Sprawlgoyle
By Aris Merquoni, flamester@hotmail.com

NoCal, the Sprawl, the Gentleman Loser, Ono-Sendai VIIs 
and all belong to William Gibson, whose work I admire 
and do my best to imitate herein. Macbeth, Demona, 
Xanatos and all other Gargoyles-related characters 
belong to Buena Vista and Disney. Dragon Duchovy and all 
aliases is Public Domain, reserved by me, at least until 
I finish the story.

-=1=-

	It was hot, always hot in the Sprawl. The 
concrete under my bare feet was warm from the constant 
tromping and the air was thick with exhaust and the 
greenhouse effect, but I still wore my faded black 
leather jacket while I walked through the city. That 
jacket had saved my life numerous times, just by being 
on my back instead of under my arm or hanging in a 
closet somewhere. I'm not talking about the particle 
knife that I always carry in my pocket, or the extra gun 
I have in it, just in case. Nah, I'm saying I wear that 
jacket because it hides the wings.
	The thought makes me want to grin. Damn, 
everyone I meet still thinks I'm human, even to this 
day. That's what I love about the Sprawl. So many people 
have their skin color changed, their retinas redone, and 
their teeth replaced that green skin, gold eyes, and 
fangs don't go noticed, much. Even the tail I can get 
away with, long as I don't let on that it's actually 
semi-prehensile. Wiring extra vertebrae onto your ass is 
difficult and expensive, but it can be done, and I 
always say it's just a custom bio-job. Inside I'm 
grinning, though. I don't know *what* I am, but human I 
ain't.
	They call me the Dragon. It's as good a name as 
any, so I use it. I have credit chips in that name, and 
a few others, 'cuz you don't become a console cowboy by 
being stupid. I *did* pay to have my fingertips re-done 
so the prints looked human. If they ask about the 
missing finger, I say it's the bio-job. The *look*. Most 
of the time it's enough. Problem is, it's harder typing 
with only four fingers.
	Yeah, I'm a console jockey. Lemme tell you, I'm 
good. I wire my own boards, too, with stuff I either get 
off the black market or from the Finn, stuff I pay for 
with enough hours jacked in to make your brain think 
it's silicon itself. I run the bitstreams, the lights of 
the Matrix unfolding before me and my programs that I've 
welded and coded with my own two hands, either my own 
creations or just something I've improved, something 
I've 'inherited' from people I've worked with. The 
personal touch to something that's already great.
	Some kid brushed up against me in the crowd, and 
I grabbed his wrist before his fingers reached my 
wallet. He looked up, startled, and I gave him a squeeze 
that showed I could break his wrist if I wanted to 
before letting him go. He stood there, rubbing his 
wrist, before turning to filch someone else, but by that 
time it wasn't my problem. The street was lit with hazy 
old streetlights and the red-orange glow of neon signs 
stretched across the buildings and shops, and the air 
smelled thick with fast food and perfume, car exhaust 
and fried moths and a hundred other city smells. Damn, I 
love the Sprawl. No place like home.
	I pushed through the crowd to get to the 
Gentleman Loser. The Loser was where I first started 
learning the Matrix, learning how to get what you want 
when you need it. Money, I mean. There are corps out 
there with excess slush funds that can be taken, and 
there are always corporation secrets that other 
companies would pay anything for. I had met and talked 
with some big names there, and even made some runs with 
'em.
	I sat down at an empty table and waited for the 
bartender to notice me. In the meantime, I watched the 
crowd slide by outside and thought about my feelings for 
the last week. I had started getting these odd flashes 
of conscience, and sometimes found myself wanting to do 
things that would be stupid, to say the least... like 
dashing in to save the victim of a mugging or a gang's 
revenge. And thinking about all the illegal activity I'd 
been indulging in with my souped up Ono-Sendai VII... I 
ordered something strong from the bartender and shoved 
that thought back. This was my *life*, calculated in 
milliseconds and adrenaline and that calm collected 
feeling when everything fits perfectly and a large chunk 
of someone else's capital clicks into your own account.
	I sat back in my chair and watched the people 
outside travel up the street through the hot hazy night. 
Life. I didn't really have one 'till I came to the 
Sprawl from NoCal, and I didn't really have one here 
before I found some friends of friends... ones who knew 
about computers. And still, I was living on the edge, 
without a future. "Life sucks." I muttered under my 
breath. "It kicks you in the teeth more often than not, 
and you can never get to the dentist before you get 
kicked again." I took another drink.
	I looked up reflexively as someone entered. It 
wasn't anyone who frequented the place, or anyone I 
knew. He was relatively tall and well-muscled, but the 
first thing that struck me was that he was *old*. His 
hair was mostly white or gray, and he had wrinkles... 
not something that many people had if they could afford 
it. And those who couldn't wouldn't hang out in the 
Loser. The guy looked around, then glanced at my table. 
I saw shock, and maybe recognition in his eyes before he 
sat down across from me.
	I glared at him "Who're you?" I asked bluntly. 
I wasn't looking for company, especially from someone 
who stood out in a crowd more than I did.
	He raised a white eyebrow. "My name is Macbeth," 
he introduced himself. He had a slight trace of an 
accent, not much of one, but enough to affect his 
speech. This guy *would* stand out wherever he went, 
talking like that, and I didn't even have more than a 
few words to judge by.
	"I'm Dragon." He smiled a bit at that, a twitch 
tugging the corner of his mouth up, as if I'd said 
something ironic. "Dragon Duchovy. Nice to meet you." I 
loaded sarcasm onto the last statement, hoping he'd take 
the clue and leave. He didn't.
	"You know computers?" He asked, almost 
resignedly. Resigned to *what*, I couldn't tell, but he 
sounded like he was already defeated.
	But he deserved an answer. "Yeah, I do." I 
paused. "Whaddya wanna know for?"
	In response, he pushed something across the 
table. I picked it up, looking it over. It was a speed 
chip, something that'd jack a deck's speed up by a few 
more mhz. Not much, and I couldn't see why he'd give it 
to me... I flipped it over, and my breath caught as I 
saw the design label.
	It was a Xanatos Enterprises chip, over 
top-of-the-line. By the almost illegible writing, it was 
a few years ahead of the other chips on the market, 
*including* the new Xanatos stuff. There were only three 
or four people who could get something like this, and 
most of them were part of the Xanatos family. This guy 
had some highly arcane connections. I glanced back up at 
him, and he had the same almost-smile on his face at my 
expression.
	"Who are you working for?" I asked quietly.
	"Keep the chip," he suggested.
	I was tempted, but my sense of self-preservation 
was too high. "No thanks. I've seen bombs smaller than 
this."
	He chuckled at that. "Yes, yes. All right, I'll 
answer your question. I'm not working for anyone right 
now." So he was a freelancer. A rich freelancer with 
good connections who still looked sixty years old. I 
didn't buy it. "However, I need the services as one such 
as yourself... I need some work done for me."
	A rich freelancer with good connections who 
spoke in almost archaic English. In the Sprawl. Who 
needed *my* help. I knew he needed help, but not the 
services of a console cowboy. He needed the help of a 
qualified psychiatrist. Still, if he *was* rich... "This 
isn't the place to talk."
	Again, that smile. "Nobody's listening in, and 
I'm not known to come here." I snorted at the last. 
"We're fairly safe."
	"All right. It's your head on a platter if you 
fuck up." The corner of his mouth twitched again, too 
fast for me to tell if it was a grimace or another 
smirk. "What do you want me to do?"
	"I need you to get me past some security 
measures for the headquarters of a company called 
L-Tamm. You know where that is?" But I wasn't listening. 
As soon as he said L-Tamm, my mind was racing.
	L-Tamm. Genetics. Their labs had cured a 
thousand diseases - and had created millions more. Sold 
to governments, confidentially, for use in warfare. All 
kinds of deadly viruses, ones that had stopped wars and 
started them. Their head lab was in New York City, and 
was the most impenetrable fortress of death ever known 
to mankind. They used their own viruses in their defense 
systems, not the nasty ones, but ones that could cripple 
and even kill nonetheless.
	I was really starting to wonder who it was that 
I was talking to. Not just a rich freelancer. A rich 
suicidal freelancer with highly arcane connections. Who 
was still speaking in archaic English with no slang.
	This wasn't just confusing. It was getting 
twisted.
	"So will you help me?"
	I was jerked back to reality by the question. 
"You're fucking suicidal, man. You're trying to hack 
into one of the most well-protected corporations in the 
entire *world*, trying to slip past some of the nastiest 
defenses, with only the help of some hacker you found at 
a city chic bar - and you only have my word for it that 
I'm good! For all you know, I could be just another 
Wilson..." I trailed off.
	There was something in that guy's eyes. I don't 
know what it was, but whatever it was told me that he 
didn't care that it was crazy and suicidal to go against 
this corp. He had something more at stake than his life, 
and he was going to sacrifice anything to get into that 
place.
	"It'll cost you." I finally said.
	"I know." Macbeth smiled. "I have enough."
	Not 'how much.' Just, 'I have enough.' This guy 
was *crazy*. But I already had figured that out.
	"I'll need better gear than I have right now," I 
hazarded. He nodded. "Stuff like that chip you have."
	"I can get it for you." He slid a piece of paper 
across the table, face down. "Meet me here tomorrow 
night. This time. You don't need to bring anything." 
With that, and another irritating smirk, he got up and 
left.
	I glanced at the paper, memorized the address, 
and tore it up. Yeah, it sounds like an old flatscreen 
spy movie, but I didn't want to take chances, and there 
was a good chance of getting into a fight between now and 
home. Not like I was worried about muggers or gangs, but 
stupider things do happen.
	After a few more hours of crowd watching I tossed 
a tip on the table and left, sneaking into an alley and 
climbing the wall. After I had climbed up a reasonable 
amount of stories using only my fingers and toes, I 
wiggled out of the leather jacket and jumped off, 
spreading my wings to catch the breezes from the cars 
below. I circled, looking for air traffic, before 
continuing. It was uncommon, but then, so was I.
	I came to the apartment I had rented, at the top 
story of a middle-class place with little or no 
security. It didn't matter, since everything of value 
was either hidden or secured inside my jacket. I landed 
lightly on the roof, slipped my jacket back on, and sat 
down on the corner of the roof facing east.
	The sun rose, and I heard a crackling noise in 
my ears as I lost consciousness. I fell into a pool of 
warm blackness, and slept.

-=2=-

	I woke up at sunset, roaring and stretching and 
scattering shedded stone chips over the roof. It seems 
like an awfully melodramatic way to wake up, but I don't 
have any control over it. I turn to a pigeon roost 
during the day - or would, if there were any pigeons 
left.
	I took an hour to pack my stuff together, then 
headed out by way of the stairs instead of the roof. The 
landlady was used to me going down but not up by now, 
and she left me alone when he noticed me going out. I 
think it was something about the time that I stopped the 
burglar from shooting her cat. I don't know what it is 
about landladies and cats, they seem to go together like 
Matrix cues. The oldest cliché in the system.
	I had a while 'till my meeting. I decided not to 
go back to the Loser tonight, instead strolling around 
the neighborhood looking for something to do. I stopped 
by a local fast-food restaurant for a soda, and was 
leaving when an old fancy car screeched up and parked 
backwards. The trunk popped and some short guy ran into 
the place and started yelling, something about forks. He 
came running back out with an armload of some white 
things and jumped in the car with the employees running 
after him, and I decided now might be a good time to 
leave.
	That had taken up half an hour at most. I needed 
something else to do, something not harmful to my 
person. Most small wounds healed while I was asleep, but 
large ones, well, I didn't want to find out. So far I'd 
been lucky.
	I was walking by an alley when a street kid too 
high on something to think coherently jumped me. Okay, 
remember what I said about being lucky? Ignore it.
	I tossed the kid off and spun around. He and 
three of his buddies circled me, knives drawn and eyes 
glazed. My eyes were glowing, illuminating the area in 
an eerie white light, and my tail was lashing 
unconsciously, like my landlady's cat when I walk by. I 
took out my particle knife and waved it at them. I 
didn't want to draw my gun... it was in the inside 
pocket, anyway, and I didn't want to get my hands out of 
a ready stance.
	The first kid rushed me. I grabbed his shirt 
collar and hoisted him over my shoulder, avoiding his 
weak and miss-aimed jabs with the knife. I tripped two 
of his friends with my tail, and slashed at the last one 
with my knife.
	I clipped his knuckles with the blade, but he 
was so doped up that he didn't feel it. Blood ran down 
his hand and onto his knife, a few drops flying off as 
he swung wildly at me. I leaped backwards and sliced 
downwards, intersecting his blade with my own. There was 
a ringing sound and a humming in my hand, and he was 
disarmed.
	He kept rushing me, though, forcing me to dodge. 
His buddies were starting to come around, too, so I knew 
the I needed to end the fight and get out of there 
*quickly*. This guy was bigger than I was - even though 
I'm stronger than most humans, I had my limits - and he 
was still swinging his fists in my direction. I 
quickstepped under a punch and sliced his ribs, then 
backed up again and looked for another opening.
	Finally, my back was to the wall. I braced my 
legs as he raised up his fist for a good solid punch, 
and I knew that I had one shot. A wild plan came to my 
mind, and I jumped backwards, using the wall to brace 
myself as I kicked at his head.
	My clawed toes dug through his skull with a 
sickening *crunch*. Blood ran down my leg as I fell 
heavily to the ground on my side, barely managing to 
avoid crushing my backpack and my precious computer. The 
goon spasmed, pulling on my leg, and I gritted my teeth 
as my knee was strained and pain shot through my leg. 
Finally, he fell to the ground beside me, my toes still 
embedded in his forehead.
	Groaning, and wincing at my strained knee, I 
tore my foot loose from the bone. My foot stung, and I 
reached over to pull fragments of bone from the skin. 
With each movement, my twisted knee screamed in pain, 
and I came damn close to screaming out loud. I finally 
managed to push myself to my feet by way of the wall.
	"Fuck!" I muttered. "Bastards. At this rate I'm 
gonna have to *limp* to that Macbeth guy's place!" I 
looked around. The street was deserted, which was a plus 
- it was only a side street, and respectable people had 
already gone home. The disrespectable were either 
staying clear or waiting to come out.
	I sighed, and started climbing the wall. I'd fly 
back to my place and bandage the knee, and then fly over 
to that meeting spot or wherever. My right leg hung 
limply as I dragged myself up the concrete, jolting in 
pain each time my bloody toes bumped the wall. I finally 
reached the top and took off my jacket, stowing it in my 
backpack. The straps on the pack were loose enough that 
I could fit my wings through the holes, and I did that 
now, leaping off the structure towards my apartment.
	When I got there, the first thing I did was hunt 
around for something to tape my knee up with. I finally 
found some gauze, and wasted a large quantity of the 
roll on that. Then I cleaned my foot out, and covered 
the cuts with antiseptic. Then I covered *that* up with 
more gauze, before checking myself over for other 
injuries.
	I had a few cuts on my arm that I hadn't 
noticed, and a bruise on my tail, but that was it. 
Sighing, I made a mental reminder to get some 'Ace' 
bandages and more gauze, and set off by way of the roof.
	The wind chill didn't cut to me as I flew 
towards the spot that Macbeth had picked for the 
meeting. I was angry at the world, angry at this fucking 
thing I called a life. Why the fuck had those damn kids 
screwed up *my* day instead of someone else's? Now my 
damn knee was on the fritz and I'd have to *limp* to the 
place this crazy archaic guy was meeting me.
	It turned out that I didn't have to limp, 
though. He was waiting on the rook of the building, 
scanning the sky. I swore. So much for my plans to waltz 
in there like the rest of the seething mass of humanity. 
I decided to make an entrance, or at least, I cursed the 
goons again, as much of one as I could in this 
condition.
	I backwinged and landed on one foot a few feet 
in front of him. He didn't even flinch. I gained a new 
respect for him - this guy was good. Resting a little 
more weight on my right leg, I nodded to him.
	He raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment on the 
wings- something I found a little unsettling. "Come on 
inside, I have some systems that you'll want to go 
over."
	I nodded and followed him in, tossing my jacket 
around my shoulders as I did so. "When's the date you 
want me to burn?"
	He glanced back at me and shrugged. "The less 
stable our plans, the less that they'll be able to 
figure out how to stop us."
	I snorted. "Bull and shit. When?"
	Macbeth sighed. "If you can manage it soon-"
	"I could manage it today-"
	"Good. Night after tomorrow, if at all 
possible." I nodded and shoved my hands into my pockets, 
feeling the familiar pressure of the knife and my 
wallet, both in sealed inner pockets.
	Two days... make that two nights. Then I would 
have my money, and this crazy geezer would have whatever 
he was going after. As I sat at the desk and looked over 
his system, I wondered if I'd survive to see the end of 
it.
	Hell, of course I would. I'm the Dragon, the 
firebreather. The ice melter, the top. I had burned down 
enough liquid cash reserves to know that I was damned 
good. But something inside me was trembling in raw, 
naked fear of the name behind L-Tamm. Dominique 
Destine.

-=3=-

	His system was good, I have to give the old 
bugger that. It was to my Ono-Sendai as my Ono-Sendai was 
to those old computers, you know what I'm talking about? 
With the old style plastic keyboards that break all the 
time, flatscreen, no Matrix interface, and only acess to 
the older Nets if you bought extra hardware, and even 
then you have to be connected by a goddamned wire most of 
the time. My first computer was one of those old 
flatscreen models, a clunky thing up in the lofts at the 
Bridge, with a processor speed of only 500 mHz and a 
modem speed of something around 248k/sec, and memory 
and space measured in gigs instead of tetras.
	As I slipped around in his computer, tested my 
capabilities, I wondered about his lack of reaction to 
the wings. It was unnerving, damned spooky in fact. As 
far as I knew, I was the only one like me... the only 
person with arial transportation nailed to his back. 
Either this guy was used to taking odd things in stride, 
or...
	Or he knew about me. It was the only explaination 
that I could come up with. He'd been watching me, finding 
out my weaknesses, and this was one big scheme to... do 
something.
	I glanced at the old geezer again. He was looking 
at me, studying me, but not maliciously. I shook of the 
second choice. What the hell could one geezer want to 
control me or kill me for? If he wanted the wings, he 
could go call the Japs. They probably could staple 
workable wings on someone's back by now, for enough ready 
cash.
	I scanned the computer system again, just to make 
sure. It wasn't connected to anything else, not even the 
normal Matrix connect that most people have on boot, but 
that just let me concentrate on what I had in the one 
box. One hell of a box.
	"Are you satisfied... Dragon?"
	I turned to face him. "Yeah, I am. This is one 
hell of a setup you got here. Who's paying for it?"
	Macbeth smiled. It wasn't a nice smile, but I 
don't think he could help it. He didn't look like the 
kind of guy who could smile nicely. "At the moment, I 
am."
	I raised what passed for an eyebrow on my face. 
"At the moment?"
	His smile widened. "After two nights from now, it 
won't matter."
	I didn't like the sound of that. "Whaddya mean?"
	He shrugged noncommitally. "Where are you from, 
Dragon?" he asked suddenly.
	"San Francisco. The Bridge," I answered. "Where 
are you from, Macbeth?" I added in a parody of his tone 
of voice.
	"I get around a lot," he answered. "Originally, 
I'm from Scotland."
	"Oh, really?" I asked.
	"Yes, really," he said, in a tone that brooked no 
argument.
	I shrugged. It didn't really matter, anyway. "So, 
why are you so hot on nailing L-Tamm? They've got a 
fucking nasty security system, and I can think of better 
places to go for ready cash."
	"It's none of your concern," he snapped. I 
shrugged again. A personal reason, eh? Nothing else I 
knew of that could spark that kind of reaction. Maybe he 
was the wronged lover of one of the higher-ups, maybe 
even Dominique herself... maybe. Maybe not.
	"Right," I agreed. "not my business. What's the 
setup going to be?"
	The frown lightened a little. "I'll be going in 
there physically... you'll be monitoring through a 
simstim link in case you need to pull something." I 
raised an eyebrow. He nodded. "You'll have a toggle. Can 
you handle that?"
	"Sure," I replied. I could handle walking 
barefoot into hell at the rate he was paying me. "What am 
I looking for?"
	"A way to circumvent the security systems. 
There's going to be a board meeting of upper executives. 
Find out where that is, and a way for me to get to it, 
and make it work."
	I pondered this. "Sure you don't want to just 
lift a couple billion and leave?"
	"I'm certain," he said, and I thought I detected 
a wry smile at the edge of his voice, but his face was 
impassive. "I know what I want. Money isn't part of it." 
When it came to that, I didn't think he'd seen my rate 
yet. He'd just promised to pay it, whatever the sum total 
was. I hoped he was going to make good on that promise.
	"Fine," I said. Do you want me to scope it right 
now, come up with a plan of attack?"
	"You'll have time enough night after tomorrow," 
he said ominiously.
	"Okay," I reluctantly agreed.
	He let me out through the front door. I trudged 
into the street, allowed myself to get swept up by the 
crowd.
	My leg still hurt every time I stepped on it. I 
ignored the pain and trudged along. I stopped in the 
middle of a well-lit plaza, a sign above me proclaiming 
it to be the Zócalo de Placer. The local nightlife had 
taken that literally, and the place had been transformed 
into a hang-out for all sorts of whores and pushers. I 
sat down quietly on a bench and glared at anyone who 
offered me anything. They got the idea quickly.
	I buried my head in my hands and tugged on my 
hair. What the HELL was I thinking?
	I wasn't smoking anything, I knew, I wasn't that 
far gone. Did someone slip me something? I checked along 
my arms, and my legs, but I was clean, I hoped.
	I didn't know if drugs could account for a case 
of mania, anyway. And how else could I explain the fact 
that I was going along with this geezer? I was being 
conned into hacking into one of the nastiest companies in 
the whole fucking solar system. The one reason I'd stayed 
twitching all this long was that I'd stayed out of the 
way of the Boys, the Dark Ones, anything bigger or 
nastier than I was. Now, it seemed, my common sense had 
flatlined, to be followed shortly by the rest of my 
mental processes.
	I stood, pushing my way out of the Pleasure 
Plaza. I'd just have to tell that MacBeth guy off, then. 
Leave it, leave the money, leave the Xanatos chips. Leave 
it all, and stay alive.