The soft click of the shutter was all that could be heard amongst the dark shadows of the construction site.  This sharp sound was followed by the soft, almost soothing buzz of the automatic film forwarder.  The view finder was once again the burnish chromed eye’s telescope.
    The wrinkled graying suit came into focus.  His name was Harvis Renaldo, age 56, blue eyes, silver hair, five foot ten inches, 155 pounds, augmented nervous system, interface plugs, and a Lifestyle Sportheart 5000 series model.  He looked so calm and collected as he left Arasaka’s Night City headquarters, belying his black work.  His black projects were darker than the business suit he wore as he descended the steps to his ebony Mercedes SUX 6000.
    The shutter snapped again as his likeness was printed to the Kodak Millennium microfilm.  A pair of quivering hands lowered the aging relic of a camera, until the neck-strap went taut.  Though the camera was only 10 years old, it was already considered a dinosaur, it lacked the newest camera technology.  Keeping anything longer than three years in a disposable society makes one to be a traditionalist, but the camera-wielder had its reasons for holding onto it for so long.
    The figure leaned against a cold, rust colored girder and removed its black mask and shook out its long mousy hair.  The soft tearing of Velcro pierced the darkness cast by a pollution-diffused moonlight and the vast green-aura produced by the corporate sector’s over-abundance of street lamps.  A gloved hand retrieved the palm-pilot and began to jot down notes on what had been observed, after the stylus had stopped scribbling over the pressure-sensing screen a sweet, soft, almost childlike voice quietly read off the observed events.  All that the voyeur had been able to witness was Renaldo’s coming and goings.  A way into the corporate office would have to be found if he were to pay for his crimes.
    The tight vinyl squeaked and groaned as it balled into a tight fist.  “And how they’ll pay.  What I’m gonna show the world will hurt their stock so bad that even Saburo Arasaka himself will feel it.  No more longevity treatments for you, you decaying relic,” a cruel grin played across the onlooker’s rose-painted lips.
    The sound of a hollow aluminum can moving across the unfinished concrete brought the hidden watcher back from its own personal thoughts.  Quickly the figure stuffed the tablet and camera into the backpack and pulled out a matte black finished Armalite 44.  Another hand laid across the slide and quickly pulled it back and moved it back to its ready position.  The hand quickly dived under the sleeve of the opposite arm, like the head of a scared ostrich putting its head into the sand.  After a moment of fumbling with trembling fingers, they retreated from the sleeve bringing a slender cable from underneath and plugged the jack into the matching plug on the gun, behind the safety switch.  In a moment the trembling figure was braced against the girder, kneeling and pointing its heavy firearm at the makeshift stairwell.  And there it sat for what seemed an eternity, a silhouette except for the dull crimson reticule in its right eye.  And it waited…
    Waited.
    Waited.
    The screech of a hungry feline could be heard on the level below, a covered thumb reached behind and pulled the hammer back, till it stuck with a soft click.  Still the tightly clenched hands trembled.
    BOOM!
    The hand-cannon echoed, and the gunsmoke slowly cleared.  The figure rose and walked over to the receiver of the bullet.  There it laid, quivering as its life, its very essence leaked out of its shell and onto the gray, cracked, concrete.  The figure looked on at the innocent animal as it laid there.  The poor creature lacked even the strength to twitch its tail, but how could it after taking a .44 to its small frame.  Again, the gun spoke, and a now headless cadaver laid there, the tail now twitching in its death throws.
    A small tear rolled down the murderer’s snowy skin, disappearing into the black collar of the tight skinsuit.  There was no time for mourning or regret, the story would only get colder from here on, and that body would soon find its way into someone’s cheap prepack or one of the homeless hundreds stomachs.
    The lithe figure quickly picked up the black backpack and attached the straps to the suit and began to descend the half-built structure.  Each step taken seemed to ring out like an alarm, only the terrified heartbeat seemed louder.
    A silent prayer went up that there weren’t any of Arasaka’s troops or even their second-stringer security personnel lying in wait as soft boot-heels contacted the dirty ground level of the construction site.  The shadow darted behind a large dumpster that rank of rotting organic material.  Quickly the infrared and thermoptic-baffling cover was removed from an apparently new Shiva motorcycle.  Fluttering fingers released the motorbike from its lockdown mode.
    The glowing screen on the bike’s dash illuminated the attractive features of the sneakthief.  A dark skinned man in a tacky crushed velvet suit grinned at beautiful face from behind a pair of dark shades.  “Hey babe, so you got it?”
    “Yeah chief, you just hold that glowline for me on tommorrow’s early-edition screamsheet.”
    “Wonderful!  That’s why we love ya babe,” he laughed.
    “Yeah yeah, show it in my next paycard if you love me so much,” the soft voice shot back with a friendly ruby smile.
    “Head back to the office as soon as possible, we’ll post some guards at the door incase anyone gives you any trouble,” his voice level serious.
    “Alright, Benten out,”  the voice was deeper now, more masculine.  A self-congratulatory smirk showed on his face as he removed the wig, and make-up.  He pushed the collar of the skinsuit down and pulled off the microchip pressed against his throat, and regarded it before tossing along with the rest of his disguise into the refuse container.
    He reached back into his bike’s saddlebag and pulled out a small ceramic cylinder.  Benten then twisted the top and lobbed it in after the disguise.  With a loud pop the refuse became an oversized barrel fire.  With sad eyes set on the blaze a sorrowful, “Goodbye Molly,” escaped his lips.
    Rubber tires kicked up a cloud of dust and dirt as the cycle tore out from behind the chain-link fence and sped down Fifth Street to High Street.  The streets were packed, bumper to bumper traffic as far as the eye could see.
    The hair on the back of Benten’s neck started to stand on end.  Sweat started to bead on his brow, even though in the closed, climate-controlled compartment of the Shiva the air was of a comfortable temperature and humidity.
    Benten yanked up the front end of the bike in a wheelie and pulled a ninety-degree turn and started to cruise down the sidewalk.  He weaved between pedestrians, knocking a few out of the way, and others jumping into alcoves in a last-ditch effort to avoid the two-wheeler bearing down on them.
    In a short time, Benten’s cycle was parked and locked in the Network 54 parking garage, and he was riding the elevator to his boss’ floor.  His boss’ secretary told him to go right on in, suddenly Benten was on top of the world.  People were calling him by name, no longer having to wait to discuss his latest story, and it was all because of his story.  His story, a thought that just kept running through his mind, filling it, allowing for nothing else.
    He opened the false wooden door and saw a serious face behind the plastic desk.  Benten’s high spirited face quickly fell, and the vision he had of his name being the first thing people would see when they printed out their screamsheets, was receding quicker than his ride from his perch to the office tower.
    “Lemme see the camera Benten-baby!” his boss laughed trying to plaster a cheerful look on his face.  It was so forced it was almost painful to watch.
    “Not until you tell me what’s going on, Jim,” His voice was even and cold.
    Jim’s face quickly fell as he stretched out his hand to Benten.  “Do us all a favor, and just hand over the film.”
    “And if I refuse?”  Benten could feel his adrenaline booster starting to kick in, his hands were beginning to shake.  Was it fear?  Was it anticipation?  Would he ever know?
    Jim’s face fell into his hands as two sets of thick arms grabbed Benten’s arms and put them into chicken-wing holds.  Benten cried out in a mixture of shock, surprise, and pain.  One of the hands then dived into his pack and pulled out his gun, and tossed it into a wastebasket beside Jim’s desk.  Jim never looked up as the two unseen brute raped Benten’s pack, revealing everything contained within, and taking what they wanted.
    “Hey!  First amendment!”  Benten barely got out, the pain so totally overwhelming that tears started to make themselves evident in his eyes.
    “We’re cancelling your rights,” one of the assailants hissed in his ear, his breath was rank with the scent of sushi.  Having totally explored the cavity of his pack Benten was thrown to the ground, sliding across the carpet, his head slamming into the hard plastic of the desk.
    Dazed he rolled over and watched as the two men in black closed the door, carrying his photos, his electronic pad, and his camera.  He quickly scrambled for his gun, and pointed it them.  He then realized that the gun’s weight was significantly less than it should be and noticed that the magazine had been released.
    Before he could figure out what to do, the men were gone, and he was left there, alone, with his gun, and his broken boss.  He slowly got to his feet, the sense of defeat slowly beginning to set in.  With his back to his boss he spoke with a voice so cold that it could keep a body in cryostasis for at least a week.
    “You sold me out, Jim.”
    Silence.
    “Why did you sell me out Jim?  You knew what this story meant to me,” a long pause, “Me and Molly.”
    “I know,” the phrase broken by loud sobbing.
    “Then why?”
    “They called here right after we talked, and said if we didn’t kill the story they’d sue us for liable.  The higher ups told me to cut you off.”
    “So even the seekers of truth can be so easily waved off.  I thought we were out to seek the truth, and bring the wrong doers to justice.”
    “No!” a meaty hand slammed open-handed on the top of the plastic desk.  “The goal is to make money, tell people what they think they want to know.  And to also keep ourselves out of court.  You know as well as I, that people and government don’t count for crap anymore!  All that matters are the orbital colonies and the dirt based corps!”
    Benten’s hand clenched, then flicked the safety off.  “Fine, then consider this my resignation.”  He half-turned and pointed the gun at Jim’s forehead.
    “Bang,” said Benten.
    “Bang,” said the gun.