"Oh, drek!"

+++++Include Headcomm Track
+++++CommCmd: DIAL "Snookums"

+++++Dialing . . . .

+++++Connect.

The receiving comm barely chirps once.

+++++CommCmd: RECORD LINK
+++++Recording

"Hel- ..."

"DEREK! Don't talk! It's Jett, she's.. jeezus, just watch."

+++++Include Merged Video

A cybereye perspective forms, suggesting that the "viewer's" height is well under 6 feet. The grainy video has the tell-tale signature that accompanies real-time recordings with too much bandwidth for standard tel.

The view is from the front porch of Jett's mansion. The front door lies open, yawning, & forbidding. There's a long, thick smear of blood crossing the threshold & running well into the carpeted room beyond. It's already dried, but the color is wrong, unnaturally dark. Jett's blood.

The angle blurrrs...as the "viewer" pans right, far too rapidly.

+++++Tracking . .

Then it settles on Rita's Harley-Davidson, parked several meters behind her on the cement driveway. The trail of blood continues down the drive, then abruptly halts.

The view of the bike freezes, then blurrrrrs again...

+++++Tracking . . .

The scene refocuses on the doorway and stills for a second, then redraws the top-half from a slightly different angle and freezes half in, half out.

+++++Signal Lost.

"Drek!"

+++++CommCmd: LOWER FRAMERATE
+++++Rate: .333 fps
+++++Tracking .

The image resumes, this time as a series of "slides," instead of live video. Augmented reflexes carry the "viewer" through scene after scene. She's moving purposefully--too rapidly--making the shots seem disjointed, as if they were photos in some serial killer's scrapbook.

The "viewer" seems to hesitate at the threshold, unsure of whether to enter.

The scene shifts to a living(?)room, several meters deeper within: It looks too dark, even by Jett's standards. The barrel of a Predator II appears, bobbing in & out of the lower right corner, tracking her field of vision. The dried smear leads to the staircase.

+++++Engage: LowLite

The room brightens eerily, as it backlit from odd corners & surfaces.

The scene shifts again to the base of a grand victorian staircase: Signs of a struggle are visible, even from here. Portions of the railing are broken out. The blood seems to have pooled at the last step. A lighter blood, mingling with Jett's. A partial footprint--calling card signed in crimson.

A new scene: the first flight. The view is halfway up. More blood, not Jett's this time. Lots of it, smeared across the wall waist-high. A blood-spackled hanging mirror is partially visible. Dark spots down the center of the stairs and on the railing too.

Second flight: A damaged wall off to the left, the source of the lighter blood. It's man-sized hole--obviously the recipient of one of Jett's assailants and her fury.

Second floor landing: No sign of movement. Dark blood is everywhere, as if lovingly airbrushed by a drunken madman. Every corner of the scene reveals massive damage. This is where it took place. The door to Jett's room is splintered outward. Another broken wall, the jagged wood within clearly bloodsoaked. A small writing desk lies in pieces to one side. Jett's imported bonsai looks crystallized and very dead. She made her stand here, and lost.

+++++End Video

"Derek, I hope to FRAG you're already on your way out here!!"

+++++CommCmd: HANGUP

+++++Connection Terminated.

*
*
*

+++++Include Headcomm Track
+++++Dialing . . . .

+++++Connect.
+++++CommCmd: RECORD LINK
+++++Recording

"Hello."

"Derek? It's Rita."

"Mm...hi. I read your message."

"Yeah. Serious luck deficit. How's Fae doing? Any progress?"

"About the same. I think she's mad at herself for not making any...or that it's taking so long."

"She shouldn't. Whoever nabbed Jett had to figure she'd be missed. They did their homework and a class job of covering their tracks."

She pauses, waiting for Snookum's response, hoping that the troll will be able to provide some new lead or vital clue--even a bit of positive news. But as the stretching silence becomes uncomfortable, it's apparent that he's truely out of options.

So she continues, "Right. That friend I mentioned, down in New Orleans? I've decided, I am going to bring him into this."

"Do you think that's a good idea?"

"No. But Jett's running out of time. Two days--if I can't find him in two, I'm on the first flight back. How's that sound?"

"Iffy. What if Faedra locates her while you're gone?"

"You've got my number, but I doubt it'll do any good. Comm's and the surrounding bayous don't mix--I'll be pretty much incommunicado, once I leave the city. I'd say your best bet is to 'not wait up for me and nail the bastiches!'"

"If you're sure...just, be careful. Okay?"

"Aren't I always?"

+++++CommCmd: HANGUP

+++++Connection Terminated.

*
*
*

"Maybe this wasn't such a great idea, after all."

+++++Include Full Sensory Link

An ancient, inhospitable swamp fades into focus. High sun filters overhead through an impossible tangle of Spanish moss, wisteria vines, and Awakened kudzu, the natural canopy providing minimal relief in the thick humidity. The scents present in the heavy air are not so much smelled as tasted with every breath, which also carries the unpleasant reminder that this is not her urban element.

No, it's filled with a cacophony of noises animal and otherwise, that periodically cease for no apparent reason, other than to unnerve and drill this point home, before resuming the myriad chorus as if nothing was the slightest bit amiss.

"On the plus side," she mutters, half-complaining, "the mosquitos haven't managed to pierce my synthskin--not yet. Got ripped by Monnet's stand-in AND got lost twice on the way out here. Polymer sheathing's about the only thing workin' in my favor today. But at least it's the right landing."

To her front lies the end of a winding dirt road--not much more than a jagged slash through the dense vegetation really. At its edge, the murky bayou waters wage their eon-old war with the land, slowly turning the ground beneath her feet into a sticky brownish muck.

To her rear sits a rusting, all-terrain rental of indeterminate make, the two-seater's flatdeck cradling a battered, flat-bottom, swamp buggy, which seems to jut unwillingly over the forbidding gumbo below.

"Last trip here," Rita sighs as she begins unpacking, "I watched LaRue return to his world after an unpleasantly long stay in mine. One, I'll be really glad to return to...and all the comforts with it."

Strong hands mechanically grasp the buggy, throwing off its nylon restraints, one by one, before teflon-braided muscles F-L-E-X beneath ruthenium camouflaged limbs...lifting...dragging it off the atv and into the waiting mud with a muffled, "pLUUHhd!"

"Well, that's not going anywhere for a few."

+++++Chrono: 13:37:21.1564_(local)

"Drek. This is taking waaay too long. Survival depends on finding him before dark."

Returning to the cab, she briefly catches sight of herself in the passenger's window: short, ash-black hair pulled back; eyes protected behind black, non-reflect shades; bare, camo'd shoulders beneath a similarly camo'd tank-top.

From the passenger's seat she retrieves a combat harness and a freshly oiled Walther MA 2100. The web gear is heavy, packed with oversized clips, designed to fit in place of the rifle's missing magazine well. She'd have preferred her standard Ares HVAR, but the old-style CAS sniper rifle was the best her fixer's replacement could produce and still accommodate her time-table. Another moment is spent stuffing ration bars into the cargo pockets of her BDU cut-offs before returning to the boat.

A quick hydraulic nudge from her name-giving 'jack and the fan-boat is free of land, its old gasoline engine begrudgingly catching on the second try. And with a metallic whine, the huge pusher prop spins up and reaches speed. Soon, the atv is left far behind.

"Right. Time to feed the lizards."

*
*
*

"This is not good."

+++++Chrono: 18:46:35.7494_(local)

"Been out here five hours, and still no sign of LaRue's place. The shadows grow long, along with my chances of finding him today."

+++++Include Full Sensory Link

The southern Louisiana bayou assembles itself into focus. The previous overhead canopy has given way to dense low-level vegetation, which separate the swamp into natural waterways. In the distance, the sun seems to lounge just above the horizon at treetop level, but its passing utterly fails provide the much needed relief from the day's heat, with humidity still well over 90%. The impending dusk has brought a notable increase in critter noises to the point of being audible over the flatboat's fan.

"Shouldn't have taken more than thirty minutes to get there, instead I've spent the whole time running back and forth between the landing and countless waterways. None of which looked the least familiar. It's almost if the bayou was rearranging itself with every pass."

+++++Ares SmartSystem II™ Engaged
+++++Walther MA-2100 Detected, 10 Rounds Remaining
+++++AccuRanging™ Online
+++++PosiTracking™ Online
+++++Target Acquisition Initiated

Behind her, the engine fan automatically throttles back while the rudder locks full left and the boat begins to move in a series of slow circles.

A too-jerky glance left, puts the wavering target spot on the huge creature, who's already covered half the distance between them.

+++++Target Acquired.
+++++AccuRange™: 10 meters
+++++PosiTracking™ Engaged . . .

+++++WeaponCmd: SAFETY OFF

She can see it clearly now: dull gray head, half submerged beneath the water; squat, with a wide face; row of bony ridges running down its back; and closing...

+++++AccuRange™: 9 meters

"That's it, skat . . . "

+++++AccuRange™: 8 meters

+++++AccuRange™: 7 meters

"that's it . . just a little closer . . . "

+++++AccuRange™: 6 meters

The sniper rifle *coughs* unsteadily--two times in rapid succession, followed by another two--its impacts making a jagged line across the creature's flank. They appear to have no effect.

+++++AccuRange™: 5 meters

"Wonderful, now it's pissed!"

+++++AccuRange™: 4 meters
+++++FnCheck: Jacks . . . .

+++++Ares HyJacks™ Operating at 100%
+++++AccuRange™: 3 meters

Upchannel, the approaching creature's head rises out of the water and belches a stream of mist directly towards the camera.

+++++AccuRange™: 2 meters
+++++JackCmd: 6X POWER
+++++Engaging Jacks

Hydraulic systems within her legs pulse at the command, propelling the "viewer" up from the swamp buggy in a low awkward arc. Immediately, the camera angel swings around under the influence of her clearly unbalanced body and catches sight of the buggy below.

+++++Target Lost
+++++Target Acquisition Initiated

What would have normally been an effortless leap, now carries her clumsily through the leading edge of the mist cloud.

+++++Warning: left cyberleg biofeedback
+++++Ares SmartSystem II™ shutting down

+++++Warning: right cyberarm shutdown
+++++Warning: right cyberleg shutdown
+++++Warning: reaction enhancement at 09%

Presently, heavy branches blur by, in reverse, as the tree in which she'd planned to land, narrowly avoids delivering a series of fatal head impacts.

At the edge of the camera's view, creature and vehicle collide unceremoniously, just before the swamp rises up to engulf the "viewer's" paralyzed form.

+++++Internal Air System Engaged
+++++Warning: respiration at 40%

Murky waters swirl and close overhead.

+++++Tracking . . . . .

+++++Warning: left cyberarm biofeedback
+++++Warning: left cyberleg shutdown

+++++Warning: Ares CyberControl™ systems shutting d*
+++++Signal Lost

*
*
*

*Cough*a-cough*a-Cough*Cough*

"...ouch."

+++++Chrono: 21:05:51.9542_(local)

Note to self: waking to the sound of your own hacking is not an enjoyable experience--even when it means that you're not dead, after all.

+++++Include Full Sensory Link

Cybernetic eyes focus slowly on a gray woolen blanket, resting at the foot of an old hardwood bed. The aspect suggests the "viewer" is propped on top of it and under the aforementioned blanket. Closer inspection reveals that the bed is situated in one corner of a single-room cabin.

The scene looses focus and for a time, she lies motionless, her eyes fixed on a flickering gas lamp suspended from somewhere up by the ceiling--listening while the light makes unfamiliar shadows dance to the muffled swamp sounds, which drift in through split-rail walls.

Then the view re-focuses and, with an obvious effort, slowly shifts as she deliberately turns to scan the rest of the room.

In the nearest corner, a squat cast-iron stove rests on thick clawed legs, between uneven rough cut windows. Beside the stove, a long high set of shelves dominates the remainder of the far wall. From the "viewer's" perspective, it appears to contain a wide array of pots and all manner of storage jars, plus a few worn books. In front of the shelf stands a crude wooden table, surrounded by a mis-matched collection of straight backed chairs.

The shelf ends short of the far corner, leaving just enough room for a padded red armchair and a sturdy wooden desk, covered with papers and small sparkly trinkets. At the other end of the desk, the cabin's only door stands centered in the far wall.

Next to the door, the remaining corner is completely filled with a set of worn stairs which extend up over the bed.

Eventually, a thick cajun accent breaks the silence. "How you feelin', now?"

+++++System Scan . . . . Unavailable

"Not sure," Rita responds in a voice that sounds rough and gravelly. "Bits of me keep passing out. Limbs won't respond either--nothing but 'feedback."

"Dat be skin-toxin," says the voice, as if it explained everything.

From the depths of the red armchair, the speaker leisurely stands and stretches, revealing a well-worn "Univ. of New Orleans" shirt and a pair of dull, gray cargo pants, beneath a faded green robe. He is a large, dark-skinned ork, with a thick matte of long graying hair, slowly receding back from his forehead. His face appears hardened and it's beginning to show signs of his metatype's premature aging.

"Hun'ry Cussin," he continues, "he spray you, but good."

"Who?" She asks hoarsely.

The ork methodically crosses the floor to the table in the cabin's center, before offering an explanation. "Zo'ologist, say he be, salamandra lamb'toni."

His accent gives the Latin taxonomy a peculiar twist.

"...an' t'most bayou folk he jus' be, Bad News."

He turns to look directly into the camera.

"...but Gator," he states absolutely, "Gator call him, Hun'ry Cussin, 'cause he a grouch, who be eatin' all'a time."

"Oh, I see," she retorts sarcastically, as if the entire universe suddenly made perfect sense, adding, "you do have the antidote, right?"

"Al'ready administer it. In a few hour, you limbs," he replies confidently, "dhey be you own, an' p'ralysis, it be gone."

Then his voice trails off, "...should be gone b'now, but I t'ink you be a'lergic."

She sighs, "just wonderful."

"Not t'worry, you be okay," he says with a grin, then turns his attention back to the cluttered tabletop for a moment, finally selecting a dull green rock from somewhere in the mess. As he appraises it before the cabin's sole source of light, the rock begins to glow faintly.

"Ooh, dat a nice'n."

The rock quickly disappears into the folds of the faded green robe.

"'Sides," he continues, slowly returning to her side of the room, "Hun'ry Cussin, him'in' only spit a mild toxin."

Reaching the edge of the bed, he leans over her immobile form, arms folded across the expanse of his chest.

"Now, what you doin' waay out in t'bayou, 'side feedin' lizards?"

The ork's brows seem to knit themselves together, as if anticipating the answer.

"Looking for you."

"May-be LaRue not wan' be foun'."

His tone suddenly changes from serious to suspicious. "What happen' you guide?"

"Didn't have one," she replies flatly.

"You lookin' fo' LaRue, all by youself," the ork raises both eyebrows in surprise, then explodes with thunderous laughter, "Whooo Haah Haaaa!"

It takes him nearly a minute to calm down, while Rita simply smirks. As his fit of laughter subsides, LaRue walks back to the table and retrieves a mostly clean cloth to dab at his eyes.

"Hoo-wie, I never understan' you, Rita," he giggles. "Must be sometin' pretty importan', hunh? Riskin' you fool life in m'swamp an' all."

"Yeah, it is," she begins. "A friend in Seattl..."

"Non," LaRue cuts her off, "don' talk, you'n tell me later."

Satisfied with his preparations, he turns towards the cabin's door. "Now rest a whil'. I got t'find food fo' you."

As he pulls the door open and steps out, the room is instantly assaulted with full sounds and smells of the evening swamp beyond.

"No need, I'm really not hungry."

The hoarse words stop him amid stride. From over his shoulder, the ork counters, "is not fo' you t'eat, Rita, is fo' Hun'ry Cussin. A deal be a deal."

"What??!"

In answer, he pulls the door shut behind himself, "I promise him food, in es'change fo' you."

+++++Link Closed