Data Kill: 3. Blood Sweat and Tears

An ongoing story serially posted at the forum for Trese Brother's Games
Set in the world of Cyber Knights RPG 
Written by Paxdad

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Data Kill: 3. Blood Sweat and Tears
Bay Street Mission
Roxbury Crossing
03:03:13.05, 03/02/2217

Dixon maneuvered through darkness, smoke, and screams. Static discharges over his command net implant echoed the staccato bursts from Blazer’s auto pistol, his primary weapon long since exhausted. He was pinned down at a T junction in the halls on the 120th floor of the Oetker-Deutschland building with what was left of his team. “Say again Whiskey Base, over!”



“Whisky 1 if y--’re not at t-- exfil poi-t in - min-t-s yo-r tea- will be l-ft behind! Jammers cu-ti-g tran----sions, fighters inb--nd! Ov--!” A great fit of static nearly burst his ear drum and Whisky Base was silenced. He had to think fast.

Dixon turned to give Johnson, the youngest man in the unit an order only to see his youthful features disintegrate. The boys blood sprayed Dixons eyes with a burning salty tang. Johnsons lifeless body crashed into Dixon, the shock of it and his sudden blindness caused him to slip back, he felt himself falling fast and landed with a jarring jolt onto his bed! Sweat soaked his sheets, he shot bolt upright breathing heavy and clutching spasmodically at his thin blanket.

“Christ!” Dixon panted. He reached a shaking hand out to a bottle of bourbon on the nightstand, the bottle mouth clinked several times on the rim of the small glass as he poured himself a drink. He glanced at the blue hologram crucifix on the wall before he shut his eyes and knocked back the fiery tonic. As the alcohol hit his bloodstream he felt his nerves steady a bit and the tremor in his hand lessen. He hadn’t been sleeping well this last month adrift in the wasteland of his mind, haunted by the ghosts of his past.

He inhaled deeply, slowly, then carefully exhaled. He gathered his mind, and felt himself return to center. He had learned the trick of it as a recruit, and it had served him well in the decade of conflict that would follow.

He reached again for the bottle, his hand steady in the silence and slugged back another shot when in the darkness of his eyelids, a line of small green text appeared.

Inbound call 617-74-121...Connect?

Dixons eyes shot open and glanced around the spartan room.

Connect?

The green text remained, the question it posed blinked off and on.

Connect?

The tremor in his fingers returned as he opened his mind.

Call connecting...secure handshake established...connected.