[1] Broken Barge

The nostrils of the Troll visibly flare, widening as the rank stench of the duo approaches her. Her constitution was already steeled by the hazardous bile sizzling below deck. As they came into view the deficits of her genetics eased. Controlled, despoiling silts acutely focused on the physical features of the Elf that stood below her. A perfectly shaped jawline, pedicured eyelashes, smooth skin, slicked straight hair and lipstick. While the latter was an oddity, his appearance as a pampered, high born Elf was as repulsive to her as the foul stench coming from the bloody, putrid attire he was wearing. Her canines ground together, releasing a thick screech akin to the steel of a warehouse door scratching against the floor. Her gaze slanted to the left, observing the much shorter though bulky figure standing next to the Elf. A Dwarf. Recognition sparked in her mind. The streaks of salty white amidst the cinnamon brown hair. The scruffy beard and stocky build. The violently induced chemical compounds pouring into her system had fueled a frenzied urge to rip him apart. The mangled, slick and twisted scar tissue fissured around his abdomen was evidence enough. Both seemed to be attempting communication with her. It was a futile pursuit. She ignored them. "我想了。 Wǒ xiǎngle ." [I want off.] Complicit in her belief that these individuals were the only living humanoids still present on the barge, there was no reason left to wait. Her tone was Candid. Its meaning was direct: You get me off this barge, or I'll get myself off. Bravery was always tinged with insanity. Death was impartial, however.

"OKAY." The old man said from his perch on the sleek boat's deck. "Hǎo. Wǒ de mùbiāo shì ràng nǐ líkāi de cánhái. [Okay. I aim to get you off that wreck.]" "I aim to get everyone off that wreck!" He added on the back end of the cyberaugmented speech he directed at the troll. He looked down at the oil-splotch-sledge eating the boat. "That thing is worth three times as much of the salvage rights." He said as he pointed at it and the barge, "Do you claim the salvage you are standing on?" "Nǐ shēngchēng nǐ shì zhàn zài dǎlāo? [Do you claim the salvage you are standing on?]" He repeated to the troll, with the cybered language.

He supposed the question was just a courtesy. The captain had already changed his mind about the bargain they struck before leaving port. The sleek boat's crew started spilling out of hatchways. Two of them were carrying odd looking backpacks. Akin to landscaping vacuums. The two new men switched these units on. The equipment started belching white foam in meter sized blotches. Two more crewman appeared, and their units began to suck up the marshmellowy heaps just as they began to turn pink.

The initial statement pronounced by the hazy individual was gratifying for the Troll, but only mildly. Despite the innate comfort of a conversation in her own dialect, the situation was still suspicious. Applicable reasons for the presence of the humanoid and the boat weren't affable. In the sixth world everyone always irrefutably acted for just two reasons. Profit or survival. To the Troll the latter seemed absurd, but the first was always plausible no matter how inappropriate the circumstances appeared. Her cynicism was justified moments later as the person spoke. He laid out a pragmatic assessment of the rusted and submerged vessel that she was aboard. Even as a broken, busted and rotting corpse the pieces of the barge were worth something to someone. That was understandable. Nature ensured that even the most disfigured and forsaken corpses filled something's empty belly. His proposed query was deflected by the Troll's stony expression and creeping irritation. "我不在乎。 Wǒ bùzàihū. " [I don't care.] The source of her frustration was obvious. She didn't want a prolonged exchange with the individual. She didn't want some formal contracted agreement. She had no stake in the worth of the decrepit barge. She wanted one thing. To get back home. For its frigid nights, pungent squalor and dangerous environment, it was more familiar and workable. She had been gone a while so there would absolutely be changes, but her entire life had been a dynamic struggle. She'd deal with it. Her first assumption when the additional humanoids appeared on deck was that they were holding advanced weaponry. Within seconds her urge to recoil to cover subsided. The deafening wine of the machines' suction was overlooked. The gadgets were clearly doing something to the sludge. As the caustic liquid disappeared below her she turned and stepped to the center of the barge's deck. Opening her fists into clawed palms, she grit her teeth. The Troll's objective was simple. She would attempt to puncture the rusted steel and rip off a rectangular section big enough to ferry her. When the crew of the sleek craft were finished, she'd optimistically have her own improvised raft.

The old man watched the operation, watched the troll, observed the newcomers, and then decided it was moving too slowly. Their anxiety was visible. They wanted off that boat, and they wanted off it now. Just then, the ship's captain emerged from the hatchway. "Did you find your dwarf?" "More than that. Other survivors." the fixer answered, "Something over there has got them riled to no end. Suppose we can make it over there, so I can have a more face to face talk with them? That thing out there has to be subdued enough." The captain looked at the fixer with a hard gaze, then looked at the few survivors on board the crippled craft. "They getting the passenger rate?" "Must. They are obviously not fit to work any debts off. Besides, if that is our man, he's got a luxury liners expense paid." he reminded the captain. "The others, well, it is their salvage, they have more than enough to cover it." "Mr..." "Captain!" the old man interrupted, "They were here first." The trolls clawed fingers plunge into the seams of the weakened deck plate like butter. Despite physical and mental condition,there is a grace to the displayed brute force. The surface of the damaged barge comes apart and crumbles in the troll's hands. The fixer spins on his heel toward the noise. "WHOA!?! Wa! ? ! Wǒmen zhèngzài nǔlì jìn kěnéng kuài dì jiù kěyǐle! Wǒmen yǒu máotǎn, shípǐn hé tōngdào ānpái. Fàngsōng! Zuì huài shíqí yǐjīng guòqù. [WHOA!?! We are working as fast as we can! We have blankets, food, and passage arranged. Relax! The worst is over.]"

"Is there a way you can calm the troll down?" the old man directs at the elf and dwarf. "At that rate she's going, you won't have a boat left!"

For Striker: There is nothing fantastic about the boat. The bridge deck barely retained any shape. It was blasted mess. No smoke billowed from it. The attack may have been days before. The path he taken spilled him out on the other end of the open top deck of the barge. The engine housing behind and below the bridge is completely gone. He can hear something tearing up the barge toward the front. He is dangerously close to the surface of the water.

"You're damn right I claim this salvage! See, I'm the acting captain of this ship. The old captain is indisposed!." Gibs' grin turns into a grimace as he starts coughing. ... "I would go down with my ship, but I suppose you could buy it from me instead. I'll even give you a good deal!" Gibs leans against the railing, suppressing a laugh, knowing it would hurt like hell. "This is a package deal, unfortunately. You take all of us, or none at all!"

Annoyed and frustrated, Striker visibly looks tired possibly from the drugs and condition of being stuck on barge for so long. He was trained to survive, but nothing really prepared him for this. Fatigue setting he hides behind some rubble, takes a knee and reflects on everything he has seen, trying to cool down and calm himself while taking this brief rest. He prepares himself for what may come, he cracks his neck, stands up and slowly returns to where he heard the sound of tearing metal.. Striker curious to see what happened to the barge gets behind some cover and with one arm grasps something he can use to keep balance. With his other hand he tosses a hand sized piece of rubble left behind by the attack toward the sounds of tearing metal. Taking deep breaths he prepares to either run away from or attack what ever may appear from his action. He glances back a few times as he awaits the result of his action, continuing to clench the empty gun....

Castien begins working through a number of different endings to this situation, the worst...the Troll kills them all and gets away. The best, we get paid for this piece of junk and get a ride off, all to go our separate ways when we get back to dry land. The most likely result was somewhere in the middle, assuming this Troll knows English. Perhaps he could even squeeze out a way to pay for some basic needs when he and the others got back to land. To the captain, "We do hold some claim over this ship, as the Dwarf has already said. We'll accept payment, but this thing belongs to all of us in some way or another, so we all get a cut if you wanna pay us for it". To the Troll, "Please, I need to know if you speak English," at this point if the Troll seems uninterested he begins to shout, "PLEASE, HOLD ON FOR ONE SECOND AND TALK TO ME!"

The Troll's well defined biceps visibly bulged as her sharpened fingers punctured the worn steel. With her arms wide apart she curled her fingertips underneath the plate. Molars clenched, a single grunt escaped from between her cut lips. Huge back muscles flexed. Her pathetically thin tank-top tore like paper from the sudden exertion. The ripped fabric revealed more of the grotesque, scaly scars strewn about her flesh. The physical capabilities of Homo Sapiens Ingentis was well documented. However, chronicled descriptions could not impress a Troll's incredible strength on the senses like an authentic display. The steel caved and contorted. It screamed its futile metallic wail as a significant portion of the deck was ruptured like peeling tape. The complaints of the others were drowned out by the noise. The edges of the plate were crumbled paper in the Troll's massive hands. Veins protruded as she angled the frame, twisting off its lingering attachment to the steel with a resonant pop. Content with her effort, she dropped the plate nearby in preparation for an additional chunk. As the contorted silhouette of the steel fell, her eyes widened. A cup-sized projectile flew into view. Spring loaded muscles coiled from the stress of her situation and wariness of both the "passengers" and "rescuers" instinctively exploded. Her head leaned to the side, with her neck and upper body following. A piece of rubble surged by, its parabolic trajectory slamming into the bow of the barge. A cascade of chemical signals rampaged throughout her body. Her white Sclera foamed to a solid black. Her pure black iris became a violent jade as her slit pupils widened affording even her defective vision improved sight. A thermographic filter glazed the expanse of the deck before her. A fuzzy blip of orange smoldered into view, hiding behind a pile of debris. A primal, reverberating roar familiar to the Dwarf boomed across the deck. That "survivor" had attacked her. She had been passive and non-confrontational and yet it attacked her. IT DARED?! She'd break it!

The fixer turned to look at the captain of the sleek smuggler corvette. He gave him a sincere look, while the captain turned a mild shade of red. Then the older man turned back to the noises the troll was making. He spotted the hand sized piece of flying metal, and then heard it bang against the deck. He winced, expecting a barge shattering kaboom. It didn't happen. The troll's attitude clearly changed. It started back tracking the projectile's trajectory to its source. He thought scavengers, maybe other survivors. If anybody made it off the boat alive, it might be a story worth listening to. At the moment, he wasn't sure if he was seeing the right person. The cause for being out here in the first place. His original assessment was crap to begin with, and now because of the distraction on the wounded ship, the situation turned bleak. The old fixer obligated himself into this mess, so he needed to quickly resolve it somehow. "WHOA!?! Bàituō zhèlǐ! ? ! Qǐng hé wǒ yīqǐ gōngzuò?" He let the language soft try interjecting, but it seemed hopeless at this point. "THE TROLL SPEAKS CHINESE!" the fixer tried to convey this to the other survivors, "I DON"T KNOW WHICH DIALECT!" He had to take a chance on the dwarf. He knew there would be a level of suspicion, no matter he tried to cut the explanation. "CAPTAIN...? CAPTAIN GIBS? YOUR BOAT IS NOT UNDER CONTROL. DO YOU NEED ASSISTANCE?" The fixer asked as he flinched, He knew this boat's captain would be sailing a fist to the side of his own head. He knew the officer had a different plan during the negotiation of the charter for this watercraft. The fixer knew he was dealt a weak hand.

Gibs looks to the Troll, frowning. Not much I can do about that one. She's already kicked my ass once. Looking back to the bearded gentleman. He cracks an uneasy smile. "Let's discuss the details of our transaction on your vessel, preferably over food and drinks!"

Tired of being a prisoner and frustrated with the entire situation he found himself in, Striker abandoned all his training and common sense. After witness the strength of what ever creature flung the rubble, most would have run a way. It would have been a good fight if I had a weapon , he thought to himself. He would have turned and run, try to find some sort of advantage to turn the tide. But he was just so damn tired. He took a deep breath stretched his soldiers and cracked his neck again, grabbing another gun from person he held both by the barrel, ready to swing with his might. Well shit, at least those bastards won't have the pleasure of killing me, his last thought be for he slowly walked towards his last fight, he was ready to stare down the eye's of his last target. The image of the beast came to him...a troll...a female troll...a lady. He had seen trolls before, in suits working as body guards for other clients or as enemies to his targets. He had shared cigarettes and a drink with one in the past. He knew this wouldn't be an easy fight, but another thought came to him..... His face eased for a moment and his muscles relaxed, the image troll came to him. Her well defined muscles, her primal rage and her unique eyes. Wait she only speaks Chinese, is she Asian. Hahaha...my mom did want me to bring home a nice Asian girl for once. An awkward smile came to his face, he probably would have broken down into laughter if he wasn't in such a horrid state both physically and mentally. The moment of serenity calmed his anger, in a instant his senses came back to him and his hands put the guns away and went up. With a more awkward smile came to his face as he tried to calm the situation, fuck, this isn't how I would like to have made a first impression. Dammit I should have taken more language classes like my parents wanted. No longer wanting to engage the source of the wrenching metal, the troll, he without warning took off for the narrow passages leading downstairs.

Sure enough, the punch came swiftly as expected. A solid smack could be heard. Bare knuckle to some sort of dermal plate or sheath. Maybe the captain hit a cybernetic limb. Hard to tell from the distance. The old man - the fixer fell under the smuggler captain's blow. Suddenly the sleek boat lurched forward. The engines sounding like they came to full speed in an instance. All hands on the open deck tumbled flat, as the boat sped forward. It glided over the inky black sledge. Puffs of marshmallow white plumed into the air. In the short distance, it closed the gap easily and then side-swiped the barge. KABANG! The empty barge sounded out like a cracked bell. All of the survivors on the open deck went sprawling across the top, as the damaged watercraft began to pirouette in the water. Each of the survivors bounced like helpless toddlers, unable to keep solid footing. The troll and human slid helplessly into the cool salt water of the ocean. The sledge-like pool coiled around the mass of the barge like a wet oily shroud. After connecting, some of the smuggler crew spilled into the water also. One of them landed in a larger portion of the brown sludge. The crewman came up for air. He appeared engulfed in oleaginous matter. He reached out, and tried to swim away from the coagulated mess. The troll came up next. Wispy tendrils of the brown oil smeared across her body. It shown puffs of pinkish white bulbs. The preventor solution appeared to be thinning out as the weird organism overwhelmed it. The troll seemed like she had a chance to get away from it. Neither her, or the crewman made any distance. They were snared by the alien water-bound organism. It was sucking at them. Trolling them in toward their doom. Then the human bobbed up meters away, outside the reach of the oily creature. He seemed stunned and gasping for much needed air.

F..uc..k, dammit.. He thought, as he was trying to get his bearings and recover from the shock of the attack. He looked around and swam for the nearest part of the barge he could stand on, until he saw the troll unable to make progress from the escape. Leave her goddamit, she was about to rip you apart.....fuck!

Almost as quickly as it launched, the sleek boat stopped dead in the water. The fixer and the captain continue their scuffle. Other crewmen are yelling out warnings. Striker is trying to work through an overwhelmed mind. He thinks he seen life-lines being tossed out toward the other ship crew men swimming in the water. He is not certain, but everything seemed unbearably distant. Like they exist on a different planet.

The sensation of boiling blood and her cardiovascular system shooting into overdrive erupted throughout the Troll's consciousness. It felt like an age had passed since she truly targeted someone in indignation. The drug induced mindless stupors weren't her. She had control now. Her physical strength, her emotional hatred and her mental disgust were all aligned and directed at that glowing orange haze. Sounds and shouts pounded against the fortress of her mind. The gates had risen and instinct screamed for validation. Her suspicions had been vindicated. The dominoes had fallen. The avalanche thundered down the mountain. Her urge to charge the figure as it rose from behind the rubble was violently interrupted. A savage vibration rippled through the unstable barge. As if in realization the orange silhouette turned to flee. The Troll's teeth clamped down, finely tipped canines barely missed her retracted tongue. The entire craft lurched, her stomach heaved in turn. Her footing slipped and gravity brutally slammed her against the steel of the deck. Her vision blurred. A skin curling crack resounding from her jaw. Double vision soon rotated. The sky and ocean exchanged positions in a frenetic tango. The finale came rapidly and callously. The jaws of the salty ocean opened wide as gravity plunged her below the surface. Her clamped, fractured jowl prevented an influx of water into her lungs. The frigidity of the water clawed at her open wounds, chilling and burning them simultaneously causing her to spasm in agony. The gaping maw of the ocean dragged the Troll along as if she was a mere insect, tossing and spinning her mercilessly. Pressure crushed her ribcage, her massive heart strained to pump vital and swiftly fading oxygen to her vital organs. The tension squeezed her abdominals, wrenching her like a discarded beer can. The unbearable ache suddenly subsided only to be replaced by a sizzling caustic burn. Nervous signals fired obvious danger warnings, demanding recognition that her body was in serious danger. Desperation and determination struggled for dominance as muscle memory grabbed the reigns. Massive arms pushed through the sludge, yellow mist fuming around her limbs, an indication of her wounds vigorously cauterizing. An eruption of bubbles foreshadowed the emergence of the Troll. Her figure broke through the slick, sticky, foul sludge. Her clenched mouth finally opened, searing pain recoiled down her spine. Her jaw was broken. Her defective vision had been worsened by the outpouring of salt and mental disorientation. Screams, shouts and splashing echoed all around without a discernible source. She'd lost her seemingly best option for escape. The survivors had betrayed her indifference. Her "rescuers" were obviously nothing more than parasitic scavengers. The caustic oil threatened to boil her alive while the vast, empty expanse promised starvation and hypothermia. All options told her to die. She refused. She had denied the perverse entourage aboard the bloody barge that pleasure. She would not perish here. A destination was irrelevant. The Troll picked a direction visible to her hazy vision and focused her tremendous strength into her limbs. She'd get out of the sludge. She'd find something that could be used as a raft, and she'd get herself home. She would endure!

The fixer had a plan of sorts. Something flexible against the unbending will of the smuggler captain. That man had a reputation, and the fixer learned as much as possible. He could sell him on any salvage rights. Any loot that could be scavenged. The pickup was for one displaced runner. There was an odd possibility though. An encrypted message from different sources. Different people interested in the one single dwarf. Now, on scene of the wreckage. There were complications. Survivors of something. Indentured Fighters. Illegal Fight Ring. It was adding up in his mind. He couldn't quite reach a conclusion. He was in an ordeal of his own. The captain increasingly became annoyed by the his actions. His attempt to make something bad turn out good for himself. The captain must have felt threatened, or planned to cut him out of the picture. The fixer wondered if the captain ever planned to make good on his of the bargain. He didn't want to take any chances, so he brought back-up to this party. He relied on them to make - take initiative. And that old buck, street samurai did. He supposed that the man got more than he expected. Maybe too much. The boats smacked each other hard. He wished the rigger would have come along, but things are what they are. He might have been out of this end of the game for a time, but he is still quite familiar with how it plays. The fixer realized he let the captain land too many blows. He needed to end this. Unfortunately, his poor positioning meant he was going into the drink too. He grappled onto the smuggler and then heaved both of their weight over the side of the sleek black boat. It was too late to do anything else.

He got lucky. Somewhere on the way down to sea level, the fixer pushed away from the captain. SPLOOSH! They hit the water. The Calras organism would have them both. The old man landed meters outside its reach. The smuggler captain, not so lucky. He was nearly spent himself. Exhausted, and chilled by the water. He hated being in the ocean - near the ocean. His fear started clawing at his mind. He tried to shake it off. As best as he could. As quickly as he could. He had himself to save. Then there was the dwarf, and then the small collection of slaves. Hopefully, recently freed indentured fighters. What bugged him at the strangest of time was something in one of the messages he received days ago. If ever he and they got out of this mess, he would have to ask about it. *** Striker began to loose all recognition of where he was at. His body temperature starting to match the surrounding water. *** The troll, a nameless soul that nobody knew. Never heard what she called herself. She continued kicking and thrashing. It, whatever it is, was winning. *** The dwarf, his skin torn open by the body slam to the deck, had many bits of bloody polymer plating spill out across the deck plates. He had more freedom of movement, but more pain. More exposure. *** The elf, amazingly, was free from shock and delirium. He clung to a chain. A make shift deck railing. He could see how close Striker is to the Troll. He could see where the fixer and the captain each landed. He seen the crewman in the ooze. Dead from suffocation. He could also see several bobbing objects in the water. Scattered, yet so near to Striker. The white foam backpacks. It had the best impact on the creature. *** Gunfire erupted on the deck of the black boat. A lone shooter making a stand against the crew men of the boat.

Mobility within the adipocerous confines of the incredibly viscous liquid was severely limited. Incremental movement arrived in pitiful inches. The measurement of a Troll's physical aptitude originally astonished biologists. A human in top physical condition, at the pinnacle of fitness, muscle refinement and bodily capability was admired with awe and showered with praise by their human contemporaries. A malnourished Troll innately had such a strenuous human achievement as the universal base standard for their strength. In perspective, an unhealthy Troll could, with moderate effort, smash a human bodybuilder's ambition to surpass the five hundred kilogram dead-lift record. Far from the world's most athletic Troll, her power was definitively leagues above that of a human's. Despite this enormous fortitude powered by dense muscles and a reinforced skeletal structure, the acerbic ooze refused to snap. While thankfully incomparable to the colossal force of the chilly ocean, the oily organic substance denied the Troll's constant attempts at freedom. Slick, lardaceous tendrils coiled around her limbs and lower body. The tips were akin to the suction cups of giant squids. Each passing moment within the sludge emphasized the urgency of the Troll's predicament. Agile thrusts started to become sluggish and stiff as each additional tendril reinforced the hold faster than she could break it. A yellow mist steamed, bubbling up from the depths as the material started to eat through her flesh. She was being digested alive, caught in the organic oil's stomach. She was no stranger to desperate situations. Her entire life had been a storied tale of brutal choices and intimate encounters with death. Most of the situations had been mundane. They were forged from animosity with other humanoids, and culminated in bloody confrontations. Extraordinary circumstances such as this were fewer and decidedly more terrifying. Her usual procedures never benefited the Troll in those cases. The plight always ensured to display its dominance as one insurmountable by even her best advantages. Yet she had survived them. All had assured her demise, but she had successfully toiled through them. She wouldn't let this accursed, greasy, soup of sick be her executioner. Her body screamed and gurgled for sustenance that was so long denied. Her straining brawn wailed for vitality prevented by her malnourishment. Lactic acid surged through her system, the body's last desperate remedy when oxygen stores plummeted. The consequence was an inevitable exponential increase in her already substantial exhaustion. Her injuries sizzled, crying for proper medical attention as air and waterborne pathogens battled her belabored immune system. It was all or nothing. She'd pull herself free or she'd die. A primordial roar bellowed from the bowls of the Troll. She didn't care for her sanity anymore. She gave up her body to the innate untamed instinct that prowled just below the surface. Muscles would tear, organs would threaten to rupture and bones would break under the strain. None of it mattered. She called for every single last microbe of her inherent strength to wrench herself free from the oil, or ruin her in the attempt.

Time seemed to slow down as Gibs watched bits of polymer slide across the deck, he felt a familiar feeling. Old fashioned adrenaline, not the synthetic crap pumped from some quack's collar. The real stuff. A cocktail of chemicals millions of years in the making rushing through my blood telling me to MOVE. Gibs stands up uneasily at first, feeling the barge shift and list underneath him. Looking towards the black boat with dull, listless eyes. He knew he'd only have one shot. Screaming at the top of his lungs like a madman, he runs to the railing at top speed and jumps towards the black smuggler's boat. Trying to intimidate any unlucky crewmen in his way. He'd take the boat or die trying.

Castien surveyed his surrounds, everything had exploded. This is not what he was trained for, he didn't know how to handle this situation. He couldn't jump in to the water and swim any of these people to safety, but he could make it to that backpack. He could free the Troll, gain her trust and use her to rescue the others, take the boat that works, and get them back to safety. He didn't really care what happened to anyone else at this point, he was tired, hungry, and his head still hurt. Then he prepared himself, and dove into the water. He headed straight for one of the backpacks, grabbing it and swimming back to any surface he could stand on. Once he got back to a standing position, he prepared to free as many people from this ooze as he could using the backpack, starting with the Troll and Striker. This would be the only way Castien could communicate to the Troll that he had no intention of hurting her, and having a troll on his side could prove useful when they get back to land.

The mayhem seemed to have no end in sight. The backpacks. The preventor solution. There are six of them scattered and bobbing on the ocean surface. While in use, they appeared bulky and heavy. Something inside them gave them buoyancy. Use them to free people, or use them to float. Unable to understand their fullest potential, the packs are a profound and difficult choice in survival. Castien remembered how little ability he had in the water, as he went diving. Too late. The troll wasn't swimming, she fought against a near intangible thing, that held her massive body at its topside. Striker is nearly spent. He could go to sleep if he wanted. Nothing seemed to almost matter for him. He would make a thrash to keep his head up. He would look around at almost nothing in particular. The dwarf in his delirium, found one last push of willpower. His eyes wild. He gained momentum, as he ran. In his mind, his confidence would be unbreakable. He launched himself into the air. His small dense mass went hurtling across a very large, and near impossible gap. His shadow could almost be felt by the fixer. The old man looked up, just a split second before the metahuman cannonball crashed into him. Castien cleared the oily alien organism by mere centimeters. He reached out, latched onto and then clutched a backpack. His momentum carried him further away from the creature's brown tendrils. Another backpack floated nearby, still attached to a different dead smuggler crewman. Striker thrashed about in the water, one more meter beyond it. More solo gunfire reported above them on the deck of the smuggler boat. A different object went flying into the air. Its odd shape grew as it fell closer to the ocean's surface. It landed with a large splash near Gibs and the fixer. This object is made of a matte black polymer. It appeared to have an armored texture. It stayed on top of the water, not moving. While he held the first pack, Castien reached for the second pack. He grappled the crewman's arm, as Striker hooked the dead body's leg. One more unidentifiable object threw itself off the deck of the smuggler boat. An unbelievable explosion from deep inside the smuggler boat ruptured its sleek form. Debris rocketed in all directions. Small chunks showered the barge's hull. Other fiery bits sizzled as they landed in the water. Other pieces disappeared into the organism's brownish body. It never shuddered, nor fliched. It kept reaching for everything.

The fixer thought he only seen stars, after being pounded by the dwarf's body. What was he thinking? As he shook off the daze, the old man collected his bearings. He seen the boat's burning shape. What the fuck? He told his backup, under no circumstances, will there ever be an explosion. Now, there is scorching sea craft rendered useless to everyone. He spotted the smaller infiltration boat, and the floating body of the dwarf. He knocked himself unconscious. He grabbed Gibs and swam to the last reaming life line. It would be their only means to leave this forsaken stretch of hellish waters. Then he seen the retired street samurai. He too was swimming for the small boat. He smiled back at the fixer as he reached the boat. "Card! I swear, *that* wasn't me." the street fighter said, "Captain Ezekial must have had a dead man switch." The fixer shook his head in disgust. "Git in the fuckin' boat." the old man said as he swung Gibs closer to the boat. "We got people to collect." To make matters worse, the fixer seen the diagnostic report in his cybereye. His skill jack was damaged. He lost his language capability. "I hope they are friendly." The soaked samurai said. "Friendlier than our wonderful host, at least." The old man noted.

Brawny muscles contracted. Reinforced bones feverishly strained. The last remaining vestiges of energy and oxygen furiously pumped through heavily distended blood vessels. An excess of two thousand pounds of force aggressively labored against the caustic, organic bindings wrapping around the Troll. It was a desperate life or death struggle. This tug of war would decide the difference between freedom and evisceration. Every inch of her physical frame endeavored against the ooze. Her body was being pushed to the very limit. The steel rope of her physical and mental fortitude held dangerously taught. Whichever snapped first would cede victory to the other. The Troll or the ooze. The result was inevitable. The Troll broke. Multiple grotesque cracks resounded from the Troll. Her organic vessel had shoved too far over its limits. Both of her shoulders dislocated, unable to break the hold of the ooze. Her chest spasmed violently. Adrenaline reserves had exhausted. Pain suppressing endorphins decayed from their microscopic binding sights. The burden was too great and energy supplies too few. A sledgehammer of neural messages slammed into the Troll's cerebrum like a cannon blow. Pain. Unbearable pain. The sensation of feeling was rapidly replaced with previously denied agony. Something had ruptured internally. Yellow liquid blotted up, hacked into the acidic ooze, sizzling on impact. She didn't scream. She didn't have any energy left to. Warmth hastily faded. Instinctual protocols prehistoric in design activated. Extremities were sacrificed for the continued operation of the core. The periphery of the Troll's vision turned from a fuzzy haze, to a creeping, chilly dense black warning of her imminent demise. The static that had long since fallen on the surroundings finally washed away. The soundless void was replaced by an ancient memory. Locked away in a purple treasure chest the size of a jewelry box was an archaic grainy display. The resolution was poor and the screen was colorless. Thick films of dust scattered to the black skies as sound echoed. "不要紧，会发生什么。你永远是我坚强的小天使。 Bùyàojǐn, huì fāshēng shénme. Nǐ yǒngyuǎn shì wǒ jiānqiáng de xiǎo tiānshǐ. " Death had come.

Completely drained, clinging to the dead man's corpse, Striker slowly drags himself on to the body. He notices the elf and begins to at first ready an attack with the gun, raising it above his head ready to strike the elf. "Princess....ha", he would laugh more if he wasn't so tired. He looks at the pack and grunts, "What the....why doesn't anyone have a proper gun anymore." He checks the body for any weapons, praying internally for something waterproof, that a proper sailor should have. Looking at the elf with cold eyes, "Any ideas, seem to have a boat fool of enemies and killer...*waste* ?" begins to curse to the side, "I'm getting very drunk after this."

Castien coughs out some water, filling his lungs with air again, then says, "Agreed. As for ideas, not sure. I can hardly swim without this thing, kinda forgot about that. I don't really see any good place to use these things, but we need to get that Troll out of whatever that goo is. She's our best bet at being able to actually take control of the ship and get the hell out of here."

The infiltrator boat slid up silently beside the waterlogged pair. It's silent motor allowed it to creep through the settling mayhem unchecked. It slowed, but didn't stop. The fixer inspected them closely. "What boat, what ship?" he asked patiently, "Because of your dwarf friend, I had a plan." He gave them something like a firm *don't mess with your elder, or I will leave you as shark bait* glare. "You are spent. Your other friend is dying. Are you going to be helpful, or hateful?" The old man had a high enough height in his vantage point to keep the initiative square in his pocket. He wouldn't let the swimming survivors see what was actually happening behind him. He counted on them being cooperative. Otherwise, he already achieved part of his objective. His other goal depended on them. If they don't get the position that they are in, then that is on them. This wasn't a charity run. The street fighter was in it for the story he was going to share later. The money paid to him, helped his attitude. He didn't care what the *extra baggage* decided to do. He didn't know them, and the fixer didn't require him to be sociable. At his retired age, he is more fit than their hard-wired training left them to believe. They are far from their right-set minds, and he knew it. He was ready to backup the fixer's plan.

Striker looks at the old man, and nods approvingly. Old man was right, his old boss's wouldn't have even given him a chance like this. Spitting out some water to the side, Striker gives a thumbs up to the old man. He went back to searching the body and examining the pack. "I'm personally going to vote for helpful myself....could be more helpful if you can get me a gun." looks at the troll again and then at the pack again. A slight grin comes to his face. "One moment, I think I have an idea of getting the troll out...if you have a plan just tell me what to do," His mind seemed to relax at the thought of be giving some orders, some direction would be nice...like old times. He began to fiddle with the pack more....more enthusiastically as well.

The old man looked back at his partner, and then nodded. They began fishing the duo out of the water. Starting with the Asian man. Striker pulled at the harness release on the dead crewman, and pulled the pack with him. The fixer and the street fighter grunted at the cumbersome weight, that Striker established this way. Once in the small boat, Striker gained a better perspective. The area had become a nightmare. The troll stopped moving about that time. The barge had a large hole knocked into it. It was filling with water more easily. It really had not change its depth much, but will eventually become submerged. Anything clinging to it, would go down with it. The smuggler boat split like a banana peel. Cargo, personnel, and debris floated around it the burning wreckage like an ornate centerpiece for a dinner table. It was a long shot, but Striker's theory began to solidify is his mind. The preventor solution was in a containment cylinder that could be disconnected, and then rigged to be combustible device. He lacked proper tools to pull it off. The retired samurai, caught sight of what he was doing. He observed a moment, in trying to see - understand Striker's ideal objective. "Just leave it in the backpack. Pull the battery cable up to that intake port, and then wrap it. Tuck the exposed wire tips in the gap." he said as he turned to help the old man reaching for the elf. The elf wouldn't let go off his pack either. "Don't wait, just toss it as hard as you can. It shouldn't hurt us at all, but that bastard critter will hate it." he said, as he started chuckling.

Striker looks up at the aged street samurai and then looks back at the pack. Nodding and with a grin striker almost chuckles, "Why didn't I think of that, thanks for the help." Striker with one hand begins to work on the pack while he takes the time with the other to give a quick thumbs up to the old street sam. He takes his times to work and complete the list of tacks he had in his mind, but before he finished his work, he glances up and gauges the distance to the strange critter that was devouring the troll. In this brief calm moment, a sigh of disbelief is released from his body and a look of disgust appears over his face. This has to be the strangest thing that's happened in my life. Taking a deep breath, a look of concentration comes over his face, at least things are interesting. He finishes the work on the pack and stands up, muscles tense. In an instant he puts everything he has in it to toss it as near the troll as possible. Afterwards, breathing hard from the fatigue of everything that has happened in the past few days or weeks, he follows to path of the pack with his eyes. That troll better not be angry about that trash I threw before anymore....hopefully....

Castien looks at the old man, then back at the pack. He decides it's better to be safe on the boat than floating around these deadly waters with this piece of junk being the only thing keeping him afloat. "Ok, I don't need this anyways," he says to the old man as he lets go of the pack to grab the old man's arm and get himself out of this disgusting water.

The street fighter reaches out for the pack as the fixer hauls in the elf. The old samurai starts through the sequence he described to Striker moments before. The backpack starts sparking and steaming thready vapors like the first pack did. Striker's pack started streaming pellets of milk white ooze as it arced out over the water and the oily mass of the creature. It plopped flatly on top of it near the troll. Her outline still visible like a bulbous mass. The white solution was busting the seems of its containment bottles. The backpack couldn't hold itself and the containment system. It blossomed like a flowery lump of yellowish white mushy petals. As it made contact with creature, the preventor solution instantly started changing to reddish pink rose color. The creatures buttery surface changed. The old samurai chucked his backpack as hard and as high as possible, trying not to out distance the first pack. The goal to have as much of the solution centered on the most activity of the creature. Convince it to go back to consuming the other debris in the water. The new pack displayed the same orchestrated clutter as the first tossed pack. It burst open in much of the same fashion. The creature opened a little like Venus fly trap would, raising up the troll's body. Cleaner and more pristine than before she entered the salty ocean water. She didn't appear to be breathing, but she did outlast any other human that had been consumed by it today. The creature opened up beneath her, and let her motionless body float on the surface. The old samurai engaged the boat's control stick, and maneuvered close to her. He avoided all of the nebulous tendrils as the creature scattered off toward other things to devour. The fixer, not as exhausted as the survivors did show signs that he was near his limit. He motioned toward the unconscious troll. It would take all four of them to get her out of the water. As the finished positioning her near the dwarf's paralyzed form, Striker and Castien flashed on a memory of their brawl from days before. It was odd to witnessed that, and then see them like this now.

"All right, we are about 100 nautical miles from land. Just rest." the fixer said as he held some pain patches toward the awake survivors. The old samurai finished tending to wounds on the troll. He looked up at the fixer and nodded. "They will be fine. The dwarf looks like he has some sort of micro-doc cyberpack working overtime with his own physiology." he said then gestured toward the troll, "I don't want to say she might be trouble, but she might be trouble." "If we knew where she is from exactly, it could make things easier." the fixer pondered as he looked over the elf and human survivors, and then back to the dwarf. He gestured at the dwarf. "If our mutual friend was honest with me, then he is from Charlotte." the fixer said, "What about you both? Where do you come from?" The samurai shrugged. "They should wake up in an hour, maybe more. I didn't give them anything heavy. That Doc Wagon pack is out-dated anyway, so I suspect it's heaviest would be as weak as strong lemonade for all they might care." he added. "Well good. Then they won't wake up startled. Just cranky from the bangs and bruises." "Should we get a van dispatched from the Estate?" The street fighter asked. The fixer flinched and then grimaced at the question. "Their resources cost way too fucking much. I believe what we got from Captain Ezekial, and that Dwarf's retainer fee, then they should make out all right." the fixer assessed, "Once everyone is awake, we can work out some details. In the meantime, let us keep the conversation light and casual." The fixer busted open a box of rations, and then set out a case of bottled water. He settled back smiling.

Darkness. The frigid, windy, claustrophobic, clutching darkness. All were birthed from this frozen, anesthetized landscape, and all returned when death's hands cradled them. Thoughts, personalities, desires and memories were subsumed by the pitch-black void. Where nothing existed, nothing mattered. Occupants resided comatose, suspended in stasis completely unaware. Their existences slowly corroded away until, finally, awareness too evaporated. This exact fate should have consumed her. It didn't. Slim, depressed, curved raven shaped eyes slowly opened. A stupor clouded her mind. The fiery orange glare of sunlight forced a slight recoil as her retina adjusted. This resulted in a subtle cascade of nervous recognition. Aches and sores throbbed across the entirety of her body. From her cracked jaw to her sprained ankle. The unbearable misery had quieted to a moderate discomfort. Her natural recovery rate wasn't nearly so swift. Treatment, even if only minor, was the only explanation. Index fingers twitched and her lungs expanded. An agonizing intake of oxygen warned of the suffering that would erupt if she moved her worn physique. She headed them, but only just. The scenery was still indistinct, and her genetics struggled to put images into proper focus. Advanced hearing vibrated, relaying a message of words floating nearby. There was a close conversation. In a sluggish daze no doubt caused by medication her neck was slow to turn and her recognition that of a snail's. However, she did see, and her teeth clenched. There were five figures in her vicinity, four of them active. Her eyes widened and sharp nails loudly scraped across the metal of the craft as she labored to right herself. The activation was hindered, but her danger response was igniting.

The old street fighter didn't flinched. He glanced in the troll's direction, and then gave a slight smile. He turned his attention back to the controls of the boat. They were still a good distance from shore. The only land that appeared was a snow-topped mountain in the distance. As a natural land mark, it indicated a direction. It also meant that the small boat had another thirty or forty miles to travel. The fixer was mostly listening to the others. Hearing about who they are, and what they were doing before the barge. None of them really knew how they got on it, but the result was the same. It was some level of humility, they had all faced. A reality that they didn't get to really see. It was mostly a blur of violence through drug filtered lenses, and chemical debilitation. Between the fixer and the samurai, they managed to disengage the cybernetic collars. They were custom made with common parts that made them impossible to track. They got chucked into the water. An unceremonious gesture. The security devices were easy to overcome. The battery packs depleted, and the explosives waterlogged. Whomever made them, meant for it to be as messy of a display as possible. [city speak] "Bolla! Boppadom, bou bould bet." the fixer suggests as he holds out a sealed food ration pack and water bottle toward the troll. The fixer and samurai, made a point to dress the wounds for the troll and the dwarf. They gave them the silver mylar blankets. They chose not to bind them in anyway. Not that what they have, could work anyway. They did their best to make them cozy. It's been an hour since the barge and smuggler boat. The infiltrator boat is not built for speed, nor comfort.

GM: Well all righty then, Shadowrunners, I believe this is a good place to close this thread. A new scene is now open.