Wild Warg Chase

Journal of Rowana, daughter of Rowetha
25 / 04 / 2120 of the Fourth Age, cont'd

Fluorescent lighting flickered, mounted onto the ceiling of ancient stonework. On the wall, a poster of a naked transgender Orc, her pale yellow thighs spread wide, cock in hand, fangs capped in gold as she stared sloe-eyed out at me. Beneath it, I saw black, grimy graffiti. Parts of this complex were a thousand years old, the narrow hallways designed to confound attackers, provide **** points for defenders to maximize their kills. A thousand years of pornographic Orc scratches overlapping one another.

I slipped the ring off of its D-clip and onto my finger.

The world grew sharper. I felt the hairs stand up all over my body and I tensed, suddenly hyper-aware of the texture of the ancient stone, the hum of the fluorescent lights. One deep breath, in, out. Then I moved forward, Elf-blade in hand.

There were only basic, ancient maps of these lower levels. Nothing for the new construction. I moved slowly, carefully. This was the part of the plan with the most unknowns. I had to trust that the hackers would disrupt any electronic security. My priority was the extraction. I moved up the ancient stairs to a modern door. A camera stared down at me, as I tested the door—unlocked—and opened it.

The camera couldn't see me. Yet it could see the door open, as if by itself. If anyone was watching, that should trigger an alarm. In the corridor I found myself in, I paused, listened. No audible alarms. No shouts, no boots on the ground. A cool breeze blew from the left, smelling of recycled air. I turned toward it.

It was eight minutes, two more sets of stairs, and three more unlocked doors before I saw my first person. Guard. Orc. Skin a deep olive. Barely five feet tall, but strongly built, well-fed, hair in a military cut, the dark uniform of megcorporate security, but no body armor. His ancestors might have been pacing these very halls a thousand years ago. The black semi-automatic rifle in his hands was new, though; not military surplus, either. As he moved toward me, I pressed against the wall. Eye focused on his pointed ear. There was an earpiece clipped to it, and a small microphone descended toward his wide mouth.

He looked around, reached forward, and checked the door I had just walked through.

"Door A12 unlocked. No sign of anyone. Wild warg chase," he spoke into the mic. With practiced ease, he let his weapon swing down so that he could lock the door with both hands. I resisted the urge to stab. If this were Harad, I'd have killed him first, before he had a chance to speak. Yet with the ring, he couldn't see me.

Done, he turned back the way he came. I followed. My footsteps matched his pace. I shadowed him as close as I could, my eyes fixed on the back of his neck, the little space between the bumps of her vertebrae. Unlike myself, my unknowing guide knew this building—ancient stone gave way to lineoleum and painted cinderblock—and he had a passcard, and typed codes at certain doorways I worked to memorize as I slipped in behind him, holding the doors open for just a second longer so I could step through like a ghost.

Knowing that very soon I would need to make a decision.

We were in a section that looked like a hospital. Wide halls. Small signs and name plates on the door. Except they were in Black Speech, not Westron, and I couldn't read them. Curved mirrors mounted to the ceiling gave a view around corners, and there were cameras everywhere. There were more personnel here. I categorized them as civilians, but really they were corporate citizens. Janitors in bright orange work suits, probably corporate prisoners, mostly Men. More security guards in Black. Scientists and technical folk in white lab coats, and more civilian gear. I kept my eyes and ears open, catching snatches of speech.

My opportunity came when the guard I was following came close to a broad-shouldered dwarf with a grey beard and a chrome plate where his skull should be. My boot caught the back of the Orc's knee; he tripped, collided with the scientist. My blade tore the badge from its lanyard. Instinctively, I moved to hide it, though with the ring on, neither of them could see me. As the Dwarf began to swear, I moved, away from the distraction.

I chose a hallway that had the least people. Even invisible, I could be felt, heard, smelled. Didn't want to interact with more of the locals than absolutely necessary.

I didn't want to kill any more people than absolutely necessary. It was one thing when the White Hands or slavers trespassed on the farm. I could tell myself that was self-defense. But these people were just employed by the wrong people. I had killed people for less in the service. Yet there was no pretense now that I was doing this for the United Megacorp, or for my brother and sister Rangers.

The facility was laid out on a broad grid pattern; most of the traffic was along two parallel North-South hallways. The few grainy photos showed that the arcology where everyone lived was in the Southern part of the complex; the secure labs and administrative offices would be closer to the old keep in the center, the spa and the geothermal tap to the North. I was headed to the Eastern part of the complex.

A secure door ahead. I walked carefully, but saw no guards. Swiped the Orc guard's badge, tapped in his code, held my breath but didn't pray...

The bolts clunked open. I turned the handle, stepped through.

Stepped into a cavernous room, high-ceilinged, humid. Filled with tanks suspended above a metal grill floor. There was a smell...something wet, old, oily, wrapped around a cloying new car smell.

Then my tactical radio crackled. A shiver went down my spine as a voice I didn't know, deep and resonant enough to cause my skull to vibrate, came through the earpiece.

"I cannot see you, little thief," it hummed. "But I know you're here..."