“Expert Team Three! Expert Team Three! Report to ambulance 844-01! Crisis on Green and Queen Victoria! Expert Team Three! Report to Report to ambulance 844-01 immediately!”
The blaring klaxon and the voice on the loudspeaker startle you. The paramedics drop what they’re doing, grab their DocWagon jackets and hats and charge through the door and into the garage beyond. You manage to grab most of your gear and head for the Citymaster at top speed.
“Hurry the frag up!” Gordon shouts.
He and Viv help you climb into the back of the Citymaster. Once you’re all loaded in, the door slams shut and the interior lights blink on. You hear the siren as the Citymaster lurches forward, nearly spilling you on your ass.
Gordon is speaking into an intercom that you assume connects to the cab, while Viv buckles herself into a fold-out bench-seat. You continue stashing your gear away and fastening your armor, finishing up as Gordon shuts off the intercom and buckles himself in.
“Here’s the situation, terps,” he tells you. “our client is a Miss Zammia, 23, 5’4” 50 kilos, black hair and black eyes cosmetically altered to purple. No allergies. Registered cyberware: datajack and cyberdeck headware. Voiceprint didn’t match her voice with the caller’s but the caller reported that she’d suffered severe head trauma. I heard gunfire in the background. Am I forgetting anything?" He frowns and looks at Viv, who shakes her head.
“Good.” he says with a grim smile. Then he leans against the side of the Citymaster and closes his eyes.
A couple minutes later a voice squawks over the intercom. "Gunfire’s heavy. Powering cannon. It sounds like Shawn’s monotone. “Deviants engaged with Lone Star Security Services.”
Grimacing. Viv leans over and talks into the intercom. “Shawn, where is our client?”
There is a brief pause, then the intercom squawks again. “With the deviants.”
Gordon groans. “What a fragging great day this is gonna be.” Viv frowns at him, but he ignores her.
The Citymaster lurches to a stop. Shawn’s voice fills the rear cabin. “Destination reached rear hatch unlocked. Watch yourselves.”
You can hear small- and medium caliber weaponry being fired and smell the acrid stench of cordite as soon as you pop the rear doors. As you prepare to escort the paramedics to their client, you hear a hoarse, “Over here! Over here!” followed by a burst of gunfire.
The shout came from the right side of this T-intersection, where a chewed-up Leyland-Rover serves as a temporary barricade. On the other side of the street are two Chrysler-Nissan Patrol-Ones parked sideways as cover for the cops crouching behind them.
“C’mom terp, get a move on!” Gordon growls, motioning you toward the Leyland-Rover. “The longer we wait, the sooner she’ll die!”