Memento Mori

1.10 - SYZYGY

I CAN'T STOP hearing it.

The crack. The pop. The dull thump of her lifeless body hitting the ground.

I squeeze my eyes shut and bury a scream in my throat as I stumble through the tight confines of the maintenance shaft. Heart galloping in overdrive, so fast that my injured legs break into a run of their own volition. Then a flat-out sprint. I'm going so fast I ricochet straight off the hard corners, not even slowing to take the turns. My body does anything it can to burn off the insane flood of energy; nothing's enough. The Shatter scorches my nerves like liquid fire. My skin stings like it's coming apart at the seams. Sweat coats my arms and face in a fevered sheen. Every obstacle I slam into and trip over is a momentary pain forgotten the next time I blink.

The Orange is a man-eating labyrinth. All I can tell is that I'm going deeper, slipping into the darkest heart of the undercity. Anything to get away. But I can't get far enough to outrun the echo of the gunshot.

Again and again it beats through my skull. Crack. Crack. Crack. I slap myself before the scream welling inside me claws its way out. Hyped up on Shatter, my body doesn't hold back in the slightest. When I blink again, my whole face is aching to the bone; the pain jerking me back into reality.

The Orange routes all outgoing comm traffic through private servers. Trying to call Krey for help would just give away my position to anyone who's watching. There aren't maps for tiny passages like these, either. Right now, my JOY is only good for the augmented reflexes it's feeding into my hands through the neural link.

The corridor constricts around me like a narrowing gullet. Hot steam clouds scald my skin as I burst through at a dead run. Heavy feet slam against the ceiling overhead. Club music thumps through the concrete. Two more corners before it finally starts to fade. I'm somewhere in the cracks of the syndicate's funnel web, the deeper parts of the Orange where the overcity's rich and powerful come to make hidden deals behind a curtain of human avarice. Distant mutters, clinking glasses, running water, and sensual moans echo through the piping. I know they finally caught on to my presence when a klaxon starts bleating in the distance.

A corridor like this, machinery like the rusted pipes surrounding me; no one's been down these shafts in a century. Staying here won't get me out, though. I could be running in circles for hours before I find an exit to a different block. By then, Dynasty's enforcers will have cleared the entire Orange and started flushing out the maintenance tunnels, and I'll be swept right into their waiting hands.

I need a way out, as fast as possible. So the moment I spy a wheel-lock hatch in the ceiling up ahead, I shove my gun back in its holster and get to work cranking the wheel. My hands refuse to stop spasming until I clamp them around the wheel. Dense steel; must weigh a hundred pounds, maybe more. I barely break five feet and am built like a gymnast, not a powerlifter. A century of rust welds the wheel tight. Any other time I'd never be able to get it open. But the Shatter is a hell of a drug.

About to implode at any moment, I rip the wheel to the side with both hands, shearing away its resistance and spinning open the lock. Ancient hinges creak like a rusty motherfucker as I spin again. And again. Then the seal breaks and I'm shoving it open and almost exploding out of the hatch, pulling my body up and over the edge onto a plush carpet floor bathed by dim orange lantern light.

Lightheaded, I stagger to my feet. The familiar scrape of a blade being eased from its sheath comes from behind me. I'm already spinning, gun in hand, hammer cocked, barrel shoved between the eyes of a hunched Dynasty thug in a black-orange suit with one hand on the pommel of an ornamental knife and the other swirling with some premonition of an arcane spell. The Magus class- one of the most diverse in powers, and one of the most vulnerable to point-blank interruptions. Casting a spell requires him to speak a specific set of words: the more words, the more powerful the ability. I shift the gun down and jam it between his teeth, holding it as steady as I can.