[center][color=seagreen][h3]The Scrapper[/h3][i]0 Meters[/i][/color][/center]
Symbols danced across her visual field layered by lines of code. A cascade of characters that threatened to overwhelm her with barely contained neurofeedback. Her skin was cold. Metallic. Her skin was not her own. Awareness consumed her. Data moved at the speed of light. Her nerves were fiberoptic rivers. She felt alive. She felt whole.

She was slotted into the Seawolf. The atmospheric diving suit was battered and bruised, but still functional. Her last job had fallen apart as soon as she had hit the water. They'd wrecked her drone. They'd banged up her suit. And they almost managed to sink the tanker before she had sent them sinking to the bottom of the South China Sea. The payout barely allowed her to salvage the situation. She was broke, real broke. Her drone was busted up. She owed money and she'd soon run out of old favors to call on. She was sinking too fast.

Diagnostics from the Seawolf reeled her in from her depressing thoughts. The damage was superficial. The Seawolf was still operational. She was still operational. Her trusty friend, the Seadog had taken the brunt of the damage. The drone was out of action until she could afford some serious repairs. She could hear the hum of the AI in the corner of the metal warehouse she had commandeered. It was alive. It was processing, it was calculating, and it was thinking, but it's body was broken. She needed a life raft. She needed something to keep her floating.

Connected to the Seadog she felt a lifetime pass in seconds, minutes, and hours. The urge to remain. The desire to cast off the weak flesh that bound her burned deep within her heart. There was freedom in the machine. There was rapture in the darkest depths of the Deep. The diver was stubborn. The diver was proud. She wouldn't give up. She wouldn't surrender to the waves even as they towered above her and came smashing down on her head. She would struggle until she sank beneath the waves. Numbers drifted into her field of vision, gently reminding her that it was time to go. She hesitated. She always hesitated. Without her connection to the machine she felt empty. She felt incomplete. The Seawolf called out to her. It whispered to her. Instant, overwhelming euphoria beckoned her. Communion with the machine. Perfect unity. Escape from the depths of the South China Sea.

Wrapped beneath an olive rain poncho, Toma moved carefully. Water glistened on her bare ankles. Her rifle was slung over a shoulder, hanging loose and ready beneath the poncho. Her pistol was holstered along the small of her back. She trusted Chang. He wouldn't send her into a setup, but she didn't know the employer. She wasn't going in naked. Suraiboshen. She didn't know what to make of it. She'd never been there. It didn't make sense. Meeting in a five star sushi joint wasn't the usual way she fished up a new job and a fresh stack of credits. She wondered if there'd be sushi. There was always time for food and drinks, especially if her potential employer was paying. Dinner would make it a worthwhile trip even if the job turned out to be a wash she reasoned.

Toma wove through the meandering crowds with purpose and a faint pang of hunger. Disconnected from the Seawolf she felt the needs of the flesh return to her awareness in faint waves of unwelcome reality. She palmed a cigarette from the pocket of her faded shorts, submerging her hunger beneath a layer of burning nicotine. Canton Canal belonged to the triads. Belonged to the Black Yangtze. As much as any piece of the floating city could really belong to anyone. The surface world was always shifting, always changing, and the depths, the Undertow, her world, existed beneath the reach of petty tyrants.

The cigarette fell apart into ashes as the wake warrior reached the address that Chang had scribbled down on the back of the pack of cigarettes. She had chain-smoked her way through almost the entire pack of cigarettes as the day faded into darkness. She hadn't been in a hurry. She'd needed to stretch her legs. She'd wanted to think things through. She doubted she was being followed. She wasn't anyone important. She wasn't carrying anything hot. She was just another swimmer struggling to stay afloat in between the rolling waves.

Toma stopped to light the last cigarette, posting up against the front window of a store offering the finest in antique typewriters. Real typewriters that stamped ink characters onto paper with each press of a mechanical keyboard. Tools of the wealthy and esoteric. Complex machines from the analog age. The proprietor took one glared at the wake warrior and looked as if he was about to say something before he retreated back inside his store. Toma nodded sagely as he left her to smoke in silence and continued to watch the street. The cigarette lingered between her lips, an ember glittering in the rain. The restuarant reminded her of a temple. Drawn in minimalist lines, the simplicity of the squat structure convinced Toma that there was serious money involved. Only the wealthiest in New Malaca would spend a fortune to make something look simple. Aesthetic architecture turned into high fashion at the cost of credits. It seemed like a waste to her. She preferred salvage, the endless bounty of the South China Sea.

She stamped out her cigarette on the street. The wake warrior crossed the robe bridge and eyed the two yojinbo guarding the entrance. Visible chrome was a bad sign. Guns were a bad sign. Heavy guns held in the hands of kitted up street samurai ithcing to use them were a worse sign. She didn't doubt that the two suits would be more than happy to gun her down if she seemed like a threat. She pocketed her lighter slowly, exaggerating her gestures, slowing down her movements. Gunfights were bad for business. She didn't need the heat.

"Nice shades," Toma offered, facing the two mountains.

The guards smirked back at her and two pairs of red eyes gave her the once over. Combat models she suspected. Gear worn when overt violence was the only purpose. The suit on her right, gestured towards her rifle, "You're not getting in here with that automatic."

Toma shrugged, relinquishing the amphibious rifle with an ease movement of her shoulder. The hired muscle handed her a token as he took her rifle. The chip felt smooth in her hand. Cherry wood she thought glancing at the delicate reddish-brown hue of the wood. Natural cherry wood. Expensive. Very expensive. Chinese numerals were carved into the ticket. 777. Jackpot. She hoped her luck would keep. She needed a break. She needed to make some serious money. She needed an easy job, but the payout told her otherwise. 500,000 asyuan. 500,000 asyuan promised trouble. Lots of trouble.

"Turn in the chip on your way out and you'll get your weapon back," the gaurd said as he stepped closer. The delicate scanner in his gigantic hand beeped loudly as it passed over the diver. She didn't move. MAD scanners were nothing new. She wasn't loud. She wasn't worried. Her cyberware wouldn't ping any sonars as anything interesting. Not unless the operator was really listening. And they usually weren't. She was running silent and she was running deep.

"You can keep the pistol," he said briskly. "However, do not abuse the generosity of this house. Unwarranted use of your weapon will be met with appropriate violence."

Toma nodded to the mass of metal and muscle as the doors slid open with the familiar click of a disengaging electronic lock. Toma stepped into the room and waited for the door to close behind her. The lock had been triggered remotely. Someone was watching. Despite the minimalist décor she suspected that Suraiboshen was protected by a high tech security system. Something fancy. Something stolen from the depths of a corporate R & D facility. Something very discreet, something that had cost a stack of cred-ships. The smell of money, real money troubled her. Rising too high above the waves meant danger, real danger. The sort of danger that even a crash dive to crush depth couldn't escape.

The hallway was crowded and Toma didn't hide the frown that appeared on her lips. She worked well with others. Diving required cooperation. Never dive alone. Never dive alone was the sensible advice of all dive masters. But Chang hadn't said anything about others. He hadn't said it was a team effort. She didn't work with strangers. Trust came slowly to her and she preferred to vet any potential allies. She recognized few of the faces. Marcus. Marcus stood out to her. She recognized the grizzled old mercenary. She remembered the job. She remembered the bodies. They'd buried half a start-up beneath the waves that day. If Marcus was there, it meant violence.

Xiaolan. Her heart shaped shades brought back memories of open waters. The remains of a battle, scattered with debris and dead pirates. Xiaolan meant war, real war, and kaleidoscopic violence fueled by synthetic drugs loomed. The pirate was reliable. The smuggler was talented. Toma trusted her. As much as one could trust a pirate. She followed her own strange code of violence.

The diver caught the end of a question as she stepped into the hallway. Her muscles still ached. She didn't want to sit down. Interfacing with the Seawolf she had forgotten to move. She had ignored the pleading request from her limbs. She had silenced the whispers of her flesh. She'd listen to the pitch. She'd eat some sushi. She'd do the job. She'd do the job so long as it didn't threaten to sink her.

"We are but sea dogs in search of coin," the Scrapper replied, offering a subtle nod towards the Artist of War. She could taste the adrenaline as it began to slowly seep into her veins.