| From: | "Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk> |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Action and Reaction |
| Date: | Thu, 25 Jul 1996 22:57:57 +0100 |
>>>>>[I regret that not all my associates are as professional as
yourself. One of my subordinates was recently lax enough to commit a
security breach, in the company of a certain young lady. He attempted to
hide that error, without my knowledge or permission, by contracting a
team to process the account of the girl in question.
In the event, they processed not only the lady, but her mother and her
two brothers, in a most unseemly and unprofessional manner. I believe
you have already seen the tape of their indiscretion, which I sent to
you once I discovered this fact.
I have taken firm steps to deal with my late subordinate. His four
hirelings will be at the warehouse at >>encrypted<< at 1930 hours
tonight, expecting to meet him. I suggest you apply to them a measure of
correction, and show them the error of their ways. Please be discreet in
the means you choose to process them: I do not wish any further
connection to this appaling mistake, and explosives or large fires would
attract too much attention.
I can offer you the sum of >>encrypted<< to cover your expenses and the
inconvenience of having to rectify this problem. We will sanitise the
area after you leave, to save you the troublesome necessity of cadaver
disposal.]<<<<<
-- Ploughshare <17:45:31/07-25-57>
*****INTERNAL: >>CORRUPTED<<
>>>>>[Assets disposed of as ordered, sir. Is it your intention to retain
the Elf girl for further cleaning services? She appears competent at the
role, and shows no curiosity as to my identity. Perhaps she merely lacks
the decker contacts to turn such curiosity into action, but in any case,
she carried out the work well. Observe, if you will.
+++++begin trideo
The inside of a warehouse. Shafts of sunlight spear through gaps in the
roof and through chinks in boarded windows, highlighting the gloom
within: from the angle of the light you realise it's evening. The
interior is cluttered about the edge with boxes, pallets and crates, but
the central area is clear.
The Judas-door bangs open, and four men walk in: a mix of races and
colours, they are all large and muscular, and none shows signs of any
great wit. Two carry cans of beer, and a third has a six-pack in each
hand.
"Hoi, hoss! The Pussy Pokers are back!" shouts one, and all four laugh
happily.
"Pussy Pokers? C'mon, Al, what's that about?"
"Hey, we're a shadowrun team now, right? Need a name. They all got cool
names. Get guns and shit too. Get cybered, even. Get a cyberdick! That
could be wiz!" More raucous laughter as Al helps himself to a beer.
Engrossed in their amusement, they take a while to notice the figure
softly stepping into the central area: the warehouse is laid out almost
like an arena, you think, and you suddenly wonder if the stains on the
floor are just oil.
The Elven girl is over six feet tall, slender and delicate. She wears a
black motorcycle jacket, open over a cropped halter, and a very, very
short skirt that shows off legs that seem to go forever: fishnets and
her black ankle boots only add to the effect. Her hair is long and
platinum blonde, and her skin is incredibly white, her black garb
accentuating it even more. She is almost painfully beautiful.
Al, draining his can and turning to throw it, doubletakes when he sees
the girl.
"Who the fuck are you?"
"My name is Easy." she replies, softly.
"And what the fuck do you want, slitch?" Al clenches his fists.
"What would a girl like me want with four big, strong men like you?"
Easy cocks her hips, bemds her knees slightly, slides her hands up her
thighs and writhes: the effect is extremely sexual and all four men
stare.
"Your boss couldn't make it. He sent me instead as consolation. I might
have... business with you."
"How much?"
"For what, boys?"
"For tbe business. All of us. All night." Al's mouth seems to have gone
dry as the short skirt rides higher, revealing the dark tops of the
fishnet stockings, and her hands slide up inside her jacket, parting it
and pulling the silk halter tight across her small, high breasts. All
four are staring, like mice at a cobra.
Easy steps towards them, moving almost as though in a dance: her words
in time to her footfalls as she speaks in a singsong tone; reaching out
to stroke Al's face, then running her long, white fingers down the
length of his body.
"Four big bad criminals, planning rape with glee." Al suddenly screams,
shrilly and hoarsely, an ongoing shriek like a steam whistle as he
clutches at his groin, his hands hidden in a flowing red rush. "I cut
the first one's balls off, and then there were three."
One of the others is fumbling in a pocket, the other two are backing
away. Easy snaps her bloodied hand - razors still extended - out to
point at one, crimson droplets flying. "Three big bad criminals,
wondering what to do." The man has time for a scream as she blurs into
startlingly fast motion, then his scream becomes a choked gurgle as she
tears his throat out with a casual flick of her wrist.
"He didn't decide fast enough, and then there were two. Two big bad
criminals, one's going for a gun." The fumbler finally brings something
out of his pocket and is shakily trying to aim the LightFire at Easy,
and she almost casually draws and fires, eight shots into his legs, hips
and belly. "He was slow, I was fast, and then there was one." She
holsters the Manhunter, turns to face the door.
The last man left standing is struggling with the door, which seems to
be locked. Easy moves slowly towards him, still with that graceful,
sexual, dancelike gait. Her expression is rapt, almost ecstatic. Behind
her, Al has collapsed in a spreading carmine lake, his shrill shriek at
last stopped. The gutshot man is keening insistently, loops of intestine
spilling out of his shirt and pumping out amazing quantities of blood.
"What do you want? Why are you doing this?" The man rattles the door
helplessly. "Please! Why are you doing this?"
Easy stops, a metre or so from him as he flattens himself against the
door.
"What's your name?"
"Bill. Bill Kort."
"Look at me."
Bill twists his head to the side, eyes squeezed shut.
"Look at me, Bill Kort, if you want to live a little longer... well, you
had your chance. One scared sad criminal, and Easy's had her fun."
With that same startling speed, she grabs Bill by shoulder and hip
without apparent effort, whirls to build speed as though she were
throwing a discus, and hurls him into the wall. Bill describes a
ballistic arc for over ten metres, hitting the breezeblock about five
metres above the ground: his scream of terror ends in a crackle of
broken bone as he hits the wall, and another as he falls to the ground.
"Now the game is over. And then there were none." she says, softly,
turning and walking away - jerking away and hissing with pain as she
walks through a narrow beam of sunlight.
+++++end trideo
Quite impressive. Her strength is most impressive: Mr Kort weighed
nearly a hundred kilos. I hear rumours she may be infected with HMHVV;
she certainly fits the profile.]<<<<<
-- Tractor <22:50:41/07-25-57>
