is interesting. He’s really muscular, barrel-chested, but he has—well, I don’t know what to call it. Let’s say a delicate face. A face with wisdom and erudition in it. Maybe it’s the long, sleek, grey hair reflecting in the huge chrome cyberarms. I like his style.

  There’s a girl with him. Sorry. Woman. Asian—I’d say Japanese. She’s actually wearing a sort of kimono. Red raccoon strip airbrushed over her eyes. Delicate look. Piercing eyes.

  They sit at my table. They move with elegance, smoothly. There is an immediate comfort in my presence. Like, a respect, but distance also. It doesn’t change; they are runners, I’m Mr. Johnson. But it’s not hostile, just a clearly defined barrier. I don’t get that much. Usually it’s a jostle for position. Who has the biggest cock—the runner or the Johnson. But not this time. I nod at them. The big guy calmly nods back. The woman tilts her head slightly.

  We sit in silence a moment. The waitress comes back, takes their orders. My Japanese shadowrunner gives her a level stare with a polite smile for an uncomfortable couple seconds before giving an almost imperceptible shake of her head. The guy looks at my drink, then says “The same.” I give her a nice smile and say, “Nothing else for me.” She hadn’t thought of asking me. She catches herself and tries her best to act like she was expecting me to say something before she scrambles away. Poor girl—it’s only going to get harder for her once the crowds come in.

  My male guest speaks. “I’m called Titanium Angel, Angel for short. This is Vanity.” His voice is like a calm sea, but with a slight roughness in the back of the throat. He has an accent too, which I can’t place. Vanity gives me the same level gaze she gave the waitress, but with even more of a crooked half-smile. She says nothing. I like the theatre of it, but it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.

  “You can call me Mr. Johnson,” I say, of course. But, it’s not what you say. It’s how you say it. Say it firmly, and you’re saying you don’t want bullshit. Say it ironically, and you’re saying names are unprofessional. I’m saying it politely. Matter-of-factly, like “How’s it going.” A simple social lubricant.

  I hand over a data chip to Angel. “Sorry, I only have one,” I say, without a hint of apology. That was a “You were supposed to come alone” message.

  He do
esn’t care. Takes it and reads it. I glance at Vanity. Her eyes glitter at me as she shifts a little. So what’s her game? She’s a shadowrunner, a killer. They may be cute, but there are always claws waiting to come out. Maybe she’s just having fun, or she thinks she can make me squirm. That’s fine. But there’s something in the airiness of her look that intrigues me. She makes me think that life is an opera, and she’s looking down at it all from a box seat. Maybe it’s the slanted Asian eyes. Maybe it’s the painted raccoon strip. Maybe it’s the whiskey.

  Titanium Angel finishes the uptake. His drink has arrived; he takes a mouthful. Then he says something to the girl I don’t catch. Quick Latin-based language. It wasn’t Spanish; Portuguese? I have no idea. If anything, I would have expected them to speak Japanese to each other. Guess not. Either way, I don’t speak it and I don’t care. There’s a million ways for shadowrunners to communicate without me catching on. Speaking out loud in a foreign language is refreshingly worldly.

  Vanity nods and says what sounds like a cross between “Si” and “Sing.” I assume she said yes.

  He turns back to me. “So, there will be a secondary team?”

  “Yes. For support.” I’m careful not to say “For distraction.”

  “The timeframe is short. Normally this would take several weeks.” He frowns. I don’t blame him.

  “Yes, but as you can see, extensive preparations have already been done. You have detailed intel and a support team.” I like getting down to business. His objections are normal, and I can see he’s not just whining about it to ask for more money. He’s considering all the angles. I like that, some goddamn professionalism for once.

  “As a rule of thumb, we don’t take inside jobs.”

  I blink. That was Vanity speaking from my left. Her tone flows evenly and articulately. She surprises me, and I kind of stare dumbly at her for a split second longer than I’d like as I register what she just said.