A.O.D (Shadowrun 4th Ed.)

[The Walox]

Seattle, 10:17 P.M. May 2073

Days, it had been days. Duncan Darkchapel couldn’t remember the last time he ate or slept but he was sure it had been several days now; maybe a week, maybe two. Fueled by fatigue, nicotine, caffeine and cheap pineapple schnapps Duncan stifled the howling of his sixty-year-old Mercedes-Benz’s engine by grabbing the next gear. The black Benz barked in compliance and the drowsy man was met with a renewed burst of acceleration.

His blurry eyes struggled to focus on the three wheeled commuter car he was chasing. The little amorphous pod was quick but with its computers it was collared by traffic laws. Idiot, that’s why hired guns drove older cars, unless you were a rigger, or had one on speed dial, there wasn’t any way to override or escape the ubiquitous matrix that kept the average motorist in line.

Duncan’s old Mercedes didn’t have such a problem so he easily pushed his way through traffic, executing maneuvers the little plastic pod’s silicone overlord would never allow. Edging his way between the concrete lane divider and a drone piloted semi at one hundred thirty miles an hour he found himself mere inches away from the commuter’s rear bumper. The red glow from its unwashed tail lamps gleamed ruby-like off of the Benz’s immaculately polished jet paint.

Wired with adrenaline Duncan’s tired hand flicked the high beams on, filling the plastic car in ahead full of light. He could see the wild fidgeting of the monster inside, vampire, Darkchapel hated them all and this one was a particular piece of work, he seemed to be gesticulating widely. Probably on the phone with some chip head rigger who owed him money. The vampire glanced over its shoulder eyes widening, Duncan smiled, an unlit crooked cigarette clenched in his teeth, he had just now discovered that the menacing black C 250 didn’t have a matrix connection.

Hands white on the wheel Duncan nudged the Merc’ closer to the Commuter; the license plate bracket bumped into the little car’s rear. The Leech looked like he was screaming now. Grinning ear to ear Duncan took a hand from the wheel and, eyes on the target ahead, pulled his Manhunter from the door pocket. With the grace that comes from years of practice Duncan pressed the electric window switch with the gun in his hand and braced himself against the torrent of air that rushed into the car at hurricane speed.

It took all the strength he could muster to aim the heavy revolver at the vampire in the car ahead. Before he could pull the trigger, before his dull senses could react, the commuter swerved wildly into the fast lane cutting off a massive drone barge. As though in slow motion the bus now only a few feet from the speeding Mercedes slammed on its brakes, probably the chip head rigger, and without enough time to act Duncan crashed into it.

His strung-out brain saw the hood of the black Benz crumple as the collision began, then as the air bags fruitlessly activated his manhunter flew from his outstretched arm. The seat belts restrained his rag-dolled body will all their might as the dashboard crushed his chest. Painlessly, effortlessly everything went black. It was over in an instant, the last sensation he felt was the sight peevish annoyance at next month’s rent having escaped; oh and the last of his pineapple schnapps was in the glove compartment, it was probably leaking now.

Duncan’s head throbbed as the bright light of morning streamed through the windows. His back ached; sitting up his mind still foggy Duncan realized that he must have fallen asleep in his car again. Last night’s dream was awfully vivid, he had crashed and, an . . . where was he anyway?

Unable to see clearly through the thin film of dust that coated the windshield Duncan pulled his aching body from the car. The fresh air of a pleasant warm breeze met his face as he stepped outside. This was NOT Seattle. Rolling plains of waist high grass stretched out as far as his bleary eyes could see.

Here and there dark masses in the grass were visible, upon further inspection he could make out the shapes of cars; cars of all shapes, sizes and ages, how strange. But by far the strangest spectacle was the fifty story art deco skyscraper that stood alone and unaccompanied on top of a low hill a few hundred yards away.

Curiously absent of his faculties or caution Duncan began a slow trudge to the tower. He waded through the grass until he stood at the ornate glass doors. The geometric designs on the chrome push handles were worn smooth from countless hands that had passed this way. Just vaguely aware of what he was doing Duncan pushed his way into the lobby beyond.

The inside was just as ornate and well kept as the outside. Towering several stories above the lobby’s ceiling was engraved with an art deco rendition of Michelangelo’s work at the Sistine Chapel. Mirroring the ceiling the floor had a similar Deco motif, but instead depicted torture in hell. In fact Christian mythology played a starring role in the artwork of the tower; the polished silver and black materials and iced blue accents juxtaposing with the warm natural light that flooded in through the high windows on the tower’s face.

Avant garde chairs and tables were spread out across the lobby and a lone smoky figure mopped the floor in a distant corner. The focal point of the space was a large black receptionist’s desk. Duncan made his foggy way to the counter where a young woman sat, perched on the edge. She was tall, mostly leg, with broad square shoulders.

She had tossed her long luxurious blonde ringlets off to one side and had the pulled the shoulder of her black hooded mini dress over the other; with her free hand she seemed to be placing a few nicotine patches on her upper arm. Muttering to herself in a vaguely breathy contralto she paid Duncan no attention until she had pulled the dress back into place.

Her skin was pale, white almost and her choice of dress only amplified it. Black, from head to toe; black nail polish, black hair band and black platform heels that she obviously didn’t need judging by the length of her legs. She fixed her hair and fixed Duncan with a stare. He could feel the numb lack of self control ebbing away. Her features were strong, rather angular, a bit Nordic perhaps; maybe too strong.

She smiled a crooked smile, her blue-black eyes were defiantly feminine though, no question about that. Reaching behind herself she grabbed an overstuffed vanilla folder. Thumbing through it she pouted prettily, then laughed a little, then smiled.

Just as Duncan regained complete control of himself, still foggy but defiantly in control now, the woman spoke. “So Mister,” she glanced at the little tag on the folder’s face, “Darkchapel, welcome to the Hotel California! My name is Jennifer and I’ll be guiding you through your first steps into the afterlife. This is the part where I would throw some confetti but they cut our budget.”

She grinned and chuckled, seeing that Duncan was not amused her expressive face fell, “Wow, not even a giggle, tough crowd. Now Mister Darkchapel from what I can tell you were scheduled for a three o’ clock Damnation but it looks like the prayers of one of your loved ones kept you out.” Jennifer looked impressed,” Yep you had a nice little hovel reserved in the fourth circle, that’s the one where everybody stands around listening to Jimmy Buffet for the rest of eternity, really crummy place to be but you get these sweet bath robes, not a fan of bath robes ether?”

She closed the folder, her intelligent eyes trained on Duncan’s face, “Unfortunately all the glitter and rainbow unicorn stickers in the world won’t get you into heaven, so it looks like you’re stuck here.” She shook her swing bangs out her face with a shake of the head, “So how may I accommodate you in your new home; Limbo?”

[Galvain7]

Vaguely, Duncan was aware that there was probably something wrong with him.

It was not the sort of realization that manifested in a single bold epiphany, but rather a creeping sense of wrongness that tugged at the edge his of consciousness for a few years. Then one day he woke up and realized that his current lifestyle choices probably fell outside the lines of things generally considered sane.

It wasn't the deep and abiding hatred of leeches or the desire to wipe them off of the Earth that was the problem. Every man has his hobbies, really. Nor was it the series of choices that led Duncan to live most of his life as a criminal that bothered him. That was more of a cause and effect relationship: Killing leeches as a passion and a living to Duncan, and that passion was best facilitated in a less-than-legal lifestyle.

No, what bothered Duncan was a three fold realization: First, Duncan lacked an inherent desire for self-preservation. This was unsettling. It was not as if Duncan was actively trying to kill himself- the opposite in fact. But, when deciding to pursue a course of action and rationalizing the risk versus results variation in any given scenario, Duncan's willingness to 'go to the edge' for his objectives was much more aggressive than normal.

Although, on a tangent, leeches were almost exclusively defined by their intense desire to live, even when their very lives involved the destruction of others. There were certainly plenty of 'self-hating' leeches out there, or leeches who tried to rationalize their condition by preying on unsavory elements. But, when pressed, the leeches would not or could not end their own lives for the sake of all meta-humanity. No, they always needed help. Plenty of aggressive, assertive, unsolicited help. So maybe Duncan's devotion was more of a compassion for vampires' souls. Yes. That certainly sounds better than madness. A compassion to help leeches see the light.

By dying.

The second point related to the first. A thing that is alive is defined by its desire to live. Nothing, from the smallest mayfly to the mighty dragon existed solely to die. That would be a fundamental contradiction. Thus, all things desired to live, and put preservation on high priority. Except Duncan. For example, the present set of events and subsequent choices culminated in Duncan power driving his black antique Mercedes down the freeway at 141 miles per hour, swerving past vehicles and drones and probably being a frightful bother. So, if Duncan was willing to set aside his self-preservation, was he, in fact, a living organism? By his self-imposed definition, he was not, in fact, a living organism. He was a vessel, a conduit of compassion for vampires, trying to help them see the light.

By dying.

It was just that the leeches were right there. So close. Ready, although they didn't realize it, to be liberated from their tortured bodies for the betterment of all. Duncan was ready to sacrifice so much for their freedom. Vaguely, he was aware that his body was trying to tell him something about limits of physical endurance, but that was a nuisance really.

The third realization was that he was most alive whilst doing his work. To do this thing that he felt compelled to do. Yes, he might be crazy, but he was alive, alive and doing things. So many things. Today it was hunting vampires. Tomorrow it might be setting up front corporations to train trolls for industrial labor and dentistry. And the day after that it might be running guns to Albania for some vague liberation movement that issued really good brochures. It is what he was made to do.

And then he died.

*******
"Grass? Great. Allergies."
******
Duncan stood impassively in the lobby of the grand skyscraper, taking in the surroundings, counting exits, making mental calculations of distances to cover, judging how fast he could make it to cover. Really, all of this was just habit. He felt strangely calm, and that was upsetting him. Blase? Yes. Controlled? Impassive? Yes yes, but those were all appearances. Calm was something bad.

Duncan took note of the receptionist and her introduction, filed away height, probable weight and choice of shoes (important) away for future reference. The last bit about being dead or something was a surprise. Not a shock, though, because Duncan had been a chibi once in a hippie woman's dreams.

"Limbo?" Duncan digs a cigarette (or tries to) out of his pocket. "Sorry miss, I don't dance."

[The Walox]

Duncan's fingers found purchase on one of the cigarettes in his pocket. A cheap knockoff brand that would probably leave a foul aftertaste long after it was gone. But needs must.

“Dance?” Jennifer let out bark of laughter that echoed throughout every corner of the massive atrium, “So you DO have a sense of humor! Or you really have no idea where you are. Don’t worry about it, I died once too, confusion is totally normal.” She slid gracefully off the desk as she spoke, tugging the thigh length hem of her dress back into place as she stood.

Jennifer tucked Duncan’s folder under her arm, “Let me fill you in, you’ve been a very bad boy Duncan, can I call you Duncan? I’m calling you Duncan. You should be well on your way to Jimmy Buffet City right now but some chick, Ruby she must have REALLY liked you, you charmer you, prayed enough to keep you out, you should see the prayer report its pink, full of glitter and stickers, took Donovan weeks to get it out of the carpet” She motioned to the wispy shadow man in the corner, “ruined my favorite skirt too.”

The tall blonde towered over Duncan, easily six foot eight in those heels,” So instead of going to hell with all the other hep-cats without glitter in their records, you wound up here. This place is Limbo. It’s not bad but it ain’t great ether, sort of like the bland soy latte of the netherworld world.” She was a vivacious speaker, “The last chick that ran this place said they used to get way more people but as time progressed the moral grey area between heaven and hell goers just kinda disappeared so, it’s not often that Donavan and I get visitors, right Vano?”

The shade responded with a faint moan and went about it’s mopping. Jennifer smiled; hand on hip, “SOOOO, Mister Duncan bad man, so, uhm, got any questions?”

[Galvain7]

"Hmm? Limbo? Wait, I seem to remember this Italian book... Ah. It appears I am dead. You were right. Well, I don't remember dying. I do remember being annoyed about something." Duncan lights the cigarette. Rather than the expected foul taste of tar and don't-ask-what-else, it tasted... bland. Duncan frowns."Bother."

Ah, yes, actually, I do have some questions. You can call me Elf, or Mister Elf if you prefer. Secondly, you keep mentioning this... Ruby? I did steal some jewels but never a Ruby. Also, do you mind telling me the way back to the mortal realms? I have some things to do. Thank you."

[The Walox]

“Wow, cold, no ‘Mister Elf’” She emphasized the parenthesis with her fingers, ”Ruby was in fact a woman who, only God knows why ,kept a special place for you in her heart. Geeze if somebody spent that much time bothering over me I think I’d expend a little effort to remember their name.”

Jennifer clutched the vanilla folder to her chest, the sharp click of her chunky heels on the marble and wood floor was faintly hypnotic, her voice grew darker, ”What the hell make you think you’re getting out of here? This is the Hotel California, You NEVER LEAVE. Good God does anyone listen to the Eagles anymore?”

“Actually, there is, one way.” She threw herself onto a nearby lounge chair and moodily picked at the files in the folder, “But I don’t know if you’ll like it. This dump,” she gestured at the room at large, ”Needs a new angel of death, I was supposed to be the new angel for Limbo but my, err, condition made me unsuitable.” Her eyes were lowered as she spoke.

“I don’t know if you’d go for it. You see heaven and hell also have A.O.D’s but their work is easy, it’s pretty clear cut who goes, not like Limbo. Man, it sucks here, and bringing souls to the hotel doesn’t weigh well with most people. I’m actually relived I don’t have to do it, but if you want to get back to the mortal realm it’s the only way.” Jennifer’s eyes glanced back at Duncan, unblinking. There was something, unnerving about her at times, some unquantifiable attribute Duncan couldn’t label.

[Galvain7]

"Ruby? Woman?... Ah yes! I left her once with her own kind you know, at the hippie reserve on 17th and West. She did not like it there."

Duncan stares at the end of his smoke, remembering.

"So you are saying that this woman's intersession kept me from the fires down below? Oh dear. Also, eagles are a type bird. I do not know of anyone who listens to birds unless they are the spooky types themselves."


"Well, what precisely is there to do in limbo for the rest of forever? Also, What is an 'A.O.D'? Automatic Ordnance dispensing Device perhaps?' I decied long ago that I am a vessel actually. Is that like being an Angel of Death?

[The Walox]

With an elaborate toss of the head Jennifer rolled her eyes, “A.O.D, angel of death, it’s the same diff. I shortened it because saying ‘angel of death’ all the frikin’ time got really frikin’ old!” Her cheeks were flushed red. Embarrassed at her outburst she hastily apologized.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to lose my cool. I’m just, my hormones, it’s hard to find the right balance. These dermal patches are totally mediocre.” She shrugged, “Just like everything else in Limbo.” Repositioning herself on the chair she unfastened the tiny gold buckles on her heeled sandals. First one, than the other, fell to the floor with resonating thuds.

“That’s pretty much how this place works. You get a room in the tower with some other dudes and yeah, you just kind of chill until Judgment Day; or until you turn into a shade like Ol’ Vano over there.” Her eyes watered for a moment, “It’s not miserable, but it’s not fantastic ether its just sorta, tolerable. You kinda just exisit in Limbo.” Then with a shadow of a smile, “The shuffle board tournaments totally rule though.”

Jennifer smiled in earnest this time, “But like I said before, ya know, now that you’re dead and all, there is a way out of this old persons’ home for wayward souls and THAT is to become the new A.O.D of Limbo. But before you get any delusions of grandeur I should warn you that the job is pretty mundane. I mean isn’t like you’re working for Hell or Heaven on this one. The souls that get sent here are usually pretty bland.”

The tall blond stretched luxuriously on the lounge chair, she relaxed her willowy figure and continued,”Nope no vengeful axe murders or saints in Limbo; just the occasional well meaning atheist collage professor or maybe some civil servant who didn’t call his mother enough, stuff like that. But it isn’t THAT bad, hardly anybody comes here anymore so you could even carry on with your um, ‘life’ as usual if you wanted to. One ‘tiny’ little caveat since your body was destroyed. If you say, get murdered, I know what you did for a living and it’s pretty likely, you’ll go straight to hell. Yup that’s right! You flat line and it’s straight off to Jimmy Buffet and endless days of standing in line at the cosmos’s biggest sauna.”

Stroking her chin with a long slender finger Jennifer looked thoughtful for a moment, “Come to think of it you can’t kill anyone ether, other than your assigned target, no vamps, no stoners, not even your landlady; don’t pretend you didn’t try I’ve read your file. Because if you do they’ll end up here and as much as I’d love to have something to do they’d really make a mess of things; trust me it would be REALLY bad. Not to mention it would cut into my nap time.”

[Galvain7]

Spoiler

Show

Hey! Just so you know the **** pauses are to delineate a response to each of the paragraphs (or so) of your postings. They are in order!

"Hormones? And patches? Keepers of the Netherworld cannot have goo. And anyways, why quit? Can you even die?"

"Well, that's good to know actually. That you just sort of 'exist' in limbo. Its like life, but with all the existing, meaningful bits cut out? That... Doesn't seem as bad. I mean, considering the alternatives. -cough-"
****
"So, if I become your 'Angel of Death' I get a new mortal vessal body?"

[The Walox]

Sighing deeply the woman folded her arms across her chest,”I’m already dead, but since Limbo is neither a punishment nor a reward my soul’s needs are just the same as they were in life. Same goes for you. The difference between Limbo and life is that every emotion and sensation is dulled. After a while the blasé status quo gets so maddening that a soul can barley take it.’

‘Sheesh, I even had a guy escape from his room and jump off the roof. Didn’t end well, but you are correct there are worse alternatives. As for your body, like I said before its gone now, some Russian mobster, Yuri something or other bought it from the paramedics, your soul will take on a physical manifestation just as it has now. If it gets fatally damaged you’ll be sent back to the nether; and it won’t be Limbo.”

[Galvain7]

"You don't mean Yuri Denisovich 'Filth Scalpel' perhaps? I know him. He had dibs on my liver. We share a blood type, see. Very pragmatic."

"So, let me get this straight: I go back to the mortal realm as Limbo's sole soul collector. I have to harvest the souls you direct and in return I get my mortal body back. If I die, I go to the big fire. If I kill somebody else, I go to the big fire. Am I missing anything? You wouldn't happen to have this all written in a contract perhaps?"

[The Walox]

"Mostly correct, if you kill someone out of your jurisdiction they just get sent to Limbo. As far as the body goes, It was actually that dude's cousin, wierd wierd guy, you're more or less correct. You wouldn’t believe the contract you’d hav . . . you’re seriously considering this aren’t you?” Jennifer seemed faintly concerned.

[Galvain7]

"Well, I haven't got much else to do with my afterlife, so yes."

"Why? Do you want the gig?"

[The Walox]

Jennifer answered hastily,”What?! No, no gooood Gad no!” She scratched her arm, or rather the sleeve of her dress, sheepishly, “If you’re sure you want to do this, it’s a huge responsibility, I’ll get the contract.” She pulled a small silver pin from the decretive patent leather belt around her waist.

Stretching her hand towards Duncan a small silver pin was visible in her palm, “Probably the most mundane afterlife bargain a person could make.” she said smiling, her husky voice confident, “A cosmic delivery boy really. That being said, a man scheduled for hell with a sordid past returning to mortal Earth could potentially liven things up.” Jennifer’s voice carried a vaguely sly undertone as she uttered these last words; her charming crooked smirk mirrored her tone neatly.

“If you’re sure this is what you want just poke your index finger with this pin; the rest will sort itself out.”

[Galvain7]

"Mmm? No written part before the blood part? Odd."

Duncan pricks his finger on the pin.

"Momma always said I was more like a cat, you know."

[The Walox]

As a single drop of silver blood slid down the shaft of the pin Duncan’s vision began to blur. While his field of vision faded to black his knees seemed to turn to jelly. Jennifer padded over to where Duncan sank to the floor.
She kneeled, careful of her short hemline, and recovered the slender pin after it had slid from Duncan’s limp fingers. The world when completely black. An eerie freefalling sensation came over Duncan as the darkness pressed closer.

Duncan awoke with an abrupt start as his face collided with the litter strewn carpet of his apartment. On the nightstand his battered alarm clock warbled “I’ve Got You Baby” by Sonny and Cher. As the room swam into view it was obvious that he had fallen out of bed.

The strange dream he had last night had been painfully vivid. He had been chasseing the vampire Jean Claude when he, strung out on spirits knows what, had collided into the back of a bus and died. Wits returning Duncan’s mind recalled the surreal plains of Limbo and its gatekeeper. She had said, in the dream of course, that Duncan would return to Earth without the protection of his body and yet the pounding hangover and his bloodshot reflection in the mirror seemed to contradict what the leggy blonde had said.

When his mind had seemed to rule out the strange events as nothing but a dream the chipper voice of his comlink had just informed him from across the room that it was a snowy November day. But was sometime in May just yesterday wasn’t it? Or was it?

[Galvain7]

"Body Check Time. Nothing particularly unusual about that. Monday after the schnapps."

Spoiler

Show

Duncan does a quick run down on his body systems and parts with his eyes closed, first wiggling his toes, then clenching his calves and on up. Next, he'll make a mental note of what he is hearing and the temperature of his room. Then he will open his eyes and take a look around, noting the details of the room. Is there a bathroom? If there his he'll take a look in the mirror. Are there unusual features besides the entrapped change in time? Does he look the same?

[The Walox]

Duncan’s body functioned . . . well as well as could be expected. The sounds of the apartment were all familiar. Traffic and the hushed murmur of pedestrians outside wafted past the shoddy soundproofing of the small apartment. In the background the ancient heaters groaned and churned to keep the room warm.

The thermostat on the wall must not have been adjusted in months. Duncan’s breath ushered from his mouth and nostrils in clouds of cold vapor. His face was just as it always was. A small scab was visible on the finger he remembered poking with the silver pin.

[Galvain7]

"So... been out for a couple months. Maybe that's not so bad. Less folks looking for me..."

Spoiler

Show

Step two will be to search the apartment for material goods. Can Duncan find his clothes, weapons and gear? After that is answered, he'll take a cold shower and eat something (provided he can find food) and then check his commlink. Where is Duncan, precisely? Does he have any outstanding accounts or emails of an urgent nature?

[The Walox]

The small kitchenette stank of rotten soy and roaches mingled in to open on the cramped avocado countertops. Ignoring his insectoid guests Duncan rummaged through the outdated laminate cabinets for spare food. He managed to find some M.R.E’s behind a box o bleach under the leaking sink.
The freeze-dried soy loaf tasted like sawdust and without water, he wasn’t alive to pay rent so the land ogre-lady must have happily shut it off, to chase it down he miserably choked on the bland gruel. Thankfully he found some cheap Vodka behind the ancient rusting refrigerator. It was probably for the best. The Filters in the building were almost always broken and the water was never really safe to drink.

Happily the power in the tiny hovel still worked and by the dying light of the forty watt bulbs Duncan found his, what of it wasn’t in the Mercedes, gear just as he left it; albeit with a thick coating of dust and specs of mouse dung. His clothes however where in a much sadder state. Living on the edge of the Barrens the moths had grown to size of rats and his wardrobe had been gnawed into something that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a vaudevillian act preformed a hit squad of Russian hobo trolls.

The apartment was small but open, besides a small closet bath and utility cupboard, and the kitchen, bedroom and living room were all one space. It took now time at all for the pitiful Elf to take stock of his possessions. Rummaging through the junk on his nightstand Duncan recovered his precious comlink. The inbox had many unread messages all dated several months ago. Apparently everyone he ever knew thought he was dead. Well, that did have some advantages.