Shadowrun: Kings of the Street (A Shadowrun Novella)

By O. C. Presley

RUNNING WILD IN THE STREETS...

Pícaro is a street kid living in the slums of Tenochtitlan, resigned to his dead-end life, and just trying to survive until the next day. But when his grandmother falls ill, he throws in with drug pushers to try and earn enough money to save her, until he gets what he thinks is an even better idea—robbing his connection.

Betrayed by a former friend, Pícaro is turned over to the most powerful street gang in the barrio, and expects a quick death. Instead, he is made one of them, and when his own magical ability begins to emerge, Pícaro realizes there's more to life than just survival.

But as he delves deeper into the gang's motives, and their charismatic, mysterious leader Serpiente, Pícaro soon learns that the gang has its own darker plan for the neighborhood…and if he doesn't take a stand against them, it could mean the destruction of everything he holds dear… 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Catalyst Game Labs
• Release date: Feb 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201653569

Book preview

PROLOGUE

It was close to midnight. A crescent moon cast its light through sickly trees, creating an army of shadows all around the park’s lone visitor. He was large for a human, stocky and muscular with close-cropped hair. He hunched over, spreading red powder on the ground until it formed a circle three meters across, with mystic designs inside it. In the center of the circle, he placed a small statuette: a serpent, bearing arcane symbols.

The man undressed, folded his clothes, and placed them on a dilapidated bench outside the circle. The moonlight illuminated dull black tattoos over his entire body, the largest a serpent that entwined up the length of his right leg and sprawled out to cover most of his chest. In the pale light, his skin looked the same color as the bark of the sabino tree off to his right, near the pond. He craned his head around, as if checking for observers, and then looked up toward an old clock tower on the other side of the park.

Almost time. Fortunately, the intersection of the magic lines here keeps the nature growing; makes it easier reaching out to the other side. But not too often. If my hombres could see me now. Naked in an old park, getting magic dust in my ass. Best for all of us I ordered them away.

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and looked around once more. He rubbed his hands on his face and short beard, then sat in the circle with his legs crossed. He sat quiet, motionless, waiting. He sat so still that if one squinted, the man and the sabino might appear to be brother trees, one with cones and needles, and one with short cropped dark hair and brown eyes.

On any given day, Tenochtitlan was a loud, filthy mess. Breathing was deadly; brownish-grey haze filled the sky, and the sounds of industry were the background noise to Aztlaner life. There was little smog tonight, but still the man began to cough. Once at first, and then more, each cough growing in intensity until the man doubled over and began to retch. The dry heaves turned to coughing up mucous, and blood soon followed. And after the blood, ink-black monsters, creeping and writhing, spewed from his mouth. The darkness obscured but did not hide their hairy, segmented, thorny, mucous-dripping bodies. They were nightmares from every nightmare, sewn together with threads of blood.

A hiss as loud as a passing plane filled the air and drowned out all other noise. To the man’s horror, the snake tattoo on his chest writhed against him and peeled away from his skin. It grew before his eyes, filling three dimensions, its enormous frame illuminated by its glowing red eyes.

"Soon, with your help, I will come. The serpent’s tongue formed the words with a hiss. Your service has not gone unnoticed. I trust my power has been helpful?"

This was not like the last time; not how it felt, not how it appeared!

Forcing himself back to calm, he replied, "Yes. There have been none strong enough to stop me. But I need more. In a confrontation with la policia or one of the priests, we would be undone…for all of your gifts, I am not invulnerable." The man’s face twisted, a duel of ambition and pain as the creatures of filth crawled all around him.

"I will grant the power you seek, but there is a price."

Always a price.

"Move with caution, small king. If you fail me, you will lose everything. Are you willing to sacrifice?"

Yes.

"Then have what you seek." The serpent’s movements became rigid and slow as it shrunk and reformed onto the man’s body.

Once again, he looked to the clock tower. Still midnight. Was I dreaming?

He stood, rubbed his eyes, and stretched. The monsters had vanished, the park, one of the only places left in the undercity untouched by civilization, was peaceful again, and everything looked exactly the same as before.

Except—no. Not everything.

The tattooed serpent, previously dull black, was now scarlet red.

1

Even after years sleeping on low-piled carpet covering the concrete floor, Pícaro never stopped hoping that some night, one of the older folks would let him sleep in a real bed. But that night wasn’t last night. Stretching his limbs past the edge of his blanket, he pushed himself off the floor. The single bathroom served four other families, all Pícaro’s close relatives, so he had to wake early to get ready.

After showering, he washed his hands, brushed his teeth, and since they were the first thing people noticed when they saw orks, paid special attention to his tusks. The enamel of his tusks were a sharp contrast to his dark olive skin.

Looking bad-ass. He grinned a satisfied smile into the mirror.

He kept his dark hair short, so he didn’t have to mess with it, but paid special attention to grooming the hair above his lip that wasn’t quite worthy to be called a mustache yet.

Even while everyone else was still asleep, the monorails and freeways created a constant hum in the house, like a mechanical river babbling, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. Tenochtitlan was a multilevel city. The wealthy and middle classes lived above the overroutes—the superhighways connecting the entire megasprawl. Everyone else lived in the undercity, on the ground level beneath the highways and nicer buildings. The sun, for all of its importance to Aztlaners, did not shine as brightly for Tenochtitlan’s poor.

Pícaro stepped cautiously over his sleeping sisters, nieces, and nephews still sprawled across the faded carpet. He wasn’t built large like his uncles, but he was still an ork, and stepping on smaller children with his big feet would cause damage, or worse, drama. Their home had three bedrooms, but with his abuela Alicía’s children and their children all living there, three wasn’t enough. He was used to the threadbare carpet, the chipped paint, the peeling wallpaper. The yellowish stains on almost everything, chronicling years of smoke, pollution, and neglect.

I hate this dump. I don’t deserve to be stuck living here like a rat. I’m better than this. We’re better than this. Most of us, anyway

Pícaro stared up through the dirty living room window toward the overroute. The poison air glazed everything greyish brown. Azcapotzalco District was a slum, but Pícaro liked it a small bit better than Cuajimalpa de Morelos, where they used to live. But he didn’t like to think about that place. Pícaro never complained to anyone about his home or their poverty. He’d been told all his life that family was everything, and he didn’t want to seem ungrateful. Family helped you when no one else would. In Azcapotzalco, la policia didn’t respond quickly, if at all, and when they did, orks weren’t high priorities. Pícaro learned without family and friends, you had nothing.

With school still a few hours away, Pícaro retreated to the crawlspace under the downstairs closet and listened to his JetBlack songs, forgetting his life for a few precious moments. His friends chided him for liking old Americano music. Pícaro liked Aztlaner trog rock too, or what there was of it. In fact, when he was young, he used to sing the Por los Cuernos song, "Pícaro!" until he was hoarse. His family joked the name was appropriate, since he was a troublemaker, so they began to call him Pícaro, or rogue, instead of his given name, Juanatano.

But no matter how much he liked good trog rock, he always came back to JetBlack. As the music carried him away, his hands brushed a piece of paper tacked on the wall. An advertisement for Recapitate the Saint, a JetBlack cover band. They weren’t great, but they were having a concert after school today, just down the street at the Amanecer de la Tierra theatre.

That’s gonna kick so much ass. Just gotta make it through school, then I’ll ask Talia out. If all goes well, I’ll have a date and a life for the first time. Ever.

Unfortunately, the moment of zen he carved for himself didn’t last long.

Juanatano! came a low growl from the kitchen. "Get your ass in here. It’s time you started acting like the chicano ork you are and not some pansy elf listening to Americano music by yourself all the time! That’s what knife-ears do! Now get in here!"

"Fine, tío, I’m coming! Pícaro spat through gritted teeth. His face was turning red. And I’m not an elf!"

Turning a corner into the kitchen, Pícaro strode through the chattering kids getting ready for school to face his uncle. A muscular ork, with olive skin and dark hair, similar to Pícaro, but his hair was longer; slicked back, as was the fashion among many chicanos in Aztlan. "You better watch your tone around me, niño. I’ll kick your ass, just like last time. The older ork flexed his upper body so his neck became rosy as he thrust his tusks into Pícaro’s face. This time, I’ll beat you in front of that little girl you’ve been dreaming about and watch snot drip down your tusks while you cry like the pinche elf girl you are!"

One of these days, Pícaro thought, I’d love to kick YOUR ass.

Of course, he was powerless to enforce his unspoken threat, and so he slipped into an all too familiar posture of submission; shoulders low, arms at his sides, dropping his gaze to the floor. "Sorry, tío. What do you want?"

That’s better. The older ork stood up straight, arched his back with a sigh, opened the fridge, and grabbed a beer. I got something to do today. I can’t work, so you gotta go down and wait with the guys and see if anyone’s hiring.

That’s bulldrek! Pícaro said. "Abuela said I don’t have to work while I’m in school. That’s why she lets you live here. His uncle raised his eyebrows and a snarl curled his lips. The younger kids who had been going about their normal morning rituals suddenly stopped, looking terrified at this outburst, but instead of stopping, Pícaro stood up taller. You probably just want to stay home so you can get drunk and cheat on Anna with another one of your pathetic—"

Pícaro was not prepared to be hit with such force. As his body toppled to the floor, he tried to use his legs to regain his balance, but instead crashed into one of his younger nephews, Tomás, causing the child to begin wailing.

Turning back to his uncle, Pícaro brought up his hands to block any further blows. But none came. Instead, he peered through his upraised hands to see his abuela scowling at his uncle, her furled brow and broken tusks saying everything. With cold anger in her voice, she said, If you ever touch my grandchild again, Davíd, you will have to find another overcrowded house to stay in. Is that clear?

Yeah, yeah, Alicía. I get it. Davíd’s eyes rolled; dismissing her words, even as he agreed to them with his lips. "But