Mind of a Beast | 13 & Dex
There hadn’t been time to stop and think. So any lingering thoughts that his brother had imposed on him dissipated in favour of survival. There wasn’t time to brood whilst on the run. That came much later after Dex had forced life into the archaic deserted warehouse that he would be calling home until the time came to move on. That would inevitably would. There was only so long that he could jack a net connection from the nearby crack den of young incapacitated fixers without them noticing, that and no matter how careful he was the netcops were heavy these days.
They were infinitely more of a threat than the presence on the streets, he could duck and avoid those without issue. They wouldn’t string an association between the panther and a young man reliant on a myriad of tubes poking from his scruffy backpack. The two were distinctly different, certainly in Dex’s mind, the former was strong and the latter was weak—his strength did not exist within this realm and he did not shy from this.
He was tempered, his passion and determination not tempered but…set aside for the time being. Netgear sprawling out in its usual form of organized chaos in a small corner of the warehouse but for the most part it was untouched. He had dipped in eventually to send out brief messages to a few select people to inform them of his new whereabouts, how to reach him but no inkling as to what he’d done—that he was responsible. That would come later, if asked or poignantly if he slipped into that dark part of his mind. The haze that was filled with nothing but guilt, a heavy notion that weighed his shoulders down as if they were being physically held down.
There is no expectation on his behalf that his messages were to be followed up with any kind of visit and at least initially he doesn’t want to be greeted with anyone but his own solitude. It’s only some hours later that he sits himself back within that mess of heavy braided wires snaking around him that he sends another, just one this time. The panther ident buzzes into his mind, a fuzz of static and then a split second later he’s thrown into the harsh, bright three dimensional reality that you can touch but not belong to. He’s not concerned with chasing up any of the jobs that’ve come piling in, he opens up that old trusted link and sends a single line message. Tapped out onto his cyberdeck as any hopes that his mic would pick up his strained muffled voice is futile.
OUTGOING MESSAGE: Can we speak? I need your advice.
He follows it up with a second, to clarify that this wasn’t a matter he wanted to broach through disjointed messages.
OUTGOING MESSAGE: You have my new address.
Sent it over earlier to 13 along with a select few others, it is difficult to gain the netrunners trust and even more troublesome to keep it for long. He’s the two extremes melded into one, the extreme pessimist that will dig and see why his trust might be misplaced. An extreme optimist in terms of his belief that there was a chance to build a better world, to some it would sound as if he’s preaching about a utopia. In reality all he wants is democracy. Unfortunately, he possess about as much calm and control as a jack in the box that’s been wound up all the way. It’s only a matter of time before he pops.
Dex recoils but not all that far, the ventilator he’s attached to is portable, small enough that he can cram it into a backpack and light enough that it doesn’t break his back in the process. But that doesn’t mean he particularly enjoys lugging it about. For the most part he’s detained to a small area of the warehouse that he’s proclaimed as his own. Comforts minimal. If not abandoned altogether. He’d made a makeshift bed out of the blankets he’d shoved into his bag, wore two layers of hoodies that didn’t quite fit him any longer, hung off his body as if they belonged to someone broader and a little fuller.
He sits there, huddled amidst the chaos of blankets and wires to wait. Sensors plugged into either side of his head, he could not waste an extra sense. Not there was so much on the line. There is no expectation that the police would bust the warehouse, not unless they pulled something out of their ass—or someone turned him in. But it’s not as if he can run if they do. There is is no harm in being alert and he doesn’t have the suit to support him like last time, there’d be no holes in the wall today.
