A short Shadowrun fan-fic I’ve had in-mind and been slowly adding to. Will try to flesh out and finish the rest later today or in following days, but I’m comfortable with what I’ve got so far as an opening. Since the nature of fan fiction is that one writes it for love of a fictional world by being part of its fandom, this work has been an effort for pleasure.
A dual-rotored vertical take-off and lift helicopter, the flag of the American Confederate states displayed on either side of it behind the cockpit bubble, ascends from the flattened pad that is the uppermost segment of a sleek naval vessel, where other aircraft remain dormant, the lower segments of the military-grade boat forming an arch that meets a pair of skis upon where it floats over the dark night-time ocean. As soon as the aircraft is beyond a small distance, before the vessel even begins to diminish in-size, it abruptly disappears from sight, where it was only waves uninterrupted by the craft floating calmly in-place.
One heavily armored mercenary, an American Confederate flag upon one shoulder pad, looks out the open side of the helicopter to witness the sudden disappearance, taken aback in surprise. He knew of the Russian mage aboard, maintaining a spell to shield the Pacific Prosperity Group’s vessel from direct sight as already the design and technology aboard kept it undetected from radar and sonar to be the staging grounds for operations run off of the Western coast of Aztlan, but he had rarely experienced such powerful magic himself. Lower level maintenance and cleaning staff, as well as grunts stuck with guard-duty, were told that the invisibility is the result of groundbreaking stealth technology from the Yamatetsu Corporation, headquarted in Vladivostok, Russia.
But higher level officers, and offensive special forces mercenaries, were advised of the elf mage due to the risk of running into the sorcerer in compartments maintained for personnel above a certain security clearance level, and as a warning to practice respect for contracted individuals still holding a racist bias towards meta-humans. A rarity lately in the world of private affairs, due to the increasingly known benefits of magic in the eyes of big business and the interconnected world dominated by currency unconcerned with race, but of which there still remained a few stubborn close-minded souls yet to be replaced as their years of experience rendered them valuable.
Recently contracted mercenary Micheal Long was born in the Free Californian State, having formed part of the coalition of forces from the entities divided within what was once the United States and Canada to defeat Aztlan’s military incursion, a personal witness to native American Ghost Walker’s transformation into the latest ascended dragon to defeat feathered serpent Quetzacoatl. A surprise come-back after Aztlan forces armed with experimental arms provided by Aztechnology, numbers bolstered by their own mercenaries, and personally led by Quetzacoatl, since you’d better bring your dragon if you plan to fight the United States as he once-joked, had left North American Coalition forces so decimated defeat was considered a certainty.
Yet, now empowered with a dragon of their own to lead them, Aztlan was beaten back from all the territory it had acquired, deposed from their brief rule over a strip of land that reached up to Denver, Colorado, until the border between Aztlan and the powers of the former United States once-more appeared what it had been since the era of Mexico. A man, with no discovered supernatural powers, but capable of all the abilities military physical training allows.
Constant battle, and an ever-present fear of death during the campaign against Aztlan had left his formerly open-minded liberal soul callous, and lacking in enthusiasm before the world’s many surprises, turning him an outcast from the more libertine culture of the Free Californian State. Besides him, his only friend and mentor in private military operations so far, George Stone, is calmly tucked into a row of seated heavily-armed men, rifle between his thighs, both hands upon it. African-American skin hidden beneath the visored helmets they all wore, integrated with nocturnal optics, shielding from concussive blasts and audio exceeding levels safe to the human, and meta-human ears, as well as integrated video recording.
A few more mercenaries occupy the space before the seats, on the floor gripping handles to avoid sliding into the open air, at the booted feet of a commanding officer and his subordinate assistant standing overlooking the group, between them and the cockpit ahead. George was an outcast himself, similarly condemned to life as a man in a world of transhumans and metahumans, of New Orleans deep in the American Confederate States still divided by racial tensions. And a fellow veteran of the conflict against Aztlan.
He spots a second dual-rotored aircraft suddenly pop into existence as it leaves the radius of the cloaking field, the hollow central compartment almost entirely occupied by a sole hulking troll, wielding an autocannon usually only fielded by armored vehicles, and his two accompanying ammo bearers, before a commanding officer’s bark turns his attention towards the front of the cargo space within the aircraft he rides in. Clearly audible over the constant near-silent hum of the dual rotor blades maintaining the aircraft’s thrust.
‘So, for anyone who fell asleep in the briefing room, objective is to capture a member of Yucatan Rebel forces in the operating area, some rural dump in Chiapas, lotta jungle making satellite surveillance useless in finding their hiding place. Extra payment for the capture of a field or commanding officer. Pacific Prosperity Group wants a witness account to a believed collusion between Aztechnology, and the Yucatan autonamous region led by feathered serpent Pobre funding militant activities beyond his borders. Since these groups do not allow Aztlan to harvest resources from areas yet to be vacated of indigenous savages, it is believed Aztechnology has been equipping them with modern weaponry to keep other interests from operating there in competition, even when some foreign companies claim land rights under ownership bought from alleged land owners seeking to rid themselves of territory they can’t use. Since no rebel terrorist shithead has willingly given him or herself up for interrogation, we’ve got to go extend them an invitation ourselves, so that Aztechnology can be taken before the corporate council on more than just an assumption. Should be plenty to grab in this area, Aztlan mostly just lets them be since support for rebel groups still remains high among artsy types, Catholics yet to convert to the state religion, and the poor idiots nostalgic for the shithole that was Mexico among their citizens.’
He pauses to glance over the group, before continuing with confidence to their undivided attention.
'I don’t think the American Confederate State banner needs an explanation, but before anyone gets curious, some would-be slaver from Mississippi got scammed out of his plantation dreams when no one would help him vacate some squatters on land he bought. And we’re only here to pluck one, not to engage in war against a heavily armed insurgency within foreign borders. So he can go fuck himself, doubly if we’re caught and someone comes to the idea a Confederate citizen is behind this.’
Announces the man standing at the head of the group, obscuring the pilots from view, similarly hidden beneath a visored helmet but with an Eastern European accent to hint at his background throughout the speech as it comes to a conclusion with a small cackle, before adding, 'Now, any questions?’
George’s deep voice booms in response, amplified by his helmet’s external speakers, 'Yeah, if Aztlan already wants the land, why not use say, the Aztlan banner, or the Aztechnology logo, over the Confederate banner?’
The more slender armored woman standing besides the commanding officer responds in his place, with an Eastern European accent of her own, 'Lengthen the investigation, no one of Aztlan’s forces will have seen any movement at the nearest garrison, nor authorized it, and will be quick to declare such to avoid war with Yucatan. Aztechnology likes to activate a hidden cell of Guerreros for even copyright infringement of images, so it’s just swamp hicks playing out a Rambo fantasy, quickly disowned as private actors by their own Confederacy as trigger-happy rednecks using the flag out of nationalism while they liquidate the perceived financier of the operation’s assets.’
She coolly explains, as the Western coast of Southern Aztlan enters view below a starry night sky in the horizon beyond what’s visible of the cockpit past the two officers and pilots ahead.
'Now, questions regarding terrain, expected amount of rebel troops, or their arsenal?’ She asks, letting the question hang to a moment of silence.
The group of mercenaries awaiting deployment remain hushed, staring ahead at the two officers as they remain confident they’ve seen anything possible, much to the officer’s annoyance.
The higher ranking C.O. speaks next, with an irate tone, 'Okay, we’re running out of time, and you illiterate fucks clearly aren’t here for your accomplishments in the classroom. Expect roughly 200 rebels, they patrol the perimeter jungle in groups of 4 to 12, known assets lotta old FN Fal, AKM rifles somehow still not rusted and other small arms, maybe an old RPG-7 or two left-over from the days of FARC, indirect fire support in the form of mortars, some armed technicals with aging anti-tank tubes or heavy machine guns along jungle trails, one was spotted by satellite entering the area by night recently equipped with an old anti-air flak cannon on the truck bed at some mechanics shop in the nearest town, can’t pronounce the name of whatever they call those shacks, doubt any of you can, so after drop-off our birds will be avoiding flying over the area.’
A pilot interrupts this second speech to confirm distance to landing area, the Pacific Prosperity Group’s private security officer simply glances over his shoulder to look past the cockpit at the dark jungle terrain before looking back without an answer, to continue the briefing.
'Since these groups tend to draw Amazonia lovers, and receive support from the South Americans for it, expect some magic. And whatever the hell Aztechnology’s been gifting them, you’ll be dropped off about 50 kilometers West of where intel believes their operating base in the area is. Pure jungle between the landing field and there. Try not to attract heat just after drop-off, it’s also your exfil point. Kill witnesses if need-be. Exfil crafts, the ones your asses are already tainting, will be on stand-by in the sky until oh-500, unless satellite surveillance detects some inbound Aztlan military aircraft. Given that, or the operation extending beyond 0500, expect rescue to take longer if we can determine reaching you is still worth it, which will be if you’ve got a juicy terrorist for us or some piece of Aztech weaponry, otherwise expect yourself on your own and shit out of luck, Confederate hick. Drop-off’s in 5 mikes.’
By Manuel Ignacio Mier Aguirre, Jr. 31st of May, 2020.