d3xter

HOLY WATER CANNOT HELP YOU NOW THOUSAND ARMIES COULDN'T KEEP ME OUT SEE I'VE COME TO BURN YOUR KINGDOM DOWN ❝ He’s more machine now than man. Twisted and evil ❞

[runner-dex]

Mind of a Beast | 13 & Dex

[runner-dex]

jerichofalling :

he’s not one for asking pointless or impotent questions.  but apparently even with them voiced, the runner is still under the impression - somehow - that the solo is of a mind to see the chaos of the man in front of him.  

and while 13 can be – infinitely p a t i e n t. there are times when he has limits. and the runner manages to press him - with those words, with that persistence to the edge of his.  and perhaps, it is a dangerous place to be.  because this is not a limit which has been tested before.  this is not a challenge that he normally faces.  it’s not life or death on the curve of his skill.  this is tempting those foreign things to the fore. a heat under his skin which is part frustration, part exasperation, part anger… none of which seem to overwhelm the other - just mixing and churning until his gut is taut and his skin feels paper thin.

and the sound which rumbles from his chest, head lowering, gaze locking on the runner is one that sounds more feral than human.  a growl which snaps out, and he has had – 

“E N O U G H.”

one word which follows the sound with a snarl of it’s own.  something stark and clear enough to split the air asunder.  and he is turning fully, shoulders squaring.  bearing up to his not inconsiderable full height.  towering over the frail form of the other.  moving with purpose and intent.  

one hand reaches out and snatches up dexter, it’s an extension of arm that circles his waist ( putting no pressure on those lungs ) a literal steel band as grafted muscle locks around slender waist and lifts.  no pause still moving as the other hand plucks up the machine from the floor by the metal pole which the main box of the thing stood upon, wheels spinning in the air.  and he strides back to the small clamour of belongings gathered.  and the runner is deposited backonto the mattress, with no small amount of care, but with enough precise determination - and even if he thought dex had the strength in him to struggle back to his feet, 13 would put him down - again.  and again.  and as many times as it took.  because this is how lessons were learned in the real world.  they were hard and they were brutal and they were unforgiving.

“you want to talk?  FINE.  how about you try listening too?  because i am not your enemy.  i don’t know if i am your friend dio– dexter.  but do not make the mistake of thinking that i have - friends.  if i do?  you are it.  you are the only one.  which is why i asked you.  what you want.  which is why i asked you.  if this is what friends do.  because i don’t know.  in the thirty years of life in my bones i have never known - a friend.”

“yes - be honest with me but accept honesty from me.  but do not - ever - take my honesty as an implication that i do not care — for you…”

oh.

it’s out now.  you might as well continue. you’re on a roll, big guy.  why take your foot off the gas now?

i care?

well, duh?  why else would you have worried enough to go to his house?

so i care.  what difference does it make?

look at you?  you’re a mess.  you’re sweating and tense and disgusting.  how’re you feeling right now?  any clue?  because i sure as hell don’t have one.  see?  this is what ‘friends’ do to you.  i warned you.  they dig their way beneath your skin.  the poke and peel and sink themselves in deep, and every step you take, every turn and twist of fate, they pull at your being - tear just a little bit more of you apart.

“you might want to fight the world, but this is not the world you know.  this is not a line of code or a hack or a viral plant that you can use to crack through into some secret space.  this is reality and it is different here and it will not go gentle upon you.”

he thinks that perhaps there are delusions there.  a martyr to the masses, a salvation for the hopeless, the downtrodden.  and 13 knows well enough, than no man can find your salvation for you.  perhaps it’s a manifestation of the sickness.

he wasn’t sick when he bombed the police hq.  wasn’t sick when you thought john was dead.

he wouldn’t hurt john.

are you sure of that?

…

“so with all of that standing against you.  with this place and this life as much of a hardship as it can be - why do you wish to - fight - me?”

really though, you could just unscrew his head.

it was contextual.  not literal.  

you could though.  it would be easy.  snap his neck.  one quick – twist – it might stop your hands from shaking.

my… hands?

mmmhm,

he looks down then.  clenched fists, white knuckled, a visible tremble from that built up, pent up, strange storm of emotion bleeding out into the physical.  and the solo purposefully flexes his fingers.  tries to ease out some of that thickly strung tension.  it doesn’t seem to want to go away.

“should i have left you then?  in that small room?  should i have stayed away?  should i have come back to make sure you were okay?  should i have dismissed the call to come here tonight?  should i walk away now?”

again.  not rhetorical.  genuine in the asking.

walk away.  or kill him.  either works.

i am not going to do either.  i want answers.  i want to know whether i was wrong.  about all of this.

oh, you were wrong alright.  wrong to ever get involved.  really, this is why you don’t do this. why you don’t have ‘friends’.  because ‘caring’ means ‘emotion’ means shit that you just can’t handle, kiddo.  things that scrape and cut and bruise in places where a stitch or a bandaid just can’t reach.

but what if i was right?

he takes a deep breath and the shaking eases a little.  moves to bring himself closer.  sits on the edge of the mattress, knees bent almost to his chin, hands wrapping around his bent legs, if only so he can clasp his hands together and keep them solidly - inert.  and that tightness to his chest, his gut, the stretch of his skin seems all the more prominent now.  and there is no heat in his voice.  theres a rub of one thumb over the back of his hand, an almost soothing movement, and his eyes remain focussed on the floor at his feet.  swirls of dirt at the toes of his boots and dust motes hovering in the air from disturbance and movement.  there’s a long pause, and 13 turns his head - looks over at the boy in the mask, because now, surely, he looks like a boy.  perhaps older around the eyes, but still someone alone.  stuck in a world that would cut him to pieces.  that wouldn’t - care.  that would leave him here in this pitiful place on a dirty mattress in a cold, forgotten corner of a town that wouldn’t blink for the loss of him.

sometimes all it took was one person.

“no riots.  no net.  no city.  no politics.  no corps or contracts.  no guns… no death.  just you - and me.  tell me what this is?  tell me what – are we?”

      He fought at first as a hand snatches out for him, although all attempts to resist are strikingly feeble in the weak of the solo’s strength. Inevitably he has little choice but to accept the fate given to him, and in another startlingly surprise, it’s the thin comfort of the worn mattress he’d made home. His machine had been scooped up as easily as he had, a scratch of plastic against concrete as it settled again, he tugged it closer by the wires protruding from the nape of his neck, thick and heavily braided. None too dissimilar to the ones used for ‘running, but these felt different. His world had always been a myriad of textures, sound and smells, they weren’t amplified to superhuman levels, instead his focus became devout on one of the trio.

There it was again, cropping up, just a slip of the tongue perhaps but it indicated that 13 knew more than he’d originally let on. Dio. It was hardly a coincidence, and with a name like Dionysus it was easy to understand why the boy had always preferred monikers. There was a joke, a story, in his naming that he’d clearly never been told, why his siblings had been given the names of gods known for their strength or wisdom and he—well, the less said of the God of Wine the better. His fingers clawed at the dingy mattress, it didn’t irk him that the solo knew, it was a question of how. In the end, the questions died on his lips, the question of how thirteen had learnt his name paled in comparison to what he asked.

He cared? That gaunt hollow face turned to him, a flicker of unshielded confusion and then something intrinsically warmer. He fought it nearly as much as he brightened to the small hint of kindness, it had been no different with John, it was as if Dex was allergic to even the faintest hints of compassion. Yet, he was warming, slowly, it shone in the way he hadn’t immediately recoiled. And, he did listen—carefully so.

“No—shouldn’t have, or at least I’m glad that you didn’t leave.” He thumbs at the hoodie that swallows him now, looping the drawstrings around his fingers in a way that’s nigh childish in manner. Dex doesn’t argue, doesn’t correct him, accepts that the line that this world isn’t his own, because it’s not. There’re clear distinctions between the two that go beyond the difference in pace, because the colours bleed the same and the strategies for navigating the net in comparison to the real world aren’t too different, but the people are.

They’re their own special kind of beast, and Dex although aware is not wholly compatible to fight against them. If he is to make an imprint on the heads of Arasaka, Militech or the other underhanded corporates, he was going to need more than just a ragtag team of ‘runners.

He looks up from his hands to be faced with wide, dark luminous eyes, the kind of look Apollo gave him when he wanted something. The kind of look that inevitable nearly always made Dex cave. “What this is?” He repeats the question because he himself isn’t wholly sure, they’d bled from the lines of colleagues or acquaintances but had he fucked up one too many times for them to be friends?

“I…” Each word is chosen carefully, turned over and over in his hands until the syllables seem foreign to him. “I would like to be friends, if that is at all possible still?”

“You, John, you’re all I have left—” He wouldn’t deny that he wasn’t adept at friendship, sociability was not a strongpoint of his, however he was willing and trying to learn all over again. It was an arduous process, inherently filled with mistakes, “I don’t want to lose either of you…” He drifted quietly, his fingers digging incessantly into the fabric of his hoodie pocket now, “no net, city, politics guns or death,” he agreed quietly, “could we do-over? I just…” There was a craving, beneath the urge to bring economic sanctity back and democracy, to just live a normal life, or as close as one could get in Night City. Perhaps go out for a drink, he wondered briefly if he acquired a new set of lungs whether that might be an option, would thirteen go with him? “I’m sorry.”

[fvllengrace-blog]

Visit Original Link

he’d trade his guns for love but he’s caught in the crossfire and he keeps wakin’ up, but it’s not to the sound of birds the tyranny; the violent streets; deprived

[runner-dex]

Mind of a Beast | 13 & Dex

[jerichofalling]

he kills for money.  

not for passion or emotion.  not for a cause.  not for any other reason than a contract presented.  and he only hopes that the next one will test his skill to the limit.  will have the beast snarling in his belly, hungry for blood, for the death that will surely come to that name - handed on a slip of paper or whispered in quiet tones.  he has never killed for any other reason ( though recently, very recently, he has come close.  has tasted the red mist of anger, cold, stark and hard.  colder than he’d ever been before.  though that blade had been halted by a presence he thought had ceased to exist.  words.  a slap… yes, he remembers that.  a sharp jolt which spoke to him more than what he’d thought to have been a phantom.

perhaps they - the ‘they’ that make up the populace, the ‘they’ of night city - would think his killing ‘dirty’, callous, wretched in kind.  but he doesn’t.  there’s something pure about a detached kill.  something clean about that anonymity.  about knowing that the name was a marked man, or woman, and that perhaps they were - lucky - that their enemy had chosen him to dispatch them, remove them of the mortal coil.  because he has never failed.  there’s no mess.  no chaos ( unless it’s a specific engineered ‘exact’ chaos as part of the contract itself ).  they had been marked.  and they would die.  he is simply, the tool of their removal.  he just doesn’t understand, at least, not completely, those other drivers, which cause a person to pick up arms and wage war.

if you didn’t mean offence, then do not be offensive.  

the solo had taken the runners words as the belittling tirade they had been.  insinuation,  accusation, that jericho had done - nothing - to extricate john from that incarceration.  he.  hadn’t.  known.

“i did not come here for any other reason than you asked me to.”

words returned as feet still, though he does not turn back to face the other.  hears the scrape and rattle of the machine as it’s pulled across the floor.  it would not have been necessary - if that suit had been used for the purpose intended.  not to turn the other into a weapon, but to heal him.  to help him.  exactly the same intent as the solo had when he’d come here.  but both, it seemed - had become twisted.

he had thought that there might have been something.  he had killed for him, yes, it had been a contract, but he had accepted…  he had sought him out in the static of silence.  had summoned the medic.  had tried.  he still… doesn’t know what a friend is supposed to be.  his actions had been of someone, perhaps, trying to find out.  perhaps it would just be another of those things – something else he didn’t… would never understand.  

“i do not care that you killed those people.”

perhaps, if this conversation had taken another turn, then jericho might even have thanked the other for manufacturing a means of freedom for john.  as it stands… he won’t do that.  

“i do not know what you want from me.  because if it is - friendship - then i cannot see it.  is this what friends do?”

he’s asking, not out of anything else than an honest enquiry.  he simply doesn’t know.  

“i had thought…”

there’s a tension which doesn’t ease.  something that still rings taut in his frame as the words trail into silence, eyes lifting to the dark ceiling of the warehouse - almost as though searching for some manner of divine inspiration, a glimmer of sudden understanding.

“i don’t want you to kill for me.  i’m more than competent.  i do not want favour from you.  i do not want anything.”

“i came here.  because.  you.  asked.  me.”

“so what do you want from me?  someone to simply agree with you?  someone to tell you what you wish to hear?  someone to ask favour of?  or did you want to talk - honestly - to a friend?  to someone who comes when you call without question.  decide what it is you think i am, dex.  what it is you want.  please - tell me?  because i don’t know.”

[runner-dex]

    Not caring, it seemed like a pitiful excuse in the grand scheme of things, if the solo hadn’t cared then why stir up a scene, why dismiss and revolt against him for feeling a shred of remorse for his own actions. Because it was impossible not to feel. Dex wasn’t a machine, contrary to the beliefs of others, the intertwining of electronics into his skeleton, his laced down his spine like the hostility that etched deep into every word incidentally. Here and now he lingered somewhere between, he could never be soft, the soulless abyss had seen to that, but he wasn’t heartless either. Not the monster they’d paint him to be.

   He’s struggling, and it’s evident in the way his chest rises and falls erratically, too sharp, too shallow and with a terrible rattle. Still he forges on until the wire pulls taut and he can come closer no more. There’s still a void between them, a no man’s land, and he expects before the solo disappear out the door more shots would be fired across it. But he was sick, sick of fighting. All he’d wanted as a moments peace, someone to talk with quietly and unravel the weight of his sins, to let them fall apart so that he could understand them a little better, understand that he was still him. Dionysus hadn’t been lost in that explosion of debris and fire. “All I needed is—was to talk, that was all.”

  Beneath the weight of the machine, of the solo’s capricious nature, he’s exhausted, it creeps into the already too dark rings beneath his eyes. Thin hands open and close in a reflex that mimics the fast sequence of fingers toying for a cyberdeck, the muscle memory embedded deep enough that he could recall the pattern for his personalized Hellhound program without looking. Not useful here and now, not useful in any sort of conversation that didn’t revolve around the net, when had it all become so difficult out here? Poignantly when had his interactions spilled out into the real world?

  “I can’t decide who you are.” It’s a fractured whisper, an admission of sorts but a realization, that although he can hope for 13 to understand the weight of his stress that that wasn’t the level of friendship or otherwise they possessed. Whatever this was, it was superficial, it glimmered closer to a work relationship, and he’d forgotten. Allowed himself to be spoilt by the friendship offered by John, by others and had drowned himself in them too deeply, now that his wings had burned off he was falling back to reality, and fast. Crashing and burning. Short nails dug in, deep enough to leave reddened crescent moon indents into his palms. “You know what I wanted,” and it wasn’t an accusation, he’s speaks with that exhausted tone, but with eyes that remain fixated on the solo. Unwavering in their solidarity.

  “You might not care but I do, their lives, mouse’s life, they meant something. To someone. It was different, it wasn’t a job, it wasn’t self-defense. But it was necessary.” There had been no other way out of there. He had worked meticulously on that plan for weeks, and weeks, until the blueprints of the precinct had burnt his dreams. Consumed every waking thought until he was sick of it. “And it’s going to happen again. The city isn’t stable and it never has been.” They were kidding themselves if a city built on a criminal empire could ever be stable, could ever be a picturesque utopia. “It’s been that way long before the riots. And that wasn’t because of me, mouse or any of the others.”

  There’s a pause, a long one, and it fills the warehouse with static. Friends go to arcades together, eat ice-cream and too many sweets. It’s a naïve childish whim, but there’s still a part of him that hasn’t totally grown up. “Friends talk, don’t they?”

  “No more favours, but thank you—for everything.”

[mediawarboy-deactivated20180725]

Dex and Riley | Infiltrator

[runner-dex]

mediawarboy:

Riley kept an eye on the hallway while Dex worked, glancing down at his watch occasionally. He still felt confident that they had plenty of time, but he also hadn’t dared to break into Arasaka property before. Not before Dex anyway. There were a lot of things he wouldn’t have done without Dex, and the confidence, the euphoria, the power to dare – that was something new, something borne of a partnership, a cause. Trust. Riley shivered, not out of fear but out of anticipation. The corridor was silent, and after two minutes and thirty-eight seconds, the door beeped, a green light flashing, and clicked open.

“Bingo,” Riley grinned. He unplugged the drive and slipped through the doorway. There was a long corridor of drab gray walls lined by various offices. He glanced briefly at the placards until he got to the second-to-last door, with a placard reading Thomas Malone, Special Projects Engineer. Picking the lock was quick work, and Riley pulled out his flashlight, clicking it on to illuminate the room. It was impeccably organized, furnished with little more than a few drab landscape paintings and a cushy armchair facing a large desk. Riley rounded the desk and sat in the rolling chair, pulling open the various drawers without moving too many things around. In a wide drawer under the retractable keyboard, Riley uncovered a locked drawer. He hummed and picked it open, then frowned.

“Looks like plans or blueprints of some kind,” he muttered quietly, pulling out the coiled rolls of paper. He spread them over the desk and his eyes widened. “Shit. These are some serious augments. This is Militech grade stuff. What the hell is Arasaka doing with this?” Despite his concern, Riley wasn’t particularly surprised. He’s seen the corp guards and mercenaries first hand, and had seen the kind of weaponry they were packing. It was no surprise that, rather than deal through Militech, Arakasa would bypass the middleman and begin developing serious augments and cyberwear for their hired troops themselves.

He weighed the ends of one of the blueprints with a stapler and role of scotch tape, pulled out his camera and snapped some pictures. When he’d gathered sufficient evidence, Riley tucked the papers back into the drawer, locked it, and turned on the computer.

“Alright D, I’m plugging you in.” Once the computer powered on, requesting password access, he stuck the drive into a USB port. He glanced at his watch. “You’ve got six minutes before I have to get going.”

  He lived vicariously through the concealed camera on Riley’s person, through the security cameras that were linked directly to him, access blocked by a simple defensive program, string of code designed to destroy and kill anyone who dared to get too close. It was nauseating having half a dozen feeds merging into one, a single layer of audio to jar against the visuals, but this wasn’t Dex’s first time and it wouldn’t be the last. He still felt uncomfortable but there wasn’t a sickening urge to empty his stomach—arguably, to reach this kind of indifference he’d sacrificed something greater. A touch of his sanity. Lost in the webbings of the net like a token string of faulty code.

  “They’re competitors,” he reminded Riley in a dull tone, voice cracked as it was picked up and chewed through an archaic mic. Six would be enough and although a verbal response was unnecessary he gave Riley a quiet confirmation and before anymore could be exchanged, he disappeared into the void. The levels of cyberspace were simple, definable by either work or leisure, and then, there was the void that fell into neither. A backdoor of sorts that allowed ‘runners such as himself into the server systems of megacorporations or the next door bakery. Superficial levels of the net that were all glimmering falsities and cushy safe experiences, a thinner level that existed for those that wished to dip a finger in via their phones, and then—the lawless barren wasteland ‘runners like him ran amok in.

  It was chaos, but the kind that shattered into a thousand fluorescent pixels as his program ripped down the ghost AI bot guarding his access point, there ought to be more but Dex had taken care of them earlier. Internal safety rarely called for a human, if someone was in their system this far it was usually too late, three minutes, he likely had less than that until a team was dispatched to his location. There was a safe vantage point, still within Arasaka netspace, that he could jump to if this went to shit, give him just enough of a connection to finish what they’d started—but it wouldn’t come to that. Dex was already pulling the stream of data he needed to decode the blueprints, ripping the schematics to go along with the lengthier, tedious, reports. They’d both be needed to fully understand the other, Arasaka weren’t fool enough to allow for their work to be deciphered by a thief.

  There was a tremor, the digital space around him warping and then snapping back—they were here. Frantically he sent out the preconceived message to Riley, containing one word, one warning—run. Dex didn’t get the courtesy, he could theoretically jack out but doing so would lose the progress they’d made, the blueprints, he was going to have to deal with the private netcops facing him. Only two. Which meant they either underestimated him, or these were the best they had, or enough to overpower him. Dex decided to err on the side of caution, defensive programs hauled out of the abyss to surround him as he formulated a better plan. The snarling miniature panthers would only hold for so long.

  His next message to Riley was just as simple:

Plan B. Now.

[runner-dex]

Mind of a Beast | 13 & Dex

[jerichofalling]

perhaps, if dex had just taken that responsibility, things may have turned out wholly differently, but again, he challenges, perhaps scrapes along the notion of 13′s dedication to john, to what action he would or would not take if the other was in danger.

I did what I did to get him out, I thought you of all people would understand that.

“do not - presume to think to know what i would, or would not understand.”

Would you rather I left John to rot in a cell?

the snarl is returned with one of his own, only this one contained no words - nothing of a snap or lash of tone - it’s purely feral, animalistic - and it’s the first time that the assassin has shown a hint of his own anger - moving forward without hesitation until the cold barrel of that gun is snugged up against flesh, moving so close to press his lips to the shell of the other’s ear.

“don’t test me.  or you will be found sorely wanting. i did not know john was captured nor incarcerated until news of his - demise - reached me.  so you should consider yourself - lucky - that those words were proven false before i heard of your involvement.” 

john had decided not to tell him.  for exactly those reasons.  because there would have been some manner of action, of response from the solo.  one that may not have ended well for those who stepped into his path.  possibly even more death than had been caused by the explosion - and he wouldn’t deny that the potential had surely been there - as much as it was when he thought john had died.  people would - suffer… at his hand, and for his own manner of vengeance.   he hadn’t told him because - perhaps he had known… would not have wanted those deaths to be an implicit consequence of his own.

“you use his name so conveniently as an excuse.  i wonder what he would have to say at being used as the scapegoat for your actions.”

“friends?”

he’s almost incredulous at the use of the word.  because no - this was not what he had thought ‘friendship’ to be.  using john as some manner of manipulation against him.  he would not stand for that.  he’s not here for a crusade.  he doesn’t know that this is some fantastical stand against the masses of social oppression - what he can see, and what he can hear, is someone who belittles his dedication and bases his actions - or lack thereof - on no sound knowledge of circumstance.

he does not know what ‘friends’ are.   ——- but he does know - if this is how they treat each other - use another person, their time, their presence when it so conveniences them, make assumptions without knowing any truths, have the - arrogance - to think that words offered honestly, whether they are agreed with or not , is something that deserves condescension — ——- then he does not want it.

he had come here to help. apparently hard truths were not welcome.

so the gun is pulled away ( and once more, dex should think himself - lucky ).  he hears the final words.

I would’ve done the same for you.

ironically then - that the solo had already done the same for him.  though perhaps that was another thing that was simply dismissed - not acknowledged - conveniently forgotten.

he had – stepped beyond the boundaries of his own self-imposed solitude, or any manner of social comfort - exposed a weakness of ‘caring’ - when there had been no answer on the comms.  gone to find the other in his home and called for help.  had done his utmost to aid however he could since then.  and again, come here, now, when he had been called…

he finds that a reminder is not warranted, likely to be given the same absence of acknowledgement.

…it’s meaningless in the face of patronising superiority and self-righteousness - that dex had somehow done 13 a ‘favour’ in extricating john from the prison - given him a gift for which he should be interminably, agreeably grateful ( lest the solo have a chance to act himself, an opportunity sorely absent ) – that taint of disdain.  the assumptions.  worthless.

this is why it does no good to care. this is why he does not - ‘make friends’.

he is not indebted here –  he is of no use or purpose here –   there is no point in him being here.    the gun disappears as quickly as it appeared and he turns - leaves that shuddering silence behind him as he walks away.  

[runner-dex]

  His jaw clenched, breath sharp and rasping in his chest, if there was ever an appropriate word for the present moment in time it wouldn’t be a pleasant one. Dark brows knitted together in his confusion, he had not meant to insult and there was a part of him that was quietly hurt, though he wouldn’t admit it. One shaking hand pressed the mask to his face once more, breathing in sweet relief, he didn’t argue in return as the flurry of sharp bitter words fly. Certainly not with the cold metal pressed against his skin, he could feel the sharp outline of the barrel and yet it was his words that stole the focus.

  Scapegoat.

  Lilt of confusion and then, it clicked into place, the solo thought that his actions had been his only intent, that regardless of whether John was locked in a cell he would’ve committed them. That now he wished to place his reasoning at John’s feet as if he had caused him to jump to such extremes. In that moment, he realised that the solo didn’t know him at all.

  Not in the slightest.

  And in that moment, he realised he is alone. Which, is a far colder concept than any the gun cocked to his head. His own morality didn’t scare him, not like it should, but there was a bitter grief that it might be him to pull the trigger. 

  The silence falls in the wake of the solo and it settles into his bones, into the very core of him, he trembles and then grasping the machine he relies so readily on he goes after him. Not fast nor strong but he wasn’t silent either. His pursuit couldn’t be ignored and even if he doesn’t reach him before he reaches the door, the difference in stride is striking, he utters. “Wait—” Breathless from the exertion, he’d largely forgotten what it was like to move.

  He struggles to keep the storm of emotions in check, the distress and emptiness that settled swiftly into his chest buried deep. But, if one knew Dion well enough they’d be evident. Few did, and so it went unnoticed most of the time. His held isn’t held high but his gaze doesn’t linger on his shoes, somewhere in the middle, humble.

  “I didn’t—I didn’t mean offence.” He was afraid and he had been alone, foolishly he’d reached for help. The months disappear backwards as if time has stood still, the netrunner reverting back to short sentences, stumbled over and hesitant. John had been the first to believe in him again, that he was capable of something more than strung together codes, and it was that part of him that’d been mortified by his incarceration. Freed him as a result of an unspoken favour, a kindness that John had showed him, so he’d returned it but the effect was not that same. He apparently was lacking the intrinsic altruism that John so easily possessed. “I wanted to help, I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not good at being a friend.” He is earnest in his confession and he doesn’t expect him to stay. But he hopes that amends could perhaps be made.

[lavellansolas]

(insp)

[bialyanqueen-archived]

How to make a monster: First you must take something innocent, then feed it hate, ridicule and betrayal. All that is left is a soul poisoned by the world.

-via iitisveryoverrated (via the-healing-nest)

[runner-dex]

Mind of a Beast | 13 & Dex

[jerichofalling]

he honestly doesn’t know what dex wants from him.  he asked him here to talk, and then for a favour, and now there seems to be some kind of… dwelling, saturated in some manner of self-pity.  it’s not very helpful.  nor is it very productive.  he came here as a friend - honestly and openly.  and he really doesn’t understand what ‘this’ is all about.

it’s a little wearying trying to put all of these disjointed pieces together.  to get half the story.  with those snippets of that self-pity wringing through.  like he can’t make up his mind - whether to cling to the ferocity of those snapped words - the apathy which had been aired only moments ago, or the indulgent woe of his own misery.

the solo tilts his head.  he’s heard many people voice the same in his time. what if… - what if… - what if… and he is no stranger to hardships.  the concept of having to fight to fend for ones self, of needing to step beyond the boundaries of socially respectable, morally agreeable and lawfully acceptable.  so the choice to deal with those presented hardships, either to suffer, or endure, or to make the decision to remove them by means of violent notion… is something he does understand - has taken the latter path when he has needed to, often enough.  found that he was - more that proficient at such deeds and managed to carve out his own niche of survival from it.  

however - he knows that such choices always come with two things – risk and consequence.

“i do not think you understand.”

or, perhaps - he simply did not wish to hear it.

“this is not a case of ‘making a bed and lying in it’.  this is not something that an arrest and subsequent punishment will ever – make right.  there is no dismissal, no excuse for your actions.   i don’t know why you did what you did.”

but sitting here - wallowing in his own guilt, smacks of nothing more than a child, a child who did not get what he wanted, so threw some manner of tantrum, lashed out, and now sits and sulks.  and 13 does not entertain - children.

“is that the reason you asked me here - to play into your self-pity?”

feeling sorry for himself?  wishing for another life?  wishing away all of those deeds… too little too late and no different to any other living being who had ever experienced any manner of pain, or trouble, or loss, or hardship in their existence.  

“i had thought you better than this.”

he’s about done with this act.  it’s pointless, trivial and wholly self-serving.  

so he does as he ever does.  he acts in honesty, and gets straight to the point. it’s very quick - a blur of movement and a gun is in his hand ( he is NOT subtle when making a point and has no true intention of pulling the trigger ).  a sharp click of the hammer easing back - cocked, most certainly loaded and ready to fire.  he is, after all, an executioner.

“if you wish me to absolve you of your sins and put an end to it, i will be far more - efficient - than any law enforcement.  it will be quick, painless - and - as i am here and can manufacture this as i will…. i promise - you will not scream.”

“or, –you can cease this - pathetic - charade.  you can face up to the reality of what you have done.  realise that this is not some manner of game, not some ‘glorious fantasy’ - that your actions have consequences - which are real and painful - and you can take responsibility for them.”

“so, if this is goodbye, dionysis.  then i suggest you make your peace.  it’s the one grace i can offer you which you did not give to them.”

it’s the first time he’s used the runner’s name.  the first time there’s a hint of that further knowing, when he first found him in the apartment, sick and weak… worried that death might come swiftly, and it is an irony then, that he now offers it.  for while he does not intend to pull the trigger… if this is the choice that is made… he will.

“—per istam sanctam unctiónem et suam piisimam misericórdiam, indúlgeat tibi dóminus quidquid per visum, audtiotum, odorátum, gustum et locutiónem, tactum, gressum deliquisti…”

[runner-dex]

  “I know that.” He answers, it isn’t sharp but nor does it linger within the realm of defeated, somewhere comfortably in the middle. “But I’ve been told it’s the ring thing to do, and it is—is it not? Give some kind of sense of justice to the family and friends of those who died.” He knew what it was like to lust after justice and although he’d never acted upon it, his grudge against the cops was a complicated ordeal but it deals with a particular individual—the leader of the unit who was culpable for the damage, not the overall mess of the law enforcement. He was not wild or impetus with his vengeance and that perhaps, made him more dangerous.

  “I did what I did to get him out, I thought you of all people would understand that.” There’s a slight snarl to the words, an impetus that whilst Dex had been working to get John out, 13 had done nothing at all. Nothing productive.

  He had asked him here to talk…and he had, those were not words he shared freely and his head cocks towards 13. Like a threatened animal his spikes show, curl of his lip and a slight narrowing of his eyes, brows knitting together, the response even after all these years is still there. He had not forgotten what it was like to see. He had quite clearly mistakenly thought that of all the people whom he considered a friend, the solo might comprehend, no, the ‘runner had not expected sympathy. It was not a card he liked to receive, would cause more arguments than it would soothe. Even still, he hadn’t thought he’d throw this back at him as if the solemn confession was worthless.

  There’s an element of surprise initially, he sits frozen in place for a long moment as his spiel starts and finishes. Flinches at the use of his name but doesn’t ask or argue how he found it out. It wasn’t an important detail with an immediate threat to his imminent mortality pointed towards his head. “I know what I have done,” his voice is a hollow thundering thing even with the mask in place, a slight rasp roughing up the edges as he inclines in volume. He takes a ragged deep breath to steady the swell of fury and ire that threatens to spill from shaking narrow shoulders. He stands, slowly but draws no closer to him, tethered to where he is. One hand pulls away the plastic obscuring his mouth, “I did not realise we were in the business of killings friends.”

  If he had been soft, broken, that’s hardened now. Tucked away to never be touched upon again, it had been the first time in as many years as he’d lived that he’d spoken so freely, and it would be the last. “I’m aware this isn’t a game. Do you really think that just because I ‘run that I think everything is some glorious pixel world? I did what I did so that he’d be free. There wasn’t any way around that and mouse, the bomber, she had been amping up to bombing the police. Would you rather I left John to rot in a cell?” He had spent several long antagonising weeks trying to talk her out of it, and in the end he had caved, but only when it suited him. It wasn’t the civilian death that had him antagonised and sullen, it was hers. No-one but him was mourning her loss, and the nauseating fact that it’d been partly his fault clung to his chest more than a stranger’s death could.

  He wasn’t a saint, and he had never claimed to be. He wasn’t chasing after a glorious fantasy and it irked him that someone could be so blind to see democracy should not be so damn mythical. It wouldn’t matter if you voted democrat or republican, that their policies were the same, all to serve their fat greedy puppeteer.

  Dex eases off, and then finally he confesses his peace. “I would’ve done the same for you.”

[mediawarboy-deactivated20180725]

Dex and Riley | Infiltrator

[mediawarboy-deactivated20180725]

“Plenty of time,” Riley said, voice cocky. Still, a thrill of excitement flit through his body, stirring his heart a little faster. Timelines didn’t make him nervous – in fact, they made him more efficient. Riley loved a challenge, especially one he knew he could beat. He glanced around one last time, assuring himself that no-one was near, latched onto the fence, and began clambering up. He made quick work of scaling the chain link, scurrying up like a lizard in his element, and draped the jacket over the barbed wire before hauling himself over. He climbed down a few feet before dropping the last stretch, knees bending to absorb his weight and silence the fall as he landed. Riley glanced around again, ears cocking to determine whether he had been heard.

He shuffled quickly and silently towards the back entrance of the building. The steel-reinforced door required an authorized passcard to enter, and Riley pulled out the card of a Mr. Raymond Steele, Arasaka maintenance worker, which he’d nicked while the man was celebrating his weekend off in an inebriated stupor at a dingy dive bar in the Marina. It was unlikely he would miss it until he came in to work on Monday, and Riley only needed it for twenty minutes anyway.

The card worked, the door light clicking green, and Riley slipped through into a long white corridor. He glanced up at the surveillance camera in the corner of the doorway, light flickering red, and jogged down the corridor towards the stairwell. He took it up, past two white doors until he reached a third red one with large white letters: NO ENTRY Level 3 Clearance Only.

This one required a pin number and an authorized card, and Riley knew for a fact Mr. Raymond Steele didn’t have clearance this far down. Instead, he lifted the latch under the access pad, pulled out the micro-USB drive from his pocket, and plugged it in.

“Your move, D,” he said under his breath. He glanced down at his watch. 15 minutes and 23 seconds to go. Plenty of time.

…

[runner-dex]

  Plenty of time didn’t seem like quite enough, he was cautious and didn’t want weeks of planning to go down the drain just because Riley was overly cocky. However, he did trust him, which was remarkable from the netrunner. He trusts no-one, or more accurately very few to the point it could very well be no-one. Especially when airing this trust and concern was a difficult task. Expression had been easier for him at one point but now it had almost become something of a mystery, he understood, and with attention and effort could talk freely without spikes lacing his spine. But the net was…simpler. There was less room to misinterpret him and Dex could speak without the hindrance of someone picking up his short snappy tone.

  An alert came through into his vision that an employee had entered through one of the doors he was keeping track of, the ID that flickered on screen was the one Riley had informed him of. So far so good. There was another sudden alert as the drive was plugged in, attempting to do a ‘run like this from the outside would be lethal, from the inside he had a slight advantage. He could, potentially, get this door open. Either that or this was a huge build-up for nothing. “Keep an eye out whilst I do this I’m blind.”

  Pixels melted and were reborn around him to form a dimly fluorescent space, chunky blocks forming the environment as if he’d been sucked into a tetris universe. If he had the option to set a timer within his field of view here he would’ve, except it was the kind of blackhole within the net where time stood still, a little abyss that sucked everything out of you and if you weren’t careful would kill you in the process. His panther avatar padded carefully over yellow and orange bricks, they fell away behind him as if to suggest there would be no turning back.

  The fight didn’t last long, it took an assortment of eight programs to subdue the netrunner in his path—not kill. He’d be alive and well soon, but not before they were in and out. By the time he’d come back into a space that he could talk, the door was unlocked, “done.” But it was unnecessary by this point. He didn’t have total awareness of his body beyond the net, which was unusual the first few times but you soon got used to it, just enough link into the tangible world to move his fingers frantically across his cyberdeck.

  “Be quick.”

[runner-dex]

Mind of a Beast | 13 & Dex

[jerichofalling]

he’s seen this before - seen that look in other’s eyes.  it’s one, he suspects, that he’ll find in his own reflection someday.  this is why there weren’t too many ‘old’ solos.  those with stacked augments - fighting off the consuming darkness in whatever manner they could, for as long as they could.  

“how do you know?  you weren’t there?”

i don’t execute for grudges.

he doesn’t believe that either.   and it seems like the more dex tries to proclaim his innocence in this, the more condemning his words are.

“it doesn’t matter what your reasoning is.  you still did it.  there is no excuse that will change that.  nothing that will make them any ‘less dead’.  or you any less a killer.”

though for all dex might be his friend, he’s already done the runner a ‘favour’.  one that he’s seemingly repaid for in no manner of thanks ( not that he’d asked for, nor expected any ), but he doesn’t like the snap of tongue - the harsher stream of words.  he is not here at the other’s bequest as some manner of errand boy.  he came - as a friend.  

“you set off a bomb in a public place.  you killed - people.”

it’s voiced clearly enough - and while it’s a statement, brow furrows in the manner of a question asked - trying to work out something - complex.

his own morality is skewed - so his basis for comparison is not, perhaps, what it might be from others.  but he still has one.  lines that he won’t cross.  contracts he refuses to take.  even when the solo takes a job.  it’s one name.  one target.  no collateral damage.  precise and clean. but dex had killed - for no other reason than those people happened to be there - in his way… wrong place, wrong time.  perhaps if it had been a grudge, if they had somehow done him wrong, 13 could more easily understand that.  he doesn’t understand this.   –maybe he’s not supposed to understand.   –maybe he doesn’t have the capacity to.

but his voice is that ever steady, ever patient, slow turn of words that are offered after not inconsiderable thought.

“you said you wanted to talk.  so talk to me.”

a simple statement.  perhaps the runner only wished to talk if he was the recipient of things he wanted to hear - rather than any truth the solo might impart.  lies twisted into a softer reality to coddle sensibility, to lessen the stark, harsh blow of taking responsibility - of facing up to the truer nature of what he’d done.  the consequences of such…  

head tilts as the favour is voiced.  he can only assume that the suit had been from the surgeon, it hadn’t been explicitly said - though he’d had word that the runner was improved and no longer in danger of imminent death, that, and it was the one thing that had allowed dex to rise from that bed - feebled and incapacitated by a sickness.  though he supposed that the manner of it’s use was not something that was intended when it had originally been gifted.

“if you can explain - explicitly - –who would the suit be returned to? who is ‘he’ and what is it that you need ‘him’ to do —?”

he has no idea where this conversation is going.  or where it is presently.  the runner jumping from one though to the other and letting them fall free in a disjointed staccato.

dex seemed to need a lot of things.  

all of their previous interactions had been - business.  had been agreements for tasks performed and money exchanged.  that tentative friendship something that had stemmed from that - but it had never been like this.  

is this what friendship is?  to become a tool, a courier, to a task master of a different kind?  one that uses words like ‘favour’, and ‘need’ - instead of fists and guns?

if that is the case - he’s not sure he understands - friendship. but he had - wanted - a friend.  for such a long time…

[runner-dex]

  “Because I programmed it like that.” The answer is flat, honest but devoid of any attachment. He left out the part that he’d once known a ‘runner, none too dissimilar to himself, another odd friendship that didn’t seem to sit within the normal parameters but worked nonetheless. He left out the small detail that he’d found their body prone and stone cold still jacked into the net, he was unable to pry the cyberdeck from beneath her fingers, told himself as he slipped from the apartment that the death had been quick, merciful. Even if it had not been. Lie or truth the mantra had stuck with him, if he needed to use lethal force on the net it was a last resort, it would be painless and quick.

  The more 13 spoke the more he curled into himself, knees pulled up tight against his chest and arms curved around his legs. It is instinctual but not a habit that he’s divulged in much lately, there is a bravado in the darkness within his mind that it so easy to slip into, and sometimes in the process he forgets that there was more to him than the gloom of his own mind. Enveloped so tightly in his path for justice, for revenge, that he forgets what it was like to be normal.

  He wonders for a brief absurd moment what life would be like if all he was concerned about was what flavour frappuccino starbuck’s would be doing next month. If he used the net as a distant detached user, never fully immersed or at risk. No chase or thrill. Hobbies safer and perhaps a job sitting behind a desk, wearing a tie and shirt.

  Would that really be him?

  That walk of life had never been offered, or even considered. No glimpse at it other than the occasional passing glance he got from observing the world around him. He did not understand what it was like to coast in life and not be critical.

  He forgets, momentarily drops the notion of the favour, and for a long while he is simply silent. Head downcast as if he was undeserving of looking at him, anyone or anything. “I should turn myself in.” The thought slips quietly, muffled against the mask.

  Which meant life at best, he was no fool, he could confess to his sins for the bombing, confess to the multitude of others, but that would not erase them as the solo had pointed out. No amount of penitence or flowery apologies would erase the fact he’d murdered those people. Their blood was on his hands and perhaps instead of shying from that, forgetting, he should accept it. It was fair, a justice, the more that he thought about it the more it made sense. It wouldn’t incite loyalty or advance any political revolt that he had hoped to achieve. Perhaps he could lay out a blueprint for someone else to follow.

  “In which case… I guess this is goodbye.”

  He turns slowly, facing him fully with deadened green eyes slowly meeting his. There’s a somber note to him now, any irritation that had built up those sharp spikes that inevitably always laced his spine no matter who he talked clicked back into place. He had never been given the luxury of a goodbye before, everything was always ripped or torn away out of his grasp or another’s. The world was cruel and he knew it, didn’t complain about it and soldiered on instead. Only the notion of saying goodbye felt odd, brought a roll of nausea that was unlike the disgust and regret he’d felt in the imminent days after the bombing. This was personal. He had never given much time to the thought of losing another friend, blanked it from his mind as if by ignoring the potentiality he could be saved from pain. This was not the case. “Sometimes I wonder—what it would be like to be normal to grow out away from the city, get a job, a house and live life only worrying about what to eat that night not when. To not see the city as the bottomless pit it is.” To pay a blind or ignorant eye to the corporates as clearly most did, who could be so fool to miss their corruption?

  “But there’s not point pining over it. Was never going to be an option, made by bed so it’s time to lie in it.”

[runner-dex]

Fight against Time | Remy & Dex

[hannah-price-blog1]

Temporary. The word sounded stale and used. It was what you described everything in life so it held little meaning or value to Remy Harrington. Relationships were temporary, friends were temporary, goals were temporary, and of course the very soul that inhabited your body was temporary. Every one of those could be gone with a snap of ones fingers, so the reassurance that the life sustaining machine was temporary was no help to her mind.

The worry was, however, deep within her heart somewhere locked up so tight she didn’t mind not feeling it. She hadn’t in a while, and with Dex, emotions were sealed up like evidence of a bad crime.

“For the usual things,” she replied casually, a light shrug of small shoulder’s following. “Don’t you find that fun anymore?”

She tossed out friends like used toys when they became a bore. Dex had remained the one exception she would never admit to. He was intriguing at best, but there was mayhem left to cause and with no partner beside her she felt like one half of Bonnie and Clyde.

“i certainly hope so. I don’t like seeing you like this.”

It was a mere show of some fragment of emotion. Some sense of care, but lathered in a typical attitude of merely saying she hated the machines.

[runner-dex]

  It wasn’t clear to him, he could only read whatever prickled onto the surface and anything deeper than that was obscure and enigmatic to him. Between them emotions appeared to be a dangerous place, always treading water but never diving down too deep as if afraid that either one of them might drown, or burn. “I think our definition of usual differs.” Which was true to an extent, he was content in solitude and could spend hours or days simply hooked into the net, or playing a game. Going out and watching Remy lure poor unsuspecting men to have their pockets turned out, as thrilling as it was, was a different kind of fun.

  As if concerned that he might’ve offended her, which was remarkable in itself, Dex was honest and uncurbed tongue that was barbed and sharp nearly all the time no matter who he talked to. With Remy it was always unequivocally different, although he couldn’t tell you why. Just that they were sharp enough as it was with each other, sometimes even Dex took a step back. “I do, just been a while.” Been a while since he’d left the confines of wherever he was currently living, he might’ve fled across the city but it was only changing the bars of his cage. A while since he’d felt like himself.

  His head cocked towards her a brow raised as if in confusion or perhaps curiosity. “Are you going soft at me?” He could tell by her tone she wasn’t, but he couldn’t help the tease. Dex stretched back onto the makeshift bed he’d made, arms beneath his head as deadened green eyes stared straight up to the lofty ceiling. He subvocalised a command and just like that the sensors deadened, fizzing out into a flurry of grey static and leaving him in the abyss. 

  “I want to do something…” He hated waiting, this mind-numbing empty space that he desperately wanted to fill with something productive. He’d figure something out, could always reach out to Riley and get the kid to do something on the ground on his behalf.

[mediawarboy-deactivated20180725]

Dex and Riley | Infiltrator

[mediawarboy-deactivated20180725]

Dex’s voice came through crisp and clear, almost startlingly so. Riley glanced around, knowing the sound was inaudible to anyone else but still too on edge to properly acknowledge it. A man in a large overcoat swept past, barely sparing him a glance. When he was several paces away, Riley huffed and said, in a quiet whisper, “That’s the plan.”

Riley shuffled another block before reaching a large, white building, pinnacle-shaped topped with high-rises. The lower floors, however, were occupied largely by labs, testing facilities, and offices for Arasaka’s augments and tech-work. Riley kept to the shadows, away from the flickering streetlamps, and slipped past the barrier to the parking garage. He kept walking until he reached a chain link fence and bold red sign – Restricted Area, Authorized Personnel Only.

“Security’s down, yeah?” he whispered, eyeing the security camera hovering over the fence. He peered at the barbed-wire coiled at the top of the fence and slipped off his jacket, tossing it over his shoulder. “And you’re sure the electricity is off? I’d rather not get fried.”

[runner-dex]

  The plan, if Riley kept to it, would work. Somehow it wasn’t Riley’s young age that had set him on edge but instead the fact that despite attending protests together and generally building up a trust—hard won with Dex. He didn’t really know Riley. It wasn’t necessary but perhaps a little helpful when gaging whether he ought to be trusted with an objective such as this but Dex was in the mood to be surprised. So long as it was the good kind.  Preferably exceeding his expectations…which were as per usual unfathomably high. The ‘runner ought to be working on that but it had never struck him as a problem. He relaxed a little as the feed continued in his left peripheral, everything thus far appeared to be going smoothly.

  “Down.” He repeated and then after a moment, “yes it’s off,” accompanied by a scowl that suggested—who do you think I am? It was probably best for the both of them that the coms link didn’t pick up the slight discrepancies within Dex’s voice. He wasn’t exactly amused to say the least. “You don’t have long, the net servers for Arasaka are tightly run ships.” He’d nearly gotten chased by a hellhound program before his avatar had fully even rendered out. It was a dangerous space to be in and usually only either the foolish or suicidal decided to dip their toe into it. Dex was neither and he knew had to get in through the backdoor and unfortunately for them, he had someone on the inside.

  That and any remorse he’d felt a week ago in regards to the bombing was gone, sometimes it would come to him in gasping nightmares but Dex was otherwise freed. His mind clear and absolute once more with a target in his sights, and he would reach it. “Just for the fence directly in-front of you so don’t move an inch left or right.” It’d nearly cost him his fragile beating heart to get the damned fence off. Security, worryingly for Arasaka, was somewhat easier. Perhaps they didn’t care for their Night City augment base all that much. Part of him also wondered if this was all a set-up, an invitation into a trap that’d been artfully laid out for them, if it was the latter they’d done a piss poor job of making it enticing.

  “Once you’re up and over the fence you’ll have approximately 20 minutes whilst I run the attack. You won’t get any more than that, potentially less.”

[runner-dex]

...although Dex was likely his age, perhaps even older, he had a certain youthfulness to him, a vulnerability, but also, John considered, a kind of iron. There was something there, some strength, although seemly far buried. He wondered how far he’d go, if he overestimated him, but he supposed time would tell.

John Murdoch

[runner-dex]

Mind of a Beast | 13 & Dex

[jerichofalling]

he doesn’t believe it.  not wholly.  there are ways and means.  the literally explosive context of the act was something — bigger… or it feels bigger.  and he might not be so enmeshed with that ‘atypical’ norm of society, but he can read a statement when it is as loud as that.

and he thinks that dexter was – lucky – either by plan or by chance that those news reports had been false in their stories of john being dead - had come very, very close to the edge of losing himself into that glacial, empty space where nothing mattered but resolving the grief in his heart and the ache in his soul by taking all of that hurt and inflicting it on anyone who might even be vaguely connected… however - it seemed that the runner had performed an act of something that might be posed as altruism.  to save his friend - the runner and the boxer… more than friends… closer to that thing called ‘family’ that 13 so often sees in others… but never quite understood.

I can’t stop their screams

the solo tilts his head to one side.  grief?  perhaps.  regret?  maybe.  he so rarely feels it himself, that it’s harder for him to recognise in others - or at least to discern the fine differences between those similar emotions.  though he has had a glimpse of them now - knows the cutting pain, that dullness, deadness, hollowness that is left in it’s wake…

“their blood is on your hands.  there is nothing you can do to wash it off.  no justification you can give to make it different.  to change it.  to make it ‘go away’.  when you become a killer, dex - in whichever world you inhabit…  that stain will always be there.”

conscience and morality were dangerous things to possess.  the solo has both, but they are rather distinct and fluid things.  always flowing, and kept under rather staunch boundaries of control.  perhaps not so easy to do for the more - empassioned runner.  perhaps this was a sudden and stark realisation to the actuality of the reality he had moulded.

before now - perhaps the blur of – detachment.  dex was a killer long before now.  so why is this suddenly - different?  he knows lives were taken, that panther prowling, stalking it’s prey, dealing death across the netsphere with a surge of energy, overload - leaving burnt out husks - empty shells… so is it that sense of detachment - distance - that made it no more ‘real’ than something ‘erased’.  a packet of code deleted from the system - with no truly felt consequence.  a video game with no reset button…

“do you think that those you have killed before were somehow - unreal?  that they didn’t - scream?  that their pain and fear was lesser just because you were not physically present at the moment of their demise?  personal vendettas… proving your own power… eliminating the competition… whatever reasons you had before - this was… different…”

the difference though –

– there were more ‘dead’ than just the mistaken stories.  this was not a single target.  and 13 had heard the screams - played over on grainy holotape, shaky cams, captured by a voyeuristic public as people fled in fear, or the injured cried out in pain.

reasoning, though - is again, something a little foreign to the solo.  he kills because he can and because he is good at it.  receives a name, sometimes a manner or means of murder - and he executes ( in the most literal sense ) the job - flawlessly.  he has no reason - those are purely in the realm of others… 

“cope?”

that question – it makes little sense to him.  he kills because at one point, that was only route to survival.  he had a choice.  take up the mantle or die where he stood… holds no doubt that if he hadn’t proven - useful - to marcell, that he would have seen the end of his own existence, in a very quick and violent way.

“you don’t - cope.  you live with the weight.   and it either crushes you.  or it doesn’t.”

ah.  and now to the crux.  a favour.

“what is it you want from me?”

[runner-dex]

  Their blood is on your hands. It was enough, a solid confirmation and as if in expectance that he might find red tainting his palm he turns them over. The thought however, is ludicrous when he’d been suited at the time and despite being the architect of the entire ordeal, he had not pulled the trigger. Distanced enough from Mouse that all that had touched him was the dust and debris. There was a moment that his eyes, no his mind, played a devious trick on him, fingers soaked in red and then he blinked and it was gone, never truly there in the first place. Or had it? 13 had the truth of it, the stain wouldn’t ever go away it would linger and haunt, but that didn’t mean he had to let it. He could rise above this and— 

  “There is no chance to scream once a program strikes, you heart stops near immediately, your muscles might seize and tremor but you will not scream.”

  He lifts his head, his logic unbent and unbowed, there is a darkness—a flawed fury in him that shimmers like a dark star. Ready to ignite, ready to burn and explode into itself and when the time was right, die. His only hope was that like a star, the fire and the light would linger on after his death and spark others. That someone would finish what he started if he could not, because this was not a game—it was not a vendetta. It was justice.

  “I don’t execute for grudges.” There’s a slight irritation that carries through and into his voice, alarmingly clear in the way he holds himself. For a job yes, he had been offered money in a manner that was none to dissimilar to the way 13 is, to eliminate a target via the net. He did not like these as much as infiltration jobs but if the reasoning was right, if it felt like perhaps it was justice in a strange sense of the word, then he’d oblige. For the most part it was in defence. If another ‘runner came barreling at him he couldn’t simply stand by and allow them to turn him into a hollow shell, he had to fight and fight hard.

  There would always be a reason, even if the logic behind it was flawed and yes—Dex had lied a little, he’d executed on behalf of a grudge once or twice. But there was a longstanding reason for it, on both accounts, a festering of ire that had been left to rot over years and years. Poked and prodded until he lashed out like a wild animal, it was best to leave the beast alone.

  “The suit…I need you to take it back.” He didn’t need to explain much further that he couldn’t. If the surgeon saw him Dex somehow doubted the man would happily take just the suit. He was too straight-laced for that…but at the same time he needed something form the surgeon in return, something that he didn’t think anyone else would be as willing to give him. Perhaps not necessarily willing, and he could bend the surgeon’s arm easier than any other doctor in the city, he had something he more than likely wanted—he had his pawn.

  “But I also need to get out of this warehouse.” He could not sit here and brood forever, although if left alone he likely would. It was only the voice of Remy whispering in his ear that urged him onwards to some sickening glory, Riley and his vision of a better city, democracy. Combine the two and it was either a recipe for disaster or perhaps, success.

  “And he might be the only one in the city who’d do it.” He chewed on the inside of his cheek, remarkably childish for a man who was conspiring to blackmail. Dex knew for a fact he was the only one, he had attempted to convince another, a ripperdoc with a lesser reputation to do it. He had refused on the painfully obvious grounds that it might not buy Dex much, and if it did the risks were too high, which meant more money than he had. Decker on the other hand was foolishly soft-hearted. He knew that much from the visits the surgeon had paid him.

[runner-dex]

[mediawarboy-deactivated20180725]

Dex and Riley | Infiltrator

Riley followed the instructions on his datapad to the listed address. A cold, salty wind nipped at his skin, and he pulled the hem of his beanie tighter over his ears. The usual stink of sewage and waste blended with the fishy odor of the river only a few blocks away. Riley side-stepped a dead rat rotting in the gutter, sparing it only a brief glance. The industrial warehouses and graffiti-ridden walls began to make way for structured high-rises, business offices, and laboratory complexes. Riley clung to the shadows, knowing he looked more out of place in this district than in the rotting boonies of the Old Downtown.

As he began nearing the address, he pulled out the earpiece and microcam Dex had fitted him with. The miniscule earpiece device fit neatly in his ear, and he took a few seconds to fit the microcam contact lens into his left eye. Riley blinked twice, clearing away the moisture buildup from inserting something foreign on his eye, and glanced around. The microcam did not offer the instantaneous feedback of cyberoptics, and it relied exclusively on radio feedback from Dex’s computer rather than Riley’s instructions. He clicked the earpiece on and spoke.

“Yo D, d’you copy? I’m nearing the target. I can’t tell if the cam is on.”

Riley’s hands began to quell with excitement, much as they usually did before he went on any of his runs. He clenched and unclenched them, checked his left pocket for his knife, and hid his face deeper in his hoodie. Damn, this better work, he thought grimly.

…

[runner-dex]

  Dex stretched out his legs, he was patiently waiting like a monstrous feline for the right moment to strike but right now he was blind. Not in the usual sense, his sensors were plugged into his temples and vision wasn’t a necessary component when he was jacked in. The heavy braided cable protruded from the back of his neck, deadened green eyes glassy as if he was getting an elite high from the net—for all intents and purposes he was. It was a glorious high of adrenaline. Right at this moment however, it was tedious. He was simply waiting. Fingers tapped lightly against the smooth surface of his cyberdeck, the only tangible reminder he had and could feel whilst in this world.

  He wasn’t a part of the usual mainstream server, blustering through a server point crammed full of unusual avatars and familiar faces. Instead he’d holed himself up somewhere private, a small piece of server space that he’d jacked and made his own—something he’d set up years ago and somehow had managed to maintain till this day. Occasionally he’d have to set up a different myriad of programs to keep any cocky ‘runners out but for the most part he was alone here. Usually he used it as a mid-point between jobs, to scan through messages and check bulletins for any potential new clients. Today he was using it as a base, an open connection ready in-case Riley needed support via the net and another two open for the microcam and coms device he was wearing.

  Finally, something flickered into life in his peripheral vision and he cocked his head to get a better look. The molten warehouses formed through the buzz of static, tall and dominating even as Riley lurked in the shadows, Dex could almost smell the stench through the link. He wrinkled his nose. “Yes.” He uttered, no voice scrambler was activated there was no need when Riley had met him in person, not something he was entirely used to. The single field of vision was a little disorientating at first but he got used to it. Cut off slightly on the right, to accommodate this Dex gestured for the video feedback to shift to the left accordingly.

  “Stay quiet and only talk if you have to.” Dex growled, the effect muted by the plastic mask still muffling every word he spoke. It was not foreign to him to be head first into the net and be attached to various pieces of medtech. Every interface plug, all three of them, was occupied, his light tattoo pulsing wildly as if to suggest an elevated heart rate—it wasn’t, he was utterly calm, but sometimes the overload of tech onto his neuralware spasmed the tattoo. “You and that microcam better come back intact, no mistakes.” It was as close as Riley was going to get to any sign of fondness from the netrunner.

[runner-dex]

Fight against Time | Remy & Dex

[hannah-price-blog1]

“They were strangers, ok? Whoever they were is not important to you.” Remy knew she had felt remorse the first few times she killed, but after that she became numb to the emotions. She hadn’t felt a damn thing since and she wasn’t looking back either. They were just faces on the street and nothing more. Objects or toys in her eyes. She understood his turmoil, but she didn’t sympathize with him one bit. If you didn’t just suck it up and move on then you would forever stay stuck in that dangerous loop of guilt. “Mouse knew what she was doing.”

As far as Remy knew anyway. Those willing to become sacrifices for a cause were looked highly upon in her eyes. That meant they cared and were passionate about what it was they were after, and she could get that. She was after-all passionate about being a assassin and being the one to extinguish a life. What better life was there? Dex, however, liked his kills behind a screen without names and faces or collateral damage. She didn’t understand it, but she figured the shock of a real life incident was enough to suffocate him now.

“Then remember them as trophies, Dex. Little golden omens on your shelf for you to look back at and remember you’ve started something better. This city needs someone to shake it up and I think you can do so much more than just that. At least once you’re better..”

If that was an option really. She hadn’t approached the topic and would have rather not. Such emotions were tucked too deep for her to go digging for right then.

“You are a depressing sap,” Remy agreed, lips quirked into a smirk as she pulled out the tablet from her bag.

One of many that had been laying about her apartment for use for various things. Hacking if it suited her but mostly to do a search on intended targets.

“It’s loaded with games. Old school maybe, but it will do the trick. If you ever get yourself out of here I know a few good places.”

[runner-dex]

  For once Dex wasn’t entirely sure that the notion that they were strangers was overly comforting. He chewed on the inside of his cheek forcing the plastic mask to shift just a little. Part of him quietly damned his brother for provoking these thoughts from him, another part, small and minute, thanked him for it. Although he wouldn’t dare admit it and certainly not around Remy. But any remorse that he might’ve had quickly dissipated. Mouse had indeed known exactly what she was doing, so had Dex, this wasn’t any different to anything he had done before. It was just on a grander scale. With non-willing participants, he played ignorant to that fact—if they were there at a protest they had to expect danger.

  At least once you’re better…

  He quirked a brow at her, chin tilting towards her as he tried to envision a Remy concerned and distressed, somehow he couldn’t see it. Her face would always change to his sister, or someone else entirely, she wouldn’t be Remy if their conversations dipped into anything of emotional substance. Everything was always skin deep. Logical and precise. Not without meaning but just with an easy detachment that made talking about murder that bit easier. “This,” he gestured to the ventilator, “is temporary.” Which was about as much as Dex was willing to share with her. He had considered once or twice at the worst points calling her, if there was anyone that would make his misery tolerable it was her. Somehow the idea of her seeing him wasted and bed-bound had never been overly attractive, even now he’d been hesitant but he was a far cry from the hollow shell he’d been a month ago.

  “Thanks.” His tone sharp and biting as he eyed the tablet rather than her, being depressing was really the least of his worries. “Few good places for what exactly?” Murder, drinking, meeting new people, they all seemed perfectly viable with Remy. None of them were of interest to Dex. He was happy within the company of his wires, his cyberdeck and a constant connection to the net. Give him a game or two and he could occupy himself for hours. That said, he did occasionally get out. Usually it was to a convenience store to purchase a stack of candy worthy of of a prince, or a small child, the thought brought an odd twinge of sadness. He was going to miss the store close to his old apartment, the sharp faced exotic with her whiskers and dappled skin, polite and cheerful with a slight hiss to her words whenever she caught kids shop-lifting. As they so often did in the combat zone.

  “I’ll be out soon, need a week to prep and then—” He’d go under the knife and have his chest cracked open, delightful. “Few more weeks and I’ll be as good as new.”