Hyper-Reality - Session 005
A GURPS cyberpunk solo Actual Play
Finally, we start using GURPS! I’ll get into why I switched systems some other time, but for now, here’s another post from my archives. <3
El Camino Dorado trade center, sublevel II; Unknown Time
Don traced the path he'd followed to the "negotiation room". The narrow corridor soon gave way to a large storehouse of weapons, ammunition, and precious drugs. The tall shelves, sodium lamps, and muffled gunfire brought him back to the streets of Juarez. Like a rat in a maze, all over again.
Don Testarossa
Perception: 7 - Success
When him and Riley rounded the corner, they found the freight elevator ablaze. Sharp, mangled metal loosely encased three to five mangled bodies, some still twitching or crackling. Ever the pragmatist, Don grabbed a laser rifle out of a disembodied cyberarm, and tossed it to Riley.
"Looks like the deal's off." Don remarked, his eyes watering when he peered up the hot, smoky shaft. "No way we're climbin' this thing alive. Sounds like a warzone up there, anyways."
Riley checked the rifle's charge. Then he gazed back at the elevator. Fueled by spilled hydraulic fluid, flames encroached upon the occupants, drawing frantic, fugly screaming from a narco he'd thought dead.
An idea struck him. With Don's help, he threw the man out the elevator, onto the warehouse floor. A quick slice of Riley's nanoblade let them forget the flame consuming the man's remaining foot.
"Been a long time since I mindripped anyone," Riley said, jamming a link cable into his neuroport, "Would've been nice if we brought tranqs."
"Woulda been nice if they'd fuckin' paid," Don growled in return, slamming his fist into their victim's back.
"You're not helping!" Riley snapped, holding the man down.
"I paid damn good money for this to happen".
"You can fuck him up after I read his mind. Put your knee on his back..."
As Don rested most of his weight upon the sobbing man's back, Riley pried open his neuroport and shoved in the cable.
Riley Dyson
Observation: 8 - Success
The man's mind was like sitting in the pews of a burning cathedral. A rapidly-deteriorating mess of sorrow and loss, mixed with an animal-sort of panic. Luckily Riley's filter scripts worked fine. He took snapshots of the man's relevant memories as his life flashed before his eyes, till he'd gotten a sense of the sublevel's layout. Without delay, he yanked his cable out the back of the man's head, and replaced it with a thrust of his nanoblade.
"See anything?" Don asked, helping Riley up.
"Yeah... Old access shaft, pre-Unification War. Empties somewhere in the backlot. That's all I can tell."
"It's better than nothin'. If we get outta this alive, I owe ya a cask of Chicago Bourbon."
"I told you, I don't drink."
Fate Question
Is there anyone else on the sublevel with them? > Yes.
Riley flicked a map to Don's brainwave. Moments later, a narrow red line raced from their feet - a figment of their individual hyperrealities. It streaked between haphazard shelves, down an unfamiliar corridor, presumably to the building's secret exit. The two shared a tacit nod, and took off running.
The assault upstairs had reached a crescendo. Lighting fixtures fell and shattered as the concrete cracked. Shelves of contraband threatened to collapse as the two men weaved past. They'd scarcely notice two silhouettes gathered at the exit from the warehouse, till the blue flash of a narco's shotgun.
Riley got in cover, popped off a shot. The crimson laser struck like a lighting bolt, revealing its target as a female. Don raised his shotgun to finish the job, when excruciating pain ripped through his entire body. His right leg buckled, dropping him to the ground. Luckily Riley was quick to react, and both narcos laid dead within minutes of the first shot.
Don turned his focus to the frantic hologram windows plastered across his vision. He'd taken some buckshot to the thigh - nothing broken, nothing vital severed. He called for biofoam, only to realize Riley was out.
Riley Dyson
First Aid: 8 - Success
He'd be fine. That's what they'd agree to, as the boy slapped gauze over Don's bleed entry wounds.
"What the hell were you doing?!" Riley barked, prepping the last bandage.
"Just an occupational hazard, y'know? Sometimes ya win, sometimes... Nngh-!"
Don's grimace was fouled by extra pressure on his wound. Riley rather liked that.
Moving hurt, but Don was walking yet again. The corridor to the access shaft was dusty and unguarded, hidden behind palettes of off-smelling survival food. A rusting ladder led to the surface, capped by a plate of solid steel.
El Camino Dorado trade center, backlot; Early Evening
A thunderous sonata rang in Don's ears the moment Riley cracked the fake manhole. As they climbed out, he picked out an eclectic mix of assault rifles backed an autocannon firing in bursts - likely a pre-war Bushmaster. Beneath it all was the low hum of an anti-drone laser. Whoever did this wasn't fucking around.
Best to make himself scarce. They'd exited in the backlot, a narrow alley littered with trash and spent cigs. Their car was two blocks away, across the street and around a corner. Shotgun in hand, Don peered around the corner, finding the firefight in full swing. Closest to them were two no-name thugs hiding behind an up-armored car. One wore a neon-trimmed trench coat, peppered the building with her heavy pistol. The other sat against the tire, clad in fatigues, scanning the skylanes above with a handheld drone jammer.
Don gauged the distance between them and escape. The last thing he needed was a tail right now. Weighing options, he told Riley his plan, tossed his shotgun in a dumpster, and ran across the road like a panicked junkie.
It worked. He was safely across. Where was Riley?
To his horror, Don watched Riley cross the street armed, before tossing something small and dark at the thug with the jammer. He ducked around the corner, expecting an explosion, but instead the two shared a mutual gaze, and Riley crossed without a fuss.
The biofoam had just begun to dissolve by time they piled into Don's corroded old sports car. He floored it for the nicer ghettos near Pilsen, due north on I-90.
As the sun began to set, Riley witnessed Don's face in stark relief. Gone was the man who'd smooth over deals and banter while brawling. Faced with the prospect of bleeding out, he sat straight as a rail, clenching the wheel tight. His pulsing veins betrayed a racing heart, aggravating his blood loss. Yet all he stammered about was money. How much he'd lost, how much the street doc would cost. He almost took the wrong exit, swerving across five lanes to squeeze onto the offramp.
Street doc's clinic, Pilsen, Central Chicago; Nighttime
The street doc worked his magic, and Don's grin gradually returned. Meanwhile Riley sat in the corner flicking through emails. Dick-enlargement here, mail-order brides there. Then came a name he hadn't seen in years. For the first time that day, Riley smiled.
FOCUS AND DRIVE DON