Mechanical Maniacs: Life After Life

By Hadrian (Hardman) Howell

CHAPTER 1: Contact

Terri is, nowadays, an older lady. Classy, really nice to me. She knows who I am, who I was, and that I've fallen on hard times. She does me a favor and keeps her ears open for potential work and gives me a good chance to get to the job before anyone else does.

So when she flashed me a smile as I sat down at the bar, I knew she had good news for me.

"Hey Terri," I nodded as she walked by.

"Hiya Hadrian," she said in passing as she went down to pour another guy's drink. She came back in a few minutes, a glass of whiskey in one hand and a napkin in the other. She set the napkin down carefully before setting the glass on top of it. "How's your week been?"

"Hell," I grunted, slamming the glass back and putting it on the bar with a clink. "Jus' like 's been fer th' las' fifteen years."

"Buck up, your luck might be changing," she said, stepping away to help another customer.

I watched her go and unfolded the napkin she'd set down. Inside the fold was... a website address? No... It was a forum of some kind. Privately owned. Apprently members only, as a username and password were already jotted down under the website.

Obviously, something on this forum was supposed to attract my interest.

I wasn't in much of a rush, so I had a few more drinks before paying my tab and setting off. I found my way down to the local Networked Cafe, a coffee bar with free internet access and community computers, and managed to get a free booth.

I typed in the address, and logged into the forum.

Then something weird happened. I was immediately rerouted into a private inbox where there was already a message addressed to me.

O.... kay.

Unafraid of viruses, I opened the message.

[Hadrian Howell:
If you're reading this, then my contacts are correct and I have now secured a reliable way of communicating with you. You no doubt have questions, and I assure you that answers can and will be provided. But first, the reason you're here: My Offer.
I need you to exterminate a pest for me. I understand a man of your talents and experience is the perfect candidate for a mission like this. A duffle bag with some equipment can be found inside of Apartment 32A inside of the Rezatium Apartment Building, and your target can be found either inside Warehouse 2 of the South Docks District, or in the area nearby.
Destroy the target (you'll know it when you see it), and return to Apartment 32A for your payment.
I'll be expecting you.

-B]

Confusion naturally welling up within me, I decided to take a closer look at the forum. It took me only minutes to conclude that it was, in fact, about basket weaving and contained no information, either encrypted or hiding in plain sight, as to the identity of this 'B' character. I had a few of my own guesses, but those would have to wait until after the job.

I caught a bus down to The D District, where the Rezatium stood. I admit I was already a little impressed. The Rezatium was a high class place, more like a six star hotel than an apartment complex, and they roped you into a three year lease at least.

I got some odd looks from the staff and a few people who were walking through the building as I made for the elevators. Finding Apartment 32A took some doing, but after only 10 minutes, I found myself at the door. I took a deep breath and knocked.

The door swung open, ever so gently.

Parts of my brain screamed 'AMBUSH.' It wouldn't be the first time my need for a job had led me into an encounter with people I'm not friends with. I reached down into my coat and drew my pistol: a standard, run of the mill, unmodified 9mm Baretta. I held it at the ready as I kicked the door open.

15 years ago, the door would have been so much wood pulp and everything inside would have been covered in wooden splinters. Now, as an older man, it simply swung open sharply, banging against the wall.

I pointed my gun into an empty room.

I took a cautious step in, only too late feeling the pull of the wire against my shin. I braced for the worst, some kind of anti-personelle mine or napalm-based booby trap. Instead, a black shape sprang out of the darkness, and instinct took over.

Two shots rang out from my weapon, one taking the shape through the head, the other through the right shoulder.

It rocked back and forth, wobbling to a standstill. I cursed myself in my head. Stupid old man. Just a carboard cutout. A firing range target. Someone is obviously having some fun at my expense. My hand found a light switch as the phone began to ring.

"'Lo?" I grunted as I picked up the phone, hoping it would be my mysterious new friend.

"Is everything all right? We heard gunfire-"

"Yeah," I sighed. "Jus'... scared m'self." I hung up before they had a chance to ask more questions. Owning a weapon in Monsteropolis was becoming an increasingly rare privlege, and having to show them all of my paperwork would only raise even more uneccessary and uncomfortable questions. Best to just get this duffle bag and get out of dodge before they actually came knocking on the door.

I found the bag in the bedroom, sitting unassumingly on the mattress. It was... well, bigger than I expected. Filled with something that looked heavy. There was also a folder on the bed beside the bag with my name on it.

I zipped open the bag, took a look, and suppressed the sharp intake of breath that came next. I closed the bag and took a look at the folder.

Inside were documents. Ownership, proof of training, a liscense to carry, purchasing reciepts... EVERYTHING I would need, filled out meticulously in what would appear to be my own handwriting, with my signature and the signatures of both the Chief of the MPD and the Mayor of Monsteropolis. Everything to legally carry a mint-condition, fresh-off-the-assembly-line and never-been-used ESF-74 VULCAN, a high-powered, rotary triple-barreled, anti-infantry plasma-based chain gun. A weapon that was, coincidentally enough, mere inches away inside of an unmarked duffle bag.

I apparently even had clearance to use a tripod.

What the hell was I going to be hunting?

I was running out of time before people who could make my life unecessarily complicated arrived, so I stopped myself from gawking and shoved my pistol back inside my jacket. I placed the folder in the bag, zipped it up, and hefted it over my shoulder. I was out of the apartment and down the hall in a few short seconds, vanishing into the stairwell as security guards for the Rezatium left the elevator.