[The run is supposed to be an easy one. Smash and grab, decent pay. You're sixteen and you've got nowhere to be. This tea is hiring, looking for a shaman for backup. It's a perfect storm that leads you to this moment.]
[There are four of you. You have eyes on all of them, just in case.]
[One by the elevator, one by the main door to the level, one in front of the door to the apartment, and you. By the communal kitchen, playing lookout. Your attention is focused on the girl in front of the apartment door.]
[Sibilance. She has some pretty heavy duty cyberware: legs of high grade steel, hydraulic jacks and skillwires running through them. She dumped a ton of nuyen into those things. Chick could leg press a dump truck if she wanted to.]
[Her plan is simple. Kick in the door, punch the target in the face, grab the shit you were sent to recover, and leave him to think about who exactly he pissed off so bad. It isn't a bad plan, but it's a noisy one. That's why you're in luck to be in a megaplex theater. The bass should kick in at any moment now. That's your cover: a bass drop to drown out the noise. And there it is - the plan is a go.]
[This is the part where it all goes wrong.]
[There's an ungodly crash as Sib kicks in the door. A muffled scream, cut short by a mangled gurgling noise. You crane your neck to get a better look, but what you see isn't what you're expecting. The apartment was little more than a coffin suite. The door has wrecked everything inside, including the target. A bloodstain and bits of brain and bone are all you can see poking out from behind the door, which has found itself smashed up against the back wall of the room.]
[Then, there's the alarm.]
Shit. Shit!
[You aren't going to go out like this. Not because of Sib's inability to think with her brain instead of her fancy legs. Your eyes sweep the room for a solution, anything at all. And that's when you see them. Industrial ovens.]
[The pieces fall into place on their own. This is a theater. Your mind makes a few leaps of association - fleeing, what makes people flee in a theater? Yelling fire. You're moving, turning the gas on full blast before your brain processes the plan in its entirety. Cops don't charge into burning buildings, after all. They help people out of them.]
Yo, guys!
[You hurriedly set the range on a timer. You've got a few minutes. No more, no less.]
[They're arguing, huddled around the doorway and shouting over the alarm about who's fault this is. About failed plans of the past. You don't have time for this.]
Guys, this place is about to blow. Clear out!
[You make a beeline for the stairwell. They don't acknowledge you and you don't make an effort to get their attention. As far as you're concerned, you have solved the problem. Whether or not they want to follow you to safety is none of your concern.]
[The scenery blurs as you speed past people fleeing in panic from the security alarms. You feel the heat at your back before you hear the explosion, stumbling out the front door and into the arms of a startled police officer. He tries to calm you, he assumes you are hurt and afraid, so you feign panic to avoid suspicion.]
[The memory shifts a few moments ahead, perhaps recognizing that it was all a blur of activity and falsehoods as you're bustled over to sit somewhere safe, a blanket draped over you to keep off the sleeting rain. A kindly fireman is saying something to your left, no doubt more comforting words.]
[You aren't paying attention. You're watching the flames with a distant awareness that you don't see Sib and the others anywhere.]
[They made their choice. You made yours. And you are alive to tell this story in the future. You tell yourself this is a lesson in practicality. To always trust your gut, because your first plan is going to be your best plan most of the time. It did work, after all. For you. The truth is one that you think is a little too heavy handed. You will discard it, as you discard so many of the truths presented to you.]
[The truth is that, to you, no life is worth more than your own.]
i. burn baby burn (cw: fire, extremely light gore)
[There are four of you. You have eyes on all of them, just in case.]
[One by the elevator, one by the main door to the level, one in front of the door to the apartment, and you. By the communal kitchen, playing lookout. Your attention is focused on the girl in front of the apartment door.]
[Sibilance. She has some pretty heavy duty cyberware: legs of high grade steel, hydraulic jacks and skillwires running through them. She dumped a ton of nuyen into those things. Chick could leg press a dump truck if she wanted to.]
[Her plan is simple. Kick in the door, punch the target in the face, grab the shit you were sent to recover, and leave him to think about who exactly he pissed off so bad. It isn't a bad plan, but it's a noisy one. That's why you're in luck to be in a megaplex theater. The bass should kick in at any moment now. That's your cover: a bass drop to drown out the noise. And there it is - the plan is a go.]
[This is the part where it all goes wrong.]
[There's an ungodly crash as Sib kicks in the door. A muffled scream, cut short by a mangled gurgling noise. You crane your neck to get a better look, but what you see isn't what you're expecting. The apartment was little more than a coffin suite. The door has wrecked everything inside, including the target. A bloodstain and bits of brain and bone are all you can see poking out from behind the door, which has found itself smashed up against the back wall of the room.]
[Then, there's the alarm.]
Shit. Shit!
[You aren't going to go out like this. Not because of Sib's inability to think with her brain instead of her fancy legs. Your eyes sweep the room for a solution, anything at all. And that's when you see them. Industrial ovens.]
[The pieces fall into place on their own. This is a theater. Your mind makes a few leaps of association - fleeing, what makes people flee in a theater? Yelling fire. You're moving, turning the gas on full blast before your brain processes the plan in its entirety. Cops don't charge into burning buildings, after all. They help people out of them.]
Yo, guys!
[You hurriedly set the range on a timer. You've got a few minutes. No more, no less.]
[They're arguing, huddled around the doorway and shouting over the alarm about who's fault this is. About failed plans of the past. You don't have time for this.]
Guys, this place is about to blow. Clear out!
[You make a beeline for the stairwell. They don't acknowledge you and you don't make an effort to get their attention. As far as you're concerned, you have solved the problem. Whether or not they want to follow you to safety is none of your concern.]
[The scenery blurs as you speed past people fleeing in panic from the security alarms. You feel the heat at your back before you hear the explosion, stumbling out the front door and into the arms of a startled police officer. He tries to calm you, he assumes you are hurt and afraid, so you feign panic to avoid suspicion.]
[The memory shifts a few moments ahead, perhaps recognizing that it was all a blur of activity and falsehoods as you're bustled over to sit somewhere safe, a blanket draped over you to keep off the sleeting rain. A kindly fireman is saying something to your left, no doubt more comforting words.]
[You aren't paying attention. You're watching the flames with a distant awareness that you don't see Sib and the others anywhere.]
[They made their choice. You made yours. And you are alive to tell this story in the future. You tell yourself this is a lesson in practicality. To always trust your gut, because your first plan is going to be your best plan most of the time. It did work, after all. For you. The truth is one that you think is a little too heavy handed. You will discard it, as you discard so many of the truths presented to you.]
[The truth is that, to you, no life is worth more than your own.]