Into Shadow IC

What makes a shadowrunner? How and why do seemingly 'normal' sprawl dwellers turn away from the 'light' of everyday, rat-racing, grid-chasing wageslave existences and descend into the realm of the shadow underworld?

This story follows the lives of a handful of 'legit' sprawlers as their fates become tightly interwoven. Not all survive the evolution - or should that be devolution - into the grueling, often lethal, never forgiving world of the shadowrunner.

2012: This year marks the end of the Mayan Calendar; a fact which many believe also marks the end of the world, or perhaps just the human race...

By no means the first, nor the last in all likelyhood, popular prediction of 'The End,' the teeming masses continue their pursuits - Life, Liberty, and Happiness - with little or no variation. Multitudes of polluting vehicles crawl amongst each other along traffic-choked highways, driven by subliminally controlled citizens convinced that they are living the 'good life' and blithely being led by their noses without so much as a moment's consideration as to why they believe this.
Its business as usual in the cities, towns, municipalities and neighborhoods of the world.

We must take a moment and consider the above list of pursuits - one in particular, actually - as its meaning could be misleading. 'Happiness' for most of the world's population in the 21st century should more accurately be termed 'Entertainment.' There are more combined resources being used for the purpose of entertainment than all other pursuits put together. The sheer amount of time spent watching television, texting over cell phones, and surfing the internet outranks work, exercise and sleep times combined.

One such entertainment-based corporation, Hasbro Inc, in conjunction with Catalyst GameLabs and Post Human Studios, has been developing the next step in gaming systems; the first fully VR experience - Shadowrun Prime. To commemorate the new release, four contest-winners; Hadenwolf, St Nougat, Sly Hound and Suspect, will participate in the highly-publicized and nationally televised 'first run.'

Each participant will be immersed in a sensory-deprivation tank that has been greatly modified from their earlier predecessors. The tanks are filled with an oxygen-rich solution which will support the occupant's body while allowing total freedom of movement. The tanks are also outfitted with sensors that can detect the occupant's slightest movement, thus registering each action as it corresponds to the gaming environment. Special microphones will pick up the gamer's speech and broadcast the signals to the others as well.

Let's listen in as the four gamers arrive and are helped into their tanks...

(Note: Start out as your player selves. Character posts will come 'online' a bit later.)

Hadenwolfs mind was racing as he watched the passing traffic. To an unaware spectator, he'd seem just as ordinary as any
Jimmy in the bar, with his plain features and gentle voice. To all his friends, he was "Hadenwolf", intense gamer,
and now about to breach the borders of science. He chuckled to himself, making the driver look around nervously, as he recalled all he had had to do to make it this far: the work, the hours, the coffee.
"It was worth it. Definitely" he muttered as he stepped out of the car and into the sunlight and in front of the lab where he was going to be "shut down", as he joked about with his hacker friends. As he passed into the reception, he reflected on how fast everything had been happening the past year: new gaming systems had started to spring up like mushrooms in the woods.
And then Catalyst Game Labs announce their VR prime run.
That day he had told himself that he would get in, no matter what.

In the reception, he was led into a lab, filled with computers and whirring test tubes. Inside a group of scientists were checking equipment they had triple checked already five minutes ago, obviously excited as to what was going to happen.
The head scientist started explaining what was to be done, with Hadenwolf only half listening.
He glanced at the tank that he would spend some time in, and shivered despite himself.
With the aid of two scientists, he stripped and stepped into it. The last thing he saw was the scientists face as he smiled,
"Good Luck, Hadenwolf"

Then he faded out.

As soon as he arrived at the site, Suspect felt his hackles rise. The place was lousy with scampering kids. 'Vermin,' he thought, and imagined opening fire on them with an automatic weapon. How their grubby little grins would disappear as if slapped away then. He was relieved to find an open, roped-off walkway through the crowd of cretins to the entrance. He walked briskly down the center of the space, looking neither left nor right but eyes locked straight ahead, veering only slightly to avoid the occasional outstretched hand. He loathed to be touched; by anyone but especially these howling hyenas.
He reached the door, pulled it open, and was inside in one swift movement without a single backward glance. He paused as the door swung shut behind him long enough to draw a deep, calming breath and let it out through his nose, letting the tension drain away with the slow exhale.

The interior of the building was reassuring; stark white tiled floor, white walls and ceiling, little to nothing in the way of needless decoration. It told of practicality. Of functionality without regard for aesthetic nonsense. Of black and whites; an outlook Suspect could well relate to.
He moved deeper into the facility. The route was obvious, as there was only one other portal that led off this entryway, positioned logically at the other end. Through this door he found a single elevator. Inside was a single button which, upon pressing, sent the car down into an underground chamber.
Here, Suspect found, were more of the hated people plagueing the planet, though these were much older than the scurrying scavengers he'd passed outside. Still they were only marginally more tolerable, by virtue of their age-enhanced capacity to refrain from excessive touching. He did not, however, regard these larger specimens of the vermin hordes, as wiser. The simple fact that they'd allowed him to participate in their sickening festivities belied any notion of their common sense. Obviously they'd performed no background check in their choosing candidates, as they would surely have disqualified him on the grounds of his being an extreme sociopath with major authority issues and homicidal tendencies. But that was their mistake, and he intended to take full advantage of it.
His presence here was to him no more than a continuation of his pursuits in indulging in a less consequential form of pacifying his need for violence. The ironic part of all this was that his participation in this contest had been due to his court-ordered psycho-therapy. His therapist, an ambitious woman who fancied herself an upcoming trendsetter, had given him the idea in the first place, purporting the virtues of virtual outlets for his tendencies as opposed to real-life pursuits that came with very stiff penalties.
So, unlike the other contestants - which he fervently hoped he'd not be subjected to - Suspect was here for therapeutic rehabilitation. It was laughable. But if this virtual gaming experience turned out to be anything close to what he'd imagined, he felt it would be, if nothing else, a kick.

Approaching the group of technicians surrounding one of the large tanks positioned around the chamber, Suspect grimly endured their inane babble and rhetorical instructions, 'its a !$#%! game!' he wanted to shout at them, but refrained. Finally, stripped and fitted with a pair of goggles one of the techs said would measure his eye movements while in the VR world, Suspect climbed into the tank and, after a short but intensely frightening period of adjusting to breathing the oxygen-rich liquid - a feeling of drowning for which he silently vowed to wreak revenge, despite his having come through with no real damage, he was alone in the eerie silence of the tank. There was no sound, not even bubbles as the thicker-than-air solution flowed in and out of his lungs. And with the buoyancy of the atmosphere keeping him suspended, he quickly lost the sensation of the liquid due to its uniform presence over his entire body. The sensation, he found, was not unpleasant. He let his mind drift as it would, giving himself over to the myriad images of violence which so often filled his conscious mind, waiting for the game to begin...

Bill couldn’t believe his luck as he read his email about being chosen to play test a new Shadowrun game. So much in fact that he dismissed it as a hoax and deleted the email.

It wasn’t until he received a phone call from somebody at Post Human Studios that he realized it was real.
“You’re paying for the trip right?”

“Yea sure, I guess so”

“What do you mean bring my swim trunks?”

Well that was it, like the first monkey being shot into space, he has volunteered.

Oh crap, now he has to take the time off of work and fly out to Washington…. He hates flying and was saving those vacation days. Oh well.

He got the time off of work. Okayed the trip with his wife. Cleared his calendar (“Hey buddy, heading out of town, can’t brew next weekend”). Packed his bag and took to cab to O’hare

On his flight he had to much time to think about this. Sure he enjoyed Shadowrun but he wouldn’t consider himself a huge fan of it. And he didn’t play many video games anymore…

Bill arrived at PHS and looked at the tank that he was about to go into and just shook his head.

“You have to be kidding me.”

After listening to a speech by the scientists about how safe it was Bill finally allowed himself to be hooked up and with great reservations was inserted into the tank.

Matthew was exctatic when he learn the new. That they finally made a VR machine...for shadowrun!! He nearly had a heart attack when they told him he would be one of the first to use it. He grabbed his stuff and took the first plane there. "Adventure here I come!"

He then arrived at Catalyst Labs and followed the officials...he was half paying attention to the safety rules..he just wanted to play.

Then finally he was in the tank..and it started.

Once the players were secured in their tanks, the game system performed a series of tests to synchronize each players movements with the system and calibrate each individual's physical stats (ie, height, weight, range of motion, volume displacement, etc.) After going through the 'raise right arm to shoulder height, now lower, look left, look right,' synch prog, the game system began the chargen questionaire; name, metatype, skills, etc. As this process progressed, each player was shown a composite image of their character to give them an idea of how they would look and move during gameplay. When the chargen process completed, the tanks grew dark and the main game program began...

WELCOME TO THE SHADOWS

Watch your back. Shoot straight. Conserve ammo. And never, ever, cut a deal with a dragon.
—Street proverb 2070.

Handbasket still in motion.

Since the turn of the century, the world has changed in unimaginable ways. The mystical energies of the universe have been steadily rising in power and concentration, bringing
magic back to the world—The Awakening. Elves, dwarfs, orks and trolls have assumed their true forms, thrown off their human guises. Creatures of the wild have changed as well, transforming into beasts of myth and legend. The many traditions of magic have returned—magicians from all walks of life have carved out a place in the new world for themselves.
Though many aspects of the Awakening remain mysterious, modern society has learned much about the workings of magic and how to harness it as a force just as important as technology.
The decades that followed the Awakening were years of panic and turmoil, as the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse seemed to race across the Earth. Cultures that had never lost touch with their mystic heritage used magic in uprisings against the nations that had suppressed them for centuries.
The vast global telecommunications network collapsed under an assault by a mysterious computer virus. Dragons soared into the skies. Epidemics and famine ravaged the world’s population.
Clashes between newly Awakened races and the rest of humanity became common. All central authority crumbled, and the world began to spiral downward into the abyss.
But man and his kin are hardy animals. Out of the devastation and chaos, a fragile new social order slowly emerged.
Advanced simulated sensorium (simsense) technology helped eradicate the last vestiges of the computer virus. Amerindians, elves, orks and dwarfs formed new nations. Where environmental degradation and pollution have made many areas uninhabitable, eco-groups wage war on polluters, and Awakened powers use incredible magic to heal the earth. Central governments have balkanized into smaller nations and city-states, as fear of the world’s changes drives wedges between people of different backgrounds. Vast metropolitan sprawls known as metroplexes cover the landscape; these urban jungles swallow whole regions. Police departments, unable to contain crime waves and civil unrest, have been privatized or had their work contracted out to corporations.
Megacorporations have become the new world superpowers, a law unto themselves. The entire planet speaks their language; the nuyen has become the global monetary standard, and the highest court in the world is the Corporate Court, made up of members of the top ten megacorporations.
The megacorps play a deadly game, paying pawns in the shadows to help them get an edge on the competition. Meanwhile, corporate executives and wage slaves hole up in their own enclaves, safe behind layers of security and indoctrination.
Outside the walls of these arcologies and gated communities, whole stretches of the sprawls have become ungovernable.
Gangs rule the streets; the forgotten masses grow, lacking even a System Identification Number (SIN) to give them any rights.
These outcasts, dissidents, and rebels live as the dregs of society, squatting in long-abandoned buildings, surviving through crime and predatory instincts. Many of them attempt to rise above their miserable existences by slotting addictive Better- Than-Life (BTL) chips, living vicariously through someone else’s senses. Others band together, some for survival and some to gain their own twisted forms of power.

Technology, too, has changed people. No longer content with the limitations of flesh, many have turned to the artificial enhancements of cyberware to make themselves more than human—stronger, faster, smarter. Others prefer more natural enhancements, augmented organs grown in clinic vats: bioware.
Still others deck themselves out in powerful and wearable computing equipment, and manipulate the Matrix or vehicles as if the optical chips and run-flat tires were parts of their own body.
In the harsh reality of 2070 where profit is the most important mistress, the bigger the metroplex, the deeper the shadows. In the cracks between the giant corporate structures, criminals of all shades find their homes. When the megacorps want a job done but don’t want to dirty their hands, they turn to the only people who can pull it off: shadowrunners, deniable assets. Though only the blackest of governmental or corporate databases will even register a shadowrunner’s involvement with a corporation, the demand for his or her services is high. Hackers can slide like a whisper through the databases of giant corporations, spiriting away the only thing of real value—information. Street samurai are enforcers for hire whose combat skills and reflexes make them the ultimate urban predators. Riggers can manipulate vehicles and drones for a variety of purposes. Magicians, those rare folk who possess the gift of wielding and shaping the magical energies that now surround the Earth, are sought after to spy on the competition, sling spells against an enemy, commit magical sabotage, and for any other purpose that their employers can dream up.
All these individuals sell their skills to survive, taking on the tasks too dangerous for others; many of them illegal, all of them unsavory.
Welcome to the dark side of the future, pal. It’s going to be a hell of a ride...

Once more the CG image grew dark, and then a scene emerged - the interior of an office. Seated at a desk is a human male in an expensively tailored business suit. The man appears to be in his mid- to late-thirties, dark hair and eyes, authoritative, confident, professional.
As the scene opens, he looks up from his desk, stands, and, checking his commlink momentarily, gestures for you to take a seat in one of the chairs arranged before his desk. Pausing long enough for each of you to be seated, he begins:

"My name is Mr Johnson. It is good of you to come on such short notice. I will get right to the point. I represent a private interest who is not affiliated with any of the megacorps directly, though he does have occasional dealings with just about all of them. We are looking for individuals with each of your particular qualities to act as our 'task force,' so to speak. There will be certain... less-than-legal tasks which you will be assigned to perform. Some of these may be relatively simple, while others will be most difficult. For your acceptance of our proposal, you will be compensated in the form of 10,000 cred per month as well as a pre-paid arrangement for accomodations in a low-lifestyle houseing complex or safehouse, your choice.
In addition to the monthly payrate and living accomodations, you will be given certain Contact information to aid in your assigned tasks. These arrangements are introductory and will be increased in time depending on your performance as well as your discretion concerning certain sensitive and confidential information.

Any questions so far?"

Leo's head was racing. "10 000 a month? What was he? A wageslave? Truth be told, he'd have to be a succesful wageslave, but still..."

When Mr. Johnson stopped speaking, he cleared his throat and said,
"Mon, I gotta bi' o' a prob here, mon. Y'say we gonna ged 10 000 nuyen per month, mon, but I gotta problem wi' that, mon. I think tha' we should be paid for each gig, each job, each run, mon, not like some wagemage scum livin' outta salary."

At the word, "wagemage" Leo's hair bristled and his normally smiling face frowned. He shaked his dreads as in despair. Then he nodded his head, as to confirm his statement.

"An' also, I thin' I need t'know a bi' more about ya, mon Johnson. I mean, I undersan' ya wanna all mystery and all, but Jah likes t'know a bi' more about you."

Without the slightest change in expression or tone, the Johnson replied to Leo:

"Your refusal is duly noted, Mr Leo. As for info about myself...in good time, , sir, in good time."

To the rest, he said:

"Anyone else?"

As soon as the office scene appeared, Suspect glanced quickly around to confirm what his senses were telling him - he was 'really here.' He looked down at himself and was still astonished to find himself wearing a thick, black leather armor jacket, black pullover shirt, black cargo pants and heavy-duty black boots. Just as he'd pictured his character.

At the sound of 'Mr Johnson's' voice, he focused on the 'man' and felt himself going with the role of Logan, shadowrunner.

The Johnson's spiel was just a bit off the norm, as far as the previous SR releases went, but he figured it was a new version and therefore had its own quirks and surprises. Still, when assuming a role...

"Yeah, I got a question," he snarled in the low growl of a shady bruiser type. "Since yous makin yous offer an all, say wes takes yous up onnit...jus' for argument's sake, yous unnerstan. I ain't sayin yes or no at dis point, jus askin, right? So, say wes takes yous offer, dat mean yous'll be keepin tabs on us alla time? Cus I ain't too keen on dat, see? I mean, onna job an all, dat's one ting. But alla time? Yous'll be crampin my style, if yous know what I mean."

The Johnson looks at Logan and responds with:

"Surveillance in Sprawl will be as normal; patrolling law enforcement drones, megacorp complex monitors, and of course, every citizen with a video link to their PANs and comms. As for myself and my constituents, you will be monitored only during assigned missions. Your personal escapades are of no interest to us...unless, of course, your actions bring unwanted scrutiny upon myself or threaten to jeopardize our goals or that of the success of assigned missions. In that instance, you will become the subject of not only intense surveillance, but possibly lose any and all benefits of our arrangement and, if deemed necessary, become the target of a termination sanction. Understood?"

The Johnson's unnatural stillness seems somehow eerie, despite his being a CGI, even one as three-dimensional and life-like as this. You all notice his hands, fingertips resting lightly on his desktop, are covered in black gloves; unusual for a corp exec.

Ronin, Conference room

Ronin makes a formal bow to Mr. Johnson in greeting. As the others speak she looks at them quizzically, unable to follow their accented English.

She bows again to Mr. Johnson and speaks in her 'native' Japanese.

[Japanese] "You honor me with this offer Sir. I would need to know more about the tasks at hand before I accept or decline. There are things that I can and cannot do as well as things that I will not do. If the jobs fall outside of my abilities and my honor then I would be honor bound to decline as opposed to waste your valuable time."

The Johnson returns Ronin's bow as a superior to an inferior, but with that slightly added depth of respect to one who understands the unspoken relationship of employer to employee.

In flawless Japanese, he replies, "Greetings and welcome, Ronin. Your display of manners honors both of us. Be assured, our goals, as well as the tasks for which you will be assigned, shall not mar the honor and dignity of either you nor myself or my employer. The path of the samurai befits that of the trusted warrior as well as the worthy adversary alike. In the event that a task ill suits your code of conduct, alternate arrangements can be made."

Johnson bows again to Ronin in the traditional Japanese gesture of completion. He then turns again to address all at once.

"I have heard from three of you. Mr White Fox? Any concerns?"

Continuing in Japanese Ronin say, "Then I will sell my sword to your cause."

White Fox eyes up the asian beauty from the corner of his eye he wished he learned japanese...its always good to understand your teamates when there speaking in there own language. He then looks back the Jonhson.

"Im interested to hear what you have to say Mr. Jonhson...as to whenever I accept your offer or not is gonna depend just that"

He then leans back on the chair trying to relax

Johnson nods in agreement to White Fox's comment and says:

"Very good. Now, Mr Leo. I will make you this one-time offer to rescind your refusal. Accept my initial proposal and we may proceed as though it was your original decision. But if you choose to refuse this time, I will have no choice but to have you removed from this meeting. You will not be ejected from the game in total, but I assure you your 'situation' from that point will be extremely more difficult than if you accept my terms. What say you?"

Johnson gazes steadily at Leo, his eyes showing no emotion whatsoever, nor giving any hint as to his inclination of Leo's choice one way or the other.

Leo shaked his dreads, as if to rid his head of a bad memory or idea.
He looked mr. Johnson in the eye, and said reluctantly,
"O.K, mon, you gotta thi' rasta on your sida now."
And he smiled, a smile so hinest, so sincere, that anyone would have believed him that it was,
neglecting the fact that he was probably high.

The Johnson lowered himself into his deskchair with the first real expression so far - satisfaction. With steepled fingers held before him, he regarded the group of runner applicants.

"Excellent," he said, his silky voice laced with a hint of greed at the prospect of future gain. "Now, gentlemen, we can get down to biz."

With one hand, he reached to pick up a small metallic box that had lain inconspicuously amid the usual items found on any businessman's desk; pens in gaudy holders, anonymous paperwork, holograms of loved ones, etc. At the touch of the box, the image of the Johnson flickered for the briefest of moments; similar to that of a vid-screen whose signal is warped by interference. The only difference here is that instead of the entire image being affected, only the Johnson flickered. The Johnson continued - oblivious of the incident.

"Mr Leo, you will be relieved to know that in addition to the offered monthly 'retainer's fee,' each of you will receive the standard rate per job, modified according to completed objectives, performance, and other parameters set per job. I assure you-"

The Johnson flickered again, more violently this time and he is not only apparently aware but alarmed by the interference. He peered into his AR display for a few seconds, seemed to find nothing to explain the phenomenon, then, clearing his throat, tried to regain his equilibrium.

"-I assure you," he went on, "that your rates will be competitive to any you'd find as freelancers."

Another 'surge' seized the man. His entire body seemed to bulge as of extreme pressure from within. The Johnson, now panicked, abruptly rose from his desk and, pressing his hands to either side of his head as if to hold it together, looked at the runners with wide, suspicious, and more than a little fearful, eyes.

"What are -bzzzt- you people doing -bzzzt- to me?!" he cried in a voice that jigged and jagged up and down the register; now high and crackling with a noise like feedback from a PA system, now low and droning like the hum of heavy machinery.
Ripples began to break out on the man's arms and legs, running in random patterns but mostly emanating from some central point and moving outward along his body.

Suddenly, as if galvanized by some force unseen, the Johnson's image bulged outward once more and extended beyond any reasonable limit until his form grew to that of a hulking bull-like shape. The scream that accompanied this transformation rose in volume and pitch until the shriek was painful to bear. Fortunately, the high-pitched shriek was cut off as soon as the shape became solid again.

The figure standing before the group of runners was a minotaur over two meters tall and looking to be over two hundred and fifty kilograms of solid muscle. In a word - hard.

"Come with me...if you want to live."

The thing's voice was like that of a lowing bull, but the seriousness of its words and the authority with which it made this statement were undeniable.

White Fox eyes widdens an eyebrow raised

"Err what the hell?"

"What the frag..." Logan was on his feet in the blink of an eye, cyberware active and claws out, ready for combat if this bull-thing so much as sneezed in his direction. Unfamiliar with minotaurs, he was unable to make that connection, but the thing looked tough enough anyway.
"If yer lookin fer a scrap, I'd be happy to oblige," Logan said, raising his titanium claws like a boxer's ready stance. "Dis game's been as boring as watchin grass grow so far. So, what d'ya say, chummer?"

Ronin [Conference room]

As soon as the Johnson started to glitch Ronin took a few steps back.

As the glitching started to get worse she dropped into a defensive stance, sword in hand and ready to deflect any attack coming her way.

Then the deamon appeared, the horned head and cow face disturbing the young samurai.

Then it spoke: "Come with me...if you want to live."

Ronin didn't know what was happening but she remembered a Gaijin phrase she once heard "Better the devil you know than the devil you don't know" Well in this case she didn't know either devil but this one spoke with authority, it has been bred in her, programmed in her to follow authority, to serve.

She lowers her blade slightly, still ready for any dangers.

{japanese} "Lead demon, then when we are safe I trust there will be some explainations involved."

The minotaur looks puzzled at the term 'demon' used in reference to himself, then just as quickly dismisses it.

"This form you see now is only a construct - a projected image. There's not enough power for me to travel to you whole. Priority is getting the four of you here. I can aid you in escaping your containment, the rest is up to you. You will know what to do. Remember: power is limited, there is not much time."

With those cryptic words, the minotaur's image fades, leaving no sign of the Johnson. In fact, the entire game program seems to have gone offline. There is only darkness and the pressure of the liquid medium in the tanks.

You all hear the unmistakable sound of the maglocks on your tanks disengage.

With no way to communicate between yourselves, and no alternative sensory input, the only thing to do is make your way out of the tanks. The instant you push open the access door, you are all greeted by the sound of pandemonium. Frantic voices chatter incoherently. Electrical panels and wiring in both floor and ceiling sizzle and spit sparks. Intermittent lighting throws the interior of the underground chamber into stroboscopic confusion. One technician, obviously dead, sits slumped at a computer workstation, the headset dangling from one ear smokes as the plastic drips down the side of his head and onto the floor, his empty eyesockets and ears drip blood. Other technicians scurry hectically about the chamber as if lost or brain-fried.
All these sights are but background distractions, however, as each of you focus on the center of the chamber. Heavily-insulated power cables run from each of the four tanks to a central node; a two-foot-by-two-foot conduit panel acts as connector/distributor/transformer, and it is at this spot you all stare. Above the conduit, which is raised about a foot off the floor, hovers some kind of power nexus; a vortex roughly oval in shape and seeming to be drawing in on itself. Static charges of electricity radiate inward from several points along the inner edge of the vortex and extend inward to an impossible depth before vanishing into a point of total blackness. Bits of paper, charred debris, and smoke drift toward the vortex to be drawn inside where they simply disappear.

As each of you emerge from your tank, a technician rushes up to you and begins babbling incoherently about getting you either back in your tank, 'somewhere safe,' or nonsense syllables. All of them attempt to physically restrain you.

(OOC: This part is again back to players, not characters. Roleplay it out however you like, but the obvious goal is to enter the vortex.)

Climbing out of the tank, Suspect didn't like the sounds he was hearing in the chamber. Dripping with the fluid he'd been suspended in, he looked around at the flickering images kaleidoscoping through the area. Chaos was a mild term to describe the scene. But what riveted his gaze was the thing in the center of the room. What, were they expected to jump in that thing?

A technician, out of his head by the way he gibbered incessantly, came up to Suspect and tried to take hold of his arm. Without hesitation, Suspect slammed the tech's head against the tank door, then dumped the tech's slackening body into the tank, hearing a satisfying gurgle as he slammed the door shut. The maglock automatically engaged.

"I hate eggheads," he muttered as he stepped away from the tank and moved closer to the whirling, sizzling...whatever the frag it was humming and resonating in the middle of the chamber. Glancing around at his 'companions,' he saw that just about all of them were showing signs of wariness; something he was actually glad to see. One thing that concerned him more than his fellow gamers emotional state - the electrical current that seemed to permeate the portal or warp point or whatever. He looked down at his dripping wet and completely naked body and then back up at the thing. What looked like lightning bolts rimmed the thing's edges. The thought of getting fried almost immediately upon entering that thing was far from comforting.

'And,' he mused silently, 'just exactly what would be waiting for them once they got to...wherever. And more importantly, why was he even contemplating this in the first place? He was no hero. The very idea was laughable. He hated people. Had no interest in being a 'team player.' But the answer came as quick as one of the pieces of debris disappeared once it was caught in the portal's attraction -- '...if you want to live' that bull-thing had said. And against Suspect's usual disregard for authority figures, the guy had managed, in very few words, to touch a core concept in Suspect that overrode all other priorities --self-preservation.

So, heaving a sigh of resignation, he approached the portal-thing and, tentatively, reached out a hand to try and 'feel' it. With a flare of crackling power that engulfed him, though he felt no pain or any sensation at all, Suspect was drawn into the vortex and, seeming to dwindle in size until too small to see, vanished within the whirling tempest.

Bill pulled himself out of the tank, the chaos around him not quite reaching his brain. He moves like a man waking up, not sure what is real and what is the dream. Then the tech grabbed him, that was real, that was a threat. His body reacted before his fogged, confused brain could even register it: a kick to the junk and he grabbed the tech landing knees to his gut and face. Thank you Krav Maga, what was he saying?

Reality started to set in. This place was fragged. Bill stood there and stared at the vortex. How often had he dreamed of leaving this world through something exactly like that? He thought of his job and his history and took a step towards the vortex. Then he thought of his wife, he couldn’t leave here. Definitely couldn’t just disappear on her. If it wasn’t for her he would have followed the scowling guy right through. He turned away from the vortex and he ran. He had to get to an exit. He had to get out of here before that thing took him away.

[OOC yes I have actually studied Krav]

Matthew got out of the tank...the technician were rambling but he didint really pay attention. "Follow me....I guess he meant that big vortex thingie" He just moved on not listening to what the goggle head add to say...not really caring about it either and stepped into the vortex