Orlok and The Hangover

Orlok woke up with a gasp, shrouded in darkness. The first thing he noticed was the smell of burnt flesh. He reached a hand out to the back of his neck and it came away bloody. There was a burn mark on the back of his neck and a note had been crudely stapled to one side of his jugular. He pulled it loose with a whimper.

"Sorry, kiddo. Can't have the indentured menials getting loud and spilling company secrets. On the upside, you're no longer contracted to work in the mines. Maybe go become a junkie or something." The Letter was signed from Gene Wilder.

Orlok tried to move and found that his entire body was sluggish. Shock of the nervous system from when they wiped... From when they wiped that thing about...

Orlok's mind came up blank. The last week was nothing but a blur. He could only vaguely remember having a meeting with the CEO... After which he had apparently gotten fucked over.

At least he still had his book. The one he'd been given after... After something. he couldn't remember that either? Why?

Orlok's hand moved over to his pocket and found the book missing. He tried his other pockets but didn't find anything but a few unlit cigarettes. He growled and finally managed to stand. He looked wildly around the alleyway he'd been dumped in.

He felt for his shades and realized that one of the lenses was missing, the frame cracked. Without thinking, one of his calloused hands slammed into a metal trash bin. He tore them off and started hyperventilating.

He'd lost his book. And He'd lost his shades. And he'd lost some of his memories.

It was okay though! He'd just... he'd just have to stay calm. He'd just have to stay calm and collected. Otherwise he'd... heh...

"Otherwise I might end up going crazy. Heh." He chuckled darkly.

It was quiet at first but then broke into a slightly louder, amused sound. He abruptly cut off and scowled angrily again, only for a burst of manic laughter to burst out of his mouth.

"Well, chum, what's so funny. Not a lot of amusement to be found in these parts of the Hive, eh?" A voice said mockingly from behind him.

Orlok turned to regard a man leaning against the wall. He was short, and his hair was greased back amateurishly. Fucking Poser didn't even have any surgery scars on him.

"Oh, nothing just a funny night. What's your name, chum? How's it going?" He asked in a friendly voice.

"Meh, not too great. Just had a fight with my girl. Looking to blow off some steam. Hobos around here make really good killing, ya know? I sometimes wonder if old Rowan Krieger doesn't like to use them in that club of hers. Either way, just stay still and I promise I'll leave ya alive... mostly." The man chuckled and leapt towards him with a wrench.

It slammed into his stomach with a sickening crack but Orlok didn't even flinch even as he registered a rib being broken.

"What the fu-" The man asked dumbly but was cut off as Orlok put a hand over his mouth and bodily hurled him into the nearest wall.

He scowled no and then broke out into giggles.

"Wow. They sure don't make em tough around here. You only broke one rib. Yeah, cool, right? I don't have any cybernetics or implants but I went through an accident a while ago. I developed Congenital insensitivity to pain. I can feel ya' hit me but not much else. I have to be careful I don't get hurt and not realise, though."

Orlok slammed a hand against the man's nose, breaking it. He cried out but stopped when he was picked up again and tossed through a wooden board somebody had placed against the end of the alley.

Orlok contemplated what to do with the motherfucker and then burst out laughing when an idea hit him. He peered at the note. Gene Wilder was going to hurt for this. He didn't know what was important enough to waste a mind-wipe on an indentured menial like him but he had a funny feeling it would be worth a lot of money to the right people.

He stalked over to the downed man and grabbed a fistful of his hair.

"Hey, this Rowan person? You mentioned a club. She some kind of big-shot crime boss?"

"The fuck do you, asshole? Rowan Krieger runs this whole fucking sublevel. You just crawl outta a rock?"

"Yeah. Tell ya what, why don't you let me know where to find her. I Promise I'll leave you alive, mostly." Orlok grinned.

The man sputtered off an address and Orlok nodded to himself.

"It's good that people around here are so kind," He said with false cheer "Helping a stranger out like that. Cheers." He kicked the man in the side of the head and spat in disgust.

Who knew? Maybe Rowan knew somebody who could dig the information out of his head. He'd have to ask nicely to see her and make an offer. He pocketed the note gently and drew out a fag, lighting it with a grin.

He broke out into hysterical laughter and started walking.

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