You toss in your bed, bouncing off the walls of the coffin. Finally you are able to doze fitfully. Images of your recent op come to you without order or context: You turn and see a man holding a hypospray, his other hand holding his bleeding gut. Your teammates exit the AV, weapons ready. You, on your knees and puking your guts onto the floor. A corporate logo for a company named Neurogenisis. You covering a corner, a sharp pain in the back of your neck. An empty rooftop with you and your mates preparing to enter the building.
You wake suddenly in sweat drenched paper sheets. As you regain your composure, you look at your PDA and realize that you should probably be leaving for your meet soon.
The New Harbor area, dominated by the mega-structures of the Mallplex and stadium, is mostly light industrial and heavy commercial traffic not typical for most of the city. As the pedicab moves out of the area you hit streets much more typical of downtown. Huge videoboards scream from every building. Monster ad-blimps cluster overhead, booming messages down twenty four hours a day. The streets are packed with pedicabs, taxicabs, metrocars, and cyberbikes, while the skies are a maze of speeding aerodynes, helicopters, aerogyros, and light dirigibles.
The old man pedaling your pedicab stops in front of a six story brick building typical of the Hole. The ground floor is one of many fast food joints in the area servicing low and mid level Execs and government workers looking for a quick, cheap lunch. This building hosts a SoSushiMe, serving prepackaged sushi served in edible seaweed cartons.
Inside you order and receive a prepack and proceed to the eating counters spread throughout the dining area. Matt is sitting at one of the counters looking out the window into the street. A thin black man with thinning hair. He is dressed in a moderately expensive suit and is alternately pulling one chopstick along the the other, like he is sharpening a kitchen knife. As you sit next to him in one of the few empty seats he does not look at you, maintaining the illusion that you are two strangers eating next to each other. Matt is an old pro at tradecraft and it is almost second nature to him. "You ok Choomba? It sounded serious on the phone."
I've picked up enough of this kind of spy crap from movies and TV that I've got a good idea on how to make it look passable...at least in my opinion. I start unpacking my food and keep my head and eyes down while I talk to him.
Bro you would not believe my past 24 hours. Some shit has gone down and I honestly couldn't think of who else to call.
I take a generous mouthful of food, chomping away with a partially open mouth, the habit of eating as quickly as possible sticking with me after so many tours in So Am. I wash down the bite with a mouthful of my drink and continue, hoping that the break to eat would mask my continued reply.
Long story short, I was on an op that went bad. To be honest I don't even remember most of it, but I know for a fact that the guy I was picking up injected me in the neck with something. I woke up a prisoner by the harbor this morning and broke out, but not before they unleashed a fragging sniper on me.
One more huge bite of food and another sip of my drink to maintain the illusion. I even pull my phone out and look at it quizzically, pretending to make a call while I continue.
Anyway I can't remember shit and I have whatever the hell I got shot up with running through my blood. I got to get this stuff out of me. There are people after it. The soldiers that had me were waiting on a doctor.
Matt looks down at his sushi and picks at it with his chopsticks. "You need to get a doc to look at you. Who were you extracting and who stopped you?" He picks up a roll with his chopsticks, takes a large bite, and stares out the window while chewing. He looks to all the world like he is daydreaming, although you are pretty sure he is scanning the street for anyone watching you both.
I shake my head, trying to portray the natural body language that we all use even when we're on the telephone. Honestly I don't even remember. Things are coming back to me in bits and pieces but it's like a completely lost the past 24 hours until I woke up in that shipping container.
I end my fake conversation on the phone and take an-out loud mental note. Need to look up more about Neurogenesis when I get back to my crib I say, trusting that Matt will get the hint as to the only name I remember.
Matt leans in and starts shoveling rice into his mouth. Between bites he asks, "Were they the target or the ones who intervened?"
I take a generous sip of my drink, shaking my head a little while washing down the mouthfuls of food that I've been stuffing in my face. Not 100% on that one either. If I had to guess I'd say they were the target. The guys who had me tied up had Militech ID's.
I lean forward and stir the remainder of my meal around on my plate, searching for the ideal next bite while my head stays down. I wish I knew more. Stuff is coming back in little bits and pieces but it's like I took a major blow to the head or something.
Matt nods into his food. "I will see what I can find and will drop it here. Check this time tomorrow." He wipes his face with a napkin and slips it close to your hand. He stands and turns from you, "Try not to get iced in the meantime and don't tell anyone about me." He walks away without looking back.
You finish your meal, trash the remnants, and walk back onto the street. Within the crumpled napkin you find a locker number and the combination of a locker in the local high speed train station.
Without saying goodbye (or acknowledging the totally unnecessary parting comment) I bask in the afterglow of my fast food meal, giving Matt time to depart the Hole while I pretend to check messages on my PDA. Once a minute or two has passed, I give the area a final visual sweep to see if anyone was watching me before heading out.
Once on the street, I make my way towards the nearest internet cafe so I can hardline into the net and do a little research on Neurogenesis. I know I probably won't find as much as Matt will, but I'll go stir crazy in the meanwhile if I don't do something with my time.
The second method of interface is a haptic rig, the simplest of which consists of virtual 3D goggles and linked gloves to manipulate and feel objects on the Net. More expensive rigs include full suits that can convey physical sensations and an articulated structure that allows them free full-range of movement of their limbs and keeps them suspended above a sliding floor that moves in all horizontal directions. More complicated rigs are possible but the final method of interface is so superior, that no one is willing to pay or settle for them.
For those who can make the investment, Neuralware and interface plugs provide the ultimate immersion in the Net. A basic neural processor is surgically implanted in the lower spine, and is used to route signals from any external sources such as cyberware, the Net, vehicle or weapon links, or popularly Braindance units. Once the processor is implanted it releases a flood of nanosurgical units into the spinal column which thread tiny linkages through the central nervous system, hooking nerve endings to the neural processor. Connecting the Net requires a piece of hardware commonly called a deck and interface plugs implanted in the user, usually in the wrists, back of the neck, or for the truly committed in the temple. A deck is a computer, which is sometimes portable, that provides the processing power to construct a virtual reality which is the interface between the user and the Net.
The quality and cost of decks vary greatly. Many users own simple, non-portable decks that they keep at home, much like people used to own home computers and entertainment centers. Those who specialize in creating, manipulating, and exploiting computer systems are known as Netrunners and spend a great deal of their resources to design and build compact, highly powerful and indvidualized decks.
Braindance theaters and arcades rent full suit haptic rigs for the nonjacked, which at reputable establishments are disinfected between uses. For those who do not own decks or desire a more complex or immersive experience than their home systems offer these businesses also provide systems with tiered capabilities. Using your PDA, you find a nearby chain theater called a Holoplex. It features over a hundred individual cubicles with full suit haptic rigs and a variety of decks. A full immersion haptic suit and a high fidelity entertainment level deck cost 10cr an hour with the latest braindance releases included. A functional information search deck is 5cr an hour.
Despite the lack of real proper sleep I'm feeling sharp and motivated.
You get a ticket from the kiosk in the lobby of the theater and find your way to the appropriate cubical. It contains an appropriate sized suit which takes a while to get into and then you hook yourself onto the arm sticking up from the floor which suspends just off the floor. You place the helmet on your head and after a quick startup sequence during which you choose a generic avatar you find yourself in a long virtual lobby with doors to all the latest braindance releases. Each door has a preview of the braindance, a voice over starting when you focus a door. Most of the doors lead to pornographic simulations.
You use the gesture to bring up the in-simulation menu which lets you access the Net. A door appears in front of you and you step through to find yourself in front of a large theater in the style of classic 30's theaters. Spotlights shoot up to the sky and crowds of bots to either side of the entrance make it seem like a grand premier. The theater is Holoplex's home system and if you stepped in you would find their public informational site. Some nondescript door would lead to their private corporate server, which you would not be allowed to enter without the proper login and passwords.
You pull up the menu again and search for Neurogenisis, finding some general information and an address for their public site. The general information indicates that they are a privately owned company that does Research and Development in the areas of Biotechnology and Nanotechnology.
You touch the address and are taken to the outside of the Neurogenisis site. It looks like a medium office or laboratory building with the corporate logo as a sign on the front. you enter the front doors and are in a large lobby. Company information and statistics are emblazoned on glowing signs around the room. There is a desk with two generically beautiful young women sitting behind it. You can tell from their bland smiles that they are bots. After a few dead end inquiries you have a brainstorm. You ask to see any corporate bios which may be public information.
The bot hands you something that looks like a large tablet. When you hold it up, a person appears in front of you. He is tall, thin, with a graying hair and a handsome, though somewhat gaunt face. Next to him a paragraph of text appears and the person starts read it off. He announces that he is Simon Hertz, president of the company. Forty five years old, he has doctorates in Nanotechnology and Biology, and
a MBA. He enjoys sailing and rock climbing.
With a smirk you swipe the tablet and another figure appears in front of you. You keep on swiping until you find what you were looking for. The man from your memories who was holding his bleeding belly appears before you in full health. He announces that he is Richard George, a project head in charge of the CIP project. He does not explain what the acronym means. He states that he has doctorates in Viralogy and Nanotechnology, both from Stanford. The bio then starts again.
Given my mostly limited knowledge functional computer knowledge, I'm rather pleased with myself so far. I can't help but to do a little happy dance and give myself a mental high five for the success thus far. I decide that pushing my luck might be the best thing since I'm on a roll right now.
I pull up the menu once more and run a search for Richard George and the CIP project individually as well as cross referencing the two in yet another search just to see what I might be able to dig up.
You search around and find a little bit more info on Richard George, but much of it is irrelevant. You find one of his dissertations (which is too technical for you to even understand what it is about except you think it has to do with nanotechnology) , his hometown, and his address (In a downtown high security highrise that is generally home to corporate middle managers who are not required to stay in corporate housing.).
When you read his address you flashback to sitting in an unfamiliar bar with your teammates. One slender female, with dirty blonde hair and a crooked smile says, "He lives in some drone hive on 5th street, but between the ICE on their system and the physical security it's not even worth going after him there. Maybe in transit?" You snap out of it with a jerk. You have no idea why the team decided that it wouldn't work to hit him on his way to or from home.
Searching for CIP seems to be a dead end, you have some obviously unrelated hits on the acronym, but anything relevant is probably buried in Neurogenesis' secured server. You'd have to be a netrunner to have a chance to get at that.
I'm Feeling secure that I'm at the end of my rope in terms of my ability to ferret more information out of the net, so I log out and get out of the haptic rig I was using. I get a scrap piece of paper and write down "Richard George" next to a little drawing of crosshairs. Underneath that I write "CIP project".
I head directly to the train station where Matt gave me the locker combo and hang around for a moment to be sure nobody is following or watching me. Once I'm sure of that, I open the locker and place my folded bit of scrap paper inside, taking the time to ensure that there is nothing else in the locker in the hopes that Matt will look at my little note.
Once I'm finished at the station, I get a taxi to take me by my coffin so I can grab my 5-shooter just in case. Once I'm armed, I head to the downtown area where Richard used to reside and get out. My goal is to take a look around and see if I can't piece together why we didn't hit him on the way to or from home.
You step off the pedicab in the Upper Eastside, one of the commercial sections of Night City. In the last few years it has found itself in the trenches of the war against urban decay. Here you'll find the oil-and-water mix of heavy metal and soft velvet: hard chrome gang bangers who'll crush your skull and soft corps who'll crush your life.
You look up at the Giant's Chair, a group of buildings actually named the Windemere's. These four buildings look like an arm chair from the air. They house an large art gallery and several residential buildings.
Looking to the southeast where your research indicated that Dr. George worked in Neurogenesis' research labs, all you can see is the Muckjuck. The MUnicipal Criminal JUstice Complex is a dark blue mirrored glass tower. Inside is the Night City Police Precinct #1, the city arraignment courts, jail cells, braindance rehabilitation areas, a police academy, offices, evidence rooms, and the vehicle and weapons training, storage and maintenance areas required by a police force.
As you stand looking at one of the largest and most intimidating buildings in the city a police AV-4 flies overhead. This area is in the direct flight path of many AVs heading to land on the Muckjuck.
As soon as I step out of the pedicab and have a look around, it's painfully obvious why we didn't hit him in transit to or from home. There's just too much heat around for the op to have been worth it. I immediately feel a little stupid for hoping that there was somehow more to it than this. I know that I'm antsy for answers to my problem, so I try not to be too hard on myself.
I've done what research I can on Richard George and all that, so I have to start looking at other alternatives here. Maybe I can find a doc who can take a look at me and be trusted to keep his mouth shut. Maybe a netrunner? Could they find out more about this project?
I decide to make the most out of my trip and find a nearby braindance theater. I pay for a normal deck so I can do a little anonymous research on both seedy docs that specialize in patching up solos as well as Netrunners that might be in my price range to hire out.
Filing through your mental rolodex you find a few options.
One is a Doc you know, goes by the name of Brightside. He's a doc who specializes in cyberware, though he known to be a damn good trauma surgeon as well. He works out of an RV that he parks down near the Combat Zone. You visited him once after a job, and he did good by you.
Second is a place, the Forlorn Hope. A bar that serves a lot of Central American vets; it is known that a lot of Edgerunners of all types hang out there. You haven't had the guts to go there since you returned to the city because the place has a rep for being rough on newcomers, but they say that they take care of their own there.
Third is a fixer you met once who offered to find you work if you needed some. She goes by Shiva and is said to be someone you don't want to piss off. This may not be about finding work, but she probably has the connections that you need.
It's getting later in the day and I know that my time for getting anything done is going to start growing short, so I decide that making a visit to Brightside will be the best use of my time. I hail a pedicab and have him take me a few blocks away from where he normally parks. Keeping a paranoid eye out for anyone that might be following me, I occupy my time in the cab by looking out for anybody who could be following me.
Upon arriving at my destination, I get out of the cab and give him a nod of acknowledgement as thanks for the trip. I re-secure my holsters, knowing that being this close to a combat zone means I might need to draw at any moment. I head in the direction of Brightside's RV and cross my fingers that he's home and able to help me.
As you travel further south the city changes. Gone are the gleaming skyscrapers, covered in bright advertisements, replaced with aging tenements only four or five stories tall, sprawling strip malls, and fast food restaurants. You see less and less police patrolling on foot, and instead spot clearly marked surveillance dirigibles float overhead.
The people surrounding you changes as well. Uptown is full of confident men and women in impeccable thousand dollar suits or outfits, or scurrying salarymen in ill-fitting department store suits. Downtown is much more diverse, the crowded streets full of men and women scrambling to keep fed. The clothes are made of cheaper cloth, Street vendors hawk everything from ethnic foods to electronics to cheap firearms. Gangs of hoodlums are given wide birth as they prowl about looking for a reason for violence. Here and there you see other figures dressed in thick dark clothing: other edgerunners going about their business.
The sky darkens as you enter Brightside's neighborhood. Many of the retail businesses in the area are closing, lowering metal shutters over their storefronts. More food vendors appear, pedaling mobile restaurants into their normal locations. As the clubs and bars move into their prime business hours, the outfits become more outrageous: glaring in outlandish colors or accented with glowing panels or in transparent and translucent clothing designed to shock and titillate.
You walk a few blocks, trying to make any tails that might be following you, but nothing seems amiss. You see some roving groups of gangbangers, but you keep your eyes to yourself and your big size keeps them from getting any ideas. Ahead you see Brightside's RV, a rusting, pre-biofuel model that has been retrofitted to run Choo2. There's no sign or advertisement on the side, but those who use his services know what to look for.
Approaching the RV you see a thick data cable running from the second story window of the nearby building into the vehicle. You also hear Brightside growling to a leaving customer, "You keep getting shot in that same f&&~ing arm and there's not going to be enough vat grown meat in the city to keep it functioning. So try ducking, stupid."
Brightside is a tall man in his late-thirties, short brown hair and distinctive sunglasses with red-lenses. the hallmark on his cyberware is a happy face wearing red sunglasses, with a bleeding bullet hole in the forehead. The name "Brightside" is sarcastic, as he is a real cynical son of a b%&$*.
I hear the familiar and gruff voice of Brightside as his customer leaves the RV and I can't help but to open my eyes wide and purse my lips - giving the kind of "uh oh, Mom's yelling at Dad" face that little kids tend to get on occasion. I wait until the customer is totally out of my way, not even bothering to give him a nod as I enter the door behind him.
Hey Brightside, it's Brimstone. I say simply as I let myself into the RV, both announcing myself and hopefully refreshing his memory of who I am. I take a quick look around the inside and give him a half smile, knowing that anything more cheerful than that will likely risk a shitty comment from him.
Before he can even open his mouth to give me a typical sour greeting, I continue. I've got something I was hoping you could take a look at. Not a wound per se, but something that only a doctor can help me out with.
The inside of the Brightside's RV has been fully gutted and all the furnishings replaced with medical equipment. There is a full surgical table with multiple robotic arms hanging above it. A bed in back could probably serve as a second table if necessary. There drawers full of equipment and vials of drugs and medicine. You can only imagine the deals that the Doc has in place to keep the place from being robbed.
Brightside is crouching, rifling thorough a drawer. He doesn't look up as you enter, but wordlessly raises his hand in a casual wave in your direction. When you state your purpose he pauses for a second and then looks up at you. His red glasses are completely opaque and you are not sure how he can see you. Even with the glasses though, you can tell he is scanning you intently. "Well, that's a really vague way to say something." He stands, still looking at you. "You've been shot in the leg, but there is no blood. So it can't be that. If you say it's your dick, then you are looking at the wrong doctor."
I can't help but to laugh at his comment. He's right about me being so vague but I can't help the paranoia at this point so I try not to feel stupid while I take another step in and close the RV door.
It's not my dick, I promise. It's my blood though. Long story short I was on a job and got injected with something. I have no idea what it is or what it might be doing to me. I say, pausing for a moment to think about what other details he might need to know.
I don't think it's poison or anything because I feel fine, but people want to take out whatever was put into me so I've got to think it can be detected and extracted. Think you can help me out, Doc? I ask, raising my eyebrow in a sort of hopeful expression.
Brightside nods thoughtfully, "Just because you aren't dead yet doesn't mean it's not poison, but it could be a lot of things. Hop up on the table and we'll take a look."
He starts by taken your vitals, followed by drawing your blood and examining it under a microscope. He has you strip to your skivvies and lay down on the table. A large scanner drops from the ceiling and runs the entire length of your body. He stares at a monitor for a while and finally pulls away from it. "Well, I think I can say that it's not poison." He takes out an interface cable and plugs it into one of your interface jacks and plugs the other end into a deck he has nearby. Finally, he turns and gives you another long look.
He turns the monitor in your direction, "I don't think these belong." On the monitor is a screenshot of something you can't immediately identify, although with the red blood cells surrounding it, you can deduce that it is microscopic. It seems organic, but there is a mechanical component to it too. "These are something I haven't seen before. I haven't even heard of them before. It seems like some sort of hybrid of a bacteria and a nanite. I can't even imagine how these are created and how they work. It's basically like a cyber-bacteria."
He changes the shot on the screen to the scan of your body. It is various shades of blues against a black background. Your spinal cord and brain are various shades of red and orange. "You are running a slight fever, but didn't report other signs of illness. So I did a thermal scan of your body. This biomap shows 98.6 degrees as a baseline, so all reds and oranges are hotter than that. You don't have general fever as is normal. You are running hot in your skull and along your spine, which is not normal. So I thought maybe it is attacking your neuralware. I ran a diagnostic and found some interference. Nothing is malfunctioning yet, but it seems to be slowing your system down a bit. Nothing that you would notice, but it is detectable with the diagnostic. But those things are doing something in there, something that is expending a lot of energy."
Brightside turns off the monitor and sits for a minute. "Bottom line? I have no f@@*ing idea what is happening in there. I took some data from your neuralware and I can spend some time and processing power on it. Maybe I can figure out more. Until then, do you know who put these into you? What were they working on? It would have to be a well-funded project to do something so groundbreaking."
I pause thoughtfully at his question while I let everything he's told me sink in. Based on the work he's done for me and his reputation in general, I trust him enough to share some of what I know - besides...it's nice to have more than 1 brain giving me insight into what the hell is going on.
Honestly Doc I took a blow to the head of something on my last op, so I don't remember all the details. Then again, maybe it's the cyber-bacteria f~#@ing with my memory at this point. I say, sitting up on the table so I can have a slightly less awkward conversation with him.
I've been doing some poking around and this might have something to do with a company called Neurogenesis. They were working on some top secret project called CIP. I think it might be related to whatever is inside me. I say, furrowing my brow at the annoying set of circumstances I've gotten myself into.
Any chance you can extract this stuff from me? Without getting into too much detail, there was another doc that was going to take this shit out earlier today, but I didn't have any reason to believe he'd do it carefully so I popped smoke. I want this crap OUT, especially if it's messing with my hardware.
Brightside shakes his head, "I can't extract it, no. There's some individual ones floating in your blood that have not made their way to your central nervous system, but the majority are gathered in your CNS. You know, where your important parts are? With nanites there are two ways they are usually disposed of. One way is that they have a certain longevity built into the design, where they wear out after a certain amount of time or they have achieved a certain task. The second is that there is some sort of chemical shut off switch designed into them. Some chemical that, when it is introduced to the body, signals the nanos to deactivate. After they are deactivated or broken they are flushed by the body like any other microscopic piece of waste. You find any documents or information on the designs, then maybe I can figure out how to get them out, but I can't do shit right now."
He sits down in a chair, "As for that doc that was going to extract them." He shakes his head with a frown, "That tech is worth more than some Edgerunner's life to a corporation, and he'd need a mass quantity of the nanites if he wanted to study or replicate them. I'd guess he was going to do it the messy way. Extract your brain and spinal column, and separate the nanites from the tissues with a centrifuge." He gives you a grim smile, "I wouldn't like your chances to survive the procedure."
One of the reasons I like Brightside so much is because he's blunt. And occasionally he's kind of funny too.
You'd think I'd have had all my optimism beaten out of me by now, but I guess I was hoping the Doc would stick to a code of ethics. Don't you people take an oath or something? I ask with traces of good humor still left in my voice. I get up from the table and start putting my clothes back on, letting a heavy sigh escape my lungs while I calculate my next move.
Well shit, man. I guess I'm going to have to keep digging on this. If I get any more info or medical notes I'll stop by and have you take a look at them. Thanks for the checkup and insight in the meanwhile. What's the damage? The vague nature of my question is clarified when I pull out my credstick.
Once he's paid, all I can do is pass the time until I see what Matt has come up with, so the plan is to get back to my coffin and catch a quick bit of rest before going to check the locker.
Brightside seems almost embarrassed to ask for a 100 credits, a small amount based on the time and effort he spent examining you. It seems like unlikely due to his attitude, but you have heard rumors that Brightside spends his earnings to treat the homeless and less advantaged of Night City. He leaves you with a final statement, "I've never heard anything about Neurogenisis, but that means they are not big enough to finance this thing on their own."
You step outside and get half a block from the RV before you hear the familiar sound of an AV inbound. For a moment you flash back to your AV landing on the roof of Neurogenisis, your team spreading out on the rooftop, weapons ready. Looking up, you see several figures hot-roping from the AV onto the street near the RV.
I see the other operatives coming in hot and my mind springs into combat mode. I have no idea who these people are but they're screwing with someone that I like and I'm just not the type to stand by while that happens. I draw my 5 shooter and start to get a bead on one of the 3 that are out in the open and headed right for his RV. I issue my subvocal command for my speedware as well, letting the world slow down to a blissful crawl around me while I line up my first shot.
The two shooters covering the street don't seem to notice you drawing your weapon, at least not until it is too late. The three moving to the RV trust their teammates and do not look in your direction. As your instincts kick in you assess your adversaries. The two members of the assault team covering the street have assault rifles, while the rest are using large submachine guns. All are dressed in black assault gear, black BDU's with black balaclavas. They are definitely corporate mercenaries, but you can't tell which corporation yet. You have the drop on them, but you are outnumbered.
While the world is beginning to flow like molasses around me, the first thing I do is line up an extremely quick pot shot while I dive behind the nearest steel dumpster for some cover. I want to be able to help Brightside, but there's no way I'm doing that full of bullet holes.
My shot goes wide, but I'm hoping it's enough to buy me the extra second or two that I'll need to get some shelter from the return fire. I'm hoping it has the added bonus of letting Brightside know that shit has officially hit the fan.
Chaos erupts as the team of corporate mercs approaches the RV. Two gang bangers hanging around the corner down the street from the RV pull out large, but cheap looking handguns. They fire several shots in the direction of the merc's storming the RV. One connects and injures one of the mercenaries. The merc guarding the street in that direction sprays automatic fire at the bangers. One banger is shot in the leg, but seems to ignore it completely. The other's head explodes in a red spray and falls limply to the ground. Several innocent bystanders fall as the automatic fire rips through the busy intersection. People begin to scatter in every direction.
The shot you were carefully aiming at the shooter closest to you goes wide as your measured movement toward the dumpster becomes a wild dash for cover. The shooter closest to you immediately draws a bead in your direction after your shot. He fires a three round burst on you just as you reach the cover of the dumpster. One round hits you in the right arm and another in the left leg, but they fail to penetrate due to the cover and your armor. The shot to your chest stings and will bruise , but not enough to bother you significantly.
I wince as I feel the bullets connect but largely ignore the small amount of pain I feel. I'm more annoyed at the cost of fixing myself and my armor than anything else. I start doing a little math in my head to calculate what the past 2 fights might cost me as I squeeze of another round at one of the 2 mercs.
As my 2nd shot in a row goes wide I let a stream of profanity fly from my mouth, annoyed at my lack of precision.
Your second shot goes way wide and the mercenary shooting at you gets a little cocky. He starts walking toward you and fires off another three round burst. You anticipate another bruise on your right leg to match your chest. Your left arm is fine though.
The chaos doubles as one of the mercenaries slams his shoulder into the RV and opens the door for the other two. As the door opens a grenade is released from under the RV and rolls out between the team at the door. It bursts in a shock wave of smoke and force. Two of the team stagger back, stunned. The furthest from the door is quick enough to use the doorway of a nearby building for cover. He advances quickly to the entrance of the RV. The mercenary covering the other end of the block downs the other gang member in a spray of blood, but several more gang members are pushing their way through the fleeing crowd and are pulling weapons.
As the chaos continues to bloom around me, I drown out the sounds of people screaming with my own force of will and concentration. I wait for the right break in the covering fire to tell me that I've got a chance to score a hit while he recovers from recoil before popping out from cover to shoot at him. I aim at his head and squeeze the trigger, hoping that a burst of fore will announce my direct hit.