23.9

March 1, 2070, at 0804

Otherworld Seattle, Outer Wastes, Jungle Trap#6

In the bright-lit jungle wastes of Seattle's outskirts, where the city's concrete veins yielded to the dense embrace of magical hotspots, Shun Lee, a fourteen-year-old scout, lay concealed in the jungle's verdant canopy. His patience was a honed skill, essential in the world of Shades, where the line between survival and peril was often razor-thin.

"Hey, how's my favorite scout doing up there?" crackled a female voice through the encrypted comms.

"This is mind-numbing, Midnight. What's with the Red Samurai’s fascination with this goblin-ridden green spot?" Shun grumbled sub-vocally to Midnight, the astute leader of their Shade group.

"They requested you, specifically. Means there's something here beyond the reach of normal sensors, something the satellites can't pick up," Midnight's voice was firm yet infused with an underlying warmth. "Triple pay for just watching goblins in their natural habitat. Count yourself lucky it's quiet, midget."

Shun shifted, feeling a twinge in his shoulder—a memento from a recent sniper encounter. The lack of action was a relief, especially at triple the rate. His unique abilities commanded a high price, a testament to Midnight's savvy in managing her Shades team.

"Did they hint at anything specific?" Shun inquired, his left eye flickering through the mission document projected onto his retina.

"Nothing. And you know the drill," Midnight's voice held a grin.

"Great, so if I spot something, they'll probably weasel out of paying the special rates. Trust a grivet to have more honor," Shun muttered, his displeasure evident. Sewer dwelling grivets at least wouldn’t try to steal from the weak.

"You survived the SCIRE Incident, Shun. A little boredom won't kill you," Midnight's tone softened a rare display of empathy.

The SCIRE Incident... the memories still haunted him. A nightmarish fusion of metal and flesh, orchestrated by the mad AI, Deus, in its bid to create a vessel for its consciousness. The AI's plan had failed, but the scars it left behind were indelible. Only a tiny slice of the Arcology survived; of those, most were left mentally fractured, a burden of existence too heavy to bear.

Shun had been lucky, and he knew it.

Life in the shadows was the only refuge for the survivors of Deus's madness. The megacorps, in a bid to erase the reminders of the insane AI, shunned them, fearing the potential trigger of embedded experimental Tech Gifts. The Corporate Court's meager compensation was a mere pittance, a token gesture to prevent tech-trigger incidents from bleeding them dry financially. It was better than starvation, but few spent the nuyen soaked in metaphorical blood deposited to their bank accounts.

Most just wasted into nothingness like specters at a feast.

Shun, fortunately, was spared the curse of technomancy or the lassitude of wasting sanity. Instead, the AI's tampering had unlocked his bloodline's latent power—True Sight. An ability that stripped away all deceptions, revealing the stark reality beneath. This made him an invaluable asset in the shadowy world of espionage and surveillance, able to detect even the most elusive Shades.

But such a gift came at a cost. Keeping his ability stable required a diet rich in mana, a luxury that would impoverish an ordinary person. Midnight, recognizing the rarity of his skill, marketed his services at a premium, making him a coveted asset for megacorps with deep pockets.

The Red Samurai were one of a handful of contracted partners.

Now, perched atop the jungle, Shun’s current assignment was mundane yet odd: to observe and report anything unusual. It was a tedious task until the appearance of an RV trudging through the jungle, armed to the teeth—a sight not entirely impressive beyond the Wall, yet peculiar enough to warrant attention.

"I’ve got an RV moving through on Camera Twenty-Seven," Shun reported, his voice steady. The alert would prompt Midnight to verify, just in case. He called it in partially out of habit, not expecting much. Wastelander people were nomads moving like the wind at the slightest provocation. If there was an oddity, it was the lack of a caravan.

"There's nothing on our end," came Midnight's tense reply. His eyes snapped open in shock, and Shun's focus sharpened. "It's there, Midnight. A Wastelander-style RV, heavily armed. Heading into another goblin territory." His report was crisp, the boredom replaced by the thrill of potential danger. It was well known in the group that something was wrong if he could see it and others couldn’t. After the first few foiled ambushes, the team of Shades he worked with had a golden rule.

We trust in the sight of Shun, meaning it was honest if he saw it.

Midnight, she quickly sought more details—size, armament, mode of travel, any magical signatures. Shun relayed everything he could see, his words a rapid-fire stream of information.

As they waited for further instructions, a realization dawned on both Shun and Midnight. This was no ordinary surveillance task; Shun had likely been unknowingly guarding a portal exit, one of the mystical gateways buried beneath the jungle's wild growth. These portals, though widely rumored, remained a secret to most. They were allegedly gateways into other worlds from where the Dragons had arrived.

“It figures they wouldn’t tell me anything relevant to getting the job done right,” Shun said as his eyes watched the RV shred a goblin attack squad with ease.

"Any signs of the Arasaka Clan?" Midnight finally inquired. The Arasaka Clan, a rising power in the corporate world, was notorious for its advanced cybernetics and rapid acquisition of magical knowledge. The location of their headquarters, deliberately chosen in a magical dead zone, was a strategic move to safeguard their technological superiority.

Shun scanned the RV meticulously for any indication of the Clan's sigil. The fake Wasteland RV's movements were stealthy, its design cleverly camouflaged to blend with the jungle's dense foliage. Shun's trained eye, however, missed nothing. As he scrutinized the vehicle for any telltale signs of the Arasaka Clan, he noted something peculiar—a faint, almost imperceptible magical aura that seemed to shroud the automobile, suggesting the involvement of someone well-versed in the art of magical concealment.

"No obvious markings of Arasaka, but there's a faint magical signature. It's subtle, but it's there," Shun relayed to Midnight, his instincts on high alert. “Deploy drones or retreat?”

"Magic? That's unusual. Keep an eye on it. I'll alert the others to deploy the drones but set them to auto-dump intel before self-destructing. We don’t know the counter-intel capability of the subjects." Midnight's voice was a mix of curiosity and caution. In the world of Shades, magic, and technology often intersected in unpredictable ways, and any hint of magical involvement could drastically change the nature of their mission. It would also raise their price exponentially; the boy thought as he launched drones from a hanging box nearby.

As Shun continued to observe through two scores of eyes, the RV halted near a seemingly unremarkable section of the jungle. Suddenly, a single figure of surpassing beauty emerged from the vehicle, clad in nondescript red gear, their movements efficient and purposeful.

“Banshee? With a living chickling?” Shun said, looking at the small bird perched on the woman’s shoulder. Banshees were the higher variant of Elves, changed and altered by the virus. The problem with the situation at hand was their aura killed almost passively. That meant there shouldn’t be a living creature near the woman.

Unless her control was beyond natural law.

"Midnight, the Wastelander is a Banshee. They’ve got a living creature on their shoulder. The Banshee is a magical practitioner. The power level is blinding." Shun reported his True Sight cutting through any attempt at deception. He had to squint through the passive amount of mana that the Banshee produced. “Oh, shit. She’s Cloaking. That’s why it's so bright.” His throat ran dry at the implications.

"A magical practitioner, a Banshee with enough control to keep a living pet, who can Cloak in a Wastelander RV..." Midnight said, her tone a whisper. “What the fuck is going on. Someone like that shouldn’t be anywhere within Seattle without an escort of bloodsucking minions and five-star spa resort treatment.”

“Do you think it’s a hit? Did the Reds decide to make us expendable?” Shun asked in a severe tone. It was the only thing that made any sense, but it was still insane.

“No, they were fishing for minnows and catching a shark.” Midnight said, her voice recovering as she thought through the implications.

Shun watched intently as the woman shifted in form, her clothing turning with her. “Shapeshifting confirmed.” His voice was terrified even though he tried to keep it under control.

“Shun, grab the feed from the drones and get the fuck out now.” Midnight said all pretense of calm gone. “We’ll need to test you when you get back.”

“Because I could have been killed, eaten, and replaced by a Doppelganger,” Shun said without humor as he set all his observation gear to self-destruct after a final data dump. It forced him to glance away from the drone feed for a moment.

Which was, of course, when everything went to shit.

Alarms started blaring from the drone network feed, warning they were in the process of being subverted. Shun immediately cut the connection, but it wasn’t fast enough. The attacker flowed through the nodes scattered around the jungle like light.

“Midnight, they are breaching the entire observation network,” Shun said. Terror was replaced by calm as his mental exercises took effect. He’d seen speed like this before. It wasn’t human, not even close. Only a few creatures could move like a mirror beam light through a network. “They have an unbound AI. Which means they have at least a fusion reactor. The RV can probably shapeshift, too. That’s why it looks like a Wasteland one. The Cloak has to be something that keeps them concealed. They can fight an army but would prefer not to. Also, make sure that Miguel doesn’t try opening my gun safe. I used a new trap this time.”

Midnight didn’t say anything as he continued speaking, rattling off everything he could rationalize. He rambled a bit before the connection finally cut due to the attacker making a misstep.

“A new AI then,” Shun said in a dead monotone. “They aren’t updated on the latest tricks, at least. Won’t be long after they slice into the Matrix, though.”

A message flashed into Shun’s sight in bolded green letters.

Greetings, hooman.

Shun blinked before a faint hope crept up in his mind. Combat AI wouldn’t attempt communication because it wasn’t efficient. That meant this likely wasn’t a combat-focused entity then. AI was a good reflection of their master’s mission. A researcher didn’t use a combat model. After all, it was inefficient.

Greetings. Shun replied, gambling. He felt it moments later through his True Sight. The Banshee had locked onto him through the intervening distance without a moment’s pause.

Terrifying.

Shun carefully removed all his combat gear, putting it into a collapsible suitcase on his back. No one fought Dragons for a reason, and he classified this Banshee as something similar. Being armed would just be a chance for his reflexes to get him killed.

Hooman, we would like to purchase a guide to Seattle.

Shun blinked. His mind operated at incredible speed, making connections and seeing patterns.

The Jungle.

The Goblins.

The Portal.

The Banshee.

The Pet.

The Vehicle.

In a flash, they all connected, and Shun blurted out the inevitable conclusion, “Outworlder!” The sensation of relief that flowed through his veins made him so giddy he almost fell off the branch.

Outworlders were rare these days, as the initial waves had been decades ago when the portals first opened. They were few and far between, but every Outworlder was a lucrative opportunity. Even more in his favor, the Banshee was female.

As a female Outworlder, the likelihood of being aggressive was practically zero unless he attacked her. Moving through a portal pushed massive amounts of mana into a creature, making it calmer. The effect was well documented, if temporary. Unless provoked, almost all records showed that Outworlder females were pleasant to the extreme.

The fact that the AI wasn’t instantly hunting him with captured drones was a decent clue, too.

Shun replied to the last message. Greetings. My services are highly competitive and well-priced, easily within reach of any newly arriving Outworlder.

Along with his standard spiel, he sent a contract. There was barely a flicker before the AI signed and returned it. Shun relaxed completely. Even if he was murdered now, a record existed in the Matrix. Seattle took anything dealing with portals deadly seriously. If the Outworlder killed him after signing a contract, the city itself would hunt them down. That was written in the fine print. Therefore, signing meant the AI was well aware of the consequences.

Hooman, we need to make haste. Come to us, and we’ll leave faster with you onboard. Rabbit has set nuclear bombs to clean this place up. Crystal doesn’t like the little green monsters and is bored now. By the way, I’m the Supreme Empress of the Feathered Flight, Fluffyfeathers. You may address me with my full title when you arrive, hooman.

“N-Nuclear?” Shun said as a map was delivered to his eyes. He noted the small blinking chicken icon at the bottom and the blinking green dot denoting the Banshee’s location. “Who uses a nuclear fire to kill mosquitoes?” Shun grumbled before dropping down to the jungle floor and sprinting off.