wr3n

	The back of the coyote’s van stank of sweat and oil.  Itzel shrank down between the humans she was sandwiched between, trying to avoid eye contact with the mangy looking dwarf across from her.  She kicked her bag further underneath her seat, painfully aware her white, straight teeth and clean, smooth hands were as helpful as her pointed ears in remaining inconspicuous.  Even though thin metal insulation covered the interior, shielding from potential scanning or tags inside, the patter of rain against the roof made its way to Itzel, and she could hear muffled discussion from the cab.  She thought she recognized Bonearm’s voice, mostly likely driving.  The orc had promised safe passage and that troublemakers would be promptly dealt with.  If not, though…she wondered how quick it would take to access her gear.
	Eight people were scrunched together like sardines, including herself.  Counting Bonearm and his help up front, another two.  Not that they’d turn on a client, but she’d been taught to expect every possibility in a hostile situation.  Potentially nine targets if they decided to capitalize on who she was.  Used to be.  Itzel figured the humans next to her would fall to her shockgloves, giving her a window to get her target pistol.  On the range, she could hit every sheet of paper at center mass.  But when there were more targets than rounds in a cylinder, that didn’t help much.  Less so when the targets were moving towards you while you were all in the back of a Eurovan with spent shocks.  A rifle and a proper perch and distance would be better for the numbers…
  	A jolt interrupted her train of thought.  Brakes screeched, causing everyone to jerk towards the front of the van, and Itzel to fall into the man on her left.  He was about to open his mouth, focusing his late model artificial eyes on her, before heated shouting from outside caught everyone’s attention.  For a moment, there was silence except the steady fall of rain.  Then gunshots pierced the night and new holes let neon into the back of the van, illuminating Itzel and the other’s scramble to the floor, two corpses still in their seats, and red splatter on everything.
__________________________________________________________________________________________

	Three months after beginning to investigate smugglers, Itzel walked into Bonearm’s office with circles underneath her eyes she hadn’t had at the start of her research.  It was on the edge of an Aztec arcology, a mixed barrio where desirables and undesirables intermingled.  A squeaking fan slowly spread cigar smoke around the room, and the hanging ceiling was a collage of stains.  The orc, dressed in faded coveralls, sat behind the desk scrolling through what looked like a BBS with a prosthetic arm advertised by a chrome coating.  He looked up at the young elf, puffed on his cigar, and returned to browsing, bothering to say, “Hoi,  little bird.  You don’t belong here.”
	“Excuse me?”  Itzel broke her power pose, eyes narrowing and lips turning down.  This was not the ‘no questions asked’ welcome advertised.  “I got ya nuyen, I found ya current location, so I got a spot on ya next trip outta Aztlan.”
	Still focusing on his feed, the orc replied, “We don’t like dealing in runaways, especially ones that look like they come from money.”  Itzel looked down.  With her vintage 2055 parka, out of style with exposed armor plates, ubiquitous dyed blue hair, and vending machine jeans, she looked like she could almost belong to the area.  “Your gear, little bird.  Custom goggles, an upscale commlink, no visible augmentations.  That reeks of corporate or runner.  And no one can afford directed Aztechnology heat.”
	“Hey, chummer.  Me being corp just means I can afford whatever extra rates ya charge me, ya know?  How old do ya think I am?”  Itzel could feel herself losing her cool, lessons on interaction and etiquette slipping away with her growing annoyance at this patronizing trog.  Out of every option she had considered, Bonearm’s ogranization was the most secure, had the highest record of success, and was best at keeping clients’ anonymous after the crossing.  She had taken every precaution, purchasing tag erasers and detectors to make sure she was clean and religiously turning off all wireless devices.  Now that she had finally taken the steps to make contact, she couldn’t face a reality working with her family.  Not after what she’d seen.
	“I don’t know and I don’t care.”  Pressing a few buttons, the ork closed his feed, sat his chair upright, and locked his cybereyes on Itzel’s natural ones.  “You’ve clearly done your research.  And even showing up here takes courage, especially for a little bird like yourself.  But I run a business, not a charity.  I’m no angel.  I can’t afford for you to learn an expensive life lesson with a cost to my men and other clients."
	Inside her head, Itzel felt her perception narrow to a tiny point.  Her breathing muffled all other sounds, and the squeaking fan seemed far and in the distance.  She didn’t puke the night she saw her mother working in the pit, the night she comprehended why it was so paramount to her family that she awakened eventually.  She wasn’t going to let this orc see her lunch, either.  The rest of the room was black save for him.  She inhaled, exhaled, then tried to refocus, putting both her hands down on the desk to keep her balance but hoping it came off as an act of strength.  Eyes wide, face stern, Itzel leaned forward.  “What do I need to do to show ya I mean business?”
__________________________________________________________________________________________

	Outside the van, gunfire continued, with shouting and the tingling of glass punctuating the brief silences.  Itzel couldn’t tell if Bonearm’s voice was among them.  Shoving a dead man’s legs aside, she grabbed her bag and got it opened, popping her goggles on and grabbing her Omni-6 revolver from its hidden sleeve.  The cabin’s insulation did its job, though, and she could only get mangled readings of what was going on through the bulletholes.  Fewer of them were forming now, and all were safely above the cowered survivors’ heads, stray shots from different targets.
	The others on the floor were in the process of getting their own belongings save for the mangy dwarf, who crouched slightly upright by the rear doors, shaking, one hand not fully grasping the handle.  Sweat trickled down his face and his black eyes raced in his head.  The only other elf, a man with a scarred face and a surprising number of agelines, noticed and shook his head.  Still panicking, the anxious passenger didn’t notice and started to put more force in his grip. Itzel reached out and lightly touched the dwarf’s leg.
	“Don’t do it.  You’ll get us all geeked,” she spat through her clenched teeth, staying as low as possible.
	For a moment, the dwarf looked as if he comprehended the situation.  His eyes focused and seemed to take in his surroundings for the first time since diving to the floor.  Then he turned to the younger elf and shouted, “I ain’t taking orders from no pampered dandelion-eater!”  Kicking her hand away and elbowing the older elf moving to stop him in the face, the dwarf threw open both doors and rolled out into the rain.  Standing up, he began to splash his way to an alley framed by a white Yebisu Beer advertisement and No Exit sign.
	Itzel and the others still in the van held their breath waiting to see the dwarf’s fate.  One of the humans muttered, “The crazy dreckhead is actually going to make it,” and moved towards the open doors himself.  That’s when everyone noticed the blue ball leaving a streak through the rain drops outside.  The stunbolt hit the dwarf in the small of his back, burning through his coat and causing him to pitch forward and splash down against the ground.  He laid still in the rain about fifteen paces away from salvation.  Inside, Itzel felt her heart sink.  Very few groups would be using mages in Aztlan.  Her family belonged to the most powerful one.
__________________________________________________________________________________________

	“We wouldn’t be here today without your help.  Everyone in your crew truly is an angel.”
	Itzel flashed her teeth.  There were times when she wondered if going full razorgirl was worth it, but today wasn’t one of those.  Each of her augments played a role today.  She carefully retracted her hand spurs and turned down her arm’s chipped strength to accept the changeling’s embrace.  “We knew what we were getting into when we got into this business.  You’re safe now.  That’s all” *TING TING* “part of the job.”
	“Please, at least take” *TING TING* “this.” *TING TING*
	She paused the image of the changeling, an actor playing a rescued corporate experiment, and pushed her goggles up on her forehead with her very much still flesh and blood hands.  Outside of the trideo, Itzel sat sprawled in a tattered recliner, the rest of the safe house in similar condition.  She tilted her head back to get an upside down look at Bonearm, chrome finger paused before a fourth tap. “It’d be a shame for you to fly from the nest only to become a deckhead.  Especially after you came through for us.  You shouldn’t watch that ‘runner drek, anyway.”
	“I’m killing time, ya know?” In one smooth motion, Itzel pulled her legs close to her chest and sprung to her feet, pivoting to face the orc.  “There’s not much to do around here, anyways.”  She paused, grin fading and eyes growing serious.  “Do ya know when everyone will be ready to cross?  The longer I stay here…”
	“Don’t worry. That’s what I came to talk to you about.”  Bonearm took out a dossier from a briefcase that looked out of place against his worker’s clothes.  “Your new SIN.  All the connected licenses you requested.  We’re getting the others’ theirs now and plan to leave in the evening.  You need to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.  No more trids.”
	Itzel stared at the folder before grabbing it from the large orc.  She flipped it open.  Identification showing a new life without Itzel, without the surname Huitzilopochtli, but her face, eyes, hair, bloodtype, everything, greeted her.  She wanted to smile, wanted to say thank you.  Her corporate etiquette lessons would have her take it without betraying emotion.  Instead she looked up in silence, her face trying to compose itself into all the many feelings that were assaulting her.
	Bonearm placed his natural hand on her shoulder.  “You’ve already left the nest and shown my organization you can fly.  You just have to remember to flap those wings of yours.”  He went to leave, crossing the room in two strides.  Opening the door, he turned and looked at the stack of her belongings next to it.  “Your guitar case isn’t going to fit, little bird.  You’ll have to get a new one if you want to keep singing wherever you’re going.”  Then he was gone, and Itzel was alone holding her new life in silence.
__________________________________________________________________________________________

	The dwarf’s flight and subsequent failure breathed new intensity into the firefight.  An unknown voice, close enough for Itzel to make out despite sporadic gunfire, shouted, “Check the back, there’s probably more!”  More bullets, this time aimed, ripped through the side of the van, one of them catching the optimistic human, sending him to the floor.  Another pause, another voice, but this time friendly.  Over the rain, Bonearm cried out, “Make your way to the front of the van, we’ll try to keep you covered!”
	The older elf leapt from the back, using his momentum to swing around the open door opposite of the direction of the enemy.  In an instant he was gone, the door he grabbed swinging back to the cabin.  Other survivors, Itzel included, were not so decisive.  Dwelling on the fact this might have been, probably was, her fault, she fiddled with her goggles’ settings.  The shots and stunbolt had come from her left, and whoever spoke was definitely in range of her revolver.  She opened its cylinder, counted the six rounds of ammo she knew to be there, and flicked it shut again.  Staying low, she moved out into the night.
	Itzel hugged the left door, keeping it still between herself and where she thought her enemies were.  Despite the city lights refracted through smog and falling rain, her HUD immediately picked up a heat source next to the refab coffin apartments opposite of where the dwarf fell.  She swung out of cover into a shooting stance, toggling the smartlink in her display, and began to aim, only to see another boogie pop up on scope nearly upon her.  The human, no older than she was and with similar ragtag gear, had snuck up to the van during the chaos and was creeping up to its front to flank Bonearm.  Startled by Itzel, he turned, trying to bring his Ruger Superwarhawk to bear, but the heavy pistol had neither formal training nor experience behind it.  Itzel, on the other hand, pivoted in one smooth motion toward the new threat, both hands on her grip, and pulled the trigger.
	A moment passed between action and registration.  Older cousins, ones with diluted blood and thus likewise had been relegated to her current line of training, had told Itzel her first live kill would be exhilarating, that time would stop, that she would feel alive for the first time.  But hers continued to move after the mess she made of his forehead.  Even while his body fell, his arm and revolver pitched forward through momentum, the gun sliding across the asphalt closer to where she was standing, and it took a moment, not an eternity, for shots to ring out from both sides in reaction.
	Somewhere in her mind, Itzel retreated to training, once again putting the van’s door at her back between herself and fire.  She had no time to dwell that it was another kid she geeked, not the Aztlan enforcer she steeled herself for, or pay attention to whatever drek Bonearm was yelling.  Using her smartlink, she twisted her gun to bring the situation on display, aiming the barrel so it and her hand were the only things out of over.   The sudden change in contrast took a moment to register through wireless, and by the time it was visible, a blue sphere of light was already upon her.
__________________________________________________________________________________________

	“Itzy.  Itzy?  Itzel.  Itzel Huitzilopochtli!”
	Summers meant being away from Tenochitlan, which was awful for Itzel.  Her mother kept her brow furrowed the entire time when the family made the annual pilgrimage to their Yucatan bungalow, probably keeping track of the schedules she had for everyone inside her head.  At twelve years old, Itzel didn’t even know why she had to come.  Sixteen seemed to be the magic age her siblings and cousins got invited to do all the cool adult stuff.  She was still stuck back with the babies at night, so she didn’t care if she took too long to look away from the flashy birds dancing in the canopy outside the window during the day.
	On vacation, her mother still took care to dress nice, always choosing colors that highlighted her traditional tattoos, so scoldings were always intimidating, especially since Itzel had noticed her voice seemed more stern lately. “This isn’t just a vacation.  You need to pay attention to your studies.”  The pauses were another something Itzel had picked up on.  They were more often now, and afterwards, her mother’s voice was always softer.  “Especially your ancient languages and basic theory.  Please work harder.”
	“Yes, mom.”  After only twenty minutes, Itzel felt her mind wander outside again, bored by dry text and pale, holographic attempts to recreate spirits and astral.   A small brown bird, spotted with white, landed on a branch close to the house.  Almost plain, in bright contrast to the other birds who flew by, it hopped seeking purchase.  Itzel chewed on her stylus, watching, and then it began to sing a tune too large for its body.
__________________________________________________________________________________________

	Itzel came to lying facedown in wet asphalt.  The door she was behind had crumpled and swung in where the stunbolt hit, knocking her forward, but the now singed insulation was still intact.   Her goggles were lying out of her reach, and when she pushed herself up enough to lick her lips, she tasted copper.  Every part of her hurt, and her skull felt like it was melting out of her ears.  Other senses returned as she rolled over, initially muffled automatic bursts and the rain falling against her face slowly coming into focus with her vision.
	Avoiding glancing into the cabin, Itzel took in the changed situation instead.  The hostile mage, a short elf in a gaudy duster, had moved out into the street, keeping the van between himself and Bonearm but exposed to her.  His arms were flinging out yellow, translucent walls, placing them in front of two or three pair of boots Itzel could see from underneath the van as they advanced to flank Bonearm’s position.  None of them had noticed she was moving yet.
	Her Omni-6 was at least three meters away, lit blue by a fluorescent streetlight.  The geeked thug’s Ruger, though, had come to rest underneath the van near her feet.   Slowly, without making noise, Itzel hooked her left boot behind it and pulled it up to her extended hand.  The wet chunk of metal and plastic was heavier than any other gun she had fired, and without her goggles, she was going analogue.  There was no time for a proper shot if she got to her feet, and the throbbing in her head made her doubt if that was possible.  Staying on her back, Itzel leaned up slightly with arms outstretched and aimed between her braced legs.
	The report was louder than any of the other pieces in use, and again, a lull fell over the street, allowing the soft thud of flesh against pavement to be heard among distant sirens.  Despite immediately reacting, the mage’s three friends did not have time to deal with their disappearing cover, the yellow light fading into dust, and a threat they thought eliminated.  A triumphant ork roar came from up front followed by a few more exchanges of fire before completely stopping.  Itzel took the time to pull herself up using the van, knuckling her new pistol in one hand.  The movement sent a wave a pain up her body into her throbbing scalp, and she bit her lips to keep from crying out.  As she straightened, her world darkened  and knees buckled as she fell back.
	Two large arms, one warm, one cold and slick, caught her.  She turned her head and looked up into Bonearm’s intact but bloody face.  He shouted something she didn’t catch up front before turning back to her.  “If you survive, you’re going to need a proper name.   What should I call you, little bird?”  Closing her eyes against the water falling down, Itzel opened her mouth to respond.