Within two weeks my Chosen got geeked, a vampire was hunting me, an entire race of people wanted my head on a stick, my Chosen's brother banished me from Tir Tangire AND Tir Na Nog and almost had me permanently moved six feet underground, and I owe a dragon for her five story corp, that I accidentally blew in half, so give me another shot.--Lynx


There isn't anything I wouldn't give just to erase the last two weeks of my life. I would give up the wild headrush of rigging. I would even sell my baby, my Saab Dynamite, Sebastian and I spent 36 years tweaking and perfecting. Unfortunately I haven't found any takers for that trade. It looks like I am stuck with the events of the recent past continuously repeating in my head as if they were chiseled into my brain with a metal spike.
Over and over the scene plays itself out in my head. It always starts in the same spot and it always ends with me screaming my guts out. It begins again.

I am looking up at a boring white ceiling. I shift my eyes downward and see spankingly clean, corporate, blank, white walls. There is a dull ache in my left shoulder. Scanty blue cloth is wrapped around my body. Cobweb, thin, gray wires attached to my chest and head are running every which way attaching themselves like leeches to god knows what.
I am trying to organize my thoughts into a comprehensible pattern, but my head feels as if a troll stomped on me, removed my brain, and replaced it with stale, sludgy, soycaf. Explanations keep themselves safely out of my grasp.
There are other occupants in the room that I failed to notice before. Four Elven men dressed in loose fitting clothes of deep blues and greens are talking softly to each other and I can't understand one fraggin word they are saying, the tallest of the four is poking buttons on a cyberdeck, the other three are staring so intently at lines and graphs on several different vidscreens that one would think they just discovered how to cure the black shakes for five nuyen. My best guess is that they are docs, but they sure as hell aren't street docs. All their med equipment probably cost more cred than all of my cars put together. "Where the drek am I?" I am trying to concentrate on the garbled words spouting out of the docs' mouths, but my arm is painfully demanding my full attention. The throbbing of my pulse in my shoulder is beating my surroundings into the dark recesses of my awareness. The pounding grows stronger and stronger the way a light rain pours heavier and heavier until the water rains down in a flood of violence and destruction. The flood in my head rushes images to replace the physical pain. Filling my head so it might burst, the memories come pouring in.
The memory of me being pulled into an alleyway by unseen hands flashed like lightning. Many rough callused hands are holding me. I struggle but the hands won't allow escape.

Soulless voices from beyond the grave ask, "Where is Sebastian Krupp?" "I don't know," Is my panicky, pleading reply. Claws rip into my flesh. A decaying, scaly hand clamps around my mouth to stifle my screams.
The darkness retreats slightly from a sickly green glow emanating from a thumb size gem. The greenish anemic light slinks and pulses, twisting the shadows of my captors around me in a tornado of whirling fangs and death like visages. A scaly, black hand reaches towards me clenching the evil looking gem in its clawed fingernails.
The hand presses the gem against my upper left arm. My arm begins to burn were the twisted jewel is touching it. Bursts of fire shoot down my arm and up my shoulder to my chest. The gem slowly digs its way though my defenseless flesh like a rockworm digs through cement . . .

Zackorien is pinning me by my throat against the wall of my cramped apartment. Only a small amount of air is making it past his long, sinewy fingers and reaching my lungs.
I focus every ounce of strength I have in my body and force it against his arm. His arm gives about as much as a titanium wall would. I have to escape from his glowing demonic eyes. Every nerve in my body is shaking with primal fear from his deep rumbling voice.
"Where is Daerian?" He hisses. His thin tongue flicks between his razor sharp fangs . . .

Our car is pushing 65. We are swerving to narrowly avoid other cars, and tearing around corners. The car chasing us is close on our trail. It is a typical chase scene from the classic 90's movies. Bullets are pinging off the tinted, bulletproof window on our black Mitsubishi Nightsky. Two Elven soldiers are purposely-stationed, on either side of me in the back seat to make sure I don't try to escape. In their exact words "to make sure I don't do anything stupid."
They both peek out their respective windows, pop off shots from their Beretta's, and quickly pull their heads back inside in perfect synchronization. The elf riding shotgun turns around. He waves his hands in a series of mystical motions, making all of his foci and talismans on his greenish brown trench rattle and shake. A huge ball of fire bursts on the road between the Jackrabbit and us. Tires squeal. The raging inferno consumes the helpless Rabbit in a loud thwump that jolts our car . . .

Daerian and I are dancing in our usual club, Seattle's hippest nightclub for people with lots of cred . . . We are whispering softly to each other in the quiet of silence morning. . .I am pregnant with Daerian's child, the heir to Tir Na Nog . . . One of Daerian's chummers hands me a letter. My hands are shaking making it difficult to open it. I am scared to death of what it will say even though I already know. Drops of salty water form great big pools in my eyes making the world go blurry. I try to deny it to myself. I rip the envelope apart. My chin quivers. I unfold the letter. My breath catches in my chest. Daerian is dead. He fought Zackorian and he died. My chosen is dead. I start screaming.

I scream and scream and scream so hard that it jars me back to the present. The wells of tears in my eyes overflow down my cheeks. Every muscle in my body stiffens and cramps. Unconsciously my fingers clench into fists. My body is shaking so hard it feels like my bones will shatter from the vibrations.
The docs rush to my bedside. A barrage of questions comes flying at me in Elven like vultures flying at a deer's carcass. The meanings are spinning around in my head like a the barrels of a Vindicator Mini-gun, flashing in and out like the flames from the muzzles. catch a question in the net of my conscious thought.
"My name is Lynx." I blurt out in heavily accented, choppy Elven. I pray I am right about what the question was.
"That's very interesting," the man on my right sneers. It's that tall white-haired drekhead of doctor again.
"Tell us everything about yourself," demands the doc by my feet. His demeanor towards me is that of a condescending adult talking to a three-year-old child, but beneath that is blatant dislike. I pause for a moment. The muscle in his jaw tightens.
I am not in the mood to push him to unleash his anger, so I quickly spout out "My name is Lynx. I am from Seattle. I was engaged to Daerian. I used to be a Sha-"
"What?!" Whitey interrupts.
I mouth the words "Oh Drek!" without meaning to. I should not have mentioned my previous line of work. Not many people hold a lot of love for Shadowrunners, especially corporate types.
The doc on my right lowers his head. "Lynx died three days ago. Her funeral was yesterday." He says in a quiet voice. He raises his head. His face has the ageless complexion of endless youth, but his eyes are dull from long years of experience. His face is as expressionless as a clay mask but sadness at the loss of his prince's chosen's death is clearly stamped all over his eyes. Something pops my mouth open and refuses to let me shut it. The barrels in my head start revolving and shooting again. Before I could dig an explanation out of the bullet ridden confines of my head, the wooden door flung open.
Another Elven man barges in. His cloaks and jewelry all askew from his fast stride. As soon as I see his oh so familiar face everything the whole situation clicks. He has despised me like vampires despise the sunlight ever since Daerian introduced us ten years ago. If he is here I must be a prisoner. There is no way he would let me roam free, especially now that my child will be the heir to the throne. I am sure he will use this opportunity to do with me as he chooses, since Daerian can't stop him anymore. The docs are probably some of the people loyal to him, people that didn't like Daerian, except maybe the old one.
"Get out!" He shouts at the medics. They scramble to do his bidding. His words caring the same effect as if he had launched a fire ball at their heels. As the door closes after the last person Dinnin saunters gracefully over to my bed.
"Nice gem." He utters, the words dripping with sticky, candy sweet kindness. By the painful look on his face I can tell acting civil towards me is burning up his insides.
"Let me go." I demand, hatred starting at a low simmer deep within my belly.
"I don't think I will do that. I think you should stay here so that we can get this gem out of your arm. We our only thinking of your best interests of course. We wouldn't want anything bad to happen to Daerian's little whore." He whispers maniacally.
"Frag you drekhead!" I retort my anger at a raging boil.
"How does this feel." His polite facade slipping as he touches a finger to the gem and pushes. A scream rips its way out of the pit of my stomach. My arm is covered in white phosphorus. Every cell is exploding into white-hot flames that sear my flesh. The gem begins to weld itself into my bone, making my bone melt.
The pressure relents just as suddenly as it came. The pain subsides enough so that the weight holding my lungs closed is lifted. Sweet air rushes to fill my empty chest.
"Frag!" Dinnin swears. He is clutching his limp right arm that he was stupid enough to touch the magical gem with. He tries to hold off the contortions taking over his face in spasms of pain.
His suffering eases my pain considerably. A slight smirk creeps across my face. My amusement must be to obvious because Dinnin looks at me with enough hatred seething out of his eyes to bore holes into my forehead. My body goes completely cold, as if I just took a dip in liquid nitrogen.
"It is nice how things worked out." He seethes. "I am happy that Zackorien went after Daerian of his own volition. It saved me the cred I would have had to pay him otherwise."
Shock holds me immobile for a moment. I fly out of the bed and swing at him with all my anger and pain, anything to make him suffer as I have suffered.
He easily side-steps my frenzied attacks, and rebuts with a kick to my stomach. The impact knocks me to the floor, knocking the wind out of me once again.
I struggle with my shaking legs to stand up. The only thought racing through my mind is strangling Dinnin. I manage to get as far as my knees. Then convulsing in a fit of vomiting belays my progress. Blood streams out of my mouth and into a pool on the cold tile floor.
A sharp crack on the back of my bowed head sends me into the welcome embrace of darkness' sweet grasp. The words, "You won't be leaving here anytime soon," drift off with me.
I am back on the bed. The room is silent. It is stark bear except for the bed. The absence of the computers' beeping chatter makes it seem strange.
I need to find a way to escape. I pull myself out of bed. I wobble towards the door on unsteady legs. Every step costs more energy then the last, and my power supply is dangerously low. Being stealthy is going to be quite a challenge. Right as I get to the door it opens. I freeze.
"You shouldn't be out of bed." The old doc admonishes in a fatherly tone while he enters the room. Relief washes over me.
"I need to call my friend, so he knows I am all right." I hastily lie. The doc thinks for a few moments. I hold my breath the entire time. My only chance of escape is to reach Daerian's parents. They can overrule whatever order Dinnin must have given to keep me here.
"Right this way." Says the doc as he grabs my arm and leads me out the door. I slowly exhale as I follow him down the pale gray hallway. We enter a tiny office a short way down.
"This is kind of personal. Would you mind?" I ask innocently, batting my big slanted green eyes. I normally wouldn't do this but I can't risk him listening in on the conversation. Even if this guy liked Daerian he would be risking too much disobeying Dinnin's orders.
"I suppose it would be all right if I wait outside." He bashfully replies as he turns to leave. My charm works once again. The second the door shuts behind him I grab the comlink. I instantaneously punch in the numbers to Daerian's mom's personal line. My good memory saves me once again. The comlink begins to ring. Every ring speeds my heart up a notch. When my heart is beating as fast as if I just sprinted from one side of an archology to the other, the other line click open with a, "Hello?" It is Daerian's mother.
"This is Lynx. I am in some building in Tir Tairngire. Dinnin won't let me go. You need to help me." I blurted out in one long pant. There is a pause from the other end. I figure that she is probably just trying to decipher what the drek I just said. I would explain more but time is life.
"Let's see. You must be in the government office. All right. I will get you out of there. Give me an hour." There is another long pause. "Lynx I love you." Says a grieving voice that's very different from her usual emotionless diplomatic tone. Once more I am a prisoner in surprise's foul trap.
The last I knew she by no means hated me, but she didn't like me much either because of who I was. She only tolerated me because Daerian loved me. Now, I suppose, I am her only link to the little boy that she lost. "I love you too." I answer before I hang up.
The salty pools return to my eyes as I walk back to my room. They dampen the pillow as I float off into an exhausted slumber.
Light from the doorway flashes through the thick fog of my bizarre dream and awakes me. "You are allowed to leave now, Miss Lynx, by order of the queen." Says the same doctor that showed me to the phone.
"I will escort you out after you change. Here are your clothes" He glances at my hospital gown. "I will wait outside." He says as he walks out the door.
I hurriedly remove my gown and replace it with my street clothes. It is very comforting to be back in my holey jeans and worn-out shirt. As soon as I am done I bolt out the door. I don't want to make my stay here any longer than what is absolutely necessary. The doctor is outside awaiting me. He leads me down the hallway to the right. We go around many turns and down many different hallways that all look exactly the same.
Finally we reach the lobby for what I assume is the main entrance. A few expensive, dark brown, leather couches and armchairs are scattered about, complementing the tan walls. The main desk stretches along the wall to the left and two ornately carved elevator doors are ahead to the right. I am about to the first elevator door when Dinnin steps out in front of me from behind the desk. He shoots me a nasty scowl. I pray that he isn't going to disobey his mother and stop me from leaving. A pang of sorrow hits me as I realize how much his face reminds me of Daerian's.
"I hope you enjoyed your stay." He mutters through clenched teeth as he moves to the side and sweeps his arm towards the door in an exaggeration of graceful hospitality.
I don't want to press my luck so I ignore him. I try to conceal the fact that I am hurrying as I go across the room and out the door.
The crisp winter air straightened out my confused head. I began walking down the street. Gusts of wind are blowing through the holes in my clothes made thinking a little easier. Now all I need to do is get this fragging gem taken out of my arm. "FRAG IT ALL. If Dinnin and all of his mages couldn't remove it that only leaves me one hope. Which is Hestaba." I walk down the street cursing loudly. "My god I hate dragons!!!"

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