Orlok and The Random Dude

Orlok had grabbed some new leather trousers and a shirt from the goons he'd offed and had cleaned the blood in the trench coat but still resented the loss of his pom. He mussed up his hair in an attempt to hide the non-pomness and sighed. He checked his watch.

Still twelve hours until his little project was complete. He patted himself down. He had a SMG at his side and a few grenades stuffed into the pockets of his trenchcoat. He'd had to make do with a shitty biker helmet instead of shades. He checked the rounds in the dual autoshotguns he'd decided he was now very fond of.

Sure, he couldn't aim or fight worth a damn but that didn't matter if you had a fuckton of bullets.

"Dakka?! Iz You'z Usin Enuff' O It!?!!" He chuckled.

Orlok grabbed the two duffle bags worth of weapons he hadn't either put into an emergency stash or rigged up as traps to keep his shit safe. He was worried about leaving the plant but he'd been able to get the automated security up and running and disconnected form the main grid, so he'd at least be able to see if anyone came calling while he was out without worrying about false footage.

"Have a nice day, dickface." The malfunctioning terminal chuckled at him as he left.

"Okay. So. I have food and water thanks to corpses and that one leaky pipe on the roof respectively. I'll need a minion soon but that'll take twelve hours. First up. Need more repair gel, a trip to the doctor for medical supplies, a place to buy a nicer bed, a place to sell off some guns and a whole lot of other stuff." Orlok ran a hand over his mask and sighed.

Yeah, no. This was bullshit. He had way too much logistics to take care of. Rowan seemed to think he was very entertaining, TOO entertaining to leave the fuck alone. Not the mention he could smell the fucking drama with this Logos guy.

Orlok scratched at some invisible itch on his head. Someone was whispering something at him. He thought it might be an organic mindhack but then he turned to a broken mirror in the hall and gasped at the image of a rotting face, flesh falling off of it in great swathes.

He yelped, smashed a hand into it and fell back onto his arse.

"So, murder, cannibalism and mutilation of the dead. Aren't you just such a nice person?" An angry voice hissed at the back of his head.

"Oh lovely, another voice in the back of my brain telling me I'm a kak person. Whoopdefucking doo. Get in line, tossbag."

Something scratched at his neck and he turned, finding nothing.

"I'm a lot realer than that, I assure you."

"Says every disembodied voice ever. Fuck off." Orlok growled and stormed to the main lobby.

A turret he'd set up with a machine gun turned at him in alert but calmed down when it recognized his bio-signature.

"Nice craftsmanship." The voice chuckled. It sounded feminine .

"Your mom is nice craftsmanship."

He stormed out the front doors, having bolted them back into place the hard way and reinforcing them with a few spikes attached to the ceiling, ready to drop at a moment's notice.

"What are you even doing? You're just running around a sewage plant playing zombie-king. Got an end goal in mind, smart man?" The voice teased.

He didn't have an end-goal, honestly. At this point he was just doing shit to kill the boredom and not be left alone with his thoughts. That way lay madness even he wouldn't try to fight, his own.

The thumbed some credits and cursed the fact he didn't have a bank implant, still having to use cash. He pulled his hoody up and stalked out the front doors, hailing a dilapidated cab on his way out.

"Hey, entrance to the top levels." He waved some money at the driver.

"Err... You sure buddy? OSEC don't like visitors that way. Sometimes shoot before asking questions." The man tried to warn him.

"Positive. Here's a tip. Make it snappy."

He had about five thousand credits on him. Apparently the tribe he'd offed had just come from another job and had some cash on them. Orlok huffed as he got nearer to the OSEC part of Little Oracle. He made sure his hood was drawn up over his helmet.

"Just here."

"You sure? It's just a com station." The driver said.

Orlok threw some money at him and left the car with a curt thanks.

The coms station was small and under-manned if the lone corporate guard there was any indication. He was clearly dozing but woke up as soon as Orlok got close.

He said something but Orlok didn't pay attention. He flashed a thousand credits.

"Hey there, big guy. Need to make a call on OSEC channels. Won't be long."


In the end the person he'd been looking to get hold of wasn't available at that moment so he'd just left a typed message. Getting Romeo's contact details normally would have been impossible considering he didn't even know what a fucking alpha was, curse his limited knowledge of topsider politics. Still, he'd managed to catch a glimpse of a make number and a barcode on his neck during their fight.

He hoped he'd guessed his contact details correctly as he typed a message on a very well encrypted channel that he was positive wouldn't be traced back to the original sending point. It read as follows.


Heard OSEC is having some problems with Logos. I think I can help. Meet me at the entrance to the flesh pits in a week. Feel free to bring friends if you're feeling paranoid.


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