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 Way of the Warrior  (20 ratings)by Igor Raffaele Page 3 of 10 Some I recognize them quite easily, like groups of young punks with their shiny
chrome skin
patches: those are too busy to impress each other to be of any real danger to
anyone.
When I first came here, I made a point of looking up the names and uses of the
various clans,
and I keep and ear out for the names of their newly elected leaders. I find
that a visit explaining
how cross I'd be really be if they did something to disrupt the peace in my
block can head off a
lot of unpleasantness later on. It certainly leaves a lasting impression in the
foolish and plastic
minds.
These specimens leaning against the wall to my right are Oniqua, one of the more peaceful gangs on the street level. They shave their heads and inplant a bright red metal skin patch on their scalp, making them look like some modern day Jewish rabbis, and they tend to attract all the skinnier computer freaks. They might be quiet where the street is concerned, but I hear that even the most powerful corporation hackers step carefully around their data caches. They have not however done anything to attract my attention of late, and their current leader is a kid I watched and helped grow near my apartment. They mockingly bow to me, but they do step aside rather quickly when I walk past them. Not many people I know of would stand in the way of someone dressed in full body augmentation cyberarmour. Even with its arsenal of deadly power blades retracted, the thing is still very heavy. I guess they decided they needed their feet a little longer. Unfortunately, not everyone is here to impress like the cyberpunks; some are out to kill, and have the art of raping, killing, robbing you and then selling your organs to a body farm down to pat. It is these wasps I usually look out for, and just like they stalk the crowds like predators in tall grass, I stalk them, grim hunter determined to protect his flock. It is not long before I spot a wasp. Some kids recoil and scuttle away from the grimace of pure pleasure that appears on my face when I identify the scum patch as Long John Silver, a thug I've been tracking down for a while now. He is leaning against a wall pretending to confidently survey the crowds. More than anything he is trying to impress a young Caucasian food vendor standing opposite him, his weapons a swarty skin and scars and bad ass attitude. I almost feel a pang of regret at being deprived of an entertaining chase: had he really been paying attention to the crowds, he would have spotted me a mile off. Someone standing just a shade under two metres tall wearing a suit of white cyberarmoour with a red cross painted on it breastplate, and a shiny mother of pearl badge over his heart is something you'd notice even in a carnival crowd like this. It definitely makes apprehending criminals a touch hard, unless they are mooning some girl. However being clearly visible for the world to see makes sure that everyone notices that law comes to you, no matter what, sooner or later. It might be a bit busy working its way through the all the scum, but one day you'll see the red cross knocking on your door. The law can also come knocking on your jaw as Mr Silver and the group of people my punch send him cavorting into find out. Some of them do as if they want to protest, then they take a good look at my face, and wisely decide to scurry away instead, quickly and efficiently melting in the crowd. Long John is on the ground, looking at me with apprehension, trying to get off the sticky pavement. There are liquids that might just have had water in their remote ancestry running and pooling all around him and his expensive clothes, and the sight only makes my heart warmer. Lots of horror stories are circulated about how heartless the knights are, and all irrefutably state that any man in their custody is a dead man. Most of the stories are nothing more than reflections of the practical brutality a knight has to apply when trying to police a miles wide war zone. To prove the stories wrong, and to show that I am not an unkindly soul, I help him up. He seems to be a little shaky on his feet, and looks very pale as my mailed fist holds him by his shirt, I even go as far as propping him up against a handy wall for support. Some flakes fall of the ancient surface, and John grunts, but I am sure the wall did not receive permanent damage. Just to ram in the fact that this is a friendly meeting, I brush some of the plaster flakes off his shoulders. My knuckle blades are unfortunately extended when I do so, and he screams a little. His shoulders definitely look plaster free by the time I am finished, though; and I never liked his saffron coloured shirt. Red looks much better on him, less like a pimp's favourite garnment, I tell him. By now my grin of good humour is completely genuine. "Get off me!" is his panicky reply; and people wonder why all knights are bad tempered and always angry about something... I did everything but lovingly put him in bed, and this is the kind of gratitude I get. "Who did you sell them to?" "What?" he replies, in a strangled voice, trying very hard to squirm into the wall. Just to make him feel more comfortable, I slam him into the wall again. This time I use too much strength, though, and the wall is going to definitely need some plastering soon. Twin trickles of blood paint a little goatee around his mouth. Copyright © 1999, 2000, 2001 Igor Raffaele, sffworld.com. All rights reserved. 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