Pyramid Scheme - Shadowrun Fan Fiction

Mother added, “no drek, joy-boy, them magic types play with ghosts and stuff! Makes me damn nervous, it ain’t natural.” 

Bishop Fuzz didn’t even seem to notice the surrounding slum. He just walked straight to the Purple Haze bar, just like he had a hundred times before. A huge neon light hummed over the bar’s bronze door. As fuzz stepped inside he was embraced by a wailing cloud of purple smoke. The scent of nic-sticks almost choked him before he took three steps inside. He nodded to the bartender and headed toward a table that the orc motioned to. Fuzz immediately recognized three of the men sitting at the table. One was a big ore dressed like aEi3Man. His well tailored suit couldn’t hide the sinewy muscles of the metahuman. The larger occupant Fuzz also recognized. He was a troll that dwarfed even the stout orc. The troll wore an expensive leather jacket over a camouflaged jumpsuit. He sat facing the door, watching Fuzz approach the table. The third was a rumpled looking human, named Deveaux. The three were talking quietly with a slick looking runner and a corp wage slave that was obviously out of his element. Fuzz greeted his associates with a sly smile. 

“Hoi Jinga, what chased you out from under your rock?’ The orc frowned and crossed his arms. The troll snickered and shifted in his chair. Fuzz reached out and grasped the troll’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “Still fooling everybody with the jarhead routine, eh Sika,” Fuzz laughed. The troll shot him a toothy grin and slapped Fuzz on the arm. 

“So you finally decided that we were better company than the rats in your apartment,” the troll inquired. 

Fuzz shook his head, “Nope, but I gotta make a living, what’s biz today?” The troll turned in his chair and introduced the other people at the table. 

“This is Mister Kramer, he is in the employ of an unnamed Corp and he would like to hire us for an unauthorized data retrieval mission.” Next, Sika motioned to the pudgy human wearing a threadbare suit sitting next to the timid wage slave, “To Mr. Kramer’s left is, as you know, Rick Deveaux, he will be gathering any information we require prior to the actual mission. To Mr. Kramer’s right is Allister Watkins. He will be assisting you with the mission’s magical chores.” Watkins was a slight man with sandy hair cut close to his scalp. His eyes gleamed even in the shadows of the bar. “Naturally, I will be handling the net during our tenure,” Sika continued, “and Jinga will act as protection if any resistance arises.” Sika introduced Bishop Fuzz to the mage and the corp and invited the shaman to have a seat. “This, my new friends, is Bishop Fuzz. He is a Ute shaman of great renown.” 

Watkins snorted contemptuously and sneered at Fuzz. “Is it necessary to include this mystic. His tricks are no match for my real magic.” 

Jinga laughed loudly and leaned over the table. “Real magic? You don’t have to worry about the Bishop, he has got plenty of juice where it counts,” the orc’s tone suddenly hardened, “you should have more respect.” Watkins had no way of knowing that Jinga’ s mother had been a shaman. Her promising career as a runner had been cut short by a corporate wage mage. Jinga had enjoyed killing that particular mage during a run seven years ago. Ever since his mother’s death Jinga had distrusted mages. 

Fuzz spoke up loudly to diffuse the confrontation between the brawny ore and the mage,” Pardon me folks, but I’m not going to do anything until we discuss some numbers.” The mage eyed the orc with contempt as Mr. Kramer wrote on a crumpled napkin. The napkin was passed around the table. Each runner read the number and nodded. When Fuzz’s turn came he glanced at their figure scrawled on the soiled napkin, barely containing a gasp. 

The take equaled one hundred thousand nuyen each. With that much liquid cash Fuzz could sit tight for a couple months and study spells. He had been playing with the idea for years but had never been able to score that many nuyen at one time. After visions of a vacation rushed through his mind, doubt squirmed into his head. Could this wage slave come up with that kind of cash or was he bluffing? If’ he was bluffing the runners would come down hard on him. Risk without reward was a serious breach in etiquette. The napkin was passed back to Kramer and he stuffed it into his coat pocket. For the first time he spoke.