All of a sudden, joking about having the IRS audit your political enemies isn't as funny, is it? Oh well. Back to Shadowrunning.
Part 1 starts here; Part 2 starts here. You can find Part 3 there; Part4 here. Part 5! Part 6 was available here. For Part 7, click! The next part was Part 8. Part 9 is here. If this gets too long, I might need a second Table of Contents.
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Samuels wasn't a big guy before the implants, now he was though. He was still a bit clumsy with his hooks, which let me keep out of reach while I tried to come up with a plan. Lincoln jumped around us barking, I think in a way trying to say 'Calm down, guys!' Or maybe he didn't quite get what was happening yet. I don't know; he's a smart dog though, so I think he got the point when I ducked under one of Samuels' punches and hit him in the gut.
"Fuck," I said as I doubled back shaking my hand. I'd hit people with implants before; it never hurt like that.
"Just let me walk away Roscoe," He said. "I don't want to have to hurt you."
"Can't let you do that," I said. It was simple as that really; you don't walk out on a job like this. You certainly don't get bought out. That's not how we do things here. Samuels just shrugged.
"Fine; I won't hold back any more. I was just going to lay you out flat, now I'm all in," He said. I heard something click in his arms, but, I noted, not his legs. His strikes were faster, more precise now, dangerous. But I had years of experience, he just had some program in his head of how some computer geek thought a fist fight should go.
The problem was, computer geeks have the combined experience of what, thousands upon millions of fist fights? From boxing matches to scripted sparring matches for their cameras to whatever the hell they catch on the CCTVs. In whatever program was guiding his arms, they probably had everyone from Rocky Balboa to Ali to that punk who decked the woman whose purse he snatched. So, they had a really good idea of how it should go, I realized as my head rocketed backwards with the rest of my body as I tried to not black out. I kind of missed the simplicity of the doctor's motive rant.
I regained my composure as I ducked and put up my arms to cushion as he tried to slam his knee into my chest. I pushed off and felt the shock as Samuels arm clocked me across the face again. I caught his next punch and twisted. One thing about men with implants is that they are even heavier than normal men in armor, and so their momentum was an even greater weapon than against the average street punk.
Samuels smashed into the ground. He pushed himself up, catching my foot as I tried to kick him across his face. Then he squeezed and I felt the bones in my foot start to crack. Lincoln lunged, biting into Samuels leg with a growl. Samuels flinched, and I pulled my foot free, stumbling back trying not to put too much weight on it.
"Fucking bitch, that hurts," Samuels shouted, grabbing Lincoln and throwing him across the roof. Lincoln whimpered as he rolled, but he pulled himself up, growling through the blood and his teeth. Samuels reared back as Lincoln moved forward, and I saw it happening so I charged too. I caught Samuels punch in my gut and felt myself rise into the air. I grabbed his other hand, and Samuels twisted me aside throwing me. I landed on my left arm with a snap. I decided it was time for the fucking cavalry, and flipped off the restraint on my sidearm.
Lincoln didn't let go of Samuels other leg, even when he struck Lincoln on the side. Samuels kicked, starting to panic; I forced myself to stand, trying not to buckle. Samuels ripped Lincoln free, but the dog, just bit at his face. Samuels ripped the armored vest off Lincoln's side and dropped him, kicking him away. Lincoln whimpered, tried to stand, then fell again. I jumped between the two.
"Leave my dog alone," I said. "Or it isn't just new pain suppressors you're going to need."
In a deft motion, Samuels pulled a clip from the dog's vest and threw the rest aside. He pulled his weapon free and slammed the clip in.
"Just stay back and let me walk away," Samuels said. His voice had lost the confident edge; you could hear the pain and the fear. Fear made people do stupid things.
"Put the gun down."
He pulled the trigger; I pulled my left arm up to shield my face as I dropped to my knees to cover Lincoln's body. He had been right; his gun packed a punch. I heard Lincoln yelp in pain, and I felt as the leg armor shattered, piercing me. My hand, already bent at an odd angle shattered, my ring and pinky flying off as a bullet sheared off the armor plate in my glove.
When I heard the click, I drew my gun and sent the first bullet high. As I'd seen him do every time something came toward his face, he brought his hands up to protect his face. Then I aimed lower. No, lower. And pulled the trigger. The first hit made him scream out in pain, frustration and fear. I took no pleasure in it; the second bullet knocked him on his ass, as he struggled, kicking and dragging himself away.
I pushed myself up on my one good leg. I looked down at Lincoln, who was curled up, whimpering, one of his legs mutilated by a bullet I wasn't able to catch. My armor was shattered and broken, and I knew that I was light headed. I walked toward Samuels, as he dragged himself along the ground, his face completely given over to fear.
"How are you still fucking standing?" He shouted; his voice was shrill, pained. I heard the sirens in the distance coming closer; it was one thing to ignore a call from a citizen, even a citizen in good standing. But no one on the force was going to ignore an emergency request going off when one of our own's gun came out, especially when they're knocked off the comms and not responding. Samuels might have been spoofed his own communications signal, but I had never bothered.
And, right now, all my squad knew is that I had drawn my gun and was not responding to their calls. That was fucking serious business. Not even the chief would try to order them off following through. That's when I fell to one knee, using the bloody half-a-hand to help me keep my balance so I could keep my weapon trained on Samuels.
"Just let me go," He said, struggling under the pain, trying to put pressure where he was bleeding.
"Can't let you do that," I said. He pushed himself to standing; his legs were splattered with blood, pooling under him as he tried to stand.
"You should be fucking dead," He said. He took a tentative step toward me, and I raised the gun, steady.
"Future's looking pretty bleak, fucker. Take another step, and I'll finish what I started."
"What do you even fucking get out of this!? Your dog's bleeding to death, you're crippled," Samuels said, collapsing to his knees as he squeezed back tears. "You ruined it for both of us; there's nothing left. You couldn't just let it go; I could've made it big. You screwed it all up."
"I told you to let it go, you didn't," I said. "Just come quietly."
He looked over to where the sirens were getting closer. "We can still make it happen. When they get here, just don't say shit, then come with me when we're both walking again. It's our chance." He started reaching for one of the weapons we'd left lying around. I waited to see, and watched as he tried to pick it up.
"Fuck the future," I said. This time, I was aiming for his head. I dropped the gun once I saw that he was dead and started to crawl over to Lincoln. I ripped the remains of the first aid kit off his back and sat next to him as I pulled out the bandage. I looked at my leg, looked at my arm, and just said fuck it.
I tied the bandage around Lincoln's leg and then draped over him to try and keep him warm and from going into shock. As far as I know, he was still breathing by the time I passed out.