Fenris arrived at the meet's location in the pouring rain. He steered his heavy Blitzen into the relative dryness of the parking garage beneath the Puget Bank. The dingy ferro-crete flooring was cracked and covered with century-old oil stains.

Admittedly, he was running late, but those Halloweeners had needed that lesson. Even if it was nearly their holy day, he thought, it'll be a cold day in Aztlan before they think about clotheslining another samurai.

But it did feel good to be out of the rain, he realized, while circling for an empty spot. Besides, his cigar had gone out. Out of habit, he scanned for familiar vehicles. Freelancers occasionally bumped into each other. Sure, Seattle had a vast shadow community, but Lord it wasn't large. Even in this limited lighting, he spotted one van that was sitting low on its run-flats --inobviously, armed for bear.

The upper level was packed. But before taking his chances below ground, he opted for sharing a spot with a Harley Davidson that, barring a recent change of ownership, unmistakably belonged to Thugg. Pausing to relight his Havana, Fenris mused that he hadn't seen the ork's ugly, merc mug since the Space Needle Fiasco. Well, at least he'd be in good partying company if the deal was a bust.

Tonight's meet was in a basement nightclub that Fenris had never heard of--hardly surprising, since nearly all of his time was spent either creating biz in the Tacoma district or dredging the Sound with Gislan.

Strangely, this biz had come at an opportune point. Gislan's garage was beyond full and this time the dwarf had solemnly resolved to restore a few of the relics, that they had repeatedly risked their lives to haul up form the depths, before plunging back in for more.

But at the same time, the channels through which he'd been contacted tripped multiple fault codes. He'd worked hard to bury his corp past. But, at least in his own head, it kept rising back up to greet him or leave its footprints in every hosed business venture. You're paranoid, he chided himself, they're one of the largest triple-A's. Their megacorporate feet are everywhere. And even if Brackhaus had figured it out, Fenris was sure that his deception would never reach the CEO's ears. Besides even if it did, to their thinking, he probably wasn't worth the resource expenditure. But it didn't hurt to be cautious.

So, he wondered for the twelfth time today, how had the brawler ID'd him? He'd recognized her right off, the last time--she was a professional SINner. But she'd been clueless to his identity, even when they'd parted.

At first he'd had no idea who had invited him to this meet, but he'd spent the day rousting out his street contacts. His usual snitch, Meaux, was only able to produce the name of the club's owner. Beyond that, he'd come up with squat.

Similarly, at the Tacoma club that bore his name, where he was regarded somewhere between, 'completely unwelcomed' and 'repulsively tolerated,' Castillano had only been able to concur on the snitch's findings.

The ugly fixer had heard nothing about this meet. And if the corps were involved, he'd smugly disclosed that, he might not be in a position to say so.

Castillano was a powerful and dangerous man with a heavily pockmarked face (into which, Fenris had always thought, it looked as if his morning Grape-Nuts regularly exploded.) During the entire encounter, the fixer's face had peered at him with its usual polite loathing.

It was clear that Castillano, who customarily referred to Fenris as lupus impostus --'the false wolf,' detested doing business with him: didn't like the scent of his chrome, or the way that he mimicked them. And he particularly hated the man's obvious lack of respect and the fact that they'd thus far been unable to properly intimidate him. But like an unpleasant surgical tool, Fenris had proved to be a useful, technological asset, from time to time.

This particular time, however, Castillano had seemed to be agitated, radiating a decidedly "slot and run" attitude. But when Fenris had held his ground, the fixer, in hopes of avoiding a so-called, "situation," had uncharacteristically revealed that he, himself, had pressing biz with Striper. He could have been lying, but Fenris, not wishing for a rematch, decided to act the better part of valor and leave.

He'd been lucky, once. And even though he and the cat-lady now enjoyed a shaky sort of truce (due largely to the negotiation skills of Castillano), Fenris didn't want to encounter her again--not until he had proof that their initial 'chance meeting' had been engineered.

He'd left the 'Nacht amid the abhorrent, sidelong glances of its cliquish patrons. That nightclub had been where the information trail had gone cold. Now he stood across a rain-soaked street from another club. And as the cherry tip of his half-finished cigar glowed vainly against the elements' attempt to re-extinguish it, he finally decided that if the corp had cracked his new ID, he may as well meet them head on.

After severing his ties, Fenris had so far managed to carve out a modest street rep for himself in the Seattle Sprawl -- especially down in Tacoma, where it was said that even the local Yak had felt the ripples of his presence. This was of course not entirely good news.

His transition from para-military operative to gillette, along with the assimilation into the street's sub-culture had proved to be dangerously easy. He had simply traded his corp's 'union suit' for urban-camo'd fatigue pants and an olive drab, sleeveless pull-over. This stately attire had been topped off with a brown, real-leather, biker's jacket, of which the left sleeve had been neatly severed to allow for his chrome's added bulk. And so the transformation from career soldier to street samurai had been completed.

When he'd set out this morning, Fenris had chosen this jacket over his more sensible, armored long-coat. He'd incorrectly gambled that the clear sky really would hold and that the heavy duster would turn out to be just unneeded, dead weight. So much for The Weather Network, he thought sourly and continued to survey the wet streets through featureless high-chrome cybereyes.

From his vantage point through the downpour, Fenris could clearly see the iron railing that outlined the club's sunken stairway. And courtesy of the evening's stray photons, his eyes' micro-channel imaging amps zoomed-in, picking out the scene's sharper details. He observed several patrons filing out past a large bouncer and up to street level, before scurrying off to the dryer environs of their waiting cars.

The bouncer was a youngish looking troll, who'd politely held the door open as the customers exited. He was sporting an obvious piece--Predator II probably, by its size. Plus he had comms with inside, through an ear mounted, clip-on two-way.

Deciding that it wasn't worth the hassle, Fenris dropped the remains of his cigar to the filthy pavement and ground it out beneath a thickly soled jungle boot.

After a lengthy period of disarmarment, he secured his weapons in the custom compartments within the Blitzen's fairings and with a thought sent the pulse commands to arm the bike. He then paused only momentarily to flip his leather collar up, before sprinting across the street.

Oddly enough, the bouncer didn't hassle him over his chrome one bit, but then it was still early.

*
*
*

Once his eyes had adjusted to the club's stroboscopic lighting, Feris saw that the interior was tastefully appointed. He counted a total of eight, 3-meter, Mitsu-Magna, Trideo screens. It reminded him a little of THE Sports Bar, but this place had a more comfortable, 'corner pub' feel to it. Or rather it would have, he noted, if not for the computerized, pulsating dance-floor and the ominous, raised stage. It was a very well appointed club. He made his way to the oaken bar and ordered.

The bartender, whose neon name tag announced as, "Kyle," surprised him by asking, "would that be real or synthetic tonight, sir?"

The place didn't look fancy enough for real alcohol. But realizing the evening's necessity for a clear head, he replied, "better make it synthol." When Kyle brought it to him, he added, "I've got biz here tonight. Know anything about it?"

Kyle gestured behind him with a nod, "you'd best be asking her about that, sir."

Fenris spun around in his seat, stopping face to face with, "Ricochet Rita!" He exclaimed with a smug hint of self satisfaction. He wasn't supposed to know the name of the meet's Johnson.

Her looks matched his memories. She was dressed in a pair of blood-red, paratroop pants and a gray, short sleeved button-up, that hid any remaining traces of her shadow-cutter's handiwork. Fenris was painfully aware that she carried nearly as much chrome as he, but it was all of that natural-looking drek. Even her hazel, almond-shaped eyes failed to betray their technological nature.

But staring into their depths, he knew instinctively, that she wasn't some back alley vat-job. No, here was one flash piece of tech staring back at him, daring him to start something in her club. His gaze briefly shifted, noting that her hair was now styled differently, but showing signs of having been recently modified. And she still favored those crotch-chafin' thigh high boots. In short, Meaux's info had surprisingly been dead on. Without a doubt, this was the same urban brawler and too-slick samurai from four years ago.

"Lobo?!" Rita seemed twice as surprised to see him. "I heard you were dead." The two gillettes hadn't crossed paths, since the 'Raku labs, back in '48.

Either she was one hell of an actress or ...what? Fenris wasn't sure, so he played along. "Lobo is dead. His brains re-painted a Shiawase suit's office. I currently trade under the name of 'Fenris.' I'm sure you can appreciate how this disassociates me from certain past events."

Rita betraying no hint of prior knowledge, immediately grokked, "Fenris: the wild wolf that escaped from its god-like masters."

Then not to be out-patronized, she added, "and by the way, my handle is 'Ricochet Rita, Razorgal' and this is my show. I am positive even you can remember that. Now, walk this way."

Fenris grabbed his drink to follow. Immediately, a dozen smart "If I could walk that way..." replies sprang to mind, but he decided not to take the bait. This was after all to be a serious meeting.

As he followed her across the nightclub, he tried to discern the extent of her reported injuries. Like every other Brawl follower, he'd caught the previous day's trid-cast. But just as she'd concealed her cyberware, she betrayed no trace of harm. It was possible that the reports had been fabricated. After all, wasn't he himself, 'reportedly dead?' Perhaps they were her ruse.

She escorted him to one of the Klub's private party rooms. As they approached, Fenris noticed that the door was being guarded by what had to be the second-biggest troll he'd ever seen.

It--he was wearing patent leather shoes, tailored trousers, and a pressed white shirt with a button-down collar. When they were within ear-shot, Rita looked up at the troll and asked, "are all of the players here?"

He simply smiled in reply, nodding his massive head in a friendly, 'trollish' sort of way. Then he opened the door for them and they slid past his treetrunk-like waist. Before the door closed, Fenris could have sworn that the troll had given him a "don't even try it, punk"-look.

Inside, it was obvious that the 'party room' had been redecorated. Most of the floor space was dominated by a large oval conference table. Its shiny black macro-plast reflected the overhead lights.

Seated around it was a collection of four roguish looking freelancers. Fenris gazed across each one in turn, pausing briefly to nod at Thugg, who'd also recognized him. The ork still had on his familiar, green RAF beret and some unrecognizable remnants of a once-camouflaged uniform.

Of the other three, one was an elf --probably a mage, judging by the arcane symbols on his duster. He returned Fenris' acknowledgement with a gaping, wide-eyed leer. He looked familiar, but in the few seconds of eye contact, Fenris couldn't place him and moved on.

The other two were humans, but nothing alike. One was tall, bulky, and dressed in a green, nomex, one-piece. He had a thick mate of black hair. But the sides of his head were bare-shaven and literally bristled with skillsoft ports and datajacks. He also had shiny, golden cybereyes with blue neon pupils, that gazed out impassively across the room. 'Technophile,' Fenris decided, decker or rigger.

The other one looked to be slightly under Fenris' own height, but his build didn't have the benefits of selective science. He was wearing a rumpled brown, sports jacket over a tan zipper-shirt, both of which were offset by a loud orange necktie. His head displayed his only visible tech: a sole datajack. No clue as to what this one's specialty was supposed to be. He didn't even seem to notice Fenris' gaze, instead his attention was fixated on Rita as she made her way to the podium at the table's head.

Perhaps he was her bodyguard or fixer, Fenris mused and found a seat, as the lights dimmed.

On the wall behind Rita a two-meter porta-trid snapped to life. "I would like to open this meet," she began, "by thanking all of you for attending on such short relay. After what happened to Smilin' Sam and Johnny-Come-Lately, I did not know if anyone would show." There were muted nods of agreement around the table.

Rita took a breath, then continued, "this presentation will be in two parts. At the end of the first, you'll be given the opportunity to leave without any obligation."

Fenris smiled, just like a military briefing --tell 'em what you're going to tell 'em, tell it to them, then tell 'em what you told 'em.

"As the second part begins, however," she continued, "so does the run and those remaining will be considered in and accountable to me. If any of you have a problem with my terms, you can leave now."

This statement seemed to be directed at Fenris, who dropped the smile and carefully nodded to her, once. Then he glanced covertly around the table, noting with amusement that the elven mage, whose name turned out to be 'Naxis,' was still glaring at him. One of the great advantages of metallic cybereyes, Fenris knew, was that no one could tell exactly where he was looking. So he pretended to ignore the mage, while actually keeping an occasional eye on him.

Meanwhile, Rita's natural cybereyes glanced noticeably around the room. Satisfied that no one seemed ready to object to her terms or defect, she proceeded with the first part of her briefing, using the trideo as a visual aide.

This was accomplished via a Matrix connection through the Klub's security system and the secretive help of Buzz, who was also silently monitoring the room's occupants through several strategically placed button cameras.

She'd been correct, once he'd scoped the run's payoff, he had wanted in. As planned, Rita neither introduced, nor acknowledged his presence, during the first part.

She did, however, explain the rudiments of her proposed shadowrun, without revealing her intended target. She also detailed her proposed revenue schedule, which was based largely on the run's outcome. The promised rates were generous, her delivery: smooth, and no one tried to haggle.

Rita was quite pleased, she'd managed to suppress her prespeech nerves behind a mask of belligerence. It even wiped the smile of Fenris' smug face --serves him right. She ended her opening 'teaser' by stating, "that is all, for the first part. Any of you are free to walk."

After several seconds of silence, Thugg piped up, "if we wernt intres'ted in yer run, ya think we'da tromped all da way downtown?"

The other nodded in agreement to his guttural sentiment and Rita was about to begin part two, when Naxis stood up and announced, "I do wish to be included in you run, but I refuse to participate, if he does."

Everyone seated around the table couldn't help but notice that the mage's eyes were glowing. But more importantly, his finger was pointing directly at Fenris, who fully understood its significance. Naxis may as well have drawn a gun on him.

As a counter, Fenris hastily engaged his internal smartgun's targeting system. Then beneath the table, he inconspicuously angled his palm in the mage's direction. He was reasonably certain that, with a little assist from his tac computer, he'd be able to activate his Na-Palm MicroFlamer before the elf could cast whatever spell he'd prepared.

"Er, why not?" Rita asked, her train of thought now completely derailed.

Still pointing accusingly, Naxis spat his explanation in teeth-gnashing staccatos, "this man and I were involved on opposite sides of a situation."

Throughout this tumultuous spray, Fenris feverishly searched his memory for an encounter with a combat mage --that he'd let live --and as a result seriously slotted off. He drew a blank.

"My former associates and I had been hired to guard a research facility from the likes of him," Naxis continued. The veins in his neck were beginning to bulge. "In a direct affront to our efforts, he slipped under our net, then plundered the lab, beneath our very noses!..." The flustered mage involuntarily paused to take a much-needed breath.

Ha, Fenris thought, he'd sussed it! Even thought he hadn't seen them in person, he knew exactly which run this half-crazed elf was railing about and he had to fight to suppress a grin, just thinking about it.

"...then while escaping," Naxis blurted with redoubled vigor, "he lobbed a grenade into our midst."

The single-jacked human was the first to voice everyone's concern, "excuse me, but so what? You're still here, aren't ya?"

"So," Fenris laughed, "it was filled with a powdered enzyme called, tri-eosinophil-beta-alkali." From around the table blank stares and a dumb look or two gazed back at him.

"Unh, industrial-strength, sneezing powder," he elaborated. "They make it in a lab, up in Everett."

This produced smirks and muted chuckles from those still seated. Even Rita had to hold back a laugh at the ridiculous images forming in her mind.

With his hold on the situation rapidly slipping, the wounded mage slowly gazed around the room and unpretentiously lowered his arm. Then he gradually began to slump back into his seat, muttering, "...gave me a festering rash, too."

That was all it took. His final meek comment, added to the already silly mental pics, caused utter pandemonium to breakout. The entire group, Rita included, hooted in an uncontrollable wave of laughter.

So much in fact, that their collective outburst caused Gus to barge in, poking his massive head under the door's frame. Whereupon, like some strange, single-minded organism, everyone turned to stare at him, simultaneously shutting up and leaving the troll bewildered and tongue-tied.

"Is everything...I thought I heard...never mind. Sorry," he blurted and closed the door, completely mortified. This brought on a second wave of hysterics, in which even Naxis reluctantly joined and Gus pretended not to hear.

Amid all the mirth, Fenris realized that it had been a dirty trick. But more importantly, they now had a combat mage about to walk due to a bruised ego, when his talents were going to be needed. This situation was not unlike many of the laborious staff meetings he'd been required to endure --full of egotistical young officers with delicate feelings. So drawing on military experience, he sought to defuse the problem he'd inadvertently brought with him.

Addressing Naxis as the laughter died down, Fenris conceded, "alright, the last time we met, granted, you came out on the losing end." Including your job, he thought.

"Now you could stubbornly bail at this point --pride somewhat intact." That was the wind-up, now for the curve ball. "Or you could swallow it and succeed in what you came here to do: increase your net wealth. Besides, in all your years of studding magic, you must have come across a dirty trick or two."

Naxis' face took on a thoughtful expression. "And what better chance for payback, than by always knowing where I am!" Fenris concluded his appeal, then shot an inquiring glance to Rita.

Great, she thought sourly, just like the adolescent, off court pranks that plagued her urban brawl career.

But then she considering the 'morale angle' she relented. "Fine by me, as long as we are perfectly clear that your friendly rivalry does not interfere with my operation in any way."

Then she passed the ball, "Naxis?"

The silence was earsplitting as the mage considered the options before him. Eventually, he succumbed to the strange illogic of it all --largely because he desperately needed the nuyen. To Rita's prompt he responded, "very well..." then he turned to Fenris, "I accept !" And thus the great practical joke war commenced.

Rita hadn't realized that she had been holding her breath and let it out in a single sign of relief. Her team had nearly dissolved before it even had a chance to gel. "Okay then," she stated, regaining her bearings--regaining control of the room, "from this point on you are all considered 'in.' And this run begins: now!"

"Our target," she paused for a breath, "is Ares Arms."

This bit of data was not received with boisterous cries of wild enthusiasm. But it did seem to get everyone's attention. The fact that Ares Corp was the world's leading producer of weapons and security equipment, made them an extremely predictable opponent, since it was obvious which handguns, armor, and riot vehicles they favored. Oddly enough, it also made them an extremely dangerous opponent, for exactly the same reasons.

"Or more precisely," Rita continued, "one of their sea-borne, shipping facilities." On cue, Buzz displayed a schematic of the privately owned pier that was to be their intended target. He'd lifted these blueprints the day before from a computer belonging to the Port Authority's Zoning Commission. It hadn't even been a contest.

"Aside from the standard transfer of copious nuyen, the purpose of this run is to completely disrupt next month's Autumn Arms Show, by relieving Ares of their main attraction: the arriving shipment of prototypes and free samples from their 2053 weapons line."

Rita then listed their assets, including the security day codes that she'd shagged from Bryce's data reader. "That is our objective, folks. What we need to do here," she concluded, "is spawn the plan that will make it happen."