The Juicer Chronicles: Prelude

By Killjoy Tseng
Trent crouched in a hallway, his submachine gun cradled across his chest. The hall was in a safehouse for one of New Del Rio's gangs; not the Scorpions of which Trent was a member, but the Warhogs, a larger gang and a rival to the Scorps. The plan was to break into the safe house while the Warhogs were otherwise occupied and carry off various stuff, not to mention money. Trent checked his watch. Any minute now, something would happen.

A gunshot rang out from the direction of the entrance, followed by a thump, presumably a body hitting the floor. Trent grinned and ran forwards to the door where supposedly the cash was stored. Pausing to glance around, he booted open the door.

He wasn't disappointed. Inside the room was an open wall safe, and a person sitting at a table counting the money in a strongbox. Trent grinned, and brandished his suppressed MP-5. "Hands on your head, face against the wall," he shouted at the person, who grudgingly complied. Another door opened, and the other 5 Scorpions entered the room, one holding a smoking 44.

"Good job, Trent," said Ben, the man with the 44. "He have time to get an alarm off?" Seeing Trent shake his head no, he continued. "Good. Lets ransack the place and try to find anything else worthwhile." Trent walked over to the strongbox and pocketed a couple bundles of cash.

"I'm going to sit on the roof and watch for trouble," he told Ben. These Warhogs may not be too smart, but I don't want ‘em to come back and find us here, he thought. He climbed up some stairs and opened the door to the roof, climbing out onto it. A few minutes passed before he noticed something; quite a few police were gathering in the area.

Shit.

Trent ducked his head down the stairwell and shouted "Cops!" to the rest of the Scorps. About the same time, the police broke down the door. Shooting echoed up the stairwell, followed shortly b gunfire, both from slugthrowers and energy weapons. Muttering a long string of curses in 4 different languages, Trent took off along the rooftops, away from the scene of his gang's demise.

"...so, that's the end of the Scorpions," Trent said, tossing back another shot of tequila. It had been a couple hours since the police raid, and Trent had put the time to good use, by getting blitzed. He set the shot glass on a table already cluttered with them. The woman he was talking with nodded, her drug harness easily visible.

"Might want to get out of town then, Trent. These Warhogs won't take kindly to your raiding their loot and losing them their safehouse."

"Yeah, I know. But what the hell can I do, Vanessa? I don't have enough cash to leave, and I don't have any skill besides fighting."

She thought for a bit then spoke again. "What about juicer conversion?" Seeing him about to interrupt, she continued on. "Yeah, I know you can't afford it, but the SDF is offering conversion to volunteers. Put in a year or two of service, they pay for everything, train and feed ya. Sure you'll check out before your 7th year, but what are the odd that you'll actually live that long anyway? Besides, the process turns you into one of the nastiest S.O.B.s around." Trent nodded, pondering.

"Thanks, Vanessa. I think I'll have to do that." He got up and headed for the door.

"Trent, where're ya goin'?"

"I'm going to go sign up for the conversion," he replied, his tone of voice indicating it should be obvious. He staggered out through the door.

It was fairly late, and the desk clerk at the New Del Rio SDF headquarters was trying to get his paperwork done so that he could go home. He looked up from his paperwork as he saw a rather tall man, obviously drunk, manage to walk into the room without hitting anything. "Can I help you?"

"Mebbe. Is this where I can sign up for juicer conversion and service?" Trent slurred.

"Yes it is, would you like to sign up? We're always looking for volunteers." Trent swore under his breath and walked out. The clerk shook his head and went back to work. 5 or so minutes passed before Trent walked back in.

"I'd like to sign up for juicer conversion and service." The clerk sighed, muttered something about stupid drunks, and handed Trent a form and a pen.

"Make your mark on the dotted line." He looked somewhat surprised as Trent took the pen and signed his name, albeit rather illegibly. Taking the form back, the clerk continued. "Show up here tomorrow afternoon if you're still interested." Trent nodded and staggered out of the office.

The next day was hot, but the desk clerk in the SDF headquarters didn't notice, as the interior was heavily air conditioned. He looked up as the door opened and the drunk juicer-wannabe from the previous night walked in. "Changed your mind yet?" he asked Trent.

"No, of course not. Would I have signed up if I didn't want this?"

"But you were.." the clerk stopped himself and shrugged. "Fill out this form, go through the door on your left and give it to the Major," he said, handing Trent a form and a pen. He managed to fill it out, and walked through the indicated door. He wandered down a hall for about 50 feet before stopping at another desk.

"I was told to give this to a Major," he said to the middle aged man behind the desk.

"Yeah, that's me," replied the Major, who looked at Trent's form. He took it and read for a few moments before putting it down on his fairly clean desk. He stood and shook Trent's hand. "It's not often that we get volunteers for juicer conversion. Welcome aboard."

The next few months were hard, with Trent undergoing the implantation of the bio-comps and the fitting of his drug harness, along with some of the harshest training available. While his body was still adjusting to the changes that were happening, Trent was taught to operate almost any weapon available. He was changing in more ways than just physically.
"So when am I going to see some serious action?" Trent lay on his bunk, his head propped up under his arms. His sergeant stood in the doorway, a scowl on his face.

"Damned if I know, Trent. I'm just here to tell you the eggheads want to do some more tests on you." Trent sighed and jumped out of his bunk, rolling with the fall. His sergeant looked unsurprised.

"Maybe after this I'll actually get some active duty," he muttered, walking down the hallway to the labs. Life hadn't been that bad to him lately, but he was getting bored.

"We just want to do some more tests on you... Trent," the technician said while reading from his clipboard. "We need to see if you have finished adapting to your... changes yet. Follow me please." Trent followed the odd man into a room filled with various pieces of exercise equipment. The tech pointed to something that looked a hell of a lot like a bench press machine, though instead of a weight stack it had a pair of hydraulic cylinders and a LED display. "Lay down on that; we're going to test your strength." Trent rolled his eyes and resisted making a wisecrack as he did as he was told.

"Anytime, doc." The technician looked like he had momentarily forgotten about Trent.

"Ah, sorry. With each repetition, the resistance will increase. Feel free to start." Trent did so, the bar seeming to weigh almost nothing at first. As the LED display counted up into the quadruple digits, he had to exert more effort, until he wasn't able to budge the bar at all. The tech motioned for Trent to stop, and gaped at the LED display.

"Uhh...your body has finished adjusting to the juicer conversion. You are now fit for active duty. Do you have any questions before you go back to your quarters?" Trent got up and faced the tech, who seemed the size of a child next to him.

"Yeah, a couple. For one thing, nobody ever told me how long I'd be in service according to my contract." The tech looked perplexed.

"Well, that's strange. Standard for soldiers is 10 years, though I am told that it is only 5 years for juicers because of their shorter life spans."

"I see. Exactly how long will I live?" The doctor paled, suddenly realizing that he could do nothing if he angered Trent.

"Well... I don't know exactly... it varies from person to person... "

"How long?" Trent interrupted. The tech was almost shaking in fear.

"5 to 7 years," he managed to croak out. A pause dragged out, and the tech actually started shaking. Finally, Trent spoke again.

"Thank you for being honest with me." He turned and walked off, back down to the barracks. Unnoticed behind him, the tech collapsed from relief.

"5 to 7 years. Fuckit Jack, I'll practically be on last call by the time I get out." Trent, visibly angered, was back in the barracks talking to his bunkmate, a Wolfen D-Bee.

"Trent, calm down. What can you actually do? You're signed up for 5 years. Be glad that you hadn't signed up for 10, like the rest of us." Trent sighed.

"I could just leave, head North. They wouldn't waste the effort to come looking for me. Just one renegade juicer. Hell, the SDF loses more than I cost them in office supplies."

"If you leave, you'll never be able to come back. You know that, don't you?"

"Yeah, I know Jack."

It was past midnight when Trent broke into the equipment storage building using a passkey he pilfered from some asshole Colonel. "Have to travel light," he mumbled to himself, quietly donning his medium weight armor. He glanced around, looking over at a row of jet packs. Most were old and beat up, but at the end of the row sat a Wilk's jet pack sat, easily distinguishable by its black ceramic casing. Trent walked over to the jet pack to inspect it and whistled softly. Not only was it a Wilk's jet pack, but it was also brand new and, best of all, was nuclear powered. "5 year life," he whispered. "Kinda like me." He chuckled and slipped the pack on, noticing that the straps also doubled as magazine holders. "Nice design. Now for some weaponry." He opened his personal locker and extracted his Wilk's 320 laser pistol and MP-5SD sub-machine gun, which he holstered and slung, respectively. Walking over to a rifle rack, Trent took down a JA-11 multi-purpose rifle, making sure that it was fully charged. Slinging that too, he gathered up as many e-clips as he could, along with a few spare sub-machine gun magazines. "Something's missing," Trent muttered. He walked over to a rack labeled ‘Gardening Tools' and pulled out a vibro-sword and its scabbard, which he slid behind his back, within easy reach. Thus armed, Trent simply walked out the gate and into the night.
It was three days since Trent had left New Del Rio, and he was frankly waiting for something to happen. He'd been spending most of the time walking so as to not attract attention, and it was really starting to get boring. Trent scowled at the animal he'd brought down, which was now roasting on a spit. He had no idea what the large furry lizard thing was, but the smells coming from it as it cooked made his mouth water. Deciding that it had been long enough, he pulled out his boot vibro knife and hacked off a leg. Taking a bite out of the leg, he decided that it tasted almost, but not completely unlike chicken. As he ate, a pair of men stalked towards him, seemingly unnoticed.

"You guys may as well not bother trying to sneak up on me," Trent said to them without looking up from his food. "Do you want some... whatever the hell this thing is? There's more than enough meat here for even me." One of the pair chuckled.

"No, thanks anyway. We're with a caravan a little ways off. We were just sent to see what the smoke was."

"A caravan, you say. Could I ask where you guys are heading?" Trent took another bite out of the leg.

"We're heading up to Lone Star. We run a little route between there and New Del Rio. Unofficial, of course." Trent nodded, still chewing.

"You guys need another guard?"

The next day, the caravan pulled into the Lone Star outskirts. Trent and the other guards breathed a sigh of relief; the vampire attack the night before was hectic, though they survived. The whole caravan rolled to a stop, and Trent jumped off of his place on the roof of one of the trucks. Though he hadn't had any sleep during the night, he looked a hell of a lot more awake than anyone else from the caravan. He walked over to where Ka'ean, the Elven caravan master was supervising the unloading of the trucks. He turned towards Trent.

"Ahh, Trent. Are you sure you don't want to continue on with us?" Trent nodded.

"Yeah, though I appreciate your guys taking me this far."

"It was nothing. Besides, you almost single handedly beat off that vampire attack last night. Feel free to keep that Super Soaker; you earned it."

"Thank you. Well, perhaps we'll meet again." Trent turned and walked off into Lone Star, his duffel bag containing all of his possessions slung over his shoulder.

"Yes, perhaps we will," Ka'ean said softly, before wearily turning back to the task at hand.

Trent lived for a few days in Lone Star on some of the money he had. He quickly decided that most of the Coalition soldiers were jerks. Besides getting into fights with deadboys, there was nothing to do, and Trent quickly became bored. Packing all of his gear into his duffel bag, Trent shouldered it and checked out of his hotel room.
Trent wandered around Lone Star aimlessly, and so he was not surprised when he ended up outside where the larger vehicles were parked. Something caught his eye. Parked amongst the normal APCs, UAR-1s and Skull Walkers was a vehicle definitely NOT made by the Coalition. Curious, he walked over to take a look at it. He'd been examing the thing for a while, before he decided that it was some sort of hovercraft. Just then, a man wearing SAMAS armor came outside and noticed him.

"Hey you, get away from that!" Trent idly gave him the finger and continued looking at the hover-thing. The man in the SAMAS stomped over to him.

"What the hell are you doing here, juicer?" The person inside the suit seened ot be a serious asshole, even moreso than most Coalition soldiers he'd met.

"I'm looking at that... thing, what the hell does it look like I'm doing you idiot?"

"Huh, a likely story. Get out of here or I'll..."

"You'll what, skullboy? Bleed on me? Are you seriously dense enough to think you can take me out?"

"Why you cocky bastard, I ought to..."

End Prelude
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