[1] Broken Barge

The sun sat low in the eastern sky. Its warm rays beamed through thin grey wisps of low hanging clouds. The open blue expanse of the Pacific Ocean is flecked by one ugly blemish. A brown broken barge. It bounced aimlessly within the water's gentle waves. The watercraft is listing to one side. Water is covering a corner of the bulky behemoth of rusted metal. It is dying. Losing its ability to keep from dipping. In time, it will sink.

From inside, the sounds of seagulls and splashing waves can be heard outside. The drugs stored in the cyber leashes are depleted. It's been many days, and the drug effects wore off. Thirst and hunger are a major cause of weakness. Minor wounds are healed. Major wounds have been dressed, and are healed to a minor level. The survivors are a little aware of each other. The barge is dark, and smells of death. Someone knocked on a bulkhead. Someone woke up in a locked cell. Someone woke up under a pile of debris. Someone woke up under the corpse of the ring leader. Memories of an attack began to resurface. Enemies of the illegal fight ring. Competitors deliberately shut down the festivities in a bloody and brutal way. The broken barge carries the carnage further out into the open ocean.

A human male with strong Asian features pulled himself from out a pile of debris and bodies. He isn't able to take in the full scene of the arena chamber. There is a smokey haze lingering in the air. It is highlighted by sunlight as it peers through various bullet holes. The majority of the room lingers in darkness. There are a lot of bodies. Spectators, waitresses, bodyguards, and other fighters litter the floor. Just a short distance into a close shadow, a youthful looking elf scrambled out from underneath a corpse. The dead body is that of the ring leader. The king pig that had been at the top of this illegal heap of sinful leisure. The fight ring collapsed at the hands of people either opposed to the sport, or to the greedy man that ran it all. In the darkness, the human could only see the elf wearing a very skimpy slave princess outfit. *** In a different room, a dwarven male shot up into a brisk sitting position. He instantly remembered where he was. He could feel the sharp bite of the cyber leash around his neck. He also remembered a horrific fight he was in with another brawler. A troll. It pounded the crap out of him. The Furious-OX Drug was being pumped into him at the time. All he wanted to do was rip the horns off its face. That burning emotion now passed. He could see every corner of the lit room. It would be mostly dark, except for the single light source. A small port hole filters in brownish grey-green light. It appears mucked on both sides, and the size of the dwarf's arm. The bed mattress has dried blood on it. He inspected his body, and focused over where the troll's knuckles gouged his flesh. It was somewhat clean, and had also been dressed. The most unbearable discomfort he had been experiencing was a somewhat related matter. The cyberware shoved into his body was broken. It is a shattered and tangled mess across his abdomen. The surgical wounds left behind are mostly healed, and now a collection grotesque scars. *** In a locked room, a massive troll was throwing weight against a door. The metal hatch looked feeble, and should crumble under the barrage of anger. It would not yield. The room has water pooling in it, and it began to slowly rise. When the troll woke up, the water was only ankle deep. Now, the water covered strapped calf muscle. The water was cold, and tasted salty.

In character role play. No out-of-character comments. Stay Safe and Happy Shadowrunning! The human and the elf stand across a few scattered tables-distance from each other. There is a slight tilt in the floor. *** The dwarf can feel the one working piece of his cyberware trying to accommodate for the discomfort caused by the broken cyberware. *** The water in the locked room has reached the troll's knees.

Frustrated grunts and curses reverberated throughout the tiny echo chamber. Each movement relayed the familiar thrashing sound of cold, salty ocean water within the confines of the steel cage. Droplets of muddled yellow trickled down onto the water, discolored to a brownish green by the ancient rusting steel and thriving algae. The slanted perspective expressed a foreboding future. Metallic popping vibrated as hex bolts ripped from their sockets and ricocheted around the small cabin. The rush of water was stronger now. Each new opening cascaded into multiple fresh leaks gushing chilly sprays into the putrid frigid soup. Critical mass had been prevented by brute forcing the steel frame of the cot against the distressing fissures. Heavy heaves for rapidly vanishing oxygen exposed frosted breath to the icy air. A thick, nearly ten foot tall muscled silhouette aggressively struggled against the decrepit yet sturdy steel door. Its bolts were rattling and the hinges were bending, but still it would not give way. A bulky forearm rested against the door. Fragile sunlight shined through the already smashed porthole, partially illuminating the figure within. A thin stomach torn tank-top and musty old shorts were the meager outer covering to the Troll's brawny frame. Powerfully built biceps, triceps, quadriceps and calf muscles demonstrated years of training. Ancient calloused scars declared a life of struggle and violence. The sheer volume disclosed that the trials had been daily. Fresh, festering, untreated wounds revealed the desperate labor for survival that was a fickle guarantee. Freedom was an even more capricious promise, but her long barbed ears had not deceived her. Absence of the daily routine also provided clear evidence. Now was her only opportunity. Her breathing once again stable she grit her teeth, her extended molars and additional canines grinding together like knives. Bitter jade silted eyes focused on the obstacle before her. She sloshed backwards through the rising water and positioned herself. Muscles tensed to a breaking point before an explosion of flesh hurled itself towards the door. [Mandarin] "DIE!"

The Asian male would start to cracking his neck and knuckles, not paying much attention to the elf at first. He takes in the carnage and destruction for a moment, he begins to move while saying, "Can't say I feel to bad about this lot.". He checks himself for any injuries that might hinder his escape and looks around for other survivors besides the elf. He takes a look at the elf, giving a once over with his eyes. "I would change if I were you. While I can't say I mind your get up I would imagine it will make getting out of this death trap a bit more difficult. Plus I think its going to get cold." He makes his way to nearby bodies examining thoroughly for any weapons, checking the bodyguards first.

The Dwarf takes a deep, excruciating breath. The sound of plastic grinding against dermal plating in his chest fills the quiet cell. The anger is gone now. Only pain, hunger and thirst remain. The deep breath returns as a defeated sigh. He sits back down on the blood-stained mattress. "Is this what dying feels like"?

The Elf chuckles, "I suppose you're right, it probably will get cold. But are you sure this won't help in getting out of here"? The Elf does a little twirl. "No? Fine. You're no fun." Then the Elf looks around to see if there are any available clothes that don't show off every vital organ he has. While searching he asks, "So, what's your name and how'd you end up in this situation? You don't look like the type that would end up fighting for his life. As a show of good faith I'll even tell you who I am. The name's Castien Mylixia, pleasure to meet you, even if it is in these unfortunate circumstances."

KLANG!!! The locked hatch and its feeble rusted frame clattered to the deck floor. The noise shudders through out the whole barge. *** The human male starts to searching a nearby body. Whether he intended to or not, he starts looting the ring leader's body. He hears the elf speaking a very elven male voice. An elven male crammed into signature Star Wars slave princess outfit (wig included). The human fiound a maglock passkey, but it is not identifiable to what it might work with. He also finds an encrypted credstick, but it appears to have a zero balance. It looks like the body had been looted a dozen times, and suspects nothing else will be useful from it. *** "What would Beatrice do?" came to the dwarf's mind.

"She wouldn't sit here feeling sorry for herself. She'd tell me to get off my ass." The dwarf rises from his seat, his brief smile turning into a painful grimace. "Time for some fresh air. This one's for you, Bea." He rips the mattress, wrapping the stained cloth around his scarred right hand. Walking up to the murky port hole, he grits his teeth and swings at it.

Chunky veins pulsed as miniature geysers of water slapped against the rusting, dusty metal. The broad forearms and thick muscles of the Troll vibrated like undulating meat as her shoulder slammed the door. The aged metal wept its last futile cry of resistance before reeling under the force of impact and the ruthless pull of gravity. A single bounce was the inanimate metal's only brief act of life. Its initial echo of surrender was followed by an equally strong but abrupt screech of submission. With her massive foot firmly planted on the steel frame in triumph , the Troll observed her surroundings. Her wide nostrils were immediately assaulted by the nauseating stench of rotting meat. Humanoid flesh haphazardly hacked and burned by the cold steel of blade and bullet and then left to decay. There was nothing quite like the foul smell of decomposing human meat. The rank odorous aroma that stank of potent ammonia and the disgusting bile of feces. Left alone on an old unsanitary barge filled with bacteria and wretched vermin, the stink of partially gnawed muscle and fat churned her stomach. Sleep deprived and starved proved to have a benefit in this unique circumstance. Arms and knees pressed against the cold metallic floor as she dry heaved. Days without nourishment spared her from puking bile into the already grotesque stew brewing in the cabins. Her filed teeth gnashing together she once again stood on wobbling legs. An arm lifted to cover her nose in a futile attempt to obstruct the overpowering odor. The flaking paint of the walls offered fickle support as she hobbled away from the roar of leaking water and the suffocating stench permeating the stale air. Her thermographic vision illuminated the otherwise dimly lit underbelly of the slanting barge barely above pitch black darkness. Goblinized eyes revealed to her what her nose had so vehemently warned. Corpses. Piles of bodies littered the claustrophobic corridors of the cabin. The squish of twisting fat and the crack of breaking bone resounded in her mind. They weren't unfamiliar. Sixth World knew that it was an all too common chorus that played throughout her entire life, especially since she had been here. However, each step kicked up a plume of odorous bile that stole her breath and vainly demanded she retch her empty stomach. She had to escape. Disaster and opportunity had arrived holding hands, skipping on piles of scattered and disfigured meat. She had just one thing on her mind. Lifeboats. There had to be lifeboats!

He spits in the face of the ring leader, then begins to search other bodies for guns, ammo clips, comm device, or some gum. "You can call me striker, if we get out of here I tell you all about myself...."

"Okay... Striker, sounds good to me. Any ideas?", he says as he pulls on clothes he stripped from the body that smelt the least. "Something you should know about me, I'm not much of a fighter. There was a reason I was wearing that outfit. So! Any ideas on how we can get out of here?" Castien scans the area for any signs of an exit.

Looks over the elf again, "Wasn't expecting much help from you in a fight, so no worries." "Found a maglock passkey, might be useful for getting past security. Also found this cred stick, empty but might lead us to the people responsible for this..." Looks around, "massacre. I'll either buy them a drink or shots." "First I'm going to scavenge as much as I can as quickly as I can, if your in the same boat as me," laughs a bit, "then you might need some nuyen." "After that, head to the top and figure out where the we are."

"Yeah, I've got a bit of debt to pay back home. Let's see what we have over here, " Castien says as he walks over to the other side of the room to search for anything useful, guns, ammo, or maybe another cred stick (with some nuyen left if he's lucky).

The battered broken barge is nothing more that a coffin now. Not much different than its commercial waste counterparts. If the pirates or competitors, or whomever the attackers were, if they tried to scuttle the ship then they failed. If they looted the ship, chances are they left behind what they didn't need. Most likely what they didn't want more specifically. Especially the dead bodies. The human and the elf continued their inspection of the main arena floor. They discovered that many of the bodies belonged to spectators. Maybe the less important minions of wealthy spectators. If the big money individuals were left behind on the barge, they were stripped down. The bodies appeared to be no different than each other. Many of them were butchered for their cyberware. The two searched through debris and inspected more bodies. The clothing and worn armor was bullet ridden, torn, and soaked in blood. Much of the electronics hardware, like commlink and tablets, were also bullet ridden and smeared with blood. Many of the firearms were damaged, stripped, or missing vital parts. Melee weapons were in similar stages of disuse. *** Their initial conversation - introduction, was muffled but could be heard across the entire barge. They seemed disinterested in the metal on metal commotion from moments before, or the topic of their discussion could be precisely about the blusterous noise. *** The setup of the watercraft is simple. A single below deck contained the main arena, the crew quarters, the fighter quarters, the galley, and the sickbay. The troll made her way up a set of stairs, the dark shadows melted away in the brilliant bright light of a mid-morning sun.

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 survivors really have no sense with how long they've been disconnected from reality, unthankfully to being leashed by the different drugs stored in their collars. Bodily waste mixed into their surrounding. The survivors so close to becoming one with the many uncounted dead that remain on the barge. The horror of it may not completely set in, but the scars of this ordeal can't be undone. *** The troll surveyed the surrounding outer deck. No lifeboats. It was hard to ignore the calm waters that the boat floated in. There was a dirty brown tinge of something floating in the water - across the water. Just outside this deathly liquid aura, the troll could see the fins breaking the surface of the water. Their unmistakable shape. Even land-lovers know about them, even if they never see a shark in their entire life. She lost count. She couldn't keep count because they swam circles around the barge. Maybe 10, maybe 20, or maybe more.

In the distance, something dark skimmed over the surface of the ocean. It had length, but it seemed to shrink - maybe narrow it's size. It had changed its direction. It seemed to be homing in on the barge's location. It didn't seem to be moving fast, and now it looks as if it had slowed to a crawling pace. It could be observing the wreckage of that battered brown watercraft.

"Drek it all, there doesn't seem to be anybody else alive here. There was a banging a while back but that stopped, what if we're the only two that survived this?" Castien quickly says, almost in a panic. Castien regains his composure, "We should probably search for survivors... Come with me if you want, otherwise I'll probably see you topside". Then he heads for the nearest staircase, going up to the open deck to get some fresh air.

*thunk As his hand strikes the port hole the dwarf remembers the first time he hit a man. How much it used to hurt. KLANG! ".......call me Striker...." "...........any Ideas....." Who could they be? Survivors? "......as much as I can...." "....debt to pay........." Looters? Or more of Mr. Dash's cronies? Better to die fighting than sitting in this tin can. He draws another deep breath, feeling the all too familiar grind of plastic on bone. "IN HERE!! IS THAT YOU, GRAVES?! COME AND GET ME!!!"

Upon hearing a distinctly dwarven shout, Castien bellows back, "I'M NOT GRAVES, I'M JUST A SURVIVOR LIKE YOU!" Castien then cautiously begins walking in the direction of the shouting.

"Graves" is a name that sounds familiar. Through the drug hazed memory, the name seemed like it surfaced. Striker, Castien, and the troll eventually remember the face. Doctor Graves is the fight ring's dedicated sport medicine practitioner. More like mad scientist. The collar was a product he had intimate knowledge with. The cyber leash carried the drugs he made specifically to control the fighter behaviors.

"Let me know what you find, I'm a little busy.." you can see that human male working with the many damaged guns, repairing as many as he can

"I'm gonna go check out that shouting dwarf, see if he's friendly. If you manage to get something longer ranged working I'd appreciate it, can't do much up close, but gimme a rifle and I'll take a few out before they knew what hit 'em," Castien says as he wanders off in the direction of the shout.

Every step pushed the Troll towards a most welcomed reprieve. Each inch she covered was one towards potential salvation and away from certain damnation. The unusual quiet of the barge announced its spurious demise. Memories of recent months danced as broken fragments of shattered glass that all perfectly linked like a puzzle made of grainy television displays. Her mind spasmed with predictable regularity as determined attempts tried to clean the drug induced hazy red filter that covered every single image. The frenzied cheering of the crowd bounced around her scantily contemplative mind. The assembly roared at the sickening sounds and gruesome visuals of a limb being torn. Bones snapped, blood vessels popped like overextended rubber bands, muscles twisted and tore as if they were organic paper filled with liters of life blood. A particular display remained vivid in her subconscious. A ruptured leg was transformed into a substitute bat as she beat her opponent's face into a canvased bloody paste. That brutal demonstration granted her the usual rewards: Manipulated emotions fueled by injected stimulants and adrenaline, and another day of life secured. Her innate eyes returned her to reality. The vibrant lights that once littered the barge were now broken, pieces scattered over the corpse ridden ground. Walls previously strewn with plastered fliers for brawling events, betting and related entertainment had been ripped and crumpled, hanging to the steel like decrepit bandages. Underneath were beehives of bullet holes and lashings of scratches and punctures. The barge was wounded and bleeding to death. The stillness sharpened her otherwise naturally potent hearing. There was a conversation rolling on the walls of the now gigantic antechamber of the crippled barge. The direction seemed to ooze from the arena: "The Coliseum" was the romantic description the announcer constantly peddled to its greedy gamblers and perverse audience. A desperate pounding and frantic shouts clawed at her sensitive hearing. She ignored them both. This forsaken barge was dead, and any remaining parasites still sucking from its sagging teat could die with it. She reflexively shielded her eyes as she ascended the stairs to the upper deck. The Troll could feel her body sloped to one side, a reminder that part of the rusting barge was already underwater. Her thermographic vision faded, the dedicated muscles relaxing as her normal perception returned. A laughable hereditary defect caused the scene before her to be blurred, but years had taught her how to determine the melding shapes. The left-over carnage denied her a smooth escape. The bridge was a crumbled wreck and all of the lifeboats were gone. Frequent shadows skimming and diving below the surface of the ocean declared their purpose. The wretched stench and leaking blood had rung a dinner bell. Nature's predators had come to feast on the rotting corpse. She could hear the wine of innumerable seagulls as they hovered above like vultures. As soon as death took her, they'd fill their bellies with her stacks of meat and tender flesh. Irritation faintly registered throughout her body. The constant artificial stimulation from the drugs had over-saturated her natural processes, leaving her emotions in a temporary lukewarm state. A massive hand lifted and she wrenched at the collar on her neck, wanting nothing more than to tear it off and hurl it towards the circling aquatic predators. Her teeth gnash as she winces in pain. Forcefully trying to remove the collar wasn't going to work. Its empty hypodermic needles and locks were embedded into her flesh. A more delicate removal was necessary. Balancing her footing once again her breathing became more frequent. She knew, without even thinking what her choices were. Option one was to sit here and die from starvation, joining the buffet of corpses for the frenzied feast that was sure to occur. The next was to dive into the waters rich with what could only be sharks and risk being eaten alive. Yet another alternative was to locate those previously ignored voices. All angered her. She knew that months of being pumped full of a chemical cocktail would have disastrous side-effects. While never an addict herself, clear memories surfaced of the drug runs she did for the gang. She saw the sunken, desperate eyes of the clients. She remembered their pale, shivering skin and twitching blue lips. Even if she didn't feel it now, she was certain that withdrawal would demand the narcotics with the promise of constant and unbearable suffering. Her collar was a damnable leash even when its owners were no doubt decaying chunks of meat sating the appetites of diseased vermin. Feeling the warmth of the sun against her mocha skin she stared up towards the sky. There was no easy answer. There never was. She ground her teeth and walked to the edge of the barge, pushing past the railing and staring down at the sharks, considering her chances.

"All I got here are pistols. Going to check the other rooms, try not to die. I dont have any ammunition, so not exactly equipped.to help." Is going to look around the level for the crews quarters, keeping an eye out for better guns, knives, maglock, or armor.

Castien hears Striker speak as he's leaving the room, nods, and carries on with trying to find the dwarven voice. He debates in his mind whether or not to shout again, risking giving away his position to others. Not everyone would be as friendly as Striker.

Hearing footsteps growing louder in the outside corridor, the dwarf tenses up. Maybe it's my lucky day after all. "Get this door open! I'm getting off this drekking boat. I don't care if I have to swim home!"

Castien believes he is at a door the dwarf is behind. On the outside of the door, it has a crudely painted white medical cross. On the floor beside the door, a half meter of steel chain is piled with some sort of lock laying on top. Other doors have the chain ran through some sort of brace.

The black sleek boat drew closer to the barge. Its engines were running near silent. The troll, so close to the edge of the the barge's top deck paid no attention to it. She is fixated on the sharks circling out beyond the edge of the brownish-red haze surrounding the sinking watercraft. "HEY YOU THERE!" crackled from a loudspeaker shattering the calm breezy air. Nobody appeared on the outside deck. The approaching came closer, and slowed. It stayed outside of the dirty haze also. It broke the circuit of the sharks. They bunched up among themselves, confused by the changes in their deathly water ballet. "ARE YOU THE ONLY SURVIVOR?" The quiet of the barge allowed the survivors to hear the electronically enhanced voice. Somebody else is top-side.

Castien tried his best to figure out how the door operates, if he fails himself then he rushes back to Striker and tells him. If he succeeds, then he'll enter and greet the dwarf, "Hey there, there's another survivor with me down the hall a bit, we should probably go topside and figure out a way to get off this damn barge."

It opens easily. The elf and dwarf face each other. The dwarf was wounded days ago. He looks like he is on the mend, but he looks misshaped. Both survivors look slightly familiar to each other. The memory is stuck in the purple haze of drug induced brains. Castien also realizes that Striker had a level of familiarity as well. The dwarf was on the barge, relatively the longest. He believes Striker had been on the barge least.

Hunger and Thirst is affecting each of the survivors. Striker is focused on his search, inspection, and muddled repairs. He has a headache starting to set in. The dwarf, is aware of his hunger and thirst. He has a headache and dry mouth affecting him. The Troll has her mind occupied on something else. She is more aware of the possible drug addiction than anything else. Castien had mostly ignored it. Unfortunately, it violently reminds him how bad the situation is (non-glitch reaction to hunger and thirst). He has a headache and abdominal ache affecting him.

The cold tendrils of wind lashed at her open wounds like a flogging whip. The burning sting of the salty wind pulsed throughout her entire body. A gash wound that clawed across her upper back and curved across her spine awakened. No longer dulled by the emotional ecstasy infused by the chemical injection nor the idle subconscious of dreams, it began to seer like a sizzling pan of oil. The putrid miasma of the lower deck had strangled her senses, but the fresh servings of open air forcibly reminded her of her body's condition. By the scalding sensation and twitch, the scab had obviously been infected. It was fortuitous that gangrene hadn't rotted her limbs black and peeled away her flesh. The twisted irony of her own pernicious allergy was that her immune system was incredibly resilient otherwise. She steeled her already rock solid will. Of all the hazards on this forsaken craft of death and disease, it would be a depraved joke if she perished to a curable contagion. Her other visible wounds oozed an opaque yellow liquid. It slowly snaked along the contours of her muscles and humps of her veins. Hanging at the edge of her skin for brief, desperate moments like a mountain climber dangling for dear life, gravity peeled them away. The droplets splashed against the mucus brown of the deck. Some slipped, carried by the wind into the waters below. It was her own natural blood. Given the propensity of Trolls and other Metahumans like her to have lethal hypersensitivities to certain substances, their physical, chemical and biological anatomy had distinguished differences from mundane humanity despite the obvious similarities. It provided clear reasoning for her anemic state. She had bleed enough for the lack of oxygen to begin affect her locomotion. Thankfully, it hadn't been enough to drop dead. The little victories sustained her hope for her otherwise forgone fate. Squinting, her eyes strained her defective vision. The discoloration of the water around the barge suggested that it was ferrying a chemical in addition to its blood sport. It held the appearance of some kind of gelatinous sludge that erected a thin membrane between the barge and the greater ocean waters. However, the scene was still disquieting. The gentle lapping of the predator filled waters against the ooze was akin to a sanded tongue attempting to peel back the skin of its prey to feast on the delectable meat inside. The Troll weighed her options. Previously she assumed that her struggle would be against the frigid ocean waters and streamlined marine predators that would barrage her from all sides. Now there was an additional barrier. Her skin crawled at the thought of what the substance could be. Jumping into a boiling pot of oil would have been favorable to diving into a vat of her sworn enemy. There had to be something. If she couldn't dive in or find a boat then she'd pull apart the deck until she found a sheet of steel large enough to make a raft. It would be better than nothing. As she turned she heard the elevated voice over the oppressive sounds of the wind and constant ocean waves foaming against the ooze below. Her muscles tensed at the booming electronic tone. Her eyelids narrowed as an instinctual frenzy washed over her. Finally her gaze locked onto the sleek outline of the fuzzy shape approaching on the water. Immediately her optical nerves twitched and her dedicated cells activated. A dark green film slid in front of her eyes. Her thermographic vision focused on the boat in an attempt to register humanoid heat signatures and how heavily they were armed.

Striker ignores the voices for now and is more worried about his headache, but decided to push forward on his search looking for any place the passkey may open. His search would lead him to dive into the submerged portions of the barge. Leaving the guns behind in a hidden place he knows. Using his experience to remain hidden. He takes a deep breath spots on the ground of this literal hell hole, then dives in determined to make the most of this terrible ordeal and to prepare himself....

The fixer listened to the captain's hail. No doubt, the electronic version of that voice lost something with its tone. He watched the troll's image on the enhanced sensor display. It tensed. On edge. Ready to fight. "Ease up a moment captain." the fixer cautioned, "I may need to go out on deck." The fixer removed his headset, and looked for the hatch. He left the bridge of the small smuggling vessel. The survivors, if there were more than one, would be able to easily tell that his chartered boat was built for something other than combat. If he were in their shoes, he would be equally cautious. The fixer made his way through a small passage. He passed beyond side hatches, and then stepped through another one that lead outside. His land legs quivered a bit. He hates being out on the water, as much as he hates heights. It severely crippled his former career as the psychological disability got worse. His new job proved more lucrative anyway. The intel he received days before was just crumbs off somebody's plate. They did owe him more than that - than this. What the hell would he do with a transplanted specialist? He could only imagine what he was really looking at. On the surface, a partially submerged cargo barge. That part of the information was correct. Accurate? The troll looks nothing like a dwarf. What if there are more? More trolls? More survivors? What is that sludge? It smells of death. *** A single aged human stepped out onto the black boat's rear deck. Details lost to the short distance. More details possibly lost to the troll. The human waved. Nothing out of the ordinary. No visible weapons in hand. He wore a simple blue outfit. Light and comfortable. His face, could remind people of Santa Clause, if they believed in that sort of thing anymore these days. He appeared lean and fit. "AHOY there!" the fixer yelled across the distance. He intentionally used the near universal greeting, as he suspected his own English tongue might not be useful here. He waited for a response, as he accessed his skill jack memory. He didn't remember which language softs he loaded.

The realization of the perilous exposure of her position was rapidly understood by the Troll. She was standing out in the open wearing a torn tank-top and some shorts. There was no obstruction in the diagonal distance between her and the polished oceanic craft. Electrochemical signals rolled along firing action potentials that cascaded into a sweeping sensory display of her surroundings. Even through her frustratingly blurred optical lens, she determined that the most viable cover was the rusting railings of the barge. The scattered debris was either too small or too fractured to be deemed feasible protection. By far the best option was to break line of sight. However, she at least wanted to access the degree of the threat the boat presented. Her muscles were tensed and spring loaded. Hormones had initiated reaction cascades, fueling her fight-or-flight response from her limited fat reserves. The craft slowed and entered an homeostatic stillness. Questions floated to the surface of her mind like foaming soap bubbles. Where they here to inspect the barge? Where they gauging and adjusting their weapons? How many of them where there? Similar inquires flashed in front of the Troll's subconscious only to be buried by one dominant demand. I need to steal that boat! The brightness of the morning and clear skies tinged the Troll's optics with a faded yellow-orange luster over her vision's deep green filter. The red-orange signatures of the boat's motor and electronics registered as fuzzy blips of smoldering heat. The combination of the lens flare and her own deficiencies prevented her from identifying any humanoid traces. A sudden appearance centered her focus. The first sign of animate life. The fine details were unattainable, but irrelevant to her. There was no clear protrusions on the figure's person. This limited their arsenal to concealed knives, pistols and sub machine guns neatly tucked within their clothes. As the humanoid raised a hand she nearly recoiled behind cover. A single step back was taken. The annoyaning cries of the seagulls and howling wind had not been silenced by a barrage of steel and shrapnel. A closer inspection of the figure revealed that it appeared to be waving. A transnational nautical greeting bellowed from their mouth. It sounded human and unaltered. The vibration would have normally been eaten by the wind, but the acoustics of the barge and her sensitive hearing meant the pleasantry was received clearly. Still, the words were spoken in English. With hesitation the Troll raised her massive left arm, her palm open. Her gallery of scars and festering wounds were plainly depicted in the frame of the sunlight behind her. She waited. Stressed. Hungry. Cold. Rank and wounded. She waited.

Castien holds his stomach in pain, then leans against a nearby wall. "Come on, we need to get out of here, I heard something topside, it might be a way off this tin can," he says to the dwarf. Castien turns around and begins walking back to Striker. As the dwarf and him are walking, he says, "The name's Castien, you seem oddly familiar, have we met before? I'm usually pretty good about remembering people, but that collar didn't do my head much good."

The dwarf standing before you carries himself with an air of authority long since expired. He is stocky and muscle bound even by dwarf standards; nearly as wide as he is tall. His analytical eyes narrow as they size you up, an old habit that hasn't quite died. His brown hair is slashed with streaks of gray at the temples, the price of stress and age. He stands bare chested and barefoot wearing tattered black fatigues. His chest and abdomen is a mess of scar tissue, plastic and dermal plate. He is clearly in incredible pain, but does his best to suppress it. He looks upon the dead with jaded eyes, all too familiar with gore and decay. He scratches his brown, unkempt beard. "My name is David Gibnir, but most people just call me "Gibs". Gibs narrows his eyes, he knows he's seen this elf before. The one in the skimpy outfit?? ".....Wait a minute...YOU'RE A MAN!?" ... As Gibs walks to the upper deck, he scans the dead bodies to see if he recognizes Mr. Dash or Dr. Graves among the dead.

No Mr. Dash, and no Dr. Graves. The king pig himself is sprawled out across the main deck floor of the arena. The ring leader that ran this boat didn't get away so easily. Gibs vaguely remembers everyone was present the night of the attack. At least he remembers them being on board with some big money prospects before the attack. The fight-ring master's name escaped from Gibs when he recognized the dead man's face. He was introduced to him by Mr. Dash. The man paid Mr. Dash a finder's fee. Gibs vowed to remember the bastard. He swore he would kill him if it was the last thing he would ever do. His name was stolen by sickly green haze. The drugs altered Gibs dwarven physiology. Now the results of the attack have claimed that burning oath he made to himself. They came upon Striker as he readied himself to submerge his human frame into the inky black waters that continued to choke the narrow hallway. The cool sea water belched out bubbles. As they surfaced, they broke. A noxious smell started to reach up and twinge their noses with acidic fumes. As each inch of wall the water claimed, the color slowly changed from a sickly seafoam green that it was originally painted, to a pinkish purple. Eventually the silver walls of the boat's structure turned to a piss yellow and then a crusty brown. About a meter deep, it had all turned black. The three men, all came to an abrupt halt in their activities as the sudden realization turned to vivid horror. The boat wasn't sinking. It is being eaten.

"WILDCARD!?!" The captain bellowed over the intercom, "The organic material is confirmed. It is Calras." The fixer sniffed as the beast's name was shouted into the open sea air. He read about it. Didn't believe such a thing existed. Obviously to him, it is too far north. It definitely confirmed why the barge never sunk in the first place. Something happened on that boat, and somebody didn't want it to be discovered. What ever needed to happen, would need to be done now. The fixer watched the troll a moment. He tried to gauge it. He tried to glean any knowledge from the troll's appearance. He took a chance an opted in a language. If it didn't work, things would end badly. He let the skill wired language soft take over his mouth and vocal chords. The noises he would make were caused by obvious cyberware, and he needed to trust it. The internal display on his cyber eye registered as a simplified dialect. He directed himself toward the troll, and blinked a command to speak loudly. "Nín hǎo. Wǒmen bù yìwèizhe nǐ de shānghài. Zài nǐ de miànqián, shíyóu xiànhuò shì chīle chuán, hé tā de nèiróng. Nǐ míngbái ma?"

"Yeah, still don't fully remember how I ended up in that suit... I think it was either that, or fight in the arena. Just look at me, I'm not a fighter, in case that wasn't obvious enough," Castien says to Gibs as they walk back to Striker. After coming to the realization that this piece of drek wasn't sinking, but being eaten, Castien loses it, "Wait wait wait... where the hell are we?! How is this... THING, eating a ship? Can you imagine how massive this creature must be? OK OK OK...we need to get out of here, but we already knew that, so how are we going to do that?" Castien begins frantically trying to find an exit that isn't filled with the creature's bile...

"Well, this isn't the strangest thing I've seen, but it is up there. Well let's all talk later shall we, I'm sure we will all laugh about this over drinks." He begins to collect the guns, checks the pass key and cred stick, then begins to move towards the top and sounds. "Elf you run up ahead, you seem to be good at talking... Try and figure out if those voices are here to help. Dwarf you got any idea where this passkey might go to, it's for a maglock. Also you any use in a fight, in case those voices are here to finish the job."

"Can do, boss man." Castien chuckles as he runs up ahead to find an exit to the surface of the boat.

"If they wanted us dead, they'd have left us here." Gibs grimaces as he ascends the stairs, breathing ragged and heavy "The key might help us track these bastards down." Calras...?

Visible surprise crept across the Troll's curved cheek bones. Her eyes clearly widened, the dark black slits dilating in response to the enunciation and pitch delivered by the fuzzy humanoid. The shock superseded her natural flight reaction at the sudden clamor boomed by the electronic megaphone. Her genetic limitations were preventing her from observing any distinctive features on the human, but based on the tone he was male. Acute hearing and nostalgic familiarity dusted the surface of her consciousness. The Troll's stress noticeably dipped, but her caution remained. 您好. 我不意味着你的伤害.在你面前的油吃了船的内容. 你明白吗？. [I do not mean you harm. The oil in front of you is eating the contents of the boat. Do you understand?] Her native tongue. The words and intonations massaged her tense mind. She responded, her tone had a low pitch and deep bass. It made her inflections more obvious, but her response was definite. " 我明白了。我想关闭此船。" [I understand. I want off this boat."] Her emphasis on certain syllables and general tone betrayed her prefecture of origin. Slang terms strewn in between traditional Kanji spoke to her upbringing. The directness of her statement portrayed the Troll's willingness to act on her own terms. Despite the dangers, she'd performed free labor for enough pricks in recent months. She demanded her freedom.

The fixer's cybernetic program analyzed the audio. It came through a little garbled. However, the troll spoke did speak. The response allowed the fixer to relax a little. He assembled a new message, and then let the language soft send it. Shìfǒu hái yǒu qítā xìngcún zhě? [Are there other survivors?] Just as he finished, there was a clatter at the deck door. Something or somebody was exiting the boat.

The contents of the Troll's mind churned like rusted cogs. The gears had been soaked with viscous, sticky phlegm from months of indirect, subconscious control of her own physiology. It was like moving a broken limb again after months of being stuck in a cast. There were residual aches. Dexterity was sluggish and certain areas were still numb. It felt good. It meant that her body was finally under her control again. Articulating her native tongue again after so long, albeit inelegantly and rough, was liberating. Her ears perked up, the innate hypersensitivity twitching with glee as more familiar terms were directed towards her. The Troll knew the answer to the question, though not precisely. She certainly heard people but, whether or not they were "survivors" was another issue entirely. With the glaze fogging the details of her memories and the number of corpses, she was unable to tell the difference. So she responded in a manner that was personally humorous. It offered her some much needed levity in such dire circumstances. "有可能。可能拾荒者。 Yǒu kěnéng. Kěnéng shíhuāng zhě. " [Maybe. Probably Scavengers.] Her diction was smoother, her cognitive familiarity with the terms piloted by muscle memory more than conscious thought. Her slitted eyes shifted. The sound of footsteps echoed across the deck of the barge. For the first time her hazy vision gave her a visual origin of the voices. They too would get their first glimpse of the nine foot, ten inch tall Troll. Well muscled, covered in wounds, with a depilated head and a unique protrusion of five scaly black horns jutting out of her skull, her race was obvious. Her physique was further accentuated as she flexed her brawn: A learned dominance display honed over two decades of life. "他们三个。 Tāmen sān gè. " [Three of them.]

Striker rubs his chin and looks at Gibs, "Good point, though that doesn't mean they are here to help or even the ones who did this. Caution should still be advised." Gets lower to the ground and walks more cautiously and whispers, "I'm going to go check the bridge, see if anything survived that is of value." He gives a wave and cautiously heads towards where the bridge should be, trying to do so as quietly as possible. Holding a gun, less for protection and more for comfort.

Heeding Striker's words of caution, Gibs continues upward. Having ascended the stairs, Gibs leans against the steel portal, more of a hatch than a proper door, the furious ocean wind buffeting against it. Salty air fills his lungs, bringing back memories of the outer deck of the C.S.S. Wilmington. I was so damned patriotic back then. So young and stupid. The door creaks a meager protest , wrenching open revealing the midday sun and the full glory of the open ocean. The sun burns his unready eyes at first, but he adjusts quickly. He looks to the troll, who is clearly speaking a language he has no grasp on. No. It couldn't be the same one who tried to tear my head off... I must be hallucinating. He looks upon his only ride out of here, and the man who seems to be in charge. "AHOY there! I'm guessing this is no coincidental meeting!"

Walking out into the open air, Castien is blinded for a short while as his eyes adjust to daylight. His head begins to pound, but he feels much better as he takes a deep breath of somewhat fresh air. He breathes a sigh of relief when he see the ship drifting close to the sinking barge, and then leaps back as he see the troll, standing much taller than himself. "Oh boy," he mutters to himself as he prepares what he should say to prevent the troll from breaking every bone in his body. Even in a three versus one Castien was confident that they would win against a pissed off troll. Castien swallows hard, then speaks, slow enough to be understood, but not slow enough to make the troll think that he is questioning her intelligence, "Hello there, friend! It seems there is one more survivor on this place after all! Is there any chance the three of us could accompany you on what seems to be your way off this barge?"