Well, this job sure went south in record time. Double-crossed by the Johnson, the entire team dead except for him, and half of Martius CorpSec gunning for his raggedy ass. And he wasn't getting paid. Damn, I hate this job sometimes, he thought. At least the stolen blueprints were genuine. Maybe he could hand them off to a fence once this was over.<br/><br/>Steel-shod boots splashed through rain-drenched, neon-lit city streets. Good, he thought. Clear so far. Maybe I might make it to that safehouse after a--<br/><br/>Gunfire, twelve o'clock, CorpSec rookies with submachine guns. The mercenary slid into cover behind a car as rounds chewed into the pavement. Amateurs, but they wouldn't engage a guy like him alone unless--Yep, support had arrived. An armored truck pulled into the street and deployed its deadly cargo: CorpSec blackshirts. Elites toting body armor and assault weapons.<br/><br/>With a roar of effort, Damocles hurled a bolt of fire into the thickest knot of grunts. It detonated, incinerating the half dozen caught in its blast. Sagging back into cover, he sighted down his rifle and began firing on semi-automatic. Three shots into a blackshirt's torso put him down for the count. Another shot clipped a rookie's kneecap, dropping the man prone for an easy follow-up kill shot. Two shots took another blackshirt in the chest and throat. A kick of magically-summoned force took the last man down, opening him up for a coup de grace.<br/><br/>Satisfied that he'd eluded his surviving pursuers, Damocles ran, stolen briefcase in tow, deep into the night. Deep into the city. Deep into the twists and turns of the New York Underhive.