(continued from Roleplaying Page)

The scene? A smoke filled bar, run down and dingy and filled with chipheads, drug addicts, whores and a varied mix of the scum of society. The whole place looks dark, gloomy and foreboding and smells of cheap soy beer, urine and vomit. It’s the kind of place where you need to watch your back and the eyes of the patron’s follow you as if assessing how easy it would be to slit your throat and take your credstick.

“Seen a few too many Shadowrunner flicks on the trids an’ decided ta come down here ta da ‘Rens an’ scope out what it’s really all about, eh chummer?” The grizzled old veteran asks you with a slight smile, revealing crooked teeth that are a patchy yellow-brown from age and nicotine, as you take a seat at the table you asked him to meet you at. You nod and start to reply but are cut short by the man “Yeah… well it must be your lucky day… cause ahm gonna tell you everythin’ you need ta know bout runnin’ da shadows…” the man clears his throat with a dry, rasping cough and then continues. “See when ah first start’d out in this game ah ain’ know shit eitha… but you learn fast or you die even quicka.”

You ask him “What are the shadows?” …and he almost chokes with barely restrained laughter on a mouthful of soy beer and seems to find the question genuinely amusing.

He remains silent, just looking at you for some time before choosing to answer “Da shadows?…. Ah guess you coul’ say dat it’s like what woz meant by the da criminal element back in da day. S’mo’ den dat tho’… at its simplest a shadowrunner is a criminal with out a SIN.” He takes a sip of beer and continues “Someone who ain’ traceable by da system, someone dat da corporations an’ da criminal syndicates call upon precisely cause dey is noone an’ nothing. Yeah dey see us as expendable assets perhaps but so long as dey is payin’ enuff nuyen dere iz always someone willin’ ta steal, kill or whatever else it is dat dem wit’ da money want.”

You interject “You mean they’re just people without system identification numbers? But on the Trid show…”

The man snarls “Yo’ wann’d da low down so ya came ta me, don’ fraggin’ tell me ’bout wot da Trid said… an’ pay attention… wot makes us differen’ from any otha random, SINless criminals iz dat we got an edge…” There is a quiet SHICKKK noise as three, foot long blades extend themselves instantly from the flesh of the mans arm “Mebbe dey is like me, a street samurai… guy who be augment’d wit’ bio or cyberware and train’d for combat.”

You all but wet yourself as the blades suddenly pop out to full extension and stop a mere inch from your face and the man chuckles hoarsely before sliding the razor edged blades back into their housing beneath the skin of his forearm. “But not every runner is jus’ muscle… take ‘Charlie’ ova dere..” he nods in the direction of a pale looking young man who sits typing away at a roll up keypad, connected to his commlink and goggles that emit a deep green hue. “He’s a hacker… one dem guys who flies through the ‘Trix and boosts info or crashes systems. But dat ain’ all dere is neitha… take my frien’ ‘Crash’ fer example – guy’s a rigger, s’tead of networks to run ‘iz ass through Crash controls vehicles and combat drones. Or take dat elven chica sitting over dere – she is one dem mojo’s… a shaman, I think… I seen dat slitch work some pretty powerful magic when she’s had occasion too… saved my ass more den a few times, ya scan?” The man takes another mouthful of beer and then adds “Dat ain’ all dere is out there, da point is dat every runner has their own style an’ expertise; dey ain’ jus’ typical SINless fraggers the city is full of those but those of us dat run either have something that keep us alive or we ain’ las’ very long… law of da urban jungle or somethin’ – only the strong and the smart survive.”

You finally work up the courage to ask “So what do you actually do?”

The man laughs “Woteva dey pay me ta… sometimes datz a hit on some unlucky fragga, sometimes a lil hijackin’ or smash an’ grab. Sometimes it’s jus’ coverin’ otha peoples asses while dey go about somethin’ dangerous… jus’ as dere iz all kin’s of runners dere is all kin’s of runs. We’re da people da corps, or the military or syndicates like da Mob an’ da Yaks call in when dey wan’ a job done by someone who has da skills ta attempt it an’ it don’ matta if dey ain’ make it back… afta all who iz gonna prove dat dey hired some nobody to commit a crime for dem?” The man coughs again and spits hawks a large gobbet of phlegm onto the ground next to you and then adds “Da shadows is in simple terms da section o’ da criminal undaworld dat might be considered freelance… people dat get hired by J’s da do woteva dirty work needs doin’.”

Noting the look of incomprehension that crosses your face and says “Mr Johnson’s basicly da guys wot hire you… see mos’ corp exec’s won’ deal wit’ criminal scum like us, so dey get guys wot iz used ta dealin’ wit’ street level playa’s like us runners, ya scan? As you might expect most of dese guys are absolute snakes… dey is dealin’ wit’ people dey see as expendable so you carn’ neva trust ‘em.” The man smirks and adds “An’ dat about sums up wot da shadows is… s’ a world where you carn’ trust noone, where you have ta watch your back at all times an’ where dere is danger aroun’ every corner… in dis kin’ o’ place you don’ jus’ need an edge, you need ta be ruthless enough to use it and speakin’ off which chummer…”.

The man grins broadly and then brings up his hand from under the table where he has reached while you were distracted by listening to him and clutched in it is a heavy looking Colt Manhunter revolver. In a blur of motion that your eyes can’t even track properly he levels the barrel of it at your forehead and cocks back the hammer, chambering a round with a clicking noise. “Speakin’ of which chummer why ain’ you save us both some trouble an’ hand over all your nuyen… dat’s right just put it down on the table… now stand up and back da frag out o’ here like a good lil slitch. Ah promise you dat if you try something stupid you won’ last two steps before you catch some dese slugs with your fraggin’ teeth.” He grins as he grabs up your money and credstick from the table and adds, mostly to himself “Stupid downtowna punk… thinkin’ dat he can come an’ hang in da ‘Rens askin’ stupid questions… ‘What are da shadows?’… wot a fraggin’ chump – must be my lucky fraggin’ day.”

Your pride injured and your money gone you make your way hastily out of the dingy bar and count yourself as lucky to make it back to your apartment downtown without further incident vowing never to delve into the shadowy underworld again. And yet, somehow, despite your experience you can’t help but feel a certain admiration for and perhaps even jealousy of these people who live outside the 9-5 regularity of your corporate wage-slave job and who risk death at every turn.