The Gaming Den

Russel Zimmerman wrote:Alarm off. Radio on.” Reid Sabelhaus sat up in his bed and glared at his clock. The harsh blaring stopped, and a talk radio show replaced it. The chattering voices of political spokesmen escorted him as he threw off the sheets and stood up. Motion sensors tracked his progress through the condo, lowering the volume of wall-inset speakers in one room and raising them in another, so that he never walked away from the shrieking metahuman rights activists despite yawning his way down the hall and into the bathroom. The volume automatically rose to compensate for the rushing hot water of his shower, then lowered again as it stopped, and the talking heads just kept talking.

They’d cut to a commercial as he dried off. “Radio off.” Reid stood in front of his fog-covered mirror for a long moment, tossing his wet towel down for his Grimebuster to scoop up. He wanted to swipe a hand over the mirror to clear his reflection but knew that it would only remind him of how a cyberlimb—inhumanly perfect for so many tasks—could be perfectly inhuman for others. He hated the streaks it left, the squeak it made as his polymer and alloy hand scraped the glass, the way it sounded like setting a beer bottle on a glass coaster when his fingertips first touched the mirror. Reid didn’t want to hear that again.

“Mirror,” he said instead, clenching and unclenching both his gunmetal-black fists. “Defog.”

He stood there for a few more heartbeats, looking at himself as he did to start every day, taking inventory. Vents built into the wall and countertop banished the steam and brought clarity, and he stared long and hard at every puckered scar on his torso, relived every bullet and blade and tooth, and chided himself for letting them hit him. His gaze lingered where his arms and legs joined his torso, where meat suddenly gave way to metal, and he dwelled on every choice he’d made to get where he was. Reid stared long and hard at the pink-smooth patch over his heart, the scar from the first work he’d paid Aman Khayyam for. He’d traded ten slap patches of opiates for a perfect circle of laser-marked skin where he’d had a tattoo removed as quickly and harshly as the street doc could manage it. Reid Sabelhaus didn’t work for Lone Star any more. He hadn’t for years. They’d built him, then thrown him away when Knight Errant had invaded Seattle without firing a shot. He was glad he didn’t have their company logo tattooed on his chest any more.

He made himself stare his reflection in the eyes and sent a mental command. The gunmetal-black framework built into and under his eyes flickered for an instant and his lenses snapped into place. Memory plastics formed a ballistic shield that protected his expensive ocular implants, but they served a psychological purpose, as well. They were a part of his new
uniform. When the lenses blinked into place, he changed.

Reid Sabelhaus, Lone Star officer, was gone. Saber, the shadowrunner, stared him down in the mirror, all metal limbs and mirrorshade optics, scars and edge and attitude. Reid had patrolled the Seattle streets with a partner; Saber worked with crews that came and went by the Juggler’s whim and Mr. Johnson’s budget. He used to requisition gear from a quartermaster or buy it from Weapons World with an employee discount; now he took knock-off guns from dead gangers and traded secrets to information brokers for ammunition. He used to believe in his job, working for the world’s premier law enforcement corporation to make Seattle a safer place. Now he worked for a clever man who at least admitted that he was just a weapon. He’d been surrounded by friends and coworkers; now he had contacts and business acquaintances. He used to be engaged and on the verge of buying a home. Now he rented by the hour. Reid had always arranged for Sundays off of work, but Saber was about to spend the day in Khayyam’s back room, praying the junkie’s hands wouldn’t shake during a routine maintenance check on his artificial legs and an upgrade to his reflex/response hardware.

“I’m still alive,” the street samurai said, glaring at every scar that hadn’t managed to kill him. He was, it was true. But to stay that way he still had to go to work. It was the only thing Saber had in common with Reid Sabelhaus.