1500. Laundorama. November 10, 2044. Some days I hate my job. Today was one of them; it was laundry day. Laundry is an aspect of the Runner's life that never dazzles the sensie crowds; it's just not good entertainment. But we're people too, and we end up with dirty clothes. More often than not; we're the scum of society. Like last night for example, I was with Raven down in the warehouse district and an amped guido tried to ice me. I frosted his ass in return and got blood all over my brand new kevlar and leather jacket for my troubles. She-it. So here I stood in a laundromat, The laundromat, wishing I was married. I'd be all like: Hey woman! Why don't you make yourself usefull and wash me my clothes!! Chuckle. But it is not to be, I don't live in Redneckopolis. But back to where I was. Laundorama. It is a large underground laundromat located beneath a parking garage in eastern Eden Prarie. There are over a hundred washer and dryer units down here and I have never seen one out of order. They only take certified cred stick, and the floor is clean. It is a nice set up really, which can't be said for most of the establishments in this neighborhood. It is also one of the most neutral places on the face of the earth. So is the surrounding block of the burbs (so you don't get wacked walking out of Elysium.) Don't ask me why or how, it just is. Zen, brother. In fact I was in here last month after killing Ronnie Killark, and his brother Luther walked in; he didn't even glare at me like the meanie he is. Also for reasons unknown to Mortal Man, Laundorama constantly plays Beatles Music. 24-7. Non-stop. Uninterrupted. Don't ask me why or how, it just is. But why I really come here is to pick up chic's. It is a little known fact that Runners of the gentler sex are hot as hell. It is like a job prerequisite if you're a female Runner to be hotter than fuck. Don't ask me why or how, it just is. Not that I'm complaining, I'm not, I'm just stating a universal constant. Right then, "Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" was playing, but back to trolling. It was a slow day until she walked in. Five foot six, athletic frame, I could go into her specs like a technical write up. But why muddy the waters. She was above 'hotter than fuck' by orders of magnitude. Then she walked up to the washer next to mine. Of a hundred washers and driers, she walked up next to mine. Like mana from heaven. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Better to be lucky than be good. Manifest Destiny. Ok, the last one was a stretch, but the cliche's were bountiful. Then "Hey Jude" started playing; one of my all time favorites. She spoke. It didn't really matter what she said, it was music to my ears. Music to calm the savage beast. Wow, I'm on a cliche trip today. I had best say something, I thought, or I'll look like an idiot. "Naw, I'm not a big baseball fan. Contact baseball is a whole nother story, but I prefer Fight Club on channel 135 and the BattleNets." She spoke again, I saw her lips moving, but couldn't get past how much I wanted to try and make babies with her. I thought of Master Chu at Bootcamp as Hey Jude kept playing. "Remen shoud stay home and make babbies. Plefflably man chird." Again, her speaking had stopped and I'd best be about answering to avoid baffoondom. "Yeah, I come here often, usually right after a job." I added a sheepish grin (not a shark grin) to let her know what my business was. Ah, great gods above. She continued to speak. All women have one good use for a mouth, and whoever this was, she had two. She could talk all day and I'd listen. But just as before, her thought complete she stopped talking and it was again my Atlas task to carry the conversation. "Ugh." I agreed with a grunt. If only this damn Beatles music would end so I could hear her better. It didn't, but she did resume her siren call. OH SWEET JESUS!! This was too easy. Monosylabic input and she started talking again. I should record this. I should get a recorder inplant. I wanted to make her my input. Alas, she completed her sentence, smiled and went back to loading her laundry into the washing machine. Fuck, fuck, fuckety-fuck, fuck. What to say? What to do? She had to start speaking again. "How long you been in the cities?" Pause. "I just got here a couple months back." Heaven be praised. Which heaven? I wasn't picky. Hell, I prayed to all of them when I get desperate enough. You'd be surprised what you agree to when you're on fire. I considered it my primary function in life to survive, and all those gods out there existed to see that I did. It was there job, so why be choosey?? Stars. She chatted on about the usual. I loaded up the finished wash into my basekt and marveled at her body and how well the Tide stuff gets out blood stains. Even out of my Clown suit. Friendly conversation followed right through "Let it be," "The Ballad of Rocky Racoon," and the better part of The White album. Right up until I was unloading my drying machine. The end of the engagement was at hand. It must be a decisive engagement, "Strawberry Fields Forever" was playing. "What would you say to dinner some time?" I asked out of the blue, tossing a pair of jeans into the basket. Master Tzu said keep you enemies off balance. I always used surprise to my advantage. Attack where they do not defend. Retreat when they expect conflict. Advance when they are complacent. She looked surprised as if she thought I wouldn't ask. No stud like me worth his pecker wouldn't ask a red-hot lass like her. She must get asked all the time, but I hoped my good sense not to use a pick-up line would score a few points. Not that I didn't have a trillion of them stored away up in my big knoggen. Mumble. Mumble. Agh! Damnit get to the point. YES!! She accepts!!! Chalk up one more for moui!! She gave directions to her place. "Yeah, that sounds great. I'll meet you at your place at ten." Then I picked up my basket, walked to the door and looked back once. She looked up as if on cue from the powers that be and smiled. I waved and walked out to the tune of "Let's do it in the road." 2230. The Perfect Burrito. November 25, 2044. I always wanted go there for dinner. The place is totally wiz. She said that she could make arrangements for reservations, and I said I'd buy. Never mind that one burrito costs more than a case of one thousand rounds of ammo for the Ares Predator I carried under my dinner jacket. The place was run by a middle aged woman of Somali-Mexican descent, and she made the best Burrito's in the world, bar none. The perfect burrito was located in a trashy side street in an alley right between The Barrens and Gangland; two of the worst burrows in MSP. We were so far out of The Zone, you couldn't hit it with a Soulder Launched Anti-tank missile. Corps, Public Stars, the Elite; they all came here for her burritos. All she served was burritos, it was BYOB. Everyone who was anyone (and that now included me) came here for the exquisite cuisine, and the owner made a killing on it. Word on the street had it that she was from the poorer parts of town, and I could believe that. It was also held that she thought it was hellarious to watch the suits and big wigs of society to dodge shoot outs and booster gangs just to come have a burrito. I did too, but I didn't dodge the shoot outs. Back to BYOB. Luckily my date had thought to grab a bottle of wine. Me, I'm no good at picking that shit and would have brought a twenty-four pack of Henry Weinhard's Private Reserve, if I hadn't know that would score negative points. She talked on about the wine's vintage, taste, auroma, blah blah blah; but all I listened to was the sound of her voice. Intoxicating. I wore my best kevlar lined black jacket (a sport coat Raven bought for me) that went with the dark gray mono-crys lined pants, black turtle neck, and dusted off jungle boots. While I looked great for your average Mercenary convention, my date was a whole nuther matter. She sported duds that made my mouth water and certain other parts of my anatomy too. It was a dark green dress with burgundy accents. She must have know that I liked burgundy. The dress looked just right, without being too gaudy or too slutty. I'm no fashion analyst, but I know what looks good on a real lady. Light years above 'hotter than fuck' is where the measure of her beauty rested now. We were seated at one of the seven tables for four that the rickety walls contained. The decore was pretty nice for a restaurant, and goddamn extravagent for this part of the burbs. It was done up like a small Mexican Cantina that looked exactly like every one I had ever been to in Mexico. Believe me, I'd been to my share of them. Dinner conversation revolved around just how big these Super-Grande'-Supreme burrito's were. They were the 400 nuyen kind. It drifted to what I had done, where I'd lived, grown up, served etc. She talked about her job: security; on the side ownership of a bar: The Web; where she grew up: Westopolis; etc. etc. I cataloged all of it but mostly just listened to the sound of her voice. Then she sprang the question. No not that one you sick fuck!! And no, not if I wanted to be her pleasure slave either. Though I would have gladly accepted. She asked if I wanted a job. Ah, shit!! I'd been tricked! Now we were in a professional relationship. The Shark Warrior code forbade having relations with professional coleagues. Crap. This sucked! Oh, Gods! Why dost thou curse me? You wretched foul deamons! Don't dip the pen in the Company ink. No getting attached to team mates; they die faster that way. Chip chip, cheerio! all that ROT!! There was one thing I could say, "What kind of job?" She spoke at great length to my obvious pleasure. It would entail another meeting, at the employers expense, at a fancy restaurant. I was in. Role: firepower. That's me. Primary Objective: ensure her functionality. Secondary Objective: get Jefferson Douglas' briefcase. It had something in it that our Employer wanted. She said that the environment was hostile enough a sneaky underarmed person like her needed a insurance package. Well I'll tell you what. I had one helluva package. Agh! Stop thinking like that. This is business. Then she musically tittered out the small details like pay, insurance, AD&D (none), equipment, site, ra, ra, ra. (Let's all chear for the sun god.) The site is the most interesting part. The whole reason I am here, The Reserve. A big shot hotel complex in the heart of the Zone. (In a Van) Down by the river just west of the Warehouse district. It was a collection of different building of differnt architectural styles that had been bought seperately and connected togther in the early days of the Plex. Though they look seperate they are really owned and operated as a single entity. With three underground and two aboveground parking garages and over thirty entrances it offered easy coming and going. She explained that the owner, Daniel Birk, had previously been a higher up in Knight Errant Security and had gone his own way after he discovered this unique opportunity. Now he owned and operated the Reserve as a meeting place for those in need of a low profile. He kept a hand picked staff of security experts in physical, technical and computer techniques. With the exception of a quintuple murder eight months ago there had never been any trouble with the authorities (I learned later it was Kid Stealth.) It offered rooms from small boltholes, the size of prison cells, with spartan furnishing up to apartment size suites with all the ammeneties from Net access to hot tubs. It lacked arcades, athletic facilities, shops, and sensie shacks but the Plex on all four sides could take care of that easily. Damn, She stopped talking. That meant she was done and wanted an answer. She looked at me expectantly. "Yeah, I'll take the job. Let's do it." I added just for fun. Her smile turned my insides to mush and blood rushed to Shark's organ. It then occured to me I could be played the fool quite easily if I kept this up (no pun intended), but trusted whichever god was in charge of that sort of thing to protect me today. Not something I usually did, but there wasn't a gun in my hand right now. 0000. The Villa. August 18, 2045. "What?" I asked the young blonde lady sitting in front of me in a tone that feigned hurt. She was giving me the look-from-hell. Like I cut the story short or something: whatever! I savored that look and walked over to the CD player. She pushed some platinum hair behind her ear, "So how does it end?" I tapped disc 245 and hit play. "Oh, it's not that interesting." I moved to track 5. "I don't get to shoot anyone and we don't have sex." "When I'm 64" started playing. I wonder where I'll be when I'm 64. "Huh," she huffed then shrugged her shoulders. She obviously wasn't pleased with that answer. "That Kenna, is how I met Spydr. Slightly tinted by time, but basically the honest truth. It's one of those boring stories because two professionals are involved." "I know," she said in a way that was almost disturbing.