Michael Shepherd's page

COMBAT
Unarmed attack: 14 dice, DV 7S/7P
Ares Predator IV: 15 dice, DV 5P
HK Urban Fighter: 15 dice, DV 5P

Damage Resist (suit): 19 Ballistic, 15 Impact
Damage Resist (camo suit with mask): 24 Ballistic, 19 Impact

SKILLS
Climbing: 7 dice (9 with gecko gloves)
Perception: 9 dice
Infiltration: 12 dice

When he wakes up, he's on a train, and the commlink in his pocket is "buzzing," really just sending a pleasant tingling sensation through the skinlink. He blinks his eyes open and reflexively checks the info fed to his contacts--the buzz was from a scam message offering to "AuGMEnt ur SybrDONG"--and even closes them again before the realization hits him. Wait. Why am I on a train? Where am I going? His eyes open with another start and he feels his heart beat faster in his chest. What? What's going on?

The sudden sensation of not knowing who you are is difficult to describe. The man feels his hands shaking for a moment, and he looks down at his body, wondering what's going on. He's human, that much is quickly clear, wearing a well-made black suit in a vaguely neo-Japanese style, popular across the globe and particularly on the west coast of the continent. Even his shoes are of a fine style, although remarkably comfortable, and when he looks down he can see a pair of briefcases stored beneath his seat. He leaves them be for now; the commlink is in a breast pocket, and he draws it out.

Since the Matrix went wireless, identification is stored encrytped in commlinks, he knows. He briefly wonders how it is he knows these things but not his own identity, but puts that aside for now. Equally short-lived is his concern that he may need to break through the encryption, and he may not know how, but the commlink merely registers a biometric scan and lets him in.

Michael Colton Shepherd. The name is accompanied with a full SIN, some vital statistics, and other basic information. Most importantly is a picture. He stares at it: a lean face with light brown hair, almost a dirty blond. The hair is trimmed, groomed, with a neat goatee and mustache. The nose and cheekbones are sharp, the face almost gaunt in the lighting, and the eyes are an icy blue. Me? He glances up at the window of the train, but he can't make out his reflection. Floundering, he turns to the nearest person--a young boy, perhaps seven or eight years old.

"Does this look like me?" he asks, holding up the commlink's display. The boy, apparently unaccompanied by an adult, shies away at first. "It's okay, I just need to know," the man continues, giving what he hopes is a reassuring smile. After another moment, the boy nods, scoots back, and looks from the image to the man. "Yeah, that's you," he finally declares, nodding with certainty. "Why didn't you know that?"

The man lets out a slow breath and, failing to think of anything else to do, shrugs. "I, uh, got a haircut," he says, touching his jaw as he looks at the picture again. Michael Shepherd. That's who I am. "Do you ever start to do something, and suddenly forget what it was?" he asks, almost absently. The boy shakes his head, and Michael gives a chuckle and nods. "I suppose not. Only grown-ups seem to have that problem."

He scrolls through the commlink for a short while, looking for any other information, but it seems sparse, almost as if at factory default--the only message is the spam, and there aren't any notes, appointments, or contacts saved. He slides the device away with a frown, and after a moment's thought, he pulls up one of the briefcases. Clicking it open, he sees a well-organized interior filled with clothing. Held in place against the top are several compartments holding two more pairs of crisp shoes, as well as ties in a variety of colors and styles. In the main body are three more suits, folded neatly to prevent visible wrinkling. Each is in a different style, ranging from new to old, although they're all various shades of dark matte black. He fingers one and without thinking notes the fabric.

Armored threading, good if you want to look nice but you're worried about being shot. The suit he's wearing is of similar material, and he frowns. Am I worried about being shot? Not wanting to consider it overmuch, Michael closes the briefcase and slides it back into storage, then retrieves the other. But don't just click this one, he thinks, and almost unconsciously he twists the clasps upside-down before opening them. Otherwise, a hypodermic needle would have shot into each hand, injecting a toxin that would leave him unconscious for several hours, and make him susceptible to suggestion and interrogation for almost a day thereafter. By the time he's opening the lid, his mind catches up, and he wonders what the hell is going on when the contents of the case come into view.

"Whoa." This from the boy, now scooting over in close, his eyes wide as he breathes out the comment. The briefcase holds a pair of pistols, both clearly of fine make, and each accompanied by what is clearly a sound suppressor, as well as at least a dozen spare magazines between them. The pieces are held in velvet-lined slots, designed specifically for this purpose, and the entire level is on a rack that can be lifted on hinged arms to reveal what lies underneath. Glacing up to see that no one else is watching--the other passengers seem mostly self-concerned, and aren't paying him any attention--Michael then looks at the boy, who's now eyeing him with wonder.

"Are you a spy?" he asks. Michael shakes his head, although he realizes he can't be sure. "Are you a yak?" the boy asks, hsi voice now low. "My dad says the yaks are real bad guys, and that when they came over that's when the country went to... He uses a bad word." Michael bites his tongue to keep from laughing and shakes his head again, and he lifts the gun rack to see what lies beneath.

The second level first holds a ballistic mask, complete with lenses to cover the eyes. Next to and beneath it are pieces of armor and clothing, all of which look to be of near-military grade. Michael fingers them, again recognizing elements without knowing how--SecureTech PPP Concealable Security Mark II, YNT SoftWeave in the camo suit--and then quickly shuts the briefcase shut. Maybe, he thinks, it would be good to leave this for the rest of the train ride. "Where are we going?" he asks the boy, who's still looking at him with wide-eyed wonder.

"Seattle." The boy screws up his face slightly, as though confused by the question, and then he blinks and looks Michael in the eyes again. "Who are you, mister?"

Michael considers saying I don't know, but he thinks of the SIN on the commlink and decides he may as well try it out. He smiles and holds out his hand for the boy to shake.

"I'm Michael Shepherd. Nice to meet you."

The first hitman came on one of Seattle's rare and cherished sunny afternoons. Michael Shepherd was in his apartment, watching a trid reality show and eating a soydog from the vendor down the street. It had been nearly two weeks since he came into Seattle, leaving the boy with his father to start making his own way. Michael Shepherd had apparently been saving funds for some time prior to this trip, and he had no trouble putting up enough money to get a nice enough apartment for the next couple months. It came sparsely furnished, but that was enough for the time being, and not springing for a pricier place meant he could live off the account for a while, and not start worrying about building his life right away. These last weeks hadn't been spent in pure lethargy by any means, but nor was he working a job or even actively delving into his situation too much. Things weren't too pressing just yet, and he had decided early on to try and relax a little while he had the chance.

Still, he was restless, and simply sitting around didn't quite work for him, no matter how he tried. This afternoon, even as he finished the soydog, he turned off the trid and stood to go for a jog. He was in good shape, he'd found, and he'd been exercising every day, figuring it would be wise and simple to maintain it. He didn't have a bodybuilder's physique, but he was lean, almost no fat on him, and he felt good--strong, healthy. So he turned off the show just as one woman started yelling at another, and was nearly at the door when he heard a small click from outside.

At that point instinct took over entirely, and time seemed to slow down as he slid tight against the wall, so he wouldn't be in instant view of whoever'd just cocked their gun outside. When they kicked the door open, Michael was hidden behind it, and when they stepped inside, pistol up in a trained firing stance, he grabbed their wrists before they even knew he was there. Two shots were fired by reflex, one shattering the trid screen and the other slamming into the plaster ceiling, and then Michael wrenched and pulled and the gun--an Ares Predator, suppressor threaded to the barrel--skidded across the floor.

The hitman was another human, with shaggy blond hair and a dusting of stubble across his jaw. He reacted quickly to the disarm, throwing a jab aimed for Michael's throat, but Michael was even quicker, and he twisted the fist up and around. Subconsciously, he wanted to keep twisting until he heard the crack of a broken or dislocated joint, but the blond man twisted with the arm, spinning and bending over backwards to keep it in place. Not expecting the maneuver, Michael was caught off-guard when the blond man's foot came up and clipped him in the jaw, and he staggered backwards. The hit was heavy, harder than it should have been given the angle. Bone lacing, Michael thought, shaking his head to clear the ringing and adopting a balanced stance. He's auged.

The next few seconds were a blur, with the blond man attacking and Michael countering. He knew the moves, could name them, even, but as with so many things he couldn't say how. All he knew was the right way to block that punch, how to dodge this kick so the elbow strike that followed would sail a centimeter over his head. The exchange was broken when the blond man overextended a snap kick and Michael, without thinking, slammed his hand into the man's face, his open palm crunching the cartilage of his nose. The sudden gout of blood made Michael pause, more in surprise than disgust. That pause allowed the blind man--He's auged, probably barely felt it, stupid--to wind up and deliver a spin kick that slammed into Michael's solar plexus and lifted him off of his feet, landing him nearly ten feet away at the base of the apartment's window.

Michael kicked the gun away on instinct, knowing the blond would likely go for it, and as he scrambled to his feet he saw he was right. The hitman had started to move forward for the pistol, but as it skidded across the floor he reached into his jacket and drew a long knife. Really? But all Michael could do was fight back, first snapping his leg up to kick at the man's abdomen, robbing him of his momentum, and then move into a series of blocks to defend himself from the knife. The pair spun and slashed and jabbed at one another, and this time Michael fell into the trap: he threw a jab where the blond was already gone, and though he had just enough speed to stop the knife from driving into his thigh, it left him off-balance, and the blond used his leverage and strength to flip Michael over the couch, landing heavily on--and breaking--the small plastic coffee table.

From there Michael rolled back to his feet, coming up again near the window, and the blond lunged forward again, knife outstretched. With no time to perform another kick, Michael waited for the last moment, and then spun and chopped at the man's legs. The maneuver was intended to drop the blond against the windowsill, but once again he misjudged the effect the augmentation might have. Barely without time to shout, let alone backpedal, the blond crashed through the glass, broke the thin, rusted rail of the fire escape, and plummeted out of view, down seventy feet to the asphalt below.

Michael stared after him for a split second, then stepped onto the fire escape and looked down. He quickly turned back inside, having confirmed that the blond was quite dead, and set about gathering his things. He had no idea what the hell was going on, but his instincts were still driving him on, and one thing was clear: it wasn't safe here. At the very least the cops would have some serious questions. It was time to move--and time to try and find out who Michael Shepherd was.

"Yeah," the woman said, spinning around in her chair. "I don't know who the hell Michael Shepherd is, but I can tell you one thing: you aren't him."

Michael was sitting in a loveseat, and glad to have a distraction from the collection of china dolls that seemed to be staring into his soul. The room was full of the things, and on some level it could make sense as the decor for a suburban home. This suburban home, however, was inhabited by the woman in the swivel chair, a shadow hacker he'd found after some digging through the Matrix. She went by the moniker L33tL0v3, and the community--those who deigned to respond to his posted questions--had directed him to her as one of the area's experts in identity cracking and related fields. When he'd contacted her, he hadn't expected a meeting; when he'd arrived for the meeting, he certainly hadn't expected a pleasant suburban ranch filled with creepy dolls.

"I retired from running six, seven years ago," she'd offered as an unrequested explanation when he stepped inside. "My husband proposed, and I'd made enough to get by for the rest of our lives, as long as he keeps his job and the corps keep doing what they do." She smiled, and if Michael didn't know she'd been a shadow decker for years, he would have placed her as just a suburban housewife. When he offered her his commlink and explained what it was he was looking for, though, that image quickly faded and she nearly skipped to her rig with mischievous glee. "Hate the danger, but I love the work," she'd said.

Now that she'd finished, Michael frowned and folded his hands in his lap. "What do you mean?"

L33tL0v3 shrugged. "I mean, Michael Shepherd isn't real. At least, you aren't really him." She spun back to her rig, tapped here and there, and a display screen lit up with what looked like a stream of code. "You hack?" she asked, and when Michael shook his head, she nodded. "Of course. So this doesn't make sense to you, but to someone like me, who can find it and read it, it's huge. Baseline is, the SIN is fake. It's a hell of a job. I don't think I could do any better, so I don't think you need to worry about it not working, but it isn't really you." She gave him a gentle look. "Sorry."

Michael--could he call himself that now?--took a slow breath. "So... what does that mean?"

Again, the woman shrugged. "Could mean a lot of things. There are a few clues. The quality means somebody good did this--maybe a corp, or someone with access to make the real deal. And near as I can tell, the trail deads out around sixty-four, which means it was probably made after the Crash. Plus your commlink is just about top-quality for civilians--basically anything higher-quality is on the military market." She taps some more, sifting through data and probably bringing up important details that Michael couldn't parse. "I'm not sure if there ever was a Michael Shepherd, and I'm not sure what you did before, well." She offered him another soft smile. "But whatever it was, it probably wasn't legal in the strictest sense. You said you had guns and gear when you, uh, woke up?"

Michael nodded. He'd told L33tL0v3 about the briefcases on the train, which he'd discovered also included a full-body suit complete with highly-restricted thermal damping. He hadn't mentioned the assassin, though--he hadn't wanted to worry her, or risk that she wouldn't meet him. She nodded back. "You did something dangerous, whatever it was, I think. I'd watch my back if I were you. I can hook you up with another SIN, it's easy enough to do with a bit more time. Of course, that's just the suggestion of a retired hacker."

He sat back, his hands in his lap once more. This wasn't what he'd come expecting to hear, and he was glad he'd decided to wear the full-body suit and stick the Urban Fighter in the Vashon Island's concealed holster. "What about long term?"

"Long term?" She tapped again, this time shutting things down, and after a few seconds turned back with his commlink in hand. "If you know how to use those guns, I'd say use 'em. You could get a wageslave job, I guess, but that's no way to end this story." She grinned, the mischief on her face once more. "And I sure as hell wanna hear from you again, Michael Shepherd. I took the liberty of adding myself to your contacts."

He took the device and looked. Marie Horowitz. He returned his gaze to her, and she laughed. "Well, one of us needed to have a real name."

Michael met Derek Wilson in a Stuffer Shack at 2:30 in the morning. Michael was staring at the canned soups, wondering which would taste best cold--he was squatting at the moment, hiding in a run-down apartment he'd only had to fight a couple gangers for. Just as he gave up and turned to get a NukeYourSelf brand soyburger, the elf tapped on a can of Creamy Tomato (now with real flavoring). "It's better warm, but it's not half-bad cold, you know?" Michael gave him a puzzled look, and the elf winked and lowered his voice. "I know hard times when I see them. And legitimate businessmen usually aren't shopping stuffers at this hour."

Michael frowned. He didn't own many clothes beyond the suitss, and none of them were armored. But he didn't know this elf. The words were unwarranted, unexpected, and with the way things had gone in the past couple of months--since meeting Marie, another stranger had attacked Michael, this time in a public restroom--they were suspicious. "I think you have me mistaken for someone else," he said. As he turned, he saw the elf raising his hands.

"Just trying to be friendly, chummer." The next comment was soft, almost under his breath, but Michael caught it. "And that's why I use the simsense..." Michael shook his head, but when he heard the elf moving away, he stepped back and picked up the can he'd pointed out.

As he was looking over the the ingredients--he couldn't pronounce half of them, let alone say what they were, but that was still more than most items in the Shack--Michael heard the elf again. "Hey, chummers--oh, drek, this isn't good." Michael looked up sharply, and had just enough time to count four figures before one of them threw a grenade. Michael hit the floor as stuffers and other cheap goods exploded above him, and screams rang out from the few other patrons inside--utter chaos erupting in the Shack.

As the ringing faded from his ears and he drew his pistol, Michael noticed the elf next to him. "Hey there, omae," he said, grinning as he pulled a commlink from his pocket. "You know what's going on here?"

Michael clicked off the safety on the pistol and carefully looked around the corner of the shelf. The hitmen seemed to be looking around, and one of them, a burly ork, was threatening the clerk, demanding if he'd seen a man in a suit come in. Good. He glanced back at the elf beside him. "Four idiots with more guns and balls than brains?"

The elf chuckled. "Sounds right to me. You know how to use that thing?" He nodded at the gun, and Michael nodded back. "Good. I provide a distraction, you think you can take them out?" Michael nodded again. "Anyone else standing up?" Michael risked another look, and then shook his head. "Arctic," the elf said. "Don't talk much, do you?" Michael couldn't help a chuckle, and shrugged. "Alright. Clean house in three, chum." With that, the elf tapped on his commlink and whispered, "Nexus, can I get a sweep and clear from Red, please? Make it three."

Michael didn't have enough time to wonder what that meant before he got an answer: a car alarm sounded outside, and he heard the gangers start yelling. Barely a moment later, there was a whirring sound followed by the rapid buzz of high-speed automatic gunfire, coupled with the shattering of glass and the explosion of stuffers and cheap home goods.

The fire lasted for precisely three seconds, and as soon as it ended, Michael was up and aiming. The ork was down already, collapsed onto the checkout counter and bleeding from at least a half-dozen shots in his torso. Michael's eyes swept the front of the store for the others, moving toward them to get a clear shot. One man staggered to his feet, and as soon as Michael saw that he was holding a shotgun, he fired twice, putting two rounds in the back of his neck. As that man went down, Michael saw another man step around a shelf, dressed in a long leather coat, raising his hands with fingers spread wide. Geek the mage, Michael thought, and with two more shots the ganger fell back, clutching at his throat as he toppled into the counter.

Where's number four? Michael had just enough time to wonder when he felt a pair of huge hands grab him from behind and lift him from the ground. Troll, he thought, and then he was crashing through what was left of a window and rolling across the ground outside. The suit wasn't really built for this kind of thing, but with the help of the full-body armor and additions underneath, he was saved from the worst of it--only his hands and face were really hurt, and just with surface scrapes and scratches. The real issue was being winded and stunned from the impact, and he'd dropped his gun somewhere along the way. Add in a stream of blood leaking into one eye, and he was in trouble.

Squinting and dazed, Michael pushed to a sitting position, hoping to get stock of the situation. A huge, hulking figure was clambering over the windowsill, and Michael couldn't see the pistol. He let his head reel back for a moment, trying to draw in a full breath, and saw what looked like a gun barrel poking from the hood of a car. There was a click, another whirring, and then it unloaded another burst fire. Michael dropped his gaze again, and saw the troll stagger backwards, hands outstretched, and then fall back inside the store as it hit the windowsill.

A few seconds later, the elf from inside stepped out the door, pocketing what looked like a handful of simsense cards. He paused to pick up Michael's pistol, then came over and held out his hand with a grin. "Good tumble there, chummer. Figured you weren't a usual suit." Michael took his hand and stood up, unsteady at first. "You move fast, you shoot straight. And all things considered, you're pretty good for getting troll-tossed. You got a team, omae? A name?"

Michael swiped his hand across his brow, clearing the blood from his eye. Since the second hitman, he'd been keeping to himself, laying low as best he could. But clearly that wouldn't always work, and maybe having an ally would help. The elf was strange, but he'd probably just saved Michael's life, and it wasn't everyone kept an automated machine gun in the hood of their car. "Michael Shepherd. And no, I'm on my own."

"Well not anymore. Derek Wilson." The elf grinned and hooked a thumb at the Shack. "I did mean a runner name, though. You have an alias?"

Michael tried to stifle a chuckle, but it slipped out. An alias is all I have. Catching Derek's questioning look, he made a decision and nodded. "Alias. That's it."

"You're joking." Derek stared at him for a few seconds, then smiled and shook his head. "That's either a weird sense of humor, or a lack of imagination. I'm guessing the former." He clapped his hands. "Now, let's talk job opportunities..."

Michael was in a soykaf store, mulling over a book on Awakened traditions with a mostly untouched cup on the table in front of him. It had been some time since the team fell apart back in Seattle; between Derek's growing BTL problem, Alter losing an arm, and one of Michael's "visitors" showing up on a stakeout, things had gone to drek all at once. He didn't really want to split, but it was the way things went, so he'd packed his things, burned the latest SIN, and hopped a train to get out of the city for a while. Since then, he was stagnant again, not sure of what to do or where to go, and he lived off his funds from running a hundred at a time, keeping costs down to stay off the grid as long as possible.

His reverie was interrupted by someone sitting down across the table. Michael looked up and saw an athletic man, maybe fifty, with graying blond hair and steel-gray eyes. He was clean-shaven, his hair combed back, wire-rimmed glasses perched on an aquiline nose. He was wearing a suit that Michael identified was nearly the same as his own: a Mortimer of London, patterned after classic styles from the middle of the 20th century. The man folded his hands on the table and looked directly at Michael. "Can I help you?"

"Perhaps. I'm here to help you, actually, Mister Shepherd." At first the stranger just sounded like he had an accent, but after a moment Michael realized he was speaking German--and Michael understood him perfectly. He'd come to realize he knew Japanese and Russian from dealings with organized crime, but German hadn't come up, and even the other languages didn't sound this fluid.

"Who are you?" Michael responded in the same tongue, feeling it roll out of his mouth, nearly as natural as English. "How do you know me?"

"These are questions for another time. Right now, Mister Shepherd, we should go. The clerk on duty is about to go on break, and his replacement has himself been replaced by a man who would very much like to end your life." The stranger smiled, but it truly failed to reach his eyes. "You have three options, but one of them is sitting here like a duck and dying. You could take the initiative and attempt to incapacitate your would-be assassin, but he is very highly skilled, as much so as yourself, I believe, and the ensuing fight would most likely leave you incapable of avoiding his backup."

Michael snorted and shook his head. "Okay. What's Plan C?"

The stranger spread his hands. "Deal with the backup instead. He has a motorcycle idling in the alley if you turn right when you leave the building. Deal with him and ride away." He glanced down at his wrist, pushed up the sleeve of his suit slightly to view a watch. "I'd suggest you go now."

It was the tone of his voice that made Michael get up and walk out. He didn't fully trust the man, didn't really trust him at all, but he was so serious, so deadpan and businesslike. If he wasn't telling the truth, he was still trouble, and the fact he knew Michael Shepherd's name--which wasn't what he'd been using for the past few months--meant something was up. It was time to move, get to his hideout, probably grab his things and get moving...

When he passed the alley, he glanced down, and sure enough there was an ork on a motorcycle, the engine idling, parked on its kickstand near the back door to the shop. The ork turned, saw Michael, and shouted, leaping off the bike and reaching for the gun that was visible inside his jacket.

Michael threw the book first. It was a pamphlet, really, digitally printed on a sheaf of electronic paper clamped together on one edge, and it only served to momentarily distract the ork. It bought precious seconds, though, and by the time the ork's pistol cleared its holster, the cup of soykaf hit him in the face. The cheap paper crumpled, and the ork howled as a concoction that was mostly boiling water splashed across his cheeks and eyes. He brought the gun up blindly and Michael easily disarmed him, then spun and planted his foot squarely into the ork's groin. With a groan, the ork tried to draw a knife, but Michael slammed his head against the brick wall, and the hitman dropped, unconscious.

"Impressive." Michael spun at the comment, and the stranger was at the mouth of the alley. "You truly are Michael Shepherd, aren't you." Then he drew a pistol from his coat, and Michael threw himself to the ground, rolling forward as the man fired. He came up jabbing, but the man had simply stepped back, and Michael took a moment before pivoting on his heels. Another ork was leaning in the doorway, a submachine gun falling from one limp hand, the other pressed to his chest in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding.

Michael spun back to the suited man, who'd already replaced his pistol. "I know you have questions. I'm sure you've learned by now that the people who try to kill you give no answers." Michael slowly nodded--interrogations in the past hadn't panned out, with any attackers he'd kept alive either cursing incessantly, finding a way to kill themselves (two had likely used cyanide capsules in false teeth), or both.

"I cannot tell you everything you want to know," the stranger continued. "In fact, I can tell you almost nothing. At least now. But I can help you, as I have helped you today. I'm not asking you to trust me, not yet. All I ask is that you think on it, and let me prove myself."

"Who are you?" Michael asked. He knew the man had refused once already, but he wouldn't leave without something to go on. "Why help me?"

The stranger paused as if in thought. "Why, indeed. Would you accept that I have my reasons?" He smiled again, and once more, his eyes remained hard and sharp, slices of flint behind glass. "I wouldn't worry so much about the why or who in your position, Mister Shepherd. I should think it's enough that someone is helping you at all, on your own as you are."

Michael stared at him for several seconds more, and then nodded. "Okay. Fine. But I need a name."

"You have one, Mister Shepherd. It may have belonged to another man, once, but today it is very much your own."

"You know what I mean."

"Of course." The stranger sighed and removed his glasses, as well as a kerchief from his breast pocket. "You may call me Mister Johannessen, Michael. I'll be in touch." He nodded at the other end of the alley. "You should get going."

Turning, Michael saw three Lone Star patrolmen coming up the alley, one with his handgun already out. Must have heard the gunshot. When he turned back to the stranger, he was gone. With a shake of his head, Michael made a dash for the motorcycle, ignoring the call for him to freeze and put his hands on the wall. Johannessen. Clever bastard.

When he wakes up, he's in an empty room, and his commlink is suddenly playing a message. He's been meditating, something he started a few months back when he decided to try a tradition. The one he settled on is unorthodox, spread out, and frankly not very serious, but its basic tenets fits suit him. The meditation is difficult, though. Usually he has trouble staying still for so long, just breathing in and out, and trying not to think. On the rare occasion he succeeds in clearing his mind, he often winds up falling asleep.

He shifts his eyes easily to the commlink's display, where an old face is looking at him. Derek Wilson. It's been years. "Hey chummer, long time no see, eh?" Derek's words barely scrape the surface of that concept, but the man nods, pleasantly surprised to see the elf. He's spent the last few years moving around, running here and there, keeping to small-time jobs that pay enough to move on when he's finished, but things haven't clicked. "How are you, chummer?" he asks, only for the elf to keep talking. Pre-recorded. Same old Derek.

The man sits quietly for the rest of the message, taking it in and mulling over Derek's proposition. He hadn't ever really hated Derek or the others--they had their differences, certainly, and Derek's slipping grasp on reality and the constant BTL use was a detriment both socially and pragmatically, but they weren't liable to try and kill him, and that put them a step above most people.

The documents look solid, the info sounds good. The biggest issues are the team, and the final comment. He had parted well with the others on his end, but he didn't know how they felt and there's no telling how things will go if they all come back together. Old wounds don't heal easily, especially the kind the team had when they split. On top of that, Derek called the job a milk run, and while he isn't superstitious, the man knows that the real milk run, the easy slot-and-run with no shots fired and no unforeseen trouble, is an urban myth.

He looks across the room, through the doorway to the only other room in his current home. In there, he knows, is an old mattress without a frame, and two briefcases that contain his worldly belongings: two guns, spare ammo, armored suits, and a few other odds and ends he's had since he first woke up on a train to Seattle. In that room is another memento of his current life: a dead elf, who came into the basement apartment two hours ago with an Ingram Smartgun and an apparent death wish. The man had taken the former and granted the latter. He could dispose of the body, he knew, and just move to another squat. But that hasn't worked in the past. It's time for a change, he thinks.

After another minute of silent contemplation, the man stands and collects his things. He leaves the building, the door open behind him, and begins walking down the street, looking for all the world like a regular suit--albeit with longer beard and hair than is in fashion right now. When he gets to the nearest train station he will purchase a ticket to Seattle, and then he will board and, perhaps against his better judgment, make his way back to an older life.

Michael Shepherd, the man known as Alias, is going home.