Anthology - SHADOWRUN - Spells and Chrome

With a howl, the fourth ganger fired, forcing Mamba to dodge, augmented reflexes screaming into overdrive as she dove between his legs and leapt back to her feet. As he spun to track her, his gun sprayed bullets on the crowded street and screams erupted as men and women dropped. The ganger was still roaring, and Mamba stabbed at him. The ork was quick and her strike missed his vitals, but the blade sliced through his hand-taking a few fingers with it-and locked behind the trigger, forcing the gun to go silent. With one of her hands trapped, the ork gave a feral grin, and he pulled out a large machete with his left hand, arcing it towards her.

Parrying the machete with her own slim, left-handed blade, Black Mamba's 'link buzzed an incoming call. She didn't answer, but it didn't matter; her 'link opened the connection anyway.

"Mamba, you're late," a women's voice said into her ear.

The ork swung at her again, making her arch into a back-bend to avoid him, dragging the gun they both stubbornly held onto down to put him off balance. Two more Igbo ran through the crowd, AKs ready. They couldn't fire at her without risking hitting the other ganger, so they slung back their guns and pulled out wicked-looking knives. Damn Igbo. They were like vermin out here, coming out of the woodwork.

"Mamba, did you hear me?" the woman continued.

"Shit, Pharisee, kinda busy here," Mamba sent through her 'link, panting, dancing over a dead ork. While the other two entered the fray, the ork she was entangled with came at her again. She retracted the forearm blade stuck in his AK and sidestepped his latest attack. He half-fell, unbalanced by her action, and she used the distraction to face the new orks, parrying with her remaining blade as one struck at her. The other ork swung at her, and she dropped back, barely avoiding having her guts spilled into the filthy street. Her right forearm blade flicked out again and she brought it up.

"What's going on? Damn it, why'd you take off your AR glasses?" Pharisee demanded. "I knew I should have gotten you the AR contacts."

Mamba parried another blow, using the man's own strike to slide her blades up his own and spear him through the hand. Blood welled up, and as she pulled out her blade with a wet, sucking sound, it began to fountain. She twisted around him and followed through by slicing his throat so deeply she almost cut his head off. His body toppled. The two gangers still standing looked at her, blood splattered, dual blades running red from their companions' blood. Mamba flicked them at the ground to get rid of the worst of the gore. At that, one ganger turned and ran through the screaming crowds. After a second's hesitation, the other followed. Mamba stood, gasping, the acrid Lagos air burning her throat and bringing tears to her eyes. She hated this city sometimes. She stepped over the bodies and to the man who'd dared to touch her. He was holding his shattered leg, white bone showing through the ripped black flesh and flowing red blood. He whimpered as he looked up at her.

"I said no," she said, then slit his throat.

She took a second to look around. People were screaming; some, no doubt, injured or killed by the Igbo's indiscriminant aim.

"Mamba," Pharisee shouted into her ear. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Sorry, Pharisee," Mamba panted, suddenly breathless. "Ran out of money. Be right there." She quickly flipped through the dead ork's pockets, sparing just a second to grab a handful of naira tokens. The crowd around her was still in chaos, wounded people still screaming, not realizing the danger had passed. Mamba slipped into the crowd and began running.

The slums of Lagos were crowded with pedestrians, dark faces showing the stamp of a dozen different tribes, most dressed in colorful fabrics, men peddling their wares in the crowd, women clustered together for safety. Modified motorbikes wove through the people, while dozens of cars crept along, children and grown men alike attempting to sell the passengers anything from bags of water to electronics. Hemming everything in, squat cinderblock buildings stood two stories over the dirt streets, covered with a grimy coating of red dust from the harsh December winds that plagued the city. Everything stunk of rot, garbage, and the acrid smoke belched out from the factories.

The hovel she'd secured was just a few streets over. Frustrated with the crowded streets, Mamba cut through tight alleys, balancing on narrow boards that lay over the thick muck of the alleys. Part swamp mud, part garbage, and part human waste, the stench from the black muck was overpowering. Mamba had left her breather with Pharisee, not wanting to look too much like an oyibos, a foreigner. Unfortunately, the disguise she'd taken for this job had been enough to peg her as one anyway, and a target for every opportunistic ganger on the streets. Her normal ebony skin wouldn't have drawn attention, but the exotic Native American face and chestnut-colored skin of her stolen identity stuck out in the Lagosian slums.

"Pharisee, you better be packed and ready," Mamba said into her 'link.

"What have you done now?" the technomancer asked.

"Cut down a few Igbo," Mamba sent as she worked on managing her breathing. Even her bioware enhanced muscles needed clean air to function properly. A tracheal filter would be useful, if I ever manage to salvage my rep from this fucked-up job.

The guards at the front of the squat "hotel" looked at her askance, but she brushed past them without a word. No doubt, the Igbo would start looking for the oyibos woman who'd hurt their gangers. The way the Area Boy gang had their network of informants, it wouldn't take long. She had to get Pharisee and move out… fast.

"We're leaving," Mamba announced, when she got to Pharisee's room. "I just need to change."

The Egyptian woman looked over at Mamba, then shook her head.

"I thought you were going shopping," she said, but Mamba had already brushed past her, into her own tiny room. Calculating the time, she stripped out of the bloody clothing, then used a ratty cloth and lukewarm water from a bottle to wipe away the blood on her face and hands. With more care, she cleaned her forearm blades. Luckily, Mamba had a few more outfits in the luggage she'd stolen, despite her general distaste for the clothing. Armor would've been nice, but not with the ID she'd stolen. God, she hated playing this part.

Once she was mostly clean and dressed, Mamba felt the wave of nausea coming. Sweating, she fought it down. A flashback hit her; a crowd of men, the smell of sun-baked clay, the pain of her cheek shattering under a huge fist. Mamba closed her eyes, forced herself to visualize the four Igbo today, bleeding, dead, helpless. Forced the flashback away with the image of today's fight, the feeling of their blood spilling over her hands. I'm not helpless anymore.

"Mamba?" Pharisee was standing in the doorway, a backpack slung over one shoulder, her fingers gripping the blue hand amulet at her throat. "You okay?"

Mamba took a deep gulp of air, felt it scour her throat. "Yeah." • • •

The trip to Lagos Island involved getting an okada, one of the narrow, modified motorbikes common to the feral city. Mamba dealt with this with cool practicality; she stole one, leaving the driver lying in the street with a broken nose. Pharisee sat behind her, arms clenched around Mamba's waist, eyes closed as she skillfully wove through the thick traffic, cutting through pedestrians and zipping down the narrow, stinking alleys when the vehicle traffic grew too slow for her taste.

"Our employer wants to talk to you," Pharisee said after Mamba had come to a stop on the Eko bridge. The Eko was one of two ways onto the secured enclave of Lagos Island, and even the modified motorbikes couldn't get through the packed traffic clogging it. The heavily guarded gates on the island side of the bridge were clogged by the jam of Lagosians who wanted on the island enclave. "He's been calling for the last hour."