Reason

Acherus was, for lack of a better word, alive. With activity, at least, since its population’s living status continued on in the ‘un’ category. People rushed to and fro with packages and messages to be delivered, the runeforges were kept constantly busy with people intricately drawing their designs on the weapons that were to be sent out of the citadel, and the entire second floor was filled with the constant groans and complaints courtesy of its Master Siegesmith. The minions of Acherus’s denizens were even busy, carrying crates through gates, and orders to quarters, and even a number of items that one wrong slip would have ended with a small crater.

                Samuel Dorsey pushed through the crowded halls, muttering his orders to himself as he went. They had been due days ago, but there had been multiple other messages to be delivered, as well as other orders to be given, as well as document, filed, and sent away to be approved. With how deep into Acherus his administrators were, some might not have worried too much about the consequence of a delayed response to an order, but that was only because those people did not know just how far their hands could reach.

                The signal had come, and now he was due to follow his orders and deliver the orders to the person he had been directed to. Worgen. 1113^th. Those were the specifics. He slowly counted off the doors. The 400^th, the 567^th, the 890^th. There. One clean tag next to a large wooden door marked with ‘1113^th’, alongside multiple others that had long since been covered in dust.

Dorsey contemplated knocking, bringing his hand up multiple times, before simply walking in. The Worgen in question was kneeled down in the corner of a room, digging through a wooden trunk. His nose lifted up slightly, ear twitching as the human man entered.

“Bit busy,” the Worgen said, not looking up from the trunk.

Dorsey held up a small envelope, even though the Worgen had his back to him, “New orders in, sir.”

The Worgen snorted, motioning back towards his desk, which Dorsey noted to be piled high with papers, "Toss “em on there. Already have a dozen other things to fill out on the ‘Iron Horde’ and all that. Not that that’s gonna be happenin’ for a while.”

“And why is that, sir?” the man frowned, continuing to hold the envelope out as it was going to be taken by some unseen third person.

Finally standing, the Worgen hefted a large blue mace from the trunk, turning to look the man over. Holding the item up, the creature smirked, showing off a number of sharp teeth, “Plan on bein’ a bit too concerned with fightin’ ‘em over writin’ for the privelage to do so.” Placing the mace on the floor and allowing its hilt to rest against the desk, the Worgen began scooping up a few scattered pieces of armor from the floor.

Dorsey coughed into his free hand, holding the envelope back out, “You are going to take this, sir, as they are your current orders regarding the Blasted Lands and the Dark Portal. You are due on one of the lower floors in approximately two hours, after which your schedule shall be your own, as long as it fits within the orders enclosed.” He let out a small sigh of relief that he hadn’t forgotten the entire speech.

The Worgen finally looked back to the interloper in his office, walking over to snatch the envelope from his hands. Running a claw along it, he tore the paper open, pulling out the note from inside. After his eyes had made their way down the page, he looked up to the man, “And who the hell’s givin’ me these orders.” It was a question, though the way he said it almost made Dorsey believe it to be a rhetorical one.

The human gulped, pointing to the floor, “People far above our pay grades.”

The General snorted, “I’ve never been one for lettin’ those types worry me too much. Issue I inherited from my predecessors.”

“I advise you do not neglect these ones, General. Their will lines up with your own, so it would be out of spite more than anything, I’m sure,” Dorsey said, failing to include the part where if the Worgen chose to do so he would more than likely have found out just how cold the ones assigning the orders could and would be.

Redamous grunted, looking the sheet over again. Motioning towards the door, he growled, “Show me where I’m headed, then.”

Sight

                "We will assume you have already read through the reports,” the one on the right said, his focus firmly on the elf.

                The voice was cold. Not just in the sense that the person, if they could even be called such now, was so definite in their delivery, but because the very act of their speaking would have caused metal to frost over. Regardless of what the two behind the desk had been prior to their present assignment, now all she could ever compare them to is some sort of ice that had gained sentience.

                She stood straight, her back stiff as the metal walls that made up the room. Her attention was focused on neither of the two figures that sat behind the desk in front of her, but rather the space between them. It was pointless to try to give one of them more attention than the other, especially once they began to converse rapidly. One who thought they were some unified being separated into two icy shells would not have been alone in the thought.

                Offering her superior a nod, a noticeable action with her lack of motion, she spoke firmly, but nowhere near as glacier-sounding as the two, “Yes, sir, I have read the reports.”

                The other one spoke now, her words being likely just what his would have been had it been his turn, “Then we do not need to explain the expected situation. However the Orc decides to lead whatever forces he may acquire, we will respond.”

                He took his turn, picking up on the end of her words, “And thus we will need some form of forces settling into whatever area he decides to make his incursion in, wherever it may be. Azeroth or Outland. Multiple bases of operation could be required, depending on the scope of the attack.”

                The elf nodded, “And I shall oversee one of them, I would expect.”

                With many of the other superiors of Acherus, one’s failure at grasping at the direction their orders would go was a wonderful source of amusement. Such was not the case when it came to the two here.

                The one of the left responded, no malice or amusement in her voice, simply certainty, “Incorrect. You will be assigned to an expedition alongside others, under the command of a current officer among the Blade.”

                The elf’s stance nearly faltered, but she caught herself before such was allowed. “I see,” she said, “And who shall that be then, sir, ma’am?”

                He slowly slid a thick file across the desk, his boney, gloved hand somehow having the strength to do so. The elf almost assumed the two were frail as could be, but they never gave her reason to believe their appearance matched their capabilities.

                She allowed her hands to leave their position from behind her back, taking the file, and flipping through it. She produced a photo, eyeing the subject of the file over, before tucking it under her arm, “What is my position among this expedition?”

                “We require vision. Both in reports on the progress of this potential unit, as well as confirming that it fits our vision. As such, you shall be considered a second of sorts,” she began.

                “A translator. Someone who should be at his side at all times, especially during potentially major decisions. It is not unlikely that some interaction with those among the Horde, and even those among the Alliance who use such foreign tongues, will be required. As such, your position will be of import,” he continued.

                “Would you offer any other parting words on my future ‘commander’ then, sir and ma’am,” she said, prepared to depart.

                The two glanced at each other, before he spoke. Despite his words, his tone carried a sense of fact, over any form of malice or ill-thoughts, “He is a righteous, ‘honorable’ fool. Such means that his methods and actions may not match our intent.”

                “Which means that he will potentially become an issue to furthering the Blade’s objectives, and as such, means that possible removal of the error and the error maker may be in order. Should such occur, you shall be the likely candidate to take his position.”

                The elf nodded, saluted, and left.

               

Beneath, Part 1

Destiny is a first-person "shared world" video game, created by Bungie, best known for their work on the Halo series up until Halo: Reach. All of these names, lore and other related things to it, is theirs. This section was written as a quick(at least that was the original intention) rundown on Destiny's world and backstory. It got a hell of a lot longer than intended.

A Brief Overview of Destiny

                Destiny takes place in a futuristic version of our own timeline, hundreds of years after an era known as the “Golden Age”. The Golden Age began after mankind discovered an entity was terraforming Mars, and had already completed doing so to most of the other planets in the Solar System. Upon investigation, we found what would come to be called the Traveler, a giant white orb. The Traveler would assist in helping Earth’s citizens expand to other planets and beyond, with the human race experiencing a long period of peace, and advances in technology.

                While the things we didn’t know about the Traveler were likely numerous, the largest detail that was omitted to us was that the Traveler was being pursued by an entity referred to as the Darkness. Upon its arrival, the Golden Age ended, and we moved into a time known as the Collapse. The details of the Collapse were lost due to the nature of it, as our far out colonies began to slowly cease to respond, and we were continuously pushed back by unknown forces. As far as we were aware, the only thing that saved us from it was the Traveler. What remained of humans was scattered across Earth, eventually coming together to form the City, also known as the Last City.

                The Last City would be just that, the last known city, and the last known sanctuary of the Traveler and the races that stood under it, which included humans, Awoken, and the Exo. Humans are descendants of those that once ruled Earth.

Awoken are a race that surfaced out of the Reef, an asteroid belt littered with the parts of ships that had attempted to escape Earth. Little is known of the Awoken that live in the Reef itself, aside from that they are ruled by a queen who is referred to as only such. Those that reside away from the Reef are met with suspicion equal to the other races of the system.




Exo are humanoid robots, built at an unspecified time to combat an unknown threat, whose inner workings have been lost to the ages. Sentient, Exos can be considered just as ‘human’ as anything else.

                The City is also home to the Tower, base of operations of the Guardians of the City, and their various suppliers. The Traveler’s last act prior to falling dor
mant was to create Ghosts, small floating devices, imbued with the energy it itself seemed to function off of, known as the Light. These Ghosts sought out deceased heroes, and returned them to life (though they are not undead), with the ability to channel the Light in various ways, and bringing them
in among the ranks of the Guardians.

                Most Guardians fall into one of three categories, each with their own ‘Vanguard’ to command and guide that section of the Guardians. Titans are known for their heavier armor, and for being at the front and center of any fight. Hunters on the other hand are known for their preference for distance, accuracy, and at times stealth. Warlocks are the scholars among the Guardians ranks, known for their research into ways of channeling the Light, whether through pure methods or through ‘the Void’.

                These Guardians are the first line of defense against species of aliens which appear to fight for the Darkness, but are also known to fight against each other for territory.

The Fallen are scavengers, who appeared after humanity’s collapse. Insignias and colors imply that they once far more powerful than they once were, though their individual, warring ‘houses’ still remain. Their lowliest members include dregs, two armed creatures hoping to one day earn their way up to having four, which would make them Vandals, who eventually hope to earn enough of a following to become Captains. Each house is united under either a Kell, a large, powerful Fallen, or a Servitor, a large, floating purple eye-like creature, that are usually objects of worship.

                The Hive are an ancient, undead-like race, whose battle with humans can be traced back to the end of their Golden Age. Ranging in size from the humanoid Acolyte to the hulking Ogre, the Hive’s spread is extremely hard to tell, as they work mostly underground, surfacing to strike from caves.

                The Vex are a robotic race, capable of manipulating space to teleport, as well as having an unknown grasp on the ability to bend and manipulate time itself. Connected through a vast Collective, the Vex are known for their entrance through dark clouds, and their constant advancing.

   

             The Cabal are a species of large creatures, known best for their large environment suits fitted to allow them to survive on planets with gravity far less than their own. Equipped with the ability to boost from position to position, the Cabal supplement their slower movement with large siege weaponry, ranging from tanks to weapons far beyond belief, to the point where they have earned the reputation of destroying planets “just for getting in their way”.

                Guided by their Vanguards and the Speaker, an ancient scholar of unknown origins who speaks for the Traveler until it finds “its voice”, Guardians are expected to combat these various threats, all the while seeking out new ways to help restore their place in the universe, and heal the Traveler.

Guarding the Guard

                “I’ve been told that exact same thing a log, Captain, and it’s never once been true. Not even close.”

                “I’d prefer it if you’d skip any stories and go right to their morals, Guardian.”

                The Guardian turned his head slightly to look at the other man, his expression of annoyance at the Guard Captain hidden by his helmet.

                “The moral, Captain, is that I don’t believe in an ‘easy’ patrol, regardless of how it is described by the person assigning it.”

                The Captain took his turn to look annoyed, “I’m assuming you also think you should be accompanying other Guardians.”

                His counterpart nodded, “It tends to risk city guards less, yeah.”

                They paused as the ground in front of them reached a steep drop, the men trailing behind them halting as well. Below them the sand and earth of the desert had been moved, a quarry having been left in their place. A number of metal buildings were scattered across the floor of the quarry, amidst mining equipment, all covered by years’ worth of sand that had been blown back into the giant bowl.

                “Looks empty,” the Guard Captain said, pulling a small spyglass from his belt to observe the ground below.

                “Doesn’t mean anything,” the Guardian replied, requiring no tool to get a better view of the ground below, his helmet magnifying it for him. He pointed towards the far side of the quarry, where a number of black spots stood out against the stone walls, “Caves.”

                The Captain nodded, “All the monsters are probably holed up in there. Means we’ve got to go to them.”

                His counterpart nodded, pointing to the east where the land rose above the old mining operation until it reached a small metallic outpost, muttering “Gonna move up there.” As the Captain nodded, turning to head down towards the quarry, the Guardian caught him by the shoulder, voice firm, “Stay out of the caves.”

                The Captain only nodded in return, ruining his expectations of a smart remark, or some form of resistance.

                Slowly making his way up to his post, the Guardian couldn’t help but notice the vast expanse of desert that stretched out not just beyond the quarry, but in every direction. It reminded him more of his brief stint on Mars than it did anywhere else he had seen on Earth. If not for the few buildings below and the one that would soon be his snipers nest, it would have been nearly impossible to know if humans had ever even seen the inside of the desert.

                “This isn’t a good idea,” the familiar voice of his Ghost stated, popping into existence behind him.

                “Not in the slightest,” he responded, not bothering to turn towards the voice. “But it’s better than them going up here alone.”

                “How long do you give them?”

                He rolled his eyes, even if the motion was hidden, “Always the positive one.”

                “It is called being a realist, apparently,” the floating piece of metal responded.

                “Been digging in the Cryptarch’s dictionaries again, I see.” The Ghost’s lack of response made him grin ever so slightly.

                The area overlooking the quarry was simpler than he had expected it to be. A long metal platform extended slightly past the steep stone wall of the quarry, offering whoever dared to stand on the aging piece of rusted metal a good view of most of the operation below. At one point a small metal chair must have sat at the edge of it, the small mark of where the legs had been still remaining.

                At the end of the platform that still made contact with the ground stood a degrading shack, which was made of two rooms at the most. One of the windows had long ago been left open, and sand poured out from inside.

                He stepped with caution onto the metal platform, wincing at the loud groan that the action produced. Repeating the process, slowly stepping forward and taking the time to grimace at the groans of the metal, he eventually reached the edge of the platform.

                Kneeling down, he drew the rifle that had been slung on his back, pressing the visor of his helmet against it, hand working to slowly adjust the scope until his view of the party below was clear.

                “What’s your guess on the wind speed?” he asked to the empty air.

                The floating device materialized again, its pieces shifting slightly, eye looking about as it calculated, “Minimal.”

                He gave the slightest of nods, “Minimal wind speed, and moderate distance.” Raising his voice slightly, he spoke to the party below, knowing full well the Ghost would transmit the message, “Start moving up, Captain.”

                Below, the set of soldiers began a slow advance into the quarry, looking more like ants moving across the ground than people. The platform creaked again, causing him to tense, waiting for it to give way, yet it remained where it had for years.

                The Captain’s voice filtered into his helmet, “Looks deserted down here.”

                “Har,” he responded, trying not to groan at the horrible pun.

                He turned his body slightly to be able to look towards the caves, waiting. It was only a matter of time. Pulling the bolt of the rifle back, his breathing slowed. The platform creaked yet again.

                The Guardian froze, a feeling of pressure appearing on the back of his neck. Small and narrow. Like the barrel of a gun.

                “Hold fire.”

                The voice came from behind him and to the right. Whoever it was had to be of the more civilized races in the system, at least that was his guess considering their choice of language, female, based on the pitch of the voice, and potentially left handed, considering they holding the gun more to the right of his neck. That was only if they were facing the quarry, though.

                He tried to look over his shoulder, but didn’t risk overdoing the motion, and instead only caught a glimpse of his own cloak.

                “Something’s coming,” the voice of the Guard Captain trickled through again.

                His gaze returned to the rifle’s scope, which was still focused on the cave entrances. The Captain wasn’t wrong, though ‘something’ was very much an understatement.

                At least twenty creatures emerged from the caves, twisted and grey, sprinting towards the Captain’s group, shrieking, claws and teeth at the ready. Thrall. His finger tightened over the trigger, as his captor’s weapon pressed more against his neck, her voice calm, “Hold fire.”

                “They’ll die,” he said, attempting to not sound hostile, and failing completely.

                “Eventually.”

                The city guards didn’t wait long, opening fire on their attackers almost immediately. As their weapons ran dry and their would be ends drew closer, some of them resorted to swinging their guns as though they were cudgels, finishing off the remaining feral monstrosities. He let out a sigh of relief, focus turning to the caves as the guard reloaded.

                “They can survive a group of Thrall. That bodes well for them.” His head turned in her direction again, a frown forming on his face.

                The Guardian’s attention returned to the battlefield below as shots began to ring out once again. More figures were emerging from the cave, some of similar height to their human opponents, others towering over them all, ally and opposition alike. Their flesh was nearly as black as the caves they were exiting.

                The city guard let off a few shots, before retreating to the hollow buildings they had passed by earlier, the Acolytes and Knights of the Hive firing on them. At least three of the squad of fifteen falling. Tempting as it was to begin covering their retreat, he was still well aware of the weapon pressed against his neck. There had to be a way of removing it.

                “Few losses against Hive infantry.”

                He jerked his elbow back, making contact with her leg, pressure leaving his neck as she staggered backward. Turning quickly to follow up the blow, a strike from her right fist met him, sending him to the ground, flat on his back.

                She slowly approached him, adorned in a purple overcoat, the rest of her attire matching. The purple helmet that hid her face was turned down towards him, the darkened visor hiding its owner’s expression just as his own did. She held a revolver in her left hand, pointed directly at his chest.

                “It’s rude to interrupt someone while they are in the middle of something,” she said.

                He snorted, “Said the pot to the kettle.”

                Her head tilted to the side slightly, as if to ponder his words for a moment, before her attention returned to the battle below. “They’re doing far better than you expected them to.” She spoke as though she was observing an ant farm.

                His right hand inched slowly towards the holster hanging on his belt, focus remaining on his captor, “They could be doing better.”

                “You would like to think that, I’m sure.”

                Despite her words, going off of the noises coming from below, his conclusion was far grimmer than hers.

Preparations

 
             The room was sizeable, which was an oddity in and of itself. Space would always be limited, unless one wanted to bring mages and their various tinkerings with temporal order into the conversation, and no exception to that rule was given to Acherus. But for a room to be of decent size in the necropolis, and an office of all rooms was practically unheard. Unless of course one happened to be standing within some of the deepest offices delegated to the highest, or lowest depending on how you looked at it, of the Acherus Central hierarchy.

                To most of the world, namely the living, the room was essentially a large freezer, minus the meats that might usually be contained in one. The room’s metallic walls, which had been selected in place of the structure’s usual stone, only added to the effect.

In the center of the room sat a broad desk, with low-lit lamps resting on top of it, the fire inside of them burning a lich blue. The blue hues they cast matched the glow produced by the eyes of the figures who sat behind the desk, their features hidden in the recesses of their seemingly endless hoods.

As far as he was concerned, this was the closest he could ever be brought to some circle of some Hell he had read about during his days of studying religion abroad. The circle dedicated to those who had refused to send in their taxes with everything signed in triplicate, who at the same time had committed the act of stealing firewood in the winter. Not that he had done either of those things. Or at least, not that he would admit to have doing either of those things.

Samuel Dorsey brought the folder that had been requested by the two and placed it in front of them. He had never been informed of their names, and as far as he was aware they no longer had any. They were simply wraiths of puppeteers, left to haunt Acherus and continue to pull at an endless amount of unseen strings, left to the orders of the Highlord far above.

One of them extended their hand, which even within its glove appeared boney, and pulled the folder back, slowly working through the various papers within. The only reason he could tell they were actually looking at them was because the orbs housed deep within their cowls. Finally the orbs once again seemed to focus on him, a voice emanating from the figure’s general direction.

“How accurate do you believe these reports to be?” the one on the left said, the voice decidedly male. It was hard to even describe the noise as a voice, as it sounded closer to a deep, icy wind.

“Our sources have given us truthful information thus far, sir,” Dorsey answered, noticeably more ‘normal’ sounding in comparison. “The information we have received thus far has been mostly factual, save for an estimated eleven percent of the reports. That is a high statistic in comparison to a number of our other informants.”

“But there is no estimated time of an event.” That voice came from the figure on the right, and while just as icy, was more feminine.

“No, ma’am,” Dorsey responded, shifting his attention to the right now. “We have only word that the trial in Pandaria did not go as planned, and that it could be expected that something sizeable will be occurring at some point in the future.”

“Then we will need to respond,” the one on the left said, taking a pause as if to consider his words, “To whatever situation will present itself.”

“If it is comparable to the last number of incidents, it is possible that there will be an incursion on another section of the world,” she responded, the two beginning to talk amongst themselves.

“Should that be the case then we shall need increase representation in the conflict, from either side. Simply placing allowing Knights to fight on either side has not allowed our image to remain in high spirits, I am certain.”

“Thus a firm encampment or garrison is advised. Assign a small team of specialists for decreased losses but more likely chances of versatility in the field.”

“The leader of the party would not necessarily need to be of import, though some standing with rank could give the appearance of such.”

“Someone expendable.”

They both focused their gaze on Dorsey again, a note one of them had been writing as they spoke being tucked into an envelope which they slid towards him. On the envelope was written a brief set of instructions:

“Upon receiving the proper signals, this letter is to be delivered to its intended recipient.”

               

Apparitions

Written while listening to "I Believe" as performed by Melissa Hollick (Link)

 

            She slowly shuffled her way around the ring that made up the upper floors of Acherus, looking this way and that with disinterest. It should disgust her, it should make her stomach roll, if not worse, and yet it did nothing to her anymore. Instead of being filled with things that she could not have even summoned up in her nightmares, numerous years had left it as just another place.

            Idly dragging her hand across the stone as she went, she allowed her eyes to continue to wander. Her feet came to a rest once she had come across the “Unholy” quarter. The entire place could have been summed up with such a word, yet they delegated it to this one spot in it.

            The acolytes were going about the same routine they always were. Skeletons. Ghouls. Geists. Clean up the bits, rinse, and repeat. The Blood Quarter was much the same. Repeating the same routine. Going through self-defense, practicing, repeat. In the Frost Quarter that routine involved, unsurprisingly, freezing things, or avoiding being frozen. It was all as it had been yesterday, and as it would be tomorrow, and it still no longer bothered her.

            Making her way upstairs, she could not help but notice that even those whose business revolved. Corvus complained as he had to toll away at his work, or lack thereof at times, despite the fact that many, herself included, would have been satisfied to have work to do. The abominations and other ghoulish servants delegated to managing transactions of the bartering nature stood in their positions waiting for someone to come along to browse their wares, despite the fact that visits to the Ebon Hold were less common these days.

            Some continued to train in the combat pit, whether flailing against one of the wooden dummies that would inevitably need repaired by a geist at some point or among each other, though the latter was sometimes done in the Enclave, for a change of scenery, or for fear of drawing unwanted attention she did not know. It did not take much for faction-held beliefs to spill out in the Hold, and she had witnessed such multiple times when she decided to wander. Even in a place dedicated to one cause, that was filled with those from both sides of conflict, it continued on.

            Conflict. Another thing she was desensitized to hearing of. Similarly, it was something that had disgusted her but no longer did. It had not taken long to realize that such was just part of the larger world. Disagreement and fighting was part of its culture, yet so was cooperation and assistance. Every time it seemed that conflict could almost destroy, or every time conflict did destroy, it was put to a halt by other means and forced cooperation.

            Turning towards the balcony, she noted him, resting as usual against the railing and staring out over the Plaguelands, despite the rain. She frowned slightly, shaking her head. Of all the things in the world, there of course had to be one thing remaining that she couldn’t be numbed towards. There was a small part of her that wanted to focus on how silly he appeared, standing in the rain, but the rest couldn’t help but wonder why.

            He blamed himself. Not just for any one thing, but for multiple things. Some of those things had long since been forgiven, or at least that’s what she told herself. That she had forgiven him. Others were things where the blame could not entirely sit on his shoulders, not that it would ever stop him from believing otherwise.

            She made her way out onto the balcony, standing next to him. He glanced towards her for a short moment, before his eyes returned to the view below. She gently leaned on him, following his gaze off into the distance, off towards the west.

            The western side of the Plaguelands, as she well knew, was nothing like its eastern counterpart. It stood as proof that the land’s wounds, given enough time, could heal. She turned her gaze up at him, noting the smallest of smiles on his face, where before it had been stoic. Allowing herself one as well, she returned to looking at the horizon.

Burial

     He squinted, leaning forward against the wheel to try to see better. Of course it had to have started raining. Mother Nature on duty for mood fitting weather, every time. With a flick of his thumbs he turned the wipers on high, shifting his left foot to tap the button on the floor to turn the highbeams on. It didn't help much, and if he wasn't careful he was going to miss his turn.

     The front left tire met with an indention in the road, rocking the entire car. Behind him in the trunk he could hear a rather loud, metallic 'thump'. His left foot began tapping nervously. That turn was close, it had to be close. It was about fifteen minutes away from where he had turned off the last time, and it had been about... He shook his head. How long had it been since he had turned off? His fingers drummed against the wheel in rhythm with his foot. The turn was coming up soon. He just had to be watching for it.

     A sign in to a view, causing him to tap the breaks just long enough to read it. One mile. It was one mile to his turn. Bringing his right hand to the top of his head, he cleared the sweat from his forehead. First step, get there. Second step, take it from there. Get there first. Right.

     His foot met the break as he saw the road that lead off to his destination off to his right. Were the road not soaked by this point, the tires probably would have given a horrible creak, but done little else. Instead the car swerved against his will, the rear swinging out to the left before he finally managed to bring it to a halt. Slowly he crept up to the road, turning down it. He felt the change from asphalt to dirt. Step one was finished.

     A crack of thunder lit the surrounding area for a short moment. Off to his left was a large metal gate, and beyond it a number of sleeping people he was going to do his best to not disturb. In fact, he had no plans of going anywhere near those inside of the gate. All of his business was to be conducted outside it.

     The gate eventually disappeared to be replaced by trees on both side. He stopped, putting the vehicle in park and turning it off. Reaching down, he popped the trunk open. Taking a breath in, he exited his car, turning grabbing the flashlight he had brought with him.

     "Take it easy," he muttered to himself.

     Approaching the rear of the car, he pulled the trunk fully open, shining the flashlight into it. Its contents consisted of a large, filled trash bag, and a shovel. He shuddered, shaking his head and looking away, wincing as he did so. Step two. Take it from there. He had to take it from there. He had to. Another crack of thunder came, causing him to tense up. Finish it. Get it done, and leave. He had to get it done, and leave.

     With a grimace, he heaved the trash bag over his shoulder, flashlight clutched tightly in his hand. The beam moved around here and there as he looked for a good spot, finally settling on a small area between a number of trees. Leaning over, he dropped the trash bag on the ground, setting the flashlight next to it so that he could still see it as he straightened it out, making sure it formed as much of a rectangle as he could possible manage.

     Taking the flashlight, he retreated to the car, retrieved the shovel, and returned to the spot. Once again positioning the flashlight on the ground, he took to pressing the shovel into the ground around the trash bag, until he had a solid line formed around it. Plunging the shovel into the ground next to him, he rolled the trash bag off to the side, before plucking his tool up again, beginning to attack the ground within his new line. Every now and then the area would again light up because of a new flash of lightning, which only seemed to cause him to dig faster and faster.

     Once he had reached what he thought was a suitable depth, he emerged from his new hole, pushing the trash bag back into it. It hit the ground with a soft 'thud'. He returned to work, replacing the dirt he had pulled from the Earth to where he had found it, slowly filling the hole. He was sweating again, but at least this time it was from the labor.

     When the job was done, he admired his work for a moment, resting forward against the shovel. The ground was flattened as best he could manage it. For now the most he could hope is that the grass would grow over quickly, as the dirt was quite obvious with the green surrounding it. His left foot tapped rapidly again.

     He took slow breaths as he returned to his vehicle, replaced his tool where he had found it, and closed the trunk. A crack of thunder filled the air with sound for a short moment, caused by some strike of lightning he hadn't noticed. Returning to his position behind the wheel, he started the car, turning and heading back down the road he had came from. Eventually the metal gate appeared to his right again, lightning occasionally revealing what exactly it was protecting.

     He gave a soft chuckle, that turned into manic giggle. He squinted in the darkness, insuring that he wouldn't miss his turn. Finding the main road proved to be far simpler than finding this back one had been. Glancing to his right as the area was once again shone for a brief moment, he almost could have sworn he saw someone inside the gate, with a shovel and a small flashlight. Another short laugh escaped him. At least he wasn't some grave digger.

     What a horrible person a soul had to be to do something like that.

Shadowrun: Mistakes

The night air was cool. Fall was settling into Seattle early, it seemed. It didn't help the warehouse wasn't too far up from the ocean. He shivered slightly, tugging his collar up. Of course they weren't going to be assigning winter gear for another two weeks. His comm buzzed slightly from where it was left to hang on his belt, a man's voice coming through, “Report in.”

Nate pulled the comm off his belt and up to his mouth, “All quiet on the western front.” Around him the small alley he was set to patrol and monitor was silent as the grave.

“And what about you other two?” the man said. Henry Innes, head of security at this particular warehouse. Unlike the other heads of security Nate had had in the past, thus far he seemed like a decent sort. Sure as hell was hard to come by, as far as he had found.

Nate glanced around awkwardly even though there wasn't anyone around to be watching him for a nervous twitch, “Think they're taking their fifteen minute break.”

“At the same time?”

“Somethin' like that.”

Innes grumbled, “Well if they want a nice evening screw maybe they're better served to not be employed.”

A man of tact, as always. It was one of his respectable traits.

A woman's voice broke into the comm, an accent to it, “I have no idea what Malcolm is speaking of, sir.”

A third man broke in right after she spoke, “Got me.”

Innes gave a snort, “Of course you don't.”

Nathan Malcolm sighed, shaking his head. They would go on for sometime, back and forth with too many retorts to count. He replaced the comm on his belt, deciding it better to just look his rifle over.

Just another night at Evo's Seattle Warehouse 34B.

After about fifteen minutes, the argument was over and the status quo as usual didn't budge an inch. In the few conversations Innes and Nate had had outside of work, it was quite clear that the former really didn't see much point in it. The two were vigilant as the night was black for all but fifteen minutes of the night, and there were enough cameras to cover them for those fifteen minutes, as he put it. If he fired them he would have just had to find two more that probably would have had far less military training.

Nate had offered him a small chuckle, “That mean I'm more replaceable than them?”

Innes had shook his head, “Nah. Gotta have somebody to that can open the door to the security locker room when Mike locks us out.”

It wasn't exactly a great compliment, but it certainly gave him the impression that he had some sort of job security, even if it was as a glorified locksmith via the Matrix. Especially since Mike enjoyed locking them out, even more so on the longer hauls through the evening.

Nate had the impression that tonight was going to be one of those longer hauls. Every now and then he would shoot his watch a short look, only to see it had been all of ten minutes since the last time he had done so. Eventually an hour had passed, and then two. There were points where his head drooped slightly before it jerked back up, blinking a few times and pacing a bit to wake himself up. How he managed to even get drowsy in the chilly air surprised him.

Despite his near-naps, his rifle remained drawn, ready to fire should the need arise. “Always be prepared,” as Innes made sure to tell them all on at least a weekly, if not nightly, basis. “Because you never know when some punk Shadowrunner's gonna come around that corner and make a play on you.”

There was another near-nap coming on. He could feel it coming. Maybe he could just rest his eyes for a bit. It couldn't hurt. Just rest his eyes for a few moments, and then he'd be all rested up and ready to be fully on guard.

His comm beeped.

Nate's head jerked upward again. Nope. No no no. Now was not the time to be napping, obviously. He pulled his comm off his belt yet again, blinking as he saw the caller.

“Uh. Evenin',” he said, trying to not sound caught off guard.

The voice on the other end sounded as smooth as could be, “Hi there stranger.” He shook his head, trying to think of something to say, but she beat him to it. “What are you up to?”

“Uh,” he couldn't even think of a reason she would be calling this late, “Working. You?”

“Just sitting around. Thinking.”

“Oh yeah?” Nate asked, shaking his head. This wasn't going to go anywhere good. “What about?”

“Oh, you know. Things.”

He sighed silently. Why she had to be so vague sometimes was beyond him. “Well. That's specific.”

“Can,” she started to say, trailing off for a moment, “Can you come up here? Please?”

He took a few steps away from the building, rubbing his eyes, “Right now?” She didn't answer, and he wasn't even sure as to why he asked.

His fingers drummed nervously against his leg as the cab slowly made its way through the straights, his eyes set firmly out from the window. The driver would occasionally glance back at him in his rearview mirror, but didn't say anything. Outside the slums and lower-class neighborhoods were giving way to cleaner streets, that lacked the peddlers and things that defined less savory parts of town. Ironically, it was in this part of town that he would never actually feel comfortable, and he only came out here for one reason: Nicole Brenner.

Nate only knew her because he got shoved on the security team that was supposed to cover her when she was getting shown off by her father at some corporate event. Small talk during the event had turned into an invitation for dinner. Things had gone on from there. There had been points where he could have sworn she was the reason he still had a job, even if she had denied it every time he had brought it up.

By his count that had been maybe a year and a half ago. That seemed right to him. About a year and a half ago after he had gotten kicked off his last job for some product not making it to ship date on time. Those courses certainly paid off. All those years of telling his folks he wouldn't go into security work down the drain. He would at least give them one pro about them. The positions were plentiful.

The cab finally stopped in front of tall apartment complex. In appearance, it made the place he lived in look like a cardboard box. Maybe a bit worse than that. He paid his tab, plus a bit more, telling the driver he probably wouldn't be long.

The doorman straightened up slightly as he entered, offering him a small tip of his hat and a murmur of “Mister Malcolm.” Nate nodded in return. He should probably get that guy's name at some point so he could say something similar in return. The man in the elevator did the same, not even bothering to ask which floor he was going to.

The errant security guard watched the floor number slowly rise, tapping his foot against the carpeted floor in a steady rhythm.

“You seem a bit on edge, mister Malcolm,” the elevator man mused, hands folded behind his back. Despite the fact he was a dwarf, he didn't have much of an accent. Nate could recall Nicole having told him it had something to do with an accent not being “appealing” to the places tenants, whatever the hell that meant.

“It's nothin',” he muttered, shrugging.

The dwarf nodded in return, “I've heard that a few times, sir.”

“How many times were it truthful?”

“Very few.”

The doors slid open slowly, and Nate stepped out. His progress down the hallway was slow and steady. Last door on the right. That was his target. Get in, hear what she wanted to say, and deal with whatever situation that presented, and get back as quickly as possible. This was obviously going to end just fine. Obviously.

Reaching the door, he brought his hand up to knock, having to take a few tries to actually bring himself to do so. Get in. Get whatever needed done done. Stick to the plan.

A minute passed before she actually opened the door. She was dressed in a shirt made of a fabric he'd likely never heard of, with pants to match, her brown hair pulled back. Nicole smiled at him, motioning inside, “Fancy seeing you here.”

He nodded slightly, stepping inside just enough for her to close the door. “Ain't staying long,” he said as firmly as he felt was safe, “Gotta be back soon enough.” That was a lie. He shouldn't have left in the first place.

She shrugged her shoulders, resting back against the wall next to the door, arms crossing, “I can make it short.”

“Just couldn't say it over a comm.”

“Nope,” she said, shaking her head. “Couldn't say it over a comm.” He didn't say anything more, resting against the wall opposite her, fingers still drumming against his leg. “So I was doing some thinking,” she started, waiting for a response. He didn't give her one. “About something you mentioned a week or two back.”

His eyebrow slowly raised as he tried to recall the things he had mentioned in the past week. Nothing particular sprang to mind besides...

“And I finally decided that yeah, I figure if there's one guy in this city I'd hitch myself to it's...”

“What.”

She blinked a few times, “What?”

“You seriously mean that.”

“I do.”

The cab driver glanced over his shoulder as his previous customer re-entered, just like he said he would be doing. Except instead of looking like he was about ready to have a panic attack, he looked like someone had just hooked up jumper cables to his happy center.

“What the hell sorta quickie did you have in there?” the driver asked as he pulled back out onto the street.

“Didn't.”

“Seriously?”

“Nah.”

“Then what's got you so cheery?”

“I think I just got engaged.”

“To somebody in there?”

“Pretty sure.”

The driver snorted, shaking his head and muttering “Lucky bastard.”

His first impression of the alley he had been supposed to have been guarding for the last half hour or so were that it was just as he left it. As he drew closer to his spot, he saw more and more why that wasn't the case. The door he was supposed to be standing in front of was off its hinges, and he had the impression that someone armed with a blowtorch had had quite the time with said hinges.

He brought his rifle up slowly, muttering into his comm, “Problems.”

Innes wasn't exactly pleased by the phrase, “Define 'problems'.”

“Forced entry, by the looks,” he muttered, slowly approaching the door, leaning to the left to peer inside.

There had to be at least four people standing inside, all working on loading one crate onto a lifter. Shadowrunners dropping in for a bit of take-out. Among them were two humans, an orc, and an elf. The orc was staring him down, armed with a shotgun, which he cocked threateningly.

“Boss,” the orc said, looking over his shoulder.

One of the humans looked up from the crate, before the other two followed suit, all eyes on the door. The first human, a man with a number of tattoos running up and down his arms gave a small hand gesture. The orc nodded, stepping forward and firing. Nate jerked back to the right, turning and pressing his back to the wall.

“Was that a gunshot?” Innes shouted out over the comm. If Nate had been trying for any form of stealth, it was now far, far out the window.

Putting the muzzle of his rifle out, Nate fired off a few rounds. The orc let out a small grunt. Based on that noise, one of the bullets might have just grazed him. Retreating further down the building, he kneeled, waiting for the orc to emerge. He never did.

Instead whatever loader the shadowrunners had managed to hijack burst through one of the nearby garage doors, leaving a nice sized hole in its place. They had even managed to squeeze the orc on there. They sped by, ignoring him as they made their way around the corner. Nate could hear a few more gunshots, probably from one of the other three, before once again, the night was silent.

They hadn't even tripped an alarm.

“When did they show up?”

Innes was standing over Nathan as he sat in the break room. The other two were dealing with the security boys that had shown up to begin an investigation.

“I don't know.”

Henry Innes shook his head, looking up at the ceiling, “How the hell can you not know.”

“'Cause I wasn't there, Henry.”

Innes's hand was firmly on his face, “Of course not. You pick one night to run off. One night to run off.”

Nate said nothing.

Henry took a seat across from him, a coffee cup clinched firmly in his hand. Nothing he could say that was nice was going to be honest, and nothing he said that wasn't nice was going to let him sleep too well.

“They're gonna fire you, Nate,” Innes finally said, settling on honesty.

“Figured.”

“Hell. When they start looking at those tapes, they very well might just fire the other two.”

“I've been plannin' on needin' to job hunt for a hell of a lot longer than now.”

“Won't be easy.”

     “What, you implying people don't like seeing 'let a robbery occur' on a guy's resume? Never would've guessed.”

     Innes shook his head, “Don't get too positive on me now, kid.”

     There was a knock on the break room door. Innes looked passed Nathan, frowning. Standing, he walked towards the door, patting Nate on the back as he went, “My turn up to bat with the question brigade.”

     Nate nodded slowly, “Thanks. For keeping me around this long.”

    Innes glanced over his shoulder, “I'd say no problem, but at the present, I'd be lying through my damn teeth.”