Shadowrun: Street Legends Supplemental - Title

attach chat file
/user Bull has logged on
/user Saint James has logged on
[Saint James] Thanks for getting back to me so promptly.
[Bull] Null sheen.
[Saint James] Did you know that there was a hermetic mage
who ran under the street name Harlequin way back in the
day? Apparently, he was killed summoning an elemental that
was too powerful for him to handle—overreached and got
obliterated by drain.
[Bull] Yeah, I don’t think that’s the same guy.
[Saint James] I figured as much. So tell me what you know.
[Bull] Did you know that I was in Chicago when the Windy
City became Bug City?
[Saint James] Your reputation certainly precedes you; I did.
[Bull] We were behind the wall, in hell, for almost a year.
Trapped in the containment zone, not hustling for nuyen
but just flat out struggling to survive. I saw a lot of good
friends get literally eaten during that year; anyone in the CZ
did. Anyway, just when I’m starting to think that we would
all die there, no matter what, this elf appears. I remember
him pretty much like you described. Clown’s motley, I
think you call it. Leather jacket, lots of band pins and
smarmy buttons, all of them ancient and outdated even by
my standards. I asked what the frag he was doing there. He
said “prospecting.” Like the bugs weren’t even a danger to
him, just a natural phenomenon he was observing. He was
like someone going out in the country to watch a meteor
shower. I don’t remember the exact details—this was a long,
long time ago. But essentially we cut a deal, that he’d get our
families out of Chi-Town in exchange for some unspecified
favor later. On that topic: Generally speaking, my advice to
future generations would be if an enigmatic man wearing
clown makeup offers you a deal that sounds too good to be
true, you SAY FRAGGING NO.
[Saint James] People used to say “never trust an elf,” but
naturally I find that offensive, as far as sayings go. I wonder
how dragons feel. Anyway, what happened then?
[Bull] Like, right then? Nothing. Years later, though, the slag came
calling to collect his due. It’s hard to say what happened
then—the entire thing was like a red mescaline trip, so
I doubt you’d believe me if I told you what little I do
remember. It’s hard for me to even remember which
parts of it were real. The part that I think I remember
is that we took a road trip to the site of the Great Ghost
Dance, where what he called a mana spike had ripped a hole
in our reality, where something a hundred times worse than
the bugs was trying to claw its way in. By the time we were at
that point, we were scared shitless. We’d been briefed not at
all on what was happening. But the biggest surprise was right
at the end. Harlequin sacrificed my friend and partner to plug
this hole. He said it was our only choice, or we’d all die—but
he never considered the possibility of sacrificing himself. He
never warned us. If Johnny hadn’t willingly sacrificed himself,
Harlequin and I would have come to blows while the whole
fragging world ended. But Johnny did it, taking the decision
out of our hands. I’ve still never forgiven that clown-shoed slag
for the situation he put us in.
“Ha! fraGGin’ Ha!”
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