text: Four narrow walls frame the room, every visible surface covered by cheap, plastic padding. A compact screen sits embedded in the far end of the room. There was barely enough room to sleep, let alone stand. But, the Coffin House was all I could afford. At least until I could find work. Five weeks ago, I'd escaped a dead end job as a security guard at Locust corp. Fled was more accurate, I suppose. Though in retrospect, leaving was liberating. Leaving with 500k worth of installed, unpaid corporate augmentations was even better. Not that anyone ever really managed to pay their debts to Locust Corp. No, you paid until you died, and then they'd rip out your ware and slap it into the next schmuck. Better to live as a free man. Still, the streets had proven more dangerous than I'd expected. Especially with Locust mercenaries hot on my heels. But, I hadn't had any run ins for a couple days. Not since I found a hole in the Combat Zone, outside the Sprawl. And I'd dug in like a tick. I hadn't left the room in days, not outside of using the bathroom down the hall. Now, all that was left was to wait on Dennis' call. In a couple days, I'd have a new I.D., a passport, and be halfway across the globe. I'd met Dennis the day I escaped. He'd been beat half to death, and had one foot in the grave, surrounded by cheap gangers. My security training had overtaken me, and in my haste I'd forgotten about my new ware. I remembered when the first goons skull cracked open like a grape in a vice. Dennis was the one who set me up, helped me get some cash in my pockets. In return, I'd ventilated a couple of his debtors, sent a message. Finally, the notification pings in my HUD. Before I can finish reading Dennis' message I'm halfway out the door. The smell cigarettes clings to the peeling wallpaper, the hallway just barely wide enough to walk through. The receptionist, a petite young woman with extensive dermal mods, shoots a glance. "Checking out, Nico?" "Nah, just a quick run. I'll be back for my shit. Have a nice day, Akari." She grins, revealing a neon smile, her eyes shifting colors in time with her grill. "Be safe!" A frigid palor hangs above the city, as gusts of wind rip through the streets. Droves of beligerent citizens prowl the streets, gunshots ringing out in the distance. I turn up my collar, trying to hustle through Black Powder Alley as fast as I discretely can. My head on a swivel, I pass through the alley and into the Bowels. Dennis' shop shouldn't be far now. A group of gangers eyes me from across the way, and sparks flicker along my cyber arm. 'Don't fuck with me', a message I do my best to project. They stare on, unflinching. I recognize their leathers:Black Powder Angels. The same punks I'd ghosted my first night in town. Fuck. I'd been planning on picking up ammo at Dennis'. The last of it had been spent on a would be mugger, last week. Our eyes lock for a moment, and I can see it. Smell it. They think I'm prey, a mark to be defiled and burgled. I slide into an alley, and take off. Before long I hear them behind me. Bullets tear through the air, and I do my best to weave. Pain shoots through my body, as one lands in my shoulder. "Slow down, chrome dome, we just wanna talk, maybe take a look at all those fancy augs!" I rip a brick from the wall, spinning into the throw. It connects, embedding itself one of the gangers chests. With a wet squelch he slumps over, and I dive for his gun. His body spasms as I rip the cheap assault rifle from his hand, and launch his soon to be corpse into his allies. The trigger compresses beneath my finger and I fill the alley with hot lead, sprinting away from the crowd. Within fifteen minutes, I lose the crowd. Ahead, I spot Dennis' shop. A small, ramshackle building constructed of refuse and detritus. A neon sign atop the door reads "General Store", flickering in and out. Relics of the 21st century fill the room, tapes and CD's filling display shelves alongside busts of retro celebrities. The scent of mildew and console duster hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the stench of oil and sweat. I spot Dennis behind the counter, forty something, balding and rotund, he's clad in high fashion from several seasons ago. He looks nervous. "Nico! You made it." His eyes dart to the closet, then to me. I can hear it in his voice, he's afraid. "You got my new identity facilitated, then?" As I ask, I move nonchalantly towards the closet. I click on my thermal vision, and immediately pick up a heat signature, jammed inside. "Of-ofcourse, Nico." A stream of lead, pours across the room. I catch two bullets in the shoulder before I pivot away from the closet, ducking behind a shelf full of ancient electronics. I poke my head out, and there the son of a bitch is. Seven feet tall, and chromed to the gills. The kind of bastard that would make the most eccentric augger blush. He sends another volley, and I dart to another shelf, hands fumbling for something of use. Finally, I find it. An industrial pry bar that looks more like a gangland sword than a mechanic's tool. My left hand snatches a stack of buzz saw blades, chipped and pitted. Two blades find purchase in his rib cage. He sprays the assault rifle again, and this time he catches my leg. I see Dennis out of the corner of my eye, running to the door. The buzzsaw blade nearly tears his leg off, and soon the floors are slick with blood. He cries out. I force a chuckle. Soon I'm darting through the isle, and trying to pretend like I'm not running head on into my death. He catches me again, twice more in the leg. The last buzzsaw blade takes his hand off. He scrambles, trying to shift his cover. But it's too late. The pry bar finds a home between his ribs. I leave him there, slipping in a pool of his own blood. "You fucked me, Dennis." "I had no choice Nico! They were gonna-" His hand breaks beneath my boot, and a glob of spit finds his forehead. I grab an oily rag from the counter and stuff it inside his mouth. "Who's in the fucking closet, Dennis?" "Some random street punk, he.... He found him out there, cut out his tongue so he couldn't scream." I can barely understand him with the gag in his mouth. With a quick poke, the rag is lodged in his throat. I watch him struggle for air, turning blue while I douse the place in accelerant. The punk in the closet takes off, non verbally thanking me for his life. The flames dance beneath the night sky, flickering in the breeze. I try to ignore the stench of burnt flesh as I head back to Coffin House.