Edgecrusher

Me and a couple of friends were thinking about dropping by from Norway. That is if there are any free spaces, we can afford it, and we find the time to do so.

We thought about maybe coming as a poser gang of some sort. Or maybe some other type of gang. Street scum anyway...

No Prob...

Eew...

Well, you did good. It is always important to let them know that they're not invulnerable and that they can be hurt, especially not physically.

It is always good to hit them where they cannot retaliate or cannot do anything to aid. Have someone close to them get hurt, hospitalized etc. There are no quick cure, no "regains 2 hit points/day", only an extremely painful form of medicine, lots of side effects etc. Make sure the players really understand the pain their friend is in. Let them understand the futility in all their attempts to help.

Remember that very few players are really scared of bullets. "Armor up, grab yer guns and let's go!" won't work this time.

Especially if they don't know who's responsible for the injury.

Have fun tormenting your players...

bah... no problem.

I have several swedish friends who travelled between the countries as they pleased. You don't even need a passport, you know.

Generally, White Wolf publish Storyteller Guides for all their games. Even though you don't play that game, the book will contain a fairly large amount of excellent general storytelling tips. Just ignore the magic stuff, and it can probably be used in any game.

Personally, I usually consider the hand as part of the deal as long as it's just a standard hand with no other options. I also take into consideration where the players obtain and implant the arm. Some poorer clinics might not have correct hands, or might not include them in the base price, while high-quality clinics might give arms with hands and realskin included.

Hmm... i've always wondered how these people get all those guns

And of course I've been thinking about the similarity between the werewolves and the traditional Norwegian meal smalahove (technically boiled sheep's head)

And how the hell can a sword like the one she's using to slice the bad guy make such a clean cut, and more importantly the wrong way... hmm this has to be looked into more closely.

As for the whole WoD and White Wolf affair, apparently there were 142 breaches of copyright throughout the original cut of the film. Poor WW guys who had to watch. Probably couldn't do anything else than taking notes and preparing lawsuits.

1: *Ah... let's sit down and have a look at this film*

2: *Yeah, sure looks like a fun movie*

1:*Oh, it begins*

2: *Hey, look! Breach of copyright. Make a note*

1: *Ok. Wait, there's another one. And another*

2: *And there's one. And another*

1: *10 bucks there are more than five breaches in the next two sentences*

2: *You're on pal. There'll be less*

[ten seconds later]

1: *I win. 10 bucks 'and' a lawsuit coming up*

2: *Do you really know what this film is about?*

1: *Ask your local Vampire: The Masquerade storyteller. He's probably run the story at least twice*

etc... etc...

Three important things:

1. Know the system. If you know the system, it saves a lot of time looking up stuff in books, and usually keeps the pace of the game high.

2. Know the setting. It is extremely important that you are familiar with the setting, or have made up your own idea of what the world and society is like. Describing the world and giving your players the impression that they are there for real makes gaming that much more rewarding.

3. Show, don't tell. Make or find pictures of NPCs, use references familiar to the players to describe places, pretend you are the persons the characters encounter, adjust your voice to represent different parsons, make faces, add or reduce slang to represent different social classes. All in all, use your body and every single piece of help you can get to get the message to your players as interestingly as possible. Otherwise, it's just you sitting and telling the stuff.

Can't tell, but your neighbours to the west do have a few. I have actually organized one of them. If you are interested, try visiting http://forum.laiv.org and taking a look.

That is, if you feel like visiting Norway.

Otherwise, just ask and I'll see what I can find out.

Well, I'm sure you'll figure it out in due time. In the meantime, here's another small part of the story:

Steam rose from the plastic cup, floating gently through the room towards the ceiling. Dagger looked at Chris over the small white peak of whipped cream on his coffee, his hands gently cupping the warm plastic container. She looked absent-mindedly out across the room, to the door, her left hand fingers lightly thrumming the tabletop. She chewed her soft lower lip, looking slightly anxious. The coffee shop was almost empty, its regulars being at work at the moment. Through damp windows, Dagger could see the driveway up to Biosyntex Headquarters, people constantly walking in an out of the building’s opaque glass doors. He started to hum tunelessly while fishing out a cigarette from his crumpled pack on the table. Lighting it, he glanced back at Chris and followed her gaze to the bar. The guy behind the bar was a short, compact man, probably around forty years old. His brown hair, streaked with grey, was pulled back from his face in a ponytail, lightly dangling back and forth with every movement. He was intently studying a spot on the counter with a determined look on his face, a dirty rag in his left hand. Chris smiled and took a sip of her coffee, then turned her gaze towards the street again. They had been sitting there for nearly two hours, and by now the ashtray was almost full. Four empty cups lined the table, which was littered with the wrappings of more than twenty sticks of sugar. They were still waiting for Mr. Fell to finish work, but so far he’d been in the building for nearly ten hours. Dagger was beginning to consider going in to get him, though Gorges had warned them about the security of the building. He had advised them to grab the man while on his way home, when he’d be most vulnerable. First they would have to figure out how to get to Fell, and to do that, they’d follow him tonight.

I would say that the story is the driving feature of any text. Without a good plotline, the story will fall short, no matter how accomplished your political knowledge or fluency in the language. Always keep focused on the storyline and the characters. Another tip is to write only small pieces at a time, and read through the text many times. Every time I read through one of my texts, I find new ways to improve, whether it is storywise or related to ways of expression. The text I have posted so far has undergone a good deal of minor changes before I put it here, and the work on my computer is even more different.

As for the lack of experience and lack of fluency in the language, I have but one thing to say: You learn for as long as you live!

I myself am 18 years old and have only begun writing litterature like this recently. I would personlally hope that my technique will improve a lot more with time.

Keep up the good work, and you'll see the results improve dramatically.

Why don't you post some of your work on this forum, so you can get some feedback from other people interested in the same stuff as you?

I would say that you really don't need that much background knowledge for writing cyberpunk except for the basic knowledge of the genre. It is absolutely worth reading books like Neuromancer, All tomorrow's parties and Mona Lisa Overdrive. It is also recommended to have some knowledge of politics and the status of the world as of today so that you can describe a realistic futire setting.

So, that's the first part of the book, the introduction. How does it look? Anyone like? Dislike? Want more?

Next chapter is on its way...

Chris was looking out the window, watching the distant horizon, blue-black against the night sky. The room was beautifully decorated; the white walls in strong contrast to the black outside. Green plants lined the wall, their flowers smelling sickly sweet, the scent pushing its way into her nostrils. White glazed marble floor reflected her slim form, almost like a mirror. She glanced down, letting her gaze follow the slight lines like veins crisscrossing the stone. Dagger was sitting in the regal blue velvet couch by the far wall, his fingers lightly thrumming a rhythm on the glass table in front of him. She listened closely to the soft music playing in the background, floating through the open glass door from the kitchen, letting it soothe and calm her mind. She always felt excited before a job, and this was no exception, so she let her shoulders drop a little and took a deep lungful of cold air to relax. The cold steel of her automatic pistol rested comfortably against her thigh, bobbing slightly in its holster each time she shifted her stance.

Their employer had not yet arrived at the apartment, and so they waited. The man who had brought them there, an Asian of slight build and without any body hair, was heard rummaging through the kitchen trying to find something for the guests. Every now and then, he came back into the living room to check on his visitors. Annoyingly polite and caring, Chris thought, watching his back as he stepped back into the kitchen after humbly assuring them that their refreshments were on their way. She was slowly getting more and more impatient, having now waited for half an hour for their employer. His name she didn’t know, but she’d probably do some work for him again. Her customers usually requested her services again after the first job. She already had four people she did work for regularly, bringing in a fair amount of cash every month. This job probably wouldn’t be any different from what she usually did. After a while at her job, she worked more out of habit than any real enthusiasm, though she always gave off the impression that she was excited with every job opportunity. The feigned rookie excitement tended to please them, something about it seeming to augment her charming personality.

The sound of the door opening caught her attention, her bluish optics turning to scan the entryway. Zooming in, her gaze focused with a low whirring noise, stopping at the head of a man entering from the hallway. Brown shoes were followed by a grey silk suit, grey-gold tie upon a grey shirt background. A face; hard as stone, its eyes cold and emotionless, regarded her narrowly. Short, neatly cropped hair waved slightly in the soft breeze from a fan on the cupboard to his left, and one hand rested on the handle of a brown synthetic leather briefcase.

“Good, you’re here. Sorry I’m late; I was delayed.” His voice was calm, lacking any emotion, more like a machine than a human being. A faint smile pursed his lips, revealing for a second his humanity deep beneath a surface of stone. He walked slowly across the marble floor, the clicking of his shoes resounding through the silence that suddenly had fallen across the room. Chris stood calmly and watched him advance on her, seeing Dagger slowly rising from the couch behind the man. Somehow, she felt more uncomfortable as he got closer, though she could not point her finger at what the reason was. Turning, the man gently put his briefcase on the table by the window, letting his fingers linger for a second on the soft fabric of the lid, and then looked up again. His brown eyes glinted with something, some emotion Chris nearly mistook for lust. She discarded the thought as quickly as the emotion disappeared from his eyes, the two brown orbs reverting to the same cold state as earlier. “I believe I have some work for you” he said, as Dagger moved around his left side to stand beside Chris. “Something I believe will be of great interest to both of you.” Chris backed up a step, her back against the window, suddenly feeling her calmness disappearing. Something about the man felt disconcerting, the hairs on her neck slowly rose, and she felt a weak shiver down her spine. She took a deep breath, trying to conceal her uneasiness, and apparently succeeding. The man seemed not to notice and turned toward Dagger. “Mr. Riverton,” he said invitingly, reaching out a smooth hand toward him. Dagger grabbed his hand, and the man continued: “it is a pleasure to finally meet you. I am Gorges. Nicholas Gorges.” The two men shook hands slowly and deliberately. Mister Gorges turned once more to Chris and likewise extended his hand. “Ms. Davis, an equal pleasure to meet you” he said, grabbing her hand. She didn’t resist, but unwillingly shook his hand back. “Nice to meet you,” she lied expertly. “Your delay is of no importance. Let’s just get to the business.” She tried to sound surer than she felt. Dagger, however seemed calm enough, his left hand slowly stroking his chin, eyes regarding the emotionless face of Gorges. He watched as the man turned to the briefcase, moving closer. “I’ll be straight with you. You will have to kill someone,” the man said, opening the case. Picking up a bunch of pictures, he turned back towards the two. Chris was surprised to hear him say that, knowing that killing was what they were known for, and she was surprised by the tone of his voice. For a moment, she thought she could sense worry, or maybe compassion in his words. Then he was back to the calm, cold voice of earlier. His eyes revealed nothing, his face serene and hard. “Who,” Dagger asked, looking at the pictures. The man pointed to the first one, a black and white photo, apparently from a surveillance camera. The picture showed a man in a dark suit, his bald head looking slightly towards the camera. His face was kind, his eyes holding a gentle look, and at his side was a small boy in jeans and shirt, holding his hand. In the background was a glass door, apparently leading to some lobby. Light glittered from the surface of the glass walls, showing the reflections of a trafficked road running by the building. “That is Mr. Hermann Fell with his son Pete. The building behind him is the local office of the Biosyntex Corporation, where Fell works.” Gorges flipped to a new picture, depicting the same man together with two other men in dark suits, large sunglasses hiding their eyes. “That is Mr. Fell with his two guards, on their way to a dinner party three weeks ago.” “And you want us to kill him,” Dagger asked, picking up the picture of Hermann and his son, apparently studying it closely. “No,” Gorges said quickly. “He must not be hurt. I want him alive and kicking. Dispose of his bodyguards as you please. Just make sure they don’t tell anyone.” Chris took the picture from Dagger and asked: “And what about the boy?” Gorges looked at her, his eyes again showing a slight hint of compassion. “Let him live. Keep him ignorant.” The compassion disappeared again, Mr. Gorges face reverting to hardness. “I might need him.”

A small pointed lump of metal travelled through a thin tube, spinning as it followed the grooves along the pipe. A loud crack of escaped gases reported its exit from the barrel, and it sped up, moving now at 1000 feet per second. It broke the sound barrier with a loud boom a split second after exit, pressure waves pulsing in a stream behind it. With friction, the tip heated up, bursting white, a phosphorous cloud trailing behind it.

Twelve hundred yards from the barrel tip, a man was walking across the paved street, his grey suit moist with the soft drizzle. Unaware of his approaching doom, he checked his watch to see if he would get to his three o’ clock meeting in time. Realising he still had twenty minutes, he slowed his pace, not knowing that at the same second, a bullet was fired from a thirteen story building, heading straight for him.

The steel impacted with silk, ripping through three layers of clothing, phosphorous igniting the cloth around the hole. With a wet thud, the bullet tore through layers of skin and flesh, pushing fluids away in a shockwave tearing and shredding the tissue away from the impact area. Cutting through two veins and crushing a rib, the steel point shed its last phosphorous, letting fall burning through the chest cavity, and smashed through the man’s heart. Having lost most of its force, the bullet cracked into the spine, fracturing two vertebrae, and stopped, still hot from the burning cloud. It rapidly cooled off, as did the man’s body.

I am currently GMing a group of street kid characters.

They are aged 15 to 18 years old and basically have too little money and too few contacts to get any form of armor. Their clothing is all they've got, but then again I don't send them into the biggest fights either. The four kids have two 9mm polymer one shots and a couple of knives, and that's it for the weapons part.

Their protection lies in numbers (they are about 10 if you include npcs) and staying low. Works like a dream.

The small living room was sparsely decorated and furnished, with white plastic panels along the floor, and synthetic plywood walls. A small metal table with a laptop computer on was set up against the short wall beside the door to the kitchen, and a fake leather couch lined one of the long walls. A few black bags were lying around the apartment, one of them spilling its contents, a heap of chocolate bars, out across the floor. The sound system in the wall emitted a low theme from some old action movie, but the TV on the plastic table was turned away, so Dagger couldn’t see which film it was. He was sitting on the couch, his feet resting on a cardboard box full of clothes, and was absent-mindedly humming along while smoking a cigarette. Thinking about it, he decided that the apartment looked like someone just moved in. Considering the thought, he reached the conclusion that it had always looked like that. Chris wasn’t much of a housewife; she worked too much and partied more than she should. He was pretty sure that it’d be more likely for her to be killed in a bar brawl than at work, and he considered their line of occupation to be relatively hazardous.

She was currently in the shower, the sound of dripping water audible from the bathroom. A pot of food was boiling on the stove, but Dagger didn’t feel very hungry, at least not for that synthetic soy crap which was the only cheap sort of food available. SCOP was what they called it; Single Cell Organic Protein. All manufactured in a processing plant at minimum costs, the SCOP was cheap, reasonably healthy and came in a wide variety of flavours. Still, it tasted synthetic, and Dagger found it nauseating. His gaze slid across the room once more and stopped to rest on the long, black plastic case beside the door. The carrying handle was folded down, and the locks were in place. He could feel his hands longing to open it and once more touch the cold steel frame of the weapon inside. His weapon, the one he had started out with four years ago, had finally returned to him. Or, actually, it had been Chris who had located it. At least so she said, and he felt he could trust her.

His thoughts wandered back to his first mission, back in ’24, when he was still a rookie. He remembered laying his hands on the black plastic stock of the rifle, letting his index finger follow the barrel all the way to the tip. It had been a hell of a big deal to get hold of it, but at last Frederick had managed to get it delivered to his apartment. It was there he saw it the first time, on Frederick’s long foam bed, shining in the little light gliding in through the window, reflecting the light in a myriad of sparkling colours. It must have been the preservative coating that had that effect, but he had soon spray painted it a dull black, to better blend in with the darkness.

Frederick had also managed to get him a full magazine, so the first thing Dagger had done after admiring it for five minutes, was to take it for a few rounds at the shooting range in Fred’s basement. The sound of each gunshot still seemed crystal clear in his mind, the staccato noise of automatic fire filling every little space in his skull, bouncing back an forth between his ears.

After the visit, he’d gone out into the cold morning air, the rifle in a bag slung over his shoulder. He’d walked all the way to his employer, eager to test his new gun. How green he’d been then, thinking the rifle would do all the work. Little did he know that job would teach him the reality of being a hitman. His target had been a local thug working for the Jackals, a small gang of street dealers specializing in drugs and weapons. At first, he had thought it would be easy; just pull the trigger and be done with it. He’d never considered how difficult it would be to pull that trigger when looking into the frightened eyes of a kid not over seventeen. He had realised that it took much more than a nifty rifle and a couple of mirrorshades to be a hired killer. He had to be able to kill. He was not. Not then, but now it wasn’t a problem anymore. Not at the moment he pulled the trigger, though he often thought about the myriad of angry, dreadful, crying faces of people as they realised their lives where about to end. Lots of kills were simply a routine now, nothing but a job. He was glad he could see them as such. If not, he’d be insane by now; not that some people didn’t see him as that already.

It had been nearly six months since the last job and his World Bank account was about to run dry. Dagger had checked it today, and had actually been looking for a new source of ready cash when he’d met Chris this evening.

The sounds from the shower had stopped, only a soft dripping and the sound of Chris’ feet on the padded floor were audible. He could hear her humming tunelessly in there now, her hands rummaging through her bathroom drawers, probably looking for makeup.

Dagger leant forward, tossing the butt of his cigarette into an empty plastic cup balancing on the edge of the cardboard box in front of him. He stood up, scratching his chin and went over to the TV. As he grabbed the black box to turn it, the door to the bathroom opened. Chris stepped out in a cloud of steam, a blue towel wrapped around her body, wet black hair limp against her pale shoulders. She smiled at him before heading through the door to the bedroom, kicking it lightly and letting it slide shut behind her. Dagger stared after her for a few seconds, half hoping for her to open the door again and asking him to come in, then turned back to the TV, studying the image for a moment. After deciding that nothing good was on, he went over to the computer. Browsing the disk, he looked up the E-mail inbox to see if the offer had come digitally. He scrolled through all the text files, but found nothing of interest except from the log of Chris’ last job. Excellent work as far as he could see from her own notes. Everything was done right, straight by the book. Not his way of working, he liked to improvise and experiment; more challenging that way in his opinion. He logged out and checked her personal files, knowing well that she didn’t mind. All the files she minded people seeing, she kept encrypted, and he sure as hell didn’t know the key. As expected, he didn’t find anything of interest, so he got up and wandered restlessly about the apartment for a few minutes. The sound of the bedroom door made him turn around, letting his gaze run up and down her as she stepped out. He loved the way she looked in her combat gear, though she rarely wore it. He watched the armoured boots with steel inlays along the soles and tip, the lacing up to where the boots met the loose black pants, the dark brown belt with a nylon pistol holster along the right hip, her skin-tight matte grey sweater under a black armoured vest laced along the sides and with a padded collar woven with a crimson rose pattern. Her lower arms were braced with Kevlar from wrist to the padded elbows. Fingerless leather gloves with titanium-spiked knuckles covered her hands, ending in sharp, red lacquered nails.

His gaze met her eyes and she smiled, revealing her now elongated canines, matching her colour-changing eyes, shifting from sky blue to dark crimson. It gave her a vampire-like look he actually kind of liked. It also had the tendency to scare both her clients and her targets a bit, something she enjoyed greatly. He’d never been the type of person to implant metal and synthetics in his body, but he had a basic processor mounted near the base of his spine, managing all neural signals his brain sent out, as well as a digital time/date display beneath the skin of his left wrist. Chris on the other hand had lots of cybernetics, mostly for combat use. He had to admit it wasn’t too attractive with eight-inch titanium blades folding out along each finger, or for that matter the fact that her neural reactions were so boosted she lived in a world revolving at twice the speed that his did. He’d always wondered how it was like, but nobody could really describe it.

Still, he felt comfortable working with her, knowing her skills as well as her augmentations boosted her combat abilities way beyond the regular infantryman. Thinking about it, he became aware he didn’t know how she’d got her upgrades. Usually, only military personnel were allowed anything more than basic processors, prosthetics and fashion-related implants.

“You look…” he started, but Chris smiled and finished his sentence, though not with the word buzzing about in his brain; “…ready?” She seemed to know very well that the word ‘sexy’ was trying to push its way out between his lips, but she just smiled even wider and walked past his feet, her hip brushing lightly against his toes. He got up, turning on the spot to follow her. She moved gracefully across the room, swiping up one black carrybag in her armour-clad right arm.

Dagger walked after her, humming slightly to focus his thoughts on something. His hand found the rifle case by the door, fingers closing around the black plastic handle. With a sweeping move, he grabbed the remote control for the multimedia system and tapped the off-key, instantly cutting off the annoying drone of the TV. Chris waited outside the door, holding the key and looking fairly excited. Dagger was, as always, impressed by how she still managed to keep such enthusiasm for every job. He just saw it as yet another job, and Chris’ joy of getting the opportunity to kill for money inspired a mixed feeling of awe and aversion in him. Their footsteps echoed down the stairwell and were joined by the sound of passing cars outside where brown rain drizzled down from the grey sky above. Out on the street, a slow stream of people was floating, coiling and pulsing down towards the city centre.

The city was radiant with nightlife; thousands of faceless people moving around from club to club downtown like the lifeblood of the city coursing through its veins, each and every street filling up as the Saturday night clubs opened up one by one. If the people were the blood of the city, its heart had to be Charon. It had all started with the small firm Charon and their research town in the Nevada desert. Nobody really knew what kind of business they were doing, but it went well. The firm had soon decided to expand the small town centre housing the researchers and their families, and create a larger population hub for the west. It was to be a utopian society without crime and with immense amounts of luxury and wealth for all citizens. The usual dream, Dagger thought. Looking about the crowd and the street confirmed that it as only a dream and would always remain one. Poverty was rearing its ugly head all around him, visible in every window and behind the scared eyes of the people who lived in this part of the city. City Centre was not far from the dream, though. He could see the mountain-like complex of gardens and pathways, clubs and exclusive shops lighting up the dark sky with neon-bright lasers and searchlights. In this part of town, on the south-side, the murky streetlights coupled with the occasional flash of police lights were the only illumination. That, and the countless bars and nightclubs offering all forms of entertainment, some forms more legal than others, their neon lights and powerful beats pulsing into the night. A black and white police vehicle glided along the street, the crowd momentarily parting to let it pass. From behind bulletproof glass and armoured doors, a pair of patrol officers peered out, scanning tonight’s group of potential troublemakers.  The metropolitan police was the poorly equipped security force set to manage all sub-standard parts of the city. They were both undermanned and poorly motivated, and corruption ran rampant. Their bad attitude and the fact that they were armed were the only reasons crime wasn’t spreading more than it did. But if people were afraid of the police, they were terrified by Charon’s City Control Force. The CCF was responsible for police duties and security in the inner city, and was sponsored directly by Charon, using their weapons and equipment and going through rigorous training. Brutal and efficient, the CCF had a reputation for keeping the peace, though at the cost of human lives. The lives of people from the poorer parts of the city, mostly. People like me, Dagger thought. If he was caught in the centre without proper papers, he’d probably get shot. Either that or banned down to the Sub-City. He’d only been there once, but felt no need to go back there again. He banned the thought and convinced himself that he’d never go down there again. Most people never did, except for those who already lived there. Most people never left the city. Most people lived and died in Elysium.

Here comes the first part of the text. It has no name at the moment, but that will come. So, here goes nothing...

Fog lay heavy along the concrete path running by the river. Slow, heavy mist dragged itself along the cold surface of cars on the other side. A neon strobe burst through the cover like a stray shot, bathing the pavement in a burgundy glow, only to slip back into the grey mass again. Footsteps echoed from somewhere ahead, slightly muffled by the sounds from the city. A helicopter drowned out everything for a moment, its great rotor blades thrashing the monoxide sky, then vanished again, hidden by the great steel and glass monolithic shape of Charon’s headquarters. A pair of eyes traced the path the big bird had taken, and then resumed their steady inspection of wet concrete. The man owning the eyes turned his head away as two police cruiser blasted by, like black and white sharks through neon waters. The sirens died out from his ears, the lights still reflecting in the mist for a few more seconds before disappearing, leaving him to the usual lights of the city. The footsteps came closer and a shape appeared from the grey wall, passing quickly and keeping up its quick pace, raincoat fluttering in the breeze. The steps were audible for a few more seconds before they too drowned out in the sound of bass beats from the club next door. The man crossed the street and paused by an air vending machine to grab a few gasps of fresh air. It was a welcome refreshment for a pair of tired, blackened lungs, and the man remained there for longer than intended. Somewhere in the night, gunshots resounded, bouncing off the skyscrapers. Checking his watch, the man resumed his walk through a world of silicon, glass and steel. Thoughts coursed through his mind, occasionally interrupted by the sound of a commercial screen high above. The words still fluttered restlessly through his conscience trying to make out some meaning. Some understanding to what she’d meant. Pulling his coat tighter around him, the man once more crossed the street. The door of an all-night coffee shop lay ahead of him, glowing with blue neon rims. Coming in from the cold, he wiped brown raindrops from his shoulders and took a seat in a booth by the door. The interior was cheap, plastic retro-style with complimentary staining everywhere, and the owner seemed like he had stepped right out of a 60’s movie. He was a big guy with a flowered apron completely out of proportion and definitively out of style. One greasy hand was tapping the counter, making a steady thrumming noise barely audible over the rock n’ roll playing on the radio. The man made a signal to the owner for a cup of coffee then turned his gaze out the window. Through rain-covered windows, he watched the people walking past, nothing more than darkened shadows in a bleak, careless world.

“They are legion”. The words echoed through his mind again, still making no sense, like a binary data stream not yet translated to normal language. A soft tap on his shoulder alerted him that his coffee was ready. He watched silently as the Styrofoam cup in his hand rocked back and forth with his heartbeat. Steam rising formed indescribable shapes clouding his vision, then disappearing into nothingness. For a moment he thought he saw her face once more, her eyes glazed over, a trickle of blood from her mouth, but it disappeared again.

The brown liquid smelled horrible, and tasted even worse. His gag reflexes screamed at him, but he kept it down. He needed the caffeine to get through the night. The last of the coffee went down in one big gulp and he went outside again, leaving a buck for the liquid crap.  He made a mental note not to visit the place ever again, and continued down the street. Eyes turned toward the river, its murky water flowing slowly along, and an occasional piece of junk reaching the surface before sinking into the depths again. Many dead bodies have been travelling down that river, he thought and shuddered ever so slightly. It was known as the Dump River, not so much because people dumped their trash there, but because the local gangs and possibly the Mob too, dumped dead bodies there. The waters reflected the north-side’s sprawls of abandoned buildings and burnt out cars, momentarily flaring golden from gunfire, only to return to its previously disgusting state.

“Hey, Dagger!” He turned around, eyes searching the fog for the source of the sound. Someone moved and then appeared from the mist, long black hair fluttering in the wind. A pair of icy blue eyes regarded him expectantly as she approached.

“Hi Chris. Didn’t see ya at first.” He stopped and waited for her to get closer. Her eyes were unsettling as always, two bright orbs radiating an inner glow only she could harness. Dagger regarded her from the tip of her black Armatech boots, up past her grey fatigue pants and black leather jacket, up to the two blue eyes and smiling lips. She actually seemed happy to see him, he thought, unconsciously taking a step backwards. She moved up closer, now no more than a foot away. Her hot breath puffed out in small white clouds mixing with the thick air, rising higher and vanishing into the night.

“Walk with me?” she asked, extending her right arm. Dagger grabbed her hand and led her around his left side, feeling her warmth as her shoulder brushed against his. They walked along 23rd for a few hundred feet, both remaining silent. Neither of them felt like saying anything, and Dagger felt comfortable just having her so close. They stopped by a street vendor for a pack of cigarettes, she pulled out one, lit it and slid the pack into her left breast pocket, and then they sat down on an old worn bench, graffiti covering all sides, one armrest broken into splinters.

“What are you doing out at this hour?” she asked him. He glanced over at her, pulled the last cigarette from his old crumpled pack and lit it.

“Just trying to clear my mind. Lots of stuff going on, you know.” She wouldn’t understand. He couldn’t tell her, at least not now. He puffed out a lungful of smoke and put his arm around her.

“Let’s not talk about that now, okay?” She nodded in silence, finished her cigarette in just a few deep pulls, and dropped the glowing butt on the pavement. Her black boot crushed the last glowing embers of the cigarette, making only a short hiss in the silence between the two. Across the street, a grey cat toppled a trashcan, the sound momentarily assaulting their ears, then returning to silence.

Dagger stood up, his hand following the contour of her shoulder and neck, barely touching her smooth, silky skin. She looked up at him, giggled and brushed his hand away with a toss of her head.

“Don’t even think about it,” she laughed, standing up. Dagger let his hand drop, and took a step back, sighing.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m cool with it. I know we were never any good together and all that ####.” He turned away and started walking again. “I guess it’s no use trying anymore either, or what?” His question hung in the air unanswered. Chris caught up with him on his right side, her white hand grabbing his.

“Hey, no hard feelings, right? We’ll just keep it business as always.” She wasn’t laughing anymore; she had that odd air of sincerity and genuine caring about her again. He knew she was right, yet he still longed for her touch, to feel her warmth and her body once more. Still, he knew that was only going to be a dream, a vision with no link to reality.

“Business as always” he concluded, dropping her hand.

“Talking of business,” she said, putting on that excited look again; “I might have found a job for us.”

I am writing a sci-fi story in cyberpunk style at the moment, and could use some feedback on the first part. Tell me if it seems interesting or if you have any other comments.

I would like to quote what the game Feng Shui has to say about automatic shotguns:

Pancor Jackhammer: It is a fully automatic shotgun. It's called the jackhammer. What more can you ask for?

Rotary Shotgun: Fully automatic people eater. Makes a cool whirring noise too.

Could it be possible to use the weapon with an exo-mount?

Possible if you're really cybered, there should be little problem holding it steady.

Just don't see why Arasaky would equip non-cybered personnel with the poser hoser.

Excellent.

I have more gangs coming up, such as The Partysmashers and lots more. Thought I'd add som corporations too when I get time. They're only in my sketchbook so far.

Another one:

The Blood Sisters

Members: 36

Turf: South-western (insert city name)

Age average 18-27

Created 2014

Resources: 40 000 liquidated, and several vehicles     three hideouts (broken storefronts), two     small warehouses for parties, small     stash of weapons, drugs and equipment.

Gang type: Girl gang; combat/chrome gang

Markings:Tattoos, ripped clothing, often lingerie     combined with leather and spikes.                 Colors:    white and black.

Average stat

INT 6 MA 6

REF 7 BOD 5

TECH 4 STR 5

COOL 7 EMP 6

ATTR 8

LUCK 5

Average skills:

Comb. sense 3      Dance 4

Seduction 5 Melee 2

Handgun 3        Persuasion 3

Martial arts 4 Streetslang 5

Pers. groom 4 Awareness 4

W&S 4         Streetwise 4

Athletics 3  Pick pocket 3

Cyberware:

Light tattoo (1-6)

Shift-tacts

Neural processor

Sandevistan booster

Cyberaudio with wearman

Cigarette pack

Clothes

Goncz-Taurus Medium handgun w extra clip

Whip

Make-up

Knife

Bag or backpack

Cell Phone

20-100 bucks

Here is one gang I thought up.

The Black Talon Clan

The Black Talon Clan is a rather small gang operating in (insert city name here) mainly, but also in a limited degree in Los Angeles. It is, as a rule, violent and aggressive in the extreme and it specializes a lot in gang showdowns, killings, weapons smuggling and harassment to both the highest bidder and for fun and pleasure.

The clan has a total of 48 members, with 32 of them in (insert city here).The gang`s leader, a Japanese named Lei Toshuki, is the authority to whom all must bow down. He enforces the gang with a strong hand and is known to severely beat or even kill disobedient or incompetent members. The gang is seemingly independent, but deep down it has a few ties to Tsunami Arms. A mutual agreement has been reached and as long as the gang stays away and keeps others away from Tsunami Arms activities, the company supplies them with a fair amount of weapons and equipment.

The gang’s insignia is a black talon on a white background circle, rimmed with burgundy. The gangers are allowed to dress as they like as long as they keep the insignia and at least one white or black garment on. Failure to uphold the rules of the gang is punishable by anything Toshuki finds appropriate, and he is fairly brutal man. Naturally, gangers stick to the rules and do as they’re told.

The Black Talons ferociously defend their own turf, often resulting is shootouts and mass brawls, usually with the Talons ending up victorious. Due to their good equipment, these people are hard nails to remove from the city, and many police officers have met their end in the attempts.

To get in contact with Toshuki, one must first be invited by one of the “lords” of the gang, then pass a full search and then be blindfolded and transported to a secret location. Once one meets him, one must at all times remain 10 feet away under strict supervision. Lei usually drinks tea with his closest friends twice a day, and those friends are the only ones who are allowed closer than 10 feet. The reasons for these precautions is Toshuki’s growing paranoia after a series of assassination attempts by Militech. Even though they all failed, he beefs up security every month, and hires new bodyguards regularly, finishing off the old ones to keep them from giving up info. Nobody except his friends, and about half of the gang members, know where he lives and stays. None of these would tell unless they were tortured or worse.

Toshuki’s dearest posession is an orbital crystal monokatana, engraved and covered in gems (of which four are authentic, the rest are manufactured fakes). It is mostly an ornamental blade, but is worth close to 100 000 dollars. It works just like a regular monokatana, but even hard armor gets 1/3 SP. It was a gift from Tsunami Arms to seal the contract of cooperation, and if closely examined, one can find the Tsunami Arms Incorporated logo etched into the hilt beneath a translucent ruby.

Most Black Talons have combat experience and skills equal to a regular security guard/police officer. They are usually lightly armed and armored, carrying medium handguns and knives, and wearing armor tees. Bodyguards have better training, equal to military soldiers, and carry Tsunami Arms weaponry ranging from medium handguns to heavy submachineguns. The six Black Talon lords are all pretty good fighters and have general martial arts knowledge (+3-+4). They are usually not involved in combat, but tend to carry a handgun and a wakizashi.

Toshuki has risen to his position because is an excellent fighter, a good tactician and a charismatic leader. He is trained in most aspects of combat, including martial arts (Karate +5) and most of his clothes are armored up to give some protection (SP 6-12). He has access to most types of Tsunami Arms weapons, as well as a personalised chromed ramjet pistol (smartlinked with custom grips). He also owns a black armored jumpsuit (SP18) and an armored trenchcoat (SP16). He loves the rush of combat, and prefers to go in close combat with his enemies. The retractable wolvers in his two cyberarms tend to give him the upper hand.

Not a bad movie after seeing it twice. Will probably see it several times more, as my opinion is that understanding gets better with each time I see it. The more one understands, the better the movies are. Great action scenes, and classical pompous matrix one-liners and quotes. Great experience!

Shouldn't there be both city cops and corporate-sponsored police? I think that would be logical, and the main difference would be the amount of resources available, and the patrol routes.

Another idea could be to make the entire police force an independent corporation. It would naturally open up for more cop hardware, and less crime, but it would also be more expensive for the city/mayors office.

Or how about being run by several different police units (something like the police from Gangs of New York) where each police force is rivaling the others. Could open up for conflicts between police forces as they fight over who will arrest a certain criminal. Could be fun...