Lamentation For The Lost: Part 2.

	Night reigned in MegaTokyo but the city was still alive, high
above street level holographic advertisements peddled everything from soft
drinks to the latest in Boomer technology, contrasting starkly with the
deserted, grimy roadways. Occasionally a furtive shape could be perceived
darting down a ginnel or side-street. The sultry, oppressive atmosphere
continued unabated, and it wouldn't be too long before the sun rose for
another day in the metropolis.
	In one such alley two men bent down to examine a bloodied corpse,
gaping holes in its chest. It was of a young man in his mid to late teens
who at one time must have been quite handsome. But the livid scars on his
face and around his limbs stood in silent testimony to illegal cybernetic
surgery. All his limbs were obviously cybernetic in origin, and a
multi-optic viewer like old fashioned skiing goggles was implanted deep
into the flesh around his eyes. One of the men fumbled in his jacket
pocket and produced a case the size of a old cigarette case.  He opened it
and removed a small stylus, on pressing a concealed stud a high pitched
whine suddenly pierced the night air and a needle of red light flickered
at the tip of the stylus. As he touched the light beam to the flesh around
the limbs, the whine became more muted, skin, muscle and sinew parting
beneath it.
	Working with practised deftness they began to dismember the
cadaver, first they removed the limbs, taking pains to keep the neural
interferences intact. Any damage to the prosthesis would be taken out of
their commission and they were paid by the part. Next they set about the
multi-optic viewer, there were no eyes under it, just two empty pits with
sheaves of wires running to his retinas. These were carefully severed and
bagged with the other cannibalised body parts. Once they had finished,
they removed the man's wallet before dumping his body into the nearest
bin.
	"Not bad fer a nights work eh!" The first man said with grin to his
partner, "Reckon this haul'll fetch us 20k. Okay lets find Creeps 'n get
the fuck outta here!"
	Ghosting silently through the shadows they made their way to the
agreed pick-up zone where as usual Creeps would be waiting. He would
relieve them of their cargo in exchange for cash, it was a simple
arrangement, the black market always needed cybernetic parts and sometimes
GENOM products could be a little too expensive.
	They arrived at the contact point, Creeps' battered limo could be
made out down another of the back alleys belonging to some condemned
tenement blocks. It's number plates had been altered again, in case anyone
got too smart and tried to inform the AD-Police. The two punks crept
towards the car, in the stifling silence even the rustling of their
clothing seemed to amplify to thunderous levels. As they stole into the
alleyway, they noticed that one of the limo's doors was wide open.
	"Hey where did Creeps get to?!" One of them exclaimed, his voice
echoing loudly in the alley.
	"Shut the fuck up, you dipwad!" The other replied, "Do you really
want everyone to know we're here!"
	The first hood stuck his head inside the car, the keys were still
in the ignition, which meant that Creeps was still around somewhere.
	"I'll have a look down the alley!" He said to his comrade.
	"Well watch yer back," the other replied with a wide grin which
split his pugilist's features, "you know what happens in the movies to
people who go off alone!" 
	"Then I'll take an equaliser then." The other countered, removing a
wicked looking handgun from his belt and cocking it.
	Moonlight bathed the alley in a silver glow, on either side the
hollow shells of tenement blocks stood watch like stone sentinels. He
ghosted lightly forward, nerves strained, apart from the rustling of the
odd sewer rat the alley was deserted. He pressed on, keeping in the shadow
of one of the buildings. Under one of the fire escapes, something wet
dripped onto his jacket which glistened dark under the moonlight. 
Momentarily, he glanced up to find its source. After he had finished
emptying his stomach he recognised the body as Creeps.
	Still clad in his cheap suit, Creeps hung from the gantry of the
fire escape. His thin, snide features were contorted into a rictus of
terror and his empty gun lay nearby. The worst part was the way he was
hanging parallel to the ground, by his own entrails, his shattered spine
bent in an inverted V. From his ruptured chest cavity, fragments of bone
and viscera had been torn out and left splattered across the alley.
	From further into the darkness he heard a growl, too low to be a
stray dog and far too menacing somehow. As it advanced out from the shadow
slowly the hood looked at it in disbelief. He hadn't heard of any wild
animals escaping recently but there was no other rational explanation. 
	He heard a loud expression of revulsion from behind him as his
friend, alerted by the noise had stumbled across the body.
	"What the fuck is that?!" His friend exclaimed as he drew
alongside.
	"Whaddoes it look like, it's a wolf stoopid!" He replied bringing
his gun to bear.
	It stood some three feet off the ground at the shoulders, thickly
muscled and covered in thick light grey fur. Eyes gleaming malevolently in
the silvery light, it opened its fang filled maw with a snarl of welcome.
	"Take the fucker out now!!!" 
	Two shots rang out, shattering the solitude of the MegaTokyo
night.  There was no question that the shots had found their mark, the
wolf was physically blown off its feet and sent careering into a group of
bins. The cacophony seemed to take forever to cease, but when silence once
again ruled, the two looked at the target. It was indeed a huge male wolf,
with a distinct white streak in its long mane.
	"Cute pet!" Snorted one, "I wonder who it belonged to...?"
	"I don't give a fuck, lets grab the dough and get the hell out of
here!"
	With a last look at the two corpses, the pair made their way
towards the car. As they were about to leave the shelter of the alley,
they heard the crash of upset dustbins, followed by a gutteral snarl of
rage.
	"My turn now! Face me and die you murdering bastards!!" The voice
spoke in English, but there the resemblance to anything human ended. It
wasn't so much spoken as growled throatily, and with an unmistakable air
of intent.
	"FUCK YOU!!" One of them screamed in panic, pivoting blindly on his
heel, and letting rip with a full clip into.....nothing.
	From the alley's entrance there came a muffled thud, as something
landed behind them, neatly blocking their only escape route. The voice
laughed, a soft bass rumble that set their nerves on end.
	"Aww! You've run outta bullets, whatcha gonna do now...?"
	They turned back to the car to see the owner of the voice. Their
minds blanked in sheer terror, unprepared for the sight that met their
incredulous gaze. The wolf that they just shot was standing by the car,
bipedally on powerful lupine hind legs. It seemed to be as tall as a K-11,
and perhaps weighing more than large motorbike. Underneath the fur on its
casually folded arms, they could make out raised pigmented scar tissue in
the shape of strange eldritch symbols. Its flowing mane floated gently in
the night breeze and the lips of its powerful muzzle were twisted in a
grin of satisfaction.
	The punk with the gun managed to recover himself enough to try and
reload his gun, but they were already as good as dead. The wolf-creature
sprang towards them, closing the distance to them in a few bounding
strides.  Without pausing its flowing movement it reached down and grabbed
the gunman's arm and wrenched. His arm was ripped from his shoulder as
easily as a wing from a cooked chicken. He screamed, eyes widening in
shock as he clutched the ragged stump of his shoulder, severed arteries
pumping scarlet. The last thing he saw before oblivion was the creature's
four inch long talons reaching for his throat. 
	Jan-Anders dropped the severed arm and looked around, the other
killer was trying to make a run for it, rushing blindly out of the alley,
he could be in an inhabited area within a few minutes. He loped after him,
with every stride he took the distance between them narrowed. When he was
within range he struck, scooping up the struggling hood, he opened his
powerful jaws wide and bit down hard. Human blood, tainted by chemicals
and the Wyrm flowed over his tongue, the hood's neck vertibrae parted with
a sickening crunch and suddenly Jan-Anders teeth met.  He dropped the body
on the road and looked at the decapitated head, its mouth and eyes were
still working as the blow had come so fast that the brain hadn't had time
to register the fact that it should be dead. He watched it disdainfully as
consciousness slowly faded, then proceeded to head toward another alley.
Best leave the bodies where they are, he reasoned, with the AD-Police so
overstretched it would probably be passed off as a rogue Boomer or cyborg
incident.  Any attempts to mask the cause of death would only make them
likely to investigate further. The more overt the carnage, the less notice
the police take, he thought with a wry grin, I could get to like this
city.
	As he entered the alleyway his body appeared to be in flux, losing
hair and excess muscle mass. Ears began to retract closer to the skull and
his muzzle receded into his face, claws dwindling to human nails and fangs
to teeth. He removed the bundle of stashed clothing from behind a bin,
along with some stashed food and bottled water.  Minutes later, he strode
out of the alley, and straightening the collar on his jacket proceeded to
jog toward the centre of MegaTokyo. 
                ####################################
	The alarm went off suddenly. The sleeper had little choice to
respond as an offensive digital siren, with underlying radio babble cut
through the veil of sleep like a switchblade.
	"Okay I'm awake goddammit....Lay off willya!"
	The sleeper rose wearily and stumbled into the kitchen of his
apartment clad only in a pair of old boxer shorts. Once there, he
proceeded to get himself a coffee from the automated wall dispenser before
heading bleary-eyed to the shower. He was a tall, brawny young man well
over six feet in height and weighing the best part of two hundred and
fifty pounds. He lurched in a semi-comatosed daze into the shower cubicle
and moments later the sound of running water could be made out from
outside the room.
	Once out of the shower and dried, he eyed his body critically; the
completed tattoo on his right arm, an intricate interlaced knotwork
pattern of thorns, with the name "Juliette" entwined within.
	Why did they have to find me, he thought sadly, at least we could
have been together. He silently reflected as he regarded the long, ugly
slash marks that adorned his wrists. Every scar told a different story,
and he seemed to have gathered more than his fair share recently.  The
reflection of his face painted a slightly different picture: fine, elegant
features, complimented by a neat goatee and moustache and framed by
tousled dark hair that fell past his shoulders. His dark eyes however held
a depth of experience and pain far beyond his nineteen years of age.
	"Ho-hum! Another day at the office!" He quipped sarcastically to
himself as he dressed, a casual shirt, jeans, boots and a waistcoat would
suffice. Ten minutes later, he strolled into his living room, which
would've been quite spacious were it not for the collective debris of
manuscript paper, bass guitars and amps in various states of repair strewn
across the floor. After tying his hair back, he hefted a black gig bag and
practice amp, opened his front door and stepped out into the hallway. 
                ####################################
	Sylia sat bolt upright in bed, mouth open in a silent scream,
heart battering against her ribcage, her lungs seemed unwilling to take in
oxygen.  She shut her dark eyes and choked back a sob, trying to erase the
picture branded in her mind's eye. The silk sheets clung to her body,
slick with sweat caused by the throes of her nightmare. It would always
start on that fateful day two years ago when Mackie inexplicably snapped
during one of their meetings. It was the first time she had ever seen him
so upset, but it was the eyes that she would never forget, they were
trapped, haunted, as though he were crying out for help but they couldn't
hear him. Or wouldn't, Sylia thought harshly, Mackie was one of the team
and we failed him when he needed us most. Worst of all, in a subsequent
letter he had blamed himself for the outburst and had officially resigned
from the Knight Sabers, claiming that he was no longer capable of carrying
out his duties. Then for two long, lonely years nothing at all, he just
disappeared without trace. 
	She pushed back the covers and got out of bed. Pulling a
diaphenous white robe over her statuesque frame, she strode over to the
window and opened the blinds. Early morning light dazzled her for a
moment, before the vista of MegaTokyo panned out before her, in the near
distance the GENOM Tower stood out like some malignant tumour on the face
of the city. Somehow I'll find you Mackie, she thought to herself, her
beautiful, regal features hardening with determination, I'll find you and
make it up to you, I swear. 
                ####################################
	"Will someone please wake up Mr. Jivarp!"  Jan-Anders looked up at
fixed the lecturer with a baleful stare, "Oh, I'm sorry have I ruined your
beauty sleep!?" He continued sardonically.
	Some of the students present tittered on cue. Jan-Anders let his
gaze take in the assembled masses, most of them seemed like members of
MegaTokyo's brat pack, who seemed to have more money than taste or talent.
One of the worst offenders was seated on the front row, surrounded by a
gaggle of admiring females. Dressed in ultratight PVC pants, pixie boots
and cropped jacket, he had the intensely annoying habit of running his
hand through his collar-length brown hair every few minutes.
	Mercifully the lecturer decided to finish for the day, and left
the auditorium. Simultaneously, several different conversations sprung up,
none of which interested him in the slightest. Having really been socially
forced into chatting to some of these people, it became manifestly obvious
to him that a lot of Academy students were shallower than a paddling pool
in the dry season.
	"Hey pal! I don't blame you for falling asleep in his lectures, you
know what they say about frustrated musicians...." A cheery voice
addressed him.
	Jan-Anders twisted round to see who was talking to him, standing a
few seats along was a powerfully built young man, who was only a few
inches shorter than himself. Jan-Anders watched him intently as he
approached, he was dressed smartly but casually in an open necked shirt,
waistcoat, black denims and matching boots.  It was the face that struck
him the most, despite the beard, he could've sworn he had seen it
somewhere before. From within sculpted features, dark eyes fixed on his
keenly.
	"Hi! I'm Michael, so you're the fresher around here then?!" He
joked, extending a calloused hand.
	"Jan-Anders....yeah you could say that! I'm actually on a years
exchange scheme, starting next academic year," Jan-Anders replied, "I know
its only two weeks to the end of semester, but I had to get some
groundwork done!"  He finished, grasping his hand with a barking laugh.
	The two of them picked up their instrument cases and amps, and
made their way out of the auditorium, heading for one of the many common
rooms that peppered the MegaTokyo Academy for the Performing Arts' Modern
Music Department. As they entered through spring-loaded double doors, a
blast of music assaulted them.
	"....I'm a weapon of the night," the vocalist warbled, "put your finger
on my trigger and watch me blow you away!!"
	"Urrggghhhhh!!!! Pass me a bucket quick!" Michael yelled, "I think
I'm gonna hurl in a minute!"
	"What's your problem Stengovich," a nasal voice replied, as the
music ceased, "apart from being a bass player with no talent!"
	Jan-Anders looked at the speaker, it was the same person who had
been seated at the front of the lecture. At the moment he was lying on one
of the sofas, feet resting on the coffee table, with his usual retinue of
admirers. His clean-cut good looks screamed corporate rock to Jan-Anders
from twenty paces. He regarded the two of them with amusement through
rose-tinted Lennon sunglasses.
	"So who's your new chum then?" He asked Michael irritatingly.
	"Jan-Anders Jivarp," Michael replied, "he's..........."
	"Whaaaaaattttt? Michael look, I wouldn't hang around with anyone
who's name sounds like a medical condition!" This wisecrack gathered a
ripple of laughter from the assembled crowd.
	Jan-Anders butted in, "I still don't know who you are!" He stated
bluntly, trying to keep his temper in check.
	The other looked at him genuinely put out, "You mean you have
never heard of Rik Dangerfield and The Hazards?!" he exclaimed. 
	"Or as anyone with taste calls them, Dick Dipshit and The
Sellouts!"  Michael interrupted.
	With a sudden burst of speed, Rik leapt gracefully upright from
the sofa, scattering cups of coffee all over the pristine carpeted floor,
and advanced towards them, fists clenched. Despite Rik's change of mood
Jan-Anders resisted the urge to laugh out loud. On balance, Michael had a
good four inch height and sixty pound weight differential in his favour,
and as for him, it wasn't even worth the energy expenditure. He motioned
to Michael and then to an empty seat. 
	"C'mon, let Mr. Ego stew for a while!" He said dryly as they
dropped their cases and amps beside another sofa, then making a beeline
for the bar at the far end of the room Out of a corner of his eye he
noticed that Rik had returned to his groupies, looking quite smug. One of
them pressed the play button, on a portable CD-player and another tune,
this time a sickly, sacharrine ballad oozed out of the speakers.
	By the time Jan-Anders returned from the bar with two bottles of
beer in each hand, he was sorely tempted to take the CD and ram it player
and all down or up one of Mr. Dangerfield's orrifices, which exact one he
hadn't yet decided upon. However there was a way of getting back which was
equally as fun, but didn't involve the ultimate prospect of a charge for
GBH.
	He looked around the floor area, and quickly found what he was
looking for, two of the floor mounted power points with their bronze,
spring-loaded covers. He rapidly began to set his amp up, whilst telling
Michael to do likewise. Glancing over at the Dangerfield party he noticed
to his savage amusement that they were all but ignoring them,
concentrating instead on Rik as he did what he did best, hold court.
Jan-Anders removed his guitar from the hardcase and plugged it via a mini
FX-processor into the amp. Michael meanwhile was doing likewise.
	"I'll start," Jan-Anders whispered with a mirthless smile, "and
when I get bored you have a noodle!"
	"Sounds just fine to me!" Michael replied as he bought another
round, and sat down to watch the fun. An eye for an eye, he thought.
	The cloying ballad had finished by now, and Jan-Anders let the CD
prattle on as he warmed up dutifully, sans amp. Just before the final
track was due to start he let rip.
	"What the......" yelled Rik, as the noise barrage hit home.
	The composition in question had originally started life as a
classical lute concierto, but Jan-Anders had arranged it and suitably
modified it for his style. As the piece progressed he gradually upped the
tempo, so by the end of it individual notes had just merged in a blur of
distortion.
	"Over to you Michael!" he yelled.
	Michael took the bit between his teeth, taking his 5-string for a
funk workout that would have had lesser men in tears. He finished his
little runaround with a baroque bass tapping solo, that had even some of
Rik's groupies taking notice, much to his annoyance.
	"So that's what you call untalented!" Jan-Anders said sardonically
to him, "If that's the case then give me no talent any day. Get a life you
sad prick!" 
                ####################################
	Sylia looked at her computer with mounting concern, there was no
doubt about it, a pattern was emerging. The AD-Police had overlooked the
incidents of the past week as being just Boomer related, but she was
unsure.  The MO was the same in virtually all the cases, as were the
victims.  She had already ruled out the possibility of it being cyborg
related, yes enhancement did give the person increased strength, but not
enough to rip a human being limb from limb. A rogue Boomer was a
possibility, but there were no blastmarks nearby, or on the bodies,
whatever was doing this killed in close proximity to the the target. 
	Try as she might, she felt little compassion with the victims,
they were all Wreckers, about as low as a human could stoop. With GENOM
controlling the supply of artificial prosthetics to the hospitals, they
could charge anything they wanted to. This meant, that in recent years
there had evolved a whole underclass of people needing cybernetics, but
were unable to get it done from a hospital due to price and couldn't
afford health insurance. For these poor wretches, the only option was a
black market clinic, who made millions out of exploiting helpless
individuals. Wreckers were thugs who would track a person with cybernetic
enhancement, kill them and take whatever he had to sell back to the black
market. Sylia had heard it rumoured that a person going for a black market
operation was likely to receive an implant with at least three previous
owners.
	So far there had been three incidents, with at least two deaths
per incident. The usual survivors were the intended victims of the
Wreckers, and from the reports purloined by Nene, they had yielded
surprisingly little information to the AD-Police. The most that any of
them could remember about the perpetrator, was that it was large,
blindingly fast, and most likely a combat Boomer of some kind.
	"So whaddya think Sylia?!" came a perky voice from behind her, "Is
it a Boomer or not?!"
	Sylia turned from the computer terminal to reply to the speaker. 
Standing behind Sylia, hands crossed in front of her attentively, was a
young woman dressed in the uniform of an AD-Police dispatcher. Her
personality and flaming red hair were in complete contrast to her petite
frame. She regarded Sylia with inquisitive emerald eyes.
	"I honestly don't know Nene," Sylia replied, "combat Boomers
would've almost certainly killed the intended victim as well, to make sure
that there were no witnesses. Then there is the enigma of why none of the
survivors remembered any details about the attacker."
	"Shock?!" Nene suggested brightly.
	"Good point, I had thought of that and reread the reports, it seems
that all other details of the incident are remembered clearly enough,
except for the identity of whoever saved them. Working on the supposition
that it is a Boomer, we are faced with the worrying prospect that it can
somehow mask its presence."
	Nene's face fell at this prospect, then her pretty features became
suddenly grave.
	"Do you want me to contact the others Sylia?" she asked.
	"I have already done so, you'd better go check the Motoroids."
	Nene grinned, "Okay chief!" It was almost impossible for her to
stay serious for any length of time, Sylia thought, it was probably just
as well because she seemed to be the one who was cut up the most when
Mackie left.  She was working part time at the AD-Police now, spending
more time with Sylia on the support side, maintaining the Knight Sabers
equipment and vehicles.
	Within twenty minutes, the Knight Sabers were asssembled in
Sylia's penthouse apartment above the Ladies 633 building. Priss looked
slightly disgruntled, which she attributed to the fact that she had been
disturbed whilst writing a song for her new album. Sylia briefed them
quickly on her findings, before suggesting that they patrol a notorious
slum stretch along the fault that had become known as "Wreckers' Alley".
	"So ya really think its gonna show?!" Priss stated bluntly from her
position on the bed.
	"It seems to strike every other night," Sylia replied, "so if it's
a creature of habit it should be out on the prowl this evening."
	"Well I'm in," Priss interjected, "I don't know about you guys but
kicking the shit out of some Wreckers seems a fine way for a girl to spend
an evening!!" 
	Linna sighed and looked to heaven, her expression told it all. 
                ####################################
        The office was sumptuously furnished in a tasteful way, an antique
oak desk with the usual executive toys filled the room, leather wingback
chairs completed the decor. A secretary knocked on the outside door and
entered.
	"A Mr. Jivarp to see you sir!" she said.
	"Show him in please, and Janice we are not to be disturbed!" The
speaker was short and stocky, dressed in an double-breasted Armani suit,
his iron-grey hair was cropped short and his craggy features lended him
the air of an old-fashioned gangster.
	Jan-Anders strode into the room, the secretary obediently pulling
the door closed behind her. For a few moments, they stood weighing the
other up.
	Jan-Anders took a deep breath and began the formal introduction,
"I am Jan-Anders Jivarp Laments-for-the-lost, Modi of the Hand of Tyr,
servant of the Get of Fenris, of the line of Get-of-Fenris-slays-Grendel."
	"I am Alex Slater Net-Cleanser, Philodox of the Glass Walkers and
Sept Warder of The Sept of the Rising Phoenix," the other replied, "I bid
you welcome, and I thank you for your patience." 
	He motioned for Jan-Anders to take a seat, which he gratefully
accepted . Alex drummed his fingers on the desk whilst collecting his
thoughts before beginning.
	"Two weeks ago, we noticed that some unusual equipment was being
unloaded into MAPA from GENOM, we are a bit concerned about the use they
are going to put it to."
	"And what's that?" Jan-Anders interjected.
	"Since it's military level interrogation hardware, I don't know!"
Alex replied, "Just try and find out!"
	"Do you still want me to deal with the Wreckers?" Jan-Anders asked.
	"Yeah! Get rid of those parasites any way you can!!" Alex snarled.
	Whoever said that Glass Walkers were good for nothing had never
met Alex Slater, in the late '90's he had made a killing by buying up vast
tracts of unspoilt American wilderness, and turning them into nature parks
and holiday resorts. In doing so, he had kept environmental damage to a
minimum, and prevented other parties with less scruples from taking them
over for redevelopment. He was currently engaged in creating a network of
inexpensive cyber-clinics for the needy, and the Wreckers were his first
stumbling block.  They were putting off people from having necessary
surgery, for fear of being murdered. Thus, as a little side task, he had
asked Jan-Anders to put them out of business. A task which he had jumped
at, because it involved the chance of hitting the scum where it hurt.
	"Good! Who are the next scuzzballs to hit!!" Jan-Anders growled.
	Alex produced a list from behind his desk and handed it to
Jan-Anders, he scanned it a few times to memorise the details, then fed it
into the document shredder. He then turned to leave.
	"Oh by the way," Alex interjected with a smile as he was about to
leave, "any chance of finding a permanent bassist and vocalist for
Katabolis yet!?"
	"I'm working on it," Jan-Anders grinned, "I've probably found a
bass player, but I ain't found a vocalist yet."
	"Pity, Lycanthrope Records could do with some metallers on it!"
	"I'll think about it." Jan-Anders said as he saw himself out, "By
the way thanks for the easy passge here, catch you later!"
	"No problem, all part of the sevice.....see you!" Alex called out
as he left. He turned to the window with its panoramic view of MegaTokyo
and chuckled evilly.
	"You poor bastards," he said with a grin, "you don't know what the
hell's going to hit you!!"