Family Affairs, revision 1.12

“When forced into battle Fox always fights to kill, not stun or capture.” From Shadowrun – Shadows of Magic.

“Thou shall not suffer a witch to be born!”. That pseudo-prophetic-warning weighed upon my mood alike arcane significance, while I woke-up. Some brain-dregs like that formed the sermon of another, hopelessly outdated, yet supposedly-holy book. My problem about it was that the woman whom I had married was a witch, and my daughter thereby could be suspected to be a witch, too. Even by the shrivels of scientific education which I care to remember, fellows. All she had wanted was to get to that teenage-band 'Celtic Soul' concert. Well, we had not forbidden that, just failed to tell her about it in time. So she did what every good daughter does. Rebelliously she made use of the personality traits inherited, and learned from her parents. The lil b!tch sedated us and sneaked off.

“Next time you tranquilize your elders you might wake up in the cauldron along with spices, Dear.”

I wished I could tell her, as for now she was still missing. When we had finally gathered enough cash and credit both, me and my wife, had decided to proverbially leave running the shadows, and the big city life, behind. Technology was mobile so we did not miss much and did spend our time in an arcology much like those retired rangers often tend to do. Controlled environment, security, and some comfort. Independence, as we could produce our own food and water. Except for me nearly all others knew how to brew alcohol, too. Not Synthanol, but real, handmade-brew alcohol... When it all started, back in 2053, I had been a Street-Shaman. Or better said I may have once been supposed to become one. Fox was my calling, but a criminal underclass was my environment. There is no great prudence which a high caliber bullet into my head could not neutralize instantly. We had our problems from the start. Because I guess Fox knew it, yet decided to leave my choice to me. Even the well-meaning can hurt one brutally, such was not new to me.

I had done that. After ten years of running with Fox, and as a fox, I told my totem that we better depart. It was mutual. I did not lose all my magic. I was not killed by some breach of my spirit either. Without Fox I simply was a proverbial shadow of a man. There was no day in my life I could be fully awake for more than four hours. That was the price to pay. Lifelong imprisonment on the borderline to dreamy slumber. Like a sedated lunatic. I hated Fox even more, yet knew it was not his misdeed. Fox was just one more totem, and the fat and bloated man whom I had become did not look prudent or tricky at all. We had done, as parents typically do, when their child goes missing. We had instantly indebted ourselves, and hired a private investigator who had scored some successes in Seattle, precisely the city where 'Celtic Soul' were predestined to jump upon the stage.

But there is this truism about solutions among grey-zone-dwellers: “An easy solution is no solution at all!”

The Bitch named Consequence is not fucked by anyone without dire repercussions to follow. My wife tended to smack me with one of her elbows whenever I was caught babbling vulgarism aloud...

The Sleuth had returned to us with one of those facial expressions one only wants to see in SimStim entertainment. The fact that he visited an arcology at all proved him professional enough to me. He delivered a message from my daughter's pseudo-kidnapper.

Kinda: “Come, jump into my trap, so I can avenge myself, or your offspring... signed K.”

Insanity has only one limit and that is certain death. I should have killed K straight the first time he had proven himself a false friend. I did not, brainwashed by the laws of old, long-gone democracy calling it murder. So he had risen in power, and was eager to put the blame upon me once again. “He'll have you raped, and tortured to death!” my wife commented with the shimmer of divination magic in her eyes. “Or worse: He forces me to listen to his self-pity-fuck sermon again! I will not abandon our child to his fangs!” I tried to fake a smile, and to pretend immortality. K had become the boss of a special gang. Süpür-K <-> Homosexual Turkish Criminals. Funded by some corporate media friends of him, them hoping that K, who happened to be a vampire since 2055, would gift them immortality! K had played the patience-card. Bluffing about how his rise in power would mean the blood by which they will soon be created would be much stronger. Well, the virus in that blood to give some detail. Corpse-lovers and Coffin-sleepers are wrong in the head for sure.

So I ventured into the big city one more time. I needed neither magic nor scouts to find a K who wanted to be found. Shortly after midnight, shortly after because my fat old me was out of breath, I had entered the gang-hosting mansion of the vampire. Former friends make fierce enemies. A mutual wisdom. The stench of feces alone could have killed me, and I always had the suspicion that certain homosexuals perceived it as perfume of a kind. Disease worship, pretty common.

K was well prepared. Neither my weapons, nor my suicide-capsule escaped the vigilance of his guards. I wasn't surprised. So I went into the vampire mansion. Once more a black sheep coming home. Ready to face my self-declared judge. It was much, as I had anticipated. K wanted something, which I could not offer. I saw it in his eyes, when he made his melodramatic moves, sneaking around my bound daughter like a ghoul around a passer-by who had just died of heart-failure. K believed the brain-crap he was babbling, he did not just play the victim. With all his nocturnal powers he was still trapped. He had to blame me, for he failed to accept the responsibility for, and consequence of, his own misdeeds. I couldn't end our friendship, for he had always been faster than me. Didn't he know that much at least?

“Now you miss that capsule I presume?” K asked in his triumphant mood. His fangs nearly shining in the semi-darkness.

“A bit. Still I just wanted you to be distracted until the spell works...” came my reply.

The last memory I ever had was the shock of realization dawning in my child's eyes. My daughter was transported home, as I unleashed the energy of a forbidden spell. An old, Norse witchcraft born due merciless demand. The one even attempting such a spell is torn to shreds within the proverbial moment of his deed. It is a spell made only for females. It saved my daughter, and robbed my oldest adversary of his vengeance. I died gratefully. I had understood the prophecy. I just had not expected my daughter to be already pregnant.

End of Story 1

Totemic Riddle Red Riding Hood

© Andrè M. Pietroschek, my rights reserved

Revision 1.02

Native American, later Shadowrun, proverb: “Wolf wins all fights, except the last, and in that one he dies!”

Foreword: Dear readers, this brainstorming, omniscient tale was written in a drunken stupor & will become an excerpt. It is more than one more Shadowrun story, or may-hap I was dehydrated on day of deciding. It started at WDC, when I read the wonderful and new to me interpretation of “Red Riding Hood – A Fairy Tale of Terror” http://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1439040-Red-Riding-Hood-A-Fairy-Tale-of-Terror which we Germans, translated-back, just knew as Redcap, or “Rotkäppchen”. Disgusted by certain setbacks at WDC I had ignored the idea. Guess, what ran on TV that week? No bluff, the interesting performance of Amanda Seyfried. Oh and late night song in the radio, when I went to the toilet? Yep. The Spirits had called me, Veteran Shamanic Worrier, or some-such.

The Place & Setting: Fairy Tale Forest-Village with a Church. It may have a harbor, yet all incoming ships unleash only stranded strangers, and all outgoing ships have next stop Bermuda Triangle. The Heli-Pad is under construction for decades already, funds are limited. Gun-Lore is pretty simplified too: There is the Ares Deerstalker Musket, the Remington Blunderbuss (Shotgun), Ruger Corsair Handgun, and Colt Pirate-Hunter Handgun. Both latter are no-ammunition-clip two barrel pistols. The pocket realm is high magic therefor Cybernetic-Implants cease to exist. The Matrix is comparably simple, too. There is the Mayor's data fortress and the Virtual Church Vault. Computers make us of archaic screens (monitors). Just so that you have a minor guidance along the trip.

Music: If music is mentioned, then for the option of reading those song-lyrics or listening to legal copies of the song. Some readers could be positively surprised how it can boost atmosphere.

And so it happened that on that fateful day:

Seventeen year old Sonja had accepted the only available Shadowrun of the day. The Johnson’s, Mom&Dad, had insisted that she would sign-up for the solitary mission without hesitation. Get the pick-nick basket, and deliver it safely to Grandma in her forest witch-house, which all must call her beloved hut.

Now our Sonja was not the village mare's twin. No, besides having the body of a voluptuous porn-star, the skills of a Shadowrunner, and the school grades of a half-genius she had as well common sense. She equipped her Armored Red Hood and the Combat-Shock-Gloves for the totally unexpected chance of encountering villains, or danger.

Sonja was not a Sissy. Her classmates had hacked into the Mayor's secret database, and besides having spread some money, they had seen the Legend of the Heroes. Henceforth Sonja knew that her Shadowrun had a pretty good start. She had ventured through the village occasionally greeting the working people, or acquaintances.

Then she had made the slight upward curve along the path to the forest. Of course she had not failed to give her smiling regards to Sarah, wife of lumberjack Carlton. And neither had she hesitated to do a small chat with Jacob, who was the Chief-Hunter and Chief-Ranger of the area.

Quite good on her schedule she had reached the secret forest path to Grandma's beloved hut. It was then that a big black wolf appeared alongside the way! Knowing no limits, and with the proverbial wings of success driving her on, Sonja had juggled a sausage out of the pick-nick basket, and tempted the wolf with it. While the canine beast fed she spoke gentle words to it, and stroke its fur. Oops... that were her good intentions. Sadly though she had been sloppy with the Shock-Gloves during last maintenance session, as she had spied on Abigail from across the road meeting her lover. Teenage priorities after all.

Shock-Gloves were meant to give off an amount of electricity on impact to render potential assailants unconscious. In this unfortunate, and unwanted, case her malfunctioning right glove had given-off the complete dosage for all ten supposed shocks, and the electrified wolf smelled a little bit scorched before its stiffened shape went soft; collapsing. Apologizing to the wolf Sonja had marched on in blissful ignorance, giving no first aid to the agonized beast, as she was quite eager to finish her duty, and deliver the basket to Granny. This irresponsible, and selfish, decision would come back to haunt her though!

“Grandma, I came to bring you a gift on this wonderful day!” called Sonja. ;-) The door of the beloved witch-house opened, and Grandma Donna Garibaldi, the former Queen of Palermo and Little Italy; stepped out to greet her dutiful offspring.

“Sonja, Dear, what a pleasant surprise! Straight after I threatened to cut your parents off from the money they have decided to send you here, and even with an appeasement gift!”

Sonja never understood those familial remarks of Granny, yet she loved her grandma, and happily handed her the basket.

“Oh grandma, wouldn't it be safer when you live with us in the village? Your isolated homestead is easy prey for burglars, and predatory beasts.”

“Pah, its another Home of the Brave, Silly.” Granny replied while quick-drawing her two Ruger handguns.

“We can't just leave the place unguarded. The illegal brewing of alcohol alone earns us a fortune, and as long, as they must fear my wrath, the smugglers won't cheat us too much.”

“Oh Granny.” replied the astonished, and traditionally quite confused; Sonja.

Donna Garibaldi went back into her beloved homestead, and returned soon thereafter with a platter full of coffee (Espresso) and cake (Tiramisu).

Like old people tend to do on occasion she talked on about worries, and plans in her head.

“See that field over there? Marihuana does only grow in small numbers, accursed weed. And there! After the cocaine plant rotted away we only have a handful of ephedrine plants left, barely enough to keep the pub running.”

“Oh Grandma you are such a wise and god-fearing woman!” proclaimed Sonja, who did not know a more proper word to say.

Donna Garibaldi chuckled. “The holy book? Yes, that was a damn smart coup, though I had help, and boasting is against the Omerta!”

“Oh Granny, as soon, as I have graduated at college, we just do it! We get a ship-passage to Italy and visit your sister Omerta?” As usual the Donna was sure that only if the Devil would possess moon-calf Sonja there could still be any hope left for her.

Sonja had accomplished her Shadowrun, and wanted to return home now. She did bid farewell to her granny, as the sun was sinking, and venturing through the darkness was indeed most unwise!

Blessed woman she was she arrived at home unscathed. Eagerly grabbing her handful of Nuyen for the accomplished Shadowrun, and then returning to her room to do Karma-Point-Spreading Yoga.

Yet the world had not stood still while Sonja, the sadist animal-abuser, had gone unpunished. Eric Dumbson had been one of countless stranded strangers. A former criminal and prison-escapee he had fled into the woods. Just that he was on a special trip. In prison he had read an article about vision quests. Now, years later, he had need for such. He knew to become a Shaman one needed certain Totemic experiences. He knew as well that the own personality was a minor reflection of what kind of totem would be more or less sympathetic to a want-to-be shaman as well. He had restrained from food since yesterday and had washed himself in the cold river waters. Ritually prepared he was on his vision quest when the Spirits gave him a sign.

A blonde teenage harlot in a blasphemously red cloak had lured a wolf with a sausage, and then, faking sympathy, she had electrocuted the poor feeding wolf! Just like the prison wardens had done it to end his psychotic rushes. Just like the prisoners had done it to him, whenever they needed a bitch.

Eric felt spiritual zeal arise within him. He knew what to do now! The Wolf-Cult had been born. Gathering the like-minded, and initiating them into the totemic avengers, Eric Dumbson worked over-shift to fulfill his calling!

At first his mob of wolf-crazed ganged-up on the old woman in the witch-house. Overwhelming her easily, plundering, and feasting in the first rush of victory.

Second; he had disguised as the old woman, giving a cryptic warning to Sonja when she returned for another delivery.

Third; his cult received firearms from the smugglers, who were made an offer they could not deny.

Finally the totemic-crazed assaulted the village, burned down the church, and caused plenty of bloodshed until both sides were pretty decimated, and sick of it. Eric Dumbson and the Priest among the Fallen. Some of the survivors swore that during the aftermath of the slaughter a woman clad in red was seen boarding a ship!

THE END of the base version. An extended revision is possible.

For those who do not know ShadowPunk or CyberRun, and i am not angered about license and trademark threats at all, it may help first to read:
http://www.shadowrun.com/what-is-shadowrun/

Shadow-Friends (Ebook version)

© Andrè M. Pietroschek, all rights reserved

“Dark Mother, Kali-Ma, guide us!”

The chant was habitual by now. Alphard Johnson intoned it with joy and conviction. The backroom was unlit. Sound-dampening padding attached to the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. A minor Refugio, a shabby sanctuary crafted for the magically awake among his flock. Alphard bathed in the darkness, drawing energy from it like a hungry vampire drains lifeblood from its victims. His sacrifice was not understood by his clientele, and Alphard had long accepted that it was a burden which only a handful of brethren and disciples even knew about. It was the price he paid for the Dark Mother's supportive guidance, and he paid it willingly. Though sometimes he missed home, grew proverbially homesick.

Technically official Meta-Magic-Theory made him one more Shaman. A dangerous simplification. Alphard was a cultist, a special form of magic user and the Dark Mother was not his Totem but his Patron or Deity. There were truisms about similar principles in the comparison of relationships for Shaman to Totem and Cultist to Deity. Yet defining it via those too often resulted in mutually unwanted misunderstandings. When Alphard had learned that beyond all the accusations and paranoid ramblings only the Dark Mother fought against Demons & Injustice, then Alphard had paid her respect. For from his perspective she deserved it, a heroic and solitary Sacred-Police Task Force against exceptionally dangerous criminals and abusers.

He had come to her after his third Shadowrun ever had culminated in utter catastrophe. His team had been send against a coven of witches and warlocks serving the Adversary. The Adversary was the true patron or deity behind creatures like Satan, Shaitan, or Wendigo plus countless other guises, and heaps of disinformation. Since his original magic had been burned out of him Alphard believed in stuff like hellfire. His team had survived, crippled and scarred, because they were allowed to survive as a frightening example for other Shadowrunners. Seattle remembered it for several years. In the aftermath of it he had found help and healing where it was most unexpected. Still the hags' prophecy haunted him. Barely recovered, freshly accepted as a child of the Dark Mother he had encountered a messenger of the adversary.

The vicious, old hag had just come to verify that much was true: “Painstakingly will be your existence, and you will be murdered by the only family you have left!”

That was 24 years ago. It was true that his scars, received from the dark ephemera encountered on that proverbially fateful run, had never fully healed. Recurrently he had days in anguish or outright agony. His will opposing the onslaught even though his will was mortal while the hellfire was not. Twenty years ago he had to leave the sacred temple. It was his start as a Mr. Johnson and Cult-Agent. Tasks he had learned to coordinate and execute quite well. Modern computers had allowed him to fund and support the cult, send Shadowrunners against enemies of the Dark Mother frequently, and prosper along with it. It had been a blessed time.

With 46 years of age he was a veteran mage of sorts. He had seen and experienced much in his life. He even got happily married for a complete decade. Just that all their children were born dead, and that his wife had committed suicide, when it became too much for her. The Dark Mother was there giving solace and healing what she could. Once again. But Alphard was a man of his time and he had not ignored any chance to evade or defeat the prophecy. He had failed time and time again. Even the Dark Mother had reassured him that the prophecy was verified and would inevitably come true. Alphard slipped into his Dined Luster armored coat. He wore the holy symbol of his new Family, stuck the Remington Hotelsweeper into its holster and ensured that ammunition was sufficient. Slower than in his younger years he walked through those streets of Seattle. The smell of the city, the pulsing of its energy, like lifeblood to a human body. The atmosphere he had learned to love. All those impressions which had accompanied his triumphs and routine throughout the years. It was a wonderful walk. When the alley before him deepened in darkness it was a spirit of fulfillment, and relief, which made him venture into it.

He had been reborn in darkness and everything good in his entire adult life had been supplied by that darkness. Now he had to be strong and regal, as it was the least he could do to show proper respect. The Shadow before him was so solid that any cultist gifted with dark-sight would have stared at it in awe and admiration. Its female form radiated power, divinity, and solace. Alphard looked into the eyes made of blackness like an infant who feels all nightmares banished when Mommy comes to give him a good-night kiss.

“This is your wish?” The Shades' voice was angelic to Alphard.

“Yes. I thank you for all of it!” Alphard barely saw the motion coming... The Cultist barely felt the strike... Before his head had fallen from his severed neck Alphard was already reunited with the one essence he had ever found comfort in. It was a good, darkling Death to choose.

“Dark Mother, I'm coming home!” his last faint echo of a chant on the Astral Plane...

End of original story 5.